Suddenly, out of empty air, Elminster barred their path. “Stay back!” he commanded. “No more butchery!”
Waving swords wildly, they skidded to a halt before the Old Mage, glancing about to ensure the stern figure wasn’t some enemy illusion.
“Put steel away,” Elminster growled wearily. He went to his knees beside Symgharyl Maruel. “The time for that is past.”
With a groan, the wyrm-riding witch collapsed on her face. Her wand clattered on the rocks.
Gently Elminster took that broken body under the shoulders and turned her until the Shadowsil lay faceup in his lap.
Florin and Merith watched warily, the elf’s blade wavering uneasily in his hand. Florin drew off his gauntlets and squatted, facing the Old Mage across the body of the foe who’d sought to slay them. “Elminster, what are you doing?”
Symgharyl Maruel opened her eyes and stared dully up at them. She had the look of one who had traveled a very long way. She spat blood weakly ere her gaze found Elminster.
“Master,” she hissed, blood bubbling horribly in her throat. “I—hurt!” The last word was almost a sob.
“Little flower,” Elminster whispered gently, “I am here.”
She coughed blood and tears ran down her cheeks.
The Knights gathered in astonished silence.
“If ye lie quiet,” the mage murmured, “I’ll see if I can find Art enough in my tower to heal thee.” He clasped her hand gently and slid it out from beneath her.
She feebly plucked at his sleeve, and the witch-mage mastered her tears. “No,” she gasped fiercely, eyes burning into his. “Promise me you’ll not bring me back.… I’m too set to change now. I cannot learn this ‘good’ you stand for.” The Shadowsil’s eyes closed, and her head fell back wearily. Her eyes flickered. “Promise,” she hissed, hands trembling.
“Aye, Symgharyl Maruel, I promise thee,” Elminster said gravely, stroking her shoulder.
Symgharyl Maruel smiled. “Good, then. ’Ware my belt … it has a poisoned buckle.” Her voice was a faint, hissing ruin. “One more thing.”
Elminster leaned close to her bloody lips to hear.
The failing hands that gripped his robes were white. Her body shook. Dark eyes shone defiantly as she struggled to raise herself. When her head reached Elminster’s shoulder, she clung there, shaking like a leaf in a gale, and then rolled over to kiss his cheek, softly and yet fiercely. “I love you. I—always have. I wish I could have had you.”
The Shadowsil turned her head against his chest, smiled, and died.
Silence stretched for many breaths. The Old Mage sat motionless, cradling a still body in his arms. Slim hands slowly loosened their hold on him, but Elminster held the lady mage close. No one moved or spoke; all stood waiting.
After a time, the wizard looked up, laid his burden gently down on the stones, and slowly rose to his feet. Symgharyl Maruel’s bone-white, unseeing face was still smiling, but it was wet with the old man’s tears.
Elminster stepped away from her, waving at Narm and the Knights to draw away. When he judged them distant enough, he nodded and started to sing. The Old Mage’s voice, scratchy and hollow from disuse, gained in strength as he sang the leavetaking, until the last lines rolled out deep and clear.
The sun comes up, and the sun goes down.
Winters pass swiftly, and leaves turn brown.
Watching each day and at last it has found
Another dream to lay under the ground.
Another name lost to the wind,
Wailing away north past ears of flind,
And all she has been crumbles away.
Of all that great spirit, can nothing stay?
Mystra, Mother, take your own.
Skill and power now dust on bone.
Good or bad, what matters now?
Her song is done, her last bow.
Mother of Art, I pray now to thee,
Take back her true name in mercy,
And as her body is lost to flame,
Greet your own Lansharra again.
As his song ended, Elminster’s hands moved, he murmured a few quiet words, and fire burst forth to strike the Shadowsil. Though no wood or fire-oil lay around her, flames roared fiercely from her limbs, howling skyward in a many-hued pillar.
Silently, the old wizard stared into the greedy flames.
Narm watched, and then hesitantly approached. When he stood behind Elminster’s shoulder, he said, “She called you Master.”
The flames roared and crackled. “Aye,” Elminster muttered, not turning to look at him.
