Elminster Must Die Part 21

Elminster's face was suddenly drenched with sweat, so much of it that his nose dripped a stream like a village tap and his beard became a small waterfall.

"El?" Storm asked sharply, eyeing him as he went pale. "Is there anything I could-should-do?"

"No," the Old Mage snapped. "Not unless ye-"

A section of the pa.s.sage wall ahead of them screamed like an agonized child and abruptly burst into shattered shards of stone that crashed into the far wall with force enough to rock and heave some of the flagstones beneath their boots. Amid the hail of falling stone descending that far wall was at least one wet and broken crimson thing that had been a man.

Much of the wall that had separated the Room of the Watchful Sentinel from the pa.s.sage was missing. The room itself seemed to be full of glowing smoke lit by frequent flashes and bursts of howling radiance-and to hold the turning pinwheel of Elminster's shielding magic.

Abruptly, somewhere in the distant midair of the room's interior, something blinding bright exploded, hurling off great streamers of flame and sparks.

"A wand!" Storm snapped, having seen wands destroyed by wild magical backlashes before. "Do you think the Dalestride can-?"

"Withstand all they're trying to hurl at us?" Elminster replied, throwing an arm around her from behind and dragging her hastily back. "Drop thy blade-now!"

Storm was several centuries too old to argue with him or question such an order. She flung away her sword as if it were burning her hand, turned in a smooth shifting of her hips, and started to run with him down the pa.s.sage to where it met- Behind them, a blast erupted that s.n.a.t.c.hed them both off their feet, smote their ringing ears so hard that all sound abruptly went away, and flung them headlong down the pa.s.sage, well past the intersection and through a servant's door that gave way in an instant of wild, high groaning of rent wood and whirling splinters, onto a table where a cream sauce studded with mushroom and smelling strongly of nutmeg was being ladled over thick steaks of spit-seared lion on gold plates.

Undercooks screamed or at least flung up their hands, wild-eyed, and opened their mouths wide, as the Sage of Shadowdale and the tall and curvaceous silver-haired woman at his side crashed breast-first down onto the hot sauce and slid the length of the table...straight into the ample backside of Nestur Laklantur, Royal Cook of the Low Kitchen, as he stood bent over at the end of the table, carefully applying garnishes to platters of dishes on an adjacent counter.

Struck hard, Laklantur plunged helplessly face-first into a glazed and steaming manymeats pudding he'd spent hours preparing, and rose up roaring in scalded pain and rage, ready to turn and rend whoever had dared- dared- He had managed only to half turn and s.n.a.t.c.h up the nearest ladle to serve as his weapon of retribution when Storm's sword arrived.

It raced like an arrow, pommel first and surrounded by a winking cloud of sparks. The outraged cook had no time to dodge or duck nor even to draw breath to frame an appropriately scorching oath of wrath ere the ladle numbed his hand with its clanging departure. His life was saved by its deflection of the sword, and the cloud of sparks left the ricocheting steel to become a crawling fan of blue fire that transformed the stamped copper sheeting of the kitchen ceiling into a sheet of solid sapphire.

Laklantur and various maids and kitchen jacks stared up at it in astonishment and then either fainted or fled.

A good long breath before the sheet cracked into a thousand shards and fell, with a crash that sent cauldrons rolling and lids and cleavers ringing all over the kitchen.

And left a dazed wizard and former bard rolling slowly over, coated in sapphire dust and lumpy cream sauce, to stare at each other and then back the way they'd been hurled.

They were in time to see a wizard of war part the roiling dust with an impatient wand blast and glare in their direction.

In the suddenly clear air they saw that the Room of the Watchful Sentinel now extended into the pa.s.sage and right up to the kitchen doors. Though it held much heaped rubble, adorned with more than a few silent and sprawled bodies, the Dalestride Portal stood glowing and unharmed-behind a grim dozen wizards of the Crown and half that many Purple Dragons.

"Those two, on yon table!" the wizard of war with the wand barked, looking at the Portal guardians and then pointing at Elminster and Storm. "They did this! They imperil the palace and us all, the king included. Slay them."

"Now, now, impetuous Cormyrean," Manshoon murmured, smiling into the glows of his scrying scene. "Not just yet. I I shall fell Elminster of Shadowdale when the moment is right. A killing I perform at the time I choose. None other shall come between us." shall fell Elminster of Shadowdale when the moment is right. A killing I perform at the time I choose. None other shall come between us."

He worked a magic that sent the glows roiling more brightly and added, "After more than two centuries, I deserve that much."

A moment later, his spell took hold, sending his awareness plunging down into the warm, dark depths of a mind more twisted than most. A mind he was becoming all too familiar with.

The mind of Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake, who was hastening along a pa.s.sage to a particular door, one of the most powerful magical scepters in all the palace in his hand.

"Mystra, She Who Is Fallen, certainly enjoyed the dramatic last-moment appearance and rescue," Manshoon purred, "and I begin to feel why."

