Realms of the Arcane

When Even Sky Cities Fall

Peregrin rose beside the thunderhead. The sun glinted from his eagle eyes and shone warmly in his flashing feathers. His leonine body cast a darting shadow up the wall of cloud before him. With each surge of his wings, the griffon climbed, prying loose the covetous fingers of Faerun.

His rider hunched, light and expert, in the saddle.

Josiah was a mage, as were all the green-robed griffon riders of Tith Tilendrothael. Only a mage could be mind-bonded to a griffon. Josiah had been mind-bonded to Peregrin for eleven of the man's twenty-five years. He rode with the balance and grace of experience. His long black hair lashed in the wind.

Just a little higher, Peregrin.

Through Josiah's eyes, the mind-bonded griffon saw the rest of the cavalry-four hundred bird-lions and their riders-topping the gray-black wall of cloud above.

Peregrin responded with a lunging rush of wings and fresh speed. He watched as the hind claws of the last ranks disappeared over the cloud ridge. In three more wing beats, Peregrin followed, vaulting the coiling squall line of the storm.

A broad skyscape opened before him. The top of the thunderhead dipped slowly away into a great black sea that stretched to the horizon. Against that toiling expanse, the other griffons glinted in formation like ships in a golden regatta. The creatures looked tiny and fragile upon the angry cloud.

For Tith Tilendrothael, pledged Josiah.

His black hair whipped around him as he took one final look back at the floating city whence they had come. Tith Tilendrothael was barely visible through a dark valley, its ivory towers and golden streets glittering in sunshine.

Peregrin meanwhile focused his attention ahead. What are we looking for, he asked, this? He sent an image of lightning leaping jaggedly across a misty cauldron below. Or this? His vision shifted to where the vaporous sea curved into a black vortex. Or-this?

For a moment, they both fell silent, watching a ragged flock of crows straggle en masse just above the cloud top. The birds flew with the weary, hovering motion of sea gulls following a fishing boat.

That's it, Josiah agreed. Crows don't fly this high. They must be tailing the enclave, looking for scraps. The city should be hidden just below them, about there. He focused his eyes on the snaking darkness beneath the birds.

Peregrin snorted a white ghost of breath. Who would steer a floating city into a thunderstorm?

The Lhaodagms would, apparently, replied his rider. It's the only way to approach our enclave without being spotted. They probably thought to drop out of the clouds and bash Tith Tilendrothael to pieces.

Never in the three hundred years of animosity between the two floating cities had they approached this close-within five miles. Only griffons and other aerial units had ever engaged each other. As with any other Netherese enclave, Lhaoda and Tith Tilendrothael kept their citizens safely out of battle. Though fully fitted with rams and spikes and grappling equipment, enclaves preferred to float serenely above their conflicts-safe and aloof.

Lhaoda's advance upon Tith Tilendrothael was tantamount to a declaration of war.

Peregrin banked into a steep dive. He headed for the misty spot directly in front of the struggling crows. The cloud there boiled darkly, mounded currents above something solid and vast.

Peregrin shrieked once.

The sound sliced through the rarefied air and reached the other griffons. They turned in their flights and saw the screaming golden comet of Peregrin, diving toward the turgid chaos of the cloud.

Peregrin's wings were folded tightly to his sides. He dropped from the heavens. Josiah perched close atop him, eyes low and keen.

In one wet, roaring moment, griffon and rider plunged through the fleecy head of the storm and into the loud blackness beneath.

They flew through ink. The darkness was complete. Water saturated Peregrin's feathers. He spread wide his wings-sluggish and heavy. Rain sheeted away behind him. Wing tips trailed spirals of sleet.

A diffuse flash of lightning came below, showing Peregrin his own coverts against a momentary gray. Then, only blackness. The boom of thunder did not lag long before it shook the heavens. The very storm shivered.

I see it, Peregrin thought. He sent Josiah the image of faint yellow lights moving evenly through the blackness below. Yellow glow, not blue. Fire-perhaps magical fire, but still fire-not lightning.

Take us there, Josiah responded.

Peregrin dropped easily back into his steep dive. His pelt riffled. Claws curled toward pads.

The others were beside them now: Fletching, Evensong, Glazreth, and the rest of the cavalry. They had seen the fires below, too. Lhaoda hung there, in the turbulent throat of the storm.

It was a bold strategy, hiding within a thunderstorm to approach an enemy enclave. The flying city of Lhaoda would have to be bold; it was half the size of Tith Tilendrothael, and its griffon troops were little better than rabble. Their mounts were old catflesh. Some of their mages even rode enlarged crows. In a fair fight, the Lhaodagms didn't stand a chance.

