by Ed Greenwood
Death tyrants couldn’t smile any more than the frozen curves of their wide and crooked maws, but Manshoon tried to smile.
Before the idiot war wizards managed to deal with this smoke, the future Emperor of Cormyr and Beyond should have more than enough time to snatch away young Lord Stormserpent and his two precious ghost-commanding items.
Lady Shout-at-Everything Glathra would be so displeased.
“Lady Glathra!” Storm shouted, seeing at a glance that there was no time at all left for politeness. Only for a swift and desperate lie. “The king wants you!”
“Not now,” Glathra started to snarl, flames of orange and purple already whirling around her raised hands as she stalked toward the fat man in the window.
Then she sighed and lowered her burning hands. “Who calls?”
Most of the war wizards and Dragons had already spun to face the door had that banged open and dashed the luckless soldier leaning against it to the floor. They all stared at a young noble, the dancer he seemed to go everywhere with, a tall and strikingly beautiful silver-haired woman… and the ghost of the Princess Alusair.
“We do,” Storm replied quietly.
Glathra glared at her. “The king wants me why? What message?”
“The king wants you to treat his guest, a visiting Lord of Waterdeep, with rather more respect and less deadly magic,” Alusair snapped, sweeping through the assembled Cormyreans like a cold breeze to float facing the war wizard.
Who let the flames fade around her hands and asked coldly, “Your Highness, is there no end to your meddling?”
Alusair’s ghostly nose was suddenly almost touching Glathra’s living one.
“When an Obarskyr engages in ruling Cormyr, dear,” she said softly, “it is anything but ‘meddling.’ Courtiers who fail to grasp this may well find themselves swiftly replaced.”
Chilled and shivering, the wizard of war drew back a step. “But you’re dead, Princess! Dead! And-”
“Glathra,” Storm interrupted sternly, “hear us! Lord Marlin Stormserpent is the master of the two blueflame ghosts who murdered young Lord Huntcrown at The Bold Archer! He holds the Wyverntongue Chalice that commands one, and a Stormserpent family treasure, the Flying Blade, that controls the other. You should be accosting him, not this Lord of Waterdeep!”
Glathra stiffened. “Other loyal Crown agents are doing so, right now. As His Majesty knows full well. Why are you four getting involved?”
“We’re here to help,” Arclath spoke up.
“Help with what? Driving me madwits?”
“No, that’s been done already,” Alusair told the lady mage, flying around her in a tight spiral. “We six loyal Cormyreans are here to help you and your fellow mages and Highknights and Dragons to defend the palace and try to keep order in Suzail.”
“Are you, now?” Glathra asked cuttingly. “Six? I mark four-who else?”
“The Royal Magician Vangerdahast,” Alusair replied, “who’s not with us now, and the man you were just about to scorch.”
Glathra stared at her incredulously then swung around to favor Mirt with the same look.
He unfolded himself from the window seat with a wheeze, stamped his boots, and struck a swordsman’s pose with the greasy lamb bone.
“Well,” he grunted, with a friendly leer, “if ye’ll have me.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SOON AFTER WHENEVER
I t took Glathra a moment or two to gather her breath and her temper.
When she gained mastery over both, she let fly.
“Have you? Have you? I’ll have you chained to the wall in our deepest, dampest dungeon, I will!”
Mirt gave her a wide-eyed, innocent grin. “Is that a yes?”
Glathra shrieked out wordless rage, then dashed her hands down to her sides, drew in a deep breath, and said icily, “I have no time for this. The realm stands in peril.”
She took three swift strides away, then whirled and marched back again. “I hope all of you are loyal to the Dragon Throne, and I value your assistance. However, I really cannot welcome four or five or six self-styled heroes wandering around this palace or Suzail outside these walls doing just as they please, without any obedience to royal commands or lawfully delegated authority-such as the orders I give.”
“Loyal wizard,” Alusair asked gently, “may we speak to you in private?”
Glathra looked at her, then around the room. “You want me to dismiss these good Dragons and my fellow Crown mages? Sorry, but no. You might very well try to overwhelm me. You may even succeed.”