Narm shifted around to where he could see Elminster’s face.
The Old Mage was smiling faintly, and there were tears in his eyes again. He looked out over the waters of the Sember, far below, but his gaze was on things long ago.
“I once trained her and rode with her.” The words seemed reluctant, and the lips that spoke them crooked into a mocking smile. “I was much younger then.”
Narm turned to look at Shandril, lying so still upon his cloak. Struggling to keep his voice under control, he asked, “Does a mage of power often see friends die?”
“Aye,” Elminster whispered. He roused himself and caught Narm’s eye with a familiar wry look. “So ’tis that even one’s enemies are to be honored. If it falls in thy power, let no creature die alone.”
Narm stared at him, lips white, swallowed a large lump in his throat, and managed to nod.
A moment later, a long arm was around him. Elminster said gruffly, “Bear up, lad, and stand steady. It’s not so bad as all that. Thy Shandril lives.”
Narm drew a trembling breath and stared into a stunningly blue sky. “Lansharra,” he began, before he thought whether such speech might be prudent. “Did you love her very much?”
“Yes,” the old wizard said simply. “Sometimes she was like a daughter, and other times, like a lady avidly hunting a man. Had I been several centuries younger and she not quite so quick to cruelty …”
Abruptly, he whirled to face the pyre. His voice rolled out, rich and imperious. “Look, all of ye!”
He raised his hands and gestured. Above the thinning smoke, a form came slowly into being: a young, slender woman with long glossy hair and chalk-white skin. She wore a simple robe of white and gold bound with a blue sash. She looked around at the Knights and the wizards young and old. Joy and wonder filled her face. She was very beautiful.
The Knights watched in silence, hardened veterans all. Guttering flames flickered ruddy reflections across their armor.
In utter silence, the image of a youthful Symgharyl Maruel worked a simple cantrip. Blue radiance sparkled into being at her fingertips. She laughed in sheer delight and held up one hand to show them. Tossing her hair back merrily, she waved—and was gone.
In unison the Knights turned their heads toward the man who had spun the illusion. Elminster stood looking into the last of the flames, his old face expressionless.
“You did that, did you not?” Torm asked, awe in his voice. “That wasn’t … her doing …?”
“Aye, I did it, though not alone; she helped. You saw her as she was one summer before any of ye but Merith was born. Her spirit lingered. I shaped an illusion, and she came into it to bid me—all of you—farewell.” The mage turned to Rathan. “Thy holy water, good brother?”
Rathan nodded, stepped forward, and reverently unclasped a flask from his belt. A scorched smell from the Shadowsil’s fireball hung about him, and he moved with the careful stiffness of the newly healed.
At Elminster’s gesture, the flames of the pyre sank and died. Rathan doused the charred bones from head to foot. Gray smoke rose and slowly drifted away.
With a sudden swift movement, Elminster doffed his cloak. Florin and Lanseril stepped forward to lay the bones on it. Jhessail joined her voice with the Old Mage’s in a prayer to Mystra.
When it was done, Elminster bundled his cloak. “All well, friends? Rathan? Torm? Ye took the worst, if memory serves.”
“Well enough,” the cleric replied.
Torm agreed with a terse, “Yes.”
Elminster nodded. “Well, get thy treasure and let us see to Shandril. I would be gone from here as soon as she can travel—wyrms who are not as dead as they should be seem to have a distressing habit of showing up for a visit!”
The Old Mage rose with his bundle and went to where Shandril lay. “I wonder who shall call on us next?” He looked down at the bundle he bore and shook his head, looking both angry and older.
Outside, the afternoon sun blazed on the towers and parapets of Zhentil Keep. Within the Tower High, all was dark save for a circle of glass-globed candles in one corner of the high-paneled feasting hall. No grand company had eaten there for twenty winters. Beneath the flickering candles stood a small circular table where the high lords of the Keep sat in council.
