Elminster in Hell

by Ed Greenwood

  “Of course,” the Great Lady Calabrista echoed, faintly and haltingly.

  Elminster put a firm hand over his teacup to muffle its snort of mirth.

  Four gracefully extended hands stopped, quivered, and withdrew, leaving platters untouched.

  The Old Mage raised his brows. “Oh, but they’re GOOD! Nobles in Waterdeep prize nothing else more highly! And if the gods smile upon thee, and grant their brightest luck—” He leaned forward eagerly, peering at the sandwiches upon the platter before him, until his hand stabbed suddenly down, to peel back bread and reveal a hurrying slug undulating out of the heart of a sandwich—for just a moment, before he slapped the bread back into place, snatched the sandwich to his mouth, and bit down, hard—“ye find a live one! Ah, there’s nothing like it!”

  As he spoke, the green head of the slug poked out of the corner of his mouth, twisted this way and that questioningly, and then vanished within again. Elminster chewed heartily, beaming at his guests. The little illusions get ’em, every time.

  “I-I think it would be best,” the Great Lady Calabrista quavered, “if we proceeded with the burden of our visit. Men of great influence in Sembia—not to put too fine a point on it, men of great WEALTH—have enrolled their daughters at my school for some years now, seeking to find those who are GIFTED BY THE GODS with an aptitude for magic … an aptitude that I flatter myself I can draw out without recourse to dark altars and midnight fires and sacrifices of, er, snails.… THAT IS TO SAY, I am confident that these, my BEST students, will not disappoint any competent practitioner of the ART! I was REQUESTED to bring them before you by VERY highly placed individuals, for your examination and—ah, approval.”

  “Ye have done well and wisely,” Elminster said with a smile. “I approve of all of them.”

  “You DO? Without eve—that is to say, their fitness at magic shines forth so BRIGHTLY?”

  “Indeed, Great Lady,” Elminster said with a gracious smile, gently slapping his teacup (which had begun to emit small sounds that resembled hiccups), “it doth. Indubitably. Had ye not had so GREAT a hand in the shaping of their glories, their power would blind EVEN YE! Let me tender my apologies, ladies four, for discussing thee as one does cattle, or fine gowns, or the luster of china.… What concerns me most is not thy grasp of spells but thy thinking, and characters, and the daily flight of thy hearts. Perhaps we can assay a beginning in learning that, here today. I—”

  Glass burst into the room in a thousand sparkling shards. Sighing, Elminster put one hand over his teacup again.

  “Die, cursed mageling!” The mage in the window thrust her hands forward in claws, and lightning burst from her long fingers.

  They snarled across the room amid the customary blinding flashes and spitting sparks, and struck something unseen a foot or so shy of the Old Mage’s nose. He calmly watched them rebound, amid the screams, crashing headlong flights, sprays of loose pearls, and the Great Lady Calabrista clawing her way up the back of her grand chair, which promptly overbalanced to reveal far, far too many silk and gem-beaded gauze petticoats to the world. Lightnings clawed at the Red Wizardess who’d cast them. They scattered before her shield as she snarled in angry triumph and lashed out at random around the room, causing a certain teacup to dance, chairs to slump back into mushrooms again, and the frog to open both its eyes very wide and inquire, “Bong?”

  In three breaths the room was empty of four Sembian ladies. Elminster reclined at ease in his chair, sandwich in hand. He watched with interest as the last of his young visitors, trembling and white to the very lips, held forth a wand she’d snatched out of a hitherto-hidden hip sheath, gritted her teeth, and hissed out a word that brought the stick of wood in her hands into furious life.

  A white beam smashed across the room, caused red fires to rage about the Thayan mage for a crazed instant, and then smashed the Red Wizardess, window, spell shield, and all, out into the garden, leaving a large and smoking hole in its wake.

  The young Sembian stared at what she’d done, unshed tears bright in her eyes.

  A weak voice groaned from somewhere outside, “My roses!”

  “Are ye all right, Lhaeo? I wasn’t expecting this spitfire here to have a wand of ever-searing flames.…”

  “That wasn’t me,” his scribe told him wearily. “I was still being a teacup. That was a Red Wizard—or Wizardess, whatever.”

