Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [21]
Sharantyr waited calmly for the other man to reach her. Her eyes flicked only briefly to the mage beyond, for she knew why Elminster had waited. His bolt had traveled on from the guard with the crossbow to crackle its deadly way around both the third guard and the bearded man in purple. No one was standing by the flickering gate now. Black armor twitched feebly on the ground.
Elminster walked toward the gate, ignoring the last guard. That man had stopped, looking all around. His gaze swung back to Sharantyr. She was moving steadily forward now, a faint smile on her lips, all trace of nervousness gone. His comrades lay fallen where they had stood. The old man was strolling past as though nothing had occurred, too close to avoid his blade.
The guard cast a last look at Sharantyr, judged he could slay the old man and have time to turn back and meet the wildest charge she might make. He spun about, and in two swift strides his blade was reaching for the old man.
The wand, firing crosswise under Elminster's arm, spoke again. Lightning struck the Zhentilar full in the chest, plucking him from his feet and hurling him backward. He fell heavily, arms and legs flopping. Smoke rose from where he lay.
Sharantyr shook her head. "There's nothing like giving the wolves a cooked feast," she observed.
Elminster turned his head. "Both of these two yet live. Slay the mage, lest he work the same tricks I did, and we'll discourse pleasantly together with the last one awhile."
Sharantyr did as she was bid. Her eyes were hard but her voice trembled a little as she said, "Well, that was easy work. Too easy, perhaps. Should we not move a pace or two away from this magic?"
Elminster shrugged. "Move around behind it, perhaps. After we've disarmed and trammeled this one a bit to stop him moving, and taken what we can from the others."
"Yes," Sharantyr said. "Of course." Her voice was grim. Elminster reached out a long arm to touch her shoulder.
"Is killing hard for ye?" he asked quietly.
"No," Sharantyr replied as softly, her eyes meeting his. "Not anymore. That bothers me, sometimes."
Elminster nodded. "So long as it bothers ye, 'tis well. When it does not, the problems begin. I'll draw the fangs of the living one, if ye'll rob the dead ones. Age hath its privileges, and choosing the nobler task is one."
She raised a dark eyebrow. "What? Elminster of Shadowdale choosing the nobler task? Are my ears ensorcelled?"
Elminster sighed. "Mockery," he observed heavily, "seems the paramount privilege of youth."
"Youth?" Sharantyr dimpled, and raised a hand to her hair coquettishly. "Why, thank you."
Elminster snorted. "Get on with it, lass. I'd like to speak to this one while he yet lives. I think the mage recognized me before he died."
"Which means?"
"Old foes. The Zhentarim, almost certainly." The Old Mage heard his battle companion hiss, raised his eyebrows, and continued. "Others, too, perhaps. And with me not at my best."
Sharantyr laid a hand on his arm. "We make a good team, Old Mage. Worry not."
Elminster rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to reply. Then he stiffened and his face changed.
Sharantyr's blade rose. "Elminster? Wha-magic? Attacking you?"
The Old Mage waved his hands in a weak negative. His face was paler than it had been, and he sighed heavily.
"Glad I am, lass, that we were through with that"-he pointed at the bodies around-"ere this befell."
"What is it? Are you well?"
Elminster nodded a little wearily. Sharantyr saw that his forehead was wet with sweat.
"Some power has left me. Azuth or Mystra or her successor… calling on it. Not a hostile thing, but disconcerting all the same." He looked up. "Well? Have ye turned out the boots and purses of the departed yet?"
Sharantyr grimaced. "Old Mage," she added very quietly, "there are things I must know first."
Elminster