That evoked the rage he'd hoped it would, humans were so predictable. With a wordless roar the warrior charged, hacking furiously. Ilbryn let the tree take most of the blows, waited until the blade got caught, then darted forward to snatch the man's dagger hand aside with one of his own hands…and press the other to the man's face, delivering the spell that would take his life.
Flesh smoked and melted, gurgling, the man went to his knees. By the despairing moan he made thereafter, he knew he was dying, even before he started clawing at his own flowing flesh, trying to get air.
"Not that I was unhappy to slay you all," Ilbryn told him lightly, "seeing as how you cost me a perfectly good horse." He stepped back and shot a look all around, in case other surviving adventurers…or the Slayer, whoever that might be…was approaching. No such peril seemed at hand.
The warrior made a last choking noise, then seemed to relax. "After all," Ilbryn told him, "This is the Dead Place, I'm told."
The elf turned away to walk through the camp and see if there was anything he might put to his own use. A few paces along he stopped, looked around again for foes, and bent rather stiffly and plucked up a good, slender blade from among the trodden leaves.
"Just in case," Ilbryn told the torn body of its dead, staring owner, whose fingers would forever be stretched out now toward the blade he'd let fall, the blade that now was no longer there. As the elf reached out with his own sword to cut free the scabbard from amongst the gory, tangled harness, he added almost merrily, "You never know when you'll need a good blade, after all."
Sixteen: If Magic Should Fail
If magic should fail, Faerun shall be changed forever… and not a few folk would welcome those changes. For one thing, the very land itself might tilt under the hurrying weight of the oppressed and aggrieved, chasing down now-powerless mages to settle old scores. I wonder what a river of wizards' blood would look like?
"Begone! Mighty events shake all Faerun, and the holy ones within cannot come out to speak to you now! For the love of Mystra, begone!"
The guard's voice was deep and powerful, it rolled out over the gathered crowd like a storm-driven wave crashing across the sands of a beach … but when it died away, the people were still there. Fear made their voices high and their faces white, but they clung to the front steps of the House of the Ladystar as if for their very lives and would not be moved.
The guard made a last grand "get hence" gesture and stepped back off the balcony. "I'm sorry, Bright Master," he murmured. "They feel something is very wrong. It'd take the hounding spells of Mystra herself to shift them now."
"Do you dare to blaspheme here, in the holy place itself?" the high priest hissed, eyes blazing with fury. He drew back his hand as if to strike the guard…who stood a head taller than he, despite his own great height…then let it fall back to his side, looking dazed. "Lost," he said, lips trembling. "All is lost…."
The guard enfolded the Lord of the House in a comforting embrace, as one holds a sobbing child, and said, "This shall pass, lord. Wait for nightfall, many shall leave then. Wait, know peace, and watch for some sign."
"You have some guidance for this counsel?" the high priest asked, almost desperately. He could not keep a quaver from his voice.
The guard patted his shoulders and stepped away with the grave reply, "Nay, lord…but look you, what else can we do?"
The Lord of the House managed a chuckle that was perilously close to a sob, and said, "My thanks, loyal Lhaerom." He drew in a deep breath, threw back his head as if donning his dignity like a mantle, and asked, "What do warriors do when they must wait and watch inside their walls, dawdling until a great blow falls on them?"
Lhaerom chuckled in return. "Many things, lord, most of which I leave to your wits to conjure up. There is one thing of comfort we undertake, which I suspect me your question seeks: we make soup. Pots and pots of it, as good and rich as we can manage. We let all partake, or at least smell if they cannot sup."
The high priest stared at him for a moment, then raised his hands in a "why not?" gesture and commanded the silently watching underpriests, "Get hence! To the kitchens, and make soup! Go!"
"You'll find, lord," the hulking guard added, "that…"
"Lhaerom," one of his fellow guards snapped, "fresh trouble." Without another word the guard turned away from the Lord of the House and ducked back out onto the balcony. The priest took two steps after him…only to find a guard barring his way. "no, lord," he said, face carefully expressionless." Twouldn't be wise. Some of them are throwing stones."
Outside, the bright sun fell on the closed bronze doors of the House of the Ladystar. Many fists fell thereon, too, and the guards and gatepriest had long since stopped answering knocks and cries for aid. They paced anxiously back and forth inside the gate, casting anxious glances at the bolts and bars, wondering if they'd hold. All of the spikes that could be found in the temple cellars had long since been driven between the stones to wedge the doors against being forced inward. The bright marks on those spikes told how often this morning the doors had already been sorely tested. The priest licked dry lips and asked, for perhaps the fortieth time, "And if this all gives way? What…"
The guard nearest him waved violently for him to fall silent. The priest frowned and opened his mouth to snap an angry response, then his eyes followed the guard's pointing hand to the doors and his jaw dropped almost to chest.
A man's hand was protruding through the bronze, magic crackling around his wrist where it passed through the thick metal. It was gesturing, forming the hand signs used between clergy of Mystra when enacting silent rituals.
The priest watched a few of them, then hissed, "Stay here!" and went pounding up the steps to a door that led into the barbican. He had to get onto that balcony….
The hands of the tall man in the black cloak were trembling as he drew them back from the doors. He knew he'd been seen and knew the mood of the crowd pressing in behind him. "It's no use," he said loudly. "I can't get in."
"You're one of 'em, though, aren't ye?" a voice snarled, close by his ear.
"Aye, I saw him…used a spell, he did!" put in another, high with fear and anger…or rather, the angry need to lash out.
The man in the black cloak made no reply, but looked up at the balcony in desperate hope.
It was rewarded. Two burly guards came into view with long pikes in their hands…pikes fully able to reach down, into, and through anyone standing near the gate…and asked gruffly, more or less in unison, "Yes? You have lawful business in this holy house?"
"I do," the man in the black cloak told them, ignoring the angry mutterings that rose in a wave after his words. "Why are the gates closed?"
"Great doings on high demanding contemplation on the part of all ordained servants of Mystra," the guard thundered.
"Oh? Is there an orgy going on in there, or just a pig-wallowing feast?" someone called from the thick of the crowd, and there were roars of agreement and derision. "Aye, let us in! We want some too!"
"Begone!" the guards bellowed, straightening to face the entire crowd.
"Does Mystra live?" someone cried.
"Aye!" Others took up the call. "Does the goddess of magic yet breathe?"
The guard looked scornful. "Of course she does," he snarled. "Now go away!"
"Prove it!" someone yelled. "Cast a spell!"
The guard hefted his pike. "I don't cast spells, Roldo," he said menacingly. "Do you?"
"Get one of the priests…get 'em all!" Roldo called.