Spellstorm (39 page)

This meddler, this man who lacked all pride, yet was but one rung below divinity.
For where the Chosen of other gods were champions or prophets or even feeble and naive
disposable tools, the Chosen of Mystra held a share of her power, so that the goddess
of the Art, in this world so alive with magic, wouldn’t become the Overgod herself,
the only deity. Other gods might trust their “Chosen Ones” because they endowed them
with all power and could snatch it away again at their divine pleasure … but the Chosen
of Mystra could defy their goddess, because they held part of her within themselves.
The silver fire.

He envied Elminster that precious essence, that pure power, the fire that could destroy
utterly and forever, or create and endow eternally. What was called spellfire was
made up of the raw energies of life, the stuff usually
harnessed and channeled by spells, left raw and ravening, a dangerous conflagration
that destroyed all too easily, searing through most magical barriers where normal
fire failed and clawed in vain and died away. Silver fire was the concentrated, tuned
essence of magic, the controlled forge to spellfire’s wind-whipped smoky campfire … and
this old man had carried the silver fire of the goddess of magic
—the
goddess of magic—during the Time of Troubles inside him, and survived, and still
felt so confident that he’d
given up
some of his silver fire to heal old Harpell.

Bah, such nobility! Such foolheadedness!

It was time and far beyond the time when this old dodderer should have been swept
aside into the echoing forgotten ghosts of history.

Past time that he, Manshoon, who surely had more fire of ambition in him and less
senile whimsy, should have swept this erratic and no longer worthy Chosen aside and
taken his place! Swept this—

And Mystra, Bane, and all the gods damn the man if he wasn’t looking up, and fixing
Manshoon with a very direct and blue-gray eye and asking, “So, Manshoon, enlighten
me, if ye’re in the mood. Why show me such mercy? Are ye changing at last? Or is today
an off day for ye?”

And damned if he could think of an answer.

“M
ORNINGFEAST MAY BE
late, Lord of the Zhentarim,” Myrmeen said gravely, as they turned to go, “but you
will eat today. Hopefully something that’s to your liking, that comes plated to awaken
your pleasure, from the Oldspires kitchen.”

“We just have to deal with some forty-odd warriors first,” Mirt grunted. “All in nice
gleaming plate armor that’s come fresh from the same armorer, by the looks of them.”

“There are fifty-four of them, I believe,” Manshoon replied politely, and then added,
in response to their hard looks, “and no, they’re not
my
army. I believe they came here through the gate; if peace within these walls is your
aim, you might want to give some thought to closing that portal.”

“We shall bear that in mind,” Elminster told him gravely, inclining his head in a
nod of farewell.

They were two rooms and a dogleg section of passage away before Mirt grumbled, “I
don’t hear
him
offering to help close that gate—I suppose that’s a problem for mere servants, like
his morningfeast.”

“And that would be the difference between him and me,” the Sage of Shadowdale replied.

“What struck me more,” came a thin voice from the empty air just in front of them,
“was the difference betwixt him and Malchor—arrogant utter lack of thanks from the
Zhent, versus astonished gratitude from the Harpell.”

“Hail, Your Majesty,” Mirt greeted the invisible Alusair.

“Your Highness,” she corrected. “I was regent, never queen.”

“You should have been,” Myrmeen said softly. “The best of your father and your mother
flowered forth in you—and I speak as one who knew and loved them both.”

“
Don’t
start, Mreen,” the ghost princess responded. “Now, is Elminster playing Weavemaster
rampant, or are the three of you marching to your deaths?”

“Fifty-four warriors waiting in the kitchen?”

“Forty-six. Shaaan’s slithering slayer acquitted herself well before they hacked her
apart—they burned what was left, in the kitchen hearth no less, so that’ll be the
burnt boar smell that greets you—and a handful of them were foolish enough to try
to force their way into Shaaan’s room.”

“Charming discipline,” Myrmeen remarked. “Yet forty-six is a bit much, even for we
peerlessly brawling heroes of the realm.” They all looked at Elminster, who sighed.

“A Weavemaster is
not
a battle mage,” he said, “but perhaps we’ll think of something. Luse, can ye scout
behind, to make sure Manshoon isn’t skulking after us, and then before us, to keep
us from walking right into their sentinels, or any ambushes they may have arranged?
I
do
want to talk to at least one of them, to find out who they serve.”

“That I can tell you,” Alusair replied. “They were hired by Maraunth Torr, to come
along after his arrival and aid him in seizing Oldspires. He didn’t tell them about
the Lost Spell, or that they were walking into a den of hostile wizards—just that
they should beware ‘one or two mages.’ I’ve been eavesdropping.”

After a moment, her voice came again, from behind them this time. “Oh, and they’re
under the impression that after an ‘undead wizard’ met
them and sent them in here through the gate, they met with Maraunth Torr himself—late
last night. So that might be
another
dead wizard walking … or someone taking on the likeness of one.”

“Around here, wizards don’t stay dead for long,” Mirt put in. “Have you noticed?”

“Strangely enough, yes. I go to hunt Manshoon.” And with that, the invisible Alusair
was gone.

She returned before they were through the trophy chamber, rushing past them like a
wind and flinging out the words, “Hasn’t stirred from his room. Yet.”

Only to flash visible again mere moments later right in front of them, inside the
closed eastern door of the trophy chamber they were heading for, her face and both
hands raised and spread in a “stop” gesture.

“A dozen of Torr’s force are headed for the Serpent Queen’s door right now, to try
to get at her—and there are none of their fellows this side of the Copper Receiving
Room. Both the north and west doors of the entry hall are closed and unguarded, so
no one’s going to hear or see anything
relatively
quiet that befalls in the main passage the other side of this door.”

