by Ed Greenwood
If he was to become the new Larloch, with the liches now seemingly stirring to reach out into wider Faerûn, abandoning the aloofness of their absent master, he would need a distraction. One who was powerful enough to last more than a few moments, and strong enough to be a credible threat demanding lichnee attention. One who could be an ally if need be.
It would take time to devise the right spells to seize command of the liches, and surely they would be watching living mages of accomplishment for such experimentations. Yet if Elminster could be steered into being their foe—which should be simplicity itself, for the Old Mage had been humiliated by how Larloch duped him, and would want to atone or make amends or take vengeance for that—to muster against them all the high priests and city lords and Harpers whose ears he was wont to whisper into, all the wizards he could warn by rumor as well as in person …
Yes. This was only possible at all because Larloch had burned into the minds of each and every lich who served him a yoke, a magic woven into their very undeath that gave him the ability to mindspeak to them across a world, to command their wills and spells and bodies utterly.
Which meant he need not hunt down, corner, and fool every last lich into obedience, he only had to fool the yoke.
I need not deceive more than a hundred wise and powerful veteran archmages, who chose servitude to one more mighty. I only need to deceive the spell they accepted and now cannot renounce, devised by that mighty but oh-so-sadly gone individual. And Mystra herself tolerates my tyrannies of those who wield the Art for my creativity in creating new spells. So crafting a new magic to take control of the means of command Larloch has put in place should be achievable. So long as I have the services of my duped distraction.
“You and I have a score to settle,” a rough and all-too-familiar voice growled, jolting Manshoon back to the here and now. He’d been quite enjoying thinking of becoming as powerful as Larloch.
Not being that mighty skulking power in Faerûn, behind a dozen thrones and subtly steering twoscore more, but the becoming, the pursuit of that ascendancy. Interesting.
“Someday, Lord of Waterdeep,” he told Mirt calmly. “Someday.”
There was a part of him that wanted to laugh at the lurching old man with the big belly and the food-stained clothes and the rotting, flapping old seaboots, but …
Mirt was playing a role as enthusiastically as he was. Of old Mirt the Merciless, thereafter the Old Wolf, then Mirt the Moneylender … womanizer, heavy drinker, glutton. His speech deliberately crude and simple, playing the country bumpkin who’d made a few coins by sheer luck and come to the city long ago, and was now in the twilight of his days braying about past glories and chuckling at empty gossip.
While behind those lazy, leering eyes lurked a mind as sharp as the proverbial drover’s whip, a shrewd judge of people and a worldly wise swindler and opportunistic investor and trader who knew every dodge prohibited in law and many more, and who above all knew people, what moved them and persuaded them. Mirt, who had already, and quite legally, amassed a small fortune in Suzail by taking more than a dozen foolish young nobles in hand, investing their gold wisely, and sharing in their profits. While buying low on the docks and selling high along the Promenade and at the back doors of the wealthy, not too proud to play the panderer and the chamberpot emptier along the way.
Mirt met his eyes for a long and gently smiling time while they wordlessly told each other: I know you, and just what you’re capable of, so don’t think you’re fooling everyone. Watch your back. I will be.
Finally Manshoon tired of this staredown of smug mutual detraction. He smirked and turned away.
To face his last and greatest adversary.
Elminster. Who was sitting on the floor in a corner of the wrecked Chamber of the Founder peering thoughtfully at the huge corpse of the tusked spider-scorpion, absently stroking his long white beard. There was no sign of his pipe. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen the Old Mage using that floating “eversmoking pipe,” or whatever the minstrels called it, for some time now …
Oh, how he hated this man. Who’d always been in his way, always been a step or six ahead of him, always thwarted his greatest schemes and soured the triumphs he had managed, whose shadow had always fallen across his path, and had too often become a fortress wall girded against him.
