Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [133]
A bolt of lightning snatched it away from him.
"Oh, no, you don't, 'Old Mage.' I watched you earlier. Think yourself clever, don't you, with your rings and your spheres and your little pipe? Stumbling along from droll little joke to impressive little phrase, hiding your lost Art behind cryptic words and wands that are almost drained now, aren't they? What a feeble fool you've become! Scarce worth my taking on the spells to defeat you." As the great voice rolled across the room, the faint cries in the flames died away. Manshoon's cruel magic had drained the last life energy from certain unwitting Zhentarim mages-those he deemed his most powerful rivals -all over Faerun. Their energies had brought him here to triumph. The flames drifted nearer and grew brighter. "You can't trick me, Elminster. And you can't hope to stand against my magic. This is the end of you, finally. The defeat and utter destruction of the much-vaunted Elminster at the hands of the Zhentarim he hates so much. At the hands of Manshoon."
There followed much laughter. Sharantyr, lying in darkness with the healing ring Elminster had put there earlier glinting on her finger and the stench of her burned hair heavy in her nostrils, heard it faintly as she struggled back to consciousness.
"You won't trick me as you did Bellwind. I'll take your power and your knowledge both, through the worm, and not link our minds. You cannot escape, Elminster. You are doomed."
"Oh, no," came a soft reply. "Doom will come here, indeed, but I believe you have mistaken the being who will fall."
Not far from the shaken, smoldering Old Mage stood the archlich, tall and erect, a silvery glow around her wasted, bony form. She stood proud and fearless, and from her outstretched hands streams of silver radiance erupted, arcing toward the pillar of flame.
"That is not your only mistake, Manshoon," the soft voice continued. "Your first was coming uninvited into my home. Here, my power is supreme."
The silvery radiance was expanding into a gigantic shield of light, englobing the flames. Bolts of lightning and great blades of shimmering white force sprang out of the fiery pillar, but the silver glow absorbed them, growing ever larger and stronger. The very air crackled with power.
"Your second and greatest mistake, Manshoon," Saharel continued calmly, "was in daring to attack my beloved, a man who is also my guest and thus under my protection. And your third, if you must speak of fools at Art, was to so dismiss his magic-and mine."
Silver radiance shrouded the flames now and hid them from view. The light grew and grew until it seemed like the moon itself shone in the chamber. Saharel stood like a small, silvery flame, flickering at the base of it all. Her voice wavered with her light and came more faintly.
"It is given to every archlich to choose his or her passing, and to spend all the force of life and love and Art in a task. Mine is thy death, Manshoon."
The silvery shroud grew suddenly blinding in its brightness. On the floor, Belkram cried out and covered his eyes.
"Remember me, El! Remember me!" came the archlich's wavering voice.
"Aye," Elminster said, through sudden tears. "I shall never forget thee, Saharel.
There was a sudden sigh, perhaps of satisfaction, and the light winked out.
Somewhere across the room, amid faint, fading silvery motes, the bare bones of Manshoon fell to the floor with a clatter.
Elminster watched them shatter and crumble, and stared at the last silvery motes until darkness came again.
Then he said roughly, "I can never forget thee, Saharel. So I will remember thee… with honor."
His voice caught, and when it returned, it was bleak. "Along with the others. All the others."
He stood in lonely silence among his fallen companions for a long time.
Of Saharel of Spellgard, no trace was left. Sharantyr could see clearly again long before she was able to move, and she saw the glistening spot on the stones in front of the Old Mage, the spot that grew and grew with each tear that fell.