Realms of infamy a-2 Read online

  Manshoon wasn’t the only one in the Keep with secret weapons. Chess could call forth a loyal dragon from the ring whenever the need might come. That might be as soon as tomorrow, he thought grimly as he reached for his goblet once more.

  “We’ve been foes more years than I can remember,” Lord Amandon said, rising. His guest had arrived swiftly, indeed.

  Sweat from the effort of standing sprang out on the old lord’s brow. A moment later, he felt himself borne on unseen hands back to bed, to settle once more among the cushions. The pain and trembling eased-but all his will could not entirely stifle a whimper.

  “Be at ease, Lord Amandon,” said his guest, standing cloaked in shadow. “Greeting me should not bring ye death.”

  The old lord raised an eyebrow. “Myrkul stands ready at my door… ‘tis why I sent for you. I need Manshoon stopped, but not slain.”

  “When, and how?”

  “As soon as next highsun, I fear… at the meeting of the ruling council.”

  “A meeting so guarded by spells that my approach would call forth all the mages, priests, and armsmen Zhentil Keep can muster.”

  “There is a way in,” Lord Amandon replied. “Take the shape of a being who is expected, and you’ll be free to enter.”

  “I smell a trap.”

  “Aye,” Amandon said. “There is… But not for your skin. Certain secret names I’ve learned, coupled with your power, can entrap a being, to its death. I give you my word-as battlelord of Zhentil Keep and as an Amandon: I mean no attack against you.”

  “I believe ye,” came the voice from the shadows.

  Lord Amandon sighed. “You show more trust than most in this city, these days.”

  “Lack of trust is a more widespread problem than ye may think, Lord,” was the dry reply. “Now, these secret names-”

  At the heart of the High Hall of Zhentil Keep was a vast, echoing room. Usually it stood empty. Today every seat was taken, and those who could not find seats in the council chamber, but had importance enough to force admittance, stood on the stairs, anxious at what might occur-and even more anxious not to appear so. Rumors about the rise of the Zhentarim and the growing anger of the nobles enfolded the city like a cloak on a chill night. Would the cold-faced priests of Bane stop the wizards’ grab for power with spells of their own? That might plunge the city into spell-battle and ruin. Or would they remain as impartial as they’d always claimed to be?

  Through the murmur of excited talk, bright morning light fell past the shoulders of standing citizens into the oval well of concentric benches to splash the central debating floor with sunfire. Lord Chess looked grimly down from his seat into that pool of light and stroked one of his rings.

  One man stood alone in the brightness-a man in rich robes, who surveyed the chamber as if he owned it and every person there; a man hated more than most, in a city of many hatreds: Manshoon of the Zhentarim, first lord of Zhentil Keep.

  He gave the crowded benches that soft half-smile many had learned to fear, then said, “There is just one matter more.”

  Manshoon took a thick sheaf of parchment from a front bench and waved it. One scrip escaped his grasp and fluttered away. Someone snickered, but Manshoon crooked an eyebrow and let his hand fall open. The papers began circling his head in a slow, stately ring.

  “These reports cite increased aggressions by our foes,” he said, his voice carrying to the uppermost reaches of the chamber. “See how many there are?”

  He indicated one paper. “Here we read of citizens slain by villainous, deluded followers of the discredited high imperceptor.”

  He pointed at a group of parchments. ‘There we read of unfair fees and taxes heaped upon our merchants by no less than seven cities of the Dragon Reach.”

  Manshoon’s finger moved again. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to report of open assaults on our caravans by the brigands who style themselves the Cult of the Dragon!”

  The first lord spread his hands. “Is this not monstrous? Should we not sharpen our swords and ready our spells?”

  “No,” someone replied flatly from the middle benches. There was a murmur of laughter.

  Manshoon let it run its course and die. “Yet there’s more. Much more. The survival of our very city is at stake!” “It always has been,” someone called. “Aye, show us something new to back up those old words!”

