Untold Adventures: A Dungeons & Dragons Anthology

by Wizards of the Coast

  “Well met, lady. I am Storm Silverhand. The kettle is just boiling, and there will be hot buttered biscuits very soon. Will you take tea?”

  Which was when Yavarla discovered she was ravenous. As she tried to smile and find words of answer, the woman bending over her was hearing other words in her own head.

  Storm, this is Yavarla Sarbuckho, of Zhentil Keep. She just slew her husband, with good reason. Give her gentle slumber with thy spells and herbs, and keep her that way for this day and mayhap the next.

  Storm smiled, inside her head. Of course, El. If you decide what to do next for once, rather than just rushing out and doing it.

  Fair enough, Stormy One. Fair enough.

  And it was. Moreover, the biscuits were delicious.

  Done by Next Highsun

  Thus far, this highsunfeast had gone better than he’d expected. Fzoul Chembryl’s eyes told Manshoon clearly how furious the priest of Bane still was over Manshoon’s seizing of power, but the First Lord’s guest had obviously decided to be civil. For now, at least.

  “I’ve never had any intention of deciding everything, and ruling the Brotherhood,” Manshoon said carefully. “I want you to be—need you to be—a full partner in all decisions. So we are met not just to gorge ourselves on this superb cheese and harberry jelly—pray have more, won’t you?—but to decide how to proceed next.”

  “In all matters of governance over the keep and the Zhentarim?” Fzoul asked calmly. “Or just in your—pardon me, our—war upon the waylords?”

  “All, of course, but let us leave those decisions to later meetings, which I agree to hold at your behest and not mine, when this matter of the waylords is done with. First upon our mutual platter: Sarbuckho, and his defeat of our men at Wyrmhaven.”

  “You lost more than a dozen wizards, I’ve heard,” Fzoul commented to the cheese he was slicing. “Let us begin by your trusting me enough to unfold clear truth about all of our losses. How many mages—and just how many warriors and spies can we add to that?”

  “Ten and four wizards,” Manshoon said quietly. “Five of accomplishment, the rest ambitious magelings or aging hedge wizards. Three or four spies—I’m still waiting for a certain man to report back to me. Almost twoscore warriors; the total depends on whether or not some recover. Sarbuckho’s men used poisoned quarrels.”

  “Lorkus Sneel being that certain man?”

  Manshoon nodded. “Do you know something of his fate?”

  Fzoul shook his head. “Nothing. Truly. Well, I am for the utter destruction of Sarbuckho and his mansion. Present an example to anyone else contemplating any sort of challenge or resistance to the Brotherhood. Muster all we have for a very public assault in which Wyrmhaven is dashed to rubble. We hurl all our keep-shattering spells, and leave all loyal citizens thinking.”

  Manshoon’s sudden smile was as bright as it was genuine. This was precisely what he’d been planning to do, priests or no priests. He liked the entire might of the temple behind it far better than otherwise.

  They swiftly and easily agreed that Wyrmhaven’s fall should be accomplished “by next highsun.” Fzoul offered to set his upperpriests on rooftops to smite armsmen sent out to fight the Zhentilar—as well as any of the pitiful remnants of the city watch unwise enough to presume to challenge the authority of the Zhentarim.

  It took but a few words back and forth for them to further agree to then sit back and wait for the cowed surviving waylords to suffer the effects of their portals becoming deathtraps. They would, of course, destroy any independent wizards who approached any waylord mansion, not wanting the waylords to be able to hire anyone who might be able to make the Darkways safe again.

  “The waylords will fall, we’ll rebuild the watch as ours, outright, and the council can meet as often as they like and say whatever they like,” Fzoul gloated, over his sixth flagon of wine. “Zhentil Keep will be ours.”

  He was gratified by Manshoon’s eager smile, and they clinked flagons together.

  Fzoul Chembryl was enjoying this.

  For this first time in far too many days, Manshoon really needed him.

  Which meant no sly or savage attack would fall on him, here or elsewhere, for days to come.

  More than that, the ever-mounting death toll among the Brotherhood magelings would give the Rightful Hand of Bane real say in the Zhentarim for some time to come; Manshoon was fast becoming one man, standing almost alone against all the might of the temple.

