Within a breath the beholder would be close enough to use the eye that dealt death or that turned one to stone. Or it might simply charm him into obedience or pursue him about the chamber like a trapped rat and wound him from afar. In the end, he knew, it would use the eye that destroyed one utterly, and there would not even be dust left of Sememmon.
So Sememmon ran as he had never run before, diving frantically around the edge of the throne where the vast central eye, the one that foiled all magic, could not see. He hastily began the casting of an incendiary cloud. He did not have the right spells for a fight this grave… Buy time and cover, then use a dimension door to teleport directly above the beholder, he told himself. Use paralyzation-or, no, use magic missiles now! Or… ah, gods spit upon it all! Raging, Sememmon applied himself to spellcasting.
He finished, and sprinted along the back of the throne, nearly tripping over a ringbolt on the floor that obviously was a trap-door-if one were very strong or had four or five acolytes to lift it. Sememmon reached the corner, gasping for breath, and steadied himself. To cast a magic missile spell, he must see the target-and if he could see the beholder, its eyes would also be able to see him. He tensed himself to take a rapid peek, and-
There was a flash and a roar, and the very floor heaved up, knocking Sememmon to his knees. Up, get up, he urged himself frantically. But there was a reddish haze of dancing spots before his eyes. He could not seem to grasp which way 'up' was.
'Well met, Sememmon,' said a dry, coldly familiar voice. Sememmon looked up into the calm gazes of Sarhthor and Manshoon. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep was robed in his usual black and dark blue, and he looked amused. 'You can get up now,' he added. 'It's gone.' He flexed his open hand.
Sememmon found his voice. 'You've returned! Lord, we have missed you, indeed-'
'Aye. No doubt. I've watched you and seen the, ah, troubles with Fzoul. Come, now, and slay him not. He is needed.' They hurried across the marble floor toward the door Sememmon had come in by. It was blasted and twisted into shards of metal beneath their feet. 'Sarhthor,' Manshoon explained briefly.
The three mages went out through strangely deserted halls and sought the starlit night outside. Wordlessly they walked out of The Black Altar, past dim piles that had already begun to stink; the bodies of those who had fallen in the battle between Fzoul's forces and those of The High Imperceptor. They walked straight to Sememmon's abode, and the two mages left Sememmon there.
'Cheer up,' said Manshoon in parting. 'You'll have your chance to fight with the others for all this'-he shrugged his shoulders and looked around at the dark spires that rose all about them-'someday. I can't live forever, you know.' With that he turned on his heel and was gone down the cobbled street into the night, Sarhthor at his heels.
Sememmon stared after them in the faint light and tasted fear. When would Manshoon feel that Sememmon had lived long enough? He entered hastily, the little eyeball that Manshoon had sent to spy floating in, unseen, with him, too.
'We just happened to be riding this way,' Rathan said gruffly. 'It's an open road, is it not?'
'No' Shandril said with a crooked smile. 'You came after us to protect us. Did you not trust Tymora to look after us!'
The burly cleric grinned. 'Of course Tymora watches over ye… Am I not an instrument of Tymora's will?'
'Is that why you moved a sleeping man and left all the fighting and dirty work to me?' Torm said. 'Not a copper's worth of value in the pockets of his robe, too.'
'Dirty work, is it? Who took off his boots, I'd like to know!' Rathan teased him.
'I thank you both,' Narm said, 'despite your feeble attempts at humor. Again my lady and I owe you our lives. And our horses', too, it seems. Your spell even took away the pain in my head.'
Rathan grinned. 'If ye want it back, I can lend thee Torm for a few breaths.' Torm favored him with a sour look.
Shandril giggled. 'I don't think that will be quite necessary, Rathan. I have a man to drive me beyond endurance, now.' Narm gave her a hurt look, to which she replied with a wink, but Torm looked delighted.
