by Ed Greenwood
And then she was up from her knees and running southeast, across the grassy hills, the dagger clutched in her hands.
Moonlight shone back from it, and a tall tree saw the flash, smiled a crooked smile, and shrank back down to man shape. The longer he walked Faerun, the more comfortable this form seemed. This must be why most elder Shadowmasters preferred it, after all.
Issaran of the Malaugrym smiled, shrugged, and twisted into the form of a giant barb-tailed bat. He took wing north into the night, and for greater speed shaped a second set of wings to beat in alternation with the first pair, cleaving the air with a soft moan. A little shifting, a few minor glamers… and a servant was his, to hurl her life away trying to work his ends.
Ruling Faerun-save for dealing with his own kin- would be all too easy. His teeth flashed in a smile as he went. A moment later, a real bat shied away from him, squeaking in terror, and his smile grew broader.
The Castle of Shadows, Kythorn 15
"Issaran certainly makes it look easy," a pillar murmured, but no one was close enough to hear it. By the time the bell tolled again and other kin drew near, the scrying portal was once more showing Elminster's camp.
"Things seemed to have settled down, I see," Kostil remarked to Neleyd, as they came out of the Shaft of Many Stairs together and entered the vast Great Hall once more. "We're back to just one scrying portal."
"Why do away with the others, I wonder?" Neleyd asked, as the deep booming of the bell rolled over them again. Kostil gave him an amused look.
"After a surge of wild magic like that, youngling, every second portal could be the eyes and ears of some foe-or a maw waiting to spit out whatever death they choose to send us. Or to suck in whoever passes. Then again, the places they show may not be what you'd like to look at, or think you're seeing. There were a lot of such things in this castle, before Dhalgrave came to power. In those days, folk of our blood were concerned with ruling other planes. We saw Toril simply as a place to snatch up human and elven maids for breeding…"
"I saw old Rahorgha die that way," Bheloris confirmed, coming up beside them. "A manyjaws took off his head- down to the arms-when he looked too closely at a scene in a portal it was using as a lure… a friendly quartet of nude mermaids, as I recall."
"Who?" Neleyd asked, frowning. He thought he'd heard that name once before, but…
"Rahorgha the Brawler, we called him," Kostil said briefly, as they mounted the lift-spiral. "He was slain well before Dhalgrave came to the throne."
Neleyd swallowed. "You remember those times?"
Kostil gave him a despairing look. "Younglings," he muttered, a comment almost lost in the sound of Yabrant, Eldargh, and Bheloris chuckling in unison.
And then the orange and purple radiances flashed on their faces, and the gigantic spindle of the Shadow Throne was floating before them, a many-headed hydra the hue of shore mists seated in it. Several heads of dark, glistening eyes met Neleyd's wondering gaze, and he shivered despite himself. He didn't need to see the Shadowcrown or the Doomstars to know he was facing Dhalgrave.
Other kin were ascending swiftly to join them, more than Neleyd had ever seen gathered together before. He recognized Taernil and realized that the many-tentacled thing slithering along beside him must be Huerbara. When it glared at him, he was sure.
A tall, crimson-skinned biped covered with warts and questing tentacles of loose flesh oozed past, leaving acrid fumes in its wake. As it went, it rumbled to a lazily drifting fish with a snakelike tail that floated beside it, "There've been more assemblies these past few days than in the last few years. What's gotten up Dhalgrave's orifice now, I wonder?"
Bheloris grew a smile on his back, where Dhalgrave couldn't see it, but in front of Neleyd's face. Neleyd found his view blocked not only by Bheloris but by several increasingly bulky arrivals, and grew eyestalks to look over them. He wasn't the only kin to do so, he discovered, locking gazes with several other peering stalks bobbing above the crowd.
Then movement and noise ceased together as the Shadow Throne pulsed with a vivid amethyst radiance, and out of its heart Dhalgrave thundered, "Hear me, blood of Malaug!"
"Speak, O Shadowmaster High," came the ritual chorus, the gathered kin sounding a little resentful at the interruption of their various affairs.
