by Ed Greenwood
“—Prefer grim sinister silence, when you’re not on your knees in front of dragons made of dancing bones. Each to his own style, Thoadrin. Mine amuses many folk, makes most of them underestimate me, and affords me some passing entertainment. ’Tis good heralding, too. As far away as Sembia, folk have heard of Marlel, the Dark Blade of Doom!”
Thoadrin winced. “Aye, so they have, as a mincing dandy or a crazed-wits, I fear. Doubting such gabble could properly apply to a man of your profession who flourished for more than five seasons before this, I preferred to trust Scornubrian sources—persons I’ve dealt with in confidence and to mutual benefit for years.”
“And they told you?”
“That you were the best, bar none. One or two of the ladies went so far as to underscore that their testimonial applied in several ways.”
Marlel gave the Cult warrior his crooked smile again and said, “But of course.”
Thoadrin cleared his throat. “You’ve probably guessed why I’m here.”
Marlel shrugged. “I try never to guess. I’m here because the Cult of the Dragon pays me a retainer of far too many gems each month for me to ignore a summons from anyone claiming to be a member of the Cult. Moreover, my keep-confidence Scornubrian sources tell me you’re highly placed in the ranks of the practical side of the Cult—the men who invest coins and watch and deal with the passing world, rather than the raving spellhurlers and those who writhe about in dragonbones, lost in raptures. So here I am, confident that you’ve a task of importance for me.”
The Dark Blade of Doom glanced around the tiny turret room and out its lone door past the crossed glaives of the impassive guards standing to each side of that entry, past the second pair of glaives held by the matching pair of guards on the other side of the door—and into the hard stare of the guard with the loaded crossbow, who stood beyond the glaive-bearers, facing into the room. “Unless all this tavern-tale stuff, to borrow a phrase,” he added lightly, “is your habitual style when meeting slayers-for-hire, Thoadrin.”
The Cult warrior sighed, raised his large and ornate goblet to his lips, and said, “Say that it isn’t, so that you have made a judgment—a guess, if you will. Say further that you’re in a strange mood and desire to try to guess, for once, at what task I’ve come so far to hire you for. What would your guess be?”
Marlel regarded Thoadrin impassively for a very short moment of silence ere he said firmly, “Spellfire.”
The Cult warrior nodded but said nothing.
The Dark Blade of Doom smiled thinly, then leaned back in his chair, brought languid booted legs up onto the tabletop, crossed them, and said softly, “The lass who has it is coming this way. You want me to capture her for you sometime while she’s passing within reach. You’re going to offer me a staggering amount in gems for delivering this Shandril Shessair into your hands—bound and senseless or spell-thralled.”
Thoadrin lifted his eyebrows. “For someone who tries never to guess, you do it very well.”
Marlel shrugged. “I do everything very well.”
Thoadrin of the Cult made a face, but it might have been the wine. He set his goblet back down and asked, “Do you accept this task?”
“Of course. However, feel free to awe me with your offer of payment.”
Thoadrin lifted his fingers in a signal to the guard with the crossbow, who relayed it to someone unseen without taking his eyes off the two men at the table for a moment.
Overhead, there was a sudden rattling sound—that became a clacking of wooden things in motion.
“Try,” Thoadrin told the slayer-for-hire, “to avoid any tavern-tale remarks for the next few breaths, hey?”
The Dark Blade of Doom waved a hand in agreement. “You’re paying,” he said simply—as the winch let go in earnest and the bundle from the next floor came down at their heads like hail being hurled in a storm.
It bounced in its net of ropes, just above the tabletop—Thoadrin hastily rescued his goblet—and came to a stop in the air between their eyes: a coffer of ornate, chased electrum, a trio of keys projecting from its row of tiny locks.
Thoadrin waved at it, but Marlel shook his head and gestured to the Cult warrior to fetch it out of the ropes himself. “I never meddle with another man’s traps,” he explained.
The Cult warrior frowned and lifted the coffer out onto the table. With a flourish he threw back the lid and turned the coffer until the slayer could see the gleaming heap of cold crimson fire within.
