by Ed Greenwood
Elminster shrugged. “Move around behind it, perhaps. After we’ve disarmed and trammeled this one a bit to stop him moving, and taken what we can from the others.”
“Yes,” Sharantyr said. “Of course.” Her voice was grim. Elminster reached out a long arm to touch her shoulder.
“Is killing hard for ye?” he asked quietly.
“No,” Sharantyr replied as softly, her eyes meeting his. “Not anymore. That bothers me, sometimes.”
Elminster nodded. “So long as it bothers ye, ’tis well. When it does not, the problems begin. I’ll draw the fangs of the living one, if ye’ll rob the dead ones. Age hath its privileges, and choosing the nobler task is one.”
She raised a dark eyebrow. “What? Elminster of Shadowdale choosing the nobler task? Are my ears ensorcelled?”
Elminster sighed. “Mockery,” he observed heavily, “seems the paramount privilege of youth.”
“Youth?” Sharantyr dimpled, and raised a hand to her hair coquettishly. “Why, thank you.”
Elminster snorted. “Get on with it, lass. I’d like to speak to this one while he yet lives. I think the mage recognized me before he died.”
“Which means?”
“Old foes. The Zhentarim, almost certainty.” The Old Mage heard his battle companion hiss, raised his eyebrows, and continued. “Others, too, perhaps. And with me not at my best.”
Sharantyr laid a hand on his arm. “We make a good team, Old Mage. Worry not.”
Elminster rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to reply. Then he stiffened and his face changed.
Sharantyr’s blade rose. “Elminster? Wha—magic? Attacking you?”
The Old Mage waved his hands in a weak negative. His face was paler than it had been, and he sighed heavily.
“Glad I am, lass, that we were through with that”—he pointed at the bodies around—“ere this befell.”
“What is it? Are you well?”
Elminster nodded a little wearily. Sharantyr saw that his forehead was wet with sweat.
“Some power has left me. Azuth or Mystra or her successor … calling on it. Not a hostile thing, but disconcerting all the same.” He looked up. “Well? Have ye turned out the boots and purses of the departed yet?”
Sharantyr grimaced. “Old Mage,” she added very quietly, “there are things I must know first.”
Elminster rolled his eyes again. “There always are,” he agreed pleasantly, and waited.
Sharantyr made another face. “Elminster,” she said, pointing with her blade, “you were deadly enough with that wand just now. Tell me, if we’re to walk together awhile, just what magic do you carry? What does it do and, if worst befalls, can I use any of it? If so, how?”
Elminster’s hand rose with exaggerated feebleness. “Wait, wait,” he protested in the effete tones of a Sembian dandy. “I never can keep track of more than two questions at a time. There ought to be a law, to keep wenches down to asking just two of each man until they’re answered.”
Sharantyr just looked at him.
Elminster grinned and said, “All right. Ye are right to ask, and should know. Of what I carry, ye can use only the wand in my right boot—it hurls magic missiles: one missile if ye think the word alag and two if ye think baulgoss; my belt flask, which contains an elixir of health—ye know, cures disease, poison, an’ all that; and the rings I wear, which work without any guidance on thy part. One allows ye to land lightly after any fall, and the other turns away some spells. There’s another ring in my purse; it heals wounds when worn. It works but slowly, mind ye, so don’t go being heroic. Got all that?”
Sharantyr looked at him again. Then she looked up at the night sky overhead and told the stars, “There ought to be a law …”
Elminster chuckled. “I also have the wand of lightnings ye saw and my pipe, which holds a trick or two. Naught else.”
Sharantyr raised an eyebrow. “No? You surprise me. How you can stagger along under the weight of all that and look at me long-faced to say you have no magic is beyond all belief.”
Elminster chuckled. “Baubles, lass. At least, until thy life depends on them and all else is gone”—his smile died suddenly—“as it has gone.” Then he thought of something more. “Another thing: All of these trinkets are old and may not work as others ye have seen.”
“Old? How old?”
“Ah, well, Myth Drannan, most of them.”
Sharantyr sighed. “I’ll just go and see to robbing these corpses, shall I?”
Elminster got out his pipe. “Not a moment sooner than I thought ye would,” he grunted, watching the flickering gate.
