The City of Splendors_ A Waterdeep Novel - Ed Greenwood [169]
That tentacle darted menacingly at Beldar. He sprang aside, hefting his sword, but it swooped aside to dash the bowl off the tripod.
Dark fluid splashed in all directions, and the smoky tentacles thinned to the girth of ropes. Beldar hacked at one, but it curled away from him as the other tentacle hauled at the Dathran, hard. Snatched off her feet, the feebly struggling witch was jerked forward.
Her body struck the three iron spikes with a thick, wet rending thud, and rode them downward.
The tentacles collapsed into smoke. Wisps curled almost tauntingly around the twitching woman… and were gone.
It had all happened so fast. Beldar stared at down at what was left of the Dathran. Blood drenched the floor below the tripod, and the witch's flesh seemed to be melting away from the barbed spikes thrusting wetly up through her body.
A delighted cackle arose from the imp. It flapped unsteadily up from the floor to hover in front of Beldar.
"You've freed me from her service, so I don't suppose we'll meet again," it hissed. Then it leered, pointed at its right eye, and added, "And then again, we just might!"
It disappeared in a puff of stinking smoke, departing much faster than its parting chuckle.
Retrieving his dagger, Beldar clambered hastily through the skull, half-fearing it might start to close, and staggered away. Waterdeep held men who might help him without magic. Everyone knew of the barbers who sewed and slashed flesh in dark Dock Ward rooms, aiding-if that was the right word-those who spurned priestly prayers and couldn't afford potions. Surely one of them would be willing to free him from this abomination in his head!
If he died, what of it? It was becoming increasingly clear to Beldar Roaringhorn that his life was no longer his own.
* * * * *
The second bell past dawn was striking as Elaith Craulnober strode through the smoking ruins of what had been a barber's hovel and kicked aside the blasted, twisted thing that had been its owner.
The dead man's patient looked little better. A magical backlash had thrown him across the room before the Watchful Order's firequench spell had taken effect, and greasy soot from the barber's badly burned corpse had settled thickly over him. His eyes-the right one markedly larger than the left-were closed, but his chest was rising and falling shallowly. He was larger and heavier than the elf, but Elaith lifted him onto one shoulder with seeming effortlessness and carried him out onto the street.
A few curious onlookers saw the grim face of The Serpent and scattered like a flock of startled birds.
Elaith tossed a small glass vial to the cobbles. From its bursting spilled a glimmering liquid that promptly spread into a perfectly round puddle, which in turn birthed a rising cylinder of glittering motes. The elf stepped into it with his head-lolling burden and promptly vanished, taking all traces of his portal magic with him.
Handy things, jumpgates. Elaith's boot came down on the fore-hall tiles of one of his quieter Waterdeep houses.
An elf matron stared at her master and his burden and promptly hurried to a sweeping sculpture on a plinth. As Elaith dropped the scorched noble to the floor, she did something to its rainbow teardrops that made it chime and shift its outlines, offering her seven vials. Snatching several, she hastened to Elaith's side.
The Serpent had already gone to one knee and started to pry open Beldar Roaringhorn's jaws.
"Stupid, stubborn human," he murmured, as his housekeeper carefully emptied a vial into the opening he'd forced.
She studied the result calmly, poured two more potions after the first, and announced, "He's not swallowing."
Elaith promptly punched the handy Roaringhorn gut. Air wheezed out of the noble, potion dribbling from the sides of his mouth, but there came a rattling intake of air, and Beldar sat up, coughing and sputtering.
"He's supposed to swallow them, not breathe them in," the housekeeper pointed out.
Her master shrugged, rising from his heels