Bury Elminster Deep sos-2

by Ed Greenwood

  The lionar nodded, raised his hand in salute, and replied flatly, “Your words have been heard. As for our offer and vigilance… you’re very welcome, wizard.”

  Then Handmane turned his back on Dardulkyn and his mansion, and marched away.

  Manshoon had to stop himself from chuckling. Oh, well said, brave lionar! He made Dardulkyn’s body turn to the helmed horrors floating in a patient arc behind him, and order them-loudly and unnecessarily, for the benefit of the cordon of listening Dragons-to secure the damaged mansion and make very certain no intruder slipped inside.

  The beholder body he’d arrived in was hidden in one of the upper rooms that still had a roof, accompanied by a patiently floating beholderkin he could use to return to Sraunter’s shop.

  Reaching out to the minds of the two nearest horrors, he sent them to begin breaking open a shaft to let his beholder float down into Dardulkyn’s cellars.

  Leaving the other horrors to defend the walls against every last rat, mouse, or bird that ventured near the riven mansion, he took Dardulkyn’s body on a tour of the cellars.

  Pleasingly, the uppermost of those lower levels included one large chamber into which had been placed a row of cages fashioned of massive iron bars-cages as large as small huts. A thin, sickly looking griffon was trapped in one, the cage strewn with its shed feathers, but the rest were empty of all but some unpleasant-looking mounds of bones. Good. The beholder-and, once he got them here, its fellow tyrants-could be put into these monster cages.

  He’d raise some strong wards around the place-Dardulkyn’s were pitiful-but for the benefit of the inevitable farscrying war wizards, some of whom were undoubtedly spying on him right now, he’d make sure his tyrants rested on the floor rather than floating in midair, and kept their eyestalks drooping, so as to look dead rather than alive.

  Wards that were nigh worthless, a lot of “impress gullible idiots” decor… well, one could but hope Dardulkyn’s tomes and enchanted items were a tenth as powerful as the man’s mind believed they were. It was high time to see what he’d gained, and if his new dupe had any magic at all that was new to Manshoon the Mighty, Emperor-to-be of Cormyr and Beyond.

  Yes, that did have a ring to it, it did.

  Arclath nodded. “So, talk.”

  Elminster needed no more prompting. “Lad,” he began, “ye’ve heard from Storm who it was who slew me: Manshoon.”

  “Another centuries-old wizard. Once ruled Zhentil Keep, rode dragons, wasn’t nice. Or so the old tales say.”

  Mirt chuckled and nodded.

  “Those tales lie not,” El agreed, “and tell ye almost all ye need to know about the man. Hear now the rest. There have been many Manshoons. When he’s slain, another of his selves awakens, and ye must slay him all over again. His Art is very strong, and with it he can easily conquer the minds of others and make them his slaves.”

  “As you can,” Arclath said softly.

  “As I can, aye. Yet Manshoon is… far less considerate. Where I cozen-”

  “Manipulate.”

  “As good a word for it, aye. Where I manipulate, he coerces.”

  Storm and Mirt both nodded, so Arclath did, too. “And so?”

  “The man loves not just to defeat and dominate-he lives to rule. Zhentil Keep and its farflung tentacles-literally scores of holds, from waystop keeps to cities. To say nothing of Westgate, Ombraldar, and far Shanooth. He isn’t just here hunting me. Tired of a Westgate that won’t stay ruled but seethes tirelessly with deceits, challenges, and coup attempts-a delight for him for a decade or two but increasingly tiresome thereafter, as he sees the same ploys and clumsy deceptions a fourth and a tenth time, or more-he’s set his sights on a brighter prize. He’s here in Suzail to conquer the realm.”

  “Isn’t competition for that particular ambition a mite crowded already?” Arclath asked. “How can you be certain of Manshoon’s involvement, given all the plots and feuds and Crown-hatreds that have been nursed here for centuries? Centuries!”

  “Therein lies the sport. Using various nobles and courtiers as his pawns, and remaining unnoticed until his chosen time to reveal himself. The brawl at Council may in very large part be his doing.”

  “Perhaps, but could you not be as guilty as we nobles of Cormyr are, of seeing every little chance happening not as what it truly is, but as the latest move in our ongoing feuds with each other and the Crown? You see Manshoon’s hand because you expect to, whether or not it’s really there.”

