Michael Stackpole - When Dragons Rage

Though the gibberers could not pass, save where they could squeeze through the droplets, the same was not true of dragonel balls, draconette shot, and weapons hurled in anger. Resolute grabbed Will, dragging him backward as he painted more stone with blood. Kerrigan used his telekinetic spell to deflect one iron ball, then snapped to the left as a draconette shot struck his shoulder. The shot stung, but the bone armor had stopped it, leaving him with a neat hole in his tunic.

As they retreated to the Grand Gallery, a few gibberers squeezed through after them while others started to climb up to the upper galleries that ran along the Long Hall. Bokagul urZrethi retreated, unblocked by Will’s blood. A few Bokas formed a rear guard and began to kill those few gibberers who did make it past the barrier.

They came out of the northern leg of the Long Hall and into the Seegg Grand Gallery. It literally formed the hub of the community, and rose to dizzying heights. The Hall itself only opened into the lower half of the gallery, but balconies ringed it for another four levels, and generous levels they were. Kerrigan had estimated previously that from floor to domed ceiling, the cylinder ran two hundred feet, and Silide-tse had confirmed that estimate when she pointed to the fountain at the center of the mosaic-decorated floor.

In contrast to the wails of survivors and the thunder of dragonels, the central fountain gaily burbled and gushed water high—cresting just below the ceiling. The fountain took the shape of two kneeling winged figures, pressed belly to belly, with their heads bent reverently and their wings raised such that the four tips converged a good thirty feet above the floor. From there the jet shot up, thick around as a man, then splashed down gloriously over the two figures.

Boka warriors guided the company toward the stairways that spiraled up and around the Grand Gallery. Kerrigan was ready to continue up past the fourth level—the one at the top of the halls that led to the Grand Gallery—but Bok handed Princess Sayce to Dranae, then tugged him along the wide balcony circling the gallery. Kerrigan resisted for a moment, then saw a group of urZrethi sorceresses.

One with onyx skin smiled at him. “We do not know what you did to slow them, but we could feel it here.”

“I did nothing.”

“Modesty; good. We need your help.” She pointed to her fellows. “We have a way to stop them, but we cannot do it alone. Will you help us?”

Kerrigan nodded. “Tell me what to do.”

She pointed down at the fountain. “The sculpture. I need you to destroy it.”

“Destroy it?” Clutching the balustrade, he looked down as the last of the warriors started up the stairs. He cast a spell and caught the hint of an enchantment on the fountain that did resemble his telekinesis spell. There he used the magick to draw and lift something, whereas here it was used to restrain. It was really the same spell, just reversed.

As a dragonel ball skipped in from the Long Hall and bounced off the fountain’s lip, Kerrigan turned his head and smiled at the sorceress. “I know what you want. Are you sure?”

She nodded, then turned to her confederates. “Go!”

Each of them grew long legs and moved to a position near the top of eight halls that converged on the Grand Gallery. The only entryway the sorceresses left unattended was the northernmost, through which the enemy was advancing. As one, the seven sorceresses grew their left arms long and reached up to touch the keystone in each of the other arches.

Magick rippled through the air, shifting and shapeless, yet tangible enough to send a tingle through his flesh. It began to move in a circle, starting at the southernmost position and flowing to the right. It came around faster and faster, building in intensity. It struck him first as a light breeze, then a hot summer wind.

At the entrance to each of the seven halls, the air began to shimmer. As the heat built the arched image wavered, then began to grow more opaque, filled with amorphous mist that thickened into a billowing curtain. Then that ethereal fabric tightened like a taut sail against the wind, sealing every hall, save that through which the Aurolani advanced.

The onyx sorceress took Kerrigan’s right hand. “Now.”

The human mage drew in a deep breath, then let his sense of magick flow into hers. Heat came back along the connection, as if their energies boiled against each other, but soon the current became smooth and quick. The tingle again ran over Kerrigan, then poured through his spine and up into his head. There it swirled around, tightening into a roiling spiral.

Kerrigan extended his left hand and found the statue’s sense. His fingers closed and met resistance. He adjusted his grip, slipping it down farther toward the base, then tightened it. He caught a hint of surprise from the urZrethi, then exhaled, set his teeth, and yanked.

With a great cracking of stone, he tore the statuary from the heart of the fountain.

Water geysered through the hole, rising in a column ten feet in diameter to slam into the gallery ceiling and spray back down. A cold wave hit Kerrigan, shocking him enough that he dropped the statue and fell back. Then, sputtering, he stepped forward again to the balustrade and watched the water boil and froth.

As with fountains everywhere, the water came to it under pressure. The magick he had detected on the statue had restrained most of the water, only allowing that slender shaft to come up through the fountain’s heart. With the statue gone and the spell broken, the flow was no longer plugged. It raced down through the tunnels that brought water to the urZrethi realm.

Already the water level of Lake Osemyr had fallen an inch. In a week, a river in Oriosa would run dry. By the end of that same week, a lake would form north of Bokagul, and a village that had once sat in a sleepy little valley would forever disappear.

But now, given only one outlet, the water cascaded into the Long Hall. The first Aurolani were in some ways the luckiest. When the wall of frigid water hit them, most were shocked into unconsciousness. Those who were not struggled against the rising flood, choking and sputtering until the rushing water propelled them into the shafts raised above Will’s blood. The water’s weight was sufficient to pass them through as if mud through a fine mesh screen.

Hundreds of thousands of gallons raced into the Long Hall, sweeping everything before them. Gibberers tumbled and bounced off walls. Water wrapped some around pillars, crushing them like eggshells. The dragonels were lifted and tossed about as if mere toys. Their heavy bronze barrels smashed the troops they rolled over. Shot moved down the Hall like pebbles in a stream, and firedirt was contemptuously swirled away in the flood’s rage.

Farther on the water flowed until it reached the portal through which the Aurolani troops had entered. It burst forth in a torrent that sent those yet waiting in a little canyon scurrying for higher ground. The water filled the canyon, then streamed north to swell a rivulet over its banks and flood a valley.

Kerrigan shook his head, flicking water from the ends of his hair. “How long will you let it flow?”

“How long will it take for their stink to be cleansed?” The sorceress shook her head. “If Lake Osemyr must be drained, then so be it. Hours or centuries, this river of tears will run until we never need fear unleashing it again.”

Will frowned as Kerrigan looked over at him. The thief raised a hand to the fine stitchery that Peri had used to close the wound in his forehead. “Really, Ker, it’s fine. You just go on using your magick to fix up those who need it.”

“It really would take no time at all.”

Will shook his head. “Having a scar isn’t going to be so bad. Be worth a drink or two when I tell how I got it.”