by Ed Greenwood
“You old, lying bastard!” she spat, the words bursting out before she thought to stop them. “You toad! You smug, lecherous spell-tyrant!”
Elminster blinked up at her. “I’ve heard such words before, aye, and deserved many of them—though not from someone who knows me as little as ye do, lass. I’d thought we’d stopped all this hissing and snarling for the sheer dramatic effect of thy outrage. Why so hostile now, little one?”
“If you knew,” Narnra hissed, voice trembling as she fought to master it. “If you only knew!”
Bright blue eyes narrowed. “Is there something I should be learning amongst your thoughts, daughter of Maerjanthra?”
The Old Mage raised one hand, and Narnra bit her lip and cursed herself for a fool. Doom and icy despair were upon her—and she’d called them down on herself with her own rage and over-loose tongue! Mask and Tymora and Mystra, all, hear me! Aid, if I can win one small shard of mercy! Hel—
As if the gods had heard her and made immediate answer, the cellar shook, tiny sizzling bolts of lightning washed across the ceiling, clawing and spitting, and the mists fell away—just like a bedsheet on a wash-line the Silken Shadow had once sliced with her knife. The Red Wizard fell with them, crashing limp and face-first to the stone floor.
Narnra was also descending, though it felt like drifting down through something soft and thick rather than falling. She was still well off the floor when Elminster spun around to face the cellar arch—and something obligingly appeared there.
Four somethings, actually: four pillars of whirling sparks that occurred quite suddenly, out of thin air, the writhing form of Caladnei of Cormyr in their midst. Dark figures stepped out of those sparks, gesturing in unison—and the Mage Royal’s fiery bonds became four tethers that held her helpless between the four newcomers. Four bald, dusky-skinned men whose heads were marked with intricate black tattoos advanced in careful unison. They wore maroon robes and much jewelry, and the eyes in their hard, ruthless faces glittered with anger—and glee.
Elminster spread his hands, fingers twitching and eyes half-closed, for all Faerûn as if he was feeling something invisible in the air.
“Stand aside, old fool,” one of the four snapped. “You must be of the conspiracy to so leash the Mage Royal of Cormyr—but your life, like hers and that of this masked wench, is forfeit. No one mistreats a Red Wizard and lives!”
The Old Mage murmured something, still seemingly in a trance—and Thauvas Zlorn rose and advanced to meet the nearest of his newly arrived countrymen.
“My thanks for this rescue, Naerzil,” he said with a widening smile. “Slay none of these, but keep them captive, for their minds hold—”
“Be silent, Zlorn,” the foremost Red Wizard said coldly. “Your fate remains to be decided by those we both answer to, and your orders and suggestions are unwelcome.”
“Ah. Such a pity,” Thuavas Zlorn murmured, in a voice oddly unlike his own—and sprang forward to throttle his fellow Thayan.
The startled Red Wizard fell with a crash, struggling to keep iron-strong fingers from his throat and eyes. When he slapped Zlorn’s arm aside, Thauvas thrust two fingers into Naerzil’s nostrils and jerked the man’s head back, slamming it onto the stone floor.
The fiery strand leading to Caladnei sprang away, spasming and coiling—and the other three Red Wizards dragged her away, shouting sharp, alarmed incantations.
The two men twisted and struggled on the floor, grunting and cursing—until Naerzil laughed in triumph beneath his foe, and a tattoo on his forehead erupted into blue, crawling flames. They swirled, took the shape of leaping talons, and tore at the face of Thauvas Zlorn.
Blood spurted, an eyeball burst, and the squealing Thayan arched backwards, Naerzil shoving and kicking to gain freedom. The blue flames tore at Zlorn’s face and throat until he had nothing left to scream with—but even as his slayer scrambled out and away, chuckling, the dying Thayan formed a sphere with his empty hands—echoing movements that had just been made by Elminster, who was swaying dreamily in the distance—and the blue flames fell from his ravaged face to swirl within those fingers … then leap out like a striking serpent at the startled face of Naerzil.
Thauvas Zlorn slumped to his knees, making liquid mewing sounds of pain, but Naerzil’s head blossomed into a blinding whirl of blue flames, racing around and around it in a sphere so swift-snarling that no shout, if Naerzil had tried to make one, could be heard.
