by Ed Greenwood
Marlin’s father was long dead, leaving real power in the hands of his widow Narmitra. Who hated everything about Suzailan high society and court intrigue and was letting her brother-in-law Mhedarlakh play patriarch because she knew Marlin hated it all, too, and would prefer the freedom to pursue his own interests as long as Mhedarlakh could totter along.
It amused her vastly-just as it did Manshoon-that Mhedarlakh’s feeble wits and his being neither the head of his House nor its heir frustrated other nobles no end. The Stormserpents couldn’t be bound by any agreements old Mhedarlakh made, and fellow nobles couldn’t use him as a reliable source of information about the family nor as a bearer of proposals, agreements, or opinions to any Stormserpent.
There was nothing foolish nor slow-witted about the Lady Narmitra. No peacock, she.
It had been almost immediately clear to Manshoon that Marlin, whether he admitted it to himself or not, was more than a little afraid of her.
Even before Manshoon had stolen into his mind, the young lord’s occasional murmurings to himself revealed all too clearly that Marlin suspected his mother knew what he’d done to Rondras but said nothing because she had always liked him far more than his brothers-and because she was, in turn, a shade scared of him.
And so they danced, mother and son, in a slow and endless duel of barbed comments, deployments of servants, and tacit accords.
Manshoon observed all their little ruses and conversational gambits with frequent delight. It was better than a play.
For his part, Marlin dealt with his mother cordially but firmly, and early on obtained her promise to keep out of certain towers of the house, which were to be his alone. Manshoon admired the lordling’s patience over that. For a long time after obtaining that promise, Marlin did nothing at home that Lady Stormserpent would find at all suspicious-so she could, and did, pry and spy in “his” towers many times only to find nothing worth the looking and eventually lose interest.
At long last, Marlin Stormserpent’s long-awaited breaking forth might just be about to happen. He’d returned home in a hurry, and was bustling about getting the Flying Blade and the chalice out of hiding with a distinct air of glee.
Marlin took off his customary sword belt and weapon, replacing it with the enchanted one, then put on an oversized dark jerkin, thrusting into its breast both the chalice and the notes he’d assembled on how to compel and call forth the blueflame ghosts.
Then he went looking around Stormserpent Towers for the two men he trusted most in the world. The bodyguards he’d hired, rewarded well, and worked closely with the past six or seven seasons.
“The two men,” Manshoon murmured as Marlin rushed off down a passage, paying the dark and motionless form of the House servant whose mind Manshoon was riding no heed at all, “who are almost as personally loyal to you as you believe them to be.”
He shook his head. Marlin Stormserpent had thus far been very fortunate in the trust he’d placed in his servants. Far luckier than most nobles.
And just how long would that luck hold out, hmm?
An insistent chiming wrenched Manshoon’s attention away from Stormserpent Towers and back to another of the floating scenes in his cavern. He peered at it for a moment, thrusting his nose forward like the beak of an eager hawk, and slowly smiled.
Well, then.
Mreldrake was close enough … and it was almost better than he could have hoped for.
A battle that should take care of another generous handful of these irritating and meddlesome wizards of war and highknights-and at the end of it, Storm Silverhand would be gone again, leaving the Sage of Shadowdale standing alone.
Just where Manshoon wanted him.
Yes, this should be good …
In midsmile his eye fell upon another glowing scene, and mirth faded into thoughtfulness in an instant.
Then he nodded to himself. It was high time to remove the head wizards from circulation in the palace, before they had a chance to do anything dangerous. Such as waking up enough to provide some organization and leadership for their magelings, once news of the battle with Elminster reached them.
So what were they up to, just then? Kordran was one of his dupes, so it would be simple to eavesdrop.
Manshoon let his mind descend into the quavering pool of fear that was Kordran’s mind at the moment. From there, he would be close enough to leap into Vainrence, probably undetected …
“I-uh-I–Lords, I-we-”
Wizard of War Aumanas Kordran was as white as new-fallen winter snow and quivering with terror under his streaming mask of sweat, his eyes large and staring.
