Near the center of Castle Britannia stood a tall, slender bell tower. It rose high above the surrounding rooftops, its snow-softened peak aglow like a second moon in the night sky. The open belfry sang bittersweet notes in the frigid wind.
Just inside, near the giant bell, a cloaked figure appeared. Blackthorn shivered and flipped up his hood against the cold.
"You came sooner than I thought you would," said Nystul's gruff voice. The old wizard seemed to congeal from the darkness. He wore a tall hat with a wide brim, which shielded his face from the wind. "You must have been prepared."
Blackthorn spoke from the shrouds of his rippling cloak. "I'm taking the lens away from here. Or you can surrender it now and forget all about the Spell of Rejoining."
"You're afraid," said Nystul, "because you are not aligned with the Virtues."
"I fear your recklessness." Blackthorn flung his cloak off one shoulder, revealing his sword arm. "And I suppose we may as well start this." The slender sword in his hand could have been forged of red moonlight. Its hilt contained a length of clear crystal, banded by iron. Inside the crystal was a small, gray shape.
"By Justice and Honor! That's a finger of Mondain! You've had that all this time?" Nystul scowled. "I know your methods are reprehensible, but I never imagined you would debase yourself with such a vile artifact. You sicken me, Blackthorn."
"I call this sword Shadowghast. I think it's a rather appropriate use of such a vile artifact." He tilted up the point of the ghostly crimson sword. "Your trouble, Nystul, is that you have no sense of irony."
Then the bell tower screamed with a nightmare wind. Around them howled a sudden cyclone, inside of which tendrils of flame streamed in golden spirals. Whips of lightning smashed against the tower's exterior, but the stones held firm. The wooden floor grumbled with the thunder of the assault. The great bell swayed and moaned.
"It's pointless!" shouted Nystul, his long beard dancing around him. "Your elements can't pierce the castle's enchantments!"
Blackthorn said nothing, but his eyes glittered yellow. He glanced up at the sky. From the midst of high clouds appeared many specks of light, growing larger with passing moments. A shower of flaming boulders plummeted from the stars. Nystul stepped to the window and lifted his hands, in which globes of icy radiance formed. He gauged the approaching firestorm.
To observers on the far banks of Brittany Bay, across the water from Castle Britannia, the thunderstones sparkled in a dazzling show moments before the drums of impact were heard. Arcs of frost-cold light dashed in the air to meet them. The display twinkled brilliantly on the wind-ruffled waters of the lake.
In the city of Britain, lamps blinked out fearfully.
In the bell tower Nystul slung orbs of icy flame at the incoming fireballs. With a shout Blackthorn lunged forward, his cloak sweeping behind him, and thrust Shadowghast's red blade at the old wizard. But the sword struck an unseen wall. A metallic peal stabbed through the cacophony of whirlwinds and thunderstones. A crack formed in the air.
A sudden burst of sparks flung the nobleman backwards, where he slammed into the hard mass of the bell. Below him was the steep plummet down the tower's long shaft. He pushed off the iron surface and tumbled back onto solid ground. In a crouch he hissed another spell. A flick of his wrist launched a scintillating bolt of emerald at Nystul. The old man's eyes opened wide; his gnarled hand gestured quickly. The emerald bolt careened off and zigzagged back toward Blackthorn. The nobleman swept Shadowghast in the bolt's path, smashing it out of the air.
Blackthorn charged again, drawing his sword back for another blow. Nystul lifted his arms like a vulture's wings and snarled with blazing red eyes. From his mouth lashed a streak of gleaming white. Blackthorn parried the bolt with his hand in a cascade of bright embers. With Shadowghast he blocked another white lash from the wizard's mouth.
Nystul's long hair whirled around his face like a demonic mane. He pressed his attack, adding strikes of flame from both hands. Blackthorn retreated, batting the spells with hand and blade.
An instant later the final thunderstone rocketed at the tower, unimpeded by Nystul's defense. When it hit, the world roared and toppled around both combatants.