Sharantyr gestured rudely at him with her sword and went to the farthest body. Strangling was the most fitting fate for mages. No, shutting several of them up in a room together to drive each other mad with their testy, interminable drivel—ahem, eloquence. Yes. That would be best. She had to survive all this to get to Berdusk and suggest the process to a few Harpers. It would definitely be a service to civilized folk everywhere.
Among them, the dead men had carried no more than a handful of coins, assorted daggers, two skins of water, two metal flasks containing what Sharantyr suspected were magical healing potions, and—on the wizard of course—a plain brass ring and a belt purse holding only a rusted, hand-size iron sphere.
Elminster’s eyes lit at the sight of the sphere. “Devised long ago by Azuth himself,” he said with satisfaction. “Those who use his truename can command any of these spheres, even if they don’t know the command word of the particular sphere.”
“And you know Azuth’s truename?”
Elminster looked hurt. “Of course.”
Sharantyr sighed. Of course. “So who was this Bilarro whom such spheres are named for?”
“A later, lesser mage,” Elminster sniffed. “He saw one such sphere, learned through diligence and much misadventure how to make his own, and retired fat and rich on the proceeds of a life of selling such baubles to every swordsman fearful of magic. I’ve heard that a treacherous apprentice used one on him in the end, and cast him into a nearby pond to see if he could swim. But that may be just a tavern tale.”
Sharantyr sighed again. Did wizards spend all their lives scheming and keeping score? She looked around at the night-shrouded trees, the ruins, and the glowing, flickering oval of light. Nothing moved. Firm schooling took her on a careful walk around the edge of the area lit by the gate, looking into the night more carefully. She could see no life, no lurking menace, but her sword did not leave her hand.
“Old Mage,” she said as she rejoined Elminster, “let us make haste. I do not think it wise to tarry here overlong.”
“And ye are right,” he agreed grandly. Sharantyr was raising an annoyed eyebrow and parting her lips to speak before he slowly winked.
“It’s a wonder,” the lady ranger murmured to the guard, as she bent over to take him by the armpits and drag him around behind the glowing gate, “why anyone puts up with archmages long enough to let them reach their advanced powers. You’d think a lot more of them would be drowned or strangled—or have their tongues torn out by the roots—before they’d been a year or two at their studies.”
The guard, flopping limply and heavily in her grasp, did not reply.
Elminster seemed to take a very long time getting ready to question the last guard. Sharantyr had removed the man’s gauntlets, helm, and belt, using the latter to tie his hands together. After examining the mage’s body thoroughly for hidden weapons or items that might be magical, she dumped it atop the guard, pinning his arms and midsection under its weight. Elminster nodded approvingly but kept on examining their booty, muttering to himself and making faces.
At length he opened both vials, sniffed them with the air of a connoisseur, tasted what his fingertip found of both, and said, “These heal, and as far as I can tell do naught else. Ye carry them both, for ye may well have more need of them.” He grinned reassuringly and said, “Carry the mage’s ring, also, but do not put it on. Keep i
t hidden in thy belt, to show as a token from him should we need such a ruse. We dare not try to use it.”
Sharantyr took the proffered items and laid a hand on the Old Mage’s arm. Her eyes were dark and serious.
“Elminster,” she asked, “should you be getting into this sort of struggle—with mages you do not know and gates that go you know not where—in your present, ah, vulnerable condition?”
Elminster glared at her for a moment and shrugged. “Ye’re young yet, Shar. Ye can’t know. Tis not pride that makes me poke my nose into all affairs of Art that I come across. ’Tis what I am and what I do. When ye live as long as I have and have seen thy friends, foes, and homes all swept away, one after another, with the endless passing years, all that is left is what ye believe in and strive for. I dare not stay in Shadowdale, to bring danger down on it, but I’ll not run away to cower or hide, daring nothing.”
He patted her hand where it rested on his arm, then gently pulled free to face her. “Crawl off into a hole and die before I’m dead? Nay, this is what I stand for, and what I’ll do.”
Sharantyr nodded. “I meant no offense. I’m sorry. I wanted to learn your will, ere we were swept away into battles again.”
