Spellstorm

by Ed Greenwood

  “Not quite so fast, arcanist.”

  Eluraunt Malabrak flung up a hand to redouble his personal ward even before he spun around.

  And then froze, puzzled. A lone woman, as gaunt as a staff, barefoot and empty-handed in a nightrobe?

  “Put that down,” she commanded calmly. “It was a gift from Telamont Tanthul—and now it is all I have to remember him by.”

  “The Most H—who are you?”

  Genuinely astonished, Malabrak surreptitiously activated the rings he wore as he set down the half-melted bracer. He’d come to this decaying mage’s tower to seize or steal magic on the orders of the Three, but obeyed them only because to do otherwise would be to walk alone, renouncing all memory of great Thultanthar. He considered himself their equal, if not more, in power; few wizards in Faerûn could hope to stand against him for long.

  “Tabra is my name, and this is my home.”

  The name meant nothing to Malabrak, so he shrugged.

  “I do not recall inviting you here,” she added, lurching a step closer. Into the full light.

  The arcanist felt his mouth tighten in disgust. She’d been disfigured by torture, her body a mass of protruding scars, so deformed that her right eye rose above the other, her head twisted out of shape. One breast was higher, and her hips tilted at the opposite angle so that her lower breast sat just above. She was almost impossibly gaunt, as thin as a maltreated slave. Yet her face, despite its twisted shape, was beautiful. Beautiful and arresting in its sadness. Grief rode her.

  “You didn’t,” Malabrak told her scornfully, “but I don’t think I need your invitation.” He looked her up and down, lip curling. “I doubt you receive many.”

  The disfigured woman smiled bitterly—and Malabrak felt and heard the faint, high-pitched tinkling sigh of his wards falling away.

  He gasped, and let fly with all the blasting might of his readied rings, holding nothing back. Anyone who could do that to his war—

  His own magics rebounded off something unseen and came roaring right back at him, so swiftly that he hadn’t time to dodge or do anything before he was snatched off his feet and flung the length of the room, back a long way to where a distant back wall was waiting for him.

  He struck it with a thunderous crash that broke bones and drove all the wind out of him. As he writhed, stunned, the woman walked slowly toward him, lurching at every step, her face impassive.

  Malabrak fought to work the swift and simple spell that would whisk him away from this place, returning him to—

  He managed it, but all that happened was that his limbs quivered, the room seemed to dance sideways for a moment, and … he was still against the wall, the real pain beginning now, pinned in place.

  “W-who are you?” he managed to gasp, tasting blood. By his last word, it was dripping from his chin.

  The woman came to a stop in front of him. “I,” she replied, “am the last apprentice of Ioulaum. You Thultanthans captured me and tortured me, because your Most High desired to learn Ioulaum’s longevity. I was confined and enslaved, as he invaded—ravaged—my mind time and time again. He learned much, but saw glimpses of what I yet kept from him. So he forced me into stasis when he got too busy, rather than slaying me. I was freed by his death, left with the aches I’d become used to—and one new one.”

  Malabrak shook his head, not wanting to ask what it was, as she lurched still closer.

  “Now,” she told him softly, through that lopsided jaw, “I ache to destroy all arcanists of Thultanthar.”

  “N-no!” Malabrak gasped out, truly frightened for the first time since the day Thultanthar had come crashing down. He’d been on his way back to the city then, to report, and if he’d been just a trifle faster …

  He shivered.

  “You interrupted my snack,” Tabra added, “but I see you have two eyeballs, ripe for the plucking …”

  “No!” Malabrak screamed, spraying blood.

  That earned him a lopsided smile. “Oh, I can be merciful, arcanist,” she told him, as gently as if she’d been telling him when the next washing day was. “Particularly if you tell me where I can find other arcanists.”

  “You’re jesting,” he protested weakly. She leaned forward to stare into his eyes, and Malabrak winced and said hastily, “You’re not jesting.”

  “No,” Tabra almost whispered, “my jesting days are done. Now, where else might I find arcanists? Or are they lined up downstairs, waiting for you to pillage whatever you can carry so it’ll be their turn?”

