Plague of Spells

by Bruce R Cordell

  Even as he spoke aloud, he recognized he half consciously reflected the golem’s noble act back upon himself. A pathetic show of self-pity, and for whom?

  He was far more human, with all the failings that implied, than he’d ever admitted to himself. He was only a fool with an outsize ego, like every other fool who pranced and paraded through life, deluded they were somehow finer and better trained than most others, until shown the truth.

  He turned, disgusted. His hip brushed a stone block, closer to the golem than all the rest. The glyphs on the stone flared into life. Their shapes fluttered and morphed, until the monk saw they spelled out words in Common. He read:

  Raidon,

  If you can read this, I have consumed my last remaining store of animating elan. Fear not, I did not trap you. With your Sign, you can access Stardeep’s functions and propel yourself across the face of Faerûn one last time. You must go to the seamount we earlier scried, where Gethshemeth lairs. You have the Cerulean Sign. Worry not about your lack of training. Concentrate on Stardeep’s spellmantle, and you will be able to access it as I have. Go to Gethshemeth. Subdue the great kraken. Destroy the relic of Xxiphu it wields. Much depends on you, Raidon. Though I have no spirit or life that will persist beyond my physical death, I wish you well with all the fiber of my faltering existence.

  Your friend,

  Cynosure

  “I am doubly unworthy of your trust,” Raidon murmured.

  He gazed long at the stone block. The runes he’d read were changing, forming a great ring. The ring lifted off the stone until it hung vertically before Raidon. Within it, an image resolved.

  Raidon saw the isle where kuo-toa cavorted above, and a tentacled monstrosity lurked in the watery hollows beneath.

  The view through the scrying circle showed him the island’s surface. It was night, but noisome glows and glimmers gave outline to the sentinels that continued their circuit above the island.

  “Angul, are you ready?” The monk raised the sword, gripping it. The cerulean light in the blade’s pommel continued to glimmer, no softer, but no stronger.

  He recalled one of the last times he’d seen the sword. It had been more than ten years ago, more like twenty, he supposed.

  Kiril had stood before Angul, considering relinquishing the blade that had cursed her with its overzealous nature. Cynosure’s words came back to him: “Angul’s life is only a half-life. Without a living wielder, the soul-forged blade will fail, releasing the soul to its final peace. All that will remain is a dead length of sword-shaped steel.”

  The memory faded, but concern tightened Raidon’s eyes.

  If his memory reported true, then when Kiril had given up the blade to the Chalk Destrier, Angul lost his living wielder. He hadn’t had a living wielder for years …

  “By Xiang’s serene teachings, you had better not be broken!” exclaimed Raidon.

  The sword remained as quiescent as when he’d first drawn it from the stone.

  Warmth flushed the monk’s cheeks. He resisted smashing the sword on the stone obelisk before him, even though it was what he wanted to do more than anything in that hot moment.

  No, he commanded himself. I am an heir of Xiang. Focus. Calm yourself, or your pledge to defeat Gethshemeth in Ailyn’s name will fail.

  Raidon unclenched his chest and shoulders, standing taller. “Angul,” he said, his voice calm but commanding, “I beseech you, wake! A foe you were forged to destroy threatens Faerûn with a relic of elder days. If it and its foul artifact are not obliterated, you will fail your own purpose.”

  Had the dim pulse of blue in the hilt grown slightly brighter at his words?

  No. They hadn’t changed at all.

  Raidon tried a few more appeals to the sword before concluding the soul-shard in the blade was too far gone to be conscious of such petitions.

  He regarded the Blade Cerulean. It was a tool of the Keepers of the Cerulean Sign. A sign of which he himself had become a living manifestation.

  He loosened his jacket, revealing the ruddy Sign on his chest. He placed the blade’s hilt directly upon it and willed his Sign to pulse.

  Something tickled the back of Raidon’s mind. A query, so faint he thought he might have imagined it.

  Raidon pulsed his Sign again. This time, he clearly heard a forlorn question, a question asked without sound.

  Kiril, is it you? Has my Bright Star returned?

  The monk said, “Angul?”

