The Temptation of Elminster Read online

  Something flickered nearby, in several places. Struggling to clear the dust from watering eyes and see, the four adventurers could not help but notice two things through the swirling dust: the booted feet above were still exactly where they had been, and the flickerings were pulsing radiances playing rapidly up and down the four stone pillars.

  “He moves!” Iyriklaunavan shouted suddenly, pointing upward. “He moves! I’ll …”

  The rest of his words were lost in a sudden grinding, rumbling noise that shook the floor tiles under their boots. The light dancing down the pillars suddenly flashed into brightness, gleaming back from four tensely raised weapons. Stone facings on all of the pillars slid down into the floor, leaving behind openings that stretched the height of the pillars.

  Something filled those openings, dimly seen as the radiances died away, leaving only the ruby embers of the torch on the floor. Folossan dived for that torch, blowing hard on it and coughing in the swirling dust with each breath he took. He thrust a fresh torch against the old one and blew on where they met.

  The others were peering suspiciously at what filled the floor-to-ceiling channels in the pillars. It was something pale and glistening that writhed in the channels like maggots crawling over a corpse. Pearly white here, dun-hued there, like rice glistening under a clear sauce but expanding outward, as if flexing and stretching after a long confinement.

  The new torch flared, and in the newly leaping light Nuressa saw enough to be certain. “Lossum—get out of there!” she shouted. “All of you! Back—out of this place—now!”

  She had distinctly seen pale flesh peel and wrinkle back to unhood a green-gray eye … and there was another, and a third. These were forests of eyestalks!

  And the only creatures she knew of that had many eyes on stalks were beholders, the deadly eye tyrants of legend. The others knew the same tales and were sprinting through the settling dust toward her now, all thoughts of tomb plunder and laden sacks of treasure forgotten.

  Behind the hurrying adventurers, as Nuressa watched, eyes winked and came to life and began to focus.

  “Hurry!” she bellowed, drawing in enough dust to make her next words a croak. “Hurry … or die!”

  A glow suddenly encircled one eye, then another—and burst into beams of golden light that stabbed out through the dust, parting it like smoke, to scorch the heels of hurrying Folossan and the wall beside Iyriklaunavan. Amandarn darted past Nuressa, stinking of fear, and the warrior woman pressed herself against the wall so as not to block the passage of her other two desperately hurrying companions. The elf then the dwarf clattered past, cursing in continuous babblings, but Nuressa kept her eyes on the pillars. Four columns of awake and alert eyes were peering her way now, radiances growing around many of them.

  “Gods,” she gasped, in utter terror. Oh let them be fixed here, unable to follow.…

  A ruby beam of light from one eye stabbed at Nuressa and she ducked away, sparks erupting along the edge of her war sword. Sudden heat seared her palm. As a dozen golden beams lanced through the dust at her, she threw the blade over her head, back behind her out of the chamber. She wheeled in the same motion to flee headlong after it, diving for safety as something burst near her left ear with a sound like rolling thunder. Stones began to fall in a hard and heavy rain.

  It feels odd, to stand on air, neither solid like stone, nor the slight yielding of turf under one’s boots. In dry and dusty darkness … where by Mystra’s sweet kisses was he?

  Memory flowed around him like a river, cloaking him against madness for so long that it would not answer his bidding now. There was a tingling in his limbs. Great power had struck him, forcefully, only moments ago. A spell must have been hurled his way … so a foe must be near.

  His eyes, so long dry and frozen in place, would not turn in their sockets, so he had to turn his head. His neck proved to be stiff and set in its pose, so he turned his shoulders, wheeling his whole body, as the walls drifted slowly past, and dust fell away from him in wisps and ropes and huge clods.

  The walls drifting … he was sinking, settling down through the air, released from … what?

  Something had trapped him here, despite his clever walking on air to avoid traps and guardian spells. Something had seized on the magic holding him aloft and gripped it as if in manacles, holding him immobile in the darkness.

  A very long time must have passed.

  Yet something had shattered the spell trap, awakening him. He wasn’t alone, and he was descending whether he wanted to or not, heading toward … what?

