It had to be one of the war wizards!
Rorskryn Mreldrake waited impatiently until the farscrying that the spell had preserved showed him the two war wizards-standing together, staring down in horror at what he’d done to Farland. Two of them, one with a hand that kept changing into different things-tentacles, polyps, strange nameless growths. A miscast shapechange spell … or, no, one being held always at the ready, for instant use against a foe!
The other Crown mage wasn’t powerful enough to hope to cast a shapechange magic that was more than illusory, or that would last longer than the time the casting took. So this “Longclaws” had to be Elminster.
Mreldrake stood up, carefully cast the spell that was now his crowning achievement, reached out into distant Irlingstar-and diced Imbrult Longclaws into so many ribbons of bleeding meat.
Wizard of War Jarlin Flamtarge was unaccustomed to skulking, but he was young and agile and possessed a good sense of balance.
So with Manshoon riding his callow mind and guiding him with the guile and wisdom of many dark years, he had moved through the castle largely unseen-and the few who had seen him had been swiftly silenced. Heh. Fear the unseen …
All the shouting had come from this direction, so …
He stole from room to room, until he was close enough to see and hear murmuring voices.
“Linked, we’ll walk together, ready-armed, and approach prisoner after prisoner. We mind-touch each one, and so eliminate them from suspicion, until we find the murderer.”
“Who must be in the castle. That sort of sustained attack can’t be worked through the wards.”
Jarlin peered cautiously out the door of his room, whose former noble occupant now lay dead and out of sight.
There they were, nodding and holding hands, swaying and saying incoherent things; establishing their linkage. And releasing each other, to turn and walk in his direction in smooth unison, truly united.
Then came a dark swirling and much blood, as the shorter of the two war wizards collapsed in a welter of gore.
The other Crown mage erupted into a ringing shout of anger and grief, the noble and his dancer whirled to cry to the drow, “Do something!”
So Elminster was here-and the drow was Elminster!
“Hide in the woman, of course, Old Foe …,” Manshoon said aloud, in Sraunter’s cellar. Then he bore down hard, making Jarlin an utter automaton for the moment. Your hands be mine, all of you mine to move …
He forced Jarlin through the crackling, searing ward, into a charge at the shapely dark elf. Yes, pounce on Elminster and deliver a paralyzing touch spell, rather than trying to blast him from the cell with a battle spell.
If this dark elf was a body Elminster had possessed, he could trap the Sage of Shadowdale in it, and hold the drow captive for torture and interrogation because there were things it could not do, that the unfettered Elminster could.
Pounce, my pawn!
Jarlin rushed, crashing through Gulkanun and then Arclath Delcastle, then leaping to grapple with the drow-
Darkening air, as sharp as a razor, sliced down murderously at the lithely ducking drow-and cut Jarlin Flamtarge in two.
“No!” His mind slapped with the wildly flaring agony of his dying pawn, Manshoon seethed, clutching his head and snarling in wordless rage. Who was this unseen slayer?
Head ringing, he forced himself to straighten, then he bent all his strength to concentrating his will.
He was the mightiest of mages, the emperor-to-be, not any of these puny magelings hurling nastiness around a prison castle! Not even Elminster had power enough to stand up to him! He would do what no other could manage, these days. He would reach back into that dead mind and force Flamtarge’s severed torso to work a spell. Just one.
It would come unexpectedly from a dead man, and buy him the time he needed to frustrate this slayer, to keep him from killing Elminster before he, Manshoon, could capture Elminster and peel open his mind and force every sneering secret from him at last.
Steeling himself, the future emperor of Cormyr cast a spell, wrapped it around his will, and flung his awareness at distant Irlingstar.
The air glowed suddenly, the unseen blade of air audibly striking something unseen and magical.
“You’re using the wards as a shield!” Arclath gasped.
Elminster nodded grimly. There was another ringing shriek, as the air on the other side of the drow’s head flashed into brief radiance.
“ ’Tis a man behind it,” El announced calmly. “One man, far from here …” Her face eased. “Gone. Didn’t want to be seen longer, and recognized. Which means it’s someone who thinks they will be recognized, by one or more of us.”
“M-manshoon?” Rune asked.
The drow shook her head. “No. His mind, I’d know in an instant.”
“Naed,” Gulkanun gasped, behind them. “Oh, naed!”
Hearing the horror in his voice, they whirled around-in time to see the severed torso of the young stranger writhe and spasm and shove at the flagstones to sway unsteadily upright.
Dark, wet blood was still pumping out of it, and its hands glistened with gore, hands that moved in sudden, deft gestures as the torso swayed.
Arclath cursed and drew back his blade to chop down those hands and ruin whatever magic was being worked, but Elminster flung out a swift and strong arm to catch and hold the young noble’s sword arm.
“Someone afar is working through this dead man, to cast a spell I know. Let him work it. It will keep the unseen slayer out of this passage for some time.”
“What if he goes on to cast something that fries us?”
“Then I’ll let you chop him apart, bloodthirsty young Delcastle.”
“Won’t Arclath be in danger, if he tries that?” Rune asked quickly.
The dark elf gave her a grim smile. “Of course.”
Manshoon groaned. He’d done it, but his head …
Later. Give in to the pain later.
Right now, he had to earn his superiority one more time, and beat everyone.
He already knew the best “tracer” among the war wizards: Ondrath Everwood, a quiet and timid youngling who spent most of his days in a nondescript upper floor office of an unassuming building in Suzail-one of the Crown’s “hidden houses” in the city-farscrying for Crown and court, to order.
Ondrath Everwood didn’t get out enough, to breathe fresh air and see the sun. So it was high time someone paid him a social call.
The empty coach was bumping and rattling enough to jar anyone’s back teeth loose, but Mirt was in no mood to slow down. Boots hooked under the safety rail, reins wound around one arm and the driving whip in his other hand, he was making good time, by the gods, and-
Naed, farruk, and hrast it, a road patrol!
On the road ahead, the Purple Dragons were already hauling at their reins, getting themselves and their horses out of the way-but they were also flinging up their arms and bellowing sternly at him to halt.
Mirt roared right back at them, giving them the password Durncaskyn had furnished him with, and not slowing in the slightest. He repeated it thrice, just to make sure-but as the bouncing, swaying coach plunged through them without incident and managed the next turn, the wheels on its left side squealing in protest, Mirt looked back over his right shoulder and saw that yes, by Beshaba, they were following him!
And unless they’d mistreated their horses, Purple Dragons could certainly ride faster than he could lash these already straining nags to drag a coach along, even if it was empty-er, except for one over-padded Lord of Waterdeep …