By the looks of it, they had no intention of fighting fair.

Still, the harrowing flight path had not paid off. Tith Tilendrothael's scouts had magically sensed the presence of the rock in the cloud and had called forth the cavalry. Long before it reached the enemy enclave, Lhaoda would be besieged by four hundred top aerial cavalry. This would be a full-scale, all-out attack. The city would be strafed until it turned back or surrendered.

For whatever reason, the Lhaodagms had shattered the relative peace of centuries, and they in turn would be shattered.

Stay sharp. They'll have fliers, too. The rain will help us-mask us, keep them from looking up, thought Josiah as he drew a slender wand from his belt. His free hand ran through his hair, and he smiled in anticipation.

Peregrin's eyes scraped the darkness below. In the belly of the cloud, a vast monster of rock and magic slowly took shape. Staving spikes glittered darkly along the edges of the floating city. War rams bristled, thick as thistles. Buildings honeycombed the sloping brow of the flying citadel. Magic threads of blue and orange and green cobwebbed the mountain. Rainwater drizzled from its edges in dim, brown cascades.

She might be halfTith's size, thought Peregrin, but she's plenty big, all the same. And fully armored.

When we're done with her, Josiah replied as he weaved sorcerous protections around them, she'll not be more than a smoldering coal in the sky. With that, he spoke an arcane word.

The stinging pelt of rain suddenly gave way to the scintillation of wards. Peregrin flexed his wings. A blue-green glow limned each feather. In the darkness, he seemed no longer a living being, but a sketchbook creature. The other griffons and their riders, one by one, also glowed with azure outlines.

Powerful sorceries crowded through Josiah's mind. Some of the alien words and gestures verged into Peregrin's thoughts. The griffon fought away the distraction. He focused instead on the target below.

As the city of Lhaoda struggled along in the streaming chaos, the storm uncoiled a scorpion tail of lightning. It struck the city's shields, crackled angrily, and broke through long enough to blast apart a twisted tower in the center of the enclave. Other blackened buildings smoldered from previous lightning strikes.

"Ready for raking fire," Josiah shouted aloud.

Peregrin understood. He swooped from his dive. The staving spikes and rams shone dead ahead.

A crackle of green power leapt from each of Josiah's hands, shrieked past Peregrin's ear slits, and whirled toward the city. The twin bolts thickened as they went and trailed coils of sulfuric smoke. They punched through the first invisible shell of protections. A flash brighter than lightning showed the point of impact. Ripples of sorcery moved in rings out from the spot. The bolts continued on. They popped twice more, in deeper layers of protection. The energies dissipated in crazy gyrations.

No single wizard could have shut down those defenses… but four hundred top mages…

Matching green bolts arced out all around. In hundreds of places, the spells cracked through the city's defensive shells. Emerald magics were still crashing into the shields as Peregrin flew through the breach Josiah had made.

Sharpened spikes skimmed by below. With each flap of Peregrin's wings, sheets of water broke against the spikes. The griffon himself soared over the rampart and slid into a long, low course over the city.

Though once splendid-with white spires, onion-shaped domes, red-tiled roofs, flying archways, ornamental gardens, and streets cobbled with something that looked like silver brick-the city had been 'sieged and sacked by the very storm that cloaked it. Fires stood in pillars across the skyline. Winds had felled many trees. Sudden changes in pitch and yaw tumbled anything not secured with rope or magic. Waters flooded the streets and sluiced whichever way the city tipped. Citizens ran pell mell from ruin to ruin and were swept away on the ravaging tides.

I'm amazed the Lhaodagms didn't abandon the cloud after all this abuse, sent Peregrin.

They've got far worse coming from us, Josiah responded.

The mage sent more blasts, these from a pair of wands. A swarm of purple sparks formed above Peregrin's head. The motes hovered and spun for a moment, as though awaiting instructions, and then rushed away. They flared above the city and punched through the bone-white wall of a tower. The windows lit with an orange light, which intensified to white. A whirring whistle rose to become a shriek. The walls cracked like glass, and the tower majestically began its collapse.

The last of the rubble had not struck ground when a fireball from Josiah's other wand splashed across a tile rooftop and set the eaves ablaze. The mage then flung out a grasping gesture. A gigantic hand formed below and gripped a footbridge. The fist squeezed. Stone and mortar tumbled away into the cleft beneath.