Abruptly those eyes rolled up in his head, and he slumped to the floor like the proverbial sack of potatoes. A large, limp sack of potatoes.
Ganrahast and Vainrence exchanged weary glances. Their shared opinion of the terrified young war wizard was not a high one, and his report had been neither coherent nor conclusive. Moreover, it was the second time he’d responded to their increasingly sharp questioning by collapsing.
“Leave him,” the Mage Royal said curtly.
Vainrence nodded. “Orders?”
Ganrahast said promptly, “Set a guard over the palace-end of that passage: Nelezmur, Tomarr, Baerendrith, and Helharbras. No doubt all manner of curious courtiers will come sidling up to have a peek at what’s so horrible, the moment word of my more general order gets around.”
Vainrence smiled a trifle bitterly. “And that order is?”
“No courtier nor visitor is to be allowed within earshot of the Chamber of the Wyrms Ascending until specific orders to the contrary are proclaimed by the king or by me,” Ganrahast replied. “And any unfamiliar person seen in the palace is to be retreated from and reported to me-even if they claim to be royalty or an envoy or a ghost or a highknight.”
Vainrence nodded and made for the door.
Ganrahast watched him open it, look out, and acquire the near-smile that meant something had met with Vainrence’s approval.
Something had. The guards had been facing the closed door from the other side of the passage, spaced apart from each other and to either side of the door a good distance away, not pressed against the door trying to listen.
Vainrence beckoned to the courtier he saw beyond the farthest guard, standing by another, open door farther along the passage-and murmuring instructions to a steady stream of scurrying servants. It was Understeward Fentable, who bowed his head and hastened forward to hear Vainrence’s will.
As Vainrence started to repeat Ganrahast’s orders to the courtier, the Mage Royal turned away and stalked across the room to stare grimly down at the sprawled and senseless Kordran.
It hadn’t been much of an interrogation. Perhaps something was awry with the man’s wits.
So with that dark possibility raised, what did they really know of these latest murders?
If some sort of resident undead had done the slayings, why now-when it had supposedly been haunting the palace for years?
What deeper darkness was it going to herald or goad into happening?
In the darkness of his cavern, Manshoon smiled. Clinging lightly to a small part of Lord Warder Vainrence’s mind, he sent his will plunging somewhere else, into a mind darker, colder, and deeper.
Awaken, my Lady Dark Armor. A little task awaits …
Hurrying along a passage in the darker, damper depths of the royal palace, Ganrahast and Vainrence stiffened in unison and exchanged anxious frowns. An age-old alarm spell had interrupted them, unfolding in their minds like a forgotten door. An unwelcome surprise telling them one of the caskets in the royal crypt had been broken open!
Now fresh tumult was unfolding in their minds. A second Obarskyr coffin had just been breached.
“Should we warn Mallowfaer?” Vainrence snapped.
Ganrahast emitted a very un-Royal Magician-like snort. “Lot of good that will do.”
His second-in-command smiled. “Heh. Point made. Well, then, shall we warn Fentable?”
&nb
sp; “Time enough for that later-when we know what we’re warning him about.”
They turned the last corner, wands raised and ready and shielding spells spun into being in front of them. A thief’s poisoned dart could be a very nasty greeting.
The passage stood empty, and the doors of the crypt were closed.
They exchanged silent glances. Undead, within?
Ganrahast drew a rod he’d hoped never to have to use from its sheath down his leg, and Vainrence activated one of his rings.
At a nod from his superior, the Lord Warder unsealed the doors.
Then he opened them, wand up again, to reveal … darkness. Still and silent darkness.
The two mages looked up and down the passage, then at the ceiling, then peered at the ceiling inside the crypt. Nothing.
Ganrahast held up one hand with a ring pulsing on it as seeking magic stole forth, and waited tensely as it found … nothing.
