Stormlight h-14 Read online

  Murndal studied the silvery metal wand. It was tipped with an emerald and sprouted sharp meted fins, collars, and rune-inscribed horns. As he watched, it pulsed slightly, as if a deep-buried power were awakening in it. He lifted his eyes hastily from its rising glow. "What is it?"

  "A decoy, of course. It has no powers save the ability to be traced by us at a distance-and to be violently destroyed by Insprin or myself, at a somewhat closer proximity."

  "So if our murderer-or anyone else-snatches it from the tomb, we can follow, and visit an explosion into the very hands that would try to use the thing against us."

  Broglan nodded.

  Murndal looked around the circle of curious, watching faces, broke into a sudden grin. "I'll do it." He rose. "Now?"

  "'Twould be best," his superior told him. "The sooner this lies in the tomb-on the table, perhaps, or 'fallen' beside it-the faster we can ensnare Lhansig's slayer."

  Murndal strode to his chamber. Shrugging himself into the cloak, he asked with a frown, "The guards?"

  "With that cloak, a minor problem," Broglan replied. "I'm about to send everyone on short missions at once, to give our patient Purple Dragons something to watch."

  The war wizards grew matching grins of anticipation. With a smile that was almost a purr, Broglan said, "Corathar and Hundarr, go to the old steward of the hall to borrow two of his tall braziers; don't press him if he refuses. Insprin, there's something vital-and for the time being, very secret-that you have to hunt down in the keep library … or perhaps in the seneschal's papers. I'll be needing at least one of those doorguards to go and get the boldshield for me-and the other to take custody of this execrable liqueur for me; it seems to bear some enchantment or other that's interfering with our work. Murndal, stand behind me and awaken the cloak."

  He waved at them to get gone. With nods and grins, they obeyed. The leader of the war wizards turned and held out his hand to the globe above the table, giving it a steady glare. Under his scrutiny, it began to flash and pulse, sending strange shadows leaping around the room. They almost entirely obscured the faint shimmering in the air right in front of him-Murndal in the cloak.

  Broglan nodded in satisfaction and turned to the door. "Mystra and Tymora both be with us now," he muttered, and laid a hand on the bar that kept non-wizards out.

  So it was that Murndal Claeron slipped out of the room quite unseen, and down the only hall that wasn't rapidly filling up with wary Purple Dragons. Curse that boldshield! He'd foreseen something like this, and posted what looked like at least three armsmen for each of the guest mages. It also seemed that, for the time being, he'd taken on the seneschal's crown-appointed duties, and would be resident in the keep until the killings were solved.

  Murndal stifled a heartfelt oath and hurried away from the jostling and chatter, hoping no narrowed eyes would notice the slight shimmering the cloak trailed in its wake. He was around the first dogleg corner and into deeper dimness ere he realized that this hall led into the Haunted Tower. He paused for a moment, looking back and then ahead-and then shrugged. What could a few phantoms do, after all? And with that open stair at the center, he could get to the crypt quickly indeed. After that, the kitchens awaited. That repast had been marvelous, and surely there must be some left…

  The lady in the long gown looked back over her shoulder, opened her mouth in a soundless scream, snatched up her trailing skirts, and ran on, fading away in midfrantic stride.

  "Haunted Tower, indeed," a voice said disgustedly. "That's not going to keep anyone away." Two hands lifted to work magic.

  The spell was newly gained, and so the casting, as always, was just a trifle awkward-but there were no charging adventurers or other foes to make haste necessary.

  Soon enough, the blue mists were swirling. Out of them, with a cold rattle of laughter, came the first of the skulls. With eyes of flame, it winked at its creator, and swooped off to the right as it was bid. The watcher smiled grimly as it plunged back into the mists, and made the fog drift into a ring around him.

  When the watcher was surrounded with a roiling barrier, he began to pace. No curious armsman or mage was likely to pass screaming skulls and mists that flickered with lightning. And this haunting, however harmless, would last until all the magic was drained from the enspelled daggers that the Summerstar fools had seen fit to inter with their fallen. To leave such things to rust away in a crypt! Truly, nobles were mad!

