Bury Elminster Deep

by Ed Greenwood

  And Dragons died. Those who didn’t were left to shriek, try to flee, writhe in wild pain, or turn madwits upon their fellows, hacking and crying out in wordless despair.

  Save for the small knot of soldiers battling the death knight. The beholder swept over them and left them untouched, in its eagerness to get at the Cormyreans near the doorway.

  In its racing, gleefully burbling hunger to get at Rune.

  The street rocked under the most foolish of the Crown mage–hurled spells, a blast that flung some Dragons off their feet and forced the rest into ducking and dancing for balance.

  At the heart of the frenzy, one sword thrust into the throat of a swordcaptain and the other hacking hard at a desperately parrying telsword, Targrael grinned mirthlessly and went on slaying, never slowing in her endless dance of lunging, slashing, parrying, and spinning around to gut or hurl aside the inevitable clever fools trying to take her from behind.

  Something caught her eye, up high behind her right shoulder.

  She risked a swift glance at it as she turned that way, taking advantage of the fading aftershocks of that last spell to stab at the faces of men still fighting for balance. A man blinded by a forehead cut is a poor fighter, and she needed as many poor fighters around her as she could acquire, to keep them from overwhelming her with sheer weight and numbers, holding her down, and dismembering her.

  As she slew and slew, wondering how long it would take a Dragon officer to summon up wits enough to think of just such a strategy, Lady Targrael took a second look at the movements and revealed light she’d glimpsed a moment ago, high up on the dark front of one of the tall buildings that faced the palace across the Promenade.

  Curtains were being pulled aside and tied back up there, revealing the low light and dark fineries of one of the exclusive upper-floor clubs that overlooked this stretch of the Promenade. Faces were eagerly crowding the windows, peering down at the fray.

  Well, now. It seemed even drunken, dunderheaded nobles could notice shouts and swordclangs and the street-shaking blasts of reckless spells if such tumult went on long enough. No doubt they were deeming this battle grand and exciting entertainment, and taking bets on who would down whom, and how soon and how bloodily—

  Then there were screams from the street around her, and the eager watchers at the windows started to cower back.

  Targrael saw by the reactions that the cause had to be overhead, and approaching in silence from behind her, but she dared look no longer, as Dragon swords came at her face and throat from three sides.

  When she was done hacking her way out of that particular doom, the eye tyrant had already passed over her and was dealing death to the Dragons beyond.

  Could this be Manshoon? There were other eye tyrants in the world, and even men who strove to control them, but—

  Gazing up, Targrael caught sight of the answer to her question.

  On the roof of the club of screaming, fleeing nobles crouched a dark figure, head forward and peering intently down into the mob of Cormyreans.

  Talane. Yes, the tyrant almost had to be Manshoon, and this was another of his obedient mind-thralls.

  As I once was and never shall be again, she promised herself.

  Targrael slashed open the throat of one last Dragon and spun away to sprint toward that club. There would be stairs around the back, and she should get off the open street where Manshoon’s pet beholder could easily turn and lash her with its magics, anyhail.

  “Talane, I’m coming for you,” Targrael whispered as tenderly as any lover, and started running hard.

  Behind her, the boots of pursuing Purple Dragons rose in a wild thunder that made Targrael laugh aloud.

  Mirt fought for his breath, laying out in all directions with his fists and one of his daggers, as grim-faced Purple Dragons thrust swords or spears or just themselves at him.

  Thus far he was winning, if “winning” meant staying alive, on yer feet, an’ without too many large holes in yer hide. Tempus and Tymora be with me!

  Aye, both of ye. I’ll need ye and more, what with all the new war wizards and Dragons streaming out of the doorway in the palace wall. Sent by Glathra or farspoken by their fellows, no doubt, to come rushing to join the fun.

  Fighting a stlarning beholder, mind ye!

  That death knight was still back there, too, hewing her way through a small army of Dragons like a butcher on market day, trying to catch up to him. Oh, and El and Storm, too, of course, but it was he an’ his little liberated Obarskyr treasure as had imprisoned her just now, an’ if he knew enraged women …

  Speaking of whom …

  “This is one of them,” a deep-voiced Dragon bellowed, pointing at Mirt. “To be taken and chained in the dungeons, by order of the Lady Glathra! So slay him not!”

