by Ed Greenwood
“Not just courtiers, but our fellow wizards of war,” Vainrence said heavily.
“What?” Glathra was too astonished to keep her voice low.
“In the last few days, war wizards across the kingdom, outside Suzail, have fallen silent-presumably slain. More than a score already.”
Glathra fell back in her seat aghast.
“You’re being told now,” Ganrahast said sternly, before she could voice the protest he knew would be forthcoming. “Though we lack a revealed and declared enemy, it seems Cormyr is at war. With itself, perhaps-yet I very much fear that longtime foes and neighbors are part of this, or soon will be. We cannot afford traitors within. We must smite treason where we see it, not waiting for investigations and trials.”
Storm shook her head. “No, Royal Magician,” she said quietly. “Once you ride that horse, tyranny has begun, and you are no longer defending anything worth fighting for.”
“Too late, Lady Storm,” Vangerdahast grunted, his spider legs taking him a little way down the table to face her. “I took to riding like that long ago, just to keep something called ‘Cormyr’ standing. As the one who tutored us both said: ‘the time comes when all airs and graces are torn away or must be cast aside, and ye must do what ye must do.’ That time has come.”
Storm locked gazes with him. “That time came, and has gone. The time for trust and holding to laws and principles has returned. For those who can.”
Glathra swallowed her instinctive retort, drew in a deep breath, then asked Storm gently, almost humbly, “Forgive me, lady, but who are you to tell us, the law keepers of Cormyr, to keep to laws?”
“I am your gentle reminder,” Storm replied, “before the commoners outside these walls tell you the same thing far more fiercely. If they rise, their telling will spill blood in this palace, and the Dragon Throne may well not survive.”
Glathra went pale, but hissed, “Is that a threat?”
Storm shook her head in sad denial. “A prediction, from one who’s seen such risings too often before. As Elminster once told me … if you cannot be a shining example,” she murmured, “be a dire warning.”
One of the line of team rings on the table suddenly burst, its fragments pinging and singing around the room. One shard sliced open Glathra’s cheek as it hurtled past. She managed to stifle a shriek and settled for clutching at where the blood welled forth.
“Another good man gone,” Ganrahast said grimly, looking down at the scorch mark on the table where the ring had been.
Vainrence shook his head. “Good woman. That was Laeylra, in Waymoot.”
Glathra stared at him. “Lael? She and I served together at-at-” She burst into tears.
Storm reached out a long arm and gathered the wizard of war to her breast, to cradle her while she wept. Vainrence muttered a curse and looked at Ganrahast.
“No,” Vangerdahast snarled, before the Royal Magician could say anything, “You bide here, to muster and give orders, and refrain from rushing off and playing the dead hero. Right now, you are of far more worth to the realm as a live coward.”
The spiderlike remnant of one of Cormyr’s most powerful mages turned again to give Storm a look, over Glathra’s shaking head and shoulders, and added, “Kindly don’t remind me of the circumstances in which Elminster told us those helpful words. I’ve remembered them, all by myself.”
Storm gave him the merest ghost of a smile.
The lord constable’s office, Amarune thought sourly, was beginning to feel all too familiar.
She and Arclath and a grim Farland and the two war wizards were crowded into it, neglected stomachs growling, to confer. At last. They had spent some tense moments locking people behind various doors, after checking that those doors-and the walls around them-were in a fit enough state to confine anyone. The two rogues hight Hawkspike and Harbrand had been hustled into the castle and locked into a suite of rooms meant for visiting priests or Crown healers, the nobles who’d dared to wander the halls had been firmly locked into various cells, and it was time to start deciding what had caused the explosion. Or how to go about uncovering that cause.
Was it “the” murderer, slaying other intended victims in a great explosion? No less than seventeen minor nobles were now missing, and at least some of them had to be dead given the blood and severed hands, feet, and other chunks of blood-drenched bodies strewn in the great heap of rubble due south of where the castle now ended.
Or was it the murderer getting killed himself-or herself, or themselves, hrast it-when something exploded before it was supposed to?
Or did the blast have nothing at all to do with the murders?