And yet … just in the last little while, a mere winking moment compared to the long span of both their lives, he had come to realize that he would miss Elminster Aumar, if ever the Sage of Shadowdale wasn’t there. In a life wherein so many steady rocks had been swept away—some of them he himself had ruthlessly cut down—this was one unchanging feature, this tall, gaunt, hawk-nosed man of the wise smile and the whimsical humor.
This meddler, this man who lacked all pride, yet was but one rung below divinity. For where the Chosen of other gods were champions or prophets or even feeble and naive disposable tools, the Chosen of Mystra held a share of her power, so that the goddess of the Art, in this world so alive with magic, wouldn’t become the Overgod herself, the only deity. Other gods might trust their “Chosen Ones” because they endowed them with all power and could snatch it away again at their divine pleasure … but the Chosen of Mystra could defy their goddess, because they held part of her within themselves. The silver fire.
He envied Elminster that precious essence, that pure power, the fire that could destroy utterly and forever, or create and endow eternally. What was called spellfire was made up of the raw energies of life, the stuff usually harnessed and channeled by spells, left raw and ravening, a dangerous conflagration that destroyed all too easily, searing through most magical barriers where normal fire failed and clawed in vain and died away. Silver fire was the concentrated, tuned essence of magic, the controlled forge to spellfire’s wind-whipped smoky campfire … and this old man had carried the silver fire of the goddess of magic—the goddess of magic—during the Time of Troubles inside him, and survived, and still felt so confident that he’d given up some of his silver fire to heal old Harpell.
Bah, such nobility! Such foolheadedness!
It was time and far beyond the time when this old dodderer should have been swept aside into the echoing forgotten ghosts of history.
Past time that he, Manshoon, who surely had more fire of ambition in him and less senile whimsy, should have swept this erratic and no longer worthy Chosen aside and taken his place! Swept this—
And Mystra, Bane, and all the gods damn the man if he wasn’t looking up, and fixing Manshoon with a very direct and blue-gray eye and asking, “So, Manshoon, enlighten me, if ye’re in the mood. Why show me such mercy? Are ye changing at last? Or is today an off day for ye?”
And damned if he could think of an answer.
“MORNINGFEAST MAY BE late, Lord of the Zhentarim,” Myrmeen said gravely, as they turned to go, “but you will eat today. Hopefully something that’s to your liking, that comes plated to awaken your pleasure, from the Oldspires kitchen.”
“We just have to deal with some forty-odd warriors first,” Mirt grunted. “All in nice gleaming plate armor that’s come fresh from the same armorer, by the looks of them.”
“There are fifty-four of them, I believe,” Manshoon replied politely, and then added, in response to their hard looks, “and no, they’re not my army. I believe they came here through the gate; if peace within these walls is your aim, you might want to give some thought to closing that portal.”
“We shall bear that in mind,” Elminster told him gravely, inclining his head in a nod of farewell.
They were two rooms and a dogleg section of passage away before Mirt grumbled, “I don’t hear him offering to help close that gate—I suppose that’s a problem for mere servants, like his morningfeast.”
“And that would be the difference between him and me,” the Sage of Shadowdale replied.
“What struck me more,” came a thin voice from the empty air just in front of them, “was the difference betwixt him and Malchor—arrogant utter lack of
thanks from the Zhent, versus astonished gratitude from the Harpell.”
“Hail, Your Majesty,” Mirt greeted the invisible Alusair.
“Your Highness,” she corrected. “I was regent, never queen.”
“You should have been,” Myrmeen said softly. “The best of your father and your mother flowered forth in you—and I speak as one who knew and loved them both.”
“Don’t start, Mreen,” the ghost princess responded. “Now, is Elminster playing Weavemaster rampant, or are the three of you marching to your deaths?”
“Fifty-four warriors waiting in the kitchen?”
“Forty-six. Shaaan’s slithering slayer acquitted herself well before they hacked her apart—they burned what was left, in the kitchen hearth no less, so that’ll be the burnt boar smell that greets you—and a handful of them were foolish enough to try to force their way into Shaaan’s room.”
