Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [122]
The slim woman in the tattered cloak strode off across the field, walking west. The bleeding sorceress floated along in the air behind her, as if she were being towed on an invisible, weightless bed.
Only one armsman moved to stop her, winding his bow into readiness, loading it, and setting it to his shoulder. He felt the hand that struck his bow aside but never felt the stout cane that smashed him to the ground, or anything else. His quarrel leapt toward the sun, and no one saw whether it reached there or not.
Darrigo Trumpettower stood fierce-eyed over the dead armsman and growled, "At least I can be proud of something before I die. Come on then, Wolves! Come and cut down an old man, and tell yerselves what mighty heroes ye are!"
* * * * *
This was the time to use a prayer she'd always wanted to try but had never found the right occasion for. Mystra's dictates were quite strict: her priestesses could never call on her for their own benefit, and Braer had warned her how few riches he'd made ready for her to call on. Yet she felt that now was the right time.
The bloodstanch litany was not one Elmara used often, so she had to take time to pray to the goddess for it. Night had come to the Haunted Vale when Elmara took the fallen sorceress in her arms and said the words of her last useful prayer, the one that would transport them both to the only enclosed refuge she could think of: the cave below the meadow, overlooking ruined Heldon.
As the moon-drenched hills vanished and familiar earthy darkness was suddenly all around, Elmara smiled wearily. She'd never heard of a female magelord, nor were armsmen likely to dare turn on one. If this lady sorceress lived, she could be the teacher and ally El would need in her fight to free Athalantar.
"All alone, I cannot defeat the magelords," she murmured, admitting it at last. "Gods above know, I can barely deal with one enchanted sword!"
*****.
Much later, Elmara sighed despairingly. The sorceress hadn't awakened, and her newly healed flesh felt burning hot under El's fingers. Had the crossbow bolt been poisoned? El's prayers had melted that dart away, stopped the bleeding, and drawn together the woman's torn shoulder… but in truth, she knew few healing charms-the prayers Mystra gave her faithful included many barriers and spells that blasted foes apart and hurled things down, but were shy on magics that mended and healed.
Still unconscious, the woman lay on a bed of cloaks. Her fevered flesh was drenched with sweat, and from time to time she murmured things El couldn't catch, and moved her limbs feebly about on the sodden cloaks. Her skin-even to her lips- was bone-white.
Elmara's best efforts to gather her will and force healing into the body of the sorceress failed utterly. El might be able to turn memorized prayer-spells into healing energy for herself… but Mystra hadn't given her the means to aid anyone else.
The sorceress was dying. She might last until morn or a little longer, but… perhaps not. Elmara didn't even know her name. The woman's body moved restlessly again, wet with a sheen of sweat that returned however often El wiped it away.
Elmara stared at the woman she'd rescued, and wiped moisture from her own forehead. She must do more, or she'd be sharing her cave with a corpse in the morning. With sudden resolve, she took the woman's purse-which held a good handful of coins-and crawled out of the cave, casting a ward against wolves across its mouth.
There had been a shrine to Chauntea, Mother of Farms and Fields, south of Heldon. Perhaps for wealth enough the priest who tended its plantings could be persuaded to come hence and heal. It was too much to hope he'd keep his mouth closed about the cave and the two women; whatever befell, she'd have to find a new lair.
Elmara sighed grimly and hastened down from the meadow, hurrying as much as she dared in the nightgloom. From days when she'd played here often, her feet easily found gaps in the trees. Just how long ago had those days been?
Then she was out of the trees,