Which meant no sly or savage attack would fall on him, here or elsewhere, for days to come.
More than that, the ever-mounting death toll among the Brotherhood magelings would give the Rightful Hand of Bane real say in the Zhentarim for some time to come; Manshoon was fast becoming one man, standing almost alone against all the might of the temple.
Alone indeed. Last night a beholder had come floating into Fzoul’s private chapel, turning aside the guardian spells with contemptuous ease, to hiss a private message.
“Expect Manshoon to receive no aid from any of my kind in this fray over the Darkways,” the eye tyrant had said. “We regard this as a test of Manshoon’s strength and fitness to lead the Brotherhood. So fear not, Fzoul Chembryl-if Manshoon calls on us to crush you or your temple underlings, we shall not hear.”
A Spell of Simple Remedy
“Keep back!” Elminster snapped as guards pounded up, glaives lowered and reaching for him. “I’m undoing Manshoon’s evil, so all can safely use this Darkway again. Harm me, and you doom him, and all your livelihoods.”
“Back, men!” a deeper voice rolled out from behind the guards. “Who are you, wizard?”
“Elminster,” the bearded wizard replied-as the floor rocked under their feet, and distant thunder made glass lamps tinkle and the entire mansion shudder around them.
“What’s going on?” the waylord demanded. “That’s been happening most of the day, now!”
“Ambram Sarbuckho killed many Zhentarim last night. Manshoon is now busily destroying Wyrmhaven as a warning to all the rest of you.”
“Meaning?”
El shrugged. “He intends to crush all who don’t kneel to him. So, some of ye may elect to use thy gates to flee the keep, with all thy riches and retainers. Yet ye’re Zhents, so most of ye will probably vow to fight Manshoon to the death. Me, I must use the time while Manshoon’s indulging himself at Wyrmhaven to undo the fatal spells he worked on every last Darkway, to make them all safe again. So I’m off to the next one, now. Lord, ye have a decision to make.”
A Warm Welcome
Yavarla swam up out of a pleasant slumber to find the sun warm on her face, and herself snugly wrapped up in her own shimmerweave coverlet. Storm had put her coffer in her hands and produced a soft pillow from somewhere to cradle her head. Yavarla could hear the beautiful, liquid swirling of her harp from off to her right, not too close, and smiled to herself.
She did not let that smile reach her face. Nor did she open her eyes.
This was all very pleasant, but it was a trap.
The man who’d snatched her out of Wyrmhaven last night was keeping her here, away from the keep, for reasons of his own.
She had to get back-to Manshoon-before any more time passed.
If this silver-haired harpist hadn’t robbed her as she slept, she had the means to do it, too. Under the coverlet, Yavarla opened the coffer a crack with her thumbs, feeling carefully for the ring with the sculpted wing thrusting up from it.
There it was, amid everything else. Her wealth was untouched.
The harp music swirled, rising and falling. Storm Silverhand was strolling around the glade as she played.
Eyes shut, Yavarla worked to get that ring on her finger. She knew what she’d see if she looked over at the harpist. Those long, long silver tresses would be swirling and coiling like lazy snakes or stretching cats, curling leisurely in time to the music. The harpist’s magic must be strong-so she, Yavarla, would have to be fast.
There! It was on, and snugged up against her knuckles. Close the coffer, think of the street in front of Manshoon’s house, for it would be foolish to try to teleport into a wizard’s home, with all the wards he’d have, and – Faerun whirled around her – she was blinking in the bright sun of the keep, standing on the cobbles outside Manshoon’s gates, her coffer in her hands. Grim guards were already lowering great glaives to menace her.
“I,” she told them calmly, “am expected. Conduct me to First Lord Manshoon. Without delay, if you please.”
The nearest guard inclined his head. “Lady, your name?”
“I am Lady Yavarla Sarbuckho. Wife to the Lord Ambram Sarbuckho, of the keep.”
“Admit her,” a young wizard’s voice called down from somewhere above, and the great gates opened.
Yavarla kept a serene smile on her face as she was whisked up stairs and across polished marble halls and up more stairs, climbing ever higher. Twice her skin tingled, the ring on her finger burning her like fire, as unseen spellcasters probed her for magic. The second time, a man she’d never seen before stepped out of a door to bar her way and demand, “Remove your ring. No such magic in the presence of the First Lord.”
“You,” she replied coolly, “are not the First Lord. I have seen him-all of him-and I know.”
Unimpressed, the man reached out for her coffer. After a moment, she put it into his hand.
“This shall be returned, unopened by me,” he told her, his other hand still out. “The ring.”
Silence fell between them, until she sighed, removed the ring, and dropped it into his palm. He bowed, indicated the door he’d come through, and glided away, murmuring, “Lord Manshoon awaits you.”
Yavarla opened the door. The room beyond was a richly paneled study full of books and a massive table and high-backed chairs, like many she’d seen in the mansions of the mighty. Standing by the table was-her heart leaped anew at his dark, handsome looks, and the smile growing on his face-Manshoon.
“Lord, I came to tell you my husband is dead. I killed him last night, after he came to me wanting me to slay you. He-”
“Yavarla,” Manshoon said warmly, opening his arms to welcome her.
As she rushed into them, fire kindled in his eyes.
With that same widening smile still on his face, he drawled, “Your usefulness is past.”
Fire coalesced out of the air around her, binding her like chains-and then started to sear her.
“And you bore me,” he added, as she tried to scream… but fell to ashes, instead.
His second spell kept even the smallest of them from reaching the carpet.
From a chair on the far side of the table, Fzoul Chembryl watched as the ashes roiled, then spiraled in the air like dark water going down a drain, and vanished.
Then he nodded approvingly.
A ruler free of entanglements is a leader free of weaknesses. He’d do the same thing.
He smiled crookedly, thinking of a certain rather eager priestesses back at the temple. He might soon have to.
The Time of Reckoning
At least this, Elminster thought rather wearily, was the last.
He’d told a seemingly endless succession of angry waylords what he was doing to their Darkways, and why- and now here he was in the luxurious black marble rear hall of Swordgates, looking up into the frightened face of Mantras Jhoszelbur… and he was done at last.
He straightened with a yawn, dusted his hands together, and told this last waylord, “I’m done here. If ye’d be rid of First Lord Manshoon, hounding him out of the keep is thy work to undertake. If ye prefer a life of slavery, let him proceed down the path he’s chosen, and ye’ll enjoy that status soon enough!”
Before Jhoszelbur could think of something suitably testy to snarl, El was through an archway and back along the passage that led to the rear door he’d come in by. He wanted to get clear of Swordgates before Manshoon finished destroying Wyrmhaven and came looking for other foes to reduce to rubble.
Guards scuttled hastily out of his way. El gave them a reassuring smile-no sense in having a few spears hurled at the back of your head, even if you did have a mantle to stop them-and then opened that door and ducked out into the alley beyond.
And the world exploded.
When he could see again, he knew what had happened. His mantle had returned half a dozen hostile magics to the various Zhentarim who’d first hurled them, then failed, overloaded by the onslaught.
Those backlashes were still causing various buildings where Manshoon’s mages had been to slump or topple, up and down the alley-and the flood of still-rolling rubble had just swept him right back into Swordgates.
Thankfully, Jhoszelbur’s guards were fleeing in all directions, not throwing spears, and there was no sign of
