A silver plume of flame arose within the gaping ruin of Qilue's face and snarled around its torn flesh like a buzzing fly. Laeral hissed in concern and lifted her fin shy;gers to trace the intricate gestures of a spell that called on Qilue's unharmed eye to spin itself a new match. She held her kneeling sister's head steady with a hand laced through Qilue's restlessly twisting hair, and looked around in all directions for the approach of fresh danger as the spell did its slow work.
What she saw instead were a lot of spying eyes slid shy;ing back into concealment. In the distant gloom where the fluttercap mushrooms ended and the street turned to join another passage between unwelcoming stone buildings, a drow with a smoky lock of hair stood look shy;ing back over her shoulder at the two sisters.
Ah, Brelma, doubtless deliberately leading us into trap after trap.
The Lady Mage of Waterdeep sent that thought directly to her sister, and Qilue replied aloud, "Of course-and I appreciate the effort she's going to. Many folks wouldn't have taken all this trouble." Her voice was more wry than bitter.
Laeral lifted an eyebrow, then sighed. "There are, however, always the favorite few. ."
Something in her voice made Qilue look up. Her one good eye glanced along the street to where Brelma was hastily ducking around the corner of a building, in time to see a trio of leather-armored men trot out of an alley with wound and cocked crossbows in their hands. They ranged themselves into a line, loaded their weapons, took aim-as noises on all sides of the sisters marked the arrival of many of their fellows-and fired.
The air was full of quarrels as the Lady Mage of Waterdeep thrust Qilue's head to the ground and threw herself flat. The drow priestess turned over as quarrels cracked and rattled on the stones all around her. She opened her mouth to shape a spell. She was still won shy;dering why Laeral hadn't already done so when she saw the reason.
From out of the dark tangle of decaying balconies, laundry lines, and crossing catwalks high above them, an all too familiar shape was descending-a sphere of bony plates split by a wide, crooked, many-toothed mouth that was clearly smiling. A beholder. A wriggling fringe of wormlike eyestalks could be seen around one curve of the body, and above that unfriendly smile, the eye tyrant's large central orb was fixed unwaveringly on the two Chosen. Laeral hissed something in the frantic instant before that eye erupted in the softly racing cone of pale light that consumed and doused all magic it touched.
"Not a very stylish trap," Qilue snarled, the first cold whispers of fear rising in her. "Not that it needs to be." Without magic, they were simply two tall and unarmored targets lying in the midst of a ring of crossbow-men who undoubtedly had daggers in plenty to use when their quarrels were all spent.
A wet thump came from somewhere very near, and Qilue heard her sister gasp.
"Laeral?" she cried, rolling over with no thought for the ring of grim men closing in carefully around them, or the beholder hanging so close above. "Sister?"
"What was that foolishness I said earlier about find shy;ing out who the lions were?" Laeral asked, her voice tight with pain. A dark, heavy war-quarrel stood out of one of her shoulders, threads of silver smoke stirring away from the wound, and from between the fingers she held pressed against her right flank, tongues of silver flame were licking.
"Laeral!" Qilue gasped, crawling hastily forward. "Lie still, and let me. ."
"Die right beside her," one of the crossbowmen said coldly.
Qilue looked up to find a ring of ready bows aimed at her head. There were a dozen or more, even with most 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. Move, youngling!"
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.