Elminster in Hell

by Ed Greenwood

  The second beholder blinked. “Agreed.”

  AMUSING, ELMINSTER? A WARNING FOR ME, I SUPPOSE? OH, SO AMUSING? WELL, IF YOU’RE GOING TO PERSIST IN TRYING TO MEDDLE IN MY SEARCHING, SHOW ME ONE OF THE SEVEN RIGHT NOW! SHOW ME—STORM!

  [pincers like claws of steel gripping fiercely; dark will set afire with rage bearing down hard]

  [pain]

  [satisfied snarl]

  [pain]

  SHOW ME, WIZARD!

  Moonlight traced the magnificence of a bare shoulder as Storm Silverhand rose on one elbow and put a firm hand over Elminster’s mouth. “Stop dispensing twaddle and go to sleep,” she told him, not unkindly, and moved her hand to his chest, thrusting him back flat on the bed.

  He drew breath to protest as to the importance of what he’d been trying to say.

  She put her mouth down where her hand had been, thrust her tongue into his mouth, and said along its thrilling length, “Go to sleep, I said. Despite my provocations to the contrary.”

  That seemed like a good idea to Elminster, drifting numb and wearily in floods of chaos that no longer brought pain to his bruised and battered wits. He found a dark cavern that was undisturbed as yet, where the memories were covered with the dust and cobwebs of long neglect, curled up therein, and let Avernus fade away from him as Toril was beginning to do.

  NO, DON’T GO TO SLEEP ON ME! I AM NOT PLEASED.

  ARE YOU GOING TO SHOW ME EVERY LAST KISS YOU’VE RECEIVED IN YOUR OVERLONG, MISERABLE LIFE, HUMAN? YOU TRY MY PATIENCE TOO FAR!

  [searing mind lash, bright bursts of pain, shredded memories tumbling]

  WELL, WIZARD? SPEAK TO ME!

  [pain, writhing, gasping struggle to mind speak]

  Every memory shown ye, devil, is one lost forever to me. To show ye every last thing, and lose it all, would not be the act of a sane man.

  AND ARE YOU A SANE MAN?

  [silence]

  WELL?

  [grim silence]

  [diabolical laughter, booming and rolling through every dark corner of a shuddering mind]

  “This is ridiculous!” Rathan cursed as they hurried down the stairs, leather creaking and mail jangling. “Up tower and down! Why can’t all these craven fools march up to the gate and declare themselves, like in the children’s tales? ’Twould be far easier on my aching feet!”

  “I’ll try to remember to tell them that,” Torm called back merrily. “I’m sure this is all just a misunderstanding and that anxious regard for your bunions is and will be the first and overriding concern of all armed Zhent war parties who show up in the dale a-raiding!”

  Rathan’s reply was a heartfelt roar of anger. He felt for the flask of firewine at his belt as he ran down the steps, bouncing and lurching. Three turns farther, he got it unstopped and up to his lips—which was about the time his elbow had a brief but painful meeting with a protruding block in the stone wall.

  Firewine stings when dashed into the eyes, and overweight priests of the goddess of good fortune throw all caution to the winds when pursuing holy business. So it was that Rathan was off balance and moving far too fast. Momentarily blinded and fumbling with his flask stopper when he should have spared a hand for the rail, he launched himself where he imagined the curve of the stairs to go.

  He was regrettably mistaken.

  The wall was unforgivingly hard, almost triumphant in its bruising resistance, and it was curved. The stairs were similarly hard, worn smooth by years of many feet, and pitched in a steep descent. Rathan was large, round, and loud in bellows and roars of pain. He bounced off the wall once, twice, thrice, ricocheted from the central pillar, tumbled down over the edges of three very sharp steps, and struck the curving outer wall again, liberally doused with lubricating firewine this time and driven into a more or less helpless ball.

  Tymora encourages her faithful to take chances, but Rathan Thentraver was neither a slender nor energetic man. His armor was more impressive to the eye than it was to the sword—or to immovable stones.

  His precipitous descent down the stairs began with a startled shout and a clatter and commenced to acquire the full-throated thunder of crumpling armor and a hurtling, heavy body that is embracing its fate with holy rage rather than the silence of acceptance or insensibility.

  Torm was not slow of wit or foot, but he could jump only so high before negotiating his own inevitable meeting with stone walls, steps, or ceiling. His frantic leap to avoid his bouncing, rolling friend failed. He rebounded from the ceiling down onto the whirling armored ball. With a stream of colorful curses all his own, Torm was swept down the stairs in similar rolling tumult.

