Spellstorm

by Ed Greenwood

  To reveal—crowded darkness, a half-seen labyrinth of stacked crates. Myrmeen kept still, and they all peered and listened. To unbroken silence.

  A stillness that stretched and stretched, until Myrmeen shrugged, slipped around the door, and plunged into the dark room.

  Where they heard her disturb something metallic that clattered against other metal. She cursed, and sprang hastily back.

  As wood groaned, wavered, groaned more deeply—and came toppling over with a slow and mighty kerrashhh into other wood. That in turn groaned, toppled, crashed in its turn, and so on. Stack after stack of crates, one after another, until silence fell.

  “Mreen?” Mirt barked. “Mreen?”

  There was no reply, but a moment later the lanternlight caught a shapely behind swarming up over the angled tops of the fallen and wedged crates and disappearing from view, long legs kicking.

  And a moment after that, there came the ringing clang of metal glancing off metal, and a triumphant “Hah!” from Myrmeen, and another clang.

  Then someone came swarming back over the crates, breathing hard and in a hurry, and El shone the lantern full in that someone’s face at the same time as he gave Mirt a shove that sent the moneylender staggering sideways into a hard meeting with the passage wall.

  Two darts came hurtling end over end and passed just over and under the lantern—which El had let go of a moment before.

  He caught it just before it would have smashed into the passage floor, and aimed it again. In time to see the masked man—slender, short, and not moving like anyone familiar to him—hauling two more darts out of leg sheaths.

  And Myrmeen dropping down on him from atop the crates, cleaver held high.

  The masked man spun around, but her forearm came crashing down on one of his arms, dashing it to the floor, and she landed on his legs, hard.

  He shrieked in pain—a cry that ended abruptly when his chest and face crashed into the floor and drove all the wind he had to shriek with out of him.

  And then Myrmeen was atop him, and had his arms pinned and one arm around his throat, and was murmuring calmly, “One move—just one—and I’ll wring your neck.”

  Elminster got to him before Mirt could, laid a firm hand atop the man’s head, and said into his mind, Tell the truth, or I’ll gnaw your brains out from within while ye live, and force ye to stay awake and aware and feel every shrieking moment of it. ’Tis a slow death, and a very painful one. Trust me.

  “I—I do. Oh, I do!” the man stammered. “D-don’t hurt me. Please. I surrender! Mercy!”

  “Mercy?” Myrmeen asked softly, into his ear. “To a poisoner?”

  “I—it brings on sleep, nothing more! I swear!”

  “And where is this poison?” she inquired, tightening her hold around his neck. “All of it!”

  “On m-my darts!”

  “And how many darts do you have?”

  “Six. Did have. Threw …”

  “All but these last two. Lie still. Try to get up, and I’ll kill you. Just answer our questions.”

  El kept hold of the man’s head and slid into his thoughts as he panted out his fearful replies, so he knew they were being handed truth by …

  Drace Taulith, a burglar in these parts, who’d seen some of the war wizards, known what they were, and concluded their presence meant there must be something very valuable inside Oldspires right now.

  So he’d spied on them until he’d figured out how to slip through their lines by night, in the Halaunt woods. They were a lazy lot, these Crown mages, so there were two places where an agile man with a lashpole ladder and a strong cord could swing himself over their precious—and impressively enormous—almost invisible magical wall. The ‘ring of force,’ he’d heard them call it, when they were talking of what spells would need renewing and what would stand by itself for as long as they needed it, and knew that it enclosed a ‘spellstorm’ or fog surrounding Oldspires.

  So Drace Taulith had won his way over the ring-shaped barrier and into the fog and into Oldspires through its wood chute, after peering through the large windows of a darkened grand room and promptly fleeing from folk inside who seemed very interested in seeing who he was.

  And Drace genuinely knew nothing of any wizards inside the mansion, only ghosts, and had managed to speak to no one at all, and was now utterly terrified.

  Once he’d learned the burglar now had only an unpoisoned spare dagger in one boot and a garotte wrapped around his forearm under his leather jerkin, El let go of the man and went to murmur instructions to Mirt.

