Elminster Must Die

CHAPTER NINE

This is it,” Marlin announced triumphantly, gazing at the life-sized bronze staring dragon skull adorning the dark double doors before him. “The Dragonskull Chamber.”

Around him, his hireswords stirred restlessly, swords up and faces tense. Killing six Purple Dragon guards to reach this spot hadn’t bothered them in the slightest, but they were suddenly fearful.

Their employer surprised them then by turning away, pointing along the passage, and saying, “Now we go this way. To another room, not this one at all.”

Their gasps of relief were almost audible. Marlin hid a widening smile from them as he waved some of the men past him to take the lead as they turned the first corner.

Out of long habit, not just in accordance with the firm orders he’d given them, a few of the rearguard sellswords looked back behind them as they followed Stormserpent and their fellow hireswords.

They were men whose lives depended on seeing anyone who might be behind them, but dust swirled thickly where they’d slashed their way through great hanging draperies that had been drawn across the passage, to be sure no lurking guardians, undead or otherwise, awaited them. So none of them saw who was staring down at them from the deep gloom of a distant high balcony-the faintly glowing ghost of a princess, flanked by a dark, slender man and woman.

All three were watching Stormserpent’s band with eyes that burned like smoldering coals.

“And so the jaws begin to close. Slowly and patiently. Very patiently. There’ll be no escape for you this time, old foe.”

The darkly handsome man who drawled those words to no one but himself strolled across the chamber to watch another glowing, moving scene hanging silently in midair, where he’d cast it.

After observing it for some time he nodded unsmilingly, turned away, and went to a waiting decanter and tallglasses.

“This time, Elminster of Shadowdale,” he told the decanter politely, “I’ll wear you down. Spell by spell, ally by ally … one by one they’ll be stripped away. Worn out, exhausted.”

Manshoon poured himself a glass, held it up to catch the glow of one of his scryings, studied the hue of its contents appreciatively, and told it, “Yes, the days of your seeing all and always being two strides ahead of me are gone. Gone with the integrity of the Weave and the love of your oh-so-tolerant goddess. Gone with the lost mantle of being a Chosen. Now, Elminster, you’re no better than the rest of us.”

He glanced idly at another nearby glowing scene, one full of writhing tentacles and a silently shrieking victim in their coils, then walked past it. “Not that you’re a toothless lion. Ah, no. I’ve underestimated you in the past and have been humbled for that, but not again. Never again.”

The next scene showed him several wizards of war, heads together over a highly polished table in an ornate palace chamber. Manshoon did not bother to make his magic let him hear what they were so excitedly saying, but he added to the glass, “So there’ll be no grand spell battle between us. No chance for you to taunt me with your cleverness one more time then somehow slip away. We’ll not be seeing each other until you have no spells left worth mentioning.”

He moved on, waving a hand to dissolve a scene he no longer needed. “You’ll defeat this looming trap, I’ve no doubt. Almost certainly the one after that, too. Perhaps the third and fourth that await you. Yet I’ve prepared more, and I’m not going away, Sage of Shadowdale. I’ll cut at you and claw at you and stab at your back, withdrawing whenever you turn to see who wishes you ill, so time and again you face nothing and no one to hurl your spells at or put a name to. And when at last you’ve no sleeves left to hide your tricks, then I’ll strike. And I will strike.”

He stopped in front of another silently moving image. “Marlin draws closer to the prizes we seek. Talane shall shortly do my bidding in a far more subtle ploy, for I know, Old Mage. Yes, this time I know. Your hoped-for apprentice-your naive young descendant-will be corrupted to my will or destroyed, not become one more of your long line of handy rescuers. Expendable, weren’t they? All of them, expendable … just as my magelings were, in the name of the Brotherhood. As these fools who call themselves wizards of war are, in the name of the Dragon. And as the thousands you’ve slain or led astray down the centuries all were, in the name of Mystra. So much for your high and noble motives. You, Old Mage, are no better than I am. You never have been.”

He waved his glass at no one and asked almost jovially, “And now, what are you reduced to? Stealing magic to drag your brain-burned lover back from insanity for a few moments! With the loyal lass who can’t even sing anymore, let alone cast a spell worth a hedge wizard’s striving, fetching and carrying for you. Whither your Harper armies now? Your scores of apprentices? The thousands who cowered to your bidding whenever you sent a glare their way? Why, I fancy my paltry agents outstrip yours. At last.”

The darkly handsome man strolled on. “And I shall enjoy corrupting your little lass into joining their ranks … just as hope rises in you that you can count on her.”

Manshoon sipped, smiled approvingly-much better than Arrhenish and a credit to some long-dead cellarer of this sprawling pile of a royal palace-and murmured, “And where neither she nor Talane nor Marlin will serve, I have others. Nobles and wizards of war … and a certain Lady Dark Armor.”

The vampire who had ruled cities and citadels drank more deeply, smiled again, and added almost gently, “Nor am I less than formidable, myself. The score between us is deep, and I have thought long and hard on how best to settle it. While you, as is your wont, have wasted your time saving the Realms for others. This time, Elminster Aumar, Sage of Shadowdale, you are going down.”

