Elminster in Hell

by Ed Greenwood

  The lich reeled, its bony arms writhing into coiling snakes for an instant before its unlife overcame the magic. It gave her a gap-toothed grin—and lightning again.

  Laeral snapped out a countering enchantment. In midair the racing bolt curved back toward its source. Bony arms moved in haste, but the undead mage was still working a spell when hungry blue-white fire found it.

  The lich writhed amid smoke and fell to its knees, pointing a bony arm. “Behold—the throne!” it said hollowly and toppled into a clattering chaos of unattached bones. The flames of its eyes winked out.

  Too easy, Laeral thought, scattering the remains with an unseen servant spell. Much too easy. The bones lay where she pushed them, harmless.

  The mage drew forth another token. It grew into a great hammer in her hand. She used a servant spell to carry it to the bones and wield it from afar, crushing the lich’s skull into shards. There came no response.

  In the silence that followed, Laeral took a scroll from her belt and conjured dancing lights. By their radiance she stared all around, suspiciously. The silence waited patiently, unbroken.

  She took a cautious step toward the throne. It remained empty, unadorned, and silent. She bent her will. Her floating hammer struck the empty seat, tapped it, then under her direction tapped floor-slabs all about it and ceiling stones high above. Nothing happened. She kept at it until the hammer’s power faded and it dwindled away to nothingness.

  Silence hung around her, waiting.

  With a sigh, Laeral raised a detection spell, knowing she’d find the throne ablaze with many spells, one atop another. She frowned, took a step forward, and wondered if she dared raise her last flight spell, in case a pit trap or falling block lay waiting.

  With a roar, the roof fell in anyway.

  Seventeen

  MUCH FIRE IN HELL

  THIS IS GOOD FUN, WIZARD. I WOULD SEE ALL OF IT, MAGIC OR NO. PROCEED.

  As ye wish. [images glowing]

  Laeral lay over stone and under stone. Great blocks from the ceiling had crashed down beside her, atop her, and all around. Dust curled slowly away.

  Shrieking pain stabbed from her right leg and from low on her left side. The falling stones must have broken bones.

  Echoes of the collapse died away in far, unseen corners of the hall. Her wits had left her for no more than a breath or two. Above her, a tilted stone slab was wedged against another, fallen in a peak that had saved her from crushing death—so far. Past them, by the feeble radiance of her globes of light, she could see the empty stone seat.

  Laeral willed her dancing lights to grow fainter, an easy task with pain tearing her concentration to tatters. She lay silent, biting her lip. She was pinned helplessly, unable to move. It would be a long, cold death, after all.

  Laeral wondered dully how much longer she’d live. One mistake, just one … and a swift lesson: death takes mages as easily as stable hands.

  Please, Mystra: Let it be quick.

  Laeral gathered her weakening will for one last sending, to tell her faraway apprentice where her secret spellbooks and treasures lay and bid him farewell. The effort cost her the last of her conjured light. She froze in the sudden darkness.

  A new sound filled the dusty chamber.

  Cold, familiar laughter. Radiance, conjured by another, was born and grew stronger in the room. By it she saw Blaskyn step out of the shadows, the Helm of Hiding gleaming under his arm. He chuckled again, peering toward her.

  Hastily Laeral shut her eyes to slits and lay very still. From the first, he had been very good at the blasting spells.

  “So ends my apprenticeship,” Blaskyn said triumphantly. “The throne’s ‘mastery of wizardry’ shall be mine!”

  He strode past Laeral to the stone seat, wearing that easy grin Laeral knew so well.

  Then, suddenly, Blaskyn stopped and turned. “She held the rod, her most precious magic,” he muttered. His hands moved in quick, sure gestures.

  Laeral closed her eyes, raging inwardly. He was far more a master of magic than he’d ever led her to believe.

  Laeral felt the rocks above her deftly lift away—a telekinesis spell, no doubt. Crushing weight rose from her, gently and silently. The rocks pinning her down were gone.

  With iron will, Laeral resisted the urge to shift to a position of easier rest, stilling the pain. Dead she must appear—or dead she surely soon would be.

  She felt the rod twitched from her half-open fingers. “Unbroken? Good,” Blaskyn’s voice came, from very close above her. Laeral kept her face, twisted in pain, motionless. “Hmm … her rings.”

