Outside, the afternoon sun was bright upon the towers and parapets of Zhentil Keep. Within the Tower High of Manshoon, lord of that city, all was dark save for a circle of glass-globed candles in a corner of the high-paneled feasting hall. No grand company had feasted there for twenty winters.
Beneath the tinted, flickering light was a small circular table and about it the high lords of the Keep sat in council. Lord Kalthas, general of the armies of Zhentil Keep north of the Moonsea, spoke at ease, purring from beneath his sandy moustache, flagon of amber wine comfortably by his hand.
“Defending the empty wastes of Thar is not the problem,” he said smugly, “now that the lich Arkhigoul is no more. The Citadel is strong, and I see no need to weaken our forces by placing small garrisons here and there on various frozen rocks in the east. If something comes over the mountains from Vaasa, let it come. We can move in strength when any such foe has committed itself to a long journey and a particular target, and crush any invasion at our leisure. The riders of Melvaunt can slow down any major assault long enough for us to muster patrols in from all Daggerdale and the Teshen lands. Why defend a week’s cold ride of barren rocks and snow? Any fool…” The deep boom of a bell echoed somewhere in the darkness above them.
There was a sudden squeal of wood as the dark-robed figure of Manshoon, first Lord of the Keep, who had been sitting in languid boredom on one side of the table, rose suddenly. Table, papers, ink and quills, crystal decanters, and ornate metal flagons all crashed together to the floor. More than one noble lord, chair and all, went to the flagstones with them.
“My Lord!” gasped Lord Kalthas in protest, wiping wine from his fur-trimmed doublet. His words fell into tense silence and died away as their speaker realized his peril. “What means this?”
But Manshoon was not even looking at him. White-faced, he stared into the air, his voice quavered. “Symgharyl Maruel,” he whispered, blinking away a tear. Lord Chess gasped aloud; more prudent nobles gaped in silence. None had ever before seen Manshoon cry or show any sign of weakness (or as one lord had once put it, “humanity”).
Then the moment passed, and a coldly furious Manshoon snapped, “Zellathorass!” At his command, a globe of crystal swooped into view on the stairs, danced sideways in the air like a questing bat, and darted over to spin in the air before him. Manshoon seized it and peered into its depths, where a light kindled and grew.
He was silent for a moment, and his handsome face grew as cold and hard as drawn steel as he saw something that the other lords could only guess at. Then he released the globe, which began to spin slowly, said “Alvathair” softly, and watched it vanish back the way it had come. His mouth tightened.
He turned to face them all. “Sirs” he said curtly, “this meeting is at an end. For your safety, leave at once.” He crooked a finger, and horribly grinning gargoyles, hitherto motionless on stone buttresses overhead, flexed their slate-gray wings. The high lords of Zhentil Keep hastened to find their feet, and then their cloaks and swords and plumed hats, babbled and stammered their thanks and good-byes all together, and found the exit with comical haste. A patient golem closed the door they left standing open.
Manshoon then spoke to the gargoyles in a harsh hissing and croaking tongue, and they began to glide about the tower on their leathery wings, watching in terrible silence for intruders. Their lord stood in the dark hail and spoke. The candles sank and died. They had scarce guttered into acrid smoke before he spoke again, and at his words this time a stone golem as tall as six men strode ponderously toward him from one corner of the hall. It waited there in the darkness to greet any visitors foolish enough to enter unannounced in his absence. Manshoon looked about and then raced up the stairs in the darkness. His ragged shout of rage and loss echoed back down the stairs behind him.” Shadowsil!”
As he stepped out into the chill air atop the Tower High, he spoke a certain word. There came a stirring, and part of the tower beneath him moved. A great bulge of stone shifted and humped. Vast wings opened out over the courtyard of the tower and the minarets of the walls. A great neck arched out and glimmering eyes regarded Manshoon with eagerness and quickening interest, and fear.
The massive bulk rose up the tower wall as huge claws caught and pulled. Somewhere a stone broke loose and clattered, unseen, far below. Then the wings beat in a lazy clap that echoed back from the rooftops of the city. Frightened faces appeared in the windows of temple spires and noblemen’s towers, and vanished again in haste. Manshoon smiled without mirth at the sight and coldly locked eyes with the huge black dragon he had freed. Cold eyes looked back at him.
Few men, indeed, can retain sanity and will in the face of the full gaze of a dragon. The wyrm regarded him with vast age, and knowledge, and amusement. Manshoon merely smiled and held its eyes with his own deep gaze. The fear in the dragon’s eyes grew. Then Manshoon hissed in the tongue of black dragons, “Up, Orlgaun. I have need of you.” The great neck arched over the parapet for him to mount.
With a bound and flurry of beating wings the black dragon soared aloft from the city of cold stone and ready swords. Manshoon came with fire and fury to destroy the slayer of his beloved. Many have done so before, in more worlds than Faerun, and will again in days to come.
The Battle Ne’er Done
The worst trouble with most mages is that they think they can change the world. The worst mistake the gods make is to let a few of them get away with it.
Nelve Harssad of Tsurlagol
My Journeys Around the Sea of Fallen Stars
Year of the Sword and Stars
“I wonder,” Torm said slowly, coins of silver and gold clattering through his fingers, “just how long this bone dragon had been gathering this stuff.” He looked across a glittering sea of gleaming metal.
“Ask Elminster,” Rathan said. “He probably recalls the day of Rauglothgor’s arrival, what-or who-he ate at the time, and all.” The cleric was methodically scrutinizing handfuls of coins, plucking out only the platinum pieces, and adding them to an already bulging purse. Nearby, Merith was shifting coins carefully with his feet, looking for more unusual treasure amid the coinage.
“Is this what we go through all the blood and battle for?” Jhessail said, coming up to him with her hands full of sparkling gems.
“Yes. Depressing, isn’t it?” Lanseril replied from where he knelt with Narm beside Shandril. The onetime thief of the Company of the Bright Spear lay still and white, for all the world as if dead. Elminster puffed on his pipe thoughtfully as he stood looking down at her, but he said nothing.
Lanseril gave Narm a shove. “Enough brooding, mage. Get up and find some gems and platinum coins and the like while it’s still lying about for the taking.” At Nann’s dark look, he said more gently, “Go on. We’ll watch her, never fear. You’ll need the gold, you know, if you plan to learn enough art to see you both past all the enemies you’ve made these past days.”
Narm looked at him again, doubtfully. Thoughtful eyes met for a time. The young man nodded slowly. “You may be right. But… Shandril…” He looked at her helplessly again. The druid laid a hand on his arm.
“I know it’s hard. You do the best for her, and for yourself, though, if you get up and go on with your duties. The plans of gods and men unfold even while you sleep, as the saying goes. You can do nothing for Shandril sitting here. Go, lad, and play among the coins. You’ll see few enough of them before you die, as it is.” Lanseril pushed him again. “I’ll keep your spot warm, here by her shoulder. I even promise to call you if she should awaken and want to kiss someone, or the like.” He grinned at Narm’s expression. “Go on.”