by Ed Greenwood
Mirt nodded. "This fails to surprise me," he said, turning his head to see how Asper and Aleena fared. Beside him, Laeral toppled silently over onto her face.
Flames flared up from her body as it struck the floor, writhing, and Mirt roared out a heartfelt curse and a cry for aid. As he rolled the Lady Mage over, Asper ran for the door-and the alarm-gong on the wall just outside it.
Only his smallest belt flask held water, and Mirt dashed it into Laeral's face and pawed at her nose and cheeks to try to keep the flames at bay-greenish-yellow tongues of hot fire that seemingly rose from nothing. Magical fire, of course, damned wagonloads of praise be to Mystra, and all that. It ignored all of his ineffectual attempts to douse it; though it somehow didn't spread to him, the Old Wolf was heartily glad when the room suddenly filled with stern-faced Tower apprentices.
He was thrust aside in an instant, and the room erupted in tense castings and snapped orders and suspicious
II peering. Their health assured, Asper, Mirt, and Aleena vere thrust into chairs in the most distant corner of the room and sternly bidden to wait and not stir.
Just now, none of them felt like doing anything but sitting dazedly and letting the numb tingling die away. Young apprentices were still scurrying in with more chairs. Hard questioning lay in the future of Laeral's three unexpected late-night guests.
Amid the nervous tumult, a tall figure limped into the room. Aleena rose in a flurry of clanking armor to run to him.
"Gently, 'Leen," Piergeiron cautioned as she rushed to throw her arms around him. Scowling apprentices reached out to claw her back. Piergeiron made straight for the nearest chair, wobbling a little as he came. His face was tight and white with pain.
"Well, young lion?" Mirt said, looking into his eyes.
Those eyes were oddly green, a strangeness that seemed to grow as the Open Lord of Waterdeep collapsed into the chair and gasped, "Perhaps I'll live." As his daughter reached him at last and rained kisses on his face, he caught hold of both chair arms and shook himself, wincing.
"Weak as a gutter kitten," he hissed, waving Aleena back to her chair. "Now, will all the watching gods- or any of the rest of you-kindly tell me just what is going on?"
Mirt held up a hand to forestall anyone else saying anything and turned to the apprentice standing watchfully beside his chair. All four of them had acquired such sentinels, he noted, and they did not look entirely friendly,
"How fares the Lady Laeral?''
"That's not for me to say, merch-" the young wizard began, his voice as cold as the edge of a drawn blade. He fell silent in astonishment as a long, slender hand took hold of his arm from behind, and its owner followed, giving him a quelling look.
"I, too, perhaps will live a bit longer," Laeral told them, a wry smile on her lips. "A clever trap beneath the Harper enchantments-or at least, what I thought were Harper spells." She gave Piergeiron a friendly nod and turned her head to regard Mirt. "You were about to say something important, I believe?"
Mirt nodded and looked in turn to Piergeiron. "Tell us what you last remember-of what befell before you' ended up here."
The paladin drew in a deep, quavering breath, lifted his head to stare thoughtfully at the spell-scorched ceiling, and said, "I was… charmed by a spell, cast by one who came on me unawares, in private. A man, by the mind-touch, young and full of rage and excitement. He forced from my mind the names, faces, and abodes of all the lords of Waterdeep."
Around the circle of chairs and apprentices, there was a silent bristling, a sudden tension that was almost n gasp.
"He thanked me… mockingly," Piergeiron said slowly, remembering, "and then came around from behind me to bow-all sweeping arms and snooty flourishes, a parody of a courtier-and swept a sword from behind his back and ran me through. He wore a mask, and I don't think, if he'd removed it, I would have known him. His blade went through me-"
AJeena hissed in disgust and fear, and her father tlirew her a smile as he continued,"-and struck the back of my chair. That broke the charm, and I roared at him and rose. He tried to slash open my throat, but I managed to draw my own blade-"
Aleena was already holding it out to him, hilt first, in its scabbard. Piergeiron gave her another smile, took it, and laid it across his knees.
".-and he seemed disinclined to cross swords. He threw a spell into my face-force bolts that burned, like daggers stabbing. It threw me to my knees. He (led into the next room. I got there crawling-just in time to see his back foot vanishing through a gate."
