Elminster in Hell tes-4

by Ed Greenwood

  A long time to the magic, little wizard. What are you up to?

  Trying to call up memories for ye, devil. There are many, buried deep. But there's magic enough in this one. Watch and see.

  On his second circuit of the little room, El bent over, sniffing. He dropped to his hands and knees and prowled, like a boy playing at being a stalking wolf. His snuffling became constant, his beard trailed along the floor, and his eyes narrowed. "D'ye have much trouble with rats?" he asked the stones.

  "Running about? No. Or do you mean dead rats in the walls?" Vangerdahast frowned down at the crawling wizard. "There's naught but air outside these walls… why? What can you smell?"

  "Rotten meat. Decay. Very faint." El sprang to his feet, his prowling done, and asked sharply. "The lass said the rug was different?"

  Vangerdahast nodded.

  El nodded back at him, the barest grim beginnings of a smile playing about his lips. "No doubt, no doubt."

  The Cormyrean wizard's eyes narrowed. "What do you know, or suspect'"

  "A trapper on the floor, who ate the rug atop it along with your War Wizard and his papers. His bones, ink bottles, and such will pass through it soon. Lurker-beasts give off such stinks at will."

  "A trapper? I'd have found it," the Royal Magician of Cormyr said sourly, waving at the floor, "and it's not there now. I took care to make sure that nig was just a nig. Spin another dream, Old Mage."

  "The murderer put it in here before your Bolifar arrived, and took it out again after the lass ran out of here to come looking for ye."

  "Someone who can carry lurker-beasts around like carpets or bid them follow like pets? You strain credul-"

  Vangerdahast stopped speaking in midsnap, and left his mouth hanging open. The color drained slowly out of his face.

  "Kaulgetharr Drell," he said, very slowly. "Master of the King's Beasts. He has a trapper; I've seen it devour butcher scraps and the like. When he casts the right spells, it follows him about like a hunting hound."

  El smiled and spread his hands. "Well then," he said briskly, "I've work of my own waiting, back in Sh-"

  Even as he raised one long-fingered hand, Vangerdahast barked, "Wait!"

  The Old Mage raised an eyebrow again, and the Cormyrean wizard said hastily, "My scribe Sardyl spell-locked this door! Drell couldn't have just-"

  The rest of the color left his face. Vangerdahast looked suddenly very old, as yellow and as brittle as crumbling parchment.

  "Sardyl," he murmured. "Is she in it too?"

  Elminster shrugged. "Mayhap… but she needn't be. That's not the way the trapper and its handler came in."

  He waved at the map on the wall. "That's one of Amedahast's portals. All of her maps are. Have ye never known?"

  Vangerdahast gaped at him.

  "Ye can also see and hear through them," Elminster added with a tight smile. Turning to look at the map, he drew his fingers inward like a crone's grasping claw. He seemed to beckon or to pull something unseen toward him.

  The map shimmered. Out of it stumbled a man in a rich, open-front shirt and tasseled leather boots and breeches. The newcomer's face was twisted in a snarl, and he lunged atop Elminster. One arm-the one that held a gleaming dagger-rose and fell in a blur. Blows thudded as hard as galloping hooves as he stabbed the Old Mage repeatedly.

  Elminster raised his other eyebrow. "Are ye done?" he asked calmly, watching the blade pass into and out of his chest, as harmless as smoke.

  The dagger-wielding man stiffened. His blade fell from trembling fingers, struck the toe of his boot, and clinked its way to a tumbling halt along one wall.

  "Baerune Cordallar," Vangerdahast said in a voice of doom from just behind the man's ear, "surrender your person and the truth your tongue can speak to me, now, or face everlasting torment in beast-shape!"

  The motionless noble could move only his eyes.

  Elminster stepped forward almost lazily, touched Cordal-lar's forehead with one long finger, and murmured, "Three others with features like these-one a woman. His kin. And a caiel man with fine features and a goatee. Two others- one of Arabel, one of Marsember-with ambitions but only slight involvement, to be used as dupes later. The woman's thoughts have shaped the plot, but this one was to be the chief instrument. He is to have wed the Princess Alusair… then brought about the death of her elder sister, Tanalasta."

