Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Elminster 4 - Elminster In Hell

Elminster in Hell

Ed Greenwood

Forgotten Realms - Elminster Saga 4

2001

Scanned, formatted and proofed by Dreamcity

Ebook version 1.0

Release Date: October 22th, 2003

To Page and Mike. Because the most glorious adventure are those shared. Let yours be

one of the long and wondrous ones.

Let it be known: The wisdom and skill of Rob King made this tale far brighter and better

than It could otherwise hare been.

REALMS LORE

Is there not Hell enough awaiting you, that you must go seeking it in books and spells and consorting

with strange wizards?

Kesaugiir Ravendarr, a rich merchant of Amn, speaking to Ms daughter Hahilbra in the play

Bold Hearts Broken by Nargustaras Gritbym.

(playwright of Athkatla)

Confutatis maledictus, flammis acrlbus addictus etiam sanato vulnere cicatrix manet

Students of the history of the Realms should know that this tale of Elminster's torment befalls in

1372 DR, the Year of Wild Magic, and that the memories seen in these pages depict events that took

place, so for as can be determined, as follows:

?"The Day the Magic Died" (and the associated memories preceding it, in Chapter 2, except for

Khelben's flying over Waterdeep, which befell in 1351 DR) in mid-Kythorn of 1358 DR, the

Year of Shadows.

?"The Reaching Hand" (the memory in Chapter 4) on 17 Marpenoth in 1357 DR, the Year of

the Prince.

?"Here Be Wizards" (the memory in Chapter 5) in Ahuriak of 1365 DR, the Year of the

Sword.

?"One Night in Waterdeep" (the memory of Mirt in Chapter 6) on 6 Beint in 1321 DR, the

Year of Chains.

?"Night Comes to Tamaeril” the first memory in Chapter 7), "Resengar, Too" (the second

memory in Chapter 7), and "A Daughter's Duty" (the memory in Chapter 9) in early

Flamerule of 1355 DR, the Year of the Harp.

?"A Surprise for Laurlaethee" (the memory in the midst of Chapter 8) in the afternoon of 4

Tarsakh in 261 DR, the Year of Soaring Stars.

?"A Touch of Heartsteel" (the memory in Chapter 11) in early Mittul of 1369 DR, the Year of

the Gauntlet.

?“The Harper Without" on the night of 12 Uktar in 778 DR, the Year of Awaiting Webs.

?"When Sembians Stop for Tea" (the memory in Chapter 13) on the afternoon of the 4th of

Elesias in 1364 DR, the Year of the Wave (it should be noted that Noumea Fairbright is no

relation to Noumea Drathchuld, who was then Magister).

?"A Small Sort of Dragon” (the memory in Chapter 14) on 16 Chesin 1356 DR, the Year of

the Worm.

?"The Wisdom of Our Sages” (the memory in Chapter 15) in late Mirtul of 1360 DR, the

Year of the Turret.

?"Sit Not Alone on Thalon's Cold Throne" (the memories of Laeral at the end of Chapter 16

and the beginning of Chapter 17) to mid-Kythorn of 1357 DR, the Year of the Prince (it

should be remembered that this Laeral is Laeral Rythkyn, called by some "Laeral of

Loudwater," a Harper mage who is the namesake-not related-of Laeral Aransun Silverhand

of the Seven).

?"The Tears of a Goddess" (the memory at the end of Chapter 19) in late Eleint of 1371 DR,

the Year of the Unstrung Harp.

?"The Srinshee Plays With Fire"(the first Srinshee memory in Chapter 20) on the morning of 9

Nightal in 241 DR, the Year of the Hippogriff’s Folly.

?"Kisses and Damnations" (the second Srinshee memory in Chapter 20) in the carry evening

of Midsummer 30th in 666 DR, the Year of Stern Judgment.

?"One Fool Deserves Another" (the third Srinshee memory in Chapter 20) on 14 Hammer in

907 DR, the Year of Wailing.

?"The Coming of the Shadow" (the memory at the end of Chapter 21) on 6 Flamerule in 1294

DR, the Year of the Deep Moon.

?"Fools as Her Champions" (the memory in Chapter 22) on 21 Eleint in 1246 DR, the Year

of Burning Steel.

BEGINNINGS

Memories are wonderful things.