Lord Kalthas, Battlemaster of the armies of Zhentil Keep north of the Moonsea, spoke almost lazily, words purring from beneath his sandy mustache. “Defending the empty wastes of Thar is not the problem, now that the lich Arkhigoul is no more. The Citadel’s strong, and I see no need to weaken our forces by placing small garrisons here and there. If something comes over the mountains, let it come. We can move in strength when any invader is committed to a long journey and a particular target—and crush them at our leisure. Why defend a week’s ride of barren rocks and snow? Any fool—”
The deep boom of a bell echoed in the darkness above them.
There was a sudden squeal of wood. The dark-robed figure of Manshoon, first lord of the Keep, rose with a sudden, violent movement—almost a leap. Table, papers, ink and quills, crystal decanters, and ornate metal flagons all crashed to the floor. More than one noble lord, chair and all, went to the flagstones, too.
“My lord!” protested Lord Kalthas from the floor, wiping wine from his fur-trimmed doublet. His words died to an uncertain whisper as he realized his peril. “What means this?”
Manshoon was not even looking at him. White-faced, he stared into empty air.
“Symgharyl Maruel,” he whispered, his voice quavering. His eyes were bright with tears.
Lord Chess gasped aloud. More prudent nobles gaped in silence. None had ever before seen Manshoon cry or show any sign of weakness (or as one lord had once put it, “humanity”).
The moment passed.
Coldly furious, Manshoon snapped, “Zellathorass!”
A glowing crystal globe swooped into view above the stairs, danced sideways like a questing bat, and darted to spin before him. Manshoon seized it and peered into its depths, where a light kindled and grew.
He was silent for a moment. His handsome face grew as hard as drawn steel. He released the globe, said “Alvathair,” and watched it vanish back the way it had come. His mouth tightened.
“Sirs,” he said curtly, “this meeting is at an end. For your safety, leave at once.” He crooked a finger. Horribly grinning gargoyles, hitherto motionless on stone buttresses overhead, flexed their slate-gray wings.
The High Lords of Zhentil Keep found their feet and cloaks and swords and plumed hats, stammered their thanks, and exited with comical speed. A patient golem closed the door they left standing open.
Manshoon spoke to the gargoyles in a hissing and croaking tongue. On leathery wings, they began to glide about the tower, watching in terrible silence for intruders.
Their lord stood in the dark hall and uttered more words. The candles sank and died. He spoke in the gloom, and a stone golem as tall as six men strode ponderously toward him from a corner of the hall. It waited there to greet anyone foolish enough to enter unannounced.
Manshoon looked about the hall once—and then raced up the stairs like an angry wind, his robes billowing. His ragged shout of rage and loss echoed down the stairs behind him. “Shadowsil!”
As he stepped out into the chill air atop the Tower High, the First Lord of Zhentil Keep spoke a certain word.
Part of the tower beneath him moved. A great bulge of stone shifted and humped. Vast wings opened out over the courtyard. A great neck arched up, and glimmering eyes regarded Manshoon with eagerness … and fear. Huge claws caught and pulled, and the massive bulk rose up the tower wall. A stone broke loose to clatter far below. Great wings beat in a single lazy clap that echoed from the rooftops of the city.
Frightened faces appeared in the windows of temple spires and noblemen’s towers, and vanished again hastily.
Manshoon smiled without mirth and fearlessly locked eyes with the huge black dragon he had freed. Cold eyes looked back at him, ice gazing into dark ice.
Few men could retain sanity and will before the gaze of a dragon. The wyrm regarded him with vast age, knowledge, and amusement. Manshoon merely smiled and held its eyes. The fear in the dragon’s eyes grew.
Manshoon hissed in the tongue of elder dragons: “Up, Orlgaun. I have need of you.”
The great neck arched over the parapet for him to mount. With a bound and flurry of beating wings the black dragon soared aloft.
Manshoon was coming, racing across the sky with fire and fury to destroy the slayer of his beloved.
9
THE BATTLE NE’ER DONE
The worst trouble with most mages is that they think they can change the world. The worst mistake the gods make is to let a few of them get away with it.
Nelve Harssad of Tsurlagol
My Journeys Around the Sea of Fallen Stars
Year of the Sword and Stars
“I wonder,” Torm said slowly, silver and gold coins streaming through his fingers, “how long the bone dragon had been gathering this!” He looked across a glittering sea of metal and shook his head in wonder.
