D&D Cartoon Fan Club Newsletter #9, Part 2
November/December 1998 


The City of Silver Fire
by Buggman (MdBugg@aol.com)
This story is copyrighted by Michael D. Bugg (1998) though it is based upon
the characters and precepts of the Dungeons and Dragons cartoon, whose
copyright is owned by others.  No challenge to the original copyright is
intended, it is purely a work of love.  Permission is hereby given to copy and
distribute this story, so long as the credit is given to the proper author.
Story Rating: PG-13

Chapter 3:  Stormfall

     Hank's fingers twitched, but he didn't draw for fear that
the light of his bow would provide a beacon to their enemies.
Crouching behind the trunk of a Songtree (so Llythen had named
them), he glanced back at his companions.  The Elf slumped
against another tree, all but invisible in his grey cloak, which
seemed almost to have shifted its hue to match that of the bark
of the tree.  His slender longsword was in his hand, carefully
kept to the shadows lest it should catch the light of the moons.
Diana stood close to him, ready to catch him should he fall, and
Bobby squatted to the other side of them, fingering his great
club impatiently.  The young boy had been doing so since Sheila
had gone to scout the way.  Both wore woolen cloaks against the
frigid rain that fell around them.
     Presto and Eric hid to Hank's other side.  The Magician
clutched his robes tightly around his scrawny frame against the
cold rains which pelted and soaked all of them.  His hands went
from holding his robes close just long enough to pull his magic
hat down over his ears.  Beside him, crouched on one knee almost
like a runner waiting for the gun, Eric glared down into the
valley where they had seen the soft lights, one hand to his
sword.  His lips moved silently; likely the Cavalier was
grumbling to himself about the cold and the wet.
     Hank could almost smile.  Some things never changed.
     "Psst!"
     Hank turned at the sound, just in time to see Sheila
reappear.  A soft glow outlined her momentarily transparent body,
fading swiftly as she pushed the hood of her cloak all the way
back.  The rain had stolen the sheen from her fiery hair,
plastering it to the sides of her face, and her hands held the
cloak closed in much the same fashion that Presto held his robes.
"The Drow are strung out along the valley," she reported,
pointing.  "They have scouts out, mostly on our side.  I heard
two of them speaking:  They're just trying to pin us down, keep
us from escaping.  They expect reinforcements by tomorrow night."
     "They were speaking English?" asked Hank, surprised.  From
what Llythen had told them, the Drow rarely spoke any tongue but
their own.  Certainly not among themselves.
     Sheila shook her head with a perplexed expression.  "No,"
she said.  "That was the odd thing.  They were speaking their own
language, but I could understand every word."
     "Maybe it's the cloak," suggested Presto.  He sneezed as
quietly as he could into his sleeve.
     "That's it!" said Diana, just a bit too loudly for Hank's
comfort.  She stood up and lowered her voice.  "Remember that
fairy that showed us where Dungeon Master was being held that one
time?  Sheila was the only one who could understand him then,
too."  She looked to Llythen.
     The Elf nodded thoughtfully.  "That could well be.  Cvimori
dal'shin almagorei, Himesama?"
     "Bashu," Sheila responded.  Then she blinked, realizing the
word that had come out of her mouth had been Elvish.  "That's
it," she whispered.
     "Indeed," said Llythen, smiling at her.  For the sixth time
that day, Hank had a vision of putting an arrow through his head.
"In any case, we must move quickly now.  We cannot allow
ourselves to be pinned on this hill--we must escape to my Sidhe
before the rest of our enemies come."
     "Right," said Hank.  He quickly made a decision.  "We need a
distraction.  Presto, think you can come up with something?"
     The Magician sighed.  "I can always try."  He pulled off his
magic hat and held it upside-down.  A gentle glow came from
within it.

                    Abra-cadabera, alaca-cho
                    Give me something
                    To distract the Drow!