More attacks came from all around. The griffons swarmed the city. Fiery nets dropped atop thatched buildings and set them ablaze. Channeled winds and funneled rains leveled structures of limestone and marble. Magical lightning leapt from dozens of wands. Where bolts struck would-be defenders, mordant gray puffs of smoke went up and greasy bones went down. Feathery blasts of poison gas dropped others who rushed into the streets.

Not all the Lhaodagms fell, though. Answering fire rose from towers and turrets and alleys, alike. Fireballs, arrow storms, explosions, whirlwinds, clockwork creatures, lightnings, specters, and even a few scrawny griffons rose into the sky. As Peregrin flew past a hoisted spike, the air ahead flashed and popped as if with fireworks.

Beautiful, really, Peregrin commented nonchalantly as Josiah threw furious bolts of spell power. I wonder whether this date will become a fireworks celebration for them, or for us…

Up! came Josiah's frantic mind-call. Up! Up!

Peregrin then saw why. Above the capital building of Lhaoda whirled a huge, scythe-bladed windmill. The thing would chop them to pieces.

Peregrin spread his wings to swerve away. Just then, a fireball roared up from the street and flared into being right before the bird-lion. He shied from it, back onto his original path. The blades were a heartbeat ahead.

Peregrin blinked rapidly. The spinning blades before him seemed to halt. Now, to time it… and hope Josiah's defensive magics held.

He dived into the windmill. Josiah shouted in alarm. The griffon's eyes opened.

A blade whirred past his beak, so close that its trailing edge scraped a nostril. With his body bunched, the griffon soared through the open space. The next blade caught his haunch. It notched the magic shield and bit lightly into his golden pelt. The shield held, but the impact flipped rider and griffon over. The passing blade sliced loudly.

Tumbling in air, Peregrin struggled to right himself. Josiah clung on for dear life. Burning buildings and shattered walls flashed kaleidoscopically around them. Releasing a shriek of exertion, Peregrin steadied his course.

Josiah's fingers slowly eased from the saddle-horn. He straightened, took a breath, and began the gestures of a powerful spell. Two breaths later, the motions were done and the triggering word spoken. He pivoted in the saddle and sent twin blasts of radiance toward the center of the windmill. The bolts struck in accord, bursting the hub of the wheel.

Four scythe blades flew outward. One impaled the capital dome beneath it. Two more shot out laterally to mow down houses and citizens. The last whirled straight up, tumbled about its axis, and fell to become entangled in the gutted scaffold of the windmill.

Pull up, Josiah sent, gently this time. They had reached the end of the city and of their strafing run.

At the head of the griffon columns, Peregrin ascended into the furious storm. He breathed deeply. This was the moment to regroup, to prepare for another run.

Torrid rainwater pummeled the shields atop his feathers and fur. Peregrin's wings unfolded. Already the tension of battle was easing from them. Josiah hauled a new battery of spells into his mind.

Here, beyond the edge of the floating city, the storm was black and omnipresent. Whirling winds… endless night… popping ears… The violent darkness defied direction sense.

Feeling sudden vertigo, Peregrin began to bank back toward the city. A strong crosscurrent lashed the rain sideways. He deepened his angle into the gale. A warm updraft enveloped him. He continued his turn, rolling over.

His wings lost lift. Griffon and rider plunged.

Peregrin foundered. Each flap of his wings dragged them faster into the fall. One wing caught upon the chaotic air, but the other lashed emptiness.

Josiah clung tight all the while. Hands full of saddle and wand, he shouted spell fragments into the buffeting air. Useless.

They spiraled downward.

Downward… At last, Peregrin knew up from down. He folded both wings, nosedived, and then spread his plumage. Feathers found purchase, and he soared out of the dive.

He breathed deeply, calming himself. How far have we fatten?

Neither griffon nor rider could glimpse the ground. Peregrin glanced upward, seeing the city high above. Faint golden specks swarmed about it, griffons regrouping for another attack.

Sorry, Josiah, sent Peregrin.

It's a thunderstorm, the mage said, the worst skies for a battle.

The griffon was already straining his wings to rise toward the floating rock. / don't suppose you brought any levitation magic…

The mage's reply was slightly chiding. I'd not considered this possibility. Then he sent, Don't strain too hard. I imagine we're out of this fight.

The storm's already done half the battle for us, anyway. Another five miles in this squall and Lhaoda would be destroyed, with or without us, thought Peregrin.

Yes, the mage responded wryly. He seemed to consider as he repeated, Yes. Why haven't they steered clear ofit?

Perhaps they can't steer clear, Peregrin replied. Perhaps the storm has damaged their navigation center.