“Ask Elminster,” Rathan growled. “He probably recalls the day Rauglothgor arrived, what—or whom—it ate at the time, and all.” The priest scrutinized a handful of coins, plucking out only platinum pieces, and adding them to an already bulging purse.
Torm made a face. “I’ll not ask. I’ve felt enough cold disapproval backed by the weight of oh-so-ancient cares—”
“Ah, Torm,” came the Old Mage’s voice from startlingly close behind the thief’s shoulder. Elminster could move with disconcerting stealth. “Thy respect for my feelings never fails to astonish me—in one so young and foolish.”
The thief sighed disgustedly. “Whereas the length and reach of thy flapping ears, Oldbeard, fascinates me.”
“Everything does,” Rathan commented dryly. “ ’Tis one way to keep life interesting. Offering casual rudeness to mighty archmages is another.”
Torm made a certain gesture.
Elminster raised his eyebrows slowly, one after another, in a way that turned mild reproof into crushing insult.
Torm’s face flamed. With sudden interest, he plunged his hands into the nearest treasure.
Nearby, Merith shifted heaps of coins with his feet, looking for more unusual treasure.
“Is this why we go through all the blood and battle?” Jhessail asked, coming up to him with her hands full of sparkling gems.
“Yes, depressing, isn’t it?” Lanseril replied from where he knelt at Narm’s side. The young mage watched over Shandril, who still lay white and motionless, for all the world as if dead.
Elminster joined them. He puffed on his pipe thoughtfully as he stood looking down at the thief of Deepingdale, but said nothing at all.
Lanseril gave Narm a gentle shove. “Enough brooding. Get up and find some gems and platinum coins while it’s still lying about for the taking.” At Narm’s dark look, he added more gently, “Go on. We’ll watch her, never fear. You’ll need the gold, if you plan to learn enough Art to see you both past all the enemies you’ve made these past few days!”
Narm’s doubt slowly gave way to thoughtfulness. “You may be right, but—but Shandril …” He looked helplessly at her.
Lanseril laid a hand on his arm. “I know it’s hard. You do the best for her and yourself if you get up and go on with what must be done. The schemes of g
ods and men unfold even while you sleep. You can do nothing for Shandril sitting here.” Lanseril pushed Narm again. “Go, lad, and play among the coins. You’ll see few enough of them before you die! I’ll keep your spot warm and will call you if she should awaken and want to kiss someone.” He grinned at the expression those words brought to Narm’s face. “Go, idiot!”
Narm rose slowly, looked down at Shandril again, traded quick glances with Lanseril and Elminster, glanced again at Shandril—and hurried away.
Lanseril sighed. “These younglings … their love burns so!”
“Aye, indeed, ‘Old One,’ ” the mage replied gravely, leaning on his staff. The two friends looked at each other for a moment in silence and then spoke as one, the druid who’d not yet seen thirty winters and the mage who had seen many hundred. “ ‘Well, when you get to be my age—’ ” They broke into chuckles.
All around them the Knights strode back and forth with small, clinking bundles, gathering Rauglothgor’s hoard. In the distance, Narm peered curiously at a ruby in his palm. Gold coins crept forth from between the fingers of his other hand.
“Not much magic. Damnation on that balhiir,” Torm said to Jhessail. He spilled a dozen brass rings from his hand to bring them in range of her awakened spell. They failed to glow with the radiance that betokened magic.
Jhessail spread her hands. “ ’Tis the way of balhiirs. Poor Torm,” she added in mock sorrow and commiseration. “You’ll have to settle for mere gold, gems, and platinum … and so little, too!”
Torm grinned. “Scant compensation, good lady, for the discomfort and danger attendant on my every breath. What good are coins to a dead man?”
“Precisely the thought that prevents most sane beings from taking up thievery,” Jhessail replied mildly.
Torm bowed in acknowledgment of a point well made.
Lanseril looked beyond them to the broken ridge of the crater. Florin stood there, blade in hand, bearing a special shield Elminster had brought back with the healing potions. The ranger was silent and alert, his eyes flicking over the cold gray peaks above and the tree-cloaked land below.
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