The Herald

by Ed Greenwood

  The Srinshee sighed, waved one arm without slowing, and paid no attention at all to the startled cries of pain—or the thuds and abruptly-cut-off yells that followed, when the weapons and bucklers racing away from her towed their mercenary owners into swift and brutal meetings with trees.

  Not a single besieger reached the two silver-haired women and the bearded old man bouncing between them.

  “Here!” said the Srinshee, a ridge later, as they came upon an ancient stump the size of a large coach, with a tiny spring fountaining out between its rotting roots. “Triangle, the three of us, and put El between us. When the anchor breaks, mind you thrust the leakage into him!”

  It was Laeral’s turn to frown. “But won’t that—?”

  The Srinshee gave her a look that was somewhere between patiently polite and withering.

  “Ah.” Laeral winced. “You’ve done this before. Yes.”

  The anchor gave way with frightening ease, and Elminster’s body arched and bucked as Weave and mythal energies snarled through him, leaking out of his mouth as brief blue flames.

  He rolled over, coughing weakly.

  The Srinshee clapped him on the back, kissed the startled face he raised to her, and announced briskly, “Right, only forty-two more to go! I’m off!”

  And she hurled herself away through the air like a sling stone—to slam into an arcanist who was just stepping out from behind a tree to hurl a blasting spell at Elminster and the two sisters. He was flung backward into an awkward stagger, and the Srinshee pursued him, slicing his throat open with a dagger as she flashed past.

  About then, she noticed the arcanist she’d felled was just the foremost of a dozen more hastening through the trees to investigate the magical turmoil of the anchor being destroyed.

  She fetched up on a high bough, rebounded off the trunk it had grown out of to reclaim her balance, and cast a spell of her own.

  As El, Laeral, and Alustriel watched, the Srinshee’s working became a mighty explosion in the heart of those approaching arcanists. Tattered bodies—some collapsing into disembodied heads, limbs, and hands in midair—hurtled in all spattering directions.

  Then, with a cheery wave, she was gone.

  “Well,” Alustriel said rather ruefully, “that seems to be that. We’re on our own.”

  “Which means,” El agreed, “that we’d best be finding the next anchor. She remembers where they all are. I … recall a few. Luse, Laer, ’tis done like thi—”

  Laeral gave him a withering look, and pointed through the trees.

  “Ah,” Elminster said hastily, “my apologies.”

  “Accepted, Old Mage,” she replied pointedly, leading the way.

  Which meant the Shadovar warriors who burst out of the next thicket came at her first, thrusting bills and glaives that she easily turned aside with her hair.

  Alustriel’s swarm of a dozen racing blue-white bolts arced and swooped into as many faces—and Elminster contributed an echo spell that followed up the magic missiles with stunning lightning.

  Most of the mercenaries fell, but a few snarled in pain and kept coming, swinging swords and axes rather unsteadily.

  The three Chosen met them blade to blade.

  “After this anchor, we need only take care of forty-two more, remember,” Elminster panted, amid the clang and clash of steel. “That should be enough to collapse the mythal at our bidding.”

  “Only?” Alustriel asked archly, as her tresses dashed two helms together hard enough to crumple metal. “Your words delight me.”

  “We must all find our delights where we can these days,” Laeral commented, ducking under a vicious axe swing and slamming the pommel of her blade hard into the ear of her would-be butcher. Who reeled right into Elminster’s backswing.

  Laeral sprang away from the gory result. “Don’t get blood on this, you! It never all comes out!”

  A mercenary was startled enough by her complaint to turn and gape at her, just for an instant—and that was all Elminster needed.

  “Back in brawling form?” Alustriel grinned at him, as he rose from downing that last man and saw that there were no more mercenaries left to fight.

  El smiled and shrugged. “Got my wind back, at least. Help me remember, you two; if we see the coronal, we must tell her where the portal that brought us here is located. When the city falls, it and the other portals nearby will be the only ways she’ll be able to get any Tel’Quess out.”

  Laeral laid a hand on his arm. “You think any of us will get out, El?” she asked softly.