  “N-no,” he managed to say. “I … I know that four arcanists, young and ambitious, were sent to a noble’s mansion in the countryside in eastern Cormyr. Oldspires, it’s called. They’ll be … magically disguised … of course.”

  “Of course,” the disfigured woman murmured, as her long and many-times broken fingers closed around Malabrak’s throat.

  “Aren’t you—aren’t you worried about my contingencies?” he gasped desperately.

  “No,” she said bleakly. “I will welcome death. Though I’d much prefer to see every last arcanist of Thultanthar dead first. By my hands.”

  Her fingers were tightening. Malabrak struggled to breathe, to will every last magic he wore or bore to erupt into life to force her off.

  Some of them obeyed, bursting into crackling life.

  Tabra smiled. “Ah, the pain! I’ve come to enjoy it, you know. That’s why I almost miss Telamont Tanthul. I never got the chance to share my agony with him.”

  Malabrak strained for air, but knew by the way she shifted her cruel grip that she was going to break his neck before …

  The last words he ever heard were Tabra’s calm murmur: “Oldspires. I shall go there and hunt them down, no matter what shape they take.”

  KurrrakKKh.

  MIRT HAD CHOSEN a less than savory corner of Suzail for wetting his gullet, but the dark and narrow alleyway was cleaner and safer than most other cities Elminster knew well. It was also, save for the occasional rat, empty.

  Wherefore Elminster was alone when the voice that suddenly spoke softly and deeply in his mind made him stiffen in midstep, falter, and then sink down amid the refuse as if drunk.

  Well met, trusted prince of Athalantar. That vibrant, rolling, and melodious thunder in the depths of his mind sounded almost … amused.

  Well met, Mystra. El was genuinely glad at the mind touch of his goddess, though it almost certainly meant more work. Every meeting with her excited him, buoyed his spirits, and suffused him with energy. What cheer?

  As impish as ever, Old Mage. A warm flood of pleasure this time. As you anticipate, I have a task for you.

  I shall be honored.

  Flirt. At the gathering at Oldspires, you must deal with my wayward Chosen.

  Oh? Which one will be there? Or do you mean me?

  Flirt, and jester now, too. I speak of Manshoon. You must either destroy him, or wrest from him something this particular clone of Manshoon carries within himself: An enchanted spindle that holds a spark of the fire of the goddess Mystryl. It is this divine essence that has allowed Manshoon to wield the Art far above his real mastery for centuries.

  It’s inside his body?

  Yes. And as I do not want to risk any more Chosen, you shall be the only one of my foremost servants at Oldspires—aside from Manshoon, of course.

  A spindle.

  A spindle. The image of what he was to look for—a long diamondlike shape that had been pulled by a blacksmith’s pincers at both ends, and drawn out long and slender—appeared in Elminster’s mind, so clear and firm and surrounded by Mystra’s blue-edged silver radiance that he knew she was emblazoning it among his memories forever. Cut it out of him if you must.

  With pleasure, El thought, and meant it. He and I have been dancing around each other for far too long.

  I would have wished matters otherwise, Mystra said sadly, then became brisk again. I have covertly allowed the wizards at Oldspires and headed there to learn some things that will lure them m
ore strongly. Rumors of items in Lord Halaunt’s possession they personally covet, and the gates Oldspires houses and hides. Some of the attending mages know that dragons they are in league with, who dwell in the worlds beyond the gates, can be brought to Toril if the correct rituals are performed. More than this, I shall not do.

  “No?” Elminster asked aloud, meaning it sarcastically. A young skulker who’d started warily down the alley toward him, dagger drawn, hesitated, and then ducked low and froze.

  “Other than showing you how to shield the mind of Lord Halaunt to prevent any of the guests speaking through him, I won’t be protecting anyone, or causing anything to happen aside from controlling the barrier,” Mystra told Elminster, both in his mind and in a voice that thrilled the skulker into slack-jawed, trembling rapture, on his knees and staring around in wonder. “It’s all up to you, old friend.”

  “Of course,” Elminster told the dark air with a shrug and a wry smile. “Isn’t it always?”

  IT WAS A small room, even for this inn, but it was private, and its door fitted better than most, so no one standing just outside should see any betraying flashes of light.

  Creeeek.

  Oh, yes, and it had that creaking floorboard outside the door, so you could tell when someone was standing right outside.

