by Ed Greenwood
“Not too sporting,” Fzoul replied with amusement. At his words, the captive’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed with hatred, and he dived through the air, snarling as he swooped down at the unmoving high priest.
He never got there. An eye flared, and he was dragged inexorably sideways toward the waiting maw of the eye tyrant. Its jaws snapped; fine droplets of blood rained down, and the legless body jerked and spasmed in midair.
Xarlraun eyed the limp, hanging man disappointedly, then drifted in to gulp him whole. “I expected a better fight,” it said between crunching noises.
“The next one may be better,” Fzoul said smoothly.
The beholder belched, shaking the chamber and making Fzoul’s stomach churn and his eyes sting. It licked its lips, considering. “That one had drunk much sherry, not long ago.” Then it leaned toward the priest, and said in silky warning, “You won’t be foolish enough to try poisoning any of these morsels, will you?”
“Of course not,” said Fzoul. “That sort of behavior is beneath me.” His tones were calm, even scornful, but a sudden dampness glistened on his forehead.
Outside the chamber, the screaming began again. The beholder listened and then said, “I’ll eat again when we’re done. Please give the necessary orders—and have all the priests who are listening just outside withdraw, as well.” Its voice sounded coldly amused.
As the high priest came back from the doorway, the beholder spoke again. “Go on, Fzoul. I’ll regard the map if I feel the need. Your aerial spies found no trace of the spellfire wielder and assumed she’d gone to cover in the Hullack Forest.”
“Aye,” Fzoul said. “Manshoon felt that if magic was to succeed against spellfire at all, it must be by new spells devised to deal with spellfire or by some combination of spells or manner of attack that we, as experienced workers-with-Art, had missed seeing. I agree with this view. We had already sent out a summons to all our magelings, to a meeting in the High Hall. When they met, Manshoon invited them to go out and seize spellfire by whatever means they chose.”
“Filling the field with a score or more of wild, ruthless, half-tutored mages? Was that wise?” The beholder drifted closer, fixing several disapproving eyes on the priest.
“It was necessary,” Fzoul said, trying not to sound apologetic. “Our magelings need a weeding. We’d like some of them tested and all of them given experience, and there are one or two who have developed or found spells we’d like to see in action—before their owners have time to plan and properly prepare for an assault on us. The stability of the Brotherhood is better served if we remain in control of it for some time to come.”
“So your force from the Stonelands is lost in the north reaches of Hullack Forest, various magelings are wandering all over the map, and Shandril’s disappeared from view—in a sovereign realm with its own powerful band of organized wizards. This is your plan?” Its deep voice purred with sarcasm as it drifted lower.
Fzoul stepped back despite himself, but continued flatly, “The force under Karkul Memrimmon laid a trap for Shandril, which she fought her way out of. Evidently thinking herself free of enemies, she camped and practiced hurling her spellfire for hours. After dark, Karkul’s force surrounded her and attacked.”
“And were slaughtered in their turn?” The beholder sounded amused.
“Well, yes—a few fled, but Karkul, the upperpriest, and the rest fell. Shandril had to destroy a fair stretch of forest to do this and now, we believe, has exhausted her spellfire again—with two magelings moving in on her.”
“Three I know of,” Xarlraun corrected.
Fzoul raised an eyebrow. “You seem to have sources unknown to me,” he said, his voice a soft challenge.
The beholder seemed to smile. “Have you any more of those flying bites?”
Fzoul nodded. “I’ll see.” He strode to the door of the sanctum, gave curt orders, indicated a guard at random, and returned to the beholder.
“Tell me more of your plans, should this Shandril escape from the Hullack Forest,” the eye tyrant ordered.
Fzoul quelled a flash of anger and nodded, face expressionless. “Our agents in Arabel have orders to do whatever it takes—even revealing their loyalties by making open war in the city—to prevent Shandril from moving farther west into Cormyr. We hope to drive her to the Stonelands or Tilverton, where our forces are stronger. At that time, the more powerful members of the Brotherhood will take an active part in trying to seize spellfire—with the very real reward of rising to lead us all if they gain it.”
