by Ed Greenwood
The air above the pit fiends was suddenly full of head-sized, plummeting rocks. The rain of stone battered the devils to crash brokenly below. A stone crushed the skull of a hapless cornugon, leaving nothing but a smudge of blood atop its neck.
Halaster swayed in the heart of the devil-hurled lightning. The spasms seemed to invigorate rather than harm him.
Devils swept down with barbed whips snapping and flailing. They flew into a cloud of little silver hands that snatched and gouged and choked and punched, searing diabolic flesh.
Blinded pit fiends fell screaming to the stones. They rolled and thrashed in agony, arousing maggots to swarm over the rocks.
Fires leaped up all around the wizard. One eruption tumbled Halaster onto his face. Through the flames swept rippling-muscled pit fiends and cornugons, plying their whips so vigorously that more than once they entangled each other and were forced to break from the tightening fray. Punching and raking and kicking, they swarmed the wizard. Red and black flesh hiding him from view.
“They must be almost done tearing him apart,” muttered a pit fiend beside Lord Geryon.
Even before the Wild Beast’s hairy hand swept up in a rebuking gesture, there was a flash of blinding silver light from the struggling knot below. Those few devils who weren’t hurled shrieking across the sky toppled on their backs, ashen husks silent forever.
“Qarlegon,” the Overduke said calmly.
The named pit fiend bounded into the sky like a hound off its leash. His cornugons sprung up from the rocks around to follow.
More than sixty strong was this second force. It swept down on Halaster from all sides, in a slowly settling net. Its commander hovered, gesturing this way and that.
Halaster looked up at the fiends approaching so carefully—and unleashed chain lightning among them. It fizzled and died, failing before the magic-quelling nature of the fiends.
Qarlegon’s hand swept down, and in unison the fiends dropped.
The human wizard frantically worked spells as the devils descended, but Geryon and all the pit fiends winced long before Halaster could have unleashed anything. The very air around them trembled momentarily. Their horns and ears and fingertips tingled.
“What was that?” a devil exclaimed, shuddering his way back onto his rocky perch.
“Truly mighty magic,” an old, scarred pit fiend said unnecessarily. “Belike the hand of Lord Asmodeus himself.”
Some of the more junior devils bowed their heads and made warding signs at the utterance of that name. Most stared narrowly down at the human wizard and frowned.
“Not from him,” one of them muttered, and others nodded.
The pounce this time was a single, united thrust of flailing and jabbing. Then all drew back to leave Halaster bloodied and staggering. They converged again, so he could not help but be overwhelmed.
When the devils drew back again, the human swayed, one arm dangling torn and useless from its shoulder. There were chuckles at his sudden barks and capering.
The third charge provoked a burst of silver fire. It was more feeble this time. Only half a dozen devils fell headless and dead. Twice that number were hurled away or fled shrieking. The fourth charge closed over Halaster, and he did not rise again.
The fiends standing with Geryon were just beginning to relax when a sudden flood of blue-white lightning washed over the melee. Devils erupted in struggling agony. They took wing in a flurry of agonized flaps, roars, and groans—only to be transfixed by bolt after bolt of leaping lightning. In seconds, two dozen devils fell.
“Who—?” a pit fiend gasped.
“Find out,” Geryon snapped. “Perstur, Agamur!”
Obediently, those pit fiends surged into the sky. They flew with swift swoops rather than a straight run toward this new, half-seen foe. A lightning cloud hid whomever it was from view. The cloud reached forth crackling fingers to lift the arching, howling, broken body of the human mage tenderly into the air. White light blossomed around Halaster Blackcloak, flaring to a brilliance that made all of them turn their heads away. When it faded, the floating wizard was gone.
“Could it be that goddess again?” one of the pit fiends rumbled disbelievingly.
The lightning cloud retreated a little, and Qarlegon’s force advanced warily to encircle it. Whoever or whatever this newcomer was, it was now cloaked in an upright oval of blue fire. It didn’t seem to want to be encircled.
“That’s a shape I’ve seen Mystra of Toril use,” the old, scarred pit fiend growled.
Thrice the nimbus winked or leaped backward, out of the forming ring of devils. Thrice they inexorably moved to encircle it again, backing it up the hillside to where pinnacles swept up like blades into the blood-red sky and a little gorge ran up to a cave mouth.
“That’s the lair that used to be Barbathra’s, yes?” a pit fiend asked.
The old, scarred fiend and Geryon nodded in unison. It was the Wild Beast who added, “Yarsabras uses it now.”
