It swirled around the ghosts, halting them and whirling their blue flames away in a surging chaos of swirling lights and confused sounds, most loudly sharp shrieks like hundreds of harpstrings breaking at once.
The three slayers staggered, hacked vainly at the air, crouched as if caught in a gale-and suddenly were gone, all ragged cries and tatters of blue, fading flame, whirled into… nothingness.
Beside Rune, Arclath whimpered suddenly and burst out, “The wolves! And Dalatha, weeping! Oh, her kisses… ohhh, broken again. Crowns do that.” With every word his voice wavered, sounding like him or like Elminster-or like other folk entirely.
Amarune looked at him, winced, then ducked behind him and took firm hold of his jerkin. Heart pounding, she stood with him in the gloom, waiting.
A long time passed, or seemed to, as Arclath-or Elminster-started to sing. She couldn’t make out the words, and the tunes were unfamiliar, but he didn’t seem that much different from a lot of drunkards she remembered from the Dragonride Suddenly another blueflame ghost loomed up, running hard with his sword raised.
Desperately Rune tugged at Arclath, trying to drag him back-but the ghost was already fading and breaking apart, though it kept on struggling to reach them. Its foremost, reaching hand melted, then the sword arm, with the blade it held, a knee and then… all of it.
The singing stopped abruptly, as if Arclath had been shocked by the blueflame ghost’s disappearance. Trembling, Amarune held him and waited.
After a time, there came a bright flash from the far side of the roiling magic, and the ward shuddered and seemed to grow thinner.
Another flash. More thinning.
Then another ghost appeared. A tall, cruel-faced woman was walking behind it, working magic as she came. Whenever she finished a spell, it caused one of those bright flashes, melting more of the wards away.
Amarune hastily dragged the lurching man in her arms back to keep the fading, thinning wards around the ghost and the woman.
Suddenly the ghost started to melt, sinking down into the roilings with surprising speed. The woman reeled. She was close enough-five or six strides away, no more-that Rune could see that dagger sticking out of her chest.
Then lightning burst out of nowhere, slamming into the woman from behind and thrusting her into a bulging-eyed dance on tiptoes, wild spasms of agony that ended with her fall, a sprawl on her face that left her lying still.
Fresh bolts of lightning stabbed and ricocheted through the last, thinning wisps of the wards. Behind them, a man-their hurler-was striding slowly into the cavern.
Amarune let go of her Arclath, spun around, and ran deeper into the cave. There was an unpleasant stirring ahead of her in the darkness, as if unfriendly magic was awakening to her arrival.
Caught in its fringes, she stopped and sank down in silence. She was as deep in as she could go and still see Arclath, who was lying in a heap, mumbling and feebly crawling.
She knew the man coming into the cave. She’d seen him once or twice before in the city streets. It was the wizard Suzailans called most powerful mage in Suzail, Larak Dardulkyn.
He strode past the woman he’d felled to stand smiling down at the dazed, incoherently babbling Arclath.
“So, Elminster, it comes down to you and me once more,” he said, almost pleasantly. Flexing his hands, he added gently, “Prepare to die, old fool. Again.”
Rune swallowed, not knowing what to do, feeling utterly helpless. Should she throw the buckle at him? Well, what good would that do?
Almost purring with glee, the man began a spell she couldn’t hope to stop And then toppled forward, with a sudden shriek.
The woman he’d struck down with his lightning had reached up from the ground with her sword to slash his nearest leg.
“Poisoned,” she snarled triumphantly, before falling back exhausted.
On the ground beside Arclath, Dardulkyn rolled, cursing furiously and clutching at his wound.
His rolling became shuddering, and he lost his grip on his leg as he started to convulse. His oaths went incoherent as foam spewed from his mouth.
Rune had seen enough. Heedless of the unseen magic that sang up to claw at her, she turned and raced deeper into the cavern.
Hurrying to get the blueflame buckle to The Simbul.
Cymmarra heaved herself to her knees, the world spinning slowly above her…
Everything was slow and painful. Everything took so much strength
…
She lost count of her weak and staggering tries, but by using her sword like a crutch, she found her feet at last. Only the cavern wall kept her upright after that first, horribly shaky step.
She clung to the wall, whispering prayers she didn’t believe in and scarcely remembered, over and over again, seeking strength.
When she felt like she might have found a little, she turned her head and smirked at the two feebly moving men. Dardulkyn’s words had made it clear he was Manshoon, and there was no reason she knew of that he might have been wrong about the young lordling being Elminster.
“Great archwizards,” she sneered. “Not a lot to choose between the two of you, is there?” Shoving off from the wall, she reeled forward, raising her poisoned blade again.
Dardulkyn suddenly sprang up, wild-eyed, and fled, arms flailing. He fell often as he went, but had a frenzied speed she couldn’t hope to match.
“The poison will take you,” she murmured after him, weak but baleful, “and then I will. After I take care of the Sage of Shadowdale.”
That body hadn’t moved yet and was right in front of her. One lurching stride, two… she had to ground the sword and lean on it to keep from falling. Drawing in a deep and shuddering breath, she steadied herself and raised it again.
“One thrust,” she gasped. “One thrust, you old-”
Elminster rolled away, then found his feet with the agility and grace of a much younger man.
Arclath Delcastle had snatched back control of his own body. He smiled mirthlessly as he drew his sword, then met Cymmarra’s staggering rush with a deft parry.
Slicing two fingers off her sword hand on his backswing, he snapped, “One thrust? I think not.”
Magic clawed at her like a long-nailed drunkard trying to paw his way to a handy dancer’s charms, but it seemed to sigh and fade with her every step. She was fighting her way down a deep, narrow cavern…
Amarune pushed on into darkness until she saw a tiny glow of light ahead.
It was coming from a pool of water, where there was much splashing.
Going nearer, Rune saw a chained woman thrashing on the edge of the pool. She had eyes like those of an angry wolf and wore only the great swirling chaos of her long, silver hair, tresses that moved by themselves like Storm Silverhand’s hair.
Which it was, in fact, entangled with, Rune saw, the two heads of hair wrestling like hundreds of angry snakes as Storm and The Simbul-this had to be The Simbul-struggled with each other.
Storm was trying to drag her sister out of the pool, but The Simbul was stronger in her frenzy, overpowering Storm and dragging them both back down into the waters, time and again.
Now what? Rune discovered she was trembling, not just from the cavern’s magic but in deepening fear.
Then Storm saw her-and the blueflame buckle. “Put it in her mouth!” she gasped. “Rune, put it in her mouth, and hold it there until it’s all gone-no matter what happens!”
Rune swallowed then started forward. The buckle began to glow again.
With a menacing crackle, The Simbul’s hair left off trying to strangle and pinion Storm and reached for the buckle. Her angry wolf eyes flared blue.
Amarune went nearer, trying to keep close to the wall so as not to get easily dragged into the pool.
The Simbul growled at her menacingly, then snapped her teeth at the buckle. Just like a hungry wolf.
