by Paul S. Kemp
He peered out through the crevice, and saw Sarshel's north wall, and the bunker that ran immediately in front of it. The span was farther than he remembered.
Dark shapes obscured the wall, moving between him and sanctuary. Low, squat, misshapen figures. Goblins and hobgoblins, apparently drawn toward the base of Demora Tower by the Wardlight's night-illuminating flash. They knew they had to stop anyone from emerging from the tower if their devious plan was to succeed. He saw only a few dozen, but that was a few dozen too many. Luckily, they were converging on the tower's main entrance-they still didn't know about the secret ladder.
The image of hundreds of tiny watercraft converging toward Sarshel from the east convinced him he needed to make a break for it. How much closer were the hobgoblins to launching their ambush in the time he'd taken to climb down?
Jotharam had no more time.
He dashed from the cleft, the black arrow raised high in his right hand. He ran into the night, toward the brutish silhouettes that paused as they saw him emerge from the tower's side.
Jotharam ran toward the sanctuary of the trench, toward Sarshel's glow. He ran toward the light, whose luster was the golden dawn of judgment, in which all things find their end.
When Imphras the Great ascended the throne over reunited Impiltur in 1097 DR, hundreds journeyed to Sarshel to see the Crown of Narfell placed upon the new king's brow. The ceremony was held in an open-air amphitheatre where all could see the king mount his throne.
During the ceremony, Imphras called the attention of all present to a great monument carved of black marble.
The plaque at the memorial's base read, "Never forget these who gave their lives to save our city."
The memorial depicted three people. In the background, a woman of gallant bearing wore the arms and armor of a Sarshel soldier. To her right a tall man in filigreed leather bent a mighty bow. A quiver filled with gold-fletched arrows hung at his belt.
In the foreground a young man stood in sculpted nobility. He also wore the arms and armor of the Sarshel militia. The medal on his chest identified him as a posthumous member of Imphras's personal elite guard.
The boy's right arm rose in a confident pose straight above his head. In his right hand, he clutched one black arrow.
TOO MANY PRINCES
Ed Greenwood
The Year of the Striking Falcon (1333 DR)
Mirt gave them both the tight smile that told them he'd really rather be frowning. "Our friend the vizier? He knows of this moot?"
With his severe black brows, rugged face, and walk-an alert, muscular gait, like a wild cat on the prowl-the burly sellsword Mirt the Merciless caught the eye. The angry blaze in his eyes did rather more than that.
Yet neither of the two Amnian merchants seemed unsettled as they slipped into the turret room to face him. Behind them, Turlos, his war-leathers bristling with the usual array of blades, softly closed the door and put his back to it, folding his arms across his chest and giving Mirt the "no one lurking nearby" nod.
"Not from our telling," the Lady Helora Roselarr said smoothly, her enormous gem-dangle earrings swaying.
Tall, large-eyed, and inscrutable, the young Amnian merchant heiress had been styled "Lady" from her cradle because her adrip-with-gold family sought to be regarded as the equal of any nobility, anywhere. Knowing what he did of nobles, that wouldn't have been something Mirt would have striven for, but then he had rather less of a burdensome weight of coins under which to stagger through life. Wealth … did things to people.
"He's, ah, enjoying the young prince," Gorus Narbridle added delicately. "We heard Elashar's screams on our way up.
The bald, heavyset man in expensive silk robes was the cruel and unscrupulous head of a merchant family that had risen very swiftly to its wealth. Which meant that Narbridle was as ruthless with himself, in controlling his drug-taking, as he was in selling various Calishite drugs and poisons to others. He looked like a grave and weary elder priest… but then, Mirt already knew just how clever an actor he was.
Both Amnians reached inside the breasts of their over-robes and drew forth little carved figurines that they kissed, murmured inaudible words over, and set on the table in front of Mirt.
The statuettes glowed briefly. Scrying shields of the most expensive sort, they would keep anyone outside the room from watching or overhearing what was said there.
"We shall be brief," Roselarr said crisply. "We dislike what we see unfolding here at Ombreir, and wish to depart. As swiftly as is discreetly possible. We want to get well away, out of Ongalor's reach, before our departure is discovered. We sense your uneasiness and believe we need your personal assistance to accomplish this."
