Elminster Enraged

by Greenwood, Ed

  Another arrow found another wizard, with the same grisly result. And another.

  Then the outlaws came charging down out of the trees, bows in their hands, loosing more black arrows as they came. Rune could see the bladders bound to the arrows as Beasts ran right past her.

  The outlaws ignored her and Arclath and even the armored Purple Dragons, spending all of their attention—and arrows—on the Crown wizards.

  Who suddenly broke and fled back into the forest from whence they’d come. The outlaws raced after them.

  “Let not a one of them live!” they heard Broadshield bellow. “Kill them all!”

  The walls of fire suddenly moved to try to block the pursuing outlaws, but they merely turned and outran them, crashing out of sight amid the trees.

  Arclath shook his head. “I thought I knew the realm,” he muttered, “but this … this is beyond belief. Outlaws hunting wizards of war like game birds—or vermin—in the forest!”

  “Catch those horses!” a Purple Dragon ordered other Dragons, pointing. Then he trotted over to Arclath and Amarune, his sword drawn. It was the lionar who’d earlier given the orders to “ride hard” from the first volley of outlaw arrows, and later to retreat from the barrier.

  “Prisoners!” he snapped. “Come with me.”

  Arclath hefted his loop of chain meaningfully, but the lionar gave him a look of disgust and said, “Don’t be a fool, lord. We’d all welcome the excuse to kill you—defending ourselves in the thick of your hired outlaw attack, mind—and be able to turn back rather than riding on to Irlingstar. There are dangerous outlaws in these woods!”

  Arclath let go the loop and spread his hands.

  “That’s better,” the sandy-haired officer told him. “Now mount up—we’ll help, if you need it. Our way on now stands clear.”

  There was nothing left of the barrier but ashes and a few laggard wisps of smoke. The walls of fire still raged off to one side of the road, but there was ample room to lead the snorting, balking horses past the flames and over the hot ashes, and on.

  Rune didn’t disdain Arclath’s help in mounting, as the few surviving Dragons handled them both with more speed than gentleness, as they hurried to get them past the battlefield. The fallen, both outlaw and soldier, and the surplus riderless, wandering horses were abandoned without a backward glance.

  “We must hurry,” the same Dragon, who seemed to be in command, told them curtly. “Make no unnecessary noise.”

  No sooner was his back turned and the horses were on the move, then Rune leaned close to Arclath. “Those arrows—what were they?”

  “Black-painted shafts with bladders of acid attached to them. Black dragon acid,” he replied grimly. “How they work, exploding inside a body like that, I’m not quite sure. How they got that much black dragon acid in the first place, and what they make the bladders from, that the acid doesn’t eat through them in the space of a swift breath—now that I’d dearly love to know!”

  “Silence!” the nearest Dragon snapped.

  Arclath rolled his eyes and gave the surrounding Realms silence. Just as mute, Rune rode thoughtfully at his side, more than a little shaken.

  The alchemist’s cellar was crowded—and stank. Death tyrants rotted; it was one of the things death tyrants did. Thrust together along one wall, their eyestalks interlaced, they still took up more room than most men would find comfortable.

  Yet Manshoon, currently inhabiting Immaero Sraunter’s body, was certainly not like most men.

  He was calmly reclining on what was left of the undead beholder that was in the worst shape of all in his slave stable, a half-collapsed mass of festering putrefaction, thoughtfully studying a lone glowing white sphere that floated in midair above him.

  In its depths could be seen a fast-moving but silent scene of a battle on a forest road where gouts of green flame were erupting, Purple Dragons were dying, and outlaws were loosing arrows everywhere.

  Beside him, perched gingerly on a stool and staring up at the same unfolding entertainment, was a middle-aged woman of nondescript looks who was obviously terrified and on the verge of being violently sick thanks to the reek of the death tyrants. Thus far, terror was overriding nausea.

  Aside from the cowed woman herself, only Manshoon knew who this woman really was—though a great many courtiers in the nearby palace would have recognized the trembling man she’d been before Manshoon’s spells had altered her. Manshoon had compelled the disgraced suspected traitor Palace Understeward Corleth Fentable to flee the palace. Now Fentable was with him in the cellar, ready to be a replacement body—someone unfamiliar in Suzail—if Manshoon needed to depart Sraunter for any reason, and in the meantime to be a “pair of hands, plus audience” assistant.

