Elminster Must Die: The Sage of Shadowdale

by Ed Greenwood

  “Oh, shut your wind,” Marlin Stormserpent told the old man disgustedly. “As if we care about your doxies or friends or anyone from Waterdeep! On your knees!”

  Mirt gave the young lord a glare and stood right where he was. “Huh. If the Realms in this year is full of the likes of ye, I don’t think much of it. Or of thy sneering friend, here.” He turned his disapproval on Windstag—who responded by rising and drawing his sword.

  Marlin did the same, adding a menacing smile.

  Mirt rolled his eyes. “And is this how converse is carried on in the Realms these days? Swords, is it? Not even a glass of something for guests? And ye call yourselves nobles!”

  “We do indeed,” Marlin Stormserpent told him in silken tones, stalking forward with blade in hand.

  Along the other side of the table, Broryn Windstag began the same slow, armed advance.

  “Ahem,” Mirt said tentatively, taking a step backward. “I believe I did warn ye that I’m a lord of Waterdeep.”

  “And we quake at the news,” Marlin Stormserpent sneered, hefting his blade. “This is what we think of lords of Waterdeep.”

  He spat at Mirt, though the range was considerable and he merely wetted the floor in front of the old man’s worn and flopping sea boots.

  Mirt raised his brows, face mild.

  Windstag strode forward, menacing the Waterdhavian with his sword. “Though we do know how rich lords of Waterdeep are. So you can either yield up a lot of coin to us, here and now—or die.”

  The old man sighed.

  “I don’t, as it happens,” he said sourly, “carry heavy sacks of coins around in my codpiece—or anywhere else under these old rags, either. All the bulges ye see are my own.”

  “So how much coin can you lay hands on in Suzail? And how quickly?”

  “Well,” Mirt wheezed, lumbering forward with an utter disregard for the sharp points of their swords, to peer at the table that displayed Marlin’s map of the city, “that depends.”

  “On?” The decanter had caught Marlin’s interest, but he stopped heading for it to see just where on the map the old man—who was standing right against the table, holding onto it for support—was looking.

  “On whether or not ye fall for this,” the old man said calmly, heaving up, hard—and hurling the table over onto the fine-booted toes of both noblemen.

  Who shrieked in pain and dropped their swords, lost in writhing agony. Which gave Mirt plenty of time to take a heavy statuette of Arlond Stormserpent Slaying a Dragon from the sideboard, lurch alongside the blindly hopping, shouting Windstag, and dash the noble to the floor with a blow to the head.

  Marlin, who was also hopping in pain, turned to try to fight, lost his balance, and toppled. Whereupon Arlond landed hard on his face, breaking his nose and sending him off to dreamland.

  Mirt calmly drew his dagger and sliced free two bulging noble purses. “That quickly,” he told the silent, sprawled, and copiously bleeding Marlin Stormserpent.

  The royal palace of Suzail was always quieter by night than by day. Not that the servants ever slept—least of all with the council almost upon the realm—but by the dark hours the collective vigilance of guards, courtiers, and wizards of war had at least ensured that all the visiting nobles were temporarily gone, and no more of them were coming to the gates haughtily demanding things.

  With morning heading for highsun, the floors above were abuzz with busy servants—though much furniture-shifting and rifling of the wine cellars had been done, and most of the chambers of state arranged, prepared, and then firmly shut up to await their coming times of need. Only the kitchens were working full tilt, with already-weary chambermaids pressed into service to help shift fresh-baked goods from the ovens to tables in nearby function rooms, thereby clearing the way so that more could be baked.

  The lone armored figure stalking unseen past all this tumult in one of the better-known secret passages was weary, too. He’d filched an entire tray of sage-and-egg tarts—better a tray than just one or two, when that might rouse a search for some lurking intruder—and had eaten more than was comfortable, but this armor had room enough for a dozen trays of uneaten tarts, if he cared not how much they crumbled.

  Elminster was slowly getting used to the weight and awkwardness of the armor—without its leather underpadding, it shifted loosely at his every movement and seemed to have a great abundance of sharp, jabbing edges—and had long since concluded that King Duar Obarskyr must have been more mighty bull than man.

