Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [126]
"Shar! Shar, do ye live?" Elminster called, his voice trembling.
The lady ranger lay still in the dust, but the Zhentarim she'd not managed to reach snarled a word and pointed an angry hand at Elminster.
Magic missiles flashed through the air. The Old Mage sighed, cursed, and sat down on the balcony floor to await them. Their strike shook his body, and he grunted in pain.
Zalarth Bloodbrow smiled savagely and cast a fireball, grandly but carefully, onto that balcony.
Its flash and roar shook the hall, and Zalarth reached for the teleport ring he wore. The she-lich could hardly fail to hear that. He had to snatch some proof of Elminster's demise-whatever was left, he supposed-and hie himself back to Manshoon before she came.
Under his boots, the stones were still hot. Roiling dust and smoke curled in the air. Zalarth searched all about, coughing and waving smoke away, but look as he might, he could find no sign of Elminster.
He heard a thud below and struggled to the rail to see Elminster standing over the fallen Avaerl, pipe in one hand and a bloodied chunk of stone in the other. "That's for what ye did to the lass," the old man told the slumped mageling severely before he scurried to the fallen ranger, did something, and was gone again.
Zalarth frowned and reached for his own ring. Two could play this game.
He chose another balcony, stared at it until he'd seen it clearly, and turned the ring on his finger.
From this height, the broken body of the councillor looked like a sprawled toy. Zalarth looked around hastily. Except for some mushrooms, he was alone. Behind him, dark archways led off to unknown chambers. The wizard crouched, drawing a wand from its sheath on his thigh, and peered over the balcony rail.
There! On another balcony, below and across the hall, stood Elminster. The Old Mage of Shadowdale was puffing his pipe into life and looking down into the hall.
He'd manage no last-breath escape this time. Zalarth held the wand up and ready as he turned the ring again.
Abruptly his view of the hall changed to include Elminster, two steps away, raising sardonic eyebrows above his pipe. An instant later, the old man was gone, and Zalarth's wand spat death at empty air.
Zalarth choked off his snarl of anger as he saw the she-lich through an archway, striding up a broad stair toward him. His wand spoke again, but she only smiled and shook her head as the wand's magic was turned away by an unseen shield in front of her. She raised a clawlike hand, and Zalarth desperately twisted his ring as he looked over the balcony rail.
The ring took him there, to the floor of the hall, in the shifting rubble. In a breath or two she'd be hurling spells down at him, to say nothing of what Elminster might do. He had only an instant to choose a new destination.
Unfortunately, the mageling was rising up in front of him like an awakened zombie, face streaming blood. Wild eyes met Zalarth's, and bloody lips parted in surprise.
"Master Zalarth! How come you h-?"
Zalarth snarled in frustration. The wand crackled, and Avaerl of Sembresh stiffened, sobbed, and buckled at the knees.
"Gulkuth," he whispered hoarsely, with his last breath, raising a faltering hand. "Gulkuth!" And then he crashed on his face and lay still. Dust curled up around him.
Zalarth shrugged. Gulkuth? A spell? He looked through the nearest archway, reaching for his ring. At any moment rending magic could rain down on him from above.
Something stirred under his feet, and the Zhentarim staggered and almost fell. He looked back.
Sharantyr was struggling to her knees, feeling for her sword. Dust caked her wild-tangled hair and the side of her face, and her eyes were bright with pain-but a ring gleamed brightly on her finger, and she was rising, steel in hand.
She meant his death. Zalarth's wand came up and he said coldly, "It is always a pleasure