Yet they can burn like the hottest fire, raging and consuming their bearers, or cut like cruel blades. I

can trap one in a gem and hold it in my hand to give to another and yet keep it also in my mind, fading

slowly over time, like paths to favorite places that have become overgrown and lost,

What is a human but a bundle of memories?

What better treasure can the aged keep to warm and delight them whenever they rummage through

the sack of their own stored remembrances?

And what more hideous crime can there be than to snatch away memories from a man?

Only my kisses should be able to do that to him-and then only when Mystra deems it needful. Yet a

thing called Nergal dared to do this to my man. I, Alassra, made Nergal pay a fitting price and was

damned in that doing-and care not and would do it again.

I dare anything and will die doing so. Fools of Thay and other places know me for my slaying spells

and my fury. Often it masters me, and men call me "mad," when they should use the words "reckless” or

“lost in bloodlust." I do enjoy destruction. I admit-yet I also nurture and defend and treat with kindness.

Here I've done both, showing all who read of the kindnesses I so love, the reason I'd lay down my

life as freely as I do my body before this man called Elminster, even if he had no more magic than a

village idiot. Some will say I've set down secrets that common eyes should never have seen, and to them

I say two things: "Have I truly?" and "I care not!" Some have said holy Mystra and others of the divine

will smite me for this doing-yet here I still stand, unrepentant.

So come, and read secrets. Heed this tale I have gathered, and learn-or care not, and turn away, to

walk defenseless the rest of your undoubtedly short days. Choose freely.

I am the Storm Queen, and I never threaten. I merely promise.

Chapter One

ROCKS AND A WARM PLACE

There is no greater blasphemy than this.

This is the thing forbidden, for all gods and men, for every living being of this or any world-to shred

asunder the stuff of which we are all made, leaving rents of crawling nothingness in Toril. Roiling, weeping

wounds for all the Realms to spill out through, and all the cold and gnawing void to rush in...

With all the selfish and headstrong and uncaring fools who'd hurled magic about for all these

centuries, it was a wonder this didn't happen more often. This thought offered little comfort.

The worlds roared. White-hot and all-devouring, the torrents of force spilling from the Weave

snarled all around the tumbling man, tugging at his robes and old limbs and heard alike as he spun along in

a roaring rush of air. What might have been the green trees of Shadowdale turned crazily above his head.

Beneath-or was it above? - his hooted feet stretched a blood-red, sunless sky. He'd seen it a time or two

before and had no desire ever to see again.

Streamers of noxious gas streaked that crimson dome like dirty clouds. They whirled to form what

looked like giant eyes staring down, eyes that were swept away before they could focus, only to form

anew, again and again. Beneath the ruby glow lay a dark nightmare land of bare rock and flumes of

sparks and gouting flame, where things slithered and scrambled half-seen in the shadows. Mountains

clawed the ruby sky. The Land of Teeth, Azuth had once aptly called it, surveying the endless jagged

rocks. This was the Greeting Ground, the realm of horror that had claimed the lives of countless mortals.

He was whirling along above Avernus, uppermost of the Nine Hells.

"Mystra," the tumbling man groaned. He called to Me all the magics on his body, bringing them to

tingling readiness in his fingertips.

Whether the Lady of die Weave heard and assisted him or not, life ahead was not going to be

pleasant for Elminster Aumar. He was going to have to spend all of his magic healing this rift, for the love

of Toril that so seldom loved him, be burned and blasted in the doing, perhaps fail and be torn apart-and

if he succeeded, plunge at the last down into Avernus, bereft of spells and defenseless.

Yet his duty was clear.

Dark, bat-winged shapes were already soaring aloft, beating their menacing way toward him,

seeking to plunge through the rift or tear it open farther, ere he could close it. The rift could be closed

only from this side, not from the more pleasant skies of Toril - and if he were to do it at all, he would

spend his magic so swiftly that he could not help making himself a bright beacon to all infernal eyes.

Those eyes were watching.

Oh, yes.

Elminster saw something huge and dark and dragon-winged rise from a distant mountain, spreading

leathery wings and trailing a long, long scaly tail as it rose ponderously into the sky of blood. Rose, and

turned his way...

Nearer at hand, lightning cracked and stabbed out of the edges of the rift. Glistening black devils

struggled to pluck it farther open... struggling, no doubt, under orders from unseen devils below.