  Well, there'd be fewer of them soon enough. It was time to plot and plan in earnest … no matter how hard that was becoming.

  Hard indeed. A tremulous sigh echoed within the roiling ring of mist.

  The fire brought spells, and the skills to cast them. It could bring also important knowledge, and useful powers akin to spells-whatever mental properties the victims had possessed. But with such treasures came annoying memories.

  Floods of memories, bright and sharp and roaring and … oh, so heavy. Crowding and clamoring for attention, always, jostling along in an alluring flow that could spin one way, breathless, into being a man shivering on his first battlefield, side torn open, as the wolves came trotting nearer; then a woman shrieking under the brutish cruelty of her lord, in a room where the rippling blaze of candles brought no warmth nor comfort; and then a man again, watching from the battlements on a day of chill fog, as a falcon came streaking down to tear a dove from the air in a flurry of bloody feathers, and …

  On and on, for one heart-wrenching moment after another, until strength came to rise up out of the endless flood and know what was truly befalling here and now. The seneschal had known damned near every chamber and passage of this old keep, and the ways of the vale beyond. What he hadn't known was familiar to the Harper. Even those with paltry lives were best subsumed when met with-for a body emptied by the fire was forever mindless. Even if some meddler transformed an errant finger into a whole body, that body would be a brainless husk. . and brainless husks could be trusted to keep secrets.

  Secrets that must stand for a time longer, until no alarm among the Harpers or the Zhentarim or the Red Wizards or those who defended the crown of Cormyr could spell doom for the rising power in these two hands-the power that must triumph.

  Dimly, through the ever-increasing, racing chaos of stolen memories, the watcher could recall the taste of divinity. It had a tang like the iron of blood in a mortal mouth. . and yet, so much more. He ached to know that taste again, ached to be revered, and worshiped-and feared. It would come again. It would come again!

  Usurpers commanded the priests who should still be his. Usurpers wielded the power that was rightfully his. Usurpers made decrees and blundered through divine dealings, speaking where he should have spoken. All of this would end. Hands clenched in the dimness of this chamber at the heart of the Haunted Tower. Aye, all of this would end.

  It would take much more power, though. The power of that servant of accursed Mystra.

  His hands itched at the thought. Ah, to wield what she had. But he must take care. Subsuming the essence of a mortal was all too easy with the fire at his command. . but she could destroy him even without the aid of the others she could call on. He must be very careful.

  It was prudent to skulk within spell-spun walls of magical mist, to hide behind gibbering skulls and other madnesses folk wouldn't dare pass. Prudent, but hardly subtle. He must take great care in the days ahead.

  And he must feed again. He'd gained the wits and wariness of a hardened Harper and the wiles and local knowledge of a veteran warrior-but his magic was still all too feeble. There were only five war wizards left. The two older ones might have something of worth. . but slaying them was sure to bring more mighty mages, who'd arrive well prepared for trouble.

  What choice was there? For him to regain his rightful place, many must die. He needed to do more than shapeshift and subsume. He needed true power-the power to withstand the mightiest of spells once more, such as the wish magics of mortals. No one in this vale, perhaps in this realm, had what he needed….

>   But Storm Silverhand came close.

  He must move softly. Best to take the powers of some more mages first, and at least one better fighting man, before making any move against the woman with the silver hair. The Purple Dragon commander was probably the best target outside the ranks of the war wizards-but getting to him would take careful planning.

  The watchfulness of veteran soldiers and Storm Silverhand, though, were nothing when measured against the peril offered by the probes of a competent priest. There was a Harvestmaster of Chauntea about, and other clerics who'd known adventure, and seen life, and learned things.

  At all costs, he must avoid being recognized for what he was. Thoughtful hands stroked a chin. Yes, the form of an attractive maid might be safest for what would have to come next.

  Perhaps, after ascension, he'd take a Twisted Skull as his symbol. Lips twisted wryly in the darkness. That would be a worthy jest, seeing as he was having to change from one forlorn form to another all too often these days. It would be a good sigil to make mortals know terror. He'd made mistakes before-mistakes that had cost him nearly everything, leaving him a thing like a howling shadow, able only to fly and moan and claw … and subsume.

