Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [87]
“Now, now, impetuous Cormyrean,” Manshoon murmured, smiling into the glows of his scrying scene. “Not just yet. I shall fell Elminster of Shadowdale when the moment is right. A killing I perform at the time I choose. None other shall come between us.”
He worked a magic that sent the glows roiling more brightly and added, “After more than two centuries, I deserve that much.”
A moment later, his spell took hold, sending his awareness plunging down into the warm, dark depths of a mind more twisted than most. A mind he was becoming all too familiar with.
The mind of Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake, who was hastening along a passage to a particular door, one of the most powerful magical scepters in all the palace in his hand.
“Mystra, She Who Is Fallen, certainly enjoyed the dramatic last-moment appearance and rescue,” Manshoon purred, “and I begin to feel why.”
Storm looked around wildly. “Where’d my swor—oh.” She snatched up her weapon. It looked unharmed … but promptly crumbled into glittering dust with a curious sigh, leaving her holding only a hilt.
She dropped it in disgust, shot a glance at the warily advancing Purple Dragons and the wizards behind them—who were carefully aiming wands at her over the armored shoulders of those warriors—then ducked down again to join Elminster on the floor.
“Might I suggest running away?” she murmured in his ear. “Now?”
“Ye can,” the Sage of Shadowdale grunted, rolling over and clambering up to his knees, “but running is a deed my knees grow less and less fond of as the years pass. How many still stand against us?”
“Too many, and the Dragons are almost upon us,” Storm told him grimly. “I don’t see any highknights or bowguns, but—”
“They charged to the fore, of course,” El replied, “and so are now pelting along that passage halfway across the palace. Well, now …”
He produced a wand. “Paralyzes,” he announced. “I still have the thought-prying pendant, too, but that’s about all. The retreat ye suggest might indeed be prudent, if I can recall what lies on the other side of the Low Kitchens. Quite a warren of ramps and stairs, in that direction, and—”
“Elminster!” Storm snapped warningly as a Purple Dragon loomed up over them. Elminster calmly called up the wand’s powers, and the warrior stiffened in midlunge and toppled forward, crashing down at them.
Only to fetch up against the heavy table, his frozen, helpless body forming a shield.
“Right, lass, let’s be off,” the Sage of Shadowdale said gruffly. “We—”
Startled cries erupted beyond the paralyzed Dragon, as bright light burst into being and washed over the room. At its height the cries ended in midblurt, leaving only eerie silence as the radiance faded again.
Storm flung herself sideways into a roll that brought her out beyond the table and two toppled stools to where she could look down the former passage at the distant glow of the Dalestride.
She was in time to see Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake standing in a hitherto-closed doorway in another back corner of the Room of the Watchful Sentinel. He held a still-flickering scepter in his hand and was staring around at the guardians in front of him with an uneasy smile on his face.
Those men—every last Purple Dragon and wizard of them—had fallen on their faces and were lying still and silent.
Mreldrake took a swift and uncertain couple of steps into the room, craning and peering to make sure none of them were moving, then spun around and hastened back out the door he’d come through, closing it behind him.
“It seems we have an unexpected ally,” Storm whispered. “Or the wizards of war are harboring a traitor who just decided the time was right for a little treason.”
Elminster shoved the paralyzed Dragon aside with a grunt of effort and crawled quickly to the next nearest warrior. “Senseless—not dead,” he muttered. “They’ll be gone for most of a day, unless someone casts spells to revive them.”
He shot Storm a look. “I’ll take care of our traitor, if I can catch up to him. Ye get