"We appreciate the difficult position this will place you in," Narbridle added smoothly, "and are prepared to compensate you accordingly. Gems up front, four trade-rubies each. Plus a bond redeemable for forty thousand Waterdhavian dragons of recent minting, which we'll give to you now but sign only when we're safely out of the Dauntir."
The amount made Mirt blink and Turlos gape in astonishment. Forty thousand gold, and the same again when the escape was done!
If, of course, a certain Mirt the Merciless was still alive to accept it. Which might well not be the Amnians' intention.
"Well, now," the mercenary captain said, "the tapestries here at Ombreir aren't that bad, are they?"
Neither of the Amnians bothered to smile at his feeble jest. Mirt sighed and wondered what to say.
As the Year of the Striking Falcon warmed into full summer, war was raging anew, not merely in the Dauntir-the gently rolling, heavily farmed hills between the Trade Way, the River Esmel, and the mountains prosaically known as the Small Teeth-but all across Amn. Every ambitious merchant cabal that dared to enter the struggle was riding around with copious sellswords, trumpeting "royal heirs" who had seemingly been found in closets, dropped from the clouds by the gods, or stitched together in graveyards.
This throne-strife had been raging for more than half a century, and Mirt held the same opinion as most war-weary folk of Amn: that any true heirs had been slain or died of old age years ago, and the fighting still going on was but the most grimly determined merchant families of the land trying once more to openly seize the throne. Mirt wondered why anyone would want to put on a crown to so splendidly mark himself a target for all, but then… power did strange things to many folk.
It had done strange things to the Araunvol family, formerly a capable and haughty force to be reckoned with in gilded Athkatla, but in the end reduced to a handful of embittered nobles who walled themselves away in Ombreir, their fortified country citadel halfway between Imnescar and the Esmel-for a rider galloping arrow-straight northeast-to await their doom.
Mirt's sword had delivered that doom, for many of them, and the army he rode with had readied the others for their graves. Wherefore the Araunvols were extinct, and the Rightful Hands of Prince Elashar held the walled mansion of Ombreir. They'd buried the last bodies that very morning, in the gardens.
Across the table, the Amnians waited in silence for his response.
They had to. There was no one else they could turn to.
One of the younger sellsword captains offering his battle skills in Waterdeep, Mirt had been hired by the Durinbolds and the Hawkwinters to ride sword with the Amnian army they sponsored: the Rightful Hands. For Waterdhavian nobles, the seemingly endless war in Amn was all about coin. Rival claimants were sponsored by the Gauntyls and Gralhunds, who had also come looking to buy the services of the mercenary newly risen in reputation for his sword work in the South.
What had decided things for Mirt between the two entreaties had been the Hawkwinters. In matters of war and guardianship, they were held in the highest regard in the City of Splendors. If he served them well, any blades Mirt the Merciless commanded would entertain many offers in the years ahead.
If, that is, he survived this first hiring in the lawless cauldron Amn had become.
No noble of Waterdeep
personally risked his neck in those bloody fields, for Amnians did not take kindly to outlanders meddling in their affairs. Mirt's commander these few fleeting months had been no clear-eyed Hawkwinter veteran, but a man of Amn. A tall, emerald-eyed, neatly bearded, and gently smiling ruthless murderer of a vizier, Harlo Ongalor. Mirt hated his very shadow, and strongly suspected the vizier loved him about as much.
Ongalor ruled Prince Elashar just as he did Mirt, which surprised Mirt not at all. Prince Elashar Torlath was purportedly the descendant of Prince Esmar, a son of King Imnel IV of Amn who'd long been believed to have died soon after birth.
That much, Mirt believed. What he did not believe was the rest of the tale the vizier spun so glibly whenever it seemed necessary: that all those years ago, Esmar had been spirited away to provide a royal line in hiding for Amn, "awaiting its dire hour of need."
For one thing, there was more than one Prince Elashar. Or rather, more than one man of the Rightful Hands riding with a closed helm whose seldom-seen face was identical to that of the prince. Coincidence, perhaps, but Mirt himself had bull-broad shoulders that were unusual, and doubly so in a man of his height. Such builds were more often seen in men a head taller than he-yet another man riding with the Rightful Hands looked just like Mirt. Just like Mirt.