“Charming discipline,” Myrmeen remarked. “Yet forty-six is a bit much, even for we peerlessly brawling heroes of the realm.” They all looked at Elminster, who sighed.
“A Weavemaster is not a battle mage,” he said, “but perhaps we’ll think of something. Luse, can ye scout behind, to make sure Manshoon isn’t skulking after us, and then before us, to keep us from walking right into their sentinels, or any ambushes they may have arranged? I do want to talk to at least one of them, to find out who they serve.”
“That I can tell you,” Alusair replied. “They were hired by Maraunth Torr, to come along after his arrival and aid him in seizing Oldspires. He didn’t tell them about the Lost Spell, or that they were walking into a den of hostile wizards—just that they should beware ‘one or two mages.’ I’ve been eavesdropping.”
After a moment, her voice came again, from behind them this time. “Oh, and they’re under the impression that after an ‘undead wizard’ met them and sent them in here through the gate, they met with Maraunth Torr himself—late last night. So that might be another dead wizard walking … or someone taking on the likeness of one.”
“Around here, wizards don’t stay dead for long,” Mirt put in. “Have you noticed?”
“Strangely enough, yes. I go to hunt Manshoon.” And with that, the invisible Alusair was gone.
She returned before they were through the trophy chamber, rushing past them like a wind and flinging out the words, “Hasn’t stirred from his room. Yet.”
Only to flash visible again mere moments later right in front of them, inside the closed eastern door of the trophy chamber they were heading for, her face and both hands raised and spread in a “stop” gesture.
“A dozen of Torr’s force are headed for the Serpent Queen’s door right now, to try to get at her—and there are none of their fellows this side of the Copper Receiving Room. Both the north and west doors of the entry hall are closed and unguarded, so no one’s going to hear or see anything relatively quiet that befalls in the main passage the other side of this door.”
“Well,” Myrmeen offered, “I for one am heartily ready for a fight. Against swords, not big strange marauding monsters from other worlds, or spells hurled out of gates whose caster I can’t get at. And I’d be very surprised if Mirt doesn’t stand with me in this.”
She glanced at the fat moneylender, and he nodded and grinned. “Let’s have at them!”
They all looked at Elminster. Who gave them a smile and the words, “I also find myself heartily ready for a fray.”
“Well, then,” Myrmeen said with a smile, drawing her sword and dagger. “Ready?”
And they quietly opened the door out into the passage and strolled north, keeping close to the near wall.
They were halfway to the pillars that marked where the armor court began when they heard a splintering crash in the distance, and a triumphant roar and thunder of booted feet. Myrmeen risked stepping away from the wall for a good look, only to have the voice of Alusair inform her from the empty air beside her ear, “They just broke down Shaaan’s door and charged inside—only to find the room empty. I’ll wager there’s a hole in her floor, under the carpet, that they haven’t dis—”
She broke off as a startled yell rang out, then amended, “Have just discovered now, that leads down into the cellars. I hesitate to say how many poisoned needles and coffers of poisoned gas Shaaan left behind to welcome visitors, but the lady herself is no longer in residence.”
“She can’t get the dead we stashed in the cold cellar to come to her until she’s animated them,” Mirt reasoned aloud, “so she’s gone to them.”
Myrmeen smiled. “Let’s hope Torr’s warriors were foraging down there and ran into her, and a merry dance of death was enjoyed by all.”
“Better that than an alliance between them,” Elminster put in warningly. “If they work together …”
Myrmeen gave him a pained look. “Old Mage, must you?”
Rather than replying, Elminster pointed down the passage. Three warriors had just emerged from Shaaan’s room and were running south, right toward Myrmeen.
Who stepped away from the wall with a lilt of her hips that would have done credit to many a tavern dancer, gave them a wide smile, and hefted her blades.
They slowed for long enough to gape at her in astonishment, then came on, the foremost one sneering openly. They were seasoned enough to split wide so they could flank her, so Myrmeen stepped back to the wall to rob them of that opportunity.
“One woman? Alone?” one of them asked in disbelief.