  She felt the rings stripped from her fingers, her ex-apprentice sighing in disgust at the blood on them.

  Deft fingers wandered over her body, finding the daggers in her boots and the sheath in her bodice where the wand had been. She heard rocks grating as they were moved, and then Blaskyn’s disgusted voice again.

  “Broken. Well, that leaves only this.” The crude, plain pendant she’d worn so long was roughly jerked from around her neck, its thong snapping. “It’s some sort of magic; I know that much.”

  Laeral lay still as his hands wandered over her body. All the Art she had left were a few spells still in her head and a certain magical token, a lone earring hidden in her hair. He’d find it, all too soon, then leave her to die.

  Probing fingers found the roughness where her leg was broken and stabbed at it, seeking hidden treasure. The pain! Unable to stop herself, Laeral shuddered, whimpering.

  Cruel hands jerked her chin up, shaking her head until Laeral opened pain-racked eyes and stared into the cold, level gaze of her ex-apprentice.

  Blaskyn smiled. “Still alive, eh? Well, you’ll live long enough to tell me where all your magic lies hidden—and long enough, perhaps, for … other things!”

  Laeral whimpered. Mockingly caressing hands shifted her leg with brutal haste. The broken ends of bone grated together. She tried to scream as he shook her, but could manage only a sob. Blaskyn chuckled at the sound and cruelly dropped her back among the stones.

  Red mists of pain rose and fell before her eyes. Through them, Laeral saw Blaskyn walk to the throne, turn to salute her mockingly, and sit down with a triumphant sneer.

  His face changed. It seemed to glow with white fire. His smile slid away from his lips almost immediately. Pearly radiance shone from the stone, growing stronger. In utter silence Laeral watched cold white fire race up and down his limbs.

  Blaskyn’s flesh sank inward, his skin withering and sagging on suddenly revealed bones. He screamed.

  Her horrified gaze locked with his, Laeral saw his eyes catch fire and burn. The whites darkened and receded to become points of glowing light.

  As his gums and lips shriveled, Blaskyn screamed hollowly, “Laeral! Mistress! Help me-ee-ee!”

  Teeth sprayed from his agonized mouth. His cry died away into dry choking. His body shook and strained. He seemed unable to rise from the blazing throne.

  Silence fell. What had once been her apprentice seemed to grow calmer—or less conscious. Laeral shifted herself to as comfortable a position as she could manage, wondering if Blaskyn was dead.

  All at once, the slumped body on the throne began to smile. Lipless jaws worked, and then shaped words. “Ah … ah … a good body, this. Better than the wench, though she taught it but a pitiful amount of Art. It will serve.”

  What had been Blaskyn stood up stiffly. Her rod, daggers, and all fell to the floor with a clatter, the rings rolling slowly off into the darkness.

  All too soon, the sunken face loomed up over Laeral.

  HA HA! THIS IS AS GOOD AS ONE OF THOSE PLAYS NOBLES MOUNT AT THEIR REVELS IN WATERDEEP!

  Aye, and all true.

  OH? CAN YOU PROVE IT?

  I must trust Mystra.

  [scowl, snort] WELL, ONE OF US MUST, I SUPPOSE … OR I’LL NEVER SEE MAGIC OUT OF YOU? PROCEED.

  Indeed.

  “This fool thought to question ye before he claimed and slew ye,” came
a cold voice. It sounded more like the lich she had destroyed than Blaskyn. “I am Thalon and have no need to waste words trying to pry secrets and cleave through deceit. My claws will cook ye where ye lie. When they’re done, and I eat thy flesh, I will know all ye know. Thy skull will join the others on the shelf—fools who accompanied the mages who lusted after mastery over wizardry. ‘Sit not alone,’ and all that …”

  The gaunt face stared down at her almost approvingly. “The young and strong mages have served me as bodies, down the years. Thine is too broken and weaker than this fool’s.”

  As he spoke, the crawling claws swarmed over Laeral. Skeletal fingers tore clothes away and raked stones aside. Dry bones scuttled over and under her bared flesh, dragging branches and twigs from somewhere painfully in underneath her.

  Through all this bony violation, the burning eyes that had once been Blaskyn’s looked down at her coldly and steadily.

  “This fool lusted after thee, Laeral,” came the hollow voice, almost jauntily, “but thy flesh is more useful to me cooked and eaten. It has been a long time … I hope the arundoon sauce has survived.”