  Alone indeed. Last night a beholder had come floating into Fzoul’s private chapel, turning aside the guardian spells with contemptuous ease, to hiss a private message.

  “Expect Manshoon to receive no aid from any of my kind in this fray over the Darkways,” the eye tyrant had said. “We regard this as a test of Manshoon’s strength and fitness to lead the Brotherhood. So fear not, Fzoul Chembryl—if Manshoon calls on us to crush you or your temple underlings, we shall not hear.”

  A Spell of Simple Remedy

  “Keep back!” Elminster snapped as guards pounded up, glaives lowered and reaching for him. “I’m undoing Manshoon’s evil, so all can safely use this Darkway again. Harm me, and you doom him, and all your livelihoods.”

  “Back, men!” a deeper voice rolled out from behind the guards. “Who are you, wizard?”

  “Elminster,” the bearded wizard replied—as the floor rocked under their feet, and distant thunder made glass lamps tinkle and the entire mansion shudder around them.

  “What’s going on?” the waylord demanded. “That’s been happening most of the day, now!”

  “Ambram Sarbuckho killed many Zhentarim last night. Manshoon is now busily destroying Wyrmhaven as a warning to all the rest of you.”

  “Meaning?”

  El shrugged. “He intends to crush all who don’t kneel to him. So, some of ye may elect to use thy gates to flee the keep, with all thy riches and retainers. Yet ye’re Zhents, so most of ye will probably vow to fight Manshoon to the death. Me, I must use the time while Manshoon’s indulging himself at Wyrmhaven to undo the fatal spells he worked on every last Darkway, to make them all safe again. So I’m off to the next one, now. Lord, ye have a decision to make.”

  A Warm Welcome

  Yavarla swam up out of a pleasant slumber to find the sun warm on her face, and herself snugly wrapped up in her own shimmerweave coverlet. Storm had put her coffer in her hands and produced a soft pillow from somewhere to cradle her head. Yavarla could hear the beautiful, liquid swirling of her harp from off to her right, not too close, and smiled to herself.

  She did not let that smile reach her face. Nor did she open her eyes.

  This was all very pleasant, but it was a trap.

  The man who’d snatched her out of Wyrmhaven last night was keeping her here, away from the keep, for reasons of his own.

  She had to get back—to Manshoon—before any more time passed.

  If this silver-haired harpist hadn’t robbed her as she slept, she had the means to do it, too. Under the coverlet, Yavarla opened the coffer a crack with her thumbs, feeling carefully for the ring with the sculpted wing thrusting up from it.

  There it was, amid everything else. Her wealth was untouched.

  The harp music swirled, rising and falling. Storm Silverhand was strolling around the glade as she played.

  Eyes shut, Yavarla worked to get that ring on her finger. She knew what she’d see if she looked over at the harpist. Those long, long silver tresses would be swirling and coiling like lazy snakes or stretching cats, curling leisurely in time to the music. The harpist’s magic must be strong—so she, Yavarla, would have to be fast.

  There! It was on, and snugged up against her knuckles. Close the coffer, think of the street in front of Manshoon’s house, for it would be foolish to try to teleport into a wizard’s home, with all the wards he’d have, and—

  —Faerûn whirled around her—

  —she was blinking in the bright sun of the keep, standing on the cobbles outside Manshoon’s gates, her coffe
r in her hands. Grim guards were already lowering great glaives to menace her.

  “I,” she told them calmly, “am expected. Conduct me to First Lord Manshoon. Without delay, if you please.”

  The nearest guard inclined his head. “Lady, your name?”

  “I am Lady Yavarla Sarbuckho. Wife to the Lord Ambram Sarbuckho, of the keep.”

  “Admit her,” a young wizard’s voice called down from somewhere above, and the great gates opened.

  Yavarla kept a serene smile on her face as she was whisked up stairs and across polished marble halls and up more stairs, climbing ever higher. Twice her skin tingled, the ring on her finger burning her like fire, as unseen spellcasters probed her for magic. The second time, a man she’d never seen before stepped out of a door to bar her way and demand, “Remove your ring. No such magic in the presence of the First Lord.”

