by Ed Greenwood
Hail elminster, archmage of shadowdale, he thought mockingly.
Hail Nergal, Lord of Hell, came the mocking reply.
Rage flared like bright fire in the tentacled archdevil, but he wrestled it grimly down and slipped deeper into the human's mind as gently as if he was a lover come to caress, and not a ravager come to seize and destroy.
Let us begin again, little pig of a human.
[mind lash, pain, savage diabolic grin, rending bright images, hurling, burrowing, clawing aside more]
Aha! What have we here?
[images surging]
The chancellor's eyes were black and glittering. He might have been one of the ravens of the battlements as he turned on her.
"We've heard lies to spare from you lips, my lady," he said coldly. "Speak truth to me, and soon, or I may just decide to waste no time on you ever again."
Suddenly his fingers were in her hair, tearing, hauling Silaril roughly to her knees. His rings were cold against her cheek as his sword grated from its scabbard.
"I have had enough of your twisted words, 'Lady.' I have been patient too long."
Steel stung SilarU's throat. She forced herself to remain silent, her face still-but she could not stop her chest heaving, brushing the arm that held her captive.
The chancellor knew her fear and smiled slowly and coldly. "I will now hear truth from your pretty lips. If you refuse, or speak falsely, your body will taste some truth from this sword. My patience is at an end."
Now, what was that, I wonder? Pity the rest is gone. We archdevils are so mighty, you know, that even when we're trying to be oh-so-careful, sometimes things just get… Broken. Clever human wizards, for instance.
I understood thy heavy-handed point, Nergal. Have ye something particular in mind for thy viewing pleasure."
No, mage, i let you lead me long enough-and a fine, long, and wasted road you led me on, too. I believe i'll look where i will, without your guidance-and just might thereby find what i'm seeking without a lot of clever racktalk from a human whose life hangs by the thinnest of threads.
[silence]
[diabolic chuckle]
[images swilling]
Somewhere in the Stonelands, Manshoon raised his head and looked back the way he'd come, coldly and calmly. The reek of rotting flesh was strong around him. His nostrils twitched at the sharp stench. For a moment he remembered his first fearful experimentation with zombies, in a crypt far away and long ago…. One never forgot the smell.
[diabolic sigh, more images flung side, others torn apart]
All right… This one!
The skull watched all of this, nodding knowingly from time to time.
Bah! Nothing left…
[more images shining proudly]
The other beholder turned an eyestalk or two to gaze at its fellow. "Can we defeat Manshoon, were he to gain spellfire?"
The first eye tyrant bobbed slightly in the air. If it had possessed shoulders, the movement might have been a shrug. "See how easily he's swayed to our bidding now," it said, in tones cold with scorn. "A mighty tyrant and mage as humans reckon such things, to be sure-but blinded with lusts and mistrusts and paranoias, need for power, hunger for triumph. He's a stunted, twisted thing. Spellfire could not right all that."
The second beholder blinked. "Agreed."
Amusing, elminster. A warning for me, i suppose? Oh, so amusing. Well, if you're going to persist in trying to meddle in my searching, show me one of the seven right now! Show me-storm!
[pincers like claws of steel gripping fiercely; dark will set afire with rage bearing down hard]
[pain]
[satisfied snarl]
[pain]
Show me, wizard!
Moonlight traced the magnificence of a bare shoulder as Storm Silverhand rose on one elbow and put a firm hand over Elminster's mouth. "Stop dispensing twaddle and go to sleep," she told him, not unkindly, and moved her hand to his chest, thrusting him back flat on the bed.
He drew breath to protest as to the importance of what he'd been trying to say.
She put her mouth down where her hand had been, thrust her tongue into his mouth, and said along its thrilling length, "Go to sleep, I said. Despite my provocations to the contrary."
That seemed like a good idea to Elminster, drifting numb and wearily in floods of chaos that no longer brought pain to his bruised and battered wits. He found a dark cavern that was undisturbed as yet, where the memories were covered with the dust and cobwebs of long neglect, curled up therein, and let Avernus fade away from him as Toril was beginning to do.