The two men exchanged doubtful looks again. Then, hesitantly, they stepped into the crypt, wands held ready.
The silence held. Nothing moved, nothing seemed out of place-hold!
The royal crypt was not visited often, but to both men it seemed the coffins and the few relics on the shelves along the back wall were undisturbed, everything very much as it had been the last time they’d been there.
With one exception that was making them both peer again into every corner of the crypt and check the ceiling once more.
One casket-an old and rather plain, massive one, probably one of the kings not long after Duar-stood open, its unbroken lid laid neatly on the floor beside it.
The two senior war wizards peered suspiciously around at all the silent, undisturbed coffins. Nothing moved, and there was no sound but that of their own breathing.
Cautiously-very cautiously-they moved forward, Vainrence at the fore and Ganrahast shooting glances here, there, and everywhere around the crypt and back out the open doors at the empty passage they’d come from.
There was nothing in the stone casket but unmoving, shrouded bones, under a thick cloak of dust.
Vainrence put one hand slowly into the burial cavity, the ring on his smallest finger blazing a steady, unchanged white. No undeath there. Nothing stirred at his intrusion, and he felt no tingling of awakening magic.
Withdrawing his hand, he stepped back and looked at the Royal Magician who had taken a pendant out from under his robes and was holding it up, turning toward this wall of the crypt and then that. It, too, glowed a faint, steady white.
They traded suspicious frowns, then without a word strode to stand back-to-back and started to search all over the crypt, Ganrahast moving cautiously to look here and there, and Vainrence guarding his back.
Still nothing.
There was certainly no intruder-not an invisible one, and not a ghost. The wards that prevented all translocations were still pulsing strongly around them; the magic alive in the crypt was so strong and swirling that they had no hope of telling what spells, if any, had been used there recently … still less, longer ago.
The alarm spells had told of two disturbed burials, yet there was only one open coffin. With nothing missing or disturbed, if that dust could be trusted. Still, there were simple, everyday spells to settle shrouds of dust on things …
“Your guess?” Ganrahast asked calmly.
Vainrence shrugged. “Some long-ago spell to lift a casket lid? Either it started to fade and was written so as to function before its energy ebbed too much for it to do so, or something among all the wards and shieldings in here triggered it?”
“That,” Ganrahast murmured, “seems entirely too convenient. Not to mention overly benign.”
“So I feel, too,” Vainrence agreed. “I await your better explanation, Mage Royal.”
In the silence that followed, they traded wry grins.
Then Ganrahast shrugged. “Let’s shift this lid back where it should be and see what that does to the alarms; reset, gone off and gone, or still awake and insisting an intrusion has occurred.”
The coffin was old; there were certainly no spells to levitate the lid. They staggered under the weight of the carved stone slab momentarily, grunting and huffing to heave it high enough to restore it to the top of its casket-and only then saw a fresh piece of parchment on the floor under where the lid had lain. There was writing on it.
Vainrence stooped. “You are doomed,” he read aloud.
As he spoke, the lid of the closed casket beside them lifted just enough for magic to be triggered from within it.
There was a singing sound, as if an idle hand had slashed across the highest strings of a harp-and the two war wizards stiffened in unison.
To stand frozen, unseeing and unbreathing in the midst of their own new and pale auras.
“Well, well,” Targrael murmured, lifting with casual ease the lid she’d lain concealed under and climbing gracefully out from atop the bones she’d been relaxing on during the blunderings of these two. “These old Obarskyr trinkets still serve quite effectively. Unlike the realm’s wizards of war, these days.”
Ganrahast and Vainrence stood mute and immobile, caught in stasis. Targrael smiled at them almost fondly.
“Pair of prize idiots.”
She examined Ganrahast’s nearest hand then plucked the ring she wanted from its finger-it took a strong tug, but she’d known the stasis would hold and really cared not if she broke the man’s finger; he had plenty more-and donned it.
