by Ed Greenwood
He was beginning to doubt that.
The air in Dragonskull Chamber wasn’t as stale as it should have been, and the darkness wasn’t as dark. Even the stillness wasn’t still; it pulsed and swirled and flowed in an endless, soundless tumult that could be clearly felt.
The twisted wards were alive and restless, and although they made him feel rather sick, Marlin Stormserpent was glad of that. It meant the war wizards-even the Mage Royal, Ganrahast-couldn’t see him from afar or know he was there or what he was doing.
Which was good indeed, considering that what he was doing would undoubtedly be seen as high treason.
“I’m experimenting freely,” he murmured. No, that excuse sounded lame even to his ears; he couldn’t imagine even the youngest Crownsworn mage or courtier believing it.
Wherefore he’d best be doing what he’d come to do swiftly, and get back to his bodyguards before they drank the deepest winecellar of the Old Dwarf dry. Even shunned rooms of the palace must have patrols stalk by their doors from time to time.
Marlin drew in a deep, excited breath, brought forth the chalice with one hand and his handful of parchment notes with the other, and awakened one of his rings to give him light enough to read.
That reminded him that he was wearing the Flying Blade and would perhaps be wiser to set it aside and try to deal with one ghost at a time.
The room around him was as empty as ever, most of its walls lost in the evershifting darkness-but it was clearly bare of furniture. So he laid his sword belt on the floor a few paces away, the scabbarded sword atop it, and stood so he could face it while he worked on the chalice.
His notes were few the casting or ritual, or whatever it was properly called was short and simple.
Which meant he couldn’t delay any longer. Sudden fear uncoiling in his throat, Marlin held up the chalice, peered at his notes again, then said firmly, “Arruthro.”
The word seemed to roll away across vast distances, though it seemed no louder than it should have been-and at a stroke, the room was darker, the air singing with sudden tension. He looked around in case something was slithering or creeping out of the darkness to come up behind him, but saw nothing.
“Tarlammitruh arondur halamoata,” he added, loudly and slowly. He had no idea what language-if it was a language-he was speaking, but it sounded old and grand and menacing. Very menacing.
The room went colder still.
“Tanthom tanlartar,” he read out-and flinched as the chalice in his hand erupted in weird blue fire. Raging flames that raced down his arm to the elbow and then wreathed it and the chalice in an endless, soundless conflagration. That held no heat at all and caused him no pain, only a disturbing, bone-deep tingling.
“Larasse larasse thulea,” he added.
And shivered in the sudden icy chill-as the blue flames sprang from the chalice in a flood, like a gigantic snake or eel pouring forth from the goblet to the floor and then rebounding up again, growing larger and taller … man-high. With a darkness at their heart that slowly became a man. A man standing facing him and smiling, clad in a dark and nondescript leather war-harness. Boots, sword, and dagger. Dark eyes with those blue flames dancing in their depths-and a ceaselessly burning shroud of blue flames around the man’s body that ignited nothing, charred nothing, and seemed to cause the man no pain at all.
As he shifted his stance, one hand falling to his sword hilt and the other coming to rest on his belt, and smilingly faced Marlin Stormserpent.
Who asked carefully, “You obey me, y-yes?”
The man nodded curtly. “I do. And will.”
The lordling let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and asked, “And you are?”
“Treth Halonter. The best warrior of the Nine, or was … before Myrkul.”
“Before Myrkul?” A dead god, something to do with the dead. Old Lord Bones, that was what the ballads called him. “Before you died?”
“Before Myrkul did this to us and bent us to his love of death.” The ghost’s smile never wavered.
Marlin peered hastily at his notes. “Is there-what must I avoid doing to prevent you turning on me?”
“Nothing. We know and obey the one who summons us forth.”
“And you’ll, uh, go back into the chalice when I say the right words?”
“Or just command me to. Myrkul was not interested in allowing me to deceive, betray, or turn on you. This is no fireside faerie tale, man. I am your slave.”
Marlin glanced at his sword, still lying where he had left it.
“How many of the Nine can I command at once?”
Halonter shrugged. “I know not. Are you given to fits of madness?”
In the depths of young Lord Stormserpent’s mind, Manshoon smiled.
This was going to be fun.
Marlin discovered he wasn’t just drenched in sweat; he was shaking with exhaustion. The two cold smiles facing him felt crushingly heavy, as if he was staggering under the weight of two suits of armor at once.
Those unwavering smiles belonged to the two who stood facing him wreathed in glowing blue flames that burned nothing-but drank energies from living beings they touched, if they willed it so. Or so they claimed.
Two blueflame ghosts who could stride through stone walls at will, but nothing living. If he commanded them to, they could literally walk right through the walls of the palace-leaving them whole and unmarred-and out into Suzail. Again, so they said.
Not that he had any way of proving wrong anything they said, except by watching as they tried to follow his orders. He would order them to walk through the wards and the walls beyond them, in a breath or two, and see.
He’d already commanded them both back into the sword and the cup he’d brought them forth from, and had brought them out again. They assured him they could sense where those items were, no matter how far he took them, and would return to them, but “go into them” only if he was present to command them. Unless or until his command over them was broken by someone else.
