Crown of Fire

Four Great Murdering Battles—and Worse

Crossbow bolts hummed hungrily through the night around Shandril. She crouched low, looking around frantically for Narm and Delg. There they were, among what was left of the dogs. Shandril’s stomach lurched and turned over uneasily at the bloody sight; she let her revulsion fuel the rage that was building in her.

Spellfire flared and raced down her limbs. Her tattered leathers caught fire, flaring up in bright flames that rose around her until they licked at her sweat-soaked hair.

Armored in spellfire, Shandril Shessair stood up and roared her anger into the night, flinging her arms wide. Spellfire blasted out of her in all directions, low over the heads of her loved ones, lancing into the Zhentilar warriors. The white flash of its striking was blinding.

Trees cracked and fell, blazing. Men screamed briefly amid the roaring. Crossbow bolts flared into flying cinders. Heat-shattered armor fell from blackened skeletons, which toppled slowly after them to the smoking ground.

The spellfire died slowly and raggedly. There was a last rolling burst, and then only a slow sputtering of flames, fading to nothing.

Shandril stared wearily around at the smoldering devastation, smoke rising slowly from her hair. She moaned, her eyes went dark, and she crumpled to the ground.

Delg struggled to his feet, hurling bloody dog corpses aside. “Lass!” he bellowed, face white, “Shandril! I’m coming!”

Bloody axe in hand, the dwarf staggered across the beaten turf to where Shandril lay. A few flickering lanterns were still alight, and by their dim glow the dwarf found her. She was breathing and apparently unscathed, though very pale. Moving as stealthily as he could, he dragged Shandril to cover behind a tree. Then Delg straightened to see what foes remained.

A few Zhent warriors were still standing in the lee of two smoking trees. They seemed dazed; Delg counted seven—no, eight: a huge man in cracked and blackened plate armor rose among them, sobbing and clawing at his helm with spiked hand-gauntlets that were each as large as Delg’s own head.

Narm was moving feebly among the dogs.

“Narm!” Delg roared. “Up, lad—I’ve need of your spells! Hurl a few balls of fire at yon Zhents!”

The dwarf knew well that Narm’s Art was too feeble to work such magics, but if he read them right, the Zhentilar soldiers might run like rabbits at the thought of facing more fire. If he was wrong—well, one doom was as good as another.

He was half right. Delg heard curses, and saw men running off into the night.

“Simron, come back, you craven dog!” A swordmaster bellowed. “The curses of Bane and the Brotherhood on you!”

“Rally them!” This hoarse voice belonged to the giant with the spiked gauntlets. “Rally them, Swordmaster—and spellfire shall yet be ours! Does the priest live?”

“By the grace of Bane,” a cold and smooth voice answered him, “I do indeed. How fare you, Warcaptain?”

“My eyes, man! Cast a healing on me, by the Black Altar! I cannot see!”

As quietly as he could, Delg clambered over a tangle of grounded spears and the contorted bodies of dogs in order to reach Narm. With a grunt, the dwarf rolled a dead canine aside and dragged the still-groggy wizard to a sitting position.

“Up, lad!” he said sharply, slapping Narm’s face. “Up, and take this!” He thrust his belt dagger into Narm’s hand; startled eyes fell on it and then rose to meet his.

“Awake, lad? Good. Guard your lady; I’ve work to do.” Delg pointed out where Shandril lay, clapped Narm on the back, and set off through the smoking ruin to where the Zhents clustered.

Only five still stood there—the priest, the blinded but still-blustering Warcaptain, a swordmaster, and two warriors. The last three had swords in their hands, and the swordmaster was snapping orders at the men to gather lanterns and make ready to look for the lass.

The dwarf went forward slowly, keeping his axe low and behind him, lest its blade flash back light and warn of his approach. Smoke still drifted lazily amid the blackened trees, but it seemed Shandril was not fated to burn down Hullack Forest this night.