Dhalgrave leaned forward, almost bellowing in his excitement. "At last-at long last! — magic seems to be weakening in Faerun, and when most spells are cast, the magic goes wild. All is in chaos. Beyond the wildness of Art, avatars of all the gods walk Faerun, sent there unwillingly and much hampered in their powers. Their magic overmatches us but is no longer absolute."
The Shadowmaster High leaned forward. "To some of us, sorcery is a strong weapon, but to most folk of Faerun, it's their only weapon. Without it, they cannot stand against us in open strife. If we move more deftly, slaying certain rulers and taking their shapes, entire kingdoms of Toril can be ours without a battle!"
Excited murmurings were swelling. Dhalgrave quelled them with sudden thunder. "I know some of you hunger to play in Faerun. Let me remind you that it is a resource for the use of all, under the protection of the Shadow Throne. Wanton destruction will not be tolerated, except against the person and allies of the foe Elminster. Treat Faerun as our private garden, to be nurtured for later use."
The Shadowmaster High's many heads-Neleyd counted a dozen, but some of them seemed to be slumping down and shifting shape, as others rose elsewhere- looked around at the gathered blood of Malaug, and Dhalgrave added, "I have urged you to seize this bright chance to strike down Elminster, and further suggested that this could be our best opportunity to seize as much of Faerun as we can, but as always, Shadowmasters are free to act as they see fit."
The Shadowmaster High rose from his throne and stood on empty air to look around at the assembled shapeshifters as he said forcefully, "Against our traditional freedom, I lay this sole commandment upon all: No one is to bring beings of Faerun to the Castle of Shadows, or leave an easy route by which Faerunians can find our home by following any of the blood of Malaug, without my prior permission. And be advised that such permission shall be forthcoming only in the case of approved breeding stock or captives who've been demonstrably rendered helpless, but who possess valuable knowledge-such as magic-you deem worth acquiring. I want this clearly understood. The supreme penalty shall apply for transgressions if I deem it appropriate-and I will deem it appropriate."
The Shadowmaster High raised his hands, and the assembled Malaugrym suddenly found themselves sinking, as the unseen floor beneath their feet dropped smoothly down into the swirling shadows toward the black marble floor of the Great Hall far below. The Shadow Throne and the floating figure of Dhalgrave were soon lost to view in the mists above them, and all the shapeshifters began speaking at once.
"He must be furious," Bheloris told no one in particular, "to dismiss us so. Word must have reached him of Olorn's plan to bring in all the Zhentarim, to pluck their spells from them."
"Hah," Kostil said, turning. "The last thing I want is several score of ambitious, ruthless little human mages scurrying about the place trying to slay us all. If such a risk is to be taken, let it be for one mage of real power, so we can learn magic of some worth."
"Such as?" Yabrant asked, snaking out a tentacle that sported a mouth and a trumpetlike ear to better converse.
"A Red Wizard of Thay, I intended."
"If the risk is to be taken anyway," Neleyd blurted, "why not bring in this Elminster?"
He was astonished and embarrassed by the respect he saw in the looks that all the nearby kin gave him-except one.
A gray, withered elder Shadowmaster in hobgoblin form thrust a belligerent face forward until his protruding lower lip almost touched Neleyd's own and snarled, "Have you seen Malator, Dhalgrave's bodyguard?" Neleyd nodded; who had not seen the battered giant Malaugrym who served as the Shadow Throne's champion? He was reckoned the mightiest Shadowmaster in combat, and often wrestled the worst of the marau
ding night-worms of the shadows.
"I am his older brother, Dlagim. I was always the larger and stronger of us two," the old Malaugrym continued, and smiled bitterly at Neleyd's obvious disbelief. "Aye, you can scarce believe it. Well, this is all that Elminster left of me, the last time he visited the Castle of Shadows. He just strolled in and started telling us what we must not do, and what we'd best stop on the instant- and all of us within earshot must have attacked him. He slew over forty of us before he left; only three survived. Let's hear no more talk of bringing Elminster to the Castle of Shadows."
"It was but a suggestion," Kostil said smoothly.
"A foolish one!" Dlagim said heatedly, but Kostil spread his hands and half-smiled.