“A poor reason,” the ghostly princess replied, “being as we could easily do that right now.”
“Is that a threat?” Glathra flared.
“It’s a statement of fact,” Alusair replied flatly. “If you’d like, I could make it a promise.”
“Heh,” Mirt chuckled, “I’d’ve thought ye’d have started to learn some lessons by now, Lady Glathra. Thick-skulled courtiers seldom rise to high office, or last long if given it.”
“You,” the war wizard snarled, rounding on him, “be silent! You are my prisoner, and-”
“Ah, no, lass, that I’m not. I’m King Foril Obarskyr’s honored guest-and, as it happens, the senior lord of a city that can buy and sell all Cormyr with ease in a day, if ever for any madwits reason we decided to do so. I admire yer force of character but not yer judgment. Ye’re being offered aid that embattled courtiers should leap to embrace, and yer spurning it. Idiot.”
Glathra sputtered wordlessly, then clamped her lips into a thin, hard line.
“You may be right in all you say,” she said curtly, “but I am in charge here.”
Alusair sighed, but Glathra raised her voice and went on. “Wherefore hear my orders, all of you! You, who when alive I would have obeyed”-she faced the ghost of Alusair unflinchingly-“are to go out and play sheephound, rounding up all the nobles and bringing them back here. Without their bodyguards.”
The princess stared at her, something close to grief on her ghostly face. So the talk might well be true, Glathra realized; these were orders Alusair couldn’t fulfill if she wanted to… probably she did fade away to no more than a whispering wind if she moved farther from the palace than halfway across the Promenade. Well, if so, she could swallow her royal pride and stlarned well admit that.
Glathra turned and pointed at Amarune. “You shall surrender yourself into the custody of the Dragons here with me, to keep out of trouble.”
“And be a hostage to ensure Arclath’s loyalty,” Rune hissed under her breath, glaring at the war wizard-who pretended not to hear, having already turned to Arclath.
“Lord Delcastle, you are to report to Sir Winter, to receive assignment to the ranks of the Purple Dragons, who are in pressing need of battlefront officers-especially if we face open rebellion.”
Arclath cocked an incredulous eyebrow. His expression put his thoughts clearly enough. Nobles took no orders from courtiers in matters of military service to the Crown. Did this mage think herself regent of the realm?
“Get over it, lordling,” Glathra muttered at him. “I’ve no time for arguments. None at all.”
She turned to Mirt. “Your opinion of me is baseless, and I repudiate it. I repeat: you are my prisoner. Resist or try to escape, and you’ll face deadly force.”
She looked to Storm.
“You,” she told the silver-haired woman crisply, “stay with me. I need you to tell me everything you and other Harpers are up to in Cormyr right now-along with all you know about what nobles we can trust, which are eager traitors, and who’s just following the strongest passing lion.”
Storm met Glathra’s stare expressionlessly, then turned and looked at Rune, Arclath, Alusair, and then Mirt.
Silent agreement was reached.
Glathra glared. Were they giving in? Or deciding that whatever their loyalties to the Crown of Cormyr, they could not accept her conditions?
Storm calmly stepped around Glathra and headed for the
door she’d come in by. Mirt fell into step behind her.
Glathra grabbed for the wands at her belt and sidestepped to block the fat Waterdhavian’s path.
Storm whirled. Glathra started to turn, but iron-strong fingers caught her shoulder and flung her off balance into a helpless stumble across the room.
“Stop them!” Glathra snapped at the Dragons and mages, but Amarune and Arclath darted for the door as Alusair swooped through one man after another, chilling their hearts and leaving them gasping.
Glathra caught her balance just shy of ramming a wall, set herself facing the backs of her fleeing prisoners and their allies, and reached for her wands.
Her fingers closed on nothing. They had all been plucked away and strewn across the room! Stumbling boots were trampling them underfoot.
Yes, stumbling. The ghost of Alusair was racing repeatedly through them like a savage wind, leaving a weak, momentarily frozen and clumsy crowd of Dragons and fellow war wizards to carry out her orders.