As if the Overduke’s words had been a cue, the hound-headed outcast devil he’d named burst from the cave with his many claws extended. His talons formed a wall of glittering blades.
The mysterious intruder ducked suddenly, with a smooth grace that reminded the watching fiends of elven dancers.
Yarsabras sailed on helplessly into the line of advancing devils, to crash and flail and be flailed. At the best of times, loyal hornheads had little love for outcasts—and this was assuredly not the best of times.
The fire-shrouded intruder bobbed upright again to send lightning crackling and spitting among the advancing devils.
“That’s a she,” the old pit fiend said suddenly, catching a glimpse of hands raised to weave a spell.
Geryon nodded. “Your eyes were ever keen, Grimvold,” he said approvingly. “Goddess or mortal?”
The scarred old pit fiend frowned. “Mortal, I think. She stays low, where the divine tend to tower high and look down.”
The Wild Beast nodded again.
“Strange,” another of the pit fiends watching from the height said suddenly. “Earlier she struck to slay—bolts that transfixed individual loyals, of her choosing. Now she tries to hold Qarlegon’s flight at bay. Why?”
There were puzzled nods and frowns.
Someone asked, “Could she be opening a gate?”
“That’s why we’re here,” Geryon told them calmly. “If I give the order, we’re all to call in all we can, and whelm a host, to seize and destroy any such portal.”
“No!” Grimvold snarled suddenly. He wove a spell right at the Overduke’s elbow.
Several pit fiends shrank away, expecting Geryon to lash out with deadly force to punish this impertinence. The Wild Beast did nothing.
The scarred old fiend shouted, his farspeaking spell making his voice oddly echoing and distant, “Qarlegon! Move your loyals! Move toward the gorge—now! Move or die!”
“What by all the fires of Nessus—?” one pit fiend cried angrily. “Who do you think you are, Old Scarred-Horns?”
“Why?” another asked simply, as the pit fiends below looked up in bewilderment. Qarlegon rose over them, peering quizzically.
“Look you all,” Grimvold said grimly, jerking a talon at the horizon. “That.”
They scarce had time to look before it whirled out of the sky at them—or rather, at the devils massed on the hillside.
It was huge, tumbling up from far across Avernus. Large and dark, the fist of stone had been a crag or mountaintop torn from its roots. The gigantic boulder turned slightly as it rushed at the hillside.
“Fires above,” one of the pit fiends gasped in awe. “It’s going to—”
“That was the magic we felt earlier,” Geryon said quietly. He put one huge, hairy hand on Grimvold’s shoulder. “You warned them,” he added with a sigh.
The crash of the great stone shook Avernus so badly that they were all flung off their feet. The roaring boom was deafeningly loud. The crag struck, bounced, struck again, ground along f
or a moment, rolled, and started to break up. Three of its shards struck the pinnacles crowning the hillside, then toppled onto whatever was left of Qarlegon’s force.
“Well,” a particularly stupid cornugon said from somewhere near the height, “at least it struck down the intruder, too! Nothing could have s—”
He was one of the ones crushed to nothingness, a moment later, when blue fire brought a castle-sized fragment of the great stone out of empty air to crash down on the height, smearing most of Geryon’s force to smoking ichor in an instant.
The Overduke and Grimvold exchanged glances, but neither moved from where they stood. “She’s gone,” the old pit fiend said grimly. “That was a last thrust.”
Geryon nodded, folding his massive arms across his chest. “Gone to seek Nergal and his captive human, or I miss my guess.”
Grimvold sighed. “Do we whelm an army?”
The Wild Beast smiled coldly. “No. Let Nergal, rightful Prince of Hell that he is, do a little mustering and commanding. Avernus welcomes all.”
The scarred pit fiend smiled slowly at the old saying. The two old devils stood together on the hilltop as a breeze whipped around them, bringing the scent of death. Both breathed deeply, remembering good old days of blood and battle and torment.
* * * * *
The Simbul stood alone atop a dark needle of rock somewhere in Avernus. Her long silver hair lashed the blood-red air as she caught her breath. She was still weak from boosting a mountaintop across half a Hell to crush her foes, a bare breath or three after whisking poor howling-insane Halaster back to Toril. Still, even slaughtering a thousand devils instead of a paltry hundred meant nothing, if she missed the one called Nergal. Even now her magics were drifting out to sniff the tortured gorges and ridges of Avernus for any trace of—there!
