by Ed Greenwood
Lady Baerdra Monthor did not wait for the Lady Joysil Ambrur to answer but said darkly, “Well, unlike some at this table, I am truly a daughter of Marsember—and any misfortune to befall the Obarskyrs and the precious Royal Court in Suzail delights me! I’d be just as happy if they all fell down some dragon’s gullet by nightfall today and let us regain rule of our own city! All these flirtations with Chauntea and boy kings and that unspeakable Alusair riding wild over half the kingdom—”
“The male half, dear,” old Lady Hornsryl Wavegallant observed meaningfully—then tittered.
Lady Monthor waited for the ripple of catty mirth to die, and then resumed her verbal onslaught right where she’d left off. “—While some unknown little hussy of an outlander runs the War Wizards, and Obarskyrs trammel the rights of nobles here, there, and everywhere! Gods above look down, could they do worse?”
“Well,” Lady Thornra Bracegauntlet said gently, “my sympathies lie with Filfaeril. A true Queen, of dignity and breeding, watching in silence all those years whilst Azoun bedded everyone who didn’t flee in her skirts the moment his pennants were seen atop a distant hill—”
“Ah, yes,” Lady Monthor sighed, looking at the ceiling in fond reverie and almost spilling her goblet.
But for the briefest of exasperated sighs, Lady Bracegauntlet ignored the interjection, and swept on. “—then watching her own daughter tear the codpiece off any young man to take her fancy, while the other daughter goes all foolish over a bad noble and goes and dies bearing his child—and how are all the rest of us to know it’s legitimate and deserves to someday wear a crown?—and—”
“Years must pass before that little brat gets measured for any crowns,” Lady Ravensgar said darkly. “There’s many a royal get that’s been fitted for his coffin before his coronet!”
“Oh, stop hinting, Honthreena!” Lady Wavegallant said firmly. “If you’ve started or joined one of these little conspiracies, tell us! We want to hear all about it! As for Filfaeril, I hear she’s doing quite well in the bedchamber herself these days with that old stuffy fool of a sage, Alaphondar!”
The Lady Joysil Ambrur had said little and continued to do so. She smiled over her favorite tallglass, watched her wine and cakes disappear with frightening rapidity, and deftly tugged out the choicest gossip. The nine noble ladies of Cormyr who’d been lucky enough to receive an invitation to this highsun-sup cooperated with enthusiasm—for they were only too eager to demonstrate how in the know they were. Little hard truth about conspiracies emerged, but Caladnei the Mage Royal, the Steel Regent, and the Dowager Queen Filfaeril and her antics with Alaphondar all came in for some colorful conversation.
After all, she thought with a smile—aside from occasional uncomfortable duties in the bedchamber regarding the provision of family heirs, and spending as much money on fripperies as possible, of course—that is what noble ladies are for.
* * * * *
Rauthur turned suddenly. “What was that?”
“My … diversion,” the Red Wizard murmured. “Merely a few bewildered blunderers encountering the helmed horrors to snare the attention of your fellow War Wizards—just in case some of them are in the habit of spying on Vangerdahast.”
Huldyl Rauthur mopped his pale face, sighed, and whispered, “Right. I see. Well, here we are. This is one of the ‘back ways in’ to Old Thun—er, Vangerdahast’s sanctum.”
“Old Thunderspells? I’ve heard that term before,” Starangh murmured. “Are we likely to encounter alarm spells, or guardians?”
“No, no, we’re inside all that. Vangey can’t do spellwork if his own castings keep setting off alarms and spell-backlashes. We just have to keep fairly quiet, because he has a guest.”
“Who might that be?”
“I don’t know, but he’s talking to someone who’s right here to move things for him, not someone at the other end of a farscrying spell or crystal.” The War Wizard led the way cautiously along a dimly lit passage that smelled of damp earth. The tiles were damp underfoot, and the rough-block stone walls were pierced at intervals by closed doors. “Pantries and such—oh, there is one thing we have to watch out for!”
“Rauthur,” the wizard called Darkspells said silkily, laying a hand on the War Wizard’s shoulder, “I don’t like surprises. You should know that by now.”