  “You,” she replied coolly, “are not the First Lord. I have seen him—all of him—and I know.”

  Unimpressed, the man reached out for her coffer. After a moment, she put it into his hand.

  “This shall be returned, unopened by me,” he told her, his other hand still out. “The ring.”

  Silence fell between them, until she sighed, removed the ring, and dropped it into his palm. He bowed, indicated the door he’d come through, and glided away, murmuring, “Lord Manshoon awaits you.”

  Yavarla opened the door. The room beyond was a richly paneled study full of books and a massive table and high-backed chairs, like many she’d seen in the mansions of the mighty. Standing by the table was—her heart leaped anew at his dark, handsome looks, and the smile growing on his face—Manshoon.

  “Lord, I came to tell you my husband is dead. I killed him last night, after he came to me wanting me to slay you. He—”

  “Yavarla,” Manshoon said warmly, opening his arms to welcome her.

  As she rushed into them, fire kindled in his eyes.

  With that same widening smile still on his face, he drawled, “Your usefulness is past.”

  Fire coalesced out of the air around her, binding her like chains—and then started to sear her.

  “And you bore me,” he added, as she tried to scream … but fell to ashes, instead.

  His second spell kept even the smallest of them from reaching the carpet.

  From a chair on the far side of the table, Fzoul Chembryl watched as the ashes roiled, then spiraled in the air like dark water going down a drain, and vanished.

  Then he nodded approvingly.

  A ruler free of entanglements is a leader free of weaknesses. He’d do the same thing.

  He smiled crookedly, thinking of a certain rather eager priestesses back at the temple. He might soon have to.

  The Time of Reckoning

  At least this, Elminster thought rather wearily, was the last.

  He’d told a seemingly endless succession of angry waylords what he was doing to their Darkways, and why—and now here he was in the luxurious black marble rear hall of Swordgates, looking up into the frightened face of Mantras Jhoszelbur … and he was done at last.

  He straightened with a yawn, dusted his hands together, and told this last waylord, “I’m done here. If ye’d be rid of First Lord Manshoon, hounding him out of the keep is thy work to undertake. If ye prefer a life of slavery, let him proceed down the path he’s chosen, and ye’ll enjoy that status soon enough!”

  Before Jhoszelbur could think of something suitably testy to snarl, El was through an archway and back along the passage that led to the rear door he’d come in by. He wanted to get clear of Swordgates before Manshoon finished destroying Wyrmhaven and came looking for other foes to reduce to rubble.

  Guards scuttled hastily out of his way. El gave them a reassuring smile—no sense in having a few spears hurled at the back of your head, even if you did have a mantle to stop them—and then opened that door and ducked out into the alley beyond.

  And the world exploded.

  When he could see again, he knew what had happened. His mantle had returned half a dozen hostile magics to the various Zhentarim who’d first hurled them, then failed, overloaded by the onslaught.

  Those backlashes were still causing various buildings where Manshoon’s mages had been to slump or topple, up and down the alley—and the flood of still-rolling rubble had just swept him right back into Swordgates.

  Thankfully, Jhoszelbur’s guards were fleeing in all directions, not throwing spears, and there was no sign of any of the Stormwands.

  Elminster fought his way free of all the stone—and then stiffened, as Mystra spoke briefly and firmly in his head.

  Not that way, El. ’Tis time to teach Manshoon a lesson.

  He sighed, looked longingly at the last Darkway he’d altered for a moment, then murmured, “As ye wish, Great Lady of Mysteries,” and started walking briskly through Stormgates.

  He strode the length of that sprawling, many-pillared stone mansion, raising a new mantle around himself as he went, to the front doors of Swordgates.

  Jhoszelbur’s house guards threw them wide at his approach, and Elminster strode out into the sunlight—and the welcome he’d been expecting.

  Zhentilar javelins cracked and shivered on the descending flight of steps in front of his boots, and behind the massed black-armored horde of warriors happily hurling them, El saw baneguards advancing, upperpriests of Bane commanding them. More priests stood on roofs and balconies all around, and there were Zhentarim, too, some of them in the saddles of foulwings flapping and circling overhead like great black bat-winged toads.