The hurtling wizard saw the blue sky of Toril one last time. A mighty crash of lightning thrust

blinding-bright talons through devils. Sleek obsidian and crimson bodies twisted in pain as they burned,

their blood blazing up in red flames even as their scorched ashes fell to the uncaring rocks below.

"To Hell with ye all," Elminster murmured sardonically. He closed his hands into fists and drew forth

the silver fire within him, as small and precise an unleashing of it as he could manage. When the rift

closed, he'd almost certainly lose touch with the Weave and Mystra and be unable to regain magical

power. Silver fire consumed the rings and bracers and even the vestments he wore.

Strange singings and snartings filled his ears as enchantments dissolved, flowing through him to spin

in glowing blue-white flames around his hands The racing fires of his magics hummed with comforting

power as they crackled, spat, and grew stronger. The Old Mage's clothes became tatters. Ancient metal

bands around his fingers fell away in dust and were gone. His hat burst into a blue flame that sank down

into his long tresses. He called in its power. A dagger in one boot crumbled, then the boot itself. He said

a fond mental farewell to his favorite pipe ere it fell into ash. In its last tumbling moments I’ll spent tiny

bates of his precious magic to guide his fell, turning in the air to swoop back to the rift.

The scar was growing, spitting vicious lightning in all directions across the dark sky of Avernus.

Bolts arced across the bloody vault like so many angry stars streaking to fading fells. Far below, many

red, glistening eyes looked upward at the deadly splendor.

Lightning clawed the air nearby, and the gaunt old wizard sent forth blue fire from his fingertips to

snare it, or some part of it, to turn that raging energy to his task.

The bolt plucked him from the sky like a gnat caught in a gale, whirling him away. His teeth

chattered, his hair quivered on end, and the hoarse beginnings of a scream froze in his throat. Caught in

its grip, Elminster of Shadowdale could not have moved even a finger. Fires charred him black. Surging,

searing force flung his arms and legs rigid into a scorched star, and then threw him across the sky.

When he could see again, tiny lightings streamed from his nose. The rift was a bright, distant fire in

the red sky. Its flames were suddenly blotted out by a black and grinning form, horn-headed and

bright-eyed, racing through the air with claws outstretched to rend stricken wizards.

"Tharguth," Elminster murmured, recalling an old grimoire's name for such devils-abishai, these were,

for he saw a second and third swooping along in the wake of the first.

Then there was no more time to think: the abishai rushed at him tike a striking hammer.

It tore at the air eagerly with its claws as it came, its poisonous tail curled up beneath it to stab if

need be. Elminster looked into the devil's exulting eyes. He felt a rash of warmth and the vinegarlike tang

of its hide as its jaws gaped wide. Its head turned on an angle to bite out his throat. He fed it fire, searing

claws and head alike to nothingness in an instant and letting it tumble away into the rocky darkness

below.

The second abishai was coming too fast to veer; El twisted away from one sky-raking claw and

sent a tiny blue-white bolt of his magic into the howling mouth of the third winged devil. Its head

exploded. Its racing body arched back and clawed the air in silent, spasmodic agony as it rushed past.

A flight spell was one of the few left to the Old Mage; fearful the magic roiling within him might twist

and shatter it. He cast it with infinite care. Another tiny tithe of power gave him greater speed than the

spell alone could furnish He needed to get back to the rift, swiftly.

He did not need to look back or hear the snarls of rage to know that the second abishai had turned

to come after him. The sky was full of tharguth now-black and green and even the larger, more cruel red

abishai. Their eyes blazed like pairs of ruby flames as they rase to hunt him. Their cries of rage and glee

rose into a roar that overtopped the thunder of the rent, it grew larger... and larger…

Elminster Aumar was not the least of Mystra's Chosen, but neither was he a great and vigorous

creature of battle. Like a tiny blue-white star, he raced across the sky of Avernus.

Dark red dragons glided now among the devils, biting and pouncing like great cats, preying hungrily

on this flock of flying food. Little spike-studded gargoyle-devils, spinagons, were in the sky, too, darting

and ducking aside from the tharguth. Looking back, El saw the abishai that pursued him gutted from belly

to throat by something winged and hungry. It flew away almost fester than he could turn his head.

His gaze fell for a moment to the land below and its twisting ribbon of red that could only be a river

of blood. His attention flicked up again to the swift beat of those elusive wings. The flying slayer was

slowing to a halt, standing on air to watch him. Their eyes met.