The blue radiance suddenly burst into sparks and went out—and a headless body toppled to the flagstones, not far from Thauvas.
Flashes and high singing sounds were all around Elminster by then—but the looks on the faces of the Red Wizards told Narnra that they’d been expecting their spells to do much, much more than make a little light and noise.
“Who are you?” one of them gasped, at last, as his most powerful spell sighed into nothingness, leaving nothing but impotent lines of smoke curling up from his fingertips.
“Elminster of Shadowdale, at thy service—or rather, at the service of Thay, which land will be vastly improved by the extinction of all Red Wizards,” the white-bearded wizard replied merrily. Little flames began to leap and wink between his raised, spread fingers. Between them, like a traveling jester, the Old Mage gave the quailing Thayans a wide, crooked smile.
“Hold!” one of them snapped desperately. “Harm us, and this woman dies!”
He made a beckoning motion with one hand, and the line of fire clinging to the back of it tightened. As its keening song rose into a shriek, Caladnei of Cormyr rose with it, clawing at her throat desperately, her body quivering like a plucked bowstring as the other two Red Wizards tightened their ends of the spell-bonds.
Faces pale, the Thayans glared at Elminster—who stepped swiftly in front of Narnra to shield her from them as her boots finally touched the floor.
The Silken Shadow shot a startled glance at the Old Mage’s back as she crouched, ready to spring in any direction that might seem safest, and wondered if the best thing for all Toril for her to do—though it would mean her death—would be to spring at Elminster with her best dagger drawn, and open his throat wide. The Chosen of Mystra was muttering something under his breath: a word she could not catch, but the same one, over and over.
Breathing heavily, hand stealing toward the hilt of her dagger, Narnra crouched, not knowing what to do … or what doom would reach out next to snatch them all.
“We’ll depart this place, now,” another of the Red Wizards said harshly, “with the Mage Royal our captive. Good hunting to us. You, old man, will leave us be and make no move to twist or harm our spells as we go, or she will die.”
Elminster nodded his head. “I understand and agree,” he said heavily, bowing his head in surrender.
Two of the Red Wizards gave him sneers of triumph as the third began a translocation spell—and silver-blue fire erupted behind them, with force enough to make them all stagger.
“And I,” a crisp new voice said coldly, “understand my role in this little drama well enough and agree to it.” Whirling blades of shining silver burst from nothingness to bite deep into three maroon-robed backs—and three Red Wizards, transfixed in mid-turn, gasped as those conjured attacks sliced through their torsos like razors. “Slaying Red Wizards is, after all, my task and my pleasure.”
Spell-bonds melted away from Caladnei of Cormyr, who fell to her hands and knees, coughing weakly. Men were sprinting toward the cellar from all directions, now, and spell-glows flared here and there as War Wizards of Cormyr teleported in to join them.
Their advance was checked by a sudden wall of silver flames. Its source smiled at them through a wild tangle of unruly silver hair, standing proudly barefoot in a torn and tattered black robe. Her feet did not—quite—touch the floor but trod on air just above it.
“Well met, all,” she said serenely, her surging fires forcing folk of Cormyr to fall back. “I am the Simbul, sometimes called the Witch-Queen of Aglarond.”
S
he cast a quick glance over her shoulder, smiled, and said to Elminster, “Sorry, love. I came as swiftly as I could.”
Five
DEFIANCE, AUTHORITY, AND DIVINITY
You must not think that every third person you meet in tavern or market is a mighty personage, who talks with the gods nightly and overthrows empires by day. Faerûn is in sad decline from the golden days of yore. The count is now down to every seventh person, or even more.
Thalamoasz Threir, Sage of Sembia
Signposts In The Gardens of Life
Year of the Prince
Snarling silver flames whirled severed halves of Red Wizards to the cellar floor and in a matter of moments melted them to greasy smoke and then nothing at all. In the wake of their obliberation the flames sighed, slowed, and sank to nothingness, leaving the wild-haired woman in the tattered black robe standing on high with a smile on her face and her arms folded across her breast.