  In his postprandial discomfort, and seeking to avoid unpleasant confrontations with Purple Dragons or officious wizards, he had taken his overfull stomach and copious resulting wind down to the lower levels of the palace. Where he trudged along damper, colder passages, correctly believing he was not so likely to be noticed and thought out of place down here and challenged.

  “Send no hounds to hunt me down,” he muttered, belching sage and eggs.

  “Stop daydreaming and attend my words!”

  This sort of bark meant Hallowdant was really angry. O Purple Dragon, preserve us all.

  The man who called himself Lothrae when he was sitting masked in front of an orb talking to foolish young Stormserpent stifled a sigh and put a pleasantly attentive smile on his face. “Yes, Lord High Steward?”

  Rorstil Hallowdant preened visibly. He loved it when someone pronounced his full title with just the right hint of reverent awe.

  Lothrae wished he could enjoy toying with the buffoon, but the man was in office over him, and—Great Gods Above!

  And, very suddenly—as ice raced down his spine and he felt himself breaking into a sweat—he greatly desired to be elsewhere in the palace, right then.

  The ring on the next-to-smallest finger of his left hand had once belonged to the legendary Laspeera, and it had just awakened. For the very first time in all his years of wearing it.

  He tried not to stare at its warning glow—silent, but so vivid and so sudden—then turned it on his finger to hide that radiance inside his closed hand, and cursed silently. Its warning meant someone had opened the royal crypt from the outside—but he dared not go to see who just then, with the steward literally jawing in his face, thundering order after order at him.

  My, but Hallowdant was in fine form for that time of a morning. An hour at which he was usually nowhere to be seen. Lothrae tried to console himself with the thought that one of the royals must have given him a real blast, to put him in such a state and have him up and about so early … but that musing utterly failed to improve his own mood.

  “—and another thing! The candles in the balcony sconces in Anglond’s Great Hall are half-burnt and need replacing! Now, before the council is upon us and we’re too busy to remember them, but need their light to fail not!”

  “Ah, yes, Lord High Steward,” he agreed hastily, starting to hasten along the hallway. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to it and report right back to you for more instructions—”

  “Stand where you are, man!” the palace steward stormed. “You’ll stay still, right here, and listen! I haven’t finished yet!”

  “Lord Hallowdant, please,” Lothrae tried again. “I really must relieve myself—”

  Palace Steward Rorstil Hallowdant could radiate towering disgust just as devastatingly as the very best noble matriarchs; it was one of his best talents. Wordlessly he pointed over Lothrae’s shoulder.

  At the door of a jakes that was literally four paces away.

  It was not one of the few that had secret panels in its rear wall, either, curse the luck.

  Lothrae sighed, resigned himself to perhaps never knowing who’d opened the crypt, and took his feigned need to empty his bladder into the jakes.

  As the door swung closed behind him, the ring on his finger quivered and shone even more brightly, and he discovered, all of a sudden, that he truly did need to relieve himself. Badly.

  In one of her favorite rooms of the palace—the nursery with the high round window she’d always loved watchin
g the moon through—what was left of Alusair Obarskyr felt the activation of the rune, nine or so floors beneath her.

  Not to mention the stirring of someone who had long been silent.

  “One of Vangey’s old locking runes!” she hissed, alarmed and excited—and rushed through the palace like a ghostly wind, racing to the spot.

  The ring’s brief blue glow faded, leaving Storm Silverhand blinking in the chill darkness.

  Ah, royal crypts are such cozy places. Suzail’s was no exception. Still, it was one spot in a palace that, elsewhere, must resemble an agitated anthill about then, where she shouldn’t have to worry about being interrupted while—

  There came a faint clank and rasping of sliding metal about four paces in front of her—and then the louder sound of a heavy stone door grating open. In the dim rectangle of resulting light, Storm found herself staring at a menacing figure in full armor.

  Who stumbled toward her with a muffled curse, fumbling with its skirting plates.

