Эд Гринвуд - Crown of Fire

Mirt growled. “Bah! Where’s Elminster, now that we need him to talk some sense into ye? Ye would turn down spellfire if ye led the Zhents—but power draws them, as moths flutter about a flame, and they will snatch again and again at the flame, even after they’ve been burned a time or two.”

Narm looked thoughtful. “After all the deaths and the citadel laid waste around them? You really think so?”

Mirt’s expression was exasperated. “Lad, lad— never credit the Zhents with too much good sense. What have they been doing to ye since Shadowdale, eh? Trying for ye again and again, whate’er their losses.”

Narm stared at the far wall for a moment and then said, “You’re right. That’s exactly what they’ve been doing.” He looked at Mirt. “I’m sorry—I haven’t your experience, and shouldn’t be arguing with what you’ve seen to be true.”

Mirt reached a long arm around Belarla and clapped Narm’s shoulder with enough force to make the young mage bounce in his chair. “That’s all right, lad. Never known a young wizard that didn’t argue. Besides,” he rumbled gently, “I lost ye Delg. The least I can do is give ye half the good advice he would have.”

“Come what may,” Shandril said to her husband, “I’m going back to the citadel—now, while most of the Zhentarim are gathered there hunting for my blood—and bring all this harrying to an end once and for all. This time, at least, I’ll have some friends with me.”

“Aye,” Mirt rumbled. “We’re all coming.” There was a general chorus of agreement.

Narm nodded finally and said, “Agreed.” Then he looked at Tessaril, a question in his eyes.

The Lord of Eveningstar nodded. “I have teleport scrolls ready for all of us, including you—and a sorceress once showed me how to work what she called a ‘mass teleport,’ where we all go together. This time,” she added simply, “the battle must be for all—or nothing.”

Mirt nodded. “Let’s eat first,” he growled.

As the group rose and began filing out toward the kitchen, Mirt steered the young mage by one elbow out the door, across the entry hall, and up the grand stair. When they’d reached the seclusion of the statues above, Mirt stopped among them and said grimly, “Listen, lad. We Harpers’re along to see to the Zhents that Shan can’t stop in time. There’ll be bowmen, priests, and wizards behind every door and tapestry, trust me. Stopping her , if she should go out of control and start behaving like another Manshoon, is yer task.”

“ What? ” Narm’s face was white with anger. “You want me to slay the lady I love? Why of all folk in Faerûn did you dare to ask me? ”

“Ye married her,” was the gruff reply as the Old Wolf stalked away and started back down the stairs.

“Yes, but—” Narm found himself arguing with empty air. He took a few quick steps after Mirt and demanded, “Even if I wanted to, how could I stop Shan? How? ”

The old merchant swung around and fixed Narm with one gimlet eye. “I know not, lad, but ye’d best be learning. As I said, ye married her.”

“My thanks, Sarhthor, for a very good hunch as to where they’d be.” Fzoul lifted his gaze from the new disc of water that he and his underpriests had conjured in Wizards’ Watch Tower. He moved away, and Tessaril’s features in the scrying pool wavered and disappeared as the magic faded.

He signaled the priests to let it collapse, then snapped at Sarhthor, “Go—ready our warriors!”

Sarhthor only nodded, and Fzoul saw the weariness in his face. “Get some rest,” the high priest added. “I’ll be needing you soon.”

“You will indeed,” Sarhthor replied, so quietly that Fzoul’s next coldly spoken orders drowned out the sound.

Finished with his lackeys, the high priest strode out the room, down the stairs, and to the Spell Court.

“Who speaks for Bane?” Elthaulin’s voice rang out, echoing from the towers around the courtyard as Fzoul came in. The upperpriest held the scepter of Bane high above his head. Sunlight gleamed on the glossy-smooth black hand at its tip.

The darkness of night,” half a hundred throats replied.

“Who walks the night?”

“Those who are faithful,” came the unison response.

“How shall they be known?”

“By the blood they spill,” the assembly thundered.

Elthaulin brought the scepter down into the shield-sized bowl of black blood in front of him. Its level of liquid began to drop immediately. “Behold our sacrifice to the Dread Lord! Behold, the Great Lord Bane drinks the blood we have given! Behold!”

In triumph, he held up the empty bowl. “Bane is satis—”

“I’m sure,” Fzoul’s dry voice cut in, and sudden silence fell. The Master of the Black Altar added, “Enough, Elthaulin. Have done with ritual, Brothers—I need you all ready for battle within the hour. This Shandril is coming for me, and she’ll find her way here, no doubt, all too soon.”

A rush of shocked, obedient priests followed. Amid the hurrying clamor, Fzoul stopped a servant and murmured some commands. The servant rushed off, and Fzoul strolled unconcernedly across the courtyard.

Wondering priests, on their knees to pray to Bane for spells, looked up in awe at his cool and calm manner. Only when he was well inside the tower again and sure they could no longer see him did Fzoul break into a run, taking the stairs in frantic haste.

Tessaril came out onto the porch and found her herald sitting with the guards, correcting a blazon with careful strokes of his brush.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Tzin,” she said quietly, and the tone of her voice made him look up quickly. “I charge you to assume command of the king’s affairs and of justice in Eveningstar for a time. I’m going to the Citadel of the Raven—to war.”

Mouths dropped open all down the porch. The blood drained from the herald’s face, and he started to say something.

Tessaril held up a hand to forestall the torrent of words she knew was coming, then said, “If I do not come back, tell Azoun I did what I had to do—and that I have always loved him.” Her voice trembled, and fell to a whisper. “It has been an honor to serve the Purple Dragon.”

She turned away quickly then, before her voice broke, and hurried back inside her tower. She did not want to look even once at the beautiful village around her—in case it should prove to be the last time.

Fzoul found the room he was looking for. He chose a mace, a weighty hammer, and a javelin from the racks around its walls. The weapons hefted well in his hands. Next he turned his attention to the wall, where he knew a secret rune was hidden. The high priest smiled as he found it, pushed and turned the rune-adorned panel, and watched part of the wall swing open.

The niche within held a skull, a mummified hand, and several bottles of brown glass. He chose one bottle, wiped the dust from it, undid the seal, and experimentally licked the yellow liquid within.

The burning sensation on his tongue made him nod with satisfaction; it was still deadly—to others, at least. Over years of careful exposure, he’d built up a resistance to this particular poison. Carefully the high priest anointed the weapons he’d chosen, girded himself about with them, replaced the bottle, and closed the door of its hiding place.

Then he descended to the forehall of the tower, stood on a paving stone that had been enchanted by Manshoon years ago, and spoke one of the words the mage had taught him. An almost inaudible singing sound answered him as the hidden spell engine Manshoon had prepared spun silently out of another plane and into solid existence in Faerûn. It could appear only in this place, but Fzoul—being the spellfire maid’s target—was just the bait to bring her here to face it.