  “Oh, that’s nice of ye,” Mirt wheezed, punching aside a sword and shoving the man who’d swung it into his neighbor, so they both went over in a ringing and skirling of clashing armor plates. “Keep me alive for the mind-reaming, hey? Nice little kingdom ye have here, thick-necked barbariaaaugh!”

  A swordcaptain had leaped at the back of his neck and brought both forearms crashing down on it as he fell past, at the same time as a snarling telsword swung the butt of his spear ruthlessly through Mirt’s fingers, to slam it into Mirt’s throat.

  Gurgling, Mirt went down.

  And promptly got buried under a dozen hard, heavy, and none-too-gentle loyal soldiers of Cormyr. Two of whom then became very heavy as the beholder’s grayest ray swept along the Promenade, leaving a path of men turned to stone.

  Snarling fearful curses, the rest of the Dragons dragged Mirt roughly out from under their transformed fellows and raced for the gaping palace doorway in such frenzied haste that Mirt had time neither to breathe nor to touch even one boot down before he was inside and being hustled along dark passages by hard-breathing, incoherently cursing men of Cormyr.

  He let them take him around the first corner before he elbowed one man in the ear, kicked off him to slam the man on his other side into the wall with good, solid, rib-shattering force, and took advantage of his firmly held arms to deliver a crotch-lifting triumph of a kick to the Dragon who turned to confront him—and he broke free.

  He wasn’t foolish enough to try to get back out of the palace past them. Not when there was a table right handy that could be swept up and used to brain his closest pursuer, then tossed under the knees of those following, to take them down groaning among impaling splinters.

  An instant before a deathly white ray stabbed into the palace from the beholder somewhere near, outside—and the doorway became a huge hole in the palace wall that claimed the floor of a stone chamber above and the bodies of at least three Dragons who’d been running after him in one sighing moment.

  A fourth soldier, who’d been just about to drop two hairy hands onto Mirt’s shoulders to drag the fleeing miscreant down, shrieked as one foot foot vanished in the ray, leaving behind a spurting stump—and fell.

  Yelling out unthinking curses of fear, and running as fast as he could wheeze, Mirt of Waterdeep raced deeper into the palace.

  “Spread out!” a war wizard was yelling, his voice high with fear and excitement. “Wide apart, so it can’t easily get all of us! Hurry!”

  Now. Elminster’s voice was fiercely insistent. Get to Storm. In by the walls, tell them you’re surrendering, act like the beholder has you so scared you’ll surrender quietly, sheathe your sword, and get ye to Storm, to touch and hold onto her, just as fast as ye can.

  Arclath slammed his blade back into its scabbard and hastened toward the palace, bowing his head as he stepped around Dragons. “Sorry, can’t stop. I’m busy surrendering,” he said to the owner of the one hand that grabbed at him, and hurried on.

  “Well, I’ll be so bold if you really insist,” he joked aloud to the heavy presence in his head, “but among politely reared folk, those who rush to touch and hold expect to pay for the privilege, in establishments that exclusively cater to such
behavior.”

  Oh? Since when have nobles of Cormyr been politely reared folk?

  Arclath laughed aloud at that and caught a “You’re madwits, you are!” stare from a Dragon right in front of him.

  By way of reply, as the beholder turned overhead and let fly with more rays, and men shouted and fled, he spread his empty hands and offered hastily, “I’m surrendering, and spell-talking with a friend of mine, a wizard of war who’s with the king right now—and who’s guiding me where I should go.”

  The Dragon gave him another strange look then fled. Half a breath before the soldiers beyond him and a good bit of the palace wall beyond them vanished in a flash of eye-tyrant magic, enlarging the open doorway to a gaping hole.

  Leaving Storm and Arclath staring at each other across suddenly open street cobbles, with devastation on one side of them and frantically fleeing Purple Dragons and war wizards on the other.

  Run!

