by Ed Greenwood
Realms of infamy
( Anthologies - 2 )
Ed Greenwood
Elaine Cunningham
Barb Hendee
Elaine Bergstrom
R.A.Salvatore
Christie Golden
David Cook
James M.Ward
Denise Vitola
J. Robert King
Troy Denning
Mark Anthony
Jane Cooper Hong
Mary H. Herbert
James Lowder
Roger E. Moore
Ed Greenwood, Elaine Cunningham, Barb Hendee, Elaine Bergstrom,R.A.Salvatore, Christie Golden, David Cook, James M.Ward, Denise Vitola, J. Robert King, Troy Denning, Mark Anthony, Jane Cooper Hong, Mary H. Herbert, James Lowder, Roger E. Moore
Realms of Infamy
Contents
Ed Greenwood… So High a Price
Elaine Cunningham…The More Things Change
Barb Hendee…The Meaning of Lore
Elaine Bergstrom…Raven’s Egg
R.A.Salvatore…The Third Level
Christie Golden…Blood Sport
David Cook…Gallows Day
James M.Ward…A Matter of Thorns
Denise Vitola…Stolen Spells
J. Robert King…The Greatest Hero Who Ever Died
Troy Denning…Twilight
Mark Anthony…The Walls of Midnight
Jane Cooper Hong…And Wringing of Hands
Mary H. Herbert…Thieves’ Honor
James Lowder…Laughter in the Flames
Roger E. Moore…Vision
So High a Price
Ed Greenwood
So high a price
So willingly paid
Hot blood flows
And a ruler is made.
Mintiper Moonsilver
Ballad of a Tyran
Year of the Turret
Sunlight flashed from the highest towers of Zhentil Keep and flung dazzling reflections through nearby windows. It was a hot Mirtul day in the Year of the Blazing Brand.
A ledgebird darted past one window, wheeled on nimble wings, and called like a carefree trumpet. But then, it did not know how little time it had left to live.
Manshoon smiled slightly and crooked a finger. The bird exploded in a puff of green flame. Humming the latest minstrel tune, the wizard watched scorched feathers drift away. Trust a bird of Zhentil Keep to fly unwittingly to its doom, singing off-key. Well, things might not be that way much longer…
The first lord of Zhentil Keep smiled as he caught sight of himself in an oval mirror floating upright in a corner. The image, jet-black hair gleaming, returned the expression. Its robes were of the finest purple silk, worked with rearing behirs in gold. The sleeves were the latest flaring fashion, and the upswept collar was cut in the style of city lords.
With the faintest of rustlings, Taersel drew a hanging tapestry aside and murmured, “The one you expected is here, Lord.”
Manshoon signaled for his servant to bring the guest and withdraw, but then to wait unseen behind a tapestry. To show he understood, Taersel touched the hilt of the throwing knife hidden in his ornate belt buckle.
“Arglath,” Taersel announced, then bowed out. The cloaked guest moved forward with a strange gliding motion, as if his feet didn’t quite touch the floor.
“Yes?” Manshoon asked coldly.
His guest shrugged off his cloak and replied in tones just as glacial, “I presume you’re finally ready to move?”
“I believe so,” Manshoon said flatly.
His guest had soft, unfinished features. On second glance, most folk would have guessed him a mongrelman-something not quite human-and have drawn back, muttering and reaching for weapons. They’d have acted rightly.
Hair melted and fell away as the man’s features swam, glistened, and split to reveal a single green, liquid eye. That unblinking orb grew until Manshoon looked into a giant eye that swayed at the end of a long, snakelike neck. The body beneath hung shrunken and empty, like discarded clothes drooping from a wall peg.
“Speak, then,” the strange visitor’s cold voice came again. “I’ve little patience for humans who enjoy being mysterious.”
Manshoon gave his guest a wintry smile. ‘There will be open slaughter at the next council meeting. Those who oppose me will die there. When Zhentil Keep is mine, your kind will have what they desire: a powerful city full of hands to do your bidding, fresh meat to feed you, and men who fear and kneel before you.”
