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.
Jenna scrambled over a section of broken stone and readied another spell. Dalamar had disappeared—she could only trust he had found concealment and was making his way unobtrusively toward their enemy.
The ground shook underneath her feet, momentarily staggering her, but she steadied herself and didn't fall. A great slab of wall fell down behind her, but she ignored it, shaking her head to clear the billowing dust away from her eyes. She cast one spell after another, holding her ground, though she knew her spells could not really harm the sorcerer; she opted for spectacles and distractions, determined to keep the sorcerer's attention.
Great blossoms of fireworks exploded through the hall and dancing images of draconians and ogres charged at Kalrakin, issuing bloodcurdling screams. Shrieking with laughter, he swatted them aside contemptuously. The image of a red dragon materialized into the hall, slithering out from one of the side rooms. Crimson jaws spread wide. The sorcerer held up the white stone to meet a great gout of fiery breath. Like all of Jenna's attacks, the seemingly lethal fireball was snuffed into nothingness by the Irda Stone.
Jenna looked around frantically. She knew Kalrakin would quickly grow bored with such diversion. How long could she keep this up?
Then she spotted something that gave her a flash of hope.
The dark elf had burst courageously from the shadows, the knife gleaming in his hand. Quickly and silently, he charged the wild sorcerer.
But Kalrakin saw him coming, must have known all along that he was lurking nearby. The sorcerer merely flipped his hand in a gesture, and a crackling bolt of fire exploded toward the dark elf. Jenna felt the searing heat even from down the hall. She watched in horror as the wild magic tore at the right side of Dalamar's head, peeling back the skin of his face, tearing at his eyes, ripping away one ear. By the time the spell faded, crackling and hissing into nothingness, the dark elf lay like a corpse on the floor.
It looked like half of his face had been burned away.
The god Nuitari cried out in anguish. He howled his grief like a storm through the known planes of existence. He felt the terrible pain of his favorite son's grievous injury, as though his own flesh had been ravaged. Thunder broke around him, and great storms of rain fell through the cosmos.
The black moon was shedding tears.
"The Master of the Tower is failing," Solinari noted glumly. "And all our pawns fall." His visage was wan, a pale approximation of his usual silvery brilliance.
"The wild magic is too powerful," Lunitari declared, equally dejected. "The sorcerer will slay them all and leave the wreckage of the Tower as their tomb. Our children are trapped, defeated, doomed."
Even as they spoke, the blood of the dark elf Dalamar drained into the Tower of High Sorcery's broken stonework. The gods felt the slow ebbing of his life.
"His life slips away, and with his death our hopes perish," Solinari said. His tone was gentle, even sympathetic toward his black cousin, who was experiencing such grief and failure.
But Nuitari raised his head. Thunder and lightning flared in the black sockets of his eyes, and when at last he said something, it was not to pronounce a message of defeat.
"Yes, if time advances, he will die. But there is one way he can survive," the god of the black moon said. "Let him cast the spell that will bring time to a stop."
Far above the dying Dalamar, Aenell gingerly approached the door on the high platform that had been destroyed at her brother's approach. The broken entryway gaped like a wound. Only darkness could be glimpsed 'within.
None of the other wizards were in sight. All of the ones that had been drawn into the Tower were apparently dead. Never had the young elf maid felt so alone as she did at that time, in that lofty place. There was really no choice, no alternative. She had to follow after her brother.
Hesitantly she reached a hand forward, feeling the abrupt tingle of magic. She pulled back, tried to break away, but it was too late-a powerful spell had trapped her, was catapulting her through space, a teleport spell that was overruling her own will. She fought it with all her might, and lost.
She found herself lying on a cold, stone floor. Other wizards milled about in distress and agitation, including a young Red Robe who was kneeling at her side, asking if she was hurt. The Red Robe repeated her question.
"Can you hear me? Are you hurt?"
"N-no, I don't think so," Aenell replied, dazedly. Sitting up, she looked around. The elf maid recognized, first, that she had been teleported to the Hall of Mages, and second, that her brother was here, too.
He laid on the floor just a few steps away, alive, but gravely wounded.
28
The Scar
Luthar! Come here! I forgive you! Come and see the great red-robed enchantress! She is on her knees, begging for her life!"
But Jenna was not yet ready to beg—she had more important things to do. She tried to get up hut fell roughly to the side as the ground shifted under her feet, and strong waves rippled the solid stone of the Tower's floor.
The wild magic made the floor twist and writhe beneath her, jolting her from one side to the next, preventing her from gaining any equilibrium. Somehow the sorcerer kept his balance, like the captain of a pitching ship during a violent storm, though the floor continually rose and sank. He laughed crazily.
When she tried to push herself up again, the floor heaved wildly, and she fell roughly onto her face. She rolled over, feeling tremendous pain, wondering if her nose was broken. Once again the floor buckled, and she was slammed against a slab of rock.
"She dances; she prances!" Kalrakin crowed. "See her cavorting about the floor—Luthar, you must witness!"
