by Ed Greenwood
The beholders drifted above her like angry dragons, baffled. They were used to foiling the magic of foes with the large eyes in their bodies—but spellfire tore through their anti-magic fields as if nothing were there. They had magic of their own that lashed out from the snakelike eyestalks writhing atop their bodies. But spellfire drained away or boiled into nothingness the rays from their eyes, and it stabbed out at them in return. When their own disintegrating gazes were not brought to bear quickly enough, spellfire lashed through their defenses, and they died.
The Old Wolf’s ears were ringing by the time he got close to her; the din of shrieking, air-ripping, crashing magic was incredible. A particularly violent spellblast shook the courtyard and threw him to his knees—and that saved his life. A beholder that would have crushed him with its fall crashed down in front of him instead, body blazing. Mirt got a good whiff of the reek of burning beholder, and was violently, uncontrollably sick. As he raised his head, the eye tyrant’s body plates shattered from the heat within, and their darkened shards bounced past him.
Mages of the Zhentarim saw Mirt, a lone man in the midst of that field of ruin and magical chaos, but they could not have done anything to aid or attack him, even if they’d known who he was: a whirling spellstorm had begun to form over the courtyard, created by the struggle between magic and spellfire. Mages who tried to cast spells screamed, their minds burned to cinders—or they watched in horror as their magic went wild, creating misshapen flowers or rains of frogs or worse.
Spell-lightning arced repeatedly from the gathering storm cloud to the tallest spires of the citadel around, humming and crackling. Men plunged to their deaths from those heights, cooked alive, or fell into piles of bone and ash where they stood. And still the battle raged on.
Such a mighty outpouring of wild magic had to go somewhere—and it did:
Far to the west of the citadel, near the Border Forest, a great meadow of red-petaled flowers quivered, bowed slowly in a spreading ripple that washed from one end of the scarlet field to the other, and then straightened again. One after another, the flowers all quietly turned blue.
In the woods near the shaking citadel, along the foot of the Dragonspine Mountains, a small tree tore itself up bodily, scattering soil in all directions, and shot up into the sky. The branches of the trees around it splintered and crackled and were utterly destroyed by its passage. A startled satyr who looked up through the newly created clearing saw the tree heading west high in the air, tumbling and spinning as it went.
One of the smaller towers along the south wall of the citadel simply vanished. With a groan like a dying dragon, another citadel tower grew a crack as wide as a man’s hand from top to bottom. At the same time, smoke billowed suddenly out of the highest windows of Wizards’ Watch Tower, followed by stray bolts of lightning, shadowy apparitions, and many-hued, winking spell-sparks. Startled Zhentilar warriors, arming hastily in their barracks, found themselves floating near the ceiling, their flesh glowing a brilliant blue.
One of the flagpoles overlooking Spell Court toppled suddenly, sizzling from end to end with lightning. Beside it, a beholder suddenly caught fire and spun away into the sky northward. A moment later, the horizon was lit by a brilliant burst of flame as the distant beholder exploded.
Wheezing, Mirt found his feet again and lumbered across the courtyard. The aura of spellfire around Shandril was noticeably feebler now. She still stood tall and proud, hair lashing her shoulders as if a high wind raged around her, arms raised to hurl spellfire. Her eyes were two raging flames.
A horrible bubbling sound came to Mirt’s ears from overhead. It erupted from a beholder that hung, smoking, in midair, its glazed eyes rolling wildly about on writhing, cooked eyestalks.
Mirt ran on. At the edges of the courtyard, now, he could see many armored Zhentilar soldiers coming out of doors and rushing about wildly. They began hacking at folk who fled past them toward those same doorways. Through the archways that led off Spell Court, Mirt saw soldiers pursuing citizens off down the streets, their swords raised. He began to wish Khelben had never given him that rogue stone.
There came crashing sounds from overhead, as if huge wine bottles were bursting. The Old Wolf looked up and saw balls of lightning forming in midair and streaming in all directions. The leaping lightning struck two beholders and drove them into each other. They reeled apart, and Shandril cut one of them in half with a ragged, faltering bolt of spellfire. Mirt looked on anxiously. She staggered as she brought both hands together and pointed them at the last eye tyrant, and for the first time in his long life, Mirt the Moneylender heard a beholder scream.