“Well,” Myrmeen offered, “I for one am heartily ready for a fight. Against swords,
not big strange marauding monsters from other worlds, or spells hurled out of gates
whose caster I can’t get at. And I’d be very surprised if Mirt doesn’t stand with
me in this.”

She glanced at the fat moneylender, and he nodded and grinned. “Let’s have at them!”

They all looked at Elminster. Who gave them a smile and the words, “I also find myself
heartily ready for a fray.”

“Well, then,” Myrmeen said with a smile, drawing her sword and dagger. “Ready?”

And they quietly opened the door out into the passage and strolled north, keeping
close to the near wall.

They were halfway to the pillars that marked where the armor court began when they
heard a splintering crash in the distance, and a triumphant roar and thunder of booted
feet. Myrmeen risked stepping away from the wall for a good look, only to have the
voice of Alusair inform her from the empty air beside her ear, “They just broke down
Shaaan’s door and charged inside—only to find the room empty. I’ll wager there’s a
hole in her floor, under the carpet, that they haven’t dis—”

She broke off as a startled yell rang out, then amended, “Have
just
discovered now, that leads down into the cellars. I hesitate to say how many poisoned
needles and coffers of poisoned gas Shaaan left behind to welcome visitors, but the
lady herself is no longer in residence.”

“She can’t get the dead we stashed in the cold cellar to come to her until she’s animated
them,” Mirt reasoned aloud, “so she’s gone to them.”

Myrmeen smiled. “Let’s hope Torr’s warriors were foraging down there and ran into
her, and a merry dance of death was enjoyed by all.”

“Better that than an alliance between them,” Elminster put in warningly. “If they
work together …”

Myrmeen gave him a pained look. “Old Mage, must you?”

Rather than replying, Elminster pointed down the passage. Three warriors had just
emerged from Shaaan’s room and were running south, right toward Myrmeen.

Who stepped away from the wall with a lilt of her hips that would have done credit
to many a tavern dancer, gave them a wide smile, and hefted her blades.

They slowed for long enough to gape at her in astonishment, then came on, the foremost
one sneering openly. They were seasoned enough to split wide so they could flank her,
so Myrmeen stepped back to the wall to rob them of that opportunity.

“One woman? Alone?” one of them asked in disbelief.

“
Not
alone,” Mirt rumbled, stepping away from the wall to confront the onrushing hireswords.

“Hah! Large enough target, to be sure!
Look
at that belly!” another of the warriors laughed, just before steel met steel.

Except that Myrmeen ducked and flung herself away from the wall at a diagonal, sweeping
wide and low with her sword, reaping armored ankles. The center warrior fell with
a crash, his yell more startlement than pain, and a moment later a rolling Mirt took
the feet out from under the easternmost hiresword.

Which left just the one closest to the near wall, who’d been running to meet and hack
down Myrmeen. His overhead hack at her was mighty, but too slow and too late; his
steel rang off the floor behind her boot, and bit in just enough to catch and force
him into a running stumble as he tugged it free.

Which meant that before he could recover, he was staggering past Elminster, who gave
him a manic grin and the polite greeting of
“Well met,” before snatching off the warrior’s helm with one hand and driving home
the pommel of his dagger into the side of the man’s jaw with the other. Teeth flew,
and the man went down, flopping to the floor like a wet fish.

El strolled to the other two hireswords, but Myrmeen had served them the same way,
and was now surveying the senseless bodies. “
That
one,” she decided, and started unbuckling the man’s belt.

Mirt watched. “Lass, what’re you—oh.”

A mighty tug had freed the belt and spun the limp and lolling man half over on his
side. Myrmeen looped his own belt around his throat, and ordered Mirt, “Bring that
one over, back-to-back. We’ll put the third on top of them.” In a trice the three
unconscious hireswords were belted together at the throat, and Myrmeen was unknotting
and tugging free the loose peacestrings on their scabbards. El and Mirt stepped back
and stood guard as she tied their thumbs together and then their smallest fingers
together behind their backs, then removed their boots and did the same to their big
toes—after hauling the leg armor and leather breeches off the largest one. The breeches
were
just
large enough to go over three heads at once, and Myrmeen collected daggers and swords
and then stood back in satisfaction.

“Nicely done,” Mirt told her.

“Swiftly done,” El added.

“You’d
better
be fast,” the unseen ghost princess commented, “if you’re going to do
that
to all of them. Though there may not be that many left, come to think of it—these
three fled not because two of their fellows plunged down into the cellars rather precipitiously,
but because all the others died from poison, right before their eyes. Most of them
not prettily.”

Myrmeen looked at where Alusair’s voice had come from, and then at where she knew
the door of Shaaan’s bedchamber was—or had been. “So there’s no longer any reason
to go there?”

“None.”

Myrmeen turned to Mirt and El. “So if the princess scouts ahead for us, do we head
for the kitchen again? That braerwing was nice, but I didn’t get much, and it seems
like a long time ago.”

Mirt grinned. “Running and fighting’s hungry work.” His stomach rumbled, right on
cue.

“We do head for the kitchen,” El agreed. “Torr’s warriors have to be dealt with
some
time.”

“Let’s rout them,” Mirt suggested. “I haven’t had a good rout in years and years!”

“Let’s rout them,” Myrmeen put in, “because we have no way of knowing if private armies
belonging to any of our other guests will show up, and when. I’d like to clear the
decks, so to speak, and get morningfeast—or highsunfeast, or evenfeast, or dark-of-the-moon
snack, or whatever it turns out to be—done.
I
save the world better on a full stomach.”

“You too?”

“Luse?”

“On my way. So if those two that fell into the cellars are fine, and Shaaan’s slain
no more, there are thirty-six left.”

“Manageable, manageable,” Mirt rumbled, “between the three of us.”