That left two drow alive and unharmed. One was already stabbing her repeatedly, his unenchanted blade doing no harm but his weight and the knuckles of his stabbing hand driving the wind out of her repeatedly and bruisingly. The other was crouching behind the enthusiastic stabber and reaching around to grab at her scepters, trying to snatch them and hurl them away before daring to get closer. El sliced some of his fingers off, then drove her sword up through herself-she felt nothing but a momentary shivering chill-to meet the pumping sword hand of the drow trying to stab her.
He shrieked and fell aside, clutching at his sliced-open hand-and El rolled and reached in an awkward crawling lunge across sharp rocks that slid her sword into the throat of the scepter-grabber. As he convulsed, she rolled back again to deal with the stabber.
The rest of the dark elves advanced slowly, still about seven or so strides away. Good. El threw back her head as she hewed down the stabbing drow and screamed in false agony, her voice loud, raw, and shrill.
Then she slumped, down in her hollow with drow bodies all around, lying as if dead-save for the stealthy hand beneath her that slid a scepter from her belt and awakened it. She lay still, waiting, her mouth slack and open. Smarting from half a dozen wounds and the numbing fire of the venom, El watched through slitted eyes as the drow gathered cautiously above her.
Would they come closer to gloat? Or stab down at her face and breast and throat, to make sure?
They did both-and as the first dark sword tips thrust down, El let loose the whirlblade storm.
It was a vicious magic, not all that different from the blade barriers war priests of old were wont to wield, and as its shards of steel started to flash and whirl above her, and drow blood started to spray, El called up swift silver fire to spin a momentary shield over herself. As it closed over her, she flung the awakened scepter up into the storm of conjured steel, an instant before cowering under her silver fire.
A moment later, the world just above exploded with a roar.
The blast was impressive, shaking her like dice in a gambling cup despite the shielding fire. She heard and smelled drow bodies spattering wetly over rocks all around … and when her shield faded and she rolled cautiously over to look up, drow gore dripped down into her face from the tunnel ceiling high above.
She rolled into a crouch, to peer around cautiously. Not a foe remained. Wizard and all, the outcast drow band was no more.
Dead, every last one of them. And all because they hated and feared magic. Or those who misused it against them, like their own priestesses. No one should hate or fear magic.
Ah, El, that would require the Realms to be free of all who use magic to be tyrants over others.
El sighed aloud. Symrustar was right. And how often had he been one of those tyrants, those misusers?
Memories she was not proud of rose in a swift, dark procession …
Wisely, Symrustar kept silent. Rather grimly, El tugged the darts out of herself, then healed her wounds and purged the venom in an agonizing burst of silver fire.
When her helpless gasping and staggering faded, she stumbled on down the tunnel. She was little better than naked now, her leather armor in tattered ruin, and still alone.
Now, now! You do have me, Symrustar reminded her. Nicely done, by the way.
El nodded wearily. She’d made far too much noise and loosed too much magic to tarry; all that tumult would soon bring more formidable Underdark prowlers-or a strong drow patrol, ready for spell-hurling trouble. By then, it would be only prudent to be far away. Up in the sun-drenched Realms Above, for instance.
Limping a little, and rubbing at aches here and bruises there, El trudged along.
This beautiful new dark elf body of yours, Symrustar chided her, you’re not taking very good care of it.
Elminster’s reply was calm, lengthy, and very colorful. It might have made some Moonsea sailors blush, if any of them had been down in the Underdark Shallows to hear it.
Alorglauvenemaus slept more soundly and more often, these days, than in its younger years. It was well and truly ancient now, and knew from its studies and from wyrms it had met-and in some such moots, slain-that these deepening slumbers were the norm for older dragons.
Not that it experienced many interruptions. No visitors reached this cavern beneath a volcano-like hollow hill, in the heart of a fetid swamp filling a narrow cleft between the stony shoulders of adjacent mountains in the Thunder Peaks. No intruder had ever reached its lair, though orcs had splashed into the swamp once, very briefly. Not good eating, but there’d been a lot of them …
It curled its long tongue, trying to remember that taste.
Yes, it so happened that Alorglauvenemaus was awake now-so it was awake a moment later, when an explosive unleashing of magic shuddered through the solid rock beneath its hoard. A blast had befallen several levels beneath its lair.
The ancient black dragon lifted its head in alarm. That had been more than a spell. There was a certain smell …
Alorglauvenemaus thrust its dark horned head down the great cleft at one end of its cavern, the opening to the descending chain of caverns that served it as a toilet, a spittoon, and betimes a vomitorium-for armor causes gut ructions, no matter how steaming-strong one’s digestive acids-and sniffed, loud and long.
Aye. It was. The scent was faint, yet unmistakable, and Alorglauvenemaus had smelled it before. Silver fire, the raw stuff of the Weave, had been unleashed down there.
Which was puzzling, even alarming, given that the Weave had fallen, and its bright goddess with it, some sleeps ago.
The ancient black dragon frowned, shook its head slowly, and let out a deep, cavern-shaking growl that announced to the reverberating cavern walls that it was not pleased to encounter that particular scent. That smell meant trouble.
Yet Alorglauvenemaus knew how to deal with trouble. It drew back its head and spat, letting out a great hissing breath of sickly green acid, a burst that struck foam from the rocks it touched as it bounced and boiled down the long chute of caverns.
As it went, that green, swiftly graying flow hissed and spat and spewed forth many momentary little whirl devils of glowing spume, stuff of the rocks it was eating into; rocks that were already pitted and worn smooth by previous acid spewings.
Three caverns down, the last fading tongue of the acid flowed around a heap of rocks, washing away some of the shoulder of stone they stood on. Almost wearily the heap slumped over the edge, starting to roll and tumble. And awakening a gathering roar as it went on down. In the end, much lower down, it had faded into a small rockslide, but it spilled out of a side cleft in the tunnel almost to Elminster’s feet.
El stopped to let the last stones of the rattling little avalanche roll to their various stops right in front of her boots, rock back and forth, then settle. The faint breeze came down into the Underdark by the same route the rocks had taken.
And it was bearing a sharp, fresh reek. She’d smelled this particular acrid stink before.
Black dragon acid. Spewed by a large elder wyrm.
Elminster sighed. A fell and mighty dragon in her way. Of course.
She went into the cleft and started to pick her way very cautiously upward. The acid was still fresh; she’d have to be careful indeed if she wanted her boots to last for most of the way up, or longer.
The climb looked long and unpleasant, featuring not just acid, but dragon dung. Sighing out a silent curse-why hadn’t Manshoon just obeyed Mystra for once? Or why hadn’t the Lady of All Mysteries dealt with him, or freed her trustworthy El to deal with him? — Elminster found her first sheltering corner of rock, picked her way to it, then looked for the next one.