The Temptation of Elminster - Ed Greenwood [121]
Flesh smoked and melted, gurgling, the man went to his knees. By the despairing moan he made thereafter, he knew he was dying, even before he started clawing at his own flowing flesh, trying to get air.
"Not that I was unhappy to slay you all," Ilbryn told him lightly, "seeing as how you cost me a perfectly good horse." He stepped back and shot a look all around, in case other surviving adventurers…or the Slayer, whoever that might be…was approaching. No such peril seemed at hand.
The warrior made a last choking noise, then seemed to relax. "After all," Ilbryn told him, "This is the Dead Place, I'm told."
The elf turned away to walk through the camp and see if there was anything he might put to his own use. A few paces along he stopped, looked around again for foes, and bent rather stiffly and plucked up a good, slender blade from among the trodden leaves.
"Just in case," Ilbryn told the torn body of its dead, staring owner, whose fingers would forever be stretched out now toward the blade he'd let fall, the blade that now was no longer there. As the elf reached out with his own sword to cut free the scabbard from amongst the gory, tangled harness, he added almost merrily, "You never know when you'll need a good blade, after all."
Sixteen: If Magic Should Fail
If magic should fail, Faerun shall be changed forever… and not a few folk would welcome those changes. For one thing, the very land itself might tilt under the hurrying weight of the oppressed and aggrieved, chasing down now-powerless mages to settle old scores. I wonder what a river of wizards' blood would look like?
Tammarast Tengloves, Bard of Elupar
from The Strings of a Shattered Lyre
published in The Year of the Behir
"Begone! Mighty events shake all Faerun, and the holy ones within cannot come out to speak to you now! For the love of Mystra, begone!"
The guard's voice was deep and powerful, it rolled out over the gathered crowd like a storm-driven wave crashing across the sands of a beach… but when it died away, the people were still there. Fear made their voices high and their faces white, but they clung to the front steps of the House of the Ladystar as if for their very lives and would not be moved.
The guard made a last grand "get hence" gesture and stepped back off the balcony. "I'm sorry, Bright Master," he murmured. "They feel something is very wrong. It'd take the hounding spells of Mystra herself to shift them now."
"Do you dare to blaspheme here, in the holy place itself?" the high priest hissed, eyes blazing with fury. He drew back his hand as if to strike the guard…who stood a head taller than he, despite his own great height…then let it fall back to his side, looking dazed. "Lost," he said, lips trembling. "All is lost…"
The guard enfolded the Lord of the House in a comforting embrace, as one holds a sobbing child, and said, "This shall pass, lord. Wait for nightfall, many shall leave then. Wait, know peace, and watch for some sign."
"You have some guidance for this counsel?" the high priest asked, almost desperately. He could not keep a quaver from his voice.
The guard patted his shoulders and stepped away with the grave reply, "Nay, lord…but look you, what else can we do?"
The Lord of the House managed a chuckle that was perilously close to a sob, and said, "My thanks, loyal Lhaerom." He drew in a deep breath, threw back his head as if donning his dignity like a mantle, and asked, "What do warriors do when they must wait and watch inside their walls, dawdling until a great blow falls on them?"
Lhaerom chuckled in return. "Many things, lord, most of which I leave to your wits to conjure up. There is one thing of comfort we undertake, which I suspect me your question seeks: we make soup. Pots and pots of it, as good and rich as we can manage. We let all partake, or at least smell if they cannot sup."
The high priest stared at him for a moment, then raised his hands in a "why not?" gesture and commanded the silently watching underpriests, "Get