Blackstaff

by Steven E. Schend

  Childish? If you’ve already been through my memories, you know exactly why I hate undead. Hate, not fear.

  Those around them saw only the fat little guard and his charge—a well-dressed noblewoman in a stunning aquamarine gown—standing and glaring at each other in the middle of Calamastyr Lane.

  Fear is the true source of hate, Tsarra. Regardless of what happened in the past, you need to meet Syndra at this time. It’s crucial for your development and all that is to pass these next days.

  You always do that. Do you know how much we hate it?

  Do what? Make appropriate decisions when called for?

  Oh, snideness too. No—make decisions for everyone around you and automatically assume they’re both right and set in stone as if by godly fiat!

  The constant ringing made it almost impossible for Tsarra to hear anything else. Khelben approached her and grabbed her by the arm.

  Nameless flew from the darkness across the way, his snarl evident even from two stories up, and he flew directly into Khelben. The feline lashed his wings behind his body and into Khelben’s hood while he sank his claws and teeth into the arm that held his mistress. With his free hand Khelben grabbed the tressym by the scruff and held him so his exasperated yowls and agitated wings were all that disturbed the peace. As Tsarra shrugged herself loose of Khelben’s grip, she noticed the tressym had drawn blood and rent the archmage’s sleeve. She wondered why her familiar wasn’t calming despite her mental urging to do so or why she could hardly feel him in her head. She also wondered about the heavy smell of violets filling her nose, so thick she felt unsteady on her feet.

  Khelben whispered, “You forget yourself, child, and with whom you’re dealing.”

  “I’m …” Tsarra felt her rage drain from her so quickly she began to fall. All she could manage was a weak whisper before she collapsed on the cobbles. “Khelben, help me.”

  Midusmmer, the Year of the Lone Candle (1238 DR)

  The dark-garbed man flew into the courtyard of a four-story stone tower nestled at the foot of Mount Waterdeep, violets covering every inch of the courtyard wall. The local watch patrol looked up, and all saluted the city’s archmage, but Khelben the Elder waved them off, using their own hand signals to keep them from joining him. Despite their duty, none of them wished to argue with the centuries-old wizard. The watch civilar returned a hand signal to Khelben, his eyes directed above and behind the wizard.

  Khelben looked up to see four overzealous apprentices flying overhead, and he scowled. He waved thanks to the watch and sketched a furious spell in his other hand. The archmage’s whisper traveled upwind to the senior of his apprentices hovering above.

  “Tandar, Mystra herself won’t save you, should you or any others interfere here today. Were I in need of assistance, I would have asked when I left your class moments ago. Remain and watch from there, if you must, but never follow me again unless you have irrefutable reason.”

  Khelben cut off the spell without listening to the young Chondathan’s response. The teacher in him was proud of his students showing initiative and drive, but he shuddered as he remembered the funerals of seven apprentices in the past ten years.

  “No more, especially today of all days,” he growled. At least he didn’t have to keep Cassandra distracted, given how busy she and the Lady Simtul were with the wedding plans for that evening.

  Khelben glanced at the tower, realizing it had been more than two dozen years since he’d darkened its door, despite it only being a short walk from Arunsun Tower. It was an oddity, even for Waterdeep: one of the very few examples of Shoon-style architecture north of Amn. The tower sat on an octagonal stone base two stories tall, its solid stone walls smooth save for random sigils carved about its surface, two arrow-slit windows per side, and the door on the northeastern facet. The door was flanked by two smaller minarets attached to the base on the adjacent east and north facets. Most believed the minarets generated great defensive or offensive magic against intruders. In truth, they were decorative from the outside and concealed rooms for a privy and ablutions inside, but Khelben knew the benefit of leaving others’ fears and fables about wizards unanswered. The top two stories blended in better with Waterdeep, the darker local stones and bricks finishing off the tower’s body. Atop the construction was the most indicative mark of Shoon architecture—the pyramid that marked the dwelling as a noble’s house. Fashioning the pyramid from crystal marked her home as that of a worker of magic.

