Spellfire

“Well enough. They are not unprotected.” She folded her arms and leaned back upon the wall by the hearth. “Gods spit upon my luck,” she said more softly. “I wanted to say farewell, not just ride away and never see them again.”

“They’ll be all right, Shar,” Storm said, “and they’ll be back again.”

“Sharantyr raises a good point, though,” Lanseril said from his chair. “The wisdom of sending them alone, with only a rescue squad hurrying along behind, can well be questioned.” He raised thoughtful eyes to Mourngrym and Elminster. “I take it you considered their slipping away while we rode a distraction to Hillsfar was a good risk?”

Elminster nodded. “It had to be. Think on that, Sharantyr, and be not so angry, lass.”

“They passed the vale without loss or upset,” Merith put in, “I heard from one of the people who was watching the road there.”

Sharantyr nodded. “Since then?” she prompted. Merith shrugged.

“I scryed Torm and Rathan yestereve,” Illistyl spoke up. “They were cutting across country, southeast of Mistledale, and had met with no one then. I’U try them again tonight.”

“Soon?”

“Aye… you can watch, if you like. You too, Jhess, if you have no greater game afoot”-she looked meaningfully at Merith, who gri

Jhessail chuckled. “It is a good thing none but the gods look over your shoulders to see all we-and Narm and Shandril, gods smile upon them-get up to. It would make a long, confusing ballad.”

Elminster scowled. “Life is seldom as clear-cut, smooth, and as easily ended as a ballad,” he said and put his pipe in his mouth with an air of finality. The fire crackled and flared up in the hearth. The sage stared at it thoughtfully. “She’s so young to wield spellfire,” he murmured.

“He lies within,” the acolyte said fearfully, hastening away from the door. Sememmon thanked him curtly and said, “Open it.”

The acolyte stood a moment in silence. Then he glided forward and swung the heavy oak and bronze door wide. Sememmon motioned him to pass through. The acolyte nodded and stepped forward, face impassive. The mage followed, through very thick stone walls, into a vast chamber that glowed a faint and eerie blue.;

This was the center of The Black Altar, the I

Sememmon came fully into the chamber, and such thoughts ceased. Vast and dark above him hung a beholder, its great central eye gazing down upon him maliciously. The acolyte had darted back behind Sememmon. He heard the door clang and the crash of a heavy bar falling into place. He was imprisoned. The eye tyrant was not Manxam. Sememmon cursed inwardly even as he strode forward, his cloak about him concealing nervous fingers that had gone straight to the hilt of a useless dagger.

The floor of the chamber was of highly polished marble. In the center of that vast, cold expanse rose a black throne- a throne that the High Imperceptor had not sat at the foot of for many a long year. It was gigantic, a seat for a giant, the seat of a god. It was occupied.

Red silk stood out against the black stone. Fzoul Chembryl lay asleep upon a bed across the seat of the god’s throne, recovering after the frantic healing efforts of the priests who served Bane under him. Sememmon gazed at him as he approached, uncomfortably aware without daring to look up that the beholder was moving with him, floating directly overhead with its great unblinking eye staring down.

The mage was no more than a dozen steps from the base of the throne, able to see clearly the rope ladder the priests were wont to ascend by, when a deep, rumbling voice from overhead said, “You have come to find death, Sememmon the Proud, but you have found not Fzoul’s death, but your own.” As Sememmon looked up and broke into a run, he saw the dark body of the beholder sinking lower and lower. The beholders were making their own bid for leadership of the Zhentarim.

Within a breath the beholder would be close enough to use the eye that dealt death or that turned one to stone. Or it might simply charm him into obedience or pursue him about the chamber like a trapped rat and wound him from afar. In the end, he knew, it would use the eye that destroyed one utterly, and there would not even be dust left of Sememmon.

So Sememmon ran as he had never run before, diving frantically around the edge of the throne where the vast central eye, the one that foiled all magic, could not see. He hastily began the casting of an incendiary cloud. He did not have the right spells for a fight this grave… Buy time and cover, then use a dimension door to teleport directly above the beholder, he told himself. Use paralyzation-or, no, use magic missiles now! Or… ah, gods spit upon it all! Raging, Sememmon applied himself to spellcasting.

He finished, and sprinted along the back of the throne, nearly tripping over a ringbolt on the floor that obviously was a trap-door-if one were very strong or had four or five acolytes to lift it. Sememmon reached the corner, gasping for breath, and steadied himself. To cast a magic missile spell, he must see the target-and if he could see the beholder, its eyes would also be able to see him. He tensed himself to take a rapid peek, and-

There was a flash and a roar, and the very floor heaved up, knocking Sememmon to his knees. Up, get up, he urged himself frantically. But there was a reddish haze of dancing spots before his eyes. He could not seem to grasp which way ‘up’ was.

“Well met, Sememmon,” said a dry, coldly familiar voice. Sememmon looked up into the calm gazes of Sarhthor and Manshoon. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep was robed in his usual black and dark blue, and he looked amused. “You can get up now,” he added. “It’s gone.” He flexed his open hand.

Sememmon found his voice. “You’ve returned! Lord, we have missed you, indeed-”

“Aye. No doubt. I’ve watched you and seen the, ah, troubles with Fzoul. Come, now, and slay him not. He is needed.” They hurried across the marble floor toward the door Sememmon had come in by. It was blasted and twisted into shards of metal beneath their feet. “Sarhthor,” Manshoon explained briefly.

The three mages went out through strangely deserted halls and sought the starlit night outside. Wordlessly they walked out of The Black Altar, past dim piles that had already begun to stink; the bodies of those who had fallen in the battle between Fzoul’s forces and those of The High Imperceptor. They walked straight to Sememmon’s abode, and the two mages left Sememmon there.

“Cheer up,” said Manshoon in parting. “You’ll have your chance to fight with the others for all this”-he shrugged his shoulders and looked around at the dark spires that rose all about them-”someday. I can’t live forever, you know.” With that he turned on his heel and was gone down the cobbled street into the night, Sarhthor at his heels.

Sememmon stared after them in the faint light and tasted fear. When would Manshoon feel that Sememmon had lived long enough? He entered hastily, the little eyeball that Manshoon had sent to spy floating in, unseen, with him, too.

“We just happened to be riding this way,” Rathan said gruffly. “It’s an open road, is it not?”

“No” Shandril said with a crooked smile. “You came after us to protect us. Did you not trust Tymora to look after us!”

The burly cleric gri

“Is that why you moved a sleeping man and left all the fighting and dirty work to me?” Torm said. “Not a copper’s worth of value in the pockets of his robe, too.”