of the warriors out of the fray back behind these men, winding their spent weapons like madmen. The gentle light washing over her left her no need to look up at the lowering bulk of the beholder overhead, or to hope for any escape. The lead crossbowman jerked his head in a curt signal, and bows snapped forth speeding death.
'Too late!' the Old Wolf snarled. 'We're going to be too bloody late.
Dauntless, a good twenty paces ahead and sprinting hard over loose, rolling stones and greasy, best unseen alley refuse, didn't bother to reply. His blade was in his hand, but he was still a good seventy feet or more from the back of the nearest bowman in the ring-to say nothing of the half a dozen or so of their fellows kneel shy;ing in his way and cranking their bows, or the mon shy;strous beholder floating overhead.
They didn't look to be taking prisoners, or pausing for a moment of gloating. The men stank of fear. Even as Dauntless hurled himself into a desperate, reckless sprint, bows hummed. The archers flung themselves hastily back and down, boots scraping on stone, to avoid being struck by ricocheting bolts fired by their fellows facing them across the deadly ring.
And so it was that the young Harper, with Mirt puff shy;ing along like a furious walrus in his wake, had a clear view of two beautiful bodies arching and twisting in agony. Silver flames roared up in sudden, street shak shy;ing fury-to the obvious surprise of the beholder hang shy;ing so low overhead.
That was all he saw before everything in front of him vanished in blinding, silvery light. The very stones of the street rose up to smite him, dashing him back, back into waiting … hard. . things. .
Something dark and tentacled drew back from a spell-shrouded window in Skullport and said coldly to some shy;thing else in the same room, 'Come, and watch fools die. It's futile-even fatal-to strike directly at the Chosen, If you can trick them into working for you, though.. .'
Something else took two eager, slithering strides before the street outside the window exploded.
Qilue had always hated arrows. Quarrels, darts, and slung stones, too; anything that enabled some coward to deal death from a safe distance. Yet her fairness drove her through mounting pain to admit that those archers probably hated and feared the spells she could unleash on them-often from a safer distance-as much, or more. The torment dragged her away from that thought, letting it recede into a crimson distance regardless of her feeble attempts to claw and cling to something-anything-more than the raging pain.
Qilue sobbed, or tried to, and flailed her shuddering limbs about despairingly. The drow priestess wallowed in gut wrenching agony around four quarrels crossed in her breast and belly, struggling to swallow as fire boiled up in her throat and choked her.
Laeral was twisting in similar torment, her body a small forest of crossbow bolts. Snarling and rolling back and forth, she looked more like a spiny beast than the Lady Mage of Waterdeep. Silver fire spat to the stones, spraying down as Laeral tore quarrels from her flesh and threw them, flaming, away. When the flames rushed out of her in a sudden gout that sent Khelben's consort sprawling onto her face on the stones, she shrieked, rolled over heedless of the quar shy;rels still in her back, and sent the boiling, raging flames straight up into the air like a lance stabbing up at the beholder.
Her roll had forced some of the remaining quarrels right through her. They burst up out of her front, spew shy;ing flames. Laeral lashed the blazing eye tyrant with those flames, her face savage. Its central eye went dark, melting away into ruin as the beholder erupted in flames and started to spin, its great mouth yawning open in a wet, bubbling roar of agony.
By then, Qilue had managed to get to her knees, her every breath a searing flood of wet and blazing silver.
She looked up through the flames of her own blood at the bowmen before her. Some were still scrambling up, plucking up bows, and trotting hastily away to where others had finished cranking their bows and were readying quarrels for another shot. Qilue snarled, dipped one hand into the wetness at her belly and spat out the words Mystra had taught her so long ago. Lines of spilling fire raced from her fingertips. She aimed at bowmen's eyes with the same ruthlessness they'd shown her. In moments they were staggering, shriek shy;ing, and falling with enthusiasm.
