Elminster Enraged

by Greenwood, Ed

  Human spellbooks! Tomes and grimoires and mages’ traveling handyspells books, brought down into the Underdark from the World Above, the surface Realms El knew. Dark elves were collapsed over the pages or fallen back in their chairs away from them. These wizards had obviously been studying when the glaragh struck.

  El peered at this rune-adorned page and that, feeling the silver fire roiling within him; more, now, than he could comfortably carry. He could hurl it forth at foes, aye. If he did not, it would leak slowly away in his wake … or he could make use of it as he’d done a time or two before in his a thousand-some summers. Expend a trifle here and a trifle there, to brand particular spells from these pages before him into his mind for a good long time. Forever, if no silver fire burned them away again. Making them magics he could henceforth cast by silent force of will alone. Only a few, for each one he branded into his sentience stunted and constricted it. He must choose carefully.

  After he chose the best body to become his new home. He might need an excess of silver fire to break enchantments on it, or purge poisons or internal ills from it. Yes, he must find a body first.

  El coiled around the fallen priestess who’d been guarding the room of the tomes. A tall, sleek drow—or would have been were she not sprawled in her own drool all over the scuttling-spider-crowded stone floor of a citadel passage. Her arms and legs were flung wide, spiders biting them as if avenging years of slights.

  Aye, and that was another concern; any of these myriad fist-sized and smaller arachnids might be eyes and ears for the Queen of Spiders. El had no desire to fight scores upon scores of ruthless spider priestesses or the minions they could command, or earn the furious attention of an insane and rapacious goddess best dealt with when a restored and whole Mystra stood at his back.

  At last you reach the obvious conclusion that you must hurry, Elminster.

  “Yes, Mother,” El answered Symrustar mockingly. He was rewarded by a mental image of her giving him a witheringly scornful look, her face looming up so suddenly in his mind that he flinched. And promptly felt the warm flare of her satisfaction.

  “Not now,” he told her grimly, and he started to steel himself mentally, steadying and gathering his will. This might be rough …

  El hovered before the beautiful but alarmingly slack face of the priestess—then plunged down into her open mouth, seeking the nasal passages to drive up to storm and occupy the dark, hopefully empty mind.

  He was in! And it was empty; he was falling, plunging into unknown depths, rolling …

  There followed a few moments of whirling, sickening disorientation, a seemingly longer time of feeling queasily “not right” … and then the body was his, moving fingers then legs at his command, rolling over—and up, as lithely as he’d done in his youth on the rooftops of long-vanished Athalantar.

  He had a body once more!

  “Lady,” he asked aloud, the words coming out as a deep squawk at first, ere settling into a softer, higher-pitched echo of his former voice, “are ye still with me?”

  Oh yes, Lord Aumar. You’ll not be rid of me that easily.

  “Ah, lass, this is in no sense an attempt to be rid of ye—but if taking a body is this easy, it occurs to me that ye could have one, too, with my help, and take back thy fire and live on!”

  The reply, from the back of his mind, was slow in coming.

  That was cruel, Elminster. I am much too far gone for that. There’s not enough of me left to do more than think, and mindspeak. I can’t even … no. I can’t. If you tried to bestow silver fire on me now, even a little, it would rend what is left of me, and snuff me out like the candlestub I’ve become. I’m … I’m almost done. Don’t leave me.

  “Lady, I’ve no such intentions, I assure ye! I—”

  Always had a glib tongue. Let us speak no more of this, waste no more of the time neither of us has left. The silence of this citadel must have been noticed already. There are—or were—portals to other drow holds somewhere in this place; you may very soon have rather hostile visitors.

  “I—aye, ye have the right of it. The spellbooks …”

  Hurry, man, hurry.

  Elminster hurried, clawing through the keys he found on his new body’s belt with long, deft, able fingers. This shapely, graceful, and pain-free body was clad in diaphanous robes of a hue he hated, and covered with hrasted spider badges! Impatiently he tore at the cloth.

  That’s the El I remember. All shes should go bare, yes?

  “Lady,” he growled aloud—it came out as an angry purr—“ye’re not helping!”

