Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [16]
“You lie!” Shuldroon shouted.
“I do not lie,” Elminster replied flatly. “Thy bluster notwithstanding.”
“Do you not? Sages have filled books with your falsehoods and thefts down the centuries, old man!”
“So they have, and even told truth about some of them, too. Yet I have not stolen or lied about this gorget. And as for my thefts and lies, I recall very few of them taking place in fair Cormyr. Which means they lie beyond the concerns and reach of the wizards of war.”
“Not so!” several Cormyreans barked in untidy chorus.
Shuldroon added in a rush, “We follow thieves and liars wherever they go and wherever they seek to hide, even unto far and fabled lands! Just as you’ve always done!”
“Then it seems ye’re no better than I,” Elminster replied quietly. “So talk to me not of justice or being in the ‘right.’ Ye bring me no better argument than the menace of might: do as we command, or face our swords and spells. Well, I’ve a reply for that. Go and leave me and these ladies in peace, and I’ll let ye live to swagger around Cormyr with thy swords and spells a while longer.”
“You don’t scare us, old fool.” Shuldroon sneered. “Surrender the gorget, or you will die. Have you not noticed we have you surrounded?”
“So ye do. Well, there’s yet time for ye to show good sense and draw off. This has been one of the better kingdoms, down the years; I’d not want to strike it so hard a blow without giving fair warning.”
“We’ve heard you,” Shuldroon snarled. “Deluded old fool. For far too long you’ve skulked like a thief and a vagabond in the halls of the Dragon Throne, while we’ve watched and done nothing, out of respect for the good deeds of your yesteryears. Yet you’ve trampled on our patience and our good nature, time and again, stealing the greatest royal treasures and magics of the Crown. Our forbearance, old man, is at an end. Surrender the gorget, or die.”
“Ah,” El said mildly, spreading his hands. “As to that, the gorget has been destroyed; it is far beyond being surrendered to anyone, by anybody. So let us have peace, and—”
“Die, thief!” Shuldroon thundered, flicking his fingers and crying a word that hurled his mightiest spell.
Nor was he alone. Most of the other war wizards cast swift battle magics, hands and tongues moving as swiftly as Elminster and the Simbul.
Or faster.
The night promptly exploded in great gouts of white flame as the ground shook and Tethgard erupted toward the stars.
El, Storm, and the Simbul were dashed off their feet again, the air around them shrieking and bubbling as the spells clawed at each other.
Elminster’s last magic item was gone in an instant, consumed in keeping the three from being blasted to nothingness. Charging highknights were flung away in all directions—and the stones of Tethgard were hurled into the air, riven asunder.
In the rolling, shuddering aftermath of that blast, amid involuntary groans from those still alive enough to feel the pain of their ringing ears, the three former Chosen watched Tethgard crash down in a deadly cloud of ricocheting fragments that clacked and clattered off the shaking stones all around. In a trice, Wizard of War Kelgantor lost his head to one slicing shard. In the moments that followed, larger stones crushed his bouncing head and some of his limbs even before they could come to rest.
“Back!” Nordroun cried, spitting blood. “Highknights, back! Rally to me!”
“I’ll give the orders around here!” Shuldroon screamed, staggering up from his knees with blood on his face and more of it running out of his ears. “Men of Cormyr, rally to me!”
“Our turn,” the Simbul purred triumphantly.