Tsarra pushed herself away from the horrific sight, gasping for air and hitting the foot of the stairs at the same time. She heard Khelben in her head again.
He’s alive, unlike your father. See to it he stays that way, and don’t draw attention to yourself. The sharn is looking for you and that belt. Don’t send in return—I need to concentrate.
Tsarra had read about sharn but like most folk, had never seen one. Still, she resisted looking out from behind the table and focused on the task at hand. She undid a pouch on the back of her leather belt. Retrieving some yarrow and acacia leaves, she chewed them and used the moistened poultice to treat the worst burns on the man’s face. Along with a silent prayer to Fenmaril Mestarine, Tsarra thanked her mother for the skills she taught her in woodland herbs and their healing applications. If nothing else, the man’s breathing steadied and relaxed. Tsarra’s eyes fell on his hand and its ring, which bore the crest of Spellshire. This was Khelben’s friend the count, Gamalon Idogyr, and something had stolen the gem he used as his left eye!
Tsarra noticed a purple glow growing in the underside of the table that quickly became a spiral of winking lights. She reached inside herself and cast one of her most common spells to detect magic, though she perceived it by scent rather than sight. The growing spell carried the scent of apples, which she associated with translocational spells for some reason, but the scent was musty and stagnant, as if cast by something old or dead. It didn’t smell like any spells she’d sensed from allies, so she assumed the worst.
Tsarra brought a different spell to bear quickly. With a quiet murmured casting, she summoned to her mind’s eye an invisible dagger of magic around her right hand. She quickly slashed away the magical connections between the purple glow and the Weave, dispelling the magic. The magic ended, but to Tsarra it felt different than other spells she’d disrupted in the past.
Suddenly, two swarms of purple sparkles erupted around her, all swirling in faster patterns. Tsarra dispelled one of them but then turned to stare into an eyeless face. Its skin glistened an oily black, and its mouth moved as if it had no jaw beneath its sharp teeth. Saliva sprayed from its mouth as it roared at her, the sound reminding her of both a mountain lynx and a wounded hare at the same time.
“Khelben! It’s found us!” Tsarra yelled, falling onto her back to avoid the lunge the floating head made at her and to protect the fallen Count Idogyr.
She hooked her thumbs together and summoned up rage and magic. Red and orange flames shot out in a fan from her hands. The sharn’s head retreated through its purple portal, the energy still swirling around in mid-air. Before Tsarra could even think of dispelling the portal, a slimy black arm with three smaller arms attached to it thrust through at freakish speed, and its collective twelve fingers all lashed at her. Tsarra kicked at the nearest hand as she sent out another fan of flames. The sharn’s translucent black skin crackled and burst like a frog in a campfire. Still, the arm kept reaching for her, and some of its hands began casting a spell. His loud snarl preceding him, Nameless slammed into those upper hands, clawing and biting at them before any power was summoned.
Tsarra breathed easier and worked to dispel the purple portal. She could hear the sounds of battle in the background as well as Khelben’s deep monotonic spellcasting. The sharn arm stretched toward her, though some of its hands attacked the familiar. Tsarra slashed away in her mind’s eye, severing the magic’s ties to the Weave, and the portal snuffed itself out, only to be followed by a tremendous scream. The creature’s massive arm lay on the floor before Tsarra, severed when the portal snapped shut on it.
Tsarra stood up, her presence no longer a secret, and surveyed the scene. She stood not on Waterdeep’s streets but inside a wrecked tavern, its thatched roof almost entirely blown away and its edges smoldering. She saw at least eight bodies. Khelben stood a few paces away, his back to her. The Blackstaff was the only person within the room, the rest standing on the periphery where the tavern’s front wall used to be. Five local laborers or tavern patrons, and a dozen men in guards’ livery, fought to shore up the creaking second floor with a fallen support beam, before it collapsed upon them.
Tables and chairs were tossed every which way, as were some unconscious or dead patrons. Among the wreckage the sharn’s bulk hovered just above the floor and its skin stretched, as if other creatures pulsed inside its greasy amorphous flesh. Despite Tsarra’s luck, the sharn produced a second arm from its form to replace the severed one. It kept one arm busy stretching to grab up fallen weapons while the other worked to cast spells. Eyes appeared and disappeared everywhere on its body, though a few always remained trained on anything that moved. Once it spotted Tsarra, the spellcasting hands twisted toward her with a sick wet crunch.