She unleashed the bolt without a moment’s hesitation, sending blue fire streaking across Avernus. Hello, devil. Welcome to a life truly in Hell, brought to you by the queen of Aglarond, dainty human hide and all …
* * * * *
Blue fire crashed and roared. Nergal tumbled through the air, his body aflame. AARRGH! PAIN! he roared, with both mind and voice. He worked frantic magic even before he smashed to ground.
Snatching magics. He and Elminster were abruptly elsewhere. Somewhere dark and private and dripping, a cavern that had none of the tumult of Avernan hillsides.
[claws grimly clinging]
WIZARD, SHOW ME MORE VIVID MEMORIES, OMITTING NOTHING. WHATEVER WAS TRYING TO SLAY US, IT CAN’T REACH HERE.
Oh? Ye’d bet on that?
I WOULD AND HAVE, HUMAN. WITH BOTH OF OUR LIVES, OF COURSE.
[equal parts respect and reproach, images silently proffered]
Elminster looked up from pages that glowed with glyphs of deep blue and gleaming copper hue. Though his expression was mild, the glint in his eye matched the metal of the symbols. “The hour is late … the lamps burn low. Thy ever-borrowed wit grows harsh on these old ears. Unburden thyself without delay.”
Torm nodded, smiled sweetly, and swung himself up to perch atop a precarious pile of parchments. Dust rose about him in a shadowy cloak. He matched Elminster’s long-suffering look with one of his own, set his chin in his hand, and echoed the Old Mage’s own tones. “I’ve a few words to impart, old friend; let us discourse together awhile.”
I’M SUPPOSED TO BE IMPRESSED AND LEARN MY LESSON? THAT I AM ACTING THE PART YOU PLAY IN THIS REMEMBRANCE, AND YOU NOW MOCK ME AS THIS TORM DID YOU? WELL, YOUR PLOY HAS WORKED, LITTLE MAN? I AM IMPRESSED.
YOU MAY HAVE LITTLE LIKING, I FEAR, FOR THE RESULT.
I CAUGHT SIGHT OF A FEW MEMORIES, SOME WHILE BACK, THAT TOLD ME YOUR MYSTRA SET YOU THE TASK OF TRAINING THE SEVEN SISTERS. I’M GOING TO WATCH THAT TEACHING—OR WHAT YOU STILL RECALL OF IT—AND SEE HOW THEY, THROUGH YOU, LEARNED THEIR POWERS.
[bright images flying]
NO. NO, DON’T SHOW ME. THIS TIME I’LL DIG AND FIND WHAT I FIND—NOT WHAT YOU WANT TO SHOW ME.
IF THE JOURNEY PAINS YOU, REMEMBER WHOM YOU HAVE TO THANK FOR ITS NECESSITY, OVERCLEVER LITTLE STRUTTING THING.
Not a wise idea, devil, but I suppose ye’ll have to learn that the hard way.…
I THANK YOU FOR YOUR KIND CONCERN, MIND-SLAVE. MAKE SURE TO GROVEL AS WE GO!
[mind bolt, wince and stagger, tentacles drumming impatiently as their owner strides on, and in, and down …]
I have so little left. I can’t think … no, can’t remember. Much of anything. I am empty, almost empty, all poured out into this devil. I am … almost nothing. Down to the last, now, all my spell lore gone to him while I noticed nothing, all the years of faces and names—even the shames I hide from myself, most days. Down to the last things, long buried and forgotten. My last little secrets. Gods, so many wearying years, and I’m still not ready to let it all go and drift away into the darkness.…
El, ye always were a selfish bastard.
Mystra, forsake me not. Preserve me. Please.
[images flaring up]
Elminster’s mouth was suddenly very dry. “Gods, but she’s beautiful,” he said involuntarily.
His scrying-stone showed him a tall, slender lady in black leather and purple silk striding along the path. Her glossy cascade of midnight-black hair gleamed in the sun. Her skin was white and smooth, her face … words failed him. Hope stirred in him, just a little, and he let it dance near his heart. He had been so lonely for so long.
His blood boiled. Love her, of course, but don’t lose yourself in her. This one will betray you.
The Srinshee spoke to him seldom these days, and there was so much he wanted to say, to talk over, but—
Elminster’s hands tightened on his staff. “She will?” he muttered. “Then why not—?”
No. No, El. You must give her the chance. Mystra lays it upon you, and I think it best. Love her, teach her, but don’t lose your heart to her. Make her admire you, and it may give you some guidance over her when she casts you aside to make her own way in the world.
