As the bells tolled, the water darkened once more, though the blackness wasn’t absolute. Dorn could still see his exhausted, wounded comrades, and in fact, it was easy to spot the ghosts of Northkeep. Stalking from doorways or simply materializing above the layer of silt fouling the courtyard, the spectral men-at-arms glowed with their own pale inner light.

In those first moments, Dorn couldn’t tell how many there were. Dozens, certainly. Maybe hundreds. He turned to Pavel, who, wrapped in his manta ray cloak, his hands shining with red-gold light, was still laboring to resuscitate the torn and mangled Kara. The priest shook his head, signaling that, though Lathander granted his vicars special powers versus the undead, he’d already expended his daily ration in the fight against the skeletal dragons. He had nothing left to repel wraiths.

Glimmering, translucent swords and spears leveled, the phantoms encircled the intruders. Chatulio jerked his head, motioning for his comrades to swim upward. The copper drake evidently meant to cover their retreat.

Even if it would work, it meant abandoning both Chatulio and Kara. And Dorn didn’t think it would work anyway. The ghosts would cut off those who sought to flee. The explorers in their current depleted condition couldn’t hope to stand against so many terrible foes.

Dorn could only think of one thing that seemed worth trying. He gestured for his comrades to stay where they were and do nothing. Then, his hands raised to indicate peaceful intentions, he swam away from his friends and toward the circle of phantoms.

On guard in the manner of living warriors, their figures vague and blurry one moment and more sharply defined the next, several of the wraiths advanced to meet him. They walked as if moving through air instead of water. He wondered how their ghostly blades would feel, shearing into his flesh. His intuition told him they’d be freezing cold.

One of the specters appeared right beside him. Clad in a coat of scale armor and a conical helmet with a nose guard, it lifted its battle-axe for a chop at Dorn’s head.

Reflexes honed over decades of fighting demanded that Dorn strike first, or at least assume a defensive posture. Denying them, he forced himself to remain perfectly still.

A second ghost lifted its hand. That one wore a surcoat embroidered with a double-headed eagle, the image spoiled by the bloodstained tear in the center, and he had the look of a knight or captain. Heeding the silent forbiddance, the wraith with the axe didn’t swing after all, though it still held the weapon ready. The leader stepped forward and stared into Dorn’s eyes. For a moment, the phantom’s lean, melancholy face flickered into the fleshless visage of a naked skull, then, wavering, put on something of the appearance of life once more.

That’s right, thought Dorn, look at me. Read my thoughts if you can. I’m not like the others who came before me. I don’t want to loot your bodies and homes. I’m only here to learn. Your city holds a secret I need to protect other folk, as you defended your families and neighbors in your time. As you defend them still in their final rest.

Ghosts glided forward, surrounding him, their weapons poised to strike. The sickly, oozing sheen of them made him feel cold and ill.

He was certain he was a fool. It couldn’t possibly work. Even if they heard his silent pleas, they wouldn’t believe them, because they wouldn’t take him for human. With his ugly, freakish iron limbs and metal profile, he surely resembled one of the ogres or trolls that had helped to destroy Northkeep.

Yet he continued standing as he was, allowing them to draw as close as they wished, affording them every opportunity to strike him down if that was what they wanted. It was too late for anything else.

Look at me, he begged. Look past the iron. I’m the same as you. I want what you wanted when you were alive.

The knight gestured, and his men stepped back a pace. The bells stopped their clanging, and the ghosts faded from view. The shadow melted out of the water, permitting sunlight to filter down once more.

Dorn slumped with relief, felt a presence behind him, and turned. Kara had swum after him. Pavel hadn’t succeeded in healing all her wounds, but he had saved her life and restored her to consciousness.

Dorn realized he was glad, even if she was a dragon. He gave her an awkward pat on the side of her neck. She pressed gently back as a cat might lean into a caress, and feeling strange, he snatched his hand away.

He waved for the rest of their companions to join them. Apparently the ghosts had decided to let them explore as they would, provided they didn’t despoil Northkeep—he prayed Will could resist the temptation to fill his pockets—but that didn’t mean it was going to be easy. The place was big and ruinous, sections of it collapsed, buried in muck, or otherwise impassable, and he wondered just how long the search would take.

Taegan lurched off balance as the rigidity left his muscles. Vorasaegha had occupied the dracolich just long enough for the supernatural paralysis to lose its grip on him.

The undead green flapped its wings and pounced. The charm of quickness no longer accelerating his reactions—alas, that too had run its course—Taegan simultaneously scooped up the fallen Jivex and rattled off another spell.

