by Ed Greenwood
“Ghost brought low,” Storm hissed aloud.
As she said that, the distant figure turned a corner and was gone.
Unimpressed by her eager smile, the blueflame ghost attacked fearlessly, a sneer on its face and confidence in its almost careless slash.
Alusair deftly struck its sword aside with her own ghostly blade and in the same twisting slash cut deep into its side, flying as she did so to keep herself close to the bright blue aura and her blade hitting home, slicing up and over its torso, the tip bouncing on rib after rib, heading for its throat.
Blue flames shrank from the silver-gray mist of her sword, parting and darkening, laying bare the man beneath. Alusair soared up out of reach of his frantic backswing and hacked at the back of his sword arm, just above the elbow, as she passed.
The blueflame ghost’s sword clanged to the palace floor, and Alusair whirled and came back at him in a slicing pass. She didn’t quite dare to try a hard thrust through him, or a beheading, because every touch of the ghost’s flaming aura to her sword—which was part of her, solidified by her will out of the same spectral essence that made up the rest of her—ate at her undeath.
It would be folly to slay this intruder at the cost of her own existence, and leave her beloved palace evermore unguarded.
So she contented herself with great slashes, slicing body and arms, looping around the ghost in a relentless weaving of sharp steel that reduced it to cowering in a heap around its blade, growing dimmer and dimmer.
Abruptly it sprang up and fled with a wail of pain and fear, heading at a frantic run right back out of the palace, waving its sword wildly to try to shield itself against Alusair’s blade.
“Greatly weakened, at least,” the ghostly princess told the empty passage in satisfaction, halting just in front of the roiling chaos of the violated ward seeking to knit itself together again, to watch the ghost dwindle across the Promenade. It fled into the mouth of a side street and kept going, fast.
Outside, Dragons were assisting a reeling, mumbling Palace Understeward Fentable to his feet. He looked confused or drunk, and the soldiers holding him up were talking excitedly about a “beholder, like in the tales, but only the size of a child’s chamberpot!”
One of them was keeping the tip of his sword near Fentable’s throat. “Beholderkin, I think such are called. Heard one of old Dhargust’s sagely lectures about eye tyrants, two summers back. He says there’re still some of them hiding in the heart of the Hullack, just waiting their chance to conquer the realm!”
“Well, I’ve heard some have been seen right here in Suzail!” an older Dragon growled. “Never mind about distant forests we should all stay well out of, we’ve got—”
Alusair leaned forward to hear better, frowning in interest.
Which was when something hard and sharp burst right through her from behind, thrusting her forward into the seething energies of the wards.
Coldly scornful laughter accompanied that ruthless blow, and as Alusair writhed in helpless agony, torn by the full fury of the wards, she was dimly aware of a sword being pulled roughly back out of her, spinning her misty body around.
A blade that had burst right through her.
A sword that sliced ghosts as readily as the living.
Floating near the floor, awash in pain, Alusair stared up at her assailant.
Who was standing in the open doorway just beyond the roiling wards, the sword in her hand and a cruel smile on her face.
It was the death knight Targrael, the crazed Highknight. Lady Dark Armor.
Who hissed down at her, “I guard the Forest Kingdom and care for it, not you, wasted and foolish old bitch of a failed regent! I go now to hunt down a great foe of Cormyr—but when I’ve time to spare, I’ll be back to finish you! Depend upon it.”
Manshoon was gone, leaving Talane excited.
She was, yes, delighted she’d been ordered to hunt down Amarune.
So, the lass was really Elminster? If she’d known that, she’d not have been quite so bold at her first meeting with the Whitewave wench—but no matter. If he’d ever been the towering spellhurler of all those wild tales, the Sage of Shadowdale must now be a weak husk of his former self for Manshoon to entrust this slaying to her. Castles shattered and blown into the clouds, dragons tamed or slaughtered in the skies, archwizards dueled and left as smoking heaps of ash …
Grand tales, to be sure. Yet, perhaps that’s all they’d ever been.
