Douglas Niles: Wizards' Conclave

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 whispered 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.

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.