The Herald

by Ed Greenwood

  Larloch started to pace, the floating staff moving with him to always hang just behind his right shoulder.

  “Her Cycle of Night failed here, and Sune defeated her attempt to have the Shadowfell flood into Toril and give her mastery over the other gods—have you not noticed that the tremors that shook the ground beneath your feet have now died away?—so Shar now desires to be the goddess of magic, and use it as her sword and war hammer and whip, to cause chaos and loss and destruction upon her whim. She believes this will deliver her from Ao and the order of things, by shattering that order, so the world shall become her plaything, under her absolute—and of course arbitrary—reign. Those sages who insist that we are all the playthings of the gods will finally be correct, to their despair, as we all learn what it is to be not the pawns of a more or less balanced group of many deities with opposing interests and techniques, but the pawns of one goddess. Who is mad, cares nothing for mortals, and exults in causing torment in all lesser beings. Some folk hate and fear magic for its devastating power. If Shar has her way, we will all hate and fear it, be we village idiots with no talent for the Art or archmages who might presume to challenge gods in our mastery of it. And we shall be but an afterthought to the Mistress of the Night, to be cast down and toyed with after she serves the other gods we venerate likewise. She wants to see gods suffer and despair, and slay themselves and each other, until she is the only god left, and her supremacy can never be threatened.”

  El nodded. This sounded like the Shar he knew, as much as any long-lived and alert mortal can come to know a deity.

  Larloch came closer, his dark eyes still fixed on his guest as if they were blades or hooks that could pierce and hold sages of Shadowdale. “She will begin by subverting the least among the divine, while she manipulates the rest into making war on Ao. When he is destroyed or at least cast out of reach of our world, and the way he was sent sealed behind him, the ravaged survivors among the gods will become her toys, to be tormented at leisure, their destruction savored and prolonged. We mortals will be unregarded casualties in this endeavor, and only rise to her primary interest when there are no other gods—nor primordials, nor near-gods who might in time become gods—left, and the ways by which gods of other places might enter this world or influence it from afar are sealed or shattered.”

  Larloch halted right in front of Elminster, and points of light winked into being in many of the hitherto dark eye sockets of the yellowing skulls encrusting the floating staff—many fell and silent gazes that fixed coldly on the Old Mage, gazes that seemed to hold accusation and scorn.

  “And all of this madness and wanton destruction begins with seizing control of the Weave. Working through her mortal servants whose ambition far outstrips their reasoning faculties—or they’d see the mad all-destroying folly they’re attempting for what it is—yet who have skill enough in the Art to so serve. The arcanists of Thultanthar, who just might be numerous enough to achieve her first goal before they fail her or turn on her, as all of her previous magically mighty agents have done.”

  The archlich fell silent, and he and Elminster regarded each other expressionlessly as the silence stretched and deepened between them.

  Finally Larloch asked, “Well?”

  “Thy every word rings true,” Elminster replied gently, “and I believe it. Yet what’s befallen me down the years has schooled me to be suspicious of everything. Know that I am fully mindful of thy great experience and brilliance at the Art, yet feel moved to ask: how know ye all of this?”

  Larloch nodded, betraying not the slightest hint of anger. “Telamont Tanthul, the High Prince of Thultanthar, is a vain man. As are many rulers, not to mention all too many archmages and archsorcerers. To me, he is one more arrogant young fool—and there’s never been a shortage of those.”

  “A judgment he’ll not welcome,” El said dryly.

  “His cold reception of it would not make it one whit less true. This self-styled ‘Most High’ has a habit of collecting trophies from those he’s defeated—those he considers worthy foes, at least. One such is a ring he’s proud of and wears all the time, as a mark of his defeat and destruction of a fellow Chosen of Mystryl, Araundras Othaun.”

  “And while he wears it, ye are closer to his thoughts than he knows,” El concluded.

  Larloch nodded. “While he wears it, I can see and hear what he does, though not touch his thoughts.”

  “And how came the ring to aid ye so?”