“Not alone,” Mirt rumbled, stepping away from the wall to confront the onrushing hireswords.
“Hah! Large enough target, to be sure! Look at that belly!” another of the warriors laughed, just before steel met steel.
Except that Myrmeen ducked and flung herself away from the wall at a diagonal, sweeping wide and low with her sword, reaping armored ankles. The center warrior fell with a crash, his yell more startlement than pain, and a moment later a rolling Mirt took the feet out from under the easternmost hiresword.
Which left just the one closest to the near wall, who’d been running to meet and hack down Myrmeen. His overhead hack at her was mighty, but too slow and too late; his steel rang off the floor behind her boot, and bit in just enough to catch and force him into a running stumble as he tugged it free.
Which meant that before he could recover, he was staggering past Elminster, who gave him a manic grin and the polite greeting of “Well met,” before snatching off the warrior’s helm with one hand and driving home the pommel of his dagger into the side of the man’s jaw with the other. Teeth flew, and the man went down, flopping to the floor like a wet fish.
El strolled to the other two hireswords, but Myrmeen had served them the same way, and was now surveying the senseless bodies. “That one,” she decided, and started unbuckling the man’s belt.
Mirt watched. “Lass, what’re you—oh.”
A mighty tug had freed the belt and spun the limp and lolling man half over on his side. Myrmeen looped his own belt around his throat, and ordered Mirt, “Bring that one over, back-to-back. We’ll put the third on top of them.” In a trice the three unconscious hireswords were belted together at the throat, and Myrmeen was unknotting and tugging free the loose peacestrings on their scabbards. El and Mirt stepped back and stood guard as she tied their thumbs together and then their smallest fingers together behind their backs, then removed their boots and did the same to their big toes—after hauling the leg armor and leather breeches off the largest one. The breeches were just large enough to go over three heads at once, and Myrmeen collected daggers and swords and then stood back in satisfaction.
“Nicely done,” Mirt told her.
“Swiftly done,” El added.
“You’d better be fast,” the unseen ghost princess commented, “if you’re going to do that to all of them. Though there may not be that many left, come to think of it—these three fled not because two of their fellows plunged down into the cellars rather precipitiously, but because all the others died from poison, right b
efore their eyes. Most of them not prettily.”
Myrmeen looked at where Alusair’s voice had come from, and then at where she knew the door of Shaaan’s bedchamber was—or had been. “So there’s no longer any reason to go there?”
“None.”
Myrmeen turned to Mirt and El. “So if the princess scouts ahead for us, do we head for the kitchen again? That braerwing was nice, but I didn’t get much, and it seems like a long time ago.”
Mirt grinned. “Running and fighting’s hungry work.” His stomach rumbled, right on cue.
“We do head for the kitchen,” El agreed. “Torr’s warriors have to be dealt with some time.”
“Let’s rout them,” Mirt suggested. “I haven’t had a good rout in years and years!”
“Let’s rout them,” Myrmeen put in, “because we have no way of knowing if private armies belonging to any of our other guests will show up, and when. I’d like to clear the decks, so to speak, and get morningfeast—or highsunfeast, or evenfeast, or dark-of-the-moon snack, or whatever it turns out to be—done. I save the world better on a full stomach.”
“You too?”
“Luse?”
“On my way. So if those two that fell into the cellars are fine, and Shaaan’s slain no more, there are thirty-six left.”
“Manageable, manageable,” Mirt rumbled, “between the three of us.”
“ ’Tis the thought of food that does it,” Myrmeen teased. “Suddenly you can hew your way through hosts.”
“Well, if they stand between me and a goodly feast, yes,” Mirt replied, starting down the passage.
They had almost reached the door where the passage gave into the entry hall when it swung open and a dozen of Torr’s hireswords started through it.
“Halt,” Elminster barked, “in the name of Maraunth Torr!”
Warriors blinked at him, mouths falling open and drawn swords wavering.
“It’s a trick,” the oldest among them snapped. “That’s not the master!”
