Realms of Infamy - James Lowder [9]
"It is hoped among my kind," the eye tyrant said with deep sarcasm, "that the events of today have taught you both the folly of such clumsy, drawn-swords villainy. Those who deal in rashness are changed by their dealing-and not for the better. The waste caused by the violence you began should make your lesson as clear and as painful to you as it has been to the rest of this council."
The beholder rose swiftly, eyestalks still trained in a deadly array on the two. Then it added almost bitterly, "But the curse of humans seems to be the nimbleness with which they forget."
Manshoon straightened, opening his mouth. His expression foretold words of proud defiance, but the beholder was already disappearing through a shattered window. Its parting words echoed around the hall. "Behave with rather more subtlety in the future, Manshoon, if you wish to enjoy our continued support!"
Silence fell. The councilors sat frozen in fear of what the first lord might do in his rage.
Manshoon stared up at the window for a very long time. Then he smiled thinly, raised one hand in what might have been a salute-or a wave of dismissal-and quietly walked out of the hall. Wordlessly the surviving Zhentarim rose and followed, their dark cloaks sweeping out like the wings of so many determined birds of prey.
Lord Chess watched them go and let out a breath he'd been holding a long time. As he made his own way out, he was careful not to glance at Fzoul Chembryl. He could feel the cold weight of the priest's gaze. The master of the Black Altar had been known to lash out in fury himself.
Cold sweat was trickling down the newly appointed watchlord's back by the time he strode out of the chamber and turned hastily aside to where hurled spells could not reach. He sighed then. There were still some chasms, it seemed, even the Zhentarim and the priests of Bane did not quite dare to hurl their spells across. Yet.
Chess sighed again and hurried away, keeping a wary watch behind as he went.
* * * * *
Awe and terror filled the streets of Zhentil Keep when a beholder of gigantic size drifted, dark and silent, over the city in the brightness of highsun. Ignoring the startled folk below, it floated between spires and high turrets with menacing purpose. Coming at last to the clustered towers of a high, grand stone castle, it paused by a certain window.
There it erupted in a puff of smoke that seemed to draw the window open. None below could see a robed, bearded man in the heart of the smoke. He stepped over the sill into the tower beyond. The beholder drifted away, its body beginning to dwindle, until it was only wisps of darkness that soon faded to nothing.
* * * * *
It had been a long wait. Lord Amandon was breathing raggedly as the high window of his bedchamber squealed open and the chill north breeze slipped in. The surface of his scrying crystal misted over.
Etreth started forward, sword drawn, when he met the challenging gaze of a white-bearded old man who stepped through the window and strode down empty air.
"Well met, Rorst Amandon," the newcomer said in a voice both dry and deep.
"Welcome, Elminster," the old lord managed to gasp. Etreth came to a halt, open-mouthed. Only then did he remember he held a sword.
Elminster looked at him and, in tones that were not unkind, said, "Put that toy away."
Lord Amandon struggled to speak. "I've… no time left to waste words. That was well done, Lord Mage. You kept your word. My price is met. I'm glad I lived to see the bargain sealed."
Elminster bowed. "I shall keep my word in times to come. This I swear: neither Fzoul nor Manshoon shall die by my hand or spells… however much ill they work." He bowed. "My payment, as agreed, for the names you gave."
Etreth stared from one old man to the other. Lord Amandon nodded. "I do not want Manshoon dead, whatever he may have done to me," he said. "Zhentil Keep needs a strong leader against growing foes… But I did