Chapter 16
Some kings delight in seeing traitors die
Writhing in torment as the realm watches
And many subjects cower, not daring to decry.
Some wizards delight in enspelling all foes
Bringing down the nastiest dooms they can hatch
Twisting men into monsters in agonized throes.
But wise bards and sages turn away, grim
From such gloating; for the unfolding past tells
The high price of such entertainment a-glim.
M any a shocked and staring eye in Halfhap saw the great black whorl erupt out of the walls of the Oldcoats Inn. Spitting black lightning, it spun slowly, like a gigantic drain of black swamp water being emptied, carrying the upper floors of the inn atop itself like a great cracked cap before it started to spin faster and faster, tightening in on itself until…
It vanished, the upper floors of the inn crashing down upon the ravaged ground floor, so that all collapsed into tumbling, smoking rubble.
The very air above Halfhap tingled, winking with half-seen sparks and shadows that echoed the turning of the vanished whorl for a few long, silent breaths ere fading.
Leaving the town gaping in stunned silence at the heaped rubble that had been the Oldcoats Inn, a great cloud of dust hanging thickly above it.
They did not have to regard unadorned rubble and slowly drifting dust for long.
There came a flash of white light, a winking that left in its wake a stout, bearded man who bore a great gem-headed staff. His robes were black, with a great baldric of interlaced purple dragons, and his face was grim and terrible.
Vangerdahast stood in the heart of the rubble and turned slowly, peering all around. Then he laid the fingers of one hand over the dragontail ring he wore on the other and called, “Laspeera? Laspeera! ”
Silence fell; he cloaked himself in it and awaited an answer.
That did not come.
After a long and silent time the Royal Magician of Cormyr shook his head sadly and said to the empty air, “I fear we’ve lost her, Beldos. She’s under half a building, right in front of me, and not moving or answering.”
He threw back his head, and the watching folk of Halfhap could see that his face was wet with tears.
Suddenly someone else appeared, standing in the street in front of the Oldcoats front arch, on cobbles that had been empty a moment earlier.
The few Zhentilar who’d been standing uncertainly around a wrecked coach stepped hastily back, straightening to attention with terror on their faces. Ignoring them, the tall, darkly handsome wizard impatiently waved a hand and murmured something-banishing the cloud of dust in an instant.
Vangerdahast whirled around, black robes swirling, and the staff he raised glowed with threatening magical fire. “Begone!” he thundered. “This is Cormyr. You shall not prevail here! Get you hence, Lord of the Zhentarim!”
Manshoon merely sneered at him, causing some of the Zhentilar to chuckle-but their lord went abruptly expressionless when a long arm sent Vangerdahast staggering aside, and the owner of that arm stepped forward.
Few in Halfhap had ever seen Khelben ‘Blackstaff’ Arunsun, but there was little doubt as to who they were staring at, when they beheld a wizard as tall as a black pillar, with what could only be the Blackstaff floating upright in the air above his head, pulsing menacingly.
Khelben glanced at Vangerdahast. “Put that toy away,” he said quietly, lifting a finger to indicate the gem-headed staff.
Without waiting for a reply, he turned to Manshoon. “Well? We both know you’re a fool, but here and now you can answer a question you and I have both been pondering for some time: Just how much of a fool are you?”
Manshoon raised his right hand-and a ghostly arc of beholders appeared above his own shoulders. The watchers all gasped, though they could clearly see sky through the gently writhing tentacles and bodies of the floating eye tyrants.
“I guess,” the Master of the Black Brotherhood said silkily, “we’re just going to have to see.”
There came a sudden thunderclap of magic that shook the sky, staggered Manshoon and Khelben-and made the folk of Halfhap gasp anew. The Blackstaff, the ghostly beholders, and all the staring Zhent warriors were simply… gone.
“So it’s come to this? ” a disgusted voice asked, from just behind Manshoon. “Spell-slinging in the streets?”
The Lord of the Zhentarim hastily sprang away from that voice and spun to face it-in time to see Elminster shaking his head, and wearing the face of an elder priest saddened at discovering novices indulging in sinful foolery.
“Spell-slinging in the streets,” Elminster added sadly, “is my style, gentlesirs. Ye are all supposed to be ‘grander,’ more puissant, more mindful of the implications of what ye do, more… mature.”
“Pah! Goddess-lover!” Manshoon hissed, fear and hatred making his words spittle.
Elminster shrugged and hissed back in perfect mimicry, “Lover of none but self!”
Khelben had been gaping up at the empty air where the Blackstaff had been. He now lowered his gaze to ask Elminster in a voice more dumbfounded than angry, “How did you do that?”
Elminster acquired an impish grin. “ ’Tis called magic.”
Khelben glared at him. “Where is it? I can’t feel the link! Where’s my staff? ”
“Waiting for ye at home,” Elminster replied mildly. “Ye should join it.”
“Leave, all of you!” Vangerdahast cried, stepping forward and brandishing his staff. “ I hold sway in Cormyr, and this soil is under the protection of the Purple Dragon! Leave! Depart! This-this is not done!”
Khelben, Manshoon, and Elminster all regarded him with silent scorn, and Vangerdahast swallowed, shrank a step or two back, and cowered.
“We’ll speak of this later,” Khelben said coldly to Elminster-and vanished.
As if that had been a cue, Manshoon strode forward. “One Chosen of Mystra flees the field,” he sneered. “Does the other self-styled servant of the Goddess-such empty titles may scare children, but they are naught but words, old man, and you know it as well as I do-care to match spells with me?”
Elminster regarded the fingernails of his left hand, and said mildly, “Ye have thirty-nine spare selves in stasis, but two are damaged. If ye inhabit them, ye’ll go insane, trapped in a body that obeys ye not, and leaves mastery of any magic beyond ye.” He looked up. “Two chances, out of thirty-nine. Ah, but which two?”
Idly stroking his beard, he started to stroll closer to Manshoon. “There’s no way for ye to tell, without stepping into the abyss that awaits ye.”
He was almost within Manshoon’s reach now, and still stepping closer. “Or shall I change those odds? Damage another-or another dozen? Or all of them?”
“You bluff!” the Zhentarim snarled.
“No. I promise.” Elminster unconcernedly turned his back on the tall Master of the Black Brotherhood, and started to stroll away again. “Just as my title is not a fiction, Manshoon, neither is what I say of thy clones. It alarms ye that I even know their number. Shall I now recite exactly where each is hidden-whilst my Art carries my words to the ears of every last Zhentarim and Banite of thy Brotherhood, from the High Imperceptor to the novice Brother Thanael, who trembled through his blood-oath to join ye but two nights ago? Shall I tell Fzoul the wordings of thy pacts with the eye tyrants — all of them, even that which involved thy mating with-”
“ Enough! Speak no more! Be still!”
“Easily enough done, if ye quit this place and work no magic nor scheme directly against Cormyr, its Royal Magician, its rulers, or its territory. Seek to subvert or bring about the death of an Obarskyr, Manshoon-or do anything more in Halfhap-and I will deal with ye. Permanently.”