The Herald

by Ed Greenwood

  Through another door, down a long, sloping passage, the air growing noticeably cooler, and around a bend into the first of the caverns.

  “Aye, it must be done, and I am the only one I can trust to do it. As many a tyrant has believed, of course.”

  The cavern was empty. He crossed it in haste, hearing the first distant echoes of his follower, thwarted by the door he’d fastened closed, pelting down a distant stone stair. “So carve the headstone: ‘Elminster Aumar, Better Tyrant Than Most.’ ”

  Another passage, with another, larger cavern, loomed ahead.

  “Or should that be: ‘More Deluded Than Most’?”

  This cavern too was deserted, its usual amber radiance shining down on the silent emptiness. El strode across it to the leftmost of the two doors set into its far wall, and found it locked. Murmuring a cantrip he’d learned more than a thousand years earlier, he went through it as swiftly as if he’d had a key.

  And passed into another passage, which sloped gently, with three caverns opening off it before it hooked around and descended into a fourth.

  The second cavern, with its natural pillars of fused stalactites and stalagmites, would be best for his needs. Its door proved to be locked too, but no matter save the dark thought: when had the monks of Candlekeep taken to locking the deep spellcasting caverns?

  El selected where he’d take his stand, shelved the workbook in a crevice clear across the cavern, returned to his chosen spot, and calmly sat down on a rock to wait, holding his hands up as if he was cradling a tome.

  He did not have to wait long.

  He’d closed the cavern door in his wake, so its opening would give him some moments of forewarning. Albeit soundless forewarning; it seemed hinges were kept well oiled down in the cool depths of the keep, these days …

  The door opened.

  El kept on studying his imaginary book, his attention on it and not on the robed and cowled figure coming toward him with slow, silent care.

  Knife in hand, of course. No matter that the blade and the hand holding it were hidden well inside a flared sleeve; the movements were unmistakable to one who’d seen them so often, down the centuries.

  Elminster’s spell mantle was, of course, waiting.

  When the man was about six strides away, El looked up at him calmly.

  “Aye? Is there something?”

  The monk made no reply, but charged, free hand reaching out to clutch at or sweep aside El’s own arms, knife held back for an upward, gutting stab.

  El rose to meet the charge—then sat down abruptly, kicking out.

  The monk bent and slashed, but the force of his rush and the sudden absence of his target had him overbalanced; he was on his way over Elminster, headfirst into the unyielding stone spur that had served the Old Mage—and so many monks before him—as a seat.

  His vicious slashing sliced only empty air as El’s feet slammed into his shins and boosted him upward, but where the dagger raced through El’s invisible mantle it left a purple glow in its wake.

  Poison.

  Of course.

  That hue told him the mantle could neutralize it if it got into him, but—

  The man sprawled with a desperate grunt, managing to slam his chest against the stone and not his head, but he was winded—and El’s hard kick sent the poisoned dagger spinning across the cavern to clink and ring against a distant part of its rough stone walls.

  While the man was still convulsing, El landed on his back with an agility and back alley ruthlessness that was odd indeed for Andannas Dalkur, landed two swift blows that should briefly numb the man’s arms at the elbow into near uselessness, slid one arm around the monk’s throat in a choke hold, and set his fist against the base of the man’s skull, where it could do much damage with the swiftest of raps.

  “Well met,” El purred sardonically into an ear that was suddenly very close to him, and sent his mind into the monk’s with a ruthless thrust of his will. It was neither a polite nor a good deed, mind-reaming, but when one is at war with the proverbial fate of Faerûn in the balance …

  “One leans on an overused excuse indeed,” he murmured aloud to end that thought, as he met his first real resistance among the murky half-seen thoughts of his attacker’s uppermost mind, and bore down hard.

  The murkiness became a dark gray wall, like dirty wood smoke but as unyielding as iron. This mind was magically shielded. Again: of course.

  Yet some things he could see more than feel. This wasn’t an impostor impersonating a slain monk of Candlekeep, but a genuine Avowed who’d spent years within these walls. Corrupted by the Shadovar long ago, and for years a spy for them, reporting back what was said, read, and done within the monastery.