  Old and magely brows rose together. “Two, in one afternoon? I’ll have to start charging a toll.” Elminster’s head turned slowly, and he asked the astonished young lady, “Nouméa Fairbright? That is thy name, is it not?” At her nod, he continued, “Nouméa, wherever did ye get a wand of ever-searing flames? They’re not safe, ye know.”

  The young lady gaped at him for a few moments longer, and then found her voice. “Safe? SAFE? After you set your apprentice on us hurling lightning? To trick us and scorch us and scare us like I’ve never been scared before? Why, you—”

  Elminster grinned, and Lhaeo’s face, as it appeared at the window, wore an identical expression.

  “Ye’ll do,” they said in chorus. “Yes, ye’ll do just fine. Sit down, feet up, and have a snail sandwich; they’re really mustard, cheese, and pickles. We’ve much to talk about.”

  Nouméa glared at them both for a moment longer. Then she sat down firmly on a mushroom and brought two spike-heeled golden slippers down on Elminster’s table with a crash. “Well?” she asked, raising a severe but amused eyebrow. “Wasn’t there some cordial?”

  Fourteen

  ONE HELL OF A BARGAIN

  Tentacles tightened—and a devil’s head flew. The spinagon’s neck fountained black, smoking blood as its body whirled around in grotesque spasms. Its staring head bouncing wetly on the rocks some distance away.

  Disgusted, Nergal turned away. Even slaying things gave him no satisfaction now. Avernus was in an uproar, with pit fiend generals riding dragons here and there, legions of cornugons flying in their wake, and barb-tailed osyluths stalking everywhere, spying and prying. Thrice he’d escaped attack only by the swiftest of shapeshifts and masterful acting. Sooner or later he’d end up trying to impersonate a particular general to troops who reported to the real general.

  Almost as bad as that prospect was the likelihood of his encountering a spy of the Lord of Lies—a margrave or overduke or demichancellor who’d been sent to scour out the truth of things in Avernus.

  All this because of one old, weak, smart-tongued mortal wizard who was still successfully resisting all attempts to plunder his mind of anything useful. A wizard who even now was wandering Avernus, blundering along into trouble. Trouble for Nergal, too. As long as Nergal was riding his mind, there was a link between them that even an amnizu could follow.

  He’d best pounce on the worm and leash him in chains, and then take the shape of one of the pit fiends he’d slain himself—Gorkor, or Jarleil, or Tharthammon. Yes, Tharthammon would do: a slow, grim, close-mouthed giant among pit fiends. Few, even among the dukes, dared to question when he gave them dark looks.

  So farewell tentacles, and fair greeting to great arching wings and a bulk as large as four Nergals. It was high time to call his wandering mind-slave back home.

  Mind-twisted Faerûnian bastard.

  HO, LITTLE WORM! HOW ARE THE FAIR SIGHTS OF HELL?

  [guilty swirling of silver—silver fire? HAD THAT BEEN SILVER FIRE? But softly …]

  Unprepossessing.

  AH, THEN YOU CAN SEE ME AGAIN?

  I’m not bleeding into my eyes just now.

  [growl] YOU TREAD DANGEROUSLY ON MY PATIENCE, WIZARD….

  An erinyes swooped down and healed me—see the memory if ye believe me not.

  WHAT?

  [mental scrabbling, frantic haste, images flashing past in a roar, hard slow staring, then bitter cursing in the tongue of Hell]

  ELMINSTER, HEED! CEASE MOVING ABOUT. FIND SOME CAVE OR CREVICE TO COWER IN, AND STAY THERE. I’M RECLAIMING YOU.

  I’d hate to miss the pleasure of shared com
pany.

  YOUR TONGUE, MORTAL, WILL BE THE BLADE THAT STABS YOU YET. JUST YOU BIDE IN ONE PLACE UNTIL I REACH YOU. I’M LESS THAN PLEASED WITH YOUR STALLING. YOU KNOW VERY WELL WHAT I SEEK AND PERSIST IN GIVING ME MEMORIES OF THIS WENCH AND THAT—IS LUST ALL THAT CONSUMES YOU?

  No, but ’tis one of my favorites.

  [growl] THAT CLEVER TONGUE …

  IT OCCURS TO ME THAT I’VE BEEN SEEKING YOUR MEMORIES OF WIELDING POWER IN THE WRONG WAY. HUMANS SEEM SO DIRECT, BUT PERHAPS YOU WIZARDS DO MORE AS WE OF HELL DO? MEDDLE, ACTING AT A DISTANCE THROUGH AGENTS, UNWITTING AND OTHERWISE …

  I’ve quite a collection of memories of my meddling in things—busy centuries’ worth, in fact.

