Thorough enough, at least, to slay Lord Rorst Amandon. The old, bearded warrior looked wearily around his bedchamber, his gaze slowing as he looked upon the weight and curve of his favorite broadsword, then on the portrait of his wife, dead and gone these seven years. Well, he might be joining her before morning, whatever befell in the Realms with this mad wizard’s schemes.
“I—can hold on no longer, Etreth,” he muttered. “My body fails … so wasted, now, I can barely drink without your aid…”
He raised weary eyes to meet Etreth’s gaze. Bright tears stood unshed in his loyal servant’s eyes. Rorst turned his head away, moved by the sight. They’d been together for years and before now he’d never noticed the gray creeping through Etreth’s hair… why, his moustache was white! The lord gathered all his strength and sat up straight, cushions falling away.
“I may not last the night,” Lord Rorst said, in almost his hearty tones of younger years. “So the time is come; I have one last command to lay on thee, good Etreth. Go and summon my ally the way I told you, when all this began.”
“Now, Lord? And—and leave you? What if you nee—?”
“I’ll do without it,” the lord said firmly, “until the one I must deal with is here. Go, Etreth, for the honor of the Amandons.” He reached deliberately to set the empty goblet back on the table; it clattered in his trembling hand as it came down. Rorst frowned at it, then raised fierce eyes to regard his watching servant. “Go,” he said roughly, “if you care for me at all.”
The old servant stood looking at him for a moment, then turned with what sounded like a sob and hurried out. Rorst Amandon nodded, looked at the darkened scrying-crystal for a moment, and wondered if he’d be able to hold on long enough to see this all through. His eyes wandered to Desil’s portrait, drank in her familiar painted beautv for lone moments, then turned again, involuntarily, to the scrying-crystal. He was a man of the sword, he reflected with a wan smile, itching to be doing things until the very last.
* * * * *
The vast, echoing central chamber of the High Hall of Zhentil Keep was crowded. Its huge, high windows threw bright morning light down the oval well of concentric benches to the central debating floor at its heart. One man stood there; a young man in plain but richly-cut robes, his speech smooth and calm. A man hated more than most, in a city of many hatreds. Manshoon of the Zhentarim.
The First Lord of Zhentil Keep had deftly moved the Council through several minor items of business, referring a stiff argument over grain import storage to a committee of senior lords for converse before it need be voted on by the Council. Then he began to hew his way toward ruling Zhentil Keep openly, even as the rumors all over the city had hinted. From a stonefaced wizard seated at a front bench he took up a thick sheaf of parchments and waved them around his head. One escaped his grasp and fluttered away. Someone snickered, but Manshoon merely crooked an eyebrow and all the papers began circling his head in a slow and stately ring.
“These are reports of the increasing resistance and defiance of our foes,” he said, his voice carrying to the uppermost reaches of the chamber. “See how many of them there are?”
He waved a hand. “Some of our citizens slain by the villainous, deluded followers of the discredited High Imperceptor; unfair and trumped-up fees and taxes on our merchants by no less than seven cities of the Moonsea and Dragonreach; and open warfare made upon our soldiers and caravans by the brigands who style themselves The Cult of the Dragon. Is this not monstrous? Should we not look to sharpening our swords and readying our spells?”
“No,” someone replied flatly from the middle benches, and there was a murmur of laughter. Manshoon let it run its course and die away, then added almost gently, “But there’s more. Much more. The survival of our very city is at stake!”
“It always has been,” someone called. “Aye—show us something new, to back up those old words!”
That last speaker was one of Fzoul’s priests, speaking as he’d been ordered to. Manshoon smiled tightly and replied, “Very well. Look, all! Look well!”
He waved a hand and stepped back, and the central well in which he stood darkened slightly. Motes of light winked and sparkled, and suddenly the image of a robed, sneering man stood in the open space, one hand raised in an intricate gesture. A soundless bolt of lightning lashed out from that hand, leaping into the upper benches, whose occupants were gaping up at the images of other men—three Zhentarim, known by sight to them all—that had suddenly appeared atop the benches and were hurling spells of their own.
The silent images of crackling, crawling magic flashed and leaped through the air; Manshoon stood calmly in the midst of the flashing tumult and said, “Behold! A Red Wizard of Thay!” He looked around at the dumbfounded Councilors and added, “Confronted, as you can see, in this very chamber, two nights ago!”
Silent spells splashed, grappled, then died away. They all saw green flames race up and down the limbs of the struggling Red Wizard—if it was a Red Wizard—saw the man’s flesh dissolve in that conflagration until only black, writhing bones remained, then saw those bones collapse into ash.
In the hushed silence that followed, Manshoon’s voice carried clearly. “Saw you the scroll at his belt?” The image of smoking ashes faded away even as he gestured to it, but many of the Councilors nodded. “To my sorrow, I recognized it, and checked the records chamber of this Hall. The naval nonaggression treaty recently completed with Thay is missing. We are left defenseless against Thayan piracy—but with the concessions we surrendered to get that agreement still lost to us.”
Manshoon raised his arms and his voice as one as he turned to look around the chamber. “And this was but a piece of naDer! What if this wizard had come for vour monev? Or your throat? Or your children, to sell them into slavery?”
There was an excited, angry buzz of comment as Councilor looked to Councilor. Manshoon let it grow for a time then waved for silence and went on. “Zhentil Keep needs strong guardians against such perils. You saw the bravery and skill of three Zhentarim here with your own eyes, preventing destruction of this place—or worse. I can keep this city safe with more stalwart, loyal mages such as these … but I need your permission! I must have the right and the power to defend you.”
Manshoon turned on his heel to look around at them all again, speaking more quietly. “I need the might to govern in the face of such cruel and energetic foes. I must be free to train and equip forces to properly defend our city, and have the authority to whelm and direct them in emergencies! I move that the formal powers of the First Lord of Zhentil Keep be so increased.”
The chamber erupted. Everyone was on his feet, shouting. Red-faced nobles pounded gnarled, white-haired old fists on their benches and bellowed, “Never!”
There were shouts of “Tyranny!” and others of “Well said!” and “Shame!”
There were also cries of “Let the Lord speak!” and “Wisdom at last!”
From somewhere in the upper benches came the wink and flash of a dagger, spinning end-over-end through the air toward Manshoon.
He watched it come, calmly, then raised his hand and—at the last instant, after most of the Councilors had seen it and fallen into shocked silence—disintegrated it with a wave of his hand and a muttered word. It became a small shower of sparks, then was gone.