by Ed Greenwood
Farland started to speak, but Longclaws flung up a blue and floppy-fingered hand that was busily turning into several clusters of scaled, greenish black talons, to silence him.
“We’re here to investigate the lord constable and everyone else in Irlingstar, just as you are. As for this—”
With his unchanging hand, the war wizard gestured at his talons, just as they collapsed into flopping, writhing, rose pink tentacles, then started to shift into a tight cluster of what looked like questing, dribbling boar snouts.
“—I suffered this years ago, when fighting outlaw raiders on the Moonsea Ride beyond Tilverton. We routed them, ere a black-dragon-riding wizard appeared and served us the same way. He gave me this, and half a year later caravans brought us the tale that the legendary Manshoon the Deathless, Black Cloak Lord of the Zhentarim, riding a great black wyrm, had ‘humbled an army of Cormyr bent on conquering the Dales.’ ” Longclaws gave Rune and Arclath a mirthless grin. “So if I ever encounter this Manshoon …”
“If you ever encounter Manshoon,” a sharp-edged, lilting, melodious new voice interrupted, as yet another secret door swung open, “you’ll probably last for as many moments as he bothers to toy with you. I’d seek nobler aims, if you want your life to hold fulfillment and satisfaction.”
Everyone turned to stare at the new arrival.
It was a curvaceous, darkly beautiful female drow.
She smiled at them as she held up her hands, wriggling long and slender fingers to draw attention to the rings adorning her two longest fingers: a war wizard ring, and a wizard of war team ring.
“ ’Tis roast stag tonight, lord,” the equerry said eagerly.
“Of course it is,” the commander of High Horn replied testily. “It would be something I love, on a Darlhoun debriefing night! Well, try to save some for me!”
Thrusting his helm and riding gauntlets into the equerry’s hand, Lord Sunter strode inside, past the wonderful smell rolling out of the banquet hall—his stomach promptly rumbled its own longing hunting call—to the stairs. It was a long climb to the top of the main keep tower.
Not for Umbarl Darlhoun, of course. Hrasting war wizards could just float up, couldn’t they?
So Darlhoun would be there waiting for him, of course. Sitting behind Sunter’s own desk as if it were his own, smiling that smug smile and dusting his hands together—and patting yet another stack of parchments as tall as a war helm. He’d not depart until every last one had been thoroughly discussed, even if the stars came and went and a new morning was well under way.
And the man was so hrasted cheerful, so genuinely nice and sympathetic and diligent and … and …
Sunter wanted to wring his neck, and hated himself for feeling that way. His stomach rumbled again.
“Tluin,” he whispered under his breath, “I need a drink.”
When at last he reached his own rooms, almost at the top of the tower, and unlocked the door, he discovered he really did need a drink.
Happy Wizard of War Umbarl Darlhoun would never be cheerful to anyone again.
Someone had dismembered him all over Sunter’s desk, thoughtfully taking the head and the meeting’s stack of parchments away with them, and arranging the limbs and torso to neatly hold in the blood, and frame a message written in Darlhoun’s intestines: “A gift from your future emperor.”
“Make that a dozen drinks,” Sunter said aloud. “After I’m done throwing up.”
The last fading monsters clawed vainly at the darkening twilight sky as the flickering, fading purple radiance reclaimed them.
Blue flames snarled around the purple glow, constricting it, hemming it in. Purple flames flared, and as swiftly died away, leaving the glow smaller and fainter.
The Simbul fed what was left of the rift more and more blue flames, bearing down despite her trembling weariness.
“Go,” she gasped, tossing her head back and setting her long silver tresses to renewed writhing. “Begone forever.”
The rift winked one last flash of sickly purple, almost impudent in its timing, and died.
Leaving The Simbul reeling in exhaustion.
“How long now, Mother Mystra?” she gasped wearily.
Not much longer, Cherished One. You have taken care of the worst of them.
“And El and Manshoon? How many have they done?”
“Not one, yet. Manshoon … disappointed me.”
“But not surprised you,” The Simbul interpreted. “He tried to slay El the moment I departed, didn’t he?”
