Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [157]
Ithboltar fumbled speedily through the gestures of a spell he'd hoped he'd never have to use, and the room whirled amid the ringing sounds of shattering crystals. Nanatha gasped.
Ithboltar's chamber was suddenly full of five startled magelords.
"What did y-?"
"How did you brin-?"
"Why-?"
Ithboltar held up a hand to quell them all. "Together, we stand a chance against this threat. Alone, we are doomed."
*****
The bells boomed again, and the armsmen rose with a chorus of curses. "This never happens," Riol protested, his boots scattering dice underfoot as he skidded past the table and raced for the stair.
"Well, it's happening now," First Sword Sauvar growled, from right behind him. "And you can bet that anything that can scare a dozen or more magelords is going to be something we should be scared about, too!"
Riol opened his mouth to answer, but someone reached out of a dark side-passage and put a sword into it. The blade glistened as it came out of the back of Riol's head; Sauvar ran right into it before he could stop, and reeled back with a startled oath.
"Who in all the-?" he started to ask.
"Tharl Bloodbar, knight of Athalantar," came the crisp reply from a wild-bearded old man whose armor seemed to be made of cast-off, flapping remnants scavenged from a dozen battlefields, which is what in truth it was. "Sir Tharl to you."
The bright blade in the old knight's hand skirled against Sauvar's own steel and then leapt over it-and the First Sword joined his fellow armsman on the passage floor. The thunder of hurrying boots coming up the stairs slowed, and the old man grinned fiercely down into the gloom and snarled, "Right then- which one o' you heroes is most eager to die?"
*****
Jansibal Otharr sighed in perfumed exasperation. "Why, in the name of all the gods, does this have to happen now?"
He finished at the chamberpot, turned with his elaborate codpiece dangling to look longingly at the woman waiting on the bed, and then sighed and reached down to buckle himself up. He knew what the penalty would be if one of the magelords discovered he'd ignored their precious warning bell for a little rutting.
"Stay," he ordered, "but avail yourself not over-heavily of the wine, Chlasa. I'll be back soon." Snatching up his bejewelled blade, he strode out.
The torchlit passage beyond, in the part of the castle reserved for noble visitors, was usually deserted except for the occasional scurrying servant. Right now it was crowded with hurrying bodyguards in livery, an envoy in full Athalantan tabard, and Thelorn Selemban, his hated rival. Thelorn was striding along toward him, his slim-filigreed blade drawn.
Jansibal's face darkened, and he struggled to belt on his own blade and get it out into his hand before Selemban reached him-in such chaos, "accidents" could all too easily happen.
Thelorn's eyes were dancing with amusement as he bore down on Jansibal. "Fair even, lover mine," he said lightly, knowing his reference to that little embarrassment in the Kissing Wench would enrage the only scion of the noble house of Otharr.
Jansibal snarled and jerked his blade free-but Thelorn was past him with a mocking laugh, and hurrying down a broad flight of stairs toward the guard room below. A twisted, sneering smile slid onto Jansibal's face, and the perfumed dandy hurried after his rival. Accidents could happen, yes, especially from behind…
* * * * *
"What befalls?" Nanue Trumpettower set down her glass, real alarm in her eyes. Ah, thought Darrigo delightedly, the lass is such a delicate little flower… wasted on young Peeryst, come to think of it…
The old farmer stumped to his feet. "Well, now," he growled, "them's the alarm bells, calling out the guard. I'll just have a-"
"No, uncle," Peeryst interrupted grandly, drawing his blade with a flourish. "I've brought