  The smile of Tymora brought a Zhentilar guard captain striding into the antechamber. The crossbows of his men had cleared the tower entrance of guards and driven the few defenders into flight out through the kitchens. His duty was clear. “Open yon door,” he snapped, through the din of shrieks, laughing men, and horses thundering past outside.

  Obligingly, his men did so, blades and bows at the ready. A spiral stair awaited—thankfully without guards or any traps. The boldest guard took a cautious step forward and peered up into the gloom.

  “Well?” the guard captain snapped.

  “There’s something,” the soldier replied, with a frown. “A sort of crashing …”

  The officer snorted. “A ‘sort of crashing’? What sort of crashing?”

  Rathan’s hurtling form rattled around the last bend, bounded off the edge of a particularly hard step, and sailed down into the antechamber like a large, jagged armored juggernaut. He smashed the guard captain to the floor like an angry cook dashing an egg. Zhents scattered as a raw groan arose from the wreckage. A ribbon of blood slowly followed, and the soldier at the doors turned and snarled, “That sort of crashing. Sir.” Crossbow leveled, he grimly approached the chaos of armor plates and heaving flesh.

  The smaller, much quieter ball of Torm hurtled out of the doorway and struck his legs. With a crack, the crossbow fired its bolt into the nearest Zhent. The bowman’s head cracked almost as loudly against the floor.

  Torm fetched up against Rathan in a cursing, panting tangle. “So how are your bunions, Old Barrelhead?”

  Rathan’s reply was long and loud and extremely colorful. Tymora was not visibly present to wince and cringe, so Torm did it for her.

  WELL, THAT WAS IMPRESSIVE. NOT USEFUL, BUT AT LEAST IMPRESSIVE.

  [images plunging]

  “It is my hope, Lord, that you never find out,” Tessaril replied, her eyes grave. As she spoke, there was a sudden crash, inside.

  ANOTHER CRASH? HMMM? THE REST IS LOST? ANOTHER HUMAN WENCH, THIS ONE WITH EYES LIKE SMOKE? NOTHING BUT A SNIPPET LEFT … BUT IS THIS NOT HER FACE AGAIN, OVER HERE?

  “Now,” Tessaril said, “we wait. Would anyone like something to eat, before conquering Zhentil Keep?”

  BAH! A SNIPPET ONLY, AGAIN—I COULD HAVE SWORN THERE WAS MORE …

  If ye handled my remembrances more gently, devil, ye might see more. There was more to that … but “was” is the right of it, now; ye destroyed it!

  DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO, LITTLE MAN! NERGAL WILL RUMMAGE AS HE PLEASES!

  [mind lash, pain, frenzied rushing images]

  They chuckled, and then the Royal Magician of Cormyr lifted an eyebrow and asked disbelievingly, “This little maid called Shandril?”

  “Aye, Shandril. She didn’t know that no one dares attack Manshoon in his lair—so she went ahead and attacked him.”

  AGAIN THE LITTLE MAID OF SPELLFIRE. YOU HAVE SPELLFIRE TOO, DO YOU NOT?

  [silence]

  ELMINSTER! ELMINSTER!

  Sorry, devil, I was in too much pain to hear thee.…

  CUTE PLOY, HUMAN. CUTE NEVER MIND—I’LL SEARCH WITHOUT YOUR HELP OR CLEVER COMMENTS. [images spinning]

  BAH! I WANT TO SEE ANOTHER OF YOUR REAL MEMORIES, SOMETHING CLEAR AND LENGTHY AND USEFUL TO ME …? SOMETHING VIVID AND RELEVANT ABOUT ONE OF THE SEVEN SISTERS COMING INTO HER POWER? GIVE SUCH A MEMORY TO ME, AND GIVE IT NOW.


  STORM SEEMED TO WORK LAST TIME. SHE’S BEEN YOUR LOVER A TIME OR TWO, HASN’T SHE? GIVE ME STORM—AND THEN ANOTHER OF THE SEVEN.

  Nearby, a heap of twisted Zhentarim bodies heaved, shifted, and convulsed. Out from under it emerged a bloody, panting, wounded Storm.

  AHA! MORE, AND NOT DESTROYED! I CAN DO IT!

  Silence fell over the field of the fallen.

  [growl] WELL, I DESTROYED ONLY PART OF IT? THERE’S N— BUT WHAT’S THIS? THE SHANDRIL WENCH AGAIN?

  “Ye must join the Harpers, lass,” Elminster said gravely.

  Shandril looked up at him with something like spellfire glinting in her eyes and replied, “I ‘must’? Why?”

  The Old Mage shrugged. “Somehow,” he said in a dry voice, waving a hand at the smoking destruction around them, “ye must learn when not to start something like this.”

  BAH! YOU TEACHING, YES, BUT WHAT USE CAN I MAKE OF IT?

