The City of Splendors_ A Waterdeep Novel - Ed Greenwood [191]
His lumbering run brought him into the forehall in time to see Taeros Hawkwinter smash aside a lion-headed man's sword with his own, snarling as fiercely as if he himself had lion-fangs, and sink his dagger hilt-deep in a leonine throat.
"Blood and valor! Taeros!" Eremoes cried in pleased wonder. He pointed at his son with his sword and roared in a voice that echoed around the shattered hall, "Rally to Hawkwinter, men!"
* * * * *
"I hate this," Piergeiron raged. "To stand here doing naught, while brave folk of Waterdeep fight and die before my eyes! Friends, this is killing me!"
"Nay," Mirt growled, "any attempt on an over-foolish paladin's part to get out there will result in me killing ye. Take your brains out o' your sword-scabbard for once and sit tight. Your staying inside the shielding here is all that stops whoever's behind all these man-beasts from burying us all! If they can make the Statues Walk, they need no blasting-spells to bring the Silks down on our heads! Only knowing this magic is protecting your head stops them, as 'tis your head they want!"
"Mirt's right," Madeiron Sunderstone said quickly, seeing the lack of logic in the moneylender's words but praying the First Lord would not. Stones had bounced from the golden shield-hardly the actions of a foe who wished to take Piergeiron alive! "So sit down again and belt up. For once."
The wizard Tarthus was doing more than sitting down: he was lying down, face pale and sweat streaming from it. Holding up the shielding under a succession of swift, hard probing spells was exhausting. It was flickering on the verge of collapse. "We're… we're going to have to risk it," Tarthus gasped.
"Right," Mirt growled, lurching as far away from the others as he could get. Drawing a little carved gem from its own inner belt-pouch, he set it on the floor, joined it with a good deal of huffing and puffing, and touched it with his outstretched arm, muttering, "Fancylass, I need ye."
There was a flash, the shielding pulsed with a throbbing groan that made them all wince-and there was suddenly a fifth person standing under the golden dome.
She was female, of mature years, and wore a revealing ruffled nightgown and a startled, less-than-pleased expression.
Most mages of the Watchful Order were frankly scared of "Mother" Amaundra Lorgra. There was something forbidding about a woman who refused all rank but gave no polite word to anyone and whose glares and simple utterances could cow noble lords and senior Guard officers alike. Her bare feet were covered with corns, her thin legs a-crawl with blue veins, and her eyes were already beginning to flash in exasperation.
"Mirt, what by all the lusts of Sune have you and these idiot lads gotten themselves into this time? Can't a woman get some sleep in Waterdeep these nights? Must you little boys always be waving swords and shouting around the place?"
"Fancylass," Mirt growled back, not a whit abashed, "I'd not have disturbed ye had the present threat not been too great to deal with by lesser means. Consider yourself our sharpest blade, if ye will."
"How so?"
"Ye have the strength and the skill to join with Tarthus, here, and keep the shielding up. They've made the Statues walk and are trying to bring this festhall down on all our heads."
Amaundra shook her head, went to the floor with the fading remains of graceful agility, and clasped hands with Tarthus. "You can tell me who 'they' are later-and why young Piergeiron here can't just send the Statues back to their places. Right now, let me dispute something more immediate with you. Are 'they' sane? That is, do they intend to still have a city left to rule, once they've prevailed?"
Mirt shrugged. "I presume so. Why do it, else?"
"Well, then, if our foes are sane and have enough wits to know anything about magic-and they must do, to move the Statues- they won't want to bring this place down."
"Oh?"
"Don't act the wide-eyed innocent with me, Mirt-you do it poorly indeed. You are a Lord of Waterdeep, no matter