Talane looked down at her shapely self, crisscrossed by broad belts of leather festooned with no fewer than nine scabbarded daggers—all razor sharp and finely balanced for throwing, even the one she’d hurled into a cheating Sembian merchant’s eye not all that long ago—and pronounced herself ready.
Which was a good thing, considering Manshoon’s burning desire for urgency in this matter.
She checked her hollow right boot heel for keys to certain doors in her mansion and found them right where they should be. Then she shifted her sword belt one last time to make certain it caught on none of the crisscrossing baldrics.
Good. Time to be hunting.
Talane caught up a magnificent ankle-length shimmerweave night-cloak—the sort of frippery worn to show everyone Truesilvers could casually outspend any dozen lesser noble Houses, every bright shopping morning—and pulled it around herself to conceal her leathers from any servants who might witness her departure. Taking a last look around her bedchamber to ensure things that should be hidden were, she stepped out onto her balcony.
Where the climbing cord she kept secured behind the stone griffon carving at the east end of the balcony was waiting. One kick off the wall and a swift plunge down onto the softest mosses of her gardens later, she would be on her way to her back garden door and the night-shrouded city beyond.
“Amarune Whitewave,” she whispered to the night, as the black cord hissed past her chin, “you are one dead mage.”
“She was right there, Lady Barcantle!” a hoarse-voiced man shouted down the passage, pointing. “Right where the fat man is!”
Mirt had regained his breath, rubbed his sore feet—he was getting a mite old for running for his life on hard cobbles across far too much of a city—and restored his clothing to rights. Then, with a sinking feeling, he peered in the direction of that shout and beheld fully helmed and armored Purple Dragons. Lots of them. With more than a few wizards behind them.
They were coming toward him fast, with swords and spears out, and were looking his way in a decidedly unfriendly manner.
“Aye, right where the—naed of the Dragon! The door! The stlarning door’s gone!”
A voice Mirt knew rang out. “Mirt! Mirt of Waterdeep! Stand and surrender, you miscreant, or your very life is forfeit!” Lady Glathra sounded furious.
“Ooops,” Mirt growled, turning hastily and lurching in the direction of the doorway. Which, he thought to himself as he started to run again, gathering speed as he wheezed his way across the Promenade, was a rather grand word for “gaping hole where a good stout door recently was, and still ought to be.”
Wizards. ’Twas always wizards that brought the real trouble. Them and yer fell creatures of the night with their elder magic.
Aye. Now, feet fail me not …
Mystra, fail me not … Ohhh, the pain.
Elminster was vaguely aware that he was out under a night sky, hurrying over damp, faintly foul-smelling cobbles, with a fainter sea smell under the dung and rotting refuse, and the familiar strong, curved warmth of Storm was pressed against him and carrying him along.
“Him” meaning Amarune, of course. Who still seemed to have all her limbs and the usual manner of moving them, though her vision was a tear-filled blur and her ears rang and echoed in ceaseless cacophony.
That could have been worse, he told himself dully, through the splitting agony in his head. He’d been caught in a wild backlash he should have anticipated, standing right in the wards. Like any fumbling first-time hedge wizard …
“S-storm?”
he managed to mumble. He couldn’t mindspeak her, even pressed together as they were. That part of his head was all churning, roiling dark fire.
“El,” Storm said soothingly, shifting her grip on him to something slightly more comfortable, “I’m here. I’ll heal you when we get somewhere safer. Don’t try to talk or mindspeak unless you really must.”
Good old Storm. Good lass. She knew what it was like, the roughness and pain of hurling magic.
She knew what it was like to have Mystra and then lose her.
“Storm!” Mirt called hoarsely, fighting for breath. “Silverhand! Hey, lass—here! Wait for me a breath or two!”
Storm had just ducked into an alley, dragging the limp Rune with her. She stuck her head back around the corner, saw Mirt, and grinned.
“Get in here,” she ordered. “You can stand guard.”