Not quite. I believe it was about six moments after you departed.
The one-time Witch-Queen of All Aglarond snorted, sputtered, tittered like a young lass for a moment—then threw back her head and roared.
In mere moments, the thunderous laughter of a goddess echoed hers.
“Who,” Wizard of War Duth Gulkanun snapped, his most powerful wand aimed and ready in his hand, “are you?”
“Gulk, Gulk, I know our paths rarely crossed, and oh-so-cordial Nostyn liked me very little, but don’t you remember Brannon Lucksar?”
Gulkanun blinked. “I do, and I distinctly remember Brannon Lucksar as a good-natured man I liked and admired. A man, not a she-drow!”
“So I was,” the lithe, dark-skinned … person … across the room replied with what Gulkanun—busily swallowing, his throat suddenly dry—could only term a jaunty, sultry smile. Gods Above, no one had told him that the evil, slay-on-sight dark elves were so … hrasted beautiful. She was … very far from being a man. Whew.
“Until the curse,” the she-drow added sadly. “Longclaws here knows all about curses.”
The war wizard she’d just named already had two wands trained on her. His face tightened as he shook them warningly, his flaring anger clear. One wand dipped and wavered alarmingly as the hand holding it started to change again.
For his part, Farland slowly drew his sword. Arclath stepped in front of Rune to shield her. She promptly used that shielding to covertly draw one of her daggers and hold it ready to throw.
“How did you get up here?” Farland growled at the dark elf. Who gave him a smile, and slowly lifted one long, shapely leg.
“Used this. And my other one. We call it ‘walking,’ back in Immerford.”
She stroked her raised leg thoughtfully—a long and languid move that made Longclaws growl aloud, deep in his throat, before he could stop himself—and added in a teasing purr, “Lothan always told me you and Avathnar rode the halls of Irlingstar on the backs of crawling prisoners. I never believed him, of course, but now …”
“I meant,” Farland said deliberately, his sword out and hefted meaningfully in his hand, “that you almost certainly had to swiftly murder several of my guards to reach the passage you just came in here through.”
The drow waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve slain no one in Irlingstar. A few simple spells served to temporarily—and harmlessly—immobilize several guards, so I could join this little council.”
“Die, lying drow,” Gulkanun said coldly, and he let fly with his wand.
Beside him, both of the wands Longclaws aimed flashed into life, too.
“Idiots!” Arclath shouted. “You’ll kill us … all …”
His angry shout faded away. Nothing at all had happened. The magic of the wands, that no one could possibly outrun, had flashed across the room and—
Vanished. Doing nothing, it seemed.
The drow was very much intact. More than that, she was leaning against the wall, still smiling, and examining her fingernails, the very picture of unconcerned nonchalance. The air around her crackled and tiny motes of light winked into momentary being, from time to time, the unmistakable aftermath of a powerful unleashing of magic, but …
“Lying, murderous drow!” Farland barked, striding forward. In an instant, his sword acquired scores—hundreds—of winking motes of light that clinged to the blade. He shouted in pain and let it fall, his sword arm jerking around in wild spasms.
Cursing, he g
rabbed his errant limb and staggered back, falling against the wall. “How long have you been hiding in the castle?” He spat as he slid to the floor. “You’ve been slaying everyone, haven’t you?”
The drow shook her lovely head. “No, Lord—”
That was as far as she got, before an explosion rocked Irlingstar again.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
WHEN I TIRE OF IT
The blast seemed to begin somewhere distant, but rolled right at the lord constable’s office like a racing, raging dragon, its roaring and shaking growing louder and nearer with frightening speed.
That rising tumult almost drowned out the screams and shouts erupting from noble prisoners all over the castle as fresh dust fell and curled, more pebbles and stones rained down, and new cracks raced across walls that groaned anew.
The doors of the lord constable’s office—all of them, including three secret doors known only to him—burst open as the force of the blast reached the north tower. They banged wildly as an unseen titan’s hand seemed to snatch up the room and shake it, hurling the furniture and the room’s six occupants off walls, floor, and ceiling … and then, very suddenly, everything fell silent and still. Except for the ever-present drifting dust.