Qilue turned, crouching low as a few quarrels whistled past her, and dealt blindness all around the ring. As she came around to where she'd begun, leav shy;ing only a few crouching bowmen unscathed, the beholder cartwheeled into view, shrinking into black shy;ened wrinkles as it spun away down the street. It struck the side of a building and tore away most of a wooden balcony. Laeral rose unsteadily, the last burned remnants of the quarrels that had transfixed her falling away from her blackened body, and hurled a spell at it with both hands.
Fire burst forth in brilliance above the street, and the beholder fell into ashes amid its tumbling embers. Laeral wasted no time in watching its destruction, but turned with threads of silver sparks leaping between her fingers. 'Have you left me any?' she asked her sister.
Qilue managed a smile, tongues of silver flame hiss shy;ing out to lick her nose, and gasped, 'A few.'
Laeral nodded, looked around at the stumbling bowmen, and decided no quarrels would be immedi shy;ately forthcoming. She looked back at Qilue, clucked and frowned at her sister's condition, and reached out to heal, with fire dancing from her fingertips.
The drow priestess hissed in relief and pressed against the Lady Mage's soothing touch. As Qilue let go the last of her pain with a groan, Laeral murmured wordless comfort, and glanced over one of her sister's ebony shoulders. Her gaze met the wondering eyes of a man not all that far away, and she gave him a glare that brought silver fire leaping into her eyes for just a moment.
Mirt, his hands under the arms of a groggy, Daunt shy;less, did not need a more pointed command. He nodded and started dragging the young Harper, hastily back into an alley. Mirt was not, Laeral noted, the only man seeking to hastily depart the street.
Laeral nodded her satisfaction at that, pressed her fingertips to one last wound of her own-high up, where her breast started to become her shoulder-and asked Qilue, 'Were you thinking of sparing any of these oh-so-brave bowmen?'
'Two,' the priestess replied, 'sighted and whole. A hare to lead us, and a spare, should ill befall that hare. Brelma's long gone-and what good is a sprung trap if it leaves us no trail onward?'
'I'll need you to writhe and stagger, then,' Laeral murmured, 'at the same moment I do. They're firing one last volley.' The radiance that leaked from her fin shy;gers then was blue-white, not silver, but threaded faintly through the wisps of smoke around them.
When the quarrels came again, Laeral twisted away and whistled a curse at how close one had come to her throat. She threw up her arms and cried out. As the other bolts clattered on the stones beyond the two falsely staggering Chosen, the air all around blazed with cold, eerie blue fire. Laeral stopped acting ago shy;nized in an instant, and stood tall to gaze in all direc shy;tions.
Her sister straightened more slowly, watching the Lady Mage with a smile of comprehension. They could see out, but no eye could pierce the roiling fire. When it faded, no doubt, Laeral's magic would have done its work on the eyes of both sisters. Unless Qilue was very much mistaken, they'd soon be plunging into real darkness.
'I see five still on their feet,' the Lady Mage of Waterdeep said crisply, glowing spell bolts leaping from her fingertips. The blue-white missiles sped away, arcing high up into the gloom above the street. 'Have I missed anyone?'
Qilue looked all around, seeing only the five bowmen who'd fired that last volley. They were now standing peering at the two sisters as if they couldn't see down the street properly. As Qilue watched, Laeral's missiles descended from above to smite down three of them in a deadly whirlwind. At the sight of those deaths the last two bowmen exchanged a glance-and in unspoken accord they turned and fled.
'Just those two,' the drow priestess replied brightly.
Laeral gave her a sour look, then wrinkled her nose and said, 'Thanks.'
Qilue sketched a flowing bow some Waterdhavian noble had made to her at the revel, and asked, 'Do we run after them, or have you a spell handy to whisk us to their boot heels?'
'I have three such,' Laeral replied, and smiled. 'Shall we run a little, first?'
'And leave the two Harpers breathless?' Qilue responded. 'Why not?'
'You see?' The cold voice held no triumph, only calm comfort in knowing the true measure of powers abroad in the world. Tentacles lifted a goblet of wine that steamed and bubbled.
'Yes,' someone else replied shortly, slithering away to affix a cloak over the cage where a pet barking snake had been roused to noisy alarm. 'Not that the lesson was less than obvious. Chosen of Mystra are always best left
