Elminster Must Die: The Sage of Shadowdale Read online

  SAGE OF SHADOWDALE

  Elminster, the Old Mage, the Chosen of Mystra. Across the face of Faerûn and throughout her history, the Sage of Shadowdale, by whatever name, has always stood firm against the tide of darkness.

  Elminster: The Making of a Mage

  Elminster in Myth Drannor

  The Temptation of Elminster

  Elminster in Hell

  Elminster’s Daughter

  The Annotated Eliminster

  Elminster Ascending

  (November 2010)

  Elminster Must Die

  Bury Elminster Deep

  (August 2011)

  THE KNIGHTS OF MYTH DRANNOR

  From the pastoral village of Espar to a road fraught with danger, magic, and the dubious attentions of villains and royalty alike, the rise of the Knights of Myth Drannor is a remarkable adventure.

  Book I

  Swords of Eveningstar

  Book II

  Swords of Dragonfire

  Book III

  The Sword Never Sleeps

  ALSO BY ED GREENWOOD

  The City of Splendors: A Waterdeep Novel

  (with Elaine Cunningham)

  The Best of the Realms, Book II

  The Stories of Ed Greenwood

  Edited by Susan J. Morris

  Sage of Shadowdale

  ELMINSTER MUST DIE

  ©2010 Wizards of the Coast LLC

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC

  FORGOTTEN REALMS, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  Cover art by Kekai Kotaki

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Greenwood, Ed.

  Elminster must die : sage of Shadowdale / Ed Greenwood.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-5765-1

  1. Forgotten realms (Imaginary place)–Fiction. 2. Elminster (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 3. Wizards–Fiction. I. Title.

  PR9199.3.G759E575 2010

  813’.54–dc22

  2010019482

  U.S., CANADA, EUROPEAN HEADQUARTERS

  ASIA, PACIFIC, & LATIN AMERICA Hasbro UK Ltd

  Wizards of the Coast LLC Caswell Way

  P.O. Box 707 Newport, Gwent NP9 0YH

  Renton, WA 98057-0707 GREAT BRITAIN

  +1-800-324-6496 Save this address for your records.

  Visit our web site at www.wizards.com

  v3.1

  pereunt et imputantur mors ianua vitae

  For Brian Cortijo, because this should have been his. And for Brian Thomsen, because he should have lived to read it.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One - Dark Decisions

  Chapter Two - Another Bold Night in Brave Cormyr

  Chapter Three - Spelldoom and Blood-Drenched Battle

  Chapter Four - Traitors Behind Every Door

  Chapter Five - Overheard and Spied Upon

  Chapter Six - A Chalice, Much Blood, and a Masked Princess

  Chapter Seven - Nobles, Shadows, and Deadly Doings

  Chapter Eight - Much Brazen Creeping About

  Chapter Nine - In the Name of the Dragon

  Chapter Ten - Harder Than Harbor Rain

  Chapter Eleven - Temptations for Many

  Chapter Twelve - Darker and Darker

  Chapter Thirteen - Nothing to Laugh At, At All

  Chapter Fourteen - Justice, Order, and Refinement

  Chapter Fifteen - Enter a Lord, Laughing

  Chapter Sixteen - Something of an Uproar

  Chapter Seventeen - Wizards Go to War

  Chapter Eighteen - Talons and Peacocks and Worse

  Chapter Nineteen - Expecting Much Blood

  Chapter Twenty - When Vengeful Ghosts Walk

  Chapter Twenty-One - A Night of Swords and Blood

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Hands Clasped Over a Decanter

  Chapter Twenty-Three - To Dream a Little Dream of Being King

  Chapter Twenty-Four - A Storm in Shadowdale

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Well Earned

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Driving Wizards to Drink

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Blood on the Rooftops

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - I Used to Be a Wizard

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - To Fill Thy Brain with Weapons