  “I agree,” said Amarune, her voice clearly hers and not Elminster’s.

  “Rune!” Arclath cried, reaching for her. “He’s let you master yourself again! Why-”

  “We’re sharing, lad,” El rumbled, out of the lips Arclath was leaning to kiss. And grinned. “So go on, kiss thy lady. I’ll not look.”

  Arclath froze for a moment, bewildered-then shrugged, swept Rune into his arms, and kissed her heartily.

  After a good long time, she ended it with a smile and looked past his shoulder. “Storm? Mirt? What think you?”

  “El’s right. Manshoon is here in Suzail, and up to something. Seizing the Dragon Throne will be his goal. Seizing thrones always is.”

  Mirt nodded agreement. “El has the right of it. As usual.”

  Rune’s smile faded as she regarded Arclath, nose to nose. “Much as I hate to think of an evil archwizard slyly at work in our city, it could very well be true. After all, these three believe it, and they’ve known this spellhurler and our realm far longer than we have. Whether they’re right or not, we dare not dismiss their warning as mistaken.”

  Arclath let out a long, exasperated sigh. “You’re right, Rune. Of course. And I should need no one else to remind me of my duty to the realm. Nobles must watch for all perils to fair Cormyr, so we can save our land from itself if the need arises. For the sake of Cormyr and everyone in it, I dare not behave as if this tale of a lurking Manshoon is less than true.”

  Storm spread her hands, but it was Elminster who spoke the words to go with them. “And so?”

  Arclath waited for Mirt but heard only silence. With all eyes looking at him.

  “We’re lost if we try to find Manshoon’s mind-slaves among all the lords of Cormyr,” he said slowly, thinking aloud. “They’re all traitors, in tiny matters or large schemings. Every last one of them will seem as suspicious as they always do. Our rooting among them warns Manshoon that we know of him, and gives him endless opportunities to slay us at will.”

  He winced, seeing imagined disasters at every hand. “No, we must rally to the Dragon Throne. Return to the palace, try to keep out of Glathra’s clutches, and hunt for traces of Manshoon-and his mind-slaves and allies among the wizards of war.”

  Storm and Rune both nodded vigorously.

  “Using my Art and the Princess Alusair’s aid to hide from Glathra as much as we can,” El put in. “So, ye’ve brought us into the palace, amid much fun of dodging Purple Dragons and war wizards and hundreds of prying courtiers, lad. Where, with the aid of a score of friendly gods, we find and scour out every last traitor within the walls. Finding no Manshoon, who must be outside the palace laughing at us and thoroughly aware of our every belch, yawn, and need to scratch. What then?”

  Arclath frowned. “Above all, the king must be protected. All Obarskyrs must, for that matter. Yet, I know not how.”

  “Heh,” Mirt growled, “ye must make all ‘hows’ up as ye go along. I learned that well, the hard way. It strikes me this realm awash in Crown mages needs a ruling hand that every last wizard of war is afraid of. If the infamous Sage of Shadowdale has to step into Vangerdahast’s old boots and become royal magician and court wizard all in one, hated by every noble in the kingdom and feared by every commoner, well… so be it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  SWORDS COME OUT

  If you do try to become royal magician, Elminster,” Arclath announced slowly, “even knowing you mean well, I might be forced to oppose you. You’d be better for Cormyr than Manshoon, yet
you’re still an old and mighty archwizard, and an outlander to boot. Magic has a way of… corrupting those who wield it.”

  “It does indeed. Yet, if it makes ye sleep more serenely, lad, know this-I have less than no interest in becoming another Vangerdahast. Giving certain war wizards a solid kick up the backside, aye; but, commanding them in the name of the Dragon Throne, never. I’d as soon herd nobles of Cormyr. If ye’ll forgive me.”

  Arclath smirked despite himself, and cast a glance at the towers of court and palace, visible above the rooftops, not all that far away.

  “So, how are we getting into the palace this time? It’s too much to hope they’ll leave that house behind the stables unguarded again.”

  “Ye keep hidden-the lot of ye,” Mirt offered. “I’ll do the talking. Me, the fat uncouth outlander, who’s been out in the city an’ has heard something the Lady Glathra must hear. Herself alone, from my maw straight to her ears, right now.”