  In his left hand, a crumpled parchment summoned him to the tower over a matter of urgency. It was signed with the mark of the sorceress Syndra Wands, and its teleporting directly to his hand suggested either knowledge or power that allowed it through the defenses of his home. The blood on the parchment bore enough hints of trouble to drag Khelben from his lecture on the ethics of charms. His right hand held a new weapon, a duskwood rod set with a row of diamonds and sheathed at head and foot in brightsteel. He didn’t understand why his dreams had been haunted by that image or why Mystra herself insisted on both the weapon’s creation months ago and his use of it that day. He understood he had been warned of the day’s events, but familiarity and the unsure nature of dreams kept him from realizing it until moments before.

  Committed to his role in these events, Khelben walked calmly through the street gate and strode through Syndra’s herb garden path to the door. Just as in his dreams, he found a field of magical silence around the door and its flanking minarets, which he dispelled. Unlike the dreams, however, the door hung askew by one hinge and was pockmarked with dents that still dripped acid.

  Whoever was behind the vandalism could strike quickly and silently. There was no other way to cause that kind of damage without alerting neighbors or the watch. Casting spells in quick succession, Khelben negated any additional standing spells within ten paces of the door, sent magic around to reveal any hidden or invisible creatures, and let slip another whisper on the winds to see if the mistress of the Eightower could respond.

  “Granddaughter?” he asked the empty air as he stepped across the threshhold. Though he and his daughter’s daughter had not spoken in years, a twinge of familial worry crept in to distract him.

  The entry chamber, which Khelben knew was always immaculate—like its mistress—shamed itself with disarray and chaos. Someone had obviously come through on a rampage, counting on the magical silence to keep unwanted attention away. Khelben sniffed the air and several of the spell-blast points on the wall, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

  “No sulfur or charring from a flamestruck blast point. Curious.”

  The archmage slowly moved through the four rooms on the ground floor, all with tapestries, rugs, and furniture thrown about by someone looking for something without success. He stalked through the silent tower and up the central stairs, stopping only to note blast marks where spells scored the stone steps and walls. He knew Syndra’s fire spells left the scent of cedar smoke, a unique touch indicative of her sorcery. The other blast points and places where Khelben detected magic were either wet or cold to the touch, if not both. His eyes narrowed and his fist clenched.

  “I know you now, traitorous whelp.”

  Casting spells on his person, Khelben stepped sideways into the stone pillar that supported the stairwell. Merged with the tower, he cast his senses around, checking for any sign of movement or damage within the tower. Sensing a cold spot despite the pulsing warmth of the magic atop the tower, he willed himself upward and into the wall directly before that location. He had a few moments with the spell to survey the land safely within the wall before committing himself to battle.

  The walls of the room leaned inward, meeting fifteen feet overhead and revealing that the top floor of the tower was the pyramid itself. The walls and floor glimmered with magic, their translucence allowing some small glimpses of the darkening skies outside. Khelben saw draped before him, half on the stairs and half on the floor, the bloodied body of his granddaughter Syndra Wands. Her simple dress suggested she had bee
n asleep when attacked, and its folds were stiff with frost and ice. Her skin was a dull gray, her legs had been shattered, and she had fallen on one arm, which had also shattered on impact. Her body was frozen solid, shown by the minimal presence of liquid blood pooling on the floor.

  Even though Khelben knew the identity of Syndra’s attacker, his former apprentice’s appearance took him aback. The man wore cornflower blue robes elegantly stitched with cloth-of-gold and arrayed with his family crest and personal mark—three icicles hanging from the bottom edge of a pyramid. The bronze circlet around his brow gleamed with active power, its sickly olive glow casting a jaundiced veil around his eyes. He held his forearms crossed over his chest, a classic defensive pose favored by old-time Shoon spellcasters as well as a way to show off magical items. Two ring gems gleamed at Khelben—one sapphire, the other diamond—and the arcane energies they stored pulsed around the younger man. In all, his form and accoutrements exuded power, but his eyes betrayed desperation and a beggar’s yearning.

  “I can sense you near, Sunderspell. Come out from hiding and fight!” The man remained seated, his face and voice laced with anticipation.