  He strained to see and found eyes looking back at him from all sides. Malevolent eyes, set in columns of pale eyestalks that danced and swayed with slow grace as they followed his fall, radiances growing around them.

  Some strange sort of beholder? No, some of the stalks were darker, or stouter, or larger all around than others … these were beholder eyestalks, all right, but they’d come from many different beholders. Those radiances, of course, could only mean him harm.

  He still felt oddly … detached. Not real, not here, but still afloat in the rush of memories that named him … Elminster, the Chosen One—or at least a Chosen—of Mystra, the dark-eyed lady of all magic. Ah, the warmth and sheer power of the silver fire that flowed through her and out of her, pouring from her mouth, locked onto his, to snarl and sear and burn its agonizing, exhilarating way through every inch of him, leaking out nose and ears and his very fingertips.

  Light flared and flashed, and Elminster felt new agony. His dry throat struggled to roar, his hands clawed uncontrollably at the air, and his guts seemed afire and yet light and free.

  He looked down and found silver fire raging and sputtering around him, spilling restlessly out of his stomach along with something pale, bloody, and ropy that must be his own innards. Fresh fire flashed, and a searing pain and sizzle marked the loss of his hair and the tip of an ear along the right side of his head.

  Anger seized him, and without thinking Elminster lashed out, raking the air with silver fire that shattered and scattered a score of reaching magical beams on its way to claw at struggling eyestalks.

  Eyes melted away, winking and weeping and thrashing with futile radiances sparking and flickering around them. El wasted no time watching their destruction, but turned to point at another pillar and sear its column of eyestalks from top to bottom.

  He knew not what magics preserved all these severed eyestalks, but Mystra’s flames could rend all Art, and flesh both alive and undead. Elminster turned to scorch another column of angry eyes. He was still sinking, his guts sagging out in front of him, and with each bolt of silver fire something beyond the pillars glowed in answer. Eye-born beams of deadly magic were stabbing at him in earnest now, failing before the divine fire of Mystra. The angry crackle and the surflike rising and falling roar of much unleashed magic was howling about the chamber like a full-throated winter storm, shaking the wizard’s long-unused limbs.

  A last column of eyes darkened and died, to droop and dangle floorward, weeping dark sludge that mirrored Elminster’s own tile-drenching flow of vital fluids. He clawed at his own innards, tucking them back inside himself with hands that blazed with silver flames, and was still about it, feeling sick and weak despite the roused, surging divine power, when his boot heels found something solid at last. He stumbled, all balance gone, staggered, and almost fell before he got his feet planted firmly. Dust swirled up anew around him, crackling angrily as it met surging silver fire. Beyond the pillars, runes graven on the steps and casket of what must be a tomb flashed and crackled with flames of their own, mirroring every roar of Mystra’s fire.

  Gasping as agony caught at him, El bent his efforts to healing the great wound in his middle, ignoring the last few flickering eyes. The flowing silver fire would, he hoped, catch and rend their spells before he was harmed. His blood had fallen in a dark rain on the tiles during his descent, and he felt emptied and torn. The last mage of Athalantar snarled in wordless anger and determinatio
n.

  He had to get himself whole and out of this place before the stored silver fire faded and failed him, retreating to coil warmly around his heart and rebuild itself. Whatever had entrapped him before could well do so again if he tarried, and his present agony had been caused by only one eyestalk attack. He turned slowly, bent over with silver flames licking between trembling fingers, and held his guts in place as he moved haltingly toward the place where dim daylight was coming from.

  Eyestalks flashed forth fresh beams of ravening magic to scorch floor tiles inches behind Elminster’s shuffling boots. Sealing the last of his great wound, he slashed behind him with a sheet of silver flame, shielding himself from more attacks.

  Behind him, unseen, the surviving eyestalks all went limp and dark in the same instant. In the next breath, the runes on the tomb acquired a steady, strengthening glow. Small radiances winked amid the metallic curtain above it, climbing and descending like curious but excited spiders, flaring forth ever stronger.

