Elminster Enraged sos-3

by Ed Greenwood

  “That’s a good idea!” Harbrand said brightly-and he fainted, too.

  A moment later, the cavern rocked to a deafening roar. Alorglauvenemaus was guffawing.

  “Such … glory,” The Simbul mumbled, watching dawn creep across the mountains. Enough of the power was gone from her that she was herself again, in control once more. Hanging high in the air, she healed herself, flexing and stretching in gasping ease. All pain gone, she was stronger, more vigorous, and more alive than she had ever been. “Thank you, Lady Mother. What now?”

  Now you must go and hunt more blueflame, of course. Many more rifts await.

  The Simbul groaned, then managed a grin. “Well, that one was … intense fun. And I’m getting good at this; must be all the practice.”

  Must be, Mystra agreed, and they found themselves laughing together again.

  The lord constable of Irlingstar struggled to his feet, dimly aware that Elminster-the sleekly menacing drow he’d had in his arms, his knife at her throat-had run headlong from him, down a passage and away.

  The dark elf hadn’t been Lucksar at all. Lucksar was dead, and no more help was coming …

  Someone was shouting, several someones; prisoners, noble voices he knew, angry and afraid.

  “Are we all going to be killed while you do nothing?”

  “The war wizards are murdering us, one by one, while you just stand there and laugh!”

  “Killers! So much for your vaunted justice!”

  “What?” Farland muttered wearily, still reluctant to leave all those memories behind, to forget the warmth of that mighty mind wrapped around his … what had brought this shouting on? Had there been another killing?

  There had. The guards had just found Lord Arlond Hiloar lying dead in his own cell doorway. Ah, yes, perfumed Arlond, fair-haired and delicate, icily arrogant to everyone but more often withdrawn, always fondling and stroking a little spiral-seashell-shaped ivory snuffbox he carried with him. Not long before he’d been found dead, he’d been seen standing in that doorway, watching and listening as louder prisoners, in their own doorways up and down the same passage, had demanded to be let out. All of them had been kept to their rooms by the invisible walls of the new wards; Elminster’s “secure boxes.”

  Hiloar was alone in his cell rather than sharing it, and aside from the wards, it had no other way out except through solid stone walls. All of which still stood undisturbed-like the wards. At some time during all the bandinage, he’d simply slumped, unnoticed by his fellow prisoners until his fall. Slumped because his throat had been slashed open, the cut so deep that it had gone almost right through his neck. The blood was … copious.

  The nobles in the nearest rooms were the most frightened. One was shouting-no, two, now, make that three as another took it up-that the castle must be haunted, and it was Farland’s “Crown duty” to get them all “out of here” to somewhere safer. The always-half-flooded dungeon cell in Immerkeep, the manacle pits in Wheloon, the dank mold-infested prison cellars in Marsember-anywhere!

  Farland sighed, considered some choice curses but flung them aside unuttered, and decided he’d just about reached the same conclusion these scared nobles were so unpleasantly voicing. Though by any sober measure, he commanded less than a sixth of the manpower he’d need to keep any sort of control over such highnosed and well-connected prisoners, once they departed Irlingstar. Not to mention that taking such a bold step without permission from above would mean his neck and worse. He needed clear orders confirming any such move, and a good tell-truths talk with senior courtiers and war wizards-Lord Warder Vainrence, for one-before he let one noble outside the castle.

  “Gulkanun? Longclaws?” he growled, going to them so they could hear him through all the shouting. “If we’re to move anyone, I need you to try to magically contact the lord warder … and failing him, Ganrahast himself.”

  Both Crown mages nodded.

  “Of course,” Gulkanun replied, “but we’ll be needing someone to stand guard over us while we work. Forcing a contact through the wards won’t be easy.”

  “Guarding? We’ll take care of that,” Arclath announced calmly. At his shoulder, Amarune nodded-and flourished a knife she should not have had. Farland lifted an eyebrow.

  Then he shook his head wryly, told them all, “Of course,” and he started pointing, to arrange Delcastle, his lass, and himself around the two mages in an outward-facing armed ring.

