Ed Greenwood - The Herald

Alustriel, however, was frowning at the Srinshee. “How can you be sure of what Shar will do?”

“I know her,” came the bleak reply. “Far better than I care to. I was the Herald of Mystra before El was-stars and seas, before any of you were born . I met many of the gods, often.” The Srinshee shook her head and added in a whisper, “I am … too old for this now.”

She turned away. “So come on. If he can’t walk straight yet, bring him.”

Elminster waved away helping hands, started striding after the Srinshee-and fell flat on his face.

Grinning and shaking their heads, Laeral and Alustriel hauled him to his feet, put their arms around his shoulders, and started walking him through the forest. Six stumbling steps later they lost patience, exchanged glances, slid long locks of silver hair under their burden’s thighs from behind, and boosted him off his feet into a chair lift.

Enthroned, Elminster was whisked over a wooded ridge, across a tangled ravine beyond, and over a second ridge. Where mercenaries came charging out of the trees with a triumphal roar.

The Srinshee sighed, waved one arm without slowing, and paid no attention at all to the startled cries of pain-or the thuds and abruptly-cut-off yells that followed, when the weapons and bucklers racing away from her towed their mercenary owners into swift and brutal meetings with trees.

Not a single besieger reached the two silver-haired women and the bearded old man bouncing between them.

“Here!” said the Srinshee, a ridge later, as they came upon an ancient stump the size of a large coach, with a tiny spring fountaining out between its rotting roots. “Triangle, the three of us, and put El between us. When the anchor breaks, mind you thrust the leakage into him!”

It was Laeral’s turn to frown. “But won’t that-?”

The Srinshee gave her a look that was somewhere between patiently polite and withering.

“Ah.” Laeral winced. “You’ve done this before. Yes.”

The anchor gave way with frightening ease, and Elminster’s body arched and bucked as Weave and mythal energies snarled through him, leaking out of his mouth as brief blue flames.

He rolled over, coughing weakly.

The Srinshee clapped him on the back, kissed the startled face he raised to her, and announced briskly, “Right, only forty-two more to go! I’m off!”

And she hurled herself away through the air like a sling stone-to slam into an arcanist who was just stepping out from behind a tree to hurl a blasting spell at Elminster and the two sisters. He was flung backward into an awkward stagger, and the Srinshee pursued him, slicing his throat open with a dagger as she flashed past.

About then, she noticed the arcanist she’d felled was just the foremost of a dozen more hastening through the trees to investigate the magical turmoil of the anchor being destroyed.

She fetched up on a high bough, rebounded off the trunk it had grown out of to reclaim her balance, and cast a spell of her own.

As El, Laeral, and Alustriel watched, the Srinshee’s working became a mighty explosion in the heart of those approaching arcanists. Tattered bodies-some collapsing into disembodied heads, limbs, and hands in midair-hurtled in all spattering directions.

Then, with a cheery wave, she was gone.

“Well,” Alustriel said rather ruefully, “that seems to be that. We’re on our own.”

“Which means,” El agreed, “that we’d best be finding the next anchor. She remembers where they all are. I … recall a few. Luse, Laer, ’tis done like thi-”

Laeral gave him a withering look, and pointed through the trees.

“Ah,” Elminster said hastily, “my apologies.”

“Accepted, Old Mage,” she replied pointedly, leading the way.

Which meant the Shadovar warriors who burst out of the next thicket came at her first, thrusting bills and glaives that she easily turned aside with her hair.

Alustriel’s swarm of a dozen racing blue-white bolts arced and swooped into as many faces-and Elminster contributed an echo spell that followed up the magic missiles with stunning lightning.

Most of the mercenaries fell, but a few snarled in pain and kept coming, swinging swords and axes rather unsteadily.

The three Chosen met them blade to blade.

“After this anchor, we need only take care of forty-two more, remember,” Elminster panted, amid the clang and clash of steel. “That should be enough to collapse the mythal at our bidding.”

“Only?” Alustriel asked archly, as her tresses dashed two helms together hard enough to crumple metal. “Your words delight me.”

“We must all find our delights where we can these days,” Laeral commented, ducking under a vicious axe swing and slamming the pommel of her blade hard into the ear of her would-be butcher. Who reeled right into Elminster’s backswing.

Laeral sprang away from the gory result. “ Don’t get blood on this, you! It never all comes out!”

A mercenary was startled enough by her complaint to turn and gape at her, just for an instant-and that was all Elminster needed.

“Back in brawling form?” Alustriel grinned at him, as he rose from downing that last man and saw that there were no more mercenaries left to fight.

El smiled and shrugged. “Got my wind back, at least. Help me remember, you two; if we see the coronal, we must tell her where the portal that brought us here is located. When the city falls, it and the other portals nearby will be the only ways she’ll be able to get any Tel’Quess out.”

Laeral laid a hand on his arm. “You think any of us will get out, El?” she asked softly.

El shrugged. “Acting as if I know we all will is always best.”

Laeral gave him a wry smile. “So you’re always bluffing, no matter the danger?”

Elminster drew himself up and made a dignified reply. “Manipulating, please . ‘Bluffing’ is such a crass word. Merely bending others to do as I’d like them to do, by means of a little acting. Ye learn these things, when ye’ve lived through as many falls of cities and utter Realms-rending disasters as I have …”

Luse and Laer stared at him, then burst into wild, helpless laughter.

The Wizard of War and the six Purple Dragons with him came to a stop in the dingy back street in Suzail, all of them wearing deepening frowns.

“So just where is this treason you speak of?” The young mage’s tone was openly suspicious. “This looks like all too good a place for an ambush, if you ask-”

“I didn’t,” the fat and wheezing man in the well-worn and food-stained clothing and the flopping wrecks of old seaboots interrupted, “and you needn’t worry. I’ll be going first.” And he flung open the nearest door.

“Yes,” the wizard snapped, “but how do we know you aren’t working with some miscreants, and leading us right into their clutches?”

Mirt caught hold of a good fistful of the young war wizard’s splendid doublet and dragged him down until they were nose to nose.

“You can come with me, young fearfulguts,” he growled, “because I’ll be needing you. But mind this: no casting spells, and no yelling at enemies of the Crown, until I say so, hear? You may have standing orders and the shiny authority of the Dragon Throne-but I’ve managed to keep myself alive for more years than you’ve seen, without having spells down both arms and stuffed up my backside to resort to! So, do we have an agreement?”

“W-we do,” Narancel replied, with as much dignity as he could muster. He made a little show of brushing the breast of his doublet smooth again with apparent unconcern.

“Good.” Mirt grinned at him. “Then follow me up these stairs quietly .”