  “A very long time ago, I doubted Othaun’s loyalty to the goddess we both served—without cause, as it turned out—and altered the magics of that ring so I could eavesdrop on him.” Larloch smiled mirthlessly. “Telamont has as yet not discerned this passive property of the ring. Much of his successes and survival, since Thultanthar’s return to Toril, have been covertly aided by me and by those who serve me, often in light of what I have seen and heard through the ring. I saw Shade as a useful hand to shake many throats that should have been shaken long ago, without involving myself directly and publicly in current matters. Now, though, I have come to see differently. Now I see that Telamont must be stopped.”

  “As this shaking of throats will never end,” Elminster interpreted aloud. “Progressing from specific targets to anyone whose downfall will benefit the High Prince or Thultanthar, and then to shaking every throat the Mistress of Night fancies shaken … which will eventually encompass every last throat that can be found.”

  Larloch’s smile held not the slightest trace of mirth. “Precisely. So let me show you how best to call on the wards—so your control of them will triumph over that of Alustriel, Laeral, and the Prefects of Candlekeep.”

  “The Prefects …,” Elminster purred thoughtfully.

  Rather than saying another word about the Prefects that so obviously intrigued his guest, Larloch smiled more widely and said, “Your mistake, thus far, has been thinking of the wards of Candlekeep as just local shackles that constrain the Weave into a specific order—which is, yes, what a mythal does. And, I’ll grant, how you augmented the wards when you made your little additions to them.”

  Something overhead chimed very softly, but the archlich ignored it. “The wards seem to accomplish the same imposition of order that mythals do, but are far different in nature—being, for one thing, the untidy accumulated creation of so many diverse hands using differing methods and ways of seeing the world that no one examiner can now easily see how the wards accomplish what they do. So most individuals, if they can affect the wards at all beyond shifting matters from already-crafted setting to already-crafted setting, do as you have: they grasp whatever’s nearest of the wards and tug on it as if turning the Weave to their will. That works, crudely, but can be easily and utterly foiled by anyone who knows more of how to ‘work’ the wards, as the monks say. The real monks, that is; watching the unfolding dance of covert slayings and impersonations has afforded me true entertainment, these last few years. So the proper way to bend the wards to your will is to …”

  He waved one bony hand, and a glowing, moving image appeared in the air between them, showing a smaller and more silent Larloch calling on the wards with a particular technique.

  The real Larloch imitated the actions of his image, and gave his guest a sidelong look. Obediently Elminster joined in, and together they briefly practiced alongside the animated image.

  A bony finger wagged, the image winked out, and the Shadow King commanded, “Now you try working the wards in that manner, without guidance. I’ll spin something that resembles the wards—thus. Now you grasp it and try to alter matters so the air of the warded area glows bright as day, and all sounds are muted.”

  El did as he was bid, thrice over, until he and Larloch were both satisfied the Sage of Shadowdale had mastered the technique.

  “We are almost ready to return to Candlekeep,” the archlich announced. “I can get us in through the wards without issue.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “Who do you think renewed and expanded them, centuries
ago?” Larloch asked, eyes twinkling. “Of course, I took the opportunity to make a few changes for my own benefit, in case I ever wanted to peruse a tome or two at my leisure.”

  “And have ye felt that want?”

  “Many times, O man of many questions. Now, we’ll need to begin by getting the Shadovar and the Moonstars to fight each other rather than us, to win us time to work.”

  “From what I know of both the Netherese and Khelben’s cabal, they’ll fight each other without any help from us,” El replied dryly, “but I take it ye mean determine precisely where they’re battling each other, so as not to see us—and attack us, on general principle.”

  The archlich nodded. “Precisely. We’ll need to protect as many of the Prefects as we can too—the Keeper of the Tomes, the First Reader, the Great Readers and, only if they can be torn away from their duties without us spending overmuch time in doing so, the Chanter, the Guide, and the Gatewarden—because the more of them working with us, the more we can anchor and stabilize the Weave we’re repairing, and minimize the risk of Weavefire, and it all going wild.”