     "One of the world's great poets, he isn't," Diana told
Llythen, who has winced in horror at the Magician's poorly rhymed
spell.  Bobby laughed.  Surprisingly, Eric didn't.  The Cavalier
hardly seemed aware of them at all; his eyes seemed glued to the
valley.
     Presto scowled at his scoffers even as he reached into the
hat.  A moment later, his hand emerged, holding several
fireworks.
     "Perfect!" said Sheila.
     "Quick, keep them dry," said Hank, and the misnamed Theif
quickly threw her cloak over them.  "I'll take--"
     "No, I will," said Sheila.  When Hank opened his mouth to
argue, she cut him off again.  "I can slip through them, and
they'll never see me.  I'll be perfectly safe."
     Hank tried to find an arguement, but could find none.
Relunctantly, he nodded.  "But be careful," he told her.
     "Always," she said.
     "I'll go with you," Llythen said suddenly, rising unsteadily
to his feet.  "My cloak makes me all but invisible in the woods.. ."
     The seventh time.
     Sheila grinned at him--eight--but shook her head.  "Thanks
anyway, but you can hardly manage to walk, much less run.  I'll
be perfectly fine, and back to you before you know it."
     Llythen sank back against the tree.  "You are right.  Keruk.
Keruk bin Danaa!  At least take my sword, just in case you have
need of it."
     Sheila shook her head, an unreadable expression on her pale,
freckled face.  "I won't," she said, and vanished, this time with
the fireworks.
     "She can't stand the thought of killing anyone," Diana
explained to Llythen after she had gone.
     He nodded slowly.  "She has a gentle spirit."
     Bobby nodded in agreement.  "She couldn't even stand to kill
a spider, back home.  It was a long time before she got used to
us having to kill our own food."
     "'Tis oftimes a braver thing to live in peace than to die in
battle,'" said Llythen, sounding as if quoting another.  He
looked back at the spot where Sheila had been standing in
admiration and--Hank thought--desire.  Nine.

     When the strange explosions went off at the far end of the
valley, most of the Drow surged forward.  Only a few, ordered
with snarls from their superiors, remained in position.
Confident that they were tracking wounded prey, they didn't even
take steps to hide themselves, but instead perched upon rocks and
downed trees over the little creek that flowed through the
shallow valley, eyes watching northward for further signs of
battle.
     The first one fell with a arrow of golden light through his
chest.  Then a second.  The next to fall did so at the hands of
two barbariously dressed strangers, one a slender woman with skin
almost as dusky as any drow who wielded a staff, the other a
small, golden haired warrior with a horned helmet, wielding a
huge club.  Cries went out that a Dwarf was attacking.
     Diana's staff first disarmed, then dropped two of the Dark
Elves, all in the space of four blows.  She glanced over at
Bobby.  The young Barbarian's club shattered weapons, armor,
bones, and landscape almost without discrimination.  "Come on!"
Bobby crowed, club held high as the Drow gave way before him.
"Fight me!  Come and get it, you losers!"
     "C'mon Hank!" Diana shouted over her shoulder.  The Ranger
appeared, flanking Presto and Eric, who shared the burden of
supporting--half-carrying--Llythen between them.  Hank turned and
fired two shots through the obscuring rain behind them, and Diana
heard two cries ring out in response.
     Suddenly a lightning bolt cracked across the forest.  It
struck Eric's shield, which was raised high over the Cavalier's
head, with a thundercrack that sent Diana to her knees, clutching
her ears in pain.  She blinked through tears of pain and saw Eric
running towards her, drawing his sword.  For a moment, she
wondered if he had gone mad.  Perhaps one of her jokes had gone
too far . . .
     His sword swooshed over her head, passing so close that she
could feel the icy wind of it.  Out of the corner of her eye, she
saw a figure fall.  Eric's mouth moved, but somehow his voice was
drowned out by a strange ringing noise.  She just shook her head,
still half-stunned by the thunder.  Eric quickly tucked her hand
in Bobby's before running off, sword held at the ready.  She
couldn't seem to sort out what had happened.  Bobby half-guided,
half-dragged her onward.  Onward to what . . . ?
     Eric snarled a curse as he ran towards the Drow standing on
the tall stone.  The Drow's hand's fluttered, her mouth forming
strange words.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hank lying
still on the ground.  The Ranger had been positioned exactly
wrong:  Close enough to get caught by the edge of the lightning
bolt, too far away to be under the protection of Eric's shield.
Screaming a battle-cry, the Cavalier charged.  A second bolt,
this one of white fire, bounced from his shield, the force hardly
slowing him.
     The Drow woman had just enough time to draw her own curved
sword before he struck.  She parried with a serpentlike sidestep,
spinning full-circle and striking at Eric's back.  He managed to
turn just in time to catch it on his shield, but the effort left
him off balance.  She didn't let up, and several more blows
rained off his golden shield before he could set himself for a
counterattack.
     Wearing the helm of the Warduke for so many weeks had not
gone without leaving their mark on him.  He cut and parried,
sidestepped and counterattacked with a skill that he had never
learned by natural means.  He fought with every scrap of speed
and strength he could muster, striking at any weakness he could
find in her defense without mercy or hesitation.  Just as the
Warduke had.
     It wasn't enough.  Their swords crossed and locked for a
moment, and the Drow's face leaned near his.  It was a beautiful
face, or rather it would be, if not twisted with so much
malevolence.  "Not bad, for a mortal," she told him, sneering.
"But not enough!"
     Eric shoved her back, and she gave way with a graceful
backstep, laughing.  She was right, some dark and distant part of
his mind told him.  As much as he had retained from the helm, it
wasn't enough.  She was too fast, her arm moving with the speed
of centuries of training and actual battles.
     "We'll see," Eric snapped back, trying to sound confident.
Blustering.  She only laughed again.
     This time, her laughter was cut off suddenly, a golden dart
striking her in the side, throwing her some feet to Eric's right.
Eric turned, and saw Hank kneeling in the dirt.  Glancing only
once at the woman's still body, Eric ran to Hank.  The Ranger
shook like a man terrified out of his wits.  Or like a boy who
had just stuck a penny in the light socket.
     "Are you okay?" Eric asked desperately.
     "Wonderful," Hank muttered, his voice comming out a sigh as
he passed out again.  Eric barely kept him from falling on his
face.  He was still breathing.  Eric found a moment to thank God.
     Voices, shouting in that strange, sinister tongue, rang out
behind the Cavalier.  Muttering curses to himself in four
different languages--two of which were not spoken on Earth--Eric
sheathed his sword and tied Hank's bow over his shoulder.  Then
the Cavalier stood, Hank's arm held draped over his shoulder, and
half-carried, half-dragged his friend's limp, quivering form
away.

