Manshoon looked up, unsmiling. Fzoul and two silent upperpriests stood across from him, and two beholders floated overhead. In the air between them all, in an inner chamber in the High Hall of Zhentil Keep, hung a naked man.
It was Simron, late of the Eastern Stonelands Company of the Zhentilar, and he was very naked—much of his skin was missing.
Blood flew as Manshoon’s invisible spell-claws tore at the veteran warrior’s flesh. He screamed hoarsely, the red rain from him being caught below in a huge bowl, for later use in dark, cruel magic. The Zhentarim did not like to waste the talents of their members.
“You do still have strength enough to scream,” Manshoon said calmly. “Good, Simron—that means you’ve still strength to speak, too. Tell us more of what happened when the maid unleashed her spellfire.”
Simron groaned. Manshoon frowned, and unseen claws raked deep, red furrows across the backs of the old warrior’s calves. Simron’s legs jerked helplessly, and gore spattered the beholders overhead. They did not seem to mind.
“I—I—Lord Manshoon, mercy!” Simron said thickly, coughing crimson between his words.
“Mercy must be bought, soldier,” Manshoon said mildly, “and you’ve still not told me what I want to know. Now, sh—” There was a commotion at the guarded door of the chamber, and Manshoon turned in some annoyance to see its cause.
A mageling Manshoon had always thought of as more ambitious than sensible stood among the guards, face lit with excitement. “Lord Manshoon!”
The High Lord of Zhentil Keep made a sign, and the guards drew back to let the young wizard rush into the chamber. Silently, Manshoon gestured to the mage to speak—and he did, words tumbling over each other in haste.
“In Sembia, Lord—we’ve been attacked. Ah, wizards of the Brotherhood, Lord, seeking spellfire as you asked us to … they were set upon by some Harpers, and killers sent by the Cult of the Dragon. We won both battles, but Arluth is dead, and Chsalbreian, and—”
Manshoon held up his hand, and the mageling fell silent. “Our thanks for your diligence, Sundarth. We are pleased. Leave us now; our favor goes with you.”
Stammering thanks and farewell, the young mageling bowed himself out.
When he was gone, Manshoon looked up at the bleeding, moaning man hanging in midair, and he sighed loudly.
“Too many foes are after spellfire for me to just sit back and wait for blundering, ambitious underlings to bring it to us,” the High Lord of Zhentil Keep announced. “I’ll have to become directly involved in the hunt for this Shandril.”
The beholders, hovering watchfully overhead, said nothing. Manshoon looked across the chamber to meet the eyes of the High Priest of the Black Altar.
Fzoul shrugged and said, “That’s the way of wizards. For my part and my counsel, hold back for now, and watch to see if the claws we’ve sent out catch anything.”
Manshoon rolled his eyes. “I grow no younger,” he said carefully. “What use is spellfire—or the triumph of our Brotherhood over all—to me, if I’m toothless, blind, and failing in my dotage before we gain either?”
Fzoul raised an eyebrow. “You may not live to find any of these things if you move openly now. I hope you’ve not forgotten that your open participation in this hunt is sure to bring out Elminster of Shadowdale—to say nothing of the Simbul, Khelben Arunsun, and others—against you. Azoun has already doubled his patrols in eastern Cormyr and is killing our warriors as fast as he finds them.”
Manshoon shrugged. “If I feared danger or opposition, I would never have come to hold the title I do now, nor to stand in this place.”
A rumbling voice broke in on his words then, from overhead. It sounded amused. “How will you succeed, Lord Manshoon, where others have failed? Finding magic that will stand against spellfire will take time you have too little of, and much luck—or both.”
Manshoon shrugged again, giving the eye tyrants overhead a thin smile. “The Brotherhood is often guilty of a fault dear to our natures: in trying to outdo each other, we try to be too clever. A far simpler approach than the schemes we’ve pursued so far will probably be all that is needed—brute force.”
Fzoul raised an eyebrow and gestured for Manshoon to continue.
The High Lord of Zhentil Keep turned expressionless eyes on them all and said, “Club the wench into submission with an army of zombies controlled by underlings using items of power. Bury her under undead, no matter how many she destroys—and bring her down. My magic is strong enough to take care of any Harper or Cult meddling in such a battle.”
Manshoon strolled across the room and then turned to look up at the floating body of the Zhentilar. “Then we take the girl someplace secure,” he continued, “and let the lich lord drain her—or use magic to bind her wits and will ere she recovers, then study her at leisure.” He snapped his fingers. “Whatever plans we pursue, a watch must be kept on Elminster from this moment on to ensure he doesn’t show up to rescue her or ruin attempts to take her.”
He gestured, and a guard at the door went out, returning in a few breaths with a wizard just old enough to master his awe and fear. After a quick glance at the hovering beholders, the young mage kept his eyes on the floor or on Manshoon.
“Heldiir,” Manshoon said in a cold, smooth voice, “you are to take twenty of your fellow mages, now, and keep a continuous spellwatch over Shadowdale. Monitor all magic wielded there, keep track of the doings of Elminster—and report any major castings or movements on his part to me immediately, whatever the hour. Go, speedily, and do this.”
“I-I will,” Heldiir managed to croak, then hurried out.
Manshoon looked up in time to see the beholders drifting back toward the arched windows through which they had first entered the room.
“Your plan has some merit,” one said.
“We shall watch—and see,” the other added in a deep, neutral rumble, as both eye tyrants drifted from view.
Fzoul Chembryl glided to a door, spread his hands, and said simply, “The risk is yours.” Then he was gone.
Manshoon watched the door close behind the priest, smiled without humor, and looked up at the silent, dripping soldier.
“Mercy, Simron?” he asked mildly. “Mercy is for the dead.” He made a small gesture with one hand, and there was a dull, splintering crack from the body overhead.
Its head jerked, and then dangled limply at an angle, tongue protruding. Manshoon strode toward his own door and did not look back as the floating corpse slowly drifted down toward the bowl of blackening blood.
“Watch sharp, now,” Mirt warned as they peered into the last gleams of fading sunset over the Storm Horns, far off on the horizon. “There’s sure to be at least one snake hereabouts who seeks Shandril and spellfire.”
“Is there? By the ever-observant gods, your perception is keen. You surprise me,” Delg muttered sarcastically, keeping a hand over his axe blade to shield it from reflecting any of the sun’s failing glow. It was growing dark fast here in the trees, evening descending quickly on the rolling farmlands ahead.
“What, again?” Mirt replied teasingly. “What an exciting life ye must lead.”
Delg raised an eloquent eyebrow but thought it wiser to make no reply. Somewhere near at hand, Shandril sighed, and in mimicry of one of the haughty Sembian ladies who used to stop at the Moon for a night, she murmured, “Really, milord. Must you?” She smiled as Narm’s comforting arm closed around her shoulders.