  The two war wizards had barely begun casting when another scream rang out, from some castle chamber nearby. A high and despairing cry that soared above the angry shouting from the cells, stilling them-before it was cut off suddenly, to end in horrible wet, choking gurgles.

  El had to get away from everyone, to where her will could be gathered not just to hurl Art, but to listen for a response from somewhere distant, and to try to feel where that somewhere was. Just as fast as she could.

  Halfway down a steep stone stair, well away from any cell or guard, she stopped, sat down against a cold stone wall, closed her eyes, and tried to fight down her panting. So she could reach out …

  Alassra, I’m here! Where are ye?

  Her silent call rolled out into echoing distances, rolled … rolled … El strained to listen and to feel, seeking any response.

  Nothing.

  She tried again. Alassra, beloved, ’tis me, Elminster. Ye called, and I’m here. Where are ye? How can I help ye?

  Rolling out … away … away … Nothing.

  Nothing but a sudden burst of searing white fire, like a slap across her mind, a roaring bright inferno too distant and painful to locate-

  Before it was gone, leaving her with silent nothing again.

  Again she called, straining, snatching out one of the drow daggers she’d taken from that shattered Underdark citadel, the one that had prickled with a faint enchantment. She bent her will fiercely upon it, trying to drain its magic to bolster her calling …

  After what seemed a long time, the black glass dagger sighed into gritty dust in her palm, and El called again, loud and strong. To no avail.

  She hadn’t the Art to reach her Alassra. Or she was too late. Always too busy, always too far away …

  “No,” she sobbed aloud, suddenly furious.

  She stood up and slammed one shapely drow fist against the wall beside her. There was a flash like awakened fire, a deep-throated boom, and the wall cracked, tiny shards clattering down the steps below her.

  Arrrgh! Magic when she didn’t need it, but it failed here when sheeeeeARRGH!

  “Elminster!”

  That shout from back down the passage above was frantic, and came from the lungs of a young man and a young woman. Voices he knew: Arclath and Amarune. Eyes of Mystra, but why did someone always need her?

  “Haven’t I served long enough?” she spat down the deserted stairwell. “Why me? Why always me?”

  She whirled around and raced back up the stair, her eyes blazing, the rage that had been building in her for years-centuries-rising almost to choke her.

  Ye’ve called, and Elminster is coming. Ready thyself, Realms.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  SOMETHING STERN AND CLEAR

  I am no cheap swindler, lackey! I am Lady Jalassra Dawningdown!” Eyes flashing and wattles quivering-or so it seemed to Rensharra, given the pendulous display of scented and powdered dewlap across the desk-the outraged noblewoman shot to her feet, her bejeweled earrings dangling, and snarled, “You’ll die waiting for me to pay these outrageous demands!”

  The highborn Lady Dawningdown spat copiously on the tax documents Rensharra Ironstave had prepared and just finished politely explaining with largely gentle observations noting that however noble one happened to be, one could not escape paying annual cobble-and-lantern taxes on every additional city property one purchased. The bill was high because modest fees on sixty-one Suzailan homes, shops, and stables, when combined, did mount up, but of course could be paid out of the rents those properties brought to their owner, namely L
ady Jalassra Dawningdown.

  Then she stormed out of the office of the lady clerk of the rolls, viciously decapitating a defenseless plant and its vase with her goldhandled cane on her way.

  Rensharra sank back into her chair with a sigh, passing a weary hand over her face. Nobles! Were they all going to be like this, forevermore?

  Spitting fury and defiance seemed to be the favored tactic for them all this season. Ignore the bills, turn away tax collectors, or set dogs or more exotic pets on them, and when the bill was upped for late payment-a season late-storm into the palace offices. To claim penury in just-bought fine garments and in a staged or real towering fury.

  Rensharra set about tidying Lady Dawningdown’s thick file to clear the desk for the next one.

  Nobles disputing their taxes always demanded to speak to the chief responsible official-herself-and always smashed things, bellowed or venomously hissed threats, and stormed out again when they were done. To await the next and even higher bill, so they could repeat the same so-polite, cultured performance. However, noble bellowers always paid up before the Crown started confiscating property in lieu of payment, she’d noticed.