“Do not presume to understand my kind so well,” the creature responded, drifting slightly nearer. “More than that, Manshoon, do not presume to understand-or imagine that you can commandme.” Writhing worms of flesh sprouted from its spherical body.
A gasp of horror came from behind a nearby tapestry. Then a crossbow bolt burst out of that same curtain, whipped across the chamber, and was driven sharply aside by an unseen magical force just in front of the floating eye. The bolt ended its flight in a splintering crash against a wall.
Eyes opened in the ends of the monster’s still lengthening stalks. One blinked.
The tapestry drew aside by itself to reveal the mouth of a passage-and Taersel, who was now sprawled on his face, crossbow still in his hands. Thin wisps of smoke rose from his body.
“It is not wise,” the eye tyrant said silkily, “to threaten ‘my kind.’”
Manshoon stared into the beholder’s many eyes and replied steadily, “I am too useful for you to slay-and too wise to attempt an attack upon you.” He nodded at his sprawled servant. “This man acted of his own accord to protect me. Foolhardy, yet he is as useful to me as I am to you. I trust he has not been harmed.”
“Not overmuch.” The beholder drew nearer, its many eyes yellow with displeasure. “When next you speak in council, we shall be there. Yet know this, Lordling: unless you and your minions take greater care, a day of harm may soon come to you all.”
“Unless we take great care,” Lord Chess said in an inner room of another tower not far from Manshoon’s home, “a day of harm may soon come to us all.”
The other nobles at his table shifted in their seats. Most of the city’s young noblemen were present. Some hid nervousness by taking flamboyant sips of the Mulhorandan lion-wine in their goblets. Others assumed superior smiles and settled into even more indolent poses in their great, finely carved chairs.
“We do not fear upstart mages,” one said with a practiced sneer. “Our sires and our grandsires smashed such foes. Why should we quail? The least of our guards can destroy these Zhentarim.”
“Aye,” another rumbled amid murmurs of agreement. “Let the graybeards in council yap and snap all the day long! I see naught to threaten Zhentil Keep or to prevent our coins piling up. The council responds whenever those dolts in Mulmaster dare another challenge, or a Thayan wizard deludes himself into thinking he’s mighty enough to rule us. On most days, the council simply keeps our fathers and the rest of the dotards busy — and keeps their noses out of our affairs!”
“And just how many affairs have you had, Thaerun?” one noble asked slyly.
“Aye, this tenday?” someone added through the general mirth.
Chess frowned. “Have you no care for the snakes in our midst? Agents of Thay, of the Dragon Cult-even of Sembia and Calimshan-are unmasked every month! Their dagger points are always closer than you credit.”
“Ah,” Thaerun said, leaning forward to tap the table in triumphant em
phasis. ‘That’s the point, Chess. They are unmasked — by the watchful wizards Manshoon commands, and by Fzoul’s tame priests. That’s why we tolerate these haughty longrobes in the first place! They watch our backs so we can get on with the business of getting rich!”
“And wenching,” someone murmured.
“Drinking,” another added. “What is this chamberpot-spill, anyway, Chess?”
“The finest Mulhorandan vintage,” Chess said dryly. “Not that you’d recognize it, Naerh.”
Naerh spat on the table. “That for your pretensions! My family’s as old as yours!”
“And as debauched,” Thaerun murmured.
Chess smiled thinly. “You do well to enjoy your ease while you can, Lords. Tis a precious luxury, lost if just one of our foes decides to make war on us.”
Thaerun leaned forward again, his eyes cold. “I do enjoy it… and I shall. Every luxury has its price-but our ease costs us only the blood of a few fool altar-kneelers and hireswords from time to time. That’s a fee I’ll pay willingly. Save your veiled threats. The Blackryn name is a proud one-and one I’m always ready to defend.” Twinkling points of light burst forth around his hand. They coalesced into an ornate scepter whose tip pulsed and glowed.
A noble sighed. “Oh, put it away, Thaerun! You’re always trying to prove how battle-bold you are, and showing instead your utter lack of subtlety. We’ve all got one or more of those! You think yourself the only one in Zhentil Keep with wits enough to carry magic, when we must all hang our blades by the door at feasts?”