“But how do ye know this?” Elminster burst out. He brought his fist down hard on the edge of the polished table. The horned skull on it clattered and the floating shards that had once been a crown jangled eerily.
Later, El. Your lady has arrived.
“I—by the Nine Hells Nergal Desires—”
HAH! YOU DID READ THOSE BOOKS OF YOURS, DIDN’T YOU?
“—blast and damn all swift-striding would-be apprentices! I—”
The raven-haired woman calmly pushed open the door before he could wipe her image from the floating crystal sphere. She gave it a sidelong glance and a little smile as she strode up to him. Crossing her arms across a magnificent bosom, she stared into his eyes with a look of dark promise. “I understand you’re looking for an apprentice.” Her voice was a musical purr.
Elminster stroked his beard and tried to look puzzled. “Oh? And how did such a wild understanding come to thee?”
“Mystra told me,” the beauty said simply. “Out of the altar I knelt at, last night.”
Elminster allowed himself a slow smile. “Well then, of course, I must be. I was thinking more of a small, gruff, very male dwarf this time, instead of—” He sighed. “—another young and beautiful human female, but … I suppose … what’s thy name, lass?”
“Symgharyl Maruel.” She hesitated a moment, coloring a little, and then threw back her head and announced proudly, “At mage fairs I call myself the Shadowsil. I saw your crown of fireballs at the last one, Lord Elminster; very impressive.”
“ ‘Lord Elminster’? I hope not. ‘Old Mage’ sits better on the tongue, or ‘El’ or even, ‘Ho, Longbeard!’ So, Lansharra, how would ye like me to address thee—if, say, we were to dwell together, as master and apprentice, for some ten or twelve summers at least?”
All the color drained out of her face. She swallowed, ducked her head, and asked very carefully, “How is it that you know my true, secret name?”
Elminster gave her a smile that held only kindness, s
hrugged, and spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Mystra speaks to me, too.”
DO YOU NEVER STOP? WOMEN, WOMEN, WOMEN—IF YOU HADN’T BEEN ONE FOR A BIT, I’D THINK YOU WERE UTTERLY ADDLED OVER THEM.
I’M NOT SEEING MAGIC, WIZARD! YOU’RE NOT DELUDING YOURSELF INTO THINKING MY PATIENCE IS GROWING, ARE YOU?
On Toril, Mystra is magic.
YES, YE—MEANING? OH? OHO? SHOW ME, WIZARD!
Of course.
Twenty-Two
THE EMPTYING OF ELMINSTER
The voice he loved so well seemed to come curling huskily up out of the fire. “Why Aglarond? Are you growing tired of scouring the same old places, O Sword of Mystra?”
The bearded man in black abruptly stopped his pacing to peer into the crackling flames. “Auluua?” he cried. “Teacher?”
“The same.” Flame crackled up in leaping tongues. “I am a little lonely, Prince of Athalantar. The years pass, and I sit waiting of nights … and you never call.”
Elminster almost ran into the fire, arms outstretched to embrace—nothing. Firelight danced across his face as he swayed above the hearth, sudden tears hissing down into the blaze at his feet.
“Your boots will scorch, El,” the Srinshee said, her voice softer now, and less playful. “Stand you back, and leave off weeping, or you’ll have me sobbing too.”
Almost reluctantly Elminster did as he was bid, staring into the flames. “How is it that ye come to me?” he asked in wonder.
“You called on me—just now, in your muttering. When you said ‘This mage murderess must be the Srinshee’s peer at hurling deadly spells.’ My peer, indeed!”
El grinned and strode across the chamber, waving his hands. “Well, she must be. Look ye: emissaries battle with spells in the palace of Aglarond, and this seneschal-’prentice, the Simbul, who’s not been heard from before, hurls them all down with her spells—thrice!”
He ran out of room to pace across, and whirled around to stride back. “ ’Tis not easy work, impressing Red Wizards, but this mysterious wench has done so mightily. Instead of signing her realm’s surrender, Great Queen Ilione signs a treaty with Thay that makes them nearly allies! Everywhere among mages I hear talk of this wild-tempered woman and her slaying spells, and they tell of Ilbrul the Ramshorn, who claimed to hail from Netheril, and Englezaer the Enchanter, and the spell hunters Ammarask and Brastimeir the Bold all going down in battle against her! Aglarond grows too strong, I say—and this Simbul must be stopped!”