Elminster in Hell Read online

  The archdevil’s tentacles were suddenly writhing above his shoulders, like the limbs of an excited and gigantic spider.

  “You will, of course, attempt to escape, perhaps even to harm me. Such failures will make little difference to your torment—and they will be failures.”

  Tentacles stretched forth almost lazily, and a diabolical smile widened.

  “You see: You’re in my cozy little dale now, wizard.”

  The Temptation of Elminster

  Elminster in Hell

  The Cormyr Saga

  Cormyr: A Novel (with Jeff Grubb)

  Death of the Dragon (with Troy Denning)

  The Shandril Saga

  Spellfire

  Crown of Fire

  Hand of Fire

  The Shadow of the Avatar Trilogy

  Shadows of Doom

  Cloak of Shadows

  All Shadows Fled

  Stormlight

  Silverfall: Stories of the Seven Sisters

  ELMINSTER IN HELL

  ©2002 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. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  FORGOTTEN REALMS, D&D, Wizards of the Coast, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by Matt Stawicki

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2001092209

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6160-3

  640-51024000-001-EN

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  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  To Page and Mike.

  Because the most glorious adventures

  are those shared.

  Let yours be one of the long and wondrous ones.

  Let it be known: The wisdom and skill of Rob King

  made this tale far brighter and better

  than it could otherwise have been.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One: Rocks and A Warm Place

  Chapter Two: A Devil’s Warm Mercy

  Chapter Three: The Day the Magic Died

  Chapter Four: To Love A Goddess

  Chapter Five: Here be Wizards

  Chapter Six: Another Warm Day in Avernus

  Chapter Seven: Night Comes to Tamaeril

  Chapter Eight: Fresh Torments

  Chapter Nine: Who’s Killing the Great Lords of Waterdeep?

  Chapter Ten: Harpers Hunt by Moonlight

  Chapter Eleven: Old Devils, New Tricks

  Chapter Twelve: The Harper Without

  Chapter Thirteen: Nergal Surprised

  Chapter Fourteen: One Hell of A Bargain

  Chapter Fifteen: Halaster Comes Calling

  Chapter Sixteen: For the Love of An Old Mage

  Chapter Seventeen: Much Fire in Hell

  Chapter Eighteen: Hell Rising

  Chapter Nineteen: Rage in Hell

  Chapter Twenty: Prayers and Plots

  Chapter Twenty one: Revenge Eaten Hot

  Chapter Twenty two: The Emptying of Elminster

  Chapter Twenty three: Fire in Hell

  Chapter Twenty four: Brief Excitement in Aglarond

  About the Author

  REALMS LORE

  Is there not Hell enough awaiting you, that you must go seeking it in books and spells and consorting with strange wizards?

  Resaugiir Ravendarr, a rich mechant of Amn,

  speaking to his daughter Daluthra in the play

  Bold Hearts Broken by Nargustarus Grithym

  (playwright of Athkatla)

  confutatis maledictus, flammis acribus addictus

  etiam sanato vulnere cicatrix manet

  Students of the history of the Realms should know that this tale of Elminster’s torment befalls in 1372 DR, the Year of Wild Magic, and that the memories seen in these pages depict events that took place, so far as can be determined, as follows:

  • “The Day the Magic Died” (and the associated memories preceding it, in Chapter 2, except for Khelben’s flying over Waterdeep, which befell in 1351 DR) in mid-Kythorn of 1358 DR, the Year of Shadows.

  • “The Reaching Hand” (the memory in Chapter 4) on 17 Marpenoth in 1357 DR, the Year of the Prince.

  • “Here Be Wizards” (the memory in Chapter 5) in Alturiak of 1365 DR, the Year of the Sword.

  • “One Night in Waterdeep” (the memory of Mirt in Chapter 6) on 6 Eleint in 1321 DR, the Year of Chains.

  • “Night Comes to Tamaeril” (the first memory in Chapter 7), “Resengar, Too” (the second memory in Chapter 7), and “A Daughter’s Duty” (the memory in Chapter 9) in early Flamerule of 1355 DR, the Year of the Harp.

  • “A Surprise for Laurlaethee” (the memory in the midst of Chapter 8) in the afternoon of 4 Tarsakh in 261 DR, the Year of Soaring Stars.

  • “A Touch of Heartsteel” (the memory in Chapter 11) in early Mirtul of 1369 DR, the Year of the Gauntlet.

  • “The Harper Without” on the night of 12 Uktar in 778 DR, the Year of Awaiting Webs.

  • “When Sembians Stop for Tea” (the memory in Chapter 13) on the afternoon of the 4th of Elesias in 1364 DR, the Year of the Wave (it should be noted that Nouméa Fairbright is no relation to Nouméa Drathchuld, who was then Magister).

  • “A Small Sort of Dragon” (the memory in Chapter 14) on 16 Ches in 1356 DR, the Year of the Worm.

  • “The Wisdom of Our Sages” (the memory in Chapter 15) in late Mirtul of 1360 DR, the Year of the Turret.

