by Ed Greenwood
Could he be the last one alive in all Firefall Keep? Gods, what would he tell Lord Vangerdahast?
For that matter, how would he find his speaking stone to tell Lord Vangerdahast anything?
He was crossing a room, that thought eating at him, when he saw Shayna Summerstar at the base of a pillar, under three fallen timbers. She lay curled up on her side, barefoot, wearing little more than dust, the tatters of a gown trailed from her limbs. It was a miracle none of the timbers had crushed—no, he saw, they’d been laid over her, to protect her against collapses.
He lifted them aside and peered at her. She was breathing slowly and deeply, but her eyes were closed. “Lady Shayna?”
There was no response. Broglan reached to his belt to take off his overrobe and lay it over her. His hands drew back. No, he needed the spell components his pockets bore.
He recalled a wardrobe fallen on its face a few rooms back. Retracing his steps, he found it, failed in his attempt to overturn it, and used his dagger to lever its splintered back up.
It was full of women’s clothes, all twisted together in dusty disarray. He found a gown and a night cloak. The next garment he lifted away uncovered the lifeless hand of a chambermaid who’d been crushed under the fallen furniture. Above the neck, she was only bloody pulp.
The wizard recoiled, shuddered, and hastily bore the two garments back to the Lady Shayna.
She’d turned on her back and flung her limbs wide, but was still sleeping soundly. Broglan looked at her bared limbs, swallowed, and then awkwardly dressed her. He lifted the limp, warm body to put her arms into the sleeves of the gown, slid its lower half underneath her, and then buttoned and tugged until she was more or less covered. He laid the fashionable light cloak over her, took hold of her shoulders, and shook her. “Lady Shayna?”
Nothing. Not even a flicker of her eyelids.
He slapped her cheek gently, once, and then again. She slept on, breathing steadily. He frowned. Magic? He rolled her over and slapped her behind so hard that his fingers stung and her body shifted on the stones. Still she slept.
Magic. He carefully cast his last, precious dispel.
Dusty lashes fluttered, and Shayna Summerstar looked up at him rather warily.
He waited, a wand raised to blast her face. When she recognized him, she managed a weak smile. “Sir Broglan? Who—what’s befallen?”
“I know not, lady,” Broglan said gently, lowering his wand. “This ruin around us is your home, ’tis morning, and since awakening I’ve found only death until I came upon you.”
He put a gentle arm around her shoulders, and helped her sit up. “You are the heiress of House Summerstar,” Broglan told her gravely, “and my duty is to protect you as best I can. I hope to take you out of this place, find a horse, and get you to court, if we find none else alive.”
Shayna looked around wearily, and then down at herself, and made a face. “Who dressed me?”
Broglan flushed. “Ah—I did, lady,” he said carefully, fearing an angry response.
She merely nodded, and smiled thinly. “I thought so. You’ve put this gown on me back to front.”
Broglan was relieved to find that he could still laugh, if hoarsely, and even more relieved to hear her merry laugh join his.
Cold laughter, which sounded like it was booming from the mouth of a nearby giant, drowned them out. It rolled around the stones of Firefall Keep and echoed back at them. Bolts of lightning started to flash through the keep, crackling down from the uppermost floor to an unseen target below.
Broglan was afraid that those bolts were seeking the life of Storm Silverhand. As he glanced at the avid face of the Lady Shayna, who was bent forward to get a better look at the distant leaping lightning, he was very much afraid he’d just awakened a willing hand of the foe.
* * * * *
Another man’s scream broke off abruptly as the rolling pillar made a horrible wet crunch. The gathered warriors winced.
A grim Ergluth Rowanmantle looked up at the shuddering keep. Tiles and stone blocks tumbled all around. He said simply, “I was mistaken to think we could stay. We’re getting out.”
He walked steadily across a riven room and bellowed, “Follow!”
Ahead of him, a statue toppled from its plinth, struck the stony ground, and shattered as if it had been plaster. The boldshield ignored it, striding on through the tumult of booming, rolling stone.
“Where’re we going?” Erlandar Summerstar called.
