Elminster Enraged

sky.

“Tluin,” Hawkspike gasped, trying to roll over. Plaguespew, but he was stiff!

“Hawk?” Harbrand yawned. “You awake?”

“No,” Hawkspike snarled firmly, though he very much was. Not that he wanted to be. He ached all over, cold and sharp stones jabbed him with every movement, he was hungry-his stomach growled, on cue-and, yes, he needed to relieve himself. Achingly.

Overhead was dark, rough stone. They were in some cave or other they’d found. Yes, he remembered now … a big one. They’d spilled some flash oil on a branch and made a torch that’d burned long enough to search it thoroughly. One vast room, a natural cavern that came furnished in old bones and refuse … but nothing recent, and no beast smell, so it wasn’t a lair for anything at the moment. They were somewhere high in the mountain foothills near Irlingmount. And, of course, come morning, they were stiff and sore, and decidedly not well rested after an uncomfortable night spent huddled on unforgivingly hard, sharp rocks.

“Tluin tluin tluin,” Hawkspike told the world, wincing as he rolled into a kneeling position and more unyielding stone promptly bruised his knees. He heaved himself upright to stumble unsteadily over to where he could lean against the cavern wall. His mouth tasted like he’d been licking a beast cage.

Harbrand, of course, was already up. Hrast him.

And stretching on the far side of the cavern, like a tavern dancer readying herself for something acrobatic. Grinning, too.

Gods above, the bastard was going to be cheerful.

“I,” Hawkspike’s partner announced, breaking off stretching with a series of kicks and flexings of his arms like some sort of drunken wrestler, “need to ease the old bladder. And get a drink. We heard a stream, last night, didn’t we?”

“Unnh,” Hawkspike agreed, pointing to where he vaguely thought the flowing water might be. They had heard water tinkling-a small but flash-flowing run-somewhere off that way.

Of course, to pee or drink, they’d have to go out into that bright slice of the world waiting yonder, beyond the entrance …

He picked his way carefully along the wall, not trusting his balance yet. Oh, but his bones were cold … The only good thing was, Har wasn’t moving much faster. Which meant he’d be saved from hearing quite a few mocking comments, at least until-

Something blotted out the morning light. Hawkspike looked up-and froze. Clear across the cave, Harbrand had done the same thing, becoming a gaping, pale-faced trembling statue.

The cavemouth was a descending gash as long as a grandly sprawling cottage. Completely filling it was a black snout that thrust a long way into the cave. A snout that was attached to the scaled, curving-horned head of … a black dragon.

“Naed,” Hawkspike gasped, and he eased his own bladder right there and then, favorite codpiece and all.

Wise and cruel draconic eyes slid across from Harbrand’s similar distress to watch him.

“Well met,” the dragon said, parting his jaws-those fangs! — in a slow, soft smile. “I am Alorglauvenemaus, and I find myself in need of some replacement Beasts.”

“Oh?” Harbrand managed to quaver, from across the cave. “W-what sort of beasts?”

About then, Hawkspike decided that losing control of his bladder was an ineffective tactic. So he chose another: falling over in a dead faint.

“That’s a good idea!” Harbrand said brightly-and he fainted, too.

A moment later, the cavern rocked to a deafening roar. Alorglauvenemaus was guffawing.

“Such … glory,” The Simbul mumbled, watching dawn creep across the mountains. Enough of the power was gone from her that she was herself again, in control once more. Hanging high in the air, she healed herself, flexing and stretching in gasping ease. All pain gone, she was stronger, more vigorous, and more alive than she had ever been. “Thank you, Lady Mother. What now?”

Now you must go and hunt more blueflame, of course. Many more rifts await.

The Simbul groaned, then managed a grin. “Well, that one was … intense fun. And I’m getting good at this; must be all the practice.”

Must be, Mystra agreed, and they found themselves laughing together again.

The lord constable of Irlingstar struggled to his feet, dimly aware that Elminster-the sleekly menacing drow he’d had in his arms, his knife at her throat-had run headlong from him, down a passage and away.

The dark elf hadn’t been Lucksar at all. Lucksar was dead, and no more help was coming …

Someone was shouting, several someones; prisoners, noble voices he knew, angry and afraid.

“Are we all going to be killed while you do nothing?”

“The war wizards are murdering us, one by one, while you just stand there and laugh!”

“Killers! So much for your vaunted justice!”

“What?” Farland muttered wearily, still reluctant to leave all those memories behind, to forget the warmth of that mighty mind wrapped around his … what had brought this shouting on? Had there been another killing?

There had. The guards had just found Lord Arlond Hiloar lying dead in his own cell doorway. Ah, yes, perfumed Arlond, fair-haired and delicate, icily arrogant to everyone but more often withdrawn, always fondling and stroking a little spiral-seashell-shaped ivory snuffbox he carried with him. Not long before he’d been found dead, he’d been seen standing in that doorway, watching and listening as louder prisoners, in their own doorways up and down the same passage, had demanded to be let out. All of them had been kept to their rooms by the invisible walls of the new wards; Elminster’s “secure boxes.”

Hiloar was alone in his cell rather than sharing it, and aside from the wards, it had no other way out except through solid stone walls. All of which still stood undisturbed-like the wards. At some time during all the bandinage, he’d simply slumped, unnoticed by his fellow prisoners until his fall. Slumped because his throat had been slashed open, the cut so deep that it had gone almost right through his neck. The blood was … copious.

The nobles in the nearest rooms were the most frightened. One was shouting-no, two, now, make that three as another took it up-that the castle must be haunted, and it was Farland’s “Crown duty” to get them all “out of here” to somewhere safer. The always-half-flooded dungeon cell in Immerkeep, the manacle pits in Wheloon, the dank mold-infested prison cellars in Marsember-anywhere!

Farland sighed, considered some choice curses but flung them aside unuttered, and decided he’d just about reached the same conclusion these scared nobles were so unpleasantly voicing. Though by any sober measure, he commanded less than a sixth of the manpower he’d need to keep any sort of control over such highnosed and well- connected prisoners, once they departed Irlingstar. Not to mention that taking such a bold step without permission from above would mean his neck and worse. He needed clear orders confirming any such move, and a good tell- truths talk with senior courtiers and war wizards-Lord Warder Vainrence, for one-before he let one noble outside the castle.

“Gulkanun? Longclaws?” he growled, going to them so they could hear him through all the shouting. “If we’re to move anyone, I need you to try to magically contact the lord warder … and failing him, Ganrahast himself.”

Both Crown mages nodded.

“Of course,” Gulkanun replied, “but we’ll be needing someone to stand guard over us while we work. Forcing a contact through the wards won’t be easy.”

“Guarding? We’ll take care of that,” Arclath announced calmly. At his shoulder, Amarune nodded-and flourished a knife she should not have had. Farland lifted an eyebrow.

Then he shook his head wryly, told them all, “Of course,” and he started pointing, to arrange Delcastle, his lass, and himself around the two mages in an outward-facing armed ring.

The two war wizards had barely begun casting when another scream rang out, from some castle chamber nearby. A high and despairing cry that soared above the angry shouting from the cells, stilling them-before it was cut off suddenly, to end in horrible wet, choking gurgles.