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He rubbed his hands thoughtfully. "If not, I'll need a number of elf-shes as hosts. And a dragon stud. A host of half-dragons! What warriors! Imagine the savings in coin for armor alone!"
Eyebrow crooked, Elaith turned to Tincheron. "Would you like to respond appropriately, or shall I?"
The silver-scaled warrior silently stalked forward and back-landed the old priest's head.
Golskyn fell like a sack of meal, senseless and silent. The elf smiled at Mrelder. "I trust you'll prove more sensible?"
The sorcerer nodded cautiously. "You fought and defeated us. Are you offering swift death or…?"
Elaith inspected his nails. "A strategic withdrawal."
"I-I thank you. May I ask why?"
"Waterdeep," the Serpent replied coolly, "is my city, off limits to such as you. That's not to say that we might not do business elsewhere to mutual advantage."
"And what price does your mercy carry?"
The elf smiled. "You're quick, sorcerer. In return for your lives, require the Guardian's Gorget."
Mrelder sighed, surrendered to the inevitable, and told the elf what had become of the artifact.
A faint groan came from the floor, followed by mutterings about half-dragons.
The sorcerer glanced down at his father. "I rather wish your trusted companion had struck a little harder."
"Revenge is pleasant, but often wasteful." The Serpent let his gaze sweep slowly over the surviving beastmen. "Your father's mad-witted, but he's caused enough trouble to make his methods worthy of study." His gaze came to rest on Golskyn. "Even the oldest wagon has parts worth scavenging."
Mrelder's eyes flashed to his father's fallen but still-mighty form and narrowed in speculation. "Indeed," he murmured. "Are we free to go?"
Elaith Craulnober gracefully indicated a door. "That tu
Mrelder gave a slight bow, in the ma
Elaith smiled. So much for the gratitude of the conquered whose life has been spared. He watched the cultists go, mulling over a feeling that Mrelder had taken some meaning from his words that he hadn't intended.
He turned, nodded, and watched his own forces swiftly scatter into their war-bands and plunge into various tu
Old habits died hard, and Elaith would no longer deny the duties of his heritage and nature. He was a lord, wherever he chose to live and whatever he chose to rule. By his lights, he'd done Waterdeep many services this night-warning the First Lord of danger, standing guard over Piergeiron lest an enemy use the still-missing slipshield to approach him in the unreadable guise of a friend, casting magic that sent many of the revelers safely away from death from stone-fall, helping them find their way out of the tu
It occurred to him, suddenly, that perhaps Mirt and the rest knew their business better than he'd thought possible. Why else would they give such valuable magic as slipshields to a pack of noble pups?
Elaith hurried through the tu
Suddenly, in silence and without any fuss at all, Amaundra fainted. Her eyes rolled up, her body quivered, and she stopped breathing.
"Wizard," Piergeiron snapped, springing up from where he'd been sitting, "you're killing her!"
Tarthus, lying flat on his back trembling uncontrollably, didn't look as if he could kill a fly. He stared up at the Open Lord with eyes of forlorn pain.
"I can't accept this any longer!" Piergeiron snapped. "I must fight for Waterdeep! It's my duty, and I'm needed! Drop the shielding!"
The golden dome persisted. Piergeiron repeated his order, shouting this time.
"N-no," Tarthus gasped faintly.
Madeiron Sunderstone laid one great, restraining hand on Piergeiron's arm and bent over the wizard on the floor. "I remind you that your oaths require you to obey any direct order from the Open Lord of Waterdeep."
"A higher authority forbids," Tarthus gasped, eyes still closed.
"What? There is no-"
Mirt waved a reproving finger in Piergeiron's face to quell lis outburst, then laid it to his own lips, and pointed down at Tarthus.
On cue, a very different voice came from the wizard's trembling lips. "Most of this last bell," it said in feminine tones all four men knew, "my strength has been holding the shield around you, Piergeiron. Tarthus has been obeying me-and in this matter, I am obeying Mystra herself."
"Laeral," Piergeiron breathed.
"Holy Mystra," Madeiron Sunderstone gasped, making a reverent gesture.
At that moment Mirt became aware that someone was standing just outside the shielding. A slender, handsome figure: Elaith Craulnober. Their eyes met.
Mirt lifted his eyebrows inquiringly. Elaith made a certain swift gesture. Mirt replied with another, and the elf confirmed the silent question with a nod.
They both made the chopping motion that signified agreement, and the moneylender shuffled forward, went down on one knee beside Tarthus, and firmly cuffed the wizard's head with one hairy fist.
That head lolled, the shielding went pale-and as Madeiron looked up and glared at the elf, clapping hand to hilt, Elaith calmly worked a spell.
Golden radiance fell away into dying sparks that flared into a sudden bright roaring that stabbed into every ear and eye and swept all Faerun away…
The first thing that Mirt the Moneylender heard was Piergeiron the Paladin groaning, "What happened?"
There was a low rumble of bafflement from Madeiron Sunderstone.
Boom.
Oh. That sounded all too familiar.
BOOM.
Through a glimmering of tears Faerun returned to him, and Mirt found himself groaning, rolling over, and peering at the bare feet of Amaundra Lorgra. The boots of Tarthus were right next to them, and above, the feasting-hall of the Purple Silks was still standing.
In a ma
Boom-BOOM.
There was no sign of Elaith Craulnober. Nor were there Walking Statues at every window-though the ground trembled under the weight of their retreating footfalls, sending bits of the walls cascading down into dust at every blow.
"Hoy!" Mirt cried, causing Amaundra's head to jerk up. "We're free to flee this tomb-in-the-making! Get up, all of ye!"
Even barefooted Watchful Order magists of some seven decades of experience can move swiftly on their corns when they need to, it seemed-and in a few frantic, hurrying breaths of dodging falling stones, the five eminent Waterdhavians were outside and staring across the night-shrouded city.
The wall-lamps glimmered as always, and by their light the great stone guardians of Waterdeep could be seen resuming their usual places.
Piergeiron's eyes narrowed. "Who commands them? And just how by the Nine Hot Hells did whoever it was manage that trick?"
And then his gaze fell on the scrap of parchment Mirt held out to him, and the terse message written on it-the answers to his just-spoken questions. "Where," he asked softly, "did that come from?"