Elminster Enraged

glower, then said heavily, “The time has more than come for the full truth from all of us.” He turned to Arclath and Amarune. “Suppose you forget all about keeping secrets, and tell us precisely who sent you here and why.”

“We promised someone rather higher in rank than you that we’d keep his secrets,” Arclath replied coolly, “and we’ll continue-”

“You promised the king,” Gulkanun interrupted flatly, “in the presence of the Royal Magician, Lady Glathra, and your mother. There was also someone else present, whose identity wasn’t shared with me.”

“Storm Silverhand,” Amarune supplied. “The Marchioness Immerdusk. Tell them everything, Arclath.”

“Everything?” he asked reluctantly.

“Everything,” she said firmly.

“Well …” Arclath gave his beloved a doubtful look, then said in a rush, “You know our real names already, and that we’re not really prisoners, and who sent us. We’ve come to Irlingstar to find someone within these walls who hails from Sembia, who’s trying to take over the castle or free its noble inmates and spirit them away into Sembia, to work treason against Cormyr from there.”

Farland gave him a disgusted look. “Oh, come now! There’s no-”

“Perhaps, lord constable, the ‘someone’ is you,” Arclath said firmly. “Please understand that I haven’t one shred of evidence to that effect, but your attitude of disbelieving dismissal is not shared by the king-and what better way to frustrate an investigation than to sneer and deride and refrain from cooperating?”

“How do you know the traitor inside Irlingstar is Sembian?” Longclaws asked quickly, waving Farland to silence. Surprisingly, the lord constable bit back whatever he’d been drawing breath and leaning forward to say, and sat back with a silent frown.

“I’ve no reason at all to believe King Foril Obarskyr would lie to us,” Arclath replied. “Why would he? Well then, he told us that wizards of war had overheard a passing spell sending, a verbal message they believe reached its intended ears without any attached suspicion of their hearing it. It was a man’s voice, saying this: ‘We’ll wait at the usual place, because it’s clearly our side of the border. If any Dragons come for us there, the griffonbacks’ll be waiting, and they’ll taste the new hurl bombs.’ ”

“And how would you interpret that message, lord constable?” Gulkanun asked quietly.

Farland stirred. “That whoever’s waiting for escaped prisoners from Irlingstar has alerted the Sembian border patrols-the ones that ride griffons, in the sky-to be ready for Cormyreans pursuing them.”

Gulkanun nodded. “I hear it the same way.” Beside him, Longclaws nodded.

“So now,” Amarune spoke up, “you tell me, lord constable, why we should trust you, when it’s feared prisoners might so readily escape Irlingstar. And”-she turned to give Longclaws a hard and direct stare-”you convince me that you’re a war wizard, yet have some sort of magical curse or affliction. I’ve never heard of a Crown mage going uncured of such a thing yet continuing to serve, so are you a wizard of war, truly?”

Farland started to speak, but Longclaws flung up a blue and floppy-fingered hand that was busily turning into several clusters of scaled, greenish black talons, to silence him.

“We’re here to investigate the lord constable and everyone else in Irlingstar, just as you are. As for this-”

With his unchanging hand, the war wizard gestured at his talons, just as they collapsed into flopping, writhing, rose pink tentacles, then started to shift into a tight cluster of what looked like questing, dribbling boar snouts.

“-I suffered this years ago, when fighting outlaw raiders on the Moonsea Ride beyond Tilverton. We routed them, ere a black-dragon-riding wizard appeared and served us the same way. He gave me this, and half a year later caravans brought us the tale that the legendary Manshoon the Deathless, Black Cloak Lord of the Zhentarim, riding a great black wyrm, had ‘humbled an army of Cormyr bent on conquering the Dales.’ ” Longclaws gave Rune and Arclath a mirthless grin. “So if I ever encounter this Manshoon …”

“If you ever encounter Manshoon,” a sharp-edged, lilting, melodious new voice interrupted, as yet another secret door swung open, “you’ll probably last for as many moments as he bothers to toy with you. I’d seek nobler aims, if you want your life to hold fulfillment and satisfaction.”

Everyone turned to stare at the new arrival.

It was a curvaceous, darkly beautiful female drow.

She smiled at them as she held up her hands, wriggling long and slender fingers to draw attention to the rings adorning her two longest fingers: a war wizard ring, and a wizard of war team ring.

“ ’Tis roast stag tonight, lord,” the equerry said eagerly.

“Of course it is,” the commander of High Horn replied testily. “It would be something I love, on a Darlhoun debriefing night! Well, try to save some for me!”

Thrusting his helm and riding gauntlets into the equerry’s hand, Lord Sunter strode inside, past the wonderful smell rolling out of the banquet hall-his stomach promptly rumbled its own longing hunting call-to the stairs. It was a long climb to the top of the main keep tower.

Not for Umbarl Darlhoun, of course. Hrasting war wizards could just float up, couldn’t they?

So Darlhoun would be there waiting for him, of course. Sitting behind Sunter’s own desk as if it were his own, smiling that smug smile and dusting his hands together-and patting yet another stack of parchments as tall as a war helm. He’d not depart until every last one had been thoroughly discussed, even if the stars came and went and a new morning was well under way.

And the man was so hrasted cheerful, so genuinely nice and sympathetic and diligent and … and …

Sunter wanted to wring his neck, and hated himself for feeling that way. His stomach rumbled again.

“Tluin,” he whispered under his breath, “I need a drink.”

When at last he reached his own rooms, almost at the top of the tower, and unlocked the door, he discovered he really did need a drink.

Happy Wizard of War Umbarl Darlhoun would never be cheerful to anyone again.

Someone had dismembered him all over Sunter’s desk, thoughtfully taking the head and the meeting’s stack of parchments away with them, and arranging the limbs and torso to neatly hold in the blood, and frame a message written in Darlhoun’s intestines: “A gift from your future emperor.”

“Make that a dozen drinks,” Sunter said aloud. “After I’m done throwing up.”

The last fading monsters clawed vainly at the darkening twilight sky as the flickering, fading purple radiance reclaimed them.

Blue flames snarled around the purple glow, constricting it, hemming it in. Purple flames flared, and as swiftly died away, leaving the glow smaller and fainter.

The Simbul fed what was left of the rift more and more blue flames, bearing down despite her trembling weariness.

“Go,” she gasped, tossing her head back and setting her long silver tresses to renewed writhing. “Begone forever.”

The rift winked one last flash of sickly purple, almost impudent in its timing, and died.

Leaving The Simbul reeling in exhaustion.

“How long now, Mother Mystra?” she gasped wearily.

Not much longer, Cherished One. You have taken care of the worst of them.

“And El and Manshoon? How many have they done?”

“Not one, yet. Manshoon … disappointed me.”

“But not surprised you,” The Simbul interpreted. “He tried to slay El the moment I departed, didn’t he?”

Not quite. I believe it was about six moments after you departed.

The one-time Witch-Queen of All Aglarond snorted, sputtered, tittered like a young lass for a moment-then threw back her head and roared.

In mere moments, the thunderous laughter of a goddess echoed hers.