And then that terrible mind turned from the cowering, gibbering, or droolingly ruined arcanists to bear down on just one mind. The sentience of Telamont Tanthul, High Prince of Thultanthar. What Larloch said to the Most High of the city, he let-nay, forced-every mind in the city to hear. It was a biting rebuke.
If you were a tenth the wielder of the Art you presume to be, you might have succeeded in this. If, that is, I decided not to prevent you.
Larloch ended his address with a contemptuous surge of power that shattered the draining spell and left Telamont Tanthul leaking mental pain into the heads of those arcanists still conscious and sane.
Then, the dark and awful mind was abruptly gone.
Leaving the Most High of Thultanthar aghast, standing in a courtyard littered with ruined arcanists.
Telamont Tanthul stared around wildly, hearing wild babblings, keening, and even doglike barking from some arcanists on their knees.
Then he turned and ran for the doors that would lead most directly to his throne, desperate to get to it and unleash all of the magics in that chamber, to try to destroy Larloch.
Before Larloch decided to destroy him.
Prince Aglarel lay sprawled and senseless in front of the doors.
Telamont kicked desperately at his son’s body, to try to shift it so he could get at least one door far enough open to slip through.
In the courtyard behind him, some of the arcanists started to howl and bay at the sun.
CHAPTER 19
The door banged open.
Manarlume and Lelavdra whirled from their table of maps and tomes and rune tiles, hands rising to hurl dread magic.
The arcanist Gwelt stood panting on the threshold.
“Madness!” he gasped, “sheer madness! And the Most High is paying for it right now!”
“What madness?” Lelavdra snapped.
“T-the draining spell! Of hundreds of arcanists, working in concert with the High Prince, together seeking to draw the power of the elf city’s mythal to us, and so master the Weave, for the greater glory of Shar! He-”
“Yes, yes, we’ve heard the grand and glorious plan,” Manarlume said dismissively. “Mythal down, Weave our servant, hot suppers for everyone with a snap of our fingers, new gowns whenever we turn around, yes. What ‘madness’ is involved, and High Prince Tanthul is ‘paying for it’ how, exactly?”
“The one called Larloch-the archlich served by many liches-got to the mythal first. And blocked the shielding, sending deadly magic along it that’s felled many arcanists, mind-ruining them or worse! He’s calling himself the Shadow King, and he taunted the Most High, and said he prevented us all by himself, and could stop anything we tried. Called us fools, presumptuous fools who know nothing of real power.”
“Oh? And how fared you against Larloch’s attack?”
“I … I was not touched. I was there, but not part of the meshed minds of the spell.”
Manarlume stared at the arcanist coldly. “So you played traitor, when the Most High most needed your loyalty and service.”
“No! No, I am no traitor! I foresaw the folly and tried to warn Prince Aglarel; he told me he’d hear me out when the spell was done.”
“So you are now the judge of folly and best policy in Thultanthar?” Manarlume flung at him, eyes flashing as she strode at him.
Gwelt stood his ground. “No! That is to say …”
“Gwelt, I am enraged. I am disgusted. Stand aside! I’m off to report your treachery to the Most High right now!”
“No! No, hear me! Whatever you think of me and want to say about me, tarry for a day-please!”
“Why?” Lelavdra asked bluntly. “Why should my sister delay on your say-so, when our city’s safeguarding and bright future are at stake?”
“For her own safety! He suffered mind-wounding and a terrible humiliation; when last I saw him, he was kicking Prince Aglarel! Stay away from him right now, I beg you! It’s not safe!”
“And why do you care what happens to me?” Manarlume flared.
Tense silence fell, as they all stared at each other.
“Well?” she snapped. Lelavdra stepped to her side, folding her arms across her chest and adding her glare to that of her sister’s.
Gwelt flushed a deep crimson under the hard weight of their regard, and muttered, “I … I love you, Ladies Tanthul. Both of you.”
Manarlume and Lelavdra stared at him.
Then, slowly, they both grew the same catlike smile.
Larloch was talking to himself. Again.
“For a long time I contented myself with studying the Art, taking it further than any one entity had done before,” he purred, “and letting Toril attend to itself. I cared for no realm nor ruler nor cabal, and was content to be left alone. And the world grew no better, and petty tyrants meddled ever more recklessly with magic, from the dupes of Shar to those fools in Zhentil Keep and Thay, and now these arrogant returned bumblers of Thultanthar. It is time, and long past time, to intervene. Not to rule the high and the low, trying to make laws and enforce them in matters ever so petty-but to slap down the worst parasites and vandals, and let commoners and oxen alike breathe once more! A city should have a ruler pitted against guilds and street gangs and the wealthiest families-but above that, there should be no one but the gods, and their priesthoods locked ever in opposition. Let there be an end to kings. Let there be only … Larloch.”
Elminster rolled his eyes. Alustriel and Laeral both wagged fingers at him in mock reproof.
The Weave anchor between them hummed on, intact. A mythal anchor had been entwined around it, like a thriving vine, and when they’d trudged up to the Weave anchor, amid the moss-carpeted roots of a thriving duskwood, they’d felt the mythal anchor, and heard Larloch’s voice thrumming along it. He must be somewhere near.
Or perhaps not. He could be anywhere else that the mythal of the city extended. Far beyond the few buildings the elves still held against the tightening ring of Shadovar besiegers.
They could see him through the anchor, as well as hear him; a flickering, translucent, miniature image of the tall, gaunt archlich in his robes. He was gloating, head thrown back, concentration turned inward, bent on drawing the mythal’s power into himself-and as they watched, he was growing larger, and larger, and starting to glow …
Elminster beckoned Alustriel and Laeral close. When they bent their heads to his, he whispered, “Anchor me.”
Frowning-what was the Old Mage up to now? — they nodded and wrapped their arms around him from either side. He sat down, drawing them down with him onto the forest moss, and closed his eyes, waiting for their minds to settle into full and calm contact with his. When that happened, El called on the connection to the mythal Larloch had inadvertently shown him back in Candlekeep when the death of the Guide had wrenched him out of the monks’ minds.
He called on that connection ever so gently, not wanting Larloch to sense him doing so.
The mythal was flowing into the archlich’s vast, dark, and starless mind, slowly but ever faster, draining away from the City of Song.
El didn’t try to fight that flow, nor divert it. Not yet. Not until he had need of its power. First, he called on his command of the Weave, that far greater web of magical might, wrapping himself in all the thrumming power he could stand-his body shuddering and then shaking violently in the firm grip of the sisters-and then reaching up and out with that gathered power.