Bury Elminster Deep sos-2

by Ed Greenwood

  “This is a fight to the death,” the royal magician added grimly. “Blueflame ghosts are sent to murder our nobles-and now they’re coming here, which can only mean they intend regicide. Storm Silverhand, Lord Arclath Delcastle, that mask dancer, and no fewer than five blueflame ghosts, who are right behind them-”

  He swung around to peer into his nearby scrying eye, to make sure what he was saying was still true. Depressingly, it was.

  “-and will try to get into the palace. We must prevent them, at all costs. If they penetrate this far, we must spend our lives stopping them from reaching the king. I will make the final stand, because I must translocate His Majesty elsewhere if all else fails. I’ll be sending him alone, because I will not flee this fight.”

  “That is not the royal magician’s duty,” hissed an unexpected voice, startling them all. They turned to where it had come from-a space too small for any human, behind the table now strewn with enchanted armor and weapons-and beheld a wavering wisp in the air, a faint shadowy presence.

  It darkened just a little, becoming a feminine head and shoulders with arms and a sword… all of which they could see through.

  “I am Alusair Obarskyr,” it told them, “and I will fight. Ganrahast, as royal magician, you must see that the realm survives, not King Foril. You must not lay down your life fighting here!”

  “That choice, your Highness,” Ganrahast replied politely, “may not be mine.”

  “It is not,” King Foril agreed, striding into the room among the stream of Crown magelings. The bearded head of Vangerdahast rode like a spider on his shoulder.

  “You are all to stand aside and let the intruders in,” the king of Cormyr added quietly. “They need to reach the Room of the Watchful Sentinel, to use the Dalestride. Let them.”

  Alusair looked at him. “But-”

  “Great Princess, greatest regent Cormyr has ever had,” Foril replied gently, “trust me in this, and obey. Please. I am king now, after all.”

  Alusair looked into his eyes for a long while, then nodded and lowered her spectral sword.

  King Foril pointed at the novice mages and commanded, “Open the gates, and let Storm and all who follow her in. They are to be allowed to walk the halls unchallenged. Spread the word. Be swift.”

  Several of the wizards jumped at the ringing severity of those last two words. They landed running, racing out of the room to obey him.

  “I hope, Your Majesty, you’re not making a terrible mistake,” Ganrahast said quietly.

  “That’s a hope I share,” Foril replied without turning. “Nevertheless, it is mine to make.”

  Storm, Amarune, and Arclath walked quickly, in a tight-knit group. Only Arclath kept looking back.

  The five ghosts were striding faster, steadily overtaking them. A little behind those blue-flaming figures strode a lone, calm woman unshrouded by blueflame. She was tall and slender, strikingly beautiful despite her cruel face and dark, rage-filled eyes. The bloody point of a dagger protruded from her chest.

  King Foril’s eyes narrowed. He waved his hand in a signal, and Cymmarra, the Lady of Ghosts, almost vanished under the sudden barrage of spells hurled by wizards of war on all sides, a handful even hastening up behind her.

  Wards blazed as bright as the sun-but when that brilliance faded, she was still striding on, unaffected.

  As she went past the doorway where the king stood, she raised her hands, a thin and ruthless smile rising onto her face, and started to cast a spell.

  Ganrahast, Starbridge, Winter, and the ghost of Alusair all stepped in front of the king to shield him, but that merely changed her smile into a sneer, as she went on spellweaving.

  Yet, the air shimmered right behind her and became the archwizard Dardulkyn, his hands reaching out in the last, triumphant gesture of a swift spell.

  Before Cymmarra’s casting was done, Dardulkyn’s spell struck. Its bolt of sizzling force smashed the Lady of Ghosts off her feet and hurled her far down the passage, snarling eerily as it fought with the wardings that armored her against being scorched, melted, and broken. There came crash after hurtling crash as her warded body punched holes in wall after stone wall, until she vanished from view in the echoing distance.

  Ganrahast readied a spell to use on Dardulkyn if need be, but everyone else-Dardulkyn included-turned to stare into the scrying eye.

  And see the dagger-transfixed woman come to a stop at last, right outside the Room of the Watchful Sentinel.

