Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [62]
"Shut your yapping maw, Good Torm Greedyfingers," Merith said from behind him. "Or else some good dale farmer will mistake thee for a nimble shrew and marry you."
"Some nimble dale shrew did marry you," Torm told him in return, "and look whaaa-!" His words ended in the roar of a crock full of gold coins being dumped over his head.
Narm watched in amazement as the air suddenly filled with small pieces of treasure, as it was pitched about from knight to knight with enthusiasm.
"They're like children!" he exclaimed at last in astonishment.
"Sir Evoker," Jhessail said to him with a gentle smile, "they are children."
"But they are the famous Knights of Myth Drannor!" Narm protested mildly, matching her smile.
"We are all in the hands of children," she answered.
"Who else would ride into danger with enthusiasm and swing swords against fearsome enemies far from home and saner pursuits?"
"And yet you are a knight," Narm pointed out. The lady mage spread empty hands.
"Did I say I was not a child?" she answered mildly.
"Dear me." She rose in a shifting of skirts and threw a set of knuckle-claws of wrought brass set with small carbuncles hard and accurately at Term's back.
She favored Narm with an impish grin as she sat down demurely and turned to check Shandril.
Behind them both, Elminster chuckled, as Torm let out a roar of pain and spun about, seeking his foe.
Amid the tumult, Narm’s lady lay motionless, eyes still closed, breathing shallowly. She looked peaceful and young and very beautiful, and Narm’s heart ached anew. "Will she-?" he asked helplessly.
Jhessail patted his arm.
"It's in the hands of the gods," she said simply. "We will do all we can." Elminster nodded and took the pipe out of his mouth. Coils of greenish smoke and small sparks continued to drift from its bowl.
"She held and handled more power than I have ever seen come out of a balhiir," the old sage said. "More, I think, than this creature had in it." Jhessail and Narm both turned to stare at him in surprise.
"What, then?" Jhessail asked, but Elminster shook her question aside with his head.
"Too soon," he told them both. "Too soon for aught but idle chatter… and idle chatter will help no one and could well upset our young friend."
Narm fixed eyes upon him and said, "With all respect, Lord Elminster, I am upset already. What do you fear?"
But Elminster was lost in chuckles. "I fear most, boy, being called 'Lord Elminster' Now grip thy temper and thy grief and master them. There are good reasons not to talk on this now. If it makes ye feel better, I am amazed and awed at what thy Shandril has done."
"Oh?" Narm urged him on, trying to speak calmly.
"Aye. The most common way to destroy a balhiir requires at least three mages, and at best, live or more.
They must hold the balhiir between them by force of art, opposing their telekinesis to offset its wild movements and struggles. They then tear it apart, each absorbing what he or she can of it. It is a spectacular process to watch-and," he added dryly,
"it kills a lot of mages."
"Yet you sent Shandril alone up against the thing?"
Narm protested, his frustration changing suddenly to rage. Elminster's gently sad gaze stilled his tongue against further, more bitter comments.
"I had not live mages," the sage said simply. "We still faced a dracolich and could not turn away from that even if we wanted, lest we and all our friends perish. If ye had tried to stand as one of those mages, Narm, ye would be dead now. Hold thy peace, I bid thee, for thy lady's sake. High words will not help her now."
"Are you always right?" Narm asked, but his tone was weary, not angry. "Is the good and true way always so clear before you?"
Jhessail shook her head warningly, but Elminster was chuckling again.
"Ah, slay me, but thy tongue is as sharp and as busy as Torm's!" The mage sucked upon his pipe once and turned within the smoky haze it produced to regard Narm gravely. "In tavern-tales the hero is always high and shining and his foes dark and dastardly,"