Swords of Eveningstar

by Greenwood, Ed

  He stared at it, then darted swiftly to one side, eyeing the portal warily.

  Nothing came through it at him, as he drew three long, deep breaths in succession. Finally he sighed, took up the scepter gingerly—and whirled around as he heard the rustling of ivy tearing free of stone.

  An armored flood of Purple Dragons poured over his wall.

  Amanthan strode forward, finding he did not have to feign anger. “And just what,” he snapped, “is the meaning of this?”

  The Dragons landed with heavy thuds, panting and staggering. One of them, a lionar by his badge, dodged through the dozen or so who were busy drawing their swords, and growled, “Fugitives from justice—six of them—came over this wall moments ago. Where did they go?”

  Amanthan smiled thinly. “Fugitives? Really? What sort of fugitives?”

  “Lord sir,” the Purple Dragon said icily, “three women and three men, attired for battle. You can hardly have failed to see them. ’Tis some good way from your house to where you stand, here, and we were right on their heels.”

  “Lionar,” the wizard replied, in a voice every whit as cold, “I suffer no uninvited guests to trample my flowers—and live.” He waved the scepter meaningfully. “Do I make myself quite clear?”

  Some of the Dragons went pale. Behind them, the tops of ladders and many helmed heads appeared all along the wall, ropes were flung down, and a stouter lionar came puffing down one of them.

  “Ah,” Amanthan said pleasantly, “more for my scepter. Well, it has been some time since it was fed properly …”

  A few soldiers ducked away, heading for the wall or at least a place behind their fellows, but Lionar Dauntless, hastening from the bottom of his rope, doffed his gauntlets and strode forward, extending his hand to the mage.

  “Pray accept my apologies, lord sir. Amanthan of Waterdeep, is it not? I tender the apologies and beseechments of Lord Thomdor, Warden of the Eastern Marches, and Myrmeen Lhal, Lady Lord of Arabel. We hound six miscreants upon their orders, and they will stand coin for any damage we’ve done. I was about to ask if we might search your grounds, here, but if you’ve seen these six …?”

  Amanthan reached for the proffered hand. “I fear your time would be wasted: the six you seek are … no more. I was under attack—they thrust weapons at me—and defended myself with my scepter, blasting them utterly to dust, as you can see. Or rather, not see.”

  Their hands met, and the wizard stiffened as if someone had struck him.

  “Ah,” Dauntless replied, turning his head to look all around. “Well. Ah, I suppose … that’s that.”

  Swordcaptain Nelvorr, standing near, noticed a wisp of something like mist drift from the lionar’s mouth to Amanthan’s.

  The wizard turned his head to look at Nelvorr, and the swordcaptain quickly looked away. And shivered.

  “So, my king, this is about much more than tax-cheating and slavery.”

  Vangerdahast whirled around dramatically, robes swirling. “It concerns, once again, an eventual attack on your person; yet another attempt to seize the Dragon Throne.”

  Six faces gazed at him. Unhappily.

  Azoun sat with his queen beside him, the sage Alaphondar in a lower seat nearby. A highknight stood guard behind each of them.

  There was no one else in the Soaring Dragon Room but Lord Vangerdahast—until he turned and made the gesture that caused the life-sized images of two additional men to appear in the air beside him.

  “It grieves me to report this, Majesty,” the royal magician said, waving his hand at the image, “but here’s the proof: Lord Gallusk meeting with the exiled ‘Lord’ Sorn Merendil. Note the room around them.”

  “The Swandolphin, in Marsember,” Queen Filfaeril murmured, causing Azoun to blink at her in surprise. “Minus its usual dancing whores.”

  The king blinked again, as Alaphondar and Vangerdahast both glanced away to avoid showing their amusement. Safely behind the royals, two of the highknights grinned broadly.

  “So the House of Gallusk,” Azoun said, “are providing slaves to be trained into a rebel army?”

  “No, Majesty. Lord Anamander Gallusk—we don’t believe his kin know about any of this—has gangs who snatch peddlers, pilgrims, shepherds and hands from upcountry steadings, caravan-folk, and sailors they overcome with free drink in dockside taverns, and supply them as slaves to Rorth Torlgarth.”

