by Ed Greenwood
“Don’t,” Mirt growled, standing with unexpected haste to hurl his chair at the spot they were about to charge through. “He’ll have left a nasty little spell trap behind. If no one does a dispel on that door and the passage beyond it—”
The chair bounced and clattered, the foremost war wizard batted it aside with a snarl, tripped over it and fell heavily, then bounded to his feet and snatched open the door.
The ear-splitting crack of many lightning bolts erupting from the revealed passage was still echoing in the room when the Crown mage’s smoking body crashed off the far wall and fell to the floor, and the roast-boar-like smell of cooked human flesh started to fill the room.
Mirt sighed. “Men who say ‘I warned you’ are never popular, but I’m going to say it anyway. Idiots. I believe I’ll go find some nobles who’ll listen to me, and we can go and save Cormyr together.”
The guards before the tall, splendid, and firmly shut doors of the palace at the high heart of Thultanthar were barring her way, but the young and darkly beautiful Thultanthan striding up to them with sultry grace never slowed.
In the end, the guards were forced to sidestep toward each other, until their hips almost touched, to physically block her from bursting between them and reaching the doors to the audience chamber of the Most High.
“You may not enter, Lady,” one of them said sternly, raising a magical rod warningly.
She looked back at him steadily, and one raven-dark eyebrow arched in scornful disbelief—or feigned mockery of such emotion.
“Can it be that you do not know who I am?”
That goading question gained no answer, so the visitor said silkily, “I am Manarlume, granddaughter to the Most High. As such, I do not expect to find a door anywhere in Thultanthar closed to me. Ever.”
“And yet,” the other guard said gently, “we have our orders—and accordingly, this door remains closed. With all three of us on this side of it.”
“Who gave you those orders?”
“The Most High himself.”
Manarlume sighed, reaching a hand into her bodice, drew something forth, slid its chain over her head, and held it up.
“You do recognize this?”
She had the satisfaction of seeing one guard’s jaw drop, and the other blink and then stare hard.
Small wonder. There were perhaps a dozen of these tokens in existence, small many-horned metal pendants bearing enchantments that could be felt—as a crawling, clawing presence—from some feet away. Given in secret by the hand of Telamont Tanthul himself, they granted immediate access to the High Prince of Thultanthar at any time, without dispute, explanation, or delay.
One of the guards did as he was supposed to—reach out and touch the token with a cautious fingertip, so its enchantment would show him the image of Telamont and affirm what it meant—but the other asked suspiciously, “How came you by this, Lady?”
“The Most High gave it to me, so I could reach him without delay or dispute if ever I saw the need,” she replied crisply, “as I do right now.”
The two guards stared at Manarlume, then at each other. The one who’d touched the token reached behind his back, to the dagger sheathed at his belt there, and firmly depressed the stone set in its pommel.
That gem glowed momentarily as its magic flashed forth—a silent summons for the prince who oversaw the guards.
Aglarel arrived very quickly, cloak swirling. He was frowning as he strode, his hand on his sword. When he saw the token, he took it, jerked his head in a signal to the guards to open the doors—and as they swung open, stepped through the doorway, beckoning Manarlume to follow.
He ushered her to her grandfather in silent haste, gliding to a stop to stand watchfully right behind her, ignoring the hand she held out for the token’s return.
The audience chamber looked different. It was still sparsely furnished with the high seat, the large and bare table, and the great black rod studded down its length with black spheres enclosing dark, empty glass globes, floating vertically off the floor in its corner. However, the High Prince of Thultanthar was busy watching the siege of distant Myth Drannor, gazing at a usually bare wall of the chamber.
The wall was aglow from corner to corner with many images, all of them views that looked down on the elf city from various heights. Scenes that were constantly moving—sometimes swooping. It was swiftly apparent to Manarlume that her grandfather was using spells to look through the eyes of birds flying over the besieged city.
Ah, of course. Scryings couldn’t pierce the city’s mythal from without.
