Ed Greenwood - Stormlight

Men cowered away in fear and shielded their guttering torches.

There'd be time to slay them later, when he was done hunting wizards. A wizard, Broglan Sarmyn-leader of these ineffectual dolts. A man who must have some spells worth hurling. A bit of a coward, who'd probably be somewhere near the boldshield and the largest band of Purple Dragons, a man who was … there!

Broglan saw death coming for him, and knew it for what it was. He fired his wand carefully, but did not wait to watch its blue-white bolts strike home. If any of the men around him were to survive, he had to get clear of them, and die-if Mystra willed it-alone.

He broke into a run, bellowing, "Ergluth, stay back! Keep your men back!"

Stones loomed up ahead of him, half-seen in the darkness; he leapt over them, stumbled on loose rubble, and ran on, staggering. Behind him he heard wild, triumphant laughter. He spun, fired his wand at a flicker of movement, and ran on….

On into the Haunted Tower. In the distance, a pale phantom glided from doorway to doorway. Broglan shrugged and turned toward it, heading for a faint glow of moonlight. That must be the place the foe had blasted open to the sky.

Tentacles slapped at him and smote stones from the crumbling edge of a broken wall.

Broglan dodged desperately, his own breaths deafening in his ears, and kept going. An archway, a glimpse of Shayna Summerstar's face-wearing a crown? — from the gaping darkness of a chamber overhead, and he was clambering up a huge heap of stone.

A ball of fire burst ahead of him, hurling him back and blistering his face. He fell hard and tumbled on stones, losing his scepter somewhere in the fall.

He could see nothing but the afterimages of that flash. He was blind, and the foe was laughing somewhere nearer.. and nearer. …

He struggled to sit up and clear his head, shaking it violently. It throbbed. The golden dancing radiances became red, fading ones, but still he could not see!

Something touched him. He dived away frantically, burying his face in sharp stones. Another touch, and another-tentacles! He rolled away, kicking at their rubbery, ropelike strength, fighting to get free. Bleeding fingers clawed for something to hurl at that cold, close laughter.

"Pitiful fool," the scornful voice of Pheirauze Summerstar said from above him. "I'll have your spells before you can waste any more of them. Farewell, Broglan Sarmyn, oh-so-capable leader of the Sevensash."

Tentacles came down like clubs upon his wrists, and ankles-and throat. Broglan bucked and wriggled, clawed frantically at the stones beneath him, and cried out for help.

All that came out was a hoarse rattle-but his fingers found something long, and cold, and hard. A poker? A mace-haft? He swept it up and thrust it desperately at a dark face above him-a dim face that was two red eyes and a gleaming, grinning mouth.

His improvised weapon seemed to have an eye of its own: a huge orb that winked at him knowingly as he thrust it out. Then its red eyes became two flames, and the flames lashed out.

As the real pain began, Broglan used the last breath in him to call on Mystra to claim his soul. He hoped she would hear him in time.

Flames seared Broglan Sarmyn like two needles driven into his eyes. All he could do was stare, unable even to blink. A whirling chaos of lights and sounds and flashing images rushed toward him. The cold, cruel laughter of the foe laced every contorted image in the confused cacophony of shouts and cries and gasped words of agony and passion. The wizard could do nothing, nothing at all, as his thoughts, dreams, and memories were dragged away. In a another roiling moment, he would be gone, swept back into the stream of chaos and out of his own skull….

"Storm," he struggled to say, with his last breath, "I have come to love and respect you-Mystra, please tell her thissss…."

The stream sucked him down, past the place where he could speak and think and cling to anything he knew and loved.

Suddenly, though, its quickening rush stopped, eddying in confusion-broken by the calm, lazily blinking scrutiny of a dark eye as large as all the world. An eye that slid across to block the stream….

The stream struck that eye and rebounded, something that could not happen, a raging voice within Broglan shouted. From somewhere nearby, the foe screamed.

The scream was long and raw and wild. It trailed off into howls of forlorn loss and agony, that in turn became wild giggling and sudden yips and barks and cries. This insane gibbering burst into screams once more when amber light flared into a sudden halo of flames around the dark eye, and a voice that echoed and re-echoed through the wizard's mind spoke.

AT LAST I AM AWAKE AGAIN. YOU HAVE MY THANKS, MAGE, FOR FREEING ME-EVEN IF YOU DO SERVE THE ACCURSED ONE.

"The Accursed One?" Broglan asked before fear told him silence might have been safer. Might.

SHE WHO IMPRISONED ME!

Mystra? Broglan gulped, and asked the question he had to: "Who are you?"

The eye seemed to twinkle as a laughter so deep that it hurt the ears boomed and rolled. DO YOU NOT KNOW ME?

Broglan had no defense but the truth. "N-No," he whispered.

THEN KNOW ME YOU SHALL!

The amber flames around the great eye suddenly flared to a blinding white radiance, and stabbed into Broglan far more keenly than the stream of chaos had done. This time, there would be no escape.

Storm turned toward the flash of white light. "What's that?" she murmured aloud. Elder magic, to be sure. Something of great power had just been awakened, back in the shattered heart of the Haunted Tower.

She broke into a run. She had to be there.

The stone hurled from above struck her so hard that she saw only dazzling golden sparks. Storm knew she fell sideways, but thought that she kept running-or at least her legs kept moving….

When the sparks faded, she found she was lying on her side, and Shayna Summerstar was leaping down from a ledge above her, tossing aside an unnecessary second stone as she came. The Summerstar heiress was grinning maniacally, a tattered gown trailing behind her and the coronet askew on her tangled hair. A drawn dagger was gleaming in her hand.

On light feet, she danced toward the bard. A low chuckle of delighted anticipation rose from her throat as she came. Storm tensed, gathering herself for a desperate kick and roll. Shayna looked down at her and shook her head; she knew full well what the bard planned, and was enjoying the momentary taunt.

White light suddenly flared so brightly that it lit up the heart of the keep, and men cried out all over the fortress.

Shayna Summerstar threw back her head, the cords in her throat standing out like flesh-cloaked spines. She screamed in raw, rising agony. Her eyes rolled up in her head, her hands became claws that raked vainly at the air, and she shuddered so hard that the flesh along her ribs rippled in visible waves.

Then Shayna's head fell forward, and her body went limp. She whimpered, drew in a slow, tremulous breath, and seemed to see the blade in her hand for the first time.

She hurled it down in disgust, looked around wildly, a wordless quaver of fear rising in her throat. Her eyes fell upon Storm, and she cried, "Lady Storm! Lady Storm! Lady Storm!" over and over again and went to her knees, arms outstretched.

Storm rolled up to a sitting position and embraced the terrified girl-who clung to her and burst into wild, racking sobs. Her coronet fell off and rolled. Storm stopped it with one outstretched foot, and stroked Shayna's hair as the young heiress wept in grief, remorse, and shame.

"There, there, little one," Storm said softly, hugging the shuddering, heaving body. "You impressed us all." Well, that was certainly true.