     "This way," said Llythen, pointing to a space, barely large
enough to be called a path, through the bushes.  He almost stood
on his own now; Presto hardly did more than steady him.  Diana
followed silently.  She was still stone-deaf, but her head seemed
to have cleared.  Bobby, who also complained of ringing in the
ears, held back.
     "What about Hank and Eric?" he demanded, crossing his arms.
"What about Sheila?"  That with even more force.
     "Fear not for your sister, young warrior," said Llythen.
"She is as safe as one can be, traveling alone under that cloak.
Furthermore, the cloak will guide her here.  As for your other
friends, we will need reinforcements to help them.  Hurry, before
the Drow find us."
     Bobby still stood as if planning to take root, but Diana
caught his arm and forced him to walk or be dragged into the
bushes.
     As they followed Llythen through the narrow space, Presto
realized that his skin was tingling.  Not painfully, but as if
the air carried an electric charge.  When the rain stopped and
the sun seemed to come out and light their way, he knew
instinctively that it was only by magic.
     Finally, they emerged from the foliage, onto a green and
warm meadow.  A canopy of impenetrable leaves hid the sky,
supported by trees so tall and broad that they reminded Presto
more of the highrise buildings back home than of any natural
growth.  He was so awed by the trees that it took him a moment to
realize that there were people on the green.
     Each and every one of them, from the children to the adults,
had Llythen's unearthly beauty, with none of them showing any
sign of age.  Until he looked into those ancient, emerald eyes.
Each and every one of them was armed as if for war.
     "Almea shinara!  Alen Llythen'ka!" Llythen called out, and
their faces brightened with joy.  Even as they rushed forward,
calling out to him, the Elf smiled at his companions and said,
"My young friends, welcome to Sidhe Gildas."

To be continued . . .