Dark Warrior Rising by Ed Greenwood

eternal silence. Someone screamed, and Maharla and Orlarra snarled in unison, “What’s happening ?”
    â€œOlone preserve us,” Galaerra whispered hoarsely, staring into the watch-whorl she’d hastily backed away from, but hadn’t dared flee—nor, to tell the truth, had been able to resist staring into. They could all see what she was staring at: the great heads of dung-worms rearing up to overtop the lesser towers of the very castle they were sitting in.
    And plunging down, like great living rams, to smash through ancient stone walls and shake the chamber around them. Dust and tiny stones pelted down on their heads, and all over the room crones of House Evendoom started screaming.
    Every watch-whorl was showing the same scene: the Eventowers beset, three dung-worms—no, more !—rearing their heads once more to strike, lesser towers slowly toppling or gone already, and Talonnorn beyond a scene of devastation, with plumes of smoke billowing up, distant deepserpents undulating and rising up to crash through buildings, and Nifl fighting Nifl everywhere.
    â€œWe’re all going to die !” an elven crone shrieked.

    Another burst up out of her chair, her watch-whorl collapsing into falling, fading motes in her wake, and raced for the door, crying, “They’re coming! They’ll be breaking into this tower next!”
    Orlarra raised a hand, face cold and set, but Maharla was faster. Fires flared from her fingertips, tiny beams of flame that streaked across the chamber—and the running crone shrieked suddenly, clawing at a door that would not open, as her personal ward suddenly flared into visibility around her, beset around its edges by Maharla’s flames … and already shrinking visibly.
    Desperately the crone struggled with the door, her hands flaming with emerald fires of her own—but though it burst into roiling green flames under her touch, it held firm.
    Crones all over the chamber stared at their eldest, Orlarra, who was standing with one hand raised, palm out in a “halt” gesture. Whenever emerald magic flared across the door, Orlarra’s eyes went emerald too, and her face slowly creased in pain—but the door held, and it was the crone fighting with it who suddenly screamed in agony as her wards collapsed and Maharla’s flames claimed her. She reeled, sobbing, ablaze all over, and then sagged to the floor, becoming her own pyre.
    Orlarra winced, but turned to Maharla and said, “That was well done.”
    â€œYes,” Maharla hissed, “and so is this. ”
    The gestures she made then were small and swift. The eldest crone easily repulsed her flames, rage rising to join pain on her face—but Maharla’s spiteful smile never wavered, and a jet of flame rose from the burning crone on the floor to race across the chamber and stab the eldest crone of House Evendoom in the back.
    Orlarra stiffened, crones gasped and half-rose from their seats all over the room—and a deepserpent head slammed through a nearby wall. The chamber cracked and reeled in a slow thunder of grinding, falling stone and suddenly swirling dust that hurled shrieking crones this way and that.
    Orlarra gasped, Maharla’s crimson flames gouting from her mouth—and then her eyes burst into spitting, stabbing lightnings. “Olone!” she whispered, wonder joining sobbing pain in her voice. “Oh, Perfect One!”
    Her body flared into golden flame that sent Maharla staggering back in surprise and alarm, and she whispered, “Of course. Use me, please!”
    And she was gone, only empty air and silence where golden tongues of fire had swirled a moment before.

    A sudden hush fell upon the tower, even as dung-worm heads reared up again, looming large and darkly terrible in the watch-whorls.
    That golden calm held as dark, mottled monster heads larger than the crones’ lofty tower-top chamber raced right at every watch-whorl,