Blackstaff Tower

by Steven E. Schend

  “But they’re not nearly half as presumptuous as you, Ten-Rings! Our agreement was that no one would ever see us associated together! You’ve now given any foes a link between us and a suggested past history. Kidnapping me in front of witnesses won’t bode well for your trial.” Dagult’s voice had started loud and barking, but by the time he finished his sentence, it was a cold, hard whisper with an edge of steel to it. “Abduction and threats against the Open Lord is a punishable offense, after all.”

  “Don’t threaten me, little Open Lord.” Khondar smiled as Dagult’s face paled and his fists clenched at the insult. Ten-Rings continued, keeping him even more off-balance. “You don’t have enough power to challenge me, even if that sword at your side truly holds all the magic it allegedly did in the hands of your predecessors. Frankly, I doubt you’re able to draw it, and you just wear it to impress.”

  “That might be, Guildmaster, but what I do know is this—You assaulted me, my aide, my guards, my guests, and slew a member of a trade delegation. Even if they did not see your flashy abduction of me from the Parley Tower, many saw you enter the tower just before the panic began. Tongues are wagging now, even as we speak. No one can turn rumors and gossip into coins like Sembians. Should anything happen to me before I explain myself, all manner of hells will empty upon you and yours. And you have only yourself to blame for that. Beyond all that, there’s this matter you seemed to have skillfully dumped into my son’s lap. While the boy needs some challenges, I’ll not see him swing for your activities, wizard.”

  “Hmph. Well, be that as it may, we both have our secrets and our sins. You, I’m sure the people would love to learn, have a knack for acquiring things, if only so you can gloat in their having. I sensed it last time I visited here—you keep true magical items of the Lords here, while leaving fakes behind to keep anyone from looking for them.” Khondar’s theory got its proof by Dagult’s face going ashen again. “I’m looking for a key, Dagult. Do you have it?”

  “You’ll need to be more specific, Naomal.” Dagult sneered, trying to regain control of the conversation. “I have hundreds of keys to hundreds of properties, secret places where only the Lords walk, and keys to every tomb within the City of the Dead.”

  Khondar glared at him. “Where have you hidden Ahghairon’s Key? The one on display in the Ruby Hall at the palace was false—I could sense it! Now show me the real key!”

  “If your information is accurate, wizard,” Dagult said, “and you can sense fake constructs, you should be able to find it yourself.”

  Khondar walked around the room, angrily at first, but then secretly delighted that Dagult had given him the excuse to examine the room closely. Like the rest of Neverember Manor, the room was richly appointed with thick carpets and wall hangings in Dagult’s favorite red hues. Ten-Rings skipped over all the bric-a-brac in the windows, sensing no magics from them, but his senses sang of magical auras against the back wall. He paced back and forth, seeming to admire a painting hanging there, and he spotted a stone out of place in the corner seam of the wall. He pressed it, and the painting and part of the wall recessed and slid out of the way, revealing a shelf with a number of items on it. Dagult’s sigh of defeat was audible across the chamber.

  Khondar reached in and picked up a small brass key, the handle of which was Ahghairon’s swirling whorl of a wizard mark. It thrummed beneath his touch, and his wizard sight told him this was the genuine article. “What ever did you need Ahghairon’s Key for, Dagult?”

  “That key identifies and unlocks any door, known or unknown or however barred, when it passes nearby. When my wife died, she left me nothing—gave everything to the boy. I used it to search this entire mansion, finding out every secret door, every compartment, every possible place she might have hidden money, or every place my son might have hidden things from me. I kept it because it amused me to do so and because I’d never know when I might need it again.”

  “Well, I need it now.” Khondar said, dropping the key into his belt pouch.

  “That is not yours to hold,” Dagult said, his hand on the dagger that rested on his desk. “Return it or find yourself in deeper trouble than even you can imagine.”