Khelben was doing some rather long and intricate casting, his attentions wholly focused on the sharn, so Tsarra worked the counterspell against whatever the creature was casting. She smiled, as she had never cast it so quickly before. Once she’d stopped the sharn’s spell, Khelben completed his own, and Tsarra she felt it permeate the room and thicken the magic all around. The air crystallized slightly, and she sniffed the telltale smell of burnt rosehips and sulfur. She guessed that Khelben did something to affect teleporters in the area. She hadn’t mastered any transmutation spells, but at least she knew their signs.
“That should prevent any additional headaches for the moment.” Khelben chuckled, and Tsarra realized he was enjoying himself.
Amazing he’s lived this long, she thought as she threw off her cloak with one hand and pulled her bow off her back with the other.
Indeed. Khelben’s sending startled her. I’m glad you’re not one of those who gets ill from long-range teleports. The sharn is devilishly tough to affect without magical weapons.
And that’s why I’ve been turning my studies toward arcane archery. Tsarra pulled back on the bowstring and let an arrow fly, willing some of her sorcerous energies into the missile. It struck one of the eyes in the sharn’s central mass, but the creature morphed a mouth around the arrow and bit it to pieces.
“A fine shot, but you’ll run out of arrows before it runs out of patience, my dear,” Khelben said. “Get Gamalon away from harm before you dive in to attack, Tsarra, but don’t wander too far. Mind the danger of us straying too far apart. I’ll take care of this.” With that, Khelben turned his attentions to the sharn and began another long and complicated casting.
Tsarra still had many questions, but she stored them for later. She returned to Gamalon’s side and found his lone eye open and looking at her.
“Where is Mynda? Where is my wife?”
His voice was raspy, and he was in obvious pain. He tried to move to a sitting position, but his strength failed him and he fell unconscious again with a faltering groan.
Tsarra looked at the count and tears welled in her eyes. While Gamalon looked no older than his early fifties, his head wounds and body damage left him in no shape to cast spells or even move easily. Tsarra cast a spell she often used to bear the fruits of her hunts home, interlacing her fingers together into a cup to materialize a russet-tinged floating disk beneath the stunned mage. She willed the disk to move slowly out onto the lawn, pushing it a slight distance ahead of her.
The familiar flew a loop around her and its snarls and purrs told her a little more. “Firemarkedoldmage and house got hit by skylanceburningbright, like you and darkmage and sunnybrighteyesgone. We fight shiftshapemanysmelling thing, yes?”
Tsarra was glad the familiar was all right, but she shook her head. “No, we won’t. You stay with him, and keep him safe. Let me know if anything other than his guards try to get near him.”
“Wantfight, protect mistressfriend. Not afraid.”
The tressym’s loud yowls surprised the nearby men almost as much as when Tsarra meowed her response: “Staysafehere until weknowfoeweakness.” With that, she settled the disc and the count onto the grass, the tressym landing nearby with an angry rustle of his wings. Tsarra picked up her
bow and turned to see where she could help Khelben.
The sharn howled, “Thievess! Sssscentssss mark you … Take what is oursssss!” and threw an axe and a long sword in Tsarra’s direction.
“No!” Khelben yelled and leaped in front of the weapons, his arms glowing as if armored by magic.
The long sword glanced harmlessly off his left forearm and fell to the side. The axe, however, hit his right hand with a wet smack, and the Blackstaff grunted in pain.
“So messy. He’ll never cast that crushing grasp now, will he?” a woman’s voice sneered from empty air across the inn from Tsarra. “Needs both hands, given the way you humans cast it.”
“No, my dear, he can’t. Imagine—us lending a hand to the Blackstaff. Such a strange day,” a man’s voice erupted from the same area over by the fireplace, and a form took shape as the man’s arms waved in intricate spellcasting, dispelling his invisibility.
The lightly bearded man stood taller than Khelben by perhaps a handspan with long black hair pulled into a ponytail trailing halfway down his back. His face was tanned, but that was the only healthy thing about him. His form was scrawny rather than lean. Rings glittered at least two per hand, and a heavy gold pendant hung on his chest atop his amber-colored tunic, richly embroidered but fraying at the cuffs and sleeves. His leather breeches were well made but looked as if they’d been worn overlong.