  I will, Elminster, I promise. When I can, as I can. This I swear.

  The sudden fiery determination in the voice in his mind almost scorched him.

  Touched, El found himself on the verge of tears—larger, oilier tears than any of his human bodies had wept. He sniffled.

  Stop that. Spells, remember?

  “Yes, dear,” he replied mockingly. There was silence for a moment in the back of his mind, then the delicious thrill of a feminine chuckle.

  How many Chosen had paid with their lives, down all the long years? Do we mean so little to Mystra?

  Hurry.

  El rushed to the books, silver fire rising into his mind. He must be careful not to let it leak out of his fingertips and damage spells he might want.

  He must be careful, too, to choose those magics wisely. Yet he must hasten.

  El growled again.

  Aye, that purr was a delightful sound …

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  THIS PLACE Is DANGEROUS ENOUGH

  A small, high-flying cloud of mist crossed the great green sward of pastureland, rushing south for the stout walls of soaring-towered Suzail. Never sundered or driven aside, even by the strongest breezes, the mist headed straight for the capital of Cormyr, taking care to stay higher than any Purple Dragon bowman would trust his eye, and to seem mere wild wisps rather than anything manlike in shape.

  The half-ruined mansion of Dardulkyn wasn’t much of a welcoming familiar hearth. Nevertheless, the mist was heading home.

  One day soon, of course, this would all be his: every chase and pasture, every palace and high mansion and hovel.

  Yes, soon. The nobles were aching for a chance to take out swords and have at each other—the moment they’d finished butchering every hated courtier and the decadent, far-fallen ruling Obarskyrs. Divided, sick of old ways, and hungry for blood, they would be the toys of Manshoon.

  A Manshoon none could gainsay. The Netherese postured and sneered from on high, yet were so weak they must needs skulk to power in Sembia and elsewhere, taking command like thieves where truly mighty mages would boldly declare themselves and blast down all defiance.

  The Simbul might have fleetingly recaptured her sanity, but she was so feeble that she had to pretend to speak for a dead goddess, and wanted Manshoon—as well as her tamed lapdog Elminster—to pilfer enchanted baubles for her.

  Hah. Manshoon the Mighty had no need of magic items. Manshoon need never trifle with them again. Manshoon—

  That thought fled from him and was gone, as the towers of Suzail rushed up to meet him. A quickening sea wind brought the tang of salt, seaweed, and dead fish to him, for this mist could smell without a nose.

  One more curious little property of vampirism, Manshoon mused, as he drifted over the city wall. He rose higher as he swept on, not out of any fear of war wizard spells or watchers on the walls, but mindful of the wards of the noble mansions he passed over, that might—carelessly or otherwise—extend high into the skies above their turrets and grand gardens.

  His lofty vantage revealed something unusual on a street below. A small procession of grand walkers, the gleam of polished plate armor fore and aft, a man in a tabard in the middle … a Crown herald, flanked by what could only be a pair of wizards of war, a trio preceded and followed by two armored Purple Dragons. Big men, in the very best of armor; this must be an important formal call.

  Curiosity afire, Man
shoon arrowed down, taking care to keep directly over a street where no wards should reach. He should be able to recognize that tabard …

  Yes. He was spying upon the herald Dark Dragonet, and those were war wizards, all right. Veterans, by their looks, though he recognized neither of them. The escorting Purple Dragons were huge, muscled and stern-faced giants. None of the three they were escorting were anywhere close to smiling, either. Well, well. Bad tidings for someone.

  Manshoon drifted lower, just as the solemn procession arrived on the doorstep of Ambershields Hall.

  Soaring stone, bright-gleaming copper doors as high as two men, sculpted winged lions flanking them on a raised stone porch wide enough for twelve men to stand at ease: the city mansion of the Ambershields noble family. Stiff-necked lovers of tradition who’d resisted his attempts to corrupt them just as they resisted the reforms of King Foril Obarskyr. Strong shoulders supported heads of stone.

  Manshoon sank down into the ornate carved stonework surmounting the grand front doors of the Ambershields to eavesdrop. Dolphins and seawolves, sporting with merfolk and men with lances riding what looked like wyverns decorated the door; very warlike and striking, to be sure.

