Blackstaff

by Steven E. Schend

  CHOSEN OF MYSTRA

  ARCHMAGE OF WATERDEEP

  MASTER OF BLACKSTAFF TOWER

  KHELBEN

  Dwell not on your past, child. Gain the knowledge to serve us over centuries.

  Unto you we impart three truths, seven secrets, nine soulnames, and thirteen omens.

  The thief’s attention returned overhead when Kemarn began casting a spell. From his robes, he drew a red, fist-sized globe, which glowed for a moment then blinked from existence. The tower’s young defenders yelled. A red haze grew around the shattered gate and the two figures there. Raegar shuddered at the writhing mists filled with teeth, eyes, and grasping claws—a nishruu. The halfling used his wand quickly, but its purplish ray melted into the nishruu’s growing scarlet mists, its claws and teeth happily pulling the magic apart and into itself. The eater-of-magic engulfed Khelben and his apprentice, swiftly wrenching magic and life from them. The stunned archmage grunted, and his young aide screamed in pain under the assault, as the monster ripped magic from their minds and bodies.

  IMMORTAL?

  THE WIZARDS

  Blackstaff

  Steven Schend

  Bloodwalk

  James P. Davis

  Darkvision

  Bruce R. Cordell

  Frostfell

  Mark Sehestedt

  BLACKSTAFF

  The Wizards

  ©2006 Wizards of the Coast, LLC.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  FORGOTTEN REALMS, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Duane O. Myers

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6420-8

  640A2932000001 EN

  For customer service, contact:

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  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  TO MY PARENTS, RICHARD AND LINDA,

  for making me the author they always knew I’d be, even when I didn’t believe it myself.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As it is in the Realms, no one person or work stands alone without dozens of connections to other people and other stories.

  Many thanks go out to those who helped pave the path to this novel. The foundations are built on the works of L. Frank Baum, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Robert E. Howard, Stan Lee, and Jack Kirby. I’d not have finished this book without the moral support of Eric Boyd, George Krashos, Bryon Wischstadt, and “the guys in the Shire.”

  Still, my greatest appreciation is saved for my editors, Phil Athans and Peter Archer (thanks for your keen editorial eyes and hands on this, as well as taking the gamble on my first novel), and my mentors, Jeff Grubb and Ed Greenwood (thanks for bringing me into the Realms and sharing your knowledge and your friendship).

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books in the Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  Feast of the Moon, the Year of True Names

  (464 DR)

  “Get back here, you malevolent windbag!”

  The wizard was dark in demeanor, garb, and action. He snarled out an incantation, and his arms erupted with orange energy.

  His colossal spell-arms seized the creature by its tail and yanked it hard away from its prey—a wide-eyed elf child. The mage then whipped his arms downward as if he were swinging a hammer. The green creature in his spell’s grasp smacked against an outcrop of rock, popping many eyes along its length with each impact. The wizard could tell the phaerimm was in pain and angry by the high-pitched wind whistling around it, and he repeated his actions to disrupt any spells it tried to cast. He felt the creature collapse and stop its struggles, its body broken with bones jutting out through its sickly green skin.

  The man kept his focus on his spell but yelled to be heard over the wind, “Child, come here!”

  The small elf girl only shook with terror, unaware she was safe for the moment.

  He visualized his hands wringing the creature out like a dishrag, and a harsh whistle on the winds were the phaerimm’s final screams.

  Phaerimm, to him, were the ugliest creatures ever to hover over the lands of Faerûn, their strange conical forms ending around an ovoid head filled with barbed teeth and surrounded by four angular arms. Their tails ended in a poisonous barb, and they flew at all times unless prevented from doing so. The ugly creatures were usually imprisoned beneath the desert they formed with their malicious spells. Apparently, some had either found their way free or came from elsewhere, hoping to free more of their own.

  The black-clad wizard grabbed the amulet around his neck. He ran toward the tiny child, but spoke low into the amulet. “Take this child to her mother and protect them both. Follow the elf woman’s directions, if in doubt.”

  A short distance away, a massive figure made of steel and wood turned its head with a shriek of straining metal and began running. Its massive limbs and body seemed to ignore the problems of running in sand as it thundered forward. By the time the shield guardian had reached them, the wizard had scooped up the shivering child whose eyes saw nothing but her fears. He ignored the dimpled chin and steel-blue eyes they shared.

  With one free hand, the mage cast a short spell and whispered to her, “Your fears are over, little girl. Find your courage, and know that our father and
I will keep these monsters at bay. Now, let my servant bear you home, tiny Phaerl.”