  [images clawed aside, whirling]

  “I can’t be bothered wasting spells on them. Hang them, for the citizens to watch.”

  “You’ll watch from the balcony as usual, Lord?”

  “No. I have work to do, and one death upon order is very much like another. There are things in life that give me greater pleasure … and far greater amusement.”

  WHO WAS THAT?

  Manshoon, a mage cleverer than some give him credit for, playing the sinister ruler of Zhentil Keep, some time ago.

  AND WHO ARE THESE BUFFOONS, HERE? I’VE SEEN THEM IN YOUR MIND BEFORE….

  Adventurers. The Knights of Myth Drannor.

  MIGHT THEY BE TALKING OF MAGIC?

  Those two talk only of drink, riches, women, brawling, and magic, so ye’ve a one in five chance.…

  HMMPH. BETTER ODDS THAN SOME YOU’VE GIVEN ME.

  [chosen image rushing up large and bright]

  Torm coughed. “Ahem,” he began, artlessly. “By all the good watching gods, lords and ladies gentle, be of good cheer! ’Tis a mighty day, to be sure. Rathan the Mighty rides again, and I with him. Full five score times ago did I first sally forth, blade in hand (leaden rapier though it’s oft proved to be), to inflict this priest upon thee. Thou hast stood up to his sermons both manfully and womanfully, as thy styles most rich and various bid. Certes, this heartens me, wherefore I bid ye: once more into the hungry, grim-a-visaged fray, b’yr deity whatsoever—once more!”

  “Belay that knightly speech,” Rathan replied crisply. “I’m the clever-tongued orator here!”

  “Not with a flagon that small, you aren’t,” Torm replied slyly, from just out of reach.

  [diabolic snort] DROLL. VERY DROLL. IS THERE MORE OF THESE TWO?

  [silence, image spinning to the fore]

  “Furies and gargoyles be damned, man,” Torm said in mock fury. “I ordered the bridal bed, and paid you well! You said nothing at all about my having to provide my own bride! Why, in Waterdeep, six gold buys you the warm company of a lass betrothed to you for the night!”

  Rathan sent a discreet cough over the shoulder of the glowering innkeeper, and to it added the murmured words, “Bold blade of my heart, ye forget something: We are in Waterdeep. Thy claim rings a mite false.”

  The innkeeper rounded on him, still furious, and growled, “Unless you pay for a bed, sir, you’d best be his bride and share!”

  Rathan raised his eyebrows and shot Torm a querying look that widened into astonishment. “Nay!” He exclaimed. “Not that!”

  The innkeeper wheeled around again to see what had caused this reaction. Rathan coolly raised the hilt of his mace to his shoulder—and brought it deftly down across the back of the innkeeper’s skull. The man crashed to the floor like a sack of potatoes, leaving Rathan standing innocently over the wreckage.

  “If we carry him out to the stables,” he told Torm. “I can have your bed—and you can have his and get a bride after all!”

  “Oh, no,” Torm said warningly. “No chance! I’ve seen his wife—she should be in the stables!” He frowned at his friend’s sudden frantic gesticulations and asked irritably, “What?”

  The skillet that felled him made Rathan wince. In the few seconds before the stout priest of Tymora whirled and broke into puffing flight, he reflected on how anger can make even four-hundred-pound, wart-studded women attractive. Being about a dozen pounds lighter, he managed to stay just ahead of the innkeeper’s wife all the way out to the horse-trough—where, unfortunately, he slipped in something.

  HAH! HAH! THESE TWO IDIOTS ARE A DELIGHT TO WATCH! HAVE YOU MORE?

  Elsewhere, Lord Nergal—over among my memories of Shadowdale. Just—

  OH, NO.

  NO.

  AMUSEMENTS CAN WAIT. I’M NOT LETTING YOU LEAD ME ABOUT THROUGH EVERY BACK ALLEY OF YOUR MIND. YOU ALMOST TRICKED ME, HUMAN—BUT ONLY ALMOST. BE STILL AND SILENT. I’LL GO RUMMAGING AGAIN.

  [A cloud of whirling images bursts into shimmering falls and fades—and out of it, one image is seized upon and rises brightly.]

  The King of Cormyr stood on the battlefield and shook his head ever so slightly, his lips pursed and his face grim. “My path lies clear before me,” he said to the man at his shoulder. “That straight and narrow road to the waiting grave.”

  The Royal Magician of Cormyr coughed discreetly and observed, “My king, the path you see is every man’s path. Kings simply have a way of not noticing their route for longer than most can ignore it. Something to do with the distractions of more engaging scenery.”

