"It's got me, too!" Dalamar was kicking and thrashing nearby, reaching with his hands, as if he might be able to grab a tree branch or cloud and pull himself away. But he, too, was clearly overpowered.
Overcome, both were being sucked with increasing force and speed toward the high stone walls of the Tower.
Jenna threw up her hands to protect her head. She gasped, anticipating the impact, but instead was immediately enveloped by darkness. She tumbled to a hard stone floor, quickly twisted around and struggled to regain her footing. Something brushed past; it was Dalamar, who, she observed with some irritation, leaped to his feet while she was still fumbling with her staff. With a curse, she brought a light spell into being on the top of her staff.
"Where are we?" the dark elf cried, quickly stalking the circumference of what appeared to be a small, dark, enclosed room. "And where's the door? I swear we crashed straight into it!"
"It's gone-maybe it was never there in the first place. But we're somewhere high up in the Tower, I should think," Jenna replied, looking around in the cool light of her spell. "At least, judging from the small size of the room, and the curve of that wall, that's my best guess."
"Do you think Kalrakin lured us here, trapped us?" the dark elf mused aloud.
"I brought you here."
The word was spoken by an old man who stood in the corner, wearing a tattered robe of white. The old White Robe certainly hadn't been there a moment before.
"Par-Salian?" the dark elf declared, shocked by the recognition. "It is you! Though I fear that the passage of time has not been kind to you."
Jenna looked and also recognized the man who had been the Head of the Conclave when she had taken her Test. Age had ravaged him cruelly, as evidenced by the rheumy film over his eyes and the dark spots that marked his hands. His beard and hair, once lush and full-even though steel-gray-were now sparse and bedraggled. Even his robe, the pure symbol of his order, he had allowed to become dirty, torn, and unkempt; he leaned on a cane, his posture so feeble that he seemed likely to fall forward on to his face.
Only Par-Salian was long dead; he had perished during the Chaos War.
"You can't truly be Par-Salian. So who are you?" Dalamar demanded. "I would kill you in an instant if I thought you were the sorcerer Kalrakin in cunning guise, hut there is no hint of wild magic around you."
"I am the Master of the Tower," said the image of Par-Salian. "I brought you here-it is the only safe place, for the moment. The sorcerer has ensorcelled all the other doors with dangers and traps."
"What's happened to the other wizards who disappeared?" asked Jenna. "Are they slain?"
"No… not yet. He holds them in the Hall of Mages. Of course you recall that there are no doors to that chamber, and his wild magic has secured the place. None may teleport in or out. As your wizards enter the Tower, they become his prisoners."
"What of Coryn? The Head of the White Robes?" Jenna prodded.
"Ah. That is why I brought you here-she needs your help. As do I." The aged White Robe pointed across the room, where appeared a sheet of glass suspended on the stone wall like a window. "Use the scrying glass. You will see her; she is down below, near the anteroom of the foretower."
"Look!" cried the dark elf, pointing to an image that began to glow in that reflective surface. Jenna stepped close, and she and Dalamar both immediately recognized Coryn. Her white robe was torn and stained with blood, and she was lying prone, trapped in a gap that had opened in the floor. As the two wizards watched, that narrow space started to squeeze shut. She struggled frantically, clearly overpowered in the vise of wild magic.
"What can we do?" asked Jenna desperately, whirling to confront the Master.
But he was no longer there.
Coryn pushed and pushed, but the viselike pressure resisted her puny strength. The gap in the floor was like a wound closing, shaping itself according to Kalrakin's wishes. The White Robe was caught in a brief slit that felt disturbingly like a coffin, just long and wide enough to accommodate her body. As soon as she had fallen in, it had begun to squeeze shut.
Watching her, Kalrakin smiled and held up his hand; the stone gap immediately stopped closing. Coryn was tightly trapped-she couldn't so much as wriggle-but at least she was able to draw breath.
"What a pretty little rabbit I have snared," declared the sorcerer. To Coryn, from her position lodged beneath the floor, he seemed like a giant covered with smudges of dirty cloud, which trailed off his craggy visage.