  “No, I don’t think so, little man.” Khondar laughed. “Should anything happen to me, your son dies.” The wizard let that sink in, and while he knew Renaer and Dagult were estranged, he counted on fatherly attachment to stay his hand. Khondar found himself amused by some of the other things in Dagult’s hidden cache, from a small metal dragon sculpture that breathed fire when you pressed its footclaw, to a small silver necklace dripping with thumb-sized sapphires, to a singular silver bracer with two palm-sized sapphires set in its guard. He left the recess open and wandered closer to Dagult’s desk, where he spotted a gnarled hunk of phandar wood and gasped with what he saw through his wizard sight.

  “You have a piece of the Staff of Waterdeep?”

  “That? It’s just a idle hunk of worrywood I rub when I need to relax.”

  “Hardly, Dagult, and forget bluffing me. Few can sniff out lies better than I can.” What Khondar left unsaid was that the power in this isolated piece of wood tied into greater magic than he dared dream of. While inert on its own, it joined with eleven other fragments to create a fabled artifact tied directly to Waterdeep. Khondar picked up the lump of wood and tucked it into his belt. “I believe the Watchful Order is better prepared to protect this item of Ahghairon’s making, rather than leaving it lying about holding down a pile of parchments.”

  “Put that back, wizard. I don’t care if I can’t use it. That staff is better kept apart.”

  “The Staff of Waterdeep saved the city twice!” Khondar whirled and glowered at Dagult.

  “And nearly destroyed it! That stays here, or I’ll have you and every member of the Watchful Order loyal to you rounded up and imprisoned at best.”

  Khondar considered Dagult’s threat and, seeing no doubt or hesitation in his eyes, bowed deeply. “Enjoy your tenure on the throne, little conniver-merchant. Soon Waterdeep will see Ahghairon’s heir rise to take Waterdeep back to the heights it deserves. I shall restore the City of Splendors, and there shall be a reckoning upon those deemed less than loyal to me.”

  With that, Khondar teleported away, the chuff of imploding air being the only sound in Dagult’s office until the gnarled piece of ironwood fell loudly back on the desk, knocking over a wine goblet. Dagult watched as the wine soaked into the parchments, causing the ink on the message to bleed and run. The red wine made his hand-scrawled Lords’ coat of arms—the torchlike seal of the Lords—blur into a mass of black ink. Dagult shivered, but he could not tear his eyes away from the spreading stains.

  CHAPTER 19

  In her long-held guise as Khelben Blackstaff, Tsarra Chaadren held the Spellplague at bay the first time it struck Waterdeep. Its resurgence from Undermountain forced her unveiling by shattering her illusory guise amongst a crowd of nobles outside the palace. This led to the two long Retributive Years when Khelben’s foes descended upon the city, ne’er expecting the half-elf to bring them to heel like misbehaving hounds.

  Maliantor of Waterdeep,

  My Eyes Open Always: Memories of the Blackstaff,

  Year of the Enthroned Puppet (1416 DR)

  11 NIGHTAL, YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  Meloon stepped off the stairwell and swallowed hard. Whatever he’d expected to find inside Blackstaff Tower, it wasn’t this. He stood on frost-rimed grass in a tiny clearing, surrounded by a forest and a starlit sky. Behind him, the stairwell’s stone steps descended under a small hillock. Only one other friend was here with him. Vajra hovered at the center of the area, standing upside down from where Meloon stood, the top of her head even with his eyes. The floating patch of stone on which she stood seemed to be the floor for her, as her hair and robes all fell toward it.

  Vajra turned to him, a lone tear running down her cheek. While she looked in his general direction, Meloon knew her eyes didn’t focus on him as she said, �
��I’m sorry, friends, for what we now must endure. I thought it safe, but the tower seeks to prove us worthy to walk its halls.” Her form shimmered as she sobbed. “I’m sorry—and may Tymora bless you with good luck.”

  As her voice wavered, she faded into a miasma of green mists, leaving Meloon alone to contemplate what to do. He looked more closely at the trees, the pattern of the woods, and found it slightly familiar. Intrigued, he climbed the nearest tree, securing Azuredge to his back before doing so. He climbed to the top of the tree, confused as it seemed to grow beneath him. When he reached the crown of the tree and looked out onto the forest, he gasped. Dotted in amongst the trees and various clearings were landmarks of Waterdeep—Mother Marra’s House, Pamhael’s Inn, the Stag and Hawk, Zarlhard’s Swordsmithy, the Open Lord’s Palace—and others he didn’t recognize, like a tower shaped like a dragon, a trio of towers joined at the top by arching walkways that met a solitary tower above them all, a huge mansion he’d seen in ruins down in Dock Ward, and a noble’s villa, its curtain wall keeping much of the forest at bay from its six buildings. As there was a slight glow coming from the windows of the villa, Meloon decided to head there, investigating the Stag and Hawk which lay along that direction too.