Though there was no sign of Luthar, Kalrakin seemed to take no notice of his lackey's absence. He was too busy enjoying his victim, toying with his wild magic just enough to keep the floor lurching unsteadily. The white Irda Stone flashed as he tossed it back and forth from one hand to the other. Jenna was tossed like a rag doll from one place to another.
At last she managed to grab hold of something and sit up, her hands spread to the sides in anticipation of another lurch. Her staff lay nearby, and so, too, Dalamar, who lay on his back, motionless and probably dead. The right side of his face was a gruesome sight, flesh torn away and awash with blood.
Kalrakin's attention drifted for a moment as he raised his head, looking as if he heard something. He shrugged then waved one hand. Instantly another wave of violence wracked the Tower. Crashes and bangs echoed everywhere. Streams of rubble and dust fell from the ceilings. The foundation groaned. The floor lurched sickeningly, and Jenna's heart faltered. The whole place was about to come down around her.
But Kalrakin, head thrown back as he cackled with crazy laughter, was momentarily preoccupied with his sp
ellcasting.
The Red Robe drew a breath. Her hands were raw, scraped, and bruised. Her stomach lurched unevenly. Magic spells roiled in her mind-spells that might conceal her, possibly even let her escape-as a last resort.
Kalrakin seemed to remember her then, glancing down at the Red Robe. "All of your great wizards have fallen into my trap, now. Ironic that they will all perish in the Hall of Mages, don't you think? Like pathetic rats, drowned in a little cage? But still, I can't decide-is that how I should kill them?
"Drown them, perhaps, with a storm inside a closed room? Or should I simply bring it all down on their pathetic little heads-an avalanche of black stone, so that the Tower dies along with them? Symbolic and appropriate, of course, but perhaps a little too sudden for my tastes. What do you say?" he asked, looking at her with his eyebrows raised mockingly.
Jenna watched him warily, her attention focused on that stone, which he was flipping back and forth between his two hands, so casually. By Lunitari, how she wanted to tear that thing from his grasp. Yet she knew that before she could reach him, he would destroy her with the simplest spell.
He smiled coldly, as if reading her thoughts, then continued to speak conversationally.
"The flaw in that plan—destroying them along with the Tower—is that I won't get to see the last looks on your colleagues', my victims', faces. Tons of rock fall, they die, and it's all over. No, I might prefer a more measured approach." He extended his hand before him, made a simple gesture, and two heavy chunks of stone rolled together, pinioning Jenna's ankle.
"Such as this!" Kalrakin squeezed his hand and the enchantress gasped in pain as the two blocks of stone slowly began to move together, squeezing her ankle so tightly that she cried out. Slowly the two stones began to grind closer together; the bones of her ankle began to be crushed.
"Yes, that would be much better." The sorcerer seemed pleased with his experiment. "A gradual approach. More fun to watch."
Then the stones stopped moving, though Jenna was still trapped. Pain etched on her face, she looked up, sensing that Kalrakin wanted to toy with her, torture her; anything, she thought, if it would help buy a little time.
"I can pull in the walls on all sides of that chamber, just like those stones now pinning your ankle." He seemed oddly eager to explain his brainstorm to her; she had the bizarre sense that he was seeking her approval.
"I could do the same with all the little wizards. Gradually shrink the room, so to speak, until they are all pressed into the center. Like fish in a net, they will splash around, wriggling and wiggling. Perhaps some will even climb atop their companions as the space grows smaller. Oh, they will know they are going to die, but it will take some time for them to get it over with. Yes, perfect-I will kill them all that way, so they die with a sense of style!"
Kalrakin chortled, absently fondling his artifact, pacing back and forth as he imagined his lethal spell. "Of course, by the time I've finished, the tower will be in too sad a state to stand. It must come down-it must be totally destroyed! How fitting-a perfect monument to mark the graves, not just of a few dozen feisty wizards, but a tomb for all godly magic upon Krynn!"
Despairing, Jenna looked over at the dark elf. The rocks pinning her ankle ground slowly closer to each other. The pain was unbearable. She thought of a spell that could relieve the pressure, and she murmured it quietly. With great relief she felt the stone on the inside of her leg soften a bit, becoming almost rubbery. But she kept her expression grim.
She glanced again at Dalamar, and her eyes widened for a moment, before she turned quickly back to the sorcerer, hoping that her surprised reaction hadn't given her away. But she was sure of what she had seen.
Dalamar's hands were twitching, and the bloody mess that remained of his lips had started to articulate a spell.
The pain was a distant thing now. Dalamar knew that his face was badly torn, suspected he might even be blinded, but that was no matter to him now. His flesh was finally responding to his will, and he would allow no weakness to restrain him now. He called upon his hand, his might, his magic.
He drew a quiet breath, ignoring the blood that gurgled in his throat as he filled his lungs with precious air.
