He spread his hands in a gesture of resignation, and continued. “When Manshoon felt secure enough in his control of the Brotherhood, spellfire would be used to destroy key foes—Elminster of Shadowdale and the Simbul of Aglarond, for example—who often anticipate and ruin our plans.”
Fzoul watched the doomed guard flying with frenzied skill, dodging and darting about the ceiling of the chamber. One of the beholder’s eyes swiveled around to meet his, and he went on. “Thereafter, spellfire would be used carefully and covertly to remove strong leaders who oppose us—Azoun of Cormyr, Maalthiir of Hillsfar, and the rulers of Mulmaster, Calaunt, and then Thay. Our objective would be to advance our own agents to positions of greater influence in these places, to make them more amenable to our causes so we need not destroy or openly conquer them.”
The high priest watched the guard swoop right at the eye tyrant, kicking eyestalks aside, then dart around behind its central body, making a desperate dive for the door.
“Experimentation with spellfire, to make it something we can preserve with breeding or nurture with training, would then follow,” Fzoul added, as the guard plunged at the open doorway. At the last instant, the man swept his hands back to his sides and closed his eyes.
The snap of his breaking neck was softer and duller than either the priest or the beholder had expected. Silently the eye tyrant used its powers to raise the corpse to its waiting mouth, cheated of its sport again.
It idly rolled the lifeless guard over and over in midair as it spoke. “Will you take a direct hand in trying to seize spellfire now from this Shandril?”
“Not willingly,” Fzoul replied. “I fear Manshoon has come to view this battle as a personal one after Shandril slew a lover of his—Symgharyl Maruel, the sorceress known as the Shadowsil—and sent him fleeing from battle. In that flight, he lost his favorite dragon steed, one long bonded to him and of unquestioned loyalty, and had to fight his way through baatezu to get out of the ruins of Myth Drannor. He will attack in person if he gets an excuse.”
“I asked what the high priest would do, not how he expects Manshoon to behave,” the eye tyrant observed coldly.
Fzoul answered it with a wintry smile—and the words, “I have learned the benefits of waiting until the battle-hungry and the foolish have worn a foe down, and then stepping in at the end. An open attack on Shandril would not be prudent, for the Brotherhood or for myself; if I fight her, it must be another way.”
“We think so, too,” Xarlraun replied. “And because of this, we have chosen to support you, Fzoul, over Manshoon. You seem wise enough not to act against him, or reveal our part, openly—for in a struggle between you two, both you and the wizard would be destroyed; the only question would be whether you would succeed in taking Manshoon down with you.”
The beholder’s jaws opened, and swallowed the temple guard whole. Fzoul inclined his head in a nod of agreement, and then waited for the crunching sounds to subside.
When they did, the beholder went on as if there had been no interruption. “You wondered as to my sources earlier. Most important among them is a creature Manshoon thinks he controls absolutely—a lich lord known as Iliph Thraun. He is mistaken; you now control it absolutely—with this.”
The beholder’s sides heaved, and it spat out something from an internal organ. Fzoul ignored the red saliva dripping from the thing as the beholder’s eye powers brought it smoothly down to him. Before he had to foul his hands on it, it spun in the air, unwrapping itself. Soiled cloth fell away; Fzoul stepped back hastily when he saw the marble floor smoking where drops of saliva had fallen.
Out of the last wrappings floated a fist-sized black gem in a brass cage. From the stone, a neck-chain dangled. Fzoul put out his hand for it, and the beholder nodded approvingly.
“Put it on only when you wish to see out of the lich’s eyes and work your will on it. Your identity and mind is shielded from Manshoon, the lich itself, and all others; use your will to break Manshoon’s only when you deem the time is right—that will probably come when he tries to use the lich lord against you.”
“What, precisely, is a lich lord?” Fzoul asked carefully, eyeing the gem in his hand. It felt cold and heavy and seemed to watch him menacingly, looking up from his palm and awaiting its chance.
“A failed lich, of an ancient sort. It needs to feed on spell energy to continue its unlife, and takes the form of a disembodied, flying human skull, able to see, speak, think, and cast spells. The gem you hold contains the soul of Iliph Thraun; through it you can control the lich lord absolutely, even to drive it to its own clear destruction. Your will prevails over all other spells, items, and inducements acting on the lichnee.”
The beholder drifted away. “I strongly recommend you keep that gem hidden; at all times beware the treachery of Manshoon and the ambitious wizards he commands. I am grateful for the meals you so thoughtfully provided; you should be grateful that I forgive you for the poisons you introduced into the first one; sadly for your ambitions, I have been immune to those particular killers for several centuries. Farewell, priest.”
Fzoul stood frozen as the beholder drifted out of the chamber. Whatever unseen barrier had blocked the open doorway was gone now, or had no effect on Xarlraun.
Then the priest suddenly set down the gem and slid it away from him with hasty force. As it skidded into a corner, he hurriedly cast a spell. And stood waiting, tense and watchful, hands raised to cast another spell. Silence. Fzoul let out a heavy breath, and drew in another. Time passed. He drew another breath. Nothing happened. The gem lay quiescent.
Still protected by his spell and looking very thoughtful, Fzoul regarded it. Then he suddenly strode to the door, and called for six upperpriests by name.
Turning, he cast another spell—and the gem was suddenly gone from the room. He nodded, satisfied, and then set off down the passage, snapping orders to the priests at hand; there was much to do.
Five
Old Ale in an Older Cask
At last even the old wolf lies down under the weight of his years. He may be strong, but know ye: some years are heavier than others.
“Up, lass. I know you’re exhausted, but it’s walk exhausted or meet death right soon—so let’s see you up, lass!” The dwarf’s rough voice was close by her ear, one strong hand gentle on her shoulder.
Shandril was adrift in a horrific dream: burning all the friends she’d ever known with runaway spellfire. Writhing and arching in the flames, they melted away to blackened, bare skeletons—except for their heads, screaming at her in anger and agony. She heard the rough burr of Delg’s voice from somewhere near and reached out a lazy hand. Her fingers found bristling hair, trailed through it—and caught in a tangle.
“Aaargh! My beard!” The dwarf’s angry growl was almost drowned out by a shout of laughter from Narm.
Shandril came fully awake, opening her eyes to morning light in the woods and to the angry face of Delg inches from her own, dragged there by her grip on his beard. Horrified, she let go and brought a hand up to cover her mouth in confusion. A breath later, looking at Delg’s injured expression, she used that same hand to stifle giggles.
Delg let her laugh until she reached the helpless whooping stage, then sighed, reached out one hairy hand to the front of her tunic, and pulled.
Shandril was dragged bodily up from where she lay slumped against a tree, pillowed on clumps of moss Narm had torn up and arranged for her the night before. They had left the scorched ruin of battle behind and stumbled into the night—the morning, rather—for a good long time before collapsing in a damp hollow, somewhere very dark and near the ever-chuckling sound of running water.