by Ed Greenwood
AGAIN YOU WHISPER TO YOURSELF OF YOUR OWN CLEVERNESS! ENOUGH! THIS MEMORY OF YOURS, AND THIS, AND THIS ONE, TOO, SHOW ME WHAT TO CAST, TO KEEP YOU ALIVE—HAH! THUS!—SO I CAN DO THIS!
[tentacles stabbing out, slapping around arching torso, and then wrenching … flesh tearing wetly …]
[scream, ripping agony No devil no devil agghh gods please no!]
THAT’S RIGHT, PLEAD! GOON! PLEAD, AND I’LL IGNORE YOU! HAHAHAA!
[diabolic laughter, roars of rage and glee, tentacles shredding and flailing, pulping what little is left]
A tall devil that once more wore the shape of a pit fiend stood glowering down at the seared, feebly crawling pieces of what had once been a man. With a reluctant snarl, Nergal sent forth tentacles to gather up quivering flesh and heal, knitting it to neighboring flesh. He slowly reassembled a limp, broken body.
LIVE AGAIN, FOOLISH WIZARD. ALMOST I TORE YOU APART FOR GOOD—BUT YOU ARE A TOY I HAVE, AND OTHER DEVILS DO NOT? MOREOVER, YOU ARE AT LEAST … INTERESTING.
I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING. TIME AND AGAIN, TURNING ME SKILLFULLY ASIDE AMID YOUR SHADOWS, REVEALING WHAT IS UNIMPORTANT AND HIDING FROM ME WHAT I SEEK.
THAT’S OVER NOW. I SHALL BEAR DOWN AND SHRED YOUR MIND WHENEVER YOU TRY TO DO THAT TO ME AGAIN. I HAVE MOST OF YOUR SPELLS NOW—YOU CANNOT RESIST ME. THIS TIME I SEEK MEMORIES OF YOUR USING POWER OVER IMPORTANT FOLK OF YOUR REALMS—NOT MAGES THIS TIME, BUT THOSE WHO RULE AND WHO ARE HEARD WHEN THEY SPEAK. [snort] UNLIKE ME.
[mindworm, spiraling down, down, down …]
“Interesting,” the Srinshee said gently, her fingertips tracing the line of his chin. “Most of my Cormanthan kin fear the ridicule of their peers more than anything else, and loss of wealth and magical power after that. You fear failing your friends and losing them to death. You are both older in your wisdom than most elves of this city and more tragic. You’ve already lost more friends and kin than the younglings of Cormanthor; only we elders have known the weight of tears you bear. Yet there is something more in you—a backbone of power, always there, always warming you against the storms of life.”
Her hand went to the crotch of the elaborate filigreed gown she wore, and drew a tiny dagger from a sheath there. Eyes on his, she murmured, “Forgive me. This is no attack, but I must know.” Choosing a spot on the outside of his forearm, she gently drew the gleaming knife along his skin. Blood welled forth, and then—a few sparks.
The Srinshee breathed something, reaching with a finger. The silver radiance that burst from him sent her staggering back with a little cry, wreathed in flames.
Elminster spun away, clapping his hand over the wound she’d made and stammering apologies.
Weakly, from among rising tendrils of smoke and the ruins of her garments, the Srinshee replied, “Nay, man, the fault was mine. I worked the spell that tried to steal silver fire from the wound I’d made in you. Mystra is even stronger in you than I’d thought.”
THAT’S ALL? AND YOU WHIRL IT AWAY FROM ME LIKE THAT? WHAT IF I JUST SNATCH SOMETHING OUT OF YOUR MEMORIES THUS? NO, DON’T SCREAM? YOU BROUGHT THIS ON YOURSELF! LET’S SEE WHAT WE HAVE HERE….
Elminster looked up from his book, frowning. What befell—?
A mote of light grew in the air.…
He sprang up, tossing his tome aside and snatching his newest, most powerful warding wand.
The light was almost his own height now, and blinding bright. Golden, it was, and somehow come out of nothingness right through his defenses! What could—
The light was coming from a blade. Slender, beautiful—an enchanted elf blade, held aloft in a slender arm … the Srinshee!
“Auluua!” Elminster cried, his wand crackling in his hand—just in case. “Is it you?”
The tiny elf-maid smiled at him, though her face was sad and shadowed. “Only you call me that, El. Ah, but ’tis good to hear it again!”
She let go the sword and ran to him, leaving it floating upright in the air behind her. Golden radiance curled down like smoke from its point.
El frowned at it. “Is that the Ruling Blade?”
