Crown of Fire

Twelve What Foul Wizardry

Somewhere in the Stonelands, Manshoon turned in satisfaction from his scrying ball.

“It’s time,” he said softly, looking around at the encampment. Fear was in the faces that looked back at him; even the veteran Zhentilar here were wary of the High Lord of Zhentil Keep. Manshoon had spent much of yestereve raising their dead comrades untilan army of zombies stood around the clearing, silently waiting.

“The wench’s fire has burnt out for now,” the high lord said as he strode across the sward to pluck a jack of hot wine-and-mushrooms broth out of the hand of a startled soldier. He drained it, tossed it back, and added, “She’ll be easy prey.” The soldier nodded uncertainly, not speaking.

Manshoon turned. “Beluard? Where are you?”

“Here, Lord.” His latest apprentice trotted hastily up to the master, wiping broth from his lips with the back of one hand. Manshoon favored him with a wolfish smile.

“You recall my discussions with Sarhthor about arranging shortages of pork and sugar in Sembia?”

“To drive prices up just before our caravans arrive, Lord?”

Manshoon nodded. “Do it,” he said, and vanished. The last thing Beluard saw was his cold smile.

For a moment the apprentice stared at the spot where Manshoon had stood, and then looked fearfully at the zombies standing all around. They stood in a gray, putrid, unbroken ring—the thin passage he’d threaded through them moments earlier seemed to have disappeared.

Beluard took a deep breath, looked into undead eyes that stared back at him with hundreds of dark, glassy stares, and wondered if he dared to walk through them. The stench of death was very strong, and he stood there a long time licking his lips, face paling, trying to decide.

The ring of stones was old, old beyond the eldest ruined towers Manshoon had seen in Myth Drannor. Perhaps elves had raised it in the dim past—or men who worked magic before Netheril was proud.

The builders had certainly commanded great magic. Down long ages, through gale and blizzard and lightning crashing from the sky, the stones large as giants floated in a ring above the turf and never fell. Some power kept even the smallest birds and wild things away from the silent ring. There was something comforting in such titanic strength of Art—something that awed even Manshoon. He came here when he needed to think, to be alone, and to feel comforted.

It was also the place he knew best in the Stonelands—a sure destination to teleport to. Out of habit, Manshoon put a hand on one of his magical rods as he stepped out of the teleport spell’s swirling mists and into the stony ring. From here it would be only a short walk to a height Shandril and her companions would have to pass.

He stiffened. Men were standing by the cliff edge, just beyond the ring. Men in robes, and others in familiar dark armor. Manshoon relaxed just a little. What were mages and soldiers of the Brotherhood doing here?

They had seen him. Swords slid out, and one sorcerer reached for a wand. Manshoon recognized him: Ghaubhan Szaurr, his double agent. Another traitor who wanted spellfire for himself.

“Unhand that wand, or die,” Manshoon said coldly. He waited until the sounds of surprised recognition had died and the Zhentilar who were readying crossbows had set them down again. Then he favored them all with a wintry smile—and struck.

Lightnings crackled white and terrible from the rod he held, and men died. He lashed out again at the shouting, running men of the Brotherhood. Warriors scrambled for cover, but their armor cooked them, lightnings dancing around the dark metal like swarms of angry insects, and, screaming, they died. A few magelings were robed in the shimmering cloaks of protective spells, and still lived. They made the pitiful beginnings of spells, shouting and stammering incantations so sloppily in their fear that Manshoon winced at the sounds—and then he worked more powerful magic and they died too, jerking and gasping and falling.

So perish all traitors. Manshoon strode forward, plying the rod with cold precision, until only one man was left.

Dread Master Ghaubhan Szaurr stood trembling in his black cloak at the edge of the cliff, one hand on his wand again. The fading, darkening shimmering of a failing protective spell hung around him.

He did not dare draw forth the wand he held as Manshoon’s cold smile and dark, dark eyes held his. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep strode toward him.

“M-Master? Lord, what have we done? Why have you slain all my men?” Ghaubhan’s mouth was suddenly very dry. He licked his lips, swallowed, and tried again to speak. “Lord Manshoon? It is you, isn’t it?” The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed. “Or are you Elminster, using Art to look like my lord?”

Manshoon’s lips twisted. “Elminster!” he spat. “Try not to insult me more than you have already, Ghaubhan. Traitor.”