No, don't go to sleep on me! I am not pleased.
Are you going to show me every last kiss you've received in your overlong, miserable life, human? You try my patience too far!
[searing mind lash, bright bursts of pain, shredded memories tumbling]
Well, wizard? Speak to me!
[pain, writhing, gasping struggle to mind speak]
Every memory shown ye, devil, is one lost forever to me. To show ye every last thing, and lose it all, would not be the act of a sane man.
And are you a sane man?
[silence]
Well?
[grim silence]
[diabolical laughter, booming and roiling through every dark corner of a shuddering mind]
"This is ridiculous!" Rathan cursed as they hurried down the stairs, leather creaking and mail jangling. "Up tower and down! Why can't all these craven fools march up to the gate and declare themselves, like in the children's tales? Twould be far easier on my aching feet!"
"I'll try to remember to tell them that," Torm called back merrily. "I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding and that anxious regard for your bunions is and will be the first and overriding concern of all armed Zhent war parties who show up in the dale a-raiding!"
Rathan's reply was a heartfelt roar of anger. He felt for the flask of firewine at his belt as he ran down the steps, bouncing and lurching. Three turns farther, he got it unstopped and up to his lips-which was about the time his elbow had a brief but painful meeting with a protruding block in the stone wall.
Firewine stings when dashed into the eyes, and overweight priests of the goddess of good fortune throw all caution to the winds when pursuing holy business. So it was that Rathan was off balance and moving far too fast. Momentarily blinded and fumbling with his flask stopper when he should have spared a hand for the rail, he launched himself where he imagined the curve of the stairs to go.
He was regrettably mistaken.
The wall was unforgivingly hard, almost triumphant in its bruising resistance, and it was curved. The stairs were similarly hard, worn smooth by years of many feet, and pitched in a steep descent. Rathan was large, round, and loud in bellows and roars of pain. He bounced off the wall once, twice, thrice, ricocheted from the central pillar, tumbled down over the edges of three very sharp steps, and struck the curving outer wall again, liberally doused with lubricating firewine this time and driven into a more or less helpless ball.
Tymora encourages her faithful to take chances, but Rathan Thentraver was neither a slender nor energetic man. His armor was more impressive to the eye than it was to the sword-or to immovable stones.
His precipitous descent down the stairs began with a startled shout and a clatter and commenced to acquire the full-throated thunder of crumpling armor and a hurtling, heavy body that is embracing its fate with holy rage rather than the silence of acceptance or insensibility.
Torm was not slow of wit or foot, but he could jump only so high before negotiating his own inevitable meeting with stone walls, steps, or ceiling. His frantic leap to avoid his bouncing, rolling friend failed. He rebounded from the ceiling down onto the whirling armored ball. With a stream of colorful curses all his own, Torm was swept down the stairs in similar rolling tumult.
The smile of Tymora brought a Zhentilar guard captain striding into the antechamber. The crossbows of his men had cleared the tower entrance of guards and driven
the few defenders into flight out through the kitchens. His duty was clear. "Open yon door," he snapped, through the din of shrieks, laughing men, and horses thundering past outside.
Obligingly, his men did so, blades and bows at the ready. A spiral stair awaited-thankfully without guards or any traps. The boldest guard took a cautious step forward and peered up into the gloom.
"Well?" the guard captain snapped.
"There's something," the soldier replied, with a frown. "A sort of crashing…"
The officer snorted. "A 'sort of crashing? What son of crashing?"
Rathan's hurtling form rattled around the last bend, bounded off the edge of a particularly hard step, and sailed down into the antechamber like a large, jagged armored juggernaut. He smashed the guard captain to the floor like an angry cook dashing an egg. Zhents scattered as a raw groan arose from the wreckage, A ribbon of blood slowly followed, and the soldier at the doors turned and snarled, "That sort of crashing. Sir." Crossbow leveled, he grimly approached the chaos of armor plates and heaving flesh.