  The lady clerk of the rolls drew in a deep breath and allowed herself to relax. Perhaps the day would get better, after this.

  Perhaps.

  “Well, well,” an unpleasant voice drawled from the landing above. “What have we here? Why, a dark elf, I do believe, one of those evil and dangerous creatures, yet so beautiful! Such a tempting evil! It’s almost our duty to slay it, yes?”

  “So it is! After we taste its beauty, mind, for beauty is its own reward and a life spent cultivating beauty is the life a noble deserves!” another oily voice agreed.

  Stolen guards’ knives were flourished, as the noble smiles above them widened.

  “Come up to play, little drow beauty,” the first escaped prisoner beckoned mockingly. “Why, Gustravus, she seems almost eager!”

  Eyes blazing but saying not a word, Elminster raced up the stair. When the hands reached for her, she didn’t slow in the slightest.

  The prisoners barely had time to scream.

  “Relrund! Torz! I’ve work for you!”

  Lady Dawningdown bit off those words like she wanted to gnaw something. Her two eldest bullyblades exchanged glances, keeping their faces carefully expressionless. Someone was soon going to die.

  “Take the two younglings with you, go straight to the office of Rensharra Ironstave-the lady clerk of the rolls, they call her, as if she was remotely worthy of carrying a title, even an empty one-and beat her to death. Make it last and see that she suffers, but keep her fairly quiet or you’ll have half the guards in the palace down on your necks. Just so you’ll show no mercy, be aware that she’s the kingdom’s chief tax collector.”

  Fixing them with a glare that left no doubt at all in their minds that she was neither drunk nor fooling, their employer settled herself into her usual seat in the back corner of her coach and slammed the door so fiercely that things rattled all over the conveyance.

  Relrund and Torzil bowed in her direction with careful precision-she’d be watching, of that they had no doubt at all-did off their swords and put them in the front seat of the coach, collected their two fellow bullyblades and had them do the same, and strode into the Palace.

  They were still wearing their daggers, both visible and hidden, and the short iron bars they carried inside their left boots. And though they said not a word aloud to each other, they were thinking the exact same thoughts as they strode.

  A tax collector. This was going to be fun.

  “Stay,” Farland ordered Amarune and Arclath curtly, as the horrid gurgling faded. “I’ll go and see.”

  The young couple nodded obedience.

  “So,” the lord constable muttered under his breath as he hurried along the passage, his drawn sword in hand, peering at prisoners in their doorways and heeding their fingers pointing him onward, “behold the brave and stalwart lord constable of Irlingstar, arriving for the latest viewing of a victim of the unseen slayer.”

  This time, the throat-slit noble sprawled in his blood in his cell doorway was Bleys Indimber. Well, no loss, he, and-

  Something slid into Farland’s wrist, a sudden kiss like fire and ice.

  He jerked away as blood spurted.

  Naed! The very air was slicing at his sword wrist!

  He swung his sword at his invisible attacker, or at least where his attacker must be standing-but slashed only empty air.

  Farland cut at the air wildly in all directions to try to keep his unseen foe at bay. His eyes told him there was nothing there, that his sword was cleaving emptiness, but … was that something solid, just for a moment, brushing against his arm?

  Farland spun and grabbed, lunging with his free arm and trying to grasp whatever it was, the unseen solidity that-

  “Eeeearrgh!”

  It stung like fire this time, as more blood spurted and some of his fingers flew off! An invisible blade had cut them-but there was nothing for him to grab.

  His own sword had just chopped and backswung and hacked and there was farruking nothing there.

  Farland spun around and fled back down the passage as fast as he could sprint. Wizards … he needed the wizards, or he was a dead man! The prisoners called taunts or encouragement or shrank back in fear as he pelted past them, running for his life.

  A few running strides later, the unseen blade bit into his sword hand, hard, above his half-sliced wrist. He roared in pain, stumbling with the sheer burning fire of it, but he didn’t slow. He didn’t dare slow. His sword clanged on the flagstones behind him. Most of his hand, he knew, was still clutching it.

