by Ed Greenwood
The warrior made a last choking noise, then seemed to relax. “After all,” Ilbryn told him, “This is the Dead Place, I’m told.”
The elf turned away to walk through the camp and see if there was anything he might put to his own use. A few paces along he stopped, looked around again for foes, and bent rather stiffly and plucked up a good, slender blade from among the trodden leaves.
“Just in case,” Ilbryn told the torn body of its dead, staring owner, whose fingers would forever be stretched out now toward the blade he’d let fall, the blade that now was no longer there. As the elf reached out with his own sword to cut free the scabbard from amongst the gory, tangled harness, he added almost merrily, “You never know when you’ll need a good blade, after all.”
Sixteen
IF MAGIC SHOULD FAIL
If magic should fail, Faerûn shall be changed forever—and not a few folk would welcome those changes. For one thing, the very land itself might tilt under the hurrying weight of the oppressed and aggrieved, chasing down now-powerless mages to settle old scores. I wonder what a river of wizards’ blood would look like?
Tammarast Tengloves, Bard of Elupar
from The Strings of a Shattered Lyre
published in The Year of the Behir
“Begone! Mighty events shake all Faerûn, and the holy ones within cannot come out to speak to you now! For the love of Mystra, begone!”
The guard’s voice was deep and powerful; it rolled out over the gathered crowd like a storm-driven wave crashing across the sands of a beach … but when it died away, the people were still there. Fear made their voices high and their faces white, but they clung to the front steps of the House of the Ladystar as if for their very lives and would not be moved.
The guard made a last grand “get hence” gesture and stepped back off the balcony. “I’m sorry, Bright Master,” he murmured. “They feel something is very wrong. It’d take the hounding spells of Mystra herself to shift them now.”
“Do you dare to blaspheme here, in the holy place itself?” the high priest hissed, eyes blazing with fury. He drew back his hand as if to strike the guard—who stood a head taller than he, despite his own great height—then let it fall back to his side, looking dazed. “Lost,” he said, lips trembling. “All is lost.…”
The guard enfolded the Lord of the House in a comforting embrace, as one holds a sobbing child, and said, “This shall pass, lord. Wait for nightfall; many shall leave then. Wait, know peace, and watch for some sign.”
“You have some guidance for this counsel?” the high priest asked, almost desperately. He could not keep a quaver from his voice.
The guard patted his shoulders and stepped away with the grave reply, “Nay, lord—but look you; what else can we do?”
The Lord of the House managed a chuckle that was perilously close to a sob, and said, “My thanks, loyal Lhaerom.” He drew in a deep breath, threw back his head as if donning his dignity like a mantle, and asked, “What do warriors do when they must wait and watch inside their walls, dawdling until a great blow falls on them?”
Lhaerom chuckled in return. “Many things, lord, most of which I leave to your wits to conjure up. There is one thing of comfort we undertake, which I suspect me your question seeks: we make soup. Pots and pots of it, as good and rich as we can manage. We let all partake, or at least smell if they cannot sup.”
The high priest stared at him for a moment, then raised his hands in a “why not?” gesture and commanded the silently watching underpriests, “Get hence! To the kitchens, and make soup! Go!”
“You’ll find, lord,” the hulking guard added, “that—”
“Lhaerom,” one of his fellow guards snapped, “fresh trouble.” Without another word the guard turned away from the Lord of the House and ducked back out onto the balcony. The priest took two steps after him—only to find a guard barring his way. “no, lord,” he said, face carefully expressionless. “ ’Twouldn’t be wise. Some of them are throwing stones.”
Outside, the bright sun fell on the closed bronze doors of the House of the Ladystar. Many fists fell thereon, too, and the guards and gatepriest had long since stopped answering knocks and cries for aid. They paced anxiously back and forth inside the gate, casting anxious glances at the bolts and bars, wondering if they’d hold. All of the spikes that could be found in the temple cellars had long since been driven between the stones to wedge the doors against being forced inward. The bright marks on those spikes told how often this morning the doors had already been sorely tested. The priest licked dry lips and asked, for perhaps the fortieth time, “And if this all gives way? What—”
The guard nearest him waved violently for him to fall silent. The priest frowned and opened his mouth to snap an angry response, then his eyes followed the guard’s pointing hand to the doors and his jaw dropped almost to chest.