“Calishite rubies of the finest cut and clarity,” he explained, for all the world as if he was a jeweler hawking stones from a market stall. “A thousand of them in this coffer.”
“ ’Tis but half, yes? The balance to come when the task is done?”
Thoadrin smiled a little weakly. “Of course. As is standard in … matters like this.”
Marlel smiled his crooked smile. “You can omit the other standard feature of such payments: the attempt to slay the man collecting them. I’m sure you had no such intention, but just as fair warning: don’t. Ever. For I am the Dark Blade of Doom.”
Thoadrin of the Cult inclined his head and said simply, “No such treachery is contemplated, or will be.”
“And the other practice I regard as treachery?” Marlel asked. “Hiring someone else to attempt the same task while I’m under hire? Or to cut me down after I make capture but before I can bring the captive to you?”
The Cult warrior scowled. “I’m not accustomed to enacting such fool-headed business practices. They might work for someone who knows he’ll be dead on the morrow—but not for me. I intend to be spinning coins for the Followers thirty years from now.”
“Understood.” Marlel slid a folded armorweave sack out of one leg-pouch, and tipped the coffer until its shining flood of rubies began to flow into the sack. “I hope you’ll not take offense if I leave you your valuable coffer and take the rubies away in this.”
“None taken,” Thoadrin replied, raising his goblet again in smoothly steady hands. “I do have one professional question, though.”
Marlel raised his eyebrows in silent query.
“How do you plan to … get the deed done?”
The Cult warrior sounded genuinely curious. The Dark Blade of Doom smiled his crooked smile and answered, “With, among other things, this.”
He held out one lazy, long-fingered hand. In it gleamed something small, curved, and silver: a Harper badge.
There was a moment of chill blue mists, with nothing beneath their boots and the sensation of softly, endlessly falling … then the light changed around them, and small stones scraped solidly under their boots amid scrub grass. They were standing in unfamiliar wilderlands, gazing out from a hilltop across rolling hills beyond number, those ahead and to the right crowned by ragged forests.
“You’re looking north,” Tessaril murmured from beside Shandril’s shoulder. “If you go north, on that road down there—” she pointed off to the left with her drawn sword at a distant ribbon of ruts, whereon a line of wagons could be seen crawling, like so many fat white ants “—the ferry to Scornubel is less than half a day from here.” She turned and pointed in another direction with her blade. “If you go down from these heights that way, following the brook, you won’t be seen from afar. Stay on this side of the water, and it’ll take you right down to the ditch beside the road.”
The two fat priestesses of Chauntea who stood with the Lord of Eveningstar exchanged glances, then looked back at Tessaril and nodded in unison.
“Take the ferry,” one of them murmured, “and find The Stormy Tankard on Hethbridle Street. Ask there for Orthil Voldovan and join his caravan to Waterdeep. In Waterdeep, go to Altarea’s Needles, a waterproofing and seamstress shop in Dock Ward, and ask for ‘the old Lady who does the pearls.’ ”
Tessaril nodded. “Right, Thaerla.”
“Uh, ’tis me, Narm, an—”
“Thaerla. Until your disguise is gone, ‘Thaerla.’ You don’t answer to Narm, and if someone calls
‘Narm’ in the street, you don’t answer or turn to look. Got that?”
“Y-yes, of course, Lady.”
“Good. Now, there’s one other thin—oh, Narm!”
“Yes?”
“Thaerla, you idiot wizard. You’re a priestess from Eveningstar called Thaerla, and you’ve never heard the name ‘Narm’ before.” Tessaril turned. “Olarla?”
“That would be me,” Shandril said in amused tones. “Is it you, Lady Lord of Eveningstar? Here to see the Sword Coast lands, after all these years? Right here on …” she turned to survey the tall, dark standing stones all around them on the grassy hilltop and dropped her mocking tone to ask curiously, “What is this place, anyway?”
“Tsarn Tombs,” Tessaril told her, “or Sarn Tombs, to some. An old burial place that serves as a landmark and sometimes a lookout when caravans come through with outriders to spare for the scramble up here.”
“What trouble would they be looking out for?”
“Orcs, brigands, and the occasional disguised spellfire-hurler,” Tessaril replied with a teasing grin. “Now, stop worrying yourself and get going. I haven’t got all day, you know.”
