Ed Greenwood - Stormlight

At the top of the pile he found the reason for its height: the stones had cascaded down a still-intact stairway, leading up onto the floor above. He ascended, rising warily into similar devastation to what he'd seen below. Still there was no sign of life.

Could he be the last one alive in all Firefall Keep? Gods, what would he tell Lord Vangerdahast?

For that matter, how would he find his speaking stone to tell Lord Vangerdahast anything?

He was crossing a room, that thought eating at him, when he saw Shayna Summerstar at the base of a pillar, under three fallen timbers. She lay curled up on her side, barefoot, wearing little more than dust, the tatters of a gown trailed from her limbs. It was a miracle none of the timbers had crushed-no, he saw, they'd been laid over her, to protect her against collapses.

He lifted them aside and peered at her. She was breathing slowly and deeply, but her eyes were closed. "Lady Shayna?"

There was no response. Broglan reached to his belt to take off his overrobe and lay it over her. His hands drew back. No, he needed the spell components his pockets bore.

He recalled a wardrobe fallen on its face a few rooms back. Retracing his steps, he found it, failed in his attempt to overturn it, and used his dagger to lever its splintered back up.

It was full of women's clothes, all twisted together in dusty disarray. He found a gown and a night cloak. The next garment he lifted away uncovered the lifeless hand of a chambermaid who'd been crushed under the fallen furniture. Above the neck, she was only bloody pulp.

The wizard recoiled, shuddered, and hastily bore the two garments back to the Lady Shayna.

She'd turned on her back and flung her limbs wide, but was still sleeping soundly. Broglan looked at her bared limbs, swallowed, and then awkwardly dressed her. He lifted the limp, warm body to put her arms into the sleeves of the gown, slid its lower half underneath her, and then buttoned and tugged until she was more or less covered. He laid the fashionable light cloak over her, took hold of her shoulders, and shook her. "Lady Shayna?"

Nothing. Not even a flicker of her eyelids.

He slapped her cheek gently, once, and then again. She slept on, breathing steadily. He frowned. Magic? He rolled her over and slapped her behind so hard that his fingers stung and her body shifted on the stones. Still she slept.

Magic. He carefully cast his last, precious dispel.

Dusty lashes fluttered, and Shayna Summerstar looked up at him rather warily.

He waited, a wand raised to blast her face. When she recognized him, she managed a weak smile. "Sir Broglan? Who-what's befallen?"

"I know not, lady," Broglan said gently, lowering his wand. "This ruin around us is your home, 'tis morning, and since awakening I've found only death until I came upon you."

He put a gentle arm around her shoulders, and helped her sit up. "You are the heiress of House Summerstar," Broglan told her gravely, "and my duty is to protect you as best I can. I hope to take you out of this place, find a horse, and get you to court, if we find none else alive."

Shayna looked around wearily, and then down at herself, and made a face. "Who dressed me?"

Broglan flushed. "Ah-I did, lady," he said carefully, fearing an angry response.

She merely nodded, and smiled thinly. "I thought so. You've put this gown on me back to front."

Broglan was relieved to find that he could still laugh, if hoarsely, and even more relieved to hear her merry laugh join his.

Cold laughter, which sounded like it was booming from the mouth of a nearby giant, drowned them out. It rolled around the stones of Firefall Keep and echoed back at them. Bolts of lightning started to flash through the keep, crackling down from the uppermost floor to an unseen target below.

Broglan was afraid that those bolts were seeking the life of Storm Silverhand. As he glanced at the avid face of the Lady Shayna, who was bent forward to get a better look at the distant leaping lightning, he was very much afraid he'd just awakened a willing hand of the foe.

Another man's scream broke off abruptly as the rolling pillar made a horrible wet crunch. The gathered warriors winced.

A grim Ergluth Rowanmantle looked up at the shuddering keep. Tiles and stone blocks tumbled all around. He said simply, "I was mistaken to think we could stay. We're getting out."

He walked steadily across a riven room and bellowed, "Follow!"

Ahead of him, a statue toppled from its plinth, struck the stony ground, and shattered as if it had been plaster. The boldshield ignored it, striding on through the tumult of booming, rolling stone.

"Where're we going?" Erlandar Summerstar called.

Ergluth did not turn his head, but every man there heard his deep roar of command. "To the dungeons under the gate tower-as far and as deep as I can get from this battle. Those two are like gods, smashing at each other up there. We go down and cower until they're done-and pray as we've never prayed before that Storm triumphs."

The keep shook and quivered around them as they ran on. The morning sky above was covered by a flickering curtain of rushing silver flames; men muttered, ducked their heads from this eerie sight, and hurried along. They were rushing down a dark, precipitous stone stair before the boldshield asked Erlandar, "Who've you got locked up down here?"

The eldest Summerstar shrugged. "No one, so far as I know."

Ergluth nodded and began to snatch down the unlit torches from each wall bracket they passed. When he couldn't see to go on he cried a halt and had an armsman light two of them.

Ergluth took one himself and ordered the other passed to the back of the group of grim warriors and fearful servants. He went on, selecting the deepest of the large cells.

Swinging the rusting but massive barred door wide, he boomed, "Our new home! In, everyone!"

Thereafter they sat in the close, dank darkness and together thought fearful thoughts. The keep shook and quivered above them. After what seemed a long time, a particularly violent blast made dust sift down on their heads, and was followed by a strange, hesitant series of louder and louder crashes.

Thalance Summerstar stepped out of the cell to see what could be causing the noise. In a moment, he scrambled in again and yelled at everyone to stand back.

Behind him, a boulder that was taller than a man came slowly crashing down the stairs, end over end. Advancing with the slow but inexorable stagger of a wounded giant, it came to a final thunderous halt against the bars of the cell, bending them inward as if they were mere threads.

"Gods," Thalance swore, "and the lady, she's up there, standing alone against him!"

The Purple Dragon commander nodded, his face as gray as the boulder. "And our only hope," he rumbled in a voice that made the crowded cell fall silent, "is that she defeats him." He turned his head to look at them all. "Keep only one torch lit, and gather the others to light from it, one by one; there's a bracket here. Those of you who aren't seeing to that can start praying."

The royal magician of Cormyr looked up at her. "Nothing until the moot at highsun? Good. Sit down, pray-we never have time enough these days to talk about things." Lady Laspeera Inthre gave him a warm smile, patted his hand, and took the seat facing his. A tray that bristled with bottles and decanters of exotic liqueurs rose smoothly from the table to offer itself to her. His second-in-command waved a politely dismissive hand at it-and then chuckled and shook her head in surrender as she found a full glass of her favorite Old Rubythroat settling into her other hand.

"None of this nonsense about not drinking during the day," Vangerdahast told her gruffly. "You've been at that survey until I thought your finger'd wear through our best set of maps!"