The Sword Never Sleeps

by Greenwood, Ed

  “R-r-right behind you!” Doust panted as he and Semoor stumbled over each other in their clawing terror to be the first to follow her. In their wake, teeth chattering, Florin slashed aside the lich’s arm as the creature turned to follow them. His strike sent it tottering away across the passage.

  “Filth of Sembia!” it said, pointing now at the wall. “You fail to deceive me with your clever disguise of aping polished wood! I shall hunt you down and destroy you utterly! Hah!”

  The magic that roared out from it this time looked like a darting swarm of tiny white hummingbirds that burst into tinkling, flashing dust before they could reach the wall the lich was now angrily confronting.

  Fear surging and ebbing in them like roiling nausea, the Knights fled, following Islif around the corner and down the cross passage.

  “This is … not good,” Pennae snapped, wiping sweat from her face. “I know it’s the lich-magic making me afraid, but I feel just as scared as if there were a good reason to be! We’ve got to find a way out of this place. That mad lich back there won’t menace the wall forever!”

  “I’m thinking the way out might be on the other side of that door,” Semoor said. “Care to lead the charge?”

  “Sabruin,” Pennae cursed him. “Tluining well do it yourself, Saer Holy Smarttongue.”

  “Ah, no, I think not,” he said. “Getting blown apart with a spell isn’t the sort of new beginning Lathander intends his priests to seek.”

  The thief gave him a contemptuous look. “So priests of the Morninglord justify becoming adventurers how, exactly?”

  “Not now, you two,” Florin said. “We’ve got—ohh!”

  His voice rose in helpless fear even as a bolt of fire snarled past his ear to claw at the paneled wall high over his shoulder. Protective magics arose from it like rainbow-hued flames to ward off the firebolt, even as the Knights cursed and backed away from this new peril: a second lich, taller and clad in robes less decayed than the first one.

  It strode toward them as purposefully and lithely as any vigorous living foe, wearing no rings but waving some sort of scepter that clasped around its forearm like a bracer and sparkled in the wake of its firebolt-hurling.

  “Intruders into the royal vaults can expect only one fate,” it said, raising the scepter again, “and I shall swiftly visit that doom upon you!”

  Fear ebbed from the Knights again, and Florin said, “Scatter! Don’t give it a good target! Give yourselves room to run without slamming into someone else!”

  The lich laughed hollowly. “Scheming will avail you naught, foes of Cormyr! Prepare to die!”

  “These fellows were waystop-inn actors in life, weren’t they?” Semoor asked. “Bad ones.”

  “The first lich isn’t blocking our way back,” Islif said. “We still have time to get back across that passage crossing by the door and go the other way!”

  “So run!” Semoor cried, spinning around and doing just that. A firebolt snarled past, so close to his shoulder that his right ear and cheek felt its heat. The firebolt wrestled again with flaring defensive magics, then fizzled out.

  The Knights ran.

  “Is this the being brave adventurers part?” Doust panted in the rear of the line. “Fleeing like children?”

  “Who’s fleeing?” Pennae called back. “Have you no appreciation for battlefield strategy? We’re not retreating. We’re strategically withdrawing to seek better ground!”

  “Ah hah,” Doust said in open disbelief. “Better ground where?”

  They pelted past the cross passage where the first lich was still loudly threatening the wall. They ran down a slight ramp or slope through another passage crossing to reach … a dead end.

  “Doors, anyone?” Florin called, slowing. “No one digs out a passage to a dead end and then goes to the trouble of paneling the walls!”

  “ ‘Digs’? How can we be sure we’re underground?” Pennae said. “Holynoses, your glowstones! I need to get a good look at the walls, to see it—”

  “ ’Ware, all!” Doust shouted, fear making his voice high and wild again. “We’re trapped!”

  “Trapped?” Pennae asked.

  The Knights whirled around again to stare at the priest and where he was pointing.