A man’s hand was protruding through the bronze, magic crackling around his wrist where it passed through the thick metal. It was gesturing, forming the hand signs used between clergy of Mystra when enacting silent rituals.
The priest watched a few of them, then hissed, “Stay here!” and went pounding up the steps to a door that led into the barbican. He had to get onto that balcony.…
The hands of the tall man in the black cloak were trembling as he drew them back from the doors. He knew he’d been seen and knew the mood of the crowd pressing in behind him. “It’s no use,” he said loudly. “I can’t get in.”
“You’re one of ’em, though, aren’t ye?” a voice snarled, close by his ear.
“Aye, I saw him—used a spell, he did!” put in another, high with fear and anger—or rather, the angry need to lash out.
The man in the black cloak made no reply, but looked up at the balcony in desperate hope.
It was rewarded. Two burly guards came into view with long pikes in their hands—pikes fully able to reach down, into, and through anyone standing near the gate—and asked gruffly, more or less in unison, “Yes? You have lawful business in this holy house?”
“I do,” the man in the black cloak told them, ignoring the angry mutterings that rose in a wave after his words. “Why are the gates closed?”
“Great doings on high demanding contemplation on the part of all ordained servants of Mystra,” the guard thundered.
“Oh? Is there an orgy going on in there, or just a pig-wallowing feast?” someone called from the thick of the crowd, and there were roars of agreement and derision. “Aye, let us in! We want some too!”
“Begone!” the guards bellowed, straightening to face the entire crowd.
“Does Mystra live?” someone cried.
“Aye!” Others took up the call. “Does the goddess of magic yet breathe?”
The guard looked scornful. “Of course she does,” he snarled. “Now go away!”
“Prove it!” someone yelled. “Cast a spell!”
The guard hefted his pike. “I don’t cast spells, Roldo,” he said menacingly. “Do you?”
“Get one of the priests—get ’em all!” Roldo called.
“Aye,” someone else agreed. “And see if one of them—just one of them—can cast a spell!”
The roar of agreement that followed his words shook the very temple walls, but through it the man in the black cloak heard one of the guards mutter, “Aye, and make it a good big fireball, right about there.” The other agreed, not smiling.
“Look,” the man in the black cloak said to them, “I must speak to Kadeln. Kadeln Parosper. Tell him it’s Tenthar.”
The nearest guard leaned over. “No, you look,” he said coldly. “I’m not opening these gates for anybody … short of holy Mystra herself. So if you can come back holding hands with her, and the two of you asking very nicely to come in, all right, but otherwise …”
A third figure was on the balcony, peering around the guard’s shoulder. It wore the cloak and helm of a guard, but no gauntlets, and the helm—which was far too big for it—kept slipping forward over its face
.
An impatient hand shoved the helm back up out of the way, and the white, worried face of Kadeln, Tome-priest of the Temple, stared down at his friend. “Tenthar,” he hissed, “you shouldn’t have come here. These people are wild with fear.”
“You know,” the man in the black cloak remarked almost casually, “standing down here with them, I’d begun to notice that.” Then his control broke and he almost clawed his way up the wall to the balcony, ignoring a warning pike thrust. The dirty blade stopped inches from his nose and hung there warningly. Tenthar paid it not a blind bit of attention.
“Kadeln,” Tenthar was snarling, “what’s going on? Every last damned magic I work goes wild, and when I study—nothing. I can’t get any new spells!”
“It’s the same here,” the white-faced priest whispered. “They’re saying Mystra must have died, and—”
One of the guards hauled Kadeln away from the edge of the balcony, and the other jabbed viciously with his pike; Tenthar flung himself desperately back out of its reach and tumbled down the bronze doors to the ground.