Only the drow stood unscathed, the dust shunning a sphere of clear air that surrounded her.
“Magic, obviously—probably fueled by the hrasted wand firings,” Farland snarled from the floor as he glared at her, too dazed to keep from thinking aloud. He and the other Crown loyals were still wincing, rubbing bruises, and picking themselves up when some dust-covered men staggered along the passage and in through the main door of the office.
These new arrivals were prisoners, by what could be seen of their dust-caked finery—mainly, that it wasn’t any sort of Purple Dragon armor or uniform. A few were clutching Purple Dragon swords in their hands, which meant some guards were down, probably dead …
Farland hefted his own weapon and strode forward, less than surprised to see that Lord Arclath Delcastle had acquired a blade from somewhere and was at his side.
“Down steel,” Farland ordered the coughing, stumbling nobles. “In the name of the king—”
The foremost noble spat at Farland’s boots. “That for the king!” He sneered, sketching an elaborate duelist’s flourish in the air with his stolen sword. “Now you down steel, sirrah, or I’ll carve that sword out of your hand—and go right on carving up the rest of you! I’ll have you know I took sword schooling with the famous Narlebauh! And had lessons with Helnan, too!”
A second noble sliced the air in an even more elaborate flourish. “Ah, Helnan, what an amusing little cockerel. Cut off their noses first, I say,” he drawled. “A man looks rather comical, without a nose …”
Of course these prisoners would be well-trained swordsmen. Farland sighed, drew himself up, and prepared to die fighting.
“Defend and disarm,” the drow murmured, “aren’t those your standing orders, lord constable?”
“Belt up,” Farland ordered savagely, not looking away from the leisurely advancing nobles for an instant. For their part, those recently escaped prisoners stopped and stared at the shapely dark elf, drawing back before swords could be crossed.
The drow languidly, almost wantonly strolled forward, a dark and eerie radiance flickering up and down her shapely limbs, a stranger glow flooding from her beckoning eyes.
The sword-wielding nobles gaped at her in earnest, going pale and backing into the rest of the escaped nobles right behind them.
“A drow! Run!”
“Invasion from the Underdark! They’ll butcher us all! Cormyr is doomed!”
Suddenly the nobles all turned and fled, running hard through the swirling dust, crashing into doorframes and each other, cursing and shouting.
Farland sprang after them, barking, “Back to your cells, gentlesirs! For your own safety, back to your—”
The rout lasted for two passages and a guard post, ere it reached the large ready chamber where two halls joined the main passage. There, amid the fading dust, some noble prisoners rallied to defy the lord constable, waving weapons they could only have wrested from more than a dozen guards—who must now be stunned, sorely wounded, or dead. Swords sketched salutes, slid through elaborate duelists’ exercises, and flourished with all the deftness of court champions.
Farland came to an abrupt halt, watching all the displays of swordsmanship, and wondered just how long he could last against—what, fourteen?—expert swordsmen.
Then he saw Lord Delcastle glide over to stand at his shoulder, his sword ready—and the dancer, or thief, or whatever she was; the Whitewave woman, appear beside his other shoulder, a fearless little smile on her face and several daggers between her fingers, ready for throwing …
“Well, well,” said one of the nobles, giving them a choice sneer. “Three of you, against all of us? What’ll that be—a few more moments of sport? Show us how well you can beg and scream! Leave the woman alive for, heh, the usual purposes …”
He strolled forward, slicing the air wildly with his sword like a butcher seeking to sharpen two blades against each other, the grinning line of armed nobles moving with him—when a horrible scream rang out from right behind them.
The nobles whirled around, snarling curses, afraid that guards had arrived in a stealthy attack to sword them down from behind—
But they saw only one fellow escaped inmate down on the flagstones, all alone with no one around him. They all knew him—couldn’t help but know him. It was Lord Quensyn Rhangobrar, one of the most arrogant and bullying prisoners ever to swagger around Castle Irlingstar. He lay on the floor clutching vainly at his own throat, blood spurting from between his fingers. He kicked feebly at the floor, writhing in his own blood, choking and gurgling.