"You thought you were pretty clever, I suspect… when you tricked us into letting you live. That is not a mistake I shall make again. Not that your death will be overly speedy, of course. These things take time!"
"No-I wasn't being clever," Coryn said. She searched for words, ideas, anything that would distract Kalrakin and give her a chance to stay alive.
"I was foolish," she said quickly. "Now I am curious. I came here to learn about this place-and it took me a while to understand that you have become the master. I am in awe of your power-I wanted to learn from you!"
"Master… yes. I am Master here. I didn't think you appreciated that."
"Oh, it's obvious," Coryn said. "I should have known it right away. And I'm sorry about taking your food. That was an honest mistake."
"Hah! My food? I have no need of food! This tower is my sustenance." As he spoke he flipped the white stone in his hand, and Coryn found her eyes drawn inexorably to that pearly artifact. It was terribly bright, and created a hypnotic flash of light when he alternately covered it up and revealed it.
Kalrakin looked down at her, clearly enjoying himself. He grinned at her and twisted his hands, drawing the vise of stone just a bit tighter around the White Robe. Coryn strained to breathe, but her elbows were now trapped against her sides, and the pressure was crushing her lungs.
She saw movement out of the corner of her eye, and apparently the sorcerer did, too. Kalrakin whirled around, white lights flashing all around him, and he shouted.
"I destroyed you once-you have no right to be here!"
Wild sorcery flashed and the floor shook against both of her shoulders, squeezing Coryn even harder. She saw a Black Robe flash past the wall, a haggard old wizard she had never seen before. She blinked, and the wizard's robe had turned to white.
And now it was the face of Par-Salian she saw, looking down at her with a kindly expression. The Master of the Tower nodded once, surprisingly calm in the face of Kalrakin's frenzied cries. Then he vanished in a convulsion of wild magic.
Coryn found herself lying on a bed, alone in a room. She heard an echo of Kalrakin's disbelieving scream, but that faded almost immediately into blessed silence. The wild-magic sorcerer was not here, however, and could not possibly know where she was. For one thing, she didn't know herself.
She sat up and looked around, crying out as her back and hips creaked in pain. Gingerly she moved a bit, realizing with some relief and surprise that she didn't seem to have any broken bones. But where was she?
This room looked vaguely familiar; she guessed she was still in the Tower of High Sorcery. This was a simple sleeping chamber, with a table, desk, wardrobe, and this comfortable bed. And there was a door, with a big lock, secured with a key from the inside.
Of course! This was the room she had slept in on her first visit, the night before she had taken the Test of Magic. But that seemed too easy. She stood up on shaky legs and walked across to the desk. There was nothing on it, nor on the table, which was just as before. Of course, she had thrown a few of her belongings in the wardrobe, things she hadn't taken with her when she had left the Tower rather precipitously. It contained nothing that would help her. She pulled open the wardrobe: There was her water skin, her bedroll, and a few extra pieces of clothing. And then she saw something else, which she had left here and all but forgotten.
It was her stout hunting bow. Beside it rested her plain, but serviceable, quiver of arrows.
The wizards circled through the air outside the Tower. Many
of them had vanished, by now, having attacked one of Kalrakin's locked doors and simply disappeared. There was no way to know the fate of those comrades, but Adramis and his sister were rapidly despairing.
"I can't fly much longer," Aenell warned her brother. "My spell is fading."
"Down to the ground, then?" he asked dismally. He would be able to stay in the air for only a few more minutes at the most.
"No, not to the ground," his sister demurred. "We've seen these trapped doors work their magic. But so far no one has followed up after one of our number has vanished. What if the trap is good for but a single use?"
"Interesting…" Before he could say anything else, she dipped away, swooping toward the balcony where Willim the Black had disappeared. She came to rest on the flagstones just outside the door. Adramis hastened after, landing next to her on the balcony, which was about halfway up the north tower.
"Be careful!" he advised "I'll be careful, but you have to admit we don't have many options left."
"Yes. But I will not let you risk your life-stand back, and see what happens to me."