Telamont turned from this glowing spell-spun tapestry of scenes, raising his brows in a silent question.
Manarlume met his gaze, then turned and pointedly looked at Aglarel—and then back at Telamont.
Who almost smiled. “Speak freely.”
“Most High, among many petty transgressions and minor treacheries, we’ve found an immediate danger. The arcanist Gwelt.”
“And he is dangerous why, exactly?”
“He’s recruiting fellow arcanists who feel the ambition to replace princes of Shade!”
“As I told him to. Does he know you’ve discovered this?”
“No. That is, he may have his suspicions, but …”
“That explains the spell he cast on you. It’s gone now.”
“You told him to? But—”
“Granddaughter, you passed the test. Don’t as swiftly lessen your standing in my eyes.”
“Of course, Most High,” Manarlume replied, and she looked at the floor.
“Aglarel, give her back my token. She’ll have cause to need it again, I have no doubt.”
As Aglarel did so, Telamont raised a hand to catch Manarlume’s attention, and asked, “Tell me, what do your amorous arcanists say of two called Helgore and Maerandor?”
“That they are gone, undoubtedly on some secret mission or other for you, Most High. Most expect them to perish very swiftly—if they are not dead already.”
Telamont’s face betrayed no reaction. “Your arcanists are wiser than I’d thought.”
Elminster found himself in a room he knew in Candlekeep, a lofty chamber whose walls bore gallery above gallery, each marking where an upper floor passed along the wall of the tall room.
He was standing face to face with Maerandor of Thultanthar. Who was busily snapping commands at his fellow Shadovar, telling them to seek here and there and over there for Saerlar Stormwyvern. The half-elf Moonstar was nowhere to be seen, and had evidently vanished during the brief darkness accompanying the earthquake, as they’d all been charging at him.
“Most High?” Maerandor gasped. Then his face hardened, he snapped, “Can’t be!” and his hands swept up to hurl slaying magic.
Elminster calmly drew the sigil Larloch had shown him in midair, and murmured one of the secret phrases.
This had better work.
CHAPTER 12
The Wards Our Shield These Long Centuries Passing
STARING AT ELMINSTER SLACK JAWED IN ASTONISHMENT, Maerandor flung his arms wide, abandoning the spell he’d intended to hurl, and stammered, “M-my most profound and humble apologies, Most High!”
“Accepted,” El replied coldly, and without the slightest pause, demanded, “Where are our other agents here at the keep? Revaerel and Tolorn?”
“Revaerel and Tolorn, Most High?”
“They have assumed the guises of the monks Hemmeth and Pelsrand, respectively.”
“I—I know not. Forgive me, Most High, I didn’t even know one of us was Pelsrand!”
El favored Maerandor with Telamont’s best coldly disapproving frown, and watched the agent visibly cower.
He didn’t give the man time to recover, but raised his voice a trifle so all the gathered Shadovar heard.
“We’ll achieve more as a force rather than scattered skulkers,” the false High Prince of Thultanthar decreed. “Let us go and find our missing two, then set out together to hunt down Moonstars. When we’ve scoured
them out of Candlekeep, then it will be time to work on its wards. Properly, and with unhurried precision.”
“Die!” a furious voice shouted, and a beam of ravening fire lashed down out of the dim heights of the room at Elminster.
Who flung himself headlong, down behind the nearest Shadovar. A moment later, the fiery magic incinerated the unfortunate Thultanthan.
As the deadly flames died away, the dead man toppling and then collapsing into swirling ash, the other Shadovar all whirled around and stared up.
To behold the Prefects of Candlekeep, standing on the highest gallery, frowning back down at them. Each monk was aiming a rod or staff, or holding up an orb—and every one of these enchanted weapons was glowingly awake with roused and ready magic. The highest-ranking monks of the keep had fetched the monastery’s most powerful magics and come to make war.
They let fly.