  AND SO IT came to pass that as they were leading him through the grand floor of Oldspires to “chain him up,” Mirt and Myrmeen stumbled into each other and fell in opposite directions, with startled curses—and Drace Taulith saw his gods-sent moment of opportunity and took it, turning and sprinting away through the open front doors of the mansion (the same doors that Mirt had wheezed and lurched ahead to fling open mere moments earlier) into the night.

  “Straight out into the spellstorm,” Myrmeen reported, firmly closing, locking, and bolting the doors again. “And off our present platter of troubles.”

  She waved Mirt’s none-too-clean tunic, which was currently serving as a carrysack for six sleep-poisoned darts, and added, “but I’ll be happier by far when we have these safely hidden away somewhere. They can too easily be used on us, for my comfort.”

  “On to the kitchens,” El ordered grimly. “And let us see how much of a ghost princess we have left, waiting for us.”

  To Mirt’s meaningful look, he added, “Whoever was trying to spellblast us into Sembia will just have to wait. They haven’t earned the right to be our most pressing emergency. Yet.”

  “Yet,” Mirt echoed. “And I suppose you’ll be wanting me to start the stew and stoke the fires.”

  “Of course,” El replied. “What else are Lords of Waterdeep good for?”

  “What, indeed?” Myrmeen asked archly, and they hurried off in the direction of the kitchens.

  Never noticing a lithe masked figure in dark leathers that watched them go, from the darkness of the Red Receiving Room, and smiled silently in the darkness.

  Off our present platter of troubles, indeed …

  CHAPTER 15

  The Army That Came Too Late

  LORD HALAUNT WAS SLUMPED IN HIS CORNER, SITTING UP AGAINST the countertops, head lolling to one side and arms limp. “Well met,” he mumbled, as they unhooded the lantern and thrust spills into it to relight the kitchen lamps—and Alusair put more dripping sarcasm into those two words than Elminster would have thought possible.

  “Luse,” he asked urgently, “how are ye?”

  “I’ve been better. Much better. But I’m recovered enough—and have my thanks for that—to float around unseen and spy, so long as I don’t have to display myself to frighten anyone, or do anything at all physical. No lifting lamps or latches, no conveying small items through the air … I presume you need me on patrol.”

  “If ye’re up to it, very much so. Watch over our four guests without so much as peeking into their rooms. Oh, and look for anyone starting fires, or any hint that a fire might have kindled, anywhere in Oldspires.”

  “Someone may try to burn the place down around our ears? That’ll get their Lost Spell for them, to be sure!”

  “Gaining the spell doesn’t seem to be everyone’s goal, lass. Far from it, in some cases.”

  “Right, I’ll go see the sights. Until someone lets fly with another spell like the last one. One of those, and all promises are whirled away on the wind—along with me, if Tymora smiles not.”

  Lord Halaunt stirred slightly, then seemed to slump a little farther as an unseen wisp of breeze rose from him to glide past Elminster’s cheek, and on out of the kitchens.

  “Tymora smile.” Myrmeen murmured good luck wishes to the passing ghost, as she reached to close and bar the kitchen doors.

  When she was done, Mirt wordlessly steered a tankard of something powerful into her hand, then
offered one to Elminster.

  Who took it, sipped it, made a face, and asked, “Where did ye find this? One of the cesspits?”

  The moneylender spread large and pudgy hands. “Hoy, now! I’m playing cook, remember? In a working kitchen, you use up the oldest stuff, and that’s what I’m doing!”

  El handed him back the tankard. “Go to it. I prefer to keep the throat I began my day with.”

  “Speaking of which,” Mirt grunted, taking a swig, “we are going to get a chance to sleep sometime soon, aren’t we? We mere mortals here—”

  “Bleed and dwindle and decay,” El finished for him. “Later, perhaps; right now, we have work to do! The stews and the fires beneath them, and those’ll be yours, Mirt, as I’ll be borrowing Myrmeen to fetch and carry some things I need from the pantry and the larder.”

  “For what?” Myrmeen asked, not bothering to hide her suspicion.

  “Old remedies,” El told her. “Antidotes for rare and virulent venoms and augmented-venom poisons. That will probably very soon be needed.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to just make some smokepots and take down one Serpent Queen?” Mirt rumbled.

