All Shadows Fled - Ed Greenwood [42]
The supreme commander of the Sword of the South halted close enough to Fflarast to touch him, and said to the wizard, "The men want you to look around and set them at their ease that there's no magic or hidden, lurking things about. Do that, but we haven't time for you to send them haring down every passage in the place in hopes of finding magic treasure that was likely taken away long ago. I'll be outside, supervising the perimeter watch; send Swordcaptain Tschender here out to me if you want anything."
The spellmaster nodded impatiently, seeming eager to get into the room, and the swordlord stepped back, rolled his eyes behind the wizard's back, and strode off back down the corridor, leaving behind at least six veterans struggling not to chuckle as the Zhentarim stepped grandly through the nearest arch.
By unspoken, common accord the men in the passage all moved to stand where they could look through archways, and watch what befell in the great hall. Wizards of the Black Network were not loved-but they were always a source of entertainment, if one could keep safely out of the way.
Spellmaster Thuldoum strode grandly across the vast chamber, head high, looking slowly from left to right and back again. When he caught sight of the throne, he bent forward in eagerness, and his pace quickened.
"Gods spit down on 'im," one of the soldiers muttered. "He's going to sit on the throne!"
For a moment it appeared that the wizard was going to do just that-but prudence came to him at the last moment, and they saw him ordering a reluctant armsman into the seat instead.
Gingerly the soldier sat down-and from the ceiling above, a ring of boulders on chains crashed down, smashing the vainly leaping man to bloody ruin on the stones. One stone, rebounding from the impact on its chain, nearly beheaded the startled wizard, who staggered backward, arms flailing, as armsmen watched in horror. The soldier who'd been a shade too slow in vacating the throne lay where he had fallen, a broken figure in a pool of blood.
"What did I tell ye?" a soldier said, who hadn't in fact spoken before, all that long night. "Stupid buttocks-brain."
It seemed the wizard wasn't done. He'd caught sight of something behind or beyond the throne that only he could see, and was casting a spell. With all eyes upon him, he made a show of it, gesturing dramatically as he brought the invocation to a ringing climax-and a door slowly appeared in the blank wall behind the high seat. Magical radiance shone blue and silver, brightening to a soft white glow, and spread slowly along an arched frame to outline a large door.
As Zhentilar stared at it and Spellmaster Thuldoum grinned in triumph, Fflarast felt the tense prickling of hairs rising on the back of his neck. Oh, no…
The Zhentarim brought his hands down with a flourish, pointing at the door, and shouted the last word of the spell that would open it.
The door winked out. Blue-white flashes ran all over the ceiling of the chamber as a web of magic discharged, and Galath's Roost fell in on itself with a roar.
Fflarast saw the ceiling begin to fall and the wizard stare up and then vanish. He did not wait to see a thousand of his fellow warriors crushed, but turned and flung himself headlong down the passage, running as he had never run before.
There was an earth-splitting crash of stone upon stone, and Fflar was flung off his feet. He landed rolling amid dust and falling stones as the castle shook around him. The entire armor gallery had fallen into the great hall.
"Gods!" one of the old soldiers in the passage gasped. The floor, too!" And with a slow, gathering thunder, the overloaded floor gave way, dropping in huge pieces down into dark cellars beneath.
By then, Fflar was sprinting toward the moonlight, sweat almost blinding him. A last leap over rubble- and he was out, tumbling in the ferns and coming up running, to get well away from the walls.
"Easy,