In the silence that followed Fzoul Chembryl, High Priest of the Black Altar, stood and in a loud, level voice said, “From such chaos and strife can come only harm. Whatever is decided here, we must have order in this city, and the rule of law.” He let his words fall into the silence, for emphasis, then went on. “We have heard a proposal that has caused some controversv—and seen the clear ureencv behind that proposal. Let us now have order, and put this matter to a vote forthwith. Let this Council decide— now!”
There was a hubbub of excited talk. One old nobleman said loudly, “Matters of such import should never be decided in haste! This is not well done! This Council never speaks or acts hastily!”
High Priest Fzoul answered coolly, “Daggers are never thrown in this Council chamber, either.” Then he folded his robes around himself in dignity and sat down.
There was more excited talk, then a young noble rose and said, “Let us have a vote. Something must be done, or we are all wasting our time here!”
There were supportive cries of “A vote! A vote!” Most of them seemed to come from the benches where the Zhentarim sat.
Manshoon looked around the chamber calmly and said, “A vote has been called. Will any other Councilor speak for it?”
“I speak for it!” cried an excited young noble from the uppermost benches. There were hisses, but Manshoon raised his hand in triumph and said quietly, “A vote has been twice called, and the duty of this Council is clear. Let us vote.”
Fzoul stood up again. “By rule, the call is mine, yet I think it not right for the servants of holy Bane to act in the secular business of Zhentil Keep. If Councilor Urathyl will do the honors?”
The young noble who’d seconded the call stood, flushed with pride, and called, “The First Lord asks this Council to increase his powers, and those of the Zhentarim he commands. Who stands in support of this request?”
Here and there around the chamber, a Councilor silently came to his feet. There were not many, and Councilor Urathyl counted them twice, himself among their number. Then he called the count—twenty-and-one—to Fzoul, who confirmed it.
Less happily, the young noble drew breath and said, “Let all who stand against the request stand to be counted!”
Chairs scraped and echoed all over the chamber, and many Councilors stood. Forty-six, Urathyl counted, and called it out. Fzoul bowed, and said with dignity, “The count is correct and has Bane’s blessing. The request is den—”
“Wait!” The sour but strong voice of Lord Phandymm cut across the High Priest’s words. Fzoul bowed to him, indicated surrender of the floor with a wave, and sat down.
The senior noble, known to most as a loud opponent of the Zhentarim, struggled to his feet. He was trembling, and his expression seemed to slip several times as his hands clutched at the bench before him for support. “I—I think we are too hasty, and have voted with our hearts, thinking too little of the safety of fair Zhentil Keep. It irks many of us—myself among them—” Phandymm’s eyes grew wild, and he gabbled for a moment before his voice cleared, and he went on, “Irks us, I say, to see one so young making what some would see. as an arrogant and dangerous grab for the scepter of absolute rule over our city. And yet… and yet, if we set aside our anger, what he proposes is only sensible! Have we not seen the perils that lurk in the shadows of this very Hall? Have w-w-weee—?”
The man’s expression slipped and struggled again, and his body jerked about, as if plucked at by unseen hands. “Magic,” a Councilor muttered. “Someone’s using magic on Phandymm!”
“Magic!”
“Aye, foul magic!”
One of the Zhentarim wizards got to his feet and said, “Lord Phandymm seems in some emotional distress, but his deep feelings for the safety of our city are clear, and from the height of a measure of years greater than most of us, he has called for a revote. I move that the revote proceed!”
Councilor Urathyl almost fell over his feet rising to shout, “I speak in support!”
Fzoul stood up again. “A revote must now occur.”
Lord Chess had been watching Manshoon, who sat silently in his front bench seat, smiling a little, his gaze never leaving the face of the sweating, gabbling Lord Phandymm. Lord Chess watched a little glow leap in the mage’s eyes, and was sure.
Then he was on his feet, snarling. “Enough. Manshoon!
And all of you Zhentarim! Let all foul magic be left outside the chamber, so the wise Councilors of Zhentil Keep can deliberate here with clear wits!”
Manshoon turned a gaze that burned from Phandymm— who collapsed, senseless, into his seat—onto Chess, who felt its sudden weight and power tearing at his mind. He gasped, then roared in rage as he felt his tongue thicken and words come unbidden into his head.
The First Lord smiled at him. Chess struggled, tried to sit down, then amid rising desperation brought his arm up, as if from a great distance, and stared at the ring that gleamed, golden, on his finger.
There were shouts and gasps as the air over the central well of the High Hall swirled with sudden golden radiance, drifting and spinning, ever-brighter, and the dumbfounded Councilors saw a large black dragon fade into being in the center of the chamber.
Its wings beat once, the wind smashing many Councilors flat against the benches behind them, and its hiss was loud and terrible. Acid foamed and bubbled at the edges of its mighty jaws, and the chamber was full of the eye-watering stink of its breath.
Some of the Councilors were screaming as the dragon turned its head, a terrible hunger and mirth in its eyes, to look around at them all. Its wings swept up lazily once more. Its tail casually smashed a Councilor to pulp amid the splinters of the bench where he’d sat moments before.
Then the tall windows of the Hall shattered with the sound of angry thunder, and nightmare came to the Council.
Three spherical monsters hung silhouetted against the bright light of day. Eyestalks writhed and swung about them, and they laughed coldly.
“Beholders!”
“The rumors were true! The Zhentarim are in league with beholders!”
Then Councilors were screaming and scrambling all over the chamber in a general rush to flee. The dragon roared and spat a smoking, sparkling plume of acid at the foremost beholder, but the air was suddenly full of rays of magical light erupting from their many orbs, rending the magical shields that hung over this central chamber of the Hall. Cowering under his bench, Lord Chess was shocked to see Zhentarim mages stand up in their seats with triumphant sneers on their faces, boldly ignoring the dragon lashing the air so close overhead to hurl handballs of fire and bolts of lightning at some of the most proud and powerful noble Councilors.
Various of those Lords snatched out magical rods and wands of their own, striking back with snarls of fury. Overhead, the dragon roared deafeningly in pain. Smoking wounds were appearing all over its body, opening here and there with terrible speed to rain down blood on the men fighting in the benches. Swords and knives flashed in the growing gloom as men grappled with each other in the tiers of benches. Chess drew his own slim ceremonial sword and rose up from behind his bench as a mage hurried by. Coolly, he ran the man through.
The wizard coughed, convulsed, then hung heavily on the Lord’s blade. With some difficulty, he slid it free and turned in time to see the still-roaring dragon fade away, enveloped in the magics of the eye tyrants who hung over the central well of the chamber. With a last echoing rumble, it was gone.
Chess saw something more, too—Zhentarim wizards had reached every visible door out of the chamber and stood blocking passage there, using magic to hurl back their fearful fellow Councilors, preventing any more from leaving. More spells were snatching swords from hands all over the chamber, or making the steel burn as if in a furnace. Chess saw a man swear and snatch his hand away from his sword, letting it clang to the benches. Then his own blade seemed to catch fire.