Some of his hirelings were so frightened, he could smell it, but he was paying them well and had made himself as safe as he could be. His ironguard magic should protect him against their blades, and he had other magics he could call on. He bore a potion that could quell poison, his high metal collar and gorget should foil stranglings, and a deadly secret nestled against his chest, ready to strike the moment he loosed it.

More than that, he knew just where he was going and what to do when he got there.

Yes. Unlike the many courtiers who thought the legendary Wyverntongue Chalice was hidden somewhere in or near the Dragonskull Chamber, Marlin Stormserpent knew exactly where it was concealed. Even the notorious Silent Shadow, if he or she came looking for it, wouldn’t know that.

An Obarskyr family treasure, gifted to Queen Filfaeril by a Waterdhavian envoy not long before her death, it had been stolen from its display plinth in the Room of the Red Banner during a long-past palace feast … more as a drunken prank than anything else. For fear of being caught by war wizards using magic to trace the chalice, the thief had hidden it that same night elsewhere in the palace, before departing its gates.

That thief was Nethglas Stormserpent, Marlin’s eldest brother, whom Marlin remembered as a sharp-nosed, mustachioed, unpleasant shark of a man.

Nethglas had intended to boast of the theft all over Suzail to win the general acclaim of elder nobility, but quickly grew too scared of the repercussions to say a word, after war wizards seeking the chalice started mind-reaming other nobles who’d attended the feast-and those reamings ruined their minds and those of their war wizard interrogators too.

Not wanting the Stormserpents to face reprisals, or himself to be slain, imprisoned, fined, or even just banned from the palace, Nethglas publicly kept silent. He’d already boasted of what he’d done to his three brothers, but sought to mend that error by threatening them with murder if they told anyone. Elgrym, next oldest of the four brothers, told his best friend, Lord-to-be Nael Rowanmantle, anyway-and Nethglas promptly slew them both, making it look like an “unfortunate accident.”

Those were the very words he’d used when next speaking privately with his two youngest brothers, Rondras and Marlin. Who took full heed of the warning and kept very quiet for years, until Nethglas died fighting at the side of Crown Prince Emvar Obarskyr, when the prince and all of Cormyr who’d ridden with him were slain in a Sembian ambush south of the Vast Swamp in the Year of the Silent Flute.

As the body of Nethglas was being brought back for burial in the family crypt, Marlin had quietly poisoned his older brother Rondras. Though he and Rondras detested each other, he’d done it more to get his hands on the Flying Blade-a gorgeous sword that also happened to be a family magic traditionally worn by the Stormserpent heir-than to become head of House Stormserpent.

Marlin had longed to hold and wield the gorgeous weapon since he was small and had thanked the gods that Nethglas had not taken the Flying Blade to war but left it safe in the vault deep under Stormserpent Towers. He promptly purloined a key to the vault but visited the sword only rarely, to gloat over it and run a cautious fingertip down its gleaming length.

However, the possibility that it held one of the ghosts of the Nine made him really want to have it. Not locked away but riding his hip and under his hand all his waking hours; power he could hold.

He’d left it at home for this foray, though. No sense risking it’s being seized by war wizards when he could use Thirsty instead-and his long, long dosings of paralyzing poison were done, leaving him immune to the mischance of the same stinger that should put paid to any Purple Dragon or war wizard his pet stirge could reach.

The chalice couldn’t be traced by the spells of war wizards or anyone, thanks to the magic on what it was hidden within-and its own enchantments, too.

Hidden within, aye. On that night, so long ago, Nethglas had hurriedly thrust the chalice up inside the hollow head of a yawning-jawed sculpted stone dragon in the huge sculpture that dominated the Chamber of the Wyrms Ascending, a rearing statue for which that glossy-floored, crossroads chamber had been named.

Marlin had been told the stone dragon was awash with enchantments that made an endless cycle of glowing lights arise and shift hues all over it. Images of dragons seemed to melt out of it and silently spread huge wings, beating them so as to soar up to and through the vaulted ceiling above and-

“Here ’tis, saer!”

The chalice flashed as one of the hireswords turned from the dragon statue, brandishing the cup. “Just where you said-”

“Cast down your swords, and surrender, in the name of the Dragon!”

The echoes of that thunderous bellow rolled off distant walls behind him as Marlin blinked his way back to the moment. His hirelings had found the chalice stlarning near the same farruking moment as a night patrol of Purple Dragons had discovered them!

His men had their orders, even if they hadn’t known what awaited prisoners taken in such circumstances. They were rushing the palace soldiers already, wasting no breath on shouts or war cries.

What his dead father had liked to call “a brief and bloody affray” was about to erupt.

Marlin smiled and pulled open the breast of his jerkin to let Thirsty fly free.

One distant Dragon wasn’t running to meet the sellswords, but was instead trotting off down a side passage. Marlin pointed at the man the moment the poison-painted stinger of his pet stirge was safely out past his arm.