  He had to keep running, had to …

  Rensharra looked up. “Can I help you? This is the office of the Clerk of the Rolls, not …”

  The four men wore rather ruthless smiles. They had quietly and carefully closed her office door in their wake, and strolled toward her.

  “Are you Rensharra Ironstave?” the foremost, oldest-looking man asked her. “Who just now spoke with Lady Jalassra Dawningdown?”

  No. Oh, no. Rensharra put her foot on the pedal that would ring the alarm gong, stood up and stamped on the pedal again, then slid around behind her chair.

  “What are your names, gentlesirs?” she snapped sternly. “Are you behind on your taxes?”

  The nearest man gave her an unlovely sneer and said over his shoulder, “She’s the one. If we cut out her tongue, it should quiet her a bit.”

  Then he flung his cloak. Its edges were weighted to make it swirl fashionably-which would help it encircle her head and shoulders.

  “I like what I see,” said one of the younger three. “Can we play with her a bit? After we separate her from her tongue?”

  Rensharra snatched up her chair in desperate haste, intercepting the cloak. Then she ducked aside as its wielder came around one side of her desk, slashing at her wildly.

  His knife got caught in the cloak, of course, and Rensharra dragged the chair free and brained him with it. Which left her exposed to a hard punch from the man coming around the other side of her desk.

  “Help!” she screamed as she staggered back to the wall with her head ringing and one eye watering, the chair up in front of her like a shield. “Ruffians! Murderers! Help!”

  The third and fourth men, their grins wide and delighted, came right over the desk.

  “That’s Farland,” Arclath snapped, listening hard.

  “He’s running this way,” Rune agreed tensely, peering down the passage.

  Then they saw him. The lord constable was running full-tilt toward them, his eyes wide. He was streaming blood-gods, his sword hand was gone!

  “Gulkanun! Longclaws! Stop your spells!” Arclath barked, as firmly as any Crown oversword or battlemaster. “Now!”

  Farland was cursing, or trying to through his frantic gasping. He was close, and getting closer fast, his eyes wide with pain and fear.

  “Stay bac
k! Guard yourselves! I’m under attack!” he panted. “Invisible blaae-”

  The air beside Farland’s head thickened into a knifelike edge, and they saw the merest shadowy suggestion of two dark eyes and a scowling, sweating brow above them, a malevolent, determined presence …

  As that edge whipped in and around, and Farland’s throat burst open in a shower of gore.

  “Elminster!” Arclath and Amarune shouted together, in desperate unison-but the sinister presence beside the lord constable was gone in the next instant. Farland stumbled, sagged while still running, and crashed untidily to the flagstones.

  He slid to a bloody stop at their feet, his legs still moving feebly, his life-blood spurting in all directions.

  It was a solid chair, of olden style, with a high back and long, thick legs-which was all that kept the knives from her face. For a breath or two, until one of them ducked down and stabbed at her legs.

  “Help! A rescue!” Rensharra screamed, as loudly as she could. The man she’d hit with the chair was rubbing his head and giving her dark looks, and the other three were close around her, crowding in against the chair. In a moment they’d grab her arms from both sides, and it would all be over-

  Behind them, her office door opened.

  Her underclerk’s astonished face appeared, his mouth dropped open in astonishment-and that was all she saw of him, as one hairy hand appeared from behind him and shoved his head down and out of the way. Its owner trampled him with a roar of obscenities and hurled a dagger that thunked solidly home into the shoulder of the gloating attacker on Rensharra’s left.

  Who stopped grinning to shriek and reel away from her along the wall, cursing and groaning.

  “Mirt!” she sobbed. “Save me!”

  Before the words were out of her mouth, a second dagger hit the man right in front of her in the back of the neck. He spat blood at her, his eyes wide and staring … and he started to slump, dragging her chair with him.

  The third man backhanded Rensharra hard, tumbling her onto the floor atop the second man and the chair. Her eyes blurred with tears and a sudden burbling in her ears. Then he ignored her in favor of facing the new and bellowing threat who’d just felled two of his fellows.