by Ed Greenwood
“Elminster,” she said with a wry smile. “The heart of all trouble—as always. Get to you, and I’ll find Manshoon and all the blueflame I seek. Two deaths within my reach, which I’ve hungered after for so long. Just a little hunting left now. Come, slaves!”
Ringed by her flaming slayers, the Lady of Ghosts vanished through the portal.
“Lord Delcastle and the two women have gone to Shadowdale, to heal a mad queen—and destroy us all,” Ganrahast muttered. “The Simbul, who obliterated the loyal Crown mages we sent against her, just as the tales all say she destroyed every Red Wizard she met. If she’s restored, she’ll surely come here to blast every mage in Cormyr, and all who stand with them.”
“I hope you’re wrong,” Starbridge muttered.
“As do we all,” said King Foril Obarskyr. And sighed.
“Nay, don’t get up,” Mirt growled, forcing Glathra back down onto the warehouse floor with one hairy hand. “If ye try again, I may just sit on ye. An’ I warn ye, I’m both heavy an’ full of wind.”
“If you don’t let me up,” the wizard of war hissed, “I’ll see you chained in a deep dungeon for the rest of your miserable life!”
“Ah, lass, that’s the spirit! Foreplay! I like that sort of spit an’ fire! We could use a lass like ye in Waterdeep, ye know? Why don’t ye kiss all these gloomy Cormyrean courtiers farewell and come to where the fresh sea breezes invigorate, coin is king, an’ we know how to laugh an’ drink an’ feast an’ wench—well, harrum, that last one may not hold the same attraction for ye as it does for me, but …”
“Oh, shut up,” Glathra told him weakly.
Mirt grinned down at her. “Want some cheese while ye’re down there? Wine? We traders know where to get the best …”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
BATTLE AND BURIAL
I don’t like this,” Storm muttered, peering into the trees all around. “They’ve got to be lurking near, watching us.”
“If we tarry, they’re sure to arrive. Go in and bring Alassra out,” Elminster told her, his grim voice sounding odd coming out of Arclath’s mouth. “We dare not try using the blueflame on her in there, with the chain and the wards. I’ll guard Rune out here.”
Storm nodded, handed him the buckle—it wasn’t glowing at all, now—and went into the cave.
“Arclath—I mean El!” Amarune said warningly.
“I see them, lass. Expect me to be hurling spells soon.”
Quite suddenly, three warriors had stepped silently out of the nearby trees, blue flames flowing endlessly around their bodies. They held ready swords and daggers and wore wide, tireless smiles.
“Before I get to that,” the Sage of Shadowdale murmured, “I’m going to move the cavern’s wards over and out past us, at yon ghosts. The ward-magic will roil at a fixed distance before me. I might be past controlling it—if I bark or drool or stagger about and say strange things that don’t sound like spells, reach out and grab me from behind, then hold me where I stand to keep the magic in one spot.”
Rune nodded. He stroked her arm reassuringly—Arclath’s gesture, showing her that her lord was sharing his body with El rather than being a silenced slave—and added, “There are at least two more ghosts out there. And she who sent them, a woman with a dagger protruding from her chest. If I don’t seem to notice them, keep hold of me and haul me about to move the wards so as to intercept them.”
He sank into a crouch, like a knife fighter about to rush the advancing ghosts. “If yon flaming ones come here but emerge not, eventually their commander will be conquered by her curiosity and come looking to see what befell them. Storm can bring me back to my senses; retreat to her if ye must.”
He handed Amarune the blueflame buckle. “Take this. If I fall, get it to The Simbul as fast as ye can!”
Rune nodded, unable to keep her mounting fear off her face. The trio of ghosts was advancing in a silent, menacing line, like wary warriors. El retreated before them, putting out an arm to sweep Amarune back with him.
Back they went into the cool gloom of the cave, and the ghosts came on.
The moment the flaming trio was fully in the cavern, El ducked down, hauling Rune with him—and something half-seen that hissed and thundered in the air swept over their heads in a silent, heavy flood.
It swirled around the ghosts, halting them and whirling their blue flames away in a surging chaos of swirling lights and confused sounds, most loudly sharp shrieks like hundreds of harpstrings breaking at once.