  Arclath rolled his eyes. “And if they don’t believe you?”

  “Ah. Then ye burst out to the attack. Nay, wait a bit! Rune and Storm, scantily clad, dance forth, an’ I’ll admit I’m really a panderer, bringing ’em in for the crown prince, or Hallowdant… aye, Hallowdant’s safer. ’Tis a pose I’ve worked before.”

  Storm winked at Amarune. “Really? You’re sure pandering is just a pose for you?”

  “Well, now… back in Waterdeep, I’d know what to charge and who to offer-er, ah, knew. They’ll all be long dead now, hey? Well-”

  The awning they were passing under suddenly crashed down atop Storm, with an attacker who landed heels-first, dashing her to the ground.

  As their attacker landed, Storm bouncing under those boots, a sword slashed Amarune from behind, flashing up under her left arm and slicing into her side. A pulse of purple light-enchantment-burst from that flashing steel, and Rune shrieked as she fell.

  As Arclath shouted something furious and desperate, Mirt charged like a human bludgeon, driving the attacker away from Amarune and stabbing with both his daggers as he bowled the stranger to the cobbles and they rolled together.

  Storm’s tresses reached out to follow them, but the pair had moved too far-and the attacker, who was taller, faster, and more supple than Mirt, broke free of the wheezing man and up to his-no, her-feet, spinning to stand facing them, a silhouette dark and sleekly curvaceous, with a long, slender, and faintly glowing sword in hand.

  That purple radiance brightened into a pale white light and showed them a tall, shapely, and fit woman in tight black leather armor and high boots that were too worn and mold-blotched to creak. Helmless, she had long, wild hair, dead-white skin, and a cruel, smiling face. Her eyes glowed red, and a small patch of mold adorned one of her cheeks.

  “I am the defender of Cormyr,” she purred, “and Elminster of Shadowdale, for your crimes against this fair realm, your life is more than forfeit!”

  She was gazing down at Amarune, who lay moaning on the cobbles, bright red blood flooding out of her and Storm rising to crouch over her like a grim gate guard, sword drawn and something else-a helm-in her other hand.

  “Yes,” Targrael added, seeing Arclath’s horrified look. “I know. This is the Sage of Shadowdale, not a foolish little minx of a mask dancer. And it’s soon to become the remains of Elminster of Shadowdale!”

  Arclath Delcastle swallowed, then charged at her, drawing his sword with a flourish as he went.

  “I’m Elminster, disloyal Highknight!” he snarled. “Not this blameless lass! Is this how you serve Cormyr?”

  Targrael’s glowing steel flashed up to turn his blade deftly aside as she hissed, “You dare to judge my loyalty, child of a noble? You, spoiled brat of one of the many traitor Houses who seek to sunder our fair realm? You’re no Elminster! He’s a fool, yes, but not your sort of a fool!”

  Her sword lashed out, but Arclath parried expertly, smiling at the momentary surprise in her eyes-there are some benefits to a noble upbringing, and skilled swordwork is one of them-and advanced, pressing her. Out of a spinning clangor of parries, he ducked down into a lunge, then sidestepped her parry to lunge again, driving her back from Rune.

  “Keep going,” Storm murmured up at him, and he turned his head toward her long enough to see her jam the helm in her hand over Amarune’s head.

  It was the blackened helm from one of the helmed horrors El had felled. The helm full of roiling fire.

  The wild shriek that rang out from inside it, in the instant before Rune jerked wildly in Storm’s grasp and then fell limp, distracted Arclath just an instant too long The glowing sword slicing at his throat came so close that he felt its chill along his cheek and jaw, a sear so slight it would soon fade, as Targrael sought to slay him-and Mirt rolled right under her, snatching her feet from the cobbles and pitching her helplessly onto her face, her blade falling away just before it would have cut into Delcastle flesh.

  Arclath whirled back to the fray and saw the death knight at his feet and snarlingly clawing at him, wildly hacking at the cobbles beneath and behind her with her blade and striking many sparks-yet failing to do more than make slices in Mirt’s already-ragged boots, as he spun deftly around on one shoulder on the cobbles, away from her.

  Arclath drew back his sword to stab her, then turned its edge so its point could seek her neck and throat as he brought it down-just how does one slay a death knight, anyhail?