  The man was … was … Naerlus was his name. So, what could be gleaned from the shielded mind of Naerlus? Press on here, and there, follow what the mind tried to hide, pursue the deepest darkness through the silent smoke …

  A face, seen again. And then again.

  Important, then. A face cruel and hard and not one El had seen at the keep, but coming to mind in the memories of the increasingly frightened Naerlus repeatedly as El fought to worm his way through the shield.

  Was that face associated with the monk’s thoughts of the Shadovar?

  Yes!

  Latch onto the face, then, drag it nearer and clearer, and see what surfaced, dripping and entangled, with it …

  The Shadovar speaking, smiling bleakly—the only smile Naerlus had ever seen on that cruel face, as the cruel-faced man did something important … bestowed something important …

  Looking down as a gloved hand put something into the reluctant grasp of Naerlus … the poisoned knife!

  Who was to await the sign to use it … “The serpent uncoils at last.”

  The Shadovar’s cold voice uttering that pass phrase was overlaid and echoed by a far more recent whisper, said by a passing monk who had his cowl down—Naerlus hadn’t known who, and hadn’t dared turn to try to find out, but a book had erupted from within that monk’s nearest sleeve, spine up, and had been used to point at … Andannas Dalkur!

  So recently, then, had this slayer been set at his heels.

  The pass phrase had alerted Naerlus that it was time to use the poisoned blade to slay a person indicated by the one giving the phrase. Which led nowhere. Unless … was Naerlus aware of anyone else working for the Shadovar at the keep? Or did he suspect anyone else? Had Naerlus ever seen the cruel-faced man speaking with any other monk?

  Elminster bore down, mind-smoke swirling.

  Then something angry crimson and hot and mighty surged to meet him out of that mind, power the monk’s mind couldn’t have held, power that shouldn’t be there—

  El broke his mind free with a shiver, suddenly icy cold yet drenched with sweat, and so just eluded a mind-thrust that would have slain him.

  Someone had become aware of what he was doing, and—or, no, someones. More than one mind, and uncaring of what befell poor Naerlus, to burst into his mind and come racing up through it like that while shaping a deadly mind-thrust, leaving him a reeling, drooling idiot—

  Naerlus, still caught in Elminster’s grasp, flung himself suddenly sideways, with a roar like an enraged lion, to slam Elminster against the sharp and very hard cavern wall, breaking the Old Mage’s grip.

  And whirling to grab at an ankle and come up with—a second knife.

  The air shone a sudden and vivid purple in its rising wake—so this fang was as poisoned as the first—as he came at El fast, his face trembling and twisting between maniacal glee and a sort of bewilderment, as the unseen others tried to control the monk’s mind, and got in each other’s way.

  Elminster didn’t wait for them to reach accord and smooth cooperation. He darted to one side of the monk, ducking past the poisoned dagger, then turned, grabbed the monk’s knife arm with both hands, at elbow and wrist, and turned the force of the monk’s charge into a rush at the cavern wall, dagger foremost and locked in an extended position. Let th
e dagger be broken or knocked free, or the fingers that held it shattered …

  It struck unyielding stone hard enough to strike sparks, with a shriek that became two high ringing clangs as it spun away.

  The rest of the monk slammed into the wall, then bounced free. Naerlus broke out of El’s grip and turned with a snarl—to drag out yet another knife.

  Ye Watching Gods, how many daggers did monks of Candlekeep carry around, anyway? He’d best be hard and careful if any minor disputes arose over who got to read a book first! Why, the—

  Naerlus came for him again, blade in hand and quivering lips mumbling something that sounded very like the faltering and choking beginnings of an incantation.

  Elminster feinted a grab for the knife, and when Naerlus slashed at him, landed a punch that snapped the monk’s head aside—letting El grab the wrist that held the knife, thumb firmly on the nerve that would make the knife hand numb and force Naerlus to let go of his weapon.