  Out of that second cross passage had stepped a third lich, this one taller than the other two and wearing a gold circlet around its brow. It carried a black staff surmounted by a bulbous head, inset with gems and graven with glowing copper and silver runes. The lich did not seem to be calling forth any magic from the staff. Instead, it held the staff in the crook of one arm and raised both hands to cast a spell—hands whose skeletal fingers were adorned with many glowing rings.

  “Naed,” Semoor muttered. “Jhess, is there anything left that you can cast to get us out of this?”

  “N-no,” Jhessail replied from beside his elbow.

  A moment later, Islif and Florin both drew in breath in loud, startled hisses.

  As the other Knights looked at them and saw where they were staring and pointing, they realized why.

  Standing among them were two Jhessail Silvertrees, not just one.

  The cave was deserted. Tsantress sighed with relief as she reached its mouth and peered out into the forest. There was no sign of any lurking creature and no spoor suggesting anything had even come close to her little hidehold.

  “Tsantress Ironchylde,” she murmured as she stepped past the little teethlike knobs of stone jutting up through the tangled grasses that marked where she’d cast her wards. Saying her name would prevent her passage from ending the ward spell she’d cast seasons ago.

  She needed to think—think hard and not stlarn her conclusions, because for once her life really would depend on that—and knew she did that best while wandering the woods near the cave, not crouching in its dark depths.

  What should she do? Where should she go?

  And, stlarn it, was there any way Vangerdahast could trace her?

  Tsantress was a good six paces out into the tall grass, with birdsong starting to die away at her presence, when it struck her that she should probably pray to Azuth and Mystra for guidance—and an answer to that last question.

  She returned to the cave and sought out its deepest, darkest back crevice and in the cool, damp darkness knelt down. Her knees knew the right spot, even if she could see nothing in the gloom. She cast a spell into the darkness in front of her. A small working, a light-kindling.

  The altar she’d made swallowed the magic silently, giving her back a brief glow all around its edges. A very good sign. It was intact, still holy, and she was being heard.

  Which meant she was still worthy of attention.

  “Lord Azuth, Guide and Wise One,” she prayed, “and Great and Most Holy Lady Mystra, Yourself the Greatest of Mysteries, hear me now, I plead. Unworthy I am, unworthy I remain, yet strive to know and obey you both better. Hear my prayer, as I seek to kiss the Weave.”

  She kissed her own fingertips, reached out into the darkness, and started to pray as she always had, as if addressing an affectionate mother who was somewhere very close by, just beyond her reach.

  As a war wizard, Tsantress had been afraid from time to time and uneasy more times than she could count—but it had been a long time since she’d been as bewildered and at a loss as to what to do. She prayed from the heart, respectful and yet blunt, speaking candidly rather than resorting to the flowery phrases of praise so many Mystran and Azuthan clergy excelled at or even used exclusively before altars.

  “Come what may, I remain your servant, Wise One and Mysterious Mother,” she finished, “and I pray that your own time be bright until next we speak.”

  Letting her hands fall into her lap, she sat back, awaiting any sign that might come. She expected none, but it would have been the height of disrespect to assume no response would manifest and rush to rise and depart and go on with mundane things, as if the prayer had been rote duty and not something truly meant.

  The altar remained dark, thou
gh she sat there for a breath longer than usual. Tsantress sighed, rose to her feet—and became aware that the faint light from behind her, the dim radiance from the forest outside that reached this deep into the cave, had just been blotted out.

  “Well, well,” came a cold and familiar voice from behind her. Light blossomed from a torch. “You’re one of the war wizards who helped slay my Jalassa! I remember. Kill her!”

  She turned swiftly. Lord Maniol Crownsilver was standing with his arms folded across his chest and a triumphant smile upon his face—and there were three robed wizards standing behind him. Sembian hirelings, by the looks of them.

  The three looked reluctant. One of them leaned his head forward and said in the noble’s ear, “Yon’s an altar to Azuth and Mystra both. ’Twere—”

  The noble whirled around as if they’d slapped him. “Who’s paying you?” he spat. “Two deaf deities of magic? Or me? Strike her down!”

