Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [137]
"Show me Hesperdan!" she screamed, shaking.
Spellfire and silver fire snarled and clawed each other once more, but Alustriel nodded through their striving and with the barest trace of a smile replied,
"I can do that."
Silver fire swirled into a tunnel. Shandril looked down it and then flung herself at the distant figure she saw there, riding her flame a long, dark way.
Halfway to that distant robed man, he became aware of her. Glittering dark eyes widened, hands wove frantic spells, and the tunnel she raced down began to come apart.
"No!" Shandril screamed through fresh tears, hurling spellfire in frantic haste. "Mystra, let him not escape me! Lady of Magic, hear me!"
Her cry seemed to roll out across vast distances, echoing and booming, but the figure ahead was fading into darkness. As her spellfire leaped after it, she could not see where the flames went.
Everything was dissolving into darkness and tears, the stink of smoke and burned flesh growing stronger around her.
Flames burst forth out of empty air where no flame should have been able to kindle, and men drew back in murmured alarm to leave the gleaming black tiles before the high seat of Manshoon bare.
A line of black flames outlined by angry red fire descended to the floor – and vomited forth a blackened man in robes, his hair afire.
"Spellfire," Drauthtar gasped, shuddering in the aftermath of his desperate teleport, "destroys all!
Seek it not!"
Many priests and mages gaped at him as he staggered a few paces across the floor of the Zhentarim stronghold, leaving footprints of flame in his wake.
By the time he turned to face Dread Lord Manshoon – who'd risen hastily from his throne, rings winking into life – Drauthtar was little more than a husk filled with raging flame. As his face twisted into a smile and he opened his mouth to deliver a dying curse on the leader of the Zhentarim, he toppled forward.
His last magic unworked, Drauthtar Inskirl collapsed into swirling, spitting flames that scorched out to almost lick the boots of Lord Manshoon.
The leader of the Zhentarim stared down at the dying flames until they were gone into drifting smoke, and then turned without a word and walked away.
A young mageling named Imvoran shivered, then was violently ill all over the gleaming black tiles in front of him. He'd heard of spellfire and seen many a mage die by magic, too – but it was the first time in his dozen years of service to the Brotherhood that he'd ever seen fear on the face of Dread Lord Manshoon.
The old man ascended the lightless shaft like a racing wind, hurling aside shield-spells and helmed horrors alike, and sprang into the midst of the startled gargoyles before the mage with serpentfingers and floating eyeballs could do more than snatch up a long, dark-spired scepter with a heartfelt curse.
"Hesperdan, you – " the Maimed Wizard began, but whatever colorful description Eirhaun had intended to snarl was lost in the flash and roar of spellfire leaping up the shaft, tumbling helmed horrors into smoke and shards, and stabbing into the shadows.
A blue-white web of force suddenly glowed around Hesperdan, and the spellfire that clawed at it rebounded across the room at the wizard with the scepter.
His shielding was a thing of mingled crimson and emerald fire, and it wrestled desperately with the spellfire. The scepter smoked and burst apart, followed into oblivion by two rings that took Eirhaun's hissing snake-fingers with them. Spellfire scorched and sizzled about the walls, shattering pillars and gargoyles alike, then faded and fell back down the shaft.
The two wizards looked at each other – Hesperdan's cold and dark smile meeting the glare of the Maimed Wizard. The older wizard had deflected the spellfire that sought his life at Eirhaun Sooundaeril, who'd in turn thrust it aside into the walls of his stronghold.
That massive peak of stone was old and huge and girt with many spells, but there was no one and nothing it could deflect spellfire into.
Wherefore cracks had already appeared