  • “Sit Not Alone on Thalon’s Cold Throne” (the memories of Laeral at the end of Chapter 16 and the beginning of Chapter 17) in mid-Kythorn of 1357 DR, the Year of the Prince (it should be remembered that this Laeral is Laeral Rythkyn, called by some “Laeral of Loudwater,” a Harper mage who is the namesake—not related—of Laeral Arunsun Silverhand of the Seven).

  • “The Tears of a Goddess” (the memory at the end of Chapter 19) in late Eleint of 1371 DR, the Year of the Unstrung Harp.

  • “The Srinshee Plays With Fire” (the first Srinshee memory in Chapter 20) on the morning of 9 Nightal in 241 DR, the Year of the Hippogriff’s Folly.

  • “Kisses and Damnations” (the second Srinshee memory in Chapter 20) in the early evening of Midsummer 30th in 666 DR, the Year of Stern Judgment.

  • “One Fool Deserves Another” (the third Srinshee memory in Chapter 20) on 14 Hammer in 907 DR, the Year of Waiting.

  • “The Coming of the Shadow” (the memory at the end of Chapter 21) on 6 Flamerule in 1294 DR, the Year of the Deep Moon.

  • “Fools as Her Champions” (the memory in Chapter 22) on 21 El
eint in 1246 DR, the Year of Burning Steel.

  BEGINNINGS

  Memories are wonderful things.

  Yet they can burn like the hottest fire, raging and consuming their bearers, or cut like cruel blades. I can trap one in a gem and hold it in my hand to give to another and yet keep it also in my mind, fading slowly over time, like paths to favorite places that have become overgrown and lost.

  What is a human but a bundle of memories?

  What better treasure can the aged keep to warm and delight them whenever they rummage through the sack of their own stored remembrances?

  And what more hideous crime can there be than to snatch away memories from a man?

  Only my kisses should be able to do that to him—and then only when Mystra deems it needful. Yet a thing called Nergal dared to do this to my man. I, Alassra, made Nergal pay a fitting price and was damned in that doing—and care not and would do it again.

  I dare anything and will die doing so. Fools of Thay and other places know me for my slaying spells and my fury. Often it masters me, and men call me “mad,” when they should use the words “reckless” or “lost in bloodlust.” I do enjoy destruction, I admit—yet I also nurture and defend and treat with kindness.

  Here I’ve done both, showing all who read of the kindnesses I so love, the reason I’d lay down my life as freely as I do my body before this man called Elminster, even if he had no more magic than a village idiot. Some will say I’ve set down secrets that common eyes should never have seen, and to them I say two things: “Have I truly?” and “I care not!” Some have said holy Mystra and others of the divine will smite me for this doing—yet here I still stand, unrepentant.

  So come, and read secrets. Heed this tale I have gathered, and learn—or care not, and turn away, to walk defenseless the rest of your undoubtedly short days. Choose freely.

  I am the Storm Queen, and I never threaten. I merely promise.

  One

  ROCKS AND A WARM PLACE

  There is no greater blasphemy than this.

  This is the thing forbidden, for all gods and men, for every living being of this or any world—to shred asunder the stuff of which we are all made, leaving rents of crawling nothingness in Toril. Roiling, weeping wounds for all the Realms to spill out through, and all the cold and gnawing void to rush in.…

  With all the selfish and headstrong and uncaring fools who’d hurled magic about for all these centuries, it was a wonder this didn’t happen more often. This thought offered little comfort.

  The worlds roared. White-hot and all-devouring, the torrents of force spilling from the Weave snarled all around the tumbling man, tugging at his robes and old limbs and beard alike as he spun along in a roaring rush of air. What might have been the green trees of Shadowdale turned crazily above his head. Beneath—or was it above?—his booted feet stretched a blood-red, sunless sky. He’d seen it a time or two before and had no desire ever to see again.

  Streamers of noxious gas streaked that crimson dome like dirty clouds. They whirled to form what looked like giant eyes staring down, eyes that were swept away before they could focus, only to form anew, again and again. Beneath the ruby glow lay a dark nightmare land of bare rock and flumes of sparks and gouting flame, where things slithered and scrambled half-seen in the shadows. Mountains clawed the ruby sky. The Land of Teeth, Azuth had once aptly called it, surveying the endless jagged rocks. This was the Greeting Ground, the realm of horror that had claimed the lives of countless mortals. He was whirling along above Avernus, uppermost of the Nine Hells.

  “Mystra,” the tumbling man groaned. He called to life all the magics on his body, bringing them to tingling readiness in his fingertips.

  Whether the Lady of the Weave heard and assisted him or not, life ahead was not going to be pleasant for Elminster Aumar. He was going to have to spend all of his magic healing this rift, for the love of Toril that so seldom loved him, be burned and blasted in the doing, perhaps fail and be torn apart—and if he succeeded, plunge at the last down into Avernus, bereft of spells and defenseless.

  Yet his duty was clear.

  Dark, bat-winged shapes were already soaring aloft, beating their menacing way toward him, seeking to plunge through the rift or tear it open farther, ere he could close it. The rift could be closed only from this side, not from the more pleasant skies of Toril—and if he were to do it at all, he would spend his magic so swiftly that he could not help making himself a bright beacon to all infernal eyes.