  “Lady Nightcloak, are you decent?”

  “Never,” Alastra Hathwinter called back through the door, amused, as she passed her hand through the air to banish the scene from afar she’d conjured up and had been watching. Obligingly it fell into nothingness in a flashing instant. “But you can come in.”

  It had been almost a century since she’d left the Night Cloak festhall in Longsaddle, but the nickname clung to her like a tail to a cat. Proud, sleek felines lazed and prowled everywhere in this inn. The maid bustled in.

  “It’s potato and leek soup capped by roast venison tonight, and then sugared tarts, Lady—unless you prefer the fish?”

  “The venison will be fine, thanks. A little mulled wine?”

  “Here in my hand, Lady,” the maid said happily. “Thought I’d remembered rightly.”

  “Thank you, Shaloale,” Alastra replied, accepting the jug and the jack. The maid’s surprised smile was dazzling.

  “Fancy you remembering my name!”

  “I always remember those who are kind to me,” Alastra replied, nodding as the maid bustled out to fetch the soup. “And otherwise,” she murmured to the closing door.

  She liked this inn. The Falcon’s Fair Roost. Good name for a roadside inn in the wilderlands halfway to anywhere. Old but clean and well kept. A rather plump brindle cat had crept into the room and was purring at her from her pillow.

  “So,” she asked it gently, “who are you, really?”

  The cat blurred just long enough to show her shining eyes she knew; Delgorn, a local Harper agent she’d met with a time or six.

  “Stay the night?” Alastra asked, patting the bed.

  The cat purred louder, then abruptly went silent and vanished down under the bed. Alastra turned in time to accept the soup from the maid and receive the rather breathless news that the venison would be “up in a trice.”

  “Bring me twice the usual,” she said swiftly. “I find myself very hungry.”

  The moment the door had swung closed again, a voice from under the bed informed her, “So am I.”

  Alastra chuckled. “What you see in a lady well over a century old is beyond me, lad.”

  “I see a veteran Harper mage I am proud to work with, a mentor I am proud to serve, and someone of whom I remain in admiring awe. Not to mention a splendid woman who looks barely past thirty, and impishly good-natured. Former apprentice of both Elminster of Shadowdale and Khelben the Blackstaff, lover of Malchor Harpell—”

  “Delgorn,” Alastra interrupted, all levity gone from her voice, “just where did you hear that?”

  “You talk in your sleep,” came the reply. “I’m sorry, Lady Alastra, I had no idea Malchor was a secret.”

  “Secret no longer, obviously. So you know where I’m heading.”

  “Oldspires, where all the other mad wizards have gone, to see that no harm comes to Malchor Harpell.”

  “That is not for passing on,” Alastra said severely, “to anyone.”

  “Lady, I obey.”

  Alastra sighed. “Try to keep the mockery out of your voice when you say that, lad.”

  It was true. She had long secretly loved Malchor Harpell—the kindest adventuring wizard she’d ever met—and by the sounds of who was gathering at Oldspires, even he might need help.

  Moreover, the Harpers should know all about who got the Lost Spell and what they tried to use it for—and who better at the Art among the Harpers was handy?

  None but Alastra. “It’s all up to you,” she murmured to herself.

  “Pardon? Ah, you don’t have to leave until morning, do you?” Delgorn asked in a plaintive whisper, his fingertips tracing a velvet-soft path up past her right knee.

  Her fault, for changing into a gown.

  “The venison’s coming,” she warned.

  Her warning went unheeded, until she clamped her knees together with viselike firmness.

  Young Harpers, these days.

  CHAPTER 5

  Very Bad, Very Soon

  THE ROOM AROUND THEM WAS HIGH-CEILINGED, GRANDLY ORNATE, and dark. Cobwebs in the lofty corners told them that Lord Halaunt didn’t employ maids or jacks with long-pole mops, or didn’t look up much … or just didn’t care.

  Well, he was past caring about anything now, but …

  The four of them stood facing each other in a conspiratorial little group in the unwelcoming entry hall of Oldspires, listening to the one of them who wasn’t really a lord pretend to be one.