“Traitor? Never, Lord! I swear t—”

Manshoon gave him another wintry smile. “I found Asklannan’s book.” He watched a sickly look grow on Ghaubhan’s face, then added, “I know the orders you’ve given, and the plans you’ve made. Ramath was my creature from the beginning.”

Ghaubhan stared at him in despair—and then, suddenly, grabbed for the wand at his belt.

With two fingers, Manshoon made a very small gesture.

The Dread Master felt the tingling and twisting, and looked down. His hand was shifting, turning green—and hissing. His arm now ended in the head of a serpent, which rose, reared back, and showed him fangs as it prepared to strike. Ghaubhan stared into its glittering eyes, looked up in horror at Manshoon’s grimly smiling face—and then whirled around and ran with a despairing scream.

The edge of the cliff was very near, and in a moment, Ghaubhan Szaurr was gone.

Manshoon walked to the edge, looked out for a moment at Cormyr spread out below him, and then peered down at the broken body on the rocks far, far beneath the height on which he stood.

A dusty gray bone vulture had been disturbed into flight by the sorcerer’s dying plunge. It circled, thick wings flapping, and began its slow spiral down to the remains.

Manshoon watched it and sighed. So we all, in the end, feed the carrion birds … or the worms. Then he stirred, slid the rod into its sheath at his belt, smiled, and turned away. What need had he of flying skulls, zombie hosts, or incompetent underlings? He’d wasted enough time here. It was past time to seize spellfire.

The High Lord of Zhentil Keep walked past the sprawled corpses without even looking at them. He had quite enough zombies already.

As they descended through ravine after ravine, Mirt tried again to talk some sense into Shandril. “Will ye not change yer mind about this craziness of going up against Manshoon? Ye’ll be killed, lass!”

Shandril stared at him, eyes burning and chin lifted, and said slowly and very clearly, “I will not run away any longer. If foes seek me, they shall find me, before they expect to, and bearing less mercy than they might hope to find. If that is not the Harper way—too bad! Now guide me to Zhentil Keep—or I’ll walk that way, whatever the dangers, and Narm with me.”

Narm nodded, and echoed quietly, “I’ll be with you.”

Mirt shook his shaggy head and sighed. “If you must rush to your death, Shan, the fastest way is still south and west, a little ways more, to Eveningstar. It may take us the rest of this day—but it’ll save ye a tenday of walking in dangerous backlands. What say ye?”

For a moment, Shandril stared at him with those blazing eyes, then nodded. “Start walking.”

Mirt made a noise that might have been a chuckle, and turned without another word to lead the way to Eveningstar.

Elminster frowned and set down the small crystal orb he’d been staring into. “Hold still, Storm,” he said, striding over to where Storm sat by the campfire.

The Bard of Shadowdale froze obediently, the pan she’d been about to pack away still in her hands. Elminster put a hand on her head and muttered a few words.

Storm tingled all over. A whirling light seemed to spin and snap in her mind. When his hand was gone, she looked up cautiously, and asked, “What was that?”

“A spell to make thee more powerful at sorcery. It lasts only a little while—but that’s all the time we should need it for.” Elminster took hold of her shoulders and knelt facing her. Eyes bent on her own, he uttered some harsh, sliding words, and touched the first two fingers of his left hand to the bridge of her nose.

Force boiled through her, and the silver-haired bard found herself gasping, on her back on the ground, fingers twitching and wriggling as a yellow haze swirled and eddied in her head. “And just what, El, was that?” she gasped as her vision cleared.

“A spell that allows ye to shoot forth a ray that’ll wipe some of a wizard’s spells right out of his mind.” Elminster gave her a grin that was not pleasant to look at, then added, “Too powerful for ye to carry normally—but I need ye to hit Manshoon with it, very soon now.”

“Manshoon?” The bard was getting a little tired of gasping in surprise, but Elminster had managed to take her breath away again.

“Aye. Now put that pan down, get away from the fire, and belt up! Ye’ve been after me to aid Shandril—well, now it’s time. The Zhentarim have been far too busy for their own good, and they’ve rushed things a little. Timing, and all that. Stand ye back, roll the drums, and—bring on Manshoon!”

Elminster’s severe expression melted into a reassuring smile—just for an instant—and then his hands were moving, and he stared into the fire and mouthed curses Storm could not quite hear. She found herself glad of that.

