by Ed Greenwood
Then it reared, towering. It was a worm, of a sort El had seen only once before—but that one had been a tortured captive in Avernus, an imprisoned, keeningly insane hulk cruelly enchanted to continually regrow itself as it was endlessly devoured alive by an ever-changing rabble of lesser devils. This one was no captive, and it was aroused and hungry, its great helm-shaped head almost black with rage.
A glaragh, such creatures were called in the Hells. But this one was far bigger than the huge captive he’d seen. It was as long as a Suzail street and as thick around as a three-floor house. It crashed through stalactites as it reared, but was unable to stand on its tail thanks to the low cavern ceiling. Elminster had seen hundreds of oversized worms in his time, from the infamous purple worms to the rockgnawers that ate endless passages out of solid bedrock in the deepest places of the earth, but this one beat them all.
Eight tentacle arms sprouted down the length of the monster worm, each ending in a sucking maw and a retractable bone talon that jutted like a spear when the beast desired but vanished back into hiding the rest of the time—and that meant “glaragh,” and only glaragh.
The mighty worm shuddered for a long, swaying moment as it was struck by spell after spell hurled by drow priestesses amid a hail of spears and darts—then crashed down into the midst of the largest knot of drow, crushing many to a bloody pulp. It surged forward, wriggling so as to strike out in as many directions as possible. Its tail lashed out, straightening in a great sweep that slapped foes into spattering meetings with cavern walls, ere it slid forward like an impatient snake to maraud freely among screaming, vainly fleeing priestesses.
Two or three of the larger rift monsters gave challenge as it came at them, roaring or rearing in defiance—and the glaragh tore them apart with glee, dashing the remains aside with its tail as it advanced. It was heading into the passage breeze, El noticed.
What carnage! Not that drow deaths tugged overmuch at his heart at the best of times, but once the glaragh reached the surface, its slayings would likely be human. Nor was this a lone peril. The many invading beasts endlessly pouring through a rift …
Mystra, preserve us all. That prayer, made out of long habit, carried little force now. Yet who else should be prayed to, to close rifts?
El glanced at that purple-blue sundering, yawning wider than ever, the deep drumbeat of its pulsings almost deafening now that the battle clamor had died down to the scattered moans and cries of the dying. Even if he’d had a body and all the spellbooks he could think of at hand, he might not be able to seal it and mend the Realms around it. Not without a Weave he could work with, or the right artifacts of power to expend, blueflame or otherwise.
Perhaps not even then.
Aghast, El looked one last time into the flood of lesser monsters coming through the rift, the stream of beasts quickening once again, flooding out into the cavern to overwhelm the few fleeing drow the glaragh hadn’t slain. Then he turned to fly after the great worm, fearing for the future of Faerûn around him more than he’d done in years. He’d been facing a slow, sour decline and his own powerlessness for nigh a century, but this … A hundred rifts like this one, a thousand …
Mystra forfend. Hells, every god forfend!
Yet all he could do just now, without a body, was watch as the glaragh slid onward, roving at will, devouring everything it desired, shattering all who stood against it. An eerie whuffling arose from it—the glaragh smelled the drow trails branching off into the side passages.
Abruptly, it shook itself and stopped whuffling, gliding off toward the source of the breeze instead, undulating like a swimming snake as it gathered speed. Off it went into the Underdark, faster and faster.
With a grim line of ashes in pursuit. This was the very thing Mystra wanted him to stop, and right now El couldn’t do a hrasted thing about either worm or rift. He had been humbled like most wizards in the Realms; his reputation now far outstripped his power. And when he faced a foe who realized that …
“Rorskryn Mreldrake, what do you think your fate would be, if you walked into the royal palace of Suzail this evening?”
Mreldrake could just make out two cold eyes staring into his own, out of the dark shadow of the questioner’s cowl. Eyes that … glowed. Their regard was neither friendly nor comforting. Not in the slightest.
He swallowed, and strove to sound calm, even casual. “Imprisonment and lengthy spell interrogation. I would be regarded as a traitor to the Dragon Throne.”
Three cowled heads nodded, ere the centermost spoke again. “I’m glad you’re aware of that,” came the flat reply. “It buys you our acceptance.”
Mreldrake waited, trying to avoid showing his fear.
“Acceptance of your proposal,” added the leftmost figure. They sat facing him, their faces hidden in their deep cowls. “We shall feed and house you, and bring to you what we deem prudent of what you request for your spell researches—in return for your complete obedience, your compliance to remain within these walls, and betimes your willingness to take direction from us regarding the nature of your magical work.”
“Should you offend against this pact,” the last of three murmured softly, “the price will be your life.”
“Terms that should be clear and simple enough for even a wizard of war to understand,” the centermost cowled mage said coldly.
“Former wizard of war,” Mreldrake dared to say. He got a silent shrug by way of reply, ere the three cowled figures rose abruptly in a swirl of dark robes and strode for the door.
Something glowed in the air above the vacated center seat. It was a disembodied human eyeball, floating in midair, wreathed in a faint and fading blue radiance.
It stared coldly at Mreldrake. He gazed glumly back, not hiding his sigh.
Across the room a heavy iron door slammed. He heard the rattle of a key in a lock, ere that sound was drowned out by the sharp klaks of heavy metal bolts crashing into place. One, two, three bolts.
He was locked in. By wizards greater in Art than he might ever be. One of them—the cold-voiced, tall one who’d sat in the center of the trio—had eyes that glowed more than a man’s would. By their pale gleam, he’d seen enough of the dark, dull-skinned, drawn face around them, with its black teeth and tongue, to recognize a shade. He was a captive of fell Netheril—or of renegade Netherese.
Not that he could begin to tell which alternative was worse.
CHAPTER
TWO
I ALONE SHALL CONQUER
Out of clever ruses, Sage of Shadowdale? No more sly spells up your sleeve, Elminster? Die, this time! Die forever!”
He was shouting wildly, Manshoon knew, babbling along the slippery edge of weeping in his rage, as he hurled spell after spell. Magic to rend, heave up, and scatter the ground into which he’d driven Elminster down.
Powerful magic. At his behest earth and stones flew in all directions, his reckless blasting magics opening up a deep, raw pit in front of the cave.
Down, down, five man-heights and more, and still his spells tore and clawed and dug. He had to make certain Elminster was gone. Shattered, dead—utterly, completely dead.
“Where is his blood?” Manshoon shrieked. “Where?”
Fury overwhelmed him, red and yellow mists flooding his mind and blinding him. Through that haze he gasped and snarled out incantation after incantation, until every last battle spell was gone.
Leaving him gasping in his beholder body, somewhere in the wilderlands nigh Shadowdale.
Almost dazedly he worked the magic that would return him to human form. He would fly back to Suzail as a mist, as he, being a vampire, could. Back to the city where, in a cellar, one of his beholders would be shriveling and collapsing, ruined and gone.
Yet if—if—he’d truly destroyed Elminster of Shadowdale at last, the loss of one enslaved eye tyrant would be nothing. Nothing at all. A price too small even to think about.
Tentacles, eyestalks, and levitation melted away in a queasy shifting that still felt unse
ttling, even after thousands of transformations. And Manshoon found himself standing on the lip of his deep delve, silently seething.
Elminster had to be dead. No one could have survived that!
Yet he’d seen no body, not one smear of blood …
Bah! His magic must have vaporized the old fool, reduced Elminster to dust lost amid all the sand and specks of dirt and rock drift.
For an instant, as something made him calmer, Manshoon felt a slight sense of disorientation, as if gazing upon memories not his own. Then it passed and he promptly forgot the feeling, lost in a new confidence that took hold of him and told him firmly that Elminster was gone for good. Even if the Sage of Shadowdale wasn’t destroyed, the right thing for Manshoon to do was to move on, to proceed with life as if his hated nemesis was no more.
Elminster was destroyed. The original Elminster, that is—for of course the fool would have copied Manshoon’s brilliant ploy, and crafted clones of himself. Any archmage would.
“Which means,” the founder of the Zhentarim murmured aloud, as he turned slowly all around to make sure no one was watching, and no stricken Elminster was desperately crawling away, “I must now hunt down all the lesser, later Elminsters. To ensure the Old Mage is gone forever, never to return.”
He could see no fleeing, cowering, or spying creature—not so much as a songbird. He was alone. Permitting himself a long, slow smile, Manshoon became mist. He circled the edge of the pit where his longtime foe had perished, then soared into the sky, flying in a wider circle and peering down to look for spies from on high.
None. Finally, he allowed himself to gloat.
“You found your doom at last, old goat of Shadowdale—and behold, it was me!” Great wild bellows of laughter rolled out of him then, in a flood of exultation.
Mirth and triumph that died away all too soon in fresh anger as Elminster’s remembered taunts came to mind … the Old Mage’s laughing face, the Sage of Shadowdale defying him and lecturing him and … and …
Bah! He’d rend them all, every one of those hated laughing faces. And the clones were just a part of the work ahead. Identifying and eliminating all of Elminster’s descendants must be part of this, too, for there was a chance—a good chance—the Sage of Shadowdale had hid “echoes” of himself inside them. It’s what he himself would do, after all, and Elminster was no better than he was, wherefore of course …
So his victory this day was a beginning, not an end. It would take years to find and eliminate every clone and all of Elminster’s offspring, so he couldn’t drop all his other plans to do it. He would not.
He, Manshoon Emperor-to-Be, would proceed with conquering Cormyr—just not declaring himself openly as ruler until he could be certain Elminster was gone. Rather, he’d use various human puppets, putting one after another on the throne to face all the work of ruling and the inevitable assassination attempts, leaving himself free to hunt Elminster, coerce nobles, and gather his own arsenal of blueflame items, too, if they were so important.
Let Mystra, if Mystra truly had returned, treat him with respect for once. Favor Manshoon as he deserved to be favored.
After all, if she could rely on Elminster—become intimate with Elminster, if the tales could be credited!—her tastes could not be too lofty to encompass Elminster’s better.
And if there was no Mystra and the mad former queen of Aglarond had merely been raving, deluding herself into thinking Mystra was guiding her, he’d seen enough of what an idiotic young noble could do with blueflame ghosts to know blueflame magic was worth having, regardless.
Yes. Yet he was getting ahead of himself. Return to Suzail first, to his bases there, the shop and home of Sraunter the alchemist and the half-ruined mansion of Larak Dardulkyn. There to sit and take wine and ponder. Decide which of his puppets to awaken, how precisely to proceed in conquering Cormyr, and where to begin seeking Elminster’s clones and blueflame items. It would not do to—
Hah! Of course! He’d begin by hunting down Elminster’s three companions: Storm Silverhand, Lord Arclath Delcastle, and the dancer Amarune Whitewave. None of them could hide themselves as the Sage of Shadowdale could, with all his magic—and whatever remained of Elminster, be it a clone or offspring, would not be far from them. Or from Storm, at least. So she and the other two would readily lead any seeker to Elminster, time and again. It was simple, really, the moment one stopped to think about it.
Right. Settled. Yet he had his own long-cherished schemes to set in motion first. He’d mind-touch his most recently subverted nobles—Crownrood, Andolphyn, Blacksilver, Loroun, and the rest—into doing this work for him. It was high time to start working in earnest on asserting control over suitable war wizards, too. Using both nobles and Crown mages to isolate the royal family and their few remaining trustworthy and effective courtiers, until they stood alone against those more loyal to him—and Manshoon could conquer his kingdom with ease.
Yes. Ah, but it was time at last …
“I haven’t noticed much eagerness on your part to seek my counsel before,” the spiderlike thing told her flatly. “Or even to accord me the minimum respect of addressing me, looking my way, or granting that I exist at all—when the king or Royal Magician aren’t present.”
“So you admit you’re no longer Royal Magician of Cormyr?” Glathra snapped.
Vangerdahast sighed. “Attacking, always attacking … young lady, d’you know how to do anything else?”
Glathra Barcantle gave the little monster a sour glare. In truth, she was afraid of the infamous Vangerdahast. Not to mention revolted by what he’d become. A blackened human head trailing wisps of hair and beard, balanced atop an unpleasant wrinkled black sack of a body like an untidy collar, sprouting a spidery cluster of gray-black human fingers on which it scuttled along like a confident shore crab. She was looking at something that resembled a heap of human remains salvaged by a priest or wizard after a fiery death, for identification purposes. No longer a man or a “he” … no, this was an it.
She hated it as much as ever.
“I know how to do all that’s necessary to safeguard Cormyr,” she snapped, “and I’m doing so right now. Quite capably, despite whatever you may think. Kindly stop evading my question. I ask you again, thing: do you admit you are no longer the Royal Magician of the realm?”
“I will always be Royal Magician, so long as I am Vangerdahast,” came the swift reply. “Yet I grant that Ganrahast is also Royal Magician of Cormyr. You seem unable to accept that state of affairs. Tell me, are all wizards of war so inflexible these days?”
“And if we are?” Glathra spat.
“Then I must needs test every last one of you, dismiss most of you, and begin training and rebuilding until Crown mages are once more fit to serve the realm. I’ve done it before.”
“Oh? And you think we’ll just heed and obey, I suppose? Accept your judgment, you who are a monster and not a man, who could be any devil or undead horror that has plundered the memories of Vangerdahast? You who demonstrate such a flexible grasp of Cormyr’s laws and rules and chains of command? I think not.”
Snatching two wands from her belt, Glathra shook them in front of the thing on the shelf. “These are power! These can blast you back to whatever Hell you came from, if I so choose! These are very like the scores—hundreds—more, wielded by dedicated wizards of war all across this realm! Dodge mine, and you’ll be blasted down by wands aimed by the next loyal Crown mage! These make me every bit as useful to the Dragon Throne as some scuttling black thing from years gone by, who—”
“Made all of those wands, and can master them,” Vangerdahast said softly—and sprang off the shelf, right at her face.
With a shriek of rage and terror Glathra triggered both wands, frantically trying to blast the monster before it touched her. Staggering back, she tripped and fell over backward, aghast.
The wands hadn’t awakened. She was clutching two sticks of whittled wood that bore no magic at all.
Someone touched her
bosom, fingers on her bared flesh. The spider-thing was walking along and up her body on its fingertips …
The black, bearded face loomed over her, staring at her nose to nose, eyes afire.
“Lady,” it said sternly, “I do not require you to like me, or be my friend—though it would be easier. I do require you to serve Cormyr, alongside me—or get out of the way. Don’t make me have to hurl you aside. Forever.”
The fingertips moved past her collarbone, drawing near her throat. Their noses were almost touching.
Vangerdahast gave her a wide, warm smile. “I can be charming, you know.”
Glathra fainted.
Mreldrake looked around at bare, yellowing walls that were by now all too boringly familiar, and couldn’t help but sigh. This was a prison, all right, a cell as secure as any deep dungeon lockhole—and he’d walked right into it. Willingly.
Yes, he himself had kicked aside the last shreds of any doubt as to what sort of fool he was. Yet it was the first trap in which he’d ever been excited to be caught.
Yes, excited. His despair had faded, and most of his bitterness at the narrowing prison his life had become was gone, too.
Swept away in the mounting thrill of the magic he was working. For once, ideas for refining and manipulating the Art flooded into his mind, his thoughts often outracing his scribbling pen. Experiment after experiment was working, or at least shaping the unfolding enchantments well enough to reveal the way onward.
For the first time in his life, he was truly excited at his own magical prowess.
In this litter of notes and runes and scribbled incantations, with these powders and jars and braziers, he was creating magic—real magic, far beyond the silly make-yon-chamber pot-glow cantrips of his youth.
Magic that could change kingdoms, change everything. Magic that could make its wielder the greatest mass murderer ever …
The glaragh was in a hurry. Elminster raced along, his ashes swirling and tumbling in their own wind of haste, just to keep it in sight. Ahead, the passage was rising, and becoming well lit by frequent patches of overhead and high-wall fungi that the great worm ignored in its relentless race onward.
