Alusair deftly struck its sword aside with her own ghostly blade and in the same twisting slash cut deep into its side, flying as she did so to keep herself close to the bright blue aura and her blade hitting home, slicing up and over its torso, the tip bouncing on rib after rib, heading for its throat.
Blue flames shrank from the silver-gray mist of her sword, parting and darkening, laying bare the man beneath. Alusair soared up out of reach of his frantic backswing and hacked at the back of his sword arm, just above the elbow, as she passed.
The blueflame ghost’s sword clanged to the palace floor, and Alusair whirled and came back at him in a slicing pass. She didn’t quite dare to try a hard thrust through him, or a beheading, because every touch of the ghost’s flaming aura to her sword-which was part of her, solidified by her will out of the same spectral essence that made up the rest of her-ate at her undeath.
It would be folly to slay this intruder at the cost of her own existence, and leave her beloved palace evermore unguarded.
So she contented herself with great slashes, slicing body and arms, looping around the ghost in a relentless weaving of sharp steel that reduced it to cowering in a heap around its blade, growing dimmer and dimmer.
Abruptly it sprang up and fled with a wail of pain and fear, heading at a frantic run right back out of the palace, waving its sword wildly to try to shield itself against Alusair’s blade.
“Greatly weakened, at least,” the ghostly princess told the empty passage in satisfaction, halting just in front of the roiling chaos of the violated ward seeking to knit itself together again, to watch the ghost dwindle across the Promenade. It fled into the mouth of a side street and kept going, fast.
Outside, Dragons were assisting a reeling, mumbling Palace Understeward Fentable to his feet. He looked confused or drunk, and the soldiers holding him up were talking excitedly about a “beholder, like in the tales, but only the size of a child’s chamberpot!”
One of them was keeping the tip of his sword near Fentable’s throat. “Beholderkin, I think such are called. Heard one of old Dhargust’s sagely lectures about eye tyrants, two summers back. He says there’re still some of them hiding in the heart of the Hullack, just waiting their chance to conquer the realm!”
“Well, I’ve heard some have been seen right here in Suzail!” an older Dragon growled. “Never mind about distant forests we should all stay well out of, we’ve got-”
Alusair leaned forward to hear better, frowning in interest.
Which was when something hard and sharp burst right through her from behind, thrusting her forward into the seething energies of the wards.
Coldly scornful laughter accompanied that ruthless blow, and as Alusair writhed in helpless agony, torn by the full fury of the wards, she was dimly aware of a sword being pulled roughly back out of her, spinning her misty body around.
A blade that had burst right through her.
A sword that sliced ghosts as readily as the living.
Floating near the floor, awash in pain, Alusair stared up at her assailant.
Who was standing in the open doorway just beyond the roiling wards, the sword in her hand and a cruel smile on her face.
It was the death knight Targrael, the crazed Highknight. Lady Dark Armor.
Who hissed down at her, “I guard the Forest Kingdom and care for it, not you, wasted and foolish old bitch of a failed regent! I go now to hunt down a great foe of Cormyr-but when I’ve time to spare, I’ll be back to finish you! Depend upon it.”
Manshoon was gone, leaving Talane excited.
She was, yes, delighted she’d been ordered to hunt down Amarune.
So, the lass was really Elminster? If she’d known that, she’d not have been quite so bold at her first meeting with the Whitewave wench-but no matter. If he’d ever been the towering spellhurler of all those wild tales, the Sage of Shadowdale must now be a weak husk of his former self for Manshoon to entrust this slaying to her. Castles shattered and blown into the clouds, dragons tamed or slaughtered in the skies, archwizards dueled and left as smoking heaps of ash…
Grand tales, to be sure. Yet, perhaps that’s all they’d ever been.
Talane looked down at her shapely self, crisscrossed by broad belts of leather festooned with no fewer than nine scabbarded daggers-all razor sharp and finely balanced for throwing, even the one she’d hurled into a cheating Sembian merchant’s eye not all that long ago-and pronounced herself ready.
Which was a good thing, considering Manshoon’s burning desire for urgency in this matter.
She checked her hollow right boot heel for keys to certain doors in her mansion and found them right where they should be. Then she shifted her sword belt one last time to make certain it caught on none of the crisscrossing baldrics.
Good. Time to be hunting.
Talane caught up a magnificent ankle-length shimmerweave night-cloak-the sort of frippery worn to show everyone Truesilvers could casually outspend any dozen lesser noble Houses, every bright shopping morning-and pulled it around herself to conceal her leathers from any servants who might witness her departure. Taking a last look around her bedchamber to ensure things that should be hidden were, she stepped out onto her balcony.
Where the climbing cord she kept secured behind the stone griffon carving at the east end of the balcony was waiting. One kick off the wall and a swift plunge down onto the softest mosses of her gardens later, she would be on her way to her back garden door and the night-shrouded city beyond.
“Amarune Whitewave,” she whispered to the night, as the black cord hissed past her chin, “you are one dead mage.”
“She was right there, Lady Barcantle!” a hoarse-voiced man shouted down the passage, pointing. “Right where the fat man is!”
Mirt had regained his breath, rubbed his sore feet-he was getting a mite old for running for his life on hard cobbles across far too much of a city-and restored his clothing to rights. Then, with a sinking feeling, he peered in the direction of that shout and beheld fully helmed and armored Purple Dragons. Lots of them. With more than a few wizards behind them.
They were coming toward him fast, with swords and spears out, and were looking his way in a decidedly unfriendly manner.
“Aye, right where the-naed of the Dragon! The door! The stlarning door’s gone!”
A voice Mirt knew rang out. “Mirt! Mirt of Waterdeep! Stand and surrender, you miscreant, or your very life is forfeit!” Lady Glathra sounded furious.
“Ooops,” Mirt growled, turning hastily and lurching in the direction of the doorway. Which, he thought to himself as he started to run again, gathering speed as he wheezed his way across the Promenade, was a rather grand word for “gaping hole where a good stout door recently was, and still ought to be.”
Wizards. ’Twas always wizards that brought the real trouble. Them and yer fell creatures of the night with their elder magic.
Aye. Now, feet fail me not…
Mystra, fail me not… Ohhh, the pain.
Elminster was vaguely aware that he was out under a night sky, hurrying over damp, faintly foul-smelling cobbles, with a fainter sea smell under the dung and rotting refuse, and the familiar strong, curved warmth of Storm was pressed against him and carrying him along.
“Him” meaning Amarune, of course. Who still seemed to have all her limbs and the usual manner of moving them, though her vision was a tear-filled blur and her ears rang and echoed in ceaseless cacophony.
That could have been worse, he told himself dully, through the splitting agony in his head. He’d been caught in a wild backlash he should have anticipated, standing right in the wards. Like any fumbling first-time hedge wizard…
“S-storm?” he managed to mumble. He couldn’t mindspeak her, even pressed together as they were. That part of his head was all churning, roiling dark fire.
“El,” Storm said soothingly, shifting her grip on him to something slightly more comfortable, “I’m here. I’ll heal you when we get somewhere safer. Don’t try to talk or mindspeak unless you really must.”