The crowd melted away a few paces as if by magic, and he found himself lying in a little cleared space with the pike once more hanging a handspan above his throat. “Who are you?” the guard behind it demanded. “Answer, or die. I have new orders.”
Tenthar sat up and thrust the pike head away with one contemptuous hand. When he scrambled to his feet, however, he took care to be a good two paces beyond its reach.
“Tenthar Taerhamoos is my name,” he said sternly, opening his cloak to reveal rich robes, and a gem-studded medallion blazing on his chest. “Archmage of the Phoenix Tower. I’ll be back.”
And with that grim promise the archmage whirled around and pushed his way almost proudly through the crowd. All around him were murmurs of “It’s true! Mystra’s dead? Magic all undone?” and the like.
A stone spun out of somewhere and struck Tenthar on the shoulder. He did not stop or try to turn but struggled onward through bodies disinclined to let him pass. “An archmage?” someone cried. “With no spells?” another asked, close at hand. Another stone struck Tenthar, on the head this time, and he staggered.
There was a roar of mingled awe and exultant hunger all around him, and someone shrieked, “Get him!’
“Get him!” a thunderous chorus echoed. Tenthar went to his knees, looked up to see boots and sticks and hands coming at him from all sides, clutched his precious medallion to guard against the spell going wild, and said the words he’d hoped not to have to say.
Lightning crackled out in all directions, and Tenthar tried not to look at the dying folk dancing to its hungry surges around him. Chain lightning is a terrible thing even when unaugmented; with the medallion involved, well …
He sighed and stood up as the last of the screams died away, watching the bobbing heads of those who’d lived to flee grow smaller as they ran across the fields. He’d best be running, too, before some bloodthirsty idiot rallied them or the folk here who were only stunned and twitching recovered enough to seek revenge.
The smell of cooked flesh was strong; bodies were heaped on all sides. Tenthar gagged, then broke into a trot. He never even saw the pike hurled at him from the balcony; it fell well short and struck, quivering, in the dirt.
A blackened body rose from among the dead and tugged it free. “The thing I hate most about these little games,” it remarked to the empty air, “is the cost. How many lives will be snuffed out before it’s over, this time?”
Another blackened thing rose, shrugged, touched the pike, and said sadly, “There’s always a price … all our power, and we can’t change that.”
There were two shimmerings in the air—and the two blackened bodies were gone. The pike winked out of sight an instant later.
“Are there archmages under every stone out yonder? Or just what bloody dancing gods were those?” the guard who’d thrown the pike barked, more fear than anger in his tones.
“Mystra and Azuth,” the priest beside him whispered. The guards turned to look at Kadeln—and gasped in amazement. The missing pike had just appeared in the priest’s shuddering hands. He stared at them, eyes full of wonder, and moaned, “Mystra and Azuth, they were. Standing right there, with the symbols they’ve granted us to know them by glowing above their heads—right there!”
He tried to point out into the litter of bodies, but decided to faint instead. He did it very well, eyes rolling up and body folding down. One of the guards caught him out of force of habit, and the other snatched hold of the pike.
If gods were going to come calling, he didn’t want to be standing there unarmed.
“Mystra is dead!” the Darklady declared exultantly. “Her priests find their spells to be but flickering things, and mages study and find no power behind their words. Magic is now ours alone to command—ours to control!”
The purple flames that raged in the brazier before her cast strange lights on her face as she raised eyes that were very large and dark to gaze at them all. Around the flames sat her eager audience: the six priests of the Dark Lady who’d agreed to work as wizards, harnessing for their spells the power of what had already become known in the temple as the Secret in the Sphere. With them she could make the House of Holy Night the mightiest temple of Shar in all Faerûn—and the faith of the Nightbringer the most powerful in all Toril. It might not even take long.
