Bury Elminster Deep

by Ed Greenwood

  “They do when their commander wants them to, or when they face five of their own kind. See?”

  In the distance, down the street, a wall of bright blue flame was moving closer as five ghosts walked abreast, striding swiftly along the street.

  “Oh, naed,” Storm muttered. “Things can never just be stlarning simple, can they?”

  She was eyeing the unmistakable shape of a beholder, descending silently in a smooth and unhurried arc, to float just above and behind the line of ghosts.

  And in front of Storm and Mirt, about a dozen paces away, a noble was standing facing the ghost who’d been in the Blazon. The lord was holding something that was glowing blue, something flat and about the size of his hand. The ghost, still walking hurriedly toward him, was fading away.

  Its flames pulsed in time with flares of light from whatever the lord was holding.

  “Lord Calantar?” Storm whispered.

  “Ye know him?”

  “By sight. I’d never have guessed he’d be the …”

  “ ’Tis always the quiet ones,” Mirt growled, stalking forward and hefting his dagger.

  The ghost vanished. A moment later, the cobbles all around Lord Calantar suddenly sprouted war wizards.

  “Traitor!” Lady Glathra shouted into the lord’s face, trying to grab his hand and the glowing item in it.

  “Hey!” Mirt shouted. “Mind out!”

  He pointed, and some of the Crown mages turned to look.

  They saw the beholder swooping down on them, its many-fanged maw gaping and its eyestalks writhing like angry snakes.

  The war wizards let fly with their swiftest, strongest battle spells, chanting and gesturing frantically—as Mirt swept out one arm, caught Storm around her sword arm, and dragged her hastily back.

  She was trying to fight free of his dogged, wheezing grasp when the spells started to strike the beholder—and it exploded with terrific force, shattering windows, balconies, and cobbles, dashing their ears into ringing numbness, and hurling scores of folk in all directions, like so many dolls.

  Another trap.

  Glathra was smashed flat by two of her own war wizards as they were flung into her from behind—and Lord Calantar was sent tumbling down the street to fetch up against a cart, dazed and mumbling.

  Storm stumbled after him, the blast having snatched her out of Mirt’s grasp, and pounced on the noble. Who stabbed up at her with a dagger as he tried to call out his ghost again. The item in his hand—a belt buckle—started to pulse a bright blue once more.

  Storm fended off one thrust, took another in her forearm with a hiss of pain, then lost patience and brought her sword down, chopping Calantar’s buckle-holding hand down onto the cobbles. He spat a curse at her and stabbed again, so she swung her sword up and chopped down harder, cutting his hand off.

  It was still clutching the belt buckle.

  Storm snatched the spurting, severed thing up, buckle and all, and tried to ignore the pulsing blue glow.

  She could see the five blueflame ghosts all staring at her and running now, coming for her as fast as they could.

  Glathra was on her feet again and running at Storm, too—and was much closer. She was trying to gasp out a spell as she came, but as she trampled on an apparently unconscious Mirt, the Waterdhavian tripped her deftly with one hairy hand. He rose with a grin as Glathra bounced on her face, to shout at Storm, “Go, lass! Get ye gone! I’ll try to—”

  The five ghosts were almost upon him.

  Storm winced, not wanting to see what was going to happen to Mirt—and then, in a sudden flash and a moment of silent, gentle drifting, it was all gone.

  The street, ghosts, Glathra, and all.

  Elminster’s magic had snatched her away.

  Abruptly, Storm was standing on a hard, smooth, and familiar floor.

  She was in the warehouse, holding Lord Calantar’s severed hand, and the buckle clutched in those gore-dripping fingers was losing its blue glow.

  Elminster was running to her, Arclath and Amarune right behind him. Rune wore her mask but nothing else; the blue flames El’s magic had shrouded her in had vanished.

  “I—” Storm started to say, but a frowning Arclath snatched up a rickety chair at a dead run and flung it, hard.

  Storm ducked aside and the chair smashed right into—Wizard of War Glathra, who had just appeared behind her.

  Glathra fell to her knees, spat out a curse, snatched a wand from her belt, and triggered it, blasting—

  Elminster, who’d leaped in front of Storm. Flames crashed into him with a roar.

