Lost in lust, he never saw his peril.
Old Ghost found the words of magic he needed in those seven binding enchantments, gathered himself-then spoke them, clearly and crisply, plucking the forces they unleashed as deftly as any master hatpist and using them to thrust a helpless Hotaundoon into the Sword That Never Sleeps. Down into the brightness the younger, lesser spirit so hungered for, down into the cold, thrilling embrace of bindings that tightened and anchored themselves upon him in a dozen ways, then a score of ways-bindings that burned when Old Ghost bent his will upon them.
The splendid sword rose into the air to float silently above the table.
"Yes," Old Ghost murmured through Aumrune Trantor's lips, his thoughts blazing loudly into Horaundoon through the sword's bindings, "you are mine now. Mine to bid, to command as surely as if my hands were firm around this hilt. Yet chafe not, Horaundoon. This is a task you'll thoroughly enjoy."
Aumrune Trantor opened the window and the outer shutters beyond, letting in the sun and a cool breeze that was scudding past all the towers of Zhentil Keep.
"Go," Old Ghost commanded. "Go and kill Zhentarim. I shall be with you, watching. Try to take them alone, where others will not see you. Go and seek Zhents to slay. Not Manshoon, mind. Not yet. And not Hesperdan, for both of them can probably destroy Armaukran with ease. Which leaves you, O Hungry Slayer of Zhentarim, just about every other member of the Brotherhood you care to fell."
The Sword That Never Sleeps rose from the table and slid forward through the air, point first, as sleek as any arrow.
Out the window it went, banking and plunging hastily down out of sight, seeking concealing shadows.
A path of his awareness plunging down with it, Old Ghost smiled inside Aumrune Trantor and made the Zhent mage reach out and close the shutters and then the window.
It was time and past time to begin remaking the Zhentarim into something worthy in fair Faerun.
Florin blinked. Aye. He was Florin.
Florin Falconhand… and he lay on his back on cool, hard stone.
It was too smooth to be anything but a floor, and there was nothing but darkness above him.
Or so it seemed. Things were coming back gradually. They'd been in that cellar, facing Lord Crownsilver. Then the blast…
Wherever he now was, it wasn't the cellar. This place was larger and a lot less dank. Dusty, evenFlorin sneezed. Hard and uncontrollably and several times, bouncing his shoulders off the unyielding stone beneath him.
Someone groaned from floor level nearby. Off to his left.
Florin tried to move his hands. He couldn't seem to feel them, but they were there… and whole. When he thrust one up in front of his face and wriggled his fingers, they responded normally enough. He thrust two of them into his nose to quell further sneezes, and he tried to roll over onto his elbow and sit up.
Done, as easily as usual. Aside from aches all over-the back of his head and his left arm and shoulder in particular-it seemed he was unhurt, with his fellow Knights lying sptawled and motionless around him. Or almost motionless. Yonder, someone was moving and groaning. Doust, from the sound.
Florin tried to peer in all directions, seeking Lord Crownsilver, Sembian wizards, slavering monsrers, or… well, anyone approaching.
He saw nothing like that. In the darkness, he couldn't really see much at all. He dug in his pouch for the little glowstone Vangerdahast had given him-had given all the Knights, and weren't they very likely to bear enchantments that would let the Royal Magician trace their whereabouts at will? He set it down and sent it skittering across the floor.
Well, now. This "elsewhere" they'd all somehow landed in seemed to be a deserred room somewhere very grand. "Very grand" as in very high ceilings and large rooms, with walls covered in unpainted wooden panels with carved frames, borders, fluted half pillars, and heavily ornate scrollwork supporting… well, curlicues. All cut out of the same dark wood.
As grand as some of the rooms he'd seen in the Royal Palace in Suzail. The room mighr be underground, but it didn't seem as damp as, say, that cellar. Nor did it smell of earth. Dust lay everywhere, like a thick, furry blanket, but the only bits of rubble he could see were small, fresh chips and flecks of stone around and under the Knights. That looked as if the Knights had brought it along with them.
Someone else groaned loudly. Semoor.
Florin stood up, wincing-one of his shins wasn't any too happy with its present condition, it seemed-and staggered around the fallen Knights, looking for wounds and anyrhing missing. He winced when he saw the crossbow quarrel through Islif's arm.
Doust silently joined him. "If you slice it off here," the priest said, pointing, "and slide it out, I'll have a healing spell ready before she loses roo much blood."
"How much has she losr already?" Florin asked. tui yrcmwooa "More than enough," Islif whispered, startling them both, "but I'll live. Do it." Her eyes were still closed, and she lay sprawled as if unconscious.
Florin used his dagger to saw through the shaft of the quarrel, then left Doust to his work. He went around to examine the rest of the Knights.
Everyone was accounted for. It appeared, looking over the litter of weapons lying strewn around them, that everything they'd been wearing or carrying had made the journey with them, too. Plus all the stone shards he'd noticed.
Made the journey, more or less, he amended his judgment. Pennae now seemed to be wearing as much soot as leathers.
Was she-? When he laid a fingertip gingerly on one bared, scraped shoulder, her eyes snapped open, and she uncoiled like a whirlwind to clutch at his hand.
"Easy, lass," Florin said. " "Tis just me."
She turned her head until she could fix him with one sparkling eye and said, "You're never just you, big ranger man."
Semoor started to chuckle-until the dust made him choke. Evidently his eyes had been open, too, and the glowstone he had out had given him light enough to see the expression on Florin's face.
The ranger cleared his throar loudly and told Pennae, "I, ah, have to check on the others. Ah, right now." He hastily turned away.
Pennae rolled onto her side, wincing, and then made it up to a sitting position.
"Naed, but I hurt." Jhessail gasped, flinching, as Florin helped her sit up. "Where by the Nine crackling Hells are we?" Florin shrugged. "I have no idea."
"Neither do I," Pennae said, struggling to her feet and clutching at her hip and then at her knee, ere limping a few tentative steps away, "but I know how we got here."
"Enlighten us," Doust told her.
"That tracer gem explosion awakened a portal behind us-a portal that must have been there for a long time but was hidden. I saw just a glimpse of it, as I was being flung back at it. It must have snatched all of us-and this litter of stones and suchlike, too-out of the cellar as rhe place collapsed."
"So Lord Crownsilver's pet wizards blew him and themselves up?" Semoor asked. "That's rich!"
Pennae shook her head. "They'd just spun their own portal, remember? It would do the same thing to them, taking them wherever they'd set the portal to reach."
The Light of Lathander frowned. "So they could be somewhere nearby."
"Yes," she replied. "Glowstones out, everyone. I think we're in some sort of palace."
"I think so, too," Florin murmured from where he'd stooped to recover the glowstone he'd sent journeying across the floor. "And I see an archway yonder and a closed door over that way."
"Let's leave closed doors closed, for now," Jhessail said, wincing and rubbing one of her elbows.