Elminster in Myth Drannor - Ed Greenwood [116]
The three Starym flinched and scrambled away from the tower on the heels of his oath, as the purple radiance burst into three fingers that stabbed out at them, veering to follow each scrambling elf.
Personal mantles flared into visibility as they were tested; one mage stiffened, threw out his arms as his mantle turned to roiling purple and black smoke around him, and then fell hard on his face, and lay still.
The other two mages spun around and cried something to each other that El couldn't catch; their voices were high and distorted in frantic fear. It seemed the old fool was providing them with just a trifle more sport than they'd expected.
The body of the fallen Starym spat sparks and sputtering wisps of dying spells as he expired. His head remained bent at a sickening angle against the old stump, but the rest of his body slowly melted its way into the ground.
Waelvor stared down at it in gaping amazement, but the two surviving Starym paid their relative no heed as they busily spun magic. Fingers flew and the very air around the two elves crackled and flowed, like oil sliding down the inside of a water-filled bowl. Tiny motes of light flickered here and there as the mages danced the measures of a long and intricate spell.
As the twin magics unfolded, two glowing clouds of pale green radiance faded into being above the heads of the Starym, shedding enough light to show the sweat glistening on corded necks and working jaws.
Then, with a silent flourish, one cloud coalesced into a sphere and began to spin. The second followed an instant later, and two globes of force hung in the air above the busy elven mages.
Haemir swore again, his features as sharp and white as if they'd been quarried out of milky marble. A red mist streamed out of the riven turret, reaching for the intruders in a long, inexorable wave, and they were almost stumbling in haste as they plucked scepters, wands, gems, and various small and winking items out of their sashes and hurled them up into the spheres above their heads. Each item floated there, drifting lazily around among the other items in the spheres.
The red mist was only feet away when one of the Starym snapped out a single ringing word-or perhaps it was a name-and every item of magic in his sphere went off at once, tearing apart the very air in a darksome rift of glimmering stars that sucked in the sphere, the items, the red mist, and much of the gardens and front face of the tower before it vanished with a high sighing sound.
The other Starym mage laughed in triumph before he said the word that awakened the items in his sphere.
They rose, like flies disturbed from carrion on a hot day, and spat a deadly volley of bright beams into the tower, which burst apart amid deafening thunders, raining down stones all around and releasing a cloud of crimson dust as some ancient magic or other failed.
The rift in the wake of these beams was small, sucking in only the items themselves and the sphere that had contained them before it vanished; no doubt this was the way the spell was supposed to work.
The two surviving Starym were moving their hands again, weaving unfamiliar-but seemingly strong- magics as they stared into the tower. By their shared manner, Mythanthar must be visible to them, and still very much alive and active.
El made his decision. Scudding low across the darkened garden, he built up speed and smashed through Waelvor. This time the impact was like being hit across the chest by a solidly-swung log; it drove all the breath out of him in a soundless scream. He passed through the body of the mage and plunged into the head of the nearest Starym like a hurled spear.
The blow sent him spinning end over end through the night, shuddering in agony so great that it snatched all his breath away again, and a golden haze of dazedness began to swirl around him.
He had the satisfaction, however, of seeing the Starym he'd struck rolling on the ground, clutching his head and whimpering. The other Starym stared at his fellow in disbelief and so didn't