  [mumbled curse] I FIND MYSELF UNSURPRISED. LET US BEGIN.…

  [mind lash, fiery eyes moving forcefully forward, cries ignored, images flashing past …]

  * * * * *

  Torchlight flickered off glistening mauve slime as a tentacled head turned. “Well, what have we here?”

  “Mhulker,” Baergrim snapped from behind him. “It’s still you, isn’t it? That—that thing isn’t taking you over, is it?”

  “My guest has … needs,” the mage with the mindflayer’s head replied in hurt tones. “Were you in a particular hurry to descend yon stairs and die deeper in Undermountain? Or is hereabouts exclusive enough for you?”

  “I’m in no particular hurry to die anywhere, thank you,” the warrior replied sourly. “I just wanted to remind you that this is the lair of Halaster the Mad, and things are seldom what they seem. I mean, if yon lady’s been chained for long, how is it that something else hasn’t come along already to devour her?”

  The wizard, breathing heavily, pushed through the bead curtain in the archway. He entered a room where a chained woman was spread-eagled over a pedestal. Her large eyes were terrified, pleading over the tight leather gag that covered the lower half of her face.

  “My guest only wants her brain,” the wizard snapped. “You may have the rest of her when I’m done.”

  Baergrim came to a halt well back of the pedestal where the woman’s torso rested, and exchanged warning looks with the other two Blades: a small darker-skinned warrior named Eltragar and a slim woman in worn and patched leathers. Mheriyam was a nervous thief. She had daggers in either hand, and her face was white with fear.

  Together, the three Blades watched the wizard approach the pedestal. It was surrounded by a glowing circle of green dust on the floor. Runes of a similar hue had been painted on the woman’s arms.

  The wizard gave the ring a quick, sneering glance and strode right across it. As he leaned over the woman with a tight smile growing on his face, she jerked her head from side to side, sudden and frantic flailing making her chains rattle. Yet, arching and twisting, she could not escape the tentacles now reaching out.…

  “Mhulker!” Baergrim snapped suddenly. “Mhulker, get back! That gag’s covering her mouth and her nose! She can’t be breathing—so she can’t be human!”

  There was a sudden confusion of writhing tentacles, jouncing chains and roiling lights around the pedestal—and then a brief roar of flame.

  When its flash died and the Blades could see again, they found themselves blinking in horror at something lurching toward them. Mheriyam screamed.

  Mhulker’s legs and pelvis were staggering back from the pedestal with nothing left above them but a little cloud of drifting ash.

  Three blades came up in unison, but no one made a move toward the pedestal. As Mhulker’s remains stumbled and sagged to the floor, the cloud of winking lights and rushing smoke above the pedestal coalesced suddenly into—a man.

  A bald, elderly man with long white hair and wrinkled brown robes stood beyond the pedestal. His fierce eyes softened not a whit as he folded his arms across his chest and gave them an eager, welcoming smile.

  “Halaster!” Mheriyam howled in terror, whirling around and breaking into a frantic run. “Halaster Blackcloak!”

  Baergrim and Eltragar did not need to hear her warning; they were already running hard, bouncing bruisingly off stone walls as they gasped and stumbled. Cold, cruel laughter pursued them a long way down the passages they fled through.

  When the echoes of frantic boots had faded, the mad wizard shaped one of his arms once more into slender femininity and with a glance spun a chain out of nothing to link it with the wall once more. Someone else was coming, and the old ruses were the good ones.

  In a few moments, the woman lay spread-eagled in her chains on the pedestal once more, eyes pleading above the gag that once more covered both mouth and nose. One had to give the alert ones some small chance at survival, after all.…

  The chained woman turned her head and stared in swift fury at the figure who came through the beaded curtain next. It wore his own true likeness, a bald, elderly man with long white hair, fierce eyes, and wrinkled brown robes—and it leaned against the archway, folded arms across its chest and smiled at him. “Halaster Blackcloak, I presume?”

  Halaster did not bother to drop his womanly disguise as he snapped, “Aye, so who are you?”

  The spell that cracked out of him stripped away the intruder’s disguise and sent him flying helplessly across the room. A fat and unlovely man struck the far wall with a groan and slid slowly down it, face tight with pain.