No doubt he could trace its whereabouts when he was capable of doing anything again. That might well be a very long time later, however.
The faint beginnings of a smile twisting her lips, Targrael put each of the stasis-frozen men into his own opened coffin and restored the two lids to their proper places.
“Ineffectual dolts. That’ll keep you. Once I use this useful little ring to seal the crypt, no one will think to look here for you until the next Obarskyr dies. Whereupon they’ll hopefully be too upset and concerned with the succession to dare to go around opening up royal coffins to peek at moldering contents.”
With a chuckle, the undead highknight departed that silent chamber, her dark cloak swirling.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
EXPECTING MUCH BLOOD
Storm slowed a little, to try to catch her breath. It wouldn’t do to try to talk pleasantly to hostile guards if she was panting so hard she couldn’t even gasp out words.
Inevitably, Elminster ran into her from behind, head-butting her rump and propelling her helplessly around the last corner.
Where she was promptly greeted by far too many cold, vigilant stares.
She found herself smiling wryly, despite the looming danger. It seemed that the Room of the Watchful Sentinel was very well named.
Architecturally small and unimportant, a mere antechamber off the far larger and grander Starander’s Hall, it was guarded day and night to prevent covert departures-and unwelcome incursions-by way of the small, flickering doorway that stood in its northeast corner, bereft of surrounding walls or even a physical door or frame.
The Dalestride Portal’s usual guardians were fourteen. Two highknights, eight battle-tested Purple Dragons, and four wizards of war.
Right then, there were more guards than that just in the passage outside-and they had unfriendly faces and ready weapons. The passage ahead of Storm looked like a crowded forest, with every tree a waiting sentinel expecting battle, and with eyes fixed on her.
Still breathing hard from her brisk run through the palace and from the brief tussle that had punctuated that journey, Storm turned her walk into a stroll as she approached the row of waiting spear points.
Beyond those leveled spears, several wands were aimed her way, and she could see some dart-firing bowguns held in highknight fists, too.
“El,” she murmured, “this is going to be messy. There’s no way I can force passage through this many-”
“Keep moving. Duck aside against the wall, if they let fly at ye from inside the room once ye t
ry to enter,” Elminster muttered from behind her, where he was lurching along bent over, an arm held up to shield his face.
Storm lacked both breath and will to point out to him that he was fooling no one; any Purple Dragon or war wizard who’d been warned to watch out for Elminster of Shadowdale or any other old, bearded, male stranger walking the palace would know at a glance exactly what was scuttling along in Storm’s wake.
“I don’t want to kill or maim scores of good and loyal folk of Cormyr,” Storm hissed over her shoulder. “These are our allies, remember; those who stand for justice and-”
“I’ve not forgotten that. Don’t believe what ye’re about to see, overhead,” Elminster warned her. “I still have a little magic to spend.”
Storm nodded, eyeing bowguns being aimed carefully at her throat-as the ceiling of the passage came down with a roar.
The passage shook, a hanging lamp starting to swing wildly. Dust billowed, swallowing many of the arrayed guardians-who shouted in fear and started sprinting wildly along the passage.
Right at Storm.
“El,” she snapped, reaching for her sword, “I-”
Darts came streaking at her, and there was a sudden snarl of crimson flame as a wand spat in her direction.
The flames rushed at her, expanding with the usual terrifying speed-only to fall silent and begin to spin in a great pinwheel right in front of her that … that …
“El, what’re you doing?”
There came an all-too-familiar chuckle from behind her. “How many times have ye asked me that, lass? Down the passing centuries?”
“Don’t remind me,” Storm replied sharply, sword up and out and seeking foes she couldn’t see. “How many times have you destroyed bits and pieces of palaces? Or castles?”
“I don’t keep track,” came the gruff reply. “Always seemed a mite childish, all this keeping score. Those who do tend to be those I dislike. Now, don’t step forward, whatever ye do. The results would be … unpleasant.”