Only a pace behind it, a stout figure hid in the deep night-shadows. It held a drawn blade up and ready; if the priest had gone a pace or two more, he’d have impaled himself on the steel. The figure shrugged, grinned, slid his sword back into its sheath, and melted into the night, unseen.
Delg, panting, thought it prudent to retrieve the warcaptain’s dagger before venturing out into the night in search of his axe. He had to tug the blade several times to tear it free of the helm. Turning, he set out, and had almost reached his axe when he heard Shandril calling his name, her voice soft with fear.
Fimril, mageling of the Zhentarim, smiled as he rose from his crouch over the dancing flames. The sweat ran down his pale, drawn face in sheets and dripped from his chin; the spell he’d just used was too exhausting to hold for long. Few mages—in or out of the Brotherhood—could call images from the flames of a campfire as clearly as he could. He shook with weariness—but it was crucial that he saw it all.
His voice, when he could find it, was warm with satisfaction. “Karkul and the priest are both dead, as are almost all of their men—and the maid’s spellfire has run out. The time to strike is now.”
He showed an eager, vicious smile to his frightened sell-sword bodyguards. None of them, however, saw the skull floating in the night gloom beyond the circle of firelight. Its smile matched Fimril’s own.
The twin doors flashed and flared as various magical locks and bindings were released—and then ground slowly and ponderously open.
A handsome, cold-faced man in swirling black robes strode through the doors, onto a midnight sea of slick black marble. He walked to the center of this room, which was always dark, turned to face the doors, and halted. Tiny motes of light flickered and pulsed on his robes, rising slowly into the air. They winked and drifted in small circles, gathered over the man’s head, and coalesced into a sphere of flickering light.
Under the gathering radiance of his conjured driftlight, Fzoul Chembryl waited patiently, like an impassive statue, in the center of the innermost sanctum. He listened to the familiar chants in the temple passages outside with the air of an old and jaded critic. In the growing light, his long red hair gleamed like new-polished copper.
The silence that then fell outside told Fzoul his guest had arrived. In moments, its massive shadow loomed up in the doorway. It drifted in with slow caution, eyestalks darting this way and that.
Fzoul lifted his head a little and said calmly, “Greetings, Xarlraun.”
The beholder turned its pale eyes toward him. Xarlraun was dark, the chitinous plates of its outer skin covered with many old and ill-healed scars. The monster was as large as a woodsman’s hut, its spherical body as high as three tall men standing on each other’s shoulders. For many years it had dwelt in its own high mountain valley, feeding on herds of rothé that roamed the grassy slopes. As the decades passed, it grew large, and its hunger had grown with it. Finally the day had come when all the rothé were gone from the valley, so the beholder had descended into the world of men—and found far more plentiful food. Men were bonier than their livestock—especially those who wore bits of metal—but far tastier. Xarlraun stayed, and grew wise in the ways of men.
Wise enough to ally itself with strength and come drifting down the dark night streets of Zhentil Keep to this meeting—at a time when its lesser brethren were keeping Manshoon and Sarhthor busy in another meeting, elsewhere. Wise enough not to trust the man standing alone before him in the dark room.
“Greetings returned to you, Fzoul Chembryl,” it said in a deep yet hissing voice. “You know why I have come.”
“I do. Spellfire, and our plans to seize it.” Fzoul paused. “I presume you don’t want to listen to me speak of all our failures thus far?”
“You presume correctly. Begin, if you will, with the passage of the spellfire wielder through Thunder Gap.”
Fzoul nodded. “At the Gap, Shandril Shessair fought the most powerful dracolich known to exist, Shargrailar the Dark—and destroyed it. This act officially ended any pursuit of spellfire by the Cult of the Dragon. We know of six Cult agents who continued to pursue Shandril after the council met in Ordulin. One, Thiszult, disappeared at Thunder Gap, and we presume him to have perished by spellfire. Another, Ghaubhan Szaurr, commands a large permanent force in the Stonelands—too large and skilled for us to eliminate at will, so we have suffered it to remain and harry the patrols of Cormyr for us. Szaurr will become a factor only if Shandril travels into his grasp. The other four have been eliminated by members of the Brotherhood.”
The beholder kept cold silence.
Fzoul cleared his throat and went on. “Our efforts to seize spellfire by magical force have failed repeatedly—due to the power of spellfire and the intervention of others, including Elminster of Shadowdale, the Knights of Myth Drannor, Harper agents, and powerful archmages unfamiliar to us, whom we assume to have been acting for their personal gain. The known Thayan agents in Sembia did hear of spellfire, but either acted through the Cult or were eliminated by us.”
Fzoul took two slow steps and raised his hand. A glowing map of the Dragon Reach lands, from the Marsh of Tun to the Vast Swamp, and the Neck north as far as the Ride, began to form in the air. It was as large as the beholder that regarded it and pulsed with red, moving lines of light at Fzoul’s bidding.
“Our magical failures have led us to the conclusion that either creative uses of Art, or new spells, or both are necessary to deal effectively with spellfire. So for the first time we have thrown the Zhentilar into the hunt in force. The former Cult stronghold at Semberhome, and the old bandit keeps of Alarangh and Tossril, south of the East Way and just east of Thunder Gap—here and here—are bases for our troops. Their open presence will goad both Cormyr and Sembia to arms to protect their borders and keep the trade roads open, so they have been instructed to act only in emergencies, when the prize is worth the cost.” Fzoul paused to catch the beholder’s gazes directly. “Spellfire,” he added quietly, “was considered a prize worth any cost.”
“Let us hope those words do not haunt you overmuch,” the beholder replied, its deep voice sounding slightly wry.
Fzoul shrugged and went on. “From these strongholds, two groups of mounted lancers with crossbows set out. Twenty from Alarangh, and sixty from Tossril. The force from Alarangh passed through the Gap only a few days ago and caught up with Shandril—who is accompanied by a dwarf and her husband, a mage of no account—immediately.”
“She destroyed them,” said the beholder.
“Aye, with spellfire. It revealed clear limits to the energy she can wield. She collapsed when she had routed them—and her companions fled with her to the hamlet of Thundarlun, where there was a guard post of twenty-eight Purple Dragon troops.”
“At the same time, all of our agents in Cormyr, Tilverton, and the Stonelands were warned of Shandril’s coming. One of our forces in the Stonelands, under the command of Warcaptain Karkul Memrimmon, was ordered south into the Hullack Forest. With the aid of one of my upperpriests, they managed to cross the Moonsea Ride unobserved, east of Gnoll Pass, and rode by night to the headwaters of the Immer—here.”
“By then, your warriors had slaughtered the garrison at Thundarlun and set some of it afire, but Shandril slew them all,” the beholder added.
Fzoul sighed. “Aye. Either she recovers her powers very rapidly, or she found some sort of aid in Thundarlun that ah, renewed her spellfire energies.”
He paused, cleared his throat again, and went on. “When the swordmaster of the force from Tossril did not answer magical queries, we assumed he was dead and his force defeated. Spies riding foulwings from Semberhome were sent to overfly easternmost Cormyr, and return before they could provoke any response in force from Azoun’s war wizards. They found no sign of Shandril or her companions and concluded she must have gone into the Hullack Forest, seeking cover.”