His free arm became an axe, his razor-edged hand slicing in at the side of Ghost’s neck. The evil titan reacted quickly enough for its shoulder to grow a shield, but Cadderly had simultaneously sprouted a tail like that of the manticore he’d battled on the mountain trail. Even as the axe hand resounded against Ghost’s shield, the tail whirled around and snapped like a whip, driving several iron spikes into Ghost’s chest.
Cadderly whipped his impaled arm around viciously, and Ghost somehow melded and molded his skin to match the movements, preventing Cadderly from literally tearing him in half. The tail came around again, but Ghost’s chest thickened with conjured armor, somewhat deflecting the heavy blows.
Cadderly had brought Ghost to his mental limit, had taxed his formidable mind to the extreme. It was a game of sava, Cadderly knew, a game of simultaneous movements and anticipating defenses.
Ghost’s snake maw reformed in the blink of an eye—Cadderly was actually surprised that the vile man, still holding his defenses strong, was able to enact the shift. At the same time, though, Cadderly’s head became the head of a dragon, became the head of Fyrentennimar.
Ghost’s snake eyes widened. He tried to shift his head into something that could deflect the attack, something that could withstand dragon breath.
He didn’t think quickly enough. Cadderly breathed forth a line of fire that stole Ghost’s features, sizzled his skin away to leave a skull, half human, half snake, atop the titan’s skinny neck.
In the throes of agony, Ghost couldn’t maintain his control, his mental defenses. Cadderly’s manticore tail heaved half a dozen spikes into Ghost’s chest, and his axe hand drove deep into the undead assassin’s collarbone.
With a dragon’s roar of victory, Cadderly snapped his impaled arm back and forth, cutting Ghost apart at the waist. The defeated titan’s top half plummeted into the muck, showering Danica and Shayleigh. Almost immediately, the slain Ghost’s torso reverted to its normal size, disappearing under the brown lake. Ghost’s quivering legs toppled as they shrank, slipping into the muck with hardly a splash.
Cadderly’s head became human again as he turned to regard his overwhelmed companions. He caught only a fleeting image of them, though, before a wall of blackness rushed up to smash him into unconsciousness.
TEN
SOARING
Oof!” Ivan and Pikel groaned in unison when the balancing force of the tempest abruptly ended and they dropped, flat-out, to the stone floor. Vander, too, groaned, and fell back against the wall, the huge muscles in both his arms quivering from exhaustion. The wind had simply ceased, and the smoke dissipated, revealing Danica, Cadderly, and Shayleigh lying one on top of the other in a pile.
“Are you all right, humble priest?” Fyrentennimar asked with sincere concern.
Cadderly looked up at the great beast and nodded, very glad that the ethics reversal he’d enacted upon Old Fyren hadn’t been dispelled by his spiritual absence. Danica forced herself to her feet, and Cadderly, in turn, climbed off Shayleigh, his joints aching with every step. He knew rationally that his fight with Ghost had been a mental combat, not a physical one, a belief only reinforced by the fact that neither he nor Danica and Shayleigh had any of the disgusting muck on them, and in fact appeared exactly the same as they had before the journey. Still, the young priest felt as though his body had been through a severe beating.
“What was that monster?” Danica asked. “I thought you said the assassin was dead and gone.”
“That was not Ghost,” Cadderly replied. “Not really. What we found was the embodiment of the Ghearufu, perhaps a joined spirit, magic item and owner.”
“Where?” Shayleigh wanted to know. Cadderly had no definite response. “Some space between the planes of existence … the Border Ethereal?” he answered, shrugging to indicate that it was only a guess. “The Ghearufu has been in existence for many millennia, was created by powerful denizens of chaos. That is why I had to come here, even before our vital mission to Castle Trinity.”
“Ye couldn’t’ve just left the damned thing with the priests?” Ivan grumbled, kicking stones and debris as he searched around for his windblown helmet.
Cadderly started to reiterate the importance of the quest, wanting to explain how the destruction of the Ghearufu was more important to the overall scheme of universal harmony than anything that might directly affect their relatively unimportant lives. He gave up, however, realizing that such profound philosophical points had no chance of getting through the pragmatic dwarf’s thick head.