Ah, this was the place. Manshoon walked the last few steps to the narrow bridge of rock that led to the bare, windswept summit. He risked leaning out to glance down. Yes, there they were. The fat one, the young mage, and Shandril in a gully that turned toward him and passed under the overhanging cliff. Perfect.

Manshoon took a step onto the stone bridge—and then paused as a robed figure suddenly appeared in his way. It was an old man with a mop of white hair and beard, a mockingly raised eyebrow, and features Manshoon knew only too well.

“Well met,” Elminster of Shadowdale said wryly, not quite bowing. “Nice weather up here, isn’t it, Manshoon?”

Manshoon snarled like one of his own hunting dogs and raised a hand threateningly.

Elminster looked innocently at it, then mildly met Manshoon’s angry gaze. “Something troubling ye? Lack of spellfire, perhaps?”

Manshoon hissed the word that unleashed the most powerful killing spell he carried. There was a flash, and the stones around them rocked and shook.

Below, Mirt looked up and swore. “Manshoon—and Elminster! Run! Both of ye—move! There’s no telling how much of that mountain’ll come down if they start blasting each other in earnest. Come on!”

Snatching up Shandril bodily, the Old Wolf broke into a heavy run, Narm at his side. He paid no heed to Shandril’s sharp words of protest, but lumbered along like a draft horse gathering speed for a gallop, wheezing lustily in her ears as he went. Furious, Shandril tried to claw at his face and win free of his grip, but Mirt ignored her nails until Narm could cast a hasty magic that slowed and hampered her struggles. Shandril snarled at them both, and then—as the Old Wolf thundered on—gave up, shrugging and spreading her hands with a weary, apologetic smile.

Atop the cliff, Elminster’s image only smiled as the spell that should have torn him asunder spiraled into him and roared away into vast distances. Through the dark hole rent in the Old Mage’s middle, Manshoon could see the rocks of the summit beyond, could feel a whirling wind drawing him forward.

“Spelltrap,” Elminster said mockingly. “Fooled again, Manshoon.”

The roar of the vortex grew louder, and Manshoon found himself being sucked off his feet toward the phantom image of his enemy. As Elminster’s crooked smile rushed up to meet him, Manshoon had just enough time to speak one word: the one that summoned aid so costly he used it only in dire need.

Now, for instance ….

Elminster tossed something small into the fire, stepped back from its flames, and said, “Scratch any itches ye have right now, lass—things’re apt to get a mite busy around here in a breath or two.”

Storm’s hands went to the hilt of her sword.

Elminster nodded, and her long sword slid out. “We were within a breath of losing Shandril,” the Old Mage told her, “and from the Zhentarim gaining spellfire. Instead, Manshoon should be paying us a visit any time now.”

His hands moved in the intricate gestures of a spell, and a score of silvery spheres sprang into being around him, drifting upward like so many bubbles. Some floated toward Storm. Behind her, the horses snorted. Storm turned from watching Elminster’s spheres twirl and rise to see what had startled their mounts. And she froze.

Three huge, dark beings hung in air that had been empty moments before, eyestalks curling malevolently. The trio of beholders were floating behind the High Lord of Zhentil Keep, who stood facing Storm, his eyes dark with fury.

Storm gasped. “Tymora and Mystra, aid us!”

“Have they gone?” Shandril asked softly, lips at his ear.

The Old Wolf shuddered to a stop, breathing heavily, and turned.

“Set me down,” Shandril added—and was alarmed to feel him stagger under her as he bent to let her feet touch the ground. The Old Wolf was wheezing like a lustily plied bellows … she’d heard more than one fat man breathing like that back at the inn in her youth, just before they dropped dead.

The Old Wolf gasped fast and often as he looked back the way they’d come. “I can’t see them, lass,” he replied at last. “And more … than that; even if they both appeared right here … in front of us … I can’t run a step more … for a bit …” His breath came in gasps, and he put a hand to his chest before he noticed her anxious gaze—and angrily snatched his hand away again.

Shandril watched the sweat roll down his face and said gently, “Sit easy for a bit, Old Wolf. I have to—er, visit the bushes. I don’t think we’ll see two mages of that power again until their battle’s done—and a spell-fight like that might have no survivor.”