Another noble scratched the untidy beginnings of a beard and added, “Aye, and if you ever use it, Blackryn, ‘tis the blood of one of us that’ll spill. Then the bloodfeuds’ll begin again. That is too high a price for the liking of the council. They’d probably put you in beast-shape to spend your days as a patrol-hound north of Glister… for the few days before you met death.”
He leaned forward, uncrossing glossy-booted legs, and added, “Enough hard words. More wine, Chess, and tell me of the maid with green hair you were with last eve! I’d not laid eyes on her before. Where’ve you been hiding her?”
Chess smiled as a silver tray bristling with bottles and decanters rose from the polished wood in front of him and floated slowly down the table. “Yes, her hair was green last night. The Shadowsil, she’s called. One of Manshoon’s mages-so don’t even think of wenching her, Eldarr. She could slay us all with one wave of her hand.”
“And that, Thaerun,” Naerh said dryly, “would also be too high a price for your liking!”
A well-fed man in robes of the latest slashed, counter-folded Calishite finery spoke for the first time that night. “I have been long away,” he said, “but word has spread far of the Zhentarim: dark wizards, ruthless mage-slayers who gather ever more mighty magic. I would know more. Tell me plainly: what befalls in our city? What lies ahead that you fear? “
Lord Chess sipped at his wine. “Manshoon, leader of these Zhentarim, has become first lord of the council. He I plans to do much more than chair the debates of squabbling merchants. He speaks of Zhentil Keep as ‘his,’ as if he were king over it!”
More than one noble laughed in derisive dismissal, but Chess held up a quelling hand. “Manshoon is a mage of power. He’s gathered wizards great and small who think as he does. He’s slain or driven out many of the mages who might oppose him. These Zhentarim work together. Think on that, my lords, and consider how you’d fare if twenty came to your feast, drank less than they pretended, then attacked you with spells!”
There were dark murmurs. Chess looked around grimly. “Worms you may think them, but they can slay us all. Have you not noticed how many of our great lords-even our last battlelord-are ill and keep to their beds? Old age, aye… But what if they’re being helped to their graves? Before you scoff, consider: spells may not slip past all the expensive wards and amulets we wear, but there are other ways. I know Manshoon well. We grew up together. He is a master of slow, wasting poisons that deal gradual death and raise no alarm. He killed his parents thus, to gain their gold.”
Chess set down his goblet, and his voice grew more urgent. “Each day the Zhentarim grow more haughty. I fear they’ll seize power soon, using spells to sway the council. Manshoon must act before the council approves the opening of the wizard-school that the Beldenstones are sponsoring, which will draw independent mages by the score to our city. And final approval for that is to come when the council next meets.”
“Aghh! Enough of this fear-talk!” Thaerun snarled. “We’ve heard you spout this before, Chess! How can any wizard-even a band acting together-break the spell-shields and the priests’ scrutiny? Those blackrobes grow rich by keeping all of us striving against each other. Priests don’t like rivals! They’ll slap these Zhentarim into the dust as soon as the mages dare to act openly!”
“Think you so?” Lord Chess leaned forward. “What if I told you Manshoon meets often with the most powerful of the priests? Aye: Fzoul, the master of the Black Altar, himself.”
Shocked silence fell, and Chess added with more calmness than he felt, “It is the ‘impartial’ priests’ vigilance that keeps council meetings free of spell-deceit. Mayhap that is only a fancy-tale.” He reached for his goblet again, bejeweled fingers trembling.
“There’s more, isn’t there?” Naerh asked, eyes on his host’s face.
Lord Chess nodded. “Taersel tells me Manshoon meets with someone more powerful in magic than he-someone he keeps secret from High Priest Fzoul. You’ve heard rumors of beholders prowling the city by night…”
He looked around at the silent, pale faces. “Now are you afraid, my lords?” He drained his goblet and added, “As the next council meeting is on the morrow, it may be too late to do anything but be afraid.”
The beholder bit down. Blood spattered, and a suddenly headless body twisted and flopped like a landed fish.