Danica put her hand on his shoulder, though, and nodded to him when he looked back at her. She trusted him again—her eyes showed that clearly. He was glad for that trust and afraid of it, all at once.
He motioned for Danica and Shayleigh to go over to the door with the other three.
“Mighty Fyrentennimar,” he cried to the dragon, dipping a low, appreciative bow. “The words of the gods are proven true.” Cadderly took a step to the side and lifted one of the ruined, still-smoking gloves. “Nothing in all Faerûn but the breath of mighty Fyrentennimar could have destroyed the Ghearufu. No power in all the Realms could match the fury of your fires!”
The statement wasn’t exactly true, but even though the dragon was apparently still thick in the hold of Cadderly’s chaotic enchantment, the young priest thought it wise to be generous with his praise.
Fyrentennimar seemed to like it. The dragon puffed out his already enormous chest, horned head held proudly high.
“And now, my friends and I will leave you to your sleep,” Cadderly explained. “Fear not, for we’ll not again disturb your slumber.”
“Must you go, humble priest?” the dragon asked, seeming sad, which prompted a curious and sympathetic, “Oo,” from Pikel, and an assortment of incredulous curses from Ivan.
Cadderly answered with a simple, “Yes,” bade the dragon lay down and rest, and turned to leave, pausing at the tunnel entrance to consider his friends.
“What of the toads?” he asked, remembering them for the first time since he’d gazed upon the awesome dragon.
“Splat,” Pikel assured him.
“You should be more concerned for the weather,” Vander remarked gravely. “You do not understand the strength of storms in the high mountains, nor the price your private venture may exact from us all.”
Cadderly accepted the scolding as the firbolg continued and Ivan, even Shayleigh, joined in. The young priest wanted to defend himself, to convince them all, as he’d convinced Danica, that destroying the Ghearufu was the more important quest, and even if they wound up stranded until the spring, even if the delay cost them their lives against Fyrentennimar, and cost Erlkazar dearly in its battle with Castle Trinity, the destruction of the malignant magical item had been worth the price.
A younger Cadderly would have lashed out at his accusers, but he said nothing, offered no defense against his friends’ justifiable anger. He had made his choice in good conscience, had taken the only road his faith and heart could have traveled, and he would accept the consequences, for himself, for his friends, and for all Erlkazar.
Loyal and trusting Danica, holding tightly to his arm, showed him that he would not suffer those consequences alone.
“We will get through the high passes,” Danica said when Vander had played out his anger. “And we will prevail against the wizard Aballister and his minions in our enemies’ fortress.”
“Perhaps alone I could get through them,” the firbolg agreed. “For I am of the cold mountains. My blood runs thick with warmth, and my legs are long and strong, able to push through towering drifts of snow.”
“Me own legs ain’t so long,” Ivan put in sarcastically. “What do ye got for me?” he asked Cadderly. “What spells, and how many? Durned fool priest. If ye meant to come here, couldn’t ye have waited till summer?”
“Yeah.” Pikel’s unexpected agreement stung Cadderly more than gruff Ivan’s ranting ever could. But then Cadderly looked back to Danica for support and saw
a mischievous look in her sparkling eyes.
“How friendly is that dragon?” she asked, leading all their gazes back to serene Fyrentennimar.
Cadderly smiled at once, though it took Ivan longer to catch on.
“Oh, no ye don’t!” the yellow-bearded dwarf bellowed, but by the eager intrigue splayed on the faces of Cadderly and Danica, and by the sudden smiles of Shayleigh and the firbolg, Ivan knew he was blubbering a losing argument.
Shattered! Druzil imparted telepathically, emphatically, for perhaps the tenth time. Shuttered! Gone!
From the other end of the mental connection there was no immediate response, as though Aballister couldn’t comprehend what the imp was talking around. Twice already Aballister had ordered Druzil to find the undead monster, to discover what had transpired to destroy the evil creature’s corporeal form. Both times Druzil had replied that the task was quite impossible, that he had no idea even where to start looking.