Shandril stood alone in the courtyard, her hands smoking, as the last of the beholders crashed to the earth in flames.
“Magnificent, lass! I’ve never seen such power. Well done!” Like a joyful buffalo, Mirt galloped toward Shandril through the wreckage of beholder bits and fallen stones.
She turned and looked at him, and it was a moment before her dull eyes lit with recognition. Shandril smiled wanly, lifted a hand that trembled—and then her eyes went dark, and she fell to the ground in a limp and sudden heap.
Mirt’s old legs got him there a breath or two later. Shandril lay on her face on the stones. Mirt rolled her over; she was still breathing. Thank the gods!
Then he heard shouts, and the clank and clatter of metal. He looked up from Shandril’s crumpled form, then slowly all around.
The Old Wolf crouched at the center of a grim, closing circle of Zhentilar warriors. Their drawn blades flashed as they came, and Mirt saw teeth flash in smiles of relief as they realized they’d not have to fight the maid who brought down beholders.
Well, perhaps he shouldn’t have thanked the gods all that loudly. The Old Wolf snarled his defiance, beard bristling, and waved his saber at them. None of them turned and fled. Mirt sighed, straightened, and then just waited as they slowly closed in.
Narm paced back and forth under Storm’s watchful eye. “I wish I was with her, right now. I feel so helpless!” he burst out, hurling the words at Tessaril.
She sat at the far end of the chamber, staring at nothing. Her hands were in her lap, and they trembled.
“Lord Tessaril,” Narm said again, urgently, striding nearer.
Storm got up, a warning in her eyes, and blocked his path to the Lord of Eveningstar.
They both heard Tessaril say softly, “I know just how you feel, Narm. Go with Torm and get a good meal into you, whether you feel hungry now or not. Come back when you’re done—and I’ll have your teleport spell ready.”
Narm could hardly believe he’d heard her say the words. “Thank you! Thank you!”
“I can’t let one go, and then build a cage around its mate,” Tessaril said softly, “but you may not thank me so fervently in the end, Narm—nor may that end be far off.”
Narm bowed to her and said, “That’s a chance I’ll take, Lady—one all who live must take. My thanks for giving me the freedom to take it.”
As he and Torm went out, Storm and Tessaril watched the young mage go. Then they looked at each other; new respect for Narm Tamaraith shone in both their gazes.
17
BUSINESS BEFORE PLEASURE
Now in that grim, gray city are women called pleasure-queens, who keep house amid furs and silks and perfumes and have mastered the art of snaring a man in the street with one dark glance of promise. Disgusting enchantresses—they’re the only reason I ever ride north of Selgaunt, I tell you.
Oblut Thoim, Master Merchant of Teziir
Letters to a Sheltered Son
Year of the Striking Falcon
Mirt waved his saber; sunlight flashed and glimmered along its edge. More than one Zhentilar eyed that blade warily. The fat man obviously knew how to use it, and the bare fist that held it was as large as some men’s heads. Yet there were over sixty blades set against it, and nothing to protect the old one’s back. The outcome was certain; he and Shandril were doomed.
A Zhentilar
officer muttered, “Easy, now—strike all at once, and we’ll run him through from all sides like a pleasure-queen’s pincushion.”
There were scattered chuckles as the Zhentilar took the last few steps they’d need. Mirt stared around at them, wild-eyed, sword waving desperately. And then he smiled and flung himself backward, arching over Shandril’s body. He raised his arm as the warriors rushed in, and the plain brass ring on it flashed, once.
The air was suddenly full of whirling, deadly steel. As the blood spattered him and the screams sounded all around, Mirt drew back his arm and felt for the hilt of his saber. Only a short time passed before the blades vanished again, but the screams ended even sooner. The courtyard around him ran with blood; it looked like a butcher’s backroom floor.
Mirt grinned and clambered to his feet. “Handy things, blade barriers,” he said, surveying the carnage. His eyes searched the walls for archers or overenthusiastic mages. Tymora smiled on him, for once.
