Elminster Enraged sos-3 Read online

  Powerful magic. At his behest earth and stones flew in all directions, his reckless blasting magics opening up a deep, raw pit in front of the cave.

  Down, down, five man-heights and more, and still his spells tore and clawed and dug. He had to make certain Elminster was gone. Shattered, dead-utterly, completely dead.

  “Where is his blood?” Manshoon shrieked. “Where?”

  Fury overwhelmed him, red and yellow mists flooding his mind and blinding him. Through that haze he gasped and snarled out incantation after incantation, until every last battle spell was gone.

  Leaving him gasping in his beholder body, somewhere in the wilderlands nigh Shadowdale.

  Almost dazedly he worked the magic that would return him to human form. He would fly back to Suzail as a mist, as he, being a vampire, could. Back to the city where, in a cellar, one of his beholders would be shriveling and collapsing, ruined and gone.

  Yet if-if-he’d truly destroyed Elminster of Shadowdale at last, the loss of one enslaved eye tyrant would be nothing. Nothing at all. A price too small even to think about.

  Tentacles, eyestalks, and levitation melted away in a queasy shifting that still felt unsettling, even after thousands of transformations. And Manshoon found himself standing on the lip of his deep delve, silently seething.

  Elminster had to be dead. No one could have survived that!

  Yet he’d seen no body, not one smear of blood …

  Bah! His magic must have vaporized the old fool, reduced Elminster to dust lost amid all the sand and specks of dirt and rock drift.

  For an instant, as something made him calmer, Manshoon felt a slight sense of disorientation, as if gazing upon memories not his own. Then it passed and he promptly forgot the feeling, lost in a new confidence that took hold of him and told him firmly that Elminster was gone for good. Even if the Sage of Shadowdale wasn’t destroyed, the right thing for Manshoon to do was to move on, to proceed with life as if his hated nemesis was no more.

  Elminster was destroyed. The original Elminster, that is-for of course the fool would have copied Manshoon’s brilliant ploy, and crafted clones of himself. Any archmage would.

  “Which means,” the founder of the Zhentarim murmured aloud, as he turned slowly all around to make sure no one was watching, and no stricken Elminster was desperately crawling away, “I must now hunt down all the lesser, later Elminsters. To ensure the Old Mage is gone forever, never to return.”

  He could see no fleeing, cowering, or spying creature-not so much as a songbird. He was alone. Permitting himself a long, slow smile, Manshoon became mist. He circled the edge of the pit where his longtime foe had perished, then soared into the sky, flying in a wider circle and peering down to look for spies from on high.

  None. Finally, he allowed himself to gloat.

  “You found your doom at last, old goat of Shadowdale-and behold, it was me!” Great wild bellows of laughter rolled out of him then, in a flood of exultation.

  Mirth and triumph that died away all too soon in fresh anger as Elminster’s remembered taunts came to mind … the Old Mage’s laughing face, the Sage of Shadowdale defying him and lecturing him and … and …

  Bah! He’d rend them all, every one of those hated laughing faces. And the clones were just a part of the work ahead. Identifying and eliminating all of Elminster’s descendants must be part of this, too, for there was a chance-a good chance-the Sage of Shadowdale had hid “echoes” of himself inside them. It’s what he himself would do, after all, and Elminster was no better than he was, wherefore of course …

  So his victory this day was a beginning, not an end. It would take years to find and eliminate every clone and all of Elminster’s offspring, so he couldn’t drop all his other plans to do it. He would not.

  He, Manshoon Emperor-to-Be, would proceed with conquering Cormyr-just not declaring himself openly as ruler until he could be certain Elminster was gone. Rather, he’d use various human puppets, putting one after another on the throne to face all the work of ruling and the inevitable assassination attempts, leaving himself free to hunt Elminster, coerce nobles, and gather his own arsenal of blueflame items, too, if they were so important.

  Let Mystra, if Mystra truly had returned, treat him with respect for once. Favor Manshoon as he deserved to be favored.

  After all, if she could rely on Elminster-become intimate with Elminster, if the tales could be credited! — her tastes could not be too lofty to encompass Elminster’s better.

