Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [114]
"Is that an invitation?" Belkram asked eagerly, leaning even farther across the table. Shar rolled her eyes and decided she needed a refill of her own.
"I don't think so," she said firmly, only to start back as Itharr leaned across the table just as aggressively and asked, "So how does a beautiful lady come to swing such a deadly blade, and join the Knights of Myth Drannor, hey?"
"Ahhh," Shar began, taken aback.
Belkram grinned at her. "Aye, it's our turn," he told her happily, steering a goblet she'd never seen before into her hands. It was as large as a man's head, and it was brim full. Belkram winked at her over its lip.
After the moment it took her to sigh, she winked back,
* * * * *
The feast was long and loud, and went on through the night. Folk roared and cheered and sang old songs, and Sharantyr moved-accompanied by the two Harpers-to sit with Elminster. She was soon amazed by the rapidity with which his glass became empty, was refilled, and seemed to leak its contents yet again.
Sharantyr made the huge goblet Belkram had given her last the rest of the evening, and kept eyeing the merriment around her watchfully. If someone yet lived, particularly an archer or a wizard, who wanted the Old Mage dead, this joyful chaos would allow a very good chance to kill him
About the time she loosened her blade in its sheath and pulled away from where she was pressed against Elminster to get steel out should she need it, she felt the pressing regard of a hostile gaze.
Looking up quickly, she saw the burning eyes of a councillor across the table dropping swiftly away from her. Hawklike, Sharantyr watched him, her blade a finger out of its sheath.
A long time later, amid the laughter and song and weary dancing, the man's eyes flicked up again, almost involuntarily. Xanther. Aye, that was his name. One of those who'd been spared, thus far. His eyes flicked away again to stare at something, roved about the table, and returned to stare at the same something again.
She followed his hungry gaze as he leaned just a finger or so forward to better study whatever it was he was so intent on.
He was eyeing the wand lying on the table by Elminster's hand.
Another wizard? Sharantyr drew a deep breath and pondered what best to do.
Feeling the sudden weight of the lady ranger's gaze upon him, Xanther carefully didn't look up.
He could not fail to notice, however, the sudden gleam of naked steel as the lady ranger drew her long sword and meaningfully laid it ready on the table, its shining tip resting over the wand.
21
Death Waits Past the Lich-Gate
Black flames leapt up, casting angry red and amber shadows on the wall behind, but the man in black paid them no heed.
He'd seen them time upon time before, and had in fact chosen this spot for maximum effect. Blood-red dancing shadows outlined him as a tall and sinister figure of darkness-mighty, awesome, and dark. It pleased him to think of himself thus.
What use, after all, is great power if one cannot use it to indulge one's smallest conceits?
Wherefore Manshoon-Lord of the Zhentarim, Over-mage of the Dark Ring, The Hand of Darkness, and the holder of many other titles he was pleased to give himself from time to time-stood tall in his high-horned cloak, thigh-high boots, and silken tunic and breeches. He looked down on a keen-eyed mageling of the Brotherhood, a young, hawk-eyed youth whose eager ambition burned so hot that one could almost smell it, and smiled.
"Avaerl of Sembresh," he asked softly and formally, "would you serve the Brotherhood in ways greater than you have so far?"
"Yes, Lord Most High," the wizard said quickly and proudly.
"Be not so swift to promise," Manshoon almost purred. "Others have tried and failed at the task I would set for you."
"I shall not fail," Avaerl said boldly.
Manshoon inclined his head and smiled. "Good," he said. "Go then, and bring me the head of Elminster of Shadowdale."
Avaerl's eager grin slipped, just for an instant, hung lopsided