Ergluth did not turn his head, but every man there heard his deep roar of command. “To the dungeons under the gate tower—as far and as deep as I can get from this battle. Those two are like gods, smashing at each other up there. We go down and cower until they’re done—and pray as we’ve never prayed before that Storm triumphs.”
The keep shook and quivered around them as they ran on. The morning sky above was covered by a flickering curtain of rushing silver flames; men muttered, ducked their heads from this eerie sight, and hurried along. They were rushing down a dark, precipitous stone stair before the boldshield asked Erlandar, “Who’ve you got locked up down here?”
The eldest Summerstar shrugged. “No one, so far as I know.”
Ergluth nodded and began to snatch down the unlit torches from each wall bracket they passed. When he couldn’t see to go on he cried a halt and had an armsman light two of them.
Ergluth took one himself and ordered the other passed to the back of the group of grim warriors and fearful servants. He went on, selecting the deepest of the large cells.
Swinging the rusting but massive barred door wide, he boomed, “Our new home! In, everyone!”
Thereafter they sat in the close, dank darkness and together thought fearful thoughts. The keep shook and quivered above them. After what seemed a long time, a particularly violent blast made dust sift down on their heads, and was followed by a strange, hesitant series of louder and louder crashes.
Thalance Summerstar stepped out of the cell to see what could be causing the noise. In a moment, he scrambled in again and yelled at everyone to stand back.
Behind him, a boulder that was taller than a man came slowly crashing down the stairs, end over end. Advancing with the slow but inexorable stagger of a wounded giant, it came to a final thunderous halt against the bars of the cell, bending them inward as if they were mere threads.
“Gods,” Thalance swore, “and the lady, she’s up there, standing alone against him!”
The Purple Dragon commander nodded, his face as gray as the boulder. “And our only hope,” he rumbled in a voice that made the crowded cell fall silent, “is that she defeats him.” He turned his head to look at them all. “Keep only one torch lit, and gather the others to light from it, one by one; there’s a bracket here. Those of you who aren’t seeing to that can start praying.”
Eighteen
TUMULT IN THE FOREST KINGDOM
The royal magician of Cormyr looked up at her. “Nothing until the moot at highsun? Good. Sit down, pray—we never have time enough these days to talk about things.”
Lady Laspeera Inthré gave him a warm smile, patted his hand, and took the seat facing his. A tray that bristled with bottles and decanters of exotic liqueurs rose smoothly from the table to offer itself to her. His second-in-command waved a politely dismissive hand at it—and then chuckled and shook her head in surrender as she found a full glass of her favorite Old Rubythroat settling into her other hand.
“None of this nonsense about not drinking during the day,” Vangerdahast told her gruffly. “You’ve been at that survey until I thought your finger’d wear through our best set of maps!”
Laspeera smiled. “Long work, yes, but ’tis done. The work was not all such drudgery, nor the end prospect so gloomy, that I can in all honesty claim any rightful need to this.” She raised her glass.
“So stop protesting and drink it,” Vangerdahast growled. “As if fine spirits needed an excuse to be drunk!”
She gave him another amused smile
and obediently tilted the glass to her lips. The lord high wizard of Cormyr sat back in his chair, swirling smoking blue wine about the bottom of his own fist-sized glass, and gazed around Salantrin’s Hall.
A moment of private peace was a rare thing for either of the two highest-ranking mages of Cormyr. Vangerdahast took care that few servants had both the keys and the knowledge to reach the luxurious inner chamber known as Salantrin’s Hall. A tray floated obligingly into his lap. He cut a slab of sharp old bluelick cheese, with a smiling glance thanking Laspeera for her levitation. He sat back to enjoy the Tavilar Tapestry.
Said to have been given to his long-ago predecessor Amedahast, for her (unspecified) services to the elves, the hanging stretched along the entire north wall of the chamber. It was a glowingly vivid deep woodland scene whose lighting kept pace with the day outside, from bright morning through each day to the deepest gloom of night—though in the tapestry it was always summer, and never rained.
