Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [158]
The eye tyrant was not Manxam. Sememmon cursed inwardly even as he strode forward, his cloak about him concealing nervous fingers that had gone straight to the hilt of a useless dagger.
The floor of the chamber was of highly polished marble. In the center of that vast, cold expanse rose a black throne- a throne that the High Imperceptor had not sat at the foot of for many a long year. It was gigantic, a seat for a giant, the seat of a god. It was occupied.
Red silk stood out against the black stone. Fzoul Chembryl lay asleep upon a bed across the seat of the god's throne, recovering after the frantic healing efforts of the priests who served Bane under him.
Sememmon gazed at him as he approached, uncomfortably aware without daring to look up that the beholder was moving with him, floating directly overhead with its great unblinking eye staring down.
The mage was no more than a dozen steps from the base of the throne, able to see clearly the rope ladder the priests were wont to ascend by, when a deep, rumbling voice from overhead said, "You have come to find death, Sememmon the Proud, but you have found not Fzoul's death, but your own." As Sememmon looked up and broke into a run, he saw the dark body of the beholder sinking lower and lower. The beholders were making their own bid for leadership of the Zhentarim.
Within a breath the beholder would be close enough to use the eye that dealt death or that turned one to stone. Or it might simply charm him into obedience or pursue him about the chamber like a trapped rat and wound him from afar. In the end, he knew, it would use the eye that destroyed one utterly, and there would not even be dust left of Sememmon.
So Sememmon ran as he had never run before, diving frantically around the edge of the throne where the vast central eye, the one that foiled all magic, could not see. He hastily began the casting of an incendiary cloud. He did not have the right spells for a fight this grave… Buy time and cover, then use a dimension door to teleport directly above the beholder, he told himself. Use paralyzation-or, no, use magic missiles now! Or… ah, gods spit upon it all! Raging, Sememmon applied himself to spellcasting.
He finished, and sprinted along the back of the throne, nearly tripping over a ringbolt on the floor that obviously was a trap-door-if one were very strong or had four or live acolytes to lift it.
Sememmon reached the corner, gasping for breath, and steadied himself. To cast a magic missile spell, he must see the target-and if he could see the beholder, its eyes would also be able to see him. He tensed himself to take a rapid peek, and- There was a flash and a roar, and the very floor heaved up, knocking Sememmon to his knees. Up, get up, he urged himself frantically. But there was a reddish haze of dancing spots before his eyes. He could not seem to grasp which way 'up' was.
"Well met, Sememmon," said a dry, coldly familiar voice. Sememmon looked up into the calm gazes of Sarhthor and Manshoon. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep was robed in his usual black and dark blue, and he looked amused. "You can get up now," he added.
"It's gone." He flexed his open hand.
Sememmon found his voice. "You’ve returned!
Lord, we have missed you, indeed-"
"Aye. No doubt. I've watched you and seen the, ah, troubles with Fzoul. Come, now, and slay him not.
He is needed." They hurried across the marble floor toward the door Sememmon had come in by. It was blasted and twisted into shards of metal beneath their feet. "Sarhthor," Manshoon explained briefly.
The three mages went out through strangely deserted halls and sought the starlit night outside.
Wordlessly they walked out of The Black Altar, past dim piles that had already begun to stink; the bodies of those who had fallen in the battle between Fzoul's forces and those of The High Imperceptor. They walked straight to Sememmon's