Эд Гринвуд - Crown of Fire

Shandril closed the door.

Behind her, the scraping sound came again. She spun around—to see the Zhentarim wizard walking slowly and confidently down the hall toward her. There was no blood on him; he looked unhurt and very much alive. He smiled at her as he came. “Well met, Shandril Shessair,” he said lightly. “You bear a sharp sword, I see. Shall we try it against my spells?”

His smile was steady and confident. Fear touched Shandril. Trembling, she hurriedly opened the door on the right again—but the crates and dusty cloths were gone. This time, the door opened into a brilliantly lit hall of polished marble and hanging candle clusters.

Shandril swallowed. Cold sweat ran down her back. If she stepped through that door, would she ever find her way out again?

She looked back down the dark hallway to see how close the Zhent had come—and found herself staring at a stone wall that hadn’t been there before, blocking the hall only a few paces away. The carved stone face of a lion stood out in relief in its center, and seemed to smile mockingly at her.

Despite the wall, she could hear the scraping sound of the wizard’s boots coming nearer, somewhere on the other side of the stones. He was striding confidently, not slowing or seeming uncertain about his way. She tossed another coin—and it vanished into the lion’s smile without a sound. An illusion.

There was no Narm or Mirt or anyone else here to help her now. Whether she lived or died was up to her. Damn all Zhent wizards! Shandril took a deep breath, turned back to the well-lit marble hall, and went in, sword ready.

The marble hall was large and empty. It stretched away for many paces on all sides, dwarfing Mourngrym’s feast hall in Shadowdale. The ceiling was lost in darkness high overhead, and the polished floor gleamed under her boots. Shandril hurried forward, trying to get as far away from the door—and the wizard pursuing her—as possible.

There was a hint of movement on either side as Shandril hurried past, as if phantoms were locked together in stately dances—but whenever she looked directly to either side, where she thought she’d seen movement, all was still.

The hall was wider and longer than any room Shandril had ever seen—probably larger than the hall she’d run through in the dark in Myth Drannor—but now she could see its other end. Stairs led up to a dais there, and a single dark door. She was about halfway there when the music began.

Soft, sweet piping and harping. Intricate and mournful—and like nothing she’d ever heard before. She looked all around, but no musicians were to be seen. The music seemed to wash around her, coming from everywhere and nowhere. A trick sent by the wizard—or something else? Far behind her, she heard the door where she’d entered swing open, and the scrape of boots sounded again on marble.

Shandril set her teeth and strode on. The music faded as she reached the steps. By the time she had ascended to the top and looked back along the hall, all was silent—except for the sounds of the striding wizard. He was coming toward her, a small figure in the distance, and Shandril knew he was smiling. She could feel it.

Behind the approaching wizard, the hall had changed. At that end now were stone pillars and archways, brilliantly lit by flickering torches, which showed her at least four stone-lined passages running off at various angles. They certainly hadn’t been there when she’d come into the hall.

Shandril sighed and turned back to the door in front of her. At least it hadn’t changed on her—yet.

It opened easily, but made a long groaning sound. The room beyond was dark except for a small glowing sphere that hovered just within—a sphere about as big across as a shield … magic, no doubt. Shandril studied it narrowly for a moment, looked back at the steadily approaching wizard, and then shrugged and stepped into the room.

The glowing area flared around her, growing both bright and purplish. The radiance seemed to have no source, but clung to her as she walked on, and revealed faint aspects of the room. She was in a long, narrow, low-ceilinged chamber crowded with chairs, chests, and cabinets. As she peered ahead, the outlines of the dark furniture seemed to flow and shift for a moment, as though they sometimes held other shapes. Behind her, the darkness closed in again.

The room ended in a white door. Shandril opened it—and leapt back as it swung open to reveal a hissing, coiling mass of snakes. The writhing serpents filled a small cubicle lit by a ruby-red glow, their entwined, slithering bodies piled atop each other in a wriggling heap taller than Shandril herself.

Sweating, she slammed the door, encountering rubbery resistance for one horrifying moment. As its lock clicked shut, many similar clicking sounds came from around her. Shandril turned in her little purple glow, and saw other doors shining palely in the darkness. She was sure they had not been there before.

She heard the wizard’s boots scraping on the marble outside the room. In sudden panic, she ran to one of the shining doors and wrenched it open. Beyond lay a short hall containing a small table and a shabby green carpet.

She ran down it and whirled through another door to find herself in a small, musty, octagonal room. All of its eight walls were doors. She opened one, and cold mist eddied out, rising off black water that lapped at the other side of the doorsill and ran back into starlit darkness. She could not see the other shore of what seemed to be a huge lake. As she looked out, mist damp on her cheeks, a strange, ululating cry echoed from far away across the water. Shandril shut the door hastily and stepped back.

Another door, to her left, opened by itself. She screamed and jumped away—but nothing emerged. Keeping her eyes on that door, she backed hastily away, found another door behind her, and opened it.

Now she was looking into a hall hung with old tapestries. At its far end, there was moonlight—coming from where, she couldn’t tell—gleaming on something that moved. Armor! A man in a full suit of plate armor stepped away from the wall as she watched, and he walked to a door. Shandril made a small sound of surprise.

The armored figure whirled around. It took a slow step toward her, then reached up and raised its visor—showing the dark, empty interior of its helm. Abruptly it turned away, walked to another wall, and took up a stance there, hand on spear, as if it had never moved.

Shandril stepped back out of the hall into the octagonal room of many doors, and looked around warily. The door that had opened by itself before was closed again now—and several of the other doors had changed their sizes and shapes; they were no longer identical.

Breathing quickly, Shandril opened a door at random—and found herself face-to-face with the Zhentarim mage, his hand already extended to open the door from his side. He laughed, and brought his other hand up, reaching forward—

She slammed the door on him, hard. It smashed into his arm with a solid thud. Shandril snatched open the next door without waiting to find out how badly she’d hurt the wizard. The chamber beyond was fiery. She tried the next. The moment she saw a room with a floor in the proper place beyond the doorsill, she fled through it.

This room was small and bare, furnished only with a stool and a single door at the far end. Shandril ran to it and plucked it open in breathless haste, her sword up and ready this time.

“Well met , Shan!” The merry voice on the other side of the door was accompanied by a slim, curving sword that deflected her own blade deftly aside. Then its owner tumbled out, swept her close, and kissed her heartily.

Shandril found herself in the arms of Torm, Knight of Myth Drannor and Engaging Rogue. Behind him loomed the large, bearlike form of Rathan Thentraver, priest of Tymora. She blinked at them, dumbfounded.