by Ed Greenwood
Starbridge sighed in disgust. “Do it!”
He turned. “Baerengard?”
“Wizard of War Lemmeth was fast enough, sir,” came the prompt reply. “The youth—Thal—was a ’ganger too. He has it held.”
“Good. We question that one. Though I doubt any of them knew where Elminster is, beyond ‘not here.’ Stlarn it.”
Manshoon smiled into the moving glows and cast a swift spell.
In midgasp the young lords Windstag, Sornstern, and Dawntard all clutched at their heads, reeled, rebounded off the walls, and bit their lips hard enough to draw blood, eyes wide and wild.
Then they shivered, shuddered, and came out of whatever had just smitten them, to blink at each other.
Nodding in grim unison, they rushed with one accord to put their shoulders to the door of the rented rooms of old Lord Murandrake.
And broke it down.
As they came crashing into a lamplit and pleasant room, an elderly man in a nightrobe started up from his chair, dropping his book of derring-do tales and his drink, as he fought to somehow pass through his seat backward to get away from them and to keep his balance at the same time.
It was a battle he lost, and swiftly. Wherefore Lord Barandror Murandrake ended up on the floor, cowering back in the cave made by his toppled chair, with three bright, sharp swords menacing him.
“An axe—d’you have an axe?” one swordsman snapped.
“A hand axe?” the second spat accusingly.
“An enchanted hand axe?” the third snarled.
Murandrake’s quavering voice failed him, and he gabbled incoherently in his fear, but with wild wavings of his arms managed to indicate that there was something in the next room.
The trio of lordlings charged through the open doorway, found themselves in a luxuriously appointed bedchamber, saw a gleaming helm mounted high on one wall in pride of place with a sword and a hand axe crossed beneath it, snatched all three trophies, and stormed back to the old noble on the floor.
“These all of them?” Windstag shouted into the terrified face. When Murandrake managed a desperate nod, the young lord spun around and ran for the door.
Dawntard and Sornstern were right behind him. They fled down the stairs together, Windstag waving the axe in wild triumph.
“Another false Elminster?” Mereld muttered.
Starbridge shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough. Let’s see how he reacts to the moonglow.”
Lemmeth nodded, drew his hands slowly apart … and the hollow was suddenly awash in bright, pearly white light.
Eskrel stared down into it, hard-eyed. He had a dozen highknights—aye, one of them that dolt Narulph, but still—and another three war wizards in the trees all around it, but they stayed there, awaiting Starbridge’s signal.
In the meantime, they were doing the same thing as Starbridge. Staring down into a hollow where bodies were sprawled around a dead fire, with a lone figure standing over them.
The standing one was human in size and shape, and wore a battered old war-helm and motley clothing taken from the fallen, who might or might not be dead.
The figure stood still, silent, waiting for them. Gaunt and tall but stooped over as if weary or old.
“Elminster?” Starbridge asked. “Will you come with us, or be slain?”
The figure slowly spread empty hands in a gesture of surrender—or despair—and sat down on a log beside the remains of the fire.
Starbridge whistled, and the ring of men emerged from the trees and started to close in.
“You are Elminster?” Starbridge asked. “We’d like a word or two.”
A deep growl from within the helm replied, “Oh? I’m about done with dispensing words to armed men who menace me and make demands.”
It was about then that Lemmeth’s conjured light showed them the menacing row of rough twigs—wands!—at the old wizard’s belt. Clenching their teeth against their fear, the highknights pounced.
Hard, swift hands clawed at the wands, grabbed the seated man’s arms, clawed at his garments to have off any amulets or hidden weapons, tore helm, wands, belt, and jerkin away—and the Cormyreans found themselves staring at a pair of round, firm, and very unmasculine breasts.
“Who …?” Starbridge and Narulph snarled in unison, but in far different tones of voice.
Blue eyes looked fearlessly up at them, and the lips beneath them said calmly, “You, gentlesirs, have captured Storm.”
“There!” Wizard of War Glathra roared as loudly as any man, pointing. “There! Take them!”
