It was Emilo who took a step forward, scrambling up a shelf of rock below the alcove. He stared at the skull from only a foot or two away, and Danyal realized that the normally fearless kender was trembling.
“I remember,” Emilo said, his voice a harsh whisper. “I saw this skull before.… There was a dwarf there, a wicked dwarf.…”
“Take the skull! Bring it to me!” snapped Kelryn, prodding the knife hard enough to draw a gasp from Mirabeth.
Slowly the kender reached out his small, wiry hands. Hesitating only for a moment, he took the skull between his palms and slowly lifted it from the smooth rock of the alcove. Danyal, realizing that he wasn’t breathing, half expected the mountain to collapse or some sort of explosion to rock them.
Instead, there seemed to be almost a lessening of the vibrations in the deep, fiery mountain. With a sigh of relief, Emilo slumped to the ground, holding his grotesque trophy at arm’s length.
It was then that the deep chuckle rumbled through the lair, a sound that could only mean one disastrous thing. And as he looked up and saw the slitted yellow orbs leering out of the darkness, Danyal knew.
Flayzeranyx was here.
Chapter 41
Shards Assembled
Third Bakukal, Reapember
374 AC
Fistandantilus felt the flush of power as the kender’s hands touched either side of the skull. The circle was complete and needed only the explosion of blood and magic to bring the archmage’s scheme to fruition. His will, his memories, and his presence coalesced into a single powerful entity, an entity with a growing semblance of control.
At the same time, he felt the pulse, the heated throbbing of the bloodstone. It was coming from nearby, and with the skull, it would make him complete.
Yet still there was that cursed, impenetrable interference that was somehow tied into the presence of the boy. But that, too, would soon end!
Indeed, the kender was his slave now, the skull giving Fistandantilus the power at last to overwhelm his host’s limited powers of resistance. The wretch would suffer before he died, but first there was another task to perform. Still maintaining his focus, Fistandantilus felt the nearness of the bloodstone. He gathered his might, plunging through the recesses of the kender’s mind, taking full control.
Emilo Haversack sidled to the side, until he crouched next to the prone form of Kelryn Darewind. The bloodstone was there, and through the skull, the archmage could at last bring the kender under his control.
And Fistandantilus hungered for the nearness, the imminence, of killing.
Chapter 42
Dragons, Priests, and Magic
Third Bakukal, Reapember
374 AC
In the split second of recognition, Danyal knew that the wave of dragon awe was imminent and inevitable. Even so, the reality of the red monster’s presence jellied his knees and felled him like a corpse—except that he was still alive, gasping and horrified as he lay helpless on the floor. Mirabeth, Foryth, and even Kelryn Darewind had been similarly staggered by the serpent’s arrival, though the bandit lord had fallen on top of the girl, pinning her in place with his weight. The four humans stared, in various stages of immobility and fear, from where they had collapsed.
Only Emilo still stood. Danyal remembered the kender’s nonchalance when the dragon had flown over Loreloch, but even when he saw the proof repeated before his eyes, he wondered how it could be that his companion could remain upright, apparently unconcerned, in the face of that lethal and overwhelming presence.
In fact, Emilo, still holding the skull, now sauntered past Kelryn Darewind, without taking advantage of the fact that he was behind the bandit. He could have pulled Mirabeth to safety! Instead, he walked away from the others, head upturned to regard the massive dragon.
The serpentine monster’s neck twisted, bringing the reptilian visage downward with a rasp of dry scales until the twin nostrils gaped before the companions. A small puff of black smoke emerged from the flaring snout, and Danyal coughed reflexively. Kelryn Darewind was still awestruck, staring at the wyrm.
Strangely, the explosive convulsion of his lungs seemed to bring some semblance of control to his limbs, and Dan was able to push himself to his hands and knees.
Crawling to Mirabeth’s side, he took her hand, grateful for the returning pressure of her fingers.
“Now,” he mouthed.
Mirabeth nodded, and Dan pulled on her hand as she tried to roll away. But the false priest overcame enough of his own terror to twist, to threaten with the knife pressed now against the young woman’s back.