  Khelben spoke, his voice a grating monotone from the stone face carved into the end of the banister facing his foe. “You are drunk with power, boy. A wise man does not beg a reckoning from his betters.”

  “My betters? I unlocked secrets that have eluded you for centuries!” The man cackled, his eyes locked on the stone face. “I found and claimed the ancient legacies of the Necroqysars of Shoon! You’re merely afraid to test your mettle against me.”

  “Trinkets and toys do not a wizard make, boy.” Khelben said as he willed his spell to an end and stepped from the stone. “Nor does reading someone’s memoirs or spellbooks make you their equal.”

  “Interesting. Muaryn’s Maedarwalk, isn’t it?” The man’s face broke into a grim smile. “Our second meeting in as many years, but this time, I shall leave the victor. I already have what I needed from her,” he gloated as he pulled back his right sleeve. He exposed a silver bracer decorated with what looked like holly leaves and berries carved from silver and gold metals entwining its surface. The red and white berries were inset rubies and moonstones, and all shimmered with power.

  “Issylmyth’s Bracer should never be worn by the likes of you.” Khelben said, his voice a harsh whisper as he knelt by his granddaughter and closed her eyes. “You have slain blood of my blood, and you shall answer for it.” Khelben rested the rod on Syndra’s corpse, its head bloody from her thawing wounds.

  “Don’t call me boy! I will make you say my name, old man, and give me the respect I deserve.”

  The man lashed his arms forward, his rings adding magical power to his casting. Blue-white claws of energy reached toward Khelben, growing larger as they approached him.

  Khelben stared into his foe’s eyes while he dispelled the magical attack. “One cannot command respect nor can one expect it from a vainglorious appellation. One earns respect with deeds and mettle.”

  “Deeds and mettle, spell-shatterer?” The wizard scoffed. “Your own granddaughter lies there dead. My deeds say enough.”

  “Indeed,” Khelben snapped. “From the moment of her birth, I knew of Syndra’s sad fate but knew neither the cause nor the instigator until moments ago. It saddens me that your petty vanities and overinflated sense of worth brought you to this, little Rakesk.”

  Khelben paced around the glowing chamber, keeping distant from both the glowing walls and his foe at its center. His detection spell continued, and he tried to glean as much information as he could about the wizard’s defensive shields.

  “You never mentioned you were an oracle, Khelben. You always were a miser with your secrets. That’s why I had to journey to Shoonach to grasp the power that was my due! Once I’ve slain you as well and claimed your tower, I shall reign over Waterdeep!”

  “Boast less, cast more, fool.” Khelben snapped, as he unleashed tight streams of purple flames from each of his fingertips and arced them to stab at his foe from all sides.

  The vain wizard smiled smugly as the flames flattened and died against a pyramidal shaped spell-shield. The glow of the crystalline ceiling repeated the kaleidoscopic colors in its own energies overhead.

  Khelben allowed himself a tight-lipped smile. “At least your shields are worthy of respect. Tell me, does the room dictate their form or your will?”

  “My will is not lacking, Sunderspell, though the room aids me. One secret Syndra didn’t know about these pyramids is their ability to hone and focus magical fields. I doubt even you could shatter my defenses now, Arunsun! They only break when I ask them, thus!”

  The four sides of the spell pyramid around Rakesk tipped upward then launched themselves at Khelben. The archmage managed to dispel two of the whirling planes, but the latter two stabbed into his right thigh and his lower back, their energies leeching into him after drawing blood. Khelben screamed and fell backward, his body spasming from the spell’s fluctuating energies.

  “Overconfidence must run in your bloodline, Arunsun. I felled Syndra with that same spell. A pity, as it’s hardly one of my signatures, like this.”

  The man stood and raised his hands high. Khelben strained to counterspell the magic but failed. He couldn’t overcome the last effects of the previous spell. Rakesk completed his casting, and smiled coldly as a pillar of blue fire engulfed Khelben in icy flames. Khelben screamed anew, cursing himself for his weakness.

