Douglas Niles: Wizards' Conclave

“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.