Storm looked around wildly. "Where'd my swor-oh." She s.n.a.t.c.hed up her weapon. It looked unharmed...but promptly crumbled into glittering dust with a curious sigh, leaving her holding only a hilt.

She dropped it in disgust, shot a glance at the warily advancing Purple Dragons and the wizards behind them-who were carefully aiming wands at her over the armored shoulders of those warriors-then ducked down again to join Elminster on the floor.

"Might I suggest running away?" she murmured in his ear. "Now?"

"Ye can," the Sage of Shadowdale grunted, rolling over and clambering up to his knees, "but running is a deed my knees grow less and less fond of as the years pa.s.s. How many still stand against us?"

"Too many, and the Dragons are almost upon us," Storm told him grimly. "I don't see any highknights or bowguns, but-"

"They charged to the fore, of course," El replied, "and so are now pelting along that pa.s.sage halfway across the palace. Well, now..."

He produced a wand. "Paralyzes," he announced. "I still have the thought-prying pendant, too, but that's about all. The retreat ye suggest might indeed be prudent, if I can recall what lies on the other side of the Low Kitchens. Quite a warren of ramps and stairs, in that that direction, and-" direction, and-"

"Elminster!" Storm snapped warningly as a Purple Dragon loomed up over them. Elminster calmly called up the wand's powers, and the warrior stiffened in midlunge and toppled forward, crashing down at them.

Only to fetch up against the heavy table, his frozen, helpless body forming a shield.

"Right, la.s.s, let's be off," the Sage of Shadowdale said gruffly. "We-"

Startled cries erupted beyond the paralyzed Dragon, as bright light burst into being and washed over the room. At its height the cries ended in midblurt, leaving only eerie silence as the radiance faded again.

Storm flung herself sideways into a roll that brought her out beyond the table and two toppled stools to where she could look down the former pa.s.sage at the distant glow of the Dalestride.

She was in time to see Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake standing in a hitherto-closed doorway in another back corner of the Room of the Watchful Sentinel. He held a still-flickering scepter in his hand and was staring around at the guardians in front of him with an uneasy smile on his face.

Those men-every last Purple Dragon and wizard of them-had fallen on their faces and were lying still and silent.

Mreldrake took a swift and uncertain couple of steps into the room, craning and peering to make sure none of them were moving, then spun around and hastened back out the door he'd come through, closing it behind him.

"It seems we have an unexpected ally," Storm whispered. "Or the wizards of war are harboring a traitor who just decided the time was right for a little treason."

Elminster shoved the paralyzed Dragon aside with a grunt of effort and crawled quickly to the next nearest warrior. "Senseless-not dead," he muttered. "They'll be gone for most of a day, unless someone casts spells to revive them."

He shot Storm a look. "I'll take care of our traitor, if I can catch up to him. Ye get to Ala.s.sra before the inevitable horde of guards arrives to see who's been blasting down walls in the palace."

Storm nodded, raced to Elminster, and swept an arm around him to give him a brief, fierce kiss, then s.n.a.t.c.hed up the fallen Dragon's sword and sprinted for the glowing portal.

Halfway there she bent over a fallen wizard and tugged hard, rolling the body over. She came up with his cloak, and two strides farther on scooped up a fallen wand. It was a short run from there to where she could pluck a second wand from another outstretched hand.

Casting a brief look back over her shoulder at Elminster-he was on his feet and gave her a cheery wave-she raced for the glowing portal and plunged through its silent white fires without hesitation.

The palace was suddenly gone, and she was running on soft, sinking nothing, in the heart of a bright blue void that stretched endlessly and silently away in all directions, a void that just as abruptly vanished in a flash of bright light that became the low, bright sunlight of late afternoon lancing through trees.

A certain freshness in the air and a cool breeze coming down from the north told her she was east of the Thunder Peaks. Mistledale should be just ahead, with the broad straight wagonway of the Moonsea Ride just out of sight behind and below yon trees, and there'd undoubtedly be a sentinel of some sort keeping watch over this side of the Dalestride, being as it connected with the heart of the royal palace of Suzail, and- Storm looked around wildly and swerved toward the nearest trees as she did so. Guards of realms with wild borders often have bows or spells to hurl, and lone women running with drawn swords in their hands could hardly fail to evoke a certain apprehension in even the laziest of sleepy sentinels...

"Hold!" an annoyed male voice snapped from somewhere behind her, right on cue. Storm ran even faster, turning sharply to meet the trees even sooner, and tore open her jerkin with her free hand as she went, ducking low.

"Halt, I said!" the guardian shouted, sounding angrier. "Are you deaf deaf, woman?"

Storm found a tree and caught hold of it, spending all the haste of her run in a swing around it that brought her back facing the glade she'd just fled.

A young, stern-looking wizard of war flanked by two Purple Dragons with longbows in their hands was striding toward her, and he was frowning. Behind them, this side of the portal cast no glows at all; instead, it looked like endlessly rippling empty air.

"No," she panted, giving all three men a good look at her bared and bobbing front. "I'm just-a certain none-too-n.o.ble lord seeks my virtue! Lord Wizard, I dare not tarry!"