Nodding at his gallantry, Aenell stepped out of the way. She knew better than to try to argue with her brother, and anyway, she would be close by, ready to help him or follow him to death, if necessary.
"Now you be careful!" was all she could say as she fidgeted anxiously, spells of attack and defense tingling in her fingertips. She watched her brother approach the door. He reached out slowly, gingerly put a finger to the wooden surface.
And the portal exploded inward with his touch, vanishing in a shocking display of violence. The force of the blast apparently sucked Adramis inside, for the elf vanished from his sister's view instantaneously, pulled just like the others to some unknown fate inside the Tower.
So she was wrong, Aenell thought bitterly, preparing to follow.
Chapter 27
Grieving of Gods
Kalrakin stared disbelievingly at the empty space where Coryn had been caught in a vise, just moments before. He kicked and swore and frothed at the mouth. Where had she gone? How had she escaped him?
"Bah!" He stalked across the room, calling out, "Luthar!"
"Y-yes, Master?" The other sorcerer nervously appeared.
"I was mistaken to let you talk me into sparing the wench. She continues to taunt me, and I do not intend to tolerate this insolence!"
"Surely you have terrified her to the point where she will never return here!" Luthar argued. "If she has vanished, she had doubtless gone back to her own land, her home. She was a simple child-we should forget her!"
Kalrakin snorted contemptuously. He planted his hands on his hips, the Irda Stone still gleaming brightly in the clasp of his right hand. "Luthar, you give me a very good idea. There are two ways to make sure she never comes back here," the sorcerer declared in a supremely pleased tone. "The first, of course, is to kill her, which I surely will do, when I catch up to the bitch. And the second is to make sure that this place ceases to exist."
He lifted his hands over his head and spread them apart, a gesture that sent ripples of wild magic convulsing through the air. The chandelier, a crystal-and-silver masterpiece that had lasted more than a thousand years, broke free from the ceiling and fell to the floor, smashing into a million glittering shards. Great chunks of stone broke from the ceiling, and the top of one wall collapsed in a loud explosion, smashing half of the banquet table.
"Master-stop this noise and destruction! Please!" Luthar shrieked, recoiling against the wall of the anteroom, pressing his hands to his ears. He slipped down haplessly until he was sitting on the floor; then he turned and crawled in order to huddle under the other, still-standing half of the banquet table.
Kalrakin paid no attention to his cringing comrade. Instead he sent a fresh blast of wild magic through the hallway and up into the vast stairway ascending toward the south tower. The magical force tore into the solid onyx of the steps, shattered many of them, and heated others so that the stone began to run like black ink, pooling in puddles in the landings and halls. Cracks appeared all along the great hall, scoring their way up the ceiling. Several ornate columns toppled like dead trees, and a choking cloud of stone dust billowed everywhere through the tortured chambers.
The sorcerer cast another bolt in the opposite direction, searing away the columns and railing that curved along the outside of the north tower's stairway. A thunderous cavalcade of rubble rained down as a whole section of the ceiling gave way, dropping much of the second floor right into the broken heaps of rock that more than half-filled the once majestic hallway. Kalrakin gestured and another bolt of magic exploded upward, crackling through ceilings and floors, bringing down another mess of debris.
"Wait!" cried Luthar piteously. "You'll bring the place down on our heads! We'll be killed!"
"You may be killed. I assuredly won't. Besides, I grow tired of your complaints and distractions!" declared the sorcerer, turning to glare at Luthar. He raised the white stone high in his hands, flipping it back and forth.
"No!" cried the chubby henchman, cringing, throwing his hands over his face as crackling tendrils of sorcery surged toward him, engulfing him in white heat. Fire swept over him. Luthar defended himself as best he could, taking hold of the writhing, wriggling heat-blast like it was some kind of snake, screaming in pain as he burned his palms and face. Frantically he wrestled with it, falling to the ground, shrieking as the burning sparks poured over his skin, flashing into his eyes.
"Please, spare me!" he shouted.