  More than once, as the fighting on the distant Orondstars Road unfolded, Manshoon chuckled at what he saw. That did not make the cowering Fentable relax much.

  When it was done, the much-diminished prisoner escort hastening on along the road, Manshoon waved a hand to dismiss the scene, rose, and stretched.

  “No sign of Elminster,” he murmured to Fentable, “so I have destroyed him! I have! Hmm … unless he sent these wizards of war. And they are clearly the outlaws’ intended quarry, not the prisoners nor their escort. The outlaws were hoping the Crown mages would appear, were ready for them, are eager to hunt them now; their attack on the escort was purely a lure for the mages. So what makes lawless plunderswords bold enough to openly attack—to chase—war wizards? Or what scares or coerces them so well that they prefer facing battle spells to turning on the one that sent them?”

  Somewhere else—somewhere furnished with gibbering mouthers as seating, not rotting death tyrants—two watchers beheld the same battle. They saw it in the depths of Manshoon’s scrying sphere, too, because they were watching Manshoon.

  Unlike the vampire’s magic, theirs conveyed not just the image of the alchemist’s cellar, but all the sounds from it. The taller watcher had mastered stronger scryings than Manshoon commanded more than two thousand years ago, as well as the habit of often watching what certain others were up to. Which was one of the reasons he was still around to watch anything.

  “Broadshield’s men initially employed ordinary stag arrows because they didn’t want to waste their most valuable shafts on heavily armored Purple Dragons. Or kill the prisoners, who are the prizes they daily seek,” he explained to his fellow watcher.

  “Prizes … for ransoms?”

  “Indeed. They convey their catches—all nobility of Cormyr—to upcountry hunting lodges in Sembia and there deliver them to freedom. After wealthy noble relatives of the prisoners yield up stiff ransom fees.”

  “And the poisoned arrows?”

  “They saved those for the foes they know they must eliminate: the wizards of war. Every attack on prisoner escorts is made not just to gain prisoners for ransom income, but in hopes of bringing Crown wizards within reach, so Broadshield’s Beasts can slay them.”

  “I’ve not seen arrows that could rend a target in an explosion before. Those blasts sprayed acid, yes, but it wasn’t … black dragon spew, was it?”

  “It was. Broadshield’s ‘dread arrows’ burst inside the bodies they strike, as their attached acid bladders react with a certain substance smeared on the arrows. The blasts emit the flesh-melting acid, of course. They’re meant to make targets die horribly—and usually succeed.”

  “How do these Beasts get black dragon acid?”

  “They work with—or more properly for, though they haven’t quite realized that yet—a black dragon that lairs near the isolated border region they roam in, one Alorglauvenemaus by name.”

  “And the ‘certain substance’ you’ve not named, that reacts with the bladders—how do you know about it?”

  The taller watcher smiled. “Who do you think gives it to Broadshield? Manshoon is far from my only toy in the Forest Kingdom.”

  “I … see.”

  At that moment, the distant Manshoon banished the scene he’d
been watching and mused aloud. Both watchers listened with interest—and one of them with amusement, too.

  “So what makes lawless plunderswords bold enough to openly attack—to chase—war wizards?” the distant would-be emperor of Cormyr asked his cowering assistant. “Or scares or coerces them so well that they prefer facing battle spells to turning on the one that sent them?”

  The two watchers exchanged smiles. Then the taller one looked at the image of Manshoon and drawled, “What, indeed?”

  “You just ran from battle, leaving your wounded fellows and the wizards of war who came to your aid to die?”

  Arclath’s question was loud and incredulous, so all the Dragons crowded around could hear. They’d ridden hard, until the horses were exhausted and stumbling, and a halt and rest had become a forced necessity.