  “You haven’t got the voice quite right,” Mirt commented. “Sharper, more waspish—and more phlegmy, too. Rough, as if he needed to clear his throat but didn’t bother.”

  “Is this waspish enough?” Lord Halaunt snapped. “I’m a princess, not an actress!”

  “All princesses are actresses,” Elminster told her. “Some of them are poorer than others, I’ll grant, but—”

  “El, don’t make this any harder for me,” Alusair told him. “This old man’s body is heavy, and all the joints are stiff, and hurt. He hasn’t taken very good care of it.”

  Myrmeen Lhal chuckled. “This is going to be a long tenday, I can tell.” She turned on her heel, surveying the gloomy, dark-paneled hall all around them. Cross-vaulted ceiling with gargoyle-head bosses, so thickly festooned with cobwebs that it looked like a forest of hanging gray curtains. Well, at least it was better than the servants’ quarters on the upper floor; Lord Halaunt obviously believed in his household enjoying fresh air, given all the gaps in the roof that had been there long enough to warp and rot floors, not to mention let large colonies of birds roost and soil plentifully … “And I had no idea that the customary garb of a second cook was not only this unflattering, but scratchy. I’m starting to itch all over.”

  “Well, scratch yourself,” Mirt suggested. “Unless you’d like me to oblige.” He thrust his face forward in a leer so broad and tongue-waggingly exaggerated that the other three standing in the hall all burst into mirthful laughter.

  “I doubt it’ll be the full tenday,” El put in, when he stopped chuckling. “The spellstorm’s been in existence for five days now. It only has five days left.”

  “Before every last hedge wizard in Faerûn can come storming in here to try their luck, you mean?” Myrmeen asked dryly. “I hope Lord Halaunt pays the local farmers well, because his larders might well be empty, a few days after that.”

  She knew whereof she spoke, for they’d finished touring Oldspires, ruined upper floor and all, and were now standing conferring in its dimly cavernous entry hall.

  Vangerdahast had obeyed Ganrahast and remained behind in Suzail to help Ganrahast and Vainrence handle nobles. So just four from Suzail had appeared in a deserted cellar of the mansion, throu
gh a temporary portal El had conjured. Very shortly thereafter, Lord Halaunt had rather gruffly and stiffly ordered his servants to hasten away from Oldspires for a paid holiday, seen them get ready for travel, put heavy bags of coins in their astonished hands, and packed them off to Suzail through the same humming and flickering temporary cellar portal. El had created it with Mystra’s aid, linking to one of the mansion’s many existing gates to bypass the spellstorm. She’d assured him that no such aid would be forthcoming to any of the guest wizards trying the same way of getting in, and El’s gate was now closed.

  The four had made the brief trip through it from Suzail with Alusair wrapped chillingly around El to keep from being torn at by the gate’s writhing magical energies. The cold she’d visited upon the Sage of Shadowdale had been more than bone chilling. Now, El could breathe again, but he was still rubbing his cold limbs and flexing numbed fingers after unwrapping them from around the battered copper chamberpot he’d insisted on bringing along, which he’d stuffed full of the new Sembian innovation that was now sweeping Cormyr and racing west along the trade roads: darvorr, or chamberpot wiping cloths. Which had met with Myrmeen’s firm approval.

  “Sorry, Old Mage,” the ghost princess apologized, her own voice coming incongruously out of Lord Halaunt’s lips.

  “Lass, lass, the day I can’t enjoy the embrace of a spirited woman …” El started to say, but at that moment Mirt and Myrmeen finished their separate surveys of the gloomy hall, turned back to face their companions from different directions, and announced in almost perfect unison, “This is not going to go well.”

  Elminster shrugged. “Ye’re quite likely right, yet it’s worth a try. Mystra wants us to try this, and if it succeeds, we can achieve much of lasting worth.”

  “You sound like a Waterdhavian noble trying to cozen investors,” Mirt growled. “So where’s the wine cellar?”

  El chuckled. “Not quite so fast, Old Wolf. Mystra has just sent me a … smell.”

  “A smell?”

  “That would seem the act of an odd sort of goddess, I’d say,” Myrmeen agreed.

  Elminster rolled his eyes. “It’s a wordless warning. A sharp smell in my mind. She knows I’ve secured the Lost Spell, and—”