  In a trice his familiar face and beard were gone, mere wisps of illusion dashed to nothingness in the flames that tore apart the body that had been Applecrown’s.

  The staring face of a much younger man was sent flying through the air as Glathra’s wand blast flung all that was left of Reldyk Applecrown in a dozen directions.

  Severed limbs flew, ashes swirled, and Arclath was flung into a stack of crates, to land groaning.

  Storm slid past him across the warehouse floor, silver hair clawing at crates and barrels to try to slow herself.

  Nude and weaponless, Amarune Whitewave flung herself on Glathra, backhanding the wizard viciously across the face and snatching the wand away. Glathra made a grab for it and got a hard elbow under her chin instead as Rune twisted away to fling the wand as far and as hard as she could, off into the dim distances of the crate-heaped warehouse.

  The two women clawed and rolled for a frantic breath or two before Glathra broke free, sprinted out of Rune’s reach, and turned to catch her breath and get out her other wand, the one that paralyzed.

  Which was when Storm hit her, launching herself over crates in a wild dive with arms spread wide to make sure the wizard of war couldn’t dodge away.

  Glathra tried.

  They ended up on the floor together, bouncing and struggling. Storm’s tresses promptly shackled Glathra’s wrists and assaulted her mouth, preventing her from uttering any magic—until the Bard of Shadowdale could get a hand on the war wizard’s head.

  Ruthlessly Storm slammed the war wizard’s head against the floor, then clawed it up by Glathra’s hair and slammed it down again. And again.

  And again, until her foe went limp under her.

  Then once more, just to be sure.

  Glathra was far beyond feigning anything. She was out cold.

  Panting, Storm rolled away, snatched up the belt buckle—it glowed blue, just for an instant—and cried, “We must get to The Simbul right now! El?”

  Elminster’s ashes were slithering across the floor like a snake, making for Amarune, but Arclath roared, “No! To me, El! To me!”

  The ashes obediently turned toward the young lord.

  Who got up, wincing, to call, “Clothes on, Rune! To the palace!”

  “Well, the gods smile on us in at least one way,” the royal magician muttered as he scooped powerful scepters and rods out of coffers onto the table. “Something must have happened to Elminster. They have to walk here, not translocate right past us or up to their chosen palace gate. That will give us time to at least try to get ready.”

  Sir Talonar Winter and Highknight Eskrel Starbridge stood in front of him, already clad in all the magical bracers, helms, breastplates, and codpieces Ganrahast had been able to hurriedly find. He continued on to daggers, swords, and little bucklers, as novice war wizard magelings trotted into the room in a steady stream, bearing weapons, shields, and armor plucked from various walls and stands all over the palace.

  “This is a fight to the death,” the royal magician added grimly. “Blueflame ghosts are sent to murder our nobles—and now they’re coming here, which can only mean they intend regicide. Storm Silverhand, Lord Arclath Delcastle, that mask dancer, and no fewer than five blueflame ghosts, who are right behind them—”

  He swung around to peer into his nearby scrying eye, to make sure what he was saying was still true. Depressingly, it was.

  “—and will t
ry to get into the palace. We must prevent them, at all costs. If they penetrate this far, we must spend our lives stopping them from reaching the king. I will make the final stand, because I must translocate His Majesty elsewhere if all else fails. I’ll be sending him alone, because I will not flee this fight.”

  “That is not the royal magician’s duty,” hissed an unexpected voice, startling them all. They turned to where it had come from—a space too small for any human, behind the table now strewn with enchanted armor and weapons—and beheld a wavering wisp in the air, a faint shadowy presence.

  It darkened just a little, becoming a feminine head and shoulders with arms and a sword … all of which they could see through.

  “I am Alusair Obarskyr,” it told them, “and I will fight. Ganrahast, as royal magician, you must see that the realm survives, not King Foril. You must not lay down your life fighting here!”

  “That choice, your Highness,” Ganrahast replied politely, “may not be mine.”

  “It is not,” King Foril agreed, striding into the room among the stream of Crown magelings. The bearded head of Vangerdahast rode like a spider on his shoulder.

