by Unknown
quite enough zombies already.
As they descended through ravine after ravine, Mirt tried again to talk some sense into Shandril. "Will
ye not change yer mind about this craziness of going up against Manshoon? Ye'll be killed, lass."
Shandril stared at him, eyes burning and chin lifted, and said slowly and very clearly, "I will not run
away any longer. If foes seek me, they shall find me, before they expect to, and hearing less mercy than
they might hope to find. If that is not the Harper way-too bad! Now guide me to Zhentil Keep-or I'll
walk that way, whatever the clangers. and Narm with me."
Narm nodded, and echoed quietly, "I'll be with you." Mirt shook his shaggy head and sighed. "If you
must rush to your death, Shan, the fastest way is still south and west, a little ways more, to Eveningstar.
It may take us the rest of this day-but it'll save ye a tenday of walking in dangerous backlands. What
say ye?"
For a moment, Shandril stared at him with those blazing eyes, then nodded. "Start walking."
Mirt made a noise that [night have been a chuckle, and turned without another word to lead the way to
Eveningstar.
Elminster frowned and set down the small crystal orb he'd been staring into. "Hold still, Storm," he
said, striding over to where Storm sat by the campfire.
The Bard of Shadowdale froze obediently, the pan she'd been about to pack away still in her hands.
Elminster put a hand on her head and muttered a few words.
Storm tingled all over. A whirling light seethed to spin and snap in her mind. When his hand was gone,
she looked up cautiously, and asked, "What was that?"
"A spell to make thee more powerful at sorcery. It lasts only a little while-but that's all the time we
should need it for." Elminster took hold of her shoulders and knelt facing her. Eyes bent on her own, he
uttered some harsh, sliding words, and touched the first two fingers of his left hand to the bridge of her
nose.
Force boiled through her, and the silver-haired bard found herself gasping, on her back on the ground,
fingers itching and wriggling as a yellow haze swirled and eddied in her head. "And just what, El, was
that?" she gasped as her vision cleared.
A spell that allows ye to shoot forth a ray that'll wipe one of a wizard's spells right out of his mind."
Elminster gave her a grin that was not pleasant to look at, then added, "Too powerful for ye to carry
normally-but I need ye to hit Manshoon with it, very soon now."
"Manshoon?"The bard was getting a little tired of gashing in surprise, but Elminster had managed to
take her breath away again.
"Aye. Now put that pan down, get away from the fire, and belt up! Ye've been after me to aid Shandril-
well, now it's time. The Zhentarim have been far too busy for their own good, and they've rushed things
a little. Stand ye back, roll the drums, and bring on Manshoon!"
Elminster's severe expression melted into a reassuring smile just for an instant-and then his hands were
moving, and he stared into the fire and mouthed curses Storm could not quite hear. She found herself
glad of that.
Ah, this was the place. Manshoon walked the last few steps to the narrow bridge of rock that led to the
bare, windswept sununit He risked leaning out to glance down. Yes, there they were. The fat one, the
young mage, and Shandril in a gully that turned toward him and passed under the overhanging cliff.
Perfect.
Manshoon took a step onto the stone bridge-and then paused as a robed figure suddenly appeared in his
way. It was an old man with a mop of white hair and heard, a mockingly raised eyebrow, and features
Manshoon knew only too well.
"Well met," Elminster of Shadowdale said wryly, not quite bowing. "Nice weather up here, isn't it,
Manshoon?" Man,hoon snarled like one of his own hunting dogs and raised a hand threateningly.
Elminster looked innocently at it, then mildly met Manshoon's angry gaze. "Something troubling ye?
Lack ol spellfire, perhaps?"
Manshoon hissed the word that unleashed the most powerful killing spell he carried. There was a flash,
and the stones around them rocked and shook.
Below, Mirt looked up and swore. "Manshoon - and Elminster! Run! Both of ye-move! There's no
telling how much of that mountain'll come down if they start blasting each other in earnest. Come on!"