  The tripled-jawed aerial steeds of the Brotherhood croaked and hissed harsh unpleasantnesses to each other, their red eyes burning, eager to enter the fray.

  Swordgates occupied a corner where two streets met, and similarly grand mansions lined both of those routes—high houses whose streetfront windows and balconies were crowded with priestesses of Loviatar, presumably aiding the Brotherhood to gain Manshoon’s favor.

  Manshoon? Ah, there he was, standing with Fzoul Chembryl on a high mansion balcony right across the road, ready to gloat as the lone wizard on the steps got destroyed.

  The Rightful Hand of Bane held two dark rods in his hands, and Manshoon hadn’t forgotten to bring a long, fell-looking staff.

  “Oh, dung,” Elminster said sourly, clawing in a pouch for his least useful enchanted rings, so as to feed his mantle with something. This was going to hurt.

  “Care, lords, I beg of you!” the owner of the mansion whose balcony Manshoon and Fzoul were standing on shouted then, from the room behind them. “If much magic is unleashed here, the destruction will be ruinous! Zhentil Keep’s fairest houses could well be—”

  Manshoon lifted one hand and made a lazy signal, without even bothering to turn around. The wealthy merchant gurgled in mid protest as his throat was slit, the ugly sound lost in Fzoul’s thunderous, “Destroy him!”

  The priest of Bane brought his arm down with a flourish, pointing right at Elminster.

  Zhentarim, Banite priests, and priestesses of Loviatar all unleashed deadly spells, hurling them with glee, all wanting to be part of obliterating that lone figure on the steps.

  Elminster’s world became roiling flame, tongues of fire that swirled like white snowflakes in a roaring, purple-black darkness as the Weave was torn, Faerûn shrieked aloud, and he was plucked off his feet, shaken like a doll, and hurled—

  Nowhere at all, as Mystra manifested all around him in an armor of eerie blue light, dancing sparks that dazzled the eyes with their hue.

  Two huge and long-lashed eyes opened behind Elminster and drank in the darkness, and nine silver stars blossomed out of those sparks. Two of those stars darted into Mystra’s eyes, and the other seven began to circle her slumped, pain-wracked Chosen.

  Gathering all the magic hurled at him … and slowly, one spell after another, sending it all back whence it came.

  The huge floating eyes of the goddess swept across the shouting Zhentarim army, regarding them wi
th something like sorrow, then rose to meet Manshoon’s astonished and outraged gaze.

  As he stared at Mystra, and Mystra stared back at him, the First Lord of Zhentil Keep began to scream in terror.

  Beholders appeared, rising menacingly into view over rooftops with their eyestalks writhing, gliding forward with fell intent—only to melt away in an instant. A moment later, every last foulwing faded to nothingness, spilling shrieking riders out of the sky.

  The balcony where Manshoon and Fzoul stood broke off the front of the mansion it adorned and fell to earth, slowly and soundlessly. Clinging to it, the two mightiest of the Zhentarim bawled like babies, clawing at the stones.

  It came to rest very gently, with no crash at all, but the two men pitched forward onto their faces, trembling in fear. Fzoul fainted, and Manshoon hid his face in his hands, daring only to peek between them.

  He saw Mystra bend her will and power on the army at the foot of the steps. Baneguards vanished in bony silence, black armor was suddenly gone from hairy and horrified men, and spears and swords were swept away from their hands.

  As they broke and fled, pelting away down the streets as fast as they could run, moaning and trampling each other in their fear, the goddess roared up into a spire of blue flame.

  That great tongue of fire rose with a thunderous snarl, to tower high over Swordgates, to loom into the sky above Zhentil Keep and catch distant, awed eyes—then flashed, blinding many watchers, and—vanished.

  On balconies and rooftops, down alleys and in windows, every last priest and priestess collapsed, all dashed senseless at once.

  Silence fell. Mystra was gone.

  Leaving Manshoon weeping and trembling, and a weary and wincing Elminster regarding him with disgust.