The Sword Never Sleeps

by Greenwood, Ed

  “Get after her,” Baerent said. “Be her shadow; stick to her like tight new hose, no matter how much she spits and snarls. See where she goes and who she speaks to.”

  Barely waiting for Mrask’s nod, Baerent trotted across the street and bounded up the Moontouch stairs.

  The guard was waiting for him, sword already drawn.

  “I’m a war wizard,” Baerent said. “Stand aside!”

  “No,” the guard replied. “Vangey and I have an agreement on this, and I’ll not—”

  Baerent cast the spell he had ready, shrugged, and strode past the now-motionless guard, who would not be a statue for long. But long enough.

  Flinging wide the door of the Touch, he stepped into the parlor where Daransa stood by the tea table. “Goodwoman,” said Baerent, “I speak with the full authority of the Crown, and I must ask you—”

  “Ah, Wizard of War Baerent Orninspur!” a new voice interrupted. A door behind Daransa’s little desk opened, and a tall, shapely, silver-haired woman strode into the room.

  Baerent blinked. How could someone recognize him before they even saw him? His amulet would prevent scrying or warn him of more powerful mag—

  Oh. Spyholes. Of course.

  “Tea?” Daransa offered, nothing but pleasant welcome on her face.

  Baerent looked from one woman to the other and decided bluster was no longer his best option. “I regret the abruptness of my intrusion,” he said, “and I intend no harm to any in this place. I merely—”

  “Burst in here,” Dove interrupted, “after your scrying spell failed—and that of your companion Mrask. Then you thought to bully Daransa into revealing why Princess Alusair was here. What she said, and what she did, too. My, but Vangey is suspicious these days!”

  “But I—” Baerent sputtered, then took a deep breath, waved his hand in a calming gesture directed more at himself than anyone else, and asked, “Lady, forgive me, but who are you? I have my suspicions, but—”

  “All war wizards do, which is the root of our trouble here,” the silver-haired woman replied with a pleasant smile, coming closer. “As I see it, you are here on duty, bound to uncover the private and personal business of a princess, and to that you have now added the little task of trying to learn how a few elegant professional playpretties can block your magics—and to do a little bullying to drench them in fear, so you can forbid them from ever trying to do so again, and hope to be obeyed. Have I stated truth?”

  Baerent blinked again. “Lady, you can hardly expect me to discuss such matters with … with—”

  “Someone whose name you don’t even know? Yet I do expect you to confirm truth and to speak openly and fully when dealing with someone who just might be one of those you are supposed to serve. You serve the citizens of Cormyr, remember? Lording it over them is your own embellishment. Or Vangerdahast’s. Speaking of which, you are not to say one word about any of this to him. Beginning with my name, which is Dove.”

  Baerent blinked once more. “Ah, the Dove?” Without awaiting a reply, he rushed on into more dangerous words. “I could hardly fail to notice that you just gave me an order—or tried to. Lady Dove, you must appreciate that I cannot accept orders from anyone but—”

  Dove waved away the rest of his words. “Call it a suggestion, then,” she said with a gentle smile, strolling still closer. “I am suggesting that if you forget about all that has happened since you saw the princess cross the Promenade, and depart this house right now without trying to seek any answers or give any commands in the Moontouch now or ever again, I will probably see my way clear to letting you keep your life.”

  “My life?”

  “Yes. If you just go back to yon Royal Palace right now and refrain from ever bothering Daransa or any of her ladies again. And refrain from saying anything about this to Vangerdahast.”

  Baerent stared at her. He suddenly believed that this strikingly beautiful woman was one of the fabled Chosen of Mystra and the “highly dangerous,” active-in-Cormyr Harper all war wizards were often warned about. But more than that, he believed she could—and would—do just what she was promising. To him.

  “B-but, Lady,” he managed to protest, “the Royal Magician! He looks into our minds and sees our memories! Even if I say nothing, he’ll know of your, ah, demands.”

  Dove’s gentle smile widened. “Yes, he will, won’t he? Perhaps he’ll even recognize them for the clear warning they are and take heed. For once.”

