Ed Greenwood - Bury Elminster Deep

“Great archwizards,” she sneered. “Not a lot to choose between the two of you, is there?” Shoving off from the wall, she reeled forward, raising her poisoned blade again.

Dardulkyn suddenly sprang up, wild-eyed, and fled, arms flailing. He fell often as he went, but had a frenzied speed she couldn’t hope to match.

“The poison will take you,” she murmured after him, weak but baleful, “and then I will. After I take care of the Sage of Shadowdale.”

That body hadn’t moved yet and was right in front of her. One lurching stride, two… she had to ground the sword and lean on it to keep from falling. Drawing in a deep and shuddering breath, she steadied herself and raised it again.

“One thrust,” she gasped. “One thrust, you old-”

Elminster rolled away, then found his feet with the agility and grace of a much younger man.

Arclath Delcastle had snatched back control of his own body. He smiled mirthlessly as he drew his sword, then met Cymmarra’s staggering rush with a deft parry.

Slicing two fingers off her sword hand on his backswing, he snapped, “One thrust? I think not.”

Magic clawed at her like a long-nailed drunkard trying to paw his way to a handy dancer’s charms, but it seemed to sigh and fade with her every step. She was fighting her way down a deep, narrow cavern…

Amarune pushed on into darkness until she saw a tiny glow of light ahead.

It was coming from a pool of water, where there was much splashing.

Going nearer, Rune saw a chained woman thrashing on the edge of the pool. She had eyes like those of an angry wolf and wore only the great swirling chaos of her long, silver hair, tresses that moved by themselves like Storm Silverhand’s hair.

Which it was, in fact, entangled with, Rune saw, the two heads of hair wrestling like hundreds of angry snakes as Storm and The Simbul-this had to be The Simbul-struggled with each other.

Storm was trying to drag her sister out of the pool, but The Simbul was stronger in her frenzy, overpowering Storm and dragging them both back down into the waters, time and again.

Now what? Rune discovered she was trembling, not just from the cavern’s magic but in deepening fear.

Then Storm saw her-and the blueflame buckle. “Put it in her mouth!” she gasped. “Rune, put it in her mouth, and hold it there until it’s all gone-no matter what happens!”

Rune swallowed then started forward. The buckle began to glow again.

With a menacing crackle, The Simbul’s hair left off trying to strangle and pinion Storm and reached for the buckle. Her angry wolf eyes flared blue.

Amarune went nearer, trying to keep close to the wall so as not to get easily dragged into the pool.

The Simbul growled at her menacingly, then snapped her teeth at the buckle. Just like a hungry wolf.

Rune dodged her lunges, just as she had dodged so many reaching hands at the Dragonriders’-and, holding the buckle firmly in both hands, thrust it into The Simbul’s mouth.

There was a bright flash and a sudden surge of energy that shook Amarune.

The Simbul’s eyes spat fire, literally becoming two bright blue flames, and Rune screamed as her fingers and then her arms started to burn, hair sizzling.

“Hold it in there!” Storm shouted, sounding desperate.

Rune clenched her teeth, then bent her head and whimpered against the pain. The buckle was melting… she thrust its dwindling solidity farther and farther in behind those sharp and angry teeth…

Then, abruptly, conflagration and buckle were both gone.

All the struggling stopped, and The Simbul was looking up at Rune with all fury fled and quite a different look in her eyes.

“Lady, I thank you,” she said gravely and kissed Amarune’s scorched fingers.

That touch sent a soothing, healing coolness through Rune that left her shuddering in amazed relief.

The pain vanished. Her burns were gone.

Then the chain binding The Simbul to the wall melted away in glowing silence.

The freed woman patted Storm in silent thanks and rose, dripping, to stride past Amarune down the passage as regally as any queen.

Near the cave mouth, Arclath Delcastle stood grimly over the Lady of Ghosts, the tip of his sword at her throat. She glared up at him in agony, her hands cut to bloody ruin, unable to fight any more.

The Simbul walked up to the young lord, touched his head, and murmured, “Come forth, El.”

Arclath slumped like a limp and empty leather sack as El’s ashes, glowing and swirling, emerged from his nose and ears to coil around The Simbul’s face and breast.

She laughed in delight, then stepped back and decreed, “Be as sane as I am, and have a body again.”

A glow appeared in midair in front of her and faded rapidly into something solid, upright… a naked man. It swayed, settled onto its feet, and sharpened into-Elminster, looking old and vigorous but slack-jawed.

The ashes plunged into that open mouth, and the body shuddered all over. Then it opened blue-gray eyes, smiled, and reached out to gather The Simbul into a fierce embrace.

As they kissed, she said to him firmly through their joined mouths, “Soon.”

Then she whirled free, bent to the helplessly glaring Cymmarra, and said gently, “Rest, tortured one.”

A wave of her hand banished the curse, and the woman transfixed by the dagger crumbled to dust, the dagger sighing into nothingness a moment later.

Then The Simbul headed out of the cavern, waving almost absently at Arclath as she went.

He blinked, stood up, looked around, saw Amarune, and grinned. She rushed into his arms.

Storm and El gently towed them after The Simbul, out into the light-where everyone halted as silence fell again.

A tentacled beholder of monstrous size was hovering in the air waiting for them, glaring eyestalks ready.

Rays spat forth.

The Simbul raised both her hands this time, and those magics twisted in midair into nothing more than a dancing glow.

“Enough, Manshoon.” She turned to look at Elminster, then regarded the beholder again. “I have remembered much that Mystra told me. The two of you must now work together. Our Lady of Magic commands it.”

“Mystra is no more!” Manshoon snarled.

The Simbul frowned. “She is… silent, yes, but I am far less certain of her destruction than you seem to be. Yet, her commandment is very clear. You must both gather all the blueflame items you can and use them properly, or the realms will surely fall before the beasts flooding in. The rifts opened in ignorance by those called ‘warlocks’ are many, and more and more fell powers look to this world to be their new home. More than just the Weave has fallen and been lost.”

El listened in thoughtful silence, and Manshoon in growing, eyestalk-quivering fury, as she added, “One archwizard was behind the enchanting of all the blueflame items, using many as his dupes. They were his bid to maintain his own existence, but he built into them the means to watch over all who used the items-for sport and amusement, as well as to effectively compel such wielders.”

“ ‘One archwizard’? Who?” Manshoon spat.

“The ‘Imprisoner’ is the one called Larloch. He bound all the magic and essence of three of his servant liches into each ghost-imprisoning item-sacrifices to empower the items.”

“Larloch?”

The Simbul ignored Manshoon’s angry disbelief. “The items are more than extra-dimensional prisons and ghost-controllers. Each possesses a fell power of its own, usable whenever the ghost is imprisoned, and dormant when the ghost is out.”

“And if a ghost is destroyed?” Elminster asked quietly.

“The item will crumble,” The Simbul replied. “Its magic discharged and forever lost.”

“No!” the beholder snarled. “You lie!”