  Chapter Thirty - Your Castle or Mine

  Chapter Thirty-One - We Must Do Whatever We Must

  Chapter Thirty-Two - Hunting Elminsters

  Chapter Thirty-Three - My Hounds to Hunt You Down

  Chapter Thirty-Four - Rune, Rune, Gone Away

  Chapter Thirty-Five - A Great Magic Unleashed

  Chapter Thirty-Six - A New Blade Drawn

  Epilogue

  Welcome to Faerûn, a land of magic and intrigue, brutal violence and divine compassion, where gods have ascended and died, and mighty heroes have risen to fight terrifying monsters. Here, millennia of warfare and conquest have shaped dozens of unique cultures, raised and leveled shining kingdoms and tyrannical empires alike, and left long forgotten, horror-infested ruins in their wake.

  A LAND OF MAGIC

  When the goddess of magic was murdered, a magical plague of blue fire—the Spellplague—swept across the face of Faerûn, killing some, mutilating many, and imbuing a rare few with amazing supernatural abilities. The Spellplague forever changed the nature of magic itself, and seeded the land with hidden wonders and bloodcurdling monstrosities.

  A LAND OF DARKNESS

  The threats Faerûn faces are legion. Armies of undead mass in Thay under the brilliant but mad lich king Szass Tam. Treacherous dark elves plot in the Underdark in the service of their cruel and fickle goddess, Lolth. The Abolethic Sovereignty, a terrifying hive of inhuman slave masters, floats above the Sea of Fallen Stars, spreading chaos and destruction. And the Empire of Netheril, armed with magic of unimaginable power, prowls Faerûn in flying fortresses, sowing discord to their own incalculable ends.

  A LAND OF HEROES

  But Faerûn is not without hope. Heroes have emerged to fight the growing tide of darkness. Battle-scarred rangers bring their notched blades to bear against marauding hordes of orcs. Lowly street rats match wits with demons for the fate of cities. Inscrutable tiefling warlocks unite with fierce elf warriors to rain fire and steel upon monstrous enemies. And valiant servants of merciful gods forever struggle against the darkness.

  A LAND OF UNTOLD ADVENTURE

  PROLOGUE

  The Year of the Ageless One had brought early and warm spring to Shadowdale, an endless parade of short but drenching rains with muggy days between. Travel through the Dales was a matter of much sweat, slipping in abundant mud, and a profusion of enthusiastically stinging insects.

  Wherefore Gaerond of the Scars was fast running out of oaths, and much of him was numb from his own slappings. Nor were the rest of the grim, veteran adventurers in the Bloodshields Band any happier than he was. If the smooth-talking Sembian hadn’t paid them so much—and promised so much more if they brought back even a scrap of success—they’d have taken other roads long since.

  Everyone knew the wizard Elminster was long d
ead and gone, naught but a long-bearded name in legend. His tower in Shadowdale had been a snake-haunted, rubble-strewn pit for longer than anyone alive could remember.

  They checked when at last they came to where it had once stood; aye, a pit still, all long grass overgrowing a scum-cloaked pond.

  Yet Sembian gold was … Sembian gold, and they’d been promised good handfuls of it, so they trudged on.

  The Old Skull Inn was right where it was supposed to be, too, rising tall and proud beside the road. Newly expanded, ’twas said, two floors with porches; a soaring roof above, dark and splendid with new tiles; and from the wideswept eaves a row of large, ornate hanging metal lanterns hung on stout chains, waiting to be lit at dusk. Not all that far off.

  Gaerond grunted his approval as the sharp reek of horngrass smoke greeted him. Any bed-haven that wanted to keep stingflies at bay was a place he wanted to sleep in.

  He heard the faint thud of a gong from inside. They’d been seen.

  He spun around to catch Malkym’s eye, then Flamdar’s, ere slapping his sword hilt. Then he tied his peace-strings through it, nodded when they started doing the same, and turned back to the inn again, keeping his hands empty and away from his sides. He could snatch and hurl two longsarks in half a breath if he had to—but if the rest of the Bloodshields behaved themselves aright, hopefully he’d not have to. Which should mean a decent meal and beds—mayhap even a bath!—that night.