  “Weavefire?”

  Larloch sighed. “What did Mystra teach you and her other Chosen? Your Dove and your Storm prefer the sword to the Art, but the rest of you? I suppose, submerging herself into the Weave and becoming it, as Mystryl so long resisted doing, Mystra wanted no one to know that much about it, and so about her own vulnerabilities. Yes, Weavefire. Not like silver fire or the handfire novices conjure, nor yet spell-spawned walls of fire—Weavefire is when some part of the Weave is consumed by its own runaway energies, melting and shriveling like dry leaves in hot flame.”

  The archlich waved a hand, and another moving midair image appeared, showing Elminster just that. It did not look pretty.

  “When your Mystra took you as a lover,” Larloch told him, “she was putting the Weave into you. And she was putting you into it, making you a new anchor for the Weave. She did the same with the Simbul and others you never knew about. Using all of you because it was needful to keep the Realms from chaos. Just as you must now do what is needful. Which is to trust me a little more, and carry out my plan.”

  “And that is?”

  “I’ll send you back to Candlekeep with Telamont’s sigil and secret words, and make your voice sound like his and your eyes look like his. His agents will believe you to be him; I’ll give you their names and faces. Gather them and lead them into battle against the Moonstars, seeking to surround and contain Khelben’s agents. When the fray is well underway, I’ll snatch you out of it and back here—and we’ll return to Candlekeep together and use the wards to seal off the warring sides. Those barriers won’t last against determined spell hurlings, but should win us time enough to begin calling on the wards to mend the Weave.”

  El stared at Larloch for a long, silent time, then nodded and said, “I’ll trust ye this far.”

  “Thank you. If all things work out well, you won’t live to regret that trust. Rather, it will be time for Mystra’s Chosen to raise the cry of ‘All hail the Shadow King!’ Or more likely not, from what I know of you Chosen.”

  And with those wry words, the lich stretched out a withered, long-fingered hand. “Receive, then, the names and faces you’ll need to know …”

  The war wizard was younger than Mirt had expected, his face pockmarked by one of the minor diseases that afflicted the young. Yet he carried himself with the quiet self-assurance of someone who wields both power and authority comfortably.

  And Mirt had traversed so many rooms and guard posts, and spoken to so many courtiers to reach this inner room of the sprawling royal court building—hmmph, it looked larger than the damned royal palace itself!—on this chilly morning, that this lad must have some standing. Despite his pimples.

  “It is less than usual for audiences of this sort between outlanders and the Wizards of War,” the youngling began discouragingly, seating himself behind his desk and waving Mirt to a shorter, harder chair on the other side of it, “but—”

  “It’s ‘less than usual’ because you diligent agents of the Crown tend to come looking for us first,” Mirt rumbled, glancing at the floor beneath the chair and the ceiling above it out of long habit, before settling himself into the seat with a grateful wheeze. “If we cause trouble, that is. From what I’ve seen hereabouts thus far, you lack resources enough to spy on everyone—common problem; had it myself—so the suspicious and known malcontents get most attention, and large-mouthed aging drunkards like me get dismissed as all wind and no dagger. A fairly accurate assessment, by the way.”

  The young war wizard’s smile was a trifle pained. “We tend to prefer not to discuss specifics—”

  “Courtiers behind desks never do. We all know—or tend to learn, the hard way—that words not said are easier to weasel out of. But come, lad, we’ll be speaking of preferences and unusuals and difficult-to-says all day if our backsides and these chairs hold out. Niceties have been observed, and you’ve sufficiently signaled yer inability to be blunt and yer superior position when dealing with outlanders. So to the point!

  “Priests prate of the Sundering, and the world certainly seems in turmoil enough for nigh any doom crying to seem appropriate, even to the sea level rising to lap at the decking of yer docks down in the harbor here. And I’ve seen the turmoil among your troops. Purple Dragons marching out of the gates, armed Crown messengers riding in and out at all hours, guard posts reinforced everywhere … yet most of my evenings have been enlivened by sitting listening to nobles drink and dispute, and I’ve yet to hear one word out of any of them that suggests the palace is working with the nobility of the realm to strengthen Cormyr’s defenses as all of this gets worse.”