“Or it might have a winner,” Narm said grimly, staring back up at the bare peak where they’d seen the two wizards outlined by a spell-flash. “I just hope it’s the right one.”

“I’ve always thought … Elminster could handle Manshoon … any day,” Mirt puffed, “but in things … of magic … nothing is certain.” He struggled to get up. “We must be … away from here, while we can! There’s—”

Shandril pushed him back down again. “Today still holds plenty of time for walking, when you’ve breath enough to do it. I need you.”

Mirt stared at her, sweat dripping off the end of his large, red nose. “Lass,” he asked quietly, “what for?”

Shandril looked fondly at the fat old man, and her mouth crooked into a smile. “To protect me, of course.”

Mirt’s snort would have been louder if he’d had the breath to put behind it, but it was still impressive.

The fire crackled and flickered calmly in the aftermath of the reflective magic Elminster had cast into it. It had no way of knowing what was about to erupt around it.

Manshoon sneered at the archmage and the bard and snatched a wand from his belt. Behind him, the three beholders were drifting apart, moving to the sides of the fray where nothing could get in the way of their magical gazes.

Elminster’s hands were moving. Storm looked to him for instructions, but he paid her no heed. A dozen of his spheres were drifting around her now.

Manshoon’s wand spat lightning. The bolt writhed and stabbed through the air—until it reached the fire. There it dipped sharply into the burning wood, as if dragged down by something unseen. Flames crackled; sparks flew in all directions. Then the bolt of lightning leapt up out of the fire again, arrowing back at the leader of the Zhentarim. Storm raised her blade as she heard him gasp. Lightnings whirled and struck home; Manshoon staggered.

The air was suddenly full of humming, bone-shaking beams of force as the eye-powers of one of the beholders lashed out at both Elminster and Storm.

The silver spheres created by Elminster’s earlier spell were everywhere—darting and whirling to intercept the magics hurled at the bard and the old archmage. Whenever a sphere came into contact with magic, it flared in a sudden, silent pulse of silver-blue light—before sphere and spell disappeared together. Elminster finished his magic and nodded in satisfaction. Feeling Storm’s eyes upon him, he turned his head and wiggled his eyebrows at her. Then his hands were moving again.

The air in front of Manshoon was abruptly cut by a crooked line of snaking darkness as wide as a man’s head. Wind whirled violently toward this rift. The advancing darkness approached the frantically casting Zhentarim, and then the dark vortex split into two ebony, reaching arms. The newly formed fork of whirling chaos lashed out past Manshoon, stabbing at the drifting eye tyrants. Their eyestalks bent in chorus to gaze upon it, but the advancing lines of darkness never slowed. The rifts widened. Glimpses of a whirling, winking otherwhere were visible within them. Wind rushed into them with the quickening roar of thunder, and the bladelike points of the rifts each touched a beholder. • The eye tyrants whirled and spun helplessly, eyestalks flailing the air with frantic futility as they were dragged into the planar rifts. Amid flashes and angry, ground-shaking rolls of thunder, they spun faster and faster, until Storm could no longer distinguish them from the whirling chaos of the rifts; they were gone.

The vortices promptly collapsed and vanished. Manshoon snatched time enough to glance back over his shoulder, and his jaw dropped. Only one eye tyrant remained, rising above him to gain a clear path to strike down at Elminster.

The Old Mage smiled tightly and let his hands fall again, his next spell done.

Zulthondre was an old and powerful eye tyrant; its chitinous body plates reflected the firelight in dancing green tongues of radiance. It knew the scent of the old, bearded man facing it across the small campfire. That smell had emanated from the very floor of the chamber in the Citadel of the Raven, where it had met with Manshoon and Sarhthor. Zulthondre seethed with rage. No human had ever outwitted it before.

The beholder ceased its futile eyestalk attacks; each beam it had lashed out had been absorbed by a silvery sphere and utterly wasted. Instead, Zulthondre bent its large, rage-reddened central eye balefully on those silvery spheres. The power of the eye destroyed the old man’s spheres one by one, and each winked out of existence.

And then Zulthondre’s world exploded in flames.

The Old Mage watched in satisfaction as eight blazing fireballs spun into being around the beholder—and then burst in unison, with a roar that made Storm’s ears ring. The eye tyrant darkened, writhing in obvious agony. Plates of chitin were flung away from its convulsing body as its skin wrinkled, melted, and burst open. Jets of bodily fluids boiled forth from within. Mouth gaping in a soundless scream, the beholder crashed to earth, flames rising from its body.