  A bare spear’s length behind her, five blueflame ghosts, as they hurried into the room.

  Just in time to see Storm Silverhand plunge through the Dalestride Portal, with Amarune and Arclath right behind her.

  Cymmarra staggered to her feet, looking a little dazed, and imperiously waved at her ghosts to obey her. Silently and swiftly they surrounded her.

  “Elminster,” she said with a wry smile. “The heart of all trouble-as always. Get to you, and I’ll find Manshoon and all the blueflame I seek. Two deaths within my reach, which I’ve hungered after for so long. Just a little hunting left now. Come, slaves!”

  Ringed by her flaming slayers, the Lady of Ghosts vanished through the portal.

  “Lord Delcastle and the two women have gone to Shadowdale, to heal a mad queen-and destroy us all,” Ganrahast muttered. “The Simbul, who obliterated the loyal Crown mages we sent against her, just as the tales all say she destroyed every Red Wizard she met. If she’s restored, she’ll surely come here to blast every mage in Cormyr, and all who stand with them.”

  “I hope you’re wrong,” Starbridge muttered.

  “As do we all,” said King Foril Obarskyr. And sighed.

  “Nay, don’t get up,” Mirt growled, forcing Glathra back down onto the warehouse floor with one hairy hand. “If ye try again, I may just sit on ye. An’ I warn ye, I’m both heavy an’ full of wind.”

  “If you don’t let me up,” the wizard of war hissed, “I’ll see you chained in a deep dungeon for the rest of your miserable life!”

  “Ah, lass, that’s the spirit! Foreplay! I like that sort of spit an’ fire! We could use a lass like ye in Waterdeep, ye know? Why don’t ye kiss all these gloomy Cormyrean courtiers farewell and come to where the fresh sea breezes invigorate, coin is king, an’ we know how to laugh an’ drink an’ feast an’ wench-well, harrum, that last one may not hold the same attraction for ye as it does for me, but…”

  “Oh, shut up,” Glathra told him weakly.

  Mirt grinned down at her. “Want some cheese while ye’re down there? Wine? We traders know where to get the best…”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  BATTLE AND BURIAL

  I don’t like this,” Storm muttered, peering into the trees all around. “They’ve got to be lurking near, watching us.”

  “If we tarry, they’re sure to arrive. Go in and bring Alassra out,” Elminster told her, his grim voice sounding odd coming out of Arclath’s mouth. “We dare not try using the blueflame on her in there, with the chain and the wards. I’ll guard Rune out here.”

  Storm nodded, handed him the buckle-it wasn’t glowing at all, now-and went into the cave.

  “Arclath-I mean El!” Amarune said warningly.

  “I see them, lass. Expect me to be hurling spells soon.”

  Quite suddenly, three warriors had stepped silently out of the nearby trees, blue flames flowing endlessly around their bodies. They held ready swords and daggers and wore wide, tireless smiles.

  “Before I get to that,” the Sage of Shadowdale murmured, “I’m going to move the cavern’s wards over and out past us, at yon ghosts. The ward-magic will roil at a fixed distance before me. I might be past controlling it-if I bark or drool or stagger about and say strange things that don’t sound like spells, reach out and grab me from behind, then hold me where I stand to keep the magic in one spot.”

  Rune nodded. He stroked her arm reassuringly-Arclath’s gesture, showing her that her lord was sharing his body with El rather than being a silenced slave-and ad
ded, “There are at least two more ghosts out there. And she who sent them, a woman with a dagger protruding from her chest. If I don’t seem to notice them, keep hold of me and haul me about to move the wards so as to intercept them.”

  He sank into a crouch, like a knife fighter about to rush the advancing ghosts. “If yon flaming ones come here but emerge not, eventually their commander will be conquered by her curiosity and come looking to see what befell them. Storm can bring me back to my senses; retreat to her if ye must.”

  He handed Amarune the blueflame buckle. “Take this. If I fall, get it to The Simbul as fast as ye can!”

  Rune nodded, unable to keep her mounting fear off her face. The trio of ghosts was advancing in a silent, menacing line, like wary warriors. El retreated before them, putting out an arm to sweep Amarune back with him.

  Back they went into the cool gloom of the cave, and the ghosts came on.