Good. Thank all the gods for that. Now, if they’d just spend a skybolt or two to deal with five Zhents …

Perhaps he’d not been devout enough. Or perhaps as a dwarf, he thought wryly, he was expected to act for the gods. Whatever, no bolt came from the sky. Delg grinned savagely at the thought of what spellfire must have seemed to the Zhents who’d run. Oh, there’d be tales of tanar’ri or gods making the rounds of the Moonsea North before long—unless the owlbears and wolves were thorough tonight.

Delg’s boot found a stone, painfully. With iron control, he halted and bent to feel it. Small enough. Good. Setting aside his axe, he took up the stone, leaned back almost to the ground with the rock in his raised hand, and came upright in a throw sped by all the weight of his stout body. The hurled stone sailed up into the night—and crashed down in the brush behind the Zhents.

“Who’s that? By Bane, answer!” Silence gave the warcaptain the reply he feared. “It’s one of them, getting away—swordmaster, see to it! Bring him down!”

The swordmaster looked about helplessly, caught the priest’s cold and level gaze, and reluctantly took up a lantern, tersely ordering the two warriors to his flanks.

A moment later, they waded cautiously into the brush, swords raised. Delg, axe held ready, used the noise they made to cover the sounds of his own cautious advance. He crept to the lit area where the Warcaptain was pleading with the priest to heal him, and the priest was insisting that the helm come off first.

“It won’t,” said the big man, voice approaching a sob. “I’ve tried … it feels stuck to my skin. Gods!”

Keep sniveling, the dwarf thought savagely. Just a breath or two longer, and I’ll—

The axe came up quickly as Delg rounded the last tree, but it was impossible to move silently in the bad light. The priest saw and heard—and was very fast. He shoved the Warcaptain into Delg and fled cursing into the darkness.

The fearful Zhentilar felt the impact, heard the priest’s fearful oath, and concluded something was wrong. He lashed out.

Delg had stumbled clear—but not quite far enough. One of those war-gauntlets caught him square in the ribs. He grunted and sat down with a crash. The stout dwarven mail held, but the breath had been driven out of him, leaving a searing pain behind.

The sightless man reached forward. He sensed where his foe lay. Delg dropped his axe and rolled aside, pivoting on his own knee to come in close to the Warcaptain.

Those blindly grasping gauntlets triumphantly closed on the axe handle and used its blade to flail at the ground. Delg winced as his axe struck sparks from more than one rock—and then his reaching hands found the man’s belt dagger and tore it free.

The Zhentilar turned at the tugging, and Delg climbed the arm that swept around to strike him, clambering up it to drive the short blade hilt-deep through the helm’s eye-slit and the unseen and unseeing orb beneath.

Dark, hot blood splashed him as he leapt free, to the sound of startled shouts from the swordmaster and warriors, who saw the Warcaptain topple dead with no apparent foe. Delg lay prone in the darkness and waited.

A moment later they were fleeing, crashing in headlong flight through the trees. Delg retrieved his axe and scrambled atop the warcaptain’s corpse so he could see farther.

His hunch was right. The priest had fled back into the darkness only a little way, and then stopped to watch what befell—so as to return triumphant, should his side win. He stood alone, uncertain, between two trees. Delg smiled grimly, shook his head at the man’s arrogant stupidity, and raised his axe.

Lanternlight caught the blade. It flashed once, and the startled priest half-turned to flee, peering through the darkness and trying to see what was happening.

That was time enough. Delg hurled his weapon, grunting as he threw his entire body into the attack. The blade whirled free, and Delg rolled on the ground. The spinning axe took the priest in the head, ending all his thoughts in one brief, bright moment of pain. The black-robed body crashed down into rotting leaves.

Only a pace behind it, a stout figure hid in the deep night-shadows. It held a drawn blade up and ready; if the priest had gone a pace or two more, he’d have impaled himself on the steel. The figure shrugged, grinned, slid his sword back into its sheath, and melted into the night, unseen.