  Thankfully, that pleasantry was uttered in a voice she recognized.

  “Well met, El,” she greeted her armored visitor cheerfully, sidestepping deftly in case she startled him. Archwizards—hah, all wizards—were … dangerous. Like unsheathed carving knives forgotten in a dark drawer, they could imperil all who blundered too near.

  “Urrah? Storm?” The Sage of Shadowdale sounded astonished. “When did ye return?”

  “Now,” she replied simply, stepping around him to close the door. “Whence this sudden thirst for wearing armor?”

  “Stops idiot wizards of war hurling spells before they stop to ask who I am,” came the muffled reply. He produced something from under the skirts and thrust it at her. A tray, wobbling more than a little. “Here, hold this—and, ah, help thyself. Must get this blasted helm off.”

  “Savory tarts?” Storm asked, her stomach suddenly rumbling. When had she last eaten, anyh—

  The world erupted with a white-hot roar.

  The scrying exploded in his face, but Manshoon never flinched. He let the tears stream as he smiled.

  Lothrae and Mreldrake might be drooling idiots for days, but he’d managed it.

  Yes.

  Strike hard and fast enough, and you can fell even the mighty. Storm Silverhand should be a broken thing spattered across the back wall of the crypt, and Elminster sorely wounded.

  That armor would have saved his life, but he’d be in great pain. And alone once more, as Manshoon wanted him to be.

  Aye, this was much better. He busied himself casting another scrying spell to look into that crypt again as soon as possible. Spending days tainting its wards to let him through had been worth every irritating moment, after all.

  “Storm?” he gasped when he knew he was Elminster again. He was lying sprawled on stone, afire with pain.

  Silence was the only reply offered by the darkness.

  “Oh, lass,” he whispered. “Oh, no. Not like this …”

  Mystra be with me.

  Or … will I join her?

  Elminster swam back to consciousness again. The pain was even worse, this time.

  The armor was torn and crumpled where it wasn’t missing. He was burned in all those bare places, yet shivering. He lay on the cold hard smoothness, feeling life run out of him … slow, sticky, and inexorable.

  The faint glows of the tombs were gone … or was his sight merely dimming as he started to die?

  No, there was new light.

  Fey witchlight.

  Alusair had arrived, and her ghostly glow with her.

  “Hail, fair princess,” he murmured, trying to smile.

  Metal clinked and tinkled; Alusair was fighting to pluck away shards of Duar’s shattered armor that kept falling through her fingers.

  “Damned magic!” she hissed. “Once I could command this entire palace—and now I can’t farruking pick up a stlarning plate of armor!”

  “How … mighty … fallen,” Elminster offered, choking on welling blood.

  “Hey, now, Old Mage,” the ghostly Steel Princess replied tenderly, her face floating perhaps a hand’s length away from his, “rest easy. If you’re fated to die here, at least you’ll die clowning around in stolen armor—and if we kiss and cuddle as much as I can manage, you’ll go in the arms of a lass trying to make love to you. Isn’t that what most men want?”

  “Not … dead … yet,” Elminster managed. “But so damned … weak …”

  Which was when a feeble whisper rose from the open door in front of them both, and something dark slithered into view. A wraith, a dark cloud barely able to lift itself far enough off the flagstones to drift, creeping like smoke toward them.

  “And how d’you think I feel?” it asked testily.

  It was a voice they both knew.

  Vangerdahast.

  The whisper was coming from all that was left of him. He was obviously a Dragon no longer. And just as obviously barely alive—or barely undead—too.

  “Elminster,” Alusair said insistently, “use the codpiece! Heal yourself, before it’s too late!”

  Elminster blinked at her, nodded almost absently, obeyed—a glow that brought some measure of relief promptly washing over him—and went back to staring at the dark wraith-thing on the floor. It was looking back at him with what seemed to be a lopsided grin.

  “Again,” the ghostly princess commanded, and Elminster obeyed, the pain ebbing still more.

  “Vangerdahast?” he asked in disbelief, peering hard.