  The moment the flaming trio was fully in the cavern, El ducked down, hauling Rune with him-and something half-seen that hissed and thundered in the air swept over their heads in a silent, heavy flood.

  It swirled around the ghosts, halting them and whirling their blue flames away in a surging chaos of swirling lights and confused sounds, most loudly sharp shrieks like hundreds of harpstrings breaking at once.

  The three slayers staggered, hacked vainly at the air, crouched as if caught in a gale-and suddenly were gone, all ragged cries and tatters of blue, fading flame, whirled into… nothingness.

  Beside Rune, Arclath whimpered suddenly and burst out, “The wolves! And Dalatha, weeping! Oh, her kisses… ohhh, broken again. Crowns do that.” With every word his voice wavered, sounding like him or like Elminster-or like other folk entirely.

  Amarune looked at him, winced, then ducked behind him and took firm hold of his jerkin. Heart pounding, she stood with him in the gloom, waiting.

  A long time passed, or seemed to, as Arclath-or Elminster-started to sing. She couldn’t make out the words, and the tunes were unfamiliar, but he didn’t seem that much different from a lot of drunkards she remembered from the Dragonride Suddenly another blueflame ghost loomed up, running hard with his sword raised.

  Desperately Rune tugged at Arclath, trying to drag him back-but the ghost was already fading and breaking apart, though it kept on struggling to reach them. Its foremost, reaching hand melted, then the sword arm, with the blade it held, a knee and then… all of it.

  The singing stopped abruptly, as if Arclath had been shocked by the blueflame ghost’s disappearance. Trembling, Amarune held him and waited.

  After a time, there came a bright flash from the far side of the roiling magic, and the ward shuddered and seemed to grow thinner.

  Another flash. More thinning.

  Then another ghost appeared. A tall, cruel-faced woman was walking behind it, working magic as she came. Whenever she finished a spell, it caused one of those bright flashes, melting more of the wards away.

  Amarune hastily dragged the lurching man in her arms back to keep the fading, thinning wards around the ghost and the woman.

  Suddenly the ghost started to melt, sinking down into the roilings with surprising speed. The woman reeled. She was close enough-five or six strides away, no more-that Rune could see that dagger sticking out of her chest.

  Then lightning burst out of nowhere, slamming into the woman from behind and thrusting her into a bulging-eyed dance on tiptoes, wild spasms of agony that ended with her fall, a sprawl on her face that left her lying still.

  Fresh bolts of lightning stabbed and ricocheted through the last, thinning wisps of the wards. Behind them, a man-their hurler-was striding slowly into the cavern.

  Amarune let go of her Arclath, spun around, and ran deeper into the cave. There was an unpleasant stirring ahead of her in the darkness, as if unfriendly magic was awakening to her arrival.

  Caught in its fringes, she stopped and sank down in silence. She was as deep in as she could go and still see Arclath, who was lying in a heap, mumbling and feebly crawling.

  She knew the man coming into the cave. She’d seen him once or twice before in the city streets. It was the wizard Suzailans called most powerful mage in Suzail, Larak Dardulkyn.

  He strode past the woman he’d felled to stand smiling down at the dazed, incoherently babbling Arclath.

  “So, Elminster, it comes down to you and me once more,” he said, almost pleasantly. Flexing his hands, he added gently, “Prepare to die, old fool. Again.”

  Rune swallowed, not knowing what to do, feeling utterly helpless. Should she throw the buckle at him? Well, what good would that do?

  Almost purring with glee, the man began a spell she couldn’t hope to stop And then toppled forward, with a sudden shriek.

  The woman he’d struck down with his lightning had reached up from the ground with her sword to slash his nearest leg.

  “Poisoned,” she snarled triumphantly, before falling back exhausted.

  On the ground beside Arclath, Dardulkyn rolled, cursing furiously and clutching at his wound.

  His rolling became shuddering, and he lost his grip on his leg as he started to convulse. His oaths went incoherent as foam spewed from his mouth.

  Rune had seen enough. Heedless of the unseen magic that sang up to claw at her, she turned and raced deeper into the cavern.

  Hurrying to get the blueflame buckle to The Simbul.