The magic of the tapestry often made birds and animals move through the scene, and from time to time, stags would bound through the trees, and a splendid elven hunt would ride soundlessly after them. It was a rare treat to see the shining white moment when a lone unicorn would appear and pause briefly to look out into the room. One was doing so now, and Vangerdahast raised his glass to it.
It turned its head toward Laspeera, for all the world as if it could really see both mages. She smiled and nodded. Then it tossed its head, and was gone.
“I love this,” Vangerdahast said softly. “I could watch it for hours. Think you it shows us Evermeet?”
Laspeera shrugged, and daintily cut herself a rondelle of nutcheese. “Who can say?” She gave him an impish look. “Unless, of course, you craft a spell that’ll let you step into it, and go see for yourself.”
Vangerdahast made a rude sound. “Things have been quiet lately, but not that quiet.” He sighed. “I take it the likelihood of any more powerful magic or mages being uncovered in the realm is decidedly slim now?”
Laspeera raised her shapely shoulders in another elegant shrug. “The noble houses, of course, have any number of magical toys hidden away that they don’t want anyone to know about. Some of them were clever enough to reveal a few to me in hopes that I’d not think they had others. I can say that powerful spell-wielders found in Cormyr in the years to come will either develop under our noses—or come in from outside … and I trust our vigilance is such that only a handful of the mightiest archmages are good enough to do that and remain undetected for long.”
“Sarmyn did say he had Storm Silverhand on his hands up in Firefall Vale a few days back,” Vangerdahast said idly.
Laspeera showed him the impish grin that wizards who were not her master or her husband were never allowed to see. “And did he enjoy it?”
“He hasn’t yet said.”
“Then he’s not enjoying it,” Laspeera concluded, watching a pair of stags leap frantically across the tapestry. A few moments later the expected hunt appeared in the distance, waving lances that glimmered from butt to tip with lazy runs of lightning. The wizards watched it rush pass, and raised their glasses to their lips in unison.
* * * * *
Lightning crackled hungrily around her, but Storm ignored it. Bolts and chain lightning were among the things she was immune to, by Mystra’s grace; she kept her attention on the falling things dislodged by the laughing, glowing-eyed foe flitting above her. So far, nothing had crashed down on her head, but he was still trying.
A bolt veered away from her, toward the distant, startled face of Broglan Sarmyn.
“No!” Storm exclaimed in angry surprise. She raised her hand to slash the bolt with silver fire—but Shayna Summerstar rose up behind the mage, a chair-leg in her hand, and brought it viciously down.
The wizard fell out of sight. The young heiress capered in triumph; the bolt that might have struck her veered away of its own accord.
Sick at heart, Storm turned her attention back to the tentacled foe. “You’ll pay for this. I swear it.”
Their eyes met. The foe laughed maniacally before ducking out of sight onto the floor above. Storm sent a jet of silver fire into the ceiling above her—and as it punched through the stone, she was rewarded with his startled cry of rage and pain.
Furiously, the foe struck back, hurling the pieces of a shattered statue down at her.
Neither of them noticed a dust-covered figure rise from the rubble on the floor below Storm, and lurch toward the nearest ascending stair. The Hungry Man had forgotten some of its orders, but it knew to receive more, it had to be where strong magic raged.
* * * * *
Some overclever Sembians were stirring up trouble in Marsember again. The war wizard briefings and strategy sessions had been long and wearisome. As they walked together to the doors of Lionsrest Hall, Laspeera saw Vangerdahast put a hand to his mouth to conceal a yawn.
“Come in,” she said gently, an offer that made his head turn quickly in surprise. “Aundable will be pleased to see you.”
“He will? Having to kiss his wife in front of the royal magician of all the realm, and pretend the old gruff-nose isn’t there? Strange man,” Vangerdahast commented.
Laspeera wrinkled her nose, took him firmly by the elbow, and steered him into the parlor she shared with her husband, Aundable Inthré.
The seldom-seen subject of so much speculation among the magelings Laspeera tutored was bent over a tiny model of the fortress of High Horn. He frowned and glanced up at an image that hung in the air above it—a floating magical view of the castle. As they watched, he gestured with a fingertip, and one hillock shifted its position along the mountainside a trifle. Laspeera’s husband nodded in apparent satisfaction, looked up, and broke into a broad smile.