  Manshoon replied, “Very well. Look, all! Look well?’ He waved a hand and stepped back. The debating floor darkened. Motes of light winked and sparkled in that magical gloom, swirling suddenly into the ghost-form of a robed man. The stranger sneered, then raised one hand to shape an intricate gesture. A soundless bolt of lightning lashed out from that hand into the upper benches. Councilors cringed back-and then gaped as images of three Zhentarim wizards well-known in the city suddenly appeared among the benches. These ghost mages hurled back magics of their own.

  The harmless shadows of sparking, slaying spells flashed and leapt. Manshoon stood calmly in the midst of their silent fury and said, “I call on the high priest of the Black Altar!”

  Fzoul rose and bowed gravely. His flowing red hair and moustache stood out like frozen flames against the dark splendor of his robes.

  Manshoon asked in loud, solemn tones, “Are these images false?”

  Fzoul held up a gem that filled his fist and glowed with magical radiance. He peered through it at the spell-phantoms, then shook his head. “No. These images record what truly befell.” He bowed again and sat down.

  “Behold,” Manshoon said triumphantly, pointing at the image of the stranger-phantom. “A Red Wizard of Thay!” He surveyed the dumbfounded councilors and added, “Confronted as you see, in this very chamber, two nights ago!”

  Silent spells splashed and grappled. Sudden green flames raced up the Red Wizard’s limbs. The struggling man’s flesh dissolved in the inferno until only black, writhing bones remained. The watching councilors saw those bones collapse into ash.

  In the hushed silence that followed, Manshoon’s voice carried clearly. “Saw you the scroll at his belt?” The smoking image faded as he waved at it, but many councilors nodded.

  “I recognized it,” the first lord said grimly, “and checked our records chamber. The naval treaty we recently signed with Thay is missing! We are defenseless against Thayan piracy-but the concessions we surrendered to get that agreement are still lost to us.”

  Manshoon raised his arms and voice together as he looked around at the benches. “And this is but a piece of paper! What if this wizard had come with killing spells, seeking your money? Or your throat? Or your children, to sell into slavery?”

  There was an excited, angry buzz, as councilor looked to councilor. Manshoon let it grow into a roar, then waved for silence.

  “Zhentil Keep needs strong guardians against such perils. You saw the bravery and skill of three Zhentarim with your own eyes, preventing the destruction of this hall-or worse. I can keep this city safe with more stalwart, loyal mages such as these… But I need your permission to do so.” He stepped forward grandly, so sunlight outlined him. “I must have the right and the power to defend you!”

  Then Manshoon continued more quietly, “I must be free to train and equip forces to properly defend our city. I must have the authority to whelm and direct them in emergencies. I move that the formal powers of the first lord of Zhentil Keep-my powers-be so increased.”

  The chamber erupted. Red-faced old nobles pounded fists on their benches and bellowed, “Never!” There were shouts of “Tyranny!” and others of “Well said!” There were also cries of “Let the lord speak!” and “Wisdom at last!”

  From out of the tumult, somewhere in the upper benches, came the wink and flash of a dagger spinning end-over-end through the air. Manshoon calmly watched it come. At the last instant, after most councilors had seen the whirling blade, the first lord waved his hand and muttered a word. The blade blossomed into a small shower of sparks and was gone.

  Fzoul Chembryl rose, dark robes swirling
. His voice was loud and level. “From chaos and strife can come only harm. Whatever is decided here, we must have order in this city, and the rule of law.” He surveyed the hall slowly and sternly before he added, “We have heard a proposal of some controversy-and seen the clear urgency behind that proposal. Let us put this matter to a vote. Let this council decide-now!”

  One old nobleman protested, “Matters of import shouldn’t be decided in haste! This is not well done! This council never speaks or acts hastily!”

  High Priest Fzoul answered coolly, “Daggers are never thrown in this council chamber, either.” He folded his robes around himself with dignity and sat down.

  A young lord rose and shouted over the angry talk that followed. “Let us have a vote. Something must be done, or we all waste our time here!”

  There were supportive cries of “A vote! A vote!” Most seemed to come from the benches where wizards sat.

  Manshoon nodded. “A vote has been called. Will any other councilor speak for it?”

  “I speak for it!” cried an excited young noble in the upper benches, to be answered by a slithering of hisses.

  Manshoon’s voice silenced them all. “A vote has been twice called, and the duty of this council is clear. Let us vote.”

