She gave him a little grin, then pointed at a particular flagstone in front of her and added sharply, “Now go and stand just there and belt up while I read the scroll through once more, and then read it aloud. We have to be touching, but mind, Lord Delcastle, this is no time for tickling me or otherwise amusing yourself.”
“I understand that,” Arclath told her dryly, moving to the indicated spot. “Yet I do have another question: How are you going to keep the scroll from rolling itself up?”
“I-” Rune ran out of answers, and stared at him helplessly.
“And we’re going to rescue besieged Myth Drannor,” Arclath told the ceiling. Then met her eyes, grinned, and suggested, “Why not have me stand on two corners of the scroll, unroll it, then you stand on the other two corners? Then you can look down between us, and read.”
His lady nodded slowly. “That’ll work,” she said-and just managed not to sound surprised.
And so it was that Arclath Delcastle was grinning fondly at his ladylove when Storm’s kitchen went away in sudden blue mists, and they fell out of that eerie sapphire place into … a forest where the dead and the flies were everywhere, and an army was tightening in a ring around the tall spires of a few buildings, and monsters of nightmare and legend were harrying that army …
And a spired stone city floated in the sky, vast and dark and blotting out the sunlight as it came scudding menacingly overhead.
CHAPTER 18
Dove shook her head. It was no use. She’d remembered the entire spell, she was sure-but nothing had happened. Whatever baelnorn still guarded their crypts somewhere beneath her would remain there. She’d have to do this alone.
As usual.
And her luck was turning for the worse. Also as usual.
She’d cast a look back to see if any of the Moonstars were following her-they weren’t, only gawping in bewilderment at her sudden sprint across the landscape-and had seen that someone else was following her.
The big beholder who’d been hovering above the wounded black dragon happily slaying Shadovar mercenaries was drifting in her direction, eyestalks writhing menacingly.
And though she couldn’t place from where, the creature seemed somehow familiar.
“Stars and spells, Mother!” Dove cursed aloud, “why now? How is it that monsters are here-here in the farruking mythal-guarded heart of Myth Drannor-to settle old scores, right in the midst of the elves’ latest last stand?”
And with those words, running as hard as ever, she plunged over the edge.
Down into the dell, a green and pleasant place. There were the elves, the youngest sobbing in fear, and-
There they were, the pursuers. Wearing broad and arrogant grins as they came, striding unhurriedly, enjoying this. Two tall and muscular shades, twins-and Tanthuls, by the looks of them!
“Well, now,” she panted aloud. “Princes of Shade! I’m honored. I think.”
She’d be able to get between the two and the fleeing elves; that was what mattered. As she hastened to do that, Dove cast a swift look back over her shoulder, and saw what she’d expected to see.
The beholder didn’t have to run over uneven ground or down steep slopes, and had glided serenely closer. The baleful gaze of its central eye was fixed on her.
“Hunh,” she gasped at it. “Wait your turn.”
And then she had no more breath to speak, because damned if these two running princes of Shade hadn’t sped up, to try to run past before she could reach them.
Dove sprinted beyond breathlessness, putting on a burst of speed that left her staggering as they came rushing up, swinging their swords.
She ducked, feinted with her hips, saw the foremost shade’s gaze follow her movement, swung her sword aloft to distract him further-and threw a perfect cross-body block across his midriff.
They slammed together like two charging bulls, Dove’s hip sinking deep into a yielding gut-and the prince went helplessly cartwheeling.
Whereupon the other shade gleefully ran her through.
His steel felt like ice inside her, but he made the mistake of twisting his blade to do her more agony, rather than pulling it out of her to use again, making sure of her death. Instead, he turned the hilt sadistically as he made a sneering speech.
“I am Prince Vattick of Thultanthar, and your doom! So tell me, foolish wench, who are you?”
Dove kept her feet moving, and clawed her way up his blade before he could withdraw it. Which meant she was close enough to use the sharpest and strongest run of her own sword, the length just above the hilt. Her first slash almost took the prince’s free hand off, and while he was busy screaming about that, she chopped at his sword hand.
Prince Vattick of Thultanthar promptly lost his grip on his blade, which meant she could lurch back far enough to swing-and slice his head off.
She turned, as it bounced in the dust, wearing a look of pained disbelief, to see what had become of the other prince, but the agony flaring inside her took her to her knees.
She shuddered, still impaled on the dead prince’s sword, the sword that was now propping her up, its point caught on the backplate of her armor.
Mother Mystra, but it hurt!
The air above her darkened.
Of course.
Dove looked up through the welling pain. The beholder loomed above her, its wide and many-toothed smile gloating. “Dove Falconhand,” it hissed, “do you remember me?”
She did, but still couldn’t recall its name.
And then she did. “Glormorglulla,” she gasped, her blood iron and fire in her mouth.
“The same,” the eye tyrant purred. “And do you recall our last meeting?”
“No,” she told it honestly, looking past it to try to see what had become of the fleeing elf children and elders and the other prince, but finding her vision was blurring, and everything was going dim.
She could hear screams and cries, but they sounded human, not elf.
“No,” she said again, drifting through memories she hadn’t brought to mind for a long time, but finding no scene nor recollection with Glormorglulla in it.
“You helped the accursed Elminster capture me,” the beholder spat. “With your spells, you aided him, when he lacked the might to overcome me alone. You were responsible for my imprisonment. Yet fate and chance are sometimes wondrous-and now, at long last, I shall have my revenge.”
“So be it,” Dove hissed up at it, spitting out blood and feeling more flooding up into her mouth than she could hope to swallow.
She spat hastily, and managed to ask, “I wonder if you’ll escape the curse I worked on you?”
“What curse?” the beholder asked, swooping down until its great eye towered over her. “What is this you speak of?”
It was a lie, an empty ruse, but Glormorglulla was close enough now for even her dying, agony-sapped mind to reach.
Dove glared up through the blood, and locked gazes and minds with the eye tyrant.
“Saerevros,” she murmured, and so sealed the blood lock.
The beholder could easily break free when she was dead, but until then it could win free of where she held it only if its mind could break hers.
“Not a chance,” she mumbled aloud, as the first hint of horror dawned in Glormorglulla’s fell gaze.
Dove held that dark and malevolent mind in thrall.
The eye tyrant struggled, at first furiously and then in growing terror, tugging-but failing. It couldn’t move away, and couldn’t use the powers of its eyes, thanks to her willing otherwise, but it could and did roll over and over in midair, and flail the passing breeze and her face and shoulders alike with its eyestalks.
Thrice it tried to devour her, its great jaws gaping, but she held it back with her strength of will, its fetid fangs clashing right in front of her nose as their minds wrestled.