  Vangerdahast growled, a low rumbling that rose in growing fury. Baerune's eyes became desperate. He struggled to speak, face quivering, but managed only whimpers, like a muzzled dog.

  "How many plots against the crown has it been, this tenday?" Elminster asked almost merrily. "Now I really must go."

  Vangerdahast drew in a deep breath and said simply, "Thanks. This is one more I owe you." He raised an eyebrow of his own. "How did you know about the maps?"

  Elminster smiled. "If I were a gentlesir," he told his onetime student mildly, Td not tell. Amedahast was… very beautiful. I'll take care of your beast-master, ere I depart; this map leads to the one in his chambers, in the back robing room."

  "You can see that, through the map?" the Royal Magician of Cormyr asked curiously. He strode forward to peer at Amedahast's drawing of the kingdom. in the wizard's wake, Baerune Cordallar was jerked along helplessly, stiffly upright and unable to do anything but move his eyes about, which he did wildly.

  "No," El replied sweetly. He stepped forward and melted into the map. "I recall where the matching map hangs. That robing room used to be mine."

  It seemed to Vangerdahast that the last he saw of the Old Mage of Shadowdale wasn't the airily waved hand but that old sardonic smile. As always.

  I look and see no Mystra, nor silver fire. Only more cleverness of Elminster.

  [red anger, ebbing] Yet you are a Chosen of Mystra and most hold some of her secrets in your murk of a mind.

  So reveal what i seek, or die.

  Well, we must all perish sometime. Slay me, then, if ye care so much for my present comfort.

  I'll give you the comfort of death, Chosen of Mystra, when the silver fire is mine. If you cease disputing me, it may even he a swift one.

  Have my thanks.

  Get on with it, mortal! [mental slap]

  [pain, reeling, the maggot gnawing, gnawing… aaghh]

  [healing, purging fire, frying maggot]

  There. Nothing vital. Proceed.

  "Vangy," the princess in gleaming armor growled as she drew on her gauntlets, "this had better be good. I've a little treason to ride and attend to, and-"

  The Royal Magician raised one bushy eyebrow. "You think this is news to me? Alusair, where do you keep your wits? In your codpiece, like all the blades riding with you do?"

  The princess stared at him and chuckled. "Well said, wizard. Just don't start a series of jokes about 'What does the wayward princess carry in her codpiece,' hey? Mother's been through enough lately."

  Vangerdahast gave her a severe look as he came close to her. "I know that well. Unlike some oh-so-important young lasses, I've been comforting her."

  Alusair rolled her eyes. "Vanj," she said, employing a nickname she knew he hated, "the queen is stronger than any of us. She needs comfort like a dragon needs more scales. Now, what do you need me for-oh. What're you doing?"

  The Royal Magician of Cormyr had unlaced her gorget and flipped it aside, and his thick fingers were now busy with the laces of the leather jack beneath it.

  Alusair arched one eyebrow."Really, mage! Have you not heard of courting? A glance, a few honeyed words, perhaps a glass of wine for a girl-"

  "Alusair Nacacia," Vangerdahast growled, "behave. Blast-look you, lay bare your throat and fish out that pendant I gave you." He distastefully eyed the pointed double-prow of her breastplate and rubbed at his forearm where he'd bumped the sharp-sculpted Purple Dragon adorning it. "Your breastplate leaves me very little room to work."

  The Steel Princess gave him a wry grin. "It's not supposed to. Some men who come close to me use swords and daggers, remember?"


  "Huh," the wizard growled. "They're the wise ones."

  Alusair let out a roar of laughter.

  Vangerdahast had to shoot a severe look over her shoulder at the Purple Dragons who'd leaned in to see why their warrior princess held her armor aside and her throat out to the Royal Magician.

  "Now this," Vangerdahast said, carefully clipping a new pendant onto the old one, "will protect you against some rather nasty spells that I'm afraid our latest crop of traitors will try to fell you with. It's… it's…"

  "Wizard?" Alusair snapped, putting out a hand to steady him. She'd never seen Vangerdahast's face go so grim and ashen before. He looked afraid and old. Afraid and… ashamed.