'Oh, you can leave him with Rathan, to learn how to ride and fight and worship and all,' he said, 'and I'll ride with you. I'm witty, agile, clean, quick, and experienced. I know lots of jokes, and I'm an excellent cook, so long as you're partial to meat, tomatoes, cheese, and noodles all cooked together. I'm fully conversant with the laws of six kingdoms and many smaller, independent cities, and I'm an excellent gambler,' He batted his eyelashes at her. 'What do you say? Hmmm?'
Shandril gave him a look that would have melted glass. 'Is there nothing you can do about him?' she asked Rathan.
'Oh, aye,' Rathan agreed. 'Ye can give him first watch, so we can all get some sleep. Narm and I'll sleep on either side, close against ye, and ye won't have to worry about him getting cold and wanting to snuggle up.'
'Ah, hah,' Shandril agreed dubiously. She rolled her eyes and flopped down into the bed of folded tent without replying. Rathan grunted and lowered himself slowly to a lying position, rolling his cloak up as a pillow. He lay on the grass fully clad, without bedding or blanket, grasping his mace. He nodded then, as if satisfied, and within a few breaths he was snoring. His booted feet twitched now and then.
Torm winked at Narm and reached out to pinch one of them. His fingers were still inches away from their goal when Rathan rolled open one eye and said, 'Ye can forget pinching, stroking, and tickling honest folk-or even us-who're asleep in the arms of the gods. Just see that the fire stays high.'
Narm fell asleep chuckling.
The soft morning sun breaking over the rolling hills and fields of Battledale and northern Sembia lit up the sky to the east, and found Rathan Thentraver thoughtfully warming water for tea over the dying fire.
He looked around at his sleeping companions, got to his feet with a slow grunt of effort, and clambered up the bank to look at the land about. It was bare of all but grass, rolling and very empty. He nodded in satisfaction, tucked his mace under his arm, and sat down again and cleared his thoughts of all but Tymora, as he tried to do every morning.
He opened his heart to her and prayed that the two young folk beside him-aye, and Torm, too, hang him- would see only her bright face until they had at least reached Silverymoon and befriended Alustriel. Everyone needs at least one safe journey-and these two, more than most, because of the spellfire, he told himself.
Rathan looked across the twisted blankets to Shandril's sleeping face and thought about her weeping spellfire and lashing out angrily with spellfire and tearing open her tunic to pour spellfire out the faster upon a foe. He would not want to carry such power for all the gold in the Realms…
He sighed. If they'd ridden a bit slower, that snake of a mage might have had her yestereve. So close, he'd been. A matter of breaths. Yet one couldn't nursemaid one who could blast apart mountaintops!
They'd be running into trouble soon enough, these two, and they'd need someone. Rathan sighed. Ah, well, some things ye must leave to Tymora. He got up and began to make tea. Soon they'd be wanting morningfeast, too.
He looked at all the sleepers, and a smile touched his lips. Why wake them? The younglings needed a good, long sleep when they were guarded and could relax. Let 'em sleep, then. He peered south to see if he could glimpse the River Ashaba, but it was too far away yet. Ah, well. We'll ride with them until they're up at dawn tomorrow, and then turn back. If Elminster is half the archmage he pretends to be, surely he can hold Shadowdale together that long.
Scratching under his armor, Rathan opened his food supply pack. Ah, well… another day, another dragon slain.
'Will ye never be done all that scratching and scribbling?' Elminster demanded, 'You're not writing an epic, ye know!'
Lhaeo turned calm eyes upon him. 'Stir the stew, will you?' Elminster snorted, shifted his unlit pipe from hand to mouth, and began to stir.
'You miss those two, don't you?' the scribe asked him softly without turning.
The old mage stared at Lhaeo's back angrily for a long breath and then muttered, 'Aye,' around his pipe, set the ladle back in its place, and sat down upon the squat cross-section of a large tree that served as a seat next to the tiny kitchen table. ''Tis not every day one sees spellfire destroy one's own prismatic sphere without delay or a lot of effort. Or see the high-and-mighty Manshoon put to flight by a young girl who's never cast a spell in her life.'
