Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [147]
He brought down his most special spell of all-the one that mated the golem with the intellect of a limbless familiar he'd prepared last night. Hanging in its cage, it stared at him in helpless, mute horror for an instant before the spell took hold and the lights in its eyes went out. Now if things were right at last…
The lips moved on the otherwise blank face, shaped a smile that Seldinor matched delightedly, and breathed the word, "Master!"
Seldinor stood before it triumphantly. "Yes? Do you know me?"
"Well enough," was the breathy, whistling reply. "Well enough." And the arms of the golem came up with frightening speed to grasp his throat. Strangling for air, hands frantically shaping spells out of the air, Seldinor had time for one last horrified glimpse of a magical eye appearing on the blank face of the golem and winking at him, before the golem snapped his neck like a twig-and then, unleashing its awful strength for a moment, tore the wizard's head from his shoulders in a bloody rain of death…
*****
Old, wise eyes watched Seldinor's head sail across his study. The lips of their owner thinned in a smile of satisfaction. He passed a hand of dismissal over his scrying crystal and walked away. It was time to prepare against this threat to them all, now that his hated foe was gone, and in such a fitting manner, too…
He chuckled, whispered a word that kept guardian lightnings at bay, and grasped the knob atop a massive wooden stair. It swung open at his touch, and from the hollow within he drew two wands, slid them up his sleeves into the sheaths sewn into his undertunic, and then drew out a small, folded scrap of cloth. Carefully he unfolded it and lowered it onto his head: a skullcap set with many tiny gems. He went back to stand over the crystal, closed his eyes, and gathered his will. Tiny motes of light began to sparkle and pulse in the web of jewels.
Lights played back and forth among the gems as the old man mouthed silent words and traced unseen sigils… and the skullcap slowly faded into invisibility. When it was entirely gone, he opened his eyes. The pupils had become a flat, brightly glowing red.
Staring unseeing into the distance, the old man spoke into the crystal. "Undarl. Ildryn. Malanthor. Alarashan. Briost. Chantlarn."
Each name brought an image into the air above his head. Looking up, he saw six mages approach their own crystals and lay hands on them. They were his, now. He smiled, slowly and coldly, as the magic of his crown reached out to grip their wills.
"Speak, Ithboltar," one wizard said abruptly.
"What befalls, Old One?" another asked, more respectfully.
"Colleagues," he began quietly, and then added, "students." It never hurt to remind them. "We are endangered by two stranger-mages." From his mind rose images of the young, hawk-nosed one and the tall, slim woman with the dark eyes.
"Two? A boy and a woman? Old One, have you plunged asudden into your dotage?" Chantlarn asked scornfully.
"Ask yourself, wise young mage," Ithboltar said, his words mild and precise, "where Seldinor is now? Or Taraj? Or Kadeln? And then think again."
"Who are these two?" another magelord asked curtly.
"Rivals from Calimshan, perhaps, or students of Those Who Fled from Netheril and flew far to the south… though I've seen the woman a time or two before, riding the lands west of here."
"I've seen the boy," Briost said suddenly, "in Narthil… and thought him destroyed."
"And now they are killing us, one by one," Ithboltar said with velvet calm. "Done scoffing, Chantlarn? We must act together against them before others among us fall."
"Ah, Old One-another frantic defense of the realm?" Malanthor's voice was exasperated. "Can it not wait until the morrow?" They all saw him look over his shoulder and smile reassuringly at someone they could not see.
"Amusing your apprentices again, Malanthor?" Briost snorted.
Malanthor made a rude gesture and stepped back from his crystal.
"Until the morrow, then," Ithboltar said quickly.