Spellstorm by Ed Greenwood Read Free Book Online Page A

Elminster said with a wry smile, “as to that, I have a plan.”
    Vangey wasn’t the only one in the room to roll his eyes then.
    “You’re going to make things up as you go along,” the ghost of Alusair murmured. “As
     you always do. Charge in and ruffle feathers and ride out the hazards. You sly old
     rogue.”
    Elminster’s gaze held a twinkle. “Eh, lass. Careful with the compliments, there; ye’ll
     turn my head.”
    “Make you preen, more like. Old bastard.”
    “Shadow of a woman,” El replied, just as affectionately.
    “Still want me to go prancing off into a mansion of twisted magic with this, ah, personage?”
     Myrmeen asked Vangerdahast.
    He shrugged and looked sheepish. “You’ve always loved adventure, and chafed when it
     wasn’t on offer.”
    “You,” Myrmeen returned, “know me too well.” Then she looked across at Elminster.
     “Let’s get going.”

    T HIS DEEPEST ROOM beneath his tower was persistently damp, which was why its owner, who stood looking
     down at four robed men spread-eagled on a stout iron frame before him, used it only
     for butchery. Usually there were dead boar or cattle on the frame, but it seemed to
     work on men well enough,
    “W-who
are
you?” one of the chained captives gasped, when he’d stopped shrieking long enough
     to pant his way back to framing words.
    The dark-haired, handsome, and imperious man who was the source of the agonies being
     visited on the four captive arcanists smiled coldly. “My name is Maraunth Torr, but
     it’s no doubt unfamiliar to you. I am an archmage of some power, and arcanists of
     Thultanthar seem to believe powerful wizards who do not hail from their city are … mythical.
     But then, the arrogant fools of Thultanthar believe so many incorrect things. Such
     a pity. It always leads to their undoing.”
    And as those gentle words left his lips, he gestured lazily and sent fresh ragged
     lightnings through the iron frames that held his captives fast. Skin sizzled with
     a reek akin to roast boar, and a sound almost lost amid the din of their raw, throat-stripping
     shrieks.
    Maraunth Torr gave them a wintry smile and strolled back to his goblet of wine and
     the maps he’d been studying when his flying-chain spell traps had entwined and bound
     them—so easily that they might just as well have been common thieves bereft of magic.
     More easily, perhaps, for thieves might have been more suspicious of adornments, around
     the doorway of a room where powerful enchanted items were stored, that took the shape
     of chains than these four dolts had been.
    When their screams had died away into panting groans, he raised his goblet and remarked
     to it, “I remain curious as to why arcanists of Thultanthar would dare to intrude
     into a wizard’s tower in the wilds near ruined Starmantle that’s widely known to be
     formidably guarded.”
    Weak moans and nigh-incoherent pleas for mercy were the only replies he got, so the
     archmage drank deeply, sighed out his pleasure as the Shalassalur burned its silken
     way down his throat, and strolled back to match gazes with his nearest captive.
    “Well?” he asked mildly. “I should hate to, ah, have to press you on this point.”
    “I—we—ahhh …”
    “A promising beginning,” Maraunth Torr said amiably, “but my patience is not infinite.
     Pray continue.”
    “We were following orders,” the closest wizard blurted out.
    “And who gave you these orders?”
    “Our commanders,” the third wizard down almost sobbed.
    “Who are?”
    “Ah … er …”
    “Come, come, you are like guilty children, caught but playing for time,” Maraunth
     Torr told them, almost tenderly. “Be more forthcoming, and be so swiftly. Or, as they
     say, else.”
    “You’ll have heard of the fate of our city,” the nearest wizard told him. “Not many
     of rank survived its destruction. We answer now to three—their names may mean nothing
     to you—Lelavdra, Manarlume, and Gwelt. The