  Eyes steady on his, she then gave a gentle toss of her head that was clearly a directive to him to seek the door behind him and depart.

  Baerent hastened to obey, discovering something else as he passed the still-motionless guard and stumbled back down the stair. He was shivering in fear.

  Wizard of War Lorbryn Deltalon stood on the familiar high ledge, looking out over the forest. He shook his head.

  “Well, well,” he told the wind. “It seems I make a livelier Laspeera than I’d ever thought to be—certainly more flirtatious than she’s ever likely to be. I think.”

  Well, well, indeed. Yet it had worked, and that was the main thing.

  He shook his head again, smiling ruefully. “Whew.”

  He hadn’t had occasion to teleport here often in recent seasons, but this crag in the forest often served the war wizards as a lookout. He wasn’t all that far from the bullyblade he’d just left. He should really be getting back to Suzail, but … he’d always liked this spot.

  It was probably his favorite place in all Faerûn for just standing alone, thinking.

  Lorbryn used it that way now, as his true form slowly melted back.

  He was doing the right thing.

  At long last, he was working for the best outcome for Cormyr.

  Both the Knights of Myth Drannor and the band of Purple Dragons led by the ornrion Dauntless were Vangerdahast’s agents, he felt certain—and Vangey had sent them out here, along the Ride, to accomplish something.

  Just what, he didn’t know yet, but Brorn just might help him find out.

  The bullyblade wasn’t stupid. He might want to bury those coins swiftly to avoid being found with something Lorbryn could claim had been stolen. Yet he’d need a few coins in his purse right now, just to live on.

  Six coins on top of each sack had tracer spells cast on them that would enable Lorbryn to know their whereabouts at will.

  He smiled into the breeze as he readied himself to teleport back to the Royal Palace.

  So this was how Vangerdahast felt, sitting like a spider at the center of an ever-expanding web of plots and little schemes.

  Lorbryn’s smile widened.

  Wincing, Florin struggled to his knees. His skin raged with fire blisters of the like he’d not felt since his days at the forge back in Espar, and his body ached as if he’d been punched hard, all over, for most of a day.

  His sword was lost somewhere under Jhessail—the real Jhessail, he reminded himself dazedly—and a half-empty water flask didn’t seem that formidable a weapon to use on either a lich or someone who could shrug off that humbling spell.

  The lich stood smiling down at the Knights, as the darkly handsome man was doing now. Florin caught sight of a ring on the man’s finger, and he tried to fix the device on it—an M with a flaring left leg and a right leg that curled right around to form a ring—in his memory for later.

  If there was a later.

  “So much for my little jaunts here to explore and plunder this place,” the man drawled, still regarding the Knights with a sneer. “I believe I’ve found almost everything, as it happens. Enjoy your deaths.”

  He was suddenly not there.

  The groaning, feebly crawling Knights faced the lich across a bare and empty expanse of floor.

  The lich shuffled forward, grounding its staff from time to time in unhurried ease, to peer at the results of its spell. Faint rattling and rasping sounds arose as it hummed a merry tune—or tried to—and came forward, the rings on its bony fingers winking with bright and quickening
glows.

  Florin tried to rise, but he couldn’t. He collapsed beside Islif. Wisps of smoke rose from her limbs. Jhessail lay sprawled and silent under Semoor’s legs, but Pennae seemed to have been shielded from the green flames by the tumbling bodies of the two priests, and she was now rising unharmed from behind them, trying to tug them to their feet.

  “Up, holynoses!” she said. “Our time to save everyone’s behinds!”

  Semoor laughed, a little wildly. “You want us to defeat that?”

  “No, I want you to die trying!” Pennae snarled. “Look at it this way: Lord Manshoon has gone, so you’ve just got one mad, gone-beyond-dead archwizard to deal with, not two of them!”

  “M-Manshoon?” Doust stammered. “As in Zhentil Keep?”

  “Yes. Saw him once across a crowded street and remembered that voice and those looks. Now think of some spells!”

  “Before you ask,” Semoor told her, “no, we don’t know how to teleport like Manshoon did.”

