by Ed Greenwood
The pain vanished. Her burns were gone.
Then the chain binding The Simbul to the wall melted away in glowing silence.
The freed woman patted Storm in silent thanks and rose, dripping, to stride past Amarune down the passage as regally as any queen.
Near the cave mouth, Arclath Delcastle stood grimly over the Lady of Ghosts, the tip of his sword at her throat. She glared up at him in agony, her hands cut to bloody ruin, unable to fight any more.
The Simbul walked up to the young lord, touched his head, and murmured, “Come forth, El.”
Arclath slumped like a limp and empty leather sack as El’s ashes, glowing and swirling, emerged from his nose and ears to coil around The Simbul’s face and breast.
She laughed in delight, then stepped back and decreed, “Be as sane as I am, and have a body again.”
A glow appeared in midair in front of her and faded rapidly into something solid, upright… a naked man. It swayed, settled onto its feet, and sharpened into-Elminster, looking old and vigorous but slack-jawed.
The ashes plunged into that open mouth, and the body shuddered all over. Then it opened blue-gray eyes, smiled, and reached out to gather The Simbul into a fierce embrace.
As they kissed, she said to him firmly through their joined mouths, “Soon.”
Then she whirled free, bent to the helplessly glaring Cymmarra, and said gently, “Rest, tortured one.”
A wave of her hand banished the curse, and the woman transfixed by the dagger crumbled to dust, the dagger sighing into nothingness a moment later.
Then The Simbul headed out of the cavern, waving almost absently at Arclath as she went.
He blinked, stood up, looked around, saw Amarune, and grinned. She rushed into his arms.
Storm and El gently towed them after The Simbul, out into the light-where everyone halted as silence fell again.
A tentacled beholder of monstrous size was hovering in the air waiting for them, glaring eyestalks ready.
Rays spat forth.
The Simbul raised both her hands this time, and those magics twisted in midair into nothing more than a dancing glow.
“Enough, Manshoon.” She turned to look at Elminster, then regarded the beholder again. “I have remembered much that Mystra told me. The two of you must now work together. Our Lady of Magic commands it.”
“Mystra is no more!” Manshoon snarled.
The Simbul frowned. “She is… silent, yes, but I am far less certain of her destruction than you seem to be. Yet, her commandment is very clear. You must both gather all the blueflame items you can and use them properly, or the realms will surely fall before the beasts flooding in. The rifts opened in ignorance by those called ‘warlocks’ are many, and more and more fell powers look to this world to be their new home. More than just the Weave has fallen and been lost.”
El listened in thoughtful silence, and Manshoon in growing, eyestalk-quivering fury, as she added, “One archwizard was behind the enchanting of all the blueflame items, using many as his dupes. They were his bid to maintain his own existence, but he built into them the means to watch over all who used the items-for sport and amusement, as well as to effectively compel such wielders.”
“ ‘One archwizard’? Who?” Manshoon spat.
“The ‘Imprisoner’ is the one called Larloch. He bound all the magic and essence of three of his servant liches into each ghost-imprisoning item-sacrifices to empower the items.”
“Larloch?”
The Simbul ignored Manshoon’s angry disbelief. “The items are more than extra-dimensional prisons and ghost-controllers. Each possesses a fell power of its own, usable whenever the ghost is imprisoned, and dormant when the ghost is out.”
“And if a ghost is destroyed?” Elminster asked quietly.
“The item will crumble,” The Simbul replied. “Its magic discharged and forever lost.”
“No!” the beholder snarled. “You lie!”
“I do not lie, Manshoon. You lie, easily and often, as it suits your desires, and so have fallen into lazily thinking all others must, too. Consider how easy it would be for me to destroy you, rather than spend time telling you this. Consider further my strong temptation to do so. Yet, I refrain. Consider that I do so for this higher purpose, this necessity of saving the world we share. Now, will you hear the rest, or will I spell-scourge you until you are humbled and forced to yield?”
The beholder hung silently in the air for what seemed a very long time.
“I… I will listen,” it said at last.
“Wise of you. Mystra and Azuth allowed Larloch’s self-serving plan to succeed because they deemed it necessary. Like the lich lord, they saw it as a way of cheating the coming Spellplague, which they dared not try to prevent as the increasingly unstable Weave raced toward crashing ruin. It needed to be renewed or replaced, and Mystra knew either outcome would destroy her. She also knew she could preserve something of herself and the secrets of the Art she’d inherited-and Azuth could do the same-by insinuating it into the minds of Larloch’s liches, and so into the blueflame items.”