Delg, panting, thought it prudent to retrieve the warcaptain’s dagger before venturing out into the night in search of his axe. He had to tug the blade several times to tear it free of the helm. Turning, he set out, and had almost reached his axe when he heard Shandril calling his name, her voice soft with fear.

Fimril, mageling of the Zhentarim, smiled as he rose from his crouch over the dancing flames. The sweat ran down his pale, drawn face in sheets and dripped from his chin; the spell he’d just used was too exhausting to hold for long. Few mages—in or out of the Brotherhood—could call images from the flames of a campfire as clearly as he could. He shook with weariness—but it was crucial that he saw it all.

His voice, when he could find it, was warm with satisfaction. “Karkul and the priest are both dead, as are almost all of their men—and the maid’s spellfire has run out. The time to strike is now.”

He showed an eager, vicious smile to his frightened sell-sword bodyguards. None of them, however, saw the skull floating in the night gloom beyond the circle of firelight. Its smile matched Fimril’s own.

The twin doors flashed and flared as various magical locks and bindings were released—and then ground slowly and ponderously open.

A handsome, cold-faced man in swirling black robes strode through the doors, onto a midnight sea of slick black marble. He walked to the center of this room, which was always dark, turned to face the doors, and halted. Tiny motes of light flickered and pulsed on his robes, rising slowly into the air. They winked and drifted in small circles, gathered over the man’s head, and coalesced into a sphere of flickering light.

Under the gathering radiance of his conjured driftlight, Fzoul Chembryl waited patiently, like an impassive statue, in the center of the innermost sanctum. He listened to the familiar chants in the temple passages outside with the air of an old and jaded critic. In the growing light, his long red hair gleamed like new-polished copper.

The silence that then fell outside told Fzoul his guest had arrived. In moments, its massive shadow loomed up in the doorway. It drifted in with slow caution, eyestalks darting this way and that.

Fzoul lifted his head a little and said calmly, “Greetings, Xarlraun.”

The beholder turned its pale eyes toward him. Xarlraun was dark, the chitinous plates of its outer skin covered with many old and ill-healed scars. The monster was as large as a woodsman’s hut, its spherical body as high as three tall men standing on each other’s shoulders. For many years it had dwelt in its own high mountain valley, feeding on herds of rothé that roamed the grassy slopes. As the decades passed, it grew large, and its hunger had grown with it. Finally the day had come when all the rothé were gone from the valley, so the beholder had descended into the world of men—and found far more plentiful food. Men were bonier than their livestock—especially those who wore bits of metal—but far tastier. Xarlraun stayed, and grew wise in the ways of men.

Wise enough to ally itself with strength and come drifting down the dark night streets of Zhentil Keep to this meeting—at a time when its lesser brethren were keeping Manshoon and Sarhthor busy in another meeting, elsewhere. Wise enough not to trust the man standing alone before him in the dark room.

“Greetings returned to you, Fzoul Chembryl,” it said in a deep yet hissing voice. “You know why I have come.”

“I do. Spellfire, and our plans to seize it.” Fzoul paused. “I presume you don’t want to listen to me speak of all our failures thus far?”

“You presume correctly. Begin, if you will, with the passage of the spellfire wielder through Thunder Gap.”

Fzoul nodded. “At the Gap, Shandril Shessair fought the most powerful dracolich known to exist, Shargrailar the Dark—and destroyed it. This act officially ended any pursuit of spellfire by the Cult of the Dragon. We know of six Cult agents who continued to pursue Shandril after the council met in Ordulin. One, Thiszult, disappeared at Thunder Gap, and we presume him to have perished by spellfire. Another, Ghaubhan Szaurr, commands a large permanent force in the Stonelands—too large and skilled for us to eliminate at will, so we have suffered it to remain and harry the patrols of Cormyr for us. Szaurr will become a factor only if Shandril travels into his grasp. The other four have been eliminated by members of the Brotherhood.”