  El shrugged. “Acting as if I know we all will is always best.”

  Laeral gave him a wry smile. “So you’re always bluffing, no matter the danger?”

  Elminster drew himself up and made a dignified reply. “Manipulating, please. ‘Bluffing’ is such a crass word. Merely bending others to do as I’d like them to do, by means of a little acting. Ye learn these things, when ye’ve lived through as many falls of cities and utter Realms-rending disasters as I have …”

  Luse and Laer stared at him, then burst into wild, helpless laughter.

  The Wizard of War and the six Purple Dragons with him came to a stop in the dingy back street in Suzail, all of them wearing deepening frowns.

  “So just where is this treason you speak of?” The young mage’s tone was openly suspicious. “This looks like all too good a place for an ambush, if you ask—”

  “I didn’t,” the fat and wheezing man in the well-worn and food-stained clothing and the flopping wrecks of old seaboots interrupted, “and you needn’t worry. I’ll be going first.” And he flung open the nearest door.

  “Yes,” the wizard snapped, “but how do we know you aren’t working with some miscreants, and leading us right into their clutches?”

  Mirt caught hold of a good fistful of the young war wizard’s splendid doublet and dragged him down until they were nose to nose.

  “You can come with me, young fearfulguts,” he growled, “because I’ll be needing you. But mind this: no casting spells, and no yelling at enemies of the Crown, until I say so, hear? You may have standing orders and the shiny authority of the Dragon Throne—but I’ve managed to keep myself alive for more years than you’ve seen, without having spells down both arms and stuffed up my backside to resort to! So, do we have an agreement?”

  “W-we do,” Narancel replied, with as much dignity as he could muster. He made a little show of brushing the breast of his doublet smooth again with apparent unconcern.

  “Good.” Mirt grinned at him. “Then follow me up these stairs quietly.”

  “But—but this building’s been cleared out for a tenday, after two clerks came down with blacktongue! We—”

  Mirt’s withering look reduced the protesting mage to silence, and he followed the rotund and wheezing merchant up the narrow and dim back stairs as quietly as possible. As he did, Narancel wondered why they didn’t just go in the front way, but he took care to wonder it mutely.

  Two flights up, he heard voices. Mens’ voices where there should be none. Mirt turned with a warning finger held straight up against his lips, then went on. The wizard followed, taking great care to be as quiet as he could.

  They were close enough, now, to hear what was being said.

  “So you see, I’m prepared to pay you this handsomely just to do your duty. Nothing beyond the rules, nothing that can get you in trouble. You are supposed to inspect noble estates—and their city properties too—from time to time, without warning, to make sure what they tell the Crown tax clerks to be so is, in fact, so. Oh, the particular nobles on my little list, here … ah, your little list, yes? … will be less than pleased, but then, they always are, aren’t they?”

  “It’s—if anyone higher finds out—” That voice was anxious, and was echoed by the wordless murmurs of others. Worried others.

  “Ah, but they won’t, if none of you talk. See how short that list is? All you have to do is remember one name each from it—just one—and it becomes your choice, a
nd I destroy the list, and—behold!—there’s no evidence left, at all! Now, what say you?”

  “I—I—oh, I don’t know …,” the worried voice mumbled, sounding very unhappy.

  Which was when Mirt laid a firm hand on the war wizard’s arm, tugged meaningfully, and let go to lurch and wheeze his way through the door and around the corner to give the room of startled men—six palace courtiers and one Manshoon—a nod of greeting and a lopsided grin.

  “Well done, men of Cormyr! Well done!” he told them heartily. “You passed this little test as Cormyreans staunch and true! Proving yer honesty and loyalty to the Crown as boldly as any battle-tested Purple Dragon! The Forest Kingdom is proud of you!”

  Clasping his hands behind his back, he started to stroll. Mainly to make sure the tremulous young fool of a war wizard had indeed dared to follow him into the room—aye, he had, thank all the gods for small beneficences—but also to put one or two courtiers between him and any little magic an annoyed Manshoon might hurl.

  “You rightly saw through the stratagem our peerless actor here”—he waved at the glowering Manshoon—“was so smoothly attempting to recruit you into abetting. It would create dissent among certain noble families whose support the Dragon Throne sorely needs right now. You didn’t know it, but more than a dozen Wizards of War have been watching and listening to it all! Worry not; every last one of you has impressed them. Young Narancel here will escort you back to your offices now, and will echo my praise. Cormyr’s future is bright in your hands!”

  Mirt swung around to give Narancel a look. Damned if the young pup wasn’t shaking like a sapling in a fall wind, but at least he knew his cue, and nodded, waving to the courtiers to come with him.

  They bolted, almost upsetting their chairs in their relieved haste, and were gone in a door-banging trice. Leaving Mirt alone with a seething Manshoon. The onetime ruler of Zhentil Keep and of Westgate, founder and longtime leader of the Zhentarim—and a vampire, to boot.

  Who would kill him in an instant or three if he so much as suspected it was all a ruse, and those more than a dozen war wizards were so much utter fiction.

  Manshoon’s smile was as hard as cold crypt stone. “I can think of no magical defenses you can have, fat man,” he remarked with menacing softness, “that will protect you against me if I choose to destroy you now. In slow, writhing agony.”

  Mirt chuckled, and took the seat right across from Manshoon. “Ah, so you still can’t think—clearly enough and ahead far enough. Yer usual problem, if you don’t mind me pointing it out. The salient point on the table between us right now is this: you don’t know what defenses I have. I, however, obviously do. Care to be foolish enough to think I’m bluffing?”

  Manshoon scowled, then shook his head.

  Mirt produced a belt flask with two metal flagons clipped to it, and poured them both wine.

  He handed one flagon across the table to Manshoon, who regarded it dubiously. Mirt took it back, drank deeply from it, and handed Manshoon the other, still-full flagon.

  Slowly, Manshoon put out his hand, took it, sipped—and then smiled. The wine was splendid.

  He sipped again and savored it, sitting back and letting it roll around on his tongue.

  Mirt leaned forward and rumbled, “So, Scourge of Westgate and Zhentil Keep and the gods alone know how many other places … why don’t we sit this one out, the two of us? Hmm? At least until half Toril is done tearing itself apart?”

  Manshoon regarded the fat and battered man across the table thoughtfully for a long, silent time before he said, “Convince me.”

  He sipped again. “More of this wine ought to do it.”

  CHAPTER 17

  A Good Day to Butcher Elves

  IN THE THIRD OF STORM’S KITCHEN CUPBOARDS HE ROOTED through, Arclath made a discovery. He drew the square, human-head-sized wooden box out into the light, set it on the kitchen table, and used his dagger to warily undo the latches and flip the lid, then peered in.

  Rune watched him tensely from across the room, where she was washing radishes in one of the sinks.

  Arclath relaxed with a pleased little crow of satisfaction.

  “Well?” Rune asked, daring to relax a little.

  Triumphantly, Lord Delcastle lifted something large and round out of the box, drew aside the soft black cloth swaddling it, and held it up. A crystal ball.

  “We shouldn’t,” Rune told him, though she knew she was looking at it longingly.

  “You need to know what’s happening,” her man replied. “It’s eating you, not knowing. I can see that. Hells, anyone could see that.”

  “Put it back in the box,” Rune told him firmly. “For now. But leave the box out.”

  “While I scour all the rest of the cupboards?”

  “Lord Delcastle,” Amarune replied, assuming the manner of a mildly peeved noble Cormyrean matron, “do you really think it prudent to plunder the secrets, if nothing more, of so gracious—and powerful—a host? I hardly do.”

  Arclath shrugged. “Prudence, my good lady, has never been one of my strengths. If the Dragon Throne values me at all, it is this well-known lack of prudence that they cherish. So …” He advanced on the next bank of cupboards, but couldn’t resist glancing over his shoulder to see Rune’s reaction.

  In doing so, his gaze fell upon the pantry door. Or rather, upon its frame. Where his thoughts seemed to linger.

  “I wonder …,” he said thoughtfully.

  “What?” Rune asked, finishing with the radishes and reaching for a hand cloth to dry her hands.

  His only reply was to open the pantry door, stand back, and peer at the revealed lintel, threshold, and standing frame. Then he reached out warily, wrapped his fingertips around the lines of the molding, and tugged gently.

  And with the softest of sighs, the door frame swung open on hidden hinges, to reveal a hidden cupboard behind. The narrowest of cupboards, within the thickness of the stone wall, its door only a finger’s width or two wider than the palm of his hand. It was full of bone tubes with carved end caps.

  Cautiously, he drew one out. There was a word graven on the nearest end cap, and repeated on the side.

  “Teleport,” Rune read aloud, over his shoulder, thankful she could move with swift silence when she wanted to. She snaked her arm under his and deftly snatched the tube out of Arclath’s fingers. “We’ll be needing this.”

  Arclath grinned, but also crooked an eyebrow. “Can you pull off a spell like that?”

  Amarune gave him her best cold glare. Under its weight, he added hastily and falteringly, “I mean—so powerful, need practice, wizards of much experience, usually …”

  “I am Elminster’s heir. His new Chosen One,” Rune reminded him icily. “I can do anything.”

  Her man decided it was his turn to tender a withering look.

  Rune smiled wryly, but didn’t blush. “Magically, that is,” she admitted, “and in all this spell chaos, perhaps as well as any caster can.”

  She lifted her chin in determination. “If I have to, I have to. There is no ‘fail,’ or we all fail.”

  Arclath shook his head, smiling at her in obvious admiration.

  “Stop mooning over me and hand me that crystal ball,” Rune snapped. “And don’t drop it.”

  Arclath put it into her hands with exaggerated care. “You’ve used one before, of course?” he asked, as gently as any deferential servant.

  “You know I haven’t,” she flared. “Stop trying to be helpful and—and eat some radishes!”

  And she set the sphere—gods, but it was heavy, far heavier than she’d expected—on the table on its swaddling cloth that she tugged into a ring around it.

  That did nothing at all to stop the crystal rolling. The hand-carved and well-worn tabletop was a little less than level. She put out a hand to pin the sphere in place, but sighed. She couldn’t use it while holding it, could she?

  Without a word, Arclath reached into the box, brought out a thick slab of wood with a bowl
-shaped depression sculpted into it, and set the sphere into this rest that had obviously been made for it.

  Amarune thanked him with a grimace, flung her arms wide to clear her head, and leaned forward to peer into the empty, colorless depths of the crystal.

  Not empty, no, there was something there after all … stirring …

  She had to focus on people—well, Storm, of course—or places. That is, memorable fixtures that sat in one spot unmoving, like trees. The problem with people, she half remembered something Elminster had mentioned in passing, was that they moved, and had thoughts of their own, and so were hard to “settle on.”

  So it was with Storm. To call to her to mind was to see Rune’s own memories, of Storm turning to smile, Storm speaking sharply, Storm looking impish as her hair reared up like a snake about to strike, Storm … Rune sighed. She could call Storm to mind vividly enough, but her parade of memories did nothing at all to the crystal.

  So, then, places, or rather, things in places. That distinctive rotten stump, the one the size of a large oval dining table that Arclath had scrambled over to …

  She could remember it, all right, and something stirred in the crystal, its heart going milk white, but then her sharpening concentration veered, as if she was on a racing horse that decided on its own to turn sharply to the right.

  Well, then, that sapling she’d put her hand on, to catch her breath, after … no, the same thing was happening. Veering to the left this time, mind, but …

  Something was blocking her.

  Oh.

  The mythal.

  Of course.

  So, focus on something outside the mythal. Downdragon Tor.

  And the milky hue in the depths of the crystal spun, winked, flashed, and Rune was seeing the same view she and Arclath had enjoyed upon their arrival there. Just like that.

  Not by night and moonlit, this time, but the same vast carpet of green treetops, spread out before her and stretching into the misty distance.

  A bird flew past, startling her. This was no still picture; she was seeing Downdragon as it was right now.