The three slayers staggered, hacked vainly at the air, crouched as if caught in a gale—and suddenly were gone, all ragged cries and tatters of blue, fading flame, whirled into … nothingness.
Beside Rune, Arclath whimpered suddenly and burst out, “The wolves! And Dalatha, weeping! Oh, her kisses … ohhh, broken again. Crowns do that.” With every word his voice wavered, sounding like him or like Elminster—or like other folk entirely.
Amarune looked at him, winced, then ducked behind him and took firm hold of his jerkin. Heart pounding, she stood with him in the gloom, waiting.
A long time passed, or seemed to, as Arclath—or Elminster—started to sing. She couldn’t make out the words, and the tunes were unfamiliar, but he didn’t seem that much different from a lot of drunkards she remembered from the Dragonride—
Suddenly another blueflame ghost loomed up, running hard with his sword raised.
Desperately Rune tugged at Arclath, trying to drag him back—but the ghost was already fading and breaking apart, though it kept on struggling to reach them. Its foremost, reaching hand melted, then the sword arm, with the blade it held, a knee and then … all of it.
The singing stopped abruptly, as if Arclath had been shocked by the blueflame ghost’s disappearance. Trembling, Amarune held him and waited.
After a time, there came a bright flash from the far side of the roiling magic, and the ward shuddered and seemed to grow thinner.
Another flash. More thinning.
Then another ghost appeared. A tall, cruel-faced woman was walking behind it, working magic as she came. Whenever she finished a spell, it caused one of those bright flashes, melting more of the wards away.
Amarune hastily dragged the lurching man in her arms back to keep the fading, thinning wards around the ghost and the woman.
Suddenly the ghost started to melt, sinking down into the roilings with surprising speed. The woman reeled. She was close enough—five or six strides away, no more—that Rune could see that dagger sticking out of her chest.
Then lightning burst out of nowhere, slamming into the woman from behind and thrusting her into a bulging-eyed dance on tiptoes, wild spasms of agony that ended with her fall, a sprawl on her face that left her lying still.
Fresh bolts of lightning stabbed and ricocheted through the last, thinning wisps of the wards. Behind them, a man—their hurler—was striding slowly into the cavern.
Amarune let go of her Arclath, spun around, and ran deeper into the cave. There was an unpleasant stirring ahead of her in the darkness, as if unfriendly magic was awakening to her arrival.
Caught in its fringes, she stopped and sank down in silence. She was as deep in as she could go and still see Arclath, who was lying in a heap, mumbling and feebly crawling.
She knew the man coming into the cave. She’d seen him once or twice before in the city streets. It was the wizard Suzailans called most powerful mage in Suzail, Larak Dardulkyn.
He strode past the woman he’d felled to stand smiling down at the dazed, incoherently babbling Arclath.
“So, Elminster, it comes down to you and me once more,” he said, almost pleasantly. Flexing his hands, he added gently, “Prepare to die, old fool. Again.”
Rune swallowed, not knowing what to do, feeling utterly helpless. Should she throw the buckle at him? Well, what good would that do?
Almost purring with glee, the man began a spell she couldn’t hope to stop—
And then toppled forward, with a sudden
shriek.
The woman he’d struck down with his lightning had reached up from the ground with her sword to slash his nearest leg.
“Poisoned,” she snarled triumphantly, before falling back exhausted.
On the ground beside Arclath, Dardulkyn rolled, cursing furiously and clutching at his wound.
His rolling became shuddering, and he lost his grip on his leg as he started to convulse. His oaths went incoherent as foam spewed from his mouth.
Rune had seen enough. Heedless of the unseen magic that sang up to claw at her, she turned and raced deeper into the cavern.
Hurrying to get the blueflame buckle to The Simbul.
Cymmarra heaved herself to her knees, the world spinning slowly above her …
Everything was slow and painful. Everything took so much strength …
She lost count of her weak and staggering tries, but by using her sword like a crutch, she found her feet at last. Only the cavern wall kept her upright after that first, horribly shaky step.
She clung to the wall, whispering prayers she didn’t believe in and scarcely remembered, over and over again, seeking strength.
