Elminster Must Die

Faint shouts came through the club’s doors-an inner and an outer pair, of heavy, copper-sheathed duskwood- followed by the unmistakable ring of steel, of swords crossed in anger. There came a scream, some crashes, and more clangs of clashing blades.

Then the doors banged open and richly dressed men were streaming out, white-faced and frantic, clawing at each other to find freedom enough to flee into the night. The tall, blue-flame-shrouded warrior came bounding along in their wake, lunging and slashing. Men were screaming and choking and falling on their faces as he killed them, never slowing as he raced on down the street after some of those who’d fled, as fast as a storm wind, catching men up and butchering them viciously, all the way.

By then, Belgryn Murenstur was almost too busy spewing out everything he’d downed earlier in the evening all over the nearest wall to see the sea of blood and heaped bodies that was briefly visible through the doors of the Archer, ere they swung closed again.

Almost.

Arclath and Amarune stared rather wearily at each other across the table. Around them, Tress was bustling about, firmly directing her staff in the ongoing cleanup of the Dragonriders’ Club, which by Dragons’ orders was shuttered for the rest of the night. Someone had found Amarune’s robe for her and someone else’s slippers to go with it.

Various Purple Dragons and war wizards-they’d lost track of exactly how many but retained the impression that “various” was a rather large number-had asked Arclath and Amarune many, many questions about the events of the evening and their previous experiences, if any, involving the younger Lords Windstag, Dawntard, and Sornstern. From time to time, the lord and the dancer had been separated, so their stories could be compared-and, it seemed, had matched. Those questions had all been fairly friendly and civil … but there had been a lot of them. Not to mention more than a few spells gravely cast their way, and carefully expressionless men eyeing them thoughtfully.

Wherefore the decanter that Tress had wordlessly deposited on the table between them was deeply appreciated.

In silence they’d begun to pass it back and forth across the table, taking turns to sip, and murmuring questions of their own.

Not the probing sorts of queries they’d just finished-at least, they fervently hoped they were finished-answering, but the short, simple exchanges of two people getting to know each other better.

A guarded trust, of a sort, was slowly growing between them, because they’d been through danger together and had stood up for each other … and because, it seemed, they genuinely liked each other.

“Noble lord,” Amarune murmured, “I need an ally. Not a lover. A friend.”

“I, too, have need of one of those,” the elegant lordling told her, his gaze bright and level.

Slowly, hesitantly, their hands went out … and clasped over the decanter.

The first wild-eyed man rushing past the Sage of Shadowdale awakened his interest, and the second an urgent desire to get out of the way to avoid being knocked down. When a third, fourth, and fifth pounded pantingly past before he could regain his balance against a handy wall, Elminster’s interest had grown to a bright flame.

“What news? What’re ye running from?” he called to the next few running men. All of them young, all well dressed, more than a few bleeding from what looked to be sword cuts … “Where’s the war?”

“B-bold Archer,” one of them gasped in reply, stumbling and almost falling. He caromed off the wall beside Elminster, nearly taking the old man to the cobbles with him, but clawed at the stone with frantic fingertips, enough to keep upright, and ran on. “Men in flames!” he shouted back over his shoulder. “Killing everyone!”

“Men in flames?” Elminster inquired aloud, feigning more astonishment than he really felt.

“Aye,” the next pair of running men panted; El recognized one as a noble he’d recently seen peering out of a coach on the promenade, though he knew not the youngling’s House or heritage. “Blue flames!”

Ah, of course. Stormserpent had unleashed his new toys. Clearing his throat, Elminster squared his shoulders, drew in a deep breath, and set off for the Bold Archer with as much speed as he could manage, leaving the rest of the frightened nobles and their bodyguards to flee past him in peace.

If that was quite the right way to put it …

Gods, but he was getting old. Hastening for just a block or so had him limping for real, his weary old bones complaining with every lurching stride.

Luckily for the safety of the good folk of Suzail, almost all Purple Dragon patrols could move faster than he could. One of them rushed out of a side street and past him in swords-out, fearless haste.

He did not have to see the signboard to know which building up ahead they’d all vanished into. For one thing, a second patrol was hurrying up from another direction, and for another, Dragons from the first one were reemerging to take up watch by the doors, as more of their fellows reappeared to rush excitedly everywhere looking for witnesses and, no doubt, the guilty.

Elminster slowed. No horns were being sounded, which meant no fighting was still going on inside. Which meant, judging by the behavior of the Dragons, that there were plenty of bodies but no sign of any live and present murderers, flaming blue or otherwise.

Which in turn meant ‘twas time for this old sack of bones to hang back, stay in hiding, and listen.

“Alassra,” he muttered to himself as he sought the handiest alley, “forgive me. I love ye-but I love this realm, too. I can’t stop meddling in its affairs, trying to defend it against those who’d tear it asunder, guarding it against itself. I just can’t.”

The alley was well situated to watch the front doors of the Archer from, and even came furnished with a handy heap of discarded crates that the hired refuse-wagons hadn’t yet arrived to take away.

As he slid in behind them, relaxing against the rough and dirty wall with a satisfied sigh, one of his hands started to tremble all by itself, some of his fingers burning like they were afire, and others … going numb.

Elminster looked at it disgustedly. “This hand used to hurl down dragons and castles with equal ease.”

He stared at his fingers grimly. At least they still moved in obedience when he waggled them. Though two of them, it seemed, couldn’t curl up tightly anymore.

No more snatching things away from foes or keeping a tight grip on anything at all.

Stlarn it.

“This last century has not been kind,” he told the darkness quietly. “I’m getting too old for this now …”

His entire hand had gone numb.

“Oh, Mystra, that it has come to this …”

Arclath and Amarune looked up in startlement. A breathless Purple Dragon was staggering past them across the main room of the Dragonriders’ Club, gasping, “Swordcaptain? Swordcaptain Tannath?”

The patrol leader came out onto the stage from where he’d been examining the dancers’ dressing rooms. “Aye, Telsword?”

“Your patrol’s needed at the Bold Archer. There’ve been murders there, lots of them! Nobles, too!”

All over the club, Dragons started to move.

“Swordcaptain Dralkin sent me. Wants you there faster than possible, he said,” the telsword added with the last of his air, weaving to a chair to lean on it and gasp for breath.

Arclath and Amarune stared at each other across the table.

“You stay here,” the noble muttered, thrusting the decanter in Amarune’s direction.

By the orders Tannath was bellowing, he’d decided to leave none of his men at the Dragonriders’ and wanted “every last jack” of them out the door with him immediately.

“And I became your servant when, Lord Delcastle?” Amarune very quietly asked Arclath’s unhearing back as he rushed across the room to join the soldiers.

With a shrug of farewell to Tress and a swift swig that drained the last liquid fire out of the decanter, Amarune ran to the bar. Snatching up a cloak from the litter of unclaimed clothing from the fled and fallen that had been gathered there, she whirled it about her shoulders to cover her skimpy robe and ran out into the night, right on the heels of the noble and the slowest of the Dragons.

Tress watched her best dancer go, shaking her head. Then she turned back to survey the damage to her club.