Erik de Bie - Depths of Madness

"What's that, I wonder?" Slip said.

The mass looked like red amber, with an eerie translucence. It glowed crimson from the inside, as though from a beating heart. Gold veins ran through it, like tunnels bored by a worm. The red substance ran over the buildings like glass, or perhaps ice that had frozen around them. It reached to the ceiling, holding fully half the city prisoner.

Then they became aware of a sound-a distinct humming, almost like buzzing, as though the air shuddered and crackled in expectation of a storm.

"Rain?" Slip asked.

"Magic?" Liet asked.

Gargan shook his head. He pointed.

Half a dozen black and yellow creatures swarmed out of holes in the mass of red amber and buzzed toward them. Flickering light twinkled off a hundred facets in their eyes, and gossamer wings zipped through the air. They might have been bees, if bees grew to the height of men and sported arms carrying spears, but these were abeil.

"Down!" Liet cried. A better command might have been "scatter," "ware," or even "run!" But he said the first thing that came to mind.

Liet did not know why he took one of the iron bars from his pack and placed it between himself and the diving creatures. Nor did he understand how he knew to press the end of the rod. Instinct, perhaps-or that odd power Twilight had spoken of. The rod gave a little hum but did nothing else.

A lightning bolt streaked into the sky and tore the wings from one of the bees, which plummeted to the street with a buzzing screech. Hefting his crackling scepter, Davoren scoffed. "Fear not. I shall defend you." He waved his hand and fire spread through the air.

Liet cursed himself. What had he been hoping for? A blast of fire, a protective shield? A flare of self-loathing came then, and he fought it back. Fury at himself, at Davoren. But he couldn't get angry-not now. Seeing the bees fly around the fire, Liet pulled up the rod and prepared to retreat.

Rather, he tried to retrieve the rod, for it could not be moved. No matter how much he strained, the rod floated in place. The bees were coming, so he abandoned it.

A bee-thing crashed face first into the immobile rod and crumpled around it, there to hang, broken. The rod did not twitch, as though a mountain held it still.

A hissing sound reached Liet's ears then. Now what?

A bouncing motion caught his eye-it was Slip, waving at him and whispering his name from an open, crescent-shaped doorway. Above it floated the flickering image of a hammer emblazoned with seven stars. The seven stars of Mystra?

Whatever the failing image betokened, Gargan was ducking in and Davoren was tearing through the underbrush toward the door, cursing the incoming bees. Then Gargan yanked Slip off her feet and slammed the door.

Bees swarmed past their crushed, hanging comrade, throwing themselves against the crescent-shaped door and oddly curved windows in a killing fury. In reply, Davoren invoked his powers, and a forest of black tendrils sprouted from the building, flailing. The bees swarmed away before he could conjure fire.

Liet and Davoren reached the door at the same moment. It popped open and the men tumbled in past Gargan. The goliath slammed it once again and they collapsed in the darkness.

The four huddled behind the door, Gargan holding it shut. Liet sat near the shivering Slip and looked around. The room in which they found themselves could have been a smithy of some sort. Hammers and chisels and many things he couldn't recognize lay scattered and shattered about them. In the center was something that looked like an anvil, or perhaps an altar-a simple block of jet black stone. Other doors were visible, all shaped like crescents, stars, and inverted triangles. In the center of the room was a black disk, like the trapdoor they had come through.

"I wonder if she sent us here intentionally," the warlock said.

He looked at Liet, panting heavily. "Come-what would your mistress say if she saw you cowering?"

Liet wanted to retort, "She would praise me for having the sense to stay alive under a surprise attack, but by all means, go play if you want. Try not to get yourself killed too messily," like Twilight would have. As it was, he said, "My mistress?"

Then a hissing sound came from below, as of metal grinding against metal. The inert disk gave a shudder and sank. They backed away and hefted weapons. When the disk returned, standing upon it was a familiar, dark-haired elf.

"You called?" she asked, wearily.

" 'Light!" said Liet, moving forward.

Twilight stopped him with a raised hand. Something had unnerved her, clearly.

"What is it?" demanded the warlock. "More foes, coming from below?" He spat.

"What did you find?" Liet asked.

Twilight shut her eyes. "A mythallar," she said.

Davoren scoffed. "And so? This is a Netherese city, and such was the magic of the empire of magic-"

Twilight shook her head. "It isn't that simple," she said. She gestured to the lifting disk that had just carried her up. "The mythallar I found-it's still active."

Sitting in a corner of what Liet had taken to calling the Forge of the Seven Stars, Twilight blew out a long, troubled sigh. Liet had called this a smithy, though there was no pit for fire or water. Neither of these oversights surprised Twilight. If she had seen them-meaning the owner hadn't used magic-that would have surprised her.

Netheril.

That they were inside one of the fallen cities of that mighty age was something Twilight could accept. That the city's mythallar still functioned, however-at least partly-unnerved her deeply.

The others hadn't seen the significance until Twilight explained it. Aside from its own essence, she had sensed three types of magic emanating from the mythallar-conjuration, enchantment, and transmutation-which must reflect dweomers that it maintained. That was its purpose, after all, to maintain the function of magical devices-the question in this case was what sort of devices?

Somehow, the mythallar maintained life in this cave, but would that continue? Would Twilight and the others find the limit of the mythallar's range, where the air would simply disappear and they would perish? Or, worse-would the mythallar finally expire, and whatever life-supporting spells it maintained vanish in an instant, killing them no matter where they were in the city?

These considerations fueled Twilight's desire to find a way out, and soon.

The bee-creatures Liet described had not reappeared, but Twilight had seen black forms moving in that strange amber substance. Was it a hive of some kind? That might explain the flowers. A veritable madman's garden bloomed outside, and in here as well. Moss and vines crept through cracks and empty windows.

Nature has conquered this city, Twilight thought.

She looked around at her companions. Davoren lounged against the wall, seeming to sleep but really watching them all. In contrast, Liet snored against the opposite wall. Gargan sat sharpening the band's blades-excepting Twilight's rapier and the stiletto she'd taken from Davoren.

Twilight saw the halfling sitting still-gathering her focus for healing, likely-her face nothing but tranquility. The group was hungry-they had eaten little since Taslin's death a day and a half before, rationing out the remaining food-but calm.

Curious. Even in such tense, dark circumstances, the little one could know peace.

"Slip," said Twilight. The halfling's ears perked up and her eyes opened. The shadowdancer slid to the floor beside her. The others weren't watching. "Tell me of yourself."

"I'm hungry," she said. "And thirsty. It's been near a tenday without food, aye?"

Twilight resisted the urge to chew on her lip. Water was worse-they had almost exhausted the last of the waterskins filled with Taslin's conjured water.