  And if there was no Mystra and the mad former queen of Aglarond had merely been raving, deluding herself into thinking Mystra was guiding her, he’d seen enough of what an idiotic young noble could do with blueflame ghosts to know blueflame magic was worth having, regardless.

  Yes. Yet he was getting ahead of himself. Return to Suzail first, to his bases there, the shop and home of Sraunter the alchemist and the half-ruined mansion of Larak Dardulkyn. There to sit and take wine and ponder. Decide which of his puppets to awaken, how precisely to proceed in conquering Cormyr, and where to begin seeking Elminster’s clones and blueflame items. It would not do to-

  Hah! Of course! He’d begin by hunting down Elminster’s three companions: Storm Silverhand, Lord Arclath Delcastle, and the dancer Amarune Whitewave. None of them could hide themselves as the Sage of Shadowdale could, with all his magic-and whatever remained of Elminster, be it a clone or offspring, would not be far from them. Or from Storm, at least. So she and the other two would readily lead any seeker to Elminster, time and again. It was simple, really, the moment one stopped to think about it.

  Right. Settled. Yet he had his own long-cherished schemes to set in motion first. He’d mind-touch his most recently subverted nobles-Crownrood, Andolphyn, Blacksilver, Loroun, and the rest-into doing this work for him. It was high time to start working in earnest on asserting control over suitable war wizards, too. Using both nobles and Crown mages to isolate the royal family and their few remaining trustworthy and effective courtiers, until they stood alone against those more loyal to him-and Manshoon could conquer his kingdom with ease.

  Yes. Ah, but it was time at last …

  “I haven’t noticed much eagerness on your part to seek my counsel before,” the spiderlike thing told her flatly. “Or even to accord me the minimum respect of addressing me, looking my way, or granting that I exist at all-when the king or Royal Magician aren’t present.”

  “So you admit you’re no longer Royal Magician of Cormyr?” Glathra snapped.

  Vangerdahast sighed. “Attacking, always attacking … young lady, d’you know how to do anything else?”

  Glathra Barcantle gave the little monster a sour glare. In truth, she was afraid of the infamous Vangerdahast. Not to mention revolted by what he’d become. A blackened human head trailing wisps of hair and beard, balanced atop an unpleasant wrinkled black sack of a body like an untidy collar, sprouting a spidery cluster of gray-black human fingers on which it scuttled along like a confident shore crab. She was looking at something that resembled a heap of human remains salvaged by a priest or wizard after a fiery death, for identification purposes. No longer a man or a “he” … no, this was an it.

  She hated it as much as ever.

  “I know how to do all that’s necessary to safeguard Cormyr,” she snapped, “and I’m doing so right now. Quite capably, despite whatever you may think. Kindly stop evading my question. I ask you again, thing: do you admit you are no longer the Royal Magician of the realm?”

  “I will always be Royal Magician, so long as I am Vangerdahast,” came the swift reply. “Yet I grant that Ganrahast is also Royal Magician of Cormyr. You seem unable to accept that state of affairs. Tell me, are all wizards of war so inflexible these days?”

  “And if we are?” Glathra spat.

  “Then I must needs test every last one of you, dismiss most of you, and begin training and rebuilding until Crown mages are once more fit to serve the realm. I’ve done it before.”

  “Oh? And you think we’ll just
heed and obey, I suppose? Accept your judgment, you who are a monster and not a man, who could be any devil or undead horror that has plundered the memories of Vangerdahast? You who demonstrate such a flexible grasp of Cormyr’s laws and rules and chains of command? I think not.”

  Snatching two wands from her belt, Glathra shook them in front of the thing on the shelf. “These are power! These can blast you back to whatever Hell you came from, if I so choose! These are very like the scores-hundreds-more, wielded by dedicated wizards of war all across this realm! Dodge mine, and you’ll be blasted down by wands aimed by the next loyal Crown mage! These make me every bit as useful to the Dragon Throne as some scuttling black thing from years gone by, who-”

  “Made all of those wands, and can master them,” Vangerdahast said softly-and sprang off the shelf, right at her face.