Laspeera swept around the table and into her husband’s arms.
“Lord Vangerdahast! A pleasure! What can I do to set you at ease?”
“Stop calling me ‘Lord Vangerdahast’ and try ‘Vangey,’ for a start,” the old mage growled.
Aundable indicated that he’d heard Vangey’s request by a wink, and was then rather busy with an affectionate, wordless greeting for the next four breaths or so. Vangerdahast hid a smile by taking up a decanter of amberfire wine and strolling over to glance at the miniature castle Aundable had crafted, on his way to the glasses.
“Ah, yes—please, make yourself at home,” Aundable said when he could speak again. “Like it?”
“I do indeed,” Vangerdahast admitted, peering at the tiny windows and doors, and extending a cautious finger. Did they actually open? Say, th—
“If you’ll excuse me,” Aundable said, “I was just going to do my usual scry of the border lands, and then retire to bed.”
Vangerdahast gave him a grave nod, and said, “And you shall not do so alone; I won’t keep Laspeera more than a few breaths before wandering off in search of my own bed. Soon enough I’ll be wandering the kingdom again, and sleeping out on wet, rocky ground under the stars. Aye, lass?”
Laspeera sighed. “Only you, in this entire palace, could get away with calling me ‘lass’!”
“Oh, lass?” Aundable teased. “What’s that you say?”
She reached out and playfully tweaked his nose.
“Urrgh!” he replied, intelligently and happily. He sat down at his scrying crystal. Few in the kingdom knew that a peerless master of strategy and foresight lurked in this back room of the palace, keeping watch over the realm—but Vangerdahast, for one, was glad he did.
Aundable waved away a proffered glass of amberfire wine, glanced at a map of eastern Cormyr, and ran a finger along the trails north and east of the Wyvernwater. There was the hold of Hawkhar, seat of House Indesm; Galdyn’s Gorge, home of the Yellanders; and Firefall Vale, home to the Summerstars.…
The face of Shayna Summerstar swam into his mind. Aundable frowned and glanced at his wife. If he’d been one for the shining younglings, he could do worse, far worse, than the beautiful Shayna Summerstar.
His frown deepened as he bent his will to use that vividly remembered face as a focal point to target his scrying attempt. Wasn’t Firefall where the Sevensash band had been sent, to see to some sort of minor trouble? Aundable leaned forward, peering into the depths of his scrying crystal, where small lights swam and wandered.…
* * * * *
It had been a long day. The sun set on Firefall Vale, and the shadows inside the riven keep grew truly dark. Storm wearily clenched her teeth and, with desperate speed, wove a web of silver fire, seeking to enclose the foe once more. Her barrier around the keep had gone long ago, sacrificed to save her own skin from the shapeshifter’s vicious attacks.
Now he was teasing her, flying out from the battlements again and again, forcing her to snare him and drag him back. Each time she brought him back, he lashed her with spells that darted into her mind and sought to steal secrets and pry loose lore. This defense was grueling work. Storm was sweating and exhausted as she snared him for the fourteenth time.
This time he laughed and flew right at her, extending a finger that glittered.
Storm’s heart sank. She knew what spell he must be using. Somewhere in the keep, there was an enchanted sword; if his extended digit struck her, the powers of that blade would injure her as if he wielded it directly.
“Bastard,” she whispered, spinning three tongues of silver fire—two to fend off any tentacles he might decide to grow when he got close enough.
A head she had not expected to see again bobbed up from behind a broken wall, and magic missiles streaked through the air in a gleaming net of deadly force.
The enchanted bolts struck home, and the smiling foe spun sideways in startled pain, jerking his body repeatedly. He crashed into one of the few intact walls in the heart of the keep and tumbled along it—straight into the burst of magical ice that a grimly smiling Broglan hurled last.
Shards of ice sang and tinkled off stone. The foe fell with them, through a hole in the floor and out of sight. The war wizard gave Storm a cheerful wave, and pointed upward.