by Ed Greenwood
Three helmed horrors were floating in menacing unison through the trees ahead, converging on him. They bore huge battleaxes rather than swords this time, and they were holding them raised and ready to strike.
"Tymora and Mystra both, be with us now!" he snarled, and flung a gewgaw desperately. Malakar Surth didn't know what would happen to one of the shiny ovals if he ever missed with one of his throws-and as he saw more armored forms drifting out of the treegloom, he told both goddesses fervently that he never wanted to find out.
The world burst apart in blue fire-he knew enough to duck down and shield his eyes now-and one of the helmed horrors was gone. The other two flew on toward him as if nothing had happened.
Which was when a distant voice said severely, "Brorm? You know Old Thunderspells doesn't want us hurling spells here, so close to him! I don't know what you're blasting, but stop it!"
An armored form loomed up over Surth, a battleaxe gleamed as it swept down, and-Bezrar snarled, "Eat flaming death, metal pig!"
The world burst bright blue again, tumbling Surth back head-over-heels into a tanglethorn bush, this time.
He blinked at the sight of his own blood, glistening in red droplets in a line across his thorn-torn hand, and heard that voice, a little nearer and a lot more furious now, shout, "Right, Brorm, that does it! I don't care how much the Old Man dotes on your spinach pie-I'm going to flail your backside for you! Don't you try to run now-I may be older, but I'm wise to your tricks, and 'twill take a lot to surprise old Pheldemar of the Fireballs!"
Bezrar promptly blew up the third armored sentinel, and in the wake of the blast, the two stunned Marsembans heard the unseen Pheldemar say something very rude.
There followed a crashing of foliage off behind the trees to the right of the trail, where the forest cloaked some gentle hills, a vigorous, hard-striding man in battle-leathers marched into view, wearing a long leather overcloak that flared out behind him with the haste of his approach. His face resembled an old boot, his hair was steel-gray, and a long black rod bristling with tiny spires and spikes that flashed with a spectrum of winking radiances was clutched in his left hand. His right hand wore a long, flaring-cut white glove, and a flickering radiance like white fire surrounded it.
"Brorm?" he barked as he came up to the trail, peering suspiciously in all directions. "Where by the brass breastplates of Alusair are you?"
His eyes fell upon the riven shards of a helmed horror on the narrow dirt path right in front of him.
Pheldemar of the Fireballs gaped down at them in astonishment-a dumbfoundedness that deepened as he glanced along the trail and saw more chunks and shards that had recently been the very best sort of Cormyrean coat-of-plate battle armor. He could see pieces of at least two helms without taking another step.
"Mystra" he swore, softly but with feeling-and hurriedly called forth a shielding-spell around himself from his rod. Whoever or whatever had done this must still be lurking nearby. That last blast had been only moments ago. Yes, there!-some of the shards were still rocking in the wake of the force that had hurled them to where they now lay. The War Wizard shook his head, went into an alert crouch, and advanced carefully along the trail.
Almost immediately he caught sight of a boot. The leg wearing it belonged to a man clad like a downcoast merchant-breeches, boots, the hip-length tunic so little seen in the King's Forest or the uplands where smocks were for field-work and belt-tunics for riding or stalking in the forest-who was lying beside a tan-glethorn bush, eyes closed and one hand a-dew with fresh blood. He'd never seen the man before. His eyes fell to the belt-a long-knife, of the sort used in Marsember. Just a longknife. Whoever this man was, he'd had something to do with the destruction of the helmed horrors . . . but he certainly didn't look like a brigand or a wizard or any prepared foe of Cormyr. As for whether he was really senseless or not. . .
Pheldemar leaned closer, pointing his rod at the man. A blast of conjured water sho-
There was a sudden crash and rustle from right behind the War Wizard. He whirled, rod rising-but was still halfway through his turn when something large, hairy, fat and sweating smashed into him and ran right over him, trampling hard.
"Reeeeaaaaaaaagh!" Aumun Tholant Bezrar screamed, waving his arms wildly as he ran pell-mell through the forest, crashing into trees and saplings wherever the trail wandered and his frantic flight did not. "Rrrrruuhhhhh!"
