Ed Greenwood - Bury Elminster Deep

“Oh, shut up,” Glathra told him weakly.

Mirt grinned down at her. “Want some cheese while ye’re down there? Wine? We traders know where to get the best…”

I don’t like this,” Storm muttered, peering into the trees all around. “They’ve got to be lurking near, watching us.”

“If we tarry, they’re sure to arrive. Go in and bring Alassra out,” Elminster told her, his grim voice sounding odd coming out of Arclath’s mouth. “We dare not try using the blueflame on her in there, with the chain and the wards. I’ll guard Rune out here.”

Storm nodded, handed him the buckle-it wasn’t glowing at all, now-and went into the cave.

“Arclath-I mean El!” Amarune said warningly.

“I see them, lass. Expect me to be hurling spells soon.”

Quite suddenly, three warriors had stepped silently out of the nearby trees, blue flames flowing endlessly around their bodies. They held ready swords and daggers and wore wide, tireless smiles.

“Before I get to that,” the Sage of Shadowdale murmured, “I’m going to move the cavern’s wards over and out past us, at yon ghosts. The ward-magic will roil at a fixed distance before me. I might be past controlling it-if I bark or drool or stagger about and say strange things that don’t sound like spells, reach out and grab me from behind, then hold me where I stand to keep the magic in one spot.”

Rune nodded. He stroked her arm reassuringly-Arclath’s gesture, showing her that her lord was sharing his body with El rather than being a silenced slave-and added, “There are at least two more ghosts out there. And she who sent them, a woman with a dagger protruding from her chest. If I don’t seem to notice them, keep hold of me and haul me about to move the wards so as to intercept them.”

He sank into a crouch, like a knife fighter about to rush the advancing ghosts. “If yon flaming ones come here but emerge not, eventually their commander will be conquered by her curiosity and come looking to see what befell them. Storm can bring me back to my senses; retreat to her if ye must.”

He handed Amarune the blueflame buckle. “Take this. If I fall, get it to The Simbul as fast as ye can!”

Rune nodded, unable to keep her mounting fear off her face. The trio of ghosts was advancing in a silent, menacing line, like wary warriors. El retreated before them, putting out an arm to sweep Amarune back with him.

Back they went into the cool gloom of the cave, and the ghosts came on.

The moment the flaming trio was fully in the cavern, El ducked down, hauling Rune with him-and something half-seen that hissed and thundered in the air swept over their heads in a silent, heavy flood.

It swirled around the ghosts, halting them and whirling their blue flames away in a surging chaos of swirling lights and confused sounds, most loudly sharp shrieks like hundreds of harpstrings breaking at once.

The three slayers staggered, hacked vainly at the air, crouched as if caught in a gale-and suddenly were gone, all ragged cries and tatters of blue, fading flame, whirled into… nothingness.

Beside Rune, Arclath whimpered suddenly and burst out, “The wolves! And Dalatha, weeping! Oh, her kisses… ohhh, broken again. Crowns do that.” With every word his voice wavered, sounding like him or like Elminster-or like other folk entirely.

Amarune looked at him, winced, then ducked behind him and took firm hold of his jerkin. Heart pounding, she stood with him in the gloom, waiting.

A long time passed, or seemed to, as Arclath-or Elminster-started to sing. She couldn’t make out the words, and the tunes were unfamiliar, but he didn’t seem that much different from a lot of drunkards she remembered from the Dragonride Suddenly another blueflame ghost loomed up, running hard with his sword raised.

Desperately Rune tugged at Arclath, trying to drag him back-but the ghost was already fading and breaking apart, though it kept on struggling to reach them. Its foremost, reaching hand melted, then the sword arm, with the blade it held, a knee and then… all of it.

The singing stopped abruptly, as if Arclath had been shocked by the blueflame ghost’s disappearance. Trembling, Amarune held him and waited.

After a time, there came a bright flash from the far side of the roiling magic, and the ward shuddered and seemed to grow thinner.

Another flash. More thinning.

Then another ghost appeared. A tall, cruel-faced woman was walking behind it, working magic as she came. Whenever she finished a spell, it caused one of those bright flashes, melting more of the wards away.

Amarune hastily dragged the lurching man in her arms back to keep the fading, thinning wards around the ghost and the woman.

Suddenly the ghost started to melt, sinking down into the roilings with surprising speed. The woman reeled. She was close enough-five or six strides away, no more-that Rune could see that dagger sticking out of her chest.

Then lightning burst out of nowhere, slamming into the woman from behind and thrusting her into a bulging-eyed dance on tiptoes, wild spasms of agony that ended with her fall, a sprawl on her face that left her lying still.

Fresh bolts of lightning stabbed and ricocheted through the last, thinning wisps of the wards. Behind them, a man-their hurler-was striding slowly into the cavern.

Amarune let go of her Arclath, spun around, and ran deeper into the cave. There was an unpleasant stirring ahead of her in the darkness, as if unfriendly magic was awakening to her arrival.

Caught in its fringes, she stopped and sank down in silence. She was as deep in as she could go and still see Arclath, who was lying in a heap, mumbling and feebly crawling.

She knew the man coming into the cave. She’d seen him once or twice before in the city streets. It was the wizard Suzailans called most powerful mage in Suzail, Larak Dardulkyn.

He strode past the woman he’d felled to stand smiling down at the dazed, incoherently babbling Arclath.

“So, Elminster, it comes down to you and me once more,” he said, almost pleasantly. Flexing his hands, he added gently, “Prepare to die, old fool. Again.”

Rune swallowed, not knowing what to do, feeling utterly helpless. Should she throw the buckle at him? Well, what good would that do?

Almost purring with glee, the man began a spell she couldn’t hope to stop And then toppled forward, with a sudden shriek.

The woman he’d struck down with his lightning had reached up from the ground with her sword to slash his nearest leg.

“Poisoned,” she snarled triumphantly, before falling back exhausted.

On the ground beside Arclath, Dardulkyn rolled, cursing furiously and clutching at his wound.

His rolling became shuddering, and he lost his grip on his leg as he started to convulse. His oaths went incoherent as foam spewed from his mouth.

Rune had seen enough. Heedless of the unseen magic that sang up to claw at her, she turned and raced deeper into the cavern.

Hurrying to get the blueflame buckle to The Simbul.

Cymmarra heaved herself to her knees, the world spinning slowly above her…

Everything was slow and painful. Everything took so much strength

…

She lost count of her weak and staggering tries, but by using her sword like a crutch, she found her feet at last. Only the cavern wall kept her upright after that first, horribly shaky step.

She clung to the wall, whispering prayers she didn’t believe in and scarcely remembered, over and over again, seeking strength.

When she felt like she might have found a little, she turned her head and smirked at the two feebly moving men. Dardulkyn’s words had made it clear he was Manshoon, and there was no reason she knew of that he might have been wrong about the young lordling being Elminster.