These two suspicious new arrivals, now, Hawkspike and Harbrand-thorough rogues if ever any of the five Crown-loyals had seen one-did they have anything to do with either of the two slayings, or the explosion? Or did the dragon they said they’d seen? Both of them insisted it flew away into the mountains right after the blast, a tale that was altogether too convenient-yet was echoed by a few of Irlingstar’s imprisoned nobles, who’d been given no chance to confer with Hawkspike and Harbrand.
“A black dragon is rumored to lair somewhere nearby in the Thunder Peaks,” Farland said glumly, as if admitting a personal crime, “and has been sighted many times over the years. Not by me, but by many I’d trust. It’s never been known to approach Irlingstar or raid out past the Hullack into settled Cormyr proper-so far as I know, at least.”
Gulkanun nodded. “We’ll tackle the dragon later-if it attacks us, or after we hunt it down, if that becomes necessary. Right now, we have a shattered prison and a lot of deaths, two of which couldn’t be the dragon unless it can shrink down greatly in size and breach the wards, or send spells through the wards … and I personally doubt any dragon can do either without leaving the wards destroyed in its wake.”
Everyone but Amarune nodded. She followed the Crown mage’s reasoning, but knew too little about warding magics to agree with anything.
“Exactly how many nobles are incarcerated here?” Gulkanun asked the lord constable, “and who are they?”
Farland looked doubtfully at Arclath and Amarune, and the taller war wizard snapped, “Aside from these two, whom I judge you can speak freely in the presence of.”
The lord constable regarded Gulkanun stonily. “I rather think that is my judgment to make.”
“Sworn officer of the Crown,” came the mildly voiced reply, “I feel moved to remind you that all of us have sworn oaths of service, and are here because we’re serving the Dragon Throne right now. Setting aside rank, I ask you to consider which of us commands spells that can turn others of us into frogs, or garden statues … or chamber pots.”
Arclath grinned. “Spoken almost like Vangerdahast,” he said approvingly.
Farland ignored him. “Is that a threat?” he snapped at Gulkanun.
“And if it is?”
After a moment of tense silence, Farland turned his head to favor each person in the room with his coldest glower, then said heavily, “The time has more than come for the full truth from all of us.” He turned to Arclath and Amarune. “Suppose you forget all about keeping secrets, and tell us precisely who sent you here and why.”
“We promised someone rather higher in rank than you that we’d keep his secrets,” Arclath replied coolly, “and we’ll continue-”
“You promised the king,” Gulkanun interrupted flatly, “in the presence of the Royal Magician, Lady Glathra, and your mother. There was also someone else present, whose identity wasn’t shared with me.”
“Storm Silverhand,” Amarune supplied. “The Marchioness Immerdusk. Tell them everything, Arclath.”
“Everything?” he asked reluctantly.
“Everything,” she said firmly.
“Well …” Arclath gave his beloved a doubtful look, then said in a rush, “You know our real names already, and that we’re not really prisoners, and who sent us. We’ve come to Irlingstar to find someone within these walls who hails from Sembia, who�
�s trying to take over the castle or free its noble inmates and spirit them away into Sembia, to work treason against Cormyr from there.”
Farland gave him a disgusted look. “Oh, come now! There’s no-”
“Perhaps, lord constable, the ‘someone’ is you,” Arclath said firmly. “Please understand that I haven’t one shred of evidence to that effect, but your attitude of disbelieving dismissal is not shared by the king-and what better way to frustrate an investigation than to sneer and deride and refrain from cooperating?”
“How do you know the traitor inside Irlingstar is Sembian?” Longclaws asked quickly, waving Farland to silence. Surprisingly, the lord constable bit back whatever he’d been drawing breath and leaning forward to say, and sat back with a silent frown.
“I’ve no reason at all to believe King Foril Obarskyr would lie to us,” Arclath replied. “Why would he? Well then, he told us that wizards of war had overheard a passing spell sending, a verbal message they believe reached its intended ears without any attached suspicion of their hearing it. It was a man’s voice, saying this: ‘We’ll wait at the usual place, because it’s clearly our side of the border. If any Dragons come for us there, the griffonbacks’ll be waiting, and they’ll taste the new hurl bombs.’ ”
“And how would you interpret that message, lord constable?” Gulkanun asked quietly.
