Elminster Enraged

by Greenwood, Ed

  “Elminster!” two voices promptly shrieked together.

  Mreldrake spat out some curse or other, aghast … and discovered he’d spilled the dregs of his tea all over himself.

  Were they using a spell? No, they couldn’t be; it was the clever young noble and his doxy, who almost certainly hadn’t any talent for the Art between them, beyond being able to unleash magical trinkets they bought. They were shouting, no more and no less. Which meant Elminster must be someone inside Irlingstar, someone nearby in the castle.

  So Elminster must be in disguise, being as a certain imprisoned Mreldrake had already farscried every living person in Irlingstar, twice—including the two human skeletons walled up and forgotten in the foundations of the north tower—and not found Elminster.

  It had to be one of the war wizards!

  Rorskryn Mreldrake waited impatiently until the farscrying that the spell had preserved showed him the two war wizards—standing together, staring down in horror at what he’d done to Farland. Two of them, one with a hand that kept changing into different things—tentacles, polyps, strange nameless growths. A miscast shapechange spell … or, no, one being held always at the ready, for instant use against a foe!

  The other Crown mage wasn’t powerful enough to hope to cast a shapechange magic that was more than illusory, or that would last longer than the time the casting took. So this “Longclaws” had to be Elminster.

  Mreldrake stood up, carefully cast the spell that was now his crowning achievement, reached out into distant Irlingstar—and diced Imbrult Longclaws into so many ribbons of bleeding meat.

  Wizard of War Jarlin Flamtarge was unaccustomed to skulking, but he was young and agile and possessed a good sense of balance.

  So with Manshoon riding his callow mind and guiding him with the guile and wisdom of many dark years, he had moved through the castle largely unseen—and the few who had seen him had been swiftly silenced. Heh. Fear the unseen …

  All the shouting had come from this direction, so …

  He stole from room to room, until he was close enough to see and hear murmuring voices.

  “Linked, we’ll walk together, ready-armed, and approach prisoner after prisoner. We mind-touch each one, and so eliminate them from suspicion, until we find the murderer.”

  “Who must be in the castle. That sort of sustained attack can’t be worked through the wards.”

  Jarlin peered cautiously out the door of his room, whose former noble occupant now lay dead and out of sight.

  There they were, nodding and holding hands, swaying and saying incoherent things; establishing their linkage. And releasing each other, to turn and walk in his direction in smooth unison, truly united.

  Then came a dark swirling and much blood, as the shorter of the two war wizards collapsed in a welter of gore.

  The other Crown mage erupted into a ringing shout of anger and grief, the noble and his dancer whirled to cry to the drow, “Do something!”

  So Elminster was here—and the drow was Elminster!

  “Hide in the woman, of course, Old Foe …,” Manshoon said aloud, in Sraunter’s cellar. Then he bore down hard, making Jarlin an utter automaton for the moment. Your hands be mine, all of you mine to move …

  He forced Jarlin through the crackling, searing ward, into a charge at the shapely dark elf. Yes, pounce on Elminster and deliver a paralyzing touch spell, rather than trying to blast him from the cell with a battle spell.

  If this dark elf was a body Elminster had possessed, he could trap the Sage of Shadowdale in it, and hold the drow captive for torture and interrogation because there were things it could not do, that the unfettered Elminster could.

  Pounce, my pawn!

  Jarlin rushed, crashing through Gulkanun and then Arclath Delcastle, then leaping to grapple with the drow—

  Darkening air, as sharp as a razor, sliced down murderously at the lithely ducking drow—and cut Jarlin Flamtarge in two.

  “No!” His mind slapped with the wildly flaring agony of his dying pawn, Manshoon seethed, clutching his head and snarling in wordless rage. Who was this unseen slayer?

  Head ringing, he forced himself to straighten, then he bent all his strength to concentrating his will.

  He was the mightiest of mages, the emperor-to-be, not any of these puny magelings hurling nastiness around a prison castle! Not even Elminster had power enough to stand up to him! He would do what no other could manage, these days. He would reach back into that dead mind and force Flamtarge’s severed torso to work a spell. Just one.