How that could be done, or by whom, they did not know-or, again, said they did not. Marlin knew he had no way of catching them in falsehoods until it was too late … and he was beginning to fervently wish they’d stop smiling.
Relve Langral had been the rogue among the Nine and was far more talkative than Halonter. According to him, the dark god Myrkul had corrupted them; they were now ruthless and uncaring, gleefully enjoying killing and any chance to do harm. “We are insane and beyond death,” Relve had announced calmly. Smiling that terrible smile all the while.
They had been awakened from their imprisonments before, and had then heard themselves termed “blueflame ghosts,” but said they were nothing like the real ghosts they’d met and fought when the Nine were adventuring.
They’d said more, too. “We cannot and will not destroy each other, nor will we attempt to. It’s one of the few commandments you can give us that we must ignore.”
“And the others are?”
“Still unknown to us-and, I gather, to you, too,” Relve had replied promptly-and, of course, smilingly.
Marlin drew in another breath and wiped his dripping forehead with the back of his hand. “Then hear my first command to you. Somewhere in this city around you-we stand in the palace in Suzail, Cormyr-there is a man by the name of Seszgar Huntcrown. The one I seek is nobly born and the heir of House Huntcrown, in the unlikely event you find someone else by that name. You are to go forth from here-through the walls-to find him without delay, slay him, and return to me. I will not then be here but in my home, not far from here in this same city. Go. Go now.”
In smiling silence, the two flaming men-or ghosts, or whatever they were-drew their swords, slashed the air around them a time or two as if working stiffness from their limbs, and started toward him.
Marlin watched them come, mouth dry, and it was only when they were a mere stride away that he retreated, clutching at his belt dagger and trying in terror to remember what in all the odd powers of the v
arious rings he wore might save him against two ruthless slayers who could suck the life out of him with a mere touch.
He was still stumbling back, trying to think of something to stammer to keep them at bay, when they strode past him with their fierce smiles, cold contempt for him in their eyes, and … through the nearest wall, as softly as any maiden’s whisper.
And the blue flames were gone from the Dragonskull Chamber, leaving Marlin Stormserpent whimpering and shaking.
Farruking Tempus forfend! So he could control them … or were they merely humoring him?
Stlarn. He swallowed hard, his mouth as dry as he imagined any howling desert to be, and tried to quell his shaking.
He had to get out of there, notes and chalice and all, and back home before some sneering fool of a war wizard found him.
Home, to await a horrible doom-was there anything in the family vaults he could protect himself with? Anything? — or to learn that this little test had become a success, and he was rid of a longtime foe.
Not that Seszgar Huntcrown was one whit as important as Seszgar Huntcrown believed himself to be. However, he’d hated Seszgar because the Huntcrown heir had bullied and humiliated him when they were both young, and still sneered at him.
Moreover, Seszgar would be no loss to anyone. And, overconfident as he was, he was all too apt to trust in his formidable skill with a blade and go swaggering out alone, dismissing his bodyguards, and so could more easily be caught alone than most other nobles.
The two ghosts of the Nine scared Marlin, but they might know almost nothing about Suzail-and all they knew about their quarry was his name, his nobility, and that he was probably carousing somewhere in Suzail. Marlin didn’t want to lose these useful weapons before they accomplished anything at all, by setting them a task that would keep them scouring the city until every last war wizard in the realm descended on them hurling blasting spells.
Smiling, they’d marched right out, wreathed in their ceaseless blue flames, but that meant nothing. After all, what did he really know about them, aside from a few lines of speculation from various dead men, and what they’d told him themselves?
What did he really know about them at all?
Suddenly shaking worse than ever, Marlin snatched up his sword belt in feverish haste, wanting to be gone.
He fled from the room a breath later, and the death knight Targrael detached herself from the darkness of the wall and glided after him, unnoticed and as silently as she knew how.
Manshoon was smiling in the depths of both of their minds.
He was learning at last. Even if it was only to fear, young Lord Stormserpent was learning at last.
Manshoon made his Lady Dark Armor lurk silently, well in the wake of what his newly bold lordling had unleashed.
Ahead of her, two men whose bodies blazed blue stalked the dark streets of Suzail in menacing silence, keeping together.
Langral and Halonter of the Nine were quite capable at reading the will of the one commanding them, when they stood close and those thoughts were fierce-and young and fearful Marlin Stormserpent had wanted them to stay together.
Well enough; that suited both of them. They were busy finding Seszgar Huntcrown, and it was proving to be slow work.
Every few paces they came upon someone hurrying along who couldn’t outrun them, or who blundered out of a door or alley too preoccupied with something else to notice blue enshrouding flames in time to run.
“Have ye seen the noble Seszgar Huntcrown?” Relve would ask.
“Recently?” Treth would add, leaning forward to rumble that word.
Usually the answer was a stammered denial, sometimes of even knowing what Lord Huntcrown looked like. Less than helpful-but then, their orders had come from a noble, and nobles weren’t known for sparing underlings work or calling on overmuch thought when crafting orders in the first place.
