by Ed Greenwood
“You’re not the first maid who’s been afraid of things, you know,” Delg said.
Shandril’s head snapped up. “Afraid?”
“Aye, afraid,” the dwarf said softly. “You’re afraid of what you wield. Afraid of how good it feels to use it, I should say … and of what you might do with it—and become in the doing.”
“No!” Shandril said, shaking her head violently. “That’s not it at all!” She raised blazing eyes to glare into his own. “How can you know what I feel?”
The dwarf shrugged. “I’ve seen your face when you’re hurling spellfire. One look is enough.”
Shandril stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed, and then buried her face in her hands. The small, twisted sound of a despairing sob escaped between her fingers, and they saw her shoulders shake.
Then Narm’s arms were around her. “Shan, love,” he said soothingly, trying to calm her. “Shan—easy, now. Easy. We … both love you. Delg’s telling truth, as he sees it … and truth’s never an easy thing to hear. Shan?”
His lady said nothing, but her sobs had died away, and Narm knew she was listening. He kissed the top of her head, stroked her shoulders soothingly, and said, “I know how you feel. We both do … and we … know well how hard it is for you to use spellfire. But our lives depend on it. We’ll both die if you refuse to wield it—or hang back from using it until too late. Our foes won’t wait for you to wrestle with any decisions.” He stroked the hair back from her temples, and then added quietly, “And I’d hate to die because you chose a Zhentarim over me.”
Shandril stiffened in his embrace. Narm caught Delg’s eyes, saw the dwarf’s expressionless nod of approval, and went on firmly, “That’s what you’ll be doing, you see, if you don’t use spellfire as fast as Delg draws his axe or I work a spell—you’ll be choosing the life of a Zhent wizard over ours.” He smoothed her hair, and added softly, “And then you’ll be alone before you die.”
“Which won’t be long after, if I know Zhents,” the dwarf grunted. He lumbered forward and dealt Shandril’s rear a gentle blow. “Come on, lovejays. You can cry while you walk, lass: we haven’t time for you to stand here and find all the wrinkles in your soul. Zhents are after us—and the gods alone know who else—so we must be on our way. Unless, of course, you’re really fond of this particular spot … as the site of your grave.”
Shandril raised stony eyes to glare at him, tears glistening on her cheeks. Delg nodded approvingly. “That’s right, lass—hate me, just so long as you do it while you’re moving. On!”
“My spells and my love are yours,” Narm said quietly. “Use them as you will … all I ask is that you use spellfire when we need it.”
Unspeaking, Shandril looked at him and nodded. Narm smiled. His lady reached out, took hold of his chin, pulled it close, and kissed him firmly. Then she sighed, turned, and set off in the direction Delg had been heading. The man and the dwarf exchanged silent glances, then followed.
Elminster was still melancholy when he reached his tower. A handful of days ago he’d watched Shandril Shessair and her half-trained lad Narm set out from the dale, heading for Silverymoon in the North … and, the Old Mage feared, for their deaths. Even with all the Knights of Myth Drannor misdirecting agents of the Cult, the Brotherhood, Thay, and the gods alone knew who else—Narm and Shandril were probably doomed.
Aye, doomed. Elminster of Shadowdale might have commanded the experience great age brings, as well as magics powerful enough to tear apart castle keeps and dragons alike—but such things did not give him any right to tell young folk what to do or to shape their lives for them. Even though the girl commanded spellfire with power enough to rival Elminster, he could not directly intercede. Perhaps his hands were tied especially because she held such power.
The choice had been their own, the trail theirs to take, the consequences their tutors … and the chances of their making it alive to Silverymoon slim. Very slim … even if a certain Old Mage raised a hand to aid them from time to time. Aid them, but not dictate their fate. That would hurt, too, when in the end he heard whatever doom had claimed them.
This sort of dilemma had come up too many times over too many years. It grew no easier to take. Not for the first time, Elminster felt the weight of Mystra’s burden and wished he could just grow old as other folk did, laying aside all cares as he sank into gray, endless twilight. Or perhaps he could call out one of his mightiest foes and go down fighting, hurling spells linked to spells and sealed with his own life energy in one last magnificent spell-battle that would reshape the Realms anew; it would give folk such as Shandril a new morning to walk into, fearless and happy, a new world before them.
