Anvar waited, his damp skin prickling, attuned to the least whisper of air or the slightest sound that could betray the presence of the monster. Shia and Khanu joined him, moving soft and fleet on padded paws, and he welcomed their arrival, but found little reassurance. The young cat’s thoughts were a churning maelstrom of terror, and for once, even Shia was shaken and lost for words.
“Back to back,” Anvar told them, his thoughts, irrationally, a mental whisper. “It could come from any—”
With a tearing crack of tortured rock, the monster erupted from the floor below his feet. Thrown aside by the buckling slabs of stone, Anvar and the cats evaded the deadly clutch of those clashing jaws. The Mage was caught up in a maze of writhing, chitinous coils as the creature tried to turn and get at him with its razored maw. Despairing, he struck out with the Staff, but the magic was simply reflected from the slippery scales, dislodging a barrage of rocks from the walls and roof. Anvar, caught up in the creature’s charge, was slammed against the tunnel wall as once again the creature overshot its mark and disappeared into solid rock.
“Khanu? Shia?” Dazed and disoriented, Anvar groped in the darkness. He felt the throb of incipient bruises, and registered the sting of many minor cuts and scrapes.
“I hear you, human.” The unfamiliar voice of the young cat echoed in the Mage’s mind. “Shia is here—just give her a moment to gather herself ...”
It seemed as though Anvar had waited no time, before Shia’s voice rang crisply in his inner ear: “Anvar, we must find a way to fight this thing.”
“I’ve already tried my sword and the Staff. I’m open to any suggestions—but you’d better hurry.”
For an instant there was nothing, then: “If its scales are impervious, you must go for the eyes instead. They may be vulnerable—I hope!”
The Mage had no time to reply. The creature was on him again, roaring down at him, coming at him obliquely from above. “Die, blast you!” Anvar had no idea he had screamed the words aloud. He had no conscious thought of directing the Staff. Yet in his hand the Artifact came to life, blazing into incandescent light. A high, thin scream tore through the tunnel. Steam began to erupt from the creature’s compound eyes, which leaked tears of greenish ichor. The feathered antennae drooped, as legs scrabbled weakly on the stone. The hideous creature’s momentum slowed, and finally stilled as its head came to rest against the far wall of the tunnel.
Yet Anvar knew he had only disabled the beast. Raising his sword, he dashed up close, and embedded the blade to the hilt in one darkly glittering eye.
The massive creature writhed, throwing the Mage to one side, but its death throes were short-lived. Soon it subsided, twisting within the confines of the tunnel, its ability to move through rock completely gone. In the dying light of the Staff, one massive compound eye glittered menacingly—then its light was doused forever. The forked tail rasped once against the stone—and was still. As the last dregs of Anvar’s energy ran out, the light of the Staff of Earth was quenched.
“Is it dead?” Khanu asked shakily.
“Gods, it had better be!” Anvar was breathing hard. “I don’t think I could go through another bout like that!” He pulled himself up into a sitting position, his back resting against the slimy wall of his tunnel. “Shia—are you there? Are you all right?” He was shivering, both from physical cold, and from the chill of reaction.
“Both!” The great cat sounded subdued. After a time, Anvar regained enough energy to relight the Staff. Khanu was nearby, not far away by the opposite wall, but it took a few moments longer before Shia came into view, clambering over the dead monster’s moribund coils. “I sincerely hope,” she muttered, “that there are no more of these creatures lurking within the mountain.”
Anvar shuddered at the thought—but he would not give up when he had come so far. Gathering the last shreds of his strength, he pushed himself to his feet and lifted the Staff once more.
The Moldan of Aerillia was both dismayed and incensed that her attack had failed so dismally. She had thrown all her power into the creation of her creature, and would lack the strength to enlarge another for some time to come. Obviously, she had underestimated the power of this Wizard! She shuddered, as pain bit into her guts again. Did the wretch intend to hammer his way right through to the hideous edifice on her peak? For the first time, the Moldan began to wonder why. Over the ages, the battles and disputes of the puny Winged Folk had been beneath her notice: ever since the Cataclysm, when they had lost their powers of magic. Since then, they had been of little more account to her than fleas or lice. Now that a Wizard had become involved, however, not to mention the Staff of Earth . . . What was this Wizard up to—and how could she turn it to the advantage of the Moldai? The Aerillian Moldan pondered, trying to ignore the painful pounding in her guts that kept threatening to scatter her train of thought. One thing was certain. Left at large, the Wizard would remain a threat to her for as long as he possessed the Staff of Earth, Her chief problem lay in the fact that the Artifact of the High Magic made him far more powerful than herself. Without the Staff, she was incapable of taking the Staff by force—a ridiculous, and seemingly insoluble, predicament! The Moldan turned her attention back within her, to the puny creature that wielded such awesome power. Very well—so be it. For now she would watch and wait until she discovered the Wizard’s plans. If force would not serve her, then she must take the Staff by guile,
The wailing of Incondor’s Lament drowned the subdued and discontented muttering of the congregation in the temple. Blacktalon peered out from between the dark curtains behind the great altar, surprised and not a little gratified to find the massive chamber filling early, and fast. Skyfolk thronged the spacious nave, and were even filling the airy galleries above. At last! thought the priest. Finally, the Winged Folk must be accepting his rule. Flame wing’s death had apparently tipped the balance, as he had hoped.
Blacktalon waited in the narrow antechamber behind the gold-stitched curtains, as his lesser priests carried out the service of worship for the Father of Skies. His heavily embroidered formal robes rustled stiffly, their weight dragging at his shoulders as he paced back and forth in the narrow space. The chanting and sung responses seemed to drag on endlessly, and the High Priest fought to stifle his impatience at such nonsense. Power was the only thing that mattered; however, if superstition kept the Skyfolk appeased, he supposed the end must justify the means. At last the time arrived for Blacktalon’s own part of the ceremony. Hearing his cue, he opened the wooden door at the rear of the chamber, and two Temple Guards came forth, supporting the physician between them. Elster’s face was stark white, and her jaw was set. She remained limp in her captors’ grasp, dragging her feet, refusing to assist them to take her on this final journey to the altar and the knife. As she passed Blacktalon, life returned briefly to Elster’s stony face, “May Yinze blast you to oblivion!” she snarled. Eyes flashing, she spat into his face.
Elster had the satisfaction of seeing the High Priest recoil from her, He could not lose face by showing his disgust before the Guards, and had to remain there, glaring fiercely as the slimy trail of spittle trickled down his chin, while she was dragged away. Elster smiled grimly. Considering the fate that awaited her, it seemed a puny victory—but it was satisfying, nonetheless.