Lynn Abbey - Lost Empires 4 - The Nether Scroll

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The Nether Scroll
Book 4 of Lost Empires series
A Forgotten Realms novel
by Lynn Abbey
A Proofpack release
Proofed and formatted by BW-SciFi
Ebook version 1.0
Release Date: January, 11th, 2005
The victim broke free. About the size of a goat, it charged toward the doorway's freedom
and collided with Druhallen, who was blocking it. He looked down: a battered and bleeding
half-grown goblin clung to his leg.
"Kick it back over here," one of the batterers commanded.
An ugly, little face, made uglier by blood and bruises, peered up at him.
Point of fact: Druhallen didn't much like youngsters of any species.
THE NETHER SCROLL
Lost Empires
©2000 Wizards of the Coast, Inc.
All Rights Reserved.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental.
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without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast, Inc.
Distributed in the United States by St. Martin's Press. Distributed in Canada by Fenn Ltd.
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Distributed worldwide by Wizards of the Coast, Inc. and regional distributors.
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are trademarks owned by Wizards of the Coast, Inc.
All rights reserved. Made in the U.S.A.
Cover art by Alan Pollack
First Printing: September 2000
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 00-101632
987654321
ISBN: 0-7869-1566-8
620-T21566
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1
12 Flamerule, the Year of the Arch (1353 DR)
Along the Vilhon Reach
"Do you think she wants to marry him? I hear he's half snake ... the
wrong
half."
The question and comments rolled off the tongue of Galimer Longfingers, journeyman and
wizard, as he and Druhallen of Sunderath, also a journeyman and wizard, fidgeted in their
saddles while watching other men repair a broken cartwheel.
"Which half would be the right half?" Druhallen joked, then turned serious. "There's no
point to wishes. What's cut, stays cut. We've been hired to get her to Hlondeth. What
happens afterward is none of our concern."
Afoot, Druhallen was a handspan shorter than Galimer, though that wasn't obvious when
they were astride. Nothing about Druhallen was obvious. His hair was a drab shade of brown
that framed his squarish face with a ragged fringe. He had a larger-than-average mouth and
nose, and his otherwise attractive hazel eyes were shadowed by heavy brows that were
darker than his hair. Dressed in homespun and leather, Druhallen was often mistaken for his
friend's varlet.
Galimer Longfingers cut an impressive figure, even in the middle of nowhere or on an
empty road across the Vilhon Reach—which was almost the same thing. If the young woman
under discussion was looking for a handsome, all-human suitor, she'd certainly cast a measuring
glance in Galimer's direction. His wine-colored tunic and gray moleskin breeches had been tailored in
the best Scornubel establishments and were as sturdy as they were fashionably expensive. His idly
curling hair was the color of Aglarond cider, his eyes were gemstone blue, and his features were
delicate without being either elven or feminine. His fingers, sheathed in leather gloves dyed to match
his eyes, were elegant and long.
Wizard hands, Ansoain, his mother, labeled them—because long, slender fingers were
presumed to be an asset in a profession that relied on gesture and precision. She'd nicknamed him
Longfingers when he was a toddler, and fifteen years later Galimer still dreamed of taking his place
among the great wizards of Faerun.
A more sober and thoughtful youth, Druhallen never gainsaid his friend's dreams though
he—and Ansoain, too—were aware that wizardry required more than elegant hands. Wizardry
demanded a sharp mind, a special sort of curiosity, nerves of steel, and—above all else—gods-given
talent. Galimer's wits were sharp enough, but he fell short in all the other attributes.
Druhallen had it all, despite his workman's physique and a childhood spent learning
carpentry beside his older brothers in his father's shop. He'd captured Ansoain's attention a
decade ago when bad weather led her to commission a waterproof box for the rare spices
she was chaperoning along the roads to Elversult. When the carpenter's youngest son
blithely quieted a squealing hinge with a cantrip of his own devising, Ansoain offered to
apprentice the boy in exchange for twenty fresh-minted Cormyr falcons.
Without consulting his son, the old man bit each coin and, approving of their taste, gave
Druhallen a swat on the rump and a warning to obey his new master. Druhallen had sworn
he'd never bring shame to his father's name and left Sunderath that day with a pocketful of
nails. He'd kept his promise and the nails.
They both knew he could have found himself a wealthy patron by now, but he'd taken to
the road like an uncaged bird took to the sky. Still, Dru remembered what he'd learned from
his father and as far in time and place as he'd come from Sunderath, he could have re-
spoked that wheel in half the time it was taking the carters.
