Ed Greenwood - The Herald

He did not have to wait long.

He’d closed the cavern door in his wake, so its opening would give him some moments of forewarning. Albeit soundless forewarning; it seemed hinges were kept well oiled down in the cool depths of the keep, these days …

The door opened.

El kept on studying his imaginary book, his attention on it and not on the robed and cowled figure coming toward him with slow, silent care.

Knife in hand, of course. No matter that the blade and the hand holding it were hidden well inside a flared sleeve; the movements were unmistakable to one who’d seen them so often, down the centuries.

Elminster’s spell mantle was, of course, waiting.

When the man was about six strides away, El looked up at him calmly.

“Aye? Is there something?”

The monk made no reply, but charged, free hand reaching out to clutch at or sweep aside El’s own arms, knife held back for an upward, gutting stab.

El rose to meet the charge-then sat down abruptly, kicking out.

The monk bent and slashed, but the force of his rush and the sudden absence of his target had him overbalanced; he was on his way over Elminster, headfirst into the unyielding stone spur that had served the Old Mage-and so many monks before him-as a seat.

His vicious slashing sliced only empty air as El’s feet slammed into his shins and boosted him upward, but where the dagger raced through El’s invisible mantle it left a purple glow in its wake.

Poison.

Of course.

That hue told him the mantle could neutralize it if it got into him, but-

The man sprawled with a desperate grunt, managing to slam his chest against the stone and not his head, but he was winded-and El’s hard kick sent the poisoned dagger spinning across the cavern to clink and ring against a distant part of its rough stone walls.

While the man was still convulsing, El landed on his back with an agility and back alley ruthlessness that was odd indeed for Andannas Dalkur, landed two swift blows that should briefly numb the man’s arms at the elbow into near uselessness, slid one arm around the monk’s throat in a choke hold, and set his fist against the base of the man’s skull, where it could do much damage with the swiftest of raps.

“Well met,” El purred sardonically into an ear that was suddenly very close to him, and sent his mind into the monk’s with a ruthless thrust of his will. It was neither a polite nor a good deed, mind-reaming, but when one is at war with the proverbial fate of Faerûn in the balance …

“One leans on an overused excuse indeed,” he murmured aloud to end that thought, as he met his first real resistance among the murky half-seen thoughts of his attacker’s uppermost mind, and bore down hard.

The murkiness became a dark gray wall, like dirty wood smoke but as unyielding as iron. This mind was magically shielded. Again: of course.

Yet some things he could see more than feel. This wasn’t an impostor impersonating a slain monk of Candlekeep, but a genuine Avowed who’d spent years within these walls. Corrupted by the Shadovar long ago, and for years a spy for them, reporting back what was said, read, and done within the monastery.

The man was … was … Naerlus was his name. So, what could be gleaned from the shielded mind of Naerlus? Press on here, and there, follow what the mind tried to hide, pursue the deepest darkness through the silent smoke …

A face, seen again. And then again.

Important, then. A face cruel and hard and not one El had seen at the keep, but coming to mind in the memories of the increasingly frightened Naerlus repeatedly as El fought to worm his way through the shield.

Was that face associated with the monk’s thoughts of the Shadovar?

Yes!

Latch onto the face, then, drag it nearer and clearer, and see what surfaced, dripping and entangled, with it …

The Shadovar speaking, smiling bleakly-the only smile Naerlus had ever seen on that cruel face, as the cruel-faced man did something important … bestowed something important …

Looking down as a gloved hand put something into the reluctant grasp of Naerlus … the poisoned knife!

Who was to await the sign to use it … “The serpent uncoils at last.”

The Shadovar’s cold voice uttering that pass phrase was overlaid and echoed by a far more recent whisper, said by a passing monk who had his cowl down-Naerlus hadn’t known who, and hadn’t dared turn to try to find out, but a book had erupted from within that monk’s nearest sleeve, spine up, and had been used to point at … Andannas Dalkur!

So recently, then, had this slayer been set at his heels.

The pass phrase had alerted Naerlus that it was time to use the poisoned blade to slay a person indicated by the one giving the phrase. Which led nowhere. Unless … was Naerlus aware of anyone else working for the Shadovar at the keep? Or did he suspect anyone else? Had Naerlus ever seen the cruel-faced man speaking with any other monk?

Elminster bore down, mind-smoke swirling.

Then something angry crimson and hot and mighty surged to meet him out of that mind, power the monk’s mind couldn’t have held, power that shouldn’t be there-

El broke his mind free with a shiver, suddenly icy cold yet drenched with sweat, and so just eluded a mind-thrust that would have slain him.

Someone had become aware of what he was doing, and-or, no, someones . More than one mind, and uncaring of what befell poor Naerlus, to burst into his mind and come racing up through it like that while shaping a deadly mind-thrust, leaving him a reeling, drooling idiot-

Naerlus, still caught in Elminster’s grasp, flung himself suddenly sideways, with a roar like an enraged lion, to slam Elminster against the sharp and very hard cavern wall, breaking the Old Mage’s grip.

And whirling to grab at an ankle and come up with-a second knife.

The air shone a sudden and vivid purple in its rising wake-so this fang was as poisoned as the first-as he came at El fast, his face trembling and twisting between maniacal glee and a sort of bewilderment, as the unseen others tried to control the monk’s mind, and got in each other’s way.

Elminster didn’t wait for them to reach accord and smooth cooperation. He darted to one side of the monk, ducking past the poisoned dagger, then turned, grabbed the monk’s knife arm with both hands, at elbow and wrist, and turned the force of the monk’s charge into a rush at the cavern wall, dagger foremost and locked in an extended position. Let the dagger be broken or knocked free, or the fingers that held it shattered …

It struck unyielding stone hard enough to strike sparks, with a shriek that became two high ringing clangs as it spun away.

The rest of the monk slammed into the wall, then bounced free. Naerlus broke out of El’s grip and turned with a snarl-to drag out yet another knife.

Ye Watching Gods, how many daggers did monks of Candlekeep carry around, anyway? He’d best be hard and careful if any minor disputes arose over who got to read a book first! Why, the-

Naerlus came for him again, blade in hand and quivering lips mumbling something that sounded very like the faltering and choking beginnings of an incantation.

Elminster feinted a grab for the knife, and when Naerlus slashed at him, landed a punch that snapped the monk’s head aside-letting El grab the wrist that held the knife, thumb firmly on the nerve that would make the knife hand numb and force Naerlus to let go of his weapon.

He dug in with his thumb, and with his other hand caught Naerlus by the throat.

“My apologies, Avowed of Candlekeep,” he murmured as the eyes above his tightening hand grew wild with fear and pain, “but I have this aversion to dying just now, when-”