Maudlin fool. The death such a spellstorm would cause! Entire realms shattered—folk and trees alike twisted for years to come … no. Get out and have a pipe and think more useful thoughts.
As always, Elminster’s feet led him to the rocks beside his pool. Their familiar ledges, smoothed by his backside over many hours of sitting, were solid and reassuring beneath him as he looked out across the still waters and made smoke.
Blue-green and thick, it coiled up out of his pipe, sparks swirling in its heart as they sought the sun high above. Elminster watched them leap and spiral; his eyes saw Shandril hurling spellfire instead, and he wondered how far she’d gotten by now, and if worse foes than bumbling Zhentilar had found her.
Two stones at his feet clicked together, a tiny enchantment that told him someone was coming up the path to his tower. Elminster did not turn to look—not even when they clicked again to tell him his visitor had turned down the short run of flagstones that led to the pool. He merely let the pipe float out of his mouth, and said calmly, “Fair morning.”
“Oh. Ah, aye. That it is.” The voice was high and uncertain. Elminster looked into eyes that were very blue; they belonged to a young boy he’d never seen before, a lad in a nondescript tunic and gray hose. He came hopping down to the edge of the pool and kicked at a half-submerged stone at the water’s edge. He looked back over his shoulder at the Old Mage, and asked, “You’re Elminster, aren’t you?”
The Old Mage regarded him thoughtfully. “I generally answer to that name, aye.”
The boy grinned at him with the impish confidence of youth; an older person would never have dared utter the next question Elminster heard. “So why’re you just sitting here, an’ not making blue dragons turn cartwheels, or the sky go black, or—or—you know?”
“I’m thinking,” the Old Mage said simply. There was a silence, but the lad waited patiently for him to say more. Surprising, for one so young. After a breath or two Elminster added, “It’s a harder thing to do than hurling dragons around or bringing down night during the day.”
“It is? So what’re you thinking about?”
Elminster looked warily into those guileless eyes. They stared back at him with no hint of unsavory motive—clear, direct, and innocent; deep, brown, and steady. Elminster watched a golden light growing in them, smiled inwardly and, without a word or gesture to betray his intent, called into being four balls of writhing fire.
Trailing sparks, the spheres of flame roared away from him, smashed into the boy, and hurled him far out over the pool. There was a ground-shaking blast as the morning exploded into bright flame. The noise was followed by a mighty splash.
The pipe glided to the Old Mage’s lips again. He smoked, sober eyes fixed on the roiling waters of the pool, waiting.
He did not wait long. Something smoldering and tentacled rose up out of the pool. The plumes of smoke rising from it thickened as it broke clear of the waters. It no longer looked anything like a human boy. Its mottled, bubbled skin seemed to flow and shift as Elminster watched it grow two limbs that became humanlike arms, the ends parting and melting into fingers. As the coalescing hands waved, butter-colored eyes swam into view in the thicker bulk below, fixing him with a hard stare. The skin parted in a gash that shaped itself into a mouth, that—
The spell the Old Mage hurl
ed this time tore the very water out of the pool. Fish, startled turtles, and slimy plants flapped and spun in the air—and in their midst, bright blue flames raced over the tentacled form as it rose into the sky, screaming and twisting frantically. It struggled, arched a spine it hadn’t possessed a moment earlier—and then fell limp, a-dangle in midair.
Elminster’s eyes were hard as he watched the tentacled mass drift toward him, held fast by his spell. Beyond its smoldering bulk there was a terrific crash as all the water fell back into the pool. Startled birds called, and then flapped hastily away from the trees around.
Elminster frowned. His pipe had gone out.
He guided the dead, tentacled thing to the grass at his feet. It landed with a wet plop, still enshrouded by flickering blue radiance.
