The Dragon's Doom - Ed Greenwood [152]
He stepped back and cried, "Oh, gods, Ambelter, they're here\ The King and all the Overdukes, come to slay us with Dwaerindim!"
His shout echoed around the cavern, but the fat, ragged woman the baron knew to be Ingryl Ambelter did not move. The snores became, if anything, a trifle louder.
Well, the wizard had certainly seemed exhausted by his spellweavings. That last spell he'd raised looked somewhat like the shieldings he customarily cast around himself when he wanted to sleep-though he'd never used a shielding that made him look like anyone else before.
Still, 'twas wise: someone spell-spying from afar would see some old woman, not the much-hated Spellmaster of Aglirta. Those flames would dissuade hungry beasts or lurking brigands-and no doubt the shielding would rouse Ingryl to full wakefulness if treacherous barons or anyone else hurled weapons at the slumbrous wizard, or spells, or tried to blast Ambelter with a Dwaer-Stone.
Phelinndar walked as far away from the sleeping mage as he could, the Dwaer cradled comfortably in his hand. Of course the Spellmaster dare not link his shieldings to this Stone; that would leave him defenseless against anyone using a Dwaer, such as-again-treacherous barons named Orlin Andamus Phelinndar.
Which in turn left Phelinndar free to use this Stone in his hand just as he liked. In truth, 'twas no wonder the Spellmaster was finally snoring in the hands of the gods. Most men would have fallen on their faces days earlier-but he'd not sleep forever, so…
Hunched into a corner that he was fairly sure-or at least hoped-held no stored magic items, the baron tried to ignore the stink of his ever more chafing armor, held the Dwaer up in front of his face, and tried to look into it.
The Stone grew warm almost immediately, and glowed, ever so slightly… and then white warmth was all around Phelinndar, and he was falling gently through it, through mists and drifts of cloud, toward some unseen place ahead where the light was brighter…
Brighter and more blue, a light that leaped with arcing, flowing energy, like lightning bolts sprayed from an invisible storm to stab all around him…
If only he knew how to use this lump of rock that wizards so lusted after, to hurl castle-shattering spells as they did!
A sword was a sword-oh, there were skills to learn to use it well, but any fool could pick one up and see which end was sharp and which end one gripped, and could swing and jab and slash empty air or some defenseless tree and in five breaths know how to use it to-clumsily, aye, but surely-slay!
But magic, now… magic was like swinging a snake instead of a sword, and wondering when it would turn and fang the hand that held it.
Baron Phelinndar was suddenly sweating so hard that drops were falling from the end of his nose. He snarled silently at those whirling lightnings. All he wanted was to speak with an old friend and arrange a place to run to, if he ever broke purpose with the Spellmaster snoring yonder-and somehow managed to live.
Hulgor was the man he needed. Good old Hulgor, who'd demand his price but be true to the bargain, once struck. They'd made many a coin together when Baron Orlin Andamus Phelinndar had been only Orlin Breselt, Tersept of Downdaggers. That first chance meeting in Sirl town had won him his only trustworthy trading partner-sharp when making deals, but true to every last coin and letter once they were sealed. That florid face was probably age-blotched by now, the sword-gray hair going white…
The Dwaer-mists grew suddenly darker, rolling to frame a gap or window of empty white light that grew larger, brighter, and then shot through with colors. Green, mosdy… yes, 'twas showing him someone clad in green: a man in a richly embroidered dark green doublet… a man now turning away, a golden flagon as large as a chamberpot in his hand.
Hulgor! Yes, 'twas Hulgor Delcamper to be sure-and by the looks of him, as large, florid, quick-tempered, brawling, and wine-loving as ever! Hulgor's hair