Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [41]
Sharantyr looked at him. "You're sure?"
Elminster affected to take mighty offense, blinking and clucking, drawing his nose high into the air, rolling his eyes fiercely, and saving, "Well!"
Sharantyr giggled.
"Come, lass," Elminster said with injured dignity, rising out of the bushes like a Calishite vizier making a stately palace entrance on a platform rising out of an underground room. "I want my breakfast."
Without pause or any attempt at concealment, he strode through the long grass, still wet with dew, toward the guards on the road.
Rolling her eyes, Sharantyr wondered again how she'd gotten herself into all this. It's what comes of feeling sorry for mages, she concluded. Lunacy if ever there were crazed thoughts. She drew her blade, held it low behind her to keep it hidden as much as possible, and followed.
8
Mysterious Attacks and Lawless Outrages
Death calls, it's said, on everyone. Some early, some later. Most find themselves not ready when the ghostly horn sounds-with much left to do and much more regretted. A lucky few die content, or unawares. A haunted handful of beings find death only long after they've desired its arrival. This includes most so-called "immortals." The bony arms of doom also enfold those who seek to cheat death by magical means, or have undeath or an undying curse thrust upon them.
The arms of death also extend to claim those who bear Mystra's burden. Of these Chosen Ones, some welcome death sooner than others. All render to the living attentive service, examples of life at its most splendid and active, and a certain silence, keeping secret the despair and weariness that long life brings.
And so it was that the late morning sun found Elminster, the archmage without any spells, eagerly eyeing the guards he'd been watching all morn. He'd made four long strides toward them, the unconcerned beginning of a direct attack, when the lady ranger who had come to keep him from harm caught up to him and put a firm hand on his shoulder.
He stopped and looked around questioningly. Sharantyr looked back at him-at his white hair, thin limbs, and alert, intent face-and shook her head. "Elminster," she asked quietly, "when you do foolish, reckless things-like attacking yon sentinels, with a fortress at their backs and at least four things of magic we've seen them seize with our own eyes-aren't you ever afraid of death?"
Elminster looked at her for a long moment and said dryly, "Death has often come calling on me, but so far I've always been out, ye see."
And with those impish words he slipped from her grip and marched straight out of the trees toward the waiting Wolves. Sun glinted on black helms as they turned his way.
With a sinking heart, Sharantyr sighed, slowly raised her sword, and followed.
* * * * *
"Hold, old man!" The Oversword of the guard spoke impatiently, scarcely looking at the old man in robes. His attention was bent on a fat Sembian merchant who was sweating with fear. The many rings gleaming on his pudgy white fingers ran through the air like a starving fisherman combs the depths of an empty net. The merchant was almost gabbling as he assured the nine stone-faced guards that his wines were the best, oh, yes, only the best, why everyone said so, just ask at the Black Stag in Selg-or, well, perhaps not-nay, speak to the merchant Lissel, of nearby Daerlun, and he'd vouch for…
At about that time, the Oversword realized the gaunt old man with the overlong white beard had not halted and was proceeding with confident, unhurried steps toward the guard hut. He spun around, reaching for his sword.
"Old man," he barked, "hold!"
The gaunt figure in tattered robes continued on its way, beard flapping.
The Oversword caught up in three quick strides, ignoring grins that had begun to appear on the faces of his men, and jerked the old man roughly around.
Cool