Spellstorm by Ed Greenwood

directions, presumably encircling Oldspires like a green ribbon—that might
     now be his prison. For the roiling fog now stood like a great, unbroken hedge or fence
     around the strip of grass, walling him in.
    Laragaunt tried the doors with all his strength, then sighed, stepped back to peer
     up at Oldspires, then set off around the house in search of other ways in.
    “All doors and windows closed, locked, and barred or shuttered,” El remarked. “I made
     sure the servants obeyed thy orders.” He looked at Lord Halaunt.
    Alusair snorted. “ ‘My’ orders.”
    “Has a ring to it, hey?” Mirt offered, and received a withering look from her that
     would have been far sharper if made with her own features. Lord Halaunt’s expression
     was forbiddingly withering most of the time.
    Myrmeen went to a massive high-backed seat along one wall, and cautiously seated herself.
     No clouds of dust or storm of scurrying rats arose, and it didn’t collapse under her,
     so she relaxed, and after a moment moved to one end where she could recline into its
     padding.
    “We should enjoy this leisure, I’m thinking,” she said. “There’ll be precious little
     once all
that
lot are in here with us.”
    Mirt joined her. “Good idea.”
    Elminster’s Weave vision worked well no matter where they were, so they all took seats
     and watched the powerful spellhurlers out on the lawn one by one hurl mighty spells
     at the spellstorm, trying to pierce it and get in.
    And one by one, Mystra let them succeed.
    Laragaunt of Threskel trudged into view several times, making increasingly gloomy
     circuits of the outside of the rambling mansion. By the last one, he was peering up
     at high windows, trying to judge what could be climbed to—and forced open, once one
     was somehow perched precariously up there.
    “That’s all of them,” Myrmeen murmured. “Eleven strong, I see.” Out of habit, she
     looked around for a weapon.
    Five women and six men milled warily by the walls of Oldspires, peering all around
     and glaring at each other. The fogs were unbroken again, walling them in and stretching
     up overhead in a dome that enclosed the mansion. The sun shone down through the dome
     as if through a light haze, but for the height of two tall men up from the ground,
     the spellstorm was like thick, dark roiling smoke.
    The Weave vision allowed the four inside Oldspires to see outside as if the walls
     were transparent, so they all noticed as Manshoon hastened around the mansion to where
     he was out of sight of the other ten who’d just passed through the spellstorm, espied
     a high balcony, and almost casually started to swarm up the stone wall.
    His descent was as violent as it was swift; a hand slipped and he scraped once against
     the stones on his way to a solid, thudding crash onto the ground.
    Elminster’s chuckle was the loudest.
    Manshoon winced, groaned, clambered to his feet feeling at one arm and then the opposing
     thigh, and tried again to climb but with far more caution. Only to come right back
     down with a jar, and stand shaking his head. Rage and terror were clear on his face.
     After a moment, he wandered back toward the other ten wizards.
    “He’s gotten used to his vampiric powers,” El muttered, “so now their sudden loss
     confounds him.”
    “They’re gone?” Myrmeen asked.
    “While he’s here, inside the spellstorm. Thanks to Mystra. So no spiderlike climbing
     for him—nor flying around as a bat, either. He’s never been vulnerable to sunlight,
     as most vampires are, but then again, he can’t charm as a true vampire does, either.”
    And with those words, Elminster got up from his seat and added briskly, “Cooks, to
     the kitchens—where you’d best secure all knives. Lord Halaunt, with me. Time to greet
     our guests, before they get so restless that mischief erupts.”
    “Me, I
like
mischief erupting,” Mirt replied, but headed for the door the Weave vision showed
     led to the kitchens,