Glathra fought for calm and began to cast a spell. Whereupon Storm Silverhand turned at the door in a swirl of silver tresses, plucked the nearest war wizard bodily off his feet, and flung him through the air.
Straight at Glathra.
A looming, helplessly shouting weight, all clawing arms and legs.
Who proved heavy, impossible to avoid, and very solid.
Glathra was slammed to the floor, bruised and winded. The mage who’d just felled her had thankfully rolled on past. Though not before ruining her spell, helplessly driving sharp knees and elbows into her… and giving the fleeing five time to get out the door.
As she fought to get her breath back, Glathra saw her fellow wizards on their knees clutching chests and throats, with Alusair curling up from them in ghostly triumph to dart out the door, calling, “To me, friends! I’ll take you to a place in this house of mine where no one will trace or follow you!”
“Don’t bet on that,” Glathra hissed furiously, struggling to her knees. “This particular thick-skulled idiot doesn’t embrace defeat so willingly.”
Something swirled in the dark passage beyond the door-and Alusair blazed back into the room like an arrow, straight at the war wizard’s head.
Only to stop right in Glathra’s face.
“Glathra Barcantle,” the ghost hissed, “Cormyr stands in peril! The realm needs you to grow up, right now. Think on that.”
Then the princess was gone, leaving nothing but empty air in front of Glathra’s nose.
And beyond it, a lot of sheepish men in robes or armor, awkwardly avoiding meeting her gaze as they wincingly found their feet.
Unexpectedly, Glathra found herself on the trembling verge of tears.
“No!” Marlin Stormserpent shrieked, slashing at the death tyrant in wide-eyed terror. The Flying Blade flashed and bit, sinking into rotten plates that in life would have been as hard as Purple Dragon armor.
Each blow shook the beholder, jostling Manshoon’s many overlapping visions as its eyes danced and writhed.
Momentarily everything blurred, and a pounding pain arose in his mind. Blackfire, but he was tired!
His vision steadied, sliding back into focus again. The second death tyrant had hold of the Chalice, and had just slammed into the struggling noble from behind. The room was too small for the beholders to battle effectively Yet the clumsy strike worked; the sword tumbled from Stormserpent’s hand. Manshoon used the tyrant that had hold of him to shove him back, pinning the lordling when he went limp and tried to slip to the floor and crawl to his blade. The other tyrant snatched the sword up.
Back now, out of Stormserpent Towers, to me.
To Sraunter’s cellar… so tired…
Had the smoke somehow come with the tyrants? No… What, then, was this purple-gray, heaving mist that swirled in his mind? The rising pain…
Manshoon was vaguely aware he’d lost control over one tyrant. It was drifting limply near the cellar wall. He was seeing it from the floor, a floor that lurched beneath him, slowly, like the deck of a ship he’d been on, long years ago, fighting slow, rolling waves in the Moonsea…
Too much. He’d tried controlling too many minds at once. Sraunter’s roiling fear, the dark, cold dead weights of the two undead beholders, all while keeping his scrying spheres going as he cast multiple teleports, holding some in hanging abeyance… too much. Stormserpent’s flood of terror had defeated him, had put the noble’s mind beyond his mastery this time, exhausting him…
Bile of Bane, but he had limitations after all.
“Sark and lurruk,” he cursed in a weary whisper, watching the ceiling spin above him. Stormserpent was on the move.
The lordling had torn free of the tyrant holding him, but Manshoon still had a tenuous hold over it. If Stormserpent tried to harm Manshoon’s human body, he could slam the beholder into the man, or interpose it between angry young lord and exhausted vampire lord…
Or, he could take mist form to escape destruction if he had to-but the last time he’d done that, as Orbakh of Westgate, so many of his bindings and mental holds over others had faded away that he’d spent the better part of seven seasons restoring a little more than half of them; the others were gone for good.
So that was very much a last resort.
Ohhh, his head…
The sword and the chalice lay on the cellar floor beneath the other, limply floating tyrant. Through swimming eyes Manshoon saw the young noble snatch them up.
Blade in hand, Marlin Stormserpent turned a pale, frightened face in Manshoon’s direction for a moment, then turned and bolted for the cellar stairs.
