Pennae was a little surprised not to be greeted by sharp steel stabbing at her the moment the blue glow faded before her.
She, and Islif, and a moment later all the rest of the Swords, were even more surprised by what they beheld in the large chamber in front of them.
On its far wall were mounted three huge, glowing and very vivid portraits of menacing, rampant monsters, all of them familiar to the Swords from bestiaries: a chuul, an ettin, and an umber hulk. To the right of them, stone steps led up to a passage stretching away elsewhere, and a coldly smiling, white-haired yet young man in black doublet, hose, and boots-looking for all the world like a minor courtier who might well be seen standing near the Dragon Throne-stood on those steps.
Floating in three green, swirling glows in midair, struggling to win free of them, were Agannor, Bey, and the man in leathers who’d followed them through the portal.
“These are yours, I presume?” the man on the steps asked the Swords. “Kindly slay them.” He pointed at the man in leathers. “Especially that one, who had the effrontery to open one of my private portals and lead, it seems, half the adventurers in Cormyr here.”
“Who are you?” Pennae asked, frowning in bewilderment. “And where’s ‘here’?”
“Ah. Well.” The man waved a hand, and the glow behind the Swords winked out; the portal was gone. “As you’ve no way of ever finding this place again, there’s no harm in your knowing that you stand in Whisper’s Crypt. I am Whisper, one of the mightiest wizards of the Zhentarim.”
“Oh, tluin, ” Jhessail said wearily. “When will all this running and fighting and killing end?”
The Zhentarim smiled at her. “When you die, of course.”
Chapter 25
See these hills, lad? So peaceful they seem now-but you’d not want to be standing here when the storm breaks.
Sarhthor snorted.
“Mightiest wizards” indeed. Whisper intended the intruders to swiftly wind up as food for his trapped beasts, of course, but was it really necessary to gloat like a reckless youth? Or waste the life of the best Zhent agent in Arabel?
Yes, ’twas time-well past it-to end the career of Whisper the mage. There were far more than enough reasons already, and unless Whisper did something truly surprising, he was about to hand Sarhthor a handsome opportunity.
With the thinnest of smiles, Sarhthor leaned over his scrying orb and started to cast a careful spell.
“Well?” Whisper asked the Swords. “What’re you waiting for?” He waved at the writhing, whirling webs of green radiance, or at the cursing, straining men caught in them. “I told you to kill them.”
“I-we-mislike the look of your magic,” Islif told him, pointing with her sword at the racing emerald glows. “If I stick a sword into that, what will befall me?”
“Ah. Well.” Whisper’s smile was colder this time. “You ask the wrong question, wench. Your words should be: If I fail to stick my sword into that, what will befall me?” He gestured.
The air in front of Whisper suddenly sang and shimmered. Though the Swords could still see him clearly, he now stood behind a wall of awakened magic.
“Know that I am less than pleased with you,” he announced, and calmly cast another spell. The three green glows brightened.
Agannor was pleading now, crying to the Swords for help. Bey and the Zhent in leathers were saving breath for their doomed struggles to win free of the magic that held them.
And was now drifting across the room, carrying them toward… the three paintings.
Tiny green lightning bolts crackled a greeting to the portraits, stabbing forth as each mantrapping radiance floated up to a painting… and into it.
The emerald webs melted away, and the painted monsters started moving, reaching forth hungrily for… Agannor, Bey, and the Zhent, who tumbled across the paintings as if rolling and running across a room, silently shouting in fear as they desperately swung swords and daggers.
The Swords watched them die bloodily, ravaged and battered. It took but a breath or two, as Whisper watched with his smile widening. “Eat, my guardians,” he murmured. “Eat, and be content. I promise you-”
At the sound of his voice, the three beasts turned, glared at him-and boiled forth from the paintings, emerging into the room.
Whisper’s jaw dropped, but he stammered out a swift incantation, his voice sharp with alarm.
The umber hulk, foremost of the three monsters heading for him, shook itself as his spell washed over it, and turned toward the Swords of Eveningstar.
And charged, the club-waving ettin and the chuul following it.
“Naed,” Islif whispered, hefting her sword. “We’re going to die.”
Jaw tightening, she raised her blade to launch a charge of her own-and the umber hulk stiffened, came to such an abrupt halt it tottered, and whirled around to face Whisper once more. And charged again.
Peering down at his scrying orb, Sarhthor of the Zhentarim smiled, and cast another spell.
Whisper the mage drew a wand from his belt and stood warily behind his shield, watching the monsters come for him.
As the umber hulk rushed closer, Whisper’s shield grew brighter, until it looked like a solid wall of spitting, snarling sparks. The umber hulk shuddered and slowed, as if wading on into the magic was both painful and took great effort. Whisper started to smile.
Then the shield abruptly vanished, and the umber hulk was reaching triumphantly for the horrified mage, who gaped at it in disbelief. Its claws had almost closed on his face when he scrambled back and triggered his wand.
Fire splashed over the monster, leaving it staggering and darkening. As it shuddered and slowed, the chuul opened its huge claws and rushed at Whisper from his other side.
He whirled and fed it a burst of flame, retreating quickly as the umber hulk pressed forward. The chuul shuddered but kept coming; only the ettin hung back with growls of malevolent fear.
Pennae watched the Zhent with narrowed eyes, hefting a dagger in her hand-and when Whisper turned once more to bathe the umber hulk in fire, she threw her knife hard and fast.
It flashed back firelight as it spun, and Whisper saw it and shied back. The umber hulk lunged forward, its great forearms reaching; Pennae’s dagger struck one of them and spun harmlessly away.
Whisper blasted the umber hulk again, a great burst of flame enveloping the beast-but even as he aimed his wand to unleash that fire, Pennae threw a second blade.
This one struck home, slicing Whisper’s hand and sending the wand tumbling away. Which was when the chuul’s claw caught at the mage’s other shoulder, plucking him into an awkward, hopping turn.
Its other claw thrust forward, but Whisper hissed a frantic incantation and flung himself back up the steps.
In his wake, bolts of chain lightning arced and played the length of the chuul’s body. It lurched sideways, wisps of smoke curling from its joints, its claws spasming with an eerie clattering. The umber hulk shouldered it aside-but Whisper was already fleeing.
He raced for three strides before the ettin’s hurled club took his feet out from under him, and he slammed