  Aye, subsume. It was time, and past time, to feed again. The memories rushed past in an endless torrent, but he heeded them no more. He'd mastered them, and grown stronger. . and it was time to seize more.

  The dark figure dwindled and took on fullness-smooth, buxom curves of flesh, half revealed by a low-cut, ruffled bodice above a dark sash and slit skirts. Bare feet padded on stone. An anxious-looking maiden blew a kiss to one of the skulls, and stepped into the mists.

  On their other side, a pale form waited-a warrior with no eyes. It howled soundlessly, raising the stump of a shattered sword with menacing intent. Another of the real phantoms of the keep.

  The chambermaid laughed and strode right through it, using the light it radiated to adjust her garments more provocatively. Still laughing, she went on into dusty darkness.

  It was time to feast again….

  "Mystra guard me," Storm muttered as she set the door bar in place and went wearily around the room, checking for intruders. She'd already looked for secret entrances and moved the bed to one side, just to be safe. Now exhausted, she wanted to relax within that safety, however false or flimsy it might really be.

  She yawned, and felt suddenly homesick. She wanted to be in her own bed, with the green growing things of Shadowdale all around her. "You're getting old, lass," she told herself. "Wanting to stay in one place and become a part of it-that was the sign Mystra warned of."

  …The Mystra who is now gone, she reminded herself silently. The Mystra who'd dared to challenge Helm, and so left all her Chosen to go unguided into this new age. And how she needed guidance. The man she'd loved-and seen brutally torn apart in battle, years ago-apparently roamed this backcountry keep burning out men's brains.

  Sudden tears rose raw in her throat, threatening to overwhelm her. "Maxan," she gasped aloud. Memory brought his smiling face in front of her again, and she remembered the warm strength of his arms…

  Storm shivered, fought down a sob, and shook her head in denial. She waved at empty air to bid the memories of her dead man begone and leave her in peace.

  She was suddenly tired of it all. When such good men were torn away from her and all Faerun, who could care about self-important magelings and sneering Summerstars? Let them all go down, and …

  Storm shook her head as she turned back the covers. Nay. Nay, not so harsh. Shayna Summerstar and Ergluth Rowanmantle were swimming in her mind's eye. Behind them, coming up with that weary smile, was Renglar, the seneschal. They mattered. All of Cormyr mattered.

  "It matters to me," she told the silent room. She unbuckled the dagger sheath on her left shoulder. "It always matters to me." She tossed the sheathed dagger onto the bed and reached for the matching one on her right shoulder. "That's the problem," she told it with a rueful smile.

  The bedchamber, which had maintained a dignified silence during this soliloquy, continued to do so. Storm stripped off her war harness, rubbed at the places where the leather straps had chafed, stared at them critically in an oval wall mirror as tall as she, waved cheerfully to the wizard she suspected was scrying her through the mirror, and went back to the boots she'd stuffed full of discarded daggers.

  Driving one into the door frame and another into the foot of the bed, she murmured some words over each. Then she did the same to a pair driven into either side of the frame of the mirror.

  Two spells well spent. If any living thing but herself passed between a pair of daggers, it would receive both blades, flying full tilt, and the spell would jolt Storm awake.

  She shook her head at having to take such precautions, sniffed at one armpit, and murmured, "I am getting a little musky."

  Whatever Pheirauze Summerstar might think of her, it seemed the keep servants considered her a guest to be honored. Under its padded metal cover, the bath proved to be deliciously warm. Storm propped her long sword within reach, shed her scanties, and sank thankfully up to her chin in the waiting waters. Warm ripples almost went up her nose; she chuckled and resisted the momentary impulse to play at being a sea-serpent and rise from the waters to bite and drag down a hapless floating wooden back-scrubber. She was just too tired.

  "Sylune," she said aloud," 'tis I-the bold bad Bard of Shadowdale. How goes it?"

  As she'd hoped, her distant sister heard her own name spoken, recognized Storm's voice, and used a spell to let them farspeak mind to mind.