The magic instantly transported him partway across the courtyard. The dracolich slammed down on the spot he’d just vacated with an earth-shaking jolt. Underneath his arm, Jivex squirmed as he too shook off his immobility. Taegan released the faerie dragon, who then took flight.

The avariel assumed Jivex would flee for his life. If Taegan had any sense, he’d do the same. But somebody had to try to slay the dracolich, he was in the proper position to attempt it, and it was conceivable that the undead wyrm was actually vulnerable. Vorasaegha had nearly torn it limb from limb. That didn’t appear to have slowed it down any, but still, it seemed remotely possible that a swordsman might be able to finish it off.

Taegan lunged and drove his blade into the dracolich’s hind leg. Jivex streaked alongside him, lit on the undead dragon’s haunch, and clawed away scales. Meanwhile, the magical eye floated uselessly overhead.

Snarling, the dracolich wheeled, and Taegan sprinted along with it, trying to keep away from the head and forefeet—attempting to stay in close, too, despite the constant threat of being trampled or rolled on—even though his comrades had warned him that the mere fleeting brush of an undead drake’s flesh could freeze him in place. He hoped that if he hovered near to his enormous foe, the creature would find it more awkward to strike at him.

Jivex whirled up into the air. The dracolich’s serpentine head twisted toward him, and a haze of bright golden sparks appeared around the dead thing’s head. Jivex had evidently conjured the glittering mist to blind the behemoth, and perhaps it had. But a wyrm’s every sense was keen, and the dracolich nonetheless blasted forth a plume of its roiling yellow-green breath. A chance shift of one of its wings blocked Taegan’s view a split second later, and he couldn’t see whether his small ally managed to avoid the toxic jet or not.

Taegan sprang in and cut. Gigantic claws raked at him, and he dodged. Encrusted with sparkling flecks of gold, the dracolich’s jaws arced down at the end of its long, flexible neck to snap at the avariel, and he evaded those as well. He slashed at the side of its mask, but his blade glanced off a protruding ridge of bone without doing any appreciable harm.

The dracolich tried to bite his legs out from under him. He beat his wings, flew above the threat, and attempted to thrust at its neck. Unfortunately, it was already compensating for his shift in position, already renewing the attack, and he had to abandon his own offensive action to twist frantically in the air. The gigantic fangs clashed shut without catching his flesh, but the dracolich’s snout caught him a glancing blow. His muscles spasmed, and he floundered in the air, trying to shake off the crippling effect of the dead reptile’s touch. Its jaws gaped, and he realized he’d never evade the next bite.

Then, patches of his rainbow hide raw and blistered, Jivex soared over the dracolich’s head, and a loud screech cut through the air. Taegan realized that his ally was attempting to block their foe’s senses one at a time. The golden dust was supposed to blind it, and with luck, the ear-splitting wail would deafen it.

At the very least, it made the dracolich falter for an instant. Recovering his coordination, Taegan thrust his sword into its neck. At the same time, arrows and spears rained down on it from the battlements. Apparently the struggle up there was going well enough that some of the queen’s men could turn their attention to the undead green. Though the barrage looked ineffectual, maybe it would at least help confuse the creature.

The dracolich flapped its wings and bounded to the flat roof of one of the crudely fashioned sandstone keeps. The screech followed it, and so did Taegan and Jivex. The dracolich snarled words of power, the sound barely audible over the shrill wailing, and magic shimmered through the air. Taegan realized he and Jivex wouldn’t reach the undead green in time to interrupt its spellcasting.

Then a blast of fire engulfed the corpse-drake, though to Taegan’s disappointment, the explosion seemed to do it no harm. It did, however, prompt the wyrm to orient on Uthred, who at some point in the past couple of minutes had made his way onto the top of the west wall. The dracolich broke off its conjuring to spew poison smoke. The young wizard and three comrades standing nearby charred, withered, and fell.

It was horrible, but Taegan couldn’t dwell on it. He had to focus on the fight, on exploiting the opportunity Uthred had bought for him at the cost of his life. Wings hammering, he flew along the dracolich’s flank, thrusting and thrusting. He realized he’d lost track of Jivex again and could only hope his comrade was still alive and doing something useful.

Instead of striking back, the dracolich commenced another incantation. That had its positive aspect, but Taegan suspected that it was, on balance, bad. He attacked even more furiously, striking to spoil the cadence or pronunciation of the cabalistic rhymes, but the green rumbled and hissed inexorably onward as if his sword caused it no discomfort whatsoever. Perhaps it didn’t. Who knew what dead things truly felt?