  Fzoul stood again. “By rule, any vote for or against a first lord is called by the senior priest present-yet I think it not right for the servants of holy Bane to act so boldly in this purely secular business of Zhentil Keep. If Councilor Urathyl will honor us?”

  The young noble who’d seconded the call rose, flushed with pride. “The first lord asks this council to increase his powers and those of the Zhentarim he commands. Who stands in support of this request?”

  Here and there around the chamber councilors came silently to their feet. There were not many. Urathyl counted them twice, including himself, and called the count-nineteen-to Fzoul, who confirmed it.

  Less happily, the young noble drew breath and said, “Let all against the request stand to be counted.”

  Benches scraped and echoed all over the chamber. Urathyl counted and called forty-six councilors.

  Fzoul bowed. “The count is correct, and has Bane’s blessing. The request is den-”

  “Wait!” The strong, sour voice of Lord Phandymm cut across the high priest’s words. Fzoul bowed, surrendered the floor with a gesture, and sat down.

  The senior noble, known as a loud opponent of the Zhentarim, struggled to his feet. He was trembling, and his solemn face slipped into fleeting contortions several times. His hands clutched at his bench for support. “I–I think we are too hasty, and have voted with our hearts, with too little regard for the safety of fair Zhentil Keep. It irks many of us-myself included-”

  Phandymm’s eyes grew wild, and he gabbled for a moment before his voice cleared. “Irks us, I say, to see one so young making what some see as an arrogant, dangerous grab for the scepter of absolute rule over our city. And yet… if we set aside our anger, what he proposes is only sensible! Have we not seen the perils lurking in the shadows of this very hall? Have w-w-weee-?”

  The noble’s face twisted and spasmed again. His body Jerked about as if buffeted by unseen hands. He passed trembling fingers over his face, and sat down. “I–I cannot say more,” he mumbled.

  “Magic,” a councilor shouted suddenly. “Someone’s using magic on Phandymm!”

  “Magic! Through the spell-shields?”

  “Aye, Zhentarim magic!”

  A Zhentarim wizard rose angrily. “I resent that charge! Will the high priest examine Lord Phandymm? I am confident no spell will be found upon him!”

  Fzoul rose and bowed again. “As this meeting unfolds,” he said dryly, “it occurs to me that perhaps I should simply remain standing.” There were chuckles amid the growing tension. Again Fzoul peered through the glowing gem to seek out any trace of sorcery-and frowned.

  “I find no magic,” the high priest said firmly. “But there is something…”

  He crooked a finger, and a small flask rose from th breast of the hunched lord’s robe, sparkling as it drifte smoothly into the air. All could see the potent wine within.

  “Ah,” Fzoul said, amid a spreading ripple of laughte When the mirth had diminished, he let the flask sink bac and said delicately, “Lord Phandymm seems in some. emotional distress, but his deep feelings for the safety of our city are clear. And from the wisdom of more years than most of us boast, he has called for a revote.”

  The Zhentarim wizard who’d denied the presence of magic sprang to his feet, voice triumphant. “I move a revote proceed!”

  Councilor Urathyl almost fell over his feet as he rose to shout, “I speak in support!”

  Fzoul bowed again. “A revote must now occur.”

  Manshoon sat silently at his front bench, smiling a little. His gaze never left the face of the sweating Lord Phandymm.

  From his high vantage, Lord Chess saw a little glow in the first lord’s eyes, and was sure: magic. He leapt to his feet. “Enough, Manshoon-and all of you Zhentarim! Let all foul magic be left outside this hall. The councilors of Zhentil Keep must deliberate with clear wits!”

  Manshoon turned his burning gaze from Phandymm-who fell back senseless in his seat, head lolling-to Chess.

  The nobleman felt a sudden heaviness tearing at his mind. He gasped, then roared in fury as he felt his tongue thicken and words come unbidden into his mouth.

  The first lord smiled at him as cruelly as any cat cornering his prey.

  Chess glared into that mocking smile as he struggled against his own muscles. The lesser rings of protection on his fingers smoked, flared into tiny blue flames, and burned away. The searing pain cleared his senses. Desperately, Chess drove his arm up-it moved slowly, as if coming from a great distance-to stare at the one ring still on his hand. It flashed.