"An oval of flickering fire?" Asper asked. "Cold flames? Shrank away after that?1'
Piergeiron gave her a thin smile. "Indeed. Is he a friend of yours?"
Asper gave him a withering look, and his smile broadened. "Forgive me, Lady," he said, "that was unworthy of me-and an insult to you. I fear my jests are apt to be awkward."
"Yet, look you here, Paladinson," Mirt growled, beckoning one of the Tower apprentices over. The wizard blinked back at him until Laeral gestured that he should heed the summons; Mirt gave him a false, sweet smile and plucked the silver harp pin from the man's hand, holding it out to Piergeiron with a flourish. "This matter does question friendships, as it happens."
The First Lord of Waterdeep peered at it. "Yes, the Harpers have always been friends," he said slowly, frowning. "Or perhaps had been until now."
"This has gone on long enough," Mirt growled, and lifted his gaze to Laeral. "Get Elminster to the palace, away from all your wards-and take all of us there, too, to meet him. Now."
As quickly as if she'cl been his youngest maidservant, the Lady Mage of Waterdeep nodded and trotted from the chamber, leaving her apprentices staring from her dwindling figure to Mirt, then back again. "Elminster," someone muttered, in tones of awe.
Well, quite the mighty savior wizard you were. A pity i'm not seeking much of the magic you promised.
[mind lash]
[pain] [mind lash] [writhing pain] [mind lash]
stupid human! Think i'll sit patiently to be duped forever?
[mind lash]
Half a world away, in a tomb deep under Myth Drannor, a glowing ring of wraithlike figures flickered like so many man-high candles, cold and white in the gloom.
Two darker figures stood unafraid in their midst, a man and a woman. "Enough talk for now, I fear," Elminster was saying reluctantly, raising his staff. "You've quite filled my brains with old spells and lost lore-and I'm sure you must be more than weary of my gossip."
"Nay, man," the closest baelnorn said in swift reply. "You two are the only visitors who bring us news of the passing world-the only ones to remember us. Even we grow lonely." He turned to face Storm Silverhand and added fiercely, "Lady-oh, 'twas good to hear songs again! Your voice is lovely."
"Aye," several other ghostly figures sighed in eerie unison.
The Bard of Shadowdale turned to give them all a smile, and replied, "My thanks. I cannot hope to match even a fair singer of Cormanth-"
"Ah, Lady," another of the tomb guardian spirits said, waving a dismissive hand, "our spells can bring back at any time the sounds of past songs sung to us. What we lack is new songs, and the singer alive and here, performing for us. Your kindness will give us much joy ahead, much to talk over-"
A sudden radiance of sparks kindled about Elminster's forehead. The wizard stiffened and swayed, pain flashing across his face.
— What befalls?" a baelnorn snapped, raising hands that glowed suddenly bright and dangerous. "Can we aid?"
Elminster's gaze rolled down, and he shivered. "N-nay, friends. A new peril has come to light. We shall return in time to coine, if we can. For now, we must go. Farewell."
Blue sparks swam before Storm Silverhand. She barely had time to be startled before they washed over her. The world became a place of endless falling through a blue glow.
Her boots were suddenly on uneven ground. Blue sparks were fading, and the smells around her were now clung and the sea, rotting fruit and cooking smoke.
"An
alley near Piergeiron's Palace, in Waterdeep," Elminster explained as her hand went to the blades at her belt. "Laeral farspoke me."
"And?" she asked simply, putting hands on her hips and pivoting to look around.
"Time to use thy tracing spell, lass-take thyself to any Harper pin in this city that's been tampered with or had other spells laid atop it. There'll probably be a man there who's good with blades. Keep thyself alive until I teleport to thee." He kissed Storm while she was still blinking and frowning at him, then whirled away, striding along the uneven cobbles toward the palace.
Its grand and lofty entrances seemed strangely- deserted. The doors to the private wing, however, were closed and guarded by two huge men who stood like expressionless titans in their closed helms and mirror-bright armor.
The Old Mage strode up to them without hesitation and reached between them to lift the ring-bar from the doors-and almost lost a hand to the halberds sweeping down.