El found himself looking into the eyes of a lone devil beating feathered wings in the sky. She was

sleek and graceful and deadly, dusky-hued and more beautiful than any mortal woman; an erinyes,

doubtless a spy for a greater devil dwelling deeper in the Nine Hells.

My, but he was populate Avernus must furnish poor entertainment, for a lone human wizard to

attract such interest.

Weil, no. He set aside proud thoughts. It was undoubtedly the rift that was drawing the devils aloft.

El saw more bat wings tumbling helplessly across the sky, caught by more lightning bolts from the

torrents of force where world met world and clawed at each other

Another bolt rushed at him, and Elminster was ready. Spreading his hands, with magics crawling

between them in a blue-white chain, he plunged into its raging heart. With a wordless shout, he drank in

power until it rose hot and choking within him. He was forced to rear up out of its flow and into the ruby

sky again, gasping and trembling.

He'd been driven back only a little way this time, and his limbs were blazing bright with energies. In

the distance, winged devils tried to drink in the power of the bolt as he had done but plunged to their

dooms as the bolts consumed them in brief gouts of red flame.

A dragon saw him and wheeled from its sport of tearing apart tharguth and devouring them. It came

thundering down at him like a great wall of scaled flesh. It spat fire, the ravening flames that did so little to

devils but could cook and doom a mortal man.

Elminster swooped and drank in that dragon fire, setting his teeth and grimly riding out the fierce but

brief pain, quelling its heat with his own gathered magic.

Clasping, he prevailed. The Old Mage was full almost to bursting now. His body trembled with the

effort of holding such force. He was no longer its vessel but its heart, wrestling with its surges and flows

merely to move as he desired to and not be torn apart by its raging.

Or by draconic jaws. The great red dragon, thrice the size of any he'd seen on Toril-even old

Larauthtor, who'd filled the sky like a moving mountain-swooped, fangs gaping.

Elminster threw his hands behind him and let tiny jets of flame spurt from his fingers, hurling him up,

forward, and away-beyond the reach of even a frantically twisting wyrm.

It clawed wildly at die air in its haste to turn. Snapping its jaws vainly at him the dragon flapped its

great wings so hard that the air cracked like thunder. Caught in a trio of rift bolts, the wyrm stiffened,

scales melting into smoke. It was too racked with pain even to scream as it died. Its eyes burst into flame

and smoke that trailed from dark sockets and loosely flapping jaws. The wyrm fell away into the jagged

darkness below.

None of this was getting Elminster back to the task of healing the widening rift, looming like a

weeping eye in the sky of Avernus. Elminster called up a half-remembered snatch of a bawdy song as he

banked on wings of his own spell flames. He raced, singing merrily but badly, to meet his doom.

Bolts stabbed out to meet him. He spun chains of snarling magic around them and dragged them

around in roaring, sky-shaking arcs. They plunged back toward their source-a racing flood in which he

joined. Falling headlong into the blinding brightness, he thrust his hands out before him.

All sound died away in the echoing roar, Elminster became a racing dart among mighty flows of

force. They rolled ponderously past him, a great chaos of surges that battered and tore at him,

threatening to whirl him away into bone-shattered, bloody pulp.

When searing force burnt away his fingertips, he sent forth spellfire to cleave it and master it,

plunging on to the roiling edge where Toril began. He plucked and swooped and wove, surfing surging

torrents of force to knit the blue sky together again.

Devils screamed as they were torn apart or blasted to shreds somewhere behind him. Elminster

scarcely heard them. He gazed hungrily at the world he must wall himself away from to save. He looked

longingly down at Shadowdale, a little green gem far below, ere he flung himself across the sky, stitching

its ragged edge in his wake with teeth-jarring, surging force.

"The bards could never find words for this," he gasped. Red sky and blue slipped and slid and

battled for supremacy overhead. He raced along the raging line. Sickening force slammed through him

like the sword that had once plunged down his throat and out his backside in one icy moment…

Long ago, that had been, and with rather less hanging in the balance. A memory among few too

many, always beckoning him for a wander among their shadows. The offers were more enticing as

Elminster grew ever more tired- and weariness rode his shoulders like a heavy, clinging cloak these days-

Suddenly he was done. Energies veered away to complete what he'd begun, reshaping what had

been shattered and cloaking bright Toril from his view. The roar of the sky died, and he was felling, a

dwindling star, into the deep ruby gloom of Avernus.