Elminster grinned suddenly. “And I’ve told thee, as usual. Thy ears must grow very weary of my voice.”
Sharantyr smiled faintly. “Such words would never pass my lips,” she said with affected dignity. Then she added slyly, “but I often think them. Love stays my tongue.”
“ ’Tis a rare love that does that,” Elminster said feelingly. He chuckled and said, “Shall we slap this fellow awake and treat ye to more of my tongue?”
Sharantyr grinned. “We shall. I’m getting too old to need sleep at night.”
Elminster winced. “Ill be as swift as I can be.” He laid a warning finger on his lips to bid her be silent. Unclipping his belt flask, he held it upside down over the guard’s head, loosening the stopper so that a thin stream splashed on the man’s forehead and ran down into his eyes.
The warrior shuddered, wrinkled his eyes convulsively. He snorted and awoke, knuckling his eyes and moaning.
“Well met,” Elminster said briskly. “Thy name?”
“Mulser,” the man said, and groaned. “I—it burns inside!”
“Those who defy the lords of Zhentil Keep must pay the price,” Elminster said sharply. “This gate ye came here by, where does it lead?”
“Zhentil—? You are of the Brotherhood?”
“Aye,” Elminster said solemnly. “My name is both near and dear to Lord Manshoon. I speak with authority that bows only to his word.”
“Gods,” the man groaned, and drew a trembling breath. “I … hurt, Lord. I … I’ll try to serve you, but I fear I can’t”—he struggled for a moment and then fell back with a groan—“can’t rise,” he gasped, sweating.
Elminster laid a hand on his forehead. “Rest and lie still. Answer my questions; that is all ye need do.”
When he brought his hand away again, Sharantyr saw that it glistened with the man’s sweat. The Old Mage bent close to the man and asked, “This gate, Mulser. Where did ye come from?”
The man gasped for breath a moment and then said, “The—the High Dale. Lord, why do you not know this?”
“It appears,” Elminster said in heavy, sinister tones, “that some among us have seen fit to act on their own, as it were. Word of these doings has only just reached my ears. I need you, Mulser, to tell me who of the Brotherhood is in the High Dale, and what exactly befalls there. Speak freely. I value honesty, not toadying words. Tell me, now, who is master in the dale?”
“H-Heladar Longspear, Lord.”
“He is of us?”
“A Zhentilar like myself, Lord. He served in the taking of the Citadel, and in Daggerdale. He is hard, but a good blade.”
“Which mages back him?”
“Angruin Stormcloak gives him his orders.”
“Angruin Myrvult?” Elminster sounded surprised.
“Aye, Lord.”
“He’s come far. Where does he get his orders?”
“Zhentil Keep itself, Lord.” The man’s breathing grew labored again, and he coughed weakly. When his voice came again, it was fainter. “I don’t know who he reports to … not my right to know.”
“How many wizards and apprentices are under Angruin?”
“Ahh—I can’t think, Lord. Pardon, if you will … There’s Hcarla; he’s a bad one. I don’t think even his mother ever trusted him. Then there’s Sabryn, who was with us here. Is he—?”
“Ill deal with him later,” Elminster said coldly. “Go on. These are the mages of power?”
“Those, and a quiet one called Nordryn.”
“Any others?”
“Four lesser. Two who rode to battle in Daggerdale: Mrinden and Kalassyn. They’re all right, and can hurl fire or lightning if called on.”
“The last two?”
“Apprentices, sneaks and noses-in-the-air. Haragh and Ildomyl. They mostly do gate-guard duty on the roads.”
“And how many swords does Longspear command, loyal warriors like yourself?”
“I … know not, Lord. Forty, perhaps. Not many more. With perhaps a dozen hireswords, mainly crossbowmen … from Sembia.” Mulser groaned again.
“Easy, Mulser,” Elminster said, patting his shoulder gently. “Rest easy. Tell me, what does Longspear, as ruler of the High Dale, have you men do?”
“We … we take passage tolls, Lord. One copper a head, two coppers a horse or mule, and two silver falcons per wagon. No priests or wizards are allowed in. All who carry magic must yield it to us until they leave. All who enter must pay. We’ve already had to escort envoys from Sem—urrghh—Sembia and Cormyr, complaining about the tolls.”