He was trying to frame the word "run" with his mouth and call it out to Surth, somewhere behind him, but. . .
The War Wizard hit the ground with a grunt and bounced hard, rod flying away into the shrubs. His body settled and lay still, limp and silent, eyes closed.
Trembling with fear, Malakar Surth could see that much of the man through the slit of his almost-shut eyelids. Bezrar was still screaming through the trees, his cries echoing weirdly, and only the deaf could hope to avoid noticing the sound Bez was making. "No more wizards, ever! No more dealings with spellhurlers, oh no! I told Surth, I told him! No! No magic, not for any price! No no no NO!"
Surth grimaced. With that racket this "Brorm" and probably some other wizards couldn't fail to be here soon, all right-probably a lot of other wizards. He had to leave. He had to leave now.
The fallen War Wizard groaned and moved one hand, eyelids flickering. In sudden terror Surth burst to his feet and ran right over the man.
He might have made it cleanly over the Cormyrean, but the gray-haired wizard flung up one hand blindly, clawing the air for balance. Surth tripped on it and went sprawling.
Clawing at moss and dirt, never slowing, he found his feet again with a frantic mew of fear and ran on, pelting down the trail Bezrar was still shouting his distant way along.
Pheldemar of the Fireballs groaned again, shook his numbed hand, and rolled over. In the distance a head bobbed briefly in his field of view ere its fleeing owner raced around a bend in the trees and was gone behind a confusion of old, gnarled trunks.
Something gleamed on the trail in the mysterious man's wake, something that was winking back sunlight as it spun around and around, obviously just fallen.
Pheldemar got to his knees then up, took two unsteady steps, and saw his rod. He retrieved it, wincing at the new aches he'd acquired-gods, that man had hit him harder that the pony that had run over him when he was but a lad!-and plucked up the gewgaw from the trail.
It more than filled his hand: an oval of shiny-smooth, polished silver metal, with an shine of blue where it caught reflections. Thick in the middle and thinning to its edges like a dainty-pastry, and graven with . . . runes of power, yes, but not ones he'd seen before. This looked like Eastern script.
His eyes narrowed. He turned it over in his fingers, finding nothing illuminating on the obverse, and-the light dimmed behind him.
Pheldemar of the Fireballs made sure he turned around fast enough this time, in a crouch and with his rod ready-
Two helmed horrors were floating along the trail toward him. They came to smooth halts, their enchantments recognizing him as a commander rather than a foe. Pheldemar frowned down at the gewgaw in his hand, lifted his gaze to the nearest helmed horror-and on an impulse tossed the oval lazily at the chest of the armored sentinel.
The singing of his shielding, still in place around him, flared into a high shriek as the helmed horror blew apart, tumbling its still-intact fellow end-over-end through the air for an impressive distance. Shards of twisted silver-blue battle armor crashed and rattled off branches in all directions, pattering down through dancing leaves. Several pieces sped into his shield and were slowed to a snail-drift by it. Pheldemar stepped out of the way of the only one of these that was proceeding into a collision with him and peered at it with interest as it ghosted past.
The surviving helmed horror was upright again, flying impassively back toward the trail with its sword raised. Pheldemar looked at it then down at the wreckage at his feet, and lifted both of his eyebrows aloft in earnest.
"Well, now," he said thoughtfully, hand stra
ying to the alarm-horn at his belt. "Well, now . . ."
* * * * *
Ah, Great Mystra? Goddess? Are you here, in my mind?
If so, what should I do?
Narnra smiled wryly. And if you're there, WHY are you lurking in my mind, without telling me? Are you a Cormyrean, perhaps?
She expected nothing but silence in reply to that.
Silence she got, but also a stirring in the darkness of her mind.
Seven sparks winked, just for a moment, as if amused . . . and that was all.
* * * * *
Something like a wavering shadow appeared in the air of the room Rauthur had first brought him to, thickened, and grew an arm and an alertly peering head.
"I come from Suzail with urgent news for the Lord Vangerda-hast," it announced excitedly, and then waited. Silence was the reply.
The head smiled, and surged forward, growing a body. It did not look like the customary handsome form Harnrim Starangh was wont to wear, but then he wasn't called Darkspells for nothing.