He'd done it. Dazed and exhausted, he knew that much. Toril was saved and his own doom sealed,

"Have my thanks, Great Elminster," he told himself with dark humor, toasting himself with an

imaginary goblet as black fangs of rock rushed up to meet him. "Fair Faerun has seen thy greatest

victory-though none know it, or care. Welcome to the waiting dunghill."

With the last of his weary will, Elminster made himself into a lump of stone and hurled to one side,

so that his fall would become a plunge deep into what was probably the lake of Blood. Let its warm and

fetid waters take his fell. The rotting flesh that cloaked its bed would hide him. Perhaps he could lie

unnoticed there, until he had strength enough again to-

After such a fall, even a stone hits water as hard as a smith's hammer. His brutal shattering of the

surface would have made Elminster gasp-if he'd had anything to gasp with. Warmth bubbled past as he

sank, tumbling in the warm, wet depths, slowing now as...

Something dark and snakelike coiled out of the red depths and snatched him. The tentacle lashed

around him with the searing bite of a drover's whip… and then he was being dragged back up again.

Well, in the Hells it was hardly to be expected that there'd be any rest for the wicked. So-let the

torment begin. Mystra preserve and forfend. Please.

He was up out of the blood-water now, dripping. Unfamiliar magic raged around him, darting into

him in little numbing jabs. He was changing, forced under its goads, flowing and unfolding and

becoming... himself again, a human with arms and legs and-eyes.

Eyes that swam even as grunts and rending groans and a shrieking symphony of squeals told him he

was growing ears. Then all at once, the world spun and shook and came to a halt, amid shocking clarity.

Elminster was standing on warm, sharp rock, and his feet were bare. He had feet, and legs... and his

own old, gaunt body, even to the beard. He was standing in a little hollow in a great waste of rock, with

foul streams of gas curling around him, burning his legs as they sighed past. Atop the rocks, bare, thorny

branches of stunted trees stabbed like despairing fingers up into the blood-red sky. The ground trembled.

From somewhere near at hand a flame shot up, raged briefly amid scorched rocks, and fell away out of

sight again.

El became aware that something was standing in the deep shadow at the far end of the cleft. It

strode forward, stepping around many teeth of rock. Flame-yellow eyes met his with the force of a

striking serpent and held him in thrall as their owner advanced leisurely, giving Elminster a smile that was

a long way from pleasant-and at the same time promised many things.

An eyebrow lifted, mirroring curving horns above, and a softly hissing voice asked almost gently,

"Don't know me, little cringing wizard? I favor a more splendid shape, these days!"

Magic curled around Elminster's throat, choking any answer he might have wanted to make, and the

devil's smile widened, "like my gentle talons spell? Nothing to touch the great and mighty magics you're

wont to hurl, of course, but it serves me... aye, it serves."

The horn-headed devil turned its head and smiled, those flame-yellow eyes still transfixing Elminster

like the tines j of a gigantic fork. "Still know me not, Old Mage? You must be tired."

Elminster gazed at the burly devil, wondering just when he'd become, in this unholy creature's eyes

at least, any sort I of expert on the diabolical.

His captor was a naked humanoid whose skin was seal smooth and mottled gray, shot through with

hues of brown j and darker gray... very like the shadowed stones of Avernus that rose around them both.

A few scales glinted on the fiend's neck and ankles. Its humanlike head sported two curving horns.

What had ; seemed at first glance to be a cloak drawn around the devil could now be clearly seen as a

necklace of tentacles. One shot forth to curl around Elminster's bare shoulders, thrusting like a vengeful

eel through tatters of drifting vapor-a good thirty feet or more-as the eyes that held Elminster's became a

little redder.

"Know, then," the devil said with grotesque formality, sketching a little bow-and forcing, with his

tentacle, the dazed and exhausted Old Mage to match it-"that you are j the guest of Nergal, most mighty

of the outcast lords of Hell." His smile broadened, and his eyes were now as red as old coals. “You may

greet me."

El struggled to speak, finding his throat dry and stiff Nergal's smile became a smug, crooked thing.