Narnra kept to her crouch on the cold cellar floor, wondering what fresh rending chaos of magic was going to erupt precisely where and when. Soon, very soon. Gods above, her hair is silver. Truly silver—and alive, moving like a bucket of bait-worms!
“As this is the admirably law-abiding realm of Cormyr,” the Queen of Aglarond observed calmly, the risen power of her magic carrying her voice through every dark and distant chamber of the cellars as her upright form drifted higher into the air, “my deeds are sure to bring protest from those whose duty includes keeping order here—despite my saving their hides. Again. May we, for once, begin these protests and remonstrations in a civilized manner, please?”
The half-ring of Harpers and War Wizards stared at her in grim, wary confusion, blades and bows and wands raised. In the far reaches of the cellars, behind them, new radiances blossomed as more mages arrived. Stalwarts of Cormyr cast quick glances at each other, stirred, and seemed about to speak … but for long, tense moments, as their Mage Royal winced, stretched, and found her feet, weakly waving away Elminster’s proffered hand … no protests nor remonstrations were offered.
Then a lone man strolled almost nonchalantly forward from the line of tense Cormyreans, toward the Queen of Aglarond. He was stout and weatherbeaten of appearance, with sun-bronzed skin, shaggy sideburns, and the neatest trace of a beard squaring his chin. His eyes were either butter-hued or brown, and both his wintry brows and the copious white hair curling out at the world from the open front of his florid silk shirt—a fine garment that contrasted oddly with his worn and much-patched leather breeches and mud-spattered boots—told all eyes that he was not young and not likely to soon become any younger. His smile, however, was bright.
“Though I’m but a humble dealer in turret tops and spires, Glarasteer Rhauligan by name,” he said, coming to a stop to peer up at the Simbul, “perhaps that makes me a more fitting ambassador for the Forest Kingdom than some. In the name of Cormyr, great Queen, I bid you welcome—so long as you work no violent magic against us. A few villainous and uninvited Red Wizards are one thing, but those sworn to uphold the laws of this realm are quite another. In the name of Mystra, if I may be so bold, I’d ask you not to bar passage to our Mage Royal, that she be returned safely to us.” He swept one large-fingered hand out to indicate Caladnei.
The Simbul looked down at him, her silver tresses stirring and curling around her shoulders like the idly lashing tails of a lazy legion of displeased cats, and replied politely, “Very civil speech, Highknight and Harper Rhauligan, and yet plain. I thank you, and make reply: of course the Mage Royal is free to walk as she wills. Her writ holds in this place, so far as ’tis prudent to follow it.”
“Ah,” Rhauligan said quickly, eyeing Caladnei’s slow and limping progress around the Simbul toward the cellar-mouth, “and what, in your experienced and worldly view, great Chosen and Queen, are the limits prudence places upon such obedience?”
The Witch-Queen half-smiled. “The commandments of Mystra regarding tyranny of all who work magic, which binds Chosen such as the Lord Elminster and myself; and the expectations of all good and loyal folk of Cormyr that the laws of the realm and the even-handed dispensation of justice shall be afforded to all, equally, and not misused by anyone in authority.”
She lifted a hand. “I am not saying that your Royal Magician has thus far shown signs of arbitrary rulings, favoritism, or corruption—merely noting that should she do so or act in such a way as to seriously imperil the realm, it will be the duty of all staunch citizens of Cormyr to resist her, rather than to obey.”
“And to disagree with you, most honored queen, would be to imperil the realm?”
The Simbul’s smile grew a little. “Disagree, no; attack me, yes. To lose so many loyal War Wizards and Harpers at one stroke would seriously weaken Cormyr’s ability to deal with hostile wizards—from Thay, or Sembian-hired, or hailing from any elsewhere—and with other conspiracies against the Crown better led than this so-called ‘Rightful’ one.”
“Forgive me, great lady, but this sounds very much like the ‘as long as I get my own way, things will be fine’ argument of many tyrants,” Rhauligan observed, in the gentlest of voices.
“So it does, sir, yet consider: we Chosen have magic enough to shatter kingdoms and the minds of all folk in them, wreaking cataclysm at will—yet we do not. We possess two things most tyrants do not: Mystra’s leash upon us, and learned wisdom as to when to smite and when to bide in peace. Which is why you’re yet standing and debating with me now, rather than lying dead here alongside all your fellows. If I was Szass Tam and you’d dared to query me, even politely, rest assured that you would be.”