“Up, lass,” Mirt growled, and plucked Shandril’s limp form up from the flagstones. He draped her over his arms, his saber still held securely in one hand, and staggered across the courtyard, wheezing under his load.
The maid in his arms grew no lighter as he lumbered out through an archway, down a lane strewn with bodies of citizens the Zhents had slain, and turned left at the first cross street. Smoke rose from shattered towers here and there; fallen stone was everywhere, and priests and wizards rushed wildly in all directions, each accompanied by a trotting bodyguard. “The high priest is dead!” one mage shouted excitedly to another.
“Blasphemous nonsense!” another shrieked back, and the two men’s bodyguards surged into each other in a crash and skirl of viciously plied weapons.
Whether Fzoul was dead or not, the spell-battle had reduced the Zhents to a state of chaos.
Mirt was glad he saw no Zhentilar patrols as he made his way down the ruined streets, turning right then left. He trotted down avenues and up short rises, and still no soldiers blocked his way. A few folk gave him startled glances, and one warrior did step out of a tavern as he passed. But the soldier took one look at the blood-covered warrior with a drawn sword and a woman dangling in his arms—Mirt gave him a fierce grin—and his face paled. He hastily drew back out of sight.
“Tymora, I owe you one—or even two,” Mirt gasped, as he sighted the purple door he was looking for and crossed to it.
The door was closed, and the iron-caged lamps on either side of it had burned low. But Mirt kicked out hard, and the door boomed satisfyingly. Once, twice, and a third and fourth time his boot found its mark.
His toes were beginning to feel a little the worse for wear, but as he drew back his foot for another assault, the door swung open as far as its safe-chains would allow. A painted, pouting lady looked disapprovingly out. She surveyed Mirt up and down—blood, Shandril, and all—and her expression did not improve.
“We’ve had all the trade we can handle for the night, thank you—you’ll just have to come back morrow-even, and—”
Mirt handed her his sword. “Here—hold this.”
The lady hesitated, then took it, staggering for a moment under the weight of the old, massive saber. Mirt shifted Shandril more fully into his freed hand, and shoved his other hand under the pleasure-queen’s nose. The small silver harp winked at her, catching the light. Her eyes rose slowly from it to his blood-spattered face, and then she undid the chains hurriedly, whispering, “Come in!”
“Oh, Great Dark One, lord of the heights and depths, hear us!”
Elthaulin was in his element, intoning the ritual in the deepest, grandest voice he could manage, his words rolling into the farthest echoing corners of the Grand Chancel of the Black Altar.
“Lord Bane, hear us,” the thunderous murmur of half a hundred underpriests and postulants answered.
Elthaulin raised his hands slowly, trembling for maximum effect. “Bane, hear us!”
“Lord Bane, hear us,” came the massed response. Elthaulin let the dark purple faerie fire radiance ripple into view at the tips of his fingers and crawl slowly down his upraised arms. There were a few gasps from the assembled worshippers; the upperpriest hid his smile. That trick got some of the innocents, every time.
He drew breath for the Great Invocation. Only Fzoul could speak it, by tradition, but Fzoul had neglected to forbid Elthaulin from doing it in his absence, and Lord Bane would not be pleased by its omission. Then he stopped in confusion, peering at the back of the chancel. Underpriests had left their places by the doors and were running in the gloom of the sanctuary, stopping to bend over priests in the congregation. Priests were rising and leaving their places.
What is going on?
In shock, he realized he’d asked that question aloud—and grins were forming on more than one of the uplifted faces below. Fury washed over him, and Elthaulin strode to the edge of the raised dais and sent his voice booming out over the confusion. “Who dares disturb the worship of Bane, Lord Over All?” Abruptly he recognized the face of one of the priests hurrying up the central aisle, and his expression grew pale.
Fzoul snapped at him in a voice that carried to the far corners of the chancel, “Oh, stop that nonsense, Elthaulin. Bane has heard you and is deeply appreciative. This service of worship is now at an end. I need all priests of the rank of Trusted Servant or greater to assemble in the Robing Room. Watchful Brothers, guard the doors of the temple; all who have not taken the robes of Bane are to be escorted out. The Deadly Adepts are in charge. Haste—or perish!”
