Blackstaff

by Steven E. Schend

  Cursing at the dust, Raegar blinked his eyes clear again. He saw Gamalon holding the staff firmly on the floor, a silvery dome overhead providing cover. Syndra smiled at him as well, and said, “Oh, c’mon One-Eye. Let’s have the real view. Neither of us gets out of Waterdeep enough.”

  Gamalon’s voice sounded far away when he replied, “Of course.”

  The silvery dome overhead shimmered and became perfectly clear—and lightning bolts crackled and boomed all around them. The sky was filled with nothing but gray fog and lightning.

  Raegar threw himself down on the floor as he saw a lightning bolt crackling directly toward them. He yelled, “Duck!”

  After a few breaths, he opened his eyes to stare directly into the tressym’s face. Nameless rolled his eyes upward and seemed to chuckle.

  “Good reflexes on that one,” Syndra giggled. “Pity he’s just gotten himself dirty. Can I take him down and shower him off?”

  “Sorry, Raegar. We should be through this … just … about … now,” Gamalon said, and Raegar sat up to see the clouds part and the sky above fill with more stars than he’d ever seen in his life. He rose and moved to where Gamalon stood, not taking his eyes off the stars all around them.

  Syndra chortled. “I’m not easily impressed, but this is one great view, Idogyr.”

  “You’ve—er,” Raegar stammered, and both the tressym and Syndra sighed, while Gamalon smiled.

  Raegar shook his head, almost in total disbelief. He’d seen a lot of strange things while he worked with Damlath … but this … “We’re flying a stone tower?”

  “No, you’re riding in one, son,” Gamalon joked. “I’m flying it.”

  “But—how? Why?” Raegar noticed the clouds retreating away from them. He couldn’t tell how fast they were going as he had nothing to look at for comparison. “Why?”

  “The how is the magic in my staff and myself that allow me to … well, I won’t bore you with those details. The why is simply speed and expedience. We need to get to the High Moor as quickly as we can, and none of us could teleport there. I’m just taking us up toward the Tears then back down atop the High Moor. We should be able to easily spot Frostrune’s lightning pyramid to pinpoint him.”

  Raegar leaned against one of the walls, staring out and down at the Realms. “I’m in a stone tower flying high over the weather … how are we still breathing air?”

  “Air travels with us, though if we had planned a longer trip, we’d need something to replace the air we breathe. This is just a short jaunt.”

  Raegar started asking another question when he noticed the skies above Gamalon. “The Tears of Selûne … they’re just huge rocks? That’s disappointing. All these years, I rather liked the legend that they’re massive gems or dragons’ eggs.”

  “Aye,” Syndra commisserated. “I was let down too the first time I saw them. But look behind you.”

  Raegar turned, looked back at the Realms, and gasped. They were high enough up that the curve of the planet was now visible. He whispered to himself, “They always said, but it was so hard to believe. The world isn’t flat after all.”

  Even with Syndra’s ribbing and ribald jokes, he remained quiet for a long time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Feast of the Moon, the Year of

  Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

  Hours later, they were no longer climbing, and Raegar watched the Realms far beneath them. The entire Sword Coast and much of the interior was shrouded in storm clouds. When he thumbed in the clouds’ direction and started to say something, Gamalon replied with an annoyed grunt of exasperation.

  “No, we can’t see, because those magical lightning bolts appear to have created a massive stormfront that’s engulfed a lot of Faerûn with lightning storms like we saw in Waterdeep.” Gamalon sighed, furrowing his brow, and said, “One of the main reasons I took this route was to minimize the delays of flying through bad weather, but now I’m trying to find the shortest way to our foe through the storms.”

  Raegar’s curiousity got the better of him. “Well, Khelben mentioned Malavar’s Grasp a few times. If you know where that is, head for it. I’ve never heard of it, but then I avoided the High Moor for reasons most sane folk do as well. You know what it’s all about?”

  As soon as he asked, Raegar regretted it. He was still in way over his head in wizardly intrigues, and everyone else—even the tressym—seemed to know more about what was going on than he did. Unfortunately, Gamalon had a far-away look in his eye, something Raegar recognized from far too many Oghman clerics about to lecture him. Despite Raegar being on his blind side, Gamalon looked over at him and laughed.

