The Dragon's Doom - Ed Greenwood [49]
Ingryl Ambelter smirked at it, then let his face grow very serious as he met the angry gaze of his unwilling host. "Not all Lords of the Serpent perished when the Great Serpent fell. Surely a mage of accomplishment like yourself is aware that the Serpent is no god like the Three, but an archwiz-ard commanding a great web of spells. His priests are mages-some like you and me, but most little better than the hedge-wizards of yore, who can be found in a threadbare and useless carpet over most of Asmarand, muttering mysteries from every back lane. That web of magic, however, welds them into a formidable army-a host that knows and watches me, but leaves its backside unguarded against you and others it knows not!"
"And how," Multhas Bowdragon asked very quiedy, discovering to his surprise that he was sweating so freely that a droplet was about to fall from his nose, "do I know they aren't watching you right now, listening to every word that passes between us, and marking me as a foe to be struck down before my platter here has quite cooled?"
"Oh," the Spellmaster told him softly, "you need have no fear of that." Slowly and casually he drew forth the hand he'd kept hidden in his robes, and held it up as though faintly surprised at what rested in its palm: a small, mottled brown-and-white stone.
"I believe," he remarked, "you know what this is without my having to tell you-or demonstrate, by, say, snuffing out all the wands you've awakened around me, that little bauble on your finger, and every last Bowdragon enchantment at work in Arlund."
"A-a Dwaer-Stone?"
Ingryl Ambelter smiled broadly. "Indeed, and more. 'Tis very dangerous for any lone mage to carry more than one Dwaerindim… but I know where there are others. One could well soon be yours."
He took another step forward. "So you can surely see, friend Multhas, that I can blast you to ashes at will-and every other mage, baron, or plow farmer in all Darsar, too. I've had this Stone for years, and have hurled down barons and archwizards alike with it. I could have done that to you and all the Bowdragons years ago. But that's not what I want, and not why I came here."
He stepped back as a haze of tiny stars suddenly encircled the Stone in his hand. "I want allies. More than that: I want friends. Think about that, Multhas. I'll come calling again… and although I give you my word that refusing me will be a completely safe thing for you to do, I hope you'll join with me. Now fare you well. 'Twould be churlish of me to let the last of your feast grow cold."
And the man holding the Dwaer seemed to become a drifting, fading figure of smoke-a figure that was gone before Multhas could think of something to say. He stared at where it had been, and then cast a hasty spell to make sure Ambelter wasn't tarrying, invisible.
When that magic told him he was indeed alone in his most private chamber-and, what's more, had been alone therein since he last invoked it, right after sending out the servants who'd brought his feast-Multhas Bowdragon at last found the right word to shout: "Dolmur!"
His older brother infuriated and unsettled him. In Dolmur's presence, Multhas always felt like a young and irresponsible child-a child being silently judged, by one full of pity who always found him wanting-and reached that finding with a complete lack of surprise.
Yet, a Dwaer! A mage of Aglirta stepping through his wards at will! A war of mages and a realm of wizards!
Temptation, very great temptation. Anger, of course-so much anger that his hands trembled as he shut down wands and fire-ring and snatched up his most powerful rod of magics-but also fear.
Yes, bebolt it, he was afraid. Multhas Bowdragon whirled out of his spellgirt chamber like an angry black tempest, forgetting the last of his feast completely in his haste to consult with Dolmur.
A last few wisps of steam rose from the platter, but there was no one left in that chamber to see them.
They were, however, observed by someone not in the room. Someone