The beholder kept cold silence.

Fzoul cleared his throat and went on. “Our efforts to seize spellfire by magical force have failed repeatedly—due to the power of spellfire and the intervention of others, including Elminster of Shadowdale, the Knights of Myth Drannor, Harper agents, and powerful archmages unfamiliar to us, whom we assume to have been acting for their personal gain. The known Thayan agents in Sembia did hear of spellfire, but either acted through the Cult or were eliminated by us.”

Fzoul took two slow steps and raised his hand. A glowing map of the Dragon Reach lands, from the Marsh of Tun to the Vast Swamp, and the Neck north as far as the Ride, began to form in the air. It was as large as the beholder that regarded it and pulsed with red, moving lines of light at Fzoul’s bidding.

“Our magical failures have led us to the conclusion that either creative uses of Art, or new spells, or both are necessary to deal effectively with spellfire. So for the first time we have thrown the Zhentilar into the hunt in force. The former Cult stronghold at Semberhome, and the old bandit keeps of Alarangh and Tossril, south of the East Way and just east of Thunder Gap—here and here—are bases for our troops. Their open presence will goad both Cormyr and Sembia to arms to protect their borders and keep the trade roads open, so they have been instructed to act only in emergencies, when the prize is worth the cost.” Fzoul paused to catch the beholder’s gazes directly. “Spellfire,” he added quietly, “was considered a prize worth any cost.”

“Let us hope those words do not haunt you overmuch,” the beholder replied, its deep voice sounding slightly wry.

Fzoul shrugged and went on. “From these strongholds, two groups of mounted lancers with crossbows set out. Twenty from Alarangh, and sixty from Tossril. The force from Alarangh passed through the Gap only a few days ago and caught up with Shandril—who is accompanied by a dwarf and her husband, a mage of no account—immediately.”

“She destroyed them,” said the beholder.

“Aye, with spellfire. It revealed clear limits to the energy she can wield. She collapsed when she had routed them—and her companions fled with her to the hamlet of Thundarlun, where there was a guard post of twenty-eight Purple Dragon troops.”

“At the same time, all of our agents in Cormyr, Tilverton, and the Stonelands were warned of Shandril’s coming. One of our forces in the Stonelands, under the command of Warcaptain Karkul Memrimmon, was ordered south into the Hullack Forest. With the aid of one of my upperpriests, they managed to cross the Moonsea Ride unobserved, east of Gnoll Pass, and rode by night to the headwaters of the Immer—here.”

“By then, your warriors had slaughtered the garrison at Thundarlun and set some of it afire, but Shandril slew them all,” the beholder added.

Fzoul sighed. “Aye. Either she recovers her powers very rapidly, or she found some sort of aid in Thundarlun that ah, renewed her spellfire energies.”

He paused, cleared his throat again, and went on. “When the swordmaster of the force from Tossril did not answer magical queries, we assumed he was dead and his force defeated. Spies riding foulwings from Semberhome were sent to overfly easternmost Cormyr, and return before they could provoke any response in force from Azoun’s war wizards. They found no sign of Shandril or her companions and concluded she must have gone into the Hullack Forest, seeking cover.”

“Your spies in the court at Suzail and among the war wizards?”

“Reported nothing,” Fzoul replied. “So far as we know, Shandril does not have the backing of Azoun—nor is he trying to gain spellfire for himself. He may not even know that it is within his borders.”

There was a faint shriek from outside the chamber, and then another, louder one. The eye tyrant turned. “Sacrifices? At this time, Fzoul?”

“No,” the priest replied. “We understand it is customary for you to feed about now, each day.”

The beholder’s eyestalks began to whip and coil sinuously in evident pleasure. “My thanks for this courtesy,” it said, drifting eagerly forward.

