spellfire, perhaps?'
Manshoon hissed the word that unleashed the most powerful killing spell he carried. There was a flash, and the stones around them rocked and shook.
Below, Mirt looked up and swore. 'Manshoon — and Elminster! Run! Both of ye-move! There's no telling how much of that mountain'll come down if they start blasting each other in earnest. Come on!'
Snatching up Shandril bodily, the Old Wolf broke into a heavy run, Narm at his side. He paid no heed to Shandril's sharp words of protest, but lumbered along like a draft horse gathering speed for a gallop, wheezing lustily in her ears as he went. Furious, Shandril tried to claw at his face and win free of his grip, but Mirt ignored her nails until Narm could cast a hasty magic that slowed and hampered tier struggles. Shandril snarled at them both, and then-as the Old Wolf thundered on-gave up, shrugging and spreading her hands with a weary, apologetic smile.
Atop the cliff, Elminster's image only smiled as the spell that should have torn him asunder spiraled into him and roared away into vast distances. Through the dark hole rent in the Old Mage's middle, Manshoon could see the rocks of the summit beyond. could feel a whirling wind drawing him forward.
'Spelltrap,' Elminster said mockingly. 'Fooled again, Manshoon.'
The roar of the vortex grew louder, and Manshoon found himself being sucked off his feet toward the phantom image of his enemy. As Elminster's crooked smile rushed up to meet him. Manshoon had just enough time to speak one word: the one that summoned aid so costly he used it only in dire need.
Now, for instance…
Elminster tossed something small into the fire, stepped back from its flames, and said, 'Scratch any itches ye have right now, lass-things're apt to get a mite busy around here in a breath or two.'
Storms hands went to the hilt of her sword.
Elminster nodded, and her long sword slid out. 'We were within a breath of losing Shandril,' the Old Mage told her, 'and from the Zhentarim gaining spellfire. Instead, Manshoon should be paying us a visit any time now.'
His hands moved in the intricate gestures of a spell, and a score of silvery spheres sprang into being around him, drifting upward like so many bubbles. Some floated toward Storm. Behind her, the horses snorted. Storm turned from watching Elminster's spheres twirl and rise to see what had startled their mounts. And she froze.
Three huge, dark beings hung in air that had been empty moments before, eyestalks curling malevolently. The trio of beholders were floating behind the High Lord of Zhentil Keep, who stood
facing Storm, his eyes dark with fury.
Storm gasped. 'Tymora and Mystra, aid us!'
'Have they gone?' Shandril asked softly, lips at his ear. The Old Wolf shuddered to a stop, breathing heavily, and turned.
'Set me down,' Shandril added-and was alarmed to feel him stagger under her as he bent to let her feet touch the ground. The Old Wolf was wheezing like a lustily plied bellows… she'd heard more than one fat man breathing like that back at the inn in her youth, just before they dropped dead.
The Old Wolf gasped fast and often as lie looked back the way they'd come. 'I can't see them, lass,' he replied at last. 'And more… than that; even if they both appeared right here… in front of us… I can't run a step more… for a bit…' His breath came in gasps, and he put a hand to his chest before he noticed her anxious gaze- and angrily snatched his hand away again.
Shandril watched the sweat roll down his face and said gently, 'Sit easy for a bit, Old Wolf. I have to-er, visit the bushes. I don't think we'll see two mages of that power again until their battle's done-and a spell-fight tike that might have no survivor.'
'Or it might have a winner,' Narm said grimly, staring back up at the bare peak where they'd seen the two wizards outlined by a spell-flash. 'I just hope it's the right one.'
'I've always thought… Elminster could handle Manshoon… any day,' Mirt puffed, 'but in things… of magic… nothing is certain.' He struggled to get up. 'We must be… away from here, while we can! There's-'
Shandril pushed him back down again. 'Today still holds plenty of time for walking, when you've breath enough to do it. I need you.'