"Body a mite rebellious, great wizard? How sad. You will already have noted that my poor and paltry

magics have served to return you to your true shape, and you've already felt my gentle talons. They

ensure that any magic you cast or unleash is drained to strengthen my bonds upon you-oh, you may see

them not, but bound you are, and shall be for as long as it's my pleasure to keep you so. You're wrapped

in spell bindings linked to ray mind; you'll never escape me unnoticed"

Nergal's lips curled in a sneer as he added, "None have broken my mind yet, Elminster, though

you're welcome to try. Attaining freedom is a laudable goal for any sentient being."

The ground trembled again, and a flame shot up over their heads, searing a squalling imp. Nergal's

smile broadened as he withdrew his tentacle-and the shuddering of the rocks beneath Elminster's baking

feet made him stagger and almost fall.

"Laudable," the devil added gloatingly, "but nigh impossible. You see, I’ve spent much time

observing your exploits, Old Weirdbeard-and I have uses for you. Oh, yes."

The archdevil’s tentacles were suddenly writhing above his shoulders, like the limbs of an excited

and gigantic spider.

"You will, of course, attempt to escape, perhaps even to harm me. Such failures will make little

difference to your torment-and they will be failures."

Tentacles stretched forth almost lazily, and a diabolical smile widened.

"You see: You're in my cozy little dale now, wizard."

And wearing that same welcoming smile, Nergal reached out with a tentacle and tore Elminster's

right arm off.

Chapter Two

A DEVIL'S WARM MERCY

Nothing is more important than pain. Nothing. It sears and gnaws life itself, commanding all

attention, thrusting even archmages into moaning despair.

This particular archmage was only dimly aware of anything more than his pain. Elminster knew he

was staggering, trying vainly to clutch at his torn and burning shoulder as tentacles slapped and spun him

with lazy glee. Gradually, he became aware of more. The tortured rocks of Avernus stood on all sides,

stabbing up into the blood-red sky like the black fingers of corpses. Someone nearby was screaming-a

raw, hoarse, and endless cry, a siren of agony amid Nergal's gusty laughter.

Sharp stones laid open El's feet. He barely felt that pain through the agony stabbing through him,

leaving him sick and weak. Slowly, he realized something more. The screaming was coining from him.

"Sanity," the archdevil remarked casually, "lasts longer when some vocalization is permitted. It may

be an overvalued condition in most expendable slaves, but I need yours to persist awhile longer. Sing,

then."

Tentacles wriggled and plowed under human skin, burrowing,.. -

El stiffened, trying somehow to scream even harder as talons of pain transfixed him. His cry died as

he choked and strangled on the blood that an outraged stomach spat forth.

"Not even a dagger drawn in defiance?" Nergal mocked. "Not one cantrip, cast to try to make me

belch? Such great magecraft!"

El sagged to his knees, only to find that the tentacles around his legs kept him half-upright, sprawled

limp and broken in midair well above the rocks. Tentacles tightened anew, and El's remaining arm

snapped in three places.

Jagged bones jutted forth as El's arm was twisted crazity-bones that came at the Old Mage's

swimming eyes like blood-drenched daggers as his captor forced El's limbs this way and that, playfully.

"Not even one feeble, flailing spell? Not a ring awakened against me?" The devil's taunt was

accompanied by more sickening pain as the rings on El's remaining hand were wrenched off-along with

the fingers that bore them." You disappoint me, famous wizard, I expected more. Much more."

Retching, El never saw the tentacle that smashed his nose Into bloody shards or the one that slid

across his chest, slicing open the skin like a razor. Suckers latched onto certain winking things of magic

that Mystra had left in his flesh, centuries ago, They flared blindingly and made the devil hiss in pain and

tear ere the tentacles hurled them away,

A blast shook the rocks under El's feet, and then another Nergal laughed with something that might

have been relief.

"Trinkets under your skin-my, what a valued slave you've been. I should be flattered, entertaining

such importance. Even if it is old and feeble, and knock-naked, scarcely worth the effort of tormenting.

Quivering like a lemure- and about as much sport."

Tentacles shook Elminster, and red eyes blazed. "Look at me, human-and heed!" Nergal bellowed.

"I'm your doom, and worse. You're going to be my claw to tear open Faerun, once I've prepared you

properly. There're Just a few more things to do first. I'll tear out all but a tuft of that beard, to leave me

something to haul you around by, and tear away that which makes you a man-"

El screamed higher and harder, helplessly.