  The tallest, widest man he’d ever seen met him at the door, smiling affably enough. Gaerond matched that smile, keeping his eyes on those of the innkeeper and pretending not to notice the two women at either end of a long serving counter who both had loaded hand crossbows lying ready on the well-worn wood in front of them.

  “Rooms and a meal, for … six?”

  “We’d like that and will pay ready coin.” Gaerond tried to sound amiable, out of long habit; many folk never saw past the fearsome sword scars. “If our work goes well, that is; we’ve a task that won’t wait. We’re the Bloodshields Band and come in peace. Chartered in Arabel, came afoot from Mistledale—and we’re seeking Elminster.”

  The host’s smile held but was somehow a trifle less welcoming than before. “Six chartered adventurers, to seek a dead man? Or are you looking for treasure he might have left behind?”

  Gaerond shook his head. “We’ve been paid well to consult with him, not offer him harm. On behalf of a patron too old in legs and back to be traveling anywhere to talk with anyone. Someone who’s met with him before told us to tell all in Shadowdale ‘Old Mage still, upon the hill’ if asked about our intentions.”

  The innkeeper’s eyes flickered. Then he nodded gravely, turned, and called, deep but gently, “Thal!”

  The rather dirty, barefoot young lad who burst out of the kitchens and raced to a halt just out of reach appeared so swiftly that he must have been listening. Bright eyes surveyed Gaerond for a moment ere looking a question at the hulking innkeeper.

  “Guide these charter-helms to the wizard’s abode and back again,” came the grave instruction.

  “Lanterns?” Thal chirped.

  “Nay, lad,” Gaerond replied quickly, “but we’ll pay fair coin for guiding us. If the way’s not long, nor will our business with the mage be. Our patron has ordered that no one else hear what we say or is said to us, but we’ll be done soon enough and can come right back here at your heels.”

  Thal looked at the innkeeper for instruction, as if Gaerond hadn’t said a word, but the innkeeper merely nodded approvingly.

  At that, the lad smiled, nodded, and marched past Gaerond, trailing a cheerful, “This way, saers.”

  Malkym looked as if he wanted a tankard before walking anywhere else, but followed Gaerond in silence, Flamdar and the others trudging right behind.

  The lad led them to the crossroads, which were no larger nor less muddy than Gaerond remembered, and took the road north, past some new steads already sagging into the bog they’d been built on. Beyond them the land rose, crowned by a seemingly impenetrable tangle of thornstar hedge that all manner of vine-choked wild trees had thrust up through. Storm Silverhand’s farm, it had once been … a century back, when there still was a Storm Silverhand.

  You’d have thought at least one or two Harpers might have survived to settle the place, to keep bellies full on its profusion of pole-fruit and all, but mayhap folk thereabouts had run them off or run them through, and—

  To Gaerond’s grunted surprise, the lad turned off the road down into the ditch near the north end of the wild hedge, well past where the farm gate had been—only to scale the far bank of the ditch and plunge through a dark hole in the hedge that looked like a boar run.

  Huh. Smelled like a boar run, too; Gaerond laid one hand on his favorite longsark as he put his head down and shouldered after the lad, through crackling branches, leathery leaves, and the inevitable jabbing thorns.

  Right behind him, Malkym remembered one of his curses but kept it under his breath. Mostly.

  Beyond the bristling fortress of hedge was a damp, mist-shrouded forest of tall trees—thinner than the great old forest giants ahead and to their left, but already choking brambles and wild shrubs off from the light. Birds whirred away in alarm, and small, unseen beasts scuttled for cover. A few rotten, leaning poles among the soaring tree trunks were all that was left of what must once have been rows and rows of crops.

  Gaerond caught sight of what might have been the roofless corner of a farmhouse, far off to the right—but no one was living or farming there anymore; they were striding through deep drifts of wet dead leaves and undisturbed, moss-girt deadfalls, with nary a trail to be seen.