  With a shriek of rage and terror Glathra triggered both wands, frantically trying to blast the monster before it touched her. Staggering back, she tripped and fell over backward, aghast.

  The wands hadn’t awakened. She was clutching two sticks of whittled wood that bore no magic at all.

  Someone touched her bosom, fingers on her bared flesh. The spider-thing was walking along and up her body on its fingertips …

  The black, bearded face loomed over her, staring at her nose to nose, eyes afire.

  “Lady,” it said sternly, “I do not require you to like me, or be my friend-though it would be easier. I do require you to serve Cormyr, alongside me-or get out of the way. Don’t make me have to hurl you aside. Forever.”

  The fingertips moved past her collarbone, drawing near her throat. Their noses were almost touching.

  Vangerdahast gave her a wide, warm smile. “I can be charming, you know.”

  Glathra fainted.

  Mreldrake looked around at bare, yellowing walls that were by now all too boringly familiar, and couldn’t help but sigh. This was a prison, all right, a cell as secure as any deep dungeon lockhole-and he’d walked right into it. Willingly.

  Yes, he himself had kicked aside the last shreds of any doubt as to what sort of fool he was. Yet it was the first trap in which he’d ever been excited to be caught.

  Yes, excited. His despair had faded, and most of his bitterness at the narrowing prison his life had become was gone, too.

  Swept away in the mounting thrill of the magic he was working. For once, ideas for refining and manipulating the Art flooded into his mind, his thoughts often outracing his scribbling pen. Experiment after experiment was working, or at least shaping the unfolding enchantments well enough to reveal the way onward.

  For the first time in his life, he was truly excited at his own magical prowess.

  In this litter of notes and runes and scribbled incantations, with these powders and jars and braziers, he was creating magic-real magic, far beyond the silly make-yon-chamber pot-glow cantrips of his youth.

  Magic that could change kingdoms, change everything. Magic that could make its wielder the greatest mass murderer ever …

  The glaragh was in a hurry. Elminster raced along, his ashes swirling and tumbling in their own wind of haste, just to keep it in sight. Ahead, the passage was rising, and becoming well lit by frequent patches of overhead and high-wall fungi that the great worm ignored in its relentless race onward.

  What was the monstrous worm seeking? Or had it been there before, and had a destination?

  El tried to shake his head ruefully, though he had no head to shake. Well over a thousand summers, and I still know so little about Faerun. All my time I’ve spent fighting, worrying, or manipulating so I need not fight and so a few more folk may live rather than die … and failing in my strivings, too often failing …

  The passage hooked around a corner, and he heard sudden yells. Liquid, fluting voices-drow.

  By the time El got to where he could see them, they were all dead, crushed and bloody smears on the rocks, spears and handbows splintered and strewn about.

  The glaragh had burst right through a guard post and out into a great cavern beyond. It was headed straight for a dark prow of rock that jutted out into open space like the bow of some gigantic entombed ship of the gods-a wall of stone pierced by many balconies and ramparts, eerie glows of worm lamps and glow fungi showing through hundreds of windows.

  A drow citadel, its arraugra-the swifter and more elegant dark elf equivalent of what most humans called ballistae-cracking forth a rain of racing lances at the oncoming glaragh.

  El dodged one hissing lance instinctively, though a line of ashes really didn’t need to avoid anything, and peered at the rushing worm to see its reaction.

  Lance after lance thudded home-the thing’s hide wasn’t all that tough, after all-but the glaragh didn’t even seem to notice.

  The barrage ended as the drow defenders ran out of loaded and ready arraugra. El could see sleek dark bodies dashing around on balconies trying to reload, but the glaragh wasn’t waiting. It plunged straight into the midst of a hastily assembling wall of warriors in front of the citadel’s nearest gate, and kept right on going.

  It swept inside, where it couldn’t help but get stuck in the narrow passages and tiny rooms, smooth though their walls undoubtedly were. Dark elf architecture might favor the sweeping curve and the smooth surface, but tight quarters were tight-

  The glaragh thrust itself into a very narrow passage, thinning down like a ribbon, then suddenly surged. The rock around it groaned and shattered in countless places, falling away in a thunder of rubble from which the glaragh freed itself with two great sweeps of its tail, and surged on.