"Ah, but that's all the younglings among us know how to make. And if all who make plots or suggestions that seem foolish were sent away from the castle, the place would soon be empty. Only you, I, and Dhalgrave himself would still be here… sitting staring at each other in the echoing emptiness."
"Look upon it as entertainment," Yabrant offered.
The old Shadowmaster's eyes blazed in sudden anger, but he took one look at the large and capable antler-adorned Shadowmaster and recalled that he had urgent business elsewhere that required immediate attention- after a last snarl of, "Bah! Fools and irresponsible rascals, all of you!"
"What'll befall now?" Neleyd asked Bheloris curiously. The elder waved at the groups of talking, gesticulating Malaugrym around them and smiled. "The cautious and the bold will make war on each other with their tongues, each seeking to prevail. In the end, most of us will go our own ways, unconvinced by whatever we've heard. 'Tis always thus. Dhalgrave will be sitting up there listening, mark you, and noting just who says what."
"The cautious being those who want to stay out of Faerun until we know what's going to happen with the gods and magic and all?"
"No, youngling," Kostil corrected him, "we are Malaug's offspring, after all. The cautious are those who favor manipulation of Faerunians, and goading or driving beasts and others to serve as our agents, so that our hand remains unseen. The bold are those who want to rush down there at once and attack everything they see, except that they all want someone else to attack Elminster."
"And the Red Wizards, and Khelben Blackstaff, and the Simbul of Aglarond, and a few others," Yabrant added with a grin.
"Precisely." The word had scarce left Kostil's mouth when angry voices shouted icily from the sneering, snarling mouths of two young and handsome Malaugrym who stood in human form, pointing and gesturing rudely at each other.
Neleyd stared from one to the other. "I've seen that one before, but never heard such words from him…"
"That's Olorn," Eldargh rumbled. "He fancies himself the next occupant of the Shadow Throne and is fool enough to think he can manipulate all of us into giving it freely to him."
"And his rival is Amdramnar-the wiser, I think, and smooth as oiled wine. A loner, where Olorn surrounds himself with the weakest witted among us, forming little whispering societies to make the nothings of the kin feel important."
"Olorn favors bringing human captives in, then?" Neleyd asked hesitantly, looking from one shouting shape-shifter to the other.
"Aye, but he might change his views several times before this day is done."
Neleyd looked at him in astonishment. "Why all the fury, then?"
"Those two?" Bheloris chuckled. "They'd disagree over what their own names are, just to be on opposite sides of something. They'll slay each other one day, for sure, if someone else doesn't get one of them first."
Kostil shrugged. "If they hold to their purposes behind Olorn there-see them storming off, all showy gestures? — that someone bids fair to be Elminster, and soon."
Neleyd suppressed a shudder. "Have you seen many of us-of the kin-die?"
"Down the years?" Bheloris looked thoughtful. "Yes. A good threescore."
Kostil nodded. "More than that, before these eyes."
Neleyd looked from one of them to the other. "So what do you think we should do with human mages?"
"Destroy them," Kostil said calmly. "Once and for all."
6
Fire in the Night
Daggerdale, Kythorn 15
The rabbit stew that Storm had packed for them was all gone, and the fire out. Sharantyr and Itharr were licking their fingers for the last of the butter that had dripped from their hardbread, as Belkram scrubbed the pot clean with handfuls of sand. Elminster lay on his back, unlit pipe in mouth, and stared up at the circling stars overhead.
"Nnmm," Itharr said, licking his lips and wiping his hands on the turf beside him. "So how long are the gods likely to walk in the Realms and chaos reign?"
Elminster shrugged. "Too long." He lowered one elbow to peer past it at the young ranger. "If ye want a count of days, I know not."
"And we have to wander the wilderlands until then, playing nursem-ah, escorts-to a certain old wizard whom the shapeshifters regard as their Great Foe? Is this… prudent? Is this likely to end in anything else save disaster? Is-"
Shar put a playful hand on Itharr's chest and shoved him flat on the ground. "Stop sniveling, you thing you!" she said affectionately.
Itharr's reply was forestalled by Elminster's sharp warning: "No foolplay, ye two. We must be ready for them, always. Now is when they're most likely to attack!"