Manshoon had been frantically snarling spells, two wands crossed over his head. They flickered and vanished an instant after the beholder’s death crash, leaving the sorcerer’s hands empty, but outlined in dancing sparks. Ignoring the tumult behind him, Manshoon straightened in triumph, eyes flashing, and snarled, “Now you’ll pay, Old Mage! Die!” Many lightning bolts raced from his crossed hands then, tearing the air with vicious snarls of their own to strike at the Old Mage.

Elminster stood unmoving as they came. An arm’s length in front of him, the bolts struck an invisible, protective shield of force, and crawled futilely over its surface.

“One day,” Elminster replied calmly, “ye’ll anger me overmuch, Lord High and Mighty—and I’ll make time enough to hunt down and blast to nothingness every last crawling clone of thine, thy every last hiding-hole—and wipe ye from the Realms entire; aye, and all the other worlds, too. So take care, Manshoon, to ne’er grow too powerful or too persistent in angering me—or I’ll lose my temper, and it’ll be too late for thee.”

He turned deliberately to the bard and said, “Now, Storm.”

Storm let fall her sword, and spun to face the High Lord of Zhentil Keep.

Manshoon’s hands were already darting through the gestures of a spell, obviously aimed at the Old Mage. But the Zhentarim gaped in surprise as a spell leapt first from Storm’s hands.

Storm felt an exultant thrill as the tingling magic rolled out of her, more power than she’d ever felt before. She laughed in pleasure. It felt good to finally be able to lash out with magic at a man whose spells would normally easily hold her at bay, however hot her hatred of him.

Radiance danced around Manshoon briefly and then disappeared. Had the spell failed? Storm bent anxiously to snatch up her sword, all her exultation gone.

The Zhentarim’s hands faltered and fell, and he seemed to stagger for a moment. “What—what have you done?” he roared.

Elminster grinned. “Charge at him, Storm.”

Storm launched into a run.

The Old Mage smiled at Manshoon and waved a hand. His pipe obediently rose from the ground where it had been quietly smoking by itself, and drifted toward his lips.

“I held down thy defenses, idiot,” Elminster told him calmly, “while Storm wiped out half thy spells, or so. Oh, by the way: I’m still doing so. If ye try to use a spell against her, ye’ll end up feeble-witted, and we’ll just leave ye here.” He smiled. “I know ye won’t be able to resist trying some magic now.”

The Old Mage puffed on his pipe and added, “Ah, yes: Storm may want to cut off thy hands, too, to keep ye from casting too many spells if ye ever recover.”

The Zhentarim looked open-mouthed at Storm. A blank expression washed over his face.

Storm knew from the horror that replaced this look that Manshoon had tried to use a spell to whisk himself away from the battle—and had discovered it was gone.

The High Lord of Zhentil Keep grabbed at a rod at his belt, saw how close Storm was, and tried to turn and run at the same time. Storm’s blade caught him under one armpit and spun him around.

“Defend yourself, wizard!” Storm spat at him.

Manshoon stared at her for a moment, then snatched something from his belt, leapt back, and hurled it at her.

Storm’s blade struck it aside. The bard saw the Zhentarim’s dagger flash with a dull green light as it spun away.

“Poisoned?” she said contemptuously. “You snake!” Her long sword slashed out.

Manshoon shrieked as some of his fingers went flying.

Elminster called, “’Ware, Storm—his contingencies are likely to harm ye and save him!”

Storm ruined Manshoon’s other hand with a quick chop.

“Kill him from a distance, eh?” she replied, stepping away. Manshoon fumbled a wand out of his belt—but Storm cut it out of his bloody hand, and her backhand slash laid open Manshoon’s face. Her eyes were hot, and with terrible speed that bright blade was reaching for him again. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep staggered back, coughed wetly, and, snarling, aimed another wand at her. An instant later, he was gone—leaving behind a burst of black, evil-looking flames that reached hungrily from the wand for Storm.

She fled, dived past the fire, rolled, and fetched up at Elminster’s feet, 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 head. “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 Faerûn, away from Shandril and the spellfire he’s so 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 spell-trapped 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 Keep.

Well, four times, now. Or so he thought for the space of slightly more than one deep breath.

“Well met, 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.