Ed Greenwood - Bury Elminster Deep

“I do not lie, Manshoon. You lie, easily and often, as it suits your desires, and so have fallen into lazily thinking all others must, too. Consider how easy it would be for me to destroy you, rather than spend time telling you this. Consider further my strong temptation to do so. Yet, I refrain. Consider that I do so for this higher purpose, this necessity of saving the world we share. Now, will you hear the rest, or will I spell-scourge you until you are humbled and forced to yield?”

The beholder hung silently in the air for what seemed a very long time.

“I… I will listen,” it said at last.

“Wise of you. Mystra and Azuth allowed Larloch’s self-serving plan to succeed because they deemed it necessary. Like the lich lord, they saw it as a way of cheating the coming Spellplague, which they dared not try to prevent as the increasingly unstable Weave raced toward crashing ruin. It needed to be renewed or replaced, and Mystra knew either outcome would destroy her. She also knew she could preserve something of herself and the secrets of the Art she’d inherited-and Azuth could do the same-by insinuating it into the minds of Larloch’s liches, and so into the blueflame items.”

“Which means…” Storm said slowly.

Her sister smiled. “Which means the items contain seeds that could perhaps bring back Larloch, or even something… someone more… if used in the right manner.”

“Uh,” Arclath mumbled, “I’m not sure Rune or I should be hearing this…”

Ignoring him, The Simbul went on sternly, “It is imperative blueflame items must be wielded to close rifts and restore the balance of Toril, or the ancient Primordials will rise and rage unleashed across the lands… and inevitably, what will eventually be left will not be the world we know, the realms of humans, elves, dwarves, halflings, orcs, and the rest. Dragons may survive, but probably as enslaved steeds, not conquering wyrms. Their time is past.”

She looked from one person to another, staring last up at the beholder, whose rays had faded away.

“El and Manshoon, will you both work to make sure the time of humans is not ended?”

“Aye,” Elminster agreed eagerly.

It was another long and silent wait before Manshoon muttered reluctantly, “Yes.”

“Good. Starting now would be a good thing,” The Simbul told them dryly.

Then she gave Storm a smile. “Thank you for caring for me, sister. I’ll return as soon as I can, but long ago I promised Mystra I’d do… certain things. I must keep my promises, or I am nothing.”

She took a step back. “I go.”

Abruptly, without a spell or sound, she vanished.

Leaving Storm, Arclath, Amarune, and Elminster all looking at the beholder hanging in the air above them.

Silence stretched.

“So,” El asked mildly, “shall we begin?”

Manshoon glared at him-and vanished, leaving only empty sky behind.

Elminster whirled and cast a hasty spell.

Storm started to say something urgent, but Elminster shook his head, waved his hands in a dramatic flourish-and watched Storm, Arclath, and Amarune vanish as his magic took them elsewhere.

Then he ran back to the cave.

He was only a few steps inside when Manshoon’s first attack spell stabbed at his back.

It raged against El’s ward, shattered it, and the two magics died together.

Elminster kept running, knowing the spot he wanted to reach before Manshoon’s second attack, a flood of piercing lightning, drove him to his knees, groaning in pain.

El fought to hiss out a small, simple spell, hoping its nature would let him finish it before Manshoon smashed him with deadly magic once more.

“Work with you? Bah! All my life you’ve frustrated my schemes, intrigued against me, opposed me!” the vampire shouted. “Work with you? I think not. Be entombed, instead!”

Magic clawed at Elminster, and the rock beneath him changed.

“I’ll drive you down into solid rock by making it less than solid-in shifting spots, so the weight of the rest of the stone, still hard, will crush your bones to jelly!”

Elminster was sinking, his body tingling, starting to shift at Manshoon’s bidding. He had to fight to form a smile.

“I want you to feel pain, Sage of Shadowdale!” Manshoon shouted from above. “Long, slow pain! Let your tongue be stilled, your jaw, arms, and fingers all be broken, to rob you of all means to work magic!”

The rock closed over Elminster’s head, dark and hissing, Manshoon’s magic lancing into his lungs to keep him from suffocating just yet. And to bring him more of its caster’s gloating.

“Think you can foil me again? Work another of your sly triumphs? No, a thousand times no! I am Manshoon, and I will defeat you!”

“By deafening me? Like any lackspell mageling, ye’ve certainly mastered being noisy!” Elminster murmured to himself as his body fell entirely back to ashes-and plunged through the fissures he’d been seeking.

The agony was-intense.

Yet, he’d known worse.

It would take him days, perhaps months, to drag himself together again… but he’d managed much, much longer patience in the past.

Silently, by many thousands of little ways, he descended.

New magic stabbed after him, thrusting here and there, swift and energetic.

Only to withdraw, finding no trace of Elminster.

“Yes!” Manshoon roared, his voice high and wild. “Bury him deep-and I did! Go godless to the gods at last, Elminster, to fail that judgment and fade, gone forever! Fare you not well!”

From some flakes of tumbling ash in a cavern far beneath Manshoon’s boots, in an upper cavern of the Underdark, came a faint echo that just might have been an answer to Manshoon’s shout.

An echo that sounded rather like the Sage of Shadowdale’s chuckle.