“What?” Mirt wheezed, joining her. “Ye have to let fly, then?”
Storm rolled her eyes. “No, I have to try to get Elminster’s mind back closer to what it should be.”
Mirt nodded and dragged out his dagger. “Glathra’s after me,” he warned, turning to plant himself in the alley. “With a whole lot of Dragons’n’magelings. Don’t they ever sleep?”
“Not if we don’t let them,” Storm replied, kneeling over the slumped Amarune and touching their foreheads together. “It’s all part of our clever plan for conquering all Cormyr.”
“Huh,” Mirt growled, “it strikes me there’s far too many folk in this city busy hatching clever plans for conquering all Cormyr.”
A shuttered window swung open beside him, revealing the head and shoulders of a bored-looking maid. Without really looking, she tossed a basinful of dirty wash water out into the alley.
Mirt ducked. As the water-hurler reached out to close the shutter, he came up grinning into her startled face, waving his dagger. “Are ye one of them?”
Accompanied by a startled scream, the window slammed hastily shut again.
“He’s getting better,” Storm reported, “but that’s mainly due to Rune being young and strong. I need peace and quiet lasting long enough to really heal him.”
“Then let’s be up and staggering again before Glathra’s hounds get here,” Mirt growled. “If we cut through this alley to the next street south, double back the way we’ve come and up that second lane along, we’ll get to the damnably expensive inn I’ve taken a room at, and can spend the night there.”
He gave her a hopeful leer and added, “Two lasses, one a mask dancer and the other with silver hair that moves by itself? ’Twill do wonders for my reputation.”
Storm gave him a look. “Mirt, your reputation needs something a little larger. Conquering a kingdom, fathering dragons … that sort of thing.”
Mirt drew himself up and gave her his best grin. “It does? Well, now … just whereabouts in this bright realm do ye keep yer dragons?”
The most powerful-at-Art wizard in all Suzail was also the wealthiest, but had not become so by ignoring credible requests for his hire.
Even requests that came after full night had fallen.
So it was that by invoking his name, rank, and family wealth, Lord Arclath Delcastle won admittance past an expressionless porter.
Who led him along a passage lined with two dozen rows of magnificent and identical armored warriors who turned in perfect unison and utter silence to regard him after he passed—and whom he strongly suspected were recently created helmed horrors, the sort of guardians a handful of the oldest and wealthiest noble Houses boasted a single one of, each.
The passage opened into a lofty hall dominated by two curving staircases ascending into unseen gloom. It was lit by the pale, silver-blue glow of an endlessly cycling mobile of floating swords, daggers, and stranger pointed and barbed weapons that hung in the air above the center of the chamber.
The porter led Arclath straight across the room and under the weapons, without paying them any attention.
Arclath noted bloodstains on the floor—old and faint, but unmistakable, and more than a few—under the silently flashing and gleaming blades.
Seeing them, Arclath could not help but look up at the whirling storm of steel. At least until he was safely out from underneath it.
Whereupon, his eyes fell upon a new menace. It seemed Larak Dardulkyn liked to impress, or rather intimidate, his guests.
Only after the visitor tore his gaze from the whirling scimitars and falchions did he notice four direhelms, the smoothly flying armored guardians that looked like armored men, brandishing two swords each. Men, that is, who were simply missing from the waist down.
One floated watchfully above each of the visible doors out of the chamber. Their heads turned smoothly to follow Arclath’s progress across the room.
The porter led Arclath to the door across from the one he’d entered by, opened it, and wordlessly waved the Fragrant Flower of House Delcastle through.
Into a gloomy, high-ceilinged audience chamber of black-painted paneling adorned with strange-looking symbols Arclath strongly suspected were for show, having no real meaning or use at all.
Unless, that is, they were examples of the recent fashion among archwizards to enspell drawings or painted runes. Magic unleashed at a touch, or if the drawn device was damaged.
Yes, that was likely, wasn’t it?
The room held a simple black table, with two chairs facing each other down its sleek length.