And then she was in his arms, looking up at him with unshed tears glimmering in her eyes, and he forgot all about swords and magic. “Hold me,” she said, her voice teetering on the edge of tears, “and—kiss me! Kiss me, damn you and Mystra and all proud elves and doom, doom everywhere!”
She was weeping when he bent down and put his lips to hers, and as he lifted her in his arms her mouth was fierce and demanding, and her tiny hands as tight as claws on his arms and shoulders. Their minds met, hers like a dark sea lashed by storms, all despair and need, and his wondering and warming and wanting to soothe.…
There was blood in his mouth from where she’d bitten him. The Srinshee threw back her head, shuddering, and hissed, “Listen to me. Listen, for haste rides me and goddesses other than yours. Fell magic may well follow swift at my back!”
El grinned. “Ye always did lead an interesting life of plots and secrets. I hear. Speak!”
With a wild smile, she dealt him a slap. Her dark mood broken, she murmured into his ear, “I must disappear for a time—perhaps a very long time. You will probably never see me again, or hold me thus. Know this: Mystra has granted me a boon. I’ll always be able to speak to you through the silver fire. Listen when it sings, and call to me, and I’ll be there. Now kiss me again, damn you! It may be the last kiss I’ll ever—”
[slap]
[confused chaos of images dying away, mirror-shattered and going dim]
SO this is the little secret you’ve been hiding from me! YOU’VE BEEN TALKING TO HER ALL ALONG, HAVEN’T YOU? CALLING YOUR FRIENDS TO HELL AGAINST ME, SOME DOUBTLESS WORKING SLY SCHEMES WHILE THE MOST RASH AND STUPID TRIED TO CHARGE THROUGH ALL AVERNUS TO GET TO ME! THEY’RE AT WORK RIGHT NOW, AREN’T THEY? HUMAN WORM!
No, Lord Nergal! Hear me: I can no longer speak to the Srinshee!
[suspicious glare]
Look, here. Truth, see?
OH. SHE DIED, EH?
I know not. We did speak, back and forth, when each of us very lonely, for years … centuries. Until the Gods-fall, when Mystra thrust her power upon me. A lot of things were burnt out inside me, then … and this was one of them. Unless the Srinshee comes to me, and works some magic beyond my skills, I’ve no way of speaking to her again.
ALMOST. I PITY YOU, HUMAN. ALMOST.
[bewilderment, flare of anger … giving way to utter puzzlement]
NOW, WHY DID I SAY THAT? WHY DID I FEEL THAT?
[smiling silence]
NO, ELMINSTER, I’M NOT BECOMING WEAK AND SENTIMENTAL. KISS SOMEONE ELSE. IT’S MAGE-LORE I’M AFTER. THOUGHTS AND MEMORIES I CAN USE IN HELL, AND YOU KNOW IT. SHOW ME MORE!
Of course. That’s just what I’ve been doing: showing ye magic, its uses and effects.
BAH! YOU SPLIT HAIRS EVEN MORE FINELY THAN AMNIZU! HUMAN, YOU DISGUST ME!
Another achievement to be proud of. I’m collecting them.
WHAT PRICE YOUR COLLECTION, SMART-TONGUED MORTAL, IF YOU CAN REMEMBER NOTHING OF SUCH ACHIEVEMENTS—OR ANYTHING AT ALL? I’LL HAVE EVERYTHING SOON ENOUGH … LEAVING MIGHTY ELMINSTER TO DROOL AT NOTHING ALL THE REST OF HIS DAYS.
Threats. [mental sigh] That reminds me of something.…
[mental shimmering, memories flashing past to a certain moment, glow found and chosen]
“Halueve Starym,” the man in black snapped crisply, “is this wise?”
The elf with three crackling braziers floating in midair before him turned, eyes flashing with anger, and sneered, “Ah! The human who doomed fair Cormanthor! Speak not to me of wisdom, Slayer of the Fair!”
“Well, then,” Elminster Aumar said mildly, striding forward, “let me speak of folly—yours. Anyone is a fool who thinks to enspell devils to do his bidding … and truly be their master.”
CALLING UP THE FIRES OF HELL, HMMM? IT’S BEEN DONE BEFORE, YOU KNOW.
Aye. And since.
ON, WIZARD!
Halueve Starym’s sneer broadened into
a snarl. “Speak not to me of folly, human!” he spat. “Get you gone while you still have legs to carry you! I can send devils to your bed to peel the skin right off you, a limb at a time!” He acquired a soft, evil smile, and added tauntingly, “And you have to sleep, you know … weak, puny, meddling human.” Although he’d not appeared to lift a finger in spell weaving, a line of leaping flames raced between the two wizards, circling Halueve Starym. “Begone, Elminster. You are so weak in your Art that I can smash you at will—and if you annoy me further, I’ll shatter you now. Go, while still I show mercy!”
