Yes, this would be ideal. Human thralls in the alchemist’s cellar, and the tyrants here.
His probe became a brutal surge; Larak Dardulkyn barely had time to register astonishment and cap it with affronted rage before his mind was vanquished and quivering.
“Stand up,” Dardulkyn heard his own voice whisper to him, as the helmed horrors all turned to stare at him intently.
“It’s time to act like an archwizard for once, and not a sneering bellows of empty arrogance and overestimation. Be a mighty mage, Dardulkyn. Be me.”
“It’s an ironguard ring,” Storm explained. “It’ll make most swords and other blades pass right through you but do no harm. Don’t trust in it overmuch-anything bearing an enchantment will cut you as usual.”
She held up her hand to show Arclath she was wearing an identical ring, and pointed at Mirt’s and then at Amarune’s.
His love reached out to take his hand, letting Elminster flow back into his mind and link it with Storm’s-warm yet sad, joyous and, yes, arousing-so he could see and know Storm was telling him the truth about the rings.
Then Elminster withdrew again, leaving Arclath awash with relief.
Storm’s mind was dangerous for him. He could so easily fall in love with her and lose himself in rising lust… but crown and throne, it was good to know when one was being told the truth. No wonder olden-times war wizards had mind-reamed nobles and everyone else so often.
“What now?” he heard himself asking, as a gentle night breeze rose and ghosted past, rustling a few nearby leaves in his family gardens.
“Now, lad,” Elminster replied promptly, that deep voice still sounding ridiculous from his Rune’s lips, “we talk. A war council, if ye will. A small, brawl-free one, if we can manage it.”
“My name is Rorlyn Handmane, and I am a lionar of the Purple Dragons,” the Dragon officer answered the cold demand calmly, as if he’d expected it. “I’ve been ordered to investigate what befell here and render any reasonable aid you request, Saer Dardulkyn. Explosions and possibilities of magic gone awry are always of interest to the Crown. Mindful of your stature and accomplishments, senior wizards of war have sent me to make inquiries rather than approaching you-an archwizard who may have professional matters you prefer not to let other workers-of-Art examine-themselves.”
“Your prudent-for once-discretion, and theirs, are appreciated,” the archwizard replied coldly. “Heed these words well, and share them with the other Crown watchers ringing my home before you take them back to the mages who sent you: a rather powerful but peaceful-of-purpose spell went awry, and nothing more. I neither need nor want any assistance in determining details of the resulting damage. What befell is no business whatsoever of the Crown or the wider weal, and for your own safety you should all take yourselves away again. Immediately.”
He stepped forward, to the crumbling edge of what was left of the end wall of his mansion, and glared down at the lionar and the three other Dragons who stood with the officer.
The lionar nodded, raised his hand in salute, and replied flatly, “Your words have been heard. As for our offer and vigilance… you’re very welcome, wizard.”
Then Handmane turned his back on Dardulkyn and his mansion, and marched away.
Manshoon had to stop himself from chuckling. Oh, well said, brave lionar! He made Dardulkyn’s body turn to the helmed horrors floating in a patient arc behind him, and order them-loudly and unnecessarily, for the benefit of the cordon of listening Dragons-to secure the damaged mansion and make very certain no intruder slipped inside.
The beholder body he’d arrived in was hidden in one of the upper rooms that still had a roof, accompanied by a patiently floating beholderkin he could use to return to Sraunter’s shop.
Reaching out to the minds of the two nearest horrors, he sent them to begin breaking open a shaft to let his beholder float down into Dardulkyn’s cellars.
Leaving the other horrors to defend the walls against every last rat, mouse, or bird that ventured near the riven mansion, he took Dardulkyn’s body on a tour of the cellars.
Pleasingly, the uppermost of those lower levels included one large chamber into which had been placed a row of cages fashioned of massive iron bars-cages as large as small huts. A thin, sickly looking griffon was trapped in one, the cage strewn with its shed feathers, but the rest were empty of all but some unpleasant-looking mounds of bones. Good. The beholder-and, once he got them here, its fellow tyrants-could be put into these monster cages.
He’d raise some strong wards around the place-Dardulkyn’s were pitiful-but for the benefit of the inevitable farscrying war wizards, some of whom were undoubtedly spying on him right now, he’d make sure his tyrants rested on the floor rather than floating in midair, and kept their eyestalks drooping, so as to look dead rather than alive.
Wards that were nigh worthless, a lot of “impress gullible idiots” decor… well, one could but hope Dardulkyn’s tomes and enchanted items were a tenth as powerful as the man’s mind believed they were. It was high time to see what he’d gained, and if his new dupe had any magic at all that was new to Manshoon the Mighty, Emperor-to-be of Cormyr and Beyond.
Yes, that did have a ring to it, it did.
Arclath nodded. “So, talk.”
Elminster needed no more prompting. “Lad,” he began, “ye’ve heard from Storm who it was who slew me: Manshoon.”
“Another centuries-old wizard. Once ruled Zhentil Keep, rode dragons, wasn’t nice. Or so the old tales say.”
Mirt chuckled and nodded.
“Those tales lie not,” El agreed, “and tell ye almost all ye need to know about the man. Hear now the rest. There have been many Manshoons. When he’s slain, another of his selves awakens, and ye must slay him all over again. His Art is very strong, and with it he can easily conquer the minds of others and make them his slaves.”
“As you can,” Arclath said softly.
“As I can, aye. Yet Manshoon is… far less considerate. Where I cozen-”
“Manipulate.”
“As good a word for it, aye. Where I manipulate, he coerces.”
Storm and Mirt both nodded, so Arclath did, too. “And so?”
“The man loves not just to defeat and dominate-he lives to rule. Zhentil Keep and its farflung tentacles-literally scores of holds, from waystop keeps to cities. To say nothing of Westgate, Ombraldar, and far Shanooth. He isn’t just here hunting me. Tired of a Westgate that won’t stay ruled but seethes tirelessly with deceits, challenges, and coup attempts-a delight for him for a decade or two but increasingly tiresome thereafter, as he sees the same ploys and clumsy deceptions a fourth and a tenth time, or more-he’s set his sights on a brighter prize. He’s here in Suzail to conquer the realm.”
“Isn’t competition for that particular ambition a mite crowded already?” Arclath asked. “How can you be certain of Manshoon’s involvement, given all the plots and feuds and Crown-hatreds that have been nursed here for centuries? Centuries!”
“Therein lies the sport. Using various nobles and courtiers as his pawns, and remaining unnoticed until his chosen time to reveal himself. The brawl at Council may in very large part be his doing.”
“Perhaps, but could you not be as guilty as we nobles of Cormyr are, of seeing every little chance happening not as what it truly is, but as the latest move in our ongoing feuds with each other and the Crown? You see Manshoon’s hand because you expect to, whether or not it’s really there.”
“I agree,” said Amarune, her voice clearly hers and not Elminster’s.
“Rune!” Arclath cried, reaching for her. “He’s let you master yourself again! Why-”
“We’re sharing, lad,” El rumbled, out of the lips Arclath was leaning to kiss. And grinned. “So go on, kiss thy lady. I’ll not look.”