Stormlight h-14

by Ed Greenwood

  "Gods!" she swore under her breath; even her ears were filling up with it. Perhaps she could tell folk that sweating like a waterfall was a fashionable thing for half-crazed bards to do….

  The man who was not Maxer sat alone in the dusty darkness of a disused back storeroom, old jars and salt-barrels all around him. His eyes were closed, and he hummed softly, as one of the spells he'd gained from those fools of wizards unfolded. Yes, the invisible barrier enclosed all of Firefall Keep in a great sphere.. no doubt to keep him in.

  Ah, but of us two, who is the hunted, and who is the hunter?

  Let it be a barrier for both her and me. If I lace this spell around it, just so, and then cast that one. .

  The silver fire flared into visibility for the briefest of instants, but seemed to accept his spells, binding them into itself without faltering or backlash. Good. Now the Chosen One of Mystra was caught here, too-his helpless prey in an ever-deepening trap.

  The shapechanger opened his eyes, stood up, and smiled. They'd face each other soon enough-and he'd get what he'd come here for. Oh, yes.

  With that confident smile still on his face, he stepped out into the passage and strolled openly across the keep, heading back toward the Haunted Tower, to await dusk and his next move. He'd never thought this road he'd chosen would be so much fun.

  He crossed the portrait-hung Hall of Honor-full of stuffy-looking Summerstars glaring down out of frames that hadn't been dusted for a tenday … and why was that, now? Could it be for fear of a certain tentacled prowler? — and headed up the Gargoyle Stair.

  Halfway up it he heard a hail from above, and saw a Purple Dragon, drawn sword in hand, standing at its head. "I know you not," the armsman said, frowning. "Who are you, and why are you here?"

  With an easy smile, the man on the stairs spread empty hands, and continued to mount the broad, plum-carpeted stone steps. "I am Maxer," he said, "a… friend of Lady Storm Silverhand." He raised an eyebrow. "Do you harp?"

  The guard's frown deepened. "I do not," he said coldly, "and I've no love for Harpers-or anyone else who skulks about evading the dictates of rightful authority. I ask again: why are you here?"

  "So the harp isn't to your taste," the smiling man said, approaching the head of the stair. He raised his hands as if conducting an imaginary band of musicians-making sure the armsman did not see the rising, moving hump between his shoulder-blades-and asked, "What instrument do you play, pray tell?"

  "I'm not one for music," the guard said shortly, raising the point of his blade to menace the throat of the ascending stranger. "I don't play-or play at-anything."

  "Ah," the smiling stranger said softly, "I'm sorry to hear that." The gentle smile still on his face, he lashed out with his newly grown tentacle, snaring the guard's throat.

  The Purple Dragon reeled and fought for breath, hands tearing futilely at what was strangling him. The shapechanger lifted him delicately clear of the ground to render his kicks useless. With casual amusement, he watched the man's face darken. The valiant boldshield was going to have one less witness to report on the murderer loose in the keep-and one fewer Purple Dragon sword to swing at dangerous shapeshifting beasts.

  The smiling man's eyes caught sudden fire. The choking armsman tried to scream as he stared into those flaming orbs, and managed only an agonized whistle before two needles of flame lanced out. His head caught fire from the inside.

  The smiling man drank in a flood of memories from the squalling, spasming body-dark visions of battlefields and tankards and willing lips, mostly. When he was done, he cast the husk casually aside. It slid down the wall as he strode on, licking his lips and murmuring from time to time.

  The memories he'd stolen jostled with those he'd already taken, whirling and surging together in a wild cacophony of unrelated, overlaid images. …

  With dismay, the shapeshifter realized he'd forgotten who and where he was for some time, drifting along in a tumbling journey through the unfamiliar, stolen memories of others. He was striding down a passage that led to the Haunted Tower and must have walked straight through the floor occupied by guests-such as the war wizards.

  He shook his head and saw a servant glance out of a room, frown in concern, and draw its door swiftly closed again. Filled with sudden, savage glee, he sprang to that door, grew talons, and raked the wood, laughing wildly when he heard a terrified cry from the room inside.