  Thalon turned away, stopped, and picked up Laeral’s pendant. He gave her a grisly smile. “The fool didn’t even know what this was,” he said, tying it about his own neck. “My thanks, mageling—only one globe left, but it’s been years since I’ve worn a necklace of missiles! Not since … but ye need not know that.” He turned and went to the stairs, walking more swiftly and smoothly with each stride.

  “Don’t go—I’ll be back directly,” the hollow voice called back to her, cold and cheerful.

  Laeral shuddered and whimpered at the agony her movement had brought her.

  The endless, silent crawling went on. Almost fainting with the pain, Laeral raised a numbed hand and carefully took the earring from her ear. Her last magic. Her hand closed over it and fell back amid the growing pile of wood.

  A strange, horrid noise came up the stairs, growing nearer: The lich was humming. That white, sunken face smiled cruelly above her again.

  Suddenly Laeral felt cold, sticky liquid falling on her. Thalon was calmly emptying the contents of a crystal decanter onto her limbs.

  “Arundoon sauce,” the archmage said lightly. “In splendid condition, too, thanks to the spells on the decanter. I’ll just put it somewhere safe—for next time. When I come back, Laeral, we’ll share a kiss; thy last, I fear, for with it I’ll breathe dragon fire into ye, and ye’ll burn.… Do minstrels still sing of kisses that burn? I gave them that phrase, though its true meaning seems to have been forgotten.”

  Thalon lingered above her thoughtfully. “Much about me has been forgotten in the Realms. With this fine young body and your knowledge of who works magic and where, I’ll change all that. One mage will lead me to another, until I’ve swallowed what all of them know. I thank thee for this opportunity, Laeral. It’s most kind of ye.”

  Laeral fought to keep her eyes open against waves of sleepy pain.

  He seemed disappointed. “What, no tears? No pleading? I expected some reaction, at least.”

  Laeral smiled at him tightly as her hand swept up. “You shall have it!” she hissed in answer, through fresh waves of pain, and whispered fiercely, “Alahabad!”

  The earring twisted in the air as it flew, to become a metal hand as small as a child’s. It struck Thalon in the chest, thrusting the lich-mage backward with the force of its blow.

  Laeral saw the lich stagger, saw the metal hand close and tighten on the last globe of the necklace that had been her most powerful magic for so many years, bent her will, and turned her head away.

  HA! NOW HER REVENGE! MORE, HUMAN—SHOW ME MORE!

  Of course. I’ve spent my life showing folk things.…

  Her eyes were closed, so the flash that blistered her face and side did not blind her. It shook the ceiling above her and the rubble around. Dust began to fall on her like a cloak. More pain. Tiny spears showered her side; bony splinters from what was left of Blaskyn, Laeral decided wearily.

  She lay still. The shaking died away. She breathed thanks to Tymora and Mystra both. As if in reply, a thin, falling wail of rage and disappointment rose, mingled with the rolling echoes of the blast … and slowly died away with them.

  Your turn for a little pain and disappointment, Laeral thought savagely, as black oblivion took her.

  WHAT? I’M TO BE CHEATED OF THE GLOAT OVER HER FALLEN FOE? HUMANS ARE SUCH WEAK WEEDS!

  Patience, Lord Nergal, and see …

  [growl, reluctant silence]

  Much later, cold and pain awakened her. She looked toward the throne. It still glowed with a faint white radiance, but she saw no trace of the lich. What she sought lay at the foot of the throne.

  Gritting her teeth, Laeral rolled over, her broken leg flopping uselessly. The blazing pain, as she hauled herself through stabbing branches and motionless bone claws, made her sob and shriek in turns. She crawled slowly across the floor, wondering if she’d get there in time.

  WELL, IF ALL THIS WAS PASSED FROM MYSTRA TO YOU, SHE MUST HAVE SURVIVED, EH?

  Give the tale its time, devil. Give the tale its time. Things are more fun that way …

  FUN! [SNORT] NOW I KNOW I’M IN THE MIND OF A HUMAN!

  Ye doubted it before?

  It was long, indeed, before she reached the spot where her rod lay. Laeral closed her hand around it carefully. Her fingers shook. She twisted one of its end knobs until the rounded brass came free. A small metal vial rolled out.

