behind Xanther, pipe glowing in his hand, and calmly tipped the councillor forward over the rail.
Xanther had time for the raw beginnings of a scream as he plunged-just before he struck the raised edge of a shattered stone table that rose out of the rubble like the edge of a giant's shield.
It was old and gray and very, very hard. The sharp sounds of Xanther's bones shattering echoed loudly in the hall. His body bounced limply and then hung motionless atop the table. Rivers of dark blood ran swiftly down the stone.
'Shar! Shar, do ye live?' Elminster called, his voice trembling.
The lady ranger lay still in the dust, but the Zhentarim she'd not managed to reach snarled a word and pointed an angry hand at Elminster.
Magic missiles flashed through the air. The Old Mage sighed, cursed, and sat down on the balcony floor to await them. Their strike shook his body, and he grunted in pain.
Zalarth Bloodbrow smiled savagely and cast a fireball, grandly but carefully, onto that balcony.
Its flash and roar shook the hall, and Zalarth reached for the teleport ring he wore. The she-lich could hardly fail to hear that. He had to snatch some proof of Elminster's demise-whatever was left, he supposed-and hie himself back to Manshoon before she came.
Under his boots, the stones were still hot. Roiling dust and smoke curled in the air. Zalarth searched all about, coughing and waving smoke away, but look as he might, he could find no sign of Elminster.
He heard a thud below and struggled to the rail to see Elminster standing over the fallen Avaerl, pipe in one hand and a bloodied chunk of stone in the other. 'That's for what ye did to the lass,' the old man told the slumped mageling severely before he scurried to the fallen ranger, did something, and was gone again.
Zalarth frowned and reached for his own ring. Two could play this game.
He chose another balcony, stared at it until he'd seen it clearly, and turned the ring on his finger.
From this height, the broken body of the councillor looked like a sprawled toy. Zalarth looked around hastily. Except for some mushrooms, he was alone. Behind him, dark archways led off to unknown chambers. The wizard crouched, drawing a wand from its sheath on his thigh, and peered over the balcony rail.
There! On another balcony, below and across the hall, stood Elminster. The Old Mage of Shadowdale was puffing his pipe into life and looking down into the hall.
He'd manage no last-breath escape this time. Zalarth held the wand up and ready as he turned the ring again.
Abruptly his view of the hall changed to include Elminster, two steps away, raising sardonic eyebrows above his pipe. An instant later, the old man was gone, and Zalarth's wand spat death at empty air.
Zalarth choked off his snarl of anger as he saw the she-lich through an archway, striding up a broad stair toward him. His wand spoke again, but she only smiled and shook her head as the wand's magic was turned away by an unseen shield in front of her. She raised a clawlike hand, and Zalarth desperately twisted his ring as he looked over the balcony rail.
The ring took him there, to the floor of the hall, in the shifting rubble. In a breath or two she'd be hurling spells down at him, to say nothing of what Elminster might do. He had only an instant to choose a new destination.
Unfortunately, the mageling was rising up in front of him like an awakened zombie, face streaming blood. Wild eyes met Zalarth's, and bloody lips parted in surprise.
'Master Zalarth! How come you h-?'
Zalarth snarled in frustration. The wand crackled, and Avaerl of Sembresh stiffened, sobbed, and buckled at the knees.
'Gulkuth,' he whispered hoarsely, with his last breath, raising a faltering hand. 'Gulkuth!' And then he crashed on his face and lay still. Dust curled up around him.
Zalarth shrugged. Gulkuth? A spell? He looked through the nearest archway, reaching for his ring. At any moment rending magic could rain down on him from above.
Something stirred under his feet, and the Zhentarim staggered and almost fell. He looked back.
Sharantyr was struggling to her knees, feeling for her sword. Dust caked her wild-tangled hair and the side of her face, and her eyes were bright with pain-but a ring gleamed brightly on her finger, and she was rising, steel in hand.
She meant his death. Zalarth's wand came up and he said coldly, 'It is always a pleasure to destroy a Knight of Myth Drannor. Die, bitch!'
'Excuse me,' said a calm new voice from very close by, and Zalarth felt his elbow struck sharply. His aim was driven wide; the wand's power smote a stone wall harmlessly.
'Met are we, mage of the Zhentarim,' another voice said formally, 'and the pleasure, I assure you, is all ours.'
'Aye. Farewell, tyrant mage,' the first voice said, and Zalarth Bloodbrow scarce had time to look from one grimly smiling speaker to another before two long swords passed each other in his chest, sliding in with silken ease and leaving a sudden rising burning in their wake, a burning worse than anything he'd ever felt.
Zalarth felt himself falling, falling with mouth open but no breath left to speak, hands open but with nothing to grab. He stared hard into the rising white mists that had not been there an instant ago, and sank forever into the nothingness beyond them.
'Best chop off that finger, there. There's no telling what Zhent rings will do, and I'd hate to have to kill this one four or five times,' Belkram said briskly. Itharr nodded, looking all around.
'Where's Elminster gotten t-ah, there!' He pointed.
Belkram looked up to the balcony where the Old Mage was unconcernedly puffing on his pipe. Elminster waved to them lazily.
The two Harpers shouted in horror. Behind Elminster, a bone-white face had appeared, a gleam in its dark eye sockets and a widening grin stretching its ghastly jaw. Long, skeletal arms reached for the Old Mage, and there was nothing-utterly nothing-that Itharr or Belkram, or Sharantyr coming unsteadily to her feet beside them, could do.
Sharantyr threw back her head in despair, and screamed. 'Mystra, aid us all!'
23
'And so it ends,' Manshoon said in disgust, turning away from the glowing scrying bowl. 'As always… mages of the Brotherhood cut down by sword-swinging louts because they're too foolish, or arrogant, or set on their course with no wits to spare for looking around them. This bodes ill for us all. Time and time again we suffer these embarrassments. If the Brotherhood does not triumph in such little things, we will surely fail and be swept away and forgotten.'
Silent faces looked back at him, Anaithe's among them. Fear was written plainly on all-in dark eyes, sweat upon temples, and lips that trembled in their hard set. The Lord Most High looked around at them all in long, sour silence. In sudden rage he turned, robes swirling, to snatch down a staff from where it floated in the air above.
'This is too important to ignore,' he snapped. 'Elminster's carrying greater power in him now than I've ever felt in any being. Left alone, he is a great danger to us, and if we can seize what he holds, none will be able to stand against us. Guard this place well in my absence, Belaghar, or you will pay the price.'
'But, my lord,' the wizard called Belaghar protested, waving a hand toward the bowl. 'Is this wise? The Brotherhood needs your leadership now more than… ever… and, if… you… sh…' His words slowed and finally died to silence under the cold weight of Manshoon's venomous gaze.
'Think you I am a fool?' the lord of the Brotherhood asked coldly. 'Do I seem likely to be thrown down by any of those'-he stretched a long finger toward the glowing waters of the bowl-'as two minor magelings were? If it so seems to you, then it is you, Belaghar, who are the fool.'
He strode to a certain archway in the shadowed gloom, then slowed, turned, and added with dark humor,
