Elminster Enraged

CHAPTER TWENTY

Faster, hrast you! Faster!” Harbrand snarled.

Hawkspike was panting too hard to answer.

They pelted down the narrow stone stair, crashed bruisingly off the walls of what was hopefully the last landing, stumbled and almost fell down the last flight of steps, and nearly ran onto the points of the spears two guards were holding-guards who stood in front of a very solid-looking metal door.

“Hold!” one of the guards snapped. “Prisoners are not to be-”

“We’re not prisoners!” Harbrand roared-as Hawkspike grabbed both spears and fell to the floor, swinging himself forward and kicking at the guards’ ankles.

They fell atop him, cursing and struggling. Harbrand promptly clubbed the backs of both their necks with his fists, then tore one guard’s belt dagger from its sheath and battered their heads energetically with its pommel, smiting them both senseless.

Hawkspike struggled to get out from under the senseless guards and trampled the sagging Dragons in his haste to follow Harbrand. Harbrand had snatched the rings of keys from the belts of both guards and was feverishly trying every key that looked remotely likely to be right in the three locks that secured the door-head-high, ankle-low, and in the middle.

A few gasping moments later, the door banged open and Danger For Hire burst back out into the waiting wilderness and then sprinted for the welcome cover of the trees. They were a good long way into the leaf-littered gloom before Harbrand found breath enough to rather grimly suggest to his colleague that Hawkspike forthwith provide some explanations. “What just almost killed us? And what by the Dragon Unseen did you throw, anyhail? Since when did we own any Gondar bombs?”

Hawkspike went right on crashing and struggling through the forest, making no reply but violently and repeatedly shaking his head, in negation or denial.

Harbrand caught up to him and shoulder-slammed him, snarling, “Not deeper in! Do you want to get eaten by wolves-or worse? Back to the verges, where we can follow the road and not get lost!”

Hawkspike’s shakes became a nod or two. That lasted until he tripped on a leaf-covered root and fell headlong.

Harbrand hauled his dazed partner upright with a snarl of anger, and they both stood there panting for breath, Hawkspike’s face a mask of mud, twigs, and leaves.

When he had enough breath back to manage a deep sigh, the Doombringer plucked several ugly forest mushrooms off Hawkspike’s face, and demanded wearily, “Tell me, Hawk. Where’d you get the flashbang? And just when were you going to get around to telling me about it? How many other secrets are you keeping from me? Just what is all this about Sarl?”

Sarl Sulblade had been one of their partners in Danger For Hire, before his sudden, violent, and until now mystifying death. The drow somehow knew that Hawkspike had killed him. Harbrand needed no words from his partner to get that far, and Sulblade had been a right nasty bastard, but it would be nice to know …

Hawkspike was back to fervently shaking his head.

Harbrand sighed again. “Forget all that, Hawk. Forget what I just asked. Just tell me: what happened back there in the castle, just now?”

His much-scarred partner wiped away mud, saw a handy fallen tree, and thankfully sat down on its huge trunk. A snake, disturbed by the arrival of his behind, promptly slithered away. Hawkspike watched it go, then said slowly, “That was my fair-fortune charm. Bought it from a caravan master in Suzail, who said it was real magic, came from a temple of Tymora, and would bring luck. Just a little everbright-treated silver image of the goddess, smiling, that’s all. I’ve had it for years. Make the girls kiss it, when they find it … the few girls I get.”

“That caravan master tricked you into carrying a bomb?”

Hawkspike shrugged. “I know not, Har. It’s been riding with me for three years, now, winter and summer, day and night. I’ve dropped it, fallen on it … it’s baked in the sun, gotten wet, nigh-froze with my breeches on the cold stone floors of winter nights … just a good-luck charm.”

“Until?”

“Until just then, back in those rooms where the dark elf bitch was letting on she knew all about us. All of a sudden, I felt fingers-solid fingers, cold but solid, where no fingers should be able to reach. Fingers, Har! Fumbling with the thing, turning it around. Which is when I remember, Har-the only seams on the charm are around her little backside and chest. Which means they can be pressed in. And I get scared, real scared. So, to be rid of it, I flung it away-as far away as I could get it. You know the rest.”

