The Temptation of Elminster - Ed Greenwood [158]
"Return?" Femter snarled, his hand darting to one of the wands still at his belt. "To duel with a god? Are you mad, Klalaera?"
The other Dreadspells watched silently, neither rising nor snarling defiance, as something unseen flashed between the Overmistress, at her ease with her head propped on her hand, and Femter Deldrannus, the wand still on its way out of his belt and not yet turned outward to menace anyone.
The priest shrieked and clutched at his head with both hands, hurling the wand away and staggering forward, his limbs trembling.
They watched him spasm and convulse and babble for what seemed like a very long time before Klalaera raised one languid hand and closed it in a casual gesture…and Femter collapsed in mid-word, falling in a sprawled and boneless heap like a dangle-puppet whose string had been cut.
"I can do the same to any of you…and all of you, at once," the Overmistress drawled. "Now rise, and return. You fear death at the hands of this 'god' you babble of…well, I can deliver you sure and certain death to set against one that may happen… or may not. Would any of you care to kneel and die here and now…in agony, and in the disfavor of Shar? Or will you show the Flame of Darkness just a little of the obedience she expects from those who profess to worship her?"
As Dread Sister Klalaera uttered these biting words, she descended smoothly to the ground, drawing from her belt the infamous barbed lash with which she disciplined the acolytes in her charge. The Dreadspells turned their faces reluctantly back toward the ruins they'd left so precipitously and began to trudge up out of the hollow…to the serenade of her whip crashing down on the defenseless back of the motionless Femter.
At the lip of the hollow, they turned in unspoken accord to look back…in time to see Femter, head lolling and eyes glazed, rise to his feet in the grip of fell magic and stagger after them, his back mere ribbons of flesh among an insect-buzzing welter of gore, his boots leaving bloody prints at every step. Klalaera shook drops of his dark blood from her saturated lash and gave them a soft smile. "Keep going," she said silkily. "I'll be right behind you."
Despite the floating menace of the Overmistress behind them, the five Dreadspells slowed cautiously as they climbed the last wooded ridge before the ruins. Blundering ahead blindly could mean swift doom… and a delay could well bring them to a shaft now empty of dangerous mages, leaving the ruins free for scavenging.
"Careful," Elryn murmured, the moment he heard the creak of leather that marked Dread Sister Klalaera bending forward to bring her lash down hard on someone's shoulders… probably his. "There's no need for anyone to strike alone in the fray, if we work together, and…"
"Avoid making pretty little speeches," Klalaera snapped. "Elryn, shut your mouth and lead the way! There's nothing between us and the ruins save a couple of stumps, a lot of waste lumber, your own fears, and…"
"Us," a musical voice murmured, an elven voice. Its owner rose up from the other side of the ridge, a scab-bardless sword made of wood held in both his hands. "A walk in the woods these days holds so many dangers," Starsunder added. "My friend here, for instance."
The human mage Umbregard rose up from behind the ridge on cue and favored the Sharrans with a brief smile. He held a wand ready in either hand.
The Overmistress snapped, "Slay them!"
"Oh, well," Starsunder sighed theatrically, "if you insist." Magic roared out of him then in a roaring tide that swept aside wand-bolts, simple conjurations, and the lives of struggling Hrelgrath and dumbfounded Vaelam alike.
Femter screamed and fled blindly back