  There was a crack followed by a rumbling fall, and then the same tumult repeated itself. Mined at its heart, the great citadel was falling in.

  Much of the stronghold’s center-the prow itself-had been hollowed out by the glaragh in less time than it would take Elminster to get out a wand, and the glaragh was stabbing with its head into the open sides of shattered rooms, biting and sucking. Drow fought vainly against the pursuing tentacles thrusting out of the great worm’s sides-and were gone.

  Whereupon the glaragh fell silent and still.

  Then, the moment the echoes of its destruction had finally died and stillness had fallen, the creature suddenly rose again in one great heave. That mighty convulsion preceded a mental onslaught that smote Elminster like a tidal wave, a thunderous silent darkness that broke over his thoughts and almost swept him away, dragging him far closer to the glaragh than he’d ever intended to get.

  As it happened, he’d been watching some drow mages hurriedly claw out enchanted scepters to deal with the invader, so he saw the effects of the glaragh’s mind attack all too clearly. One moment the dark elves were all frenzied agility, scrambling to undo latches and pluck out wrapped and stored scepters-and the next, they crumpled like so many discarded puppets, emptied of will and wits, toppling like mindless meat to the floor. One even heedlessly impaled himself on his own scepter.

  Somehow-he never knew quite how-Elminster tore himself away from the glaragh’s pull, free of the dark and hungry mind that sought to lure and feed on his, and got a good look at the face of one fallen drow mage. Eyes blank, mouth open and drooling, everything slack. Mindless meat, to be sure.

  Behind him, the glaragh gave another great heave, slicing off the mind pull as if with a falling knife. Then the great worm veered. A lash of its tail swept more rooms down into ruin and gave it space enough to freely turn around and depart.

  It glided out into the cavern more slowly than it had charged the citadel, and paused. It seemed to sniff the available passages before choosing one-turning again into the breeze-and plunging on into the Underdark. The jaunty flick of its tail as it left the cavern behind seemed almost … satisfied.

  Elminster watched it go. He had already decided to stay behind in the citadel. Among so many mindless drow bodies, he might well find a new body for himself. Dark elves were nothing if not supple, and-Mystra!

  What by all the Nine Flaming Hells?


  He had not felt that sudden tingling stealing into him for years, had not thought to ever feel it again. A cool sweetness, the almost sensual rising tide within him that made him purr aloud involuntarily, a soft growling that spat brief silver flames in front of his nose.

  The silver fire.

  Mystra’s divine fire was flowing into him from somewhere nearby, somewhere in the shattered citadel!

  Astonished, Elminster forgot all about the glaragh and turned his attention to the ruins around him. The great prow had been split open, its center destroyed. Below him yawned a rubble-filled gulf. The prow had been reduced to two torn, separate walls of rock, with nothing between them but debris and a few sagging walls and pillars that wouldn’t stand for long ere they joined the heaped and broken stone below.

  He felt invigorated, stronger than ever. Well, of course he would, with this new fire in him-but he had to know who was dying, which Chosen of Mystra was sinking into death and yielding up their divine fire, leaking it out into the Realms around. He must know!

  And who dared to slay a Chosen of Mystra?

  Aglow with silver fire, wild with the excitement such energy always brought him, and hungry for more, the swift stream of radiant ashes that was Elminster arrowed down into the ruins.

  Who or what was waiting in there that could slay keepers of the divine fire of the goddess of all magic?

  CHAPTER THREE

  A CITADEL BECOME A TOMB

  El plunged into shattered rooms, through arches that leaned and ceilings that sagged, seeking silver fire.

  Its flow into him had faded swiftly after that first flood, down to a trickle. Which meant he had to hurry …

  Broken drow bodies were everywhere, half-buried in rubble, wet ribbons of blood running from under many stone piles.

  Less gruesome but more eerie were the last victims of the glaragh, the untouched but mindless bodies draped and sprawled atop the rubble.