Elminster Enraged

“Who,” Wizard of War Duth Gulkanun snapped, his most powerful wand aimed and ready in his hand, “are you?”

“Gulk, Gulk, I know our paths rarely crossed, and oh-so-cordial Nostyn liked me very little, but don’t you remember Brannon Lucksar?”

Gulkanun blinked. “I do, and I distinctly remember Brannon Lucksar as a good-natured man I liked and admired. A man, not a she-drow!”

“So I was,” the lithe, dark-skinned … person … across the room replied with what Gulkanun-busily swallowing, his throat suddenly dry-could only term a jaunty, sultry smile. Gods Above, no one had told him that the evil, slay-on-sight dark elves were so … hrasted beautiful. She was … very far from being a man. Whew.

“Until the curse,” the she-drow added sadly. “Longclaws here knows all about curses.”

The war wizard she’d just named already had two wands trained on her. His face tightened as he shook them warningly, his flaring anger clear. One wand dipped and wavered alarmingly as the hand holding it started to change again.

For his part, Farland slowly drew his sword. Arclath stepped in front of Rune to shield her. She promptly used that shielding to covertly draw one of her daggers and hold it ready to throw.

“How did you get up here?” Farland growled at the dark elf. Who gave him a smile, and slowly lifted one long, shapely leg.

“Used this. And my other one. We call it ‘walking,’ back in Immerford.”

She stroked her raised leg thoughtfully-a long and languid move that made Longclaws growl aloud, deep in his throat, before he could stop himself-and added in a teasing purr, “Lothan always told me you and Avathnar rode the halls of Irlingstar on the backs of crawling prisoners. I never believed him, of course, but now …”

“I meant,” Farland said deliberately, his sword out and hefted meaningfully in his hand, “that you almost certainly had to swiftly murder several of my guards to reach the passage you just came in here through.”

The drow waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve slain no one in Irlingstar. A few simple spells served to temporarily-and harmlessly-immobilize several guards, so I could join this little council.”

“Die, lying drow,” Gulkanun said coldly, and he let fly with his wand.

Beside him, both of the wands Longclaws aimed flashed into life, too.

“Idiots!” Arclath shouted. “You’ll kill us … all …”

His angry shout faded away. Nothing at all had happened. The magic of the wands, that no one could possibly outrun, had flashed across the room and-

Vanished. Doing nothing, it seemed.

The drow was very much intact. More than that, she was leaning against the wall, still smiling, and examining her fingernails, the very picture of unconcerned nonchalance. The air around her crackled and tiny motes of light winked into momentary being, from time to time, the unmistakable aftermath of a powerful unleashing of magic, but …

“Lying, murderous drow!” Farland barked, striding forward. In an instant, his sword acquired scores- hundreds-of winking motes of light that clinged to the blade. He shouted in pain and let it fall, his sword arm jerking around in wild spasms.

Cursing, he grabbed his errant limb and staggered back, falling against the wall. “How long have you been hiding in the castle?” He spat as he slid to the floor. “You’ve been slaying everyone, haven’t you?”

The drow shook her lovely head. “No, Lord-”

That was as far as she got, before an explosion rocked Irlingstar again.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

WHEN IT IRE OF IT

The blast seemed to begin somewhere distant, but rolled right at the lord constable’s office like a racing, raging dragon, its roaring and shaking growing louder and nearer with frightening speed.

That rising tumult almost drowned out the screams and shouts erupting from noble prisoners all over the castle as fresh dust fell and curled, more pebbles and stones rained down, and new cracks raced across walls that groaned anew.

The doors of the lord constable’s office-all of them, including three secret doors known only to him-burst open as the force of the blast reached the north tower. They banged wildly as an unseen titan’s hand seemed to snatch up the room and shake it, hurling the furniture and the room’s six occupants off walls, floor, and ceiling … and then, very suddenly, everything fell silent and still. Except for the ever-present drifting dust.

Only the drow stood unscathed, the dust shunning a sphere of clear air that surrounded her.

“Magic, obviously-probably fueled by the hrasted wand firings,” Farland snarled from the floor as he glared at her, too dazed to keep from thinking aloud. He and the other Crown loyals were still wincing, rubbing bruises, and picking themselves up when some dust-covered men staggered along the passage and in through the main door of the office.

These new arrivals were prisoners, by what could be seen of their dust-caked finery-mainly, that it wasn’t any sort of Purple Dragon armor or uniform. A few were clutching Purple Dragon swords in their hands, which meant some guards were down, probably dead …

Farland hefted his own weapon and strode forward, less than surprised to see that Lord Arclath Delcastle had acquired a blade from somewhere and was at his side.

“Down steel,” Farland ordered the coughing, stumbling nobles. “In the name of the king-”

The foremost noble spat at Farland’s boots. “That for the king!” He sneered, sketching an elaborate duelist’s flourish in the air with his stolen sword. “Now you down steel, sirrah, or I’ll carve that sword out of your hand-and go right on carving up the rest of you! I’ll have you know I took sword schooling with the famous Narlebauh! And had lessons with Helnan, too!”

A second noble sliced the air in an even more elaborate flourish. “Ah, Helnan, what an amusing little cockerel. Cut off their noses first, I say,” he drawled. “A man looks rather comical, without a nose …”

Of course these prisoners would be well-trained swordsmen. Farland sighed, drew himself up, and prepared to die fighting.

“Defend and disarm,” the drow murmured, “aren’t those your standing orders, lord constable?”

“Belt up,” Farland ordered savagely, not looking away from the leisurely advancing nobles for an instant. For their part, those recently escaped prisoners stopped and stared at the shapely dark elf, drawing back before swords could be crossed.

The drow languidly, almost wantonly strolled forward, a dark and eerie radiance flickering up and down her shapely limbs, a stranger glow flooding from her beckoning eyes.

The sword-wielding nobles gaped at her in earnest, going pale and backing into the rest of the escaped nobles right behind them.

“A drow! Run!”

“Invasion from the Underdark! They’ll butcher us all! Cormyr is doomed!”

Suddenly the nobles all turned and fled, running hard through the swirling dust, crashing into doorframes and each other, cursing and shouting.

Farland sprang after them, barking, “Back to your cells, gentlesirs! For your own safety, back to your-”

The rout lasted for two passages and a guard post, ere it reached the large ready chamber where two halls joined the main passage. There, amid the fading dust, some noble prisoners rallied to defy the lord constable, waving weapons they could only have wrested from more than a dozen guards-who must now be stunned, sorely wounded, or dead. Swords sketched salutes, slid through elaborate duelists’ exercises, and flourished with all the