If you do try to become royal magician, Elminster,” Arclath announced slowly, “even knowing you mean well, I might be forced to oppose you. You’d be better for Cormyr than Manshoon, yet you’re still an old and mighty archwizard, and an outlander to boot. Magic has a way of… corrupting those who wield it.”
“It does indeed. Yet, if it makes ye sleep more serenely, lad, know this-I have less than no interest in becoming another Vangerdahast. Giving certain war wizards a solid kick up the backside, aye; but, commanding them in the name of the Dragon Throne, never. I’d as soon herd nobles of Cormyr. If ye’ll forgive me.”
Arclath smirked despite himself, and cast a glance at the towers of court and palace, visible above the rooftops, not all that far away.
“So, how are we getting into the palace this time? It’s too much to hope they’ll leave that house behind the stables unguarded again.”
“Ye keep hidden-the lot of ye,” Mirt offered. “I’ll do the talking. Me, the fat uncouth outlander, who’s been out in the city an’ has heard something the Lady Glathra must hear. Herself alone, from my maw straight to her ears, right now.”
Arclath rolled his eyes. “And if they don’t believe you?”
“Ah. Then ye burst out to the attack. Nay, wait a bit! Rune and Storm, scantily clad, dance forth, an’ I’ll admit I’m really a panderer, bringing ’em in for the crown prince, or Hallowdant… aye, Hallowdant’s safer. ’Tis a pose I’ve worked before.”
Storm winked at Amarune. “Really? You’re sure pandering is just a pose for you?”
“Well, now… back in Waterdeep, I’d know what to charge and who to offer-er, ah, knew. They’ll all be long dead now, hey? Well-”
The awning they were passing under suddenly crashed down atop Storm, with an attacker who landed heels-first, dashing her to the ground.
As their attacker landed, Storm bouncing under those boots, a sword slashed Amarune from behind, flashing up under her left arm and slicing into her side. A pulse of purple light-enchantment-burst from that flashing steel, and Rune shrieked as she fell.
As Arclath shouted something furious and desperate, Mirt charged like a human bludgeon, driving the attacker away from Amarune and stabbing with both his daggers as he bowled the stranger to the cobbles and they rolled together.
Storm’s tresses reached out to follow them, but the pair had moved too far-and the attacker, who was taller, faster, and more supple than Mirt, broke free of the wheezing man and up to his-no, her-feet, spinning to stand facing them, a silhouette dark and sleekly curvaceous, with a long, slender, and faintly glowing sword in hand.
That purple radiance brightened into a pale white light and showed them a tall, shapely, and fit woman in tight black leather armor and high boots that were too worn and mold-blotched to creak. Helmless, she had long, wild hair, dead-white skin, and a cruel, smiling face. Her eyes glowed red, and a small patch of mold adorned one of her cheeks.
“I am the defender of Cormyr,” she purred, “and Elminster of Shadowdale, for your crimes against this fair realm, your life is more than forfeit!”
She was gazing down at Amarune, who lay moaning on the cobbles, bright red blood flooding out of her and Storm rising to crouch over her like a grim gate guard, sword drawn and something else-a helm-in her other hand.
“Yes,” Targrael added, seeing Arclath’s horrified look. “I know. This is the Sage of Shadowdale, not a foolish little minx of a mask dancer. And it’s soon to become the remains of Elminster of Shadowdale!”
Arclath Delcastle swallowed, then charged at her, drawing his sword with a flourish as he went.
“I’m Elminster, disloyal Highknight!” he snarled. “Not this blameless lass! Is this how you serve Cormyr?”
Targrael’s glowing steel flashed up to turn his blade deftly aside as she hissed, “You dare to judge my loyalty, child of a noble? You, spoiled brat of one of the many traitor Houses who seek to sunder our fair realm? You’re no Elminster! He’s a fool, yes, but not your sort of a fool!”
Her sword lashed out, but Arclath parried expertly, smiling at the momentary surprise in her eyes-there are some benefits to a noble upbringing, and skilled swordwork is one of them-and advanced, pressing her. Out of a spinning clangor of parries, he ducked down into a lunge, then sidestepped her parry to lunge again, driving her back from Rune.
“Keep going,” Storm murmured up at him, and he turned his head toward her long enough to see her jam the helm in her hand over Amarune’s head.
It was the blackened helm from one of the helmed horrors El had felled. The helm full of roiling fire.
The wild shriek that rang out from inside it, in the instant before Rune jerked wildly in Storm’s grasp and then fell limp, distracted Arclath just an instant too long The glowing sword slicing at his throat came so close that he felt its chill along his cheek and jaw, a sear so slight it would soon fade, as Targrael sought to slay him-and Mirt rolled right under her, snatching her feet from the cobbles and pitching her helplessly onto her face, her blade falling away just before it would have cut into Delcastle flesh.
Arclath whirled back to the fray and saw the death knight at his feet and snarlingly clawing at him, wildly hacking at the cobbles beneath and behind her with her blade and striking many sparks-yet failing to do more than make slices in Mirt’s already-ragged boots, as he spun deftly around on one shoulder on the cobbles, away from her.
Arclath drew back his sword to stab her, then turned its edge so its point could seek her neck and throat as he brought it down-just how does one slay a death knight, anyhail?
Then he faltered, his blade slowing and drifting aside in the air as something burst into his head.
No, some one. Elminster. Ashes were sliding itchingly over his collar…
Targrael was up again, an unlovely smile growing on her face as she swung her sword in a vicious slash that couldn’t miss.
Damn you, Elminster! Your brain-riding has slain me! You ruthless Storm’s sword struck aside Targrael’s with a shriek of straining steel, and the charging ranger’s shoulder slammed into the death knight and sent her staggering helplessly back. Whereupon, Mirt hooked Targrael’s planted hind foot out from under her and sent her toppling again.
“Back!” he roared, waving both arms wildly. “Keep ye back!”
Storm flung herself away from the bouncing, wallowing death knight, and as Targrael twisted around as swiftly as any angry eel, Mirt drew something from one of the many bulging pouches at his belt-and tossed it right in her face.
Arclath had time to see that it was a palm-sized sphere of rusty iron-and that the lady Highknight looked momentarily bewildered, ere her expression slid into dawning rage. Then the sphere glowed the purple-white of an awakening lesser enchantment of elder palace magics, and expanded with astonishing speed into a widening web of iron hoops, like the bands around an iron barrel. Still holding the shape of a sphere, they fell around the scrambling-to-her-feet Targrael in a cage.
Then they snapped tight again, trapping her, so that Mirt faced a much larger iron sphere from which jutted Targrael’s head, her empty hand, the tip of her glowing blade, and one foot, with the rest of her hidden within its widening, now overlapping bands.
“Stlarn it,” Mirt growled, weaving to his feet and huffing heavily for breath, “that’s not going to hold her for long! Not with yon fancy magic blade of hers.”
“It doesn’t have to,” Storm gasped, “if we can reach the palace before she’s free! Hurry!”
“But, but- Rune!” Arclath protested, even as Storm dragged Amarune to her feet and started to run.
He could see that Amarune was stumbling along blindly, the Harper holding her up and guiding her. Her back and side were drenched with fresh blood, but she moved like someone unhurt, just dazed and unable to see.
Small wonder, that last: her head was still encased in a helm far too large for her, whose flames were fainter and dwindling still more as Arclath stared. Flames that could be clearly seen out the open front of the helm, which had wobbled around to show him the back of Amarune’s head.
Was the blackened shell of metal healing her? It was certainly losing the fire that had raged in it in the wake of Elminster’s horror-rending spell.
