21
Black flames leapt up, casting angry red and amber shadows on the wall behind, but the man in black paid them no heed.
He'd seen them time upon time before, and had in fact chosen this spot for maximum effect. Blood-red dancing shadows outlined him as a tall and sinister figure of darkness-mighty, awesome, and dark. It pleased him to think of himself thus.
What use, after all, is great power if one cannot use it to indulge one's smallest conceits?
Wherefore Manshoon-Lord of the Zhentarim, Over-mage of the Dark Ring, The Hand of Darkness, and the holder of many other titles he was pleased to give himself from time to time-stood tall in his high-horned cloak, thigh-high boots, and silken tunic and breeches. He looked down on a keen-eyed mageling of the Brotherhood, a young, hawk-eyed youth whose eager ambition burned so hot that one could almost smell it, and smiled.
"Avaerl of Sembresh," he asked softly and formally, "would you serve the Brotherhood in ways greater than you have so far?"
"Yes, Lord Most High," the wizard said quickly and proudly.
"Be not so swift to promise," Manshoon almost purred. "Others have tried and failed at the task I would set for you."
"I shall not fail," Avaerl said boldly.
Manshoon inclined his head and smiled. "Good," he said. "Go then, and bring me the head of Elminster of Shadowdale."
Avaerl's eager grin slipped, just for an instant, hung lopsided on his face in a perfect match of the ghastly smile worn by many a corpse, and then returned in full. It did not waver as he bowed his head and looked back up at Manshoon. "Lord," he promised, "it shall be done. I will not fail."
Manshoon bowed his head in dismissal. "Your reward, then, will be very great. Go in power."
Avaerl turned on his heel, robes swirling, and strode away down the path between two waiting lines of motionless armored forms. They turned in unison to face him as he passed, impassive visors down, but made no sound or other movement.
Avaerl carefully did not look at any of them. Their silent vigilance unsettled braver magelings than he. It was whispered among the lesser wizards of the Brotherhood that the suits of armor were empty, or appeared to be. Fell spirits, or worse magic, moved them to Manshoon's will. Helmed Horrors they were called.
When Avaerl stepped onto the spell-guarded stair that led away from Manshoon's cave-lair, the last two Horrors stepped forward behind him to ceremoniously cross curved, naked blades, barring passage along the silent gantlet the ambitious mageling had just walked.
Ascending steps that glowed vivid blue under his feet, Avaerl heard that whisper of metal kissing metal, and shivered involuntarily. The very sight of the uncanny Horrors chilled him, probably because the cold, deadly watchfulness of Manshoon himself moved them. It was a reminder-deliberate, without a doubt-of the awesome power of the Lord Most High of the Zhentarim.
Not for the first time, Avaerl thought himself crazy to even contemplate challenging Manshoon, some day, for lordship over the Brotherhood. Yet… with the power of Elminster, the Old Mage of Shadowdale, under his belt, bards would tell a different tale. He grinned as he saw himself blasting Manshoon to screaming bones, the Overmage's mind pleading for mercy as it faded away, the bones softening, sagging, and collapsing into wind-whirled dust before Avaerl's might.
Gulkuth, he reminded himself. Gulkuth. His key to making this mere dream into reality. It was a mage's truename, the key to mastery over the man, whoever it was. By where he'd found it, written in blood on a hidden altar, it belonged to a wizard alive today. A wizard who served Bane. A wizard of great power.
One of the Inner Ring of the Brotherhood, without doubt. But who? Or was it a trap laid by one or all of them against ambitious mages?
Avaerl dared not reveal that name until he had power enough to use it. That meant magic enough to overmatch Manshoon, for the name could very well be his.
If it was Manshoon's truename, and Avaerl held the knowledge and power of Elminster, the Lord Most High could not stand against him. The Zhentarim would know a new lord.
And then a small, cold voice deep inside him added, "For a little while." Avaerl shivered again as he reached the top of the stair.
As the blades came softly together at the far end of the gantlet, Manshoon beckoned with a long and lazy arm. One of the dark-robed and cruel-faced men who'd stood silent and motionless among the dark, fanglike stalagmites stepped smoothly forward.
"Zalarth, I have work for you."
"I await your orders, my lord."
Cold eyes met. Each stared into cold, falling depths in the soul of the other, and Manshoon said slowly, "Follow that puppy and do what he will undoubtedly fail to do."
"Me, my lord?" Zalarth asked, inclining his head at other, mightier mages who stood watching from the shadows.
Manshoon held his eyes. "I trust you the more," he said coldly, "and believe your thinking in battle to be clearer. You shall succeed where he fails, and bring me Elminster's head… if you would rise in our councils."
"May I use items, or the aid of others?"
"Use what you deem necessary."
As Zalarth climbed the glowing stairs in his turn, faces swam in his memory-faces of thieves and trained killers of the Brotherhood. From those faces, the Zhentarim wizard chose the members of the band he would lead. Elminster would die. Manshoon had commanded the death; it was as good as done. The sentence would befall.
After too many hundreds of years, Elminster of Shadowdale would perish. Zalarth would seize his might and his magic. Zalarth would use them to rule. When bards, tavern drunks, and wizards whispered of high and mighty deeds in years to come, it would be Zalarth's name they would remember as the one who brought down Elminster of Shadowdale, not Manshoon's. Zalarth would see to that.
It was late. Smoke hung thick in the air; wine had been spilled here, there, and everywhere else; and arms that had swung swords, axes, and clubs all day were stiffening to painful, iron-hard immobility.
All around the great hall of the High Castle, happy but utterly exhausted folk slumped in chairs or simply sprawled on the floor and gave themselves up to snoring slumber. Sharantyr stifled a yawn and glanced at the Old Mage.
Elminster winked at her and raised a drinking jack of shadowdark ale whose owner was too fast asleep to miss it. It was full.
"Had enough, Old Mage?" she asked, challenging him.
"There's no such thing as enough, lass," Elminster told her severely. "After ye've seen a few hundred winters, ye'll know that. There's no such thing as too much, either. Only too little time to enjoy it in." He winked again and added with apparent innocence, "That's true for drinks, too."
Sharantyr sighed. " 'Lass' again, is it?" she protested, then added in quieter tones, "Do you still plan to leave by the gate tonight?"
Elminster nodded. "I'd located the gate just about the time every daleman still able to stagger along with a blade hastened up to watch. They're still watching us now-no, lass, don't look around at them; they'll get excited. We'd best to bed, or we'll never be free of all these interested eyes."
"Bed?" Sharantyr crooked a forbidding eyebrow at him.
Elminster rolled his eyes. "Let them show you somewhere to sleep. I'll go out for a pipe, and…"
Sharantyr nodded, yawned theatrically, and got unsteadily to her feet.
Down the table, an old dalesman's face dipped forward gently onto the table. Over the now-bowed head, Gedaern, whose face had been wearing a fierce smile all evening, saw her.