The carters would be at it a while longer. Long enough, Druhallen thought, for a nap. He
was eyeing an elm tree with moss-padded roots when Galimer interrupted him with another
bit of gossip.
"I've heard the bridegroom's forty-five, three times a widower, with neither hair nor heirs to
show for his efforts."
In Scornubel and the other towns where Ansoain plied the journey-trade with Druhallen
and her son, Galimer Longfingers was accounted a witty young man. His wordplay usually
left Druhallen chuckling, but not when the carters had just managed to break another spoke.
"And I've heard the bride is bugbear ugly," he grumbled.
In truth, Dru had heard no such thing. He'd been careful not to acquire neither expensive
habits nor an ear for gossip. Still, the simple fact was that they were ten days into what would
be at least a twenty-day journey and the bride-to-be had yet to emerge from that cart with the
jinxed wheels. Speculation ran rampant, and not only between bored wizards who hadn't yet
seen the sun rise on their twentieth birthdays.
In addition to Ansoain and her apprentices, there were twelve men-at-arms attached to the
dower caravan: the muscle complement to Ansoain's magic. A man would have to have been
stone deaf not to hear what the muscle thought of the situation.
A few days back, Dru had lent a hand to one of the handmaids as she'd struggled with a
too-full water jug and gotten an insider's version of the sad tale. The bride's family had a
lustrous title, generations of honor, a drafty castle, and debts galore. The bridegroom was a
dyer and tanner of fine leathers, no better born than Druhallen himself, but blessed with a
self-made fortune. He was said to be a human man, but who knew with the Hlondethem?
Their queen was a yuan-ti half-breed with iridescent scales on her cheeks and a serpent's tail
she kept hidden, except from her lovers . . . according to the maid.
The match had been based on mutual need: The groom's for a title to match his wealth
and sons to inherit it. The bride's to save her father from the ignominy of debtors' court. She
stayed in the cart whether it rolled on four wheels or three because nightmares and tears had
ruined her complexion ... according to the maid.
"I'd like to see what we're guarding just once before we deliver it," Galimer continued his
complaints. "The way those three dower carts are wrapped up, you'd think we were escorting
the lost treasure of Oebelar."
Druhallen didn't know about Oebelar's legendary wealth, but he knew that three of the five
wagons in their caravan were filled with brick and stone in a pathetic effort to maintain
appearances for the already mortified bride. Her dowry, other than the name she'd been born
with and the pedigreed blood in her veins, fit in a single chest she kept constantly at her feet.
"Leave it be," Dru advised for the third time. "We've escorted stranger consignments and
been paid less for our troubles, right?"
Notwithstanding his expensive tastes Galimer was the money-man for the trio. He might
bungle his reagent proportions or forget his spells in a crisis, but Galimer knew the exchange
rates in every city and who was buying what—or so it seemed to Druhallen, who understood hard
work but had no notion of profit.
Ansoain appreciated profit, but couldn't calculate risk for love nor money. She'd willingly
turned their business affairs over to her son when his true calling manifested itself some five
years ago. Their fortunes had improved steadily ever since.
Galimer had signed them up for this jaunt along the Vilhon Reach precisely because the
leather-dyeing suitor had been willing to pay double the going rate to hire the same muscle-
and-magic escort that had shepherded a bit of glittery tribute from Hlondeth's queen to her
counterpart in Cormyr last autumn. The prospect of such good money had inspired them all,
muscle and magic alike, to overlook some obvious questions when the contracts were sealed
before a priest of trade in a Waukeenar temple.
"It just seems odd," Galimer persisted. "Virgins don't melt in sunlight and if there were
anything half-so-valuable in those carts as all that warding suggests, then there aren't
enough of us to keep it away from anyone who truly wanted it."
"No argument," Dru said mildly and ignored Galimer's sour scowl.
He'd voiced the same objections himself when they'd arrived in Elversult to collect the
bride and her dowry. Galimer had dismissed Dru's worries out of hand.
The young men were friends, though, the best of friends and brothers combined—however
unlikely that had seemed when a rough-mannered carpenter's son had mastered spells as fast as he
learned to read them, faster by far than Galimer at his best. Staying on Longfingers's good side had
come naturally to a boy with five older brothers, and Galimer had yearned for a friend. A childhood
tagging along after Ansoain, who couldn't sleep three nights in the same bed, had left Galimer with a
better grasp of geography than friendship.