“Yes, Vangerdahast said the king was on his way. You’ll be needing your sleep,” Narm said sarcastically.
Tessaril gave him a look. “That was unworthy of a priestess of Chauntea—and overly daring for a young mage of no particular allegiance, too. Azoun is … Azoun. I love Filfaeril, and she loves me, no less because of what the king and I share. ’Tis not as if I’m the only one.”
“Is he as good as they say?” Narm asked teasingly.
“Thaerla, enough,” Tessaril growled, and then gave him a sudden, girlish grin and whispered, “Yes. Oh, yes, and better!”
Shandril was still gaping in astonishment at the Lady Lord of Eveningstar when Tessaril turned smoothly, swept the maid of Highmoon into her arms, hugged her fiercely, and said, “Go on to happiness, Shan, and the peace you seek. My thoughts walk with you.”
“Lady Tess,” Narm asked a little hesitantly as Shandril and Tessaril rocked gently in each other’s arms, “are these hills … dangerous?”
“Most of the time, no, but ’tis best to always beware brigands. You do have packs on your backs, and although folk of Chauntea rarely carry anything more interesting than a trowel and some seeds, brigands always want to look—just to be sure. We made you ugly enough that looking will suit them better than, ah, rummaging.”
“Thanks,” Narm said feelingly, as Tessaril embraced him. She was slim and curvaceous in her leathers and surprisingly strong. She gave him a fierce kiss and growled, “Yours is the harder road—mind you stick to it, right by your lady’s side!”
The Lady Lord of Eveningstar whirled out of the young mage’s arms and away to stand looking back at Narm and Shandril with the tip of her lifted sword glowing blue and the empty air before her growing a line of matching blue radiance.
“Fare you both well,” she said, and before they could reply added briskly, “I go,” and stepped forward. Her sword seemed to cut a gap in the air before her, a gash that leaked blue flame. She stepped through it and was gone, blue fire and mists vanishing in her wake.
Narm and Shandril looked at each other.
“Well,” the kitchenmaid from Highmoon said brightly, after a moment of silence, “It’s just the two of us, again. Well met, Thaerla of Chauntea.”
“Fair day and fair harvest, Olarla of Chauntea,” Narm replied.
Shandril winced and shook her head. “You sound like Narm,” she told him. “Like a male. Try to squeak a little more … or growl and be surly.”
After two attempts at squeaking that left Shandril doubled up in helpless laughter, Narm practiced growling and being surly as they peered around the hilltop.
Old, shattered tombs stood on all sides, overgrown by tall grasses. Here and there the grass had been trampled by feet that had been here before them, but there were no gnawed bones or stink of death—and thankfully, no yawning graves or cracks opening into fell darkness. However, someone had painted “Beware: The Dead Walk” on one tall, leaning marker-stone. Thaerla and Olarla of Chauntea looked at that recent message, exchanged glances, and with one silent accord strode together down off the hilltop, following the brook Tessaril had suggested.
Shandril looked sidelong at Narm as they went, trying to see her husband in the fat, trudging priestess—his quick grin, the glossy wave of his shoulder-length dark brown hair, his slender good looks. No, there was none of that in these jowls and thick lips and amiable cheeks. She was looking at a kindly, fat, and already wheezing woman, stumbling along as—she looked down—she must be, herself. Well, they were two, and no doubt those who could see the glows of spells would know they were disguised—but they did not look like a graceful little imp of a scullery lass with a long, unruly mane of curling blonde hair, and her slim young mage of a mate.
“So Arauntar and Beldimarr in Orthil’s guard are Harpers,” Narm muttered, “and will be watching for us. What about this Orthil himself? Did Tess say—?”
“She called him a good man,” Shandril said thoughtfully. “She did not say he was a Harper or knew anything about us—or that he could be trusted with … our secret.”
She glanced around and back behind them, knowing that Narm had already done so but wanting to be sure for herself. The little valley opened up before them, and it might have snakes or even something as large as a fox skulking in its grasses … but of orcs or brigands or stalking dead tomb-things there was no sign.
