Elminster in Hell

coldly down her ankle now. Talk… hadn't she grown weary enough of talking? And yet-you are a lord, and could have undone it. She was no more powerful than any other lord, and-I'm still learning this revenge. This one would slay as many lords as he could!

Most lords had Art or strength or skill at blades far more than her own to command, yes, but most were old or very busy or both. They were apt to sleep soundly when they retired to chambers warded against magic and guarded with loyal swords. How many would he kill before he was stopped?

A tiny, chilling voice asked within her, Would he be stopped? One last adventure, Mirt had urged. Well, she had not chosen it, but it, the Lady of Luck willing, had chosen her… both the 'last' and the adventure.

Tamaeril smiled wryly, even as the drowsiness of her last great slumber stole up behind her eyes. Spells she had still, though none to harm this one or anyone. She must use them, for the sake of Mirt and Durnan and the others, even young and stern Piergeiron….

Tamaeril worked her lips to speak, even as she exerted her will in a silent command. A door she could not see, behind her chair-a door she would never see again- swung open by itself, in answer to her will.

'Wh-who…?' she managed to say, as the blood poured down her ribs more slowly.

The masked man lifted the drinking jack again.

Her night hound smelled the blood and the unfamiliar man and Tamaeril's fear all at once and came through the door in a silent bound. The shrieking howl of warning and battle rage was still rising in its throat as its jaws opened wide to tear out the intruder's throat. Borgul's front paws raked down the arm that the man threw up to ward off those jaws.

They fell together in front of Tamaeril. She tried to raise her hand to the blade that held her there. Her hand trembled and fell back. Numbly she bent her will again, to the crystal stopper of the wine decanter on the table beside her. It shifted, just a breath. Yes!

Borgul's jaws closed on the drinking jack, thrust between them for the crucial instant as he and the masked one rolled together on the floor. The intruder hissed one word. Many small lights pulsed, and Borgul stiffened without another sound. The man he'd sought to kill rolled free and found his feet.

The great hound lay spread and still as the masked man, breathing heavily, faced Tamaeril. 'Have you any more pets, Lady? Anything else I can slay before your eyes? Well-can you no longer speak?'

Tamaeril turned weary eyes to him. 'Young man,' she said, raggedly, breast rising and falling with the effort of breathing as blood filled her lungs, 'I would know who you… are… and… why-why-' She coughed, a racking agony that forced her head down and made her eyes flood with red tears.

Through it all she heard her killer say softly, 'Tell you who I am? When I can let you die never knowing? Why, Tamaeril, gracious lady, I find I cannot afford you this satisfaction. Pray accept my deepest apologies.' He laughed, a mirthless rasp that made her shudder.

Tamaeril forced her head up again and watched him through dulling eyes. Her will carried the crystal stopper silently on, on across the room. She would have only an instant once he discovered it. She dare not look until the very last moment.

Tamaeril forced herself to shudder again-it was not difficult, but the pain it brought was sickening-and turned her head, as if in agony. There. There it drifted, straight on, inches away from the servants' gong. Goddess, aid me.¹

Tamaeril turned her head back to look at him. The gong rang.

He smiled. 'Oh, by all means, Lady, summon aid. I want eyes to see you and loyal retainers to strike down with my Art! I want to enjoy this to the full! My thanks!' There was a sudden rustling behind him.

He spun with that thin-lipped smile still on his face. A spray of magic missiles darted from his hand to blast away the life of her just-awakened songbird, in its cage. Her tormentor hummed merrily as they heard the thud of a maid's slippers on the stair below.

Tamaeril raised a hand and spoke a cantrip of her own devising; the first magic she'd created for herself, under the tutelage of the one called Elminster, long ago. The elegant carpet beneath her slayer's feet jerked suddenly, sending him stumbling off-balance, back toward his flickering gate. Her other hand, slow and trembling, found its way to the cold steel in her breast.

When he regained his feet, the masked man was snarling with rage. 'Enough, old cow!' he snapped. He strode forward and wrenched his blade free, twisting it savagely in her breast as he did so.

Tamaeril gave a little scream and doubled over, spitting blood. The hand that had been climbing past the blade found its destination by accident. Her convulsing fingers grasped the amulet about her neck. Dimly Tamaeril was aware of her murderer backing up to his gate. The door of her chamber swung open. The wards shone suddenly bright across it. Her maid's thin scream rose shrilly. Shouts and pounding feet came in answer.

The amulet glowed, faint and blue-green and soothing. Pain ebbed as Tamaeril stared into the light and lost herself in it. She scarcely felt the magic missiles mat tore into her old and broken body, lifting her back up into a sitting position in the high-backed chair. Tamaeril made a gift of the last of her strength. With the few fading instants of her life, she whispered a warning to her colleague and friend Mirt. Mirt, Beware! Masked one… comes slaying lords… has Art… took me, Tamaeril….

And so, with the pride of accomplishment, Tamaeril, oldest Lord of Waterdeep, slid into the embrace of death. The crystal stopper shattered as it struck the floor. The chamber was silent for a moment before the small, grieving wail of Tamaeril's favorite cat began.

[Somewhere in Hell, the fallen human-sprawled on rocks drenched with his own blood-sinks hungry and yet sick, parched and yet awash, into waiting oblivion-]

Don't you faint on me, treacherous human! We'll just taste the mindwokm together again, shall we? You were finally going to show me some magic, after a tour though all the Dying lords of Waterdeep as i recai.l…

[mind lash, mental pincers clamping down furiously, images streaming]

Mitt the Moneylender, who had once been called Mirt the Merciless, stared around the darkened wizard's parlor and swallowed. 'Gods take us all,' he rumbled, broad blade already gleaming in one hairy fist. 'What are we coming to, that lords of Waterdeep can be struck down in blood, in their own cozy-rooms? And a wizard, too!'

He glared about the room like an angry hawk, bristling. A battered hand-axe seemed to find its own way from his belt into his other hand.

'Keep close now, lass,' he added. 'I can't protect you if I can't reach you, as some smart-tongued prince or other said to his concubine, just before I spilled his brains out…. I forget me just where that was, now. Gods, but I must be getting old!'

'Now, my lord,' Asper reproved him softly, her own slim blade in her hand as she put her back to his, eyes darting warily about the room, 'remember that ballad of Randal Morn's: 'You're only as old as the one who feels you'!'

Mirt grunted, and then chuckled reluctantly. 'Aye. Aye, I recall. But hush, now, as we prowl a bit. If any buck's going to try and gut me, I want to hear him coming!'

They stood together in the dim, cluttered parlor of Resengar called the Whitebeard (and, by some of his apprentices, Old Baldpate), a lord of Waterdeep and one of Mirt's friends. Or rather, he had been.

Not the width of a hand from Mirt's battered, flapping old boots lay Resengar, eyes gleaming sightlessly up at the star-decorated ceiling above. The old wizard's hands were drawn up as if to ward off a foe. His mouth was open in disbelief. Just beneath it, someone had opened another mouth in his throat, a red sword slash that still leaked blood onto the dark furs underfoot.

Looking down at him, Asper almost expected Resengar to cough his dry little cough, look all about with beard bobbing, as he always did, and apologize for having nodded off. But as silent moments followed, one after the other, he did not move. Those staring, sightless eyes grew dull. Resengar would never cough again.

Mirt had liked the shy, fussy old wizard perhaps best of all his fellow lords, after Durnan. He'd been looking forward to swapping ancient tales over even older wine tonight with the aging fusspot, watching Resengar stare longingly at Asper as he treated her with elaborate courtesy-until the wine took him and he began to snore, whereupon they'd quietly leave. As usual.