He turned to face the Zhentarim once more, smiling, and added softly, “Thy schemes entertain all Chosen, but we can find others to afford us such entertainment. Mystra can show us everything. So think on this calmly, and as the merchants on thy own docks say: ‘consider well, and cut thy losses.’ ”
Manshoon snarled wordless fury, spat in Elminster’s direction, and vanished.
Leaving Vangerdahast and Elminster looking at each other.
“What…” The white-faced Royal Magician of Cormyr swallowed hard, ere he managed to whisper, “What dare I say to you?”
Elminster lifted one bristling eyebrow. “Ye could try the two most appropriate words in all Faerun, lad: Thank ye.”
“Thank ye-you,” Vangerdahast whispered, so softly that his voice was almost soundless.
Elminster clapped him on the shoulder like a kindly old uncle. “Now, was that so hard? Ye’d best leave this place and get back to work: ye have a worm in thy bosom to find and slay. Ah, before ’tis too late, as the bards say.”
“A-a worm? You know who the traitor is? ”
“ ‘Traitors are,’ ” Elminster corrected kindly-and vanished.
Leaving Vangerdahast to stare at where the Old Mage of Mystra had been standing and let loose a string of heartfelt oaths that made the Purple Dragons now hastening up to him grin in admiration-and the wealthiest Halfhap merchant’s wife hurrying up behind them drop her jaw in scandalized outrage.
She was just drawing breath for her first blistering words when the Royal Magician’s gaze fell upon her.
“Later,” he snapped, before she could say a word. Then he, too, was suddenly gone.
A raging Manshoon appeared at the center of the magnificent dark star carpet in his bedchamber, strode across the room like a storm wind, and slammed his fists into the splendid wood panelling beside the door as if trying to batter it right through the stone wall behind it, out into the passage beyond.
“Entertainment?” he roared. “ I’ll show him entertainment!”
Whirling around, he stalked back across the room to his spellbooks, viciously backhanding The Shadowsil out of the way as she came hurrying through a side-door, worry on her face and a wand ready in her hand.
Snarling, Manshoon jerked down one heavy tome, and then another. They thundered down onto his polished desk, he flung them open-and stepped back in horror as a body appeared out of nowhere, sprawled faceup atop them.
Though it had the semblance of an intact corpse, The Shadowsil’s gasp told Manshoon he wasn’t imagining what he’d just noticed. The dead man’s head, torso, arms, and legs were all neatly arranged, in their proper places, but were in fact severed, separate pieces, all slowly oozing dark gore all over his most precious grimoires. He’d already recognized the face. Himself.
As Manshoon stared down at his clone, its lips moved and Elminster’s voice issued from them, saying, “Aye. Entertainment.”
The air was thick with dust, and the coughing, choking Knights, Laspeera, and a tattered and dusty Dauntless all lay in a heap, entangled with each other. The ceiling no longer groaned and shivered into shards-but it now hung just above them, nowhere more than waist-high, held up on the points of nine floating, glowing swords.
Pennae eyed the Dragonfire swords longingly. They were so close that she could easily have stroked the golden sheen of three of those blades from where she lay. Yet it was obvious that trying to take even one might well cause a collapse, and death for everyone.
She sighed. “ Now what?”
Half-pinned beneath her, Florin lifted a long arm to point down their low-ceilinged prison at one of the doorways that had been outlined in sparks by the awakening of the Dragonfire magic. It was the only portal not now walled away by rubble, and it continued to twinkle, wavering slightly as they stared at it.
“We take the only way out,” the ranger-Knight said, “and hope for the best.”
Jhessail shuddered. “And if it leads into somewhere alive with snarling beasts? Or wizards hurling spells at us?”
Florin shrugged. “I haven’t avenged Narantha yet,” he said softly. “So I cannot die. Wherefore, if you keep behind me, you should be safe.”
Jhessail stared at his eyes and shivered.
Florin looked up and down the tangle of Knights and Crown folk, and pointed again at the portal. “I say again: we chance the portal. Now.”
“And we don’t even touch any of those swords,” Islif added, looking at Pennae. “Not one, and not even for an instant. So shift your selves carefully. Let’s move. ”
“Our holynoses?”
“Drag them. Gently.”
Semoor groaned theatrically. “Oh, yes. ‘Drag me. Gently.’ Wonderful. ”
“Upon second thinking,” Islif said, “bring Doust and leave the noisy one behind to guard these valuable magic swords. We should be able to return in a year or so. He won’t lack for entertainment, nor starve; he can chew on his own words.”
“Drag me please, ” Semoor pleaded, quickly.
“Aye, I’ll drag you,” Dauntless growled. “Lady Mage?”
Laspeera had seemed senseless, but her eyelids fluttered as he shook her gently. “Lady Laspeera? Lady of the war wizards?”
She gasped, opened one eye, winced and gasped again, and finally murmured, “I–I’ll be all right. My head… someone just cast spells, up above us, that smote my head like a hammer.”
“Oh?” Semoor asked brightly. “You’ve been smitten with hammers before?”
“Yes, Holy Wolftooth,” Laspeera replied, “I have. If it’s a sensation you’re seeking to know firsthand, I’m sure Ornrion Dahauntul can oblige you, when we reach a place that has a hammer.”
“And room enough to swing it,” Dauntless grunted, as they crawled down the chamber, clambering through the rubble until they could pass-one by flaring one-through the waiting portal.
Dauntless found himself at the rear of this undignified journey, with his leathers in tatters and all trace of anything that might have been deemed a Purple Dragon uniform all but gone. Though he was behind everyone, Laspeera turned in front of the portal, frowning, and waved him through.
He hesitated. “Lady? Is this wise?”
“Disobeying my orders?” she muttered, eyes catching fire. “No, not wise at all, Ornrion Dahauntul!”
He nodded, bowed his head wordlessly, and crawled past her into the waiting, silent fire.
Laspeera sighed and shook her head. It was by merest chance she’d happened to remember the potions. Gods above, was this the beginning of getting old?
No matter. That could be worried about later. Right now, she had to crawl back, paw around in the rubble to find them, and bring them along.
“Doing what is needful and best for the realm,” she murmured, smiling wryly. “Just as I do every day.” She winced her way over some knee-jabbing fragments of stone. “Well, ’tis a life.”
With one arm cradling potions, she turned once more to face the waiting portal, crawled a little way, and then stopped and looked longingly up at the nearest Dragonfire sword, floating so near, its glowing point so close overhead.
Upon a whim she silently reached for one. Its glow blazed up as if in welcome as her long fingers got close…
Then Laspeera of the Wizards of War shrugged, smiled, shook her head, drew her arm firmly back, and used it to crawl steadily through the portal.
Lord Prester Yellander stood at the back door of his hunting lodge, and stared out into the depths of the Hullack Forest, at a wild and familiar beauty that didn’t seem to hold any answers.
Ignoring the questioning looks the swordjacks guarding the door were giving him, Lord Yellander hauled the door shut, dropped its bar into place for good measure, and turned back to face Lord Blundebel Eldroon.
“I still don’t know what to do now,” he snapped, waving an angry hand. “So speak. ‘Confer with me worriedly,’ as the writers-of-plays say. Everything seems to be going wrong.”