  “It would if matters were that simple. Unfortunately, they’re not. Oldspires has entirely too many murderers under its roof for my liking.”

  “Well, aye, every last one of us, but—”

  “But I meant individuals who’ve slain a fellow guest, of the wizards who came here claiming to be after the Lost Spell.”

  “Right, let’s get going on these remedies, then,” Myrmeen said briskly. “If I may be allowed to take time enough to offer a suggestion about the cooking.”

  “Ye may.”

  “Aye?”

  “There’s that keg of beheaded and plucked braerwing in smallnut oil, in the larder?”

  “Aye, spotted it.”

  “Spit and roast a dozen of them, then put them to keep warm in trays of smallnut oil over low coals, weighed down with stones to keep them submerged. Handy ready meals henceforth. I’m not expecting we’re going to have too many more formal sit-down meals where we gather all in one place and dine together, guests included.”

  “A capital idea! That and a ham, done the same way!” Mirt rubbed his hands, visibly excited.

  Myrmeen smiled. “Glazed in sweet wine, I suppose?”

  “But of course!”

  Myrmeen turned to Elminster. “Expect us to soon be down one handkeg of sweet wine. A certain cook will need to sample. Repeatedly.”

  “But of course!” Mirt said earnestly.

  “But of course,” Elminster echoed, amused. “As long as—”

  A chill breeze raced past their faces, swirled, and said, “No fires yet, but Manshoon has gone to visit Malchor Harpell. The two of them are now locked in Malchor’s room together.”

  El smiled and nodded. “I expected that—but I can tell ye’ve more to impart, and that ye deem this ‘more’ to be far more interesting. Share, Steel Princess, share!”

  “The burglar you let go? Well, let’s hope you’ve gained some expertise at dealing with masked men, because there’s another one.”

  LEAVING SOME HEARTFELT profanity ringing in the kitchen behind them, Elminster, Mirt, and Myrmeen trotted down the gloomy passages of Oldspires once more.

  “We stay together, no matter what!” El insisted fiercely. “Deal with this swiftly, and get back to the kitchens; we need those antidotes!”

  “What chance this is Drace Taulith, unable to get back out past the barrier, and so returned to see if he can at least swipe some food?” Myrmeen asked.

  “No,” Alusair replied, from the empty air beside her. “This man’s shorter and more slender—more graceful, too—and is wearing better leathers. Definitely a different person.”

  “Mystra forfend,” Elminster muttered. “Are there no competent war wizards these days?”

  “Heh,” Mirt wheezed, “how do we know this one wasn’t sent in through the fog by them? A Crown spy, to report back what’s going on inside these walls, so they’ve something to report back to Ganrahast? And ready themselves to best deal with what may come boiling out at them—because they know what that threat is? It’s what I would do!”

  “Ye’ve probably pounced on the truth,” El said thoughtfully, “yet there’s another possibility—a worse one. Ganrahast’s busy back in Suzail with threats to the Throne, and from what admittedly little I’ve seen of the wizards of war left here to mind their wall imprisoning us, now that it’s cast, they seemed like the younger, greener, less powerful Crown mages.”

  “That someone could easily overcome,” Myrmeen sighed, “and take down the wall, so only the spellstorm is left. Which means any number of warriors and thieves and spies can come scaling the walls and wriggling down wood chutes and smashing windows to get in here with us.”

  “Exactly,” El confirmed. “Luse, once we’ve cornered our latest masked marvel, could ye shoot on up to that roofless room I tarried in, a while back, and have a look around at the war wizards? So ye can tell us, later, if there are any, and if they look like real war wizards to ye? Don’t race back to tell us right then, mind; I’ve more pressing need of ye back guarding the kitchens against those who’d poison us all.”

  “You’re just full of pressing needs this last day or so, aren’t you?” Alusair teased. “Let’s corner this latest intruder first, and then I’ll certainly—”

  And then she moaned, a despairing cry of wordless pain that seemed to recede eastward, a long way, ere it faded.

  They were still hearing its keening fall when the surrounding air buffeted them as if it was a dry and silent ocean wave rolling in the same direction, outward from … who knew what?