Snatching up Shandril bodily, the Old Wolf broke into a heavy run, Narm at his side. He paid no heed
to Shandril's sharp words of protest, but lumbered along like a draft horse gathering speed for a gallop,
wheezing lustily in her ears as he went. Furious, Shandril tried to claw at his face and win free of his
grip, but Mirt ignored her nails until Narm could cast a hasty magic that slowed and hampered tier
struggles. Shandril snarled at them both, and then-as the Old Wolf thundered on-gave up, shrugging
and spreading her hands with a weary, apologetic smile.
Atop the cliff, Elminster's image only smiled as the spell that should have torn him asunder spiraled
into him and roared away into vast distances. Through the dark hole rent in the Old Mage's middle,
Manshoon could see the rocks of the summit beyond. could feel a whirling wind drawing him forward.
"Spelltrap," Elminster said mockingly. "Fooled again, Manshoon."
The roar of the vortex grew louder, and Manshoon found himself being sucked off his feet toward the
phantom image of his enemy. As Elminster's crooked smile rushed up to meet him. Manshoon had just
enough time to speak one word: the one that summoned aid so costly he used it only in dire need.
Now, for instance ...
Elminster tossed something small into the fire, stepped back from its flames, and said, "Scratch any
itches ye have right now, lass-things're apt to get a mite busy around here in a breath or two."
Storms hands went to the hilt of her sword.
Elminster nodded, and her long sword slid out. "We were within a breath of losing Shandril," the Old
Mage told her, "and from the Zhentarim gaining spellfire. Instead, Manshoon should be paying us a
visit any time now."
His hands moved in the intricate gestures of a spell, and a score of silvery spheres sprang into being
around him, drifting upward like so many bubbles. Some floated toward Storm. Behind her, the horses
snorted. Storm turned from watching Elminster's spheres twirl and rise to see what had startled their
mounts. And she froze.
Three huge, dark beings hung in air that had been empty moments before, eyestalks curling
malevolently. The trio of beholders were floating behind the High Lord of Zhentil Keep, who stood
facing Storm, his eyes dark with fury.
Storm gasped. "Tymora and Mystra, aid us!"
"Have they gone?" Shandril asked softly, lips at his ear. The Old Wolf shuddered to a stop, breathing
heavily, and turned.
"Set me down," Shandril added-and was alarmed to feel him stagger under her as he bent to let her feet
touch the ground. The Old Wolf was wheezing like a lustily plied bellows ... she'd heard more than one
fat man breathing like that back at the inn in her youth, just before they dropped dead.
The Old Wolf gasped fast and often as lie looked back the way they'd come. "I can't see them, lass," he
replied at last. "And more ... than that; even if they both appeared right here ... in front of us ... I can't
run a step more ... for a bit..." His breath came in gasps, and he put a hand to his chest before h
e noticed
her anxious gaze-and angrily snatched his hand away again.
Shandril watched the sweat roll down his face and said gently, "Sit easy for a bit, Old Wolf. I have to-
er, visit the bushes. I don't think we'll see two mages of that power again until their battle's done-and a
spell-fight tike that might have no survivor."
"Or it might have a winner," Narm said grimly, staring back up at the bare peak where they'd seen the
two wizards outlined by a spell-flash. "I just hope it's the right one."
"I've always thought ... Elminster could handle Manshoon ... any day," Mirt puffed, "but in things ... of
magic ... nothing is certain." He struggled to get up. "We must be ... away from here, while we can!
There's-"
Shandril pushed him back down again. "Today still holds plenty of time for walking, when you've
breath enough to do it. I need you."
Mirt stared at her, sweat dripping off the end of his large, red nose. "Lass," lie asked quietly, "what
for?" Shandril looked fondly at the fat old man, and her mouth crooked into a smile. "To protect me, of
course." Mirt's snort would have been louder if he'd had the breath to put behind it, but it was still
impressive.