There were raised voices, and even screams, from the lay worshippers, but others left as slowly as they were allowed, enjoying the sight of priests of Bane actually running and looking startled and upset. Elthaulin let his faerie fire slowly fade, and he stood watching.
Fzoul turned on his heel without another word to his Priest of the Chancel, and headed for the Robing Room, priests thickly clustered around him.
Elthaulin kept his face carefully calm, but no one who looked at his eyes could have missed his murderous glare, directed at the retreating Fzoul. His dark eyes flamed almost as fiercely as the Black Hand of Bane behind him over the lesser altar. The altar was giving off black fire, the first direct sign from Dread Lord Bane in over a year. It was a pity no one noticed it.
In the Robing Room, Fzoul turned and held up his hands for silence. His head still throbbed painfully; the wild spellblast that had brought his bookcase crashing down on him had been one of the last hurled by the beholders in Spell Court. By the time he’d come to on the floor beside his desk, it was all over—the maid Shandril had vanished, beholders lay dead everywhere, and the citadel was in tumult.
Fzoul watched coldly as some of the priests in the rear of the rushing throng ran into the backs of their fellows before they realized the room was packed. When order and silence held sway, Fzoul said, “A terrible threat to our Brotherhood is attacking the Citadel of the Raven. I need all of you to help; the eye tyrants were in grave trouble when I left.”
If anything, the hush grew even greater. Fzoul could even hear the nearest Brother breathing.
The high priest looked around with cold eyes and added, “The Lord Manshoon recently established a gate magically linking the citadel with the High Tower. All of you, come with me now. We’re going to a place normally reserved for our brothers of Art—the Wizards’ Watch Tower. Beware—touch nothing and work no magic without my prior approval. There may be many magical defenses. We go to gain what magic we can seize, not to be caught in magical traps or mistaken castings. I shall go through the gate first. Orders are to be followed without question from this moment on—death shall be dealt on the spot for disobedience.”
He turned toward the nearest door and, without another word, led the way to the gate. Time enough for them to learn about spellfire when they were dying under it.
There was murmuring all around. Shandril seemed to be rising up through warm water toward a lighted place. Not far away, someone was talking. Soothing fem
ale tones, mingled with a deeper man’s growl—she knew that voice! Mirt!
Shandril opened her eyes and found herself looking at a truly amazing painted ceiling. Her eyes hadn’t wandered very far along its curves and colors before she felt her cheeks burning. Where was she?
She turned her head. Lacy undergarments hung on a rail on the back of a half-open door—with a whip dangling beside them. The voices were coming in through the doorway from somewhere below. She lay still in the lush boudoir and listened.
“I wish I’d seen that,” came one wistful female voice.
“Ye could hardly have missed it,” Mirt protested. “Beholders crashing from the sky, lightning flashing from tower to tower right over ye, here! Ye—”
The female voice that cut in then sounded rather crisp. “We were busy, Old Wolf. Busy at something that, if done well, rather holds sway over our attention and senses. Or have you never known the attentions of a lady?”
“No, Belarla,” Mirt rumbled, “I could never afford ladies, myself. I always had to settle for women!”
He was answered by one dry chuckle, and one sniff.
Then Belarla’s voice said, “Pass the ointment, Oelae—I feel rubbed raw. Aren’t those towels dry yet, Old Wolf?”
“They’re hurrying, they’re hurrying,” Mirt said. “I’m not used to thy stone irons … and besides, these towels got so excited, sliding over ye—”
“Enough! It may surprise you, Mirt, but when you’ve done this for a year or three, you’ve heard all the jokes and smart remarks so many times over that any feeble humor they might once have had is gone—quite gone.”
“Don’t ye love me any more?” Mirt asked in mock sobs.
“That’s another remark of the same sort,” was the dry reply. “Hurry up with those towels … we’ve got to be ready to leave the moment your maid is awake—or if she wakes not, whene’er we dare move her.”
