Elminster Enraged: The Sage of Shadowdale, Book III (Forgotten Realms: Sage of Shadowdale)

by Ed Greenwood

  “Lord Breeklar,” Storm said calmly, “Lord Hamnlaer is right. Trying to silence a messenger whenever you don’t like the sound of a message, without hearing what the message truly is, is to leave yourself forever unprepared for everything life hurls at you. That’s merely a fast trail to many bruises and a swifter grave than necessary.” She raised her glass. “And for your information, Lord Breeklar, I am the Marchioness of Immerdusk. Every whit as noble, and as ‘true Cormyrean,’ as you are, and of older lineage. The Breeklars, as I recall, came from Westgate less than four generations ago …”

  “Do you dare insult me?”

  “Do you dare try to act insulted?” Storm replied, in perfect mimicry of Breeklar’s fury. Then she fell into chuckles, shaking her head. “Apologies, my lords,” she told the table at large, “but I just can’t play the haughty overblown noble as well as Breeklar, here. I grew past that stage long, long ago.”

  “Oh,” Breeklar said nastily, “this’ll be your ‘I’m centuries upon centuries old and knew Baerauble and King Duar and the Immortal Purple Dragon personally, and I know what’s right for you’ pose. Which is either a pack of lies, or you’re some sort of foul demon or swindling elf who can put on human shape long enough to cozen us! Well, I’ll not fall for such—”

  He paled and grabbed for the ornate half-basket hilt of his sword, because Storm had stood up abruptly, upsetting her goblet of wine across the table. Nobles all around it tensed and reached for handy weapons, and Lord Hamnlaer’s household guards started forward again.

  The Lady Immerdusk seemed oblivious to them all. She was seeing things far away, her face going pale and sad, and—though her parted lips didn’t move at all—she was murmuring something soft and small, that issued from her throat with the shrill high ring of a distant scream: “Elminster! Oh my love, hear me!”

  That great, dark, warm and magnificent mind was suddenly gone from Gelnur Farland’s. Leaving him overwhelmed and … desolate.

  He was on his hands and knees, sobbing like a little lass, himself again but … abandoned, all those rich memories and loves and delights all gone, taken from him all at once.

  In a whirling trice the sweet memories had ended in a greater rising rage than he’d ever felt before, a rage not his own that had begun with a distant scream: “Elminster! Oh my love, hear me!”

  Demons overwhelmed her, tore at her, driving sharp talons deep into her, trying to tear her limb from limb by sheer strength.

  They were starting to manage it, too. Tendons and sinews began to fail, tresses were torn out by the roots, and agony kindled all over, dragging a scream out past her clenched teeth. She was going to die here, going to fail Mystra …

  Oh, no, Alassra. You fail me not. Call the blueflame to you. Will it to you.

  Mystra! The goddess had heard her!

  Hope surged in her like fresh cooling fire. The Simbul obeyed, or tried to, struggling to gather her will in the raw red heart of deepening agony. Demon talons had shifted from her limbs to the softer, easier target of her belly and torn into it. They were pulling at the edges of that wound, seeking to tear her wide open and rip her apart. Her legs and hips were drenched in her own warm blood, and her torso was one great gaping wound …

  Mind that not. Call the blueflame.

  The Simbul called, and felt the floating objects that held blueflame start to respond, curving in closer to her.

  Demon bodies were in the way, clawing and crowding and surging. This was hopeless …

  Hope, my darling daughter, is a lantern we all need, and we must never yield it up. Not even for me. Take firm hold of your hope, and keep calling the flame to you. Beautiful blueflame …

  The blueflame converged on her, the items that bore it searing holes through the demons as they came. Demons shrieked and roared as they died or were maimed, many of them falling away.

  Yet more snarlingly crowded in. Haures and rutterkin, glabrezu and nameless wormlike clutching things … no matter how much they clawed at incoming blueflame or swung weapons or worked magic at it, they could do nothing to stop or slow or strike aside the called blueflame—for touching it brought disintegration, and magic only made it blaze more brightly.

  Into your wound. Draw the blueflame into you.

