Years they'd been together, as he'd led the armies of Zhentil Keep to rule Thar and the northern coast of the Moonsea with brutal efficiency-something he was less and less proud of, as the years passed. He'd never noticed the gray creeping through Etreth's hair, and the man's moustache was white!
The battlelord sat up, cushions tumbling. 'The time is come,' he growled. 'I have one last command, good Etreth: go and summon the one I told you of.'
'Now, Lord? And… leave you? What if-?'
'I'll do without,' the lord said firmly, 'until the one I must deal with is here. Go, Etreth, for the honor of the Amandons.'
He set down his goblet. It clattered in his trembling hand. Rorst frowned down at it, then raised fierce eyes. 'Go,' he said roughly, 'if you care for me at all.'
The old servant stood looking at him a moment, turned with what sounded like a sob, and hurried out.
Rorst Amandon glanced at the darkened scrying crystal and wondered if he'd last long enough to see this final battle through. His eyes wandered to Desil's portrait, drank in her familiar painted beauty, and turned again to the scrying crystal. I am a man of the sword, he reflected with a wan smile, itching to be part of the fight until the very last.
The well-oiled door to the chamber's secret exit closed behind the last guest, and Lord Chess sat alone. A full goblet rested forgotten before him as he idly turned a plain ring around and around on his finger.
Nothing short of an angry god could stop Manshoon now. The first lord was as powerful in sorcery as he was a master of strategy. He'd be ruler of Zhentil Keep before the snows came. That would have been unthinkable only a year ago, with all the wily, battle-hardened nobles of the Keep between the arrogant mage and mastery of the city.
Then old lorltar had named Manshoon his successor as first lord-under magical compulsion, many thought. Within a tenday, many of the proudest nobles-those who had no love for the upstart first lord or commanded strong magic-fell ill. No cause could be found, but the tavern-rumors carried the truth. Now those same taverns housed talk of the Zhentarim slaying rivals openly. And when the uproar began, Manshoon was supposed to have some secret weapon to wield, one beyond the spells of his ever-growing band of gutter wizards.
The monied among the work-a-day Zhents fiercely opposed every plan and deed of the swift-rising Zhentarim, but that mattered little. The merchants learned early there was no safety to be bought after one opposes a magic-wielder. As for the rest of the populace-well, the rabble never played much of a role in politics, apart from being swayed to one cause or another by well-staged public spectacle. Not much different from the other folk of the Heartlands, really.
The ring Chess had been turning gleamed and caught his eye. He regarded it thoughtfully. The plain band had cost him his best hireswords; he'd paid very expensive assassins to kill them after they'd refused to part with it. But it was worth the bloodfees and the loss of their service. He wore it constantly these days.
Manshoon wasn't the only one in the Keep with secret weapons. Chess could call forth a loyal dragon from the ring whenever the need might come. That might be as soon as tomorrow, he thought grimly as he reached for his goblet once more.
'We've been foes more years than I can remember,' Lord Amandon said, rising. His guest had arrived swiftly, indeed.
Sweat from the effort of standing sprang out on the old lord's brow. A moment later, he felt himself borne on unseen hands back to bed, to settle once more among the cushions. The pain and trembling eased-but all his will could not entirely stifle a whimper.
'Be at ease, Lord Amandon,' said his guest, standing cloaked in shadow. 'Greeting me should not bring ye death.'
The old lord raised an eyebrow. 'Myrkul stands ready at my door… 'tis why I sent for you. I need Manshoon stopped, but not slain.'
'When, and how?'
'As soon as next highsun, I fear… at the meeting of the ruling council.'
'A meeting so guarded by spells that my approach would call forth all the mages, priests, and armsmen Zhentil Keep can muster.'
'There is a way in,' Lord Amandon replied. 'Take the shape of a being who is expected, and you'll be free to enter.'
'I smell a trap.'
'Aye,' Amandon said. 'There is… But not for your skin. Certain secret names I've learned, coupled with your power, can entrap a being, to its death. I give you my word-as battlelord of Zhentil Keep and as an Amandon: I mean no attack against you.'
'I believe ye,' came the voice from the shadows.
Lord Amandon sighed. 'You show more trust than most in this city, these days.'
'Lack of trust is a more widespread problem than ye may think, Lord,' was the dry reply. 'Now, these secret names-'
At the heart of the High Hall of Zhentil Keep was a vast, echoing room. Usually it stood empty. Today every seat was taken, and those who could not find seats in the council chamber, but had importance enough to force admittance, stood on the stairs, anxious at what might occur-and even more anxious not to appear so. Rumors about the rise of the Zhentarim and the growing anger of the nobles enfolded the city like a cloak on a chill night. Would the cold-faced priests of Bane stop the wizards' grab for power with spells of their own? That might plunge the city into spell-battle and ruin. Or would they remain as impartial as they'd always claimed to be?
Through the murmur of excited talk, bright morning light fell past the shoulders of standing citizens into the oval well of concentric benches to splash the central debating floor with sun-fire. Lord Chess looked grimly down from his seat into that pool of light and stroked one of his rings.
One man stood alone in the brightness-a man in rich robes, who surveyed the chamber as if he owned it and every person there; a man hated more than most, in a city of many hatreds: Manshoon of the Zhentarim, first lord of Zhentil Keep.
He gave the crowded benches that soft half-smile many had learned to fear, then said, 'There is just one matter more.'
Manshoon took a thick sheaf of parchment from a front bench and waved it. One scrip escaped his grasp and fluttered away. Someone snickered, but Manshoon crooked an eyebrow and let his hand fall open. The papers began circling his head in a slow, stately ring.
“These reports cite increased aggressions by our foes,' he said, his voice carrying to the uppermost reaches of the chamber. 'See how many there are?'
He indicated one paper. 'Here we read of citizens slain by villainous, deluded followers of the discredited high imperceptor.'
He pointed at a group of parchments. 'There we read of unfair fees and taxes heaped upon our merchants by no less than seven cities of the Dragon Reach.'
Manshoon's finger moved again. 'Or perhaps you'd prefer to report of open assaults on our caravans by the brigands who style themselves the Cult of the Dragon!'
The first lord spread his hands. 'Is this not monstrous? Should we not sharpen our swords and ready our spells?'
'No,' someone replied flatly from the middle benches. There was a murmur of laughter.
Manshoon let it run its course and die. 'Yet there's more. Much more. The survival of our very city is at stake!' 'It always has been,' someone called. 'Aye, show us something new to back up those old words!'
Manshoon replied, 'Very well. Look, all!
The harmless shadows of sparking, slaying spells flashed and leapt. Manshoon stood calmly in the midst of their silent fury and said, 'I call on the high priest of the Black Altar!'
Fzoul rose and bowed gravely. His flowing red hair and moustache stood out like frozen flames against the