His words came too late. The Harper had tugged, twisted, and hauled all at once, and the helplessly overbalanced Sharantyr went over him, to her own landing. In the same movement he was atop her, tickling, as children tumble at play in muddy yards.
"Itharr!" Elminster roared over Sharantyr's breathless giggles and sobs of protest. The ranger turned a face of injured innocence to him.
"They'd have the good taste not to attack, surely," he asked, "when we are seriously engaged in wallowing in the heights of depravity?"
"They'll probably do exactly that," Elminster replied grimly, sitting up to give the Harper the full benefit of his forbidding glare.
"Wallowing in depravity?" Belkram asked in hurt tones, returning from the stream with the rinsed pot gleaming in his hands. "Without me?"
Elminster's snort awoke echoes from the stones around. "Truly the gods retain their curious ideas of humor," he observed, "giving me three jesters to ride around the Realms with."
Without hesitation, Belkram removed the lid and swept the upended pot deftly down over the Old Mage's head. Then he sprang back-just in time.
The pot shot up into the air, flashing end over end in the moonlight. It overtopped the stony needles of the ruined towers and fell again to earth, well clear of the flickering nimbus of light surrounding a furious old man who stood on air about four feet off the ground. "Enough!" the Old Mage roared. "Belkram, I'm astonished! Ye, of all here!"
Belkram spread unapologetic hands. "You can trust me to be loyal," he murmured, "but not predictable. Never predictable."
He'd said much the same thing to the Master of Twilight Hall almost ten years earlier, after Belkram had let a Zhent caravan crew swindle a few greedy and crooked local merchants in Elturel before attacking them. A furious Belhuar had demanded to know why. They had talked long into the night, and as dawn had come through the windows of that chamber, the stern old warrior who saw to the defense of Twilight Hall had clasped Belkram by the shoulder and said simply, "You'll do. You'll more than do."
Then a rare smile had split his face, and he'd added, "Mind you, madcap Harpers always seem to work better under Storm and Elminster, so I'll be sending you east for training under them, with your friend Itharr. I think all four of you'll deserve each other."
The gods had given Belkram Hardeth a merry spirit that was apt to rise up and seize hold of his tongue and his wits in times of danger, when other men grew grim and careful. This spirit had taken him across the Realms to the seas off the Sword Coast, where sailors valued such gusto. There he had made his living with his blade but stayed nowhere long, because he spoke plainly when masters gave foolish or
ders that cost lesser men their lives.
Foolish orders. He remembered stumbling along a wet night street in Athkatla, too much zzar riding heavily and uneasily in his stomach, when a haughty local merchant had sneered at him for being a good-for-nothing hiresword, loyal to no lord or company.
"Whereas you," Belkram had replied, "serve only your own purse-far higher and more noble a cause."
Grins had told him that the noble's bodyguard appreciated his sarcasm, but the white-faced merchant had curtly ordered his men to slay the outlander mercenary. A few anxious moments of slashing steel and swift shuffling in the street followed, and then six bodyguards lay senseless, dead, or dying as Belkram faced the now-terrified merchant alone.
The man took to his heels like a scared rabbit. Belkram had sprinted after him, catching up to say into his ear at full run, "You see? We hold the same values at heart. Each of us'd rather be a live coward than a dead hero!"
The merchant had fainted dead away, so a thoughtful Belkram had tossed him in a water butt to revive, and left the city that night.
He still believed that view made a swordsman more useful to the peace of Faerun than any other stance. The mistake too many folk made-even the senior Harpers at Twilight Hall-was thinking him a craven, unprincipled man. Belkram of Everlund would keep after his foes and his goals, trying one way and then another, patient and inexorable as the years passed, tirelessly probing here and then there for a chink in the armor of those who stood against him, ever seeking a way through.
Of course, for such an approach to succeed, one must survive as the years pass. That was the task he was having trouble with. Twice now he'd been dragged back from the great darkness by the spells of priests hired by friends. On the other hand, his merry loyalty had won him those friends.
"What's the matter?" he asked the raging mage in innocent tones, holding the lid of the pot in his hands. "Don't you like helms? Warriors at least have sense enough to wear them when they go into battle."