The fire crackled and flickered calmly in the aftermath of the reflective magic Elminster had cast into
it. It had no way of knowing what was about to erupt around it Manshoon sneered at the archmage and
the bard and snatched a wand from his belt. Behind him, the three beholders were drifting apart,
moving to the sides of the fray where nothing could get in the way of their magical gazes.
Elminster’s hands were moving. Storm looked to him for instructions, but he paid her no heed. A dozen
of his spheres were drifting around her now.
Manshoon's wand spat lightning The bolt writhed and stabbed through the air-until it reached the fire.
There it dipped sharply into the burning wood, as if dragged down by something unseen. Flames
crackled; sparks flew in all directions. Then the bolt of lightning leapt up out of the fire again, arrowing
back at the leader of the Zhentarim. Storm raised her blade as she heard him gasp. Lightnings whirled
and struck home; Manshoon staggered.
The air was suddenly full of humming, bone-shaking beams of force as the eye-powers of one of the
beholders lashed out at both Elminster and Storm.
The silver spheres created by Elminster s earlier spell were everywhere -darting and whirling to
intercept the magics hurled at the bard and the old archmage. Whenever a sphere came into contact
with tragic, it flared in a sudden, silent pulse of silver-blue light-before sphere and spell disappeared
together. Elminster finished his magic and nodded in satisfaction. Feeling Storm's eyes upon him, he
turned his head and wiggled his eyebrows at her. Then his hands were moving again.
The air in front of Manshoon was abruptly cut by a crooked line of snaking darkness as wide as a man's
head. Wind whirled violently toward this rift. The advancing darkness approached the frantically
casting Zhentarim, and then the dark vortex split into two ebony, reaching arms. The newly formed
fork of whirling chaos lashed out past Manshoon, stabbing at the drifting eye
tyrants. Their eyestalks bent in chorus to gaze upon it, but the advancing lines of darkness never
slowed. The rifts widened. Glimpses of a whirling, winking otherwhere were visible within them. Wind
rushed into them with the quickening roar of thunder, and the bladelike points of the rifts each touched
a beholder.
The eye tyrants whirled and spun helplessly, eyestalks flailing the air with frantic futility as they were
dragged into the planar rifts. Amid flashes and angry, groundshaking rolls of thunder, they spun faster
and faster, until Storm could no longer distinguish them from the whirling chaos of the rifts; they were
gone.
The vortices promptly collapsed and vanished. Manshoon snatched time enough to glance back over
his shoulder, and his jaw dropped. Only one eye tyrant remained, rising above him to gain a clear pant
to strike down at Elminster.
The Old Mage smiled tightly and let his hands fall again, his next spell done.
Zulthondre was an old and powerful eye tyrant: its chitinous body plates reflected the firelight in
dancing green tongues of radiance. It knew the scent of the old, bearded man facing it across the small
campfire. That smell had emanated from the very floor of the chamber in the Citadel of the Raven,
where it had met with Manshoon and Sarhthor. Zulthondre seethed with rage. No human had ever
outwitted it before.
The beholder ceased its futile eyestalk attacks; each beam it had lashed out had been absorbed by a
silvery sphere and utterly wasted. Instead, Zulthondre bent its large, rage-reddened central eye balefully
on those silvery spheres. The power of the eye destroyed the old man's spheres one by one, and each
winked out of existence.
And then Zulthondre's world exploded in flames.
The Old Mage watched in satisfaction as eight blazing fireballs spun into being around the beholder-
and then burst in unison, with a roar that made Storm's ears ring. The eye tyrant darkened, writhing in
obvious agony. Plates of chitin were flung away from its convulsing body as its skin wrinkled, melted,
and burst open. Jets of bodily fluids boiled forth from within. Mouth gaping in a soundless scream, the
beholder crashed to earth, flames rising from its body.
