Elminster in Myth Drannor - Ed Greenwood [88]
Oh dear Mystra, preserve me! That thought made him see a rushing wave of chaos-ghostly and imperfect, mind-echoes of what he recalled from the gem now torn from him, but plunging at him all the same. He tried to turn and run, but no matter how hard he struggled, everywhere he ran was toward the rushing wave of memories. It was almost upon him-it broke over him!
"That babbling-that's human talk! He must be up there somewhere!" The words were elvish; deep, booming echoes that seemed to come from all around him.
In the shrieking, blinding chaos that followed those deafening words Elminster Aumar spat blood from nose and mouth and eyes and ears, and went down, drifting, into dark oblivion…
Twelve
The Stag At Bay
The most dangerous moment in the hunt is when the stag turns, at bay, to trade his life for as many hunters as he can. Elven magic customarily turns such moments into mere glimpses of magnificent futility. But what would such moments be, I wonder, if the stag had strong magic, too?
Shalheira Talandren, High Elven Bard of Summerstar
from Silver Blades And Summer Nights:
An Informal But True History of Cormanthor
published in The Year of the Harp
"It's coming for me! Blast it!"
The voice was elven and terrified; it drew Elminster up out of floating darkness soaked in sweat, to find himself still lying in the little room with the elven bones.
There was a roar of flame off to his right, and a stabbing tongue of fire licked the collapsed ceiling above his nose for one scorching moment. El narrowed his eyes to slits, trying to see; one side of his face felt blistered.
When he trusted his sight again, he looked in that direction. The fire was gone. Three soft globes of radiance were drifting beyond the crevice, high in the air of the room where he'd been studying. By their light he could see the elf who'd cried out. He was standing on empty air, sword in hand, near his crevice. Levitating, not flying freely. Swooping around him, just out of reach of his vainly slashing and stabbing blade, was one of the Dlardrageth ghosts; the fire spell hurled from below had failed to destroy it.
If common or easily crafted spells could fell the ghostly remnants of House Dlardrageth, of course, they'd have all been destroyed long ago, and some ambitious fledgling House would be dwelling in this castle now. There was little chance any of the young elves here today had the power to destroy a Dlardrageth ghost.
On the other hand, the swooping, flitting ghost could probably do little more than frighten living elves-and one of those elves was within easy distance of hurling a deadly spell at Elminster, even if the opening between them was too small to allow any elf to enter.
El reached out and cautiously, quietly picked up his spellbook. He'd just have to drag the tangle of cord attached to it around with him for now, as he crept as far along this room as he could, away from the crevice.
Though he felt like he'd been torn apart and been put back together again, piece by agonizing piece, Mystra had come to his aid. She'd dragged him through a thousand tangled Alastrarran half-memories to what his mage's mind had remembered clearly, at the vei depths of his recall: the spells the lore-gem had held.
There'd been one he'd dared not use; its price was too high. Empowering it would strip three of the most powerful spells from his memory and drain something from the scepter as well… but now it was needful he do so.
With a sigh, Elminster did what had to be done, shuddering silently as sparks seemed to wash and flow through his mind, stripping spells away. Thankfully, he did not have to awaken the scepter again to drain power from it. When the new spell shone bright and ready within him, El found the deepest niche he could, in a far corner of the collapsed room, and wedged his precious spellbook into it.