She groaned in pain and, with a grimace of bitter dismay, Dan froze.
“Look!” Mirabeth gasped.
Still clenching her hand, Dan turned to see Emilo standing, apparently dazed, before the dragon’s broad nose. The scarlet jaws gaped slightly, revealing a multitude of teeth, the largest of which were easily as big as the blade of Danyal’s knife.
“The skull of Fistandantilus belongs to me,” hissed the dragon wickedly.
“No. The skull belongs to no one—no one except itself,” replied the kender.
At least, the words came from Emilo Haversack, but the voice was deeper and more forceful than the kender’s familiar chatter.
Emilo studied the bony artifact that he held in his hands. Then he raised his head once again, calmly meeting the dragon’s glare.
With a deliberate movement, the kender tucked the skull under his arm, the bony face looking backward. With the opposite hand, he reached into a pouch at his side and pulled forth a gold chain, from which dangled the pendant of a familiar gem.
“My bloodstone!” Kelryn Darewind’s shriek was a thin, piercing blade of sound. Eyes wide, the man grasped at his shirt with his left hand. His right still held the knife with white-knuckled intensity, the tip of the blade digging cruelly into Mirabeth’s back.
The skull stared from its black eye sockets, grinning with locked, rigid teeth.
“If you are wise, red serpent, you will withdraw immediately and you will have a chance to live.”
The words came from the kender, but again this was not Emilo Haversack speaking. The diminutive figure cradled the skull as he allowed the glowing gemstone to sway dizzyingly back and forth.
The dragon snorted, and Danyal was momentarily certain that they would all be engulfed and killed by a lethal explosion of flame. But something—perhaps it was merely a desire to protect the treasures from harm—held Flayze’s deadly attack in check.
Instead, the great serpent flicked a claw, striking Emilo in the chest, propelling him backward with violent force. The kender’s body smashed onto the ground, bounced, and collided with Foryth Teel. The historian caught Emilo’s limp form and gently lowered him to the floor.
Somehow the skull and the pendant had remained with the frail body through that violent assault, and now, as blood seeped from a deep wound in the kender’s chest, the grinning death’s-head lay between Emilo’s feet while the pendant rested nearby on the floor. The pale green light pulsed from the stone, bright even in the fiery illumination of the dragon’s lair.
Kelryn Darewind, his features locked in an expression of horror, lunged toward the stone, then whirled as Mirabeth took the chance to dive away from him. She scrambled across the floor, and the bandit lord darted after her, then backed off with a snarl as Danyal faced him with the large, curving knife. Foryth Teel, in the meantime, gently probed at the mess that was the kender’s chest.
“Is he …?” Danyal glanced at the bloody figure and was horrified to see the white flash of Emilo’s ribs through the tear in his chest.
“He’s alive.” Grimly the historian pointed at a pulsing muscle, and the lad was vaguely aware that he was seeing a part of the kender’s heart.
Abruptly Foryth raised his head. His eyes bored into the dragon, and his thin body went rigid and taut in a way Danyal had never seen.
“For years I have strived to remain aloof, to let history weave its tales without my interferenc
e or my judgment.”
His tone hardened, and he shook a narrow fist in the air. Foryth’s eyes were wild, and his forehead was slick with sweat. “But this is too much! Fate is too cruel, and I blame all you who would be the great shapers of history!”
The historian drew a firm breath and stood. “This one is innocent, and he has been wrongly used!”
Foryth Teel was shouting aloud now, in a voice that seemed powerful enough to overwhelm the volcanic tremors of the angry mountain.
“How dare you!” The historian’s voice was choked with passion, a whiplike force of anger lashing at the monstrous serpent.
Flayze merely uttered an amused snort in response.
At the same time, Danyal noticed a newcomer in the cave: an incongruous image of a slight, elderly man dressed in a robe of drab gray. The stranger was standing nearby, clearly within the line of sight of the dragon, yet the serpent seemed not to be aware of his presence. And then, when Foryth Teel swept his gaze across the room, he, too, looked past the man without any sign that he was aware of the mysterious observer.