The Old Mage snapped his fingers, and a long black staff inset with runes of silver appeared in his hands. He pointed one end of it at the ganglious bulk and waited, eyes never leaving the monstrous form. He raised his chin and said clearly to the empty air before him, “Torm. Rathan. Come to me, by the pool. I have need of ye.”
He peered around warily, sniffing the air. Such otherworldly foes seldom hunted alone.
It seemed a very long time before he heard thudding feet and the warning clicking of the stones near at hand. The two summoned knights skidded to a stop when they saw the dead thing. They were breathing heavily in their haste, and they held weapons ready.
The slimmer, younger knight in the lead was Torm—a black-haired, green-eyed charmer with a fine mustache. Torm’s shoulder was currently being used as a support by the stout and puffing cleric Rathan, whose brown hair and stubbly mustache were disheveled from the run, and whose strong features had gone quite red.
Torm looked down at the dead monster, then back up at Elminster, and he raised an impudent eyebrow. “Been fishing, have we?”
“This is a shapeshifter,” Elminster replied calmly, “of a very powerful family who call themselves the Malaugrym. The glow denotes a spell of mine that holds it powerless to work magic.”
Before Elminster could stop him, the thief Torm kicked one still-smoking tentacle. There was no response. Torm shrugged and said, “Looks dead to me.”
“And that will stop it from using Art?” The Old Mage’s voice was sarcastic. “My thanks for thy assurance; as one so learned in magic, thy judgment cannot help but be correct.”
Torm shrugged. “Your blade hits home, Old Mage; I stand corrected.”
Elminster held out the staff, keeping its end pointed at the fallen Malaugrym. “Take over my binding, Rathan. I must work a spell to seek out any kin of this one who may lurk near.”
The stout priest took the staff, and Elminster turned away, making complicated gestures and murmuring many odd-sounding words that the two knights could only half hear. Then the archmage paused, raised his hands, and turned slowly around. He nodded with a satisfied air.
Torm raised an eyebrow. Elminster saw it, and explained, “There was another Malaugrym present—the sister of this one. My Art has entrapped her; she cannot use any spells while she remains in Faerûn.”
Torm glanced at the trees and meadows around them. “She fled?”
“For now; she’ll return to take revenge on me. Spells I may have denied her, but she can still shift her shape.”
“Revenge for this?” Rathan asked, nodding his chin at the dead bulk of the tentacled thing.
“Aye, but there’s an older score,” the Old Mage said. “I slew their father, long ago. I wonder why they dared to come here, after all the years between.” Then he stiffened. “She’s after Shandril,” he snapped. “Of course.”
“Well, slay her, then. With your own spell laid on her, tracing her should be easy enough,” Torm said. He looked around at the grass, trees, and muddy waters of the pool—and then, reluctantly, his gaze fell again to the dead monster at Elminster’s feet.
Elminster shook his head. “I can only trace her when she takes her own form.”
“That?” Torm asked, gesturing toward the rank heap on the ground.
Elminster nodded. “When she takes the shape of a creature of Faerûn, she’s hidden from me. Without magic, and given all those already hunting Shandril, her own hunt will cost her some time and care—and during it, she’ll spend most of her time as a human, of course.” He looked at the two knights, and the ghost of a smile crossed his face. “That’s where the two of ye are called again to glory.”
Two sighs answered him. “Why is it always us?” Torm asked the rock beside him. Wisely, it chose not to answer.
As the light of Elminster’s last spell faded in the spell chamber high in the Twisted Tower, Rathan sniffed at a burnt smell that seemed to cling to him. The gaze that he turned on Elminster was rather sour. “What have ye done to us this time, Old Mage?”
“Cast a fog of forgetfulness on ye; it’ll make folk forget they’ve seen ye. It will also slightly alter thy looks from time to time, while it lasts.”
Torm sighed. “Will I look human most of the time? Male? As handsome as usual?”
“As usual,” Elminster agreed in dry tones. “I can’t trace the Malaugrym herself, but I can find Shandril. I’ll send ye to her—but mind ye keep back from the lass; if ye stand guard with her, she’ll relax, and ye’ll have no hope against the Malaugrym. Thy only hope of besting this menace in battle is to strike when she’s already battling spellfire and those who stand with Shandril to defend her.”