The point topping one followed him as he scuttled back. Its wielder's voice was less than kind as he said, "None may enter without leave."
Elminster sighed. "Leave I have, goodsirs. Pray stand aside for Elminster of Shadowdale. I am in great haste, and for good reason."
"Elminster?" The guard's voice dripped with the skeptical sneer hidden behind his helm. "Aye, and I'm the Grand Pasha and Vizier Most Mighty of all Calimshan!"
"Who are you, really," the other guard snapped, his own halberd leveled menacingly, "and who gave you leave to pass? Of those not known to us by sight, our pass-list is very short, and I very much doubt you're anyone on it!" He backed to where he could easily and swiftly slap an alarm-gong with one swing of his gauntlet. "Well?"
"I am Elminster in truth," the straggle-bearded man replied quietly, "and I have leave to pass anywhere in the city-leave given to me by Lord Ahghairon of Waterdeep, long ago."
"Pah!" the first guard responded, throwing back his head. "You expect us to believe that?"
"I care not what you do or do not believe," the old man told them mildly, "but if you delay me longer, know this: I'll send you forthwith to where you'll end up anyway, if you retain the stupidity to deny an archmage anything."
The first guard drew himself up in triumph. "You would dare to threaten a Guard Confirmed of Waterdeep, in the very palace? Why-"
He thrust ruthlessly with his halberd at the old man- and the world suddenly changed.
Elsewhere, in dusty near-darkness, the two guards found themselves blinking at each other over their halberds, and then, slowly, trembling in fear.
They both knew very well where they were: the trophy hall that gave entrance to the Hall of Heroes, the warriors' tomb in Waterdeep's City of the Dead.
Elminster strode straight through lofty halls, anger and magic crackling around him. He scattered guards and courtiers like so much dust. As chamber gave way to chamber, the guards he faced were older. Not a few of them recognized him and stood aside with salutes. "Piergeiron," he snapped at the first pair of them not to do so. They swiftly opened the doors they were flanking and waved him in.
"No, Lord, I cannot," Laeral was saying firmly. "There are too many enchantments hereabouts, layer upon layer, hundreds of them, and many old and forgotten. If I could but touch him, I could put a tracer on him that few mages could break, but-"
Heads turned as Elminster joined the small, tense group of folk. They gathered by a lone lamp, within a watchful ring of silent Tower apprentices. Laeral, Mirt, Piergeiron, and Durnan nodded to him.
Asper bowed her head and murmured, "Lord Elminster, be welcome."
At her words, Aleena and Duman's wife and daughter stared at Elminster as if he'd suddenly grown several heads, each of them spitting flame.
"I may have a solution to that," the Old Mage told them, "but we must move swiftly; Storm is our bait, and stands in peril. All who would see battle and this affair done, gather around me now, touch me, and hold that contact steady. Apprentices, back to the Tower."
The ring of novice wizards wavered.
Laeral turned her head and said crisply, "Do as the Lord Elminster directs, please. Now."
The Old Mage did not wait for pleasantries or to watch the apprentices hasten out. Brief magefire flashed. The room was suddenly much emptier than before, leaving only Mhaere and Tamsil staring at their father, who stood alone by the lamp.
Mhaere frowned a little at her husband. "You… didn't go," she said, a question in her voice.
Diirnan strode over and put an arm around her and Tamsil. "You left your crossbow behind," he replied softly. "What might have befallen if the slayer had come here, after we'd all gone?"
With his free hand, he drew his sword. It gleamed in the lamplight. "Whatever else befalls in this world, I'll not lose you, if I can prevent it."
Bah! Weepy sentiment everywhere! This human's wits are addled-addled! What sort of fool lives his live wrapped in love of others?
The human sort of fool, Nergal. It's what we are, just as ye are the creature of Hell ye are.
Grrrr! Fall silent, captive ward!
They were suddenly elsewhere-a dark and cold elsewhere, with dust rising around them and the smell of stone strong in their nostrils. Underground.
Piergeiron slapped his armor, startling his daughter rigid, and willed it to come alight. It awakened in a pale blue glow.