  He dug in with his thumb, and with his other hand caught Naerlus by the throat.

  “My apologies, Avowed of Candlekeep,” he murmured as the eyes above his tightening hand grew wild with fear and pain, “but I have this aversion to dying just now, when—”

  The knife tumbled from the monk’s numbed hand—and Naerlus stopped trying to claw the hand that was strangling him away from his throat and used that hand to make a wild grab for his weapon.

  A grab that became a lunge that dragged Elminster off his feet—but ended in a sagging stumble that became a slow collapse to the floor.

  El saw blood welling between the monk’s fingers. His hand had been laid open on the edge of the knife.

  The poisoned knife.

  Even as El twisted around on one shoulder and scrambled to his feet, two monks came into the cavern, their faces hard and unfriendly. They took a few steps in opposite directions to get well apart from each other, planted their feet, and started to work spells.

  Deadly spells that had the same obvious target.

  Elminster Aumar had time enough to sigh.

  CHAPTER 7

  A Prince of Peerless Sorcery

  STAND ASIDE,” THE DARKLY HANDSOME YOUNG MAN TOLD THE guards coldly. “As the son of Lamorak Tanthul and grandson of the Most High, it is my right to have an audience with my grandsire.”

  The guards barring his way to the tall, closed doors of the palace at Thultanthar’s heart kept their faces impassive. “Even so,” the elder one replied, “our orders are clear. No one may pass.”

  “You have no right to stop me. I say again: stand aside. Or I shall do what is needful to clear my way to the Most High.”

  “Calm yourself and wait here, while we send word of your arrival. It may be that the Most High will see you, but it is not within our power to freely admit you through these doors. Stand, please, while we—”

  “No. Get out of the way!”

  The guarded doors opened, and Prince Aglarel Tanthul looked out, his face like stone.

  “Or what, Draethren Tanthul?” he asked. “Is there something wrong with your hearing, or your wits? ‘No one may pass’ seems clear and simple to me; why does it not to you?”

  “As the son of your brother Lamorak, and a prince of Thultanthar in my own right, I demand audience with the Most High. So much is my right—and not something you can deny me. So you too, should stand aside.” Draethren raised one hand and moved his fingers in the weaving gesture that Shadovar used as a warning of their sorcerous power and their willingness to use it.

  “Admittance denied,” Aglarel replied flatly, folding his arms across his chest. “I am aware of the strength of your sorcery—and of your temper. You are on the verge of raging right now. Why should I let you get one step closer to the High Prince?”

  “Where did you get the idea that my loyalty to the Most High or Thultanthar is any less than yours?” the young prince snapped back. “How do I know you haven’t slain him and are just preventing me from discovering that? Now stand aside. My sorcery is more than sufficient to compel you—or destroy you.”

  As if that threat had been the order for an often-practiced military maneuver, Aglarel and the two door guards spread out in front of the doors to get apart from each other, and raised their hands as if to cast spells.

  “Your estimation of your own might, young prince,” Aglarel said quietly, “is more than mistaken.”

  Draethren’s eyes blazed, but he backed up a step, darting glances at the three Shadovar arrayed against him.

  “Stand aside and let Draethren, son of Lamorak, pass.”

  That cold, calm, and unexpected voice came from the darkness behind Aglarel—who stiffened at the sound—through the open doors.

  “I could not help but overhear the polite salutation Prince Draethren employed to seek audience,” Telamont Tanthul added.

  The door guards stepped aside, and Aglarel turned to regard his father, who added gently, “It is always a mistake to dismiss the young and rash as of no account. For the day always comes when they are.”

  Aglarel inclined his head with an expressionless nod, and stepped back to let a wisely silent Draethren step past.

  Then he fell into step behind his triumphant nephew, to escort him into the chambers within, but the Most High of Thultanthar, already on his own way back down the passage to deeper chambers, met Aglarel’s eyes and commanded firmly, “Leave us.”

  Aglarel lifted his head in a silent signal of surprise and reluctance, but stopped right where he was—until a silent inclination of his father’s head signaled him to advance and close an inner door.