Moreover, the Hands had captured several members of rival merchant families-including the Lady Helora Roselarr and Gorus Narbridle-and as he'd been alert enough to watch for all briefly-bared faces, Mirt was certain "doubles" of most of them were riding under the vizier's command.
Nor was Ongalor working alone. Magic aided him out of nowhere when he needed it. Which meant that his mutterings from time to time with various riders were conferences with disguised hurlers-of-magic.
Mirt's eyes might miss nothing, but he knew how to keep his mouth shut. He was, after all, being paid to do so.
So he nodded respectfully to the pretender riding with them, and held high the princely banner: an emerald-hued human right hand clutching a horizontal dagger, point to the sinister, erupting vertically out of the top of a large, faceted emerald. Tasteless, and bad blazonry to boot, but then, Mirt wasn't being paid to be a herald, either.
There were armies riding all over Amn, some backed by wealthy traders from Tethyr or from Calimshan, and every one concealing their true natures behind this or that false heir from the various fallen royal families of Amn; ambitious-or trapped-pretenders, all.
One of those rival armies, the Just Blades, was on its way even then. A strong band of well-armed and armored butchers, sponsored by the Gauntyls and Gralhunds, and backing Prince Uldrako, a true pretender. Which was to say an ambitious young Amnian who knew full well he had no royal nor noble blood, and was passing himself off as the scion of an entirely fictitious elder branch of the royal family. His skills consisted of good looks, a complete lack of scruples, staggering indebtedness to his sponsors, and the good sense to accord them the utter loyalty of a fawning slave. Mirt happened to know that his banner (a stylized side-on crown, depicted as a black arc with five spires erupting from it, on a gold field) had been designed by the Gauntyl house limner, and Gauntyl tutors had coached "Uldrako" in his invented lineage and life story.
He had no doubt that Harlo Ongalor had done likewise with the doubles of Prince Elashar, the Amnian noble captives, and a certain Mirt the Merciless. All part of preparing for the right moment to eliminate the troublesome originals-who stubbornly persisted in having opinions and aims of their own-for replacement with their loyal-to-Ongalor duplicates.
And that right moment, Mirt suspected, had almost arrived. Why else would the vizier have ordered Mirt and only "this dozen" of his warriors to remain in Ombreir and guard "the valuable ones," with the Just Blades sweeping across the Dauntir to storm the Araunvol mansion while the main might of the Rightful Hands rode elsewhere with the doubles? The Merciless hadn't failed to notice that the vizier's chosen dozen consisted of the veterans who were most personally loyal to Mirt-and Torandral, the most inexperienced, trouble-prone youngling in the Hands.
The vizier and his wizard friends would vanish at the last possible moment, of course, once the Just Blades were at the mansion's very gates and escape was impossible. Leaving Mirt and his warriors to a bloody doom and any surviving hostages to be later spell-switched with their doubles, or magically blown apart from afar, to shatter any chances of Gauntyl and Gralhund success.
Mirt had long since become disgusted with various atrocities ordered by the vizier, as the Rightful Hands butchered their way across Amn-to say nothing of the general ruin of the fair country around the Hands-and had begun looking for a way out. Only to discover Ongalor's hidden wizards, and how closely they were watching to thwart just such desertions.
"We're trapped here," Lady Roselarr said quietly. "Are you trapped, too? Is that why you're keeping silent?"
"Or have you been enthralled by the vizier's pet wizards? Or hatching your own betrayals?" Narbridle asked, even more softly. Mirt did not have to look to know that the bald noble had drawn a little poisoned needle-dagger, under the table.
Instead, he looked to Roselarr. "To your queries: yes." Then he turned to Narbridle. "To yours: no. So put your tainted steel away."
Sighing heavily, Mirt told them truthfully, "I have no intention of betraying either of you, yet I see no road by which I can aid you in any way that has even the slightest chance of achieving your freedom. Your offer tempts me even more than its amount, which is certainly what merchants in Waterdeep's poorer wards would term 'staggering.' Yet I know not how to escape Ombreir. The Just Blades-"
"Are camped the other side of yonder hill," Narbridle agreed. "While that sneering sadist Ongalor smiles, watching us all with those lazy-lidded eyes, and waits for them to close his little trap."