Manshoon had been frantically snarling spells, two wands crossed over his head. They flickered and
vanished an instant after the beholder's death crash, leaving the sorcerer's hands empty, but outlined in
dancing sparks. Ignoring the tumult behind him, Manshoon straightened in triumph, eyes flashing, and
snarled, "Now you'll pay, Old Mage! Die!" Many lightning bolts raced from his crossed hands then,
tearing the air with vicious snarls of their own to strike at the Old Mage.
Elminster stood unmoving as they came. An arm's length in front of him, the bolts struck an invisible,
protective shield of force, and crawled futilely over its surface.
"One day," Elminster replied calmly, "ye'll anger me overmuch, Lord High and Mighty-and I'll make
time enough to hunt down and blast to nothingness every last crawling clone of thine, thy every last
hiding-hole-and wipe ye from the Realms entire; aye, and all the other worlds, too. So take care,
Manshoon, to ne'er grow too powerful or too persistent in angering me-or I'll lose my temper, and it'll
be too late for thee."
He turned deliberately to the bard and said, "Now, Storm."
Storm let fall her sword, and spun to face the High Lord of Zhentil Keep.
Manshoon's hands were already darting through the gestures of a spell, obviously aimed at the Old
Mage. But the Zhentarim gaped in surprise as a spell leapt first from Storm's hands.
Storm felt an exultant thrill as the tingling magic rolled out of her, more power than she'd ever felt
before. She laughed in pleasure. It felt good to finally be able to lash out with magic at a man whose
spells would normally easily hold her at bay, however hot her hatred of him.
Radiance danced around Manshoon briefly and then disappeared. Had the spell failed? Storm bent
anxiously to snatch up her sword, all her exultation gone.
The Zhentarim's hands faltered and fell, and he seemed to stagger for a moment. "What-what have you
done?" he roared.
E
lminster grinned. "Charge at him, Storm." Storm launched into a run.
The Old Mage smiled at Manshoon and waved a hand. His pipe obediently rose from the ground where
it had been quietly smoking by itself, and drifted toward his tips.
"I held down thy defenses, idiot," Elminster told him calmly, "while Storm wiped out half thy spells, or
so. Oh, by the way: I'm still doing so. If ye try to use a spell against her, ye'll end up feeble-witted. and
we'll just leave ye here." He smiled. "I know ye won't be able to resist trying some magic now."
The Old Mage puffed on his pipe and added, "Ah, yes; Storm may want to cut off thy hands, too, to
keep ye from casting too many spells if ye ever recover."
The Zhentarim looked open-mouthed at Storm. A blank expression washed over his face.
Storm knew from the horror that replaced this look that Manshoon had tried to use a spell to whisk
himself away from the battle-and had discovered it was gone.
The High Lord of Zhentil Keep grabbed at a rod at his belt, saw how close Storm was, and tried to turn
and run at the same time. Storm's blade caught him under one armpit and spun him around.
"Defend yourself, wizard!" Storm spat at him. Manshoon stared at her for a moment, then snatched
something from his belt, leapt back, and hurled it at her. Storm's blade struck it aside. The bard saw the
Zhen-tarim's dagger flash with a dull green light as it spun away.
"Poisoned?" she said contemptuously. "You snake!" Her long sword slashed out.
Manshoon shrieked as some of his fingers went flying. Elminster called, "'Ware, Storm-his
contingencies are likely to harm ye and save him!"
Storm ruined Manshoon's other hand with a quick chop.
"Kill him from a distance, eh?" she replied, stepping away. Manshoon fumbled a wand out of his belt-
but Storm cut it out of his bloody hand, and her backhand slash laid open Manshoon's face. Her eyes
were hot, and with terrible speed that bright blade was reaching for him again. The High Lord of
Zhentil Keep staggered back, coughed wetly, and, snarling, aimed another wand at her. An instant later,
he was gone-leaving behind a burst of black, evil-looking flames that reached hungrily from the wand