Wherever the spirit had flown, Druzil knew that it was nowhere on the Prime Material Plane. The imp pointedly reminded the wizard that he’d been given only one red and one blue pouch of enchanting powder, that Aballister’s lack of foresight had stranded him nearly a hundred miles from Castle Trinity with no way to get through any magical gates.
A wave of anger, imparted by Aballister, washed over Druzil and the imp’s mind flared with pain. He feared that the wizard’s mounting rage alone might destroy him. A dozen commands filtered through, each accompanied by a vicious threat. Druzil was at a loss. He’d never witnessed Aballister so enraged, had never seen such a display of sheer power from him, or even from the mighty denizens of the lower planes that he’d often dealt with in his centuries there.
Druzil tried to break the connection—he’d often done that in the past—but Aballister’s telepathic connection remained with him, held him fast.
When Aballister finally finished and released the suddenly exhausted imp, Druzil sat back against a tree stump with his dog-faced head resting forlornly in his clawed hands. He stared at the shattered flakes of the malignant monster, let his gaze meander up the imposing side of Nightglow, to the fog and clouds wherein Cadderly and his friends had disappeared. Aballister wanted Druzil to find the young priest and dog his steps, even to try to kill Cadderly if the opportunity presented itself.
No threat Aballister could possibly impose, no display of power, would prod Druzil to make that desperate attempt. The imp knew that he was no match for Cadderly, and knew, too, that Aballister might be the only one in Erlkazar who was.
But it was obvious to Druzil that Aballister didn’t want it to come to that. Whatever satisfaction the old wizard might gain in personally crushing Cadderly would not make up for the inconvenience—not at a time when larger issues loomed in the wizard’s designs. Aballister had labeled the undead monster as a possible ally. But it was gone, and Druzil sensed that Cadderly had played some part in its destruction. The imp believed, too, that his own part in the drama had come to an end. The creature had been Druzil’s guide to Cadderly. Without it, Druzil doubted he could ever locate the young priest. And with the weather fast shifting, Druzil realized that it would take him tendays to get back to Castle Trinity—probably long after Cadderly was no more than a crimson stain on a stone floor.
“Bene tellemara,” the imp said repeatedly, cursing foolish Aballister for not giving him more of the gate-opening powder, cursing the foul, chill weather, cursing the undead monster for its failure, and ultimately cursing Cadderly.
Thoroughly miserable, Druzil made no move toward Nightglow, made no move at all. For many hours, the snow settling on his canine snout and folded wings, the stubborn imp sat perfectly still on that tree stump, muttering, “Bene tellemara.”
“I don’t know how long the enchantment will hold,” Cadderly admitted some time later, after Fyrentennimar had eagerly led them to the lair’s main entrance, a gigantic cavern on the mountain’s north slope with an opening wide enough for the dragon to swoop in and out with its huge wings extended.
“It’d be a real party for New Fyren to remember Old Fyren when we’re a thousand feet up on the damned thing’s back!” Ivan snorted loudly, drawing angry looks from four of his companions and a slap on the back of the head from Pikel.
“Ye just said …” the yellow-bearded dwarf started to protest to Cadderly.
“What I just admitted is not information to be given freely to Fyrentennimar!” Cadderly whispered. The dragon was some distance away, peering out into the howling wind and considering their intended course, but Cadderly had read many tales describing the extraordinary senses of dragonkind, many tales where an offhand whisper had cost a parleying party dearly against an easily flattered wyrm.
“The flight will be swift,” Shayleigh reasoned. “You will not have to ride Fyrentennimar for long.”
Cadderly could see that the fearless elf maiden was looking forward to the ride, could see that Danica, too, held no reservations against the potential gains. Hopping up and down, clapping his chubby hands and smiling all the while, Pikel’s mood was likewise easy to discern.
“What do you say?” Cadderly asked Vander, the one member who hadn’t made clear his feelings.
“I say that you are desperate indeed to even consider this course,” the firbolg replied. “But I am indebted to you for all my life, and if you choose to ride, I will go along.” He cast a sidelong glance at grumbling Ivan. “As will the dwarf, do not doubt.”
