Elminster in Myth Drannor - Ed Greenwood [133]
Nacacia launched herself into a desperate, clumsy tackle, and they struck the floor hard, bouncing and driving the wind out of El. He convulsed, arching his body on the smooth, bruising stone as he sought to find air, and she fought to keep on top of him, riding him as a farmer tries to hold down a struggling pig.
He shook himself, dragging her this way and that, and tried to lash out at her, but fell hard on that shoulder, needing his arm for support.
Something was spinning in his mind, rising up out of the depths as he struggled. Something golden.
Ah! Aye! The golden symbol Mystra had put in his mind so long ago gleamed, wavering like a coin seen underwater. Then it shone steadily as he bent his will to capturing it.
The image of the Srinshee overlaid its spinning splendor as The Masked struggled to master El's will, but the golden symbol burst through it.
As Nacacia shoved El's head back down against the stone, he held to that blazing image and gasped, "Mystra!"
His body shuddered, squirmed, and… flowed. Nacacia tried to slap a hand over his mouth, clinging to him desperately, and El gasped, "Enough! Nacacia, let be! I'm free of him!"
They broke apart, and Nacacia rolled over and up again to find herself staring into the eyes of a human woman!
"Well met," El gasped with a weak grin. "Call me Elmara, please!"
The half-elf stared at him-her-in utter disbelief. "Are you truly… yourself?"
"Sometimes I think so," El said with a crooked smile, and Nacacia flung her arms around her longtime companion with a shout of relieved laughter.
It was drowned out, an instant later, by shouts of, "For the Starym! Starym risen!"
The two former apprentices clambered to their feet, stumbling over the motionless body of the Lady Herald, and saw elves crowding into the east side of the hall from behind a tapestry. The last armathors of the court were dying under their swords-and their slayers were a swarm of elves whose maroon breastplates bore the twin falling dragons of House Starym, blazoned in silver.
"Make a stand," someone snapped, near at hand. "Here. Guard the Herald, and keep them out from under the Srinshee."
It was Mythanthar, and the sudden hard grip of his bony hands on their shoulders made it clear he was speaking to Elmara and Nacacia. Barely turning to acknowledge him, they nodded dutifully and raised their hands to weave spells.
As the Starym warriors burst across the hall, carving a bloody path through the fighting courtiers with complete disregard for whoever they might be slaying, El unleashed the bladecall spell into the throats and faces of the foremost.
Nacacia sent lashing lightnings over the falling, dying first rank of Starym warriors, to stab into the second. Elves in maroon armor staggered and danced to death amid the hungry bolts.
Then the Srinshee sent a spell down to aid them, a wall of ghostly elven warriors who hacked and thrust in complete harmlessness, but blocked the living elves from advancing until they'd been hewn down, one by one. El and Nacacia used the time that took to pour magic missiles into specific warriors, slaying many.
New faces peered in at the doors of the great chamber, as the heads of mighty Houses came to see for themselves what new madness was ruling the Coronal this day. Almost all of them gaped, turned pale, and hastily retreated. Some few swallowed, drew blades that were more ceremonial than practical, and picked their way cautiously forward through the blood and dust and tumult.
Across the great chamber, the ruler of Cormanthor was fighting for his life, slaughtering Starym courtiers like an angry lion. He was one against many, as they stood in a desperate, struggling wall against him. His blade sang and flashed around him, and only two thrusts had managed to slip past it to stain his white robes red. He was back in battle,