  “Who is—?”

  “A Sembian shipper who owns a sizable—and fast-growing—fleet of fast caravels. Torlgarth sells the slaves elsewhere about the Inner Sea, and in return recruits mercenaries and sends them to the Gallusk lands near the Sembian border, nigh Daerlun. Torlgarth’s coins pay them for the season; in this manner, Gallusk’s building a private army. We believe Merendil, here, is giving him both gold and orders, and is the brain and war-gauntlet behind this.”

  “And thus far, you’ve failed to arrange an ‘accident’ to befall Merendil—even when he leaves Sembia or Westgate to defy his exile, and slips back onto our soil?”

  “Merendil has his own backers: three Red Wizards, led by one known as Klaelan, whose Art, I must confess, outstrips my own.” Vangerdahast lifted a hand to indicate the floating semblance of Lord Gallusk.

  “Anamander Gallusk, however, lies within our grasp even now. He’s here in the city, and I can have him seized forthwith. I fear I must recommend his arrest and execution. Better one man’s neck than an army on the march and hundreds—perhaps thousands—slain. More, if others in Sembia and elsewhere see a chance to strike at us.”

  The king sighed reluctantly. “Every killing makes the people hate me more, and robs the realm of some measure—however fell—of drive, wits, and backbone.” He turned to look at the highknights behind him. “Do it.”

  “Laspeera will meet with you,” Vangerdahast added, “for you to choose which Wizards of War accompany you.”

  The highknights nodded curtly. “This will be no pleasure,” the eldest one said. “Lord Gallusk trained and sponsored me.”

  “I know,” Vangerdahast replied. “I have always known.”

  “What of the Arcrown?” Alapahondar asked. “I’ve heard folk in Daerlun are trading rumors that Gallusk has it, has discovered how to use it to pry into any man’s thoughts and even, some say, has begun to winnow out all in the land who dislike him or bear him grudges. If he defends himself with it—”

  “He’ll be wielding a fantasy.” Vangerdahast’s smile was a wry, twisted thing. “There is no Arcrown, any more. The Blackstaff, Khelben Arunsun, came to hold it, and some years ago offered it up to Divine Mystra. She Herself destroyed it, as he watched, as an affront to magecraft everywhere.”

  Alaphondar’s mouth dropped open. “But—but—all the rumors, your wizards scouring the realm …”

  Vangerdahast studied his fingernails. “Falsehoods. Uttered by me, to shake the Wizards of War out of the complacency they are all too wont to sink into, and make them—to say nothing of the general populace—alert for treachery and unusual doings from end to end of the realm. I’ll let them search for some time yet.”

  Filfaeril was smiling, but her husband seemed less than amused.

  “Folk have died over this, Vangey! Confidence in the safety of the realm and the competence of the Dragon Throne has been assailed. And won’t Holy Mystra have something pointed to say to you?”

  “Words and deeds that enhance the real or apparent power of magic, and the regard all have for it, are encouraged by the Lady of Mysteries,” Vangerdahast replied smoothly. “Their accuracy is beside the point. As for matters strictly Cormyrean, dangers to the realm are increasing. Wherefore I have made its citizens more wary and so stronger in their readiness to deal with any foe.” And with those words, he bowed, turned, and departed, striding out of the Soaring Dragon Room in a swirling of robes.

  “I noticed,” Filfaeril observed, “our good Royal Magician failed to precisely answer your question, but rather offered Mystran doctrine.”

  “I noticed that too,”
Azoun agreed. “How many other direct questions does he evade these days, I wonder?”

  The Swords of Eveningstar looked around—and blinked.

  They stood in the midst of a noisy, crowded city, assailed by many stinks, with a mountain rising like a great wall ahead—and a scarcely less impressive fortress right in front of them, the cobbles under their boots less than a stride away from the stone steps that ascended to its closed front doors.

  The curving stone wall of the tower looming above the Swords overhung the landing at the top of the steps, forming a porch of sorts—wherein a young woman in robes was rising from a chair and frowning down at them. She wore leather bracers, from each of which wands projected past her palms, held ready to be grasped in an instant.