  The harmless spell Tsantress had cast into the altar erupted back out of it, arcing over her head with an angry rumbling that was more felt than heard. It lashed out at the three mages, startling them with its flash of light. Behind them, an ornrion of the Purple Dragons rose up with a stout tree bough in his hands. Tsantress knew him and tried to keep astonishment at his appearance off her face to avoid alerting the wizards.

  Crownsilver saw Dauntless, of course, but so incoherent were his first gabblings of outrage that he warned his three wizards not in the slightest.

  Dauntless brought his bough sweeping down, braining one Sembian solidly. That mage toppled silently, out cold. By the time the wizard standing beside him saw his fellow fall and turned, mouth dropping open, to see its cause, Dauntless had his club ready to smash him across the face—and did so.

  That mage collapsed into the third wizard, who was already springing back. The last Sembian lifted one hand like a claw, and blue bolts streaked from all his fingertips, lancing into the ornrion and sending him staggering back, grunting in pain.

  Which gave Tsantress more than time enough to hurl herself backward until she stumbled into the altar and sat down hard on it, and from that undignified perch unleashed blue bolts of her own.

  True to what she’d been told, long ago, the altar she’d so recently made offering and prayer at doubled the strength of her spell, sending a swarm of bright blue missiles racing into the last Sembian mage.

  The mage crumpled in silent senselessness, leaving Lord Maniol Crownsilver alone, facing Tsantress and Dauntless.

  The noble paled—and darted past Dauntless, seeking to flee the cavern.

  The ornrion pounced, dashing Crownsilver to the ground with one blow of his battered tree bough. The nobleman’s head lolled loosely, and he joined his three hired wizards in the land of dreams.

  Dauntless looked at Tsantress and gravely bowed his head to her. “Much as I dislike slaying lords of the realm,” he growled, “this one has brought grief to many. Should I—?”

  “No,” Tsantress said. “That’s a temptation always best avoided, I’m afraid. No matter how much I want to say yes.”

  They eyed each other in silence for the space of a long breath or two, ere she spoke again. “Ornrion, I’ve seen you before. Escorting the Princess Alusair, among other things. What brings you here, clear out of the realm?”

  “The orders of Lord Vangerdahast. A task that—if the Knights of Myth Drannor don’t seek to turn back into Cormyr—is done.” Dauntless regarded her expressionlessly for another long moment ere adding, “So, Lady Wizard, command me.”

  “I am called Tsantress,” she told him, gave him a half-smile, and added, “and I believe I will. Come. Let’s see what these Knights of yours are up to.”

  Wizard of War Lorbryn Deltalon stopped. He liked the look of this little clearing—and he was more than close enough to the person he was seeking. From here, he could just smell the woodsmoke of the man’s fire.

  Taking the palm-sized, enspelled plaque from his belt pouch and tilting it on a handy rock so he could clearly see Laspeera’s face and body from the waist up, he strode two paces north to a fallen tree trunk and set up a polished metal mirror angled in the same manner.

  Stepping back to make sure he could see both at once, he murmured the incantation, bent his will, and watched himself slowly take on the likeness of the second most powerful war wizard of Cormyr.

  He could mimic Laspeera’s speech fairly well and her gestures and gait closely. That would have to be good enough.

  Should be good enough to fool one war wizard-avoiding bullyblade, who was now encamped alone and brooding just over the next ridge.

  Lorbryn collected mirror and plaque and returned them to their pouches. He took up the two clinking sacks he’d brought, smiled—Laspeera’s wryly gentle smile—and vanished from the clearing, in the proverbial blink of a sailor’s eye.

  The feeling of being constantly watched while in Zhentil Keep was something one just had to get used to. Or go mad.

  The wizard Targon got that feeling more acutely from time to time and supposed everyone else did, too, but it had long since ceased to bother him.

  He was feeling it now. “Stlarn and blast all,” he murmured, not feeling any real irritation. He’d undressed and sought his bed long before he’d really begun to feel tired. As usual. He still didn’t feel tired now.

  He would be sleeping alone—also as usual—but was sitting up against a small mountain of pillows, happily immersed in his spellbook. As was his wont of evenings, his favorite part of any day.