  "I am the Eater of All!" he howled exultantly, dancing on down the corridor and lashing the air around him with a restless tentacle. "I am the Slayer of Mages, the slaughterer of doves and children and helpless little kittens. Fear me! Obey me! Run from me while you can!"

  The late afternoon sun brightly lit the battlements of Firefall Keep-a good thing for those brave enough to stand on the heights, given the chill breezes that blew from the mountains.

  Those winds whipped the chestnut-hued hair of Lady Shayna Summerstar into an unruly plume. She didn't care. The ruin of her coiffure was not why her face was tight and tense as she stared at the tall woman with the silver hair-hair that serenely held its shape, defying the winds. Shayna admired this Harper. She felt shame and resentment as question after question politely probed at her secret.

  "I know that even now, a Summerstar is aiding the foe who slew your brother and your grandmother," Storm was saying, her eyes two dark pools Shayna could not escape. "Is it you?"

  Dark Master, aid me! With an effort, the young heiress kept her face calm, trying not to show how frantic she truly felt. "I am shocked that such an idea would occur to you or anyone," Shayna said with just a touch of ice. "I am, after all, a Summerstar."

  "So is Thalance, the scourge of Firefall Vale," Storm said with just a hint of grim mirth about her lips. "So is Uncle Erlandar, reportedly thrice the rogue in his day than Thalance will ever be."

  Shayna made no more reply to this than to sardonically raise an eyebrow. Inwardly, though, she screamed, Master, can you hear me? What shall I do?

  Because Storm was more than a mortal, and the cry was so impassioned and so close, she heard the mental call. Keeping all trace of that hearing from her face, she said, "You can't hide forever, Shayna. House Summerstar needs a leader as bright and clear as Athlan tried to be. Those who consort with beasts end up as beasts themselves-or, far more often, end up the food of beasts."

  With those softly barbed words, she turned and walked away.

  Master? Master!

  Shayna watched the woman she admired so much stride along the battlements, dwindling into the distance. Storm disappeared down the stair she'd come from. Still, empty silence was the only reply to Shayna's entreaties.

  She drew a ragged breath. Storm knew. She must know….

  Too late, her worried fingers found the hilt of the knife sheathed in her bodice, and she drew it out. Bright and sharp it flashed, throwing sunlight defiantly back up into the sky. With this blade, one could slay a Harper. But would it fell a Chosen of Mystra, wise and spell-shrouded from centuries in service to the goddess?

  Could she go after Storm Silverhand, the Bard of Shadowdale, and put this gleaming thing in her throat? Did she dare? Did she want to?

  Sudden tears broke forth and ran down her cheeks. Shayna shook her head and sobbed against a crumbling crenelation. No, a thousand times, no. There walked the sort of lady she dreamed of being….

  She found herself looking over the battlements. Down, down … it was a sickeningly long way to the treetops below. Shayna Summerstar started to shake. She was alone, and trapped, with death drawing nearer-oh, gods, why had she been such a fool?

  But what choice had she had?

  Athlan's choice, she told herself. She looked down over the battlements again. Then she shook her head, went to her knees against the old parapet of her home, and started to cry in earnest as a soft and magnificent sunset came down over Firefall Vale.

  The man who was not Maxer shook his head to banish the ever-crowding memories. He wearily descended a flight of steps into the great vaulted hall a
t the heart of the Haunted Tower.

  Let me take charge, Pheirauze Summerstar said in his mind. I can handle such things.

  NO DOUBT, he grunted mentally. He sank down into a high-backed seat that still bore the stains where one Summerstar had killed another on it, a century ago.

  He thrust the knowing voice of the dowager lady firmly from his thoughts and hummed to himself, feeling bloated and tired. This subsumption was useful, but burdensome. His mind was awash in the thoughts and passions and scenes of others, crowded until he could scarcely think-unless battle brought him fully to the here and now.

  Battle. Yes, it was almost time. Let night fall and grow long, and the guardians slumber. Then he'd fare forth again in beast-shape and slaughter servants and guards without subsuming, whittling down those who could stand against him until his awed quarry would have to challenge him.