“And what if you do gain it? What use is this power to blast men to ashes?”
“We see—” Fzoul began as the terrified guard, cursing and shouting, was catapulted naked into the chamber. When he saw Fzoul, he began to plead, offering money, mistresses, information about hidden treasure caches and the doings of Fzoul’s rivals—Fzoul turned his back and walked away.
The temple guard flew at the high priest from behind, hands outstretched to grasp Fzoul’s neck. The beholder watched with interest. When Fzoul made no move, it reluctantly reached out with its eye-powers to prevent murder. The diving guard tore through the map image, scattering it into sparkling nothingness—and then was tugged aside, jerking and thrashing as a fish struggles in a net.
Fzoul turned his head and smiled up at the eye tyrant. “My thanks,” he said. “Primarily we are interested in spellfire to avoid having it fall into the hands of our enemies. If it is lost to all, we will not be utterly devastated. If it falls into the hands of foes, we may be utterly destroyed.”
The high priest turned to meet Xarlraun’s central eye directly. The guard was trying to flee, now, darting back and forth as ten eyestalks turned and twisted to follow him. The beholder rumbled, “Proceed. Tell me what the Brotherhood would do with spellfire.”
“If we did gain spellfire,” Fzoul responded, “we would use it first to enforce discipline in the ranks of the Brotherhood, until obedience was absolute. Here”—he waved at the sanctum around them—“we suspect Manshoon means to make us utterly loyal to him, whatever our god’s commands.”
He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation, and continued. “When Manshoon felt secure enough in his control of the Brotherhood, spellfire would be used to destroy key foes—Elminster of Shadowdale and the Simbul of Aglarond, for example—who often anticipate and ruin our plans.”
Fzoul watched the doomed guard flying with frenzied skill, dodging and darting about the ceiling of the chamber. One of the beholder’s eyes swiveled around to meet his, and he went on. “Thereafter, spellfire would be used carefully and covertly to remove strong leaders who oppose us—Azoun of Cormyr, Maalthiir of Hillsfar, and the rulers of Mulmaster, Calaunt, and then Thay. Our objective would be to advance our own agents to positions of greater influence in these places, to make them more amenable to our causes so we need not destroy or openly conquer them.”
The high priest watched the guard swoop right at the eye tyrant, kicking eyestalks aside, then dart around behind its central body, making a desperate dive for the door.
“Experimentation with spellfire, to make it something we can preserve with breeding or nurture with training, would then follow,” Fzoul added, as the guard plunged at the open doorway. At the last instant, the man swept his hands back to his sides and closed his eyes.
The snap of his breaking neck was softer and duller than either the priest or the beholder had expected. Silently the eye tyrant used its powers to raise the corpse to its waiting mouth, cheated of its sport again.
It idly rolled the lifeless guard over and over in midair as it spoke. “Will you take a direct hand in trying to seize spellfire now from this Shandril?”
“Not willingly,” Fzoul replied. “I fear Manshoon has come to view this battle as a personal one after Shandril slew a lover of his—Symgharyl Maruel, the sorceress known as the Shadowsil—and sent him fleeing from battle. In that flight, he lost his favorite dragon steed, one long bonded to him and of unquestioned loya
lty, and had to fight his way through baatezu to get out of the ruins of Myth Drannor. He will attack in person if he gets an excuse.”
“I asked what the high priest would do, not how he expects Manshoon to behave,” the eye tyrant observed coldly.
Fzoul answered it with a wintry smile—and the words, “I have learned the benefits of waiting until the battle-hungry and the foolish have worn a foe down, and then stepping in at the end. An open attack on Shandril would not be prudent, for the Brotherhood or for myself; if I fight her, it must be another way.”
“We think so, too,” Xarlraun replied. “And because of this, we have chosen to support you, Fzoul, over Manshoon. You seem wise enough not to act against him, or reveal our part, openly—for in a struggle between you two, both you and the wizard would be destroyed; the only question would be whether you would succeed in taking Manshoon down with you.”
The beholder’s jaws opened, and swallowed the temple guard whole. Fzoul inclined his head in a nod of agreement, and then waited for the crunching sounds to subside.