  The Simbul did as Mystra commanded, and the silver fire roiling within her and leaking from her wounds snarled in hungry coils around the blueflame, merged with it … and consumed it.

  Quite suddenly, she was full of white-hot, raging power. Might that boiled up her limbs, that moaned in crackling restlessness through her hair … that was hurled out of her as she cried out in pain.

  Power shot from her eyes in beams and gouted from her nose and mouth, stabbing in all directions in a blinding-bright flood that devoured demons and the walls beyond them alike.

  Dark fragments of walls toppled ponderously away from The Simbul, down into crashing ruin, crushing more demons. Others fled in all directions, shrieking.

  Screaming loudly enough to drown them all out, in pain and exultation and sheer fury, The Simbul soared up out of the keep, shedding the ashes of broken demons in her wake, a leaping comet that soared high into the night sky.

  “Tluin,” Hawkspike gasped, trying to roll over. Plaguespew, but he was stiff!

  “Hawk?” Harbrand yawned. “You awake?”

  “No,” Hawkspike snarled firmly, though he very much was. Not that he wanted to be. He ached all over, cold and sharp stones jabbed him with every movement, he was hungry—his stomach growled, on cue—and, yes, he needed to relieve himself. Achingly.

  Overhead was dark, rough stone. They were in some cave or other they’d found. Yes, he remembered now … a big one. They’d spilled some flash oil on a branch and made a torch that’d burned long enough to search it thoroughly. One vast room, a natural cavern that came furnished in old bones and refuse … but nothing recent, and no beast smell, so it wasn’t a lair for anything at the moment. They were somewhere high in the mountain foothills near Irlingmount. And, of course, come morning, they were stiff and sore, and decidedly not well rested after an uncomfortable night spent huddled on unforgivingly hard, sharp rocks.

  “Tluin tluin tluin,” Hawkspike told the world, wincing as he rolled into a kneeling position and more unyielding stone promptly bruised his knees. He heaved himself upright to stumble unsteadily over to where he could lean against the cavern wall. His mouth tasted like he’d been licking a beast cage.

  Harbrand, of course, was already up. Hrast him.

  And stretching on the far side of the cavern, like a tavern dancer readying herself for something acrobatic. Grinning, too.

  Gods above, the bastard was going to be cheerful.

  “I,” Hawkspike’s partner announced, breaking off stretching with a series of kicks and flexings of his arms like some sort of drunken wrestler, “need to ease the old bladder. And get a drink. We heard a stream, last night, didn’t we?”

  “Unnh,” Hawkspike agreed, pointing to where he vaguely thought the flowing water might be. They had heard water tinkling—a small but flash-flowing run—somewhere off that way.

  Of course, to pee or drink, they’d have to go out into that bright slice of the world waiting yonder, beyond the entrance …

  He picked his way carefully along the wall, not trusting his balance yet. Oh, but his bones were cold … The only good thing was, Har wasn’t moving much faster. Which meant he’d be saved from hearing quite a few mocking comments, at least until—

  Something blotted out the morning light. Hawkspike looked up—and froze. Clear across the cave, Harbrand had done the same thing, becoming a gaping, pale-faced trembling statue.

  The cavemouth was a descending gash as long as a grandly sprawling cottage. Completely filling it was a black snout that thrust a long way into the cave. A snout that was attached to the scaled, curving-horned head of … a black dragon.

  “Naed,” Hawkspike gasped, and he eased his own bladder right there and then, favorite codpiece and all.

>   Wise and cruel draconic eyes slid across from Harbrand’s similar distress to watch him.

  “Well met,” the dragon said, parting his jaws—those fangs!—in a slow, soft smile. “I am Alorglauvenemaus, and I find myself in need of some replacement Beasts.”

  “Oh?” Harbrand managed to quaver, from across the cave. “W-what sort of beasts?”

  About then, Hawkspike decided that losing control of his bladder was an ineffective tactic. So he chose another: falling over in a dead faint.

  “That’s a good idea!” Harbrand said brightly—and he fainted, too.

  A moment later, the cavern rocked to a deafening roar. Alorglauvenemaus was guffawing.