  Yes. That would be best. First the hun-

  He looked up, startled. A glowing figure appeared on the balcony above him. It was robed, bearded, and gaunt. As he watched, it gabbled something silent, pointed its hand down at unseen foes, and hurled a bolt of soundless, ghostly light. He tensed and almost sprang from his seat, but the apparition faded. It and its spell were but harmless phantoms; visions of the Haunted Tower.

  But what if a phantom were not harmless? What if he could create his own automaton to surprise Storm Silverhand with attacks when her power and attention were bent on an annoyingly successful shapeshifter? What if she faced more than one foe?

  Yes … he did spring up this time, and strode through an archway toward another part of the keep. He needed a servant, one who'd scarce be missed….

  Some places in Faerun attracted and fostered and preserved hauntings-battlefields, aye, but what was it about places like this dark and gloomy tower? It was so rife with ghosts that the family who dwelt here had abandoned it. They spent their lives walking around it, not talking of it. Was there some magic here he couldn't feel, or something else he could use? He must return when the next victories were his, return and find out….

  Right now, he needed a servant. One like this one. A water-bearer, spending his days groaning under the weight of buckets. He was bent over now, dipping water from the well pool into a jug, with loud splashing sounds. He did not even see the hands that descended to his ears and flashed fire between them.

  The man staggered, squealed in astonished pain, and grabbed blindly at the edge of a nearby tapestry, trying to claw his way erect.

  The old, rotting tapestry tore away in his hand, and he fell on his face into the water. The fire flashed again, and Mathom Drear, cellarer of the ewer, shuddered once and lay still.

  Delicately, the shapeshifter seared the brain, burning away all thoughts but obedience and love for … a certain mind like this. He smiled, turned, and hastened back to the Haunted Tower, his mindless slave dripping along in his wake.

  "Mathom Drear," he muttered, surveying the empty-eyed face. "Gods, what a name." He'd have to strengthen his control over the mind that now held only thoughts of him, and no memories of its own; an exacting task….

  He made the cellarer sit on the stained high seat. He stared thoughtfully at the mindless man. Once the shapeshifter's newly gained memories surged and swirled, threatening to overwhelm him, but he snarled, bit his lip until the blood flowed, and fought the maelstrom down.

  "Let there be two enemies seeking Storm Silverhand," he said aloud, his voice echoing in the dark, dusty room. "The Foe, and … Hungry Man." He laughed. "Aye, I'll make you hungry for her doom!"

  He stroked his chin, considering just how to feed the mindless husk with spells and energy, to make it capable of striking a Chosen of Mystra and holding her- just long enough for her true foe to overwhelm her!

  "Yes!" he shouted. YES YES YES! The memories swelled up with a roar and burst through his tattered control….

  An observer, had one dared to venture into the dark and lofty hall at the heart of the Haunted Tower, would have seen a slack-jawed man sitting in a chair, staring endlessly at nothing. Another creature danced around it, cackling in wild, deranged glee … a creature who was sometimes a darkly handsome warrior, and at other times a stout, nude woman of mature years. Then again, it was also a warrior in the armor of the Purple Dragons, and at other times a young, sly-looking man in plain robes-and a war hound, or a water snake, or a griffon, or a handsome, imperious young man, or a grim old seneschal, or another young man, or …

  The shifts in shape became faster and wilder, with tentacles and glossy black biting mouths rearing up out of a dancing blur. Always, the cold laughter went on, high and wild and free from all reason.

  What was it about this Haunted Tower?

  TWELVE

  Trust And Old Wine

  When a weary Storm Silverhand returned to her chambers, the Purple Dragons at the door saluted her as a fellow warrior, clapping their hands to their chests. She smiled, matched their salute, and strode in through the open door-to find a war wizard waiting for her. He smiled tentatively, looking every bit as tired as she.

  She raised an eyebrow. "Broglan Sarmyn? Smiling at me, an ancient marchioness?"

  He sighed. "Aye, Harper tricks and all. We dare not go further, lady, as uneasy allies. No sooner had you left us than the beast attacked in the shape of a Sharn-" Storm raised both eyebrows at once, truly surprised. "-and all I could think of, as we fired all our wands to beat the thing off, was that if you'd been there to hurl a slaying-spell or to hold it where we could empty all our magic missiles into it, it would be dead now, and our troubles over."

