Elminster in hell - Ed Greenwood [123]
Well, wizard? Speak to me!
[pain, writhing, gasping struggle to mind speak]
Every memory shown ye, devil, is one lost forever to me. To show ye every last thing, and lose it all, would not be the act of a sane man.
And are you a sane man?
[silence]
Well?
[grim silence]
[diabolical laughter, booming and roiling through every dark corner of a shuddering mind]
"This is ridiculous!" Rathan cursed as they hurried down the stairs, leather creaking and mail jangling. "Up tower and down! Why can't all these craven fools march up to the gate and declare themselves, like in the children's tales? Twould be far easier on my aching feet!"
"I'll try to remember to tell them that," Torm called back merrily. "I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding and that anxious regard for your bunions is and will be the first and overriding concern of all armed Zhent war parties who show up in the dale a-raiding!"
Rathan's reply was a heartfelt roar of anger. He felt for the flask of firewine at his belt as he ran down the steps, bouncing and lurching. Three turns farther, he got it unstopped and up to his lips-which was about the time his elbow had a brief but painful meeting with a protruding block in the stone wall.
Firewine stings when dashed into the eyes, and overweight priests of the goddess of good fortune throw all caution to the winds when pursuing holy business. So it was that Rathan was off balance and moving far too fast. Momentarily blinded and fumbling with his flask stopper when he should have spared a hand for the rail, he launched himself where he imagined the curve of the stairs to go.
He was regrettably mistaken.
The wall was unforgivingly hard, almost triumphant in its bruising resistance, and it was curved. The stairs were similarly hard, worn smooth by years of many feet, and pitched in a steep descent. Rathan was large, round, and loud in bellows and roars of pain. He bounced off the wall once, twice, thrice, ricocheted from the central pillar, tumbled down over the edges of three very sharp steps, and struck the curving outer wall again, liberally doused with lubricating firewine this time and driven into a more or less helpless ball.
Tymora encourages her faithful to take chances, but Rathan Thentraver was neither a slender nor energetic man. His armor was more impressive to the eye than it was to the sword-or to immovable stones.
His precipitous descent down the stairs began with a startled shout and a clatter and commenced to acquire the full-throated thunder of crumpling armor and a hurtling, heavy body that is embracing its fate with holy rage rather than the silence of acceptance or insensibility.
Torm was not slow of wit or foot, but he could jump only so high before negotiating his own inevitable meeting with stone walls, steps, or ceiling. His frantic leap to avoid his bouncing, rolling friend failed. He rebounded from the ceiling down onto the whirling armored ball. With a stream of colorful curses all his own, Torm was swept down the stairs in similar rolling tumult.
The smile of Tymora brought a Zhentilar guard captain striding into the antechamber. The crossbows of his men had cleared the tower entrance of guards and driven the few defenders into flight out through the kitchens. His duty was clear. "Open yon door," he snapped, through the din of shrieks, laughing men, and horses thundering past outside.
Obligingly, his men did so, blades and bows at the ready. A spiral stair awaited-thankfully without guards or any traps. The boldest guard took a cautious step forward and peered up into the gloom.
"Well?" the guard captain snapped.
"There's something," the soldier replied, with a frown. "A sort of crashing…"
The officer snorted. "A 'sort of crashing? What son of crashing?"
Rathan's hurtling form rattled around the last bend, bounded off the edge of a particularly hard step, and sailed down into the antechamber like a large, jagged armored juggernaut. He smashed the guard captain to the floor like an angry cook dashing an egg. Zhents scattered