They might not exchange another word this afternoon, but they'd be talking again after
supper.
The carters wrestled the last of the spokes into place and retrieved the hobbled horses
from the grass where they'd grazed. When the horses were ready, the magic-and-muscle
escort assumed its customary positions and the caravan was on its way toward Hlondeth.
Dru and Galimer's customary positions were a short distance behind the bridal wagon.
Ansoain, who'd spent most of their unscheduled rest with the captain of the men-at-arms,
joined them there. By the brightness of her eyes, Dru suspected that she and the captain had
shared more than a discussion about the weather. He disapproved, as only a young man
could disapprove, of his foster mother's behavior, but both he and Galimer were years
beyond embarrassment and however predatory her habits, Ansoain never let them interfere
with work.
"Tree branch," she said as soon as her horse had settled in between his and Galimer's.
"Scry for diseases," Galimer answered quickly.
"What kind of tree?" Dru asked at the same time.
It was Ansoain's custom to quiz her apprentices whenever the spirit moved her. Galimer
always strove to be first with an answer while Dru usually wanted more information before
he'd commit himself.
"A fruit tree, in flower."
Dru nodded. "Stripped of the flowers and leaves, the branch could become a divining rod.
And the flowers could be put to use in the dryad variation for making pure water."
"Not fair!" Galimer complained. "If there were a real stick, I'd see that it was in flower. You
said stick, so that's all I imagined!"
"I said 'branch,' but you're right, Longfingers, you would have seen the flowers. You're both
right." Ansoain tried to be fair; it wasn't easy. "Dragonfly's wing," she challenged, inspired, no
doubt, by the insect flying between them and the cart.
"What
kind
of dragonfly?" Galimer demanded.
"Blue-green." The now-disappeared insect had been blue-green.
Dru didn't know any spells that required the wing of a blue-green dragonfly. He didn't know
any that called for any specific part of any color dragonfly. He knew of a few spells that
required the jewel-like carapaces of rare jungle beetles and another that needed scales from
a true dragon's wing. None of those were in his head nor etched into the wood of the
magically folded box hanging from his belt. An apprentice with access to his master's library
usually knew more spells than he could actually cast.
Even Galimer knew more spells than he could cast, and frequently got them confused. Dru
looked beyond Ansoain. Years of observation had taught him to anticipate Galimer's answer
from the shape of his lips. If Gal's answer looked to be correct, then Druhallen would hold his
own tongue, but if, as so often happened, it looked like Galimer was about to make himself
appear foolish, Dru would speak up quickly and loudly—
"A blue-green wing would satisfy a spell that required only an insect's wing and, maybe, an
affinity could be drawn to spells requiring feathers—function, form and color would give a
threefold congruence—but it would be a far stretch to make a dragonfly's wing stand for any part of a
true dragon."
Galimer's face showed indignation, then relief. Ansoain never let on that she suspected
her foster's game—though she was usually careful to position herself so that Dru could see
Galimer's face when she quizzed them.
"Good enough. Now, what is the writ for a dust shield?"
"Dust. What else?"
Sometimes Galimer spoke too quickly for Dru to save him.
"The writ!" Ansoain snapped, "not the reagents. How much dust, and how do you seal the
spell in your mind? What trigger will call it out when you need to cast it?"
A dust shield was one of Galimer's more reliable spells. He rattled off the answers
correctly and without hesitation.
Ansoain peppered them with other reagents and writs as the afternoon sun grew warm on
their backs. When their stomachs began to churn in anticipation of supper, she lectured them
on tactical shortcomings of the adversaries that journeying mages might encounter in
Faerun's Heartlands.
"Fumarandi are drakes. Their weapon is charcoal smoke, and they make their homes
above the trees in mountain forests. They can be claimed as companions ..."
Ansoain claimed that she never forgot a lesson or a nightmare. It was the latter that kept
her on the road. As long as she was moving, the worst of her dreams couldn't find her. In
winter, when they went to ground in Scornubel, Ansoain rented rooms by the night and fought
her nightmares by the keg. Winters had been hard for Dru and Galimer until they were old
enough to rent rooms for themselves and worse, in a way, since Galimer had taken over their
finances. Every publican in Scornubel knew Galimer would cover his mother's debts.
But when they were on the road and spending their nights beneath different trees, no one
had a clearer mind than Ansoain. She shared her knowledge of the world and magic with her
sons.
"Wyvern gall," she called out after she'd told them everything there was to know about the
fumarandi.