  No response. He frowned and infused the blade a third time with his Sign.

  The voice, no stronger than before, spoke anew into Raidon’s mind.

  I am so tired. So tired. Why won’t you speak, Kiril? I thought you shut of me, finally sworn off this shattered soul that can never know peace. I don’t blame you. I have no restraint, none whatever, as you know so well …

  Raidon addressed the blade again. “Kiril has moved on.”

  My Bright Star … She was my all, and I was her bane.

  “Angul, listen to me—”

  Angul? Is that my name? No, it was something else …

  “You are called Angul. I speak true.”

  … I remember. I am Angul. I was Kiril’s companion and righteous tool. But I have fulfilled my oath. My task is complete, and peace beckons. Why do you disturb me?

  “A new wielder has need of your strength. A blight threatens the world, a menace you were specifically fashioned to vanquish. You are needed!”

  So tired …

  “Aboleths from ancient days, Angul, are poised to poison the surface world,” pleaded Raidon. It seemed the blade was actively resisting him, actively trying to descend once more into complete, unknowing somnolence.

  Leave me be. Perhaps this time I can be reunited with Kiril as a whole and complete—

  Raidon pulsed the blade a fourth time.

  Like a candle begets a wildfire, his Sign finally ignited Angul. The paper-thin personality he’d been interacting with, ghostlike in its tentative, fleeting nature, charred and burned to nothing. Beneath lay the true Angul, hard and bright and unforgiving.

  Aberrations shall be purged, a voice pronounced in a tone completely shorn of the pain and loss of the earlier persona. This voice was keen for what awaited it, eager to strip the world of all who were unfit to walk its face.

  His hand disappeared in a nimbus of burning, searing fire, a fire that burned away his own self-pity, his doubt, his focus, and his half-realized desire to walk away from the entire escapade. Something more than aspiration took hold of the monk—it was moral certainty, simple and absolute. Some things could not, could never be suffered. Angul was the first, best, and only tool to accomplish that end. Gethshemeth, and its stone of corruption, would be eradicated. He knew it—he and Angul would be the instrument that accomplished that righteous deed.

  Afterward, Raidon decided he would turn his hand to the multitude of lesser moral failings still plaguing Toril.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Year of the Secret (1396 DR)

  Taunissik, Sea of Fallen Stars

  Anusha retraced the path she’d taken a few hours earlier. She didn’t need to squeeze between gnarled roots and under reaching limbs; she passed like a ghost without regard to the difficult terrain. Unlike the previous time she passed, her dreaming, physical self was miles closer. She didn’t have to concentrate nearly all her attention on holding herself in place.

  On the other hand, with her body so close and vulnerable, she was reluctant to move too far from it. Twice she paused in her tracks, listened intently after some imagined noise, then raced back to the lifeboat to check on the sanctity of her travel chest. Both times Lucky had been happy to see her return. Both times were false alarms.

  Full night had arrived, and she was no closer to finding Japheth.

  “I’m not scared,” she said. Was it true, she wondered? Why was she still lingering here, outside the city, when she knew where she had to go?

  “I’m not!” she iterated.

  Despite
her resolve, she still shrieked in surprise when a blaze of cerulean blue dropped from the sky to land somewhere off in the mangroves. She waited for an explosion, as she supposed would accompany the impact of a falling star, but heard nothing.

  Should she ignore it? What if the firefall was some sort of warlock signal sent by Japheth? Anusha turned and made directly toward the point of impact.

  Instead of a chunk of burnt skystone, she found a man. A half-elf, actually, though one whose human parent obviously hailed from Thesk or elsewhere eastward.

  He was dressed in sandals, loose trousers, and an elaborate silk jacket open to the belt. A flaming sword in one hand and a tattoo on the man’s chest burned with the same sky blue fire. The flame’s color didn’t quite suggest spellplague to Anusha. The hue was clearer, somehow purer than what she associated with her nightmares.

  The man stood in a burned area but was physically unharmed by what Anusha guessed had been a rough arrival. On the other hand, she judged by his expression that his mind could well be broken; his open mouth and blank eyes implied he might be crazed.