“That one!” he snapped-and Thirsty flapped off in untidy, streaking haste.

Marlin waited, ignoring the first grunts and clangs of hard-swung swords as the rushing men met. Swords flashed and thrust, a Dragon fell with a groan, and a hiresword and another Dragon guard slumped with nigh identical wet gurgles.

Marlin still stood motionless, head cocked and listening hard. Gods, this was taking forever …

Then Thirsty flapped back into view, almost nonchalantly, and fell on the neck of one of the Dragon officers, stinger lancing down hard. Marlin allowed himself another smile.

That Dragon had gone down before the alarm could be raised. No doubt the man was lying paralyzed on the floor, not far from the gong he’d been running to reach.

So sad-but then, life was a series of such sadnesses. The trick was making sure every one of them was suffered by someone else.

Thirsty was no ordinary stirge, the well-known vermin that sucked blood from cattle until sated. Rather, it liked the tastes of many victims-and was even now winging to another one.

One of Marlin’s hirelings died on a Purple Dragon blade thanks to being startled at the sight of Thirsty flapping past, and the guards had already hacked down two more sellswords-but those hirelings hadn’t been idle, either. The smartly uniformed patrol had been reduced to a trio of frightened, surrounded men, beset by too many swords to stop.

The Dragons fought desperately, sending one of Marlin’s sellswords staggering away cursing weakly, then slashing out the throat of another. Yet with the numbers they faced and the veteran skills of those seeking to slaughter them, their fates were never in doubt.

The last Dragon died spewing blood with two swords through his body.

Leaving two of Marlin’s hireswords still standing and a third on his knees gasping out blood, his face twisted in pain.

As Thirsty flapped back to its master almost lazily, the two able-bodied sellswords looked to their patron for orders.

Marlin pointed at their wounded fellow. “Kill him,” he said curtly.

They gave him expressionless looks for a moment, realizing their own fates if they got hurt, then did his bidding, turning again from the corpse to learn his will.

“The sacks we brought along,” Marlin told them promptly as he caught up the chalice from the floor where its death-struck recoverer had carefully placed it. “Retrieve them. Behead all of the dead, and collect the heads in the sacks; they’re coming with us.”

That earned him another pair of expressionless looks.

Marlin sighed. “So there’s nothing left that can possibly have seen us or wag tongues about that, when the war wizards come prying with their spells and asking their foolish questions.”

Chalice safely in the crook of his elbow, Marlin then applied himself to close scrutiny of his maps. By the time his two hirelings joined him with their dripping sacks, he was ready to lead them confidently away from the Chamber of the Wyrms Ascending, through a secret passage in its walls behind the rearing dragon statue.

Gods above, but the Obarskyrs had loved secret passages.

“This is heading deeper into the palace,” one of the sellswords muttered, as Marlin waved them to move ahead of him. It was a safe bet that the chalice would earn them more, sold illicitly, than any sack of heads. Unless that sack had, say, the king’s head in it.

“So it is,” he snapped. “Rest assured that I know exactly what I’m doing-and what you’re thinking, too, come to that.”

After climbing a precipitous flight of steps right after departing the Wyrms Ascending, the passage ran straight and narrow for what seemed a very long way, obviously inside the thickness of a wall. It climbed and then descended once, presumably to hop over a connecting door, and then, for no apparent reason, took an angled bend to the left.

“Stop,” Marlin murmured. Just as his most expensive map showed, part of the angled section of wall could be slid aside to reveal an older, damper stone passage. He took care to put that panel carefully back into place after they’d stepped through it, then cautioned his two men to keep as silent as possible.

Keeping quiet was, after all, only prudent when trying to sneak out of a palace.

This new hidden way had a lower ceiling than the previous ones they’d used, arches built of crude, massive stone blocks. Its walls were rougher, too, and it smelled old.

According to his map and the tales that had come with it, the passage linked the royal palace with the deepest winecellar of the Old Dwarf, a long-established Suzailan tavern, passing right under or between various cellars of the royal court. It had probably been dug by the Old Dwarf himself-whoever he’d been-and no doubt used often by the legendary womanizer Azoun IV to move unseen between the palace and willing wenches all across Suzail. Or Azoun’s father before him, or any of the half-dozen randy Obarskyrs before that.

A plague on them all. Their day was almost done.

“Long live King Marlin, first of the Stormserpent line,” Marlin murmured to himself. Then shook his head and grinned wryly.

Perhaps that would be his fate, but he doubted it. Wasn’t there something about a sky full of hungry dragons returning to devour and ravage and seize Cormyr back from all humans, if no Obarskyr backside warmed the Dragon Throne?

He shrugged, glanced behind him-nothing but darkness-and devoted himself to following his cautiously striding hirelings. There’d be time enough later to ponder old legends …

“Later” as in after he was dead, most likely. A demise Marlin Stormserpent fervently hoped would occur in his sleep in some gigantic bed with gold-glister sheets and dozens of beautiful, willing, bare bedmaids in a suitably opulent chamber atop whatever palace he was then ruling most of the Realms from. About a century or so from now.