  “You are all to stand aside and let the intruders in,” the king of Cormyr added quietly. “They need to reach the Room of the Watchful Sentinel, to use the Dalestride. Let them.”

  Alusair looked at him. “But—”

  “Great Princess, greatest regent Cormyr has ever had,” Foril replied gently, “trust me in this, and obey. Please. I am king now, after all.”

  Alusair looked into his eyes for a long while, then nodded and lowered her spectral sword.

  King Foril pointed at the novice mages and commanded, “Open the gates, and let Storm and all who follow her in. They are to be allowed to walk the halls unchallenged. Spread the word. Be swift.”

  Several of the wizards jumped at the ringing severity of those last two words. They landed running, racing out of the room to obey him.

  “I hope, Your Majesty, you’re not making a terrible mistake,” Ganrahast said quietly.

  “That’s a hope I share,” Foril replied without turning. “Nevertheless, it is mine to make.”

  Storm, Amarune, and Arclath walked quickly, in a tight-knit group. Only Arclath kept looking back.

  The five ghosts were striding faster, steadily overtaking them. A little behind those blue-flaming figures strode a lone, calm woman unshrouded by blueflame. She was tall and slender, strikingly beautiful despite her cruel face and dark, rage-filled eyes. The bloody point of a dagger protruded from her chest.

  King Foril’s eyes narrowed. He waved his hand in a signal, and Cymmarra, the Lady of Ghosts, almost vanished under the sudden barrage of spells hurled by wizards of war on all sides, a handful even hastening up behind her.

  Wards blazed as bright as the sun—but when that brilliance faded, she was still striding on, unaffected.

  As she went past the doorway where the king stood, she raised her hands, a thin and ruthless smile rising onto her face, and started to cast a spell.

  Ganrahast, Starbridge, Winter, and the ghost of Alusair all stepped in front of the king to shield him, but that merely changed her smile into a sneer, as she went on spellweaving.

  Yet, the air shimmered right behind her and became the archwizard Dardulkyn, his hands reaching out in the last, triumphant gesture of a swift spell.

  Before Cymmarra’s casting was done, Dardulkyn’s spell struck. Its bolt of sizzling force smashed the Lady of Ghosts off her feet and hurled her far down the passage, snarling eerily as it fought with the wardings that armored her against being scorched, melted, and broken. There came crash after hurtling crash as her warded body punched holes in wall after stone wall, until she vanished from view in the echoing distance.

  Ganrahast readied a spell to use on Dardulkyn if need be, but everyone else—Dardulkyn included—turned to stare into the scrying eye.

  And see the dagger-transfixed woman come to a stop at last, right outside the Room of the Watchful Sentinel.

  A bare spear’s length behind her, five blueflame ghosts, as they hurried into the room.

  Just in time to see Storm Silverhand plunge through the Dalestride Portal, with Amarune and Arclath right behind her.

  Cymmarra staggered to her feet, looking a little dazed, and imperiously waved at her ghosts to obey her. Silently and swiftly they surrounded her.

  “Elminster,” she said with a wry smile. “The heart of all trouble—as always. Get to you, and I’ll find Manshoon and all the blueflame I seek. Two deaths within my reach, which I’ve hungered after for so long. Just a little hunting left now. Come, slaves!”

  Ringed by her flaming slayers, the Lady of Ghosts vanished through the portal.

  “Lord Delcastle and the two women have gone to Shadowdale, to heal a mad queen—and destroy us all,” Ganrahast muttered. “The Simbul, who obliterated the loyal Crown mages we sent against her, just as the tales all say she destroyed every Red Wizard she met. If she’s restored, she’ll surely come here to blast every mage in Cormyr, and all who stand with them.”

  “I hope you’re wrong,” Starbridge muttered.

  “As do we all,” said King Foril Obarskyr. And sighed.

  “Nay, don’t get up,” Mirt growled, forcing Glathra back down onto the warehouse floor with one hairy hand. “If ye try again, I may just sit on ye. An’ I warn ye, I’m both heavy an’ full of wind.”

  “If you don’t let me up,” the wizard of war hissed, “I’ll see you chained in a deep dungeon for the rest of your miserable life!”