  Hunting screams resounded from above. The sentinels had noticed the newcomer’s dramatic appearance too.

  One of the sentinels dropped from the sky, its wriggling shape limned in green lambency. The kuo-toa rider gripped a long, slender lance of coral aimed right at the man’s heart. A black trail roiled in the wake of the creature’s dive.

  The half-elf’s empty eyes darted upward and narrowed. As the flyer stooped upon him, the man brought his sword into a high guard position. Just as it seemed the man would be pierced by the rider’s cruel lance, he slipped ever so gracefully sideways. With one hand, he ran his blazing sword through the body of the morkoth as it flashed by. The sword tip tore through the creature as if it were no more than tissue paper. With his free hand, he plucked the kuo-toa rider from the saddle. The limp, blood-spurting corpse of the morkoth piled into a mass of trees on the other side of the clearing.

  Anusha watched the man, her mouth wide in amazement. His display outshone anything she had earlier witnessed, even that icy eladrin in Japheth’s castle. The half-elf must be a hero of old, she thought. But she didn’t recognize him from any of the stories her tutor had taught.

  The man held the struggling kuo-toa high by the throat. He said, “Tell me where I can find the abomination Gethshemeth.”

  The kuo-toa redoubled its efforts to free itself from the newcomer’s vicelike grip.

  A hint of movement above caught Anusha’s attention.

  “Watch out!” she yelled. Two morkoth-mounted sentinels flying in side-by-side formation dropped like hawks on a rabbit, intending to bracket him between two arrow-swift lance tips.

  The swordwielder released his captive even as he jumped straight up. The half-elf cleared ten feet easily. The sentinels flashed beneath him. One accidentally skewered the kuo-toa rider the man released as he leaped. The other attempted to raise its lance at the last moment, but the man, even as he spun head over heels in the air, shattered the lance with a single strike of his sword.

  The sentinels mounted back into the sky. The man landed lightly upon his feet, moving with the grace and economy of action she didn’t normally associate with a sword fighter.

  He scanned the area near where Anusha had called her warning, failed to see her, then picked up the kuo-toa he’d earlier snatched from its saddle. It was already unmoving from the wound its compatriot had delivered. He said, “Aberrations shall not be suffered.” He hewed the unmoving form with the sword, splitting it asunder.

  Anusha gasped.

  The man’s head jerked around, his eyes blazing. Did he see her?

  Apparently not. He continued to scan the area, then he said, “I must find Gethshemeth. I must …”

  The man’s expression twisted, as if he struggled to remember something vital.

  Then he grunted and tossed the sword away, as if it burned his hand. The sword fell point first into the earth.

  The weapon continued to burn, but the half-elf’s tattoo immediately dimmed. Human expression returned to the man’s face, and he wiped his suddenly sweaty brow with the back of his hand.

  A scream of alarm mounted off to Anusha’s left, where the city was located.

  “Angul,” the man said, apparently addressing the sword, “if you wish to destroy Gethshemeth, you must swear on the Cerulean Sign we both serve never to overpower my mind again.”

  The sword continued to pulse with sky blue flames.

  “Can it talk?” Anusha blurted before she could stop herself.

  The man looked up, his face remarkably serene. He said, “No, invisible one, at least not to anyone not holding it. Who are you?”

  “Anusha,” she replied. “I, uh, I am here to destroy Gethshemeth, too. My friends and I. We were separated, but I’m returning to them now.”

  The man cocked his head, glanced up at the sentinels that circled above. They seemed to be keeping their distance for the moment. Anusha didn’t blame them, after seeing the man in action.

  “Will you help us?” she asked. “My friends were attacked; that’s when I lost them. I don’t know what’s happened since then. But I know they need help!”

  “Who are your friends? Unseen sprites like yourself?”

  “No! And I’m no sprite. I’m just, uh, not quite all here, which makes me hard to see. My friends are Japheth—he’s learned spells and curses from some creature bound in the Feywild—and Seren—she says she’s a wizard and she casts spells too. And Captain Thoster. He’s a privateer. Actually, Seren and the captain are not my friends, just Japheth.”