Waves of power pulsed outward from the dracolich. The sparkling golden dust on its wedge-shaped head with its crest of horns vanished. The disembodied shrieking died. A shock ran through Taegan’s frame as all the enchantments that had bolstered his prowess abruptly ceased to be. His strength and agility dropped to their normal levels, while his shroud of blur and invisible armor winked out of existence. No doubt his sword shed its magical enhancements as well. The dracolich had wiped it all away with a counterspell devised to arrest every ongoing magical effect in its immediate vicinity.

All Taegan had left was his own martial skill and innate capacities. Well, so be it.

The dracolich turned. Dodging the whipping tail and immense, ragged wings that might otherwise have bashed him unconscious, he flew around the creature. Trying to keep away from the head and fore claws, he cut and thrust into the putrid bulk of it. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a rainbow flash that told him Jivex was still fighting, too.

Someone threw a javelin that narrowly missed Taegan’s pinion before glancing off the dracolich’s shoulder. Then, despite all the fencing master’s evasions, the wyrm swung into position to bring its gaze, fangs, and breath weapon to bear. Filthy vapor blasted from its jaws. Taegan dodged the worst of it, but it still burned him, set him coughing, and flooded his stinging eyes with tears. Momentarily blind, he couldn’t see it when the dracolich followed up by striking at him like an adder. Rather, he knew by pure instinct.

He spun aside, and the huge teeth rasped shut on empty air. Perhaps surprised that, even sightless, its prey had avoided the attack, the wyrm hesitated for a second. Taegan flew down the length of its extended neck with its ridge of spikes along the top, hacking savagely.

The dracolich decided that it too would fight on the wing. It roared, flexed its legs, and leaped from the rooftop. As it wheeled and climbed, seeking to rise above its foe, it snarled the opening words of another spell.

Then one of its wings tore away from its torso. The creature plummeted and hit the top of the wall. The impact broke it into two pieces, which, when they struck the ground—one outside the citadel and one within—smashed into a number of smaller ones.

Hovering, coughing and gasping, feeling the pain of his blisters more acutely than he had in the frenzy of combat, Taegan peered down at the wreckage. He supposed victory shouldn’t seem so unbelievable. Vorasaegha had done an amazing amount of damage to the corpse-wyrm, after which he’d slashed and stabbed it dozens of times himself. Yet he still knew in his bones that he and Jivex had been very, very lucky.

The faerie dragon flew up beside him.

“I killed it!” Jivex crowed.

Taegan smiled. He knew the claim was inaccurate in more than one regard. According to those who understood such things, the dracolich’s spirit had returned to its phylactery, where it would abide until the talisman came into proximity with a draconic cadaver. Then the ghost would leap into the body and animate it.

Except that it wouldn’t get the chance. Once Taegan and his allies took the stronghold, they’d find the phylactery and destroy it.

He had no doubt they would take it. Below him, appalled at the destruction of the creature they’d served as if it was a god, werewolves, hobgoblins, and cultists babbled, shrank from their foes, and cast about for a way to escape their fortress, which suddenly seemed more like a deathtrap. Though still outnumbered, the queen’s men attacked them ferociously.

“Can you continue fighting,” Taegan asked, “or would you prefer to remove yourself from harm’s way? Sune knows, you’ve done enough.”

“I can still fight,” Jivex said.

“Then let’s open those gates.”

As it turned out, the search took days. Days of groping through cold darkness. Days of waiting for Zhents to show up and attack them. They soon ran out of the elixirs that enabled a person to breathe underwater, and from that point forward, were dependent on Kara and Chatulio’s spells to accomplish the same effect. That meant not everyone could dive all the time, which made the hunt go even slower.

Finally, though, Dorn and Pavel entered the apartments that had plainly once belonged to a scholar. The golden glow Pavel had conjured onto the head of a spear to light their way shone on the sodden, swollen, surely illegible remains of countless books, shelf upon useless shelf of them. The sight of so much lost knowledge made Dorn feel angry and desperate.

Then, at the edge of the yellow light, he glimpsed a section of wall that the long-dead sage hadn’t lined with shelves. Instead, he’d hung slabs of marble there.

Dorn pointed, and he and Pavel waded forward to inspect the display. The irregular sheets of white stone looked as if the scholar had chiseled them from the walls of a palace or temple. They had pictures on them, and viewed in sequence, the carvings seemed to tell a kind of story. Pavel was the first to decipher it, and when he did, he grinned like a madman and threw his arms around his friend.

Once everyone had had a chance to view the marbles, the hunters, clad in their drier clothes—after days of diving, no one had any that were truly dry—gathered in the bow of their stolen sailboat. Wearing human form, Kara sat with them. Chatulio perched on the stern, his weight making it ride low in the purple-blue water, his coppery neck, agleam in the spring sunlight, arcing to bring his head into proximity with his assembled comrades.