Power roiled unbidden within Elminster, and silver sparks danced briefly before his eyes. He stiffened.
Flee not, El. He’s released a ready magic that seeks to feed on you, eating flesh and blood and mind together. Simply stand and do nothing but defend yourself with your own spells … and the silver fire will be his undoing. ’Ware you the right-most brazier; it is a watching devil.
Auluua! Elminster’s heart leaped. Are you still there?
Barely. [smile] Have this kiss, ere I fade.…
Warmth surged through him, and a feeling as of sweet water and a gentle breeze, summer sunlight, and caresses of spell power.…
The slaying spell that struck him jolted him out of pleasantness. It washed over his shielding magic, tearing it to shreds.
El gave the Starym mage a wintry smile. “My, my, my,” he said mockingly. “Fling flang floom, and I’m still here. I guess thy spells aren’t quite as puissant as all that. Perhaps ye deceive Halueve Starym even more than ye do Elminster Aumar. Drained enough from me yet?”
The elf shrieked in fury and raised his hands like claws, hurling forth a spell whose use was foolish even when spell-armored for battle. The room cracked and rocked even before Elminster’s blood was drawn.
Silver fire flared forth to bring real doom to Halueve Starym. Elminster made sure the first bolt he could shape destroyed the right-most brazier, and was rewarded, as the keep began to fall apart around him, with a long, harsh, and despairing cry.…
NOW, THIS, LITTLE, MAN, AT LEAST TAKES ME TO YOUR YOUTH AND BRUSHES WITH MAGIC … AND I THINK I SEE, CLOSE TO MYSTRA? YOU’RE NOT AFRAID TO SLAY DEVILS, I SEE.
After my first few centuries, Lord Nergal, I used up most of my fear. These days, I have almost none of it left.
WE’LL SEE ABOUT THAT, HUMAN. OH, YES, WE’LL CERTAINLY SEE ABOUT THAT.
Twenty-One
REVENGE EATEN HOT
It so happened that a band of adventurers entered the dark, echoing chamber deep in Undermountain before the madness passed. They took one good torchlit look at the man barking and whimpering alone in the middle of that vast, bare stone floor and fled, as swiftly and as silently as they knew how.
Halaster had called on all of Mystra’s vested power to heal the great wound that should have slain him. That terrible, impaling bone spike had pierced and crushed all of his innards. Worse, Nergal had laced his spells with a curse. The lord of Undermountain lived, but had no magic to gainsay Nergal’s cruelty. A day, perhaps, or more, had passed as he wallowed on the cold, dusty stone, helpless to stop the sickening rise and fall of the changes that passed over his body. Bat wings, scales, tails and talons sprouted and faded, receded and flowed, unchastened by the cries and curses of the writhing mage.
Spines and horns and breasts thrust forth, curled, and then cruised along his body like ripples across water. In the heart of the agonizing chaos Halaster vowed to return to the Nine Hells. He would visit torment on the devil Nergal even if he died in trying, Elminster or no Elminster.
At long last it ended. Halaster Blackcloak lay panting and drenched with sweat. He stared up into dusty darkness. The rags of his shredded robes clung to him.
“Revenge,” he announced calmly, as he forced his last shudders into oblivion, “will now commence.”
He did not, however, move for a long time, even when the cold made him shiver. He lay still, remembering every last detail of Nergal’s movements, words, and reactions, the archdevil’s precise appearance … and what spells would make the best weapons against such a one.
Just as patiently, he recalled the drawbacks and precise effects of each suitable spell and his best tactics for using them in Avernus. At length, he smiled coldly and told the darkness, “It seems Halaster Blackcloak would make a good devil himself.”
The smile slowly faded from his face, and he said more gently, “Lady Mystra, I have need of your aid. This task I would do for you has proven beyond my present mastery. May we speak?”
The stone floor beneath him grew warm. A tingling arose within him. He was suddenly no longer sweating or soiled, but whole and strong and alert. It felt almost as if warm, motherly arms wrapped around him.
Halaster Blackcloak did something he’d not done for centuries: He purred, shifted contentedly onto his side in a curled-up position, and drifted off to sleep.
