by Ed Greenwood
Suddenly another blueflame ghost loomed up, running hard with his sword raised.
Desperately Rune tugged at Arclath, trying to drag him back—but the ghost was already fading and breaking apart, though it kept on struggling to reach them. Its foremost, reaching hand melted, then the sword arm, with the blade it held, a knee and then … all of it.
The singing stopped abruptly, as if Arclath had been shocked by the blueflame ghost’s disappearance. Trembling, Amarune held him and waited.
After a time, there came a bright flash from the far side of the roiling magic, and the ward shuddered and seemed to grow thinner.
Another flash. More thinning.
Then another ghost appeared. A tall, cruel-faced woman was walking behind it, working magic as she came. Whenever she finished a spell, it caused one of those bright flashes, melting more of the wards away.
Amarune hastily dragged the lurching man in her arms back to keep the fading, thinning wards around the ghost and the woman.
Suddenly the ghost started to melt, sinking down into the roilings with surprising speed. The woman reeled. She was close enough—five or six strides away, no more—that Rune could see that dagger sticking out of her chest.
Then lightning burst out of nowhere, slamming into the woman from behind and thrusting her into a bulging-eyed dance on tiptoes, wild spasms of agony that ended with her fall, a sprawl on her face that left her lying still.
Fresh bolts of lightning stabbed and ricocheted through the last, thinning wisps of the wards. Behind them, a man—their hurler—was striding slowly into the cavern.
Amarune let go of her Arclath, spun around, and ran deeper into the cave. There was an unpleasant stirring ahead of her in the darkness, as if unfriendly magic was awakening to her arrival.
Caught in its fringes, she stopped and sank down in silence. She was as deep in as she could go and still see Arclath, who was lying in a heap, mumbling and feebly crawling.
She knew the man coming into the cave. She’d seen him once or twice before in the city streets. It was the wizard Suzailans called most powerful mage in Suzail, Larak Dardulkyn.
He strode past the woman he’d felled to stand smiling down at the dazed, incoherently babbling Arclath.
“So, Elminster, it comes down to you and me once more,” he said, almost pleasantly. Flexing his hands, he added gently, “Prepare to die, old fool. Again.”
Rune swallowed, not knowing what to do, feeling utterly helpless. Should she throw the buckle at him? Well, what good would that do?
Almost purring with glee, the man began a spell she couldn’t hope to stop—
And then toppled forward, with a sudden shriek.
The woman he’d struck down with his lightning had reached up from the ground with her sword to slash his nearest leg.
“Poisoned,” she snarled triumphantly, before falling back exhausted.
On the ground beside Arclath, Dardulkyn rolled, cursing furiously and clutching at his wound.
His rolling became shuddering, and he lost his grip on his leg as he started to convulse. His oaths went incoherent as foam spewed from his mouth.
Rune had seen enough. Heedless of the unseen magic that sang up to claw at her, she turned and raced deeper into the cavern.
Hurrying to get the blueflame buckle to The Simbul.
Cymmarra heaved herself to her knees, the world spinning slowly above her …
Everything was slow and painful. Everything took so much strength …
She lost count of her weak and staggering tries, but by using her sword like a crutch, she found her feet at last. Only the cavern wall kept her upright after that first, horribly shaky step.
She clung to the wall, whispering prayers she didn’t believe in and scarcely remembered, over and over again, seeking strength.
When she felt like she might have found a little, she turned her head and smirked at the two feebly moving men. Dardulkyn’s words had made it clear he was Manshoon, and there was no reason she knew of that he might have been wrong about the young lordling being Elminster.
“Great archwizards,” she sneered. “Not a lot to choose between the two of you, is there?” Shoving off from the wall, she reeled forward, raising her poisoned blade again.
Dardulkyn suddenly sprang up, wild-eyed, and fled, arms flailing. He fell often as he went, but had a frenzied speed she couldn’t hope to match.
“The poison will take you,” she murmured after him, weak but baleful, “and then I will. After I take care of the Sage of Shadowdale.”