  “Nay, my orders are not to enter, but to deliver my message from the threshold,” the herald was telling the doorwarden. “Summon him, please.”

  If the mist could have crooked an eyebrow in surprise and amusement, Manshoon would have done so. Oh, this was better and better.

  Nor was the wait long. Staunch upholders of tradition, to be sure.

  “Yes?” Lord Ambershields gave the herald the briefest of nods.

  Dark Dragonet bowed, then declaimed grandly and formally, “Lord Ambershields is commanded to hear my words, in the name of the king!”

  As the noble nodded curtly, the herald swept on. “This same message is being delivered all over the city, right now, to all the heads of noble houses known to be in Suzail. King Foril Obarskyr, who sits the Dragon Throne and hath lawful and absolute dominion over all Cormyr, has taken to heart the misgivings of the foremost families of the land to many of his recent decrees. It is his most royal decision to cancel the Council of Dragons and spend the next season meeting personally with any and all nobles who desire to speak with him, to discuss privately and frankly their ideas for the governance and future of Cormyr, that all notions and wants be given fair and full hearing. The nobility of Cormyr are deeply thanked for attending the council and for their staunch love and caring for the realm, and are asked to return peacefully to their homes and the affairs they laid aside to attend, while a wiser King Foril considers what they have told him thus far, and begins these private meetings.”

  Lord Ambershields made reply to this with another curt nod.

  “Tender my thanks, good herald,” he said coldly, and he closed the door in Dark Dragonet’s face.

  The herald shrugged and turned away, waving the Purple Dragons to accompany him. A moment later, the Crown party was hurrying away to make the same proclamation to the next eager audience.

  Hovering above the door arch of Ambershields Hall in a pale writhing of mists, Manshoon gloated.

  “The Obarskyr grip on the Dragon Throne has become a last, frantic clutch,” he murmured to himself. “And it’s slipping. My empire will rise soon.”

  “Glemmeraeve soup,” Lady Marantine Delcastle announced with pride, setting the steaming tureen before them.

  Catching her son’s look, she added sharply, “Yes, I made it myself. Not catching the glemmeraeves—netting sea turtles is a bit beyond my skills—but I did all the rest. I do snare ground garanth.”

  Arclath gave her a wide, admiring, and genuine smile.

  She held his gaze suspiciously a moment longer, then relaxed into a smile of her own, deftly swept the lid off the tureen in a smooth move to prevent trapped beads of moisture from raining down on the table, and reached for the ladle.

  Wanting to hear all about what had been unfolding at court, Arclath’s mother had not only invited Storm and Amarune to a late eveningfeast at Delcastle Manor, she’d banished the servants from the room to “keep unwanted ears at a distance,” and was serving the meal herself.

  Arclath was clearly astonished, but carefully refrained from any comment on how well his imperious she-dragon of a mother did serving duties. Lady Delcastle was the deft and attentive equal of any smoothly gliding maid—and far, far politer than her usual self, to boot. Patient, too. Though she had professed to want to hear all the latest from court, which nobles had been saying and doing what, and all the clack about the future of Cormyr, she hadn’t yet pressed her three guests for gossip. She usually pounced on every uttered word, wheedling and threatening with fierce enthusiasm and without pause, as if in great haste to wrest forth the next juicy revelation.

  Seeing her smile grow increasingly strained, Arclath took pity on her. Her maid act was perfect, but who knew when all this forbearing would be too much, and she might explode?

  “I’m sure the herald’s visit was a surprise, Mother,” he said politely, pouring more wine for everyone before she could. “You’ll be wanting to hear something of what we’ve seen and heard, out and about in the city, yes?”

  “Indeed,” Lady Delcastle said gratefully. “I’m … less than patient in my desires to know whatever gossip may have reached your ears as to which nobles are obeying and supporting the king, which factions are crying open defiance, who’s posturing, and in what ways? Has the king made warning examples of anyone, yet? Has any jack or lass been sent to a very public bad end? I—”

  She abruptly clamped her mouth shut, shook her head fiercely, and relaxed into another smile. “Forgive me; I was starting to babble.” She shot her son a look, and added dryly, “Yes, dear, I was about to erupt. Your mounting fear was all too apparent.”