An instant later, they heard curses, sobs, and struggling noises just outside the chamber—and then a naked man was hurled into the sanctum, cartwheeling in the air. In the doorway, they saw a flash of moving metal from the staff that had struck him. It was still trailing motes of magical light as it withdrew.

Some of those same sparkling points of light clung to the body of the terrified man, who did not fall to the ground, but drifted to a halt in the air close to Fzoul.

The man saw the beholder looming over him, shrieked in terror, and lunged away, soaring through the air toward the doorway he had come in by.

“Sporting,” said the beholder, as the man flew away, into the light spilling from the passage beyond.

An instant later, he struck an invisible barrier with a crash. The snapping of bones could be clearly heard, and the man sagged limply, drifting toward the ground.

“Not too sporting,” Fzoul replied with amusement. At his words, the captive’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed with hatred, and he dived through the air, snarling as he swooped down at the unmoving high priest.

He never got there. An eye flared, and he was dragged inexorably sideways toward the waiting maw of the eye tyrant. Its jaws snapped; fine droplets of blood rained down, and the legless body jerked and spasmed in midair.

Xarlraun eyed the limp, hanging man disappointedly, then drifted in to gulp him whole. “I expected a better fight,” it said between crunching noises.

“The next one may be better,” Fzoul said smoothly.

The beholder belched, shaking the chamber and making Fzoul’s stomach churn and his eyes sting. It licked its lips, considering. That one had drunk much sherry, not long ago.” Then it leaned toward the priest, and said in silky warning, “You won’t be foolish enough to try poisoning any of these morsels, will you?”

“Of course not,” said Fzoul. “That sort of behavior is beneath me.” His tones were calm, even scornful, but a sudden dampness glistened on his forehead.

Outside the chamber, the screaming began again. The beholder listened and then said, “I’ll eat again when we’re done. Please give the necessary orders—and have all the priests who are listening just outside withdraw, as well.” Its voice sounded coldly amused.

As the high priest came back from the doorway, the beholder spoke again. “Go on, Fzoul. I’ll regard the map if I feel the need. Your aerial spies found no trace of the spellfire wielder and assumed she’d gone to cover in the Hullack Forest.”

“Aye,” Fzoul said. “Manshoon felt that if magic was to succeed against spellfire at all, it must be by new spells devised to deal with spellfire or by some combination of spells or manner of attack that we, as experienced workers-with-Art, had missed seeing. I agree with this view. We had already sent out a summons to all our magelings, to a meeting in the High Hall. When they met, Manshoon invited them to go out and seize spellfire by whatever means they chose.”

“Filling the field with a score or more of wild, ruthless, half-tutored mages? Was that wise?” The beholder drifted closer, fixing several disapproving eyes on the priest.

“It was necessary,” Fzoul said, trying not to sound apologetic. “Our magelings need a weeding. We’d like some of them tested and all of them given experience, and there are one or two who have developed or found spells we’d like to see in action—before their owners have time to plan and properly prepare for an assault on us. The stability of the Brotherhood is better served if we remain in control of it for some time to come.”

“So your force from the Stonelands is lost in the north reaches of Hullack Forest, various magelings are wandering all over the map, and Shandril’s disappeared from view—in a sovereign realm with its own powerful band of organized wizards. This is your plan?” Its deep voice purred with sarcasm as it drifted lower.

Fzoul stepped back despite himself, but continued flatly, “The force under Karkul Memrimmon laid a trap for Shandril, which she fought her way out of. Evidently thinking herself free of enemies, she camped and practiced hurling her spellfire for hours. After dark, Karkul’s force surrounded her and attacked.”

“And were slaughtered in their turn?” The beholder sounded amused.

“Well, yes—a few fled, but Karkul, the upperpriest, and the rest fell. Shandril had to destroy a fair stretch of forest to do this and now, we believe, has exhausted her spellfire again—with two magelings moving in on her.”