  “You stand before Blackstaff Tower,” she announced formally, then added curiously, “I don’t recall seeing any of you before. Were you apprentices of the master?”

  “Yes,” Jhessail lied boldly. “Please take us to him.”

  The young woman looked them over slowly, a slight frown on her face, and nodded. “Ascend and enter—but be aware that whoever’s scrying you will see nothing once you pass these doors. If you desire to communicate anything to them, do so now.”

  “Scrying? We’re being watched?” Semoor snapped.

  As the woman started to nod, Jhessail spread her hands with a flourish. “ ’Tis worse than I’d thought,” she whispered melodramatically. “Hurry!”

  The Swords hastened up the steps. As the doorguard-apprentice stepped smoothly back out of reach, wands ready in both hands, the doors opened by themselves.

  Boldly, Jhessail and Pennae together stepped into waiting darkness.

  Chapter 27

  TITLES, RICHES, AND HIGH REGARD

  For what have you gained, if you win fame, titles, riches, and high regard—and lose yourself?

  Elminster of Shadowdale

  Runes On A Rock

  published in the Year of the Morningstar

  Horaundoon of the Zhentarim cursed.

  As the Swords entered Blackstaff Tower, his scrying was blocked. Its dark doors seemingly shut out everything.

  He plucked a wand from a drawer, leaned over the scrying orb, and whispered the spell that would steal power from it—and fed the surge of magic to his scrying.

  Blackstaff Tower remained a dark and solid wall to his scrutiny—but the doorguard’s eyes narrowed.

  Frowning, she sketched a circle in the air with her forefinger, raising one of her wands into it.

  Hurriedly Horaundoon passed a hand over his orb, and departed the chamber that held it.

  The explosion at his heels flung him across a passage, made the very floors and ceilings sway and shudder, and left him coughing in dust and clutching his head, his ears ringing from its roar.

  He regained his feet and strode along the hall, hissing curses.

  Only to stop, stunned anew. Reeling, he fell to his knees, clawing at his head this time and making the hargaunt chime in furious discordance.

  It felt as if someone had just reached a fist into his head and torn something out. The mindworm link was simply—gone.

  The Swords blinked again. They could see nothing inside Blackstaff Tower but impenetrable darkness, with a faintly glowing flagstone path running away into it.

  Running a longer way, it seemed, than it should have been able to stretch, given the size of the tower … or at least, the size the tower had seemed on the outside.

  Pennae held up her glowstone. Its faint radiance was strong enough to show her itself—just—but shone nothing on the gloom all around them.

  They stood tense, a darker menace settling on the backs of their necks: a strong, constant feeling of being watched.

  “Naed,” Pennae whispered. “Jhess, lead on.”

  “Me?”

  “ ’Twas your idea, lass, this marching right into the tower of the Blackstaff himself.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll lead,” Florin said, stepping around them. “Keep your feet on the path, and don’t reach out into the dark.”

  They watched him walk away from them. After only a few strides, he vanished, becoming part of the great darkness. All they could see of him were moving occlusions of the flagstones.

  “Come,” Islif ordered the others, setting off after Florin. “Holy men, don’t go casting any spells.”

  They all walked the path, and soon enough came to Florin, standing on a small cluster of glowing flagstones. In front of him, the path ended, and steps climbed on, each one floating alone in an apparent void.

  Frowning, Pennae climbed the lowest step and cautiously reached out to either side—only to draw back her hands. “Cold, hard stone,” she murmured, “but I can’t see it.” She ran her hand over the hard nothingness to her right, seeing how far it extended—and then jerked her hand back with a hiss. Something small and unseen had bitten her, warningly.

  “What is it?” Florin asked.

  Pennae shook her head. “Just climb,” she said, “and keep your hands in close.”

  They climbed.

  The stair ended in darkness: a level, smooth stair stretching away they knew not how far. Cautiously Pennae advanced, tapping with her toes to make sure solid stone awaited her next step. “Keep still,” she snapped over her shoulder. “Don’t go wandering.”

  She took another two cautious steps—and suddenly, silently, without any fuss at all, vivid brightness sprang into being around her knees.

