Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [53]
The skull watched him go and made no move back to where it had fed. Its memories went back a thousand years. It had learned patience.
Chapter 7
AT THE SIGN OF THE WANTON
WYVERN
Do ye remember an inn, Tessyrana? Old and dark and rambling, lost in the arms of the wild woods a long day's ride from anywhere-but warm and firelit within, against the chill winds of the storm. The smoke slung our eyes, and its old and spicy smell enshrouded us as it did everything eke in the house.
We climbed worn, curving stain away from the ready laughter and ale, into a candlelit room, a cozy den nestled amid others in the night, carved out of low beams, gentle mutterings and creakings, and uneven floors. And for one night, at least, that plain, tiny, and friendly little room was our home.
Amhritar the Tall
Tall Tales: A Ranger's Life
Year of the Striking Hawk
Manshoon looked up, unsmiling. Fzoul and two silent upperpriests stood across from him, and two beholders floated overhead. In the air between them all, in an inner chamber in the High Hall of Zhentil Keep, hung a naked man.
It was Simron, late of the Eastern Stonelands Company of the Zhentilar, and he was very naked-much of his skin was missing.
Blood flew as Manshoon's invisible spell-claws tore at the veteran warrior's flesh. He screamed hoarsely, the red rain from him being caught below in a huge bowl, for later use in dark, cruel magic.
The Zhentarim did not like to waste the talents of their members.
"You do still have strength enough to scream," Manshoon said calmly. "Good, Simron – that means you've still strength to speak, too. Tell us more of what happened when the maid unleashed her spellfire."
Simron groaned. Manshoon frowned, and unseen claws raked deep, red furrows across the backs of the old warrior's calves. Simron's legs jerked helplessly, and gore spattered the beholders overhead. They did not seem to mind.
"I-I-Lord Manshoon, mercy!" Simron said thickly, coughing crimson between his words.
"Mercy must be bought, soldier," Manshoon said mildly, "and you've still not told me what I want to know. Now, sh- There was a commotion at the guarded door of the chamber. and Manshoon turned in some annoyance to see its cause.
A mageling Manshoon had always thought of as more ambitious than sensible stood among the guards, face lit with excitement. "Lord Manshoon!"
The High Lord of Zhentil Keep made a sign, and the guards drew back to let the young wizard rush into the chamber. Silently, Manshoon gestured to the mage to speak-and he did, words tumbling over each other in haste.
In Sembia, Lord-we've been attacked. Ah, wizards of the Brotherhood, Lord, seeking spellfire as you asked us to… they were set upon by some Harpers, and killers sent by the Cult of the Dragon. We won both battles, but Arluth is dead, and Chsalbreian, and-"
Manshoon held up his hand, and the mageling fell silent. "Our thanks for your diligence, Sundarth. We are pleased. Leave us now; our favor goes with you."
Stammering thanks and farewell, the young mageling bowed himself out.
When lie was gone, Manshoon looked up at the bleeding, moaning man hanging in midair, and he sighed loudly.
"Too many foes are after spellfire for me to just sit back and wait for blundering, ambitious underlings to bring it to us," the High Lord of Zhentil Keep announced. "I'll have to become directly involved in the hunt for this Shandril."
The beholders, hovering watchfully overhead, said nothing. Manshoon looked across the chamber to meet the eyes of the High Priest of the Black Altar.
Fzoul shrugged and said, 'That's the way of wizards. For my part and my counsel, hold back for now, and watch to see if the claws we've sent out catch anything."
Manshoon rolled his eyes. "I grow no younger," he said carefully. "What use is spellfire-or the triumph of our Brotherhood over all-to me, if I'm toothless, blind, and failing in my dotage before we gain either?"
Fzoul raised an eyebrow. "You may not live to find any of these things if you