  Tearing out the stopper with her teeth, Laeral drank the cool, sweet potion greedily. Relief flooded through her body. She lay back thankfully and let the healing magic bring her strength.

  When she felt strong enough, she undid the rod’s other end and drank the second potion quickly. The instant the vial was empty, she straightened her broken leg with firm hands and clenched teeth. The pain burned and raged for only a short time, then subsided to a dull ache.

  Patiently Laeral picked up the rod again and shook it. A roll of parchment dropped out. “My most precious magic, indeed,” she said aloud, and then added in a fierce whisper, “Blaskyn—you fool!”

  She read the outermost scroll first, casting its heal spell upon herself. When she was fully recovered, she conjured up light again to explore the tower thoroughly, gleaning from it what small, hidden magics she could find. Not once did she touch the throne.

  She found no spellbooks and suspected they were under the throne. She looked at it once, as it sat there waiting for her, glowing silently and beckoningly, and shook her head. Only the thinnest of smiles touched her lips.

  One day it might send another foe to find her, if she did not destroy it first. But ending the long career of Thalon was a task for another day. Laeral unrolled the last, inner scroll—the teleport spell that would take her home. Without bidding Thalon farewell, she read the scroll and left that place.

  AM I GOING TO SEE SOME MAGIC, HUMAN? ARE YOU GOING TO LIVE?

  [silence]

  BAH. SHOW ME THE REST. [growl]

  Standing in her own familiar spell chamber, naked and filthy, bereft of apprentice and much magic, Laeral of Loudwater smiled wryly.

  “Of Art gain great sight, wise beyond any mage,” the verse had run. It had spoken truth; she’d gained great sight, indeed—of what unchecked power and fanatical mastery of Art did to archmages.

  Laeral sighed and carelessly tossed her bundle (what was left of her robes, tied as a sack around the scraps of magic she’d scavenged) across the room.

  Right now, the most important goal of her life lay downstairs, at the bottom of her garden: the stream where she could wash off the dust, dirt, bone splinters, and the gods-alone-knew-what-else was caked all over her, stuck to Thalon’s gluelike arundoon sauce.

  Laeral went down the stairs to the landing where her cloaks hung. She brushed past them to a littered desk whose pigeonholes held dusty scrolls written years before. She took out one she’d never expected to need and read it as she we
nt slowly down another flight of stairs to the garden door.

  The scroll melted away between her fingertips, and the dancing lights it conjured gave Laeral light enough to bathe by. She whispered the word that unlocked the door and went out into the night with a decanter of wine to wash away the oily sauce. Cradling it she dove headlong into the stream.

  She’d have to find another apprentice tomorrow … where was that list Orliph of the Harpers had left her? There’d been a good dozen names on it, some of them interesting.

  Oh, yes. She snapped her fingers, and out of the night sky above her a scroll arrowed down, unfolded itself gracefully above her nose, and angled itself to catch the radiance of the gently drifting globes of light around her.

  Laeral scrubbed and stretched in the cool water, making small murmuring sounds of contentment as the stickiness left her. Tossing back her wet hair, she peered at the list.

  Cold fear made its slow way up her spine, crawling like one of the bony claws of the archmage’s tower. The list had held almost twenty names, she was sure. Now there was only one, written in flowing, darkly bold and fresh script: “Thalon.”

  Laeral curled her lip. Enough. That throne was going to have to go. Tomorrow.

  HAH. YOU DENY ME ONCE MORE. THE PROMISE OF MAGIC, SPELLS WAVED BEFORE ME—AND THEN, NO DOING AND CRAFTING AND WIELDING.

  ENOUGH OF OTHER FOLK. YOU TAUGHT MAGIC TO MANY, AND I KNOW MYSTRA WATCHED OVER YOUR DOING SO MORE THAN ONCE. LET US SEE WHAT SHE SAW …

  [images drifting, then flashing up and aside, flung away in the drive to go deeper …]

  * * * * *

  The abishai squatted on the sharp-spiked rocks that ringed the hollow, guarding the whorlspell. This one had not whirled and spit for long. The banners on their spears, proclaiming this hollow the territory of Great Tiamat the Many-Headed, were still new. Most of the abishai faced outward, glaring across the smoking ridges in a search for the trouble they knew would come. Only a few of the largest, eldest redhides amongst them looked inward, at the spinning chaos of the whorlspell.