Galimer's lips didn't twitch; he hadn't a clue. Druhallen inquired: "Fresh, powdered, or
ossified?"
"Ossi—"
She didn't finish the answer. Her gray eyes scanned the forward horizon, then closed
while she sought the wisdom of her mind's eye. Dru felt the disruption also: a slight, yet
profoundly ominous change in the ether, that strange, intangible stuff where magic held sway.
"What the—?" Galimer demanded.
Ansoain commanded silence with a snarl, the raised her hand in a curious gesture. Bits of
ash—spent reagents—blew away from her palm. The spell carried her words directly to the ears of the
captain and his men. Druhallen and Galimer didn't hear a sound.
The captain had a similar ability to communicate with his men, equally magical, but
derived from the matched rings he and the men wore. The caravan came to a halt. Its
muscle-and-magic escort pulled in tight around it. The muscle fastened their chain mail coifs
over their faces and tested their swords without drawing them. The magic considered their
spells.
"Fire?" Dru suggested softly.
Ansoain shrugged. "It's got no shape or signature. It could be anything, or nothing. Fire
needs something to burn."
Galimer opened a foot-long war-fan from distant Kozakura. There, it had been a weapon.
Here, it was a spellbook with writs etched in silver along the vanes.
"No time for that, son," Ansoain said grimly. "If your nerves are chancy, hide in the wagon."
"I'm sure of some fire," Longfingers protested, "and a shrieking arrow."
"And you?" she asked Druhallen.
"The usual. I can blur us a little now, if you think that would help."
"No, whatever's out there, it's already taken our measure. Probably slavers. Save your
blurring for later. Your gloom, too. The girl's got to be what they're after. The girl and her
dowry. Get her out, if push comes to shove. Make a pall of misery and get out beneath it."
Druhallen bit his tongue. They'd tangled with slavers before—a base and brutal lot, and not
above using the nastier sorts of spellcraft to protect, or acquire, their merchandise. But slavers were
rarely subtle and the disturbance Dru tasted with his inner senses was as subtle as it was potent.
He patted his left sleeve, assuring himself that the wax-sealed embers he used to trigger his
fire spells were in their proper places. He checked his belt, too—not for the folded box; as
Ansoain had told Galimer, it was too late for rehashing spells—but for his dagger. The single-edge
knife was mostly a tool for cutting meat and gathering herbs, but he'd made sure it was long enough to
pierce a man's heart through his ribs.
The ethereal disruption materialized. Galimer spotted it first.
"Over there," he whispered and cocked a finger at a hilltop north-by-northeast of the
caravan.
The hilltop air shimmered with a untimely sunset glow. A moment later at least a dozen
figures, each wearing a long, red cloak, circled in the grass. A moment after that there was
fire in the sky and a thick, black fog rolling toward the wagons. It could have been worse.
They could have stopped at the base of the hill, but they were still in trouble.
Druhallen didn't need to know the name of the spell that wrought the fog to know it was
nothing he wanted to breathe. For that matter, he didn't want to be astride when the miasma
hit. He leapt to the ground and cast an air-clearing spell just in time to keep his head clear.
Dru could have extended the spell to protect his entire body—but it would have faded more
quickly and he wouldn't have been able to hurl a fireball at the hilltop.
The spell affected Druhallen's hearing. Sound was fainter than it should have been, and
distorted, as if he'd gone diving and surfaced with water in his ears. He heard enough steel
and deep-pitched screaming to know that the men-at-arms were fighting for their lives. On
hands and knees, Druhallen crept through the fog, away from his mentor—not from cowardice,
but to widen the angle of their attack and defense. Never let an enemy kill twice with the same stroke,
that was Ansoain's motto.
The red-cloaked wizards abandoned subtlety. A head-blind child could have placed them
in the fog—and Dru's fireballs were about as effective as a head-blind child's wish when it came to
piercing their defenses. He felt his final spell rebound harmlessly. Some months short of his twentieth
birthday, Druhallen of Sunderath confronted the end of a life he'd hoped would be much longer.
Drawing his knife, Dru waded through the black fog to join what was left of the muscle near the
wagons.
He hadn't taken ten strides when a faintly luminous, undead skirmisher lunged at him. The
zombie's face was fully skeletal, and flesh hung in tatters from its long bones. Beyond fear
and pain, it fought clumsily with a stone-headed mace until Dru knocked it off its legs. Taking
no chances, he kicked its skull aside and stomped its brittle ribs.
