Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [132]
"Cease firing! No more shafts!" Fzoul snapped, and strode toward Shandril, a javelin raised in one hand. Narm rose from his knees and, through clenched teeth, hissed the words of a spell, Lightning flashed and flickered around the room, and Zhentilar archers groaned as they fell. Behind the charred and toppled bodies, the bluewhite bolts crackled along the walls and into the spell engine. Most of the Zhents lay still; others were moaning and moving feebly; perhaps six still stood, and few of them held boors.
Trembling uncontrollably, Narm fell, lifeless, onto his back.
Fzoul's angry counterspell lashed past him and out the doors, striking harmless smoke and sparks from the stones of Spell Court. Snarling in disgust, the high priest hefted his javelin and strode down the long forehall to slay Shandril.
Face twisted in pain, Shandril Shessair slithered on the tiles, crawling back toward the door, trying to get away from the strange glowing wheel that was drawing spelfire from her. It was turning slightly faster now, its pull slightly stronger, a wheel that spun for her death.
Through a haze of pain. Shandril saw Sarhthor standing in the doorway, face unreadable, Crumpled on the floor in front of him was Oelaerone, curled around the black arrow that had felled her.
From the floor beside Belarla's senseless form, Tessaril yelled, "Old Wolf, your dagger!"
"Of course," Mirt rumbled, dumping the body he'd been using as a shield atop a Zhent clawing at him from the floor, Coolly he ran the buried warrior through with his saber, turned, and held his own dagger up. Obliging his will, it glowed.
Fzoul stopped and flung another spell, It flashed at the Old Wolf, trailing streams of magical radiance as the spell engine's draining tugged at it. The weakened spell reached Mirt's dagger-and was absorbed into it, The Old Wolf gave the high priest a triumphant smile, Then he tossed the dagger and, in the same motion, swung back with a snarl to smash aside the reaching blade of the next Zhentilar.
The dagger sparkled end-over-end through the air and into Tessaril's sure grasp. The Lord of Eveningstar came up from the floor in a run, black skirts streaming, heading for Fzoul and the great wheel, A Zhentilar shaft hummed from near the door and caught her in the back.
Tessaril gasped, staggered, and fell, twisting in agony, "Strike the wheel with this, Old Wolf;" she gasped, holding up the glowing dagger in a hand that trembled, "or we're all doomed!"
Mirt growled at the Zhenfilar he was fencing with, then reached over their singing blades to punch the man in the throat. Catching the strangling warrior's neck, he shoved the man aside, into the path of an arrow meant for him. As the corpse spun away, Mirt lumbered across the tiled floor like a angry bear.
Arrows flew, Fzoul ducked one, only paces away from Shandril, and went hastily to his knees, bellowing, "No more arrows!"
Mirt fell onto his knees and skidded the last few feet to Tessaril's side, He yanked a steel vial from his belt and forced it to her lips-spilling most of it down her chin as an arrow tore into him and he jerked involuntarily.
Roaring in pain, he snatched the glowing dagger from the floor, staggered to his feet, coming almost face-to-face with Fzoul-and hurled the trusty little blade over the high priest's shoulder. Dagger and wheel touched, The flash and roar struck eyes and ears like a solid blow.
Wizards' Watch Tower rocked. The blast hurled dust and fragments of riven furniture and chipped walls the length of the forehall. In the gale, helplessly tumbling Zhents shrieked in fear, arrows and bows splintering around them as they came tumbling across the floor, Mirt was flung back into a decorative suit of armor that stood against one wall of the forehall, and together they tumbled ingloriously to the tiles.
Shandril's body burst into bright radiance as the spell engine's energy flooded into her. An arrow in her shoulder