Elminster in Myth Drannor - Ed Greenwood [17]
Another stone hit his forehead, hard. Elminster staggered, dazed. An exultant roar rose from all around him, as the ruukha charged. Shaking his head to drive away the pain, El sank down over the elf and spat out the words of a spell he hadn't expected he'd have to use yet. He hoped he'd be in time.
* * * * *
Eyes that glowed with mage sight looked at the tree-clad crag before it, and then at the next one. And the next. Gods curse the usurper! He'd been to all of them!
Had he left the scepter at the first one, and set the others as decoys? Or did it lie in the second crag, or-?
The owner of those smoldering eyes lost faith in the will of the silent gods to curse the young mage-prince properly, and embarked on a thorough and heartfelt job of personally cursing Elminster.
When the snarling was done, a spell was cast. As expected, it revealed a humming web of force lines linking all the crags, but didn't lay clear the location of the scepter. Breaking the web needed Elminster's assenting will… or his death.
Well, if the one was impossible, the other would just have to serve. Hands moved again to weave another enchantment. Something rose like heavy smoke from the forest floor, something that hissed and whispered softly and unceasingly as it took shape. Something whose every movement was a menace that bespoke hunger.
Something that suddenly grew solid, rearing upright as it slithered, and flailing the air before it with dozens of raking claws. A magekiller.
Murderous eyes watched it go forth, seeking the last prince of Athalantar. As it whispered its way out of view through the trees, a smile grew beneath those watching eyes… from a mouth that did not often smile. Then the mouth moved again, bestowing more curses on Elminster's head. Had they been listening, the gods would have been pleased at some of the more inventive phrasing.
* * * * *
There was an instant of swirling blue mists, and the sensation of falling-and then Elminster's boots scraped on broken rock, and a limp, lolling elven body was in his hands.
They stood on a flat rock partway up the dell, with bent and broken ferns all around, and startled shouts behind them as the ruukha peered this way and that, seeking them-or were sliced by the ring of daggers taking sudden and urgent flight to El's new locale, to take up their protective circling again.
Walking into Cormanthor with a dead or dying elfin his arms might not be such a good idea, either, but right now he had little choice. The prince of Athalantar swung the slim, light body over his shoulder with a grunt and began to walk up out of the dell, trudging carefully amid the ferns to avoid a fall on the uneven ground. There were more shouts from behind him, and Elminster smiled thinly and turned around.
Stones crashed and rolled short, and one spear hissed through the ferns well off to one side, as the ruukha came after him. El chose his spot and made the second journey of his five-jump spell.
Suddenly he was in the very midst of grunting, hurrying hobgoblins, with the elf weighing on his shoulder. Ignoring the sudden oaths and grunts of amazement, El stood tall, turning on one heel to find the next clear spot for the magic to take him to, over- there!
Blades slashed out too late, and he was gone again.
When the swirling mists fell away this time, there were screams from behind him. The whistling daggers had cut a bloody swath through the hobgoblins to reach and encircle El where he'd just been-and now they were trying to reach him again, slashing through the main group of ruukha. The Chosen of Mystra watched hobgoblins see him, turn, and roar out fresh fury as they charged anew-and he awaited them patiently.
None of the ruukha were throwing things now. Their blades and axes were out, each hobgoblin hungry to personally chop and hack