  “Well, I hardly think these are the sort of matters they would discuss in front of an outlander. Still less are such topics appropriate for me to—”

  “Oh, lad, lad, cut the free-flowing dung before it rises past your chin and chokes you! Even sitting here in Suzail, shuttling my backside between tavern, club, my rented rooms, and brothels, I’ve heard and seen enough to know there’s strife over the throne, and the taking of sides, and the armies of Cormyr are armed and at war here and there and riding hard to some other place. How can I be of help? How can yer nobles, young and restless, as well as old and idle, make the realm stronger? Why aren’t you using us?”

  To Mirt’s complete lack of surprise, part of the dark-paneled wall behind the young Crown mage opened soundlessly and two older war wizards stepped into the room, one of them spreading his hand in a swift quelling gesture to prevent his young fellow seated at the desk from replying.

  “Forgive us,” the visibly oldest of these two new arrivals—his hair was streaked white at both temples—greeted Mirt politely, “if we are skeptical of your motives. Defending the Forest Kingdom is our task. We ask ourselves, what aboveboard and honorable interest can an outlander, not loyal to the Dragon Throne, have in such matters? There are good reasons such individuals are not normally privy to our deliberations regarding the security of the realm.”

  “Fair enough to your latter, though I’ve always found that some public talk of security makes the citizenry feel better about any necessary daily bullying and serves as a warning to those who would do mischief, both visitors and homebodies. As to my motives, tell me if you find fault with my reasoning on this … if Cormyr falls or is weakened into civil strife, every sane inhabitant of Toril is the lesser for it. Yes?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Lad,” the unlovely mountain of man filling the chair on the supplicant’s side of the desk told the senior war wizard rather testily, “there is no ‘but’ about it. I am—or was—a ruling lord elsewhere, and I tell you the best rulers are those who care not just for their domain, but all lands. For strife and disaster anywhere has a way of spreading, and sharing its pain, and so does peace and prosperity. If yer so all-fired worried about my possible disloyalty—though from what I’ve overheard, I could hardly be worse than some of yer Cormyr-b
orn-and-bred-these-umpteen-generations nobles—then give me work where treachery is impossible or could do no harm.”

  “If we do, you’ll inevitably see and hear and learn too much for the security of Cormyr,” the second of the older war wizards replied flatly.

  Mirt gave him an incredulous stare. “The Forest Kingdom’s safety is that shaky? Truly? Well, it would seem to me that you have far greater problems than worrying about the deeds or motives of any individual outlander. And if they arrive in armies, their motives are a trifle obvious.”

  “Cormyr’s safety and security are nowhere near ‘shaky,’ as you put it,” the senior war wizard said coldly. “They are merely matters it is foolish to discuss, and needless to imperil in the slightest by involving outlanders.”

  “Not so,” purred a new voice. “They are even weaker and more imperiled than Mirt suggests. I came to see to that, but found it unnecessary to do anything at all; the disaster has been waiting to happen here in Cormyr long before my arrival.”

  Everyone turned and stared at the smirking, darkly handsome man leaning into the room through another hidden door in the paneling.

  “Well met,” Manshoon added politely to Mirt. “Worry not; I’ll not be sending any magic your way this time. Unlike the Forest Kingdom’s Wizards of War, I learn lessons fast.”

  He turned his gaze to the three war wizards, and added gently, “You should heed this old man, you know. He’s right. It’s probably too late for your kingdom, but you war wizards may yet surprise me. By doing the right thing for once, for instance.”

  With a chuckle and a merry wave, he was gone, the paneling closed and looking as if there had never been a door there.

  “Who—? How did he—?” the young war wizard stammered, but his elders were already starting to rush for the panel the unexpected visitor had disappeared through.