“Hold!” an annoyed male voice snapped from somewhere behind her, right on cue. Storm ran even faster, turning sharply to meet the trees even sooner, and tore open her jerkin with her free hand as she went, ducking low.
“Halt, I said!” the guardian shouted, sounding angrier. “Are you deaf, woman?”
Storm found a tree and caught hold of it, spending all the haste of her run in a swing around it that brought her back facing the glade she’d just fled.
A young, stern-looking wizard of war flanked by two Purple Dragons with longbows in their hands was striding toward her, and he was frowning. Behind them, this side of the portal cast no glows at all; instead, it looked like endlessly rippling empty air.
“No,” she panted, giving all three men a good look at her bared and bobbing front. “I’m just-a certain none-too-noble lord seeks my virtue! Lord Wizard, I dare not tarry!”
“But-but this way is guarded at the palace end! How did you get through?”
“Please, Lord, the guardians of the Dalestride let me through! Lord Warder Vainrence ordered them to and said he’d take care of-of the one chasing me! Please, Lord, I must be away from here!”
The Dragons were staring only at what she was displaying, but the wizard was reddening and looking away. “How do I know you speak truth?” he asked, sounding exasperated.
“Vainrence’ll sure tell you, I’m thinking,” one of the Dragons muttered, “when he takes your report.”
At that, the wizard went very red and waved wildly at Storm. “Get you gone!” he commanded. “Just get-go!”
“T-thank you, kind lords!” Storm babbled, swinging around the tree again and sprinting headlong into the woods. There was a stream nearby, she remembered, and a little wade up it would cover her tracks, if anyone changed his mind about permitting her departure.
As she went, she rolled her eyes. As the centuries passed, her acting seemed to be getting more than a little rusty, but men weren’t changing much.
CHAPTER TWENTY
You’re armed for real trouble? Good, good.”
Marlin was gleeful.
In fact, the young lordling was actually rubbing his hands.
Manshoon rolled his eyes. Not even Fzoul at his gloating worst had been that unsubtle.
The lordling’s two bodyguards stood awaiting further orders. Ormantor said nothing, as usual. That tall, broad-shoulded mountain of muscle seldom said much of anything at all. Gaskur, however-nondescript, forgettable-looking Gaskur, Marlin’s fetcher and carrier and trade agent and nigh everything else, whose service had enabled the younger Lord Stormserpent to accomplish everything he’d managed thus far-was clearly worried.
“Where are we bound, Lord?” he murmured.
Marlin grinned like one of his nieces’ well-fed cats. “No, no, Gask, better you not know. Safer, that way.”
Manshoon managed not to roll his eyes again. Stupider, rather-you obviously don’t know, lordling.
Gaskur obviously thought so, too, though he knew better than to say so. A flicker of Ormantor’s eyes betrayed his similar judgment.
“Come!” Marlin said eagerly. “Glory awaits!”
Unheard in his cavern, Manshoon smiled mirthlessly. It was time to have some fun, flex a few tentacles, and slay the guards set to watch over the secret passage-so foolish young Lord Stormserpent could reach the Dragonskull Chamber and test his secret weapons. If they held the blueflame ghosts and young Marlin could control them, they would be formidable weapons indeed.
And if he could not control them, young Lord Stormserpent’s ambitions would come to a swift and painful end.
“Glory, lordling,” Manshoon murmured into the glow, “awaits.”
Elminster came to a certain place in the passage and stopped. An old ward should be waiting right in front of him, and as he was-admit it-less than what he’d once been, what he did next should be done cautiously.
He stretched forth a hand gingerly into the empty air.
Which remained empty, though a whispering awakened all around him and raced away along the dark stones into the distance.
He took a cautious step forward, and-nothing else happened.
Good.
He took another. Still nothing. Six more strides brought him to the stone he knew, which moved under his hand and let him step into the wall and avoid awakening the spell-trap that awaited another few steps along the passage.
It had been long centuries since the royal crypt had been guarded by bored Purple Dragons, but it was still protected by other things, and bore alarm magics that might alert someone in the palace above, if anyone up there still had the wits to be alerted by anything.
He was beginning to doubt that.
The air in Dragonskull Chamber wasn’t as stale as it should have been, and the darkness wasn’t as dark. Even the stillness wasn’t still; it pulsed and swirled and flowed in an endless, soundless tumult that could be clearly felt.
The twisted wards were alive and restless, and although they made him feel rather sick, Marlin Stormserpent was glad of that. It meant the war wizards-even the Mage Royal, Ganrahast-couldn’t see him from afar or know he was there or what he was doing.
Which was good indeed, considering that what he was doing would undoubtedly be seen as high treason.
“I’m experimenting freely,” he murmured. No, that excuse sounded lame even to his ears; he couldn’t imagine even the youngest Crownsworn mage or courtier believing it.
Wherefore he’d best be doing what he’d come to do swiftly, and get back to his bodyguards before they drank the deepest winecellar of the Old Dwarf dry. Even shunned rooms of the palace must have patrols stalk by their doors from time to time.
Marlin drew in a deep, excited breath, brought forth the chalice with one hand and his handful of parchment notes with the other, and awakened one of his rings to give him light enough to read.
That reminded him that he was wearing the Flying Blade and would perhaps be wiser to set it aside and try to deal with one ghost at a time.
The room around him was as empty as ever, most of its walls lost in the evershifting darkness-but it was clearly bare of furniture. So he laid his sword belt on the floor a few paces away, the scabbarded sword atop it, and stood so he could face it while he worked on the chalice.
His notes were few the casting or ritual, or whatever it was properly called was short and simple.
Which meant he couldn’t delay any longer. Sudden fear uncoiling in his throat, Marlin held up the chalice, peered at his notes again, then said firmly, “Arruthro.”
The word seemed to roll away across vast distances, though it seemed no louder than it should have been-and at a stroke, the room was darker, the air singing with sudden tension. He looked around in case something was slithering or creeping out of the darkness to come up behind him, but saw nothing.
“Tarlammitruh arondur halamoata,” he added, loudly and slowly. He had no idea what language-if it was a language-he was speaking, but it sounded old and grand and menacing. Very menacing.
The room went colder still.
“Tanthom tanlartar,” he read out-and flinched as the chalice in his hand erupted in weird blue fire. Raging flames that raced down his arm to the elbow and then wreathed it and the chalice in an endless, soundless conflagration. That held no heat at all and caused him no pain, only a disturbing, bone-deep tingling.
“Larasse larasse thulea,” he added.
And shivered in the sudden icy chill-as the blue flames sprang from the chalice in a flood, like a gigantic snake or eel pouring forth from the goblet to the floor and then rebounding up again, growing larger and taller … man-high. With a darkness at their heart that slowly became a man. A man standing facing him and smiling, clad in a dark and nondescript leather war-harness. Boots, sword, and dagger. Dark eyes with those blue flames dancing in their depths-and a ceaselessly burning shroud of blue flames around the man’s body that ignited nothing, charred nothing, and seemed to cause the man no pain at all.