Mary Kirchoff - The Medusa Plague

Energized by adrenalin, the high defender grabbed Dagamier's robe with his free hand and dragged her along with Ezius out into the nave, away from a rapidly building cloud of vapor that choked the white wing. Another tremor drove the struggling Guerrand to his knees as chunks of masonry rained down from the dome roof. With a tremendous crash, the scrying chamber collapsed in a boiling cloud of dust. Rays of white light pierced the rubble, searing outward in every direction. Mercury and sulfur spilled out from under the pile to drain into the tiny moat.

The trembling now was continuous, with no discern- able-pattern. Guerrand heard explosions in each of the wings. Through the open doorway, he saw flashes of lightning zigzagging crazily about the white wing.

"Come on, Lyim, before it's too late!"

Lyim's response was a piercing scream. His tortured howl rose above the tumult, then was lost again in chaos.

Guerrand's attention was drawn away from Lyim's fate as swirling shapes, like speeding, mother-of-pearl clouds, formed from the magical mortar between blocks in the nave. The choking, dust-filled air there filled quickly with these energized clouds, streaking in from all three wings and swooping around like malefic birds. Two rushed at Guerrand, eyes blazing and gaping jaws full of razor teeth. The dust-streaked mage hadn't time to dodge when the first shape crashed into him. The entity of coalesced energy knocked Guerrand sprawling to the floor with a bad gash in his arm. Others surged forward behind the first, but Guerrand dived out of their way as they swooped past to smash holes in the dome and knock out massive sections of wall. The odd, dim light of the courtyard cut through the dusty air in slants.

The stored magical energy of a thousand mages was being unleashed with instruction to destroy. Guerrand had to get the defenders out of the stronghold and into the courtyard, where at least they would stand a chance.

Guerrand looked toward the apse, a tumbled heap of shifting rubble. The high defender crouched between the still forms of the other two sentinels and formed the words of a spell in his mind. It was a dangerous gamble. Safe teleportation required perfect knowledge of the destinadon, and Guerrand had no idea what sort of changes might have occurred outside from the devastation. He willed total concentration until, once again, he experienced the familiar sensation of momentary unreality.

Guerrand nearly cried his relief when he opened his eyes and saw the shadows of the topiaries, though half of them were ripped out by the roots. Blocks from the facade had fallen here, too, but not nearly as many as inside. He chanted and motioned again, and a clear shell, like half of a hollow crystal orb, formed above their heads. It grew into a perfect semicircle and sealed itself against the ground. The shell wasn't high enough for Guerrand to do more than sit, particularly with the prone forms of Ezius and Dagamier, but it was welcome sanctuary. Guerrand turned his attention to the wounds of his fallen comrades.

Four multicolored shapes, ravenous creatures of coalesced smoke and ash, dashed themselves against the barrier. They slashed and gnawed at the clear surface with talons and teeth that grew longer as the entities' fury mounted.

But the creatures scattered when they heard the dome of the nave crash down inside the stronghold. The hammer blow resounded like a huge bass drum even in the courtyard. Guerrand watched as the entire roof of Bastion collapsed. Tons upon tons of elemental- forged stone and masonry rained down inside the walls and outside upon Guerrand's protective sphere. Summoning the very dregs of his magical energy, he strained to maintain the spell and hold up the shield,

fearing the pounding would never stop.

When the last block in the last wall fell, Bastion's magical essence turned on itself, as if one last battle between the orders of magic remained. The mortar fiends sank their razor-sharp teeth into each other in a hideous feeding frenzy until all but one were devoured.

Inside the protective shell, Guerrand waited to emerge until after that last bloated fiend exploded from its gorging. Only a handful of whole red blocks of granite remained in his wing. Numb, Bastion's high defender stared at the rubble for many moments. A hollow wind sounded in the distant corners of this plane that had known no breeze. Guerrand raised a feeble, dust- and blood-covered hand in a spell.

Dimu sagistara.

One of the blocks jerked from the rubble and rose shakily above the others. His muscles shook from the effort, but Guerrand held the block aloft by sheer dint of will until his failing energy couldn't be denied. Acknowledging the futility of the gesture, Bastion's high defender directed the block to fall again. The stronghold built with the energy of a thousand mages could not be rebuilt by one.

The full Conclave of twenty-one mages never failed to inspire reverence among its members. They gathered only rarely in the cold and cheerless Hall of Mages, the vast chamber in the base of Wayreth's south s?wer. Par-Salian of the White Robes, Head of the Conclave of Wizards, sat upon a great carved throne in a semicircle of stone chairs. To his right, as always, sat LaDonna, Mistress of the Black Robes. The six stone crairs next to her were filled with wizards clothed all IT black, their hoods pulled low over their faces. To Par-Salian's left sat Justarius of the Red Robes, his six red members of the Conclave beside him. The remaining white representatives finished the circle.

Never a lighthearted affair, the gathering this day was unusually grim. All twenty-one members were feeling the effects of the magical essence they'd lost with Bastion's destruction. The stronghold they had united to create was rubble on a distant plane. Bastion had collapsed under the wrathful hands of the gods of magic.

Par-Salian spoke from his chair in the center of the dais. "Fellow mages," the venerable white-haired wizard said, "we gather again under dark circumstances. However, I submit to you that while Bastion was destroyed, it did not fail."

Par-Salian's announcement fell like drops of water into a still pond, causing ripples of movement and sound through the vast and shadowed chamber.

"We-not just the guardians, but all twenty-one of us-failed Bastion and the mages we represent." Par- Salian's icy blue gaze swept over the wizards on either side of him.

The heads of the three defenders of Bastion-Guerrand of the Red Robes, Dagamier of the Black Robes, and Ezius of the White Robes-dipped noticeably lower. Noting that, Par-Salian held up a pale, wrinkled hand to silence the restless gathering.

"Bastion's collapse was caused not by incompetence," he insisted, his voice sharp, "but by arrogance." There were more angry murmurs, and a number of the Black Robes threw back their hoods and raised up in their stone seats. Sadness was reflected in the faces of most of the red and white-robed mages.

"I would finish!" Par-Salian snapped. His anger rolled around the hall like thunder. After a moment, the Black Robes reluctantly dropped back in their seats, still frowning. "This fractious meeting proves my point. All of us had more pride in our orders than in the thing that unites us: our Art. Magic is our first loyalty, no matter who we serve or what color robes we wear." His white head shook ruefully. "We forgot that when designing Bastion in three distinct and separate wings." The head of the Conclave was disrupted anew by voices.

Dark-haired LaDonna rose from her seat and waved an arm like an ominous raven's wing. "Silence!" The head of the black order spoke so seldom during the Conclave that everyone fell quiet in surprise. La Donna's black eyes pierced those of her order. "We Black Robes were the greatest culprits in this," she said bitterly.