Pavel looked at the two dragons and said, “Perhaps one of you can explicate our discovery better than I can.”

Sitting her back against the mast, Kara shifted, trying to get comfortable. No doubt her wounds still pained her.

“You’re a learned man,” she said. Will snorted. “And in fact, the tale touches on … well, matters that shame drakes of our kind. Subjects painful to discuss. So, please, you start.”

“All right.” The days of exploration had left Pavel weary, yet he still succumbed to a restless urge to stand. It was the way he’d instructed novices, before he left his temple to wander. “Long, long ago, before Northkeep, before even the Crown Wars—”

“The which?” Will interrupted.

“A series of catastrophic wars among the early elven peoples, you ignoramus. Anyway, before even those, at the dawn of history, dragons pretty much ruled the world and ruled it harshly. Other races were their slaves, their cattle, or at best, lived in constant fear of them. The first couple marbles show that age in all its horror.”

“We metal dragons,” Chatulio said, sounding entirely serious for once, “like to think we ruled less brutally than the reds, greens, and their ilk, but maybe that’s just a lie to ease our guilt. In any case, we weren’t the same creatures we are today. We weren’t merciful or gentle. I guess we needed a comeuppance to temper our pride with wisdom.”

“Which is what the rest of the carvings show,” said Will.

“So it seems,” Pavel said. A gust of breeze chilled his lanky frame in its damp garments, and he repressed a shiver. “In the third, we see a circle of elf spellcasters gathered together, collaborating on what surely must have been a prodigious work of high magic. In the fourth, we see what may be the climax of the ritual, and the enchantment they created springing into existence around them.”

“The web of lines,” said Raryn, dragging a wooden comb through his mane of long, tangled hair.

Sometimes the strokes tore white strands loose, and he had to pause to pick them out of the teeth.

“Yes,” Pavel said. “It’s hard to know exactly what the image is supposed to represent in all its aspects, but beginning in the fifth marble, we see the effects.”

“Wyrms running mad,” said Dorn.

Pavel said, “The elf mages cursed them with the Rage. That’s where it came from.”

“It seems like a funny way to try and fix the problem,” said Will. “We’re scared of dragons, dragons kill and eat us, so let’s make them meaner.”

“I suppose,” Kara said, “it was the only way they could devise of striking a blow against my entire race at once. You’re right, at first, their fellow elves and the rest of the vassal races must have paid a terrible price. But frenzy makes dragons reckless, hence vulnerable to attack. Sometimes it impels us to smash our own eggs and devour our own wyrmlings, and it probably prompted the tyrants to lash out at their own armies. Eventually, their numbers diminished, their kingdoms toppled, and they lost their absolute dominion over Faerûn. In the final carvings, we see elves and giants founding their own extensive and independent realms.

“Today,” the willowy bard continued, “the wise know what happened, but not why. Even the elves no longer recall how they brought about my people’s downfall. Yet we can only infer that somewhere the enchantment—the mythal—endures, still afflicting dragonkind with periodic bouts of madness, like the wheel of an abandoned mill turning in the stream even though the miller is long gone.”

“My guess,” said Dorn, “is that the wizards left the spell in place to make sure wyrms would never take over the world again. It’s what I would have done.”

“Whether they left it going on purpose,” said Will, “didn’t know how to stop it, or just forgot about it, the important thing is that our friend Sammaster found the place where the magic lives, the place where a spellcaster can control it, and figured out how to make it even stronger.”

“That’s how it seems,” Pavel said, frowning, “though it’s hard to understand. By all accounts, the magic of eld was somehow different than the power wizards command today, and even now, elven high magic is special—unique to the race. How, then, could Sammaster, born human, trained only a few hundred years ago, seize control of a mythal powerful enough to endure since the dawn of history and affect every dragon in the world?”

“That’s one of the things we have to figure out,” said Will, “as we keep following the trail he left us, which is what we have to do, isn’t it, if we want to stop the Rage?”

“Perhaps,” said Pavel, “we should ask the whole world to help us look for answers.”

“No,” said Dorn. “Who knows if we could persuade other folk to take us seriously? Even if we could, it would take months, years, and we don’t have the time. Nor do we want to attract more attention from the Cult of the Dragon or King Lareth’s flunkies. I reckon that for better or worse, this is still a job for Kara, Chatulio, and their circle; our partners in Thentia; and us.”

Pavel sighed and said, “In that case, I pray we’re up to the challenge.”

“It’s a hunt,” Raryn said. “It’s what we do.”