Spellstorm by Ed Greenwood Read Free Book Online Page B

Spell?”
    “You’re an archmage, and you don’t …?” The captive Thultanthan faltered under the weight of Maraunth Torr’s tender smile, and added hastily, “It’s a—a mighty enchantment whose details are unknown to us, but it’s the opinion of our superiors that it could bolster their power, possibly enabling them to swiftly destroy formidable arcane spellcasters, and seize their magic.”
    “Ah, I see. So why came you to be upon my doorstep rather than at Oldspires?”
    “We … failed,” sighed another arcanist.
    “Failure is the best teacher,” Maraunth Torr informed him merrily. “So how did you fail, exactly?”
    “When we reached Oldspires, there was a … fog around it.”
    “A storm,” said the farthest arcanist.
    “A field of magical chaos,” the nearest one chimed in. “We saw lesser mages try to move through it, and be rendered witless. Drooling.”
    “Their minds gone,” groaned the arcanist held next to him.
    “A few more powerful wizards were there as well … some we recognized,” said the farthest captive.
    “I recognized,” the nearest one corrected sharply. “Manshoon—once of Westgate, and before that, the Zhentarim—and Malchor Harpell, once of the Harpells of Longsaddle; his image is in the Gallery of Seemings Vangerdahast of Cormyr created for his wizards of war, as a wandering adventurer to watch. Even they tried and failed to magically force ways through the field. One could tell they marked the waiting danger to their minds and sought to push back the chaos storm and make themselves safe passage. Push it back they could—a few feet, and for a few instants. So they stayed outside, and sane, but mightily displeased that something could defy their magic. We departed.”
    “To seek easier targets?” Maraunth Torr asked mildly.
    “We dare not return to the Three empty-handed,” another of the arcanists said grimly.
    “So we sought among the mages we could find thereabouts, for word of more talking skulls, and were told of your tower.”
    “So you could bring your superiors a talking skull, and if it knew no Lost Spell, well then, the rumors or the old noble selling it must have been mistaken?” their captor asked the helpless quartet arrayed on the iron frame.
    “Yes,” one confirmed. “Exactly,” Another echoed eagerly. “That’s it,” chimed in a third.
    “Thank you,” Maraunth Torr told them. “You’ve been most helpful—for arcanists. Which means your usefulness is at an end.”
    He waved his hand, and the frame erupted in leaping lightnings. Four bodies jerked, convulsed in arching, agonized spasms … and then fell limp and lifeless, amid wifts of drifting smoke and the spreading reek of burned hair.
    Their slayer gazed down at the crisped bodies with a thoughtful air.
    These had been Netherese—overconfident emptyheads, young and inexperienced even among the deluded and preening Thultanthans. Of course they had failed at a task one step beyond “utterly simple.”
    He had none of those faults, and a kindling interest in something that lured so many long-lived mages of power. It was time to try his own luck at Oldspires.

CHAPTER 4
    It’s All Up To You
    M IRT INSPECTED THE BOTTOM OF HIS TANKARD, FOUND IT EMPTY , and stirred himself to call for more.
    He was just drawing breath when a fresh tankard descended to the smooth-worn tabletop in front of him, then slid forward to come to a gentle stop under his nose.
    He regarded it, and then the gaunt, white-bearded man behind it, and grew a slow smile.
    “Heh. It’s been awhile, Old Mage. Well met.”
    “Well met again,” Elminster replied dryly, sitting down. “I see ye’ve grown tired of the company of nobles.”
    Mirt grunted and reached for the tankard. “Their chatter . Drives a man to drink—elsewhere.”
    Elminster surveyed the dim and none-too-clean surroundings. The ceiling of this particular dockside tavern taproom was low, and braced with many old, stout, and diagonal