Josiah perched a hand above his eyes and looked upward at the shimmering outline. He gave a gasp, and sent the image in his eyes to Peregrin: the city was much closer than it had been moments ago. Peregrin could not have risen this far this fast.

The only explanation was that the city was falling.

Falling? We haven't done that much harm, the griffon responded. He sent back the view from his own, much sharper eyes:

Firelit billows of spray rolled around the edges of the city. The torrent was so strong that it added a deep thrumming drone to the cacophony of the storm. Falling.

Peregrin fought his way forward through the streaming darkness, struggling to get out from under the thing.

Our fliers wouldn't have slain the levitation council, Josiah thought. That's against all the treaties. There hasn't been such a massacre since… His thoughts trailed away as he assembled a quick casting and began the arcane gestures.

It's not in free-fall, Peregrin pointed out. His surging muscles bore them clear of the descending city. It hasn't capsized. Somebody's trying to hold it aloft.

Josiah finished the casting. A chill went through the man and continued on, into the bird-lion. It's not just somebody. It's everybody. Their whole levitation council is still alive. They're gathered at the center of the rock, trying to hold it in the skies.

Peregrin made a long, slow turn, just beyond reach of the sinking city. The rock filled half the black, stormy sky above. Tith Tilendrothael's griffon riders swarmed the enclave. Did the Lhaodagms deplete their spell banks? Is there a magic barrier, or a negating sigil, or something?

The mage shook his head. No, nothing like that. Magic is cascading from that rock, but it's being drawn away, straight down. It's as though the storm has carried them-carried us all-into a dead-magic zone.

The city filled the whole sky now. Peregrin shied farther back. In moments, the rock swept with ponderous and terrific motion down past them. The rolling gray mists at the margin of the city were larger than tidal waves and roared like cyclones. The enclave's black underbelly was replaced by a bright city in ruins-fire, lightning, smoke, bodies, rubble…

Stunned, terrified, Peregrin hovered in the churning storm and watched the receding city.

"If this is a magic-dead area, why did my scrying spell work? And our attacks and defenses?" Josiah wondered aloud. "And why are the cavalry still engaged?"

Griffons darted into and out of the ruins-birds plucking berries from a burning bush.

They're saving them, concluded Peregrin. They're pulling out as many Lhaodagms as they can before the thing hits ground. They'll be dragged down with it.

Peregrin tucked his wings, diving into a steep descent behind the plunging city.

Josiah crouched tightly against him and tucked his head beside the bird-lion's neck. He trembled, from cold or nerve or both.

The griffon plunged. Sodden paws trailed streams of water upward in their wake. Still, the city receded, agonizingly distant. Peregrin spread his wings and drove himself in its wake. He did so again. With each pulse of drenched feathers, the city grew gradually closer.

Josiah hissed. There'll be only a moment between the cloud base and the ground. Can you pull out that fast?

Instead of responding, Peregrin redoubled the labor of his wings. Rider and mount approached the city. Individual lightning strikes stood out against the wreck of stone walls and roofless honeycombs. Peregrin let out a shriek of effort. The wind and the storm stole it away.

Not enough time. They'll hit before we reach them, Josiah sent.

There's time, came the griffon's terse reply. The air's still icy and thin. It doesn't smell like steel yet.

You know you can't trust those cues, Josiah replied, not inside a thunder cloud.

The griffon gave a feline shrug and flapped again. A breath of hope filled him. Look, they're pulling away. That's two squadrons, at least. Gold flecks of catflesh were lifting off, flying clear. A score of them… two score… Each bore some wriggling resident of the falling city.

Hope lent new strength. Peregrin flung himself down the roaring chimney of air above the city. The clouds thinned. Two more wing strokes, and he broke through the smoky turbulence. A street soared up to crunch-ingly meet them. Peregrin swooped from his dive and roared out along it, heading for an old woman who was crawling from ruins ahead.

Pull up! advised Josiah.

Peregrin did not.

The clouds drew away. Rainy light flashed over the city.

She's too far away, the rider sent. Pull up.

The griffon's wings tore through a pillar of smoke. Beyond the city's horizon, the green fields of Netheril rose. The enclave was listing over…

With lion limbs outstretched, Peregrin snagged the crone. His tawny arms flexed, and the woman was embraced against his chest.

"Pull up!" Josiah cried.

Peregrin did, and just in time. The city dropped suddenly away.

It plunged, tumbling. The embattled ruins showed one last time before the enclave rolled entirely over. The rock broke free of the rain and glared for a moment in the slanting sun. Lighting followed it down, as though the cloud sent skeletal fingers to draw the city back. Stray charges leapt in three places to the surging forests below. The enclave spun once with slow grace. Its shadow blinked upon a dense woodland. Then it struck ground.