  It would come unexpectedly from a dead man, and buy him the time he needed to frustrate this slayer, to keep him from killing Elminster before he, Manshoon, could capture Elminster and peel open his mind and force every sneering secret from him at last.

  Steeling himself, the future emperor of Cormyr cast a spell, wrapped it around his will, and flung his awareness at distant Irlingstar.

  The air glowed suddenly, the unseen blade of air audibly striking something unseen and magical.

  “You’re using the wards as a shield!” Arclath gasped.

  Elminster nodded grimly. There was another ringing shriek, as the air on the other side of the drow’s head flashed into brief radiance.

  “ ’Tis a man behind it,” El announced calmly. “One man, far from here …” Her face eased. “Gone. Didn’t want to be seen longer, and recognized. Which means it’s someone who thinks they will be recognized, by one or more of us.”

  “M-manshoon?” Rune asked.

  The drow shook her head. “No. His mind, I’d know in an instant.”

  “Naed,” Gulkanun gasped, behind them. “Oh, naed!”

  Hearing the horror in his voice, they whirled around—in time to see the severed torso of the young stranger writhe and spasm and shove at the flagstones to sway unsteadily upright.

  Dark, wet blood was still pumping out of it, and its hands glistened with gore, hands that moved in sudden, deft gestures as the torso swayed.

  Arclath cursed and drew back his blade to chop down those hands and ruin whatever magic was being worked, but Elminster flung out a swift and strong arm to catch and hold the young noble’s sword arm.

  “Someone afar is working through this dead man, to cast a spell I know. Let him work it. It will keep the unseen slayer out of this passage for some time.”

  “What if he goes on to cast something that fries us?”

  “Then I’ll let you chop him apart, bloodthirsty young Delcastle.”

  “Won’t Arclath be in danger, if he tries that?” Rune asked quickly.

  The dark elf gave her a grim smile. “Of course.”

  Manshoon groaned. He’d done it, but his head …

  Later. Give in to the pain later.

  Right now, he had to earn his superiority one more time, and beat everyone.

  He already knew the best “tracer” among the war wizards: Ondrath Everwood, a quiet and timid youngling who spent most of his days in a nondescript upper floor office of an unassuming building in Suzail—one of the Crown’s “hidden houses” in the city—farscrying for Crown and court, to order.

  Ondrath Everwood didn’t get out enough, to breathe fresh air and see the sun. So it was high time someone paid him a social call.

  The empty coach was bumping and rattling enough to jar anyone’s back teeth loose, but Mirt was in no mood to slow down. Boots hooked under the safety rail, reins wound around one arm and the driving whip in his other hand, he was making good time, by the gods, and—

  Naed, farruk, and hrast it, a road patrol!

  On the road ahead, the Purple Dragons were already hauling at their reins, getting themselves and their horses out of the way—but they were also flinging up their arms and bellowing sternly at him to halt.

  Mirt roared right back at them, giving them the password Durncaskyn had furnished him with, and not slowing in the slightest. He repeated it thrice, just to make sure—but as the bouncing, swaying coach plunged through them without incident an
d managed the next turn, the wheels on its left side squealing in protest, Mirt looked back over his right shoulder and saw that yes, by Beshaba, they were following him!

  And unless they’d mistreated their horses, Purple Dragons could certainly ride faster than he could lash these already straining nags to drag a coach along, even if it was empty—er, except for one over-padded Lord of Waterdeep …

  They were spurring their mounts, all right. Hrast them.

  Well, wondergods, what the Hells good was a password, if—oh, tluin!

  Across the road right ahead, as he came around a tight bend, were a dozen or so riders, all in a clump, riding together. Liveried men-at-arms, a banner, overdressed highnose in the center of it all … a noble, with a retinue. Filling the road, and not giving way.

  Mirt stood up and bellowed curses at them, waving his whip around and around above his head and making it clear he wasn’t going to swerve or slow.

