Elminster in Hell

'Pah!' the first guard responded, throwing back his head. 'You expect us to believe that?'

'I care not what you do or do not believe,' the old man told them mildly, 'but if you delay me longer, know this: I'll send you forthwith to where you'll end up anyway, if you retain the stupidity to deny an archmage anything.'

The first guard drew himself up in triumph. 'You would dare to threaten a Guard Confirmed of Waterdeep, in the very palace? Why-'

He thrust ruthlessly with his halberd at the old man- and the world suddenly changed.

Elsewhere, in dusty near-darkness, the two guards found themselves blinking at each other over their halberds, and then, slowly, trembling in fear.

They both knew very well where they were: the trophy hall that gave entrance to the Hall of Heroes, the warriors' tomb in Waterdeep's City of the Dead.

Elminster strode straight through lofty halls, anger and magic crackling around him. He scattered guards and courtiers like so much dust. As chamber gave way to chamber, the guards he faced were older. Not a few of them recognized him and stood aside with salutes. 'Piergeiron,' he snapped at the first pair of them not to do so. They swiftly opened the doors they were flanking and waved him in.

'No, Lord, I cannot,' Laeral was saying firmly. 'There are too many enchantments hereabouts, layer upon layer, hundreds of them, and many old and forgotten. If I could but touch him, I could put a tracer on him that few mages could break, but-'

Heads turned as Elminster joined the small, tense group of folk. They gathered by a lone lamp, within a watchful ring of silent Tower apprentices. Laeral, Mirt, Piergeiron, and Durnan nodded to him.

Asper bowed her head and murmured, 'Lord Elminster, be welcome.'

At her words, Aleena and Duman's wife and daughter stared at Elminster as if he'd suddenly grown several heads, each of them spitting flame.

'I may have a solution to that,' the Old Mage told them, 'but we must move swiftly; Storm is our bait, and stands in peril. All who would see battle and this affair done, gather around me now, touch me, and hold that contact steady. Apprentices, back to the Tower.'

The ring of novice wizards wavered.

Laeral turned her head and said crisply, 'Do as the Lord Elminster directs, please. Now.'

The Old Mage did not wait for pleasantries or to watch the apprentices hasten out. Brief magefire flashed. The room was suddenly much emptier than before, leaving only Mhaere and Tamsil staring at their father, who stood alone by the lamp.

Mhaere frowned a little at her husband. 'You… didn't go,' she said, a question in her voice.

Diirnan strode over and put an arm around her and Tamsil. 'You left your crossbow behind,' he replied softly. 'What might have befallen if the slayer had come here, after we'd all gone?'

With his free hand, he drew his sword. It gleamed in the lamplight. 'Whatever else befalls in this world, I'll not lose you, if I can prevent it.'

Bah! Weepy sentiment everywhere! This human's wits are addled-addled! What sort of fool lives his live wrapped in love of others?

The human sort of fool, Nergal. It's what we are, just as ye are the creature of Hell ye are.

Grrrr! Fall silent, captive ward!

They were suddenly elsewhere-a dark and cold elsewhere, with dust rising around them and the smell of stone strong in their nostrils. Underground.

Piergeiron slapped his armor, startling his daughter rigid, and willed it to come alight. It awakened in a pale blue glow.

By its radiance and Laeral's glowfire they could see they were standing in a high-ceilinged hall that looked empty but for the drifting dust. Many dark archways marked led to passages that ran off into gloom.

The radiance coming from Laeral's hands flared to almost blinding brightness. The Lady Mage of Waterdeep reached up to touch Piergeiron's head.

He gasped, shuddered, and stumbled away from her.

Laeral reeled and sank down to her knees. Aleena bent to catch hold of her, but Asper was swifter.

'Lady?' she asked quietly.

'I'll be fine,' Laeral said calmly. 'Piergeiron needs to be hale and whole right now, and I've made him so. I'll just be a little weak for awhile.'

'Aleena,' Asper said, 'stay with her. Guard her-and if anyone wearing a mask comes anywhere near, scream your head off.'

Piergeiron's daughter looked at Mirt, Elminster, and her father, collected their nods of assent, and knelt down by Laeral with an audible sigh of relief.

Mirt slapped Piergeiron's chest gently. He rumbled, 'You know where we are, don't you?'

Piergeiron was staring at a coat of arms carved over a nearby archway, 'I think so,' he replied quietly, 'and I tegin to suspect why.'

He drew breath to say more-but Storm's long, raw scream came echoing down to them from somewhere far beyond the arch.

Asper, as always, moved first, racing like a dark wind through the archway. Piergeiron soon caught her up, his consecrated blade glimmering as he willed it to shine. Elminster sprinted along close at hand, leaving behind the puffing and astonished Mirt.

Along a passage they ran, then through two chambers of cobwebs and dust, and a third where a lone, scuttling spider fled their furious approach. In the fourth, light shone amid vaulted pillars, casting forth the shadows of two dark, struggling figures in leather. One was masked. His sword, glistening with blood, stood out of Storm's back. Impaled, she was struggling forward in agony, trying to reach him.

The masked man saw the new arrivals and raised his other hand. The many-hued flames of a ready spell were racing around it.

'Sssambranath,' he said clearly and carefully, the first word of an incantation that would define what part of the chamber erupted in a racing storm of lightning bolts. 'Naerth-'

His incantation broke off as Storm spat blood into his face, making him choke. The hilt of his blade was almost against her breast, now, and she clawed weakly at his masked face. He shook his head violently, ducking away from her as much as he could without letting go of his sword-but his spell was ruined.

No such misfortune befell Elminster. Swinging around a pillar to a panting stop, the Old Mage caught his breath and cast a careful spell. The room suddenly fell shimmering and silent.

Striding past where Asper was frozen in midleap, the Old Mage reached the two bodies joined by steel. He cast another spell with the same fussy care, touched Storm Silverhand to visit its effects on her, and gently took hold of her shoulders and tugged.

Wetly, she slid back along the masked man's sword, her eyes unseeing and her face twisted in pain. Elminster kept on pulling, wincing at the feel of the steel sliding out of her.

The longer he kept this ancient Illuskan spell going, the more pain he would feel. Yet it could be nothing compared with what Storm must be suffering. He'd sent her into this-the most rebellious of the three lasses he'd raised as his daughters, albeit centuries ago.

Gods above, but he'd forgotten just how much this could hurt.

The Old Mage set his teeth and dragged the Bard of Shadowdale a few unsteady, trudging steps farther, past the statue that his spell had made of Mirt. The Old Wolf was frozen in midstride, arms swung wide for balance and drawn steel in both hands.

Elminster knelt beyond him, wrestling with a snarl against the rising surges of agony that made his hands tremble. Mystra, how many times had he done this for this lass? And she for him? On her riven breast, he carefully laid out what he'd need for the healing spell. When he was done, teeth chattering with pain, he banished the spell.