  Elminster found his way out into the waiting light, half expecting arrows or blades to bite at him while he was still blinking at the dazzling brightness of full daylight. Instead, he found only four frightened faces staring at him over a distant remnant of wall.

  He tried to call to them, but all that emerged was a dry, strangled snarl. El coughed, gargled, and tried again, managing a sort of sob.

  The elf behind the wall lifted a hand as if to cast a spell, but the dwarf and the human male flanking him struck that hand aside. A furious argument and struggle followed.

  El fixed his eyes on the fourth adventurer—a woman watching him warily over the crazed and crumbling edge of a great sword that had been struck by lightning or something of the sort not very long ago—and managed to ask, “What … year … is this?”

  “Year of the Missing Blade, in early Mirtul,” she called back, then, seeing his weary lack of comprehension, added, “In Dalereckoning, ’tis seven hundred and fifty-nine.”

  El nodded and waved his thanks, on his stumbling way to lean against a nearby pillar and shake his head.

  He’d been exploring this tomb—a century ago?—seeking to learn how the mightiest archwizards of Netheril had faced death. Some insidious magical trap had ensnared him so cleverly that he’d never even noticed his fall into stasis. For years, it seemed, he’d hung frozen near the ceiling. Elminster the Mighty, Chosen of Mystra, Armathor of Myth Drannor, and Prince of Athalantar stood in midair, a handy anchor for spiderwebs, acquiring a thick cloak of dust and cobwebs.

  Careless idiot. Would that ever change, the hawk-nosed mage wondered briefly, if he lived to be a thousand years old or more?

  Perhaps not. Ah, well, at least he knew he was an idiot. Most wizards never even make it that far. El drew in a deep breath, dodged behind the pillar as he saw the elf glaring at him and raising his hands again, and sorted through his memories. These were the spells—and that one would serve. He had a world to see anew, and decades of lost history to catch up on.

  “Mystra, forgive me,” he said aloud, calling up the spell.

  There came no answer, but the spell worked as it was supposed to, plucking him up into a brief maelstrom of blue mists and silver bubbles that would whisk him elsewhere.

  Abruptly, the figure behind the pillar was gone.

  “I could have had him!” Iyriklaunavan cursed. “Just a few moments longer, and—”

  “You could’ve had us killed in a spell duel, right here,” Amandarn hissed. “Shouldn’t we be getting away from here? That man was freed from how we found him, those eyes sprouted from the pillars … what else is waking up, in there?”

  Folossan rolled his eyes and said, “Am I hearing rightly? A thief, walking away from treasure?”

  The wealth redistributor eyed him coldly. “Try saying it thus,” he replied. “ ‘Hurrying away from likely death, in the interests of staying alive.’ ”

  The dwarf looked up at the silent warrior woman beside him.

  “Nessa?”

  She let out a deep, regretful sigh, then said briskly, “We run, away, as swift as we can on these loose stones. Come—now.” She turned, a hulking figure in blackened armor, and began to shoulder her way around pillars and stub-ends of fallen walls.

  “We’re barely twenty paces from the strongest magic I’ve seen in decades,” the elf mage protested, waving a hand at the darkness.

  Nuressa turned, hands on hips, and said tartly, “Hear my prediction: it’s not only the strongest magic you’ve seen—it’s the strongest you’ll ever see, Iyrik, if you tarry here much longer. Let’s get gone before dark … and while we still can.”

  She turned away once more. Folossan and Amandarn cast regretful glances at the hall they’d fled from, but they followed.

  The elf in maroon robes cursed, took one longing step around the end of the wall as if to return to the tomb, then turned to follow his companions. A few paces later he stopped and looked back.

  He sighed and went on his way, never seeing what came out of the tomb to follow him.

  The second torch died down. In the near total darkness that followed, the runes on the steps of the tomb blazed like so many altar candles. From somewhere there came a rhythmic thudding, as if from an unseen, distant drum. The lights winking and playing in the curtain above the dark stone casket began to race about, washing down over the stone tomb as showers of sparks that sank into the runes they touched and caused little flames to flare up briefly from the stone. A mist or wispy smoke came with them, and a faint echo that might have been an exultant chant mingled briefly with the thudding.