He is an observer! Danyal made the realization as the stranger raised his hands, revealing that he held a long scroll of parchment. With the scratching of a quill, he started to write, his eyes shifting smoothly from dragon to historian to bandit lord. Dan felt wonder at his own acceptance of the strange appearance; still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the man seemed to belong here.
Foryth Teel whirled, pointing an accusing finger at Kelryn Darewind. “And you!”
It seemed to Danyal that all of Foryth’s self-control, his vaunted dispassion, had vanished under the onslaught of his rage. He raised his fists, then leaned back and shouted toward the ceiling arching so far overhead. “And all of you priests, and even the gods themselves! Paladine and Takhisis! I spit on your arrogance, your cruel manipulations. And Gilean, do you hear me? You are the worst of all!”
At that statement, the strange scribe turned with a start toward the priest. His eyes narrowed momentarily, and then he went back to observing the dragon.
“You strive for aloofness, dispassion, but how can you ignore the hurts?” the historian went on.
Fumbling in his pouch, Foryth Teel pulled out his Book of Learning, scornfully waving the tome in the air.
“All of you are corrupt. I condemn your immortal pretensions!”
Now the historian’s voice took on a slower, but still accusing, tone. “I see that it’s no use to simply watch. I have to do my part, to be a part of the story. And it matters who lives and who dies. People like this kender are more than just pawns. He deserves better than to have his life cast away in the middle of your contest!”
Foryth choked the sound of a strangled sob, then straightened to stand tall. “I can’t make a difference; it’s a pity he didn’t have more powerful friends.”
Abruptly he hurled the book against the rock wall beside the alcove where they had found the skull. The pages stuck to the wall, and suddenly sparks crackled along the rock surface, a cascade of brightness that drew everyone’s unblinking attention. Even Flayze watched, yellow eyes hooded, long fangs partially bared.
And letters were written there on the cave wall, words of magic and power. Foryth slowly knelt and began to pray. His hands went to Emilo’s bleeding chest, and the magic and the healing flowed from his hands.
Danyal watched in astonishment as the gaping wound in the kender’s chest slowly knit. The blood ceased pulsing, and the heart, and then the ribs, swiftly vanished beneath clean, smooth skin. The scratching of the strange observer’s quill was, in the lad’s ears, an unnaturally loud sound.
Foryth looked up. “And now, my Lord of Neutrality, grant me the power to drive this foul force from my friend’s body and soul. Exorcise the spirit that seeks to claim him. Drive it from the innocent flesh of Emilo Haversack.”
Like the explosion of a sewer, stinking, sulfurous gas erupted from the motionless figure. Green mist swirled through the air, forming a cloud that surrounded Foryth Teel and seemed to seep upward from the still motionless kender.
Only then did Danyal notice that the bloodstone of Fistandantilus glowed bright green and pulsed more strongly than ever.
Chapter 43
Powers Competing
Reapember, 374 AC
He was free!
Fueled by the bloodstone and the stored might of the many lives it had absorbed, the essence of Fistandantilus rushed toward the skull, drawn into the vacuum of power with an exultant, stormy force. He felt an exultation and an explosive swelling of hunger. He was desperate to take on a physical shell.
And then came unspeakable pain as the essence of the wizard swirled into the bony artifact. The spirit was abruptly torn, cruelly twisted, the cloud of mist ripped into two parts in an explosion of agony.
One of those halves settled into the hungry, welcoming skull; in moments the spirit and the bony artifact had merged, swelling into a creature of undeath. Fistandantilus had been torn apart by the convulsion of Skullcap, but now the shards of his existence came together in the form of a lich, a creature of remembered humanity and insatiable hunger. The skeletal body was ready to cast mighty spells, to work magic of death and violence.
The other tendril of mist was pulled away as it tore part of the life and the soul of the wizard from himself. The lich could only watch as a great piece of him roared, relentless and unstoppable, toward the human boy.