"We hate and fear him," Roselarr whispered. "Warrior, admit it: So do you."
"Admitting things is seldom wise for anyone in my profession," Mirt replied, "let alone someone in my current situation. That is the only reply I can give you, other than to say I understand you fully, I deeply appreciate your truly generous offer, and I shall be in touch with both of you-with utmost discretion, for all our sakes-as soon as I can. Whenever that 'soon' may be. You have my word on this."
The two Amnians sat as if frozen for a moment. Then they sighed and took up their figurines, not looking at each other. Both little carvings still glowed as they vanished once more beneath concealing clothing, signifying that their shieldings remained active.
Turlos wordlessly held open the door, and Mirt nodded the two Amnians out of the turret room, keeping his face carefully expressionless.
After the Amnians had descended the stairs out of sight, the two sellswords stood listening for a long time ere closing the door again to wall out the rest of Ombreir.
Then, leaning against it, nose to nose, Mirt and Turlos regarded each other.
"Well, now," Turlos murmured. "Well, now.. "
Mirt shook his head grimly. "By Tempus and Tymora both, I know not what I'm going to do. This trap is intended to end in all our deaths. Things are going to get far nastier before they get better."
"Oh, yes," his trusted bodyguard replied softly, as his body shivered and shifted shape, the grim face of Turlos melting back into the sneering visage of the vizier. Ongalor was smiling a crooked smile as he warningly held up fingers that bore magic rings glowing with sudden power. "I've no doubt of that."
"Another moonlit night," Deln said grimly, checking the hilts of his many blades.
"Another feast to which we're not invited," Marimbrar added, drawing on his gauntlets.
"Aye," Loraun put in sarcastically, "it seems the vizier doesn't need us to stand guard over the food this time."
"That means either he doesn't want us there to see what happens," Tauniira murmured, "and it'll probably be something fatal, to someone who's displeased Lord Most Highnosed Ongalor-or he believes his loyal wizards and bullyboys hidden among the Amnian captives can handle any trouble the rest of
the Amnians might give him."
Mirt nodded. Of those hired into the Rightful Hands with him, Tauniira and Loraun were the two he most trusted, longtime veterans of his various mercenary pursuits. Not that they were much to look at. Under Tauniira's ever-present mask was a face melted into grotesquerie by the biting edge of a spell that had slain many and only just spared her, and the tall, laconic, cold-eyed Loraun was a wereserpent. Yet they missed nothing that was going on around them, and Tauniira wore literally dozens of throwing knives all over herself, many of them hidden, that had a way of swiftly sprouting in darn near everything nearby that offered her trouble. Sinister viziers, for instance.
"Before anyone asks," Mirt told his fellows, "Targrath isn't missing because he's snoring alongside our off-duty fellows. He's standing guard inside their door, on my orders. Turlos is dead."
That got their attention, instant and absolute.
"Our mutual friend the vizier," Mirt explained, "killed Turlos somewhere, and recently, and hid the body without any of us noticing. When he revealed himself to me up in South Tower earlier today, he flashed his fist, and there were rings on every last finger that glowed with magic. He did that to keep me from trying to slaughter him on the spot, but what he slew was the last vestige of any obligation I felt to him. So be not slow to blow your belt-horns, sword-comrades; Ongalor is as much our foe as the Just Blades or any friend of the Araunvols who might come calling with drawn sword and fire in their eyes. If Tymora smiles on us all, it'll be another boring night of standing sentinel, staring vigilantly at nothing. If she does not… well, be warned; we're at war right now."
With nods and sour grunts of acknowledgment, everyone stalked off down the darkened passages, seeking their posts. Tauniira lingered at Mirt's shoulder, watching them go.
She knew he wouldn't move until those they'd relieved-Brarn, Landyl, Elgan, Brindar, Hargra, and Torandral-came trudging back to seek their beds in the chamber Targrath was guarding. Commanders who didn't take care to mark the comings and goings of their warriors tended to lose respect instantly, warriors soon, and their own lives sooner than they'd hoped.