That body hadn’t moved yet and was right in front of her. One lurching stride, two … she had to ground the sword and lean on it to keep from falling. Drawing in a deep and shuddering breath, she steadied herself and raised it again.
“One thrust,” she gasped. “One thrust, you old—”
Elminster rolled away, then found his feet with the agility and grace of a much younger man.
Arclath Delcastle had snatched back control of his own body. He smiled mirthlessly as he drew his sword, then met Cymmarra’s staggering rush with a deft parry.
Slicing two fingers off her sword hand on his backswing, he snapped, “One thrust? I think not.”
Magic clawed at her like a long-nailed drunkard trying to paw his way to a handy dancer’s charms, but it seemed to sigh and fade with her every step. She was fighting her way down a deep, narrow cavern …
Amarune pushed on into darkness until she saw a tiny glow of light ahead.
It was coming from a pool of water, where there was much splashing.
Going nearer, Rune saw a chained woman thrashing on the edge of the pool. She had eyes like those of an angry wolf and wore only the great swirling chaos of her long, silver hair, tresses that moved by themselves like Storm Silverhand’s hair.
Which it was, in fact, entangled with, Rune saw, the two heads of hair wrestling like hundreds of angry snakes as Storm and The Simbul—this had to be The Simbul—struggled with each other.
Storm was trying to drag her sister out of the pool, but The Simbul was stronger in her frenzy, overpowering Storm and dragging them both back down into the waters, time and again.
Now what? Rune discovered she was trembling, not just from the cavern’s magic but in deepening fear.
Then Storm saw her—and the blueflame buckle. “Put it in her mouth!” she gasped. “Rune, put it in her mouth, and hold it there until it’s all gone—no matter what happens!”
Rune swallowed then started forward. The buckle began to glow again.
With a menacing crackle, The Simbul’s hair left off trying to strangle and pinion Storm and reached for the buckle. Her angry wolf eyes flared blue.
Amarune went nearer, trying to keep close to the wall so as not to get easily dragged into the pool.
The Simbul growled at her menacingly, then snapped her teeth at the buckle. Just like a hungry wolf.
Rune dodged her lunges, just as she had dodged so many reaching hands at the Dragonriders’—and, holding the buckle firmly in both hands, thrust it into The Simbul’s mouth.
There was a bright flash and a sudden surge of energy that shook Amarune.
The Simbul’s eyes spat fire, literally becoming two bright blue flames, and Rune screamed as her fingers and then her arms started to burn, hair sizzling.
“Hold it in there!” Storm shouted, sounding desperate.
Rune clenched her teeth, then bent her head and whimpered against the pain. The buckle was melting … she thrust its dwindling solidity farther and farther in behind those sharp and angry teeth …
Then, abruptly, conflagration and buckle were both gone.
All the struggling stopped, and The Simbul was looking up at Rune with all fury fled and quite a different look in her eyes.
“Lady, I thank you,” she said gravely and kissed Amarune’s scorched fingers.
That touch sent a soothing, healing coolness through Rune that left her shuddering in amazed relief.
The pain vanish
ed. Her burns were gone.
Then the chain binding The Simbul to the wall melted away in glowing silence.
The freed woman patted Storm in silent thanks and rose, dripping, to stride past Amarune down the passage as regally as any queen.
Near the cave mouth, Arclath Delcastle stood grimly over the Lady of Ghosts, the tip of his sword at her throat. She glared up at him in agony, her hands cut to bloody ruin, unable to fight any more.
The Simbul walked up to the young lord, touched his head, and murmured, “Come forth, El.”
Arclath slumped like a limp and empty leather sack as El’s ashes, glowing and swirling, emerged from his nose and ears to coil around The Simbul’s face and breast.
She laughed in delight, then stepped back and decreed, “Be as sane as I am, and have a body again.”
A glow appeared in midair in front of her and faded rapidly into something solid, upright … a naked man. It swayed, settled onto its feet, and sharpened into—Elminster, looking old and vigorous but slack-jawed.
The ashes plunged into that open mouth, and the body shuddered all over. Then it opened blue-gray eyes, smiled, and reached out to gather The Simbul into a fierce embrace.