Aside from himself, the dim room was deserted. He cast a swift spell and nodded in satisfaction. "Off that way, where the shield-spells grow strongest," he murmured, "I must not go … but here, these shields I can work with. . . ."
That fool Rauthur's mind had been fearfully a-bubble with rushing memories during their visit together, wherefore the boldest Red Wizard in Cormyr now knew there were scrolls in plenty beyond that door down this passage and also that one, which also led to a closet that held some wands and a rod or two better left undisturbed because hidden tracer-enchantments could well have been built into them. The really powerful-and experimental-magics Vangerdahast kept hidden behind shields that could slay, shields attuned only to him, but there'd be chances enough to gain those later. First, the-
"Blaedron? Is that you?"
Starangh sent a slaying-snake spell through the air even before he melted his body back into a shadow flickering among the pulsing shields. The War Wizard coming around with the corner with a frown on his face and a wand in his hand walked right into the fangserpent and managed only the choked beginnings of a scream before his face was sucked away by the magic-eyes, breath, flesh, and all.
Blood-drenched bone stared with empty sockets at Starangh for a moment ere the man toppled.
Darkspells smiled and cast another magic that made the body a flickering shield-shadow like himself. It'd reappear when the shields were banished, of course, but until then . . .
He left the wand lying right where it had fallen and hastened on.
There was a flash of blue-white fire, and Vangerdahast laughed aloud.
"Yes!" he spat in delight, hands spread wide in the last flourish of his casting. "Done-and perfect!"
He chuckled in triumph, scribbled a note on his parchments with some panache, and rolled his eyes when Myrmeen asked from behind him, "Time for a break, Master of All Magic? Just a few moments to sip water, stretch, and wipe noses?"
Vangerdahast whirled around, robe swirling grandly, and made a very rude gesture he'd seen Purple Dragons present enthusiastically to each other on several occasions.
Myrmeen decided it was her turn to roll her eyes.
Rauthur's mind held very clear directions on how to open the armory shields for someone not keyed to them. Merely mutter the right phrase, make the correct gesture, and step forward.
Into a chamber where two War Wizards turned startled faces toward him.
"Laspeera sent me!" Starangh told them anxiously. "There's-"
By then he was close enough to touch one of the men, releasing a spell that twisted the man's only active enchantment-a personal shield; by the kisses of Loviatar and of Shar, these Cormyrean mages lived like scared rabbits!-into a quivering paralysis field.
The other man gaped at him, hands flashing up to shape a spell. The Red Wizard reached into his sleeve, plucked a poisoned dart from a forearm sheath that held two of them, and tossed it into the man's face.
The man shouted and clutched at his eye. Starangh lunged forward and punched him hard in the throat. The War Wizard went down gargling, and by the time he hit the floor the foam was coming to his mouth and the spasms had begun.
Starangh stepped clear and let him thrash. He'd deal with these two after he'd snatched what he'd come for.
The closet door had no lock. He used a daggerpoint to draw it open and moved aside with it, just in case, but no doom lashed out. Inside were dozens of pigeonholes labelled with unfamiliar glyphs, stuffed with scrolls. He selected three at random, peered at them, then pulled out a sack from his belt, shook it open, and started to fill it. There'd be time to find out what magics he'd gained later. Tarrying here would not be wise. He took the rolled parchments from the niches that held the smallest number of scrolls, stuffed the sack until it was full then-paused in mid-reach.
Something was winking in an empty niche: a tiny star of activation. The Red Wizard stepped back. He'd seen the most powerful of zulkirs use such things. Unless touched by the right being or counterspelled in precisely the right way they visited disaster on anyone disturbing them. Its presence meant that Vangerdahast had a second array of scrolls behind this first one-and that he was far more powerful in his Art than Sta-rangh had thought.
The Thayan frowned, whirled, and carefully cast the spells that would burn out the brains of the two War Wizards from within and take with them all remembrance of his own appearance. He plucked his dart from the bubbling flames and took it with him, just in case. It had taken two years of retching weakness to build up a resistance to killing doses of staeradder, but he could now employ it without fear of dying from a casual scratch.