“Nergal am I, old fool, and a rightful Prince of Hell. So heed my words. I've few enough visitors

who can appreciate proud speeches, so you're going to listen to my every word. My spells will keep you

aware, no matter how much pain besets you-and I've had enough of your keening, faster than I'd thought

I would. Wherefore, he still."

Elminster suddenly found himself silent, though his throat still rippled in midshrick and his body

trembled with its aching effort to spew forth blood.

Nergal gave him a merry smile. "That's better" the archdevil cooed, as if addressing a favorite child.

He drew himself up, tentacles rising above him in a soaring, peacock flourish, and spoke like a king

declaiming proudly from his throne;

"Outcast and exiled here, I am yet the mightiest of all-aye, overmatching even Tiamat the

Many-Mawed-who call Avernus home. Too proud and too accomplished to serve the Reigning Serpent,

but too mighty to be slain. Dispater is no greater than I, nor Baalzebul... and therefore I am useful. Some

day, Asmodeus might have need of me."

Tentacles caressingly lifted their broken burden. Human skin fell away in strips as Nergal drew what

was left of Elminster close, so their eyes stared into each other across a very small distance.

"And on that day," the gleeful outcast devil added in lower tones, "it will be my distinct pleasure to

defy the lord of Nessus in his hour of need. Defy him with power enough to shatter his throne, and over

his shrieking bones bring war to Hell. And you, little cringing human, shall be my way to some of the

weapons I'll need."

Tentacles tightened, and El spat blood involuntarily.

"I-ugh! Uh! Aagh!" was all he managed to say, struggling for breath through the blood choking him.

Then the moments allowed him were over. Silence settled icily over his throat again.

Tin glad you agree so eagerly," Nergal purred. "Hearken and learn, little tool. I'm but one of those,

both great and wretched, who lurk in the shadows of Avernus awaiting the day we all know will come.

Archdevils may be slain, but it's not easy to destroy us forever. The lord of Nessus must burn away some

of his power to bring about such a doom. He's done it, yes-but only in punishment for the most deadly

doing that could be launched against him; archdevil lying with archdevil to have offspring they hide from

Asmodeus, to bring to Hell an archdevil the Lord Below knew not,"

Tentacles thrust Elminster down firmly on a spine of rock. Unyielding sharpness jabbed into raw

flesh. Staring at the blood-drenched sky, El arched and writhed in silently screaming agony, A tentacle

thoughtfully lifted his head so that he could look along his body ,.. and sec the bloody spire of rock

standing amid a glistening welter of his organs, ' He stared at it, too racked with pain to cling to his frayed

memory of Mystra's face.

Nergal loomed over his captive and explained almost merrily, as if telling a fancy tale to a child

reluctant to drift off to sleep, "Lucifuge was but a puling thing when Asmodeus devoured him-literally,

growing his teeth into fangs to do it. I saw."

Slithering tentacles plucked the Old Mage from the rock-gods, the tearing pain!-and held him aloft

in front of Nergal's face once more. The archdevil's eyes were a bright blue-red now.

"He gave Lucifer and Batna the final doom for having that child." Nergal added excitedly, "executing

them as Baalzebul, fiercest of Lucifer's foes, watched, Baalzebul he plucked from his palace and

snatched across the Hells to hold in thrall-just to show us all that he could burn a prince and princess of

Hell to nothing whilst he racked another prince, despite their struggles, all three. He gave Malbolge to

Baalzebul purely to torment Lucifer in his last moments-and tore it away again later, to elevate another to

the greatness that should have been mine!"

Nergal's voice rose into a roar, and brutal tentacles shook Elminster like a rag doll. "That will be

mine, and only a small part of what's mine, in time to come," The archdevil's voice lost its rage as he

added, "Sooner, now, than before you fell into my hands."

A many-toothed smile broadened. "I should thank Mystra. Years she meddled with you, shaping

you into a meddler in turn... all to make you useful to me. You see, old Elminster, you're going to be

important after alt What do you say to that?"

Thickly, around the blood, El managed to shape the trembling words, "My usefulness lessens … the

more ye... ruin my body;"

Nergal threw back his head and guffawed, even as tentacles lengthened into deft darts of slimy flesh

and surged forward.

El clenched his teeth and shook his head in a vain effort to keep them at bay. The archdevil merely

thrust them in through El's nostrils instead, down and in. There was a clawing, a horrible wrenching-and

more blood. The arch-devil tossed aside the bloody gobbet that had been Elminster's tongue, dealt El a

slap that spun his head around, and stanched the welling, choking blood in his mouth at the same time.