  Now they were yielding way, the dolts, but—

  No! The lordling was pointing at the coach, and yelling in anger. Now he was shouting orders, and hrast it if they weren’t obeying like trained cavalry, swiftly forming a curve …

  If Mirt veered so as not to plow into them, their configuration would squeeze him by narrowing the clear road ahead, forcing him at a gentle angle off the road into an overturning crash in the ditch … or to a stop, to face their blades and disputations.

  With a sigh, Mirt hauled hard on the reins, and started making the whistlings and chirrupings that all horses in Cormyr seemed to know meant, “Stop. Now.”

  Dust flew, the coach groaned and bounced and landed with a crash and bounced again, reins flew amid rearings and loud, complaining neighings … and the snorting, blowing horses finally brought the shuddering conveyance to a halt. With the traveling lord and his armsmen ranged alongside it and in front of it, just as the farruking highnose had intended.

  “Get out of the road!” Mirt roared at him. “I’m on urgent Crown business!”

  “In Lady Dawningdown’s coach?” the noble shouted back. “I very much doubt it, thief!”

  He spurred his horse forward, to come up right beside Mirt. “Get down from there, or I’ll have my men drag you down!”

  “Get out of the way!” Mirt snarled, “or the king’ll have yer guts for his next garderobe seat!”

  Those words seemed to ignite the noble to screaming fury. He erupted in an inarticulate series of shrieks, that soon became a gabble of, “I care naught for the king!” and “How dare you speak thus, to your better!” and “I’ll have your tongue out by the roots for such rudeness, sirrah!” and other things Mirt didn’t wait to hear.

  Right out of patience, he unhooked the unlit but full coachlamp from its bracket beside him, and emptied it down into the noble’s shouting and oh-so-handy face, wishing he had flint and steel handy, or a ready flame.

  To the accompaniment of highborn retching and choking sounds, he tried to get the coach moving again, but several armsmen had firm hold of the beasts’ bridles and the harness, so with an exasperated growl Mirt swung himself down over the front of the coach, lurched along the trail and then into the saddles of his poor horses—and launched himself from standing on the foremost saddle right into the armsman holding that lead horse.

  The crash was satisfactorily bone jarring, and the armsman he’d landed on swayed in his own saddle, dazed and winded. The arms-man’s horse reared.

  Then everyone was shouting, and horses were plunging and rearing everywhere. Those fools of Purple Dragons had ridden headlong into the stopped coach and the noble’s men. In the heart of all the tumult and shouting, Mirt kept hold of the neck of the arms-man’s horse, kicked the man out of the saddle, fell back heavily into that vacated seat—and managed his loudest shout of the day, right into the horse’s ear.

  It reared again, bucked in the air, and came down running hard, on along the open road to Suzail, thank all the gods, with Mirt clinging grimly to the saddle.

  As the horse gathered speed in a lengthening gallop, he crouched low and murmured encouragement to it. Looking back, he could see some of the noble’s armsmen and a few Purple Dragons belatedly beginning to pursue him.

  Well, guts and garters, this just got better and better …

  It was almost too easy.

  Half a dozen eyeball beholderkin, unleashed to drift around young Ondrath Everwood, snared his attention long enough for him to curse, snatch out a wand to deal with them—and mumble a few frantic unheard words into the cloth Manshoon had slipped over his face from behind, before he went limp.

  The cloth was soaked with tincture of thardflower; the nigh-instant senselessness it brought on wouldn’t last long, but then, Manshoon didn’t need it to.

  He calmly teleported them both back to Sraunter’s cellar, where he bound the young war wizard into a chair. The alchemist didn’t have much call for cord, but the eyestalks of his death tyrants, and the long tentacles he’d augmented some of them with, would suffice. Besides, the fearsome decaying creatures looming silently above his captive would probably have a salutary effect on Everwood’s powers of agreement. As in: to anything, hastily.

  Those augmentations were going to be very useful in the near future, when he needed loyal courtiers around him. Not this rabble of double-dealing, self-interested slyjaws and malingerers that currently afflicted the palace. Yes, augmentations. Spending all that time farscrying those deluded cultists in the sewers of Waterdeep had been wearying indeed—but in the end, time not entirely wasted.