  “Such … glory,” The Simbul mumbled, watching dawn creep across the mountains. Enough of the power was gone from her that she was herself again, in control once more. Hanging high in the air, she healed herself, flexing and stretching in gasping ease. All pain gone, she was stronger, more vigorous, and more alive than she had ever been. “Thank you, Lady Mother. What now?”

  Now you must go and hunt more blueflame, of course. Many more rifts await.

  The Simbul groaned, then managed a grin. “Well, that one was … intense fun. And I’m getting good at this; must be all the practice.”

  Must be, Mystra agreed, and they found themselves laughing together again.

  The lord constable of Irlingstar struggled to his feet, dimly aware that Elminster—the sleekly menacing drow he’d had in his arms, his knife at her throat—had run headlong from him, down a passage and away.

  The dark elf hadn’t been Lucksar at all. Lucksar was dead, and no more help was coming …

  Someone was shouting, several someones; prisoners, noble voices he knew, angry and afraid.

  “Are we all going to be killed while you do nothing?”

  “The war wizards are murdering us, one by one, while you just stand there and laugh!”

  “Killers! So much for your vaunted justice!”

  “What?” Farland muttered wearily, still reluctant to leave all those memories behind, to forget the warmth of that mighty mind wrapped around his … what had brought this shouting on? Had there been another killing?

  There had. The guards had just found Lord Arlond Hiloar lying dead in his own cell doorway. Ah, yes, perfumed Arlond, fair-haired and delicate, icily arrogant to everyone but more often withdrawn, always fondling and stroking a little spiral-seashell-shaped ivory snuffbox he carried with him. Not long before he’d been found dead, he’d been seen standing in that doorway, watching and listening as louder prisoners, in their own doorways up and down the same passage, had demanded to be let out. All of them had been kept to their rooms by the invisible walls of the new wards; Elminster’s “secure boxes.”

  Hiloar was alone in his cell rather than sharing it, and aside from the wards, it had no other way out except through solid stone walls. All of which still stood undisturbed—like the wards. At some time during all the bandinage, he’d simply slumped, unnoticed by his fellow prisoners until his fall. Slumped because his throat had been slashed open, the cut so deep that it had gone almost right through his neck. The blood was … copious.

  The nobles in the nearest rooms were the most frightened. One was shouting—no, two, now, make that three as another took it up—that the castle must be haunted, and it was Farland’s “Crown duty” to get them all “out of here” to somewhere safer. The always-half-flooded dungeon cell in Immerkeep, the manacle pits in Wheloon, the dank mold-infested prison cellars in Marsember—anywhere!

  Farland sighed, considered some choice curses but flung them aside unuttered, and decided he’d just about reached the same conclusion these scared nobles were so unpleasantly voicing. Though by any sober measure, he commanded less than a sixth of the manpower he’d need to keep any sort of control over such highnosed and well-connected prisoners, once they departed Irlingstar. Not to mention that taking such a bold step without permission from above would mean his neck and worse. He needed clear orders confirming any such move, and a good tell-truths talk with senior courtiers and war wizards—Lord Warder Vainrence, for one—before he let one noble outside the castle.

  “Gulkanun? Longclaws?” he growled, going to them so they could hear him through all the shouting. “If we’re to move anyone, I need you to try to magically contact the lord warder … and failing him, Ganrahast himself.”

  Both Crown mages nodded.

  “Of course,” Gulkanun replied, “but we’ll be needing someone to stand guard over us while we work. Forcing a contact through the wards won’t be easy.”

  “Guarding? We’ll take care of that,” Arclath announced calmly. At his shoulder, Amarune nodded—and flourished a knife she should not have had. Farland lifted an eyebrow.

  Then he shook his head wryly, told them all, “Of course,” and he started pointing, to arrange Delcastle, his lass, and himself around the two mages in an outward-facing armed ring.

  The two war wizards had barely begun casting when another scream rang out, from some castle chamber nearby. A high and despairing cry that soared above the angry shouting from the cells, stilling them—before it was cut off suddenly, to end in horrible wet, choking gurgles.

  El had to get away from everyone, to where her will could be gathered not just to hurl Art, but to listen for a response from somewhere distant, and to try to feel where that somewhere was. Just as fast as she could.