  Then he faltered, his blade slowing and drifting aside in the air as something burst into his head.

  No, some one. Elminster. Ashes were sliding itchingly over his collar…

  Targrael was up again, an unlovely smile growing on her face as she swung her sword in a vicious slash that couldn’t miss.

  Damn you, Elminster! Your brain-riding has slain me! You ruthless Storm’s sword struck aside Targrael’s with a shriek of straining steel, and the charging ranger’s shoulder slammed into the death knight and sent her staggering helplessly back. Whereupon, Mirt hooked Targrael’s planted hind foot out from under her and sent her toppling again.

  “Back!” he roared, waving both arms wildly. “Keep ye back!”

  Storm flung herself away from the bouncing, wallowing death knight, and as Targrael twisted around as swiftly as any angry eel, Mirt drew something from one of the many bulging pouches at his belt-and tossed it right in her face.

  Arclath had time to see that it was a palm-sized sphere of rusty iron-and that the lady Highknight looked momentarily bewildered, ere her expression slid into dawning rage. Then the sphere glowed the purple-white of an awakening lesser enchantment of elder palace magics, and expanded with astonishing speed into a widening web of iron hoops, like the bands around an iron barrel. Still holding the shape of a sphere, they fell around the scrambling-to-her-feet Targrael in a cage.

  Then they snapped tight again, trapping her, so that Mirt faced a much larger iron sphere from which jutted Targrael’s head, her empty hand, the tip of her glowing blade, and one foot, with the rest of her hidden within its widening, now overlapping bands.

  “Stlarn it,” Mirt growled, weaving to his feet and huffing heavily for breath, “that’s not going to hold her for long! Not with yon fancy magic blade of hers.”

  “It doesn’t have to,” Storm gasped, “if we can reach the palace before she’s free! Hurry!”

  “But, but- Rune!” Arclath protested, even as Storm dragged Amarune to her feet and started to run.

  He could see that Amarune was stumbling along blindly, the Harper holding her up and guiding her. Her back and side were drenched with fresh blood, but she moved like someone unhurt, just dazed and unable to see.

  Small wonder, that last: her head was still encased in a helm far too large for her, whose flames were fainter and dwindling still more as Arclath stared. Flames that could be clearly seen out the open front of the helm, which had wobbled around to show him the back of Amarune’s head.

  Was the blackened shell of metal healing her? It was certainly losing the fire that had raged in it in t
he wake of Elminster’s horror-rending spell.

  Arclath shook his head. He would never understand magic… and what scared him was the strengthening suspicion that even archmages understood only scraps of it.

  “Come on!” Storm snapped over her shoulder, running faster. Mirt wheezed, then groaned like a sick walrus, barreling forward in a pell-mell lurching.

  Arclath looked at the spitting-with-rage death knight in her iron prison-in time to see her overbalance in her struggles and fall to the cobbles to roll helplessly, snarling curses-then started to sprint after everyone. Catching up to the odd parade all running toward the palace.

  As the last of the wagons rumbled away from Sraunter’s alley door, Manshoon helped the alchemist slam and bar it, then ran for the cellar stairs.

  He had to move fast; the wizards of war wouldn’t refrain from prying forever.

  Not with their suspicions aroused, the city full of scheming nobles, and the sort of temper the Lady Glathra had.

  A temper he would show her a match for, if it came to that. He was getting a headache already, what with having to dominate and control Sraunter and no fewer than six carters and drovers on three wagons. So soon after promising to limit himself, too. He’d picked the first three teams who’d stopped by the alchemist’s shop with supplies in closed wagons that were large enough, not the carters and drovers Manshoon might have chosen at his own leisure.

  “Leisure” being something he entirely lacked, just then.

  That headache was why Crownrood spellslept in his locked cellar room, and some streets away Dardulkyn was hidden in a closet in his mansion, deep in similar enspelled slumber, while Manshoon trusted — had to trust-in the explicit and detailed orders he’d given the helmed horrors to keep all intruders at bay. Including zealous Purple Dragons, war wizards, and for that matter, any Highknights who might be lurking in Suzail and aching to demonstrate their prowess.

  Aching mind or not, this darkly handsome human body was strong and supple; he could descend the cellar stairs in three long strides without fear of falling or skidding into an unyielding wall.