“Three I know of,” Xarlraun corrected.

Fzoul raised an eyebrow. “You seem to have sources unknown to me,” he said, his voice a soft challenge.

The beholder seemed to smile. “Have you any more of those flying bites?”

Fzoul nodded. “I’ll see.” He strode to the door of the sanctum, gave curt orders, indicated a guard at random, and returned to the beholder.

“Tell me more of your plans, should this Shandril escape from the Hullack Forest,” the eye tyrant ordered.

Fzoul quelled a flash of anger and nodded, face expressionless. “Our agents in Arabel have orders to do whatever it takes—even revealing their loyalties by making open war in the city—to prevent Shandril from moving farther west into Cormyr. We hope to drive her to the Stonelands or Tilverton, where our forces are stronger. At that time, the more powerful members of the Brotherhood will take an active part in trying to seize spellfire—with the very real reward of rising to lead us all if they gain it.”

“And what if you do gain it? What use is this power to blast men to ashes?”

“We see—” Fzoul began as the terrified guard, cursing and shouting, was catapulted naked into the chamber. When he saw Fzoul, he began to plead, offering money, mistresses, information about hidden treasure caches and the doings of Fzoul’s rivals—Fzoul turned his back and walked away.

The temple guard flew at the high priest from behind, hands outstretched to grasp Fzoul’s neck. The beholder watched with interest. When Fzoul made no move, it reluctantly reached out with its eye-powers to prevent murder. The diving guard tore through the map image, scattering it into sparkling nothingness—and then was tugged aside, jerking and thrashing as a fish struggles in a net.

Fzoul turned his head and smiled up at the eye tyrant. “My thanks,” he said. “Primarily we are interested in spellfire to avoid having it fall into the hands of our enemies. If it is lost to all, we will not be utterly devastated. If it falls into the hands of foes, we may be utterly destroyed.”

The high priest turned to meet Xarlraun’s central eye directly. The guard was trying to flee, now, darting back and forth as ten eyestalks turned and twisted to follow him. The beholder rumbled, “Proceed. Tell me what the Brotherhood would do with spellfire.”

“If we did gain spellfire,” Fzoul responded, “we would use it first to enforce discipline in the ranks of the Brotherhood, until obedience was absolute. Here”—he waved at the sanctum around them—“we suspect Manshoon means to make us utterly loyal to him, whatever our god’s commands.”

He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation, and continued. “When Manshoon felt secure enough in his control of the Brotherhood, spellfire would be used to destroy key foes—Elminster of Shadowdale and the Simbul of Aglarond, for example—who often anticipate and ruin our plans.”

Fzoul watched the doomed guard flying with frenzied skill, dodging and darting about the ceiling of the chamber. One of the beholder’s eyes swiveled around to meet his, and he went on. “Thereafter, spellfire would be used carefully and covertly to remove strong leaders who oppose us—Azoun of Cormyr, Maalthiir of Hillsfar, and the rulers of Mulmaster, Calaunt, and then Thay. Our objective would be to advance our own agents to positions of greater influence in these places, to make them more amenable to our causes so we need not destroy or openly conquer them.”

The high priest watched the guard swoop right at the eye tyrant, kicking eyestalks aside, then dart around behind its central body, making a desperate dive for the door.

“Experimentation with spellfire, to make it something we can preserve with breeding or nurture with training, would then follow,” Fzoul added, as the guard plunged at the open doorway. At the last instant, the man swept his hands back to his sides and closed his eyes.

The snap of his breaking neck was softer and duller than either the priest or the beholder had expected. Silently the eye tyrant used its powers to raise the corpse to its waiting mouth, cheated of its sport again.

It idly rolled the lifeless guard over and over in midair as it spoke. “Will you take a direct hand in trying to seize spellfire now from this Shandril?”