  Leaving Telamont Tanthul alone with Draethren, son of Lamorak.

  Who was drinking in his first sight of the audience chamber without it being thronged with guards and more senior Shadovar. Deserted, it seemed both smaller and more imbued with watchful menace. Was it because of the towering seat of obsidian that seemed to loom over the entire room? Or the great black sphere-studded rod hovering upright in its corner?

  Or the vast relief map that Draethren had never seen before. The metal table on the other side of the throne from the floating rod was bare, but its top was a single, irregularly sculpted black mass. A model of the lands between Anauroch and the Sea of Fallen Stars—complete with tiny floating cities hovering above it, and here and there little glows and lines of radiance that—Draethren peered—yes, denoted magical wards.

  His grandfather regarded him with something that might have been wry amusement in his eyes. “You’ve never seen a map before?”

  Nettled, Draethren shook his head and waved a hand as if to brush away both the question and all thought of maps, and burst out, “The city is moving!”

  Telamont turned to study the map. “Our home is a flying city,” he replied mildly. “Flying cities … fly.”

  “Yes, but why? My father set me the task of altering the life-drain spell to affect ward fields—and no sooner do I begin to achieve real progress than you whisk us away from the warded tomb of Anlathgrus, the only handy ward we can sacrifice. With every passing moment we get farther from the tomb, and my work is at a standstill!”

  Once begun, the rage that had been simmering inside Draethren for too long boiled over. “Surely the finished ward-drain spell will enable us to use the portals, overwhelm the elves, and so take Myth Drannor in far less time and losing far fewer swords than wearing it down in a protracted siege! Is that not why you wanted a ward-drain spell?”

  The Most High bent to peer closely at a particular city—possibly one of the Sembian ports—and asked, “Can it be that the son of Lamorak, the most vaunted sorcerer among the younger princes, has forgotten how to magically take himself from one place to another?”

  Then he straightened, turned to face his grandson, and asked, “Why confront me, when you could simply return to the tomb and pursue your vital work?”

  Draethren flushed. “I—I don’t want to be away from Thultanthar at this crucial time.”

  “As the kin you most desire to destr
oy are all within it?”

  The son of Lamorak slowly went pale. He opened his mouth to frame a cold and scornful protest, but found no words under the dark weight of Telamont’s knowing look.

  “I have been aware of your intended treachery for some time, Draethren,” the Most High told him calmly, “but I should warn you that now is not the time for it. You will find my tolerance rather low.”

  The air in the chamber suddenly darkened and swirled, until it seemed as if many vast cloaks were gliding soundlessly through the air, circling the young Shadovar sorcerer—cloaks that had fangs.

  “W-what do you mean?” Draethren stammered, finding himself eyeing them and hastily forcing himself to look back at his grandfather.

  “Every one of my sons, at one time or another, has judged the elders of this city cruel and ignorant fools whose deeds and policies will soon doom Thultanthar itself. In turn, all of my grandchildren have, quite independently, come to embrace the same views. I have grown quite used to it. Some, regrettably, grow imprudent in their actions. Did you never wonder what happened to your elder brother Tantoras?”

  “The accident that befell him was … no accident,” Draethren muttered. “I have always known that.”

  “Yet you learned nothing from that knowledge? Then you are more foolish than I’d thought. That you despise your elders has been clear enough for some time now. Young princes of Thultanthar are seldom subtle—and even less often able to hide their aims from their older kin. Thankfully, most of them eventually come to see that working together for the good of our city is preferable to defiance and poorly thought-out, airy schemes.”

  “How is moving so slowly to conquer best for Thultanthar?”

  “Those too hasty to snatch prizes often damage what they grasp for. Why bleed the lands that shall be ours in pointless warfare, when we can work smaller violences and steer those realms into our control without all the destruction? Lay waste when you must, but never casually ruin or consume what may be useful in time to come.”

  “I do not see in such lofty platitudes any justification for idle inaction.”