  Elminster’s mind-shout was almost deafening, and Arclath put his head down and pumped his arms and really ran, fetching up in Storm’s arms—as she caught him to keep him from slamming into the palace wall—a few panting instants later.

  The moment Storm was holding him, it was as if a great glowing hearth of light and warmth rolled open in Arclath’s mind.

  He reeled mentally and was thrust firmly to the task of regaining his balance and breath, just as fast as possible, anchoring himself with one hand on the unyielding stone of the palace wall, as Elminster and Storm communicated in a flashing dance of thoughts too fast for the Fragrant Flower of House Delcastle to follow.

  A moment later, he was turning, Elminster firmly in control. Away from the palace, to look up into the night where a great looming eye tyrant was turning, rising, and rolling over to look down on the greatest number of Cormyreans at once, ready to hurl its magics again and permanently deprive the realm of as many Crown soldiers and mages as possible.

  To cast a swift, deft, and unfamiliar spell that lanced up to strike the beholder and wrestle it into its true shape, in the grip of a terrible compulsion. A magic that raced around and around the floating horror in a snarling racing of blue-and-silver fire.

  The Weave may have fallen, and Elminster and Storm might be Chosen of the mightiest goddess of the realms no longer, but they knew just how to force proud wizards who’d grown up praying to Mystra to obey, even if only for a moment.

  The racing fire became a spellburst, a shortlived sun of silver-blue light in the sky over the Promenade, around a writhing beholder.

  An eye tyrant that flickered and was a man for a moment, a man falling through the air. Then it was a beholder once more, shuddering and writhing, groaning aloud and then roaring, “I am Xarlandralath, spawn of Xorlughra—and slave of the accursed Manshoon! Deliver me! Deliver me from this!”

  Then the sun winked out, hurling the beholder high into the air, spinning and writhing.

  Arclath heard a gasp, and the strong, longer-fingered hands holding him stiffened—and then fell away.

  He turned in time to see Storm fall on her face on the cobbles, crumpling to the street as limp as a wet cloak.

  Pain exploded in his head. Elminster’s pain.

  As he staggered back to the wall to keep from falling, and clawed his way feebly along it, Arclath heard the wizard say weakly, sounding both faint and far off in the echoing depths of his mind, Storm’s done Storm’s done get us inside get us away …

  He bent to pick her up, or try to, lost his balance, and stumbled a few wild and swift steps back on his heels to keep from falling. They took him around to look out into the street again.

  Where the Lord of House Delcastle saw the beholder descending again, wearing a murderous glare and seemingly in control of itself—or under Manshoon’s control, that is—once more.

  Beyond it, Targrael had turned from trying to get to a particular building, and with a sword waving wildly in both hands, was racing back across the street, wearing a murderous glare of her own. A bared-teeth glare that was bent on the beholder.

  Far more glares were being aimed at the menacingly swooping eye tyrant. Every wizard of war on the street had taken a stance and was casting a spell—every last one of them, with the Dragons drawn hastily back to give each one room.

  “Now!” a long-bearded war wizard shouted.

  And the air itself screamed as half a hundred spells tore through it, to converge in the onrushing beholder.

  The flash was blinding and deafening and made Arclath want to fall.

  So he did.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  RESCUES AND CAPTURES

  One man’s chained imprisonment is another’s deliverance

  From oppression; one man’s elevation ride another’s downfall

  Rescues and captures may be two sides of a coin; I’ve seen

  It all far too often to trust overmuch in any god.

  Sagranth the Sour Sage, Act I, Scene I of the play

  Darantha’s Dance With Death by Lalaya Nabra, Bard of

  Nyth, first staged in the Year of Three Streams Blooded

  The royal palace, the Promenade, and the row of buildings facing the palace across the broadest street in Suzail all rocked and swayed. A parapet corbel broke off and plummeted to the cobbles where it shattered, the shards rolling ponderously to various halts.