“Uh, ah, yes, Lord! I-I-merely mean I forgot to mention something! Uh, tha-that Vangerdahast conjures pairs of floating eyes and flying hands that he uses as fetch-and-carry servitors … they won’t be along here, but we mustn’t go left up ahead or we may run into them—and of course, he sees through them, and …”
“Yes, that would be unfortunate. Is there anything else you’re having difficulty remembering, friend Huldyl?”
“N-no, Lord Harnrim. I—uh, through here. There’re steps up. You wanted to see Vangerdahast at work.…”
“Indeed,” the Red Wizard breathed, his voice the merest of whispers and his hand remaining on Rauthur’s shoulder. “Show me.”
Unseen behind the trembling War Wizard, Starangh’s other hand slipped the crystal out of his codpiece and held it ready in his hand—just in case.
The worn stone steps were a narrow, short flight that ascended into a sort of garden room, where benches held shallow trays of flourishing herbs and food plants beneath a ceiling of curving glass. Outside, a great ring of thickly grown trees surrounded the domed ceiling, which lay in its own little clearing—and among them, the Red Wizard could see the motionless forms of a dozen or more helmed horrors—so many empty suits of armor, floating tirelessly upright in the shade-gloom.
Rauthur had laid a hand on Starangh’s arm, and he turned his head to glare—only to see the War Wizard pointing down.
Through a gap between two of the old bedding trays, more glass could be seen: a wall, this time, that overlooked an adjacent room whose floor was much lower. Starangh found himself looking down on the moving heads of a man and a woman.
Rauthur did something delicate with the air around them. There was a momentary flicker of magical radiance—the merest of ripples—and voices could be faintly heard, the words of the man and woman below.
The Red Wizard bent his head forward to listen intently.
A tiny whirlwind of flames circled in midair as Vangerdahast peered critically at it. “Not enough,” he grunted, “Not enough.”
Tiny threads of lightning spurted from his fingertips and crawled unsteadily through the air, flickering and darting to join the pinwheel of flames … which flared into greater life, wobbled—and promptly collapsed into winking sparks and fading smoke.
Vangey slammed one hand down on the table and rose on it to lean forward and watch every last instant of his spell dying.
“Not a success,” Myrmeen Lhal observed gently from the chair across the room where she sat in full armor, her drawn sword across her knees.
Vangerdahast growled deep in his throat as she’d heard many a hunting-dog do and whirled around to glare at her. “I can’t work with you watching me, curse it, woman! Why don’t you take your sword and your armored self out into the woods and shred some small, furry things? Leave me be!”
“No,” the Lady Lord of Arabel said sweetly, smiling at him with her chin cradled in her hands. Her gauntlets, he noted wearily, were perched on the great carved horns of the chairback. “I like small, furry things—even ones that wear wizards’ robes and growl at me grumpily.”
Vangerdahast growled again, more angrily this time, and brought his other hand down on the table with a crash.
“Patience in all things, Lord,” she murmured. “If you expect to craft entirely new spells to bind dozens of dragons, you can’t expect every spell to be a simple thing—or other mages would have done it already and bound every last one of them thousands of years ago.”
“I’ve seen enough,” the Red Wizard murmured in Rauthur’s ear, “and shall take my leave of you. Conduct me to where it’s safe to depart.”
Huldyl Rauthur nodded and led the wa
y quickly back down the steps to the passage, and along it the way they’d come. Halfway along the corridor he paused beside a door and muttered, “Lord Starangh, within are some of the floating eyes and flying hands that I know how to attune and activate. Would you like to use them to, ah, see farther through the sanctum than we’ve walked, thus far?”
The Red Wizard smiled. “How thoughtful—but no, thank you. Not this time. You’ve been very helpful and useful, Rauthur—and I trust shall remain so.” He clapped the War Wizard warmly on the shoulder and added, “For of course, to betray me is … to die.”
With that last whispered word ringing in Huldyl Rauthur’s ears, the War Wizard found himself suddenly alone, staring at—the empty passage.
Mother Mystra, he’s gone right through the wards! The wards it took Vangerdahast days of fighting just to modify!
Huldyl Rauthur shivered all over, like a wet dog, swallowed with an effort, and hurried back to the garden room, to restore the silence shield.
So this is what true fear feels like—and everything up to now has been mere … apprehension.