The maid of Highmoon gazed at the hills ahead and the glorious deep blue sky above, flecked with just a few lazily drifting wisps of white cloud, and sighed.
“Tired of all this running?” Narm asked quietly.
“Yes,” Shandril told him quietly. “Very tired of it.” She looked north again, as far as she could see, to where distant mountain peaks rose—a few to seaward, just north of Waterdeep, but most over to the north and east, in the northern backlands. “You’d think, in all the wide Realms,” she said wistfully, “there’d be a place for Narm and Shandril to dwell in happiness, free of the hundreds of evil, greedy folk who want the spellfire wench dead.”
Narm nodded grimly and said nothing, but his hand went out to hers and squeezed it comfortingly. Shandril sighed again.
“Zhentarim, a few Red Wizards of Thay, Dragon Cultists, the odd ambitious wizard, these shapeshifters, too—is there no end to folk who want to snatch my spellfire, and me with it?” she asked bitterly.
“We could stay priestesses of Chauntea for the rest of our days,” Narm said quietly. “I’d do that without a moment’s regret, if you’d be happy. We could find a farm somewhere.…”
“Yes, and die there the moment our disguises slipped or someone took a good look at us,” Shandril said wearily. “No, I want to get to Silverymoon, hear whatever wise counsel High Lady Alustriel sees fit to impart to us … and join the Harpers. Join because I’ve earned it, and they want me, and my—powers—can be of use to them. I can’t hide from myself any better than I can hide from all the spellfire hunters.”
She kicked at a stone, which rolled over obligingly to reveal nothing of interest, and added, “I’m in a cage, and my death—or the deaths of all who seek spellfire—are the only doors out.”
Narm sighed. “Shan, don’t talk like that,” he pleaded. “I’ll be here for you, I’ll fix things somehow.…”
Shandril’s eyes were swimming as she looked back at him and shook her head, ever so slightly. “Don’t think I don’t love you or want you with me, Narm. You’re all I have to cling to—but you’re not Elminster or the Simbul or dread Larloch, and you never will be. It might take all of them together to smash down every last seeker-after-spellfire, even if such folk could be known on sight and obligingly thrust forward to be seen and struck down. And what if Elminster or the Simbul or Larloch suddenly decides that they want spellfire?”
She drew in a deep breath and added in a small voice, “I’m not going to li
ve very long, Narm, so if I want something, please give it to me or get for me. It may be the only chance I’ll have to enjoy it, ever.”
“Shan,” Narm said roughly, taking her by the shoulders and swinging her around to face him, “please! Don’t talk like that! Doom doesn’t stand so close!”
“Oh?” Shandril asked him, in a voice that trembled on the edge of tears. “How so? Can you answer me this: Is there anywhere in all Faerûn for someone who wields spellfire to hide?”
2
A LITTLE TROUBLE LATELY
If I had to list the dangers that have done the worst to humans of Faerûn down the years—beyond their own pride, greed, and folly—I’d look first to the weather and the floods and famine it’s caused, second to the hunger of hunting dragons and the swift breeding of bloodthirsty orcs and goblins, and third to wizards. Or perhaps first to wizards. These days, certainly first to wizards. Pillage a dozen Realms with a spell, anyone?
Arathur ‘Wise Eyes’
Sage of Athkatla
What One Man Has Seen
Year of the Lion
Years ago they’d discovered that this one small stretch of passage was safe. It ran between the archway whose pillars were carved into the likenesses of many writhing gargoyles and the little hall where four passages met, where it was rumored a hidden portal opened betimes to admit something large, dark, many-clawed and lurking that liked to hunt mages.
Safe, that is, from sending echoes—even of whispered converse—elsewhere.
It was always chill and dark, and as cold as stone everywhere that never sees sunlight, but those wizards who knew about it often tarried here to murmur words back and forth, like guilty young wastrelblades discussing secrets whose careless revelation would mean swift and harsh punishment. Their conversations were usually low-voiced, cryptic, and short—for even Zhentarim wizards have no love for slow deaths in torment.
Two wizards were standing in the safe stretch now, facing each other with their backs to the rough stone walls, where each could look down one direction of dark passage and see the slightest intrusion or approach when it was yet far away.