  “Don’t worry, boy! My stories aren’t nearly as long as Oghma’s services.”

  Gamalon concentrated a moment, and Raegar felt the tower shift slightly and start to descend. The wizard began talking again.

  “Khelben has woven so many lies around this gambit, even I have a hard time keeping track of it all. I say this as a ‘renowned historian’ myself. Malavar’s Hand, down on the High Moor, is a false legend—a cautionary tale told to wizards who seek to abuse magic. Different places have different versions, but in most tales, Malavar sought to wield the might of the great sorcerous powers of the past, be they the Shoon, the Netherese, the Imaskari, or even older powers like the Ilythiiri. For his hubris, his spells to make himself a colossus failed, and his twisted body fell through the crust of the High Moor under its massive weight. All that remains above ground are the fingertips of his right hand, and these stand as tall stone menhirs on a blasted plain west of Highstar Lake.”

  Gamalon cleared his throat and continued, “I don’t know which legends Priamon has read, but given his obsessions over the Shoon, I’ll assume he’s followed three or four more accessible historical texts. There are three Malavars who are real people in historical records. The most recent is an insignificant tradesman of Athalantar and another was a notorious pirate, slaver, and early member of the Rundeen. The eldest Malavar is the one allegedly buried in the High Moor. A second-generation Asrami, Malavar of the Three Hands, was a sorcerer who fled Asram about forty years before the Standing Stone rose among the Dales. He arrived in Tethyr in time to become a key vizar for the Shoon Qysar Amahl Shoon III.”

  Raegar snorted and said, “Malavar of the Three Hands? Did a barmaid give him that name, or is it a tale that’s going to reinforce my belief that wizards are all as well-balanced as a fomorian on ice?”

  Gamalon laughed and continued, “Malavar gained his third hand by slaying Akhir, the second son of Amahl III, who tried to assassinate his father and become the second Shoon emperor. The boy had sorcerous powers, rather than the typical wizardry, and Malavar made a decades-long study of his corpse and his confiscated books on magic. Amahl’s third son rose to power as Shoon I by the time Malavar crafted the mummified Hand of Akhir into a powerful relic. Accurate accounts as to the hand’s full powers have been lost for centuries. All we know for certain is that the Hand of Akhir allowed Malavar to remain a power in the court of the Shoon for more than fifty years and remain young well past three times that many winters.”

  “This Malavar wore a mummified hand?” Raegar laughed, “How do you people think these things up? If I want something powerful, I’ll go track down a nice clean magical sword, thanks.”

  “Don’t mock, boy,” Gamalon said. “There is more power in the severed hand of a sorcerer than in some countries, strange as it may seem. I could tell you of a hand down in Chult that, should you light candles upon its fingertips, bends tomorrow into yesterday. But I digress. Here is the truth—Malavar existed, along with Akhir’s Hand, and they were both powerful, but not powerful enough to stand against two whole clans of wizards. He was exiled from Shoon lands in the Year of the Moor Birds. For two years, he then was chased all across the Sword Coast by dozens of mercenary wizards hoping to even old scores or claim even a piece of his powers.

  “He finally made his stand at Highstar Lake against five archmages. Depe
nding on which sources you read, Malavar attempted magic unseen in centuries and lost control of it. He and most of his foes perished and were buried in the High Moor’s blasted crust. All that remained to mark the battle were the five curved stone slabs that Maildak of Westgate first coined as Malavar’s Grasp in Things I Believe and Have Seen over seven centuries ago.”

  “So what’s the truth? What was this fellow after, and does it tell us what Frostrune’s looking for?” Raegar asked.

  “Thanks to Khelben and his friends—myself included—there are more than fourteen different accounts as to exactly what Malavar was doing and how he died, as well as twice the number of references and legends that reinforce each one.” Gamalon chuckled. “At this point, it’s likely only Oghma, Mystra, and Malavar himself know the truth. Khelben would try to hoodwink you into believing he’s got all the knowledge. Most of it, true, but just enough is missing that he can be blindsided.”