  The man rubbed his chin, then he asked, “How old are you, Anusha?”

  Her cheeks colored. She was glad the man couldn’t see her. She had been nearly babbling, she had to admit it. She shot back, “And what is your name, man who falls from the sky?”

  He executed a sudden and sharp bow. “Raidon Kane, disciple of Xiang Temple.”

  “You’re a monk?”

  The man nodded, said, “And a Keeper of the Cerulean Sign, and reluctant wielder of Angul, whose moral sense is suspect despite his zeal for destroying evil. I have suffered much and traveled far to arrive here, all that I might destroy Gethshemeth and the relic he holds.”

  “Oh! Well, then you will help me?”

  “I detect no taint of aberration about you, so I shall put my trust in you until you prove unworthy of it. I already know I cannot trust this blade.”

  So saying, he grasped the sword. His expression hardened. His hand shook. But composure settled back into his features. He said, “We don’t have time for more elaborate introductions, Anusha. Please lead the way. I can follow your verbal directions.”

  Anusha plucked a loose stone from the ground and explained, “Just follow this.”

  She dashed toward the city. Fear and anxiety loosed its overwhelming grip on her. Now that she breathed easier, she wondered whether she would ever have built up enough courage, if the half-elf monk hadn’t turned up.

  She dispersed the thought—it didn’t matter what might have been. With Raidon Kane at her side, she allowed herself to hope. She just might see Japheth again.

  Anusha led Raidon into Taunissik. Even in the middle of the night, the coral-like, jumbled structures and clear pools glowed with a pale, algal light. The kuo-toa who’d earlier lounged in the pools were absent, but sinister shapes looked out every window of the city, their vacant faces shadowed by dim glows behind them. The sentinels continued to circle overhead, keeping Raidon at the center of the circuit.

  “At least they are keeping their distance,” Anusha said, trying to break the tension with something more helpful than a scream or whimper.

  “They will allow us to enter, then block our exit—what else but cowardly tactics can one expect of aberration-touched creatures?” The half-elf’s voice rang with a righteous zeal. Was the sword affecting the man’s mind again?

  She ran toward the large structure. Raidon easily matched her t
ireless pace.

  The sinuous glyphs carved on every surface of the building flickered between green and wan red light. She plunged into the entrance, the disciple of Xiang Temple a breath behind. They passed through a low-ceilinged vestibule where three basins collected effluvia from fish-faced busts. Anusha took the right-hand path from a choice of two arched corridors and plunged down a narrow staircase. Relief-carved kuo-toa heads emerged from either wall at intervals, their eyes spilling yellow radiance.

  After one switchback, the stairs emptied into a straight tunnel Anusha flew through, the stone she held to guide Raidon in one hand, her dream blade in the other.

  They passed into a chamber lit by a trio of sculpted, ten-foot-diameter kuo-toa busts on high walls. A granite block stood loose, just inside the room—Anusha remembered it had crashed down and sealed the exit. Something had pushed it aside since then.

  Where the central pool had been was a drained, slime-coated cavity in the floor. Dead albino fish lay within it like so many withered leaves. A hole in the cavity’s basin was a spiral staircase, now open to air, leading downward.

  “Raidon, this is where we were separated,” she exclaimed. “I don’t know what happened when I was … pulled away, but the basin in the floor was filled with water last time I was here.”

  “How long …” Raidon’s query trailed off as his gaze tracked higher.

  Anusha followed his eyes. A dragon perched atop one of the kuo-toa busts above them like a lazing savanna cat. Humanoid remains lay between its outstretched legs, but from her vantage, she couldn’t identify them. Her stomach, despite being immaterial, convulsed.

  The dragon, seeing it had the monk’s attention, stretched. Its wings unfolded like a webbed, thin-fingered hand opening to reach up and scratch the ceiling. It yawned, revealing bloody fangs as long as Anusha’s forearm. The dragon’s deep-socketed eyes and hollow nasal openings were almost skull-like. Large spikes extended from its jaw, and two rows of small horns lined its brows.

  “You bear the taint I cannot abide,” Raidon accused the dragon, his voice cold as iron.