IV. The Trap
Nathchanczia’s white face goes even more bloodless and her pretty throat works as she swallows, licks dry lips, swallows again, then whispers, “T-to kill you. I was sent to do so.”
“Aye, and under the compulsion of?”
The sorceress shakes her head, tears glistening in her eyes. “I cannot say his name, or the spell he laid on me will slay me.”
Elminster makes an airy gesture with one hand that accomplishes two ends: It causes Storm Silverhand to silently back away, her face grave, and his floating pipe to relocate itself smoothly by her shoulder. The air seems to prickle with expectation as the Old Mage smiles—in a teeth-baring, mirthless manner—and takes a step toward the trembling sorceress.
“So ye face the gentle choice: betray him and die, or defy me… and die. Ah, ‘tis a hard road we who work magic must walk. Time and again we are forced to confront ourselves, and see what we are, and are becoming. Nathchanczia, who are ye?”
The woman in black stares at him like a small animal caught in a trap, shudders, closes her eyes, and weeps silently, hissing, “No… no… no.”
“One who needs more courage in the face of death,” Elminster observes gently. “Yet that’s no rare failing. Let me release ye from the certainty of imminent demise, and tell thee that I’ll myself name the bowman who aimed thee hither. His name would be: Aundaman of Thay.”
The name echoes strangely as it falls from his lips, and a hush falls on the scene, flowing out across the garden like a chilling shadow.
Nathchanczia’s eyes flash open, fixed on the Old Mage in sudden triumph, and from her unmoving breast bursts a sudden roaring magic, a ravening stream of hungry fury that slams into the white-bearded wizard and sweeps him away utterly, in a white searing that claws at the hedge beyond but is hurled back into curling, fading smokes by something unseen.
Yet its dread work is done, and as the searing spell dies the sorceress from Neverwinter smiles coldly at Storm Silverhand, gathers herself, and observes with cruel glee, “And so Elminster of Shadowdale is revealed as no more than an old fool at the end, out of sheer pride springing the trap the Red Wizard laid within me, to bring about his own doom!”
She raises one clawlike hand and adds with a sneer, “And so also shall pass the Bard of Shadowdale this day, at the hands of Nathchanczia of Neverwinter!”
V. The Pipe
Storm sighs and rolls exasperated eyes even before the blue flames lash forth, turning to complain to the hovering pipe, “Must they all sound like old Tintros the Minstrel lampooning Manshoon? Why is it always the Grand Gloat of Doom, hmm?”
And the pipe blows a smoke-ring at the sky, winks at Storm, winks again in a second flash of gold, and—is gone, leaving Elminster standing beside the Bard of Shadowdale, with his beard-cloaked chin about where the pipe was.
The Old Mage is shrugging and spreading empty hands. “Now, lass, ye must admit that the Grand Gloat of Doom is fun. Pure cackling fun, with none of the heart-racing excitement of swift chases and blasting down castles and rending dragons with blastclaw spells! Why, we can indulge in gloats whilst reclining on thrones or willing partners, and sipping wine or knitting warm socks for coming winters! Deny Nathchanczia here not her gloat!”
Storm Silverhand looks at the once-more-trembling hands and says “So, when she’s done gloating—?”
Elminster smiles, waves a hand, and before she can so much as scream, Nathchanczia of Neverwinter is gone, and in her place crouches a stunted, peeved-looking gargoyle, old moss speckling its worn stone, its claws carved into an endless reaching for nothing at all.
“So, lass, how’d ye like another garden statue?”
The Bard of Shadowdale spreads long, capable fingers upon her hips and says crisply, “In someone else’s very distant garden, thanks. If those you’ve already given me ever get loose all at once, most of the Dragonreach will be laid waste before the next nightfall!”
“True, true. Aundaman’s garden, then?”
Storm’s smile is slow, soft, and evil as she nods, turns away, and starts for the kitchen. “Moonweather tea?”
“Must I beg for it, love?”
She turns and nods, her smile still feral.
Elminster goes to his knees as the statue vanishes behind him, and pleads, “Can ye truly see no other way?”
The bard snorts, wrinkles her nose, and says, “Or not, of course. Even after a thousand-some years, your begging needs a lot of work.”
A SLOW DAY IN SKULLPORT
Eyes blinked in the darkness, a prologue to a rare sound in Under mountain: a deep, grating chuckle. Xuzoun had not been this excited in a long, long time.
* * * * *
In the damp, chill depths of the vast subterranean labyrinth that is the infamous killing-ground of Undermountain, in winding ways not all that far north of Skullport, a certain passage begins at an archway surmounted by a smiling, reclining stone nymph. The carving lacks the unearthly, deadly beauty of the real creature it represents, yet is still strikingly attractive, and word of it has spread over the years. Some folk even believe it represents a goddess—perhaps Sune, fire-haired lady of love—and bow or pray before it… and who’s to say they’re wrong?
There’s certainly more to the statue than its lifelike beauty. Everyone who has attempted to dislodge and carry it away has been found dead—in small, torn pieces—before the arch. A blood-stained chisel one of them let fall has been left behind as a mute warning to enthusiasts of portable sculpture who may happen upon the archway in the future.
Who carved it, and why, are secrets still held by the mysterious builders of this stretch of Undermountain. The careful— and lucky— adventurer can, however, learn what lies beyond the arch: a simple, smooth-walled passage can readily be seen—but for some reason, few walk far along it.
Those who do will find that the passage soon narrows, descends sharply, and becomes a rough tunnel hewn through damp rock, filled in several places by the ceaseless murmur of echoes: fading but never silent remnants of a distant cacophony seeming to involve loud speech in tongues not understood or identified by even the most careful listener.
As the intrigued traveler moves on, the grinning bones of human adventurers and larger, snakelike things adorn the deepening way, and pits appear. Above several of these deadly shafts, palely shrouded in cobwebbed bones, hang dark, ancient tree trunks ending in sharp points. Years have passed since they fell like fangs to impale victims who are now mere twisted tangles of bone and sinew, dangling silently, their lifeblood spilled long ago.
Few explorers come so far. One may have to wait days for a crumbling bone to break free and fall into the depths with a small, dry sigh… and such sights are the only excitement hereabouts.
Any intruder who presses on past the area of pits—and manages to avoid personally discovering new ones—will soon meet the endless gaze of a skull taller than most men. A giant’s head goggles down the passage, its empty sockets lit eerily by glowworms that dwell within. Their faint, slowly-ambulating radiances show what dealt death to the giant waiting in the dimness just beyond: a boulder almost as large as the riven skull, bristling with rusted metal spikes
as long as most men stand tall. The bands that gird the stone and clasp its massive swing-chain are still strong. The many-spiked boulder hangs in the passage like a patient beholder, almost blocking the way, and sometimes swinging slightly in response to distant tremors and breezes of the depths.
Only a fool—or an adventurer—would come this far, or press on past the gigantic trap in search of further perils. A bold intruder who does will soon come to a place where a band of glowstone crosses the ceiling of the rough-hewn way, casting faint, endless ruby light down on an old, comfortable-looking armchair and footstool. These stout, welcoming pieces stand together in an alcove, flanked by a little side table littered with old and yellowed books—lurid tales of adventure, mostly, with a few tomes of the “lusty wizard” genre—and a bookmark made of a long lock of knotted and beribboned human hair.