  “We have our orders to fulfill,” the ranking Purple Dragon officer—the sandy-haired lionar, who had thrice refused to give his name—snapped. “They do not include tarrying to fight pitched battles with brigands on ground of our foe’s choosing. We are charged to deliver the two of you—without delay—into lawful custody in Castle Irlingstar. Rest assured we’ll seek Broadshield’s Beasts during our travel home. Which must be along this road, seeing as there’s no other.” He turned his head and ordered savagely, “Mount up!”

  “But sir, the horses—”

  “Hrast the horses! If I’ve had enough rest, they’ve had enough rest!”

  “Oh, well then,” Arclath said brightly, “I’ll ride you. Because my poor mount is still weary. That’ll give your poor beast a bit more rest, too!”

  “Lord Delcastle,” the Dragon officer said icily, “pray belt up. The law against ‘incitement’ gives me all the justification I need to gag you securely, so none of us will have to hear one more word out of you, if I so desire—and right now, my desire to do so is mighty strong and growing stronger, believe you me!”

  “Easy,” Rune murmured to Arclath, out of the side of her mouth. “There’s such a thing as carrying the ‘irritating idiot noble’ act too far.”

  Arclath gave her an ‘I know that well’ wink and bowed deeply—and silently—to the lionar. The Dragon officer let out a sigh of exasperation that was almost a roar, turned on one spur-booted heel, and strode to his horse.

  This time, Arclath was carefully assisted in mounting by no less than seven Dragons. Their handling was precise and gentle, and included gentle pats of encouragement and support. What he’d said to the lionar was obviously popular.

  The ride was short. As it happened, they had halted only a dozen or so dips and bends before the gates of their destination.

  “Castle Irlingstar,” the lionar announced tersely and unnecessarily, as their road ascended the ridge to the stark and towering walls of a smallish keep that seemed to grow up out of the rocks rather than perch atop them. No moat, of course, nor fields, walled or otherwise—and not another building or steading or other sign of human habitation to be seen. Just the fortress, all alone in the cold wind, amid uncounted rising rocks. The road ended at its gates.

  Without war horn flourish or signal, the portcullis clattered up to admit them … into a gloomy roofed-over forehall that smelled strongly of horses, thanks to the open stalls that lined one wall. A dozen-some fully armored Purple Dragons were waiting for them.

  Two galleries overlooked the forehall, and folk lined both. Guards with ready crossbows—who looked almost eager to use them—to the right, and grim, glowering men in rather dirty fine clothing lined the larger gallery to the left, flanked by guards; prisoners, gathered to measure the new additions to their ranks.

  By their leers and murmurs, they hadn’t failed to notice that Rune was not only a woman, but a female who looked both younger and prettier than an old boot or a chamber pot bucket. When she looked up and gave them a wink and a smile of flirtatious anticipation, the murmurs leaped in both hope and volume.

  “Dalliance later,” the head of the gathered fortress guards said crisply. “For now, come with me. Lionar, I thank you for the safe delivery of these prisoners. A meal is ready for you in the lower hall. It may not be up to the usual standards, but you’ll soon hear the ‘why’ of that. Prisoners, you are to accompany me into the presence of the lord constable of Irlingstar.”

  “Delighted,” Arclath replied heartily, as if being ushered into a meeting with a duchess he very much wanted to seduce.

  “Why, it will give me the greatest of pleasure …,” one of the fortress guards murmured mockingly. Evidently earlier prisoners had adopted a manner similar to Arclath’s upon their arrival.

  Wisely, Arclath took the hint, saying no more during their brief journey up several flights of stairs within a watchful ring of guards who had maces and daggers ready, other than to remark once, “These chains are heavy, you know!” and later, “Do we get to see the seneschal after the lord constable? My father gave me a message for the seneschal.”

  “The seneschal,” the guard right behind him said grimly, “is dead.”

  “Oh, my,” Rune piped up, before Arclath could say more and get himself into real trouble. “An accident or ailment, or something darker?”

  “The lord constable will tell you all you need to know,” was the firm reply she got, plus the firmer order, “No more talking!”

  There wasn’t time to ask anything else and get a reply, even if Amarune had wanted to defy the guards. They were on their last, short stretch of gloomy passage on their way to a closed door, the few wall torches low and waveringly dim in their blackened brackets.