Then she, Dralkin, and the Purple Dragon patrol with them were all shouting and charging down a dark Suzail street toward the three fleeing men in the distance.
Who, it rapidly became apparent, were too winded and weary to stay ahead of the pursuit for long.
“Halt! Halt in the name of the king!” Dralkin bellowed, as the sprinting lawkeepers closed in on the running trio.
He was answered by a sudden crackling in the air, a surge of energy that brought with it the overwhelming impression of someone smiling maliciously over a glow in a vast, dark cavern. The energy rushed down on the three fleeing men—and they were gone, the street ahead of the rushing patrol empty.
“Dung,” Glathra snapped. “Magic! I hate magic!”
Swordcaptain Dralkin swung his head to look at her in surprise. A wizard of war who hated magic?
Seeing the expression on her face, he decided to wait for a better time to ask her about that. On his deathbed, perhaps.
“Nice, aren’t they?” Storm asked crisply, locking eyes with Highknight Narulph. Who turned a rich shade of crimson and looked away, wincing.
“Lady, they are,” Mereld said swiftly, offering her his own overrobe. “Pray accept our apologies for this … rude handling we’ve given you. I’m afraid we’re going to have to cast a spell or two on you, to learn the truth about what befell all these men around you, but—”
“I’ll save you the trouble,” Storm told him firmly. “I rang their heads for them. ’Twasn’t quite a fair fight, I’ll grant you—there were only eight against me, but sometimes the needs of all the Realms outweigh courtesies. Now, I’ve a question for you: who’s in charge here? I see highknights, so you’re from Cormyr—”
“We’ll ask the questions, woman,” Narulph started to growl from behind her, but an older man loomed up over the many who were still holding Storm down and said heavily, “I command here, Lady. Sir Eskrel Starbridge, now the ranking highknight of Cormyr. And you are—?”
“Storm Silverhand,” came her reply. “Named Lady Highknight Protector of the Realm by Queen Filfaeril, and confirmed in that office by her husband, the fourth Azoun—which would seem to make me the ranking highknight of Cormyr, Starbridge—and before that ennobled as Marchioness of Immer-dusk by Baerovus, when he was king. I was also Lady Envoy of the Dales to the second Palaghard, and Lady Envoy of Cormyr to the Dales to the second Rhigaerd.” She arched her neck to look up and back behind her, and added in a murmur to Narulph, “So if I were you, sir, I’d phrase my questions rather carefully.”
Hands were letting go of her in careful haste, though someone was heard to mutter, “She could have all manner of magic—”
“Yes,” Storm replied with a smile. “She could, couldn’t she? However, highknights and wizards of war of Cormyr, if the Forest Kingdom is anything to be proud of at all, you should dare to treat all women as ladies until you have cause to treat them in any lesser manner—not treat all strangers as dastardly foes until you know better. I certainly trained highknights, not to mention more than a few young noble lords, who behave in the more noble fashion. When did all of you go astray, I wonder?”
“Lady,” Starbridge began slowly, “it is not our intent to antagonize you or offer offense, and I apologize for how matters between us have begun. Is there anything we can do to make amends?”
“Several things,” Storm replied with a smile, getting to her feet. Aside from what was left of the robe and jerki
n clinging to her shoulders, most of her torn clothing fell away from her, but she seemed not to notice. “Let’s begin by telling me plainly what you’re doing here. The last time I glanced at a map, Shadowdale was not, in fact, within the borders of Cormyr.”
“Lady, we seek Elminster. We are to bring him to Suzail as swiftly as possible.”
“Then you’re in luck. He’s there already. In the royal palace, if nothing’s gone awry. And I must return to him as quickly as I can. Which brings us to the second thing you can do to make amends to me.” She strode to Starbridge and held out her hand. “Yield to me your teleport ring.”
Starbridge held out hands that bore no rings at all. “Lady, I have no—”
“You can dispense with lying to me, too,” Storm told him crisply. “I speak of the ring in the little bag inside your tunic, that’s hanging from the inside of your collar. In return, I’ll tell you the name of a man in Mistledale who owes me much coin, and the word that will therefore make him freely give all of you superb fast mounts for your ride back to Cormyr.”