And there was no one at all around him, no one nearby.
Rhangobrar gave a last, agonized gurgle—it rattled in his throat horribly—and slumped dead, twisted on his back with one knee up. His hands fell away, and they could all see the raw, gaping ruin under his jaw.
His throat was largely gone, torn or cut out.
Lord Quensyn Rhangobrar had just been murdered. By a person, beast, or force unknown, more or less in front of their eyes.
Thessarelle’s Platter was one of the most upscale dining establishments in Suzail, but had long since been deemed “so four summers ago” by the nobility. Its very unfashionability had long since left it quiet and desperate for trade. Therefore, it was eminently suitable for those seeking a superior experience without having to drop overmuch coin. Wherefore these nights, Thessarelle’s—to call it “the Platter” was considered distinctly uncouth—was a favorite haunt of high-ranking courtiers, outlanders visiting Suzail, and Cormyrean wealthy folk who lacked titles and harbored no ambitions to soar socially. On this particular early evening, two patrons of the establishment were dining alone at adjacent tables.
One always ate alone, by choice—the quiet, bespectacled Rensharra Ironstave, Lady Clerk of the Rolls. The head of tax appraisals for all of Cormyr, she had few friends, and had to be seen to be free of such encumbrances as Cormyrean dining partners who might be thought by watching eyes to be attempting to bribe her, work deals with her, or to get her drunk and then seek to poison her. She did not mind being given a table in a bad location, close to the kitchens and facing all of the traffic of arriving and departing diners.
The other bad table was customarily given, by Thessarelle’s gliding, murmuring, impeccably mannered staff, to the most boorish outlander or party of outlanders to darken their doors, in an attempt to keep them as distant as possible from other diners, regular clientele in particular.
On that night, a certain Mirt the Moneylender easily won the title of “Most Boorish Outlander” without even trying for it. So it was that he came to be seated, with three bottles emptied before him after only one platter of fried hocks-and-tongues, and well before the arrival of his ordered “best side of boar,” at the table besi
de the one Goodwoman Ironstave was smoothly conducted to.
“Well, now,” he said jovially, giving her a wide and welcoming smile. “Well met, beauteous lady! Which goddess are you, I wonder, stealing down to enchant mere mortals this fair even?”
Rensharra had been brought up to be polite, even if most of her daily work of dealing with deceitful nobles and wealthy merchants forced her to all too often be sharply and bluntly candid, so she turned away to hide the heartfelt roll of her eyes from him. He was, after all, an outlander—and by his accent, from the Sword Coast or somewhere equally westward and barbaric—and probably knew no better.
“You flatter me, saer,” she announced in a flat, no-nonsense voice.
“How can I do anything else, when yer beauty is like a sharp sword, piercing my heart—or somewhere rather lower?” His wink was large, exaggerated, and accompanied by genuine amusement. Gods, there was a proverbial fallen-star twinkle in his eye! Rensharra snorted. He was so … charmingly crude.
“Your vision, saer,” she told him tartly, “must be faulty. It leads your judgment astray.”
“Oh, but that’s wonderful,” he gasped, in the manner of a swooning princess in a badly acted play. “To be led astray by such a splendid woman, so swiftly! Tymora smiles upon me, surely—as, I see, do you. Could it be that yer own innate love for waywardness … dare I say yer hunger for straying … matches my own? Ah, but I’m too bold by half! Let me claw desperately at what is left of my manners, and offer you my name—Mirt, Lord of Waterdeep—and my purse, to furnish you with whatever you desire to drink and to eat, here in this superior dining establishment, this night! Pray accept my offer, by way of making amends for my coarse, forward, low outland ways! We are direct in Waterdeep, we charge at what we desire, we seek to board and conquer swiftly, but I daresay that’s less’n acceptable hereabouts …”
“Mirt,” Rensharra Ironstave said crisply. “I’ve heard that name around the palace. You … sat upon the head of a certain wizard of war recently, I believe.”