Hawkspike was panting out of fear, sweat glistening on his unlovely face, his eyes large and haunted. “Those fingers …”

“Never mind them. You got rid of them, didn’t you?”

Hawkspike nodded. “Went with the thing. Don’t think the blast killed anyone, do you?”

Harbrand shook his head. “Too small, too distant. Flung us all down the rooms-good thing the walls weren’t closer, or we’d have been smashed like flung eggs. Stunned everyone good and proper, ’cept maybe the drow and Lord Constable Mightyroar.”

“And us,” his scarred partner grunted, heaving himself back up off the green, moldy tree trunk. “I’m thinking we were shielded from the worst of it by everyone else’s bodies.”

“Ah, but our luck continues to be simply glorious,” Harbrand replied bitterly, taking him by the shoulder to hasten him on through the verges of the Hullack, away from Irlingstar.

“A bright new morning,” Vangerdahast rasped in Glathra’s ear.

She winced. The mere thought of a man-headed, oversized spider riding on her shoulder gave her-no, enough, she was not going to think about it again. She was going to get over this, going to-

“Relax, lass. I’m not going to bite you,” what was left of the most infamous Royal Magician in all of the kingdom’s history that most living Cormyreans knew said rather gruffly, shifting on her shoulder. “Not on our first dalliance, anyhail.”

Glathra stiffened. “Lord Vangerdahast,” she said warningly, “I …”

“You what? You’ve realized your blusterings don’t frighten me, and you’re not sure of my powers, so you don’t know what to threaten to do? Is that it?”

“You tluining old bastard,” she whispered feelingly. “You-you-”

“Ah, the young,” the spiderlike thing on her shoulder said almost merrily, “such eloquence they command. Call me ‘Vangey,’ lass; it trips off the tongue swiftly, so you can get to the swearing faster.”

“You sound just like Elminster,” she muttered. “Will I start to sound like that in a century or two, I wonder?”

“You’re highly unlikely to live that long, lass, given your temper and inability to hold your tongue. You might learn to curb both those things, but I see no sign of that.”

Glathra sighed and retreated from battle into silence. It was bad enough she had to stand and watch Storm Silverhand ride out of the palace on one of the best horses in the stables-one of King Foril’s personal mounts, hrast it! — to travel the realm soothing angry nobles and contacting potential Harpers. It was worse that Ganrahast and Vainrence had both ordered her to serve as Lord Vangerdahast’s steed and viewing platform; she suspected they’d done it so that she was forced to accept his presence, and he could keep her from doing anything to thwart Storm or warn fellow war wizards of her impending arrival in their particular corner of the kingdom. She settled for telling Vangerdahast-Vangey? That made him sound like a toy, or a pet! — grimly, “We must get a look into Irlingstar-or at what’s left of it, if that blast was as powerful as I fear it was.”

They could trace Arclath magically, and had, but that merely confirmed he was in or near Irlingstar, yielding them nothing about his condition or circumstances at the castle. Moreover, there were no safe or “familiar” teleport destinations, to anyone currently in the palace, near Irlingstar. Given its proximity to the Hullack and the Thunder Peaks, and the generally shaky reliability of teleportations thereabouts since the Spellplague … portals might be faster and more reliable than a series of translocation jumps, or teleporting to Immerkeep and faring overland from there. The closest reliably functioning portal linking the palace with anywhere near Irlingstar had its near terminus in an always-guarded room in Vangerdahast’s tower, a short stroll east of where she stood. Its far end was inside Castle Crag, three hard days of riding on good, fast horses west of Immerford.

“Hmmph,” Glathra commented, as Vangerdahast raised one of his spider legs to wave to the departing Storm. She did not join in; his farewell could do for the both of them. “Given how wildly busy the Thunderstone-based wizards of war are just now, it’ll be faster to farcall the three Crown mages in Hultail, and send two of them on horseback up along Orondstars Road and around most of Hullack Forest to Irlingstar.”

“Indeed,” Vangerdahast surprised her by agreeing. “So why, most decisive leader of war wizards, didn’t you farcall them the moment after Ganrahast told us about the blast?”