“Who’re ye speaking for?” Ivan growled back.
“Would you stay alone in this cave, then, and wait for the dragon’s return?” the firbolg asked.
Ivan mulled it over for a few moments then huffed, “Good point.”
They rushed out the front entrance soon after, into the teeth of the raging storm. The wind did little to hinder the massive dragon’s progress, though, and the heat from Fyrentennimar’s inner furnace, heat that lent power to the dragon’s dreadful breath, kept the six companions warm enough.
Bent low, eyes closed, Cadderly sat closest to Old Fyren’s head, right at the base of the red dragon’s serpentine neck. The young priest reached again into the sphere of chaotic magic, focusing all his energies into extending his vital enchantment. To his relief, the dragon seemed pleased enough to carry the riders, seemed pleased just to be out in the wide world again. That thought inspired more than a few fears in Cadderly—what had Ivan said about letting a sleeping wyrm lie?—concerning the potential implications to the people of Erlkazar, particularly the implications to Carradoon, not so far away by a flying dragon’s reckoning. Cadderly had made his choice, though, and had to trust in the wisdom of that decision and hope for the best.
Danica sat right behind her love, arms wrapped around his waist, though she took great care not to disturb the young priest’s concentration.
They climbed up above the storm, into sparkling sunlight, soaring through the crisp air. When they had passed the area of clouds, Fyrentennimar dived down into a crevice between two mountains, turning sidelong within the narrow pass. His leathery wings caught the updrafts, rode them fully as he came out of his steep bank, gaining speeds beyond the imagination of his thrilled riders.
Reveling in the sensation, which was many times more exciting than air-walking, Danica let go of Cadderly, threw her arms up high and wide, and let the wind whip her unkempt hair.
The world became a blur below them. Ivan complained that he was going to be sick, but no one cared or listened.
They came up fast on a ridge, and all of them, except for the concentrating Cadderly, screamed aloud in fear that they would slam against it. But Fyrentennimar was no novice to flight, and the ridge was suddenly gone, left behind in the blink of an eye.
“Son of a smart goblin!” Ivan yelled, too amazed to remember that he meant to throw up. “Do it again!” he cried in glee, and the dragon apparently heard, for another ridge, and another, and a jutting peak after that passed below or beside them in a wild rush, to a chorus of exhilarated scre
ams that were outdone by the applauding roars of one yellow-bearded dwarf.
None of them could begin to guess at how fast they were traveling. They crossed the bulk of the Snowflakes in mere moments, all of them, Vander and Ivan included, in wholehearted agreement that the choice to ride the tamed wyrm had been a good one.
But then, suddenly and unexpectedly, mighty Fyrentennimar reared, seemed to hover in the air, as his massive horned head, his great fanged maw turned back to regard Cadderly.
“Uh-oh,” Pikel muttered, thinking the fun at its end.
Cadderly sat upright, fearful that he’d gone past the limits of his controlling spell. He couldn’t predict the chaotic magic, for its essence was founded in illogic and was in no way described in the harmonious song of Deneir.
Cadderly looked back to Danica and Shayleigh, who no longer wore expressions of freedom and excitement, and to grim Vander, nodding as though he’d expected such a disaster all along. Cadderly wanted to call out to the dragon, to ask Fyrentennimar what was wrong, but sitting atop the volatile beast, suspended a thousand feet above the ground, he couldn’t find the courage.
Dorigen watched in amazement as her wooden door bulged and groaned. Great bubbles of wood extended into her room then retreated. She prudently moved to the side of the small chamber, out of harm’s way.
A huge bubble rolled in from the door’s center, holding the wood out to its extreme for a long moment. Then the door burst apart into a thousand flying splinters, each of them glowing silver with residual energy. Silver sparks became blue almost instantly, and not a single splinter struck the floor or opposite wall, was simply consumed to nothingness in midflight.
Aballister stormed in through the open portal.
“The spirit has failed,” Dorigen remarked before the fuming wizard had even said a word.