  And there in the trees, dusk was coming down fast.

  “How far, lad?” he grunted, misliking the thought of being caught in the tangle when night fell.

  Thal turned and gave a cheerful, guileless smile. “Just ahead, saer, down this path!”

  Gaerond suppressed a snort. “Path” was a wild bard’s fantasy if he’d ever heard one, but the lad was atop a little ridge barely three long strides ahead, and pointing down the far side of it, as if the Old Mage’s abode really wasn’t far.

  “There, saers!” Thal told them happily, stopping on the ridge and waving them past, one by one, one slender arm pointing.

  Blast all the gods, there was a path that seemed to spring out of the sloping rock falling away from the ridge, and descend, winding through a few trees, down into a dell or mayhap a cave somewhere behind too many trunks to stare through.

  Gaerond peered hard at the narrow dirt track where the bare rock ended and it began, in a vain attempt to see what manner of beast had made it, then turned to snap, “Rorn!”

  Rornagar Breakblade liked to walk rearguard and was good at it; he spun around without the slightest delay, knowing what Gaerond wanted.

  Yet no matter how keen and suspicious Rornagar’s eye, he had turned too late and beheld nothing but leaves and rocks and trees.

  Gaerond’s sharp gesture brought them all to a silent, hard-listening halt, but there were no rustlings to tell where Thal had gone. The forest was suddenly empty of cheerful little lads.

  “Well?” Malkym asked at last, as the Bloodshields stared at each other … and dusk came down.

  “Light the lamps,” Gaerond ordered shortly. “We go on.”

  They did that and were well down the path among the trees, Rornagar having turned to stare suspiciously—but vainly—into the forest twice.

  Gaerond’s fingers were busy at his peace-strings without his eyes ever leaving the path ahead and the forest around. He could see where the way went, right into a low cavemouth ahead. A twinkle of light was escaping from the chamber, through holes in a door made of a patched and tattered hanging deer hide that had seen better days.

  He stopped well outside it and waved to his fellows to join him as quietly as possible. As they gathered nigh-silently around him, each gave him the ramming-hilts-home gesture that told him they were ready for battle.

&nbs
p; Gaerond nodded approvingly and looked to Rorn, who shook his head to silently say there’d been no sign of their young guide. Hmm, gone without coin, too; what but wager he’d been the wizard himself, in shift-shape?

  With a shrug and smile, Gaerond called pleasantly, “Elminster? Elminster the wizard? Peaceful hired fellows here to confer with you!”

  “Come ahead,” an old man’s voice quavered in reply. “Peaceful fellows are always welcome.” Then it turned stern or rather pettish. “See that ye stay that way.”

  The Bloodshields traded smirks and came ahead.

  The cave was a long, narrow hovel of damp dirt, stones, and sagging old rough-tree furniture, more a hermit’s cellar than a druid den. Two small, flickering lamps hung from a crossbranch over a rude table, and somewhere behind their glows sat a stout, broad-shouldered old man, blinking at them past a fearsome beak of a nose. He had a long, shaggy white beard.

  The floor was an uneven, greasy, hard-trodden litter of old bones and empty nutshells, and around the dirt walls roots thrust out here, there, and everywhere; on many of them had been hung a pathetic collection of rotting old scraps of tapestry and paintings.

  “So ye’ve found Elminster, ye adventurers, and to earn thy hire would speak with me? Well, speak, then; I’ve naught to share, I fear, and if ye were expecting great magics or heaped gems, I’m afraid ye’ve come a century or so too late.”

  “Huh,” Gaerond replied. “That’s a shame. We quite like great magics and heaps of gems, we do. Can you still manage little magics?”

  The old man snorted sourly and fumbled for a clay pipe with age-gnarled, shaking fingers. “If I could, d’ye think I’d be sitting here in this mud-hole, slowly starving? That’ll be my price for answers, mind ye: a finger of cheese or a bite of meat, if thy pouches run to such luxuries!”