The smaller, much quieter ball of Torm hurtled out of the doorway and struck his legs. With a crack, the crossbow fired its bolt into the nearest Zhent. The bowman's head cracked almost as loudly against the floor.
Torm fetched up against Rathan in a cursing, panting tangle. "So how are your bunions, Old Barrelhead?"
Rathan's reply was long and loud and extremely colorful. Tymora was not visibly present to wince and cringe, so Torm did it for her.
Well, that was impressive. Not useful, but at least impressive.
[images plunging]
"It is my hope, Lord, that you never find out," Tessaril replied, her eyes grave. As she spoke, there was a sudden crash, inside.
Another crash? Hmmm. The rest is lost. Another human wench, this one with eyes like smoke. Nothing but a snippet left… but is this not her face again, over here?
"Now," Tessaril said, "we wait. Would anyone like something to eat, before conquering Zhentil Keep?"
Bah!a snippet only, again-i could have sworn there was more…
If ye handled my remembrances more gently, devil, ye might see more. There was more to that… but "was" is the right of it, now;ye destroyed it!
Don't tell me what to do, little man! Nergal will rummage as he pleases!
[mind lash, pain, frenzied rushing images]
They chuckled, and then the Royal Magician of Cormyr lifted an eyebrow and asked disbelievingly, "This little maid called Shandril?"
"Aye, Shandril. She didn't know that no one dares attack Manshoon in his lair-so she went ahead and attacked him."
Again the little maid of spellfire. You have spellfire too, do you not?
[silence]
Elminster! Elminster!
Sorry, devil, I was in too much pain to bear thee….
Cute ploy, human. Cute. Never mind-I'll search without your help or clever comments.
[images spinning]
bah! I want to see another op your real memories, something clear and lengthy and useful tome… something vivid and relevant about one of the seven sisters coming into her power. give such a memory to me, and give it now. storm seemed to work last time. she's been your lover a time or two, hasn't she? give me storm-and then another of the seven.
Nearby, a heap of twisted Zhentarim bodies heaved, shifted, and convulsed. Out from under it emerged a bloody, panting, wounded Storm.
Aha! More, and not destroyed! I can do it!
Silence fell over the field of the fallen.
[growl] Well, I destroyed only part of it. There's n- But what's this? The shandril wench again?
"Ye must join the Harpers, lass," Elminster said gravely.
Shandril looked up at him with something like spellfire glinting in her eyes and replied, "1 'must? Why?"
The Old Mage shrugged. "Somehow," he said in a dry voice, waving a hand at the smoking destruction around them, "ye must learn when not to start something like this."
Bah! You teaching, yes, but what use can I make of it?
[images clawed aside, whirling]
"I can't be bothered wasting spells on them. Hang them, for the citizens to watch."
"You'll watch from the balcony as usual, Lord?". "No. I have work to do, and one death upon order is very much like another. There are things in life that give me greater pleasure… and far greater amusement."
Who was that?
Manshoon, a mage cleverer than some give him credit for, playing the sinister ruler of Zhentil Keep, some time ago.
And who are these buffoons, here? I've seen them in your mind before….
Adventurers. The Knights of Myth Drannor.
Might they be talking of magic?
Those two talk only of drink, riches, women, brawling, and magic, so ye've a one in five chance….
Hmmph. Better odds than some you've given me.
[chosen image rushing up large and bright]
Torm coughed. "Ahem," he began, artlessly. "By all the good watching gods, lords and ladies gentle, be of good cheer! Tis a mighty day, to be sure. Rathan the Mighty rides again, and I with him. Full five score times ago did I first sally forth, blade in hand (leaden rapier though it's oft proved to be), to inflict this priest upon thee. Thou hast stood up to his sermons both manfully and woman-fully, as thy styles most rich and various bid. Certes, this heartens me, wherefore I bid ye: once more into the hungry, grim-a-visaged fray, b'yr deity whatsoever- once more!"