  Halfway down a steep stone stair, well away from any cell or guard, she stopped, sat down against a cold stone wall, closed her eyes, and tried to fight down her panting. So she could reach out …

  Alassra, I’m here! Where are ye?

  Her silent call rolled out into echoing distances, rolled … rolled … El strained to listen and to feel, seeking any response.

  Nothing.

  She tried again. Alassra, beloved, ’tis me, Elminster. Ye called, and I’m here. Where are ye? How can I help ye?

  Rolling out … away … away … Nothing.

  Nothing but a sudden burst of searing white fire, like a slap across her mind, a roaring bright inferno too distant and painful to locate—

  Before it was gone, leaving her with silent nothing again.

  Again she called, straining, snatching out one of the drow daggers she’d taken from that shattered Underdark citadel, the one that had prickled with a faint enchantment. She bent her will fiercely upon it, trying to drain its magic to bolster her calling …

  After what seemed a long time, the black glass dagger sighed into gritty dust in her palm, and El called again, loud and strong. To no avail.

  She hadn’t the Art to reach her Alassra. Or she was too late. Always too busy, always too far away …

  “No,” she sobbed aloud, suddenly furious.

  She stood up and slammed one shapely drow fist against the wall beside her. There was a flash like awakened fire, a deep-throated boom, and the wall cracked, tiny shards clattering down the steps below her.

  Arrrgh! Magic when she didn’t need it, but it failed here when sheeeeeARRGH!

  “Elminster!”

  That shout from back down the passage above was frantic, and came from the lungs of a young man and a young woman. Voices he knew: Arclath and Amarune. Eyes of Mystra, but why did someone always need her?

  “Haven’t I served long enough?” she spat down the deserted stairwell. “Why me? Why always me?”

  She whirled around and raced back up the stair, her eyes blazing, the rage that had been building in her for years—centuries—rising almost to choke her.

  Ye’ve called, and Elminster is coming. Ready thyself, Realms.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  SOMETHING STERN AND CLEAR

  I am no cheap swindler, lackey! I am Lady Jalassra Dawningdown!” Eyes flashing and wattles quivering—or so it seemed to Rensharra, given the pendulous display of scented and powdered dewlap across the desk—the outraged noblewoman shot to her feet, her bejeweled earrings dangling, and snarled, “You’l
l die waiting for me to pay these outrageous demands!”

  The highborn Lady Dawningdown spat copiously on the tax documents Rensharra Ironstave had prepared and just finished politely explaining with largely gentle observations noting that however noble one happened to be, one could not escape paying annual cobble-and-lantern taxes on every additional city property one purchased. The bill was high because modest fees on sixty-one Suzailan homes, shops, and stables, when combined, did mount up, but of course could be paid out of the rents those properties brought to their owner, namely Lady Jalassra Dawningdown.

  Then she stormed out of the office of the lady clerk of the rolls, viciously decapitating a defenseless plant and its vase with her goldhandled cane on her way.

  Rensharra sank back into her chair with a sigh, passing a weary hand over her face. Nobles! Were they all going to be like this, forevermore?

  Spitting fury and defiance seemed to be the favored tactic for them all this season. Ignore the bills, turn away tax collectors, or set dogs or more exotic pets on them, and when the bill was upped for late payment—a season late—storm into the palace offices. To claim penury in just-bought fine garments and in a staged or real towering fury.

  Rensharra set about tidying Lady Dawningdown’s thick file to clear the desk for the next one.

  Nobles disputing their taxes always demanded to speak to the chief responsible official—herself—and always smashed things, bellowed or venomously hissed threats, and stormed out again when they were done. To await the next and even higher bill, so they could repeat the same so-polite, cultured performance. However, noble bellowers always paid up before the Crown started confiscating property in lieu of payment, she’d noticed.

  The lady clerk of the rolls drew in a deep breath and allowed herself to relax. Perhaps the day would get better, after this.

  Perhaps.

  “Well, well,” an unpleasant voice drawled from the landing above. “What have we here? Why, a dark elf, I do believe, one of those evil and dangerous creatures, yet so beautiful! Such a tempting evil! It’s almost our duty to slay it, yes?”