Manshoon lay on cold stone, listening to the thunder of the noble’s boots die away. He was too drained and near senseless to prevent Stormserpent’s flight.
Silence descended in the shop overhead. No smashings, no smoke… just stillness.
So his pawn had escaped-for now-and the two blueflame items with him.
Manshoon sighed. Undeniably, the future emperor of Cormyr had overreached himself.
He let slip his control over the last tyrant and watched it drift, eyestalks drooping. If the pain would only fade, sark it…
From overhead came the faint slam of a door and the tinkling of the shop’s bell.
Then an imperious female voice, a little breathless but with shrill volume to make up for that, coming nearer.
“Shopkeeper? Alchemist! Master Surontur, or whatever your name is! Yoohoo! Is anyone here? Service! Ser- vice! ”
From behind the door of the corner cellar room where an alchemist and a noble lord of Cormyr were confined arose the muffled thunder of Immaero Sraunter trying to get the locked door open.
Manshoon’s lips twisted in wry amusement. Of course. The alchemist knew all too well that Nechelseiya Sammartael didn’t like to be kept waiting.
“Th-they’re saying it everywhere, saer! Rumors always run wild, aye, but they’re all crying it! Noble lords butchered, and King Foril dead, and the realm now at war!”
Lord Irlin Stonestable shook his head. “Surely not all of this can be true! Broryn, is this steward of yours a drinker?”
From the far side of the decanter-crowded table in the front parlor of Staghaven House, his grim-faced host shook his head.
“Aereld here is one of the oldest and most trusted Windstag servants,” he announced almost fiercely. “Shrewd, prudent, and utterly trustworthy. If he tells us all the city’s saying so, then you may trust that all the city’s saying so!”
“Well, haularake! If this doesn’t naed all!” Stonestable swore, draining his flagon and sitting back to stare at the steward as if the man were a shapechanging monster growing jaws and claws before his eyes.
Windstag suddenly rounded on the old steward, in one of his abrupt changes of mood.
“At war?” he bellowed into the man’s frightened face. “Are you sure?”
“Yon trusty may or may not be,” a familiar voice gasped, before the stammering Aereld could say a clear word in reply, “bu
t I sure as the Purple Dragon am!”
Lord Mellast Ormblade, red faced and puffing for breath, staggered past the steward to crash down into a vacant seat at the table and gasp, “Truth, all of it! Many nobles butchered-by a barepelt club dancer, seemingly possessed by the ghost of the legendary Vangerdahast! The king clings to life despite three or four swords through him, I think-and Handragon’s alive, for sure-but many of the oldbloods are frightened or enraged enough that we may already be at war!”
A clatter of hooves and the loud neighing of a protesting horse came from outside. Before anyone could go to see the cause, Lord Sacrast Handragon came striding in.
“Butchery at the palace, a score of oldblood lords dead, and the rest all crying rebellion, and worse news!” he said grimly.
“Worse?” Windstag growled in disbelief. “How so?’
Handragon snatched up a decanter and drank deeply, not bothering with a flagon.
“Just now I almost rode down some Stormserpent family servants,” he replied, slamming what was left of the wine down on the table. “They’re running through the streets saying Lord Marlin Stormserpent and most of his household have been slaughtered in Stormserpent Towers, by unknown hands!”
“Where are we, exactly?” Mirt growled.
“Deep in the haunted wing,” Alusair replied. “Where the old enchantments are so thick that none of the wizards of war who serve the realm now can scry us or even find us with certainty.”
“They’ll guess we’re here,” Storm said dryly, and they were all treated to the sight of a ghost shrugging.
“Let them,” the princess replied. “What boots it? I trust we can agree on some things before Glathra can assemble enough Dragons, priests, and mages to dare to march this far in. So start arguing.”
Arclath smiled. “You know us well.”
Alusair smiled back. “You are a noble of Cormyr, Lord Delcastle.”
“And although known well for your debonair lack of concern over anything at all,” Storm said gravely, “you have been anything but unconcerned-or even approaching calm-these last few days. I feel your mistrust. ’Tis high time we talked.”