twisted and fire-blackened, and Wood creaked nearby. Margaster turned toward the sound and found himself staring into the hard faces of two grim, wounded Zhentilar warriors. Judging by the sacks of pans, kitchen knives, and the like they were carrying, they’d been camping out in the ruins trying to plunder anything of value. They both bore notched, well-used swords in their other hands.
Giving him stony looks, they hefted those blades and lurched toward him, spreading apart so as to come at him from two directions.
Margaster gave them a sneer and a swiftly hurled slaying spell-and got it right back in his face, as rings on their hands winked in unison.
Gods, the pain!
Staggering in agony, Beldos Margaster turned and fled, scrambling as swiftly as he could across the slippery chaos of the tumbled and fallen inn.
Chuckling grimly, the Zhents pursued him, moving more carefully. They knew there was nowhere for one old man whose spells couldn’t touch them to run, to escape them.
Margaster, however, knew exactly where another portal stood. Whether there was still an inn standing around it or not, just ahead-here! — was one of the portals to Lord Yellander’s hunting lodge. He plunged through it gratefully, greeting the blue mists once more for the brief moment that always seemed surprisingly long, and then stepped out into the hunting lodge. It’d be deserted, of course. He spared it not a glance, but whirled around and cast a spell that would close the portal forever, and hand him safety from brutish warriors.
It was a powerful magic, and a long one. Beldos Margaster had just triumphantly pronounced its last word when he heard crossbows crack in ragged unison behind him, and the hum of a volley of converging bolts rising angrily in his ears.
