Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [131]
"Welcome, Shandril Shessair. I've been waiting for you, Fzoul Chembryl, at your service."
Fzoul willed the playing card in his right hand to melt into its true shape: a wand. It fired, He was still smiling as its radiant bolts leapt out to strike Belarla, Oelaerone, Tessaril-and Narm.
Shandril snarled at him wordlessly, and her spellfire roared out to form another defensive net, She glanced behind her to see if her companions were within her shield of flames, Narm was crumpling to his knees, face twisted in pain, and Tessaril was staggering as she tried to hold a swaying Belarla upright.
Shandril also saw Zhentilar guards in black leather as they stepped out from behind tapestries to block the doorway behind her. Beyond them, the archers whose arrows had greeted their arrival were closing in across Spell Court, bows in their hands.
Anger rose and coiled like spellfire within her, "You're good at trapping things, Zhentarim," she spat angrily, "but let's see if you're any better than Manshoon at holding them." She drew back her hand and hurled a blazing ball of spellfire at Fzoul.
He stood watching calmly as it roared toward him, spitting flames. Then it seemed to swerve sideways, smashing into-a great, shining wheel of translucent force that appeared behind Fzoul. Spellfire splashed furiously along its edge, glowed, and was absorbed, Fzoul bowed mockingly. "I'm sorry for any humiliation this might cause you, Shandril-but I fear I must ask you to kneel and cast away any weapons you may be carrying. Or die, of course."
Elthaulin strode angrily into the nave of the Black Altar, his soft shoes slipping on the polished marble underfoot. "Neaveil! Oprion!" he called, his voice echoing irreverently in the lofty darkness, Startled heads turned, but he paid them no heed. If Fzoul was going to interrupt devout rituals, Elthaulin could trample on a few meaningless traditions.
"Yes, Master of Doom?" Option was at his side swiftly. as always.
Elthaulin smiled approvingly at him, "Assemble all temple troops here, and any underpriests you deem more loyal to me than to Fzoul."
Oprion's eyes widened. "What has befallen?"
"Fzoul's facing the wench with spellfire in the citadel right now! He may well perish, or be left so weak we can seize power once and for all. Assemble everyone you can! Haste, for the love of Bane! All of you!"
Priests scrambled away at his bidding. Unseen, one dodged out an archway and took a hidden way to the street. There his features changed, melting into those of a powerful and well-known wizard.
Sarhthor was an old hand at quickly and quietly slipping away.
"Kneel before you?" Shandril flung the incredulous question like a weapon at the high priest as she leapt toward him, tugging out her dagger, Fzoul gestured with one hand.
Shandril heard bows twang. She screamed as a shaft took her in the shoulder with numbing force, spinning her around, A second shaft that would have found her breast missed as she fell, humming over her straight into the throat of a Zhentilar warrior blocking the doorway-just as the bloody point of Mirt's sword burst through the man's black leather tunic.
Grunting with the effort, Mirt snatched up the guard's body and staggered forward, using it as a shield.
Fzoul shouted orders, Arrows whipped and whirred around the room, The guard's body was rapidly transfixed with shafts that leapt, hissing, into the limp flesh as Mirt slowly advanced.
Long paces in front of him, alone on the forehall floor, Shandril yanked the shaft from her shoulder and writhed in agony, trying to master enough will to use spellfire to heal herself, Radiance leaked out between her fingers as she clutched her shoulder and groaned, thrashing back and forth on the tiles, Each time spellfire