The man War Wizards called Old Thunderspells was not a doddering old fool but a graybeard magically much stronger than anyone in Thay gave him credit for. Defying him with taunts and a flourish of spells would be the act of a fool-and Harnrim Sta-rangh would not leap into the recklessness that had taken so many ambitious young Red Wizards to their deaths.
It was time for the velvet glove, not the fist of fireballs. He'd arrange for Joysil to learn about Vangerdahast's scheme. In her dragon shape, her enraged attack should destroy or weaken the old wizard. Whatever befell in battle, more magic should be uncovered for Harnrim Starangh to oh-so-casually find.
Darkspells of Thay departed the sanctum as hastily and stealthily as he knew how.
The whirling flames collapsed again, taking a small and inoffensive three-legged stool with them this time. It was flaming kindling in an instant and drifting ashes the next.
"Blast! Damn and blast!" Vangerdahast said wearily, leaning on his worktable. "There's something wrong with this last bit." He tapped two lines of runes then brightened. "Hey, now! If I change-"
"Into a pumpkin? Perhaps, but tomorrow'll be soon enough for that," Myrmeen Lhal said firmly, springing up from her chair and sheathing her blade with a flourish.
She took the former Royal Magician firmly by one elbow and turned him from the table, the pain causing him to blink at her, scrabble wildly to keep hold of his notes then give up and stumble along as she towed him, snapping gruffly, "You don't have to treat me like some witless sack of grain, lass!"
"No, of course not," she replied fondly, leaning close to him with her eyes dancing, "and I'll soon stop doing so just as soon as you stop behaving like one!"
"Lass! Uh, lass! Myrmeen, damn you, girl! I've just a few tweaks more to work with it and 'twill be done, damn it!"
"Of course-as you work right through the night and the next morning and much of the day that follows it, doing those few little tweaks!"
Vangerdahast blinked at her as they went out into the passage. "But of course, lass. 'Tis magic."
"Indeed," the Lady Lord of Arabel agreed, still towing him firmly along. "And magic of a different sort will soon unfold in the kitchen, once you're sitting there resting with a good stiff drink and I get started on the cooking. Gods above, man, you've waited decades to play with your spells-this one can wait for a single nigh
t longer."
"Oh, but . . ."
"Oh, but you're almost falling-down weary. Take a seat." The ranger practically shoved Vangerdahast into a chair, clunked his best drinking-horn down in front of him, and filled it to the flaring brim with-
"Gods, woman! Old Amberfire! Where did you get this?"
"From your cellars," Myrmeen told him sweetly. " Twon't keep forever, you know-and neither will you. When you're dead, you'll wish you'd opened a few more bottles of it instead of always leaving them for 'the right time.' The right time is always now."
The mighty innermost shields of the sanctum hummed and pulsed around them as she unconcernedly started unbuckling straps and shucking armor in all directions.
Vangerdahast blinked at the sight and swiftly looked away. He cleared his throat loudly, took another swig . . . and slyly looked back at her again.
Ignoring him, Myrmeen plucked out the towel that all wise Cormyrean warriors keep strapped inside their breastplates beside the spare dagger, towelled herself dry, and reached for the largest skillet.
"It astonishes me," she observed as she murmured the word he used to ignite whatever she'd left ready in the firebox, and went to the pantry cold-shelf for the crock of hog-fat and the string-sack hanging near it for some onions, "how you managed to keep such a round little belly on you, eating as you did."
"Well, lass," Vangerdahast grunted amiably over his drinking-horn, "I was alone and therefore relaxed. However tardily I thought of victuals and clumsily I prepared them, I could dine at leisure. No stress, see you?"
Myrmeen plucked down one of the kitchen knives she'd sharpened and commenced to do deft murder upon the onions. One thing for the old windbeard's magic: His cantrip made the stove hot in a hurry. She cast a glance at the wood ready at hand, judged it wasn't time to add any yet, and made busy greasing the pan. "How often did you end up groaning your guts out over the sink or yon bucket? Thrice I've scrubbed it and still can't get rid of the sick smell! No stress then, I suppose?"