Farland stirred. “That whoever’s waiting for escaped prisoners from Irlingstar has alerted the Sembian border patrols-the ones that ride griffons, in the sky-to be ready for Cormyreans pursuing them.”
Gulkanun nodded. “I hear it the same way.” Beside him, Longclaws nodded.
“So now,” Amarune spoke up, “you tell me, lord constable, why we should trust you, when it’s feared prisoners might so readily escape Irlingstar. And”-she turned to give Longclaws a hard and direct stare-”you convince me that you’re a war wizard, yet have some sort of magical curse or affliction. I’ve never heard of a Crown mage going uncured of such a thing yet continuing to serve, so are you a wizard of war, truly?”
Farland started to speak, but Longclaws flung up a blue and floppy-fingered hand that was busily turning into several clusters of scaled, greenish black talons, to silence him.
“We’re here to investigate the lord constable and everyone else in Irlingstar, just as you are. As for this-”
With his unchanging hand, the war wizard gestured at his talons, just as they collapsed into flopping, writhing, rose pink tentacles, then started to shift into a tight cluster of what looked like questing, dribbling boar snouts.
“-I suffered this years ago, when fighting outlaw raiders on the Moonsea Ride beyond Tilverton. We routed them, ere a black-dragon-riding wizard appeared and served us the same way. He gave me this, and half a year later caravans brought us the tale that the legendary Manshoon the Deathless, Black Cloak Lord of the Zhentarim, riding a great black wyrm, had ‘humbled an army of Cormyr bent on conquering the Dales.’ ” Longclaws gave Rune and Arclath a mirthless grin. “So if I ever encounter this Manshoon …”
“If you ever encounter Manshoon,” a sharp-edged, lilting, melodious new voice interrupted, as yet another secret door swung open, “you’ll probably last for as many moments as he bothers to toy with you. I’d seek nobler aims, if you want your life to hold fulfillment and satisfaction.”
Everyone turned to stare at the new arrival.
It was a curvaceous, darkly beautiful female drow.
She smiled at them as she held up her hands, wriggling long and slender fingers to draw attention to the rings adorning her two longest fingers: a war wizard ring, and a wizard of war team ring.
“ ’Tis roast stag tonight, lord,” the equerry said eagerly.
“Of course it is,” the commander of High Horn replied testily. “It would be something I love, on a Darlhoun debriefing night! Well, try to save some for me!”
Thrusting his helm and riding gauntlets into the equerry’s hand, Lord Sunter strode inside, past the wonderful smell rolling out of the banquet hall-his stomach promptly rumbled its own longing hunting call-to the stairs. It was a long climb to the top of the main keep tower.
Not for Umbarl Darlhoun, of course. Hrasting war wizards could just float up, couldn’t they?
So Darlhoun would be there waiting for him, of course. Sitting behind Sunter’s own desk as if it were his own, smiling that smug smile and dusting his hands together-and patting yet another stack of parchments as tall as a war helm. He’d not depart until every last one had been thoroughly discussed, even if the stars came and went and a new morning was well under way.
And the man was so hrasted cheerful, so genuinely nice and sympathetic and diligent and … and …
Sunter wanted to wring his neck, and hated himself for feeling that way. His stomach rumbled again.
“Tluin,” he whispered under his breath, “I need a drink.”
When at last he reached his own rooms, almost at the top of the tower, and unlocked the door, he discovered he really did need a drink.
Happy Wizard of War Umbarl Darlhoun would never be cheerful to anyone again.
Someone had dismembered him all over Sunter’s desk, thoughtfully taking the head and the meeting’s stack of parchments away with them, and arranging the limbs and torso to neatly hold in the blood, and frame a message written in Darlhoun’s intestines: “A gift from your future emperor.”
“Make that a dozen drinks,” Sunter said aloud. “After I’m done throwing up.”
The last fading monsters clawed vainly at the darkening twilight sky as the flickering, fading purple radiance reclaimed them.