Starbridge’s face had gone flame red under the gaze of the war wizards, who were regarding him with frowns.
“How came you by a teleport ring?” Mereld asked Starbridge softly.
“It belonged to Queen Filfaeril,” Storm replied before Sir Eskrel could say a word. “The highknights have had it in their keeping ever since her death, thanks to her foresight and wise wishes. And my carrying them out.”
“Lady,” the wizard Lemmeth said in a low voice from behind Mereld, “you’ll appreciate how difficult it is for us to believe all of this.”
Storm nodded. “I do. Your disbelief is quite understandable—but a serious failing in a wizard of war, wouldn’t you say?”
She turned back to Starbridge. “The ring, sir.”
Eskrel Starbridge seemed to be struggling with himself. He glared at her, face shifting through a variety of not-quite-readable expressions, then tore open his collar, plucked forth the little bag she’d spoken of, and produced the ring.
Storm took it stepped forward and kissed him full on the mouth, put an arm around him and waltzed her way around behind him as he was still blinking in astonishment, stepped back—and was gone.
Leaving the Cormyreans blinking at each other across a hollow full of unconscious men.
Narulph broke the silence with a sudden, angry oath. “You let her get away! Without even telling us how to get the horses!”
Starbridge shook his head slowly. “When she kissed me, his name and a word just appeared in my mind: ‘Denneth Rhardantan,’ and ‘glimmerdeep.’ ”
He shook himself again, as if awakening, and snapped, “Get these dolts awake—they work for the Crown, so be gentle—and let’s be finding the trail to Mistledale. If this council goes as ill as I fear it will, I want to be back in Cormyr before it erupts into war!”
His command all stared at him; he gave them a glare, waved his arms, and roared, “Did you hear me? Move!”
They moved. All except the war wizards Mereld and Lemmeth.
“Sir Highknight,” Mereld asked quietly, “are you all right? What else did she do to you?”
Eskrel Starbridge stared back at them for a moment and then said, “I’m under no glamour, if that’s what you fear. Put down those sticks, Lemmeth; they’re not wands. She just took them from the kindling to make fools think they were seeing a wizard with wands, so they’d leave him be. She told me that, too.”
He started across the hollow. “And she gave me a look into her mind,” he added in a whisper. “I don’t think I’ll be sleeping for some while. I know now what real loneliness feels like.”
The two war wizards stepped into his way, wearing frowns. “We’d better get you to—”
Starbridge gave them a wry grin and shook his head. “I’ll be all right. You see, I know now what true love feels like, too.”
“What’s wrong?” Marlin Stormserpent snapped.
Windstag was too out of breath and too terrified to be coherent. He put his head down almost against Marlin’s belly, gasping and shuddering. “Get us inside! Magic—don’t know whose—yours?—snatched us here!”
Marlin bundled the three nobles through the door and slammed it in a whirlwind of haste, then rushed them along a dark passage, up some stairs, and into a room in Stormserpent Towers that none of the three had ever seen before. The Lords Dawntard and Sornstern promptly fainted.
Marlin gave them a grim look then snapped at Windstag, “Catch your breath, then tell me your tale.”
Nodding, head down, and panting too hard to speak, Windstag fumbled in the breast of his disarranged jerkin and brought out—a glowing hand axe!
“Ha ha!” Marlin burst out, snatching it from him. “Well done! Oh, well done!”
And he rushed from the room, chortling in triumph.
Broryn Windstag fought to get in two gasping breaths more of air, then forced himself into a run, up and after Stormserpent.
Who was luckily still visible, racing up a narrow servants’ stair in the dimly lit distance. Windstag struggled after him, lungs burning, lurching like a drunken man in his pain and weariness, but clawing his way up the stairs and keeping Marlin—or at least the glowing axe—in sight.
Stormserpent ended up in the room where he always met with them. Axe in hand, he spun around, pointed at Windstag, and commanded, “Be still. Don’t move or speak until I’m done with the ritual.”
He turned away without waiting for a reply, so Windstag lurched to his usual chair and collapsed in it. Where he leaned on the table, still gasping loudly, able to do little more than stare at Marlin Stormserpent.