Fire and frost and snarling lightning rained down, followed by the whirling chaos of more arcane deaths. Men screamed, convulsed, and died. Past the raging of unleashed magic, the fleeing false monks below—Elminster among them—could see tomes floating out into view from behind the shoulders of the Prefects, open grimoires and spellbooks from the libraries of Candlekeep, each wreathed in a rippling aura of risen magic. And from book after book, one by one, glowing beams shot down to immolate running monks below.
Elminster kept on crawling, trying to put solid stone between himself and what the Prefects could hurl. Preferably where he’d find a door out of this chamber straight ahead.
It didn’t feel like the right time for parleys or explanations.
It seemed the Shadow Sword didn’t care if it drank undeath or magic or the vitality of the living. Helgore had slain the last two elves by parrying their furious attacks while his dark conjured blade flew around to slide into them from behind—slicing into armor and flesh alike in silent ease, as if drifting through empty air.
Not that he’d resisted stabbing them when they were already dying. Shadow Sword or not, they were his kills. The latest in a count he’d already lost reliable track of, after a day of walking along in stone-lined underways, busily slaying.
Cormanthorian elves weren’t so formidable, after all.
He looked around at all the lifeless darkness.
The glows of the armor had died with their wearers, leaving him alone in a corridor littered with dead elves and pools of their blood.
Helgore wiped his blade clean on a corpse’s half cloak, sheathed it, and headed for the next crypt doorway. This was almost too easy.
He mind-guided the Shadow Sword to hang horizontally in the air, its star-kissed edge outermost, a dark and deadly barrier to anyone rushing up on him from behind. He willed it to flare its dark reach outward on either side of its blade as much as possible, to ensnare passing magic any elf might unleash at his back, and watched its darkness spread and loom obediently.
There. A shield nothing should be able to pass without his being warned.
Helgore smiled and went to the double doors of the crypt. Again, the device on it was unfamiliar, but really, what did it matter? One more forgotten family of elves too highnosed and haughty to have survived Toril’s last few centuries. Even if one or two elves fighting in the forest above him right now still bore the same surname, they’d be dead soon enough. They all would.
Elves or titans, beholders or alhoon … none could stand against the arcanists of Thultanthar for long.
No coldly defiant baelnorn faded into view to challenge him. Well, perhaps some of them were learning prudence at last.
Helgore blasted the doors to pebbles and powder, enjoying the destruction. There were a few doors back home he’d not mind doing this to, so he could gloat over those cowering behind them ere sliding the Shadow Sword hilt deep through a few Thultanthans too haughty for their own good.
Yes. That was something to look forward to. After all, he knew the secrets of the Shadow Sword now. Telamont could hardly reach in and take away memories, so …
Well, now. Look at that. Riches at last.
Through the swirling dust, he could see many blue glows. Bright and strong, many layered … and mighty.
Oho. The Most High would be pleased.
Helgore strode forward. Yes, this crypt was packed with harps and swords and gauntlets—and all manner of gewgaws beyond his naming at first glance, each one of them aglow with the blue radiance of powerful magic.
This crypt was so crowded with loot that the dead lay not on their backs, but stood upright, the remains held vertical by magic that shaped truly lifelike effigies.
Helgore sneered. Well, they’d collapse into bones and dust swiftly and satisfyingly enough when all their magic was drained awa—
The centermost of the three effigies facing him had just opened eyes the hue of mithral flame, and stepped out of the soft blue glows to face him.
Copper-colored hair, pale skin, an elf female he knew from the training the Most High had given him—except that the real thing looked far angrier than Telamont’s mind-portrait. He was face to face with Ilsevele Miritar, the Coronal of Myth Drannor.
Helgore stepped back hastily, ducking low and willing the Shadow Sword to turn and thrust into the crypt point first.
The coronal strode to meet it, blazing eyes fixed on him. “If you’d cared to learn some of the mysteries of the Tel’Quess before destroying them, Shadovar, you might have survived longer. The coronal can feel the breaching of any crypt in this city.”
Whatever she unleashed then, howled into and through Helgore of Thultanthar’s hasty wards and shieldings as if they didn’t exist—and then into and through him.
He didn’t even have time to scream as he met his doom.
So there was no one at all to see the coronal let the Shadow Sword slide into her and through her. Shuddering in agony, she embraced it, tugging at its great hilt to pull it hard against her breast as blue fire flared up around her in a snarling inferno.
And raged in that crypt mouth and out into the passage beyond, hot and bright and blue, racing away down the passage and then rebounding.
It roiled, spat, and became dimmer and smaller, fading … dying away.
When it was all gone, there was no Shadow Sword at all, and the coronal stood tall and unwounded, blue lightning crackling here and there in her copper hair, swollen with all the magic the sword had held.
Yet there was no pride in her face, only sorrow. She shook her head and went out into the passage, weeping softly.
Her tears glowed blue as they fell, dancing like little dying flames on the stone floor in her wake as she went, weeping for those now lost forever.
Deadly magic was still howling and snarling around the high-ceilinged chamber deep in Candlekeep, with dead or dying or frantically fleeing monks among it, and the grim Prefects of Candlekeep staring down from their balcony with the powerful tomes of magic floating around them, directing the death they’d just unleashed.
“Die!” the Keeper of the Tomes had shouted, and the echoes of his cry were still reverberating around the hall, borne on the roiling, spark-studded backwash of deadly energies.
“Die yourself,” Maerandor muttered in reply as he finished his spell, locked eyes with the Keeper of the Tomes up on the balcony above, and unleashed death.
That end of the balcony vanished, the very stones becoming tentacles that should flail and batter even before they crushed and tore.
Farewell, Keeper. Good farruking riddance.
Other Shadovar spells were stabbing up at that balcony, too, and other monks up there were reeling. An orb exploded with a shriek and a bright flash, and Maerandor saw what was left of the monk who’d been wielding it stagger and then topple, now headless and armless …
The Most High was watching.
Maerandor smiled, chose another Prefect along the balcony, worked a deft spell—and killed the man. Harper or Chosen or Red Wizard impersonator, or genuine Avowed of Candlekeep consecrated to learning and Oghma the Binder … it mat
tered not. They all had to die, and the sooner the better.
Smiling a colder smile, Maerandor chose another target.
El had reached the doorway he’d sought, but didn’t go through it. The Shadovar were both swift and obviously unimpressed by threats from massed old men on balconies who should have cast aside honor and struck first rather than hurling warnings from on high.
Now, every last one of the Prefects looked likely to be slaughtered in short order if nothing was done.
And if you want something done in the Realms, you call on Elminster …
Pah. El did a working he hoped no one would even notice that thrust an invisible tongue of the wards of Candlekeep straight across the room, right in front of this Maerandor of Thultanthar. The arcanist’s next hurled doomspell should strike it and rebound right back on its caster—
Like that.
Grinning ruthlessly up at the balcony, Maerandor had flung a spell Elminster remembered from long, long ago. A magelord of Athalantar had been fond of that same bone-rend spell, the distinctive red-and-black cloud of grisly destruction as a living man’s bones were torn right out of his body, bursting through flesh in an invariably messy explosion of wet spattering blood and innards.
The wet red heap that had been Maerandor looked no cleaner than any of the other victims El had seen.
Elminster looked down at what was left of the arcanist for a moment, then turned away. He’d seen little enough of Telamont Tanthul, but what he had taken in should be enough to convincingly feign being High Prince of Thultanthar for a little longer.
“Another traitor falls,” he announced loudly, keeping his voice cold and calm, “failing himself and Thultanthar alike.”
Shadovar were turning to him, listening. Telamont must have them well whipped.
“Leave these old fools for now!” he ordered. “Time enough to destroy them later, when the Moonstars are dealt with! The Moonstars who are creeping up behind our backs even now!”
And he spun to face the door he’d been crawling for, and blasted it open. Its shards were still hurtling and clattering down off walls beyond when he sent a second blast through the space where it had been—and blew apart an innocent statue, several rooms away.