  Dozing in the water, lazily running handfuls of scented soap shavings over her limbs, Storm chatted silently about the current sad state of mastery and maturity among Cormyrean war wizards, and the grim, unfolding run of murders. "It looks bad, I fear."

  In return, Sylune told her how things were growing on the farm, and of the latest happenings in Shadowdale. She did not bid her be careful, offer assistance, or remind her of half a dozen things to be wary of. Storm was thankful for that, as always, but was startled to hear her sister observe quietly, "Something has upset you more than usual. Give, lady."

  Storm sighed, but did not bother to hesitate or deny. "I used 'the last thing the eyeballs saw' spell on a decent old warrior slain in my bedchamber," she told her sister aloud, "and it seems our killer is, or at least wears the likeness of my man, Maxer."

  "Oh, Storm," was all Sylune said, but there was a long lifetime of compassion in her voice.

  Hearing that, Storm felt fresh tears well up, and added firmly, "Oh-one thing more. Our Happy Dancing Mages are so sure that evil lady Harpers are dismantling Cormyr stone by stone that one of them used a spellblade on me, and spilled some of Mystra's fire."

  "Not something you can afford to dispense endlessly," Sylune observed, understanding at last why Storm was so weary. Her exhaustion was obvious; speaking aloud during farspeech was something the bard did only when she was very tired. "You'd best sleep. Fare thee well."

  Storm found herself climbing out of the now-cool bath. Her sister's mental equivalent of a kiss tingled on her cheek. She padded to where towels awaited, and then to bed.

  Chosen of Mystra don't need to sleep, but someone seemed to have forgotten to tell Storm's body that. She'd been wounded before, and swung a sword for hours in battle with her own blood raining down around her in tongues of silver flame… but she'd been younger then.

  Now it felt good to lay her unsheathed long sword ready on one side of the broad empty bed, and curl up against the pillows to stare into the night. She lost herself in the silent songs that lived in her memory, ballad after ballad, as the wee hours trailed quietly by.

  It wasn't long, of course, before Maxan's face swam up to her again. He was laughing across a campfire somewhere deep in the High Forest as he tossed a bowl to her. She reached out to catch it, and found herself cradling nothing and staring at the empty bed around her.

  "Oh, Maxan," she whispered, "why did you have to leave me so alone?" Wit
h sudden speed, she snatched a pillow onto her raised knees and hugged it to herself before the tears came.

  Even a woman who carries centuries of sorrows can run out of tears and drift into dry-eyed melancholy. Tossing aside her sodden pillow, Storm decided not to get off the bed and get a decanter of something fiery. Instead, she began to sing softly again, keeping to ballads she and Maxer had not enjoyed together. Perhaps knowing everyone else had troubles, too, would make her feel better….

  Some time later, she was silently singing the final, mournful verse of "The Old Wandering Knight" when there was a sudden burst of blue-green light, a rush of displaced air-and something limp and heavy crashed down atop her!

  Even as she thrust it away and rolled to her feet, calmly commanding her discarded underthings to blaze with the radiance they'd been enspelled to emit, Storm had a good idea of what she'd see.

  She just didn't know whom. So she stood with a boot in one hand and her other hand thrust into it, on the hilts of a quartet of daggers, and peered narrowly at her bed in the growing light.

  On the pillows where she'd lain was someone else-someone who'd never move again. Someone who could never have teleported himself to where he now sprawled, facing her.

  It was one of the young, clever war wizards. . Murndal Claeron, that was the name … in his robes and the tattered remnants of a cloak. His boots bore the dust of little-used passages-in the Haunted Tower, no doubt-and his skull seemed to have been burned out from within. The eye-sockets that stared at her were black, empty pits, and the gaping mouth lacked a tongue. As she watched, a trickle of ash fell from it to the linens where she'd been lying moments before.

  Storm sighed to mask her involuntary shudder. Someone obviously believed in less-than-subtle warnings. "Scream," she snarled aloud, in case the someone was listening for that very reaction right now, and drew in a deep, tremulous breath. So much for relaxing; she had a long night of work ahead of her.