"Ruin it? Why, what need have you for a tongue when we can converse in your mind? I can gouge

out your eyes and tear out your every organ-even dine on your liver, say, with sauce and salt-and then

restore you with my magic. You think small, man! This is Hell, and here archdevils can do anything!''

El struggled - successfully-to raise a disbelieving eyebrow.

The eyes looking into his blazed up in fury, and tentacles rose in a menacing array. Rose, surged

forward, and sank back again.

Nergal gave his captive a nod of rueful agreement and a wintry smite. "Well, then, let us say

'anything another archdevil does not manage to prevent, hmm?" The tentacles set Elminster down against

a rock as sharp as lagged glass. The Old Mage slid a little, wincing despite all his other raging pains, and

fetched up in a sitting position.

Nergal paced back and forth, something cat like and yet serpentine in his stalking. "There are a

dozen of us outcasts, eight among us with power enough to challenge, say, Mammon, if the battle were

between two, alone, without armies to call on. We are not friends, one with the other, and Asmodeus

sees that our regard for each other remains fierce. As rivals, we lurk in the caverns and mountain rifts of

Avernus, pursuing our individual plots against the ruling devils-and avoiding the patrols, for even stinging

insects have the power to weaken and annoy."

The tentacled archdevil came to a halt close by his stumped captive, looming up dark and tall. Barbs

and claws rose out of his flesh like the fins of cruising sharks and ran down his tentacles in a hungry cycle.

Teeth that seemed long enough, now, to be called fangs flashed In a less-than-pretty smile.

"Men and devils are not so different that you'll be unaware of what we outcasts hunger after: power.

We are always seeking it, armed with our magic. Devils with minds of their own can grasp and work

magic as readily as men breathe. We have one other weapon that the Lords of the Nine can never have:

time to spare. With my time and magic, I watch your magic-rich Toril"

Nergal crossed arms that swam with a glistening array of small, blinking, human-seeming eyeballs,

and bent their manifold gazes on Elminster.

"Beings of power interest me, from the puny masters of your thieving guilds to the dragons and lich

lords of Faerun who wield almost a tenth of the spell-might they think they do. "With a grin too wide for

human jaws, the archdevil began to pace again. "So I use my spells to spy on Faerunians of might who

may prove useful. I've been watching you for a long time, Elminster Aumar. You are the key, I've long

thought. Not because you're half so mighty as you think you are, or even a match for a spinagon in a fair

battle, but because you are my road to gaining Mystra's power over magecraft. She works through you

very strongly, and what she has, when suitably modified, could thunder just as strongly in Hell... giving me

control over all magic, and in some measure those who work it!"

Nergal laughed again. "This tumult over Shade captured my attention at just the right time and has

delivered you to me. Now all I need do, to gain the powers of the lady you serve, or at least the ways of

calling on and controlling it, is master your mind."

Tentacles plucked Elminster from the rocks again and held him with casual tenderness. Another

tentacle stabbed down, bursting the Old Mage's left eye tike a raw egg. After a momentary chaos of

swimming brightness, Elminster could sec once more-albeit dimly, through a blood-red haze.

"See? You can't even die on me," Nergal purred into Elminster's lace, as tenderly as a lover

"Understanding your wits will deliver to me control of the silver fire, all your other little powers and

favorite spells, and your storehouse of memories. That last alone is the key to ruling Toril with magic and

making it my own realm. A Hell away from Hell, as it were!"

Fingers as hot as fire irons took hold of Elminster's cheeks. The archdevil's forked tongue undulated

hungrily forth as he bent his head to kiss the helpless wizard, tentacles lightening suddenly into chains that

held Elminster immobile.

Nergal’s lips were like ice-a searing cold that raged through Elminster's ruined mouth and nose. He

tried to murmur, tried to pull away... but could do nothing until the archdevil released him with a gloating

smile.

"Taste my mindworm, mage. A magic of my own invention, devised to take your memories, to learn

how you call on and control Mystra's power and what you know of things and beings of power in Faerun

that I can snatch and use myself. Of course, each memory I gain will be lost to wise old Elminster. In the

end, there'll be naught left of you but a lurching, drooling half-wit, remembering only that you were once

Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Elminster 4 - Elminster In Hell

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