"Belay that knightly speech," Rathan replied crisply. "I'm the clever-tongued orator here!"
"Not with a flagon that small, you aren't," Torm replied slyly, from just out of reach.
[diabolic snort] Droll, very droll. Is there more of these two?
[silence, image spinning to the fore]
"Furies and gargoyles be damned, man/ Torm said in mock fury. "I ordered the bridal bed, and paid you well! You said nothing at all about my having to provide my own bride! Why, in Waterdeep, six gold buys you the warm company of a lass betrothed to you for the night!"
Rathan sent a discreet cough over the shoulder of the glowering innkeeper, and to it added the murmured words, "Bold blade of my heart, ye forget something: We are in Waterdeep. Thy claim rings a mite false."
The innkeeper rounded on him, still furious, and growled, "Unless you pay for a bed, sir, you'd best be his bride and share!"
Rathan raised his eyebrows and shot Torm a querying look that widened into astonishment. "Nay!" He exclaimed. "Not that!"
The innkeeper wheeled around again to see what had caused this reaction. Rathan coolly raised the hilt of his mace to his shoulder-and brought it deftly down across the back of the innkeeper's skull. The man crashed to the floor like a sack of potatoes, leaving Rathan standing innocently over the wreckage.
"If we carry him out to the stables," he told Torm. "I can have your bed-and you can have his and get a bride after all!"
"Oh, no," Torm said warningly. "No chance! I've seen his wife-she should be in the stables!" He frowned at his friend's sudden frantic gesticulations and asked irritably, "What?"
The skillet that felled him made Rathan wince. In the few seconds before the stout priest of Tymora whirled and broke into puffing flight, he reflected on how anger can make even four-hundred-pound, wart-studded women attractive. Being about a dozen pounds lighter, he managed to stay just ahead of the innkeeper's wife all the way out to the horse-trough-where, unfortunately, he slipped in something.
Hah! Hah! These two idiots are a delight to watch! Have you more?
Elsewhere, Lord Nergal-over among my memories of Shadowdale.Just- oh, no.
No. Amusements can wait. I'm not letting you lead me about through every back alley of your mind. You almost tricked me, human-but only almost. Be still and silent. I'll go rummaging again.
[A cloud of whirling images bursts into shimmering fells and fades-and out of it, one image is seized upon and rises brightly.]
The King of Cormyr stood on die battlefield and shook his head ev
er so slightly, his lips pursed and his face grim. "My path lies clear before me," he said to the man at his shoulder. "That straight and narrow road to the waiting grave."
The Royal Magician of Cormyr coughed discreetly and observed, "My king, the path you see is every man's path. Kings simply have a way of not noticing their route for longer than most can ignore it. Something to do with the distractions of more engaging scenery."
"Ah," Azoun said, hefting his sword, "I see. Invading armies, dragons tearing the roofs off fortresses, death spells dropping out of the skies with sharp talons-that sort of 'engaging scenery?"
Vangerdahast nodded. "That, and the paintings on many a boudoir ceiling," he told the backs of his fingernails innocently.
If the look Azoun gave him had been just a little sharper, the Royal Magician's life might have ended right then.
But then, the wizard reflected, as their eyes met, Elminster would have considered that he'd taken the coward's way out.
You tutored him, didn't you? I wonder who-aside from your pet goddess, of course-taught you magic? Care to shame any of those memories?
If ye insist, why of course-
No! No, wizard! Just sit quiet, and I'll find my own way. It'll save my temper and save you much pain. Hear me?
As ye desire, devil.
[diabolic satisfaction, images flashing up in disarray, then spinning past]
"Life," as the archwizard said, "is like a squirming maggot-isn't it?"
[bewilderment] Is that all there is of that? Who was that? Elminster?
Nay, Nergal, it was another arrogant old mage, not me.