Who turned away for a moment, his elbow moving as if his fingers were busy getting something out of his own clothing, then turned back to face the table and Windstag.
Holding the axe up as if saluting with it, Marlin read from a scrap of parchment that he hadn’t been holding moments earlier. “Arruthro.”
That word seemed to roll away across a greater distance than the room could contain—and the air darkened. At first Windstag thought it was his own labored breathing that was making things seem that way, but then he felt a tension, almost a singing, in the air, too.
That definitely hadn’t been there, before.
“Tar lammitruh arondur halamoata,” Stormserpent announced, speaking loudly and slowly.
The room seemed to grow colder. Windstag swallowed a curse.
“Tan thom tanlartar,” Marlin added—and the hand axe silently erupted in weird blue fire. Raging flames raced down his arm to the elbow and then wreathed it and the axe in an ongoing inferno that—Windstag stared—seemed to cause Stormserpent no pain at all, nor even scorch his clothing. No heat was coming from it, only a deepening chill.
“Larasse larasse thulea,” Marlin declaimed, and the room went icy.
An instant later, the blue flames sprang from the blade of the axe, a flood of fire that arced to the floor and then rebounded up again in an upright column, a surging, rising thing that grew and grew. With a darkness at the heart of those rushing flames that slowly … became a man.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
MY HOUNDS TO HUNT YOU DOWN
At the sight of a man in the heart of the blue flames, Marlin Stormserpent laughed in triumph—but his mirth faltered when the flames fell to the floor with a crash, like the contents of an upended bucket of water, and were suddenly gone.
Leaving behind someone who was not wreathed in endless blue flames like Langral and Halonter had been.
Stormserpent joined Windstag in gape-mouthed, astonished staring.
Standing in his meeting room was an unlovely man in rumpled leathers who was stout—no, fat—and wrinkled with age and hard living. And who was staring back at him with a shrewd, measuring look.
“W-who are you? One of the Nine?” Marlin managed to ask when he found his voice again.
“Do I look like a bare-behind dancing girl? The Naughty Nine are all taller than me, la
d, and far more shapely, too—though I’ll agree they don’t make cozy lasses like they used to! Nay, lad, I’m no dancer, whate’er yer preferences. I’m a bit of a trader and not much more, these days, though I guess ’tis no secret I’m a lord of Waterdeep.”
“Whaaat?”
“Nay, nay, no need for awe and astonishment. I,” the old man said sardonically, drawing himself up in mimicry of a grand ruler and striking a heroic pose, “am Mirt. Sometimes called the Moneylender, and more often—hem—called much worse things.”
Marlin stared in disbelief, growing a frown, then swiftly tried to force the old man back into the hand axe, as he could control Langral and Halonter.
Nothing happened.
“Sit down!” he snapped. “And—and cover your eyes with your hands!”
Mirt the Moneylender lifted one bristling eyebrow. “Children’s games, is it? I always wondered what wealthy younglings got up to when—”
“This one, a lord of Waterdeep?” Windstag sneered scornfully. “He sounds like a merchant from the docks!”
Mirt dispensed a dour look. “I am a merchant from the docks, loud buck! And who might ye be, with yer scorn and yer fancy clothes? Ye look like nobles, both of ye, but I know every last born noble of the city, lass and jack, an’—”
“We are nobles of Cormyr,” Marlin Stormserpent snapped. “And you stand in Stormserpent Towers in the fair city of Suzail, right now. ‘Now’ being the Year of the Ageless One, as it happens. I doubt Waterdeep would suffer the likes of you to be among its lords these days!”
Mirt gaped at the young Lord Stormserpent and went a little pale. “Ageless One? Is—gods, is that how long it’s been?”
“So,” Windstag asked Stormserpent, “when do the flames surround him? And when can you start ordering him around like a slave? Or is he going to crumble to dust?”
“Lad,” Mirt replied, before Marlin could say anything, “dust is what we’re all going to end up as.” He winced. “Dust is probably what my Asper is, right now. And Durnan, and all the others I cared for, or—”