Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [106]
Magic missiles swooped and swarmed around the battling swordsmen and streaked at the old man with the white beard again.
Elminster stood watching them come. His face did not change, but the ring on his finger was fast becoming too bright to look upon. Glowing missiles circled it like sparks flying about a smith's grinding wheel and swept away again.
The Zhentarim smiled like a cat playing with cornered prey, and his hands moved again. Sharantyr stared up at him from the floor, sudden tears blurring her sight. Blazing missiles burst forth from his fingers again and flew over her.
Throat suddenly dry, Sharantyr turned to look. There was a sudden flash and a roar, and a puff of smoke hid the Old Mage from her.
As she choked for breath, frantically trying to scream, Sharantyr heard the Lord of the High Dale's low, coldly satisfied laughter.
20
Feast, Fire, and Fury
Even though Elminster was braced, waiting for the magic to strike, his body still shook-and it still hurt. The ring of spell-turning, old when this Stormcloak's great-great-grandsire was a babe, shattered under the onslaught of Art.
As Elminster had known it would. He closed his eyes against the flash and spread his fingers wide to keep them from being torn apart.
The ring burst, its shards leaping from him, and much of his nearby flesh went with it.
The Old Mage clutched the wrist of his torn, smoking hand and roared in pain. Well, he thought with surprising calm, staring at what was left of that appendage, those who spend centuries hurling spells must bear their share of spells coming back at them. But holy Mystra, it hurt!
Belkram laid open a councillor's face and literally ran up the man as he fell, leaping for the table. Too late. Too cursed often, he thought grimly, Harper blades came too late!
Stormcloak's triumphant laughter broke off long enough for him to hiss a word, and he abruptly vanished from in front of the astonished Harper.
Belkram slashed empty air in case the wizard had merely cloaked himself with invisibility, then looked wildly around, sword held high.
Sharantyr's raw-throated scream warned him. The Zhentarim mage stood beside Elminster, wearing a sneering smile. His hand was coming up from his robes quite slowly, and a long dagger gleamed in it.
A dagger with a tapering, up-curving blade, a blade of black glass that winked and sparkled with many tiny, moving lights.
"A death dagger!" Itharr gasped, turning from the councillor he'd been about to kill. "He is a Zhentarim!"
Stormcloak gave him that cruel smile and waved a hand. Magic missiles burst from his fingers and streaked across the hall.
Itharr stiffened as they struck him, light flaring for an instant. Then he collapsed with a groan.
The Zhentarim laughed again in triumph and raised the dagger above his head. He met Sharantyr's horrified eyes, and she cried weakly, "No! No!" as she crawled toward him. A sudden spasm of agony made her clench her teeth, swallowing her cry. She shook her head, helpless in pain.
Angruin Myrvult Stormcloak looked down at Elminster, dagger winking in his hand as he slowly raised it, and savored the moment.
And then the forgotten Irreph Mulmar rose up behind the Zhent wizard like a vengeful ghost.
The rattle of chains warned the Zhentarim. Stormcloak spun around, hands rising to ward off a heavy length of chain that swept into him like the mighty slap of a breaking wave. The first blow shattered the dagger and the arm that held it, and left Angruin gasping in pain. Tiny lightnings fizzed and crackled to the floor as the death dagger's magic fled.
"It's too late for you to learn, wizard," Irreph rumbled, pain making his words sharp and hissing, "to beware toothless old men." His shoulders rolled like the aroused leap of an angry old lion, and the chain swung again.
The second terrible blow split Angruin's skull like the shattering of a hurled egg striking a stone wall, and nearly tore his jaw off. The corpse clawed at the air convulsively and vainly-and