Elminster in Myth Drannor - Ed Greenwood [87]
As a thing of gray emptiness, he peered out of the crevice. Ivran was just entering the chamber where he'd been studying. The elf had noticed the dust drifting down. El pulled in his shadowy head hastily before any elf might look up and see him, and floated in the darkness, trying to think what to do next. The elves would probably determine that, of course, by what they did.
A moment later, El was spinning in the collapsed room, shaking and chilled, and the ghost that had caused his upset by rushing through him-the real ghost-was moaning its way back down into the chamber full of elves.
There were shouts from below, and the flash of a spell. El smiled grimly and set forth from the beam holes into the other chamber, to drift around the castle and learn just what he was facing.
His discoveries were not heartening. The castle was an impressive ruin, but it was still a ruin. The only unblocked well was in the tower room he'd seen already. No less than nine elves, with swords drawn and an unknown number of spells up their sleeves, were prowling through the once-splendid fortress of the Dlardrageth. At least three ghosts were following them like shadowy bats, ducking and diving but unable to do any real harm.
The real problem, however, were the four elven mages sitting together on a hill not far from the ruin, and the mighty glamer they'd cast over the entire area. It was the source of the haze that had appeared when he'd entered the little room, and the castle was now completely surrounded by it.
El drifted back inside, sought the little room, and turned solid again. His shoulder-blades settled into hard rubble, and he sighed as quietly as he could; his ghost form was gone for good now.
Drawing the scepter from his belt, he thrust it up into the air, and cautiously awakened its powers. The tingling that ran along his fingers told him that the elves were using magic that could detect any use of the scepter-something a shout from somewhere below underscored immediately-but the scepter did what he needed it to do. In storing a duplicate of the purplish field enveloping the castle, it told El what the glamer was: a ward field that would twist a teleport spell or any other translocational magic into ravaging fire inside the body of the teleport-spell caster.
He was trapped in the castle unless he could slip out on foot or memorize another ghost-shape spell-or fight his way out on foot, through all those eager elven swordsmen, to run straight into the waiting spells of those four mages. All of them were ready for the elusive human to appear, eager to destroy him.
El considered what to do next. The scepter was off and in his belt again, and he was lying on his back in near-darkness, amid rubble, crumbling elven bones, and the tangles of a cord tied to his spellbook, with the sagging wreckage of a collapsed ceiling inches from his nose. The exploring elves were back in the room he'd been studying in just below him, now, speculating aloud about where he might be hiding, and stirring around with their blades in the rubble. The use of the scepter had told them he was very near; soon enough they'd think of digging… or climbing.
"Mystra," Elminster breathed, closing his eyes, "aid me now. There are too many of them, too much magic; if I seek battle now, many will die. What should I do? Guide me, Great Lady of Mysteries, that I set no foot wrong in this journey to serve ye."
Was it his imagination, or was he floating now, rising an inch or so above the rubble? His prayer seemed to be rolling out into vast, dark distances in his mind- and something black seemed to be coming back to him out of that void, spinning end over end as it approached. Something smooth, glossy, and small, tumbling-the kiira! The lore-gem of House Alastrarra!
Wasn't it firmly on the brow of Ornthalas Alastrarra