As they kissed, she said to him firmly through their joined mouths, “Soon.”
Then she whirled free, bent to the helplessly glaring Cymmarra, and said gently, “Rest, tortured one.”
A wave of her hand banished the curse, and the woman transfixed by the dagger crumbled to dust, the dagger sighing into nothingness a moment later.
Then The Simbul headed out of the cavern, waving almost absently at Arclath as she went.
He blinked, stood up, looked around, saw Amarune, and grinned. She rushed into his arms.
Storm and El gently towed them after The Simbul, out into the light—where everyone halted as silence fell again.
A tentacled beholder of monstrous size was hovering in the air waiting for them, glaring eyestalks ready.
Rays spat forth.
The Simbul raised both her hands this time, and those magics twisted in midair into nothing more than a dancing glow.
“Enough, Manshoon.” She turned to look at Elminster, then regarded the beholder again. “I have remembered much that Mystra told me. The two of you must now work together. Our Lady of Magic commands it.”
“Mystra is no more!” Manshoon snarled.
The Simbul frowned. “She is … silent, yes, but I am far less certain of her destruction than you seem to be. Yet, her commandment is very clear. You must both gather all the blueflame items you can and use them properly, or the realms will surely fall before the beasts flooding in. The rifts opened in ignorance by those called ‘warlocks’ are many, and more and more fell powers look to this world to be their new home. More than just the Weave has fallen and been lost.”
El listened in thoughtful silence, and Manshoon in growing, eyestalk-quivering fury, as she added, “One archwizard was behind the enchanting of all the blueflame items, using many as his dupes. They were his bid to maintain his own existence, but he built into them the means to watch over all who used the items—for sport and amusement, as well as to effectively compel such wielders.”
“ ‘One archwizard’? Who?” Manshoon spat.
“The ‘Imprisoner’ is the one called Larloch. He bound all the magic and essence of three of his servant liches into each ghost-imprisoning item—sacrifices to empower the items.”
“Larloch?”
The Simbul ignored Manshoon’s angry disbelief. “The items are more than extra-dimensional prisons and ghost-controllers. Each possesses a fell power of its own, usable whenever the ghost is imprisoned, and dormant when the ghost is out.”
“And if a ghost is destroyed?” Elminster asked quietly.
“The item will crumble,” The Simbul replied. “Its magic discharged and forever lost.”
“No!” the beholder snarled. “You lie!”
“I do not lie, Manshoon. You lie, easily and often, as it suits your desires, and so have fallen into lazily thinking all others must, too. Consider how easy it would be for me to destroy you, rather than spend time telling you this. Consider further my strong temptation to do so. Yet, I refrain. Consider that I do so for this higher purpose, this necessity of saving the world we share. Now, will you hear the rest, or will I spell-scourge you until you are humbled and forced to yield?”
The beholder hung silently in the air for what seemed a very long time.
“I … I will listen,” it said at last.
“Wise of you. Mystra and Azuth allowed Larloch’s self-serving plan to succeed because they deemed it necessary. Like the lich lord, they saw it as a way of cheating the coming Spellplague, which they dared not try to prevent as the increasingly unstable Weave raced toward crashing ruin. It needed to be renewed or replaced, and Mystra knew either outcome would destroy her. She also knew she could preserve something of herself and the secrets of the Art she’d inherited—and Azuth could do the same—by insinuating it into the minds of Larloch’s liches, and so into the blueflame items.”
“Which means …” Storm said slowly.
Her sister smiled. “Which means the items contain seeds that could perhaps bring back Larloch, or even something … someone more … if used in the right manner.”
“Uh,” Arclath mumbled, “I’m not sure Rune or I should be hearing this …”
Ignoring him, The Simbul went on sternly, “It is imperative blueflame items must be wielded to close rifts and restore the balance of Toril, or the ancient Primordials will rise and rage unleashed across the lands … and inevitably, what will eventually be left will not be the world we know, the realms of humans, elves, dwarves, halflings, orcs, and the rest. Dragons may survive, but probably as enslaved steeds, not conquering wyrms. Their time is past.”