Gods, deliver me.
Sixteen
A BUSY DAY FOR WAR WIZARDS
Then my spell burst among them, and—behold!—there were flamebroiled WarWizards all over the place.
Morthrym of Selgaunt
Sixty Summers of Spellhurling:
My Career As A Mighty Wizard
Year of the Turret
The forest rocked again, and a flaming branch toppled into the trail, bounced once, and rolled over. Malakar Surth strode up to it, smiling confidently, and looked down at a curved shard of war-helm that was slowly spinning to a halt.
“This,” he said, hefting the next gewgaw and admiring its gleam, “is—transcendent. Simply transcendent.”
“Easy, too,” Aumun Bezrar agreed from right behind him. “That’s over a dozen now, hey?”
Surth looked up at the leaf-hidden heavens. “Fourteen,” he said icily. “No thanks to you.”
“Hey, now, b’gads! I blasted five of ’em!”
“Could you have done it had I not shown you how to vanquish these … these enchanted suits of armor? Bah, don’t bother to parley and cavil—we must go forward.”
“Uh, aye. Forward.” Bezrar frowned as he watched Surth stride on down the trail into what seemed to be even deeper, gloomier stands of trees. Shadowtops and duskwoods, as old as realms and as large as cottages, soaring up into unseen gloom with moss-cloaked vines hanging here and there like gigantic spiderwebs …
“Uh, Surth, uh, just one thing: why?”
The tall, thin dealer in scents, wines, cordials, and drugs froze for a moment then said without turning, “I know not. We’ll find out when we get there.”
He walked on, and Bezrar hastily shuffled after him, wheezing along for a goodly way before he stopped and asked, “Uh, Mal?”
Surth rounded on him with a snarl. “Don’t call me that!”
“Uh … ah, aye, of course, Mal. I—just one more thing.”
“What?” Surth snapped icily, hefting his shining oval device in his hand as if he meant to hurl it at his longtime partner.
Bezrar held up his own gewgaw. “Uh … ah . . what happens to us when we run out of these things?”
Malakar Surth opened his mouth angrily—but when he saw Bezrar’s stare go fearful and rise up over his shoulder, he shut it again and wheeled around.
Three helmed horrors were floating in menacing unison through the trees ahead, converging on him. They bore huge battleaxes rather than swords this time, and they were holding them raised and ready to strike.
“Tymora and Mystra both, be with us now!” he snarled, and flung a gewgaw desperately. Malakar Surth didn’t know what would happen to one of the shiny ovals if he ever missed with one of his throws—and as he saw more armored forms drifting out of the treegloom, he told both goddesses fervently that he never wanted to find out.
The world burst apart in blue fire—he knew enough to duck down and shield his eyes now—and one of the helmed horrors was gone. The other two flew on toward him as if nothing had happened.
Which was when a distant voice said severely, “Brorm? You know Old Thunderspells doesn’t want us hurling spells here, so close to him! I don’t know what you’re blasting, but stop it!”
An armored form loomed up over Surth, a battleaxe gleamed as it swept down, and—Bezrar snarled, “Eat flaming death, metal pig!”
The world burst bright blue again, tumbling Surth back head-over-heels into a tanglethorn bush, this time.
He blinked at the sight of his own blood, glistening in red droplets in a line across his thorn-torn hand, and heard that voice, a little nearer and a lot more furious now, shout, “Right, Brorm, that does it! I don’t care how much the Old Man dotes on your spinach pie—I’m going to flail your backside for you! Don’t you try to run now—I may be older, but I’m wise to your tricks, and ’twill take a lot to surprise old Pheldemar of the Fireballs!”
Bezrar promptly blew up the third armored sentinel, and in the wake of the blast, the two stunned Marsembans heard the unseen Pheldemar say something very rude.
There followed a crashing of foliage off behind the trees to the right of the trail, where the forest cloaked some gentle hills, a vigorous, hard-striding man in battle-leathers marched into view, wearing a long leather overcloak that flared out behind him with the haste of his approach. His face resembled an old boot, his hair was steel-gray, and a long black rod bristling with tiny spires and spikes that flashed with a spectrum of winking radiances was clutched in his left hand. His right hand wore a long, flaring-cut white glove, and a flickering radiance like white fire surrounded it.