  “Well then,” Pennae said, “we won’t be able to get out of this place that way.”

  Florin and Islif were struggling to rise again, and behind them, Jhessail—reeling about unsteadily in a real daze—was on her feet.

  Pennae gave them all a tight smile, whisked her dagger behind her back, and strolled forward to meet the lich.

  “I don’t suppose,” she asked, “you could direct us poor lost travelers out of this palace, Lord?”

  In reply, the lich threw back its skull-head and cackled, then pointed with a finger that flared with ruby radiance as the ring on it unleashed its power. Florin shrank down into something brown and hairy and snorting.

  Or rather, snoring. A fat, hairy boar, or boar piglet, or whatever young boars were called. Pennae knew she should have been trying to leap at the lich or at least get past it and try to flee, but she couldn’t help staring.

  Florin had a long snout and was lying contentedly on the floor, loudly asleep. He was about the size of a small hunting dog that had somehow swallowed a handkeg of ale whole.

  As Pennae stared, Islif fought her way to her feet … only to shrink right down again, sprouting a snout and long, brown hair and snores of her own.

  “Dung and tluining doom!” Pennae whispered, realizing her peril. She whirled to run just as the ruby glow flared again.

  Then she was trying to run but was somehow heavy and wet and weak and collapsing into helpless sliding softness, too, and the world went dim. Her attempts to shriek came out as squalling, snorting squalling that … that … that sent all Faerûn and its cackling liches away.

  The lich tapped its staff on the floor in a way that seemed somehow satisfied, then shuffled forward again.

  Straight for Jhessail. It reached out a long and skeletal arm toward her. “My lady,” it said, “it has been so long. It seems years since I felt your warm and yielding eagerness, your ardent mouth upon mine. Come to me now! Come.”

  The red-haired mage backed away in horror.

  Silent in their own terror, hardly daring to move, Doust and Semoor exchanged helpless glances.

  Jhessail’s shoulders met the wall. She had nowhere left to go.

  The lich advanced.

  Chapter 12

  THE FIRE ANSWERS BACK

  As they go through lives so bitter

  There are those who faith do lack

  Worship they may soon deem fitter

  When altar-fire answers back

  Old folk saying of the Sword Coast

  Two priests of Bane conversed in the temple courtyard in Zhentil Keep.

  “Done so soon? They haven’t much backbone, these priestesses of Sune! All that warm and all-conquering love a poor shield against true pain, eh?”

  “Done, hah! The whip broke!” The Tyrant-har of Bane held up his ruined lash for inspection. What should have been its upper third dangled uselessly, hanging by the merest thread. “A bare backside did that! Someone’s been selling us shoddy work, to be sure!”

  His superior frowned. “You only brought one lash?”

  “Far from it. I broke the other three earlier, one by one—and I’m not the strongest arm among us, by a long bowshot! These new ‘holier lashes’ are naed, utter naed, I tell you!”

  The Watchful Hand of Bane nodded. “We’ll have to find out who made them, track them down, and exalt them with a fittingly slow and painful death for the greater glory of Bane.” He shook his head. “Work, work … never ends, does it? Why, just last—”

  No one customarily crossed that temple courtyard in Zhentil Keep except clergy of Bane, so neither of the priests was in the habit of paying much attention to movements around them there.

  They never saw the long, gleaming blade racing through the air, all by itself and point-first like an arrow. Speeding out of the shadows, it sliced open their throats so deeply that their heads wobbled on their shoulders before their bodies toppled.

  By then, the flying sword Armaukran was far across the square and climbing, trailing a thin ribbon of blood through the twilight, as Horaundoon hurried to find more Zhentarim to slaughter.

  Arrogant priests were easy prey. What was puzzling him was how he was going to manage the slaying of an eye tyrant. Or thirty.

  The wall was cold, hard, and smooth behind her shoulder blades. Jhessail drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes, then cast one of the few spells she had left, carefully saying the Weave-words—gibberish, they would seem to most hearers—then the rhyme: “So now let all beholding gazes upon me see, not one Jhessail, but rather three!”