She looked from one person to another, staring last up at the beholder, whose rays had faded away.
“El and Manshoon, will you both work to make sure the time of humans is not ended?”
“Aye,” Elminster agreed eagerly.
It was another long and silent wait before Manshoon muttered reluctantly, “Yes.”
“Good. Starting now would be a good thing,” The Simbul told them dryly.
Then she gave Storm a smile. “Thank you for caring for me, sister. I’ll return as soon as I can, but long ago I promised Mystra I’d do … certain things. I must keep my promises, or I am nothing.”
She took a step back. “I go.”
Abruptly, without a spell or sound, she vanished.
Leaving Storm, Arclath, Amarune, and Elminster all looking at the beholder hanging in the air above them.
Silence stretched.
“So,” El asked mildly, “shall we begin?”
Manshoon glared at him—and vanished, leaving only empty sky behind.
EPILOGUE
Elminster whirled and cast a hasty spell.
Storm started to say something urgent, but Elminster shook his head, waved his hands in a dramatic flourish—and watched Storm, Arclath, and Amarune vanish as his magic took them elsewhere.
Then he ran back to the cave.
He was only a few steps inside when Manshoon’s first attack spell stabbed at his back.
It raged against El’s ward, shattered it, and the two magics died together.
Elminster kept running, knowing the spot he wanted to reach before—
Manshoon’s second attack, a flood of piercing lightning, drove him to his knees, groaning in pain.
El fought to hiss out a small, simple spell, hoping its nature would let him finish it before—
Manshoon smashed him with deadly magic once more.
“Work with you? Bah! All my life you’ve frustrated my schemes, intrigued against me, opposed me!” the vampire shouted. “Work with you? I think not. Be entombed, instead!”
Magic clawed at Elminster, and the rock beneath him changed.
“I’ll drive you down into solid rock by making it less than solid
—in shifting spots, so the weight of the rest of the stone, still hard, will crush your bones to jelly!”
Elminster was sinking, his body tingling, starting to shift at Manshoon’s bidding. He had to fight to form a smile.
“I want you to feel pain, Sage of Shadowdale!” Manshoon shouted from above. “Long, slow pain! Let your tongue be stilled, your jaw, arms, and fingers all be broken, to rob you of all means to work magic!”
The rock closed over Elminster’s head, dark and hissing, Manshoon’s magic lancing into his lungs to keep him from suffocating just yet. And to bring him more of its caster’s gloating.
“Think you can foil me again? Work another of your sly triumphs? No, a thousand times no! I am Manshoon, and I will defeat you!”
“By deafening me? Like any lackspell mageling, ye’ve certainly mastered being noisy!” Elminster murmured to himself as his body fell entirely back to ashes—and plunged through the fissures he’d been seeking.
The agony was—intense.
Yet, he’d known worse.
It would take him days, perhaps months, to drag himself together again … but he’d managed much, much longer patience in the past.
Silently, by many thousands of little ways, he descended.
New magic stabbed after him, thrusting here and there, swift and energetic.
Only to withdraw, finding no trace of Elminster.
“Yes!” Manshoon roared, his voice high and wild. “Bury him deep—and I did! Go godless to the gods at last, Elminster, to fail that judgment and fade, gone forever! Fare you not well!”
From some flakes of tumbling ash in a cavern far beneath Manshoon’s boots, in an upper cavern of the Underdark, came a faint echo that just might have been an answer to Manshoon’s shout.
An echo that sounded rather like the Sage of Shadowdale’s chuckle.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ed Greenwood is the creator of the FORGOTTEN REALMS® fantasy setting, an award-winning game designer, and a best-selling author whose fantasy novels have sold millions of copies worldwide in more than thirty languages.
Once hailed as “the Canadian author of the great American novel,” Ed is a large, bearded, jolly Canadian librarian who lives in an old farmhouse crammed with over 80,000 books in the Ontario countryside, and is often mistaken for Santa Claus in disguise. Many gamers think he resembles Elminster, but Ed insists he did not model the Old Mage on himself.
