Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [105]
From outside the great hall came the thunder of running, booted feet pounding on stone, followed by the sound of a young woman laughing, her voice high and gleeful. "For the dale!" she called. "For the High Dale, free again!" The door of the hall burst open, and a group of wild-eyed women burst in, blades flashing in their hands.
The councillors exchanged fearful glances. The castle was lost. They were doomed. The people would probably tear them apart bare-handed!
Elminster's unhurried walk took him to the woman in tattered leathers, still groaning on the floor. He took a ring from his finger-not the ring that had warded off the lightning, but one from his other hand-and slipped it onto her finger. Then he scuttled away from her, facing Stormcloak, a hand darting beneath his robes.
"Still so haughty, Zhentarim?" he asked, raising mocking eyebrows.
Angruin Stormcloak snarled at him and moved his hands angrily in the motions of a spell.
* * * * *
Irreph Mulmar tried not to gasp too loudly. Pain still throbbed deep inside with every move he made. He crawled slowly across the stone floor-one he'd strode across often enough in years before this one, covering the distance that now seemed so agonizingly long in a few swift strides. He watched the old wizard skillfully take the Zhent usurper's attention onto himself, and managed a smile. Gods, he hurt. He'd not worn that healing ring nearly long enough.
He crawled and crawled, the heavy layers of leather weighing on his shoulders. Elminster had found the hide in a room near the stables, and they'd wrapped his chains in it to silence them. The chains were heavier by far, now.
Trying to ignore their cold weight, he crawled past the still-writhing lady ranger. She wore the ring now, and needed it worse than he did by the look of her face. Gods, but she must have cut her way through most of the Wolves in the castle to get here! Irreph took a good look at her and managed a smile. The tearing agony of his movement turned it into a grimace as he went on. The high constable looked up at the table through a growing mist of red pain and wondered if he'd get there in time.
* * * * *
Stormcloak hurled lightning again. Councillors fled or cowered behind chairs all around the room as the white light flashed across to Elminster, was turned aside by his ring, and crackled back at the Zhentarim mage.
The shimmering globe around the mage absorbed the lightning. It was still sputtering and fading when the angry mage cast his next spell. Nothing happened.
* * * * *
Outside the castle walls, a tree tore up out of the earth with a noise like tearing canvas, shot up into the air past an astonished farmer, and headed west.
* * * * *
Stormcloak snarled his bafflement. His hands were already moving again. His only power lay in his magic, and nothing he'd seen yet could withstand it forever. This old man must fall.
Magic missiles streamed from Stormcloak's fingers in a glowing swarm that leapt and darted restlessly as they sped toward the Old Mage. Around and around him they swooped and ducked, only to turn back on Stormcloak and fade away as the ring on Elminster's hand glowed more brightly.
That glow was brighter and stronger than it had been. Stormcloak's eyes widened, then narrowed. Could the old fool be wearing a Myth Drannan ring?
Primitive things, made long ago, they had limits and could be overloaded by the sheer amount of Art hurled against them in a short time. Stormcloak grinned. Well, then…
Missiles streamed again from the Zhentarim's fingers, and the ring grew brighter as it hurled them back at him.
Angruin Myrvult Stormcloak laughed aloud. His hands moved again in the same smooth, rapid gestures as before.
The two Harpers hacked at those councillors who stood against them in the service of Zhentil Keep, or perhaps out of fear for the magic of the man who stood on the table behind them. The councillors knew how swiftly and harshly he would reward treachery,