  “Wait a breath—you’re telling me wizards have made up false accounts and passed them off to us as history?” Raegar rose and paced angrily. “Bad enough to hide secrets for themselves, but to actively confuse and distract honest historians from—”

  “Oh, ye’d think someone told ye Leira had mists in her shift, the way ye’re goin’ on.” Syndra became visible again as she rose through the stone floor. “Of course there’s false histories out there. If ye actually believe there’s only one or two sides to any story, ye’ve not been payin’ attention, lad. Now, I agree that some of Khelben’s more creative ‘histories’ may have done as much harm as good, but the truth is still the truth, and for those who need to learn it, they do, despite any obfuscatin’.”

  “But … well …” Raegar sputtered. He caught himself and took a deep breath. “All right. Setting that aside for now, haven’t his secrets and changed histories brought a lot of danger down on folks? If he hadn’t hidden so many secrets in so many lies, wouldn’t your wife still be alive? Or you?”

  Gamalon and Syndra both paled then turned scarlet with anger. While Gamalon kept a white-knuckled grip on his staff, Syndra’s hand began to crackle … until Nameless flew up among them and snarled loudly. Raegar took a step back, hands up, and whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” The quartet remained deathly quiet for a few moments, as they drew closer to the clouds over Faerûn.

  Gamalon cleared his throat and said softly, “Regrets and sorrows are for another time. Know this, young scholar-thief. Had such secrets not been buried—a mystery inside an enigma inside a puzzle—they would have been uncovered centuries before the Realms was ready for them. ‘Mystery cloaks the walk of the Lady, for in her wake are secrets to be earned, not granted.’ ”

  “Spare us the sermon, temple-goer,” Syndra growled. “Listen up, boy. I paid for this with my life more than a century ago. I was angry. I was bitter. I was dead. I hated Khelben for more years than ye’ve been alive, and here I am workin’ his will and hers. Why? Surprise! Mystra’ll have her sacrifices, just like any other bloody god. And no matter what the cost, the ultimate goal that’s hidden for so long makes it worth it for everyone.”

  Raegar stomped around the open room. “Then what’s the goal, if it’s worth setting fire to Waterdeep and killing innocent people and covering the land with lightning storms?”

  “Magic and unity,” Syndra whispered. “Magic untouched in millennia to stave off the darkness growin’ all around us. For once, it will be magic for many races, not just elves or humans. Isn’t that a goal worth any cost?”

  “No,” Gamalon croaked, “but the Lady of Mysteries deemed it so, and my faith demands I accept until I too believe it.”

  “I just want to know why Damlath had to die,” Raegar said. “Why, if Khelben knew about the power of those items, didn’t he hold them all himself? Or better yet, if it’s to bring some great magic to life, why didn’t he do so before the Godsfall and save Mystra herself and so many others who died then?”

  “Boy, ye’re asking the right questions. Gods know, I’ve asked them of him too.” Syndra sighed and continued, “What ye find is that Khelben’s never parted with secrets until he’s forced to. I respect that, if only because I don’t want his responsibilities. After all, half the reasons the man’s so exasperatin’ is because he’s workin’ angles that take centuries to complete. The other reasons involve visions from Mystra herself, and she can be a vague bitch sometimes …”

  “Blasphemer!” Gamalon barked, then turned his head up with his eyes closed in prayer. “We walk beneath your stars and eyes, accepting in your wisdom, Lady. Forgive those who sully the Path.” Gamalon halted the progress of the tower, and calmed himself. “I take my faith seriously. I take my studies and my work equally so. All you need to know is that all things have happened as they needed to—to give us all the motivation and drive to do what we must.”

  Syndra stalked away, the rod and the bracer swinging wildly to express her frustrations.

  Raegar said, “Well, I have to live with my part in your wife’s death and I can never apologize enough for it. I never harmed anyone who didn’t deserve it, and that’s one of many reasons I need to see that lich in the ground.”

  “I’ve prayed, and I’ve cast spells to understand everything that happened that night, Raegar. Mystra herself forgives you, and I forgive you. If not for your actions, everyone in that inn would have died, rather than the five who did.”