“This Malaugrym is that powerful, eh?” Rathan asked quietly, out of habit touching the silver pendant of his goddess. Tymora was said to grant luck to her faithful when it was truly needed—and Elminster was nodding his head rather grimly.
“Her name is Magusta, and she’s one of a powerful clan who walk many worlds, shifting their forms to whatever best aids them in seizing all the power they can. We are very old enemies, they and I.”
“If these folk are so old and powerful, how is it that we’ve heard nothing of them before?” Torm demanded, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you sure this isn’t another of your little plots?”
Rathan turned his head patiently to look at his longtime friend. “Would ye like me to tell ye what an idiot ye are, or shall I save the breath?”
At the same time, Elminster said with a dry smile, “Of course this is one of my little plots.” He snorted. “Thy mastery of diplomacy forbids me from involving ye in any of my big ones.”
Where she sat in the dimness against one wall of the chamber, Storm Silverhand smiled and spoke up for the first time. “It is another ‘little plot,’ to be sure—but these Malaugrym are old indeed, Torm. Most folk in the Heartlands, if they’ve heard of them at all, know them as ‘the Shadowmasters.’ Individually, their mastery of magic is about as powerful as that of an experienced mage. They are ruled by venom and pride, and practice at magic—or anything else—is foreign to their nature.” She stretched, and added soberly, “It may be your only advantage against them.”
Rathan had nodded in recognition at the name ‘Shadowmaster.’ Now he rumbled, “We two are poor weapons indeed to use against such a foe. I know that Those Who Harp are even busier than the Knights of Myth Drannor … but will we have no aid from thee?”
Storm spread her hands. “The Malaugrym—for there may be others in Faerûn, mind—know us, whatever guise we take; someone not known to them will fare better, seeking to strike at them unexpectedly.”
Elminster nodded. “Look into the eyes of any creature ye meet, from squirrel to horse, and every man. If ye see a golden light there—or the blue glow of my spell—ye’re facing a Malaugrym. Strike then to slay, speedily, and stop not until all has been burned away.” He waved his hands, and an oval of flickering blue light appeared in the air before the two knights—a magical gate that would transport them to the region where Shandril Shessair toiled on.
Torm sighed. “You make it sound simple enough … but simple orders have found their ways onto tombstone carvings often enough before. What if it happens tha
t we really need you—will you come?”
“Soon enough to save thy life, if ye are beset?” Elminster’s eyes were sad. “Ye’re old enough to know that no answer I give ye will serve as a sure shield. Death watches always, waiting, and has a swifter hand than I.”
The slim, handsome thief waved a hand with a theatrical flourish. “Granting all that—are we on our own in this?”
Elminster looked up at the ceiling of the spell chamber, where an old enchantment made the stars wink and glitter as they drifted across an illusory night sky. “The gods above know I am a busy man,” he told the stars innocently, pretending not to hear the resulting snorts of the knights, “and am beset at present with matters even weightier than spellfire—but I should not be overmuch surprised if I find myself sparing time for a charge over the hill or two, when my business takes me that way. What say ye, Storm?”
The bard inclined her head and patted the hilt of the well-used long sword scabbarded at her hip. “I, too, will do what I can—and there are my fellow Harpers along the way. One of them does nothing but wait for Shandril and Narm. To say nothing of Delg the dwarf; I’ll be surprised if he has not caught up to them already. We will all of us do what we can.”
As the knights nodded and started toward the gate, checking their weapons, Elminster added quietly to Rathan, “Ye might pray to Tymora that our efforts will be enough.”
Torm rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me,” he said, putting the back of his hand to his brow in a mock swoon. “The future of all Toril hangs in the balance. Again.”
Elminster raised one of his own eyebrows in a parody of the thief’s own manner. “Of course.”
2
MUCH TALK, AND EVEN SOME DECISIONS
Try as we may, none of us can be in all places at all times. Not even the gods can do that. So we do what we can and measure our success, if we are wise, by what our hearts tell us at the end of a day, and not what our eyes tell us of how much we have changed Faerûn.