By its radiance and Laeral's glowfire they could see they were standing in a high-ceilinged hall that looked empty but for the drifting dust. Many dark archways marked led to passages that ran off into gloom.
The radiance coming from Laeral's hands flared to almost blinding brightness. The Lady Mage of Waterdeep reached up to touch Piergeiron's head.
He gasped, shuddered, and stumbled away from her.
Laeral reeled and sank down to her knees. Aleena bent to catch hold of her, but Asper was swifter.
"Lady?" she asked quietly.
"I'll be fine," Laeral said calmly. "Piergeiron needs to be hale and whole right now, and I've made him so. I'll just be a little weak for awhile."
"Aleena," Asper said, "stay with her. Guard her-and if anyone wearing a mask comes anywhere near, scream your head off."
Piergeiron's daughter looked at Mirt, Elminster, and her father, collected their nods of assent, and knelt down by Laeral with an audible sigh of relief.
Mirt slapped Piergeiron's chest gently. He rumbled, "You know where we are, don't you?"
Piergeiron was staring at a coat of arms carved over a nearby archway, "I think so," he replied quietly, "and I tegin to suspect why."
He drew breath to say more-but Storm's long, raw scream came echoing down to them from somewhere far beyond the arch.
Asper, as always, moved first, racing like a dark wind through the archway. Piergeiron soon caught her up, his consecrated blade glimmering as he willed it to shine. Elminster sprinted along close at hand, leaving behind the puffing and astonished Mirt.
Along a passage they ran, then through two chambers of cobwebs and dust, and a third where a lone, scuttling spider fled their furious approach. In the fourth, light shone amid vaulted pillars, casting forth the shadows of two dark, struggling figures in leather. One was masked. His sword, glistening with blood, stood out of Storm's back. Impaled, she was struggling forward in agony, trying to reach him.
The masked man saw the new arrivals and raised his other hand. The many-hued flames of a ready spell were racing around it.
"Sssambranath," he said clearly and carefully, the first word of an incantation that would define what part of the chamber erupted in a racing storm of lightning bolts. "Naerth-"
His incantation broke off as Storm spat blood into his face, making him choke. The hilt of his blade was almost against her breast, now, and she clawed weakly at his masked face. He shook his head violently, ducking away from her as much as he could without letting go of his sword-but his spell was ruined.
No such misfortune befell Elminster. Swinging around a pillar to a panting stop, the Old Mage caught his breat
h and cast a careful spell. The room suddenly fell shimmering and silent.
Striding past where Asper was frozen in midleap, the Old Mage reached the two bodies joined by steel. He cast another spell with the same fussy care, touched Storm Silverhand to visit its effects on her, and gently took hold of her shoulders and tugged.
Wetly, she slid back along the masked man's sword, her eyes unseeing and her face twisted in pain. Elminster kept on pulling, wincing at the feel of the steel sliding out of her.
The longer he kept this ancient Illuskan spell going, the more pain he would feel. Yet it could be nothing compared with what Storm must be suffering. He'd sent her into this-the most rebellious of the three lasses he'd raised as his daughters, albeit centuries ago.
Gods above, but he'd forgotten just how much this could hurt.
The Old Mage set his teeth and dragged the Bard of Shadowdale a few unsteady, trudging steps farther, past the statue that his spell had made of Mirt. The Old Wolf was frozen in midstride, arms swung wide for balance and drawn steel in both hands.
Elminster knelt beyond him, wrestling with a snarl against the rising surges of agony that made his hands tremble. Mystra, how many times had he done this for this lass? And she for him? On her riven breast, he carefully laid out what he'd need for the healing spell. When he was done, teeth chattering with pain, he banished the spell.
At once the world was all loud, racing movement again. The pain was abruptly gone. For him.
El let Storm half-crush his hand in her own as she stared up at him, agony like fire in her eyes. Then he drew a deep breath and drowned out her scream with an iron command of his own. As Asper, Piergeiron, and Mirt charged at the masked man, the Old Mage's voice rang out over them like a battle trumpet: "Don't kill him. Yet."
Fires of Nessus. A room full of clever-tongued humans! Do i get to see them die?
No, but ye get to bear their talk of powerful magic- and I do mean powerful.
Ah! About avernus-freezing over time!