  The silence on the tower was interrupted by the booming thunder in the clouds below. No one said a thing as they moved closer and closer to thunderheads that loomed higher than any others.

  “Of course,” Raegar muttered aloud. “The most lightning bolts—with that pyramid of his—would have the greatest storms over head.”

  “The magic we’re fighting toward, Raegar? And how Priamon seemingly amassed power so easily?” Gamalon said. “We needed him too. I hardly believe Priamon knows the truth behind Malavar; he simply wants to claim the Hand of Akhir or other relics to conquer the cabal of liches of which he is a part. Priamon thinks to use the lightning to awaken Malavar, but he awakens a vastly older magic. Malavar’s Grasp is not the petrified remains of a Shoon wizard. So, Priamon is doomed to fail in his quest.”

  “Well, what is it then? It’s obviously important and dangerous, or else Khelben wouldn’t be pulling together all those high-powered wizards.” Raegar paced around Gamalon, his feet matching the pace of his thoughts. “What sort of magic are you facing?”

  “Heard of killin’ storms, kid?” Syndra materialized directly in front of him, and Raegar stumbled right through her. A wave of cold passed through him, and he shivered while Syndra snickered.

  “They’re impossible. Those were lost when the High Moor was formed, weren’t they?”

  “No,” Gamalon said, “despite many efforts. Every few centuries, someone cobbles together a similar magic that’s not quite the same, but enough that elf assassins find and destroy mage and magic.”

  “Wait a minute—are you telling me these are killing storms?” Raegar recoiled from the wall.

  “No again.” Gamalon sighed, his face looking exhausted. “The lightning storms fulfill Alaundo’s predictions for the year, but they’re only a byproduct of Priamon’s collection of artifacts. When he brings the pyramid into proximity with the five menhirs, that will accumulate enough power to release and reactivate the killing storm magic that was trapped in the land more than twelve millennia ago. That is why Khelben manipulated him into this.”

  “So it’s a good thing that the lich can unleash a true killing storm? I don’t believe you—”

  “I’m not finished, boy. The killing storm is a magic so ancient, that the only way to undo its effects is to let it loose and change its magic with a group casting. There are mysteries tied to the killing storm that only get answered when it is unleashed again and tamed at long last. We have assembled the forces for the past twelve millennia and the time to see it through is tonight.”

  The full moon glowed brightly, and a solid beam of moonlig
ht arced beneath them, parting the clouds and lighting a path ahead.

  “There is our sign, thanks be to the Moonbow,” said Gamalon. “Five gods have watched and waited—both ours and three more. All we need to do now is let Priamon do his part before we take our revenge.”

  With that, Gamalon urged the tower into motion, and the shattered Eightower slipped into the stormy clouds. Raegar gritted his teeth and reached up to scratch Nameless behind the ears.

  He whispered, “I hope your mistress is doing better than we are.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Feast of the Moon, the Year of

  Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

  Tsarra found it odd that she was smiling as she faced the shimmering wall of black sharnforms.

  Before I forget, Khelben, that face you made at Priamon was priceless, Tsarra sent to Khelben as he slipped beneath the surface of the sharn.

  It wasn’t too much? Laeral accuses me of being a ham at times.

  It was a little over the top, but he took the bait. As long as he keeps moving in the direction we need him to go.…

  Indeed. You’ve learned more than I realized in your short time with us. Now, step forward and learn more about magic than you previously dreamed. We shall need this insight with the sharn for what we do next.

  Tsarra looked back once at Nameless and Raegar, and she yearned to stay. Still, what she knew moved her forward. She smiled at them, turned, and stepped forward into infinity.

  Tsarra’s first impression was that it felt equally like slipping into an overly warm bath, the empathic embrace of her familiar’s bond, and the chaotic stomach-tumble of falling in love. She felt herself move around, willing her arms and legs to move, but she also sensed that they had temporarily ceased to exist. She felt the air moving around her, but it was and wasn’t her skin across which the breeze flowed. In fact, she felt as if clothes no longer impeded the breeze. She sniffed, and her usually sharp senses could not isolate scents beyond the strongest—wood smoke, cinammon, and the bitter coppery smell of spilled blood.