  The runes flared into blazing brilliance, faded, flashed almost blinding-bright—then abruptly went out, leaving all in darkness and silence.

  The embers of the torch gave just enough light, had anyone been in the tomb, to see the massive lid of the casket hovering just above its sides. Through the gap between them, something emerged from the tomb and swirled around the room.

  It was more a wind than a body, more a shadow than a presence. Like a chill, chiming whirlwind it gathered itself and drifted purposefully toward where the sunlight beckoned. Living things that had been in the tomb not long ago still walked … for a little while yet.

  PART I

  THE LADY OF SHADOWS

  One

  A FIRE AT MIDNIGHT

  Azuth remains a mysterious figure—sometimes benevolent, sometimes ruthless, sometimes eager to reveal all, sometimes deliberately cryptic. In other words, a typical mage.

  Antarn the Sage

  from The High History of

  Faerûnian Archmages Mighty

  published circa The Year of the Staff

  “Tempus preserve us!”

  “Save the prayers, fool, and run! Tempus’ll honor your bones if you don’t hurry!”

  Pots clanged together wildly as Larando cast them aside, rucksack and all, and sprinted away through the knee-deep ferns. A low branch took his helm off, and he didn’t even pause to try to grab at it.

  Panting, the priest of Tempus followed, sweat dripping from his stubbled chin. Ardelnar Trethtran was exhausted, his lungs and thighs aching from all the running—but he dared not collapse yet. The tumbled towers of Myth Drannor were still all around them … and so were the lurking fiends.

  Deep, harsh laughter rolled out of the trees to Ardelnar’s left—followed by a charging trio of barbazu, their beards dripping blood. They were naked, their scaled hides glistening with the gore of victims as well as the usual slime. Broad shoulders rippled, and batlike ears and long, lashing tails bobbed exultantly as they came bounding along like playful orcs, black eyes snapping with glee. They flung away the bloody limbs of some unfortunate adventurer they’d torn apart and swarmed after Larando, shouting exultant jests and boasts in a language Ardelnar was glad he couldn’t understand. They waved their heavy, saw-toothed blades like toys as they hooted and snorted and hacked, and it took them only a few moments to draw blood. Larando screamed as one frantically flailing arm went flyi
ng away from him, severed cleanly by a shrewd strike.

  The competing bearded fiend wasn’t so deft; the warrior’s other arm was left dangling from his shoulder, attached to his body by a few strips of bloody flesh. When Larando moaned and collapsed, two of the fiends used their saw-toothed blades to lift him in an improvised cradle, and run along with him so the third barbazu could have some sport involving the warrior’s innards and carving openings to allow them to briefly see the wider world.

  Larando’s head was lolling despite the brutal slaps being dealt him, as Ardelnar fled in a different direction. The priest’s last glimpse of his friend was of a beautiful winged woman—no, a fiend, an erinyes—swooping down out of the trees with a sickle in her hands.

  Giant gray-feathered wings beat above a slender body that was shapely and pale wherever cruel barbed armor didn’t cover it. Scowling black brows arched with glee, a pert mouth parted as the she-fiend’s tongue licked her lips in anticipation, and she sliced, twisted, and flew on, waving a bloody trophy. Behind her, gore spattered all over the barbazu as they howled their disappointment, a headless corpse thrashing and convulsing in their midst.

  “Tempus forgive my fear, I pray,” Ardelnar managed to stammer through white and trembling lips, as he fought down nausea and ran on. It had been a mistake to come here, a mistake that looked very much like it was going to cost all of them their lives.

  The City of Song was no open treasure pit, but the hunting ground of fiends. These malevolent creatures would hide, letting adventurers venture freely into their midst to wander the very ruins of the riven city. Then they’d trap the intruders and take cruel sport in slaying them as a sort of hunt-and-run game.

  Tales of such cruelty were told in taverns where adventurers gather. That was why three famous and very independent companies of adventurers had uneasily joined in a pact and gone into Myth Drannor together. Surely seven mages, two of them archwizards of note, could handle a few bat-winged …