No matter what answer Langral and Halonter got, they promptly slew the answerer if there were no nearby witnesses, or just stalked on in search of someone else if there were.
It was a good thing night hadn’t fallen all that long before. Questioning and butchering their way across Suzail might take most of the dark hours. They briefly entertained the notion of keeping count of how many killings would be necessary before they found Huntcrown, but hadn’t thought of it until after they’d slain six-or was it eight? — already. Suzailans died quickly these days.
In Targrael’s head, and managing to read the thoughts of the two men in flames faintly through endless and silently snarling blue fire, Manshoon smiled. He’d noticed the very same thing.
Belgryn Murenstur blinked. Well, there … ‘twasn’t every night you saw the likes of that. Wreathed in flames they were, from head to toe, two men with drawn swords, striding along the street as if they felt nothing at all.
“Ho, man!” the shorter one called-to him Belgryn realized. And blinked again, coming to a sudden halt in his rush to be home. In another two paces, he’d have walked right into them, flames and all.
“Have ye seen the noble Seszgar Huntcrown?”
“Recently?” the taller flaming one added, in a deeper voice. They were both smiling.
Were those swords in their hands wet? As in, with blood?
With a rush of relief, Belgryn realized he had. “Yes, yes, I just laid eyes on him, as it happens-and all he carouses with, too. They were going into the Bold Archer and were more than a bit merry.”
Something was happening in his head … as if he was being watched from the dark corners of his own mind. Yes, a dark, coldly smiling presence, Manshoon by name, that he promptly forgot all about.
He blinked again. The shorter man, wreathed in flames he didn’t seem to feel, was thrusting himself closer to Belgryn to ask another question.
“What is this Bold Archer? A tavern?”
“A club. Uh, four streets back, you can’t miss it-”
Belgryn was turning to point when he saw the swords come up.
“Ye will take us there,” the taller flaming man rumbled, still wearing his smile. “Now.”
“I-uh, I’m in some haste to be ho-,” Belgryn started to stammer.
And abruptly stopped, because the swords rising to menace his throat were wet with blood, and because a door had just been flung open down the street, letting light spill out onto the cobbles.
Even before whoever moved to stand in that light started to scream, Belgryn saw clearly what was lying in the street where the two flaming men had just come from: two sprawled bodies that had blood running in slow, dark ribbons out from under them.
Two citizens of Suzail that the flaming men now smilingly flanking him had just slain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A NIGHT OF SWORDS AND BLOOD
After one long look that he knew had left him hotly blushing, Delnor kept his eyes on the rush-strewn floor as he hastened through the tables of the Dragonriders’ Club. By the Diligence of Torm, when had the trip grown so long?
He was acutely conscious of his palace messenger’s uniform, and of the dozens-scores-of eyes that must be following him as he made his way right up to the front table where Lord Delcastle was lounging.
In the brightest lights of the stage right above Arclath’s easy smile, the same mask dancer was performing-with an air of defiance, no less! — posing and pirouetting around a glossy-smooth prowboard that had been thrust into the edge of the stage. It allowed her to move her body out until it overhung the wine-sipping noble.
Delnor firmly closed his eyes and groped his way the last few steps to the empty chair across from Arclath, who considerately removed his feet from it in the last instant before the crimson-faced palace messenger sat down both heavily and with great relief.
“Well met,” came the noble’s sardonic greeting as Delnor thankfully closed his hand around a proffered flaretop goblet and drank deeply. “What news?”
The mask dancer thrust her face in the new arrival’s direction for long enough to tender Delnor a brief, hard
stare before returning to deftly catching Arclath’s steady stream of tossed coins out of the air, and putting them into dozens of small clips she’d braided into her long hair. Delnor saw her attach a gleaming golden lion then whirl away to smile at the next table, long hair swirling and sleek hips …
He swallowed again and looked away into the darkness-straight into the expressionless gaze of Tress, who was standing with her arms folded, keeping steady watch over her prized dancer and Lord Delcastle’s front table from a dark alcove beside the stage.
Delnor gave the club owner a weak, wavering smile and transferred his gaze to Arclath, who leaned forward through the sudden din of music that arose just then to accompany the dancers-a merry rhythm of longhorn, lute, tantan, and hand-drum, being played somewhere above their heads and coming down through holes around the pillars-to murmur, “So, now, what banners have you seen coming through the gates? What word has reached the palace of this or that noble’s arrival for this Council of the Dragon?”
For his part, Delnor was almost itching with curiousity as to what the Lord Delcastle had learned about the eavesdropping dancer, who was at that moment almost insolently performing right above them again. Something had obviously happened between them.
He risked the swiftest of glances up at the dancer-long enough to see quite vividly that she wore only sparkles, sweat, and her mask-and resigned himself to hearing about it later. Leaning forward until his nose was perhaps a finger’s length from Arclath Delcastle’s, he started muttering names across the table.
When a noble wants to hear which fellow nobles have come to town, and is paying for the drinks, the duty of a lowly courtier is clear.
“… And so she opened her arms for meeeee!” Broryn Windstag roared, off-key and more shouting than singing but too drunk to care.