“Why don’t merchants just go around you, using the road through Daerlun?”
“I’ve been told,” Mulser said, cynical humor dryly audible through the rough pain in his voice, “that the brigands are particularly bad just now. They’re … in the Vast Swamp, Lord, and hired by whoever in the Brotherhood has sponsored Stormcloak. The road is … too dangerous for passage without heavy escorts. No lone wagons get through.”
Elminster chuckled coldly. “I see how the land rises and falls. How are the dalefolk taking your presence?”
“It’s fairly quiet, Lord. They hold no love for us. They call us bladesmen the ‘Wolves,’ but they’re mostly old men. Since Stormcloak made an example of the high constable, they’ve knuckled under.” He coughed again and added weakly, “We had to kill the constables and their archers, of course, to take the place.”
“And the wizards?” Elminster’s voice was suddenly like a sword blade sheathed in ice.
“I—we found none, Lord, so far as I know. Only a couple of fat old priests. Longspear has them locked up in the High Castle.”
“Your barracks is there?”
“N—no … aghhh … Sorry, Lord. my barracks is up north of the castle, near this gate … the other end of it I mean, Lord …”
“But most of the bladesmen are at the castle?”
“No, less than half. Most are in Eastkeep or Westkeep, and there’s another four barracks like mine. All the others are at the castle, yes.”
“Are there any priests of the Brotherhood with you?”
Mulser was silent a long time, frowning. Then he said slowly, “Now that’s curious, Lord. Saragh was saying to me just yesterday that he’d seen none with us in the taking, and we’ve neither of us seen any since. If there are any Dread Brothers there now, they’re keeping well hidden.”
“I see. Is there anything else of importance to the Brotherhood, Mulser, that ye think ye should tell me?”
Mulser coughed again, weakly, and shook his head. “I … don’t think so, Lord. If there’s any secrets in the dale, I know them not.”
“Ye’ve been most helpful, Mulser, a credit to the Brotherhood. It has been many long years since anyone in our ranks has been so honest with me. Ye’ve done well.
”
“Thank you, Lord.” Mulser’s breath came in gasps now. “I … I thought I’d nothing to lose, Lord. I know I’m done for, an’ … and I’d rather talk to you, than … go alone.”
“Ye’re not alone, good Mulser,” Elminster said gravely. “Have you any family? A lass? Anyone we should send word to?”
“N-no. I thought … so … once, but—” The laboring, wheezing voice suddenly caught. Mulser made a little bubbling, choking sound and fell silent. Elminster looked into the warrior’s eyes until they stopped seeing anything, then got up stiffly and said, “Go to the gods in peace, Mulser.”
Sharantyr’s eyes were tender yet angry. “You were kind to him,” she said. Elminster shrugged. “And yet,” she added slowly, “he is a Zhentilar, one of the Black Blades that have spent years carving up the Dales and the dalefolk that live in them. One of those we must fight every season. Zhentilar chained me as a slave, once. I was running from their cruelties when the drow took me.”
Elminster touched her arm. “I’ve seen ye strike down Zhentilar before, right eagerly. Does doing so heal any of those memories?”
Sharantyr’s eyes were dark as she said coldly, “No. Not yet.” She lifted the naked sword that lay across her knees and added, “But ’tis not for lack of trying.”
The old wizard sighed. “ ’Tis not my place to judge. All of us are driven by things. Even this poor soldier.” He nudged Mulser’s body with his foot. “One of my tasks is to strike down the evil folk who drove him on, those who command the Black Blades. Such foes make the Zhentarim truly dangerous.”
“If you’re going to keep on at that task, I’ll fight beside you with a right good will,” Sharantyr said fiercely.
They regarded each other in silence for a breath, then the Old Mage turned away.
“Come,” he said shortly. “We must hide these dead men and go on.” He strode away into the night almost angrily, and Sharantyr looked after him with concern.
Elminster went only a little way, growled, and came back looking fierce. “My pardon, please, lass,” he said grimly. “ ’Tis a churl’s act to make thee do all the carrion heaving alone.”