  At their approach the door swung open, guards saluted, and a grim-looking man behind a desk eyed his two newest prisoners rather wearily.

  He made a swift hand-signal, and Arclath and Rune were settled into chairs fitted with hooks for their their chains to clip into, to keep them seated. Then all but two of the guards withdrew, closing the door behind them.

  “Well met,” the man on the other side of the desk said dryly, stroking his mustache. “I am Lord Constable Gelnur Farland, and you will be Lord Arclath Delcastle and, ah, Goodwoman Amarune Whitewave.”

  “We are indeed,” Arclath agreed eagerly, with a wink.

  Farland eyed him coldly. “You have something in your eye, lord?”

  “Ah, no, no,” Arclath replied, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial croon.

  “You have a nervous tic?”

  “No.” Arclath winked again, firmly.

  “You fancy me?”

  “Ah, well, no, as it happens.”

  “Then why are you winking at me?”

  Arclath hesitated. “I was, ah, attempting a nonverbal signal, saer.”

  “I rather thought as much. Why?”

  “In order to communicate with you.”

  “Yet your tongue seems in fine working order, your vocabulary adequate …”

  “What is said can be overheard, saer, and we are not alone.”

  “Nor are any of us here in Irlingstar, ever, except when locked in cells for slumber. This is a prison, lord, not a club or a rest retreat for idlers. Anything you want to say to me can be said before these two loyal Purple Dragons, who are present to witness all that befalls between us. And the very thorough body search I’m afraid each of you will undergo, before you depart this room. These are long-established rules, and only the Royal Magician and the king himself can break them.” Farland leaned forward across his desk and added more coldly, “You will discover we have a lot of rules, Lord Delcastle, and none of them are for breaking. Unless you yourself desire to be broken, in your attempts.”

  Arclath glanced at Rune, who gave him a helpless shrug. The lord constable watched this exchange, and asked politely, “Is there anything you wish to say to your fellow prisoner, Lord Delcastle?”

  “Much,” Arclath said happily. “She is my partner.”

  “In crime? Worry not, you’ll be kept far apart. For her own safety, Goodwoman Whitewave will be confined far from the other prisoners, for at the present time she is I
rlingstar’s only female guest.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Lady Raelith succeeded in starving herself to death a tenday ago.”

  “Excuse me, Lord Constable,” Rune said firmly, “but the king told us we would remain together in Irlingstar, Arclath and I, when he sent us here.”

  The man behind the desk stared at her incredulously, then threw back his head and roared with laughter. The guards standing behind the prisoners’ chairs joined in.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  THE LORD CONSTABLE Is LESS THAN WISE

  Lord Constable?” Rune asked politely, when all the laughter had died down. “Just what is so amusing?”

  Farland regarded her almost fondly. Grinning from ear to ear, he asked her, “You expect me to believe you?”

  “I have no expectations whatsoever regarding you, saer,” she replied calmly, “yet I have spoken the truth. Ask Lord Delcastle.”

  This produced a fresh explosion of laughter. It died down into Farland asking her, “D’you really expect me to take the word of a prisoner for anything?”

  “Why not? He is a lord of the realm.”

  “As is every prisoner here except you, Goodwoman Whitewave. Yet I’ve somehow failed to acquire the habit of believing any of them.”

  Rune sighed and looked at Arclath. “What do you think the king will do to this man upon learning he refused to cooperate with us?”

  “Hand him over to Vangerdahast,” Arclath replied. “Or Glathra.”

  Farland’s face changed. “Glathra?” he snapped.

  “Wizard of War Glathra Barcantle. You know her?”

  Farland’s hand strayed toward his throat then fell back.

  “Leave us,” he ordered the two guards curtly.

  “But lord—”

  “They’re both chained,” Farland said testily. “If you hear furniture crashing, rush in again. In the meantime, stand well away from the door and don’t try to overhear.”

  He waited stonily until the guards had gone out and closed the door behind them, then said, “Vangerdahast is dead and gone, or turned into a dragon if you believe the legends. So that much I know is no more than a false threat … but how did you know of my connection to G—Lady Glathra?”