  She was standing knee-deep in emerald green, dun brown, dark blue, and white-flecked gray: a glowing, incredibly lifelike map of Faerûn floating in the room all around her. It seemed as if she were a striding colossus, standing at the heart of … the High Forest, with Waterdeep just here and Cormyr over there, Suzail a tiny glittering on its coast, and Arabel …

  “Gods above us,” Florin murmured in wonder. All of the Swords were gawking at the splendor around them, walking with slow caution yet disturbing nothing with their movements.

  “So, you are—?”

  The voice was old, dry, calm, and male. It seemed to come from all around them.

  They looked about uncertainly, still seeing only darkness where there should be walls and ceiling.

  Florin cleared his throat. “I am Florin Falconhand, unseen sir, an—”

  “I know who you are, all of you. I should have spoken more precisely; what have you become, you six? A destructive whirlwind that at least knows what it destroys, as it blunders across Faerûn? Or—wonder of wonders—a wind of destruction that begins to care about what it shatters?”

  The Swords of Eveningstar looked at each other.

  The voice spoke again. “Perhaps that’s too much to hope, yet. Well, then: let me at least aim you, if you’re the sort of weapon biddable to being aimed. How would you like to be wealthy lordlets and ladies of a beautiful backwoods dale, with a castle to call your own?”

  Pennae drew in a deep breath. Here’s where we get slain. “What’s the catch?”

  There was a chuckle, and the map faded around them—light stealing into the room to replace it, showing them no walls nor ceiling, but a faint, featureless glow.

  Standing in it was a stout, burly shouldered man, muscled and vigorous, whose robes were as black as the staff in his hand. His bristling brows and unruly hair were black, his close-cropped beard was black but with a white tuft down its center, and the face above his raven-dark mustache was craggy and stern.

  “Blackstaff am I,” he said. “Welcome to Blackstaff Tower, Swords of Eveningstar. I’ve heard good things of you.”

  “Really?” Islif asked, startled into speech. “Who the Nine Hells from?”

  Khelben laughed—a dry, rusty sound, as if mirth seldom burst from this particular wizard. “Surprising sources,” was all he said, when his laughter ended.

  Florin eyed him, waiting for him to say more.

  Khelben merely met the forester’s gaze and smiled.

  Silence fell and stretched.

&
nbsp; And stretched.

  Finally Semoor sighed and said, “So tell us more of this lordlets and ladies offer … and as Pennae asked, the downside to it. We know full well: there always is one.”

  Khelben nodded—and there was suddenly a pendant floating in the air in front of Florin’s nose.

  An oddly twisted thing, hanging from a chain that floated in the air as if around a phantom neck.

  “Behold the Pendant of Ashaba.”

  The Swords gazed at it in silence.

  “The lordship of Shadowdale,” the Blackstaff added. “Yours, if you’ll take it. Meaningless, if you go not to Shadowdale, to the Twisted Tower of Ashaba that stands empty, and assert it. One of you can be Lord of Shadowdale—before the gods, one of the prettiest places I’ve ever laid eyes on, verdant farms walled in by a great greenwood, on the main trade road between the Moonsea and Cormyr. Your fortunes are made, if you but take it.”

  His words ended, and silence returned.

  “I mean no disrespect, great Blackstaff, but I’m still waiting to hear the catch,” Pennae said.

  Khelben arched an imperious eyebrow. “Life,” he replied, “is the catch. Life unfolding has a way of tangling and tripping up the best schemes … the brightest dreams. The gods play with us all—and I am no god, to have any skill at such games. So expect many catches, but be the bold adventurers you’ve been thus far, and they will fall before you.”

  The pendant glittered.

  “Yon bauble,” the Blackstaff added, “bears only magics that preserve it from time. It does no ill to him who touches it. Florin, will you take it?”

  Florin shook his head. “I am a ranger. I want to walk the forests and be free, not sit on a stone throne. I need to feel the wind, see dawns and dusks standing under an open sky. I’d be happy enough to ride hither and yon, bearing Shadowdale’s banner. Yet, Lord Wizard, my fellow Swords are all worthy folk. All of them would probably make good Lords of Shadowdale.”