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"Prettily said, Ilbarth," Mirt grunted, turning suddenly to glare at one of the others, who'd sidled just a
step too close to the fat old man's back. "So ye can live, all of ye."
"Generous, White-Whiskers," that man said softly, "when it's three to one."
"I'm known for my open-handed generosity," Mirt said, baring his teeth in a grin without slowing, "so I'll
let ye live a second time, Aldon. Take care ye don't use up all thy luck and my patience, now."
Aldon took one uncertain step in pursuit of the wheezing man. "How'd you know my name?"
"He knows everyone in Skullport," Ilbarth said with a nervous grin. "Isn't that right, Mirt? I'll bet cold
coin you've lived all your life down here."
"Not yet," Mirt grunted, turning to fix him with one cold and level gray-blue eye. "Not quite yet."
He turned away from them and went on down the alley without looking back, but the three men did not
follow. They stood watching him for a time, and soon had cause to be very glad they'd not proceeded
with more violent activities.
The old moneylender strode past a tentacle that slid down from an upper window to pluck aloft a man
who'd summoned it, stepped around an ore sprawled on its face in a pool of blood, a spear standing up
in its back- and found his way suddenly blocked by a dozen or more lithe, slim black figures, whose skin
was as jet black as the soft leathers they wore. Almost mockingly, the guiding motes of light winked and
sparkled in the distance beyond them.
"How now, old man?" one of the drow hissed. "Care to buy your life with a careful and verbose listing of
all your wealth, where it can be found, and just how it's guarded?"
"No," Mirt growled, "I'm in a hurry. So stand aside, and I'll let all of ye live."
Cold, mocking laughter gave him reply, and one of the dark elves sneered, "Kind of you, indeed."
"Indeed, but I won't tarry," Mirt growled. "Stand aside, now!"
"Giving us orders, old man?" the drow who'd first spoken responded tartly. "For that, you'll taste a
whip!" Slim gloved fingers went eagerly to a thigh sheath.
"Or three," another of the drow agreed, as other hands made the same movement, and slim black cords
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curled and cracked.
Mirt sighed, opened his cupped hand to reveal the thing he'd taken from his pouch in the House of the
Long Slow Kiss, and murmured a word.
The battered metal chevron in his palm erupted in a ringing, leaping sparkle of steel-and the old
moneylender stood, calmly watching, as the magic he'd unleashed became a hundred slashing, darting
swords that flew about the alley in front of him in a deadly whirlwind. Drow leapt desperately for safety,
anywhere it might lie ... but died anyway, amid screams from open windows above. Someone paused on
a catwalk to watch-and someone else smote that watcher from behind, contributing a helplessly plunging,
senseless body to the flashing carnage below.
"Enough!" Mirt growled, as he watched the unfortunate falling man get cut to ribbons. The moneylender
spat a second strange word, and the blades obediently melted away, leaving the alley empty of menacing
forms in his path. He strode on.
His next few steps were in slippery black blood, but the motes were still twinkling in the gloom ahead,
heading for a sudden, distant flash of spell light. In its flare, Mirt saw many folk gathered to watch
something off to the left, crowded together to enjoy-a fight? a duel? Bets were being placed, and the
more belligerent were jostling for a better view.
There was another flash-which resolved itself into the blue pinwheel that marked the appearance of
someone using an old catch-teleport spell-and out of its heart stumbled Durnan, moving fast. Mirt's old
friend was in some sort of ruin, caught in the midst of a spell duel between-gods blast all!-a beholder, and
someone ... a mage? Nay, mauve skin, that could only mean a mind flayer. Ye gods. Hasty business
indeed!
"Idiot!" Mirt described Durnan fervently, and broke into a trot, feeling in his pouch for some handy small
salvation or other.
"Hearken, all!" he panted, to the uneven stones ahead of him as his shaggy bulk gathered speed, "and
take note: 'tis the Wheezing Warrior to the rescue- again!"
Something cold struck the back of his neck, and clung. Durnan snarled and chopped at it, even as a pair
of black tentacles twined about his blade and pulled, trying to drag it down.
Durnan slashed out with the dagger in his other hand, seeking to free his sword. The chill at the back of
his neck was spreading, cold caressing fingers spreading along his shoulders. "What, by the bones of the
cursed-?" he snarled.
The beholder smiled down at him. "Your memories will be mine first. . . before I take the tiny candle that
you call a mind-and blow it out!"
Durnan rolled his eyes. "You sound like a bad actor trying to impress gawping nobles in North Ward!"
And then the point of his dagger found the pommel of his sword. He pressed down firmly, and hissed a
certain word.
The gem in the pommel burst with a tiny blaze of its own-and slowly, in impressive silence, all of the
black tentacles faded away. "So much for your spell," the tavernmaster grunted, throwing the dagger hard
into the beholder's large, staring central eye.
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The world erupted in a roar of pain and fury. The eye tyrant bucked in midair like a wild stallion trying to
shake off ropes, shuddered, and then rolled over with terrible speed, eyestalks reaching out to transfix
Durnan in many fell gazes.
Nothing happened.
"Mystra grant that this my spellshatter last just a trifle longer," Durnan prayed aloud, hands stabbing
down to his boots for more daggers. That great mouth was very close now, and the roaring coming from
it was shaking the tavernmaster's body. Teeth chattering helplessly, Durnan watched those fangs gape
wide. . ..
Not far away, a black cobweb quivered and seemed to stiffen. Then a hoarse, dusty voice issued from
it-a voice that squeaked and hissed from long disuse. "Someone is using a spellshatter," it told the empty
darkness of the crypt around it.
Not surprisingly, there was no reply.
After a moment's pause, the cobweb shot forth an arm like the tentacle of a black octopus, and plunged
it into the stone of the far wall-as if the tentacle were a mere shadow, able to freely drift through solid
things. Then the entire cobweb shifted like a gigantic, ungainly spider and followed the tentacle, sliding
into the stones of the crypt wall.
A breath later, the black tentacle emerged from a solid wall in Skullport, wriggled out across an alley,
and turned to probe up and down the narrow, reeking way. A rat paused in its gnawings and scuttlings to
watch this new, probably edible worm or snake-but sank back down behind a pile of refuse when the
tentacle grew swiftly into a spiderlike growth that covered most of the wall. This spiderlike thing then
became a flapping black cloak . . . from which grew the shuffling figure of a robed, cowled man, whose
eyes gleamed in the darkness as brightly as the rat's own orbs.
The man's robe swished past the cowering rodent. He stepped out of the alley, looked out across a
blackened, tumbled area of devastation where a building had burned or been blasted apart, and said
clearly, "Hmmm."
A beholder was bobbing above a lone human, the magelight of carelessly crafted spells streaming around [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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