Lord Rorst Amandon, battlelord of Zhentil Keep, passed a hand over his scrying crystal. The bloody scene faded.
“So passes Lord Hael’s hope,” he murmured. “Hardly a surprise-and probably not the only uninvited visitors to Manshoon’s Tower who’ll meet their gods this night. Such feeble attacks won’t stop the Zhentarim now. Still… Hael’s thieves got farther than I’d expected.”
The old lord’s hand trembled as he reached for a decanter beside the bed. As always, Etreth was there to put a drink into the palsied grip.
Possession of a scrying crystal that could pierce spell-shields meant death if either the city’s priests or wizards learned of it-but Lord Amandon was past caring. He lay on his deathbed, and knew it. By the time Manshoon’s poison had been detected, its ravages had gone too far in his aged body for magic to mend. The most expensive sages knew no antidote, once the poison took hold. The first lord had been thorough. Enough, at least, to slay Lord Amandon.
The old warrior looked wearily around his bedchamber, gazing at his favorite broadsword and the portrait of his wife, dead and gone these seven years. He might join her before morning, whatever befell the mad wizard’s schemes.
“I… can wait no longer, Etreth,” he muttered. “My body fails. I can barely drink without your aid, now.”
Looking up, he saw bright, unshed tears in his loyal servant’s eyes. Rorst turned his head away, moved. Years they’d been together, as he’d led the armies of Zhentil Keep to rule Thar and the northern coast of the Moonsea with brutal efficiency-something he was less and less proud of, as the years passed. He’d never noticed the gray creeping through Etreth’s hair, and the man’s moustache was white!
The battlelord sat up, cushions tumbling. “The time is come,” he growled. “I have one last command, good Etreth: go and summon the one I told you of.”
“Now, Lord? And… leave you? What if-?”
“I’ll do without,” the lord said firmly, “until the one I must deal with is here. Go, Etreth, for the honor of the Amandons.”
He set down his goblet. It clattered in his trembling hand. Rors
t frowned down at it, then raised fierce eyes. “Go,” he said roughly, “if you care for me at all.”
The old servant stood looking at him a moment, turned with what sounded like a sob, and hurried out.
Rorst Amandon glanced at the darkened scrying crystal and wondered if he’d last long enough to see this final battle through. His eyes wandered to Desil’s portrait, drank in her familiar painted beauty, and turned again to the scrying crystal. I am a man of the sword, he reflected with a wan smile, itching to be part of the fight until the very last.
The well-oiled door to the chamber’s secret exit closed behind the last guest, and Lord Chess sat alone. A full goblet rested forgotten before him as he idly turned a plain ring around and around on his finger.
Nothing short of an angry god could stop Manshoon now. The first lord was as powerful in sorcery as he was a master of strategy. He’d be ruler of Zhentil Keep before the snows came. That would have been unthinkable only a year ago, with all the wily, battle-hardened nobles of the Keep between the arrogant mage and mastery of the city.
Then old lorltar had named Manshoon his successor as first lord-under magical compulsion, many thought. Within a tenday, many of the proudest nobles-those who had no love for the upstart first lord or commanded strong magic-fell ill. No cause could be found, but the tavern-rumors carried the truth. Now those same taverns housed talk of the Zhentarim slaying rivals openly. And when the uproar began, Manshoon was supposed to have some secret weapon to wield, one beyond the spells of his ever-growing band of gutter wizards.
The monied among the work-a-day Zhents fiercely opposed every plan and deed of the swift-rising Zhentarim, but that mattered little. The merchants learned early there was no safety to be bought after one opposes a magic-wielder. As for the rest of the populace-well, the rabble never played much of a role in politics, apart from being swayed to one cause or another by well-staged public spectacle. Not much different from the other folk of the Heartlands, really.
The ring Chess had been turning gleamed and caught his eye. He regarded it thoughtfully. The plain band had cost him his best hireswords; he’d paid very expensive assassins to kill them after they’d refused to part with it. But it was worth the bloodfees and the loss of their service. He wore it constantly these days.