As that one screamed, it reeled back into another, who slipped and got Belkram's blade in its throat. Shar fenced with another, gritting her teeth, until Belkram reached out and put his dagger into its armpit.
Then it was over, and they still stood, three panting, sweating, bleeding humans among a confusion of groaning, writhing, or silently sprawled goblinkin. They sought each other, wiping sweat from their eyes, and then stiffened at a cruel laugh from beyond the battle.
They whirled as one, in time to see Elminster's body topple in a fountain of dark blood as a black blade scythed through his neck. The blade was held by-no, it seemed to actually be one arm of a tall black figure. The Old Mage's eyes stared accusingly at them as his head dangled, long white hair firmly in the dark man's grip.
"Futile fools!" the figure sneered, and backed away from them into a whirling green light that was growing behind it.
Heartsick, Shar took three running steps and hurled her blade. But as the weapon flashed end over end, the laughing figure faded away through the gate and made the portal wink out, so her steel bounced on dark turf in the night.
She felt the tears beginning as she turned her head and saw Belkram and Itharr looking down at the headless body. Then they looked up at each other. Belkram licked dry and trembling lips twice before he managed to ask, "What do we do now?"
8
The Castle of Shadows, Kythorn 16
The shadows swirled uneasily in the vast, gloomy Great Hall of the Throne as a shimmering occurred in their midst, a disturbance that — in light of recent events — was swiftly surrounded by a dozen grim-faced elder Shadowmasters, hands raised to deal magical death.
The roiling shadows they eyed so narrowly parted into a green flame. The flame deepened swiftly into a man-high spindle and then widened into a tunnel. A breath later, Issaran of the blood of Malaug stepped proudly out of the spiraling emerald depths with a severed human head gripped in one fist, a staring man's head with long white hair and a longer white beard.
He waved his other hand, calling bloodfire down from the Shadow Throne to illuminate himself — an act of insolence for any lesser kin when a Shadowmaster High ruled in the castle. Murmurs in the shadows reminded him of that, but he cared not a whit. This was his moment of glory, and everyone must see it lest the Shadow-master forget the reward he'd promised. The amber glow drove back the darker shadows, making the center of the hall a grand and glorious place.
At the heart of the radiance, young Issaran stood tall, holding up his trophy for all to see. "Elminster of Shadowdale," he proclaimed loudly, "slain by my hand!"
"Oh?" Dhalgrave asked coldly, melting suddenly out of invisibility to hang in the air just above the proud young scion of Malaug. "So how do you explain that?" One of his powerful hands lifted to indicate the pale glow of the scrying portal, behind the dwindling disturbance that a moment ago had been Issaran's gate.
Something in that acid tone made Issaran pale as he spun, to stare openmouthed at the scene in the portal. Dhalgrave obligingly made the view expand to fill a wide arc of the hall's upper air, and made the young Malaugrym's humiliation complete.
The night sky over what must be ruined Dragonspear Castle, in the Sword Coast lands, was lit as bright as day by spell-glows. There, shuffling around in the air, wearing what could only be described as a satisfied expression, was a lone, lean figure. Elminster of Shadowdale, pipe trailing along behind him as he went, was treading empty night air as if he were walking the floor of his own kitchen.
The Old Mage was peering down into the darkness below, ignoring black arrows and hurled stones alike-as Issaran watched, some of these missiles came close to the human wizard and promptly perished in gouts of flame- and from time to time hurling spells down into the night.
Dhalgrave obligingly made the portal's view drift down to where Elminster's spells were going, just in time to show the watchers in the hall a spinning wheel of lightning plunge into the depths of a great host, an army of orcs clad in spired and fluted armor of ancient style- Netherese? Nimbralese, from the Dawn Days of that realm? No matter. That ornate armor did nothing to stop the wheel from bursting in an explosion that sent bolts of lightning sizzling off in all directions, hurling orc bodies for hundreds of feet and searing great swathes of ash-choked air, where all solid things had been burned away in an instant, through the massed army.
More than one of the watching Shadowmasters gasped or swore, and someone in the depths of the dark hall whimpered. There were more startled oaths a moment later, when Elminster's next spell scooped a thousand or more orcs skyward, whisked them some distance away to hang for a breath above another orc horde, and then dropped them all as helpless, wriggling missiles from the sky.
The portal moved again to show the small human band Elminster was protecting: an unarmed caravan fearfully struggling to pass the castle as fast as possible. Something that looked like a hemispherical shell of flying swords whirled endlessly around this small train of merchants, carving up any orcs bold-or crazed-enough to try to reach them. A scarlet mist of gore marked the edges of that deadly barrier, and the massed ranks of the orcs were starting to give way before its advance. The mutterings in the Great Hall grew louder and held a distinct note of awe, and of fear.
"Could… that be someone else?" Issaran asked, almost whining in his desperation.
"It could be," Dhalgrave said gravely, his eyes like two hard points, "but it's not. I've checked on the whereabouts of all the powerful sorcerers of Faerun… unlike certain overconfident younglings."
There were chuckles and smirks from around the chamber as a crestfallen Issaran looked at the head he held and said unwillingly, "So this… isn't Elminster at all?"
The head's eyes swiveled up to meet his and winked, its mouth pursed into a kiss.
The watching Shadowmasters drew back in a wary hush, fearful that Elminster might have worked a slaying spell on the head. But the disembodied visage merely blew Issaran three kisses and then began to melt away like wax in a hot flame, dripping down into nothingness.
Fearfully Issaran flung the thing away from him. The head faded away before it could reach the floor, with one last mocking wink and a chuckle of its own that made certain elder Shadowmasters stiffen-notably the serpent-man who was Yabrant, and the wyvern who was Kostil.
"Try again," Dhalgrave said, almost wearily, and waved a hand. The portal sprang back to its original size and location and the bloodfire winked out, leaving Issaran in darkness.
Slowly he walked away across the black marble floor, never seeing the Shadowmaster who stood alone on a high balcony, cloaked in deep shadows. Milhvar watched the young Malaugrym go, and there was a tight smile on his face as he shook his head.
Deep in an inner room of the Castle of Shadows hung a gem, a sapphire as large as a man's head. Its rich blue depths glowed with captured fire as it floated above a pool whose thick black waters had yielded many potions. A spell library of ancient Netherese make, the gem held spells of great power ready to be used by anyone who dared to touch it. All Malaugrym knew the Shadow-master High could instruct the gem to visit death on the deliverer of any touch but his own.
There was one small way, however, in which any learned Shadowmaster could call on the power of the gem. One did so now, causing the massive stone to chime softly in its private chamber.