“Which means…” Storm said slowly.
Her sister smiled. “Which means the items contain seeds that could perhaps bring back Larloch, or even something… someone more… if used in the right manner.”
“Uh,” Arclath mumbled, “I’m not sure Rune or I should be hearing this…”
Ignoring him, The Simbul went on sternly, “It is imperative blueflame items must be wielded to close rifts and restore the balance of Toril, or the ancient Primordials will rise and rage unleashed across the lands… and inevitably, what will eventually be left will not be the world we know, the realms of humans, elves, dwarves, halflings, orcs, and the rest. Dragons may survive, but probably as enslaved steeds, not conquering wyrms. Their time is past.”
She looked from one person to another, staring last up at the beholder, whose rays had faded away.
“El and Manshoon, will you both work to make sure the time of humans is not ended?”
“Aye,” Elminster agreed eagerly.
It was another long and silent wait before Manshoon muttered reluctantly, “Yes.”
“Good. Starting now would be a good thing,” The Simbul told them dryly.
Then she gave Storm a smile. “Thank you for caring for me, sister. I’ll return as soon as I can, but long ago I promised Mystra I’d do… certain things. I must keep my promises, or I am nothing.”
She took a step back. “I go.”
Abruptly, without a spell or sound, she vanished.
Leaving Storm, Arclath, Amarune, and Elminster all looking at the beholder hanging in the air above them.
Silence stretched.
“So,” El asked mildly, “shall we begin?”
Manshoon glared at him-and vanished, leaving only empty sky behind.
EPILOGUE
Elminster whirled and cast a hasty spell.
Storm started to say something urgent, but Elminster shook his head, waved his hands in a dramatic flourish-and watched Storm, Arclath, and Amarune vanish as his magic took them elsewhere.
Then he ran back to the cave.
He was only a few steps inside when Manshoon’s first attack spell stabbed at his back.
It raged against El’s ward, shattered it, and the two magics died together.
Elminster kept running, knowing the spot he wanted to reach before Manshoon’s second attack, a flood of piercing lightning, drove him to his knees, groaning in pain.
El fought to hiss out a small, simple spell, hoping its nature would let him finish it before Manshoon smashed him with deadly magic once more.
“Work with you? Bah! All my life you’ve frustrated my schemes, intrigued against me, opposed me!” the vampire shouted. “Work with you? I think not. Be entombed, instead!”
Magic clawed at Elminster, and the rock beneath him changed.
“I’ll drive you down into solid rock by making it less than solid-in shifting spots, so the weight
of the rest of the stone, still hard, will crush your bones to jelly!”
Elminster was sinking, his body tingling, starting to shift at Manshoon’s bidding. He had to fight to form a smile.
“I want you to feel pain, Sage of Shadowdale!” Manshoon shouted from above. “Long, slow pain! Let your tongue be stilled, your jaw, arms, and fingers all be broken, to rob you of all means to work magic!”
The rock closed over Elminster’s head, dark and hissing, Manshoon’s magic lancing into his lungs to keep him from suffocating just yet. And to bring him more of its caster’s gloating.
“Think you can foil me again? Work another of your sly triumphs? No, a thousand times no! I am Manshoon, and I will defeat you!”
“By deafening me? Like any lackspell mageling, ye’ve certainly mastered being noisy!” Elminster murmured to himself as his body fell entirely back to ashes-and plunged through the fissures he’d been seeking.
The agony was-intense.
Yet, he’d known worse.
It would take him days, perhaps months, to drag himself together again… but he’d managed much, much longer patience in the past.
Silently, by many thousands of little ways, he descended.
New magic stabbed after him, thrusting here and there, swift and energetic.
Only to withdraw, finding no trace of Elminster.
“Yes!” Manshoon roared, his voice high and wild. “Bury him deep-and I did! Go godless to the gods at last, Elminster, to fail that judgment and fade, gone forever! Fare you not well!”
From some flakes of tumbling ash in a cavern far beneath Manshoon’s boots, in an upper cavern of the Underdark, came a faint echo that just might have been an answer to Manshoon’s shout.
An echo that sounded rather like the Sage of Shadowdale’s chuckle.
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Document version: 2
Document creation date: 28.01.2012
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