  Cymmarra heaved herself to her knees, the world spinning slowly above her…

  Everything was slow and painful. Everything took so much strength

  …

  She lost count of her weak and staggering tries, but by using her sword like a crutch, she found her feet at last. Only the cavern wall kept her upright after that first, horribly shaky step.

  She clung to the wall, whispering prayers she didn’t believe in and scarcely remembered, over and over again, seeking strength.

  When she felt like she might have found a little, she turned her head and smirked at the two feebly moving men. Dardulkyn’s words had made it clear he was Manshoon, and there was no reason she knew of that he might have been wrong about the young lordling being Elminster.

  “Great archwizards,” she sneered. “Not a lot to choose between the two of you, is there?” Shoving off from the wall, she reeled forward, raising her poisoned blade again.

  Dardulkyn suddenly sprang up, wild-eyed, and fled, arms flailing. He fell often as he went, but had a frenzied speed she couldn’t hope to match.

  “The poison will take you,” she murmured after him, weak but baleful, “and then I will. After I take care of the Sage of Shadowdale.”

  That body hadn’t moved yet and was right in front of her. One lurching stride, two… she had to ground the sword and lean on it to keep from falling. Drawing in a deep and shuddering breath, she steadied herself and raised it again.

  “One thrust,” she gasped. “One thrust, you old-”

  Elminster rolled away, then found his feet with the agility and grace of a much younger man.

  Arclath Delcastle had snatched back control of his own body. He smiled mirthlessly as he drew his sword, then met Cymmarra’s staggering rush with a deft parry.

  Slicing two fingers off her sword hand on his backswing, he snapped, “One thrust? I think not.”

  Magic clawed at her like a long-nailed drunkard trying to paw his way to a handy dancer’s charms, but it seemed to sigh and fade with her every step. She was fighting her way down a deep, narrow cavern…

  Amarune pushed on into darkness until she saw a tiny glow of light ahead.

  It was coming from a pool of water, where there was much splashing.

  Going nearer, Rune saw a chained woman thrashing on the edge of the pool. She had eyes like those of an angry wolf and wore only the great swirling chaos of her long, silver hair, tresses that moved by themselves like Storm Silverhand’s hair.

  Which it was, in fact, entangled with, Rune saw, the two heads of hair wrestling like hundreds of angry snakes as Storm and
The Simbul-this had to be The Simbul-struggled with each other.

  Storm was trying to drag her sister out of the pool, but The Simbul was stronger in her frenzy, overpowering Storm and dragging them both back down into the waters, time and again.

  Now what? Rune discovered she was trembling, not just from the cavern’s magic but in deepening fear.

  Then Storm saw her-and the blueflame buckle. “Put it in her mouth!” she gasped. “Rune, put it in her mouth, and hold it there until it’s all gone-no matter what happens!”

  Rune swallowed then started forward. The buckle began to glow again.

  With a menacing crackle, The Simbul’s hair left off trying to strangle and pinion Storm and reached for the buckle. Her angry wolf eyes flared blue.

  Amarune went nearer, trying to keep close to the wall so as not to get easily dragged into the pool.

  The Simbul growled at her menacingly, then snapped her teeth at the buckle. Just like a hungry wolf.

  Rune dodged her lunges, just as she had dodged so many reaching hands at the Dragonriders’-and, holding the buckle firmly in both hands, thrust it into The Simbul’s mouth.

  There was a bright flash and a sudden surge of energy that shook Amarune.

  The Simbul’s eyes spat fire, literally becoming two bright blue flames, and Rune screamed as her fingers and then her arms started to burn, hair sizzling.

  “Hold it in there!” Storm shouted, sounding desperate.

  Rune clenched her teeth, then bent her head and whimpered against the pain. The buckle was melting… she thrust its dwindling solidity farther and farther in behind those sharp and angry teeth…

  Then, abruptly, conflagration and buckle were both gone.

  All the struggling stopped, and The Simbul was looking up at Rune with all fury fled and quite a different look in her eyes.

  “Lady, I thank you,” she said gravely and kissed Amarune’s scorched fingers.

  That touch sent a soothing, healing coolness through Rune that left her shuddering in amazed relief.