Chapter 44
Fistandantilus Reborn
Third Bakukal, Reapember
374 AC
Like a small green cyclone, the gas cloud swirled in the air, rising from the vortex of the bloodstone, coiling into a translucent shape as it leaned toward the skull.
But something held it back.
A whoosh of air tugged at Dan, whipped at his hair and clothes. The gust was so strong that it threatened to pull him off his feet, to drag him across the floor.
Danyal felt the tugging hardest at his belt. When he reached for the buckle, he was astounded to feel that the metal was warm, vibrating beneath his fingers. It tugged fiercely at his waist as the force tried to pull the belt away from him.
And then, in a flash, he understood: The ancient heirloom, the buckle worn by his Thwait ancestors, was somehow drawn to the magic!
With a sound like a thunderclap, the whirlwind separated, twin columns of spiraling air wrenching apart with supernatural violence. One of the cyclonic shapes swirled toward the skull, lifting the bone from the floor, raising it eerily through the hazy curtain of the amorphous shape.
It was the second whirlwind that swept toward Danyal. The lad scrambled backward, recoiling from the roaring approach, but the gale pulled him closer, the miasma strangling, suffocating him, tightening around his throat like the belt cinched at his waist. Sensing the irresistible desire in that stinking fog, he fumbled with the clasp, cursing the suddenly stubborn bracket of silver, burning his hands on the unnaturally hot metal.
Finally the belt buckle released. Frantically he flipped open the clasp, and friction burned his skin as the strap of leather was snatched from his grip by the consuming force of the storm. Dan tumbled to the floor and lay there shaking as he watched.
The belt itself hissed into nothingness, burned to ashes by the unnatural touch of the green cloud. The buckle floated in the air, suspended amid the cyclone, and the silver metal began to glow brightly.
And then the silver spattered downward, drops of glowing metal flowing across the floor. Before the lad’s disbelieving eyes, the molten droplets merged and rose into the air. Bending and flowing, they formed into a shining, perfect shape: a silver hourglass.
Dan wasn’t really sure when the change came about, but suddenly the twin whirlwinds faded and softened, the space within each of them growing solid and distinct.
And then the cyclones were gone, and two black-robed figures stood in their places. Their features were invisible within deep cowls of inky, velvet hoods, but Dan had little doubt as to their natu
re: These were wizards of black magic, drawn here by the abiding enchantments of the bloodstone, the skull of Fistandantilus, and the silver belt buckle of Paulus Thwait.
It was the dragon who reacted first. Flayze roared loudly and reared with a great flapping of his wings. A blast of air struck Dan and the companions in the face, and the lad threw up an arm to screen himself. At the same time, he saw the dragon’s jaws gape and sensed the inferno building in that massive, scarlet belly.
Mirabeth took his arm, and he dropped to the floor, pulling her down, trying to shelter her beneath his arms from the killing cloud that must inevitably follow. He remembered the charred bodies in his village and the slain bandits on the bridge at Loreloch; somehow it seemed almost a certain destiny that now he, too, would meet his death by fiery dragonbreath.
He heard another sound, an utterance of short, barking words, but that noise was quickly swallowed by the roaring blaze of an infernal furnace. Danyal was reminded of the sound of a blacksmith’s forge, when the fire had been stoked and the bellows were pumping. This was that same hungry, crackling howl, except magnified to an impossible extent, as if he himself were watching the fire from within the chimney.
But he wasn’t getting burned!
The truth penetrated his numb sense of shock with an almost diffident appeal to his senses. Danyal blinked, feeling Mirabeth trembling underneath him. He looked up and saw a wall of fire before them. Above, oily flames crackled and raged and on both sides as well. He felt the heat against his skin, as if he was staring into a hot fireplace, but neither he nor Mirabeth was being touched by the lethal blaze.
Nor, he saw, were Foryth, Emilo, Kelryn, or the two black-robed wizards. One of the latter held up a hand that looked like a skeleton’s, clothed in sickly skin; it was the force of that gesture, Dan suddenly knew, that was parting the flames, carrying the dragon’s lethal breath to either side.
Fistandantilus Reborn Page 26