As awareness returned to his flesh, his every nerve seemed to scream out from the highest peak of agony. But he also heard the whisper in his ear, Nuitari counseling him, soothing him, acting as immortal balm.
Serve me, my elf—serve me as you never have before. This is not just your life at stake, nor even the lives of all the mages. You strive now for the survival of godly magic upon Krynn—and if you fail, my cousins and I will he forever banished from the world.
And he knew that it was the truth. Dalamar had to survive, had to fight, had to prevail.
The spell took time to build in him. The gift of his god, given to him through the medium of this tower, was not something that would smite the sorcerer. But it would allow Dalamar the chance to slip away; to make a tactical retreat; and to form one last, desperate attack. Vaguely he sensed Kalrakin taunting someone-it could only be Jenna. She must still be alive, fighting on. He was relieved by that knowledge. Now he needed to do his part.
Words choked thickly in his bloody mouth, but he gritted his teeth and forced the torn muscles to give shape to the necessary sounds. And then the power exploded from him in a god-nourished burst of magic, one of the most potent spells he had ever devised. It was not a spell of warmth, but of absolute, irresistible cold. The force of it shot out; surrounded; and embraced the room, the Tower, and the forest, clamping down on movement, on life, and on vitality with irresistible force. It coalesced through the air, the ground, the very world, imposing the will of the dark god on all creation.
And time stopped.
Dalamar sat up, his body tingling. He felt numb, removed from his surroundings, aloof even from his flesh—and this was a good thing, for that numbness held his pain in abeyance. Gradually he pushed himself to his feet, with a sense he was pushing through air that had the viscosity of cold syrup.
His first thought was Kalrakin, as he pushed himself to his feet, and he kept his eyes on the stunned sorcerer. Dalamar felt a red haze across his vision, and he thought it was an effect of the spell. Only after he touched his face did he realize that it was blood, smearing across both of his eyes.
The dark elf's legs staggered weakly. When he tried to raise a hand, he found that he could barely extend his arm before him. He was disoriented, and realized that he was in shock and had lost a lot of blood. If time had flowed on, he might well be bleeding to death at this very moment.
But time had stopped, and this was keeping him alive.
Kalrakin stood in the rubble-strewn hallway like a statue, hands on his hips, his bearded face twisted into a leering grimace as he stared down at Jenna. The Red Robe was likewise still, in the thrall of the spell. To the sorcerer and the enchantress, Dalamar knew, nothing was happening right now—this was merely a nonexistent space between two instants of time.
The dark elf slowly approached Kalrakin. The wild-magic sorcerer was trapped in the moment, but his fist was still wrapped tightly about the Irda Stone. Dalamar would have to leave him alone—if he touched the sorcerer or the stone, the spell would be broken, and time would start flowing again; if that happened while he and Jenna remained in this corridor, he knew they were as good as dead.
Still, the gods had given him the power for this spell, and he would not waste the opportunity. Wrapping a strip of cloth around his head, he tried to stem the worst of the bleeding, though he knew his jaw and shredded cheek were still exposed. There was nothing to be done about that, not for now.
He went to Jenna, saw that she had melted one of the large stones that had pinned her ankle, using a spell to soften the rock. Gingerly he reached down to take her by the arm, and as he pulled her free, she began to respond to the pressure of his touch. She rose to her feet by her own power, though her eyes remained blank, nor did she show any signs of breathing or speech.
But she followed his lead willingly enough as he led her away, through the rubble of the chaotic mess. He guided her down the long passageway to the south tower, carefully taking her around the shattered stones on the great stairway. They climbed until they reached the great circular hall, making a full circumference around the Hall of Mages.
That great chamber occupied most of the interior of the south tower, at least here on the ground level and for nearly a hundred feet above. There was no door into the hall—the mages who gathered there had always used other means to pass through the stone walls that enclosed their most sacred chamber. But the ones there now were trapped by Kalrakin's wild magic.
Teleporting inside was useless, he knew—Kalrakin had said as much, and besides, Dalamar had already expended that spell when he had first attempted to enter the Tower. But there were other means of penetrating stone barriers, other ways a wizard could gain access to a place he needed to go.
But he could only wield one spell at a time, especially in this condition. With a twinge of fear, he waved away the stop -time spell. Jenna woke up, cried out with a shiver, clinging to his arm, gasping in surprise.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"This is the wall surrounding the Hall of Mages," Dalamar explained. "And I need to open a dimension door."
Coryn was ready. This small room, as it had once before, had provided her with a quiet haven, where she could collect her thoughts, gather her courage, and make a plan. She had recovered her nerve. And she had found her favorite, familiar weapons, the simple bow and arrows that had helped her to put food on her family's table for so much of her life.
She decided to start with the teleport spell, and once again the word came to her lips, though it had been a long time since she had studied the enchantment. But that fact didn't seem to matter anymore. Just when she needed the power, it was there, waiting, ready. She arrived unerringly near the second floor landing of the great central stairway of the north tower.
Wizard's Conclave Page 26