With great speed, the sharn launched a chunk of ruined table at the man, but other arcane words filled the air. A blast of flames engulfed the wooden implement and the arms that held it. The trailing end of the fires led to the recently visible hands of an elf woman. She stood about Tsarra’s height and wore traveling clothes of dark blue and gray leathers and linens—not protective so much as practical. Her snow-blond hair, bound in multiple places by silver ties, nearly reached the floor and seemed white or gold, depending on how the light hit it.
Tsarra’s surprise at the arrival of two other wizards ended when Khelben shouted at her, “Stand away, girl!”
He turned around and spoke to the other two wizards, and the three of them created a triangle around the sharn. The man’s casting finally ended, and a hazy shimmer settled around the sharn, slowing down its movement to closer to normal speeds for a creature its size.
Khelben said, “Petrylloc’s Gambit, now!” and started casting.
The other two, after a moment, took to casting similar spells—or at least they sounded similar to Tsarra’s ears. She kept her bow ready but began a spell, happy she knew how to cast without movement. In her mind, she summoned magic and the sounds of a hummingbird’s wing and the twang of a bow. Four glowing green energy pulses leaped from her hands into four open mouths on the sharn. When the sharn howled, its speech slowed so it sounded like a wounded bear with a human voice. Tsarra and the assembled guards had their bows drawn, and the wizards were all occupied with their collective spellcasting. The sharn sprayed all of them with magical bolts. While the spell didn’t disrupt the wizards’ castings, Tsarra and eight others let arrows fly. Six of them hit the sharn, but only Tsarra’s ensorcelled arrow appeared to do any damage. Despite that, the volley kept the creature suitably occupied.
Tsarra saw twinkles of white and gray collect first into a wall of ice and followed by two walls of stone. All three perched precariously on the remnants of the upper floor just above the sharn. Their weight immediately crumpled the floor on which they rested, and all three fell atop the sharn. The creature’s speed still belied its bulk, and it managed to dodge the first wall, but the second wall pinned it in place. The third wall dropped on it, the ice broke into three large pieces, and the sharn died beneath it with a lowing cry and the sound of something heavy slapping onto thick mud.
“Honestly, Blackstaff. Couldn’t you be more direct in battle instead of spouting obscure references?” The man kept his eyes on Khelben but extended his hand to his lady, who placed her hand on his as they moved toward Khelben.
The Blackstaff replied, “If you hadn’t known it, I’d have been even more disappointed in you and your teachers than I have been in times past.”
Khelben kept his attentions focused at all times on the man and woman, though he grimaced while he pulled the axe free from his hand. His hands returned to his sides, and he left the wound alone. Tsarra flinched but stared with fascination as Khelben’s hand bled a bit, leaving a puddle of blood at his feet. Within moments, the wound closed, flickers of silver flame bubbling and burning at its edges.
Tsarra left Gamalon and her familiar behind her on the ground as she moved to Khelben’s side. She slung her bow over her shoulder and placed her other hand pointedly on the pommel of her scimitar. Silently, Khelben sent to Tsarra a request to keep an eye on them a moment, please.
The wizard turned his back on the wizardly pair and approached the guard captain. “Captain Grellig, we shall have to track and capture those responsible for this on the morrow. Tonight, I’m afraid there’s naught left for you and your men to do but prepare graves for the unfortunates. Major Jharna, I shall need your assistance.”
The major approached and muttered, “I don’t like the smell of this, Lord Arunsun. It’s the curse for certain.”
Khelben said, “Healthy skepticism is good, Major, but superstitions carry their own powers whether we like it or not. Pray, do not speak of curses until your lord is safe. Your troops can return to the city with Grellig’s Guard contingent in two days, but I need you to act more quickly for me.” Khelben pulled a ring from his belt pouch. “Use this, and it will take you and Count Idogyr directly to my tower, where he can get help. Tell Laeral to prepare Nine Silvers for the Legacy’s rise. Give her that ring, repair to his excellency’s rented villa, and refrain speaking of this to anyone outside my tower, please.”