When they did, the beholder went on as if there had been no interruption. “You wondered as to my sources earlier. Most important among them is a creature Manshoon thinks he controls absolutely—a lich lord known as Iliph Thraun. He is mistaken; you now control it absolutely—with this.”
The beholder’s sides heaved, and it spat out something from an internal organ. Fzoul ignored the red saliva dripping from the thing as the beholder’s eye powers brought it smoothly down to him. Before he had to foul his hands on it, it spun in the air, unwrapping itself. Soiled cloth fell away; Fzoul stepped back hastily when he saw the marble floor smoking where drops of saliva had fallen.
Out of the last wrappings floated a fist-sized black gem in a brass cage. From the stone, a neck-chain dangled. Fzoul put out his hand for it, and the beholder nodded approvingly.
“Put it on only when you wish to see out of the lich’s eyes and work your will on it. Your identity and mind is shielded from Manshoon, the lich itself, and all others; use your will to break Manshoon’s only when you deem the time is right—that will probably come when he tries to use the lich lord against you.”
“What, precisely, is a lich lord?” Fzoul asked carefully, eyeing the gem in his hand. It felt cold and heavy and seemed to watch him menacingly, looking up from his palm and awaiting its chance.
“A failed lich, of an ancient sort. It needs to feed on spell energy to continue its unlife, and takes the form of a disembodied, flying human skull, able to see, speak, think, and cast spells. The gem you hold contains the soul of Iliph Thraun; through it you can control the lich lord absolutely, even to drive it to its own clear destruction. Your will prevails over all other spells, items, and inducements acting on the lichnee.”
The beholder drifted away. “I strongly recommend you keep that gem hidden; at all times beware the treachery of Manshoon and the ambitious wizards he commands. I am grateful for the meals you so thoughtfully provided; you should be grateful that I forgive you for the poisons you introduced into the first one; sadly for your ambitions, I have been immune to those particular killers for several centuries. Farewell, priest.”
Fzoul stood frozen as the beholder drifted out of the chamber. Whatever unseen barrier had blocked the open doorway was gone now, or had no effect on Xarlraun.
Then the priest suddenly set down the gem and slid it away from him with hasty force. As it skidded into a corner, he hurriedly cast a spell. And stood waiting, tense and watchful, hands raised to cast another spell. Silence. Fzoul let out a heavy breath, and drew in another. Time passed. He drew another breath. Nothing happened. The gem lay quiescent.
Still protected by his spell and looking very thoughtful, Fzoul regarded it. Then he suddenly strode to the door, and called for six upperpriests by name.
Turning, he cast another spell—and the gem was suddenly gone from the room. He nodded, satisfied, and then set off down the passage, snapping orders to the priests at hand; there was much to do.
5
OLD ALE IN AN OLDER CASK
At last even the old wolf lies down under the weight of his years. He may be strong, but know ye: some years are heavier than others.
Annath of Neverwinter
Sayings of the North
Year of the Cold Soul
“Up, lass. I know you’re exhausted, but it’s walk exhausted or meet death right soon—so let’s see you up, lass!” The dwarf’s rough voice was close by her ear, one strong hand gentle on her shoulder.
Shandril was adrift in a horrific dream: burning all the friends she’d ever known with runaway spellfire. Writhing and arching in the flames, they melted away to blackened, bare skeletons—except for their heads, screaming at her in anger and agony. She heard the rough burr of Delg’s voice from somewhere near and reached out a lazy hand. Her fingers found bristling hair, trailed through it—and caught in a tangle.
“Aaargh! My beard!” The dwarf’s angry growl was almost drowned out by a shout of laughter from Narm.
Shandril came fully awake, opening her eyes to morning light in the woods and to the angry face of Delg inches from her own, dragged there by her grip on his beard. Horrified, she let go and brought a hand up to cover her mouth in confusion. A breath later, looking at Delg’s injured expression, she used that same hand to stifle giggles.
Delg let her laugh until she reached the helpless whooping stage, then sighed, reached out one hairy hand to the front of her tunic, and pulled.