  “Your glemmeraeve,” Storm murmured, spoon in hand, “is marvelous.”

  “Thank you,” Marantine Delcastle said in genuine pleasure, taking up her own spoon. “You like the hint of mustard?”

  “Mustard and … daeradorn wine, in the snails … well simmered before you added in the garanth gravy,” Storm said slowly, savoring the last of a spoonful. “Beautifully done.”

  “Best soup I’ve ever had,” Amarune echoed softly. “I wish I could cook like this.”

  Lady Delcastle beamed. “You shall, Rune, you shall. I sport in my kitchens all too rarely these days, I’ll admit, but—” She interrupted herself with a slice of her hand through the air like an executioner’s axe. “Later. Gossip first!”

  Storm almost managed to quell a snort of amusement, which made Arclath say hastily, “Well, Mother—not that this will come as fresh news—the realm is still astir. The wiser and more loyal lords, such as Spurbright and Wyvernspur, are soothing and calming in all directions—and trying to get the most flame-tempered lords out of Suzail and back to their country keeps before more trouble erupts. While the likes of Lady Harvendur and Lady Dawningdown are working their usual verbal poison, spreading malicious rumors and setting as many lords and ladies at each other’s throats as they can. The entire city garrison of Purple Dragons is patrolling the streets in endless overlapping shifts—”

  “In crowds, not patrols,” Storm murmured.

  “In crowds, yes, to keep nobles’ bodyguards from fighting with each other. If a punch is thrown in a tavern, the Dragons flood in even before the shouting begins. The Crown is trying to keep trouble firmly sheathed.”

  “Amid an ever-increasing flood of noble complaints about the high-handed misuse of the soldiery against loyal and innocent citizens, I suspect,” Lady Delcastle said dryly.

  “Indeed. Some legitimate complaints, too.”

  “Oh? Such as?”

  “Well, for one, the Crown’s inability to ah, ‘eliminate or at least curb’ increasingly bold outlaw bands raiding in the northeastern reaches of the realm.”

  “The usual orcs and lawless blades, north of Hullack? Taking advantage of all the shouting and the lords all gathered i
n Suzail for the council?”

  “Some of that, but there have been some bolder raids than usual. Broadshield’s Beasts, for one, have been going right into towns, and not just by night, to—”

  He broke off as Storm tensed beside him, and his mother’s face changed. Following her gaze, Arclath cast a swift glance back over his shoulder.

  Unannounced and unescorted by servants, three silent visitors walked into the room, anonymous in long, dark nightcloaks. Their hoods were up, hiding their faces, and their hands—and any short weapons they might be holding—were unseen inside flared, long-hanging sleeves.

  “Purple Dragon forfend!” Lady Delcastle burst out, more astonished than afraid. “We are invaded!”

  She twisted a ring on her left hand, which obediently began to glow, ere springing to her feet to thunder, “Halt! Halt and reveal yourselves!”

  Arclath was already out of his chair, his sword sliding out.

  “Stay your steel,” the shortest, burliest—and nearest—of the three dark-robed guests snapped at him, “in the presence of the king!”

  Arclath knew that voice, even before its owner threw back her cowl: Wizard of War Lady Glathra Barcantle. The other two unhooded themselves more slowly, revealing themselves as Royal Magician Ganrahast, and … King Foril Obarskyr, the Dragon of Cormyr.

  Arclath bowed deeply to the king, and Amarune hastily bobbed to her feet to thrust back her chair and give herself space to kneel. Storm kept her seat but smiled and nodded a friendly wordless greeting to the aging monarch—and Marantine Delcastle went right on giving him her best glare.

  Ignoring the wand in Glathra’s hand that rose to aim right at her, the matriarch of Delcastle Manor spat, “Is there a reason for this unwarranted, unwanted invasion of my home? Has Cormyr fallen so far that we no longer ask admittance, sending heralds ahead to request the honor of a meeting? Is the realm at war? Or have you just utterly forgotten due courtesy and the rights of citizens—those same rights you daily trumpet and hurl in every highborn face?”