as if it were burning her hand, turned in a smooth shifting of her hips, and started to run with him down the passage to where it met-
Behind them, a blast erupted that snatched them both off their feet, smote their ringing ears so hard that all sound abruptly went away, and flung them headlong down the passage, well past the intersection and through a servant’s door that gave way in an instant of wild, high groaning of rent wood and whirling splinters, onto a table where a cream sauce studded with mushroom and smelling strongly of nutmeg was being ladled over thick steaks of spit-seared lion on gold plates.
Undercooks screamed or at least flung up their hands, wild-eyed, and opened their mouths wide, as the Sage of Shadowdale and the tall and curvaceous silver-haired woman at his side crashed breast-first down onto the hot sauce and slid the length of the table … straight into the ample backside of Nestur Laklantur, Royal Cook of the Low Kitchen, as he stood bent over at the end of the table, carefully applying garnishes to platters of dishes on an adjacent counter.
Struck hard, Laklantur plunged helplessly face-first into a glazed and steaming manymeats pudding he’d spent hours preparing, and rose up roaring in scalded pain and rage, ready to turn and rend whoever had
He had managed only to half turn and snatch up the nearest ladle to serve as his weapon of retribution when Storm’s sword arrived.
It raced like an arrow, pommel first and surrounded by a winking cloud of sparks. The outraged cook had no time to dodge or duck nor even to draw breath to frame an appropriately scorching oath of wrath ere the ladle numbed his hand with its clanging departure. His life was saved by its deflection of the sword, and the cloud of sparks left the ricocheting steel to become a crawling fan of blue fire that transformed the stamped copper sheeting of the kitchen ceiling into a sheet of solid sapphire.
Laklantur and various maids and kitchen jacks stared up at it in astonishment and then either fainted or fled.
A good long breath before the sheet cracked into a thousand shards and fell, with a crash that sent cauldrons rolling and lids and cleavers ringing all over the kitchen.
And left a dazed wizard and former bard rolling slowly over, coated in sapphire dust and lumpy cream sauce, to stare at each other and then back the way they’d been hurled.
They were in time to see a wizard of war part the roiling dust with an impatient wand blast and glare in their direction.
In the suddenly clear air they saw that the Room of the Watchful Sentinel now extended into the passage and right up to the kitchen doors. Though it held much heaped rubble, adorned with more than a few silent and sprawled bodies, the Dalestride Portal stood glowing and unharmed-behind a grim dozen wizards of the Crown and half that many Purple Dragons.
“Those two, on yon table!” the wizard of war with the wand barked, looking at the Portal guardians and then pointing at Elminster and Storm. “They did this! They imperil the palace and us all, the king included. Slay them.”
“Now, now, impetuous Cormyrean,” Manshoon murmured, smiling into the glows of his scrying scene. “Not just yet.
He worked a magic that sent the glows roiling more brightly and added, “After more than two centuries, I deserve that much.”
A moment later, his spell took hold, sending his awareness plunging down into the warm, dark depths of a mind more twisted than most. A mind he was becoming all too familiar with.
The mind of Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake, who was hastening along a passage to a particular door, one of the most powerful magical scepters in all the palace in his hand.
“Mystra, She Who Is Fallen, certainly enjoyed the dramatic last-moment appearance and rescue,” Manshoon purred, “and I begin to feel why.”
Storm looked around wildly. “Where’d my swor-oh.” She snatched up her weapon. It looked unharmed … but promptly crumbled into glittering dust with a curious sigh, leaving her holding only a hilt.
She dropped it in disgust, shot a glance at the warily advancing Purple Dragons and the wizards behind them-who were carefully aiming wands at her over the armored shoulders of those warriors-then ducked down again to join Elminster on the floor.
“Might I suggest running away?” she murmured in his ear. “
“Ye can,” the Sage of Shadowdale grunted, rolling over and clambering up to his knees, “but running is a deed my knees grow less and less fond of as the years pass. How many still stand against us?”
“Too many, and the Dragons are almost upon us,” Storm told him grimly. “I don’t see any highknights or bowguns, but-”
“They charged to the fore, of course,” El replied, “and so are now pelting along that passage halfway across the palace. Well, now …”
He produced a wand. “Paralyzes,” he announced. “I still have the thought-prying pendant, too, but that’s about all. The retreat ye suggest might indeed be prudent, if I can recall what lies on the other side of the Low Kitchens. Quite a warren of ramps and stairs, in
“
Only to fetch up against the heavy table, his frozen, helpless body forming a shield.
“Right, lass, let’s be off,” the Sage of Shadowdale said gruffly. “We-”
Startled cries erupted beyond the paralyzed Dragon, as bright light burst into being and washed over the room. At its height the cries ended in midblurt, leaving only eerie silence as the radiance faded again.
Storm flung herself sideways into a roll that brought her out beyond the table and two toppled stools to where she could look down the former passage at the distant glow of the Dalestride.
She was in time to see Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake standing in a hitherto-closed doorway in another back corner of the Room of the Watchful Sentinel. He held a still-flickering scepter in his hand and was staring around at the guardians in front of him with an uneasy smile on his face.
Those men-every last Purple Dragon and wizard of them-had fallen on their faces and were lying still and silent.
Mreldrake took a swift and uncertain couple of steps into the room, craning and peering to make sure none of them were moving, then spun around and hastened back out the door he’d come through, closing it behind him.
“It seems we have an unexpected ally,” Storm whispered. “Or the wizards of war are harboring a traitor who just decided the time was right for a little treason.”
Elminster shoved the paralyzed Dragon aside with a grunt of effort and crawled quickly to the next nearest warrior. “Senseless-not dead,” he muttered. “They’ll be gone for most of a day, unless someone casts spells to revive them.”
He shot Storm a look. “I’ll take care of our traitor, if I can catch up to him. Ye get to Alassra before the inevitable horde of guards arrives to see who’s been blasting down walls in the palace.”
Storm nodded, raced to Elminster, and swept an arm around him to give him a brief, fierce kiss, then snatched up the fallen Dragon’s sword and sprinted for the glowing portal.
Halfway there she bent over a fallen wizard and tugged hard, rolling the body over. She came up with his cloak, and two strides farther on scooped up a fallen wand. It was a short run from there to where she could pluck a second wand from another outstretched hand.
Casting a brief look back over her shoulder at Elminster-he was on his feet and gave her a cheery wave-she raced for the glowing portal and plunged through its silent white fires without hesitation.
The palace was suddenly gone, and she was running on soft, sinking nothing, in the heart of a bright blue void that stretched endlessly and silently away in all directions, a void that just as abruptly vanished in a flash of bright light that became the low, bright sunlight of late afternoon lancing through trees.