  Their eyes met, and Broglan continued slowly, "Lord Vangerdahast did tell me to obey you as I would him … but, lady, I have measured him, many times, and it has taken me longer to measure you." He extended his hand, looking even more worried than usual. "Will you-command me?"

  Storm took that hand. "Only if I have to, Broglan. I'd prefer to stand shoulder to shoulder with you, not distantly bark orders through a speaking-stone, like a certain Royal Magician of Cormyr."

  Broglan smiled ruefully. "Yes, I'm one of Vangerdahast's tame dogs, and-as we all do-I sometimes chafe at glib orders from afar."

  Storm smiled. " 'Tis the human thing to do," she replied, taking off her gloves. "What is your counsel now?"

  Broglan drew himself up. "Lady, the first dishes have already been served, but if you'll have me do so, I would escort you to evenfeast."

  "I'd like nothing more!" Storm said heartily, feeling suddenly how hungry she was. "Let's go!"

  "But, lady," the war wizard said, blinking. "No gown? No gems?"

  Storm waved a hand dismissively. "I feel better dressed like this," she told him, "but if you'll be more comfortable…"

  She hauled her tunic off over her head. Broglan beat a hasty, embarrassed retreat-not fast enough to avoid receiving the wadded-up garment in his face. He caught it reflexively, in time to see Storm dabble perfume behind her ears, down the open front of her shirt, and up her sleeves to the elbows. Winking at him, she snatched out a pendant from a coffer and hung it down her breast.

  She strode toward him. He extended his arm to her and swallowed as her hair shaped itself, a smooth forest of silver snakes moving in unison, into a spectacular upswept high-court plume.

  "Useful power, that," he commented as they swept out past the guards and went down to feast.

  They shared no further conversation, falling quickly into a somber mood. The passages were empty, their footfalls echoed in a waiting, wary stillness. The keep felt like a cowering prisoner waiting for the executioner.

  At the doors of the great hall, a dozen guards stood, a tired-looking Ergluth Rowanmantle in their midst. He gave them a grim smile and waved the doors open.

  The hall looked very much as it had on Storm's first night-save that most of the seats now stood empty. Shayna Summerstar's seat was vacant. At the point of the table, Uncle Erlandar and the Dowager Lady Zarova Summerstar faced each other. Erlandar was flanked by Thalance and then the wizard
s Insprin and Corathar. Beside Zarova was Shayna's empty seat, and beyond that the two aunts.

  Broglan conducted Storm to the seat beside Nalanna, who favored the new arrival with her usual cold and haughty glance. Smiling faintly, the war wizard took the seat across from Storm. Both of them found themselves looking down the empty tables. From them, two wings of empty places stretched out into gloom. They exchanged rueful glances.

  Broglan turned his head in the other direction and said smoothly, "I apologize, Dowager Lady, for the lateness of our arrival. We had business of state to conclude before dining."

  "Bedded her at last, did you?" Erlandar muttered under his breath, in tones just loud enough to carry clearly to them all.

  Margort and Nalanna smirked in unison, but Zarova said quietly, "No more such words, thank you, Erlandar. You should not judge others by your own vices."

  Erlandar flushed and seemed about to say something, but shrugged and reached for his goblet instead.

  "Is the Lady Shayna unwell?" Storm asked gently, ignoring Erlandar's remark.

  "She has chosen to dine in her chambers," Zarova said firmly, "and, as heir of this house, is entitled to her eccentricities." Her tone made it clear that further discussion of the subject would be unwelcome.

  "Roast rothe in white wine and 'shroom sauce," the understeward murmured as platters were set down in front of the diners.

  "So," Erlandar growled. "Have you found out who murdered Pheirauze yet?"

  Steely silence fell as Broglan and Storm looked at each other. He spread his hand, indicating she should reply.

  "We have a shapeshifter in our midst," the Bard of Shadowdale announced calmly, "of unknown origin. It, or he, has slain Lord Athlan, the seneschal, some of the war wizards, and many of the armsmen."