Blue flames snarled around the purple glow, constricting it, hemming it in. Purple flames flared, and as swiftly died away, leaving the glow smaller and fainter.
The Simbul fed what was left of the rift more and more blue flames, bearing down despite her trembling weariness.
“Go,” she gasped, tossing her head back and setting her long silver tresses to renewed writhing. “Begone forever.”
The rift winked one last flash of sickly purple, almost impudent in its timing, and died.
Leaving The Simbul reeling in exhaustion.
“How long now, Mother Mystra?” she gasped wearily.
Not much longer, Cherished One. You have taken care of the worst of them.
“And El and Manshoon? How many have they done?”
“Not one, yet. Manshoon … disappointed me.”
“But not surprised you,” The Simbul interpreted. “He tried to slay El the moment I departed, didn’t he?”
Not quite. I believe it was about six moments after you departed.
The one-time Witch-Queen of All Aglarond snorted, sputtered, tittered like a young lass for a moment-then threw back her head and roared.
In mere moments, the thunderous laughter of a goddess echoed hers.
“Who,” Wizard of War Duth Gulkanun snapped, his most powerful wand aimed and ready in his hand, “are you?”
“Gulk, Gulk, I know our paths rarely crossed, and oh-so-cordial Nostyn liked me very little, but don’t you remember Brannon Lucksar?”
Gulkanun blinked. “I do, and I distinctly remember Brannon Lucksar as a good-natured man I liked and admired. A man, not a she-drow!”
“So I was,” the lithe, dark-skinned … person … across the room replied with what Gulkanun-busily swallowing, his throat suddenly dry-could only term a jaunty, sultry smile. Gods Above, no one had told him that the evil, slay-on-sight dark elves were so … hrasted beautiful. She was … very far from being a man. Whew.
“Until the curse,” the she-drow added sadly. “Longclaws here knows all about curses.”
The war wizard she’d just named already had two wands trained on her. His face tightened as he shook them warningly, his flaring anger clear. One wand dipped and wavered alarmingly as the hand holding it started to change again.
For his part, Farland slowly drew his sword. Arclath stepped in front of Rune to shield her. She promptly used that shield
ing to covertly draw one of her daggers and hold it ready to throw.
“How did you get up here?” Farland growled at the dark elf. Who gave him a smile, and slowly lifted one long, shapely leg.
“Used this. And my other one. We call it ‘walking,’ back in Immerford.”
She stroked her raised leg thoughtfully-a long and languid move that made Longclaws growl aloud, deep in his throat, before he could stop himself-and added in a teasing purr, “Lothan always told me you and Avathnar rode the halls of Irlingstar on the backs of crawling prisoners. I never believed him, of course, but now …”
“I meant,” Farland said deliberately, his sword out and hefted meaningfully in his hand, “that you almost certainly had to swiftly murder several of my guards to reach the passage you just came in here through.”
The drow waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve slain no one in Irlingstar. A few simple spells served to temporarily-and harmlessly-immobilize several guards, so I could join this little council.”
“Die, lying drow,” Gulkanun said coldly, and he let fly with his wand.
Beside him, both of the wands Longclaws aimed flashed into life, too.
“Idiots!” Arclath shouted. “You’ll kill us … all …”
His angry shout faded away. Nothing at all had happened. The magic of the wands, that no one could possibly outrun, had flashed across the room and-
Vanished. Doing nothing, it seemed.
The drow was very much intact. More than that, she was leaning against the wall, still smiling, and examining her fingernails, the very picture of unconcerned nonchalance. The air around her crackled and tiny motes of light winked into momentary being, from time to time, the unmistakable aftermath of a powerful unleashing of magic, but …
“Lying, murderous drow!” Farland barked, striding forward. In an instant, his sword acquired scores-hundreds-of winking motes of light that clinged to the blade. He shouted in pain and let it fall, his sword arm jerking around in wild spasms.
Cursing, he grabbed his errant limb and staggered back, falling against the wall. “How long have you been hiding in the castle?” He spat as he slid to the floor. “You’ve been slaying everyone, haven’t you?”