  Behind Khelben and Rakesk both, the duskwood rod and its gems glowed and shimmered. Unnoticed by the gloating wizard, the rod twitched and slowly rose from the bloodied corpse. Trailing an opalescent mist, it swung silently, almost hesitatingly, in the air. After two swings, the rod looped back and brought itself down in a powerful blow to Rakesk’s head. The impact forced the bronze circlet into the man’s scalp and face as it bent down over his left eye, scoring his left cheek and right temple as the circlet tipped on his brow. Rakesk screamed in pain and anger, his sight temporarily blocked by blood flowing over his eyes. As he turned to face his unseen attacker, the rod swung again, and the bones in Rakesk’s right wrist and arm crunched audibly. The diamond ring on that hand fell, and the impact knocked loose Issylmyth’s Bracer.

  Khelben propped himself up on one elbow and chuckled as Rakesk howled in pain and recoiled from the hovering rod.

  “That’s a very singular weapon, boy. Its usual trick is to revisit pains on its victims both physically and magically. It repeats the pain of the worst hurts in your body or mind while also dealing its own hurts. Makes it very useful against overbearing warriors. Still, its greatest talent is to allow the spirits of the recently slain one last chance to avenge themselves upon their killers.” While Khelben spoke, the glow around the rod had steadily increased and outlined the slim figure of a human woman, the fury on her face belying the peacefulness of her own corpse at her feet.

  “Thank you for this chance, grandfather.” The ghostly mists mouthed the words but the voice rang out from the rod itself. “Unfortunate you didn’t know how far your former pupil had fallen before he killed me.”

  “Apologies with deepest sorrows, a’a’sum,” Khelben said, a lone tear burning down his hoar-frosted cheek. “We all play our roles as our Lady bids us. Now play yours in rightful vengeance.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  29 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

  (1374 DR)

  Tsarra’s eyes snapped open as she awoke. She sat up and shook her head to clear the glittering fog in front of her eyes, to no avail. In sympathy with the vision she had just endured, her right thigh and lower back ached painfully. The noises of combat did focus her concentration. She heard loud snarling—the tressym—and shouts—Khelben’s voice immediately in front of her, and at least four others around her. She also heard a horrifying sound she couldn’t identify—a raspy hiss coupled with a high keening tone like a rabbit’s scream. She didn’t know what he was fighting, but she could feel the tressym angrily
battling to “protect mistressfriend like young.”

  Khelben yelled, “Get back, fool! Enough have died already tonight.”

  The unknown person replied, “I can help you, Master!”

  “Not against that you can’t. Just do what you can to keep the inn from collapsing atop us.”

  Khelben’s voice intoned in Tsarra’s head, but without the ringing in her ears she had before: Good. You’re awake. Stay down until I say.

  I’m blind, Khelben! Tsarra tried to control her panic, but she started shaking even as she sent.

  His response was cold, but she could sense his concern as well. Explanations later. Don’t distract me now.

  She could hear him beginning a spell, wherever he was, so she took several deep breaths to calm her racing heart. That exercise cleared her vision slightly, and she could see vague outlines.

  Tsarra reached out and felt the wood floor and what she guessed was an overturned table or a fallen door against which she was lying. She felt an odd tingling around her middle again and realized she could see a glow—blue sparks wreathed her body, centered on the golden belt she wore beneath her armor. She remembered being surprised when she first donned it, and it seemed to merge with her skin. Looking around at the detritus around them, she realized the sparks provided some protection.

  Khelben’s spellcasting ended with a sound that reminded Tsarra of shattering glass and a shield bouncing downhill. Whatever it was, she didn’t recognize it, but it stilled the odd roaring by the large creature that fought Khelben.

  Tsarra pushed herself up on her elbows and realized she wasn’t alone—someone lay next to her against the wall, breathing unevenly. Tsarra blinked a few times in rapid succession and cleared her eyesight. She looked and found a dark skinned bald man whose face, neck, and chest were heavily blistered and bleeding, his left eye blasted away. She flashed back to the day she found her father dead in the Ardeep Forest with similar wounds.