“Not willingly,” Fzoul replied. “I fear Manshoon has come to view this battle as a personal one after Shandril slew a lover of his—Symgharyl Maruel, the sorceress known as the Shadowsil—and sent him fleeing from battle. In that flight, he lost his favorite dragon steed, one long bonded to him and of unquestioned loyalty, and had to fight his way through baatezu to get out of the ruins of Myth Drannor. He will attack in person if he gets an excuse.”

“I asked what the high priest would do, not how he expects Manshoon to behave,” the eye tyrant observed coldly.

Fzoul answered it with a wintry smile—and the words, “I have learned the benefits of waiting until the battle-hungry and the foolish have worn a foe down, and then stepping in at the end. An open attack on Shandril would not be prudent, for the Brotherhood or for myself; if I fight her, it must be another way.”

“We think so, too,” Xarlraun replied. “And because of this, we have chosen to support you, Fzoul, over Manshoon. You seem wise enough not to act against him, or reveal our part, openly—for in a struggle between you two, both you and the wizard would be destroyed; the only question would be whether you would succeed in taking Manshoon down with you.”

The beholder’s jaws opened, and swallowed the temple guard whole. Fzoul inclined his head in a nod of agreement, and then waited for the crunching sounds to subside.

When they did, the beholder went on as if there had been no interruption. “You wondered as to my sources earlier. Most important among them is a creature Manshoon thinks he controls absolutely—a lich lord known as Iliph Thraun. He is mistaken; you now control it absolutely—with this.”

The beholder’s sides heaved, and it spat out something from an internal organ. Fzoul ignored the red saliva dripping from the thing as the beholder’s eye powers brought it smoothly down to him. Before he had to foul his hands on it, it spun in the air, unwrapping itself. Soiled cloth fell away; Fzoul stepped back hastily when he saw the marble floor smoking where drops of saliva had fallen.

Out of the last wrappings floated a fist-sized black gem in a brass cage. From the stone, a neck-chain dangled. Fzoul put out his hand for it, and the beholder nodded approvingly.

“Put it on only when you wish to see out of the lich’s eyes and work your will on it. Your identity and mind is shielded from Manshoon, the lich itself, and all others; use your will to break Manshoon’s only when you deem the time is right—that will probably come when he tries to use the lich lord against you.”

“What, precisely, is a lich lord?” Fzoul asked carefully, eyeing the gem in his hand. It felt cold and heavy and seemed to watch him menacingly, looking up from his palm and awaiting its chance.

“A failed lich, of an ancient sort. It needs to feed on spell energy to continue its unlife, and takes the form of a disembodied, flying human skull, able to see, speak, think, and cast spells. The gem you hold contains the soul of Iliph Thraun; through it you can control the lich lord absolutely, even to drive it to its own clear destruction. Your will prevails over all other spells, items, and inducements acting on the lichnee.”

The beholder drifted away. “I strongly recommend you keep that gem hidden; at all times beware the treachery of Manshoon and the ambitious wizards he commands. I am grateful for the meals you so thoughtfully provided; you should be grateful that I forgive you for the poisons you introduced into the first one; sadly for your ambitions, I have been immune to those particular killers for several centuries. Farewell, priest.”

Fzoul stood frozen as the beholder drifted out of the chamber. Whatever unseen barrier had blocked the open doorway was gone now, or had no effect on Xarlraun.

Then the priest suddenly set down the gem and slid it away from him with hasty force. As it skidded into a corner, he hurriedly cast a spell. And stood waiting, tense and watchful, hands raised to cast another spell. Silence. Fzoul let out a heavy breath, and drew in another. Time passed. He drew another breath. Nothing happened. The gem lay quiescent.

Still protected by his spell and looking very thoughtful, Fzoul regarded it. Then he suddenly strode to the door, and called for six upperpriests by name.

Turning, he cast another spell—and the gem was suddenly gone from the room. He nodded, satisfied, and then set off down the passage, snapping orders to the priests at hand; there was much to do.