Arclath shook his head. He would never understand magic… and what scared him was the strengthening suspicion that even archmages understood only scraps of it.
“Come on!” Storm snapped over her shoulder, running faster. Mirt wheezed, then groaned like a sick walrus, barreling forward in a pell-mell lurching.
Arclath looked at the spitting-with-rage death knight in her iron prison-in time to see her overbalance in her struggles and fall to the cobbles to roll helplessly, snarling curses-then started to sprint after everyone. Catching up to the odd parade all running toward the palace.
As the last of the wagons rumbled away from Sraunter’s alley door, Manshoon helped the alchemist slam and bar it, then ran for the cellar stairs.
He had to move fast; the wizards of war wouldn’t refrain from prying forever.
Not with their suspicions aroused, the city full of scheming nobles, and the sort of temper the Lady Glathra had.
A temper he would show her a match for, if it came to that. He was getting a headache already, what with having to dominate and control Sraunter and no fewer than six carters and drovers on three wagons. So soon after promising to limit himself, too. He’d picked the first three teams who’d stopped by the alchemist’s shop with supplies in closed wagons that were large enough, not the carters and drovers Manshoon might have chosen at his own leisure.
“Leisure” being something he entirely lacked, just then.
That headache was why Crownrood spellslept in his locked cellar room, and some streets away Dardulkyn was hidden in a closet in his mansion, deep in similar enspelled slumber, while Manshoon trusted — had to trust-in the explicit and detailed orders he’d given the helmed horrors to keep all intruders at bay. Including zealous Purple Dragons, war wizards, and for that matter, any Highknights who might be lurking in Suzail and aching to demonstrate their prowess.
Aching mind or not, this darkly handsome human body was strong and supple; he could descend the cellar stairs in three long strides without fear of falling or skidding into an unyielding wall.
Coming to a deft stop by the chair, he turned on his heel and sat, wasting not a moment in his haste to get to where he could stare at his scrying eyes. Three of them could be turned to cover most of the wagons’ route without need of going out and casting new scrying spells, and he’d either have to accompany a wagon himself to add the missing dogleg of streets, or risk doing without it. The beholderkin body he’d ridden back here could cast only spells worked by force of will or very simple utterances.
He stared into those three scrying eyes as he bent his will to making them leave the current array and drift to new positions, in a row floating together right in front of him, at the same time as he turned and refocused what they could see in Suzail.
Manshoon’s head throbbed with sharper pain. He clenched his teeth, pressed hard fingers against his temples, and glared at the moving scenes of the dark Suzailan night streets as they swam, drifted sideways… and then settled into the views he wanted.
He was in time to see the first of the wagons carrying his precious cargo rumble into view from beneath, and on down the street away from his scrying eye’s vantage point. It was followed by the second wagon.
It would have been subtler to send the wagons on different routes and approach the still-ringed-by-Dragons mansion singly, in something that was a little less obviously a convoy. It was proving hard enough to keep Sraunter, here at hand, and six other mens’ minds at a distance, as those six guided carthorses and steered wagons in a normal-seeming fashion, all firmly in thrall.
Hard, but necessary.
It would be less than wise to have drooling, vacantly-staring, oddly leaning men visible when the wagons approached Dardulkyn’s mansion-considering that under the tarps and behind the swing-gates of each wagon lurked the floating body of an undead beholder, bound for his new lair in Dardulkyn’s mansion.
Manshoon was trying not to think of what would have to happen when they arrived. He’d just have to put Sraunter to sleep, hope no one came banging at the doors of the closed-up shop-yes, alchemists tended to do business at all hours, but it was the darkest, coldest time of deep night-and awaken the distant Dardulkyn to cast concealing magics before he sent his will into the distant death tyrants, one after another, and made each of them move. He dared not trust even the thickest sea fog to hide something so distinctive as a larger-than-man-sized beholder from prying war wizards.
The first wagon was only two streets away from the mansion, just coming into view in his newest scrying eye, the one he’d compelled Dardulkyn to cast before sending the man into slumber.
Coming into view but slowing, as a dung wagon came rumbling out of a side street to block its way.
Manshoon silently cursed all dung wagons and the idiot dungbucketeers who drove them, even as he reminded himself that doing anything to this one was out of the question…
The battered old dung wagon stopped right across the street, and men on foot appeared around either side of it. Far too many to be dung collectors or citizens bringing their nightsoil.
Not that citizens wore chainmail and the helms of Dragons, or were accompanied by wizards of war with wands ready in their hands.
Oh, naed. Naed naed naed naed!
Manshoon slammed clenched fists down on the arms of his chair and stared into the scrying spheres with blazing eyes.
Dardulkyn would still be blamed, yes, but they were going to find his death tyrant.
This first one, at least; he was already coercing the other drovers to turn aside and head toward the docks, the first leg of a long circuit that would bring the other two wagons separately back to Sraunter’s rear door.
Dragons shouted sharp orders at the two wagonmen. To halt-which they already had-and to climb down and stand away from their wagon. Soldiers were already holding the bridles of the foremost draft horses.
Manshoon fought down his anger, tried to ignore the sharper and rising pounding in his head, called the spell he needed to the forefront of his mind, worked it but held it firmly in abeyance-“hanging,” in the old parlance-and threw his mind from the suddenly stumbling drover to what awaited in the dark depths of the wagon.
A war wizard conjured bright light, harsh and white and flooding everywhere, making all the horses snort and stamp.
Dragons warily clambered up onto the back steps of the wagon, threw the latch on its doors, and hauled them open, jumping down. Then another pair of Dragons leaped up onto the steps and flung the tarps back.
Leaving his staring, rotting, gape-mawed, and ten-eyestalked secret floodlit, and a secret no longer.
“She’s free!” Mirt roared from behind them, obviously struggling to find breath enough to both shout and run. Inevitably he’d fallen behind in their trot to the palace. Not far ahead of him, Storm, Rune, and Arclath had burst out into the Promenade. They were swerving toward an area lit by both lanterns and conjured light around the fallen palace door that smiths and woodcarvers were examining, under the watchful eyes of Dragons.
“Try to get into the palace, or at least past as many Dragons as possible before we’re stopped,” Storm had just warned them, plucking the now-dark helm off Amarune’s head and tossing it to the cobbles behind them. “Targrael wants our blood.”
“Y-you surprise me,” Rune joked weakly.
Turn back, lad. Now we stand and fight.
The voice in Arclath’s head was firm, but no coercion came with it. Arclath nodded as if Elminster had spoken aloud, and whirled around, waving his sword. “Mirt!” he shouted. “I’ll stand rearguard! Run!”
Targrael was running hard down the street behind the lumbering Waterdhavian, overhauling him with frightening speed.
Run toward him, lad, and be ready to drop thy sword. I need to work a spell while we still can.
“We?” Arclath snapped.
We, as in ye and me. We’ll have time for only one, before there’re too many palace folk blundering around in the way. Swift, now!
Swallowing down his fear, Lord Delcastle obeyed the voice in his head, muttering, “This had better work, or…”
Or we’ll haunt each other. Aye.
Shaking his head, Arclath ran. Wheezing heavily, Mirt lurched past him in the other direction. Targrael was