  "Van," she murmured, shaking him as she stared into his eyes, "what is it? What ails you?"

  With a growl, the Royal Magician broke free of her and stepped back. "I-nothing that need concern you. It's a wizardly matter."

  "Oh, I see. Like a knight staggering into his hall with two swords through him. That's a 'warrior's matter?"

  "Alusair," Vangerdahast said heavily, with signs of personal distress, "leave me. Please. You cannot help in this. No one can."

  Alusair stared at him, clapped his arm wordlessly, turned, and strode out. In the next room he heard her murmur, "Jalance, lace this up for me, will you? And this time, try to keep your fingers on the thongs, hmm?"

  Several men laughed, and the old wizard heard them moving away. He stood alone in the center of the room, feeling close to tears.

  "Mystra save me," he whispered, "but I cannot. I'm old. I would not have lasted five breaths in Avernus at the height of my reckless youth. My place is here, in Cormyr, where I am needed for a little time more. Oh, Lady Mystra and Lord Azuth, forgive me. Elminster, forgive me."

  He looked wildly around the deserted room and saw the brief glimpse that had been twisted Into the fading edge of that second memory. The sharp rocks of Hell jutted like dark teeth against a blood-red sky. A broken thing crawled, the sharp ends of bones protruding from its tortured limbs.

  A shaggy face drooled and bled and wept, with deep-set eyes he knew. His old teacher, Elminster.

  The Old Mage of Shadowdale was trapped in Hell, his magic gone or captive, reaching out with his mind to those lie hoped could aid him. It must be all he had left.

  Vangerdahast took two swift steps across the room, shaking his head. Those eyes… with an effort he banished that image from his head. It had been wrested from the gaze of some lesser creature of Hell, to be sure, who'd been watching Elminster. That meant El was probably dead by now, half-devoured. Yet he should make sure, should try to do something to aid the old meddler. He should… should what?

  "Mystra, Mother to Wizards," he whispered, the words of a very old prayer, "what should I do?"

  Silence was his only answer.

  "What should I do?" His shout rang around the chamber ceiling and brought startled servants and Purple Dragons alike running.

  When they reached the room, it still echoed with anguish, but the Royal Magician was gone.

  Chapter Six

  ANOTHER WARM DAY IN AVERNUS

  It seemed he'd been crawling forever, in pain forever, wandering in Hell with an archdevil tramping through his mind.

  My, my. Nether the usefulness nor the entertainment. I'd expected-or been promised. Show me more! Show me what shaped you, little being of silver fire! Swiftly, before i give in to the growing urge to make things more entertaining.

  [mindworm thrusting, mental fire, bearing down, tightening]

  [shriek, welter of images, howling failure to flee]

  A grim man in black strides warily through a dripping wood, his hand on his sword hilt. His cloak, drawn up around him, is pinned with a brooch in the shape of a silver rose. From time to time, his alert and peering eyes seem to flame with silver.

  Yes! More silver! Get to the silver that flows and burns! Snow me!

  A silver harp pin, bobbing on the breast of someone running, in shadowed darkness where hounds howl and men curse, close behind …

  Don't twist away from me, wizard! Show me the silver magic at work, not every last cursed silver thing that holds magic! Your mind is like a library where every tome's been shredded, and now you hurl handfuls of torn parchment in my face!

  Show me silver and magic together. Now.

  A silver-handled cane, black and slender, hangs in the hand of a fat, bearded mage. Heavy-lidded and sighing, he trudges clown gleaming marble-floored halls, past high-arched windows whose uppermost glass is worked into stained reliefs: images of a purple dragon in flight. The Purple Dragon of Cormyr.

  "Honored Vangerdahast," a voice murmurs from ahead, "the queen has need of you, and in some haste."

  The mage glares at the unseen speaker but quickens his pace.

  Not that doddering fool! I watch over him myself!

  Another bearded man in robes, taller and grimmer, strides through a room of many beds where young lasses are hastily dressing. Robes, sashes, high boots, and garters form a flurry. He sees them not, though he snaps orders obviously meant for them. He paces on, his gaze intent on a small blue sphere that floats in the air before him, flying slowly and smoothly elsewhere.