  Those eyes were watching. Oh, yes.

  Elminster saw something huge and dark and dragon-winged rise from a distant mountain, spreading leathery wings and trailing a long, long scaly tail as it rose ponderously into the sky of blood. Rose, and turned his way …

  Nearer at hand, lightning cracked and stabbed out of the edges of the rift. Glistening black devils struggled to pluck it farther open … struggling, no doubt, under orders from unseen devils below.

  The hurtling wizard saw the blue sky of Toril one last time. A mighty crash of lightning thrust blinding-bright talons through devils. Sleek obsidian and crimson bodies twisted in pain as they burned, their blood blazing up in red flames even as their scorched ashes fell to the uncaring rocks below.

  “To Hell with ye all,” Elminster murmured sardonically. He closed his hands into fists and drew forth the silver fire within him, as small and precise an unleashing of it as he could manage. When the rift closed, he’d almost certainly lose touch with the Weave and Mystra and be unable to regain magical power. Silver fire consumed the rings and bracers and even the vestments he wore.

  Strange singings and snarlings filled his ears as enchantments dissolved, flowing through him to spin in glowing blue-white flames around his hands. The racing fires of his magics hummed with comforting power as they crackled, spat, and grew stronger. The Old Mage’s clothes became tatters. Ancient metal bands around his fingers fell away in dust and were gone. His hat burst into a blue flame that sank down into his long tresses. He called in its power. A dagger in one boot crumbled, then the boot itself. He said a fond mental farewell to his favorite pipe ere it fell into ash. In its last tumbling moments El spent tiny bolts of his precious magic to guide his fall, turning in the air to swoop back to the rift.

  The scar was growing, spitting vicious lightning in all directions across the dark sky of Avernus. Bolts arced across the bloody vault like so many angry stars streaking to fading falls. Far below, many red, glistening eyes looked upward at the deadly splendor.

  Lightning clawed the air nearby, and the gaunt old wizard sent forth blue fire from his fingertips to snare it, or some part of it, to turn that raging energy to his task.

  The bolt plucked him from the sky like a gnat caught in a gale, whirling him away. His teeth chattered, his hair quivered on end, and the hoarse beginnings of a scream froze in his throat. Caught in its grip, Elminster of Shadowdale could not have moved even a finger. Fires charred him black. Surging, searing force flung his arms and legs rigid into a scorched star, and then threw him across the sky.

  When he could see again, tiny lightnings streamed from his nose. The rift was a bright, distant fire in the red sky. Its flames were suddenly blotted out by a black and grinning form, horn-headed and bright-eyed, racing through the air with claws outstretched to rend stricken wizards.

  “Tharguth,” Elminster murmured, recalling an old grimoire’s name for such devils—abishai, these were, for he saw a second and third swooping along in the wake of the first.

  Then there was no more time to think; the abishai rushed at him like a striking hammer.

  It tore at the air eagerly with its claws as it came, its poisonous tail curled up beneath it to stab if need be. Elminster looked into the devil’s exulting eyes. He felt a rush of warmth and the vinegarlike tang of its hide as its jaws gaped wide. Its head turned on an angle to bite out his throat. He fed it fire, searing claws and head alike to nothingness in an instant and letting it tumble away into the rocky darkness below.


  The second abishai was coming too fast to veer; El twisted away from one sky-raking claw and sent a tiny blue-white bolt of his magic into the howling mouth of the third winged devil. Its head exploded. Its racing body arched back and clawed the air in silent, spasmodic agony as it rushed past.

  A flight spell was one of the few left to the Old Mage; fearful the magic roiling within him might twist and shatter it, he cast it with infinite care. Another tiny tithe of power gave him greater speed than the spell alone could furnish. He needed to get back to the rift, swiftly.

  He did not need to look back or hear the snarls of rage to know that the second abishai had turned to come after him. The sky was full of tharguth now—black and green and even the larger, more cruel red abishai. Their eyes blazed like pairs of ruby flames as they rose to hunt him. Their cries of rage and glee rose into a roar that overtopped the thunder of the rent. It grew larger … and larger.…

  Elminster Aumar was not the least of Mystra’s Chosen, but neither was he a great and vigorous creature of battle. Like a tiny blue-white star, he raced across the sky of Avernus.

  Dark red dragons glided now among the devils, biting and pouncing like great cats, preying hungrily on this flock of flying food. Little spike-studded gargoyle-devils, spinagons, were in the sky, too, darting and ducking aside from the tharguth. Looking back, El saw the abishai that pursued him gutted from belly to throat by something winged and hungry. It flew away almost faster than he could turn his head.

  His gaze fell for a moment to the land below and its twisting ribbon of red that could only be a river of blood. His attention flicked up again to the swift beat of those elusive wings. The flying slayer was slowing to a halt, standing on air to watch him. Their eyes met.

  El found himself looking into the eyes of a lone devil beating feathered wings in the sky. She was sleek and graceful and deadly, dusky-hued and more beautiful than any mortal woman: an erinyes, doubtless a spy for a greater devil dwelling deeper in the Nine Hells.