  Sudden golden radiance swirled in the air over the central well of the High Hall. It spun ever-brighter until the stunned councilors saw it become a large black dragon, vast and scaled, its head like a gigantic horned snake. Mighty wings clapped, once.

  The wind of that wingbeat smashed many men flat against their benches. The dragon hissed, loud and angry. Acid foamed and bubbled at the edges of its jaws, and the chamber was suddenly full of the eye-watering stink of its breath.

  Men screamed. The dragon turned its snakelike head, terrible hunger and mirth in its eyes. With its tail, the wyrm casually smashed a councilor and his bench into a bloody heap of pulp and splinters.

  That crash was answered with a ringing like angry bells as the tall windows of the chamber shattered-and true nightmare descended on the council.

  The dragon whirled, gleaming scales shifting.

  Three orbs, black against the bright sunlight, drifted into the chamber through the broken windows. Eyestalks writhed as each dark sphere looked down with a single unwinking, central eye. A large, many-toothed mouth split one sphere in cruel laughter.

  “Beholders!” a councilor shrieked.

  “The rumors were true!” another shouted. “The Zhentarim are in league with beholders!”

  All across the chamber, councilors and citizens shrieked and scrambled over benches in a frantic rush to flee. The dragon roared and spat a smoking plume of acid at the foremost beholder, but the air suddenly filled with glowing rays, which lanced out from the beholders’ many eyes. At their touch, the acid hissed into smoke.

  Lord Chess felt Manshoon’s mind-attack falter and fade. The noble flung himself under his bench and tried to reach the dragon’s mind, to turn its fury on the first lord before Manshoon could work worse magic.

  The dragon’s will was clear and hard, far mightier than the nobleman’s. Bent on destroying its many-eyed foes, the dragon ignored his silent commands. Chess growled in exasperation.

  Across the hall, Zhentarim mages came to their feet. They boldly ignored the dragon’s lashing tail and used the panic to follow their own dark plot. Triumphant sneers twisted their faces as they hurled balls of fire and bolts of li
ghtning at the keep’s proudest and most powerful nobles. Many lords snatched out magical rods and wands of their own, striking back with fury.

  Overhead the dragon roared in pain, writhing, as many rays stabbed at-and through-it Smoking wounds appeared all over its body, raining hot blood down on the men fighting below. Swords and knives flashed as men slashed and grappled along the benches. Chess tried again to reach the dragon’s mind, but felt from it pain that made him shout aloud and recoil so violently he cracked his head on the underside of the bench. When he’d recovered his senses, he settled on drawing his slim ceremonial sword.

  A Zhentarim mage hurried past. Chess rose as another wizard rushed by. Coolly, he ran the man through.

  The wizard coughed, convulsed, and hung heavily on the noble’s blade. As Chess wrested his steel free, ripples of radiant magic rolled out from the beholders to strike the dragon.

  The mighty wyrm flickered and grew pale as wave after wave of bright magic broke over it… until Chess thought he could see benches and struggling men through it.

  A breath later, the still-roaring dragon simply faded away.

  The noble looked around, blade raised. Zhentarim wizards were blocking every exit, using magic to hurl back fearful councilors, preventing all from leaving. Spells snatched blades from hands all over the chamber, or made drawn steel burn as if aflame. Even as his own blade seemed to catch fire, Chess saw a man curse as his sword clanged to the floor. Then Chess was forced to let his own weapon fall.

  Manshoon stood at the center of the hall, gloating openly. The wizard’s grin was wide as his gaze took in the moaning and the fallen. Then the first lord glanced up at the three beholders.

  His triumphant smile slid suddenly into openmouthed astonishment. The beholder Manshoon knew as Arglath had turned-and rays lashed from its eyes to rend its two fellows.

  One eye tyrant burst, spattering stunned priests and mages below with its gore. The other spun through the air, torn apart and blazing, to crash down in ruin on a cluster of vainly shouting Zhentarim wizards. The treacherous beholder floated slowly across the chamber. Lord Chess cowered as its dark, awesome bulk halted above him, eyestalks curling like a nest of angry snakes.