The monolith fractured into a hundred thousand jag-edged boulders, which bounded up from the point of impact and rushed outward, felling whole forests. The wet outside of the stone had cracked open to reveal a dry inside. Dust and stone shards rolled in the center of the crater. Smoke rose from trees ignited by the thousand lightnings of the pulverized city.

Then, the sound of the impact reached them, a boom so profound that it knocked a few riders from their hovering mounts, and slew one griffon by shattering its breastbone. The riders were caught by already-overburdened griffons. The dead griffon dropped from the sky like a battered maple leaf, whirling.

For a few moments, the cavalry circled in the air above the rolling dust clouds. The debris soon settled enough to show a massive impact crater and a field of rubble in which no one could have survived.

Still, the griffons lingered, vultures above a new corpse.

By silent mutual agreement, conquerors and crow-riders alike one by one turned westward, toward Tith Tilendrothael. In time, Peregrin banked to follow the others.

It was a weary and burdened crew. Their wings had been nearly spent before they began rescuing Lhao-dagms. One hope moved them, that everything would be sorted out at Tith Tilendrothael.

A deep longing swept through Josiah. I can't wait to see those ivory towers and streets of gold… to be warm and safe again… Atrocity and massacre and death… His thoughts ceased above the toil of wings. At last, in despairing tones, he wondered, How many of us are left?

Peregrin quickly counted the griffons before him. The numbers were not promising. Not quite half of the four hundred had won free of the plunging city and its powerful down drafts. Those who had escaped looked ragged, their fury spent. They jittered like a swarm of deer flies.

Too few, he answered.

Josiah leaned forward in the saddle and gazed down at the old woman.

She hung supine, her withered hands clutched up to her chest and her eyes closed as though in sleep. Her long gray hair played gently in the wind. If not for the craggy lines of her face, she would have seemed a little girl.

"What happened to Lhaoda?" he blurted.

The old woman opened her eyes. "It fell, Dear. Don't worry, I'm all right." She seemed to want one of her arms loose so she could pat his cheek.

"No," he said, "before that. Why was the city in the storm?"

"The storm caught us," she said simply. "We've been adrift for three days. Couldn't rise. Couldn't steer."

"Adrift? What do you mean? Your levitation council was still alive. Why didn't you call for help?"

"It would have been the same as calling for plunder."

"But, how did you lose control?"

"The Phaerimm," she replied.

"The Phaerimm?" echoed Josiah. "The Ones Below? They're just myths. And even if they were real, how could they bring down a flying city?"

She shrugged. "The Phaerimm brought down Lhaoda. They will bring down all the others. We must join forces. No more hiding in the clouds. Nowhere is safe now."

"Don't worry, we're safe enough," Josiah said. "We're on our way to Tith Tilendrothael."

"No," she replied. Her eyes were suddenly bleakly desperate, almost angry. "Nowhere is safe now."

"But Tith Tilendrothael is-" His words were cut off by a pang of terror and dread.

Peregrin voiced a raw-throated shriek.

Josiah glimpsed what the griffon already saw: an empty skyline ahead, only plains and stormy skies. There was no gleaming city. There were no ivory towers, no streets of gold…

Gone, sent Peregrin, gone.

The griffon riders and Lhaodagms ahead were descending to land. Many had already gathered beside the impact crater and rubble field-what once had been Tith Tilendrothael. Nothing was left-less than nothing: a deep pit instead of a floating heaven.

The survivors-that's what they were now, not Lhaodagms or Tith Tilendrotheans, but simply survivors- gathered on the verge of that pit. Fletching, Evensong, Glazreth, and the rest of Tith TilendrothaeFs cavalry stood wing and wing with the crow-riders and alley cats of Lhaodagm.

Both cities had fallen. Each had been brought down by-what? Old animosities? Older myths?

Whatever had once separated them now seemed inconsequential. Only the vast chasm mattered.

Peregrin approached. He gently landed, releasing the old crone from his grip.

The woman got to her feet and turned toward the pit. She stared, like all the others.

At first, no one spoke. They only stood in shocked silence, one people-survivors.

The air was so still in that heartbeat that everyone heard the crone murmur:

"We must join forces. When even sky cities fall, nowhere is safe… No more sky cities. No more floating above it all. We must join forces and start over. We must fight to live, not live to fight. We must live like every other creature, dirty and afraid, like crows and beetles and worms. "When even sky cities fall, nowhere is safe."