  “Ah,” Azoun said, hefting his sword, “I see. Invading armies, dragons tearing the roofs off fortresses, death spells dropping out of the skies with sharp talons—that sort of ‘engaging scenery’?”

  Vangerdahast nodded. “That, and the paintings on many a boudoir ceiling,” he told the backs of his fingernails innocently.

  If the look Azoun gave him had been just a little sharper, the Royal Magician’s life might have ended right then.

  But then, the wizard reflected, as their eyes met, Elminster would have considered that he’d taken the coward’s way out.

  YOU TUTORED HIM, DIDN’T YOU? I WONDER WHO—ASIDE FROM YOUR PET GODDESS, OF COURSE—TAUGHT YOU MAGIC? CARE TO SHARE ANY OF THOSE MEMORIES?

  If ye insist, why of course—

  NO! NO, WIZARD! JUST SIT QUIET, AND I’LL FIND MY OWN WAY. IT’LL SAVE MY TEMPER AND SAVE YOU MUCH PAIN? HEAR ME?

  As ye desire, devil.

  [diabolic satisfaction, images flashing up in disarray, then spinning past]

  “Life,” as the archwizard said, “is like a squirming maggot—isn’t it?”

  [bewilderment] IS THAT ALL THERE IS OF THAT? WHO WAS THAT? ELMINSTER?

  Nay, Nergal, it was another arrogant old mage, not me.

  I KNOW THAT, YOU FOOL! I WAS BIDDING YOU ANSWER ME!

  Ah. Well, I was just sitting quiet, letting ye find thy own way.

  [raging growl] I’LL BREAK YOU, PUNY HUMAN!

  Ye did that already, and don’t seem pleased with the result. With such wavering resolve, Nergal, how are ye ever going to rise to rule Hell?

  DON’T MOCK ME, ELMINSTER—UNLESS YOU WANT TO SPEND AN ETERNITY IN TORMENT.

  In many ways, devil, I already have. Think on that, and bluster less.

  [snarl, mind lash, bursting mind bolts, raw screams of agony, diabolic satisfaction, images whirling past like bright embers flung from a roaring fire]

  “Holy … dancing … hobgoblins,” Asper said slowly, her voice unsteady.

  AND WHO OR WHAT WAS THAT? EL—OH, NEVER MIND.

  I will make you pay for this, human? I SWEAR BY THE—

  OHO! IT BEGINS!

  * * * * *

  Horns as tall as men thrust into the blood-red sky. Their cruel tips, curved slightly toward each other, were adorned with rows of charred spinagon skulls. The head beneath those horns might have belonged to a giant goat, and its large, sharp glistening black eyes bespoke fell, alert intelligence. It was a pity Harhoring’s face was also permanently lined with the pain given him by the
Curse of Asmodeus.

  It was not a rare distinction in Hell to have earned the displeasure of the Lord Most Deep, but few wore the sign of it as a constant, active torment. The Horned One was the only one of those victims free to move about and pretend to even the tiniest shred of freedom. It was freedom laced with pain, the constant reminder Asmodeus desired it to be.

  Worms Harhoring could not slay—for they were made of his own living guts—gnawed at him endlessly, burrowing in and out of his bulging belly. Streams of blood and foul fluids dripped ceaselessly from the wounds they made. Harhoring’s own talons and spells passed like smoke through the curseworms.

  Only commanded devils and captured beasts could strike the worms and slow the gnawing that daily weakened Harhoring. As it was, only prodigious feeding and frantic seizing of magic by the goat-devil kept him alive. He knew Asmodeus watched him and gloated—wherefore his mood was seldom less than savage.

  Harhoring was enjoying one of those “seldom” moments right now. He squatted atop a pinnacle slick with his own gore, tearing hungrily at the ribs of a dragon he’d spell-fooled into flying at full speed into the mountainside above. Thrice he’d had to fight off pit fiends seeking to claim its heart or brain—and he’d given up chasing away spinagons and abishai from spattered gobbets of dragon flesh and errant scales.

  This was the first large feast he’d had in days, and the Horned One was anticipating a serious interruption soon. The immobility of the dragon’s huge carcass kept him in one spot to dine on it … and that meant foes could find him easily. Harhoring had prepared a few magics and was watching warily as he ate. In Hell, mistakes are luxuries one rarely survives.

  There! Something coming fast, rushing up without any attempt at stealth or subtlety, hurtling across Avernus like a dark, silent bolt of devil-flesh …

  Harhoring had keen eyes, and he used them now. This was an unfamiliar foe, or an old one wearing a guise he’d never seen before. Like a pit fiend, it seemed, but flew with its wings folded and drawn in behind it, as if it was an arrow shot from a bow. There was something strange about its body, too, as if it had many tiny legs, all constantly a-whirl around it.…