Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [49]
"Whence came this balhiir?" the ranger asked.
"Is that what it is? I struck down the sorceress with a crystal sphere," Shandril told him. "The sphere broke, and this came out."
The ranger gazed at his blade in consternation, and then smiled. "By the bye, I am Florin Falconhand, of Shadowdale, and the Knights of Myth Drannor.
Might I know you?"
Smiling, she said, "Shandril Shessair, until recently of Deepingdale and the Company of the Bright Spear, though I fear the company is no more."
"Your servant, Lady," Florin said with a bow. "You have loosed an ill thing on the world. This creature feeds on magic. Only the one who loosed a balhiir can destroy it. Will you aid me in this task, Lady?"
"Is it dangerous?" Narm asked, feeling his anger rise.
"Your lives both bid to be filled with danger," Florin replied gently, "whether you kill this creature or not.
Striving for something worthwhile and going to your graves is better than drifting in cowardice to your graves, is it not?"
"Fair speech, indeed," Shandril replied, meeting his eyes. "I will aid you," she said firmly, calming Narm.
"But tell me more of this thing."
"In truth," the ranger told her calmly, "I know little more. Lore holds that the one who releases a balhiir is the only one who can destroy it. Elminster of Shadowdale knows how to deal with such creatures, but like all who use the art, he dare not come near something that drains magic. Items of power all seem to fare poorly against the creature; it foils spells, too."
"Well," Shandril asked, "why should such a creature be destroyed? Doesn't it leash dangerous art?"
"Fair question," Florin replied. "Others might answer you differently, but I say we need art. There are prices to be paid for it, but the shrewd use of the magical art helps a great many people. The threat of art rising, unlocked for, keeps many a tyrant sword from taking what can be taken by brute force."
Shandril met his level gray gaze and slowly relaxed.
She could trust this tall, battered man. At her side, Narm stirred.
"The balhiir was about me for some time. It drained both my cantrips and the sorceresses' spells. Do you know if I will be able to work the art again?"
"Indeed, so long as the balhiir is not present. It will move to absorb unleashed magic if it can." Even as Florin spoke, the twinkling cloud stirred about his blade, spiraled up, and left him. In a long, snakelike mist of lights, the balhiir drifted back the way the ranger had come. Florin started after it. "Follow me, if you will. If not, I'll leave the torch."
The two hurried after him. Shandril glanced hack once at The Shadowsil lying among the rocks, but all she could see was one foot jutting upward. As they passed through the escape hole Florin had dug, the foot seemed to move in the dancing torchlight.
Shandril shI’vered despite herself.
The cavern where the dracolich had laired was much changed. The ceiling had broken away and fallen.
The gleam of treasure was gone, covered by rubble and dust. There was a mighty rumbling and clattering of stones to their right, as the eternal dracolich rose slowly from under a castle's worth of fallen rock. Far across the wide chamber, a woman was raising her hands in magical passes.
Bright pulses of magic burst from her hands as Narm and Shandril climbed over the rocks. They saw magic missiles streak across the chamber and strike the dracolich. The winking cloud of mist streaked down hungrily.
Rauglothgor roared anew in pain and fury. Its deep bellows echoed about the cavern. The battered dracolich rose up and hissed, "Death to you all!
Drink this!"
There was a flicker of the art, but nothing else occurred. The balhiir had reached Rauglothgor. The dracolich roared again in surprise and rage. Its great claws raked huge boulders aside as a cat scrapes