  Halaster rolled off the pedestal, becoming himself as he strode forward to deal death. No, best learn how and why this fool had taken his semblance first. And then—ah, yes, and then …

  Blue bolts of lightning were already whirling and spitting around one of his hands as he came to a halt above the wincing and struggling man. That face …

  “Mirt? Mirt of Waterdeep? What by all of Mystra’s whims are you doing here?” Halaster held the lightning where the old merchant could see it and said softly, “I asked you a question. Answer swiftly or die—I shan’t stand here waiting for you to ready an attack.”

  The Old Wolf spat blood and said, “Found y-you. Knew I would.” Then his eyes became two blue-white flames, and he began to rise from the floor, floating upward even as he—no, she, for shapely limbs and hips were beginning to spin into being out of what had seemed his own tattered brown robes—glided forward.

  Halaster raised his hand full of lightning and snarled, “Who—or what—are you?”

  “Call me Mystra,” his visitor said gently. The rolling echo of that voice shook Halaster to the depths of his soul.

  He found himself on his knees, trembling, tears threatening.…

  The hand that touched his was firm, solid, and smooth. It sent a wash of power through him that drove back the dark curtains in his mind for a time and left him blinking in grateful awe.

  “Don’t thank me,” the goddess of all magic said to the mad wizard. “We need to talk.”

  “Because?”

  “I have need of a task swiftly done,” Mystra said. “A hard task, and one suited for a madman.”

  Halaster’s lips lifted in what was almost a smile, and he asked, “If I live, will you give me sanity?”

  “If I can.”

  “Will you give me magic enough to have a chance of succeeding?”

  Mystra nodded. “I will. Thrice as much power as you’ve ever tasted or wielded before, and more.”

  “That’s what made me mad, I think,” he whispered. “I’ll do it.”

  It was Mystra’s turn to not quite smile. “Would you like to know what the task is, first?”

  Halaster shrugged. “No, but tell me.”

  “I need a wizard brought back from the Nine Hells. As alive and as intact as you can make him. He’s a living man and an intruder there, not a denizen.”

  “I’ll do it. Who is he?”

  A face and a name and a more secret name whirled into Halaster’s mind, and he staggered and caught at his head. “Elminster,” he said in surprise. “Lady, is he not one of your own?”

  Mystra nodded. “He is—as you shall be.”

  “L-lady, I have been touched by Shar,” Halaste
r dared to whisper.

  Mystra tossed her head impatiently. Small winking stars scattered from her long, flowing tresses to stream about the chamber. “I know. Touch me.”

  Halaster Blackcloak swallowed. He rose and extended one hand timidly toward her. The power that jolted through him made him shriek and go blind. It seemed to him, just for a moment, that his body struck a wall with bone-shattering force.… By then, all was blue-white fire, roaring on and on, and Halaster was laughing in exultation at the power racing through him. He rode it far and away, across planes and great voids and past shadowed, reaching things … or perhaps it rode him.

  * * * * *

  WELL, NOW WHAT’S THIS? MANY FOLK, SOME SORT OF FEAST, SPELLS GOING OFF …? YES.

  Though the hour bells had rung but nine, the revel was in full swing. Laughter, snatches of off-key singing, and fond shouts of friendship echoed off the high ceiling in an unending din. The minstrels had long since given up trying to be heard and joined the crowds around the drink trays. The ring of empty goblets rolling around tiled floors was the loudest music now.

  Sir Sabrast Windriver watched servants carry a hopelessly drunken noblewoman past on a gigantic fluted silver platter and smiled. Someday, the younger Lady Hawklin might learn to gracefully spew ruby wine all over herself, but she hadn’t learned it this night—though she had been practicing.

  Beside him, his good friend Andemel sighed and said, “Such a waste of good wine. She could be so beautiful, too … in green.”

  Sir Sabrast winced. “And waste that much elven menthe? At six lions to the bottle, ruby wine’s bad enough, but …”

  “Ah, but if we were truly noble,” Master Andemel Graeven said slyly, “we’d not care a whit about costs and prices.”

  “If we were truly noble,” Sir Sabrast retorted, “we’d be out of business in a month and a tenday … at about the time the Crown loans ran out. ’Tis a pity, to be sure, that honest merchants can’t get wagonloads of free lions from the Crown to indulge their mercantile whims!”