In the warm, forgotten time thereafter, he dreamed that he suckled a motherly breast, that he explained his needs and revealed his thinking. He received in return the spells he needed and the wise advice of a battle master among wizards.… At one point he floated on his back through an endless array of lit candles that sprouted out of nothingness. Their flames warmed him but did not burn …
Halaster Blackcloak suddenly found himself standing in a room he rarely visited, deep in Undermountain: a chapel consecrated to Mystra. He was awake and alone. The flames of two candles burned above the bare stone altar he faced. No candles fueled those wisps of fire. He felt strong. Magic moved like raging fire within him, more than he’d ever felt before. All the spells he’d thought about were ready in his mind, and more besides, some completely unfamiliar and fascinating. He wore simple robes of black, and boots and a belt to match. All of them were unadorned, yet of the finest make and perfect fit. His flesh was bare of all rings and markings and adornments. Someone had trimmed his beard.
“Lady,” he told the altar, “have my thanks. Thy will be done.”
He turned from the altar and took nine paces. He reached a place beyond the consecration, intending to weave a spell flight to Hell.
The moment he thought of his destination in Avernus, his spell yet uncast, the world became blue-white around Halaster. He felt as if he were falling endlessly, though he could see nothing around him to show him for sure. When the blue mist fell away, he was standing on empty air a hand’s width above rough black stone, in a place of tortured rock and squalling spinagons, beneath a blood-red sky. He stepped down into Avernus, and never saw or heard the ghostlike wisp that had come from the altar flames to Hell with him.
It wavered a little, as yet invisible, holding far more rage than he.
The Witch-Queen of Aglarond had gone to Hell again.
* * * * *
A broken man wandered aimlessly amid the stone fields of Avernus. Gore dripped from the shattered stumps of his arms. He stumbled from time to time—and during those moments, black and red flames gouted from his eyes. Spinagons and abishai alike shrank from him and flew away. Even the slithering lemures and maggots hesitated to approach.
Sometimes his lips fell open, and he muttered echoes of the great mind-voice crashing in his head. Other times he grunted and squealed like a hog or made little birdlike trills. The lesser and least devils kept well clear. They had no wish to share in the torment of another.
The trudging husk of Elminster returned to a place of rocks and trees where Nergal had gnawed the dripping bones of Marane and dashed his mind-slave repeatedly against rocks. Slowly and with infinite subtlety, the silver fire within him rose, clouding, making memories swirl like dry fallen leaves spun by a breeze. The devil riding him plunged into those memories with roars of excitement … and never saw the moment when Elminster lifted a stone, plucked out what was waiting beneath it—and thrust it through the long, matted hair above his left ear.
Its weight rode there, solid and reassuring. Again he rose, wandering in apparent aimlessness, having regained the magic item h
e’d hidden earlier. Netherese, the work of the Shadow Master Telamont Tanthul, able to unleash a multiple clone spell to “grow” bodies simultaneously from one body part or relic—and so whelm armies.
Elminster put those thoughts firmly away again before a cloak of silver fire and let Nergal gloat at the length and vivid depths of the memory trail he’d been following through Elminster’s mind.
AH, LITTLE HUMAN, BUT WE MUST BE CLOSE TO SOMETHING WORTHWHILE AT LAST. I CAN FEEL IT, AS IF YOUR PRECIOUS SILVER FIRE IS SURGING IN YOU! YES! ONWARD—SHOW ME MORE!
* * * * *
“Dread Lord Geryon,” the youngest and most ambitious of his pit fiends murmured, pointing at a shimmer on a distant, rock-studded hillside, “there.”
The Overduke smiled, though the dark helm he wore showed the company of devils only the tiniest curve of his lips. “Thank you, Albitur. The first assault is yours.” A massive barbed tail twitched.
Some of the gathered pit fiends drew back half a stealthy pace. Geryon was excited or angry—and for those desiring to survive, it didn’t really matter which.
At least the orders the Lord of Nessus had given them hadn’t meant a wait of years … or an eternity. Great Asmodeus had said this Halaster would return soon, armed with power enough from his goddess to be a threat to Hell. As always, but more so this time than most, the Lord Asmodeus had been right.
Albitur took wing like a dark storm, gathering the cornugons and pit fiends of his command as he went. Across a deep cavern of poisonous smoke they flew, to sweep over a ridge where rock pinnacles stood like fangs. They glided down in a deadly dive at the lone human figure, silent but for the wind whistling through their wings.
Forty devils and more against one, but no one standing with Geryon laughed or made wagers. How many, in the measure of fiends, is the aid of a goddess?
The human saw death coming. He lifted his hands to trace gestures in the air.
Devils swept down, and bolts of lightning stabbed forth from them. On the rocks around the lone wizard, flames roared. Devils conjured walls of fire.