  “El!” Myrmeen snapped. “What just happened?”

  Elminster staggered and went to his knees, clutching at his head and then shaking it slowly.

  “Someone,” he muttered, “just opened one of the gates inside Oldspires—I don’t know which one, or precisely where. And it wasn’t Mystra … or any god, probably. It was a smaller, quieter working than that.”

  “So who—?” Mirt growled, dragging Elminster back to his feet.

  El shook his head. “I know not,” he said wearily. “And we’ve lost our spy and guide, for now. I’ve bolstered her enough with the Weave that she should survive—but she’ll be suffering; Luse just can’t withstand that sort of surge and be flying around in her full powers.”

  “I heard her wail, and felt the gate opening, all right,” Myrmeen agreed. “So let’s find this new skulker and take ourselves back to the kitchen. Whoever—or whatever—is coming through that gate will find us soon enough.”

  “So far as I can tell,” Mirt said slowly, “the Steel Princess was leading us toward the north row of bedchambers—where we put our four male guests. So if we head in that direction …”

  “What if this skulker is no lone burglar, but a skilled slayer or spy working for—well, it’d have to be Manshoon or Malchor, wouldn’t it?” Myrmeen asked.

  “The ‘what ifs’ we could conjure up in but a few breaths could well fill a wagon or two,” El reminded her. “I’d prefer we trust our eyes and ears, because if our speculations are wrong, and we heed them and do the wrong thing, and—”

  “Yes, I quite see,” the former Lady Lord of Arabel agreed. “That could lead us gravely astray.”

  Mirt held a finger to his lips for quiet as he led them out into the staue chamber, a widening of the end of a passage with four doors, opening out into the grand staircase and the bedchambers that had been given over to Skouloun, Maraunth Torr, and Calathlarra. He pointed at the doors of the three rooms as he looked at Elminster with a silent query on his face, and El nodded and came forward with his master key. Mirt and Myrmeen positioned themselves to deal with trouble, and El then unlocked Calathlarra’s door and stayed back to watch in all directions outside as Mirt and Myrmeen swiftly searched the room.

  Finding it empty, they came out again, and El relocked the door so they could
do the same to Maraunth Torr’s room, and then Skouloun’s. Dark and empty, all of them. They proceeded past the grand staircase to the Chamber of the Founder, a lounge for the guests of the Lord Halaunt, dominated by the glower of an ugly statue of the first Lord Halaunt, and stole across it like burglars past the rooms of Malchor and Manshoon, to try the door of a vacant bedchamber.

  Where Mirt and Myrmeen found no one, as usual.

  Until, that is, they had turned to leave, when Mirt happened to glance up into the gloom of a tapestry beside the door and saw two hands clinging to its support rail, nigh the ceiling. Without a word he lurched to the door, to depart—and without warning planted one fist deep in the tapestry, right about where the man hanging behind the tapestry would keep his stomach, or possibly tenderer organs below that.

  The man behind the tapestry made an involuntary eeep sound, and fell to the floor—where Mirt gave him no time to ready any weapon or gain his feet, but hauled hard on some unseen part of him, and flung—sending the man sailing helplessly across the room into a solid meeting, face-first, with the far wall.

  Where Myrmeen promptly put a knee in the small of his back and her arm around his neck and bore him to the ground, gently murmuring a greeting into his ear that promised him death if he failed to surrender and cooperate.

  “I serve the Dragon Throne,” came the gasped response. “To harm me is a crime punishable by death or exile. Unhand me, in the name of the regent and of the Royal Magician.”

  “Right,” Mirt growled, as Myrmeen rolled over and dragged the masked man over on his back with her, “unhand you where? Wrist? Elbow? Or just save all the judging and measuring and have your arms off at your pits?”

  Before their captive could utter a reply, Myrmeen snatched his mask away and called softly, “Lantern!”

  Silently Elminster unhooded it, and they gazed down on a temporarily blinded and blinking face that no one could put a name to, but that Myrmeen and Elminster both remembered seeing in the grand hallways of the Royal Palace of Suzail.

  “So who sent you in here, and to do what?” Mirt growled.