Spellfire

She was elsewhere again, landing hard on her knees and forearms on a stone floor littered with dust and rubble. Dim sunlight crept in from somewhere off to her right. Shandril rolled over and got up hastily to look behind her.

She was alone in a vast, high-ceilinged chamber or hall. No gargoyle, no doorway of light. In the dust she could see the marks of her landing. She had simply appeared here, wherever here was. Shandril could see nothing living in the chamber, although its far end was lost in gloom. She had no desire to explore at the moment. Instead, she sank to the floor, cursing softly at the pain as she bent her back, and sat still, catching her breath.

The inscribed bone was still clutched in her hand, although most of the other bones of the hand had fallen off. Shandril dropped it in her lap and sighed. Here she was, lost and alone, pe

That, she reflected, looking warily about as she loosened her breeches, and never relaxing, not even for an instant. She was not surprised to see something moving high up in the darkness at the far end of the hall, flapping toward her.

There were three creatures, all alike, she saw, as they flew closer. Ugly things with pointed, curving beaks and barbed, clinging claws reaching for her. Bat-shaped wings covered with rusty brown, dusty feathers flapped nearer. Small yellow eyes glittered nastily at her.

Shandril sobbed a curse, struggled to her feet, laced and belted her breeches with hasty fingers, and ran weakly across the hall in the direction of the daylight, dodging blocks of fallen stone. It’s not like this in travelers’ tales, she thought ruefully as she slipped on loose stone and twisted her knee painfully. “Come to think of it,” she said aloud, shocked to hear how very close to tears her voice sounded, “I’ve not seen a single gold coin yet.” She clutched the bone that had brought her to this place and ran on.

The sunlight came from two high windows in the far wall of the great hall in which she ran. Beneath them she could make out the arch of a small doorway, a wooden door carved with some sort of beautiful flowing design. Then she realized in horror that she could see no pull-ring, knob, or even keyhole. Wings flapped close behind her.

She reached the door, ran desperate fingers around it, tugged vainly at the ridges of the carving and the edges, and finally hurled her shoulder against the thick, polished wood, gritting her teeth against the impact.

There was a dull crash and she was through the door, its rotten wood collapsing into splinters and pulpy dust. She twisted helplessly in empty air, falling in daylight, down, down into a well far below. Shandril glimpsed huge trees and vine-covered stone towers. Where was she now? Wild, helpless laughter choked her as she fell, and from a nearby stone spire a woman with wings sprang into the air and flapped in her direction. Shandril had a brief glimpse of dusky naked flesh, cruel eyes, and a dagger flashing as the wings beat. And then she struck cold water with a crash that shook her very bones.

She plunged deep; only the icy water kept her from passing out. Shandril struggled weakly as she rose slowly to the surface.

“Lady Tymora,” she gasped as her face broke water. “Please! No more!” Overhead, through darkening eyes, she saw the winged woman gleefully swooping and darting, dagger flashing, gutting the three little horrors who had flown after her. From the stories she had heard, the little things were probably stirges, and the woman… the woman was some sort of devil.

A devil. She knew from the tales that devils were denizens of ruins. And the nearest ruins, she remembered the talk from her last few nights in The Rising Moon, were those of Myth Dra

Weakly Shandril splashed her way to the edge of the well and crawled out. Her arms felt leaden. The magical bone was gone in the dark water. At least, she thought slowly, crawling away from the well with fading strength, there’s nothing waiting for me in the well.

Then she heard splashing behind her.

Rolling over to look hack, Shandril saw great tentacled arms reaching up from the waters she had just crawled from. A cluster of eyes goggled about on one dripping stalk. The others looked like giant squid tentacles. They were coiling about and slapping at the winged devil.

Shandril watched as the female devil was overmastered, breasts heaving for breath, feathers flying, long-fanged teeth snarling, and saw her finally drawn down. She was still striking feebly with her dagger when the tentacles rolled over her and sank, leaving only bubbles, and slowly darkening water, behind. Shandril turned away, feeling sick. She crawled toward some bushes at the base of the building.

When the stones beneath her gave way before she reached the wall and Shandril fell into musty darkness, she was too weary to care.

Tymora, it seemed, had answered her prayer. Shandril sank into oblivion, wondering what she had landed on that was so hard. Whatever it was shifted under her with a metallic slithering, for all the world like coins. Perhaps she would end up a rich adventurer, after all…

“Have a care, sot,” Torm said affectionately to Rathan, kneeing his horse’s flank to come closer. “Else you’ll be right off your beast and head-first in the mud!”

The florid, red-eyed cleric clamped large fingers onto the rim of his saddle and fixed Torm with drunken, baleful eyes. “Tymora love thee for thy ill-placed concern, sly and thieving, bootlicking dog!” He belched comfortably, adjusted his budding paunch in a small disagreement it was having with the front of the saddle, and wagged a finger at the slim, mischievous thief. “So I like to drink! Do I fall from the saddle, despite thy cries? Do I disgrace the Great Lady whose symbol I bear? Do I yip and yap incessantly in a double-tongued, fawning, untruthful ma

Narm, riding between them, wisely said nothing. They were traveling in the deep wood, moving steadily eastward toward Myth Dra

Mourngrym had lent Narm the mount that now snorted and grumbled beneath him. He had also suggested that if Narm were so tired of living he ride back to the ruined city in the company of two Knights of Myth Dra

Torm’s thin moustache quirked in a smile. “Lost in thought, good Narm? No time for that, now, not once you’re an adventurer! Philosophers think and do nothing. Adventurers rush in to be killed without a thought. A single thought as to what they’re facing would no doubt have them fleeing just as quickly!”

“Not so,” Rathan rumbled, wagging that finger again. “If ye worship the Lady Luck, Tymora the True, luck will cloak thee and walk with thee, and such thoughts but mar thy daring.”