  She passed her hands, held vertically, back and forth in front of her so the forming mirror images would appear to shift through each other, and which Jhessail was the real one wouldn’t be glaringly obvious to the lich.

  Sidestepping back and forth to enhance the confusion, she willed the two false images to move to her right, then raised her hands to sketch out the elaborate gestures of … a counterfeit, no spell at all. A false magic she hoped might give the lich pause for a moment, as three identical Jhessails worked an impressive-looking magic it couldn’t recognize.

  Instead, it grinned, brown-gray flesh crumbling away from its skull and falling past its jaws as it did so. “Ah, up to your old tricks! How I love being overwhelmed by your caresses! Come to me, Mara! Come to your Elmariel now!”

  Not waiting for her to obey, it shuffled forward, right past Doust and Semoor. On either side of it but a few paces away, the two priests stood frowning at each other, at a loss as to what to do.

  The lich steadily closed the gap between itself and the three anxiously spellweaving Jhessails.

  Doust shrugged and soundlessly mouthed the word “Breakbone!”

  Semoor shrugged back “why not?” agreement, and they both worked breakbone spells; magics probably far too feeble to affect a lich whose bones were animated and protected by its own magic, but what else was left to them?

  Doust gave the lich a hard-eyed glare and sent his spell at its head, while Semoor aimed for its raised hand, aglow with all those rings.

  They saw the brief, silent radiances of their spells striking those targets, glows that flared and died away again, having done nothing at all. The lich went right on ignoring them.

  It also went right on shuffling forward and was now barely more than an arm’s length from Jhessail. Her nonsense-chanting mouth was trembling on the verge of a scream.

  Semoor took two swift steps and snatched up the snoring, hairy thing Florin had become, taking hold of it high on the legs, where they joined the body.

  It was heavy—Watching Gods Above, it was heavy!—but he could … could …

  Semoor staggered for a moment under the boar’s weight, saw Doust staring at him with mouth agape, and started to run.

  Semoor was bent over backward under the weight of the boar, making of his arms and chest a sloping shelf on which the snoring beast bounced as the priest rushed forward. Semoor prayed its hairy bulk would serve as a shield against any spells the lich might cast.
<
br />   He was almost at the wall—where Jhessail was staring in horror at the lich, as its arms reached hungrily for her—when he caught up to the lich, planted his right foot, and used the staggering momentum he’d built up to swing around to face the lich and heave the hairy, snoring bulk in his arms right at the lich’s hands.

  The boar fell through them to the floor, crashing solidly down and awakening with an aggrieved and startled snort. In his wake he left tumbling pieces of bone. Magic rings bounced in all directions. Two splintered, broken-off pairs of forearm bones clattered to the floor.

  The glittering points of light that served the lich for eyes blazed up into flames of fury. It roared in anger and turned to confront Semoor.

  The Light of Lathander shrank back, just as terrified as Jhessail.

  Doust’s piglet, the sleeping Islif, hurled with all the grunting might the Jewel of Tymora could muster, smashed right into—and through—what was left of the lich’s face. The falling boar took the head off the lich’s shoulders. The skull struck the floor and exploded into bony, spraying shards. The reeling body was now topped by cracked, chipped shoulderblades and collar bones. As the two priests stared, one arm fell off.

  Doust and Semoor looked at each other, shrugged a little more happily this time, and sprinted past what was left of the lich to pluck up the last piglet.

  “Up, Pennae,” Semoor said, as they clawed the piglet up to their collective knees, staggered, and hefted it higher. “You make a most fetching boarlet—or whatever these beasts are properly called!”

  Trotting together this time, the two priests took careful aim at the lurching remnants of the lich, got the boar to almost the height of the skeleton’s ribcage—and gave a little heave before letting go.

  The third piglet crashed right through the lich, smashing the corpse’s pelvis and legs to ruin.

  With triumphant yells the two priests sprang in, beating at those bony shards with their maces, pulverizing bones down to grit and dust.

  “Holy water!” Semoor snapped, plucking at one of the precious belt vials he and Doust had been given by the Royal Court in the wake of the now-infamous reception for the lady envoy of Silverymoon.