Shandril was dragged bodily up from where she lay slumped against a tree, pillowed on clumps of moss Narm had torn up and arranged for her the night before. They had left the scorched ruin of battle behind and stumbled into the night—the morning, rather—for a good long time before collapsing in a damp hollow, somewhere very dark and near the ever-chuckling sound of running water.
Shandril was a little unsteady on her feet, and the morning—even here, in the dappled shade of the trees—seemed very bright. Delg was glaring up at her, his hand on her arm.
“Can you walk?” he demanded gruffly. “Speak, lass! I need to know you’ve still got all your wits after last night.”
“I—I think so,” she managed before Narm approached.
Her husband bowed, reached a hand toward her as a lord grandly leads his lady into a dance—and in his empty palm a dozen roses appeared.
Shandril gasped in surprise, and he put them in her arms with an air of triumph. Their sweet fragrance swirled around her, and she smiled as she felt the magic that formed them surging into her, making spellfire waken and flow. The roses glowed for a moment—and then, with the sound of many tiny bells, faded away and were gone.
Shandril stared at her empty arms a little sadly. “My only regret, love, is that they’re gone if I drain them,” she said, eyes brimming.
Narm shrugged. “I guess I’ll just have to go on studying that spell until I get it right.”
“Get it right?” Delg’s voice was rough with derision. “Gods, but now I know how wizards get all the lasses.…” he muttered in a low aside that could be heard at least a hundred trees away.
“Yes,” Narm replied with a smile. “I managed the ‘no thorns’ bit, but the color …”
The dwarf squinted at him. “They were red!”
Narm smiled. “I was trying for blue.” Shandril laughed delightedly, and drew his face down to hers. His arms were strong and eager, his mouth sweet—and as they embraced, Shandril heard a loud, hawking sound. Delg, standing just behind them, spat far off into the trees in disgust, startling something small into scuttling flight through the fallen forest leaves.
“There’ll be time enough for that sort o’ thing later, when we’re well away from here,” the dwarf growled. “One Zhent band found us, and others may know we’re here now, but they’re all sure to find us if we stay here, right at the end of the trail we left crashing through things in the dark last night—while the two of you cuddle and kiss and whisper sweet secrets. Come on!”
Narm lifted his head. “Sorry, Delg. We’re—we’re with you.” And they stepped out amid ferns and tree roots to begin another long march through the dim depths of the endless wood.
“We’ve got to move far today,” the dwarf said, “and not be found by anyone or anything. With no spellfire and your best spells gone, lad, we can’t risk any fights. Since your lady’s got such a dainty stomach of mornings, I suggest we do without eating until around highsun … but drink deep at this stream and fill all our skins while I keep watch.”
Narm and Shandril drank, washed, filled their skins, and went off into the bushes. The dwarf meanwhile kept alert, axe in hand as he trotted around, peering suspiciously into the trees.
Shandril took off the spare robe Narm had lent her last night. A few blackened scraps—all that was left of her own clothes—still clung to her here and there. She brushed them off, sighing, and rummaged in her ever-lighter pack.
When she swung the pack onto her shoulder, she was wearing her last intact clothes, inherited when she joined the Company of the Bright Spear—the much-patched homespun tunic and breeches of a down-on-his-luck thief. That bold first step into adventure seemed a long time ago now.
“Why so tense?” Narm asked, coming up beside Delg. “I haven’t seen any Zhents about—and I’ve looked as far off as I can, too.”
“Eyes, lad,” the dwarf growled up at him. “I can feel them, every moment. We’re being watched, again.”
“Should I tell Shan?” Narm asked quietly.
“Not just after she’s been off in the bushes, lad,” the dwarf said, looking critically at the blemishes along the edge of his axe-blade. That Zhent idiot had certainly managed to bring it down on a lot of stones last night. “But soon; I don’t want her walking carefree.”
Shandril ran despairing fingers through her hair as she came toward them. “Oh, for a bath! I stink!”
“We all do, lass,” the dwarf told her gravely. “All the easier for dogs to find us, if they’ve got any more with them.”
