Realms of the Underdark - J. Robert King [47]
"How now, old man?" one of the drow hissed. "Care to buy your life with a careful and verbose listing of all your wealth, where it can be found, and just how it's guarded?"
"No," Mirt growled, "I'm in a hurry. So stand aside, and I'll let all of ye live."
Cold, mocking laughter gave him reply, and one of the dark elves sneered, "Kind of you, indeed."
"Indeed, but I won't tarry," Mirt growled. "Stand aside, now!"
"Giving us orders, old man?" the drow who'd first spoken responded tartly. "For that, you'll taste a whip!" Slim gloved fingers went eagerly to a thigh sheath.
"Or three," another of the drow agreed, as other hands made the same movement, and slim black cords curled and cracked.
Mirt sighed, opened his cupped hand to reveal the thing he'd taken from his pouch in the House of the Long Slow Kiss, and murmured a word.
The battered metal chevron in his palm erupted in a ringing, leaping sparkle of steel-and the old moneylender stood, calmly watching, as the magic he'd unleashed became a hundred slashing, darting swords that flew about the alley in front of him in a deadly whirlwind. Drow leapt desperately for safety, anywhere it might lie… but died anyway, amid screams from open windows above. Someone paused on a catwalk to watch-and someone else smote that watcher from behind, contributing a helplessly plunging, senseless body to the flashing carnage below.
"Enough!" Mirt growled, as he watched the unfortunate falling man get cut to ribbons. The moneylender spat a second strange word, and the blades obediently melted away, leaving the alley empty of menacing forms in his path. He strode on.
His next few steps were in slippery black blood, but the motes were still twinkling in the gloom ahead, heading for a sudden, distant flash of spell light. In its flare, Mirt saw many folk gathered to watch something off to the left, crowded together to enjoy-a fight? a duel? Bets were being placed, and the more belligerent were jostling for a better view.
There was another flash-which resolved itself into the blue pinwheel that marked the appearance of someone using an old catch-teleport spell-and out of its heart stumbled Durnan, moving fast. Mirt's old friend was in some sort of ruin, caught in the midst of a spell duel between-gods blast all!-a beholder, and someone… a mage? Nay, mauve skin; that could only mean a mind flayer. Ye gods. Hasty business indeed!
"Idiot!" Mirt described Durnan fervently, and broke into a trot, feeling in his pouch for some handy small salvation or other.
"Hearken, all!" he panted, to the uneven stones ahead of him as his shaggy bulk gathered speed, "and take note: 'tis the Wheezing Warrior to the rescue- again!"
Something cold struck the back of his neck, and clung. Durnan snarled and chopped at it, even as a pair of black tentacles twined about his blade and pulled, trying to drag it down.
Durnan slashed out with the dagger in his other hand, seeking to free his sword. The chill at the back of his neck was spreading, cold caressing fingers spreading along his shoulders. "What, by the bones of the cursed-?" he snarled.
The beholder smiled down at him. "Your memories will be mine first… before I take the tiny candle that you call a mind-and blow it out!"
Durnan rolled his eyes. "You sound like a bad actor trying to impress gawping nobles in North Ward!" And then the point of his dagger found the pommel of his sword. He pressed down firmly, and hissed a certain word.
The gem in the pommel burst with a tiny blaze of its own-and slowly, in impressive silence, all of the black tentacles faded away. "So much for your spell," the tavernmaster grunted, throwing the dagger hard into the beholder's large, staring central eye.
The world erupted in a roar of pain and fury. The eye tyrant bucked in midair like a wild stallion trying to shake off ropes, shuddered, and then