Mirt stared at her, sweat dripping off the end of his large, red nose. 'Lass,' lie asked quietly, 'what for?' Shandril looked fondly at the fat old man, and her mouth crooked into a smile. 'To protect me, of course.' Mirt's snort would have been louder if he'd had the breath to put behind it, but it was still impressive.
The fire crackled and flickered calmly in the aftermath of the reflective magic Elminster had cast into it. It had no way of knowing what was about to erupt around it Manshoon sneered at the archmage and the bard and snatched a wand from his belt. Behind him, the three beholders were drifting apart, moving to the sides of the fray where nothing could get in the way of their magical gazes.
Elminster’s hands were moving. Storm looked to him for instructions, but he paid her no heed. A dozen of his spheres were drifting around her now.
Manshoon's wand spat lightning The bolt writhed and stabbed through the air-until it reached the fire. There it dipped sharply into the burning wood, as if dragged down by something unseen. Flames crackled; sparks flew in all directions. Then the bolt of lightning leapt up out of the fire again, arrowing back at the leader of the Zhentarim. Storm raised her blade as she heard him gasp. Lightnings whirled and struck home; Manshoon staggered.
The air was suddenly full of humming, bone-shaking beams of force as the eye-powers of one of the beholders lashed out at both Elminster and Storm.
The silver spheres created by Elminster s earlier spell were everywhere — darting and whirling to intercept the magics hurled at the bard and the old archmage. Whenever a sphere came into contact with tragic, it flared in a sudden, silent pulse of silver-blue light-before sphere and spell disappeared together. Elminster finished his magic and nodded in satisfaction. Feeling Storm's eyes upon him, he turned his head and wiggled his eyebrows at her. Then his hands were moving again.
The air in front of Manshoon was abruptly cut by a crooked line of snaking darkness as wide as a man's head. Wind whirled violently toward this rift. The advancing darkness approached the frantically casting Zhentarim, and then the dark vortex split into two ebony, reaching arms. The newly formed fork of whirling chaos lashed out past Manshoon, stabbing at the drifting eye tyrants. Their eyestalks bent in chorus to gaze upon it, but the advancing lines of darkness never slowed. The rifts widened. Glimpses of a whirling, winking otherwhere were visible within them. Wind rushed into them with the quickening roar of thunder, and the bladelike points of the rifts each touched a beholder.
The eye tyrants whirled and spun helplessly, eyestalks flailing the air with frantic futility as they were dragged into the planar rifts. Amid flashes and angry, groundshaking rolls of thunder, they spun faster and faster, until Storm could no longer distinguish them from the whirling chaos of the rifts; they were gone.
The vortices promptly collapsed and vanished. Manshoon snatched time enough to glance back over his shoulder, and his jaw dropped. Only one eye tyrant remained, rising above him to gain a clear pant to strike down at Elminster.
The Old Mage smiled tightly and let his hands fall again, his next spell done.
Zulthondre was an old and powerful eye tyrant: its chitinous body plates reflected the firelight in dancing green tongues of radiance. It knew the scent of the old, bearded man facing it across the small campfire. That smell had emanated from the very floor of the chamber in the Citadel of the Raven, where it had met with Manshoon and Sarhthor. Zulthondre seethed with rage. No human had ever outwitted it before.
The beholder ceased its futile eyestalk attacks; each beam it had lashed out had been absorbed by a silvery sphere and utterly wasted. Instead, Zulthondre bent its large, rage-reddened central eye balefully on those silvery spheres. The power of the eye destroyed the old man's spheres one by one, and each winked out of existence.
And then Zulthondre's world exploded in flames.
The Old Mage watched in satisfaction as eight blazing fireballs spun into being around the beholder-
and then burst in unison, with a roar that made Storm's ears ring. The eye tyrant darkened, writhing in obvious agony. Plates of chitin were flung away from its convulsing body as its skin wrinkled, melted, and burst open. Jets of bodily fluids boiled forth from within. Mouth gaping in a soundless scream, the beholder crashed to earth, flames rising from its body.