  Khelben of waterdeep is not unknown to me either. Is this leading somewhere, elminster? Or are you but wasting my time once more and courting fresh torment?

  The two bearded faces, together, wear expressions of irritation as they whirl down a rainbow-hued well…

  A slender feminine hand reaches with firm, unhurried confidence through blue moonlight to touch the black-robed shoulder of Khelben Blackstaff Arunsun. The wizard stiffens, wonder warring with apprehension on his face. The hand dissolves into a flurry of small stars that swim and dance and spin to become a circle of nine stars.

  Khelben goes to his knees in reverence, his eyes never leaving them. The nine stars race around in their circle to become seven, and the seven one. One that's not a star, after all, but a single blue-black eye, shot through with many racing motes. It winks coyly, once, then is gone…

  No! No more teachings of mystra! What's this, over here-what you're dwelling on behind this cavalcade of snatched glimpses that avail me nothing! Show me what you're rummaging through!

  [whirl of images, swept aside] That's better. I’ll judge what! Should see, captive.

  [bright scene unfolding]

  This looks interesting. I'll see all of it.

  The news spread through the city like wildfire. The Company of the Wolf was riding into town. The Wolf himself would be at their head, fresh from defeating the armies of Amn in battles at far Sixtrumpets and the banks of the Winding Water. Behind that grim war captain would be horse after horse laden with plate, coins, and other booty of far-off wars: Calishite silks, spices, wines, and all manner of strange things. They would come to spend and carouse, and forget fallen friends and much hard riding and spilled blood. That was good for the girls who frequented the Slipper.

  Mirt the Merciless, slayer of a thousand thousand, took his usual route from South Gate through the twisting streets of Dock Ward, at the head of a proud procession of battered men on battered horses. Men who had stared down death eye-to-eye two days before rode wearily into the shadow of Castle Waterdeep and turned at last into their usual stopping place: the old and rambling inn known as the Scarlet Slipper.

  The Wolf sat patiently on his saddle while the wounded were carried to hire-nurses in South Ward. Three trusted captains rode to buy fresh horses, food, and drink. Others arranged rooms for the yeomen of the company. Only then did Mirt dismount, with a creak of protesting leather. He strode stiff-legged into the dimness of the Scarlet Slipper to call for his first jack of wine.

  Bah! More love and tenderness! Weakness! Is that all this wizards is full of?

  This is an utter waste of my r- bur hold. This cannot be from your own remembrance. It must have come from mystra. Perhaps if i follow it, i can trace other leavings of hers, until at last-nessiis, at last- i reach something useful…


  The Scarlet Slipper was well known in Waterdeep, City of Splendors. Hither came many night maidens of the less expensive sort-young or old, fat or thin, from near-tea uties to heavily painted exotics of all eccentric descriptions. Those female citizens whom merchants called "ladies of the evening" kept to the gentler wards of the city. The Scarlet Slipper had a less exclusive reputation.

  As the day drew down and dusk crept catlike along the alleys, they began to appear-night maidens strolling alone, in pairs, or even threesomes. Like softly scented shadows, they stole down from their upstairs rooms everywhere in Dock Ward-and a surprising number from wards farther afield. Word of the company's arrival had brought out what sailors called "a full hunt," well endowed with perfume, furs, and gowns of silk, satin, and muster-delvys. Inside the inn, wine flowed apace, and the gathering night grew loud.

  Humans seem to spend a lot or time feasting… Hut so would i if avernus were not a place where to linger over a meal is to become a meal. Hmmm..

  Scarred and hardened warriors laughed and roared and tossed dice. Some, emboldened by wine or youth or great need, took to dancing with tavern-girls amid the crowded tables. Others disappeared up dark stairways or into side alleys before full dark was come.

  In the center of the tumult, silent and watchful, the one called the Wolf sat nursing a jack of wine. He ignored calls and caresses and flirtatious displays. Several men who sat with him looked interested. With a curt nod, Mirt allowed each in turn permission to leave duty behind for a time and join the frolics.

  The burly, hawklike leader of the company sat warily at his table, hand never straying far from his blade. He took no companion from the many who approached him. His eyes no more than flickered once or twice.