  Meloon clambered down, dropping to the forest floor the last ten feet from the lower branches. He expected a cushioned fall from the usual woodland deadfall, but it felt like he landed on hard stone. Hearing a noise behind him, he leaped and rolled to his left, narrowly avoiding an arrow that now jutted from the ground where he landed.

  “Thanks be to the Lady Who Smiles,” Meloon whispered as he came up into a crouch, readying Azuredge in his hands. He looked at the arrow and tried to judge the direction from which it came, but the arrow itself dissolved into green sparks as he watched.

  Meloon rubbed his chin and decided to continue on his original plan. Whoever was stalking him could follow him, and he’d catch him or her later. For now, he’d head for the light at that villa. Above him, there were only stars in the sky and no moon, so the two brightest lights came from his axe and the villa.

  He jogged through the forest, taking a zigzag path to avoid the archer. Frustrated at feeling so exposed, he whispered, “I wish this axe wouldn’t be so bright. It’s giving me away.” With that, the flames on the axehead snuffed out, leaving Meloon wide-eyed and in relative darkness.

  Another arrow thunked into the tree ahead of Meloon, and a woman’s voice came from it. “She listens to you, despite your callow nature, boy. Do you listen to her?”

  Meloon kept running past that tree, not recognizing the voice. He heard another twang of a bowstring behind him, and the next arrow zipped by his left shoulder, grazing his leather armor. He turned hard to the right, grabbing the vine-covered tree and swung himself around to face his attacker. “Some light would be good now, axe!”

  Azuredge flared, its blue fires lighting up the woods around Meloon and revealing the attacker. She stood almost as tall as Laraelra, clad in leathers, and her long hair was pulled tightly back and bound with a silken cord, revealing slightly pointed ears. She held her bow in her left hand, but her right was weaving a spell. What Meloon found most curious about her was the green hue in everything—her skin, hair, clothes, and weaponry.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you attacking me? And where are my friends?”

  “You’re in no position to demand anything, boy,” the woman said. She finished her spell, and all around her in the shadows among the trees, huge eyes reflected Azuredge’s blue fires. Eight new eyes, each larger than his fists, stared at him, and he heard a loud growling coming from all sides. One of the creatures stepped into the light, its golden mane and fur glistening. Meloon judged this lion to be at least three times his size. He gulped and tightened his grip on the axe.

  Patience, Meloon, a voice said inside his head, its soft tone melding with glimmers of light within the runes on the axe’s head and haft. She is Tsarra. Talk, don’t fight. Move toward the light.

  Meloon saw Lauroun’s face in his mind’s eye, and her eyes matched the shimmer inside the runes of his axe. Meloon stared at the axe for a moment, then his eyes darted at the gigantic lion approaching and baring its fangs.

  Tsarra stood back, drawing another arrow into her bow. “Well, warrior? Surrender or a hopeless battle? Which would you prefer?”

  “Neither, Tsarra, thank you,” Meloon said, and he backed away, ducking behind a large tree to break the charge of the lion. When it hit the tree, Meloon turned and ran toward the villa and the light.

  Behind him, he heard arrows striking the trees and the roar of the lions. He felt more than heard their heavy footfalls in the forest around him. He focused on his first goal—the Stag and Hawk tavern mysteriously moved within this grove. When two arrows struck the trees on either side of him, he marveled at his luck that they’d missed him—

  Until sprays of webs came from each arrow. Within a step, sticky arm-thick spiderwebs filled the path before him. Meloon tried to turn, but his feet slid out from under him. A spray of dead leaves covered the lower webs as he rolled to the right. He could see his path to the Stag and Hawk cut off.