Blackthorn rolled to his feet. Around him flames and cinders were strewn across the floor. One corner of the belfry was demolished. The bell itself hung precariously on broken timbers. To one side lay Nystul, his tattered clothes oozing curls of smoke. The old man stirred. Blackthorn tensed.
The wizard leapt up and sailed over him like some ragged spirit, arms outstretched like wings, talons of lightning slashing from his eyes. The first strike hit Blackthorn hard, knocking him on his back. His chest seared and sizzled. The second strike he parried with Shadowghast, and by the third he had found his feet. His crimson blade slashed at the floating wizard. At the last moment Nystul revolved away. Shadowghast struck the giant bell, which wailed as it cracked. The blow pushed it from its damaged supports. It groaned as it fell for several seconds. By the time it hit the base of the tower, its iron body shattered like a brittle gray eggshell, corrupted by the foul touch of Blackthorn's vile blade.
Shadowghast leapt again at Nystul, tearing the rags of his cloak. Then Blackthorn conjured a glowing chain and wrapped it like a tentacle around the wizard. The old man slammed to the tower floor, pinned.
An eerie quiet settled over the scene. Blackthorn stood above Nystul. Wrapped in luminous chains, the old wizard gasped for breath.
"Something's wrong," he panted, glancing around in confusion. "You've -- you've dispelled the castle's defenses! It's not possible!"
Blackthorn's voice rasped from his wounds. "No, it isn't possible. No one could take Castle Britannia that easily." He grinned. "We're not at Britannia anymore."
The world fluttered and changed. They were on a crenellated tower, above a different castle, surrounded by a lake. To the north lay wilderness; to the south, the glittering lights of Britain. The winter stars soared majestically overhead. "I had no hope of beating you at your home," said Blackthorn, "so I've brought you to mine."
"How -- when did ---"
"Nystul, you furry old prune, you approach sorcery like a mathematician. You're powerful but predictable. Myself, I think of sorcery as art. And art is the realm of emotion and perception." He knelt over the bound wizard and presented the hilt of his sword. "Did Shadowghast give you a fright? Were you distracted, trying to work out what exactly it might do? I brought it for that very reason. You were so busy worrying about my sword that you didn't notice when we teleported away, just as the thunderstone hit."
"Then you weren't after the Vortex Lens. You were after me."
"I'm betting British needs you to perform that spell."
The wizard ground his teeth. "Lord British will demand my release. You may have beaten me, but you can't beat him."
"Don't be so sure," said Blackthorn with a stern glare, "but it doesn't matter, because you're going to give me your word that you won't perform the Spell of Rejoining. And if you're true to the Virtues, then I know you'll keep it."
"I'll give you no such promise!"
Blackthorn lifted his blade. "Then I'm going to kill you."
The wizard bared his teeth. "Kill me then!"
"Don't be a fool, Nystul! There's no resurrection after Shadowghast bites." He swayed and coughed. He touched his chest wound and examined bloody fingers. "Dammit, I'm doing this for the good of everyone! That means you and British as well. Can't you see that?"
"I'll give you no such promise."
"Nystul, don't make me do this!" He circled the tip of Shadowghast around the wizard's throat. "I won't let you throw me into the future I've seen!"
From behind him shot a sound like cracking wood. Blackthorn choked on a word and doubled over, collapsing beside Nystul. The glowing chains around the old wizard vanished.
At the far end of the tower was an apparition in a white hood and billowing white cloak. Lady Gavrielle stood motionless. A coil of smoke rose from her palm where she had cast a spell at Blackthorn.
Grunting with pain, Nystul struggled to his feet. "You? Here?" But he saw tears glisten on her cheeks as the winter wind froze them, and he said no more. They shared a look filled with silent comprehension. Then the sorcerer murmured a strained spell, and he and the fallen Blackthorn vanished. Only the crimson Shadowghast remained.
After a long while Gavrielle crouched over the sword, picked it up and walked back to the stairwell leading down into the bowels of the haunting, lordless Castle Blackthorn.