  Hardly anyone noticed. Everyone, even as they fell and bounced amid the shaking cobbles and swirling dust, was staring up at the beholder above—the eye tyrant at the snarling heart of more than twoscore ravening magics. They tore and thrust, seared and lashed, and sent a shrieking, fangshedding, broken-jawed sphere spinning helplessly away, shredded eyestalks whirling away from it in a wide-hurled rain of wet ruin.

  Dying, torn open, and spilling guts in a rain of purple gore, the beholder Talane now knew was Manshoon’s slowed as it reached the zenith of where the magics had hurled it, and started to fall.

  Ravaged and drifting, too wounded to attack anything, but trying to slow its descent, the beholder tumbled, its central eye staring at nothing and going dim.

  The Cormyreans watched, not daring to cheer yet.

  Targrael kept moving, following the path of the beholder, peering hard at it, watching for any sign of Manshoon working a last magic.

  It was drifting sideways as it fell, away from the palace … toward the rest of the city. To the rooftop where Talane crouched.

  Targrael never let her stare leave the ruined tyrant, not for an instant. Would it crash and splatter on that club rooftop, right beside Manshoon’s slinking little mind-slave?

  It certainly looked as if … no … no. It was going to drift just far enough to fall past, to be dashed to wet ruin in the street behind, or across the fronts of the shops and balconies of the next building beyond.

  Then Targrael’s vigilance was rewarded.

  She saw the briefest of flashes in the air between the beholder and the dark figure on the edge of the rooftop. Manshoon, plunging into the mind of his Talane.

  Talane, who by day was the Lady Deleira Truesilver, resident of a noble mansion that not even the founder of the Zhentarim could hide or move.

  Targrael forgot all about the falling beholder. Talane was her new target.

  She started to run. Dragons were running, too, and some of them were eyeing her as their swords came up, but she ignored them, sprinting all the faster, heading for the street that ran beside that club, trying to circle around behind the rooftop.

  She was in time to see Talane, high above her, make the dangerous leap to the roof of the next building.

  “You!” a man commanded from close behind her. “Down steel, or die!”

  Targrael rolled her eyes. Did clod-headed Dragons never give up?

  Still running, she looked back. Stlarn! The man had friends, about a dozen of them, and a war wizard was running with them. Looking neither winded nor afraid in the slightest, to boot. He had a tluining wand out!

  She’d passed the club and was running
along the side of the second building, knowing that Talane was likely several buildings along by now, making much shorter rooftop leaps and acquiring a wide choice of ways down to the street—or deeper.

  More Dragons were coming at her down the sidestreets, closing in.

  “Stlarn it,” she said aloud. “Enough of this! I will go to Truesilver House to hunt myself a Talane, but I need that gem from Queen Alendue’s cache first, anyhail. If I capture his mind, he can’t use his magic on me!”

  Rounding a corner she knew, a good six strides ahead of the Dragon who was still commanding her to surrender or taste death, she came upon the wooden hatch she remembered. Plucking it up, she flung it back in his face without even looking and plunged feet-first down the revealed shaft.

  She was half a dozen sloshing steps along a noisome sewer quite large enough for tall warriors, heading into the palace by one of the wetter ways, before the Dragon whose face she had crushed with her hurled hatch drew in his last, gurgling breath and died.

  Mirt’s headlong flight through the palace had slowed to a fast, stumbling lurch, restoring wind enough to him to roar, “Help! Ho! A rescue! Beholder attack! War wizards and Dragons beset! The palace breached! Aid!”

  Where were all the doorjacks and guards? Usually the stlarned pests were everywhere, like flies on fresh dung, forever stepping forward to politely bar your way, and—

  He came to a lamplit meeting of passages that had to be a guardpost, and it was deserted, too. Oh, well, mayhap they were all out there in the street already, and busy dying …

  An old shield hung on the wall beside the lantern, adorned with peeling paint that had once proclaimed a no-doubt-famous blazon. It was probably a precious relic of some famous old Obarskyr king, a hero of the realm storied in song.

  Well, old relic, time to save Cormyr again. Reversing his daggers into a pair of improvised clubs, Mirt started hammering on the shield, belaboring it like a gong until it rebounded repeatedly off the wall, raising a terrible racket.