  “Ah, lass, that’s the spirit! Foreplay! I like that sort of spit an’ fire! We could use a lass like ye in Waterdeep, ye know? Why don’t ye kiss all these gloomy Cormyrean courtiers farewell and come to where the fresh sea breezes invigorate, coin is king, an’ we know how to laugh an’ drink an’ feast an’ wench—well, harrum, that last one may not hold the same attraction for ye as it does for me, but …”

  “Oh, shut up,” Glathra told him weakly.

  Mirt grinned down at her. “Want some cheese while ye’re down there? Wine? We traders know where to get the best …”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FIVE

  BATTLE AND BURIAL

  Then the warhorns cry, the chargers gallop

  Lances lowered, and the end comes for all too many.

  Battle and burial, that’s the way of it.

  More lives wasted, and so it goes.

  Old Lokhlabur, Act III, Scene III of the play

  A Throne O’erthrown by Mandarjack the Minstrel

  first performed in the Year of the Hidden Harp

  I don’t like this,” Storm muttered, peering into the trees all around. “They’ve got to be lurking near, watching us.”

  “If we tarry, they’re sure to arrive. Go in and bring Alassra out,” Elminster told her, his grim voice sounding odd coming out of Arclath’s mouth. “We dare not try using the blueflame on her in there, with the chain and the wards. I’ll guard Rune out here.”

  Storm nodded, handed him the buckle—it wasn’t glowing at all, now—and went into the cave.

  “Arclath—I mean El!” Amarune said warningly.

  “I see them, lass. Expect me to be hurling spells soon.”

  Quite suddenly, three warriors had stepped silently out of the nearby trees, blue flames flowing endlessly around their bodies. They held ready swords and daggers and wore wide, tireless smiles.

  “Before I get to that,” the Sage of Shadowdale murmured, “I’m going to move the cavern’s wards over and out past us, at yon ghosts. The ward-magic will roil at a fixed distance before me. I might be past controlling it—if I bark or drool or stagger about and say strange things that don’t sound like spells, reach out and grab me from behind, then hold me where I stand to keep the magic in one spot.”

  Rune nodded. He stroked her arm reassuringly—Arclath’s gesture, showing her that her lord was sharing his body with El rather than being a silenced slave—and added, “There are
at least two more ghosts out there. And she who sent them, a woman with a dagger protruding from her chest. If I don’t seem to notice them, keep hold of me and haul me about to move the wards so as to intercept them.”

  He sank into a crouch, like a knife fighter about to rush the advancing ghosts. “If yon flaming ones come here but emerge not, eventually their commander will be conquered by her curiosity and come looking to see what befell them. Storm can bring me back to my senses; retreat to her if ye must.”

  He handed Amarune the blueflame buckle. “Take this. If I fall, get it to The Simbul as fast as ye can!”

  Rune nodded, unable to keep her mounting fear off her face. The trio of ghosts was advancing in a silent, menacing line, like wary warriors. El retreated before them, putting out an arm to sweep Amarune back with him.

  Back they went into the cool gloom of the cave, and the ghosts came on.

  The moment the flaming trio was fully in the cavern, El ducked down, hauling Rune with him—and something half-seen that hissed and thundered in the air swept over their heads in a silent, heavy flood.

  It swirled around the ghosts, halting them and whirling their blue flames away in a surging chaos of swirling lights and confused sounds, most loudly sharp shrieks like hundreds of harpstrings breaking at once.

  The three slayers staggered, hacked vainly at the air, crouched as if caught in a gale—and suddenly were gone, all ragged cries and tatters of blue, fading flame, whirled into … nothingness.

  Beside Rune, Arclath whimpered suddenly and burst out, “The wolves! And Dalatha, weeping! Oh, her kisses … ohhh, broken again. Crowns do that.” With every word his voice wavered, sounding like him or like Elminster—or like other folk entirely.

  Amarune looked at him, winced, then ducked behind him and took firm hold of his jerkin. Heart pounding, she stood with him in the gloom, waiting.

  A long time passed, or seemed to, as Arclath—or Elminster—started to sing. She couldn’t make out the words, and the tunes were unfamiliar, but he didn’t seem that much different from a lot of drunkards she remembered from the Dragonride—