by Ed Greenwood
Elminster took the pipe out of his mouth and winked at it.
The pipe opened a rather world-weary eye and winked solemnly back at him before swiveling to do the same to Sharantyr.
Elminster was chuckling as he tapped the pipe-which instantly went out, leaving no smoke or odor behind-and put it in a hidden pocket inside his robes. The lady ranger never was sure if the pipe was alive or if she'd just been the victim of one of his pranksome little illusions.
Xanther sneered silently at the two dale youths who stood guard. They were barely old enough to hold their spears properly and did not see him where he stood in the dimness of the passage. The Zhentarim slipped behind the concealment of a shadow cast by a bulge in the rough stone wall, and did something.
The two young guards heard the slight noise that the secret door made as it swung open and then instantly shut again, but by the time they reached the shadow, there was nothing to be seen but an empty stone passage. They hunted around for a bit-there had been a noise, both agreed-and looked warily upward. When they thankfully saw nothing waiting to fall on them, they shrugged and went away.
By then, Xanther had slain Stormcloak's old, stupid watchspider with the heavy stone block he'd thoughtfully procured earlier, and taken the scrolls he knew it guarded. Their capped tubes rattled, and he shook a large gem out of one with great satisfaction. The other yielded a fine chain linking three plain brass finger rings, and a dagger whose quillons were a pair of batlike, furry folded wings, dusty gray and looking very much alive. He was careful not to touch it bare-handed and so activate it.
Xanther packed all this revealed magical treasure back into the tubes that had held it. Then he hurried on, descending through dark, secret passages scarcely wider than his own hips, heading for the cellars. Heading toward the dark, waiting cesspool where he knew Elminster of Shadowdale and the wench Sharantyr would come… to meet their deaths.
For the greater glory of the Brotherhood. Xanther smiled a smile that held no humor and slipped on through the darkness.
"The gate lies just here," Elminster said, pointing in the fetid darkness.
"Without light, I can't see a thing," Sharantyr said crossly, "but from the smell, I can tell that we're very near the edge of the pool. Watch where you step."
Elminster felt for her hand, seized it in his own, and squeezed reassuringly. "That's the beauty of it, d'ye see? Kneel down here, beside me, and feel."
His hand led hers to trace cold stone. The stink around them was indescribable. Elminster continued an unconcerned lecture. "One enters the gate by stepping out over the pool, off the edge as if one were stepping right into it. One has to start here, though, just between these two raised stones, or the step forward is into empty air and ends as a fast plunge into the muck."
Sharantyr let him guide her hand to two stony knobs. "Do you mean we're kneeling right on the edge of it now?"
"Aye. An exposed position, indeed," Elminster replied. "Let us up and proceed, without further delay. Hold tight to my hand."
"Old Mage," Sharantyr said calmly, "I'm doing so. I've got a very good grip on you, in fact, and I'll yank you beard-over-ankles into this cesspool right now if you don't tell me just where this gate you're so eager to use will take us, before we step so boldly through it!"
Elminster sighed. "Ye want all the Zhentarim in this place-and those who serve Sembia, Cormyr, the Red Wizards of Thay, and the Cult of the Dragon, besides-to find us here, don't ye? I may know a few tricks and carry a few magic trinkets, but if ye'd see my skin stay whole and my thousand-odd years stretch to a few more, ye'd not force me to fight off every eager hedge-wizard and sharpknife in this dale!" He turned and glared at her as he spoke. The lady ranger felt the burning weight of his unseen eyes on her in the darkness.
"Old Mage," Sharantyr said firmly, "just tell and we can be on our way, provided it's not to a certain plane of fire and evil, or the center of the Grand Hall in Darkhold, or another such lunatic destination. I'd like to know what I'll have to fight before I get wherever we're going."
Elminster tried to pull away. Her grip shook with weariness but held him like iron as she added, "And since you threatened me with all those names, suppose you also tell me just who, in this mountain dale so crammed with Zhentarim wizards, serves Thay, the Cult, Sembia, and Cormyr."