When she felt like she might have found a little, she turned her head and smirked at the two feebly moving men. Dardulkyn’s words had made it clear he was Manshoon, and there was no reason she knew of that he might have been wrong about the young lordling being Elminster.
“Great archwizards,” she sneered. “Not a lot to choose between the two of you, is there?” Shoving off from the wall, she reeled forward, raising her poisoned blade again.
Dardulkyn suddenly sprang up, wild-eyed, and fled, arms flailing. He fell often as he went, but had a frenzied speed she couldn’t hope to match.
“The poison will take you,” she murmured after him, weak but baleful, “and then I will. After I take care of the Sage of Shadowdale.”
That body hadn’t moved yet and was right in front of her. One lurching stride, two … she had to ground the sword and lean on it to keep from falling. Drawing in a deep and shuddering breath, she steadied herself and raised it again.
“One thrust,” she gasped. “One thrust, you old—”
Elminster rolled away, then found his feet with the agility and grace of a much younger man.
Arclath Delcastle had snatched back control of his own body. He smiled mirthlessly as he drew his sword, then met Cymmarra’s staggering rush with a deft parry.
Slicing two fingers off her sword hand on his backswing, he snapped, “One thrust? I think not.”
Magic clawed at her like a long-nailed drunkard trying to paw his way to a handy dancer’s charms, but it seemed to sigh and fade with her every step. She was fighting her way down a deep, narrow cavern …
Amarune pushed on into darkness until she saw a tiny glow of light ahead.
It was coming from a pool of water, where there was much splashing.
Going nearer, Rune saw a chained woman thrashing on the edge of the pool. She had eyes like those of an angry wolf and wore only the great swirling chaos of her long, silver hair, tresses that moved by themselves like Storm Silverhand’s hair.
Which it was, in fact, entangled with, Rune saw, the two heads of hair wrestling like hundreds of angry snakes as Storm and The Simbul—this had to be The Simbul—struggled with each other.
Storm was trying to drag her sister out of the pool, but The Simbul was stronger in her frenzy, overpowering Storm and dragging them both back down into the waters, time and again.
Now what? Rune discovered she was trembling, not just from the cavern’s magic but in deepening fear.
Then Storm saw her—and the blueflame buckle. “Put it in her mouth!” she gasped. “Rune, put it in her mouth, and hold it there until it’s all gone—no matter what happens!”
Rune swallowed then started forward. The buckle began to glow again.
With a menacing crackle, The Simbul’s hair left off trying to strangle and pinion Storm and reached for the buckle. Her angry wolf eyes flared blue.
Amarune went nearer, trying to keep close to the wall so as not to get easily dragged into the pool.
The Simbul growled at her menacingly, then snapped her teeth at the buckle. Just like a hungry wolf.
Rune dodged her lunges, just as she had dodged so many reaching hands at the Dragonriders’—and, holding the buckle firmly in both hands, thrust it into The Simbul’s mouth.
There was a bright flash and a sudden surge of energy that shook Amarune.
The Simbul’s eyes spat fire, literally becoming two bright blue flames, and Rune screamed as her fingers and then her arms started to burn, hair sizzling.
“Hold it in there!” Storm shouted, sounding desperate.
Rune clenched her teeth, then bent her head and whimpered against the pain. The buckle was melting … she thrust its dwindling solidity farther and farther in behind those sharp and angry teeth …
Then, abruptly, conflagration and buckle were both gone.
All the struggling stopped, and The Simbul was looking up at Rune with all fury fled and quite a different look in her eyes.
“Lady, I thank you,” she said gravely and kissed Amarune’s scorched fingers.
That touch sent a soothing, healing coolness through Rune that left her shuddering in amazed relief.
The pain vanished. Her burns were gone.
Then the chain binding The Simbul to the wall melted away in glowing silence.
The freed woman patted Storm in silent thanks and rose, dripping, to stride past Amarune down the passage as regally as any queen.
Near the cave mouth, Arclath Delcastle stood grimly over the Lady of Ghosts, the tip of his sword at her throat. She glared up at him in agony, her hands cut to bloody ruin, unable to fight any more.