  Manshoon amused himself by magically purloining a grand meal from the tables and kitchens of a club on the Promenade, complete with wine, while he waited for the young man to revive.

  Ondrath Everwood was going to trace the Unseen Slayer.

  And then enter Manshoon’s service, either willingly—or as Manshoon’s new host body. It was time for Sraunter to once more become Sraunter. The soon-to-be emperor of Cormyr was becoming more than a little tired of dispensing little vials of lust dust to Suzailans hungry for a night’s conquest, or wrinkled wives desperate to reclaim the affectionate attentions of their husbands.

  A desolate Duth Gulkanun was on his knees in the spreading blood. The heap of sliced and diced meat in front of him was scarcely recognizable as his friend and colleague—but he’d watched Longclaws being murdered, right … hrast it … here. There in the gore, close enough to touch, some sucker-tentacle-things moved, one last time, turning … back into human fingers.

  “No,” he muttered, his lips trembling. “No, Imbrult. No.”

  Rune put a comforting hand on his shoulder. As if that had been a signal he’d been waiting for, the kneeling wizard burst into tears.

  “El,” Arclath murmured, as they stood over him, “what do we do now?”

  The dark elf’s eyes glittered with anger. She pointed at the two halves of the dead man who’d come rushing out at them. “That was a war wizard. See the ring, the robes? Which means there was at least one person—him—hiding in Irlingstar. Our Unseen Slayer might be another. It’s high time to really search this place, from top to bottom, accounting for everyone.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we’ll go into every last mind, until we find the killer.”

  “You shall be avenged,” Gulkanun told the remains of his friend fiercely. He got up slowly, and turned to Elminster. “You were talking of a search?”

  “Aye,” the drow told him. “Let it begin.”

  “Let it begin,” Gulkanun echoed grimly, and they set off to scour out Irlingstar.

  It had been easy, after all.

  Ondrath Everwood was busily and painstakingly farscrying Irlingstar. Which meant it was time to take care of a certain loose end by the name of Malver Tulbard.

  Manshoon went to his scrying spheres. The duties of Wizard of War Malver Tulbard included random inspections of certain Suzailan shops—including that of the alchemist Sraunter. Foiling him was easy enough, but an incipient emperor was apt to be very busy f
or the next little while, and it would be unfortunate if the man came blundering in and found Everwood, or discovered the death tyrants. So it was time to take care of thorough, diligent Malver Tulbard. Permanently.

  He’d long since discovered Tulbard’s weakness: buttered snails. Buttered snails served in spiced wine, to be specific. As prepared by either Gocklin’s or The Bright Sammaer, rival exclusive upstairs dining clubs along the Promenade. So if Tulbard wasn’t out prying into someone else’s business, he was likely to be at either Gocklin’s, or …

  There. Gocklin’s. The scrying image showed Tulbard clearly, alone at a back corner table, belching politely behind his hand as he applied himself to a second heaped platter of steaming hot snails.

  Manshoon teleported himself there, to a bare stretch of elegantly tiled floor beside an unoccupied table at the far side of the back alcove the haughty club staff had relegated the war wizard to—and fed Tulbard a generously fatal amount of stabbing lightning. It crackled all around the war wizard, clawing at a suddenly visible shielding around the astonished man … that collapsed to the floor but drank the last winking sparks of the lightning as it did so.

  Manshoon struck again, using the swiftest and most unobtrusive spell he had ready. A forcedagger, that struck invisibly wherever he pointed his finger. If Tulbard wasn’t wearing any protection over his heart …

  Ah, but Tulbard was. A molded, silk-sheathed throat- and chest-plate. Evidently other upstanding citizens had been annoyed by Tulbard’s diligence in the past. Or the man feared the entire world was out to get him.

  Manshoon settled for slicing the war wizard’s fingers to ribbons, and ruining the spell the man was desperately trying to cast.

  Snails finally forgotten, the man surged to his feet, so Manshoon obligingly hamstrung him.