“I suppose,” Glathra replied icily, “my mind was elsewhere.”

She hastened back into the palace, not caring if he fell off her shoulder or not, to farspeak Hultail and issue crisp orders that two of the duty wizards of war stationed there were to depart for Castle Irlingstar in all haste and report back what they found immediately-including the fates of all inmates, Lord Delcastle and his fellow prisoner Amarune Whitewave, in particular.

The Hultail war wizards scrambled to obey.

Well, that was one thing that had gone the way it was supposed to, this day. Would that there might be more before sunset …

Manshoon smiled. Problems, always problems. People, he could take great delight in slaughtering fittingly. When the problems didn’t involve people, some devious thinking was always involved … and over the years, he’d grown to enjoy such scheming. So, now …

Irlingstar wasn’t that old a prison. Oh, a keep had crowned that ridge for a fair while, but hadn’t it been some robber baron’s hold, way back when? Then the fortress of a border baron of Cormyr, as the reach of the realm widened … well, whether he remembered a-right or not, the wards in place had to be new; no older than the reign of the current king. Which meant they would be relatively puny magics he might be able not just to breach, but to destroy.

Yet was the time right for such a bold display of power? It would rouse the wizards of war in earnest, and if Foril wasn’t too gone in his dotage, he just might be able to portray it as the kingdom under magical invasion, wherefore all loyal Cormyreans must rally to king and banner, or Cormyr itself might well be swept away …

No, that sort of tumult and armed alertness would make his own work far harder, and a lot less fun. So, no great hurling down of the wards.

Which left him facing the same challenge: with the wards up, how was he to spy into Irlingstar? If there was to be no breach, then slyness must suffice … corruption … just which Crown mages were nearby, that he might coerce or cozen? For wizards of war could pass through the wards magically, if they bore the right tokens-rings, usually-or else be admitted into the castle if they showed up at its gates and convinced the guards to admit them. If a future emperor of Cormyr happened to be riding the mind of such a supplicant at the gates, that patient and clever mindrider could see inside the prison fortress that way, without any need to attract unwanted notice by forcing a way through its wards or bringing them down at all.

Now, there should be war wizards stationed at Immerford, Hultail, and Thunderstone … they accompanied border patrols, didn’t they? Yes, especially since Sembia had begun using griffon riders. So he’d best start looking for handy wizards of war …

Manshoon’s smile widened. These matters were really so simple.

The lady clerk of the rolls leaned across the table and snared the thick and hairy wrist of her dining partner before it could lift and drain a flaring flagon that was as large as her head.

“Lord Mirt,” she said gently, “there’s something I must say to you.”

Mirt fixed her with a fond smile and rumbled, “Hmmmm?”

“Last night, you were kind gallantry itself to me. After playing the swashbuckling hero and saving my life-and I’ll never forget that. You took me home and fed me, then bundled me into bed and told me old nursery tales until I fell asleep. I’ve never before had a breakfast of half warm broth and half warmed wine, but-just the once, and because of the delightful company-it, too, was splendid. I … I’ve never before been treated so kindly by any man, in all my life. And you … spurred no charge against me.”

“Well, lass, if you’d been Waterdhavian born and bred, I’d’ve assumed the spice of danger would have had you roused for a good romp, but … every lady is different, and deserves the treatment she needs. I want a lady to lead the romp, not be deceived or forced into anything.”

“Good,” Rensharra Ironstave said firmly, “because tonight, I think I’d like that romp. Will you come home with me?”

A twinkle appeared in Mirt’s eye. “Well, now,” he rumbled. “Well, now …”

Aye, ’tis me. Kindly gasp or otherwise react not. The two war wizards are watching.

Rune smiled wryly before she could stop herself, but kept her eyes closed and said nothing.

Except in her mind, where she didn’t try to hide-couldn’t have hidden-her delight at learning the beautiful dark elf bending over her was really Elminster.

You found a body, I see, Rune thought.

I did. Like it? ’Tis wonderful, to be inhabiting someone young and supple again, without all the aches and pains.