  “Aye,” came the growled reply. “There’d be a lot less of me if Myrmeen hadn’t loved me enough to force the last of her life into me. Yet she did, so this is all that’s left of Vangerdahast, once Royal Magician and Court Wizard of Cormyr. Ruler of a dark and empty closet of a crypt, these last few years. Ever since that snake who stole my ring sealed me in.”

  “Who?” Elminster demanded weakly. “Who did it?”

  “His name,” Vangerdahast hissed, “I know not. Nor did I see his face. Yet he works here at the palace—I feel the ring near too often for his station to be anything else—and schemes to bring down the Obarskyrs, and fartalks Sembians who send him coin and give him commands, and orders foolheaded young nobles to do the butchery. Which will befall at a council of some sort, by his recent talk.”

  Alusair and Elminster exchanged glances. “And what else did you overhear?”

  “Nothing useful. I can hear only through the ring, and only for moments ere I collapse into wisps, exhausted, and must spend agonizingly long gathering myself together again.”

  “Is …” Elminster realized how helpless he felt. “Can I help ye, somehow?”

  “Leave me the codpiece. I can feed on that and gather myself to carry it. I’ll scare a few guards when they see a disembodied codpiece floating feebly along the passages.”

  Alusair chuckled. “I can carry small things, briefly; I could carry your cod.”

  “Then let’s be going places,” Vangerdahast said faintly. “How soon’s this council?”

  “Highsun on the morrow,” El and Alusair chorused grimly.

  The dark, wispy cloud that was Vangerdahast somehow managed to look disgusted.

  “Always charging in at the last instant, aren’t you?” he asked Elminster. “When it comes to my Cormyr, couldn’t you dispense with the dramatics, for once? Just once?”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  RUNE, RUNE, GONE AWAY

  Alusair had never thought the palace cellars were so big before. She had very little strength and solidity left to call on, to try to drag the crawling, badly wounded Elminster along.

  The chill of her touch was obviously causing him pain; he was gasping as well as shivering, his face twisted. They’d left Vangerdahast behind a long time before, or so it seemed, but, were only—what?—three passages along.

  As they turned into a fourth, Alusair sighed at what they’d all been reduced to. “Are you going to last as far as where the healing magics are cached?”

 
“Have … to …,” Elminster snarled, ducking his head and shuddering.

  “Don’t die on me, Old Mage! Don’t you die on me!”

  “Die while a spirited lass has her fingers inside me? No fear! Ahhh, blast ye, that hurts! I’m … I’m too old for this!”

  “Hah! Stop me vitals!” she joked.

  Elminster smiled a little sadly. “Already happened, remember?”

  Alusair took advantage of her spectral state to become long and thin, so she could thrust herself around ahead of him and swing her head back to face his and give him a dark look. “Thank you for farrukin’ reminding me, Old Mage.”

  Elminster winced. “You play with sharp claws out.”

  “Always did,” she said softly. “Would again, if I had it all to do over again. Folk respect sharp claws and sneer at those who are nice and kindly. Wish it were otherwise, but … ’tis not. Damn the gods.”

  “Look,” Arclath told the coldly frowning wizard, “I was meeting with Lady Glathra and the king himself, and—”

  “No doubt you were,” the wizard of war replied grimly. “Yet the Lady Glathra has left the palace on … secret Crown business, and my orders are very clear. All nobles are to absent themselves from the palace until invited inside for council. No exceptions, and no excuses accepted. You have a home of your own to go to, and I’m sure you know the way there, Lord Delcastle. Your journey begins yonder.”

  His imperiously pointing hand indicated exterior doors that two Purple Dragons—who were not very carefully suppressing smirks—were drawing open. Arclath eyed the wall of Purple Dragons right behind the coldly firm mage, inclined his head in polite defeat, and turned for the door.

  “Mind you inform Glathra—or the king—at your first sight of either of them that you conducted me out of the palace, and that I can be found at Delcastle Manor,” he told the wizard, turning on his heel in the doorway to do so. “I suspect a failure on your part to do as much will not go over well—and were I you, I might risk royal displeasure, but the wrath of the Lady Glathra, now …”