Elminster in Myth Drannor - Ed Greenwood [91]
When the column that had been the human armathor whirled away down the passage and silence fell over the room, the fearful elf looked around. Of them all, only he still stood, though someone was moaning and moving feebly by one wall.
Dazed by grief, he stumbled in that direction, hoping the one healing spell he had left would be enough. By the time he got there, the body was still and silent. He shook it and whispered its name, but life had fled.
"How many of us," he asked the empty room in a trembling voice, "does it take to buy the life of one human? Father Corellon! How many?"
Raw power was surging through Elminster-more than he'd ever known outside Mystra's embrace-and he was feeling stronger, warmer, and mightier by the second. As he spun, the purple-hued glamer spun by the mages was being sucked down into him, giving him its energy… wild, unleashed, and wonderful!
Laughing uncontrollably, El felt himself growing taller and brighter, as he rose from the shattered base of the fallen tower.
He was conscious of the four mages scrambling up and shouting in fear. He spun in their direction, drunk with power, hungry to slay, and destroy, and-
The mages were casting something in unison. El leaned toward them, trying to get there before they could flee, or do whatever else they were trying to do, but his spinning form couldn't hurry. He tried to bend over, to sweep at them, but couldn't hold the shape, as his spinning whirled him upright again. He was closing on them now, he was-
Too late. The four elves swept their hands down by their sides-hands that trailed fire-and stood watching him expectantly. They were not fleeing or even looking alarmed.
An instant later, Faerun exploded, and El felt himself being wrenched apart and hurled in all directions, like dry grass spun away by a gale wind. "Mystra!" he cried, or tried to, but there was nothing but the roaring and the light, and he was falling… many of him were falling, onto many treetops…
* * * * *
"And then what happened?" High Court Mage Earynspieir's voice was thin with anger and exasperation. Why, oh Corellon tell me why, did the younger bloods of the realm have to be such bloodthirsty fools?
The trembling elven mage facing him started to cry, and went to his knees, pleading for his life.
"Oh, get up," Lord Earynspieir said disgustedly. "It's done, now. You're sure the human is dead?"
"We blasted him to nothing, L-lord," one of the other mages blurted out. "I've been scrying for magic use and invisible creatures since then, and have seen no evidence of either."
Earynspieir nodded almost absently. "Who survived, out of the whole band that went in there?"
"Rotheloe Tyrneladhelu, Lord. He-he bears no wound, but hasn't stopped crying yet. He may not be well in his wits."
"So we have eight dead and a ninth suffering," the High Court Mage said coldly, "and you four unhurt and triumphant." He looked at the ruined castle. "And no body of the foe, to be sure he is dead. Truly, a great victory."
"Well, it was!" the fourth mage shouted, erupting in sudden fury. "I didn't see you here, standing boot-to-boot with us, hurling spells at the Heirslayer! He came boiling up out of that castle like some sort of god, a deadly column of fire and sparks a hundred feet high and more, spitting off spells in all directions! Most would've fled, I swear-but we four stood and kept our calm and took him down! And-" he looked around at all of the silent, somber faces around him, court mages and sorceresses and guards, these last all heroes of earlier wars, their aged faces expressionless, and finished lamely,"-and I'm proud of what we did."
"I gathered that," Earynspieir said dryly. "Sylmae? Holone? Truth-scry these four… and Tyrneladhelu, to see how much of a wreck his mind is. We