"But-but this way is guarded at the palace end! How did you get through?"

"Please, Lord, the guardians of the Dalestride let me through! Lord Warder Vainrence ordered them to and said he'd take care of-of the one chasing me! Please Please, Lord, I must be away away from here!" from here!"

The Dragons were staring only at what she was displaying, but the wizard was reddening and looking away. "How do I know you speak truth?" he asked, sounding exasperated.

"Vainrence'll sure tell you, I'm thinking," one of the Dragons muttered, "when he takes your report."

At that, the wizard went very red and waved wildly at Storm. "Get you gone!" he commanded. "Just get-go!"

"T-thank you, kind lords!" Storm babbled, swinging around the tree again and sprinting headlong into the woods. There was a stream nearby, she remembered, and a little wade up it would cover her tracks, if anyone changed his mind about permitting her departure.

As she went, she rolled her eyes. As the centuries pa.s.sed, her acting seemed to be getting more than a little rusty, but men weren't changing much.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

WHEN V VENGEFUL G GHOSTS W WALK.

You're armed for real real trouble? Good, good." trouble? Good, good."

Marlin was gleeful.

In fact, the young lordling was actually rubbing his hands.

Manshoon rolled his eyes. Not even Fzoul at his gloating worst had been that that unsubtle. unsubtle.

The lordling's two bodyguards stood awaiting further orders. Ormantor said nothing, as usual. That tall, broad-shoulded mountain of muscle seldom said much of anything at all. Gaskur, however-nondescript, forgettable-looking Gaskur, Marlin's fetcher and carrier and trade agent and nigh everything else, whose service had enabled the younger Lord Stormserpent to accomplish everything he'd managed thus far-was clearly worried.

"Where are we bound, Lord?" he murmured.

Marlin grinned like one of his nieces' well-fed cats. "No, no, Gask, better you not know. Safer, that way."

Manshoon managed not to roll his eyes again. Stupider, rather-you obviously don't don't know, lordling. know, lordling.

Gaskur obviously thought so, too, though he knew better than to say so. A flicker of Ormantor's eyes betrayed his similar judgment.

"Come!" Marlin said eagerly. "Glory awaits!"

Unheard in his cavern, Manshoon smiled mirthlessly. It was time to have some fun, flex a few tentacles, and slay the guards set to watch over the secret pa.s.sage-so foolish young Lord Stormserpent could reach the Dragonskull Chamber and test his secret weapons. If they held the blueflame ghosts and young Marlin could control them, they would be formidable weapons indeed.

And if he could not control them, young Lord Stormserpent's ambitions would come to a swift and painful end.

"Glory, lordling," Manshoon murmured into the glow, "awaits."

Elminster came to a certain place in the pa.s.sage and stopped. An old ward should be waiting right in front of him, and as he was-admit it-less than what he'd once been, what he did next should be done cautiously.

He stretched forth a hand gingerly into the empty air.

Which remained empty, though a whispering awakened all around him and raced away along the dark stones into the distance.

He took a cautious step forward, and-nothing else happened.

Good.

He took another. Still nothing. Six more strides brought him to the stone he knew, which moved under his hand and let him step into the wall and avoid awakening the spell-trap that awaited another few steps along the pa.s.sage.

It had been long centuries since the royal crypt had been guarded by bored Purple Dragons, but it was still protected by other things, and bore alarm magics that might alert someone in the palace above, if anyone up there still had the wits to be alerted by anything.

He was beginning to doubt that.

The air in Dragonskull Chamber wasn't as stale as it should have been, and the darkness wasn't as dark. Even the stillness wasn't still; it pulsed and swirled and flowed flowed in an endless, soundless tumult that could be clearly felt. in an endless, soundless tumult that could be clearly felt.

The twisted wards were alive and restless, and although they made him feel rather sick, Marlin Stormserpent was glad of that. It meant the war wizards-even the Mage Royal, Ganrahast-couldn't see him from afar or know he was there or what he was doing.

Which was good indeed, considering that what he was doing would undoubtedly be seen as high treason.

"I'm experimenting freely," he murmured. No, that excuse sounded lame even to his ears; he couldn't imagine even the youngest Crownsworn mage or courtier believing it.

Wherefore he'd best be doing what he'd come to do swiftly, and get back to his bodyguards before they drank the deepest winecellar of the Old Dwarf dry. Even shunned rooms of the palace must have patrols stalk by their doors from time to time.

Marlin drew in a deep, excited breath, brought forth the chalice with one hand and his handful of parchment notes with the other, and awakened one of his rings to give him light enough to read.

That reminded him that he was wearing the Flying Blade and would perhaps be wiser to set it aside and try to deal with one ghost at a time.

The room around him was as empty as ever, most of its walls lost in the evershifting darkness-but it was clearly bare of furniture. So he laid his sword belt on the floor a few paces away, the scabbarded sword atop it, and stood so he could face it while he worked on the chalice.