The Old Mage sighed. "The councillors, Shar. Among them are men still loyal to the dale, a handful who bow to Manshoon-all the newer members, no doubt-and those who were there before Longspear's takeover, seeing to the interests of those others in secret. Trust me. When my Art served me, I spied on many a secret meeting and took note of many, many faces. Most of the High Dale's councillors are more than they seem to be."
"And we're slipping away and leaving Irreph to that?" Sharantyr blazed at him. "All of them tired and hurt-Ylyndaera, Ulraea, Gedaern, and all the rest? Is your heart a stone, Old Mage? A gravestone for them all, perhaps?"
"Easy, lass, easy," Elminster rumbled. "Didn't we rid them of enough Zhent mages to rule a small dale, between us? While ye were so busy glaring at Xanther-the weak-willed one who wanted my wand; unless my nose has lost all smell, he's a Zhent sneak-at the table this even, I gave both Gedaern and Irreph identical lists of what cause each councillor serves, at least so far as I knew. Gedaern read it then and there, I know. I saw him go out, and later he came back and told me a name."
Sharantyr frowned. "I remember that. 'Blakkal' or something, he said to you, just when the Zhent councillor got up to leave. I didn't know what he meant."
"Aye," Elminster said to her in the darkness. "The leather worker. He served the Cult of the Dragon until Gedaern saw to him." He sighed again. "I doubt Gedaern will let Xanther live to see another sunrise, even if Mulmar leaves reading my note until then."
"Why wouldn't he read it?"
Elminster gave her a look that she could not see, but felt. "Everyone of the dale wanting to talk to him, his daughter clinging to him and in tears every second breath, and the first proper meal he's had for a long time-with too much to drink, I don't doubt. It would also come as no surprise to me to learn he's abed with Ireavyn right now."
It was Sharantyr's time to sigh. "True enough. I don't suppose the Zhent councillors will amount to much. With all the wizards Manshoon already had strutting around the dale to back up their usurper, he wouldn't have needed great warriors or mages, only good spies. And I can't think agents of Cormyr and Sembia are much to be feared, given that each country will counter any moves to gain control that the other makes. But you spoke of Thay. You're going to leave a Red Wizard running loose here?"
"Hardly that," Elminster told her. "He's a wizard, aye, but rather a decent sort and much too careful to reveal himself. When they come for him, of course, it'll be too late for him to do more than run. He's the local weaver, a fat, kindly little man by the name of Jatham Villore. I feel somewhat in his debt. Someone cloaked the Zhents' searching spells as we and the two Harper lads were gallivanting around the dale, and I rather think it was him."
"Why?"
"Will ye never run out of questions, girl? To shake the rule of the Zhentarim here, of course." Elminster cleared his throat. "We looked into each other's eyes, in the great hall just now, and if hundreds of years of measuring folk with my eyes has taught me anything, he's not quick to slay with his Art, that one."
Sharantyr reached out in the darkness, found his beard-it felt like the soft bristles at the base of a horse's tail-and patted his cheek. "Well enough," she said. "You've done what you could for the dale. So tell me, where are we going?"
She heard the grin in Elminster's voice. "By Mystra, lass, but ye're a keen, feisty blade! Well, then, this gate should take us to another castle-much grander than this one, but in ruins-in the Fallen Lands."
"Clear across Anauroch? How will we get back?"
"One disaster at a time, lass. Come." The Old Mage tugged at her hand, and Sharantyr allowed him to pull her to her feet. The stinking darkness swirled around them like soi
led velvet, disturbed by their movement. Sharantyr nearly choked.
"What castle?" she managed to ask, feeling for the hilt of her sword.
"Spellgard they call it now. Long ago, when it belonged to a friend of mine, it had another name."
"What happened?" Sharantyr asked, but Elminster towed her forward with surprising strength, and the words that began above the cesspool of the High Castle ended in a cold, shadowed hall lit by glowing mosses.
Dark archways gaped in the walls around them, and more moss hung from stone balconies above. The floor was an uneven tumble of disturbed marble, its smooth paving broken upward as if a giant had punched it repeatedly from beneath.