Knowing there were undead in the fog, he changed course and headed for the hilltop. If
the red-cloaked wizards were so confident of their strength that they relied on zombies for
physical protection, then there was a chance—a slim but real chance—that he could stab one or
two of them before he died.
But the red-cloaked wizards weren't as reckless as he'd hoped. Halfway up the hill, Dru
met another luminous creature. As dead, or undead, as the zombie, its eyes shone with
sentience. It knew what to do with the steel halberd it carried.
Druhallen dodged the undead warrior's first thrust and successfully beat the second aside
without losing his right arm, but his knife was woefully inadequate against the halberd.
Guessing that he was stronger than the creature, he slammed the blade into its sheath and
clamped his hands on the halberd's shaft. The undead warrior howled. Spider-silk strands of
red magic spun out of the wood. They numbed Dru's nerves and paralyzed his muscles. He
couldn't release the shaft.
Dru was screaming when the undead jerked the halberd and flung him through the inky
fog like a stone from a sling. He never felt the landing.
* * * * *
The world was dark when Druhallen next opened his eyes—new-moon dark with a thousand
stars overhead. With his first waking breath, he was grateful to be alive. With his second, he recalled
what had happened and what he had lost. A part of him would have preferred never to have awakened,
but that was the lesser part of his spirit.
He had to move, had to stand, had to find his way back to Elversult, but first he had to
conquer his pain. The stranded magic of the undead's halberd had left him aching from the
roots of his toenails to the root of each hair on his head. The cumulative ache was such that
Dru didn't realize he had a more serious injury until he tried propping himself up on his left
arm.
His left wrist was broken and his efforts dislodged the bones, grinding the shards against
one another. Dru cursed the world and returned to oblivion.
Amber-rose glowed on the eastern horizon when Dru regained consciousness. Dawn
wasn't more than an hour away. The all-body aches had subsided, and though his wrist had
swollen to a ridiculous size, he managed to stand.
The battleground was quiet, except for the crackle of fire in the wagons. The flames were
starving. Whatever their purpose, the red-cloaked enemy had abandoned this place hours
ago.
There were no obvious survivors. None of the dark mounds strewn near the wagons
moved or groaned. Druhallen realized he owed his life to the undead who'd hurled him off the
battlefield. It was not a comforting thought. He began to search for Ansoain and Galimer, the
tragic bride and her maids, the captain and his men.
Druhallen's mind relived the ambush: A dozen magicians, each wearing a red cloak, had
stood in a circle. His mind wandered far to the south and east, to the land called Thay. He'd
never met a Red Wizard, at least not one who admitted his affiliation, but Ansoain had
lectured him about their habits. More important, the Zhentarim had heard of them and
regarded them as rivals.
Ansoain had been adamant that she'd never worked
for
the Black Network of the
Zhentarim, but she had contacts inside their organization. A few of those contacts might be
termed "friends," and one or two of those might choose to avenge her.
Dru's vision blurred. He raised his good arm and wiped away tears had hadn't known he
was shedding. He looked down at another body. It had been the captain, and it had been
savaged. A pack of wolves could not have done more damage. Even his mail had been
shredded.
The world began to spin. Druhallen dropped to his knees before they buckled. He retched
violently. His tears were as hot as the acid churning in his gut and for several moments Dru
was helpless in his grief. Then sanity returned. He stood and called the names he knew best.
"Ansoain! Galimer! I live. Druhallen lives for you! Can you hear me?"
In the lengthening silence, he seized a piece of smoking wood and hurled it at the empty
hilltop.
"Galimer. Galimer Longfingers!"
Dru heard a sound, spun around, and laid his good hand on the hilt of his knife.
Nothing. Not another peep or a twitch. Dru sighed. The east was brighter now. Soon, the
ruins would stand revealed in all their horror and there'd be no need to bend low over each
corpse with a mixture of hope and dread.
Though not a religious youth, and utterly unaware of the affiliations of the men and women
whose lives he'd briefly shared, Druhallen paused beside each body. He recited, as best he
could remember them, the prayers of peace and safe-passage his grandmother had taught
him. He was chanting safe-passage for one of the carters when he heard a second sound.
This time, as he spun around, Dru glimpsed movement near a smoldering wagon.
Leaving his prayer unfinished, he ran to the spot.
"Dru—? Druhallen, is that you?"
The voice, though weak, was unmistakable. Galimer Longfingers had survived!
Stretched face down in the dirt, Galimer's legs were pinned beneath charred planks from
one of the stone-filled wagons. