by Ed Greenwood
What was the monstrous worm seeking? Or had it been there before, and had a destination?
El tried to shake his head ruefully, though he had no head to shake. Well over a thousand summers, and I still know so little about Faerûn. All my time I’ve spent fighting, worrying, or manipulating so I need not fight and so a few more folk may live rather than die … and failing in my strivings, too often failing …
The passage hooked around a corner, and he heard sudden yells. Liquid, fluting voices—drow.
By the time El got to where he could see them, they were all dead, crushed and bloody smears on the rocks, spears and handbows splintered and strewn about.
The glaragh had burst right through a guard post and out into a great cavern beyond. It was headed straight for a dark prow of rock that jutted out into open space like the bow of some gigantic entombed ship of the gods—a wall of stone pierced by many balconies and ramparts, eerie glows of worm lamps and glow fungi showing through hundreds of windows.
A drow citadel, its arraugra—the swifter and more elegant dark elf equivalent of what most humans called ballistae—cracking forth a rain of racing lances at the oncoming glaragh.
El dodged one hissing lance instinctively, though a line of ashes really didn’t need to avoid anything, and peered at the rushing worm to see its reaction.
Lance after lance thudded home—the thing’s hide wasn’t all that tough, after all—but the glaragh didn’t even seem to notice.
The barrage ended as the drow defenders ran out of loaded and ready arraugra. El could see sleek dark bodies dashing around on balconies trying to reload, but the glaragh wasn’t waiting. It plunged straight into the midst of a hastily assembling wall of warriors in front of the citadel’s nearest gate, and kept right on going.
It swept inside, where it couldn’t help but get stuck in the narrow passages and tiny rooms, smooth though their walls undoubtedly were. Dark elf architecture might favor the sweeping curve and the smooth surface, but tight quarters were tight—
The glaragh thrust itself into a very narrow passage, thinning down like a ribbon, then suddenly surged. The rock around it groaned and shattered in countless places, falling away in a thunder of rubble from which the glaragh freed itself with two great sweeps of its tail, and surged on.
There was a crack followed by a rumbling fall, and then the same tumult repeated itself. Mined at its heart, the great citadel was falling in.
Much of the stronghold’s center—the prow itself—had been hollowed out by the glaragh in less time than it would take Elminster to get out a wand, and the glaragh was stabbing with its head into the open sides of shattered rooms, biting and sucking. Drow fought vainly against the pursuing tentacles thrusting out of the great worm’s sides—and were gone.
Whereupon the glaragh fell silent and still.
Then, the moment the echoes of its destruction had finally died and stillness had fallen, the creature suddenly rose again in one great heave. That mighty convulsion preceded a mental onslaught that smote Elminster like a tidal wave, a thunderous silent darkness that broke over his thoughts and almost swept him away, dragging him far closer to the glaragh than he’d ever intended to get.
As it happened, he’d been watching some drow mages hurriedly claw out enchanted scepters to deal with the invader, so he saw the effects of the glaragh’s mind attack all too clearly. One moment the dark elves were all frenzied agility, scrambling to undo latches and pluck out wrapped and stored scepters—and the next, they crumpled like so many discarded puppets, emptied of will and wits, toppling like mindless meat to the floor. One even heedlessly impaled himself on his own scepter.
Somehow—he never knew quite how—Elminster tore himself away from the glaragh’s pull, free of the dark and hungry mind that sought to lure and feed on his, and got a good look at the face of one fallen drow mage. Eyes blank, mouth open and drooling, everything slack. Mindless meat, to be sure.
Behind him, the glaragh gave another great heave, slicing off the mind pull as if with a falling knife. Then the great worm veered. A lash of its tail swept more rooms down into ruin and gave it space enough to freely turn around and depart.
It glided out into the cavern more slowly than it had charged the citadel, and paused. It seemed to sniff the available passages before choosing one—turning again into the breeze—and plunging on into the Underdark. The jaunty flick of its tail as it left the cavern behind seemed almost … satisfied.
Elminster watched it go. He had already decided to stay behind in the citadel. Among so many mindless drow bodies, he might well find a new body for himself. Dark elves were nothing if not supple, and—Mystra!
What by all the Nine Flaming Hells?
He had not felt that sudden tingling stealing into him for years, had not thought to ever feel it again. A cool sweetness, the almost sensual rising tide within him that made him purr aloud involuntarily, a soft growling that spat brief silver flames in front of his nose.
The silver fire.
Mystra’s divine fire was flowing into him from somewhere nearby, somewhere in the shattered citadel!
Astonished, Elminster forgot all about the glaragh and turned his attention to the ruins around him. The great prow had been split open, its center destroyed. Below him yawned a rubble-filled gulf. The prow had been reduced to two torn, separate walls of rock, with nothing between them but debris and a few sagging walls and pillars that wouldn’t stand for long ere they joined the heaped and broken stone below.
He felt invigorated, stronger than ever. Well, of course he would, with this new fire in him—but he had to know who was dying, which Chosen of Mystra was sinking into death and yielding up their divine fire, leaking it out into the Realms around. He must know!
And who dared to slay a Chosen of Mystra?
Aglow with silver fire, wild with the excitement such energy always brought him, and hungry for more, the swift stream of radiant ashes that was Elminster arrowed down into the ruins.
Who or what was waiting in there that could slay keepers of the divine fire of the goddess of all magic?
CHAPTER
THREE
A CITADEL BECOME A TOMB
El plunged into shattered rooms, through arches that leaned and ceilings that sagged, seeking silver fire.
Its flow into him had faded swiftly after that first flood, down to a trickle. Which meant he had to hurry …
Broken drow bodies were everywhere, half-buried in rubble, wet ribbons of blood running from under many stone piles.
Less gruesome but more eerie were the last victims of the glaragh, the untouched but mindless bodies draped and sprawled atop the rubble.
El darted past them, racing this way and that, following the fading trail of Mystra’s divine fire deeper into what was left of the citadel … into the intact rooms on one side of the devastation.
He would be finding death, he knew, the last moments of someone who might well be dear to him. Was this Mystra’s will, this timing? The fire her gift to him?
That might be the most comforting way to think of it, aye, but …
What if it was a trap? What if he was rushing to his doom? Lured by someone or something eager to slay Chosen, or someone who cared not who came racing, but would smite any unwelcome arrival?
He cared not. He had to know who was relinquishing silver fire, had to taste more of it if he could, had to … had to …
El came at last into a room where grandly robed drow lay slumped in profusion—spider priestesses and mages—around a table where chains held spread-eagled remains that had been butchered beyond recognition. The sacrifice, or victim, had been both a Chosen and a she-elf. He could tell that much.
Grim anger grew in him as he came nearer. The drow had removed organs from her, and cast experimental spells on her, while she lived.
A jar still cradled in the arms of one crumpled and mindless dark elf held a freshly severed human tongue, and … were those eyeballs, glistening on a tray across the room?
Aye, staring sightlessly now, forever. Black rage flared, rising until Elminster wanted to snarl, or choke. As ashes, he could do neither; he could only swirl.
This death will be paid for. This I swear.
He looked wildly around for a greater foe, but saw or sensed no one. Only all these cruel, now mindless drow …
Dark rage rode him. He was trembling, every ash mote of him. He did not know which was stronger: his grief or his rage.
Mingled with them was shame, as El furiously circled in the air above the sad remnants of a fellow Chosen he could neither name nor aid. Feeling no better than her drow tormentors, he fed on her instead, drinking in the very last of Mystra’s fire escaping from her.
Those precious silver flames streamed past a trail of purple and black fire tracing a slow and endless circle in midair above the blood-drenched table; a poorly crafted dark elf spell that had sought to capture the escaping divine essence for drow use. It had failed. El gave it a glance. Such magic could never have contained the silver fire …
He shuddered in astonishment as the last of the silver fire flooded into him, plunging him into feeling … unsettled. Strange, mildly sickening … more expansive, as if he were not alone …
Mystra’s fire had lingered long enough to drink and drain yon drow flames and several other failing dark elf magics in the room, bringing them into him. Was something now amiss within him? Had—
No, Old Mage, you are as tough and enduring as ever, an amused voice said from the depths of his mind.
“Who—?” Elminster blurted out, staring wildly around as if some magical mirror might spring into being, right in front of him, to show him who’d spoken. None obliged.
It could only be the Chosen on the table, come into him with the last of her silver fire … but the voice didn’t feel familiar.
It was weak, and fading; she’d probably not last long without the Weave to sustain her …
Not long, I agree. I’ve not much time left, Elminster. Use my fire well, and remember me when you do.
“I—” Elminster found his voice rough, and he fought to speak. “I’d find that easier to do if I knew who ye were.”
Are, impatient man, still are, thank you very much!
That tart mindspeech stung; El winced and bowed his head.
“My apologies, lady, I pray ye. Are still, of course. Ah, are still whom?”
That’s better. There was a time when you knew me. Symrustar Auglamyr, once of Cormanthor. We did not part on good terms.
“Symrustar? Lady, how … how …”
How came I here? Taken by the drow long ago, my mind assailed by their spells for years. I fought them and won, again and again, until they despaired of conquering me and decided to destroy me instead, to get at Mystra’s might within me. And they managed it. In the end, Our Lady fallen silent, it seems I was not so special, after all.
The voice in Elminster’s head fell silent for a moment. When it spoke again, it was laced with amusement.
Or do you mean, how is it that I became a Chosen? And you never knew of me?
“Ah … aye. To thy first, I mean. As for the second, Mystra shielded ye from me, of course.”
She did. For both our sakes. I love you, man.
“And I ye. I believe ye when ye speak of love—but ye had, ye must admit, an odd way of showing it.”
I was torn, and more than torn. I hated you, too. For being a human, El. It was … shame to me to desire a human. Until my heart told me otherwise, I was as certain as the rising and setting of the sun and moon that humans were stinking, hairy, brutish savages. A young, reckless, lesser race that deserved no respect and was unworthy of their ever-rising power. A blight upon the Realms that despoiled and ruined without thought or caring, and responded with angry violence when their faults were pointed out to them. You shattered all I knew of the world, all at once, and … and I saw what was to come. That seeing would not be easy for any elf, high or low. It was poison to me. You were poison to me.
“I … Lady, I was young and foolish and proud, and—and did ye ill.”
I tried to do you worse. Even prayed not just to the gods I knew well, but to Mystra, for the means to destroy you.
“Sweet shattered spells …,” El whispered, aghast. “Did ye not know—?”
The ties between you and your goddess? I soon learned. The voice in his mind was wry. Yet never have I known such love, such mercy. Instead of destroying me or playing me false, she gave me kindness and wise counsel. That I spurned. When at last I fell in battle, she came to me as I was flung across the sky, my body rent in fire, and offered me a new life. I said yes. She promised me you would never know while she flourished. I wonder now if she foresaw her fate.
“I … I think Mystra’s fall was part of a cycle fated to happen again and again, as the Weave—as all magic of this world—needs renewal. Mystra has returned.”
WHAT? I’ve felt her not!
“She is … much changed. Diminished. Needing my service urgently, where before I was but one able-handed servant and messenger among many at her disposal.”
And so you’ll endure, as I fall into the darkness. Yet I’ll have this brief time with you, ere I fade. You always had the hardest road, Lord Aumar. You prince. The voice lost its forlorn and wistful feeling, and turned warmly affectionate. You right rogue.
“Lady,” Elminster replied, “I … I wish matters had been different, between us.”
If wishes were armies, Cormanthor would yet stand bright. I had my second chance, El, and made much of it, and long ago moved beyond regret. I found lovers and soulmates and good friends among Mystra’s faithful, then peace over what befell when we were both in the City of Song. Mystra often showed me your unfolding exploits, as entertainment for us both. Know that I … The voice seemed to choke for a moment, as if suppressing a sob. That I often cheered for you.
Symrustar’s voice slid back into wry amusement again. Even when you were … wenching.
Elminster winced. “Mystra never told me …”
Mystra never told you a lot of things. Yet know that she regarded you above all others in her service, gave you the hardest tasks, trusted you more than any other. You were her lion. I … I often wondered what your mind would feel like.
“And now?”
It feels … comfortable. Friendlier and kinder than I thought it could be. You are a bright lion, man.
El winced again. “I—I bumble along, these days. Trying to do what I’m bidden without doing too much damage to the Realms around me. All too often failing at that, I must tell ye.”
Modestly said, Lord Aumar, but just now, I perceive from your thoughts, body snatching is your foremost interest. Hardly a modest pursuit.
“Ouch. Thy tongue still stings with casual ease.”
I’m not quite dead yet. So share. This is my last ride, and I want to enjoy it.
“Lady, flying around as a sort of sightseer has its fleeting attractions, but Mystra has laid urgent orders upon me, and much depended upon me before that. To fulfill any of these tasks, I require a body, hands and all. Not some thrall under compulsion I might try from a distance, but the defter, closer control I gain by inhabiting the body, wearing it as my own.”
So how did you happen to be so careless as to lose your own body?
El sighed. “A longish tale, lady. Do ye really want me to spend the time to—?”
No. I was … needling you. A besetting failure of mine. Forgive me. Explore away. The sooner you’re wearing a body, the sooner we can be out of this place. Those last mental words came wrapped in rising fear, revulsion, and a hastily suppressed flare of gruesome memories of grinning drow cutting into her ere the excruciating pain made her faint.
Elminster sent her all the soothing, loving emotion he could muster, which earned him a sharp: Spare me the romance, Sage of Shadowdale. A little late now for both of us, wouldn’t you grant? So get looking!
“Thy wish, lady,” El told the elf in his mind wryly, “is my c
ommand.”
He drifted forward. But even for swirling ashes, haste among freshly fallen rubble, with pillars and fragments of ceiling often crashing down suddenly, was nigh-impossible. Caution had to govern.
What El had watched the glaragh do suggested mindless bodies would be plentiful if he picked promptly. He could see silent, empty-eyed drow drooling and aimlessly staggering in distant galleries, heedless of peril; were those the best and strongest bodies to choose from, or should he take one that was unmarked but unconscious?
Take the most beautiful she-drow, Symrustar suggested tartly. Drow males and human men are alike in this: beauty distracts them from instantly seeking to slay. They’d rather have some fun first.
“Cynical,” El muttered, “yet astute.”
The one does not preclude the other, man. Even among humans. As for elves, have you so utterly forgotten your days in Cormanthor?
“No,” Elminster whispered. “Never.”
Gently, El. I did not mean to wound.
“I bear many wounds,” he murmured. “The worst healed are those I carry in my mind.”
Carefully wrapped in shrouds and hidden away, I see.
Elminster winced again.
In the rubble-heaped cauldron where the prow of stone had been, most of the drow were dead or maimed, half-crushed or missing limbs. El floated into the intact rooms deeper along the surviving side of the citadel where Symrustar had been slain.
This may be the wiser place to search, his newfound guest said approvingly. Or the most dangerous—the most powerful priestesses had chambers in this direction.
“The glaragh stole every mind it could reach,” El told her. “Unless other drow come before I’m done, I don’t expect battle.”
Nor did he find any. Staring drow were everywhere, their bodies intact but their minds quite gone, some of them silent and seemingly unaware of him or anything, others slinking away like cowed dogs at any nearby movement.