Cold breezes blew around their ankles, coming from somewhere unseen, and there was no sign of life. Dust hung thick in the air, and there were no furnishings to be seen except stone seats carved into the walls in little curl-ornamented niches.
Elminster was nodding in recognition. "Spellgard?" Sharantyr asked, to hear more about it rather than to confirm where they were.
"Aye," Elminster said, striding forward. "As to what happened, well… it's a very long story and happened a long, long time ago. Let's just say that the realm of Netheril fell, and the friend I spoke of-the sorceress Saharel-lived on here. But mages had very few ways of stretching their years, then." He fell silent, looking around at the moss and the tumbled stone.
"Except being chosen by Mystra," Sharantyr said softly beside him.
Elminster nodded slowly. "Save for the grace of Mystra," he echoed. He stood looking at nothing for a long, sad moment, then lifted his head and said almost defiantly, "Best we look about. Ye never know… some Zhent wizard might find the gate behind us."
Sharantyr's sword slid out as she spun around to see only dust and empty air. "Not yet," she said, turning back. "Lead, El. You know this place."
Elminster strode toward an archway. "Saharelgard it was called, when I knew it. I've been here once since, but I was too busy running then to look around."
"Too busy running?"
"Running from, and fighting, a family of mages who'd learned how to turn themselves into dragons."
"Oh"
Elminster waited, and her expected question came: "What happened?"
"I'm with ye today, eh, lass? What else would ye know?"
In a room that was deep and dark and spherical, a figure stirred on a round bed. Dark robes rustled, tatters falling away into dust, as the thing on the bed sat up and leaned forward as if sniffing the air.
It had been awakened by an intrusion, the sudden presence of more magic than it had ever felt in one being before. Awesome magic. What befell in the Realms above now? The figure rose in a sudden, smooth movement and spread its hands.
A door that had been closed and sealed for centuries suddenly ceased to be, exploding into dust. The figure strode forward in uncanny silence.
22
Magemoot at Spellgard
One instant saw a high-ceilinged hall empty of all but glowing moss and tumbled stone. In the next breath, a young man in robes stood in its midst, crouching as if facing a foe-but his hand held a wand, not a sword. He darted hurriedly four steps to one side and looked all around. No sign of anyone. Where was he?
Silence hung heavy in Spellgard. Avaerl of Sembresh peered around in the weird, dim light of the glowing mosses and muttered a quick spell.
Abruptly he disappeared. Invisibility cloaked him as he stepped carefully to another spot and murmured his next spell.
Unseen, he rose slowly and silently to the uppermost balcony, glancing into archways and along passages as he passed them. In some, cold radiances pulsed and flickered, but Avaerl had seen the mushrooms called glow-caps before and knew them for what they were.
He'd learned of Elminster's woman companion from his informant in the High Castle, but of those two or the route they had taken, he saw no sign. Avaerl breathed out a soundless sigh, then shrugged and set foot on the stones of the highest balcony. Let the hunt begin.
"Itharr," said a voice from the darkness at the foot of the bed, "I hate to do this, really I do, but we've got a problem."
"The Zhentarim have sent an army? Well, defeat them, and tell me about it in the morning," Itharr said sleepily.
"Not as simple as that," Belkram said kindly. "Get up, and bring your sword. Elminster's gone."
"Oh, dung," Itharr said, coming all the way awake, little chilly feet of foreboding racing down his spine. "When?" As he asked the useless question, he gently slipped a warm but very heavy head from his shoulder. Its owner murmured something, slid a caressing hand along his thigh, settled into a new position, and began to snore.
"Mine did that, too," Belkram said in amused tones, handing Itharr his scabbarded sword. The buckle hit the younger Harper in the face.
Itharr spat it away and snarled, "Clothes first, you dolt. I don't consider them optional."
"Here. Hurry."
Itharr hurried, grumbling all the while in low, muttered whispers. "He's probably just gone to relieve himself, or look at the stars, or find a wench who'll have him."
Belkram tried to hand him his sword again. This time, Itharr was ready.
"Remember what Storm told us," Belkram said. "Even if he is just out on the nearest battlement, his safety is too important to risk. Besides, Sharantyr's gone too, and their clothes and weapons."