Arclath made no move to go near them but strolled slowly around the room, peering at the runes and glyphs—or impressive-looking, mock-mystical nonsense symbols, if that’s what they were—as he passed. No other door was visible in the room except the one that had been firmly closed behind him, but of course any of these panels might open. Or the floor or ceiling, both of which had their own symbols. Their faint glows were the only lights in the room.
Arclath strolled, and no one came.
On his third slow circuit of the room, he thought one of the symbols had changed behind his back to a new configuration, but he could not be certain.
Impressive. Or trying hard to be.
Time stretched. Arclath waited alone in the dusty silence for an audience that, it started to seem as unmeasured time unfolded, might not befall until morning.
Upon reflection, he found that this bothered him not at all. Here, deep in this fortresslike mansion that shouted out the fell arcane power of its owner everywhere one looked, he was—or at least felt—safe from Elminster and Storm, Glathra and all her wizards of war, Stormserpent’s blueflame ghosts, the third ghost and whoever was controlling it, and all other mages ambitious nobles might hire.
As a wizard for hire, Larak Dardulkyn had a reputation for being both coldly impolite and very expensive, so if Arclath was going to succeed in enlisting his services against Elminster, to keep Amarune—and his own mind, too—safe, he had best be patient and polite.
Idly he tried to figure out what he could of the layout of this floor of the mansion. He was probably slightly more than the height of a tall man above the streets that surrounded the place on three sides, judging by the number of steps he’d ascended to the front door, and … well, unless the tales about wizard’s houses being larger inside than they were on the outside were true, he’d walked pretty much clear across the width of the building. There should be a street on the far side of that wall.
This had once been old Raskival Rhendever’s house—a crabbed old merchant Arclath could just remember from his youth, a hunched-over man with two canes. Before that it had belonged to Lord Sarlival, last of his line, who’d kept a mistress there with the full knowledge—and abiding fury—of his wife. Or so the tales—
Soundlessly one of the panels opened, and a tall, rather homely man with unpleasantly glittering black eyes stepped into the room, his high-collared black robes swirling.
Ah, yes. Menacing archwizard; must look the part.
“Lord Delcastle,” Dardulkyn said coldly. “What do you want?”
“To hire you
to protect me and another person I am fond of from a mage who wants to control our minds.”
Dardulkyn raised one eyebrow and indicated one of the chairs with an abrupt thrust of his hand. “Sit.”
Only after they were both seated did he ask, “Who is this mage you believe imperils you?”
“He’s … Elminster. Elminster of Shadowdale. The Elminster.”
Dardulkyn snorted, sending an icy look down the table. “Lord Delcastle, you’ll have to do better than that.”
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
FEARING WORSE, I FLED
No,” Arclath said patiently, “I am neither mad nor—I believe—mistaken. I do mean Elminster.”
“Did he call himself that?”
“He did, and others did, too. Including the Lady Glathra, a silver-haired woman who calls herself Storm Silverhand and certainly looks like the Storm Silverhand of legend, and—”
Dardulkyn waved a dismissive hand. “Tall, imperious or rude, strikingly beautiful, long silver hair that moves by itself? I can make you look like that, or myself, for that matter, with a simple spell. You have been deceived, young lord. Threats to invade the mind are usually just that: threats. The magic is simple enough, but there are dangers to the caster that far outweigh any benefits. Competent workers of Art don’t splash in such waters.”
“Saer Dardulkyn,” Arclath said carefully, “I find myself not caring much if I am imperiled by an incompetent madwits or a competent archmage of peerless power. I have heard his voice come out of my beloved’s throat, have had conversations with him—her, that is, but with him in her head—that I could not have had with … my lady were he not present, and he has pressed me to let him into my mind. After what I’ve seen and heard, I know he can do this, whether he is truly Elminster or not. I also care not if he’s taken the name Elminster to impress me or half Faerûn—it’s what I’ve seen him do that impresses me, not the name he uses.”
