Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [163]
Stones were cascading down the walls of the riven tower when the courtyard itself rocked and shuddered. Gratings, paving stones, and dust leapt aloft, borne on sudden geysers of magical radiance, as something exploded in the unseen dungeon depths of the castle.
The shattered stump of Ithboltar's tower swayed, sagged sideways, and crashed into utter ruin. Flames leapt up here and there about the courtyard, amid the frantically running arms-men. The soldiers of Athalantar stumbled on through smoke and dust vainly waving their halberds about as if cleaving the air would fell some invisible foe and set all to rights again. Somewhere a raw screaming arose and went on and on, amid fresh rumblings.
"Come," Myrjala said, taking Elminster's hand and slipping up to the balcony rail. Elminster followed, and she stepped calmly off it into the air. Hands clasped, they drifted slowly down through the tumult. Athalgard was erupting with running, shouting soldiers. The two mages were still a few feet above the paving-stones when a band of armsmen sprinted around a nearby corner and swept down on them.
The guardcaptain saw wizards in his path and slowed, throwing his arms out to signal his men. "What befell?" he bellowed.
Elminster shrugged. "Ithboltar got a word or two of a spell wrong, methinks."
The officer stared at them, and then at the fallen tower, and his eyes narrowed. "I don't know you!" he said sharply. "Who are you?"
Elminster smiled. "I am Elminster Aumar, Prince of Athalantar, son of Elthryn."
The guardcaptain gaped at him. Then with a visible effort, he swallowed and asked, "Did you-cause this?"
Elminster gave the wreckage around a pleasant smile, then shifted his gaze to the halberds blocking his way and said, "And if I did?"
He raised his hand. Beside him, Myrjala had already raised her own. Small lights spun and twinkled above her cupped palm.
The armsmen cried out together in fear… and an instant later were in full flight, flinging down their halberds and slipping and sliding on the stones underfoot in their headlong haste to get back around the corner.
"You may go," Myrjala grandly told the empty courtyard where they'd stood. Then she chuckled. After a moment, Elminster joined in.
*****
"We can't hold on much longer!" Blood from a gash left by the axe-stroke that had split his helm was dripping into Anauviir's eyes as he shouted desperately at Helm.
The old knight roared back, "Tell me something I don't know!"
Beside him, a red-faced Darrigo Trumpettower was panting as he swung a heavy blade he'd snatched from a dead hand. The old farmer was protecting Helm Stoneblade with his faltering right arm and his life. That was a price, it seemed, soon to be paid.
The surviving knights stood together on the slippery, blood-smeared cobbles of Athalgard's outer courtyard. Armsmen were charging in at them from all sides now, streaming in the gates from barracks and watchtowers. A few old men in motley armor couldn't stand against such numbers for long.
"We can't hold!" one knight cried despairingly, hurling an armsman to the ground and wearily stabbing the man in the face.
"Stand and fight!" Helm roared out, his raw voice rising above them all. "Even if we fall, every armsman we take with us is one less to lord it over the realm! Fight and die well for Athalantar!"
A First Sword got through Darrigo's guard, laying the old man's cheek open with the point of his blade. Helm lunged forward and ran the man through, his sword buckling against the man's spine and the armor plate behind it. He let go of his weapon and tore the man's own blade out of failing hands to fight on. "Where are you, Prince?" he muttered as he slew another armsman. Aye, the knights