“Most loyal Dreadspells,” the high priestess told them, “you have a great opportunity to win the favor of Shar, and power for yourselves. Go forth into Faerûn and seek out the most capable mages and the largest holds of magic. Slay at will, and seize all you can. Bring back tomes, rare things, and anything that bears the tiniest glow of magic. You must slay any of those servants of Mystra called the Chosen if you meet with them. We here shall work most diligently with our spells to try to find them for you.”
“Your Darkness?” one of the wizards asked hesitantly.
“Yes, Dread Brother Elryn?” Darklady Avroana’s voice was silken; a clear warning to all that anyone who dared to interrupt her had better have a very good reason for doing so—or she’d soon give them one.
“My work involves farscrying our agents in Westgate,” Elryn said quickly, “and rumor now abroad in that city speaks of many recent sightings of a Chosen in the vicinity of Starmantle … something about going into a ‘Dead Place’ …”
“I, too, have heard such tidings,” the Darklady agreed eagerly. “My thanks for giving us a location, Elryn. All of you shall go there immediately—and there begin your holy task. Thrust your hands into the flames—oh, and most loyal Dreadspells, bear in mind that we can see and hear you always.”
Six faces paled—and six hands were reluctantly extended into the flames. Darklady Avroana laughed delightedly at their fear and let them burn for a few moments ere she said the words that teleported them all elsewhere.
It was very peaceful in the woods around the shrine—and, since the killings had begun and fear had driven folks away, very quiet.
Most days Uldus Blackram was alone on his knees before the stone block, halfheartedly lashing himself a few times—gently, so as not to make much noise—and whispering prayers to the Nightsinger.
The shrine had been founded so nicely, consecrated with blood and a wild ritual that still made Uldus blush to remember it. Now there were no black-robed ladies to dance and whirl barefoot around the horned block and no one to lead him in the half-remembered prayers … so he did a lot of just thanking Shar for keeping him alive on his stealthy visits to the woods. He hoped she’d forgive him for not coming at night anymore.
“May your darkness keep me safe from the Slayer,” Uldus breathed, his lips almost touching the dark stone. “May you guide me to power and exultation over mine enemies, and make of me a strong sword to cut where you need things cut, and slash where it is your will to slash. Oh, most holy Mistress of the Night, hear my prayer, the beseeching of your most loyal servant, Uldus Blackram. Shar, hear my prayer. Shar, answer my
prayer. Shar, heed m—”
“Done, Uldus,” said a voice from above him, crisply.
Uldus Blackram managed to strike his head on the altar, somersault over backward to get a good four paces away, and get to his feet all in one blurred flurry of movement.
When he froze, half turned to flee and panting hard, he was looking back at six bald-headed men in black and purple robes, standing in a semicircle around the altar facing him, with faint amusement on their faces.
“Lords of the Lady?” Uldus gasped. “Have my prayers been answered at last?”
“Uldus,” the oldest of them said pleasantly, stepping forward, “they have. At last. Moreover, a fitting reward has been chosen for you. You’re going to guide us into the Dead Place!”
“P-praise Shar!” Uldus replied, rolling his eyes wildly upward as he toppled to the turf in a dead faint.
“Revive him,” Elryn commanded, not bothering to keep the contempt from his face or voice. “To think that such as this worship the Most Holy Lady of Loss.”
“Well,” one of the other wizards commented, bending over the fallen Uldus, “we all have to start somewhere.”
The glowing spellsphere orbited the throne at an almost lazy pace. Saeraede gave it only casual attention, absorbed as she was in sending images of her peering self out into the trees to lure this bold Elminster back to her castle.
Aye, let us gently tease this fittingly powerful and somewhat attractive mage hence.
Yet the news was clear enough, from all the mages she covertly farscried. Word of the death of Mystra was spreading like wildfire, spells were going wild all over Faerûn, mages were shutting themselves up in towers before grudge-holding commoners could get to them—or tarrying too long, and getting caught on the ends of pitchforks in a dozen realms, and on and on.
It was time to move at last and make Saeraede Lyonora once more a name to be feared!