"Ill met," he said, and every soft word cut like a leaping knife as it left his lips. His gaze bored deep into Stormcloak's eyes, and it was the Zhentarim who looked away first.
"Elminster of Shadowdale!" gasped Cheth Moonviper of the councillors, and ducked under the table.
Angruin Mvyrvult Stormcloak paled and snatched at the wand in his belt. He half expected the world to explode before he ever got it out, but exultantly he got it free, aimed, and hissed a word only he knew.
Lightning leapt and crackled across the suddenly darker great hall toward the old man in tattered robes who stood empty-handed, hair wild-tangled and blood running down his face from a cut on his forehead.
And Elminster stood there and waited for the lightning to come to him, watching calmly.
Ylyndaera Mulmar smiled a mirthless smile as a Wolf came out of a door ahead, saw them, and with a startled oath whipped out his sword. She advanced steadily, Ulraea trembling at her side.
They were both startled when Tanshlee suddenly burst past them, shrieking, "You! You're the one! You!"
She hurled herself on the Wolf, knocking his blade aside more by luck than skill, and took him to the floor, sobbing and raking with her nails.
The women broke into a run. In an instant the Wolf would find room and strength to get his blade out from under her, and then it would all be over.
It was Jharina who threw the mace she'd plucked up several rooms back, while they were still marveling at being inside the castle and unseen for so long. It wobbled through the air drunkenly and just touched the Wolf's shoulder as it went on its way past him.
He jerked, dropped his sword from numb, burning fingers, and snarled in startled pain. Tanshlee's hands found his throat.
She held on, white-faced, eyes blazing, as he gasped and struck at her and thrashed about, trying to break free of the deep-sunk fingers squeezing out his life. But he was too young to think of breaking those fingers, or gouging at the reproachful, staring eyes of his nemesis, or even breaking her hold by shattering her jaw with a punch-and so his face went dark and then gray, and he sagged back and died.
Daera and Ulraea stood over him, but the Wolf did not escape. They let Tanshlee have her revenge on the one who'd wronged her-months ago, now-and stood silently by as she sobbed atop the body of the unknown man who'd fathered the child within her.
Ulraea looked at Ylyndaera, standing there with her sword ready, and saw a much older woman than the girl who'd been hidden away in the mill. Daera raised eyes dark with fury to meet hers and said quietly, "Let's go kill us some Wolves."
They put. a sword ready beside Tanshlee in case she needed it and wouldn't pick up the one the Wolf had wielded, left her in her own dark world of tears, and went on down the passage.
Ahead was the din of battle-the clash of sword upon sword, shouts, and cracklings-but muffled as if from behind a door. The three women exchanged glances. "The great hall," Ulraea said. "Of course."
Daera swept hair out of her eyes impatiently, swung her sword at nothing to loosen her arm, which was beginning to ache-how did men swing these things all day? — took a deep breath, and said, "Come on."
They'd rushed a dozen steps before four-no, six-Wolves came out of a side passage. The warriors halted, half-lowered their weapons, and smiled slow, cruel smiles as they began to advance slowly.
"Oh, gods," Ulraea said in her throat.
Daera laughed. "There are only six of them," she said loudly, "and Tanshlee showed us just how easily they die. Are you with me?"
Without waiting for an answer, she charged. Ulraea and Jharina exchanged despairing glances and followed.
Jharina's mace, lying unnoticed on the floor, tripped the first Wolf. He fell heavily, and Ylyndaera's blade slid into and out of his throat before he could even draw back the breath that the fall had driven out of him.
The Wolves saw a young maid rising to meet them, bloody blade in hand. One of them cursed, spun about, and ran. The others watched him go and then followed, breaking into frantic flight, as Ylyndaera's astonished laughter rang out down the passage.
"For the dale!" she called after them. "For the High Dale, free again!"
Beside her, Ulraea burst into tears.
Not far away, lightning reached the old man.
Sharantyr, struggling to her knees in pain, found the breath to scream, "No!" but as is the way with most despairing screams, the gods did not hear her.
Or perhaps they did. The blue-white bolt of death did not strike, but coiled in the air around Elminster's hand where a ring glowed suddenly blue-white in answer. The lightning coiled, gathering speed like an aroused serpent, then lashed back out, arrow-straight, across the great hall.
The wizard on the table stiffened as the lightning found a home.
The Lord of the High Dale shrieked, dancing involuntarily. Smoke curled out from his robes. Then the lightning was gone, leaving him staggering in the midst of a faint haze of smoke.
He turned a face of clenched hatred and pain to Elminster and gasped only one word as his hand darted into his robes, came out with something dark and round and metal, and hurled it.
"Die!"
The sphere flew through the air, expanding into an opening latticework of metal bands as it approached the Old Mage. In the instant before the sphere struck, Sharantyr recognized it as another set of iron bands of Bilarro.
The Old Mage stood quite still. The bands flared wide to go around him, pulsed with a brief flash of light, and then shrank with horrible speed, drawing down around the old man.
The two Harpers battled the councillors with frantic haste. One of the councillors fell with a ragged cry, but there were still many blades between them and the wizard atop the table.
Stormcloak crouched and drained a flask from his belt-a healing potion, Sharantyr had no doubt-and straightened, wiping his lips. As she struggled to find strength, biting her lip and whimpering against stabbing pain, the Zhentarim wizard calmly drew forth a glass bead from his robes, smiled a brittle smile down on her, and cast a spell that brought a shimmering sphere into being about him.
She'd seen one before: a globe of invulnerability or one of its variants. No ball of fire or bolt of lightning could touch Angruin now. The Lord of the High Dale drew himself up and sneered down at Elminster, who stood wrapped in tightening bands of iron.
"Toothless old men seem to have haunted me of late, hurling proud, empty memories of power against me-until I destroy them. If you had any wits left, graybeard, you'd stay at home, dreaming and grumbling by the fire, and leave mages of real power well alone."
Elminster whispered something, and the iron bands shuddered and fell away from him, clattering about his feet like so many hoops stripped from a barrel.
Stormcloak stared at him in astonishment. Elminster strolled forward, wand in hand, as if he were in a hurry to get to the other side of a peaceful garden, and observed mildly, "Talk grows no more expensive as the years pass, does it?"
The wand in his hand pulsed, and spat two magic missiles. Two councillors stiffened, and one hadn't even time to groan before Gedaern of the dale hewed him to the floor.
Councillor Xanther watched from the darkness under a table. So this was the Old Mage of Shadowdale, one old man who'd done nothing so far beyond the powers of the wand he held and a ring he wore. His magic must be gone, or failing. The Brotherhood could yet win this day.
How, though, with Stormcloak hurling death in all directions? Stormcloak must prevail, if Elminster was to be defeated at all. Could the Old Mage be compelled to surrender the knowledge of where some hoard lay hidden, how a particular spellbook was guarded, and what words governed a certain staff or rod or wand? That old man's head must be stuffed with a vast wealth of such thoughts, treasure beyond the grasping of most mages, but how could he be kept alive to reveal it?