Ed Greenwood - Arch Wizard

Nicely Shaped, indeed!

The dolt Everlar was still alive! He'd somehow brought the tower down around his ears-crushing most of Malraun's prized beasts, mind! — yet not been himself crushed in its fall! There he was, coughing in the dust, staggering away from the heap of gowns he'd snored on and-

But hold!

As the dust eddied and drifted, and Rod Everlar came stumbling out into a relatively clear area of floor, another figure appeared in midair just above him, literally standing over him.

It was Malraun, here by his own teleportation magic.

Narmarkoun snarled out wordless hatred, watching the Matchless One start to step down from the invisible, momentary platform of force his magic had created. Once Malraun set boot on the tiles of Malragard, the teleport spell would end and he'd be free of its force-echoes, free to work magic. Magic that would undoubtedly slay the meddling Shaper.

Malraun's foot came down, his other leg started forward-and Narmarkoun astonished himself.

Although he'd intended to bide here, watching all and awaiting his best time to strike, Narmarkoun found himself crying out an incantation he did not know, words and runes he'd never seen before.

It was if a door had opened in his mind to shine forth bright amber radiance through his head, a light he couldn't turn to look at however desperately he strove to… the spell he did not know was done and unfolding, more power than he'd ever felt before was flooding through him-and where had it all come from? — and he was trembling like a leaf in a storm wind, mouth open in slack-jawed amazement.

As the lambent sphere of his spying-spell showed Narmarkoun scenes of distant Earth, of his six servitor Dark Helms snatched bodily out of the strange glass castle they were scouring out there, bloody swords in their hands-and the lorn with them, a limp and dripping corpse in their wake.

As the blue-skinned Doom watched in mute wonder, the six warriors and the lorn hurtled at him and then flashed past him, hurtled along through a whirling tunnel of translocation, howling flows of magic Narmarkoun had called into being without knowing how. Flows that whispered a name as they whisked the six and the one to Malragard, and literally flung them at Malraun, dashing that wizard headlong across the tiles.

That name was "Lorontar."

Malraun raised his right hand, too angry to keep this Shaper as a useful captive. He would lash the man to death, lash him with lightnings, burn off his hands and feet yet use spells to keep this Rod Everlar awake in screaming suffering!

Malragard had been beautiful, and it had been his, and no one, no one , would take it from him and not pay the priii-

Lightning crawled up his fingers and spat sparks into the air, and he snarled and brought his hand down to hurl them at Everlar.

Who ducked, dodged, and fell hard, spinning and scissoring his feet around to sweep Malraun's ankles out from under him.

He crashed to the tiles, shouting in anger, and scrambled up to-

Do nothing to Everlar at all, as dark and heavy armored bodies slammed into Malraun in a tide out of nowhere, a tide that hacked and sliced and spat curses as it crashed into him.

His breath was gone, all thoughts of his spell with it, and Malraun numbed an elbow on hard tiles, then cracked the side of his head on tile hard enough for tears to come unbidden, and-something large and wet that stank very much of lorn blood slammed down on him and slid with him ere it bounced off and was gone.

Laughter, and running feet, and dark swords swinging down at him-

He rolled desperately, yet felt wet fire through his shoulder as a sword sliced deep. Falcon shit!

Malraun felt for the mind-link, desperate to take himself back to Darswords and away from these Dark Helms, to win time enough to breathe, Falcon spit, then high time enough to work a blasting spell that would-

Amber light flared along the link from Taeauna, light that became a smile and two dark, gimlet eyes that stabbed through Malraun like Dark Helm blades. Silently laughing at him as it came.

Yes, Malraun the Matchless, I am who you fear I am. Lorontar of Falconfar, THE Doom of Falconfar-and your Doom.

Those words were soft, yet thundered like fire through Malraun's head. Before he could do anything, the power just behind them struck.

And all Falconfar dissolved in amber fire.

Rusty held up the flashlight. It was heavy, of stout metal encased in rubber-and might manage him one parry.

Then he would die.

This Dark Helm was no overconfident, reckless fool, but a veteran, patiently herding Rusty and Sollars back across Holdoncorp's Security Office, away from any way out of here.

Slowly and patiently cutting off all escape, knowing he could slay at will. Pete Sollars stumbled to his knees in fear, and burst into tears-but the Dark Helm stepped back and gestured curtly with his sword until the crying "eyes" scrambled up again. A veteran, avoiding any chance of a "trip me by rolling at my ankles" ploy.

The Dark Helm advanced again.

Rusty Carroll drew in a deep breath, stepped forward with flashlight in hand, and prepared to die.

The sword swept back, the Dark Helm sidestepped faster than any dancer Rusty had ever seen, that sword came in at him so fast that he almost fell getting the flashlight into the right spot to parry, and-

The Dark Helm was suddenly gone. Vanished into thin air in a silent instant, one step away from carving Rusty Carroll in two.

Suddenly, in silence and without warning, his spying spell winked out. Narmarkoun stared in disbelief at the dark and empty air where the glowing sphere of his magic had been a moment ago, showing him Malraun being hacked at by Dark Helms in the ruins of Malragard.

Then there came a flash, light that cloaked him, whirled him around, and spun him-elsewhere.

Leaving the great castle of Yintaerghast dark and deserted once more.

Rod Everlar rolled desperately across cracked and rubble-littered tiles, trying to get away from Malraun.

Who was stiffening and shrieking out sudden wild cackles of laughter, gibberings of maniacal glee that made even the Dark Helms flinch back from him. Foaming at the mouth, his eyes gouting sparks, the wizard spread his hands and fed them lightnings that sent them flying, broken and burning, swords clanging down far away across the rubble of Malragard.

Rod ran out of space to roll to, fetching up against a great heap of fallen stone in time to see the wizard throw back his head, his face a bright mass of sputtering, leaping lightnings, and roar in triumph.

Malraun spread his hands again. Wands and scepters and small things of bright metal burst from here and there amid the rubble, racing through the air to his waiting grasp.

He flung most of them down as they arrived, in a great bouncing and clanging at his feet, but kept two of the longest, deadliest-looking things: scepters with heads like horned orbs. These he promptly aimed at a certain spot far across the tiles.

An empty spot, so far as Rod could tell.

Then there was a flash, and a tall wizard with blue and scaly skin stood there, looking bewildered.

"Narmarkoun!" Malraun crooned, in a voice deeper and older than the Matchless One had ever sounded before-and unleashed the scepters in his hands.

Narmarkoun had time to scream. Just once.

Once, before a whirling, tightening sphere of deadly clawing magics from the scepters drew in tight around him, rending and tearing. He was a sobbing cloud of red mist by the time his smashed and broken body was driven back across the tiles to what was left of a wall and through it, leaving a gaping hole and a flickering glow beyond. By then, a great smear of gore spattered across a more distant wall was all that was left of Narmarkoun.