“Good,” Elminster replied with a gleeful grin-as he plucked up the crossbow to aim it back down the passage, and trigger it.
Its loud clack was followed by a groan from the Zhentarim enforcer back down the far end of the passage, as its bolt sank deep into his chest.
Then Elminster kicked the door open and whirled the door guard around in front of him as a shield in one whirling motion, his hand clamped like a steel trap on the bones of the man’s elbow.
The room beyond was almost filled by a bed. It was creaking as a naked, cursing, and very hairy man scrambled out from under a hissing-in-fear woman, reaching for his sword.
He stopped when El’s spell took hold of his mind.
Almost absently El flung the guard into the coinlass as she came at him furiously, her hands like claws. There’d be time enough to compel her mind later-and the guard’s, too, if need be.
Right now, he had something more urgent to do. His sudden arrival in the dark and raging cesspit of Ornthen Kelgoran’s mind had alerted Manshoon, just as he’d expected.
Smiling savagely, El destroyed the First Lord’s “eye” in Kelgoran’s mind, searing Manshoon’s magic swiftly enough to leave its distant owner not knowing who’d burst into his enforcer’s mind, or why.
That should bring Manshoon out of whatever bed he was sporting in, right now, and set him to doing things that would add decidedly more fun to the unfolding proceedings.
The guard and the coinlass were still shrieking and tumbling on the floor when Ornthen Kelgoran burst past them, sword in hand but not bothering to snatch up and put on anything more than his boots, to hurry out into the streets with the strange old man.
The Zhentarim slayer was more than a little drunk, and was a cruel, unsubtle brute at the best of times, but he knew exactly where all of the waylords dwelt.
Under Elminster’s mental goading, he loped through the streets with a no-longer-stumbling old man right beside him, heading for the nearest Darkway just as fast as he could.
Guidance Gives Out
Elminster shuddered at the sudden burst of mental pain, then sighed. It was too late; Ornthen Kelgoran was toppling, almost beheaded, his mind dying with dazing speed.
Elminster broke contact and let the Zhentilar fall, spraying blood as his head wobbled loosely on what was left of a thick, hairy neck. Thrice he’d held Kelgoran unmoving at each Darkway, to keep the man helpless as he altered Manshoon’s slaying spell to his own.
This fourth time, the guards of Torlcastle Towers had been just a bit too swift and bold. He hadn’t even begun the spell, yet here they were, with Kelgoran cut down and eight uniformed slayers charging at the one remaining intruder, howling all sorts of unpleasant things as their swords sought his life.
Elminster ducked away from one, almost collided with another who’d raced around to gut him from behind, and flung himself flat on his back. The startled Torlcastle guard stumbled over him, off balance and trying unsuccessfully to stab downward with a sword that was too long to draw back far enough to stab, and ran right into the guard who’d been hounding El.
Lying on the smooth, polished, cold stone floor, Mystra’s man sighed and worked a spell that plucked all the guards off their heavy-booted feet and flung them at the ceiling high above.
They slammed into it with gratifyingly heavy thuds, swords and daggers fell from various hands-and then they all came crashing back down.
El stayed on his back amid the groans, knowing this wasn’t done yet. He had to prevail swiftly, or servants and guards from all over Torlcastle’s mansion would be in there, and readying crossbows, and he didn’t have time for all of this foolishness Four guards came swaying unsteadily to their feet after their journeys aloft and back again; one of them even had hold of his sword.
Elminster rolled to his feet. “Keep back,” he warned them. “I have no quarrel with any of ye. Just let me be, and-”
He knew his words were wasted even before he said them, but Mystra expected her agents to wield their Art with some sense of responsibility. Four guards came charging-and a fifth was crawling toward a fallen weapon, giving El a murderous glare.
Elminster sighed again, worked a simple spell, and watched as the closest guard got plucked to his death, hurled through the portal that would boil his lifeblood into acid at its far end. Well, certain Sembians did need fair warning of all of this.
That bought him time enough to use another spell on the others to fling them away into battering collisions with the walls of the room. Then he threw one into another, and hauled the crawler up off the floor to crash into the faces of two reeling guards.
Everyone went down, buying him enough time to circle around behind the Darkway, to where he could keep an eye on them all, and work the spell he needed to cast.
Fresh shouts came from the doors of the room as the portal flared, but Elminster’s next spell had snatched him away out of Torlcastle Towers even before the crossbow bolts came singing through the spot where he’d stood.
He was in a hurry. Manshoon would be roused and at work by now, and a certain servant of Mystra had to find another Zhentarim who knew where the rest of the Darkways were.
And as every wayfarer knows, good guides are always hard to find.
Sitting Alone in Highturrets
Morlar Elkauvren was a waylord, and lived in a towering pile of stone, a great rising prow of tall windows, balconies, and spires that would look most loomingly impressive against the winking stars, to someone who had time to stand in awe.
Elminster wasn’t such a someone, just now. It was enough that he knew Elkauvren and the location of his home-Highturrets, an apt name if there ever was one-and that somewhere in that vast mansion was a Darkway.
And if he knew his Zhentarim, word would have spread among them by now that some stranger was tracking down Darkway after Darkway. They would be hunting for this stranger, and massing defenders around each portal to watch for his approach-or, for the Darkways they didn’t yet control, around the mansions that held such portals.
Which was why Elminster now looked not like a bearded man, but a slender, rather dirty young woman clad in a hooded cloak, high boots, and not much else.
“Warm you, saer?” she husked hopefully, to the parade of dark-armored men striding swiftly down her alleyway.
One of them whirled, sword half-grating out of its scabbard. “Get gone, sister!” he barked. “Well away from here, and come not back, or it’ll be the last thing you ever do!”
Her reply was to duck her head, hiss angrily, and-once the Zhentilar were past-scurry hastily out of the alcove she’d been loitering in and flee the way they’d come.
“Who’s yon?” someone barked, from ahead.
“A streetskirts,” another man replied. “They’ve turned her out-let her go.”
El paused for a moment at the cross street where those two Zhents stood, and murmured fearfully, “Which one of you is the wizard?”
Why?” the first Zhent snarled.
“F-for later,” she quavered. “I was told to find him, another night, so I need to know what he looks like. Then I’ll go.”
Cold eyes measured her for a moment, ere the second Zhent turned and pointed. “There. He’s called Cadathen. Likes redheads.”
The coinlass shook back her hood and opened her cloak, flouncing just enough to make it swirl. Long, unbound red hair swirled, too, though the mens’ eyes sought certain other revealed features.
“Thank you,” she husked, before they could do more than grin, and hurried away. She didn’t bother to tell them that her thanks were to Mystra, for the fact that the magic “she” was using could shift the hue of hair even faster than it took to pull open a garment.