What happened to her? Did you …, Rune thought.

Nay, lass, I did nothing but come along after a nasty worm from elsewhere had devoured her mind, and claim the empty body left behind. I watched the war wizard I’m pretending to be die, though. I need ye and thy gallant Arclath here to keep my secret about this, though. Or matters may very swiftly get very messy.

That much, I can see well for myself, Old Mage. El, it’s good to have you here with us.

Ye may not think so, soon. Trouble has a way of skulking after me like a hungry beast.

That, I also know, Rune thought. Yet I’m starting to expect it-and to enjoy watching the wildness unfold.

“This one seems fine,” El said aloud then, and Amarune felt new hands on her wrist, then neck, then forehead.

“She’s awake, or nearly so,” Gulkanun agreed, his voice coming from just above her. “I’d rather let her surface on her own than slap or shout at her, though.”

“Her companion is rousing,” El-no, Lucksar, she must think of him only as Lucksar now, or she’d make a slip-added.

Indeed. I’d appreciate no slips for the next tenday or so. Longer, if ye can manage it.

So it was that Rune came awake nodding and chuckling.

Across the room, a rather scorched-looking Imbrult Longclaws gave her a stare. “Never seen that sort of awakening after a battle blast,” he commented.

Farland winced. “Better’n my knee.”

“You still have both your legs-and you can even walk,” Longclaws replied. “Beyond my bruises and a little burned hair, everyone seems fine. After an explosion like that? The gods must love us!”

“Really?” Farland grunted, getting up, putting weight on his bandaged leg, and wincing again. “They’ve a hrasted funny way of showing it.”

“I thought trying it in such an open, popular, fashionable place like Thessarelle’s was a bad idea from the start,” old Lord Haeldown grunted.

Lord Loroun shrugged. “And so you wagered against success and made some coin. Stop complaining! I lost a fair purse.”

“Pah! That’s not the point, youngblood! If you have to count your coins, you shouldn’t be wagering at all. Keeping score in wealth is all too common a practice in the first place. I meant that intending to do something and then not elegantly carrying it out at our first attempt bespeaks clumsiness on our part, and tells the rest of Cormyr-titled Cormyr, anyhail, and that’s the Cormyr that matters-that our reach is neither strong nor sure.”

Lord Loroun flushed and said coldly, “I seldom need lectures on how to be noble from older men. I seldom listen to them twice. After the first one, I draw my sword and duel-removing anyone’s need to listen to that particular source of advice ever again. Be warned, lord.”

“Ah, the young are so subtle, too,” Haeldown told his tallglass, raising it to the light to enjoy the play of color in the wine. “And patient. Straight to the threat, without any wit beforehand. Perhaps it’s because you can muster none, hmm?”

“I’ve no need to listen to this-” Loroun retorted angrily, planting both hands on the table as if to rise, but Lord Taseldon slid a long and elegantly tailored arm across Loroun’s chest with a sigh.

“Loroun, this elder lord dug a pit before you, and you leaped right into it. Learn, master your temper and stretch your patience, and learn some more. It’s how youngbloods last long enough to become sly old dogs like Haeldown, here. Now let’s get back to discussing the failure of our initial attempt to murder the lady clerk of the rolls, and more importantly, how things will be different this time.”

“Tonight,” Loroun snapped, “you didn’t even try for a slaying at a dining lounge! I want it to be public, dramatic, so all Suzail sees and talks about it! How does it strike fear in anyone, if we poison her alone in her bed, and the palace can pass it off as fever?”

“He took her to Razreldron’s,” Taseldon replied, “and with all those private booths-”

“Huh,” Lord Haeldown grunted, “and all those lowcoats Purple Dragon officers, who just love to run their swords through people!”

“-quite so, lord; and with all those lowcoats officers, we’ve little chance of success. However, later, when they seek a bed to dally in …”

Loroun smiled slowly. It was a fox’s satisfied smile.

Lord Haeldown frowned. “Sword them while they’re rutting? Seems unsporting to me! Still, there are worse ways to go …”

He held out his tallglass, Taseldon and Loroun clinked theirs against it, and they all chortled together.