“Brorm?” he barked as he came up to the trail, peering suspiciously in all directions. “Where by the brass breastplates of Alusair are you?”
His eyes fell upon the riven shards of a helmed horror on the narrow dirt path right in front of him.
Pheldemar of the Fireballs gaped down at them in astonishment—a dumbfoundedness that deepened as he glanced along the trail and saw more chunks and shards that had recently been the very best sort of Cormyrean coat-of-plate battle armor. He could see pieces of at least two helms without taking another step.
“Mystra,” he swore, softly but with feeling—and hurriedly called forth a shielding-spell around himself from his rod. Whoever or whatever had done this must still be lurking nearby. That last blast had been only moments ago. Yes, there!—some of the shards were still rocking in the wake of the force that had hurled them to where they now lay. The War Wizard shook his head, went into an alert crouch, and advanced carefully along the trail.
Almost immediately he caught sight of a boot. The leg wearing it belonged to a man clad like a downcoast merchant—breeches, boots, the hip-length tunic so little seen in the King’s Forest or the uplands where smocks were for field-work and belt-tunics for riding or stalking in the forest—who was lying beside a tanglethorn bush, eyes closed and one hand a-dew with fresh blood. He’d never seen the man before. His eyes fell to the belt—a longknife, of the sort used in Marsember. Just a longknife. Whoever this man was, he’d had something to do with the destruction of the helmed horrors … but he certainly didn’t look like a brigand or a wizard or any prepared foe of Cormyr. As for whether he was really senseless or not …
Pheldemar leaned closer, pointing his rod at the man. A blast of conjured water sho—
There was a sudden crash and rustle from right behind the War Wizard. He whirled, rod rising—but was still halfway through his turn when something large, hairy, fat and sweating smashed into him and ran right over him, trampling hard.
“Reeeeaaaaaaaagh!” Aumun Tholant Bezrar screamed, waving his arms wildly as he ran pell-mell through the forest, crashing into trees and saplings wherever the trail wandered and his frantic flight did not. “Rrrrruuhhhhh!”
He was trying to frame the word “run” with his mouth and call it out to Surth, somewhere behind him, but �
�
The War Wizard hit the ground with a grunt and bounced hard, rod flying away into the shrubs. His body settled and lay still, limp and silent, eyes closed.
Trembling with fear, Malakar Surth could see that much of the man through the slit of his almost-shut eyelids. Bezrar was still screaming through the trees, his cries echoing weirdly, and only the deaf could hope to avoid noticing the sound Bez was making. “No more wizards, ever! No more dealings with spellhurlers, oh no! I told Surth, I told him! No! No magic, not for any price! No no no NO!”
Surth grimaced. With that racket this “Brorm” and probably some other wizards couldn’t fail to be here soon, all right—probably a lot of other wizards. He had to leave. He had to leave now.
The fallen War Wizard groaned and moved one hand, eyelids flickering. In sudden terror Surth burst to his feet and ran right over the man.
He might have made it cleanly over the Cormyrean, but the gray-haired wizard flung up one hand blindly, clawing the air for balance. Surth tripped on it and went sprawling.
Clawing at moss and dirt, never slowing, he found his feet again with a frantic mew of fear and ran on, pelting down the trail Bezrar was still shouting his distant way along.
Pheldemar of the Fireballs groaned again, shook his numbed hand, and rolled over. In the distance a head bobbed briefly in his field of view ere its fleeing owner raced around a bend in the trees and was gone behind a confusion of old, gnarled trunks.
Something gleamed on the trail in the mysterious man’s wake, something that was winking back sunlight as it spun around and around, obviously just fallen.
Pheldemar got to his knees then up, took two unsteady steps, and saw his rod. He retrieved it, wincing at the new aches he’d acquired—gods, that man had hit him harder that the pony that had run over him when he was but a lad!—and plucked up the gewgaw from the trail.
It more than filled his hand: an oval of shiny-smooth, polished silver metal, with an shine of blue where it caught reflections. Thick in the middle and thinning to its edges like a dainty-pastry, and graven with … runes of power, yes, but not ones he’d seen before. This looked like Eastern script.
