Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [89]
“Where are we bound, Lord?” he murmured.
Marlin grinned like one of his nieces’ well-fed cats. “No, no, Gask, better you not know. Safer, that way.”
Manshoon managed not to roll his eyes again. Stupider, rather—you obviously don’t know, lordling.
Gaskur obviously thought so, too, though he knew better than to say so. A flicker of Ormantor’s eyes betrayed his similar judgment.
“Come!” Marlin said eagerly. “Glory awaits!”
Unheard in his cavern, Manshoon smiled mirthlessly. It was time to have some fun, flex a few tentacles, and slay the guards set to watch over the secret passage—so foolish young Lord Stormserpent could reach the Dragonskull Chamber and test his secret weapons. If they held the blueflame ghosts and young Marlin could control them, they would be formidable weapons indeed.
And if he could not control them, young Lord Stormserpent’s ambitions would come to a swift and painful end.
“Glory, lordling,” Manshoon murmured into the glow, “awaits.”
Elminster came to a certain place in the passage and stopped. An old ward should be waiting right in front of him, and as he was—admit it—less than what he’d once been, what he did next should be done cautiously.
He stretched forth a hand gingerly into the empty air.
Which remained empty, though a whispering awakened all around him and raced away along the dark stones into the distance.
He took a cautious step forward, and—nothing else happened.
Good.
He took another. Still nothing. Six more strides brought him to the stone he knew, which moved under his hand and let him step into the wall and avoid awakening the spell-trap that awaited another few steps along the passage.
It had been long centuries since the royal crypt had been guarded by bored Purple Dragons, but it was still protected by other things, and bore alarm magics that might alert someone in the palace above, if anyone up there still had the wits to be alerted by anything.
He was beginning to doubt that.
The air in Dragonskull Chamber wasn’t as stale as it should have been, and the darkness wasn’t as dark. Even the stillness wasn’t still; it pulsed and swirled and flowed in an endless, soundless tumult that could be clearly felt.
The twisted wards were alive and restless, and although they made him feel rather sick, Marlin Stormserpent was glad of that. It meant the war wizards—even the Mage Royal, Ganrahast—couldn’t see him from afar or know he was there or what he was doing.
Which was good indeed, considering that what he was doing would undoubtedly be seen as high treason.
“I’m experimenting freely,” he murmured. No, that excuse sounded lame even to his ears; he couldn’t imagine even the youngest Crownsworn mage or courtier believing it.
Wherefore he’d best be doing what he’d come to do swiftly, and get back to his bodyguards before they drank the deepest winecellar of the Old Dwarf dry. Even shunned rooms of the palace must have patrols stalk by their doors from time to time.
Marlin drew in a deep, excited breath, brought forth the chalice with one hand and his handful of parchment notes with the other, and awakened one of his rings to give him light enough to read.
That reminded him that he was wearing the Flying Blade and would perhaps be wiser to set it aside and try to deal with one ghost at a time.
The room around him was as empty as ever, most of its walls lost in the evershifting darkness—but it was clearly bare of furniture. So he laid his sword belt on the floor a few paces away, the scabbarded sword atop it, and stood so he could face it while he worked on the chalice.
His notes were few the casting or ritual, or whatever it was properly called was short and simple.
Which meant he couldn’t delay any longer. Sudden fear uncoiling in his