"I wonder," Geildarr mused, his voice slightly slurred from his earlier drinking, "am I drunker than I think, or is this Sememmon I'm seeing?"
"Is that all you have to say?" the raven-haired wizard asked. "There was a time when you would fall on your knees at my very presence."
"But I am not addressing Sememmon," answered Geildarr, "am I?" He began to gesture a spell of dispel, but Sememmon extended his hand.
"No need," he said. "Let's drop the masks." The form of the imperious wizard melted all around him, leaving a body half its height. A red tricorn hat topped a plump-cheeked gnome face. The figure wore robes of rich crimson-a small parody of nobility. The gnome clutched a thin blackwood cane at his side, and a mad, merry nature twinkled in his green eyes.
"What brings you here, Moritz the Mole? Do you need somewhere to sleep or something?" This wasn't the first time this peculiar emissary of the wizard Sememmon had dropped in on Geildarr unannounced since Sememmon had fled from the Zhentarim's prime western stronghold of Darkhold.
In the intervening years, Sememmon and his elf ladylove Ashemmi had scarcely been seen by anyone. Last he heard they were living in seclusion and traveling Faerun, collecting magic and cementing allies for some endeavor as yet unrevealed.
Geildarr knew them both well from his own trips to Darkhold over the years, but never really came to understand them. Ashemmi was a heart-stopping beauty with flaxen hair and almond-shaped eyes. How had an elf woman ended up in the Zhentarim? He had heard she had been corrupted to evil by magical means. Geildarr couldn't even guess at the truth of this. What was clear to him, though, was that Sememmon and Ashemmi were utterly devoted to each other. Even such dark-hearted creatures as this pair were bound together by love. Geildarr yearned to trust another so completely.
Moritz laughed heartily in typically gnomish fashion. "I always enjoy visiting you because of that tongue of yours. You really ought to welcome my presence, for I come with a warning. Fzoul blames you for your failed incursion into the Fallen Lands."
"My failed incursion," Geildarr snorted. The plan had been Fzoul's order. "Doomed to failure. I minimized the damage. And now he thinks to make me his sacrificial animal."
"Fzoul courts dangerous enemies," Moritz said. "The might of Shade has Elminster shaking in his tower. But then again, you've served Fzoul well. Under your mayoralty, Llorkh has been one of the most trouble-free places under Zhentarim control. Most likely he'll keep you around a bit longer." Moritz took a step closer to Geildarr. "But let me ask. Have you ever considered working for another power?"
"Does Sememmon's customary offer follow? Am I to cast my lot against Fzoul? Hide in the dark like Sememmon?"
"I suspect it's this town you love, Geildarr," said Moritz. "You love being mayor, having that control. Llorkh is an inglorious post, but you love it all the same. I can respect that. You don't care too much for the Zhentarim any longer. That's why you refuse to sponsor that little girl Ardeth for membership. Or do you have other reasons for keeping her close to you?"
Geildarr's head swirled from the drink, and he was tired of playing games.
"Why have you come here, Moritz?" he asked testily.
"I may just be the truest friend you have, Geildarr. I've come here to tell you something. Fzoul wants a few changes in Llorkh. You can work with them, or end up like your predecessor Redblade." He extended his blackwood cane and used it to poke Geildarr in his pendulous belly.
"What kind of changes?" Geildarr asked, taking a step back.
"The same changes that are sweeping the Zhentarim. Bane is back. Would you like to see the Dark Sun replaced by the Black Hand?"
Geildarr shook his head grimly; he understood exactly what Moritz meant. The Dark Sun was both a title for Cyric, and the name of the god's temple in Llorkh. But Cyricists like Geildarr were growing unpopular within the Zhentarim as Fzoul-Bane's Chosen, and his mightiest priest-solidified power. This was a factor in Sememmon's flight from Darkhold.
"All this you know," Moritz went on, "but what you may not know is this: rumor has it that Mythkar Leng has already cut a secret deal with Fzoul to take your place as mayor of Llorkh."
"Leng!" protested Geildarr. The high priest of the Dark Sun had long been Geildarr's conduit to the Zhentarim leadership, charged with keeping him informed of directives from Zhentil Keep. Though Geildarr was officially a member of the Zhentarim, he was largely content to function as mayor of Llorkh, letting Leng handle the Network's day-to-day operations in the region. Leng would keep him advised on the Zhentarim's ever-shifting agenda, and Geildarr would try to react accordingly. "Why would they let Leng be mayor?" Geildarr demanded. "He's a Cyricist too!"
"Is he?" asked Moritz. "Cyric is Lord of Illusion-who would know better than I? — and Prince of Lies as well. Perhaps Leng learned the art of deception so well that he can fool his own god. It has been done before, after all. Leng was a priest of Bane before the Godswar, as you'll remember, and old habits tend to stick. But as I said, I know this only as a rumor. Something for you to investigate. If you wish to keep your job, I suggest taking it up with Leng.
"On the other hand," Moritz chuckled, "if you wish to keep your life, Sememmon offers his protection. Either way, he extends a message to you. I believe it was, 'Try to keep this town of mine in one piece.'"
"Llorkh?" asked Geildarr. "Sememmon's?"
"As much as it is yours, truly," Moritz said. "I'd wager you harbor fantasies of Llorkh passing from the Zhentarim as your private fiefdom. It's good to have dreams. The difference between you and Sememmon is his dreams have a chance of coming true."
"If you believe Sememmon has a prayer of wresting anything from Fzoul and his pet clone," Geildarr said, "then it's clear that all this toying with illusion has finally estranged you from reality. Bound to happen, really."
The gnome frowned. "You have no idea what kind of power Sememmon hoards. But know this-" Moritz aimed his cane upward at Geildarr's face "-Sememmon's patience is finite. His offer will be made only so many times, and you may find his friendship withdrawn just when you need it most."
"Then let your master show up here in person for once," Geildarr said. "Maybe I'll catch him in a bottle and hand him over to Fzoul as a present. I wager that would help preserve my rule in Llorkh."
Moritz cackled, bending over with laughter at this thought.
"And I'm the delusional one? Hear it and know it true, Geildarr-you may have some fun toying around with magical objects, but you are not the wizard Sememmon is."
And at that, he vanished from the spot, leaving Geildarr to his spinning head.
Thluna found Sungar just where he expected-standing on the outer ring of Morgur's Mound at the freshest cairn. The rest of the tribe was encamped just outside the Crags; it was forbidden among the Uthgardt to make camp at any ancestor mound, though the decadent Black Lion tribe had violated that rule by settling near Beorunna's Well. Thluna slowly stepped up to his chief and joined him in reverence of the dead.
In the last two years, young Thluna, son of Hagraavan, had become closer to Sungar than any other Uthgardt. Thluna had wed Sungar's daughter Alaa, and now stood to succeed him as chieftain, though such lines of succession were not always clearly drawn. Sungar and Thluna were among the few who had survived the shame and devastation brought down upon their tribe in the Fallen Lands. But more importantly, Thluna, though little more than a boy, was the sole member of his tribe who always told Sungar the truth.
"Has King Gundar any answers for you today?" asked Thluna.