But Kalrakin, with a bored look, had already moved on. The tall sorcerer was gazing upward, as if studying the supporting beams that he would have to tear away to wreak final destruction upon the Tower.
Behind his back, Luthar, with a final convulsion, managed to cast the wriggling, magical serpent away. The bolt of white magic hissed and spit sparks, as it struck a crag of fallen stone. The block shattered into gravel, several of the shards pelting Luthar. Other bits of stone cut into Kalrakin's clothes, hair, and skin, but the sorcerer took no note of the trivial barrage.
Luthar shrieked and rolled on the floor, thrashing around in horrific pain, batting frantically at the flames still spreading across his gray robe. His palms were bloody, his face pocked with angry red burns. The flames finally dying out, he got on his knees to make one last plea to Kalrakin.
But the tall sorcerer had stalked away, scrambling over any rubble that blocked his path. He was laughing loudly as he launched another blast of wild magic through the anteroom and into the foundations of the south tower.
"Do you feel that, wizards?" he cried shrilly. "Your doom gathers around you!"
Luthar covered his head as more rubble cascaded down on him. When he looked up, he was horrified to see that a huge section of the ceiling, a solid mass of stone, was teetering crazily on the verge of collapse.
Everything around him began to spin. Kalrakin didn't care, he intended to pull down the ceiling and the walls. The tower could not stand for long, and all would be buried. But Luthar was not ready to die.
Sobbing, pulling himself along by his burned hands, Luthar crawled from the room, back toward the quiet, small sanctuary of the kitchen.
Kalrakin didn't notice his escape.
Dalamar and Jenna emerged from the room into one of the high hallways of the north tower.
"She's all the way down to the foretower. Can you cast a teleport spell?" asked the dark elf.
Jenna quickly shook her head. "No, that spell's gone for now. I cast it when I first tried to enter the Tower. I'll have to go back and study it."
"Me, too," Dalamar said bitterly. "Looks like we're taking the stairs."
There was no more idle talk as they started down the steps, winding down levels of the Tower. They could feel the frequent tremors and occasionally were forced to grasp the railing as the whole structure wobbled ominously. It seemed to take a maddeningly long time to make the descent.
"Do you think any of the others made it inside?" Jenna w
hispered to Dalamar, as at last they reached the lower levels of the Tower.
"We must assume we're alone," Dalamar replied softly. "And that the Irda Stone protects him against our spells. We can't use magic to kill him."
She nodded in grim agreement, as he whipped out a narrow-bladed dagger. "I'll do what I can to distract him- you'll have to get in close to use that.
They came down the last flight of stairs close together, edging toward the inner wall of the steps. A great section of the railing and portions of several stairs had been torn away. The floor of the hall was a terrible mess, and Jenna had to suppress a gasp of dismay as she took in the full scope of wild magic devastation. It was nightmarish, a horror to behold, a sight that made her all the more determined to succeed-or die.
Somewhere not terribly far away they heard a crash. They started across the floor, trying to pick a clear path, but almost immediately had to climb over a small mountain of debris that lay across their path. They pushed through the rubble, with Dalamar grunting as he pushed one of the larger chunks out of their way. Jenna looked up, appalled to see the ceiling of the second story training rooms teetering above her. Almost the whole floor of that large chamber had been ripped away. More cracks spread along the floor, and small cascades of rubble fell with each fresh tremor.
"Why are you here? You should be in the hall, with the others!"
Kalrakin's voice, a petulant screech, reached them from the shadows in the long hallway. He seemed to emerge from a cloud of dust. To Jenna he looked wild, insane. His long hair stood out from his head, and his body and robe were covered with dust, highlighting the madness in his staring eyes.
Without a moment's hesitation, Jenna raised her hand and cast a magic missile spell. Sparkling bolts of fire flashed from her finger, tearing through the air toward the sorcerer. Kalrakin laughed wildly, raising the Irda Stone. One by one the missiles hissed into the artifact and disappeared, as his laugh rose in shrill volume and the Irda Stone grew hotter and brighter.
Wizards Conclave aom-5 Page 25