  Behind him, Tsarra uttered a swear word only his grandfather still used. Meloon got up, only to find his path blocked by two of the lions. He turned back to find the other two lions and the webs preventing escape down his previous path. He tightened his grip on the axe and said, “Come on.”

  He stepped toward the lion in his path, swinging Azuredge, only to see the lion grow more and more transparent. By the time he closed with it, the lion had disappeared. He broke into a run again.

  Arrows sprouted thorn bushes, slinging more webs, and even a few gouted fires or noxious gases when they hit. Meloon charged past all of them, calling behind him, “Tsarra, it’s obvious you could easily stop me, so why don’t you?”

  “Haven’t had a good hunt in ages,” she said, suddenly beside him. “We rarely get to play here.”

  “Here?” Meloon asked, dodging away from her and out into a clearing on the western side of the noble villa. “So I’m still in Blackstaff Tower? And since when do wizards use bows or hunt?”

  He took a quick look behind to see where Tsarra was, but spotted no one behind or beside him. He picked up his pace, arcing around the clearing to the front of the villa. He ran through the open gates, only to skid to a stop on its cobbles. Tsarra leaned against the villa’s corner. On one side of her was the servant’s entrance tucked to the side, and on the other the main entrance in proud, overdone details of metal banding and highly polished pharnal wood. Light streamed out beneath both doors and the windows high above.

  “Wizards don’t, but I do,” Tsarra said, as she leaned on her bow.

  “Did you hunt down my friends too?”

  “Hardly,” Tsarra said. “There are others tending to your friends.”

  “Let us help. You’re guarding Blackstaff Tower. Let us help Vajra, and we can all help Waterdeep.”

  “Did she tell you that?” Tsarra nodded toward Azuredge.

  “She who? The axe? No. But she has said a few things, like your name. I’m sorry I don’t know who you are. I’m not a history student like Renaer.”

  “I used to be a Blackstaff. You’re a sellsword. If we promised you a fortune in gems, would you help the other guardians and me rout the other invaders out of the tower?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re my friends. We’re here to help the city, not ourselves. I thought that was what Blackstaff Tower was all about too.”

  “Very good, Meloon Wardragon,” Tsarra said. “There’s more to you than a great physique and a magical axe. I expected you to fight my harassment long before you ever got here. If Lauroun”—and here the ghost nodded toward Azuredge—“honors you with advice, listen to her. You’re both defenders of Waterdeep now, and that’s rarely the easiest path on which to walk. Are you certain you choose this?”

  Meloon smiled and said, “And so the wa
gons roll.”

  “So be it, warrior,” Tsarra said. “How do you know which door to choose, then?”

  Meloon laughed and winked at her, then strode past her and through the servant’s entrance. As he crossed the mist-enshrouded threshold, he heard Tsarra’s ghost mutter, “Brawn and some brains when he chooses. Just like you, husband …”

  Meloon’s third step took him through the mists and into a decidedly cooler place.

  And again, not where he expected.

  CHAPTER 20

  I worry for our son, my love. His temper is as yours was, though he has not my mother’s gifts to protect him. Krehlan climbs to your example, but ’tis such a fall from so high …

  Laeral Arunsun, Lifelong with Regrets,

  Year of the Wrathful Eye (1391 DR)

  11 NIGHTAL, YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  Renaer just stood and stared. After all he’d read about Blackstaff Tower, he’d not expected this. No one else was present other than Vajra, and the room itself was tiny with barely room for Vajra and him to stand face-to-face. Its walls were made of some chilling, white energy. Touching them felt like brushing a hand against glacial ice. Pushing his hand farther through, Renaer quickly lost all feeling in his hand. The room’s featurelessness frightened Renaer, as he rubbed his hand to restore feeling to it.

  “Vajra, what’s going on? Where’s Vharem? And the others?”

  Vajra turned to him, a lone tear running down her cheek. She looked past his left shoulder and said, “I’m sorry, friends, for what we now must endure. I thought it safe, but the tower seeks to prove us worthy to walk its halls.” Her form shimmered as she sobbed. “I’m sorry—and may Tymora bless you with good luck.” As her voice wavered, she faded into a frail cloud of green mists, leaving Renaer alone.