Paul Kemp - Dawn of Night

The duergar standing over the slain Skull took a yellow beam in his chest, screamed, and turned inside out, spraying gore.

The remaining Skulls, unperturbed by their fallen brother, floated across the cavern, unleashing power and death wherever they moved. Duergar, trolls, and humans formed groups and rushed the Skulls. Duergar and Xanathar mages fired everything they had at the Skulls-wand and spell. Huge stalactites broke from the ceiling and crashed on the cavern's floor. One of them crushed a second Skull and buried a group of duergar.

"That's it!" Magadon said. "They've moved. All three of them. They're in a smooth walled tunnel, still in the Underdark but not in Skullport. Something is wrong with one of them." The guide held out a hand. "Here. I can show it to you."

Cale reached out and clasped Magadon's arm.

"Cover!" Riven shouted.

Before Cale could respond, an explosion of fire rocked the ledge. An inferno of heat and light engulfed the entire face of the wall and he lost his grip on Magadon. Vaguely, he heard Jak, Riven, and the guide scream, then he heard the dull thud of flesh slamming into rock. The force from the blast flattened Cale against the ledge, stealing his breath. Only mildly stunned, he looked up a moment later to find his clothes smoking but his flesh unharmed. Weaveshear, sheathed in shadows, vibrated in his hand.

Magadon and Jak lay near him, off to the side, their flesh charred, their clothes aflame. But both of them were blinking, both of them were conscious. They were looking past Cale, wide-eyed. Jak tried to say something but no sound emerged. Cale turned his head to find himself face to face with the glowing visage of a Skull.

* * * * *

Azriim materialized in the tunnel to the sound of screams-Dolgan's screams. The big slaad's hind claw had materialized up to the ankle in the stone of the cavern's floor. It looked as if stone jaws had clamped shut on his broodmate's foot.

Azriim pocketed his teleportation rod and shook his head in irritation-not because he was concerned with Dolgan's pain, but because time was of the essence and Dolgan's plight would slow them down. He had known an errant teleport to be a possibility of using the rods in the Underdark, but had decided to run the risk. In truth, he'd had no choice. He needed to get to the provenience while the Skulls were distracted with the battle in the north tunnels. He did not have a lot of time.

Still wailing, Dolgan pulled at his extremity as though he might jerk it from the stone. His claws dug bloody grooves in the flesh of his exposed calf, but the stone did not release its grip.

Azriim knew the effort to be futile. The hind claw could not be pulled free. The substance of his broodmate's foot had melded with the stone. There was only one way to get him loose.

"Silence, fool," Azriim commanded, concerned that his broodmate's wails might be heard by any remaining Skulls.

When Dolgan showed no sign of having understood, Azriim willed a globe of silence to surround them, and all sound died.

Serrin, standing beside Dolgan and eyeing the big slaad's extremity with emotionless gray eyes, projected, Transform yourself into a smaller shape.

Dolgan looked up sharply and grinned through his pain. Drool ran from the corners of his mouth. He closed his eyes for a moment and began to change, his large human form shrinking down into that of a gnome.

As Azriim had known, the transformation did not free his foot.

It did not work, Dolgan said through clenched teeth.

Azriim could not tell if the big slaad was smiling with pleasure or grimacing with pain.

We can see that, Serrin answered.

Dolgan's eyes watered with the agony.

It is painful, he said.

Azriim sighed.

Of course it is, he replied. They had to move, so to Serrin he projected, Chop it off

Dolgan's eyes went wide.

What? Do not!

Serrin did not show surprise, though his eyes narrowed. He hefted his falchion.

It is the only way, Azriim said to Dolgan. Be grateful that Serrin carries a blade, else you would have to chew your way through your own leg.

But-

Otherwise, Azriim continued, we will have to leave you behind to starve.

Dolgan stared at Azriim for a moment before his expression dropped. The big slaad looked to Serrin, then the falchion, and Azriim saw acceptance in his eyes.

Do it, then, Dolgan projected.

Serrin didn't hesitate. He raised his blade high. Dolgan, still in gnome form, held up a small, gnarled hand.

Don't do it all in one swing, he projected, warming to events. And make certain it's painful.

* * * * *

Cale climbed to his feet, Weaveshear in hand.

The Skull pronounced something in a tongue that Cale did not understand, though the ominous tone was clear.

Cale said, "I don't understand" and began to back off toward Jak and Magadon.

The Skull moved with him and spoke sharply in the same tongue. Before Cale could utter another reply, the Skull's eyes flared and a green ray fired from the sockets. Cale, trying but failing to sidestep the beam, instinctively brandished Weaveshear before him.

To his shock, the shadows around the sword swallowed the beam. The blade grew hot in his hand and began to shake. He felt the power contained within it, sensed its desire to be released. With nothing else for it, he pointed Weaveshear's tip at the Skull.

The green beam, interspersed with hair-fine threads of shadowstuff, blazed forth. It hit the surprised Skull between its eyes, and for a moment the creature shook violently, as if it was about to blow apart.

But it did not, and instead the Skull cocked itself curiously to the side and eyed the blade. It spoke a long string of phrases, each in a different language. Cale understood almost nothing, catching only one word that he knew: coluk, a Turmish verb meaning, "to absorb."

Behind the Skull, the battle raged on. Fire and lightning lit the cavern. The stone was awash in magical energy and blood. The Skull before Cale uttered a piercing, keening wail. A second Skull engaged in the battle turned sharply at the sound. It turned from the battle and veered toward the ledge.

Cale's heart hammered in his chest. He could not manage two Skulls.

Still holding Weaveshear between himself and the Skull, he moved nearer to Jak and Magadon, knelt, and grabbed the halfling by the cloak.

"Get up, Jak," he hissed. "Mags . .. up. Now."

With Cale's help, his two stunned companions climbed to their feet, still smoking and dazed from the fireball. The second Skull was nearly to the ledge. The first kept its impassive gaze fixed squarely on Cale.

"Riven!" Cale called, not seeing the assassin.

"Here," Riven's voice called from behind them and to their right.

Cale glanced over his shoulder to see Riven crouched against the wall, his one eye fixed on the Skull. He held throwing daggers in each hand-paltry weapons against so formidable a foe. His clothes were blackened, but he looked generally unharmed by the fireball.

"We're leaving," Cale said, speaking as much to the Skull as to his comrades. "We're leaving," he said again, but in Turmish, hoping the Skull would understand.

The Skull softly muttered something in reply. The second Skull was nearly there.

Pulling Magadon and Jak along, Cale backed toward Riven.

Mags, he projected, show me where the slaadi went.

The Skull began to mouth arcane words. The second Skull fell in beside it and joined its incantation. Cale feared that Weaveshear would not be able to absorb whatever was coming next.

Put your hand on me, Riven! Cale projected. Mags, now!

Riven grabbed a fistful of Cale's cloak as a mental image formed in Cale's brain: a smooth walled cavern with a formation of stalagmites on the right and a shallow pool. While Cale knew that teleporting in the Underdark presented danger, he had no choice. He drew the shadows around him as quickly as he could and willed them to move to the cavern-willed them to move that instant.