At that moment Caladnei reached Rhauligan and put a hand on his shoulder in thanks and support. Behind them both, the line of Harpers and War Wizards took a step or so closer.
In the same casual silence, Elminster strolled closer to the floating queen.
* * * * *
“They’re hunting us down like hares all over the harbor right now, lord! It’s ruin for us, unless you turn it to glorious victory by hurling some spell or other down into that cellar and collapsing it to crush the lot of them. Why, there’re more War Wizards gathered together there—and more of Those Who Harp, too, gods take them!—than I’ve ever seen all in one place since the last battle against the Devil Dragon!”
“There’s no need to shout and so draw attention to yourself, good Narvo,” the unseen man who held the other speaking stone replied, almost gently. “Have you used the mindlink spell to talk with Englar?”
Narvo breathed deeply, as if trying to calm himself by sheer will, and said more quietly, “No, lord. I cast it, but … it failed. He’s either well away from Cormyr, or …”
“Dead. Most likely dead,” was the calm reply. “I ordered him and some others to find and bring back Zlorn, so he was probably down in that cellar not long ago. What of Sanbreean? How fares he?”
“D-dead, lord, in the fighting on the docks. I saw him hurl a spell at a War Wizard and have his face blasted off in return. So I’m the only one of us left. These nobles and merchants are useless! All greed and chortling and nasty threats among themselves—and they turn and run like shrieking rabbits the moment things go wrong!”
“Ah, well,” the voice from the speaking stone in Narvo’s hands said faintly—so softly that the Red Wizard bent hastily forward over it to hear, his nose almost touching its cold, glossy-polished surface—“these things happen. As must—most regrettably—one more thing. This.”
The speaking stone exploded with a roar, beheading Narvo in an instant. The Red Wizard’s corpse arched upright, clawing the air spasmodically, then staggered back and sideways a few unsteady steps. Only a few, but enough.…
The peat-hued, reeking waters of Marsember harbor were home to a sizable collection of small, floating dead things already, but they accepted a larger addition with an almost welcoming splash.
The events of this evening had already afforded them much practice in such swift acceptances.
And in a dark and dis
tant chamber, an orphaned speaking-stone was set gently down on a tabletop whose glossy polish rivaled its own. The man who’d put it there toyed idly with a black gem pendant at his throat and turned away to stroll to the window, hum softly up at the winking stars, and think. It was clearly time to consider his second, and far more subtle, plan.
* * * * *
In the tense, crowded cellar in Marsember, the Mage Royal of Cormyr turned to face the Simbul, keeping her balance by resting her fingertips on Rhauligan’s shoulder. Lifting her pain-lined face, she locked eyes with the fabled Scourge of Thay.
Against her wild and towering beauty, Caladnei seemed young and of little account—just one more leather-clad Harper among many more menacing veterans. Long-limbed and slender, her dark brown skin almost the hue of the leathers she wore, she regarded the Witch-Queen of Aglarond with large, dark eyes—deep brown, rather than the ruby-red they became when she was angry—and said calmly, “I echo Rhauligan’s welcome, but I must respectfully remind both of you, Elminster and Queen Alassra, that in this place, in the absence of Crown Princess and Regent Alusair and Dowager Queen Filfaeril, I am the royal law and voice of Cormyr.”
“No dispute there, lass,” Elminster murmured, spreading his hands—a movement that made several Harpers nervously raise handbows. Caladnei saw something of this out of the corner of one eye and whirled to give the tense line of Cormyreans a quelling ‘down arms’ gesture.
Turning back to the two Chosen once more, she drew herself up and said, “And in that wise, in the interests of the realm, I demand the immediate surrender of Narnra Shalace into my keeping—and the as-swift departure of you both from our land, honored Chosen, until times are more settled in Cormyr.”
Gods watching over us, woman, but you have backbone and balls both, Rhauligan thought savagely, eyeing the two mighty Chosen in what might be his last moments of life. Your reckless idiocy leaves me despairing but proud of you.