  Targon never tired of the exciting waking dreams he could conjure up in his mind. He saw himself casting spells, felt—from memory—the magics flowing through him as he worked the magic and then unleashed it, imagined how altering this and adjusting that would affect a spell, and … saw himself hurling it at this foe and then at that, humbling them with a wave of his hand and giving them a superior smile as they gasped and groveled—and died.

  Something small and metallic pinged off the bedchamber wall to his left. Startled, he looked up. That had sounded like a ring. He’d once dropped one of his on the tiles outside a spell-casting chamber, and it had sounded just like that. He leaned over, craning his neck to see if there was a ring on the floor right now—only to feel a weight on the bed right beside him.

  He whirled, heart leaping in fright—and was astonished to see a face he knew bumping noses with him, a mouth finding his. It was Aumrune, one of the wizards under his command, stark naked and—kissing him?

  Then something raced from Aumrune’s tongue into his mind and revealed itself. Old Ghost was bright and terrible and so mighty that Targon’s mind could not even begin to resist.

  So Aumrune had not been a lover. Had not even been Aumrune anymore. Had—

  And then Targon stopped being Targon and so stopped worrying about anything—thinking about anything—at all.

  The body that had been Targon calmly closed his spellbook, pushed the limp body of Aumrune off the bed, and walked over it to thrust aside the curtain, go to the bedchamber door beyond, and restore the little warding spell Aumrune should not have been able to break—but Old Ghost could.

  Door sealed again, “Targon” kicked the body of Aumrune well clear of the bed and cast a blasting spell at it, destroying the largely burned-out body he had just vacated. As he waited for the room to stop rocking and thundering, he reached for his robe. If anyone bothered to come and investigate the brief tumult, he would inform them he’d just been forced to “execute the traitor Aumrune.”

  He calmly stepped over the ashes and the few lumps of larger bone and went seeking the ring.

  Things fallen and forgotten had a habit of being needed or useful later.

  Right now, Old Ghost was ready for a lot of “later.” With Horaundoon elsewhere and his own hunger for life-energy sated for now, Old Ghost intended to make this new host body last a long, long time.

  Brorn Hallomond flinched and then grabbed for his dagger.

  “You’ll cut yourself with th
at, mind,” the beautiful woman on the other side of his tiny fire said calmly. “Don’t bother. I mean you no harm.”

  “So you say,” Brorn snarled, letting his hand fall away from the dagger without unsheathing it. “Myself, I’ve not known war wizards to tell the truth overmuch.”

  “Ah, you know who I am. That’ll save us some time.” Laspeera sat down crosslegged, just as the bullyblade was sitting—only right across the fire from Brorn. She gave him a good look down her unlaced bodice as she did so and saw his eyes flicker.

  “You’re Laspeera,” Brorn said bluntly. “The realm says you sleep with Vangerdahast and boss half the war wizards for him while his back is turned bossing the other half. You’re here to taunt and kill me, right?”

  “Wrong. I need you alive, unharmed, and able—and so does the Crown. The royal family specifically said they needed you to serve Cormyr. You will be well rewarded for it. Not to do something that you’ll be betrayed or blamed for later. But a little spying on the man who is most responsible for the death of Lord Yellander.”

  “The Crown said that? King Azoun, himself?”

  “Himself. Yes, Brorn Hallomond, this I swear. The king and queen both feel your loyalty was ill repaid by the fate of your master. They admire that loyalty and deem you a capable man they want working for the Dragon Throne, not against it. And not living as an outlaw, doing violence to every passing citizen of Cormyr who might yield a few coppers to you.”

  Laspeera plucked up one of the sacks she’d brought with her and tossed it over the fire to land just beside Brorn’s right hand. It landed with the heavy clink of coins. “Open it.”

  Brorn eyed her, and then reached for it without taking his gaze from her. He dragged it into his lap, worked the knot open, and then held it out and dumped a little of its contents out onto the leaf mold beside him, at arm’s length. Gold coins, every one. Bright golden lions of the realm.