Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [10]
Elminster's eyes were hard as he watched the tentacled mass drift toward him, held fast by his spell.
Beyond its smoldering bulk there was a terrific crash as all the water fell back into the pool. Startled birds called, and then flapped hastily away from the trees around.
Elminster frowned. His pipe had gone out.
He guided the dead, tentacled thing to the grass at his feet. It landed with a wet plop, still enshrouded by flickering blue radiance.
The Old Mage snapped his fingers, and a long black staff inset with runes of silver appeared in his hands. He pointed one end of it at the ganglious bulk and waited, eyes never leaving the monstrous form. He raised his chin and said clearly to the empty air before him, "Torm. Rathan. Come to me, by the pool. I have need of ye."
He peered around warily, sniffing the air. Such otherworldly foes seldom hunted alone.
It seemed a very long time before he heard thudding feet and the warning clicking of t?he stones near at hand. The two summoned knights skidded to a stop when they saw the dead thing. They were breathing heavily in their haste, and they held weapons ready.
The slimmer, younger knight in the lead was Torm-a black-haired, green-eyed charmer with a fine mustache. Torm's shoulder was currently being used as a support by the stout and puffing cleric Rathan, whose brown hair and stubbly mustache were disheveled from the run, and whose strong features had gone quite red.
Torm looked down at the dead monster, then back up at Elminster, and he raised an impudent eyebrow.
"Been fishing, have we?"
"This is a shapeshifter," Elminster replied calmly, "of a very powerful family who call themselves the Malaugrym. The glow denotes a spell of mine that holds it powerless to work magic."
Before Elminster could stop him, the thief Torm kicked one still-smoking tentacle. There was no response. Torm shrugged and said, "Looks dead to me."
"And that will stop it from using Art? "The Old Mage's voice was sarcastic. "My thanks for thy assurance; as one so learned in magic, thy judgment cannot help but be correct."
Torm shrugged. "Your blade hits home, Old Mage; I stand corrected."
Elminster held out the staff, keeping its end pointed at the fallen Malaugrym. "Take over my binding, Rathan. I must work a spell to seek out any kin of this one who may Lurk near."
The stout priest took the staff, and Elminster turned away, making complicated gestures and murmuring many odd-sounding words that the two knights could only half hear. Then the archmage paused, raised his hands, and turned slowly around. He nodded with a satisfied air.
Torm raised an eyebrow. Elminster saw it, and explained, "There was another Malaugrym present the sister of this one. My Art has entrapped her; she cannot use any spells while she remains in Faerun."
Torm glanced at the trees and meadows around them. "She fled?"
"For now; she'll return to take revenge on me. Spells I may have denied her, but she can still shift her shape." "Revenge for this?" Rathan asked, nodding his chin at the dead bulk of the tentacled thing.
"Aye, but there's an older score," the Old Mage said. "I slew their father, long ago. I wonder why they dared to come here, after all the years between." Then he stiffened. "She's after Shandril," he snapped.
"Of course."
"Well, slay her, then. With your own spell laid on her, tracing her should be easy enough," Torm said.
He looked around at the grass, trees, and muddy waters of the pool – and then, reluctantly, his gaze fell again to the dead monster at Elminster's feet.
Elminster shook his head. "I can only trace her when she takes her own form."
"That?" Torm asked, gesturing toward the rank heap on the ground.
Elminster nodded. "When she takes the shape of a creature of Faerun, she's hidden from me. Without magic,