To speak of the incident that had left Eirhaun with a hand whose fingers were snakes, two empty eyesockets, and an escort of four tiny flying spheres that each sported a single humanlike eye, was to die swiftly and painfully. It had something to do with both Fzoul and Manshoon, Drauthtar knew, but he did as he always did: looked at that eyeless head and spoke to it, as if Eirhaun still had eyes like other men.
The Maimed Wizard stood in shadow, with four guardian gargoyles crouched on pillars around him, looking like the high arched back of a throne Eirhaun happened to be standing in rather than sitting upon. The hand of hissing snakes waved in greeting. "What news?"
"Hammantle and Toraunt still wait and watch. They've convinced themselves that they tarry out of clever strategy, not out of naked fear of spellfire or the sneaking desire to postpone our wrath as long as possible. I've let them spin their own dooms because I'm as interested as they are in the spellstorm that's going to erupt any moment now in that caravan."
"The Cult of the Dragon, the Red Wizards, the Arcane Brotherhood, and half the happy dancing gods and those who revere them are slavering after spellfire," Eirhaun responded. It was not a question.
"All of them have gone along on this caravan with the wench who wields spellfire in their midst. If nothing else, we can slaughter a healthy tally of rivals based in and about Scornubel, when the bloodletting finally starts."
"We?"
"Mhegras and Sabran, riding a wagon together; the ever-capable Aumlar-”
"Unh, that one. Trouble ahead for us all if he gets it."
"Spellfire?"
"Of course. Who else?"
"Praulgar, posing as a pot-seller, and the usual three or four magelings out to make a name for themselves."
"And your intention is?"
"To watch and wait even as Hammantle and Toraunt do, goading them into action if the Cult or the Thayans or someone else gets spellfire-and in the meantime do nothing. There's nothing to report, so I've kept silent."
"I shall do the same. Until something befalls to shift who holds power, spellfire and otherwise, there's no need to inform Manshoon. Those who come to the notice of our Dread Lord are wise to do so only in ways that please him."
Drauthtar inclined his head. "Indeed. I have no other news."
"And I, no orders for you at this time. You have leave to depart."
Drauthtar bowed his head again, and turned to go. He took two steps, then looked sharply to his right, to where the shadows were deepest. There had been the slightest of flickers "You're alone, Eirhaun?" he snapped, turning to face the disturbance. "No other mages?"
"None. Who could cleave all these shieldings? I was warned of your approach a dozen times, as you ascended." The Maimed Wizard strode forward, frowning in alarm even as his disbelieving denials rang out. His gargoyles sprang into the air, to swoop where he was heading.
"Arrsarundae!" he snapped.
Obediently the air shimmered and burst into brightness as a magical field collapsed, flooding the chamber with the harsh white light of its slow dying.
A figure stood revealed beyond it, man-shaped and robed- and hidden again in an instant, as Drauthtar and Eirhaun both furiously snarled out incantations and moved their hands in lightning-swift gestures, hurling deadly magics at the intruder.
Scores of tiny fireballs whirled to assail that mysterious target, dozens of lightning bolts leaping past them or stabbing through them in an unleashing of fury that would have been fool-work indeed to loose in even the stoutest of castles, had Eirhaun's dozen shieldings not been there to shape and contain their destruction.
As it was, the room shook, dust showering down, and an entire row of flagstones heaved and rippled as if some giant mole were racing along beneath them. Ears were smitten with the shrieks of shieldings torn asunder, gargoyles were hurled away like leaves flung along in a gale to be shattered and broken on far walls, the very air crackled and scorched the skins of the two wizards… and when the smoke and stones had fallen away, the mysterious intruder stood unscathed.
Unscathed, and stepping slowly forward, smiling.
"Hesperian!" Drauthtar spat, rage still his master.
"The same," replied the feeble old man with that amused look that Drauthtar knew so well. He was clad in the dusty maroon robes he always wore-perhaps the only clothes he had-and the same long, pointed, ridiculous shoes. They seemed relics of another age, just as the Old Man of the Zhentarim was. Our Old Mage. Not for the first-time, Drauthtar wondered if Hesperdan and Elminster were cousins, brothers, or even one and the same man…
That thought always made him shiver, and he shivered now. Hesperdan strolled unconcernedly between Drauthtar and Eirhaun, giving them both the same patronizing smile, and the Maimed Wizard said heavily, "You heard all the words that passed between us." Again, his words were not a question.
"Of course."
"W-what will you tell Manshoon?" Drauthtar dared to ask.
"Nothing. I, too, enjoy a good spellstorm."
A little silence followed his reply, until Eirhaun asked almost reluctantly, as if fearing the answer he'd receive: "How did you pass and hide from my shieldings?"
"Ah, yes. A fair question. When you can answer it for yourself, you'll finally be competent to perform the scouring-the-Brotherhood duties you've taken upon yourself, Eirhaun Sooundaeril. I hope that competence comes soon, Eirhaun. More than that, I hope it comes in time."
Drauthtar told himself to remember Eirhaun's family name, which the Maimed Wizard never used and he'd never known. Hesperdan took another step and was abruptly not there, gone as if he'd never been present.
Drauthtar stared at the empty air that had held him, then at the scorched walls and sprawled dead gargoyles. He said feelingly, "I hate that man."
"No," the Maimed Wizard said slowly, "you don't, and neither do I. No one in the Brotherhood quite dares to hate Hesperdan, I think. We all fear him too much for that."
The dark cloud whirling above them suddenly sharpened and grew still darker. Shandril could see that it was now a forest of dark swordblades, all pointing straight down at the ground, and all whirling in swift spirals, like a hundred corkscrews.
Nay, swiftly descending spirals! Like a patiently settling mist, the cloud started to descend, draining itself away into all those swords. In a rising, discordant singing, they loomed larger and longer and darker, whirling nearer…
Men were shouting or crying out in frantic fear or cursing-Shandril could hear Orthil Voldovan, and Arauntar, and Beldimarr all gasping out floods of words that were cruel, colorful treasures of invective-and Narm was desperately muttering an incantation, trying to weave a counterspell when there was no time left to cast anything.
Shandril summoned up a last surge of spellfire to cleave this death that was reaching for them. As the flames started to flow, an old and coldly amused voice arose out of them, saying quite distinctly, "I hope that competence comes soon, Eirhaun. More than that, I hope it comes in time."
Mystra's doing? Who was speaking, and who was Eirhaun?
Shandril shook her head. There was no time left to wonder, no time to do anything more than nod at the aptness of the mysterious words, and gather her paltry remaining spellfire, and wait for just the right moment as the dark blades came whirling down.
Fighting for Life in Haelhollow
Fight, little fools! Mount your wars and raise your towers and make your chases. I like to taste well-marbled meat when I'm crunching your bones.