The Simbul walked up to the young lord, touched his head, and murmured, “Come forth, El.”
Arclath slumped like a limp and empty leather sack as El’s ashes, glowing and swirling, emerged from his nose and ears to coil around The Simbul’s face and breast.
She laughed in delight, then stepped back and decreed, “Be as sane as I am, and have a body again.”
A glow appeared in midair in front of her and faded rapidly into something solid, upright … a naked man. It swayed, settled onto its feet, and sharpened into—Elminster, looking old and vigorous but slack-jawed.
The ashes plunged into that open mouth, and the body shuddered all over. Then it opened blue-gray eyes, smiled, and reached out to gather The Simbul into a fierce embrace.
As they kissed, she said to him firmly through their joined mouths, “Soon.”
Then she whirled free, bent to the helplessly glaring Cymmarra, and said gently, “Rest, tortured one.”
A wave of her hand banished the curse, and the woman transfixed by the dagger crumbled to dust, the dagger sighing into nothingness a moment later.
Then The Simbul headed out of the cavern, waving almost absently at Arclath as she went.
He blinked, stood up, looked around, saw Amarune, and grinned. She rushed into his arms.
Storm and El gently towed them after The Simbul, out into the light—where everyone halted as silence fell again.
A tentacled beholder of monstrous size was hovering in the air waiting for them, glaring eyestalks ready.
Rays spat forth.
The Simbul raised both her hands this time, and those magics twisted in midair into nothing more than a dancing glow.
“Enough, Manshoon.” She turned to look at Elminster, then regarded the beholder again. “I have remembered much that Mystra told me. The two of you must now work together. Our Lady of Magic commands it.”
“Mystra is no more!” Manshoon snarled.
The Simbul frowned. “She is … silent, yes, but I am far less certain of her destruction than you seem to be. Yet, her commandment is very clear. You must both gather all the blueflame items you can and use them properly, or the realms will surely fall before the beasts flooding in. The rifts opened in ignorance by t
hose called ‘warlocks’ are many, and more and more fell powers look to this world to be their new home. More than just the Weave has fallen and been lost.”
El listened in thoughtful silence, and Manshoon in growing, eyestalk-quivering fury, as she added, “One archwizard was behind the enchanting of all the blueflame items, using many as his dupes. They were his bid to maintain his own existence, but he built into them the means to watch over all who used the items—for sport and amusement, as well as to effectively compel such wielders.”
“ ‘One archwizard’? Who?” Manshoon spat.
“The ‘Imprisoner’ is the one called Larloch. He bound all the magic and essence of three of his servant liches into each ghost-imprisoning item—sacrifices to empower the items.”
“Larloch?”
The Simbul ignored Manshoon’s angry disbelief. “The items are more than extra-dimensional prisons and ghost-controllers. Each possesses a fell power of its own, usable whenever the ghost is imprisoned, and dormant when the ghost is out.”
“And if a ghost is destroyed?” Elminster asked quietly.
“The item will crumble,” The Simbul replied. “Its magic discharged and forever lost.”
“No!” the beholder snarled. “You lie!”
“I do not lie, Manshoon. You lie, easily and often, as it suits your desires, and so have fallen into lazily thinking all others must, too. Consider how easy it would be for me to destroy you, rather than spend time telling you this. Consider further my strong temptation to do so. Yet, I refrain. Consider that I do so for this higher purpose, this necessity of saving the world we share. Now, will you hear the rest, or will I spell-scourge you until you are humbled and forced to yield?”
The beholder hung silently in the air for what seemed a very long time.
“I … I will listen,” it said at last.
“Wise of you. Mystra and Azuth allowed Larloch’s self-serving plan to succeed because they deemed it necessary. Like the lich lord, they saw it as a way of cheating the coming Spellplague, which they dared not try to prevent as the increasingly unstable Weave raced toward crashing ruin. It needed to be renewed or replaced, and Mystra knew either outcome would destroy her. She also knew she could preserve something of herself and the secrets of the Art she’d inherited—and Azuth could do the same—by insinuating it into the minds of Larloch’s liches, and so into the blueflame items.”