"Tymora aid us," Itharr groaned, leaping up. Together they ran to the door. Itharr winced as a lonely and bewildered voice called his name softly and sleepily from the bed behind him, but he did not answer or slow down.
Belkram clapped him on the shoulder as they hurried down the passage. "Gedaern woke me up, and he did it by running into the room bellowing at the top of his lungs. He smashed straight into the bed and fell on top of us. I thought you'd appreciate a gentler awakening."
"My thanks," Itharr said dryly. "Has he left it just to us, or have we a band of willing idiots to help us scour the dale in the dark?"
"We have such a band, and now they have two willing idiots to lead them," Belkram replied brightly.
Itharr grunted something that his companion didn't quite catch.
Zalarth Bloodbrow smiled grimly at the startled shout and the splash. A fitting reward for disobedience, he thought, watching the thief thrashing and spluttering in the cesspool. There were only two others left. The rest of his men had walked exactly as he'd directed, and the gate had taken them elsewhere already. He motioned those two forward as if to aid the one in the pool. The moment they were in front of him, he moved his fingers in the quick movements of a spell.
The limbs of the thrashing man abruptly froze, and he stared at the wizard in wide-eyed, openmouthed, silent horror as he sank slowly into the thick brown ooze. The soundless mouth slid from view, then the unmoving, staring eyes. The hair coiled momentarily amid bubbles… and then there was nothing.
The two Brotherhood thieves turned to look at Zalarth, their throwing knives leaping into their hands as if they commanded their own magic.
The cruel-faced Zhentarim shook his head and sighed. "His heart? A seizure, perhaps? Better it happened here, I suppose, than in the midst of whatever we'll find through there." He nodded at the empty air where the gate must be.
"Mind you step off the edge there, between the two bumps, and not try to jump in from one side as Lesker did." He shook his head again, frowning, thin-lipped. "He didn't have seizures, did he? Or anything of the sort?"
The two men shook their heads silently. The knives did not leave their hands.
Zalarth frowned down at the now-placid surface of the cesspool. "Unless," he said slowly, "there's something alive in there, feeding on Lesker now."
He looked up and said briskly, "We'd best be gone from here before it sends up tentacles or the like."
He'd scared them sufficiently. Without further demur the thieves stepped forward into the gate-and were gone. Zalarth hastily advanced to position himself between the two stone knobs before the torch went with them.
In the sudden darkness, he conjured up an invisible protective shield of force around himself, just in case one of his men had second thoughts and decided to greet him with a thrown knife.
Then Zalarth of the Zhentarim stepped forward in the darkness and went to war.
"I think I know where he might be, or might have gone, at least," Itharr said suddenly as they stared wildly around at empty battlements.
"Well?" one of the dalemen demanded. "Speak!"
"Where we caught up to him earlier," Itharr said, turning to Belkram, "and he called us nursemaids. Remember?"
Belkram nodded. "You think he's down there? At the cesspool?"
Itharr shrugged. "He was after something there, amid the stink, and we interrupted him. He'll have gone back to it when he thought everyone was too drunk or to asleep to see him."
"Treasure?" Belkram asked, raising a puzzled eyebrow.
"No," Itharr said very quietly. "Another gate, if I'm not mistaken."
Belkram stared at him and swallowed. Then they were both sprinting through dark, empty passages, seeking stairs that led down and taking turns cursing and panting for breath.
The men of the dale thundered after them. "The only folk crazier than these Harpers," one grunted, rounding a stair post at breakneck speed in the darkness, "is wizards."
"Thank the gods for that," said the man behind him. "If they weren't, we'd still be kissing Longspear's feet-and another part of that Stormcloak's body, too."
They'd bounded down another flight of stairs before the first daleman replied dryly, "I'd wondered what you were about, those long evenings."
He was answered in turn by a ruder suggestion. Then they were nearing the cellars, and Gedaern hissed them to silence.
Xanther waited and waited, but there came no further sound. He'd heard the wizard-one of Manshoon's killers, if his memory held right-muttering, and then the faint scrape of a boot on stone. Then, only silence.