Targrael saw by the reactions that the cause had to be overhead, and approaching in silence from behind her, but she dared look no longer, as Dragon swords came at her face and throat from three sides.
When she was done hacking her way out of that particular doom, the eye tyrant had already passed over her and was dealing death to the Dragons beyond.
Could this be Manshoon? There were other eye tyrants in the world, and even men who strove to control them, but Gazing up, Targrael caught sight of the answer to her question.
On the roof of the club of screaming, fleeing nobles crouched a dark figure, head forward and peering intently down into the mob of Cormyreans.
Talane. Yes, the tyrant almost had to be Manshoon, and this was another of his obedient mind-thralls.
As I once was and never shall be again, she promised herself.
Targrael slashed open the throat of one last Dragon and spun away to sprint toward that club. There would be stairs around the back, and she should get off the open street where Manshoon’s pet beholder could easily turn and lash her with its magics, anyhail.
“Talane, I’m coming for you,” Targrael whispered as tenderly as any lover, and started running hard.
Behind her, the boots of pursuing Purple Dragons rose in a wild thunder that made Targrael laugh aloud.
Mirt fought for his breath, laying out in all directions with his fists and one of his daggers, as grim-faced Purple Dragons thrust swords or spears or just themselves at him.
Thus far he was winning, if “winning” meant staying alive, on yer feet, an’ without too many large holes in yer hide. Tempus and Tymora be with me!
Aye, both of ye. I’ll need ye and more, what with all the new war wizards and Dragons streaming out of the doorway in the palace wall. Sent by Glathra or farspoken by their fellows, no doubt, to come rushing to join the fun.
Fighting a stlarning beholder, mind ye!
That death knight was still back there, too, hewing her way through a small army of Dragons like a butcher on market day, trying to catch up to him. Oh, and El and Storm, too, of course, but it was he an’ his little liberated Obarskyr treasure as had imprisoned her just now, an’ if he knew enraged women…
Speaking of whom…
“This is one of them,” a deep-voiced Dragon bellowed, pointing at Mirt. “To be taken and chained in the dungeons, by order of the Lady Glathra! So slay him not!”
“Oh, that’s nice of ye,” Mirt wheezed, punching aside a sword and shoving the man who’d swung it into his neighbor, so they both went over in a ringing and skirling of clashing armor plates. “Keep me alive for the mind-reaming, hey? Nice little kingdom ye have here, thick-necked barbariaaa ugh!”
A swordcaptain had leaped at the back of his neck and brought both forearms crashing down on it as he fell past, at the same time as a snarling telsword swung the butt of his spear ruthlessly through Mirt’s fingers, to slam it into Mirt’s throat.
Gurgling, Mirt went down.
And promptly got buried under a dozen hard, heavy, and none-too-gentle loyal soldiers of Cormyr. Two of whom then became very heavy as the beholder’s grayest ray swept along the Promenade, leaving a path of men turned to stone.
Snarling fearful curses, the rest of the Dragons dragged Mirt roughly out from under their transformed fellows and raced for the gaping palace doorway in such frenzied haste that Mirt had time neither to breathe nor to touch even one boot down before he was inside and being hustled along dark passages by hard-breathing, incoherently cursing men of Cormyr.
He let them take him around the first corner before he elbowed one man in the ear, kicked off him to slam the man on his other side into the wall with good, solid, rib-shattering force, and took advantage of his firmly held arms to deliver a crotch-lifting triumph of a kick to the Dragon who turned to confront him-and he broke free.
He wasn’t foolish enough to try to get back out of the palace past them. Not when there was a table right handy that could be swept up and used to brain his closest pursuer, then tossed under the knees of those following, to take them down groaning among impaling splinters.
An instant before a deathly white ray stabbed into the palace from the beholder somewhere near, outside-and the doorway became a huge hole in the palace wall that claimed the floor of a stone chamber above and the bodies of at least three Dragons who’d been running after him in one sighing moment.
A fourth soldier, who’d been just about to drop two hairy hands onto Mirt’s shoulders to drag the fleeing miscreant down, shrieked as one foot foot vanished in the ray, leaving behind a spurting stump-and fell.
Yelling out unthinking curses of fear, and running as fast as he could wheeze, Mirt of Waterdeep raced deeper into the palace.
“Spread out!” a war wizard was yelling, his voice high with fear and excitement. “Wide apart, so it can’t easily get all of us! Hurry!”
Now. Elminster’s voice was fiercely insistent. Get to Storm. In by the walls, tell them you’re surrendering, act like the beholder has you so scared you’ll surrender quietly, sheathe your sword, and get ye to Storm, to touch and hold onto her, just as fast as ye can.
Arclath slammed his blade back into its scabbard and hastened toward the palace, bowing his head as he stepped around Dragons. “Sorry, can’t stop. I’m busy surrendering,” he said to the owner of the one hand that grabbed at him, and hurried on.
“Well, I’ll be so bold if you really insist,” he joked aloud to the heavy presence in his head, “but among politely reared folk, those who rush to touch and hold expect to pay for the privilege, in establishments that exclusively cater to such behavior.”
Oh? Since when have nobles of Cormyr been politely reared folk?
Arclath laughed aloud at that and caught a “You’re madwits, you are!” stare from a Dragon right in front of him.
By way of reply, as the beholder turned overhead and let fly with more rays, and men shouted and fled, he spread his empty hands and offered hastily, “I’m surrendering, and spell-talking with a friend of mine, a wizard of war who’s with the king right now-and who’s guiding me where I should go.”
The Dragon gave him another strange look then fled. Half a breath before the soldiers beyond him and a good bit of the palace wall beyond them vanished in a flash of eye-tyrant magic, enlarging the open doorway to a gaping hole.
Leaving Storm and Arclath staring at each other across suddenly open street cobbles, with devastation on one side of them and frantically fleeing Purple Dragons and war wizards on the other.
Run!
Elminster’s mind-shout was almost deafening, and Arclath put his head down and pumped his arms and really ran, fetching up in Storm’s arms-as she caught him to keep him from slamming into the palace wall-a few panting instants later.
The moment Storm was holding him, it was as if a great glowing hearth of light and warmth rolled open in Arclath’s mind.
He reeled mentally and was thrust firmly to the task of regaining his balance and breath, just as fast as possible, anchoring himself with one hand on the unyielding stone of the palace wall, as Elminster and Storm communicated in a flashing dance of thoughts too fast for the Fragrant Flower of House Delcastle to follow.
A moment later, he was turning, Elminster firmly in control. Away from the palace, to look up into the night where a great looming eye tyrant was turning, rising, and rolling over to look down on the greatest number of Cormyreans at once, ready to hurl its magics again and permanently deprive the realm of as many Crown soldiers and mages as possible.
To cast a swift, deft, and unfamiliar spell that lanced up to strike the beholder and wrestle it into its true shape, in the grip of a terrible compulsion. A magic that raced around and around the floating horror in a snarling racing of blue-and-silver fire.
The Weave may have fallen, and Elminster and Storm might be Chosen of the mightiest goddess of the realms no longer, but they knew just how to force proud wizards who’d grown up praying to Mystra to obey, even if only for a moment.