  The girl blinked at the sound of her name, and her face filled with color again.

  She asked, “Osu?” The young girl reached in relief to touch his full beard but reared back as she noticed his rounded ear. “Ru n’tel’quess! N’osu!”

  “Aye, d’nys, I am no elf, but we share fathers, you and I.” His waist-length black hair whipping around them both like a creature alive, the human mage untangled his amulet’s chain and looped it around her small neck twice to ensure it would remain in place. “I hope to get to know you soon, but he and I need to stop these phaerimm. Now, this aegiskeryn will carry you and keep your family safe. Get home, and we shall follow when we can!” Despite the child’s clinging to his robes, he placed her in the cradling arm of his shield guardian and yelled, “Go!”

  The twelve-foot-tall construct stood, and the child gasped to find herself seven feet in the air and swiftly moving away.

  The wizard turned and surveyed the battlefield once more, sweeping his long hair from his face yet again and cursing the blowing sand. The phaerimm he had slammed against the rocks remained there, dead. Despite the blowing dust, the setting sun illuminated the surroundings well. Another phaerimm lay dead on the field. A short distance to the east, three more phaerimm hovered around or near a humanoid that stood atop a low sand dune. The man held an axe in one hand, his other hand glowing with arcane energy. At his side, a dire wolf shimmered into existence between him and his foes.

  “He uses Mother’s axe,” the human wizard muttered.

  Nightmarish portents had led the man up from the lush forests to the south. His trust in his goddess led him into the wastes of the Sword of Anauroch. His dreams the past three nights were of teeth, green magic, and his father’s aged face. The wizard had planned for battle. What he had not planned for was finding Arun leading a family of elves across the wastes to some western destination. The wizard faced many challenges, but he was not ready to face his father, the man who looked, pointed ears aside, like his twin brother.

  What name his half-elf father bore then, the dark-clad human knew not. He only knew that it was definitely Arun Maerdrym of Myth Drannor—the Lupinaxe confirmed that. The wizard had only seen his father nine times since his seventh birthday, and each time together they had less to say to each other. He wondered if they would ever get another chance to speak, as the phaerimm engaged Arun and his dire wolf. The black-maned wizard winced as one phaerimm blasted Arun with boulders of steaming ice. He heard the half-elf mage scream in pain, and that moved the younger man into battle.

  Slightly to the west, a cluster of figures fled into the wastes. The wizard put himself in harm’s way to buy Arun’s new wife and children time to escape with his shield guardian. He tightened his grip on his intricately carved gray ash staff and laughed mirthlessly. It looked as if Arun had yet to notice who he was, other than to acknowledge a much-needed helping hand.

  One of the three phaerimm floated toward him, its flight unhindered by the whipping winds. The wizard swept his arm in a wide arc, umber crackles trailing his sleeve. The dune rose and became a wave of sand that engulfed the phaerimm. While the magic animating the sand ended on contact with the phaerimm’s aura, the weight of it still buried the creative. The mage then engulfed the mound with balls of fire and bolts of lightning from his staff, turning the sand to raw, heavy glass. Despite its glass cage, the creature cast a wave of ice daggers … toward the empty air where the man had stood.

  The wizard popped back from his subdimensional jaunt right next to the other man. “Hello, Father,” he said flatly to the man at his side, as he unleashed a barrage of magical bolts at their foe. The ocean-colored bursts melted against the phaerimm’s magical resistance. The taller man threw his axe at the creature, its head emitting a wolf’s howl as the blade sliced into its target. A breath after contact, the axe disappeared before the phaerimm could grab it, reappearing in its master’s hand.

  “Calarel saw a reunion written in the stars today,” the man said and grunted as he threw the axe again. “What are you doing here, son?”

  The human wizard answered him by sweeping his staff behind Arun’s knees as he threw himself backward as well. Both men fell down the descending slope of a sand dune, as a slash of razors whipped through the space where they previously stood. The half-elf screamed as he rolled. Both men coughed as sand threatened to flood their mouths, eyes, and noses.

  Rolling backward to a kneeling position, Arun’s son asked, “Any spells left?”

  Arun rolled to his right, coughing up sand as he crouched and cradled his left arm. “Very few that will do much good, like walls for temporary shelters. Most of my spells sped us across the desert and protected us from the elements. Besides, it takes longer to cast with only one hand.” Arun turned, revealing his blood-covered left forearm, its bones obviously broken.

  “Use Petrylloc’s Gambit!” the human yelled.

  The half-elf looked confused, but he started casting after his son began his own spell. The largest phaerimm loomed over the top of the sand dune. Its toothy maw and strange elongated arms lashed out at them, trying physical attacks for a change over its spells.

  The human wizard watched his spell take effect, the outline of an iron wall appearing beside and behind the creature. The massive wall fell onto the monster’s midsection with a wet crunch, the phaerimm screaming its airy whistle. Arun, for his part, cast a spell on his axe, picked it up, and threw the weapon into the throat of the phaerimm as it screamed. He dived to one side and covered his head. A breath later, the phaerimm exploded, fire shooting out of its mouth then rupturing its entire form.

  The human asked, “Why didn’t you cast your wall spell to fall on it?”

  “Because I had no idea what you said, son,” Arun sighed as his soot- and gore-stained axe returned to his hand in a shimmer of magic. “You forget—not everyone had your teachers. You need to—watch out!”

  Arun’s son turned, too late. The phaerimm he assumed was trapped in glass had floated silently behind them, and all the wizard’s spell mantles failed. The phaerimm’s barb gored through his defenses, lodging its poisonous stinger into his lower back. Within a breath, he felt his entire body go numb and float up off the sands. He bobbed helplessly in the air as the phaerimm grabbed his torso and his left arm, then yanked hard. The man screamed as his shoulder ripped out of place. He didn’t feel bones snap, but his left arm hung limp and useless.

  Arun picked up his son’s fallen staff, and howled a command word: “Arkatid!” The phaerimm disappeared for a moment beneath a blast of white. When the effect ended, an icy sheen coated the phaerimm. Arun barked out: “Suralam!” and a massive energy axe head formed on the staff. He swung this down, and the axe leeched into the phaerimm’s form and utterly disintegrated its body.

  “Thank the gods you still have the Duskstaff of Sarael, son!” Arun reached up and grabbed his son’s belt to pull him closer. He said, “Ruthais,” and a sphere of translucent energy appeared around them. The two men floated within the sphere as it rolled down the eastern side of the dune and away from the last phaerimm. Both Arun and his son were happy to draw the phaerimm even farther away from the fleeing elves. “Why didn’t you use the wrack-blade before?”

  The man was still floating in mid-air, but he was starting to move his head and his unbroken arm. “… too few charges … too many foes …” His eyes widened with fear as he looked over his father’s shoulder.

  Outside their shimmering sphere stood a man in a heavy black leather cloak, every inch of his skin hidden from the sun’s touch. The man noticed them as their globe settled into the soft sand no more than ten paces away from him. His spells still smoked in the sands beside him, and headless bodies littered the ground surrounding the crater, an oily smoke flowing from them into the pit. The black-cloaked one locked eyes with the floating mage, and his smile flashed his fangs.

  Both Arun and son whispered, “Palron
Kaeth,” and they paled with fury, pain, and fear.

  From the crater the man had just blasted rose three more phaerimm, all much larger than those they had previously fought.

  “How fortuitous,” the vampire laughed, his voice sounding tinny to them through the sphere, “that the son and the father should be sacrifices to my plans just as their precious mother and wife was decades ago. Your blood ought to allow us to shatter the Sharnwall completely … assuming I don’t get too thirsty. Still, I suppose I could feed on your pitiful relations, eh, Gohlkiir of Cormanthor? Or should I continue culling the ranks of your Harpers in Twilight?” His hand gestured toward the headless bodies behind him.

  “We shall ever stand against you and your corrupt Prefects, Kaeth!” Arun howled at him.

  The vampire laughed and mocked, “At least your son learned composure from his mother. You could learn something from his reserved nature, Arun.”

  The setting sun no longer between the dunes, the vampire threw back his hood, exposing his bald head and black sigils tattooed on his cheek and neck. He turned to the phaerimm rising from the pit and spoke the strange whispering winds of the creatures’ speech. The last survivor floated down into the steep dell, and the four phaerimm took positions surrounding the sphere.

  Arun gripped his staff tightly and leveled its head toward Palron Kaeth, but his son put his hand on his shoulder. “No, Father.” He touched the staff, said: “Erarla,” and the sphere darkened to black, preventing either set of foes a view of the other. Inside the sphere, runes along the staff glowed blue, providing the pair some light. The Nameless One asked, “Any teleports left in you, Father? I’m out.”

  “No. Use the staff to get yourself to safety. Inform our friends of the threat.”

  “No, Father. We’re down to one option and you know it. There’s only one way to make him pay for murdering Mother and those Harpers … and it should prevent these other problems from spreading as well. Unfortunately, each of us lacks the two arms to do it.”