“Right away, sir.” Major Jharna walked over to the nine Tethyrian guards and servants who surrounded their count. He put the ring on his right hand, grasped Gamalon’s left hand, and twisted the ring’s gem to teleport away. Khelben returned to Tsarra’s side and faced their impromptu allies.
It bothered Tsarra that she didn’t know who she faced. Something about the elf woman reminded her of a vague half-memory from her youth in Ardeep. Perhaps Tsarra had gazed too intently at her, because the elf woman stared back. There was haughtiness and regal bearing in her face, followed by some amusement and flickers of shock and disappointment.
“You give kiira to half-breeds, Blackstaff? Either you like risking their sanity or you simply wish to insult tel’quessir. To add further insult, she’s not even a true wizard!”
Khelben spread his right arm in Tsarra’s path as she surged forward, his palm still bearing a smoldering, angry wound. She wants you to take her bait to see what you’ll do. Don’t give her the satisfaction.
“Is our truce at an end so soon, Blackstaff? You surely don’t intend to leave us to the mercies of an insulted child? However shall we prevail against such a foe?” The man’s smile reminded Tsarra of an overbold weasel.
Speaking in Elvish, Khelben said, “Neither. Your business here is with me and my pupil, who deserves only the blessings and none of the burdens of such elven gifts. Tonight has proven more troublesome than expected. I thank you for your help, but hold from insulting each other in the interests of our tasks at hand.”
“My Elvish is a tad rusty, but I understood enough. Our agreement stands as discussed, despite the altered circumstances, provided you intend to honor it. You have our word to meet two days’ hence at Malavar’s Grasp.”
To Tsarra, it seemed the man either had the greatest confidence in the Realms or he was a fool to talk down to Khelben.
Actually neither, Tsarra, Khelben sent to her. Our helpmates here are formerly of the Zhentarim outpost of Darkhold, the mages Ashemmi and Sememmon.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
29 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms
(1374 DR)
It took Raegar nearly an hour to work his way up the path to Stagsmere. The night was murky, clouds having covered
up the moon. Because of that, he’d missed the moss-covered and ruined Stagstone the first time he passed it, taking it to be the corner of a fallen stone cottage. Raegar scraped off enough moss to identify the sculpture as a stag’s head, once he realized its antlers had long since worn away from weather or vandals. He turned his horse north up a long-unused trail that required him to dismount in places to slash away heavy undergrowth.
The moon broke through the clouds as Raegar approached the manor. Like its marker stone, Stagsmere had seen better days. The central manor stood three stories tall, off of which sprang two two-story wings on east and west. The entire front corner and much of that part of the western wing’s second story had collapsed into a pile of rubble. Raegar couldn’t gauge the color of stone in the moonlight, but it was lighter overall, with dark stone forming surrounding porches, jutting balconies, and random details and decorations. On the battlements atop the roof’s edge, Raegar noted that a stone stag reared at each corner save the fallen one. The manor house was grand, and its architecture reminded Raegar of some of the older buildings in North Ward, especially the Brossfeather villa off Simmikan Court. He’d have to check that stone shield over the main door, but he suspected he might find the same Brossfeather coat of arms there as well.
Raegar, long used to the sounds of a city at night, listened intently to the clamor around him. Even with winter coming on, many animals croaked, cried, trilled, or howled on the night air, and the rogue could hear other creatures scuttling away in the tall grass, reeds, and underbrush around him. Still, he was glad not to worry about how much noise the mare made in her approach. As he came within a hail’s distance of the manor house, he heard shrill, unearthly screams and the sounds of spells in play. While the bulk of Stagsmere remained dark, lights crackled and flashed blue and gold in the eastern wing of the manor around the back.
Raegar urged the mare into a gallop along a gravel path leading around the building. The ground was unsteady on the long untended path, slowing his horse. Raegar drew the Diamondblade with his left hand and was glad to see it wasn’t sparking for a change. For that, at least, he let out a sigh of relief as he readied himself for another battle. From the scabbard on his right leg, he pulled his second short sword, a nonmagical one but still a weapon, and he wanted every weapon he had ready. He listened as Damlath shouted out his spells and heard the roar of flames or the crackle of lightning bolts. What Raegar realized he didn’t hear was Damlath’s laughter—the wizard always cackled with glee between his spells, and Raegar hadn’t heard him do that for tendays.
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