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panting.
"Easy now," Elminster said, Ye hurt him badly enough that ye triggered one of
his contingency spells;
it whisked him away. I've raised a spell-shield around us. Whatever else he
planned, we're safe here, for
now."
Storm looked up at him, shaking silver hair out of her face. "You seem to take
this very calmly."
Elminster watched the beholder burn. As the oily smoke drifted away from them
over the hills, he said
softly, "It never lasts, ye see.... I've had to kill him-oh, is it
twenty-and-one, by now? Aye-that many
times."
"Why didn't you slay him again this time?"
Elminster shook his tread. "He's prepared for that - half a day after he dies,
his next clone's skulking
about somewhere in the Dales, and death's hardly a setback at all. This way, I
pulled him across
Faerun, away from Shandril and the spellfire he's no hungry for, hurt him, and
broke his power for a
time ... a good afternoon's work, I'd say. Besides, a certain lady has a prior
claim on Manshoon's life-
and I'd hate to deprive her of a chance to do some real good with her
spellfire."
For the first time in years, Manshoon knew fear. Maimed, wincing at the
burning pain from his hands,
he whirled through mists and shadows for a moment, and then the world rocked
and changed again. He
found himself back on the clifftop where Elminster had first spelltrapped him.
Manshoon staggered and raised hands to his dazed head. Only a last defense had
saved him: the
contingency spell he'd worked long ago, which whisked him away when death came
too close. It took
him back to the last place he'd left by any sort of traveling spell. It was a
powerful, expensive magic
that had snatched him back from certain death only three times in all the
years he'd ruled Zhentil lKeep.
Well, four times, now. Or so he thought for the space of slightly more than
one deep breath.
"Well net, butcher," came a cold, clear voice from close at hand.
Manshoon turned in time to see Shandril standing amid the rocks nearby. Her
eyes kindled into twin
flames. "For Delg," she whispered fiercely. Her lips curved into a wolfish
smile as she raised flaming
hands. He did not even have time to scream.
Thirteen
DARKER DREAMS THAN THIS
Weep not, child-whatever terrors your night dreams hold, someone somewhere in
the Realms has faced
and fought worse. Wizards who raise monsters from nothing, or twist them from
simpler beasts, or call
them from far and strange places, you see, are tormented by the evil they
work-and all of them dream
darker than you can. That is their worst punishment-no matter what horrors
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keep you awake, all of
them must nightly face darker dreams than this.
Laeral of Waterdeep
quoted in Words to an Apprentice Ithryn Halast
Year of the Weeping Moon
You will be subject to my will, Iliph Thraun You will follow and feed only as
I direct, and you will
challenge no one. You will take care not to be seen or felt by the one you
drain. You will...
The voice that Iliph Thraun had come to hate so much in these last few days
the voice that had echoed
through its being, ccompelling it with irresistible authority, faded at
last-forever stilled. The speaker
was dead, and the lich lord was free.
"And," the hollow voice hissed, rising in triumph, "so passes Manshoon of the
Zhentarim-and I am free
again."
The skull rose so suddenly out of a tangled ravine deep in the Stonelands that
a dunwing flying past
squawked and shed feathers as it darted away in fear. The skull laughed. The
chilling sound trailed
behind it as it flew, breaking free of the last, fading traces of Manshoon's
control, and racing west-
heading for Shandril, filled with hunger.
Thrulgar. the older of the two doorguards, stiffened and brought his spear
down, and its tip caught the
lamplight in a gleaming arc as it moved.
Azatlim, the guard who stood at the other end of the porch, turned when he saw
the flash.
Out of the night, three folk were approaching Eveningstar. A fat, aging rogue
with a disquieting look
about him; a young man in the robes of a mage; and a bedraggled wisp of a girl
in torn clothing.
Travelers, aye-but were they fallen afoul of brigands? Were they beggars?
Pilgrims-or thieves
themselves?
Thrulgar made sure his back was against the double doors that led into the
main hall of Tessaril's
Tower, braced his spear against the bronze door plates behind him, and cast a
quick look down the
porch to make sure Azatlim had seen them, too.
Azatlim was hastening toward the tower doors, spear at the ready. Good. This
could mean trouble.
Thrulgar cast a glance in the other direction, judging just where the alarm
gong was in case he had to
strike it in a hurry.
Then the three stepped up onto the porch.
"Who are you three, and why come you here by night?"
Thrulgar kept his voice calm and his eyes on the empty hands of the intruders.
The fat man rumbled, "We've come to see Tessaril Winter, Lord of Eveningstar,
on a most urgent
matter. We cannot wait until morning, and must see her now." When these words
were out, the man
shut his mouth as if it were a steel trap.
A little silence followed; Thrulgar let it stretch as he peered long and
consideringly at the three of them,
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then said. "You cannot pass. Go up the road, and take rooms at the inn. The
lord will see you in the
morning."
"We will see her now," the fat man repeated patiently. Thrulgar locked gazes
with him and was
surprised at the wisdom-and the steel in the eyes that met and held his. He
had to muster all his will to
pull his gaze free, and shake his head.
"No one disturbs the lord at this hour," he said flatly.
"I do," the big man levelly replied, "just as Azoun does." The Purple Dragons
stiffened at that, but their
spear points did not come down.
"Go away until morning," Azatlim said. "And take care to speak with respect
when you name the
king."
"I did," growled the man, "considering-ah, ne'er mind. We must speak with
Tessaril, man, and
speedily! We ll not go away, I warn ye."
"You warn me?" Thrulgar repeated, voice rising. "Who are you, stout one, to
stand on the soil of
Cormyr and 'warn' a Purple Dragon of anything?"
"Guards," the slight lass said quietly, "if you can spare a moment from
blustering, look at me."
Two startled sets of eyes did so, but Azatlim was moved to ask, "Why?" in
tones that were just on the
proper side of a sneer.
'Because of this," she told them evenly, then raised one arm slowly to point
at the sky behind her.
Without taking her eyes off the guards, she let flames crawl slowly from her
shoulder to her fingertips,
and then explode with a sudden roar into a bright pillar of fire, raging
skyward. In the next moment, it
was gone. She closed her hand and said in the same calm voice, "I'd hate to
have to use it on you to get
in that door-but I've just used it on Manshoon of the Zhentarim, and he died
very easily."
The guards in chain mail stared at her, and their faces grew pale. They
hastily yanked down their visors
and raised their shields.
"Come ahead, then," Thrulgar's voice came hollowly from within the
all-concealing war-helm. It
trembled only slightly. "For Azoun we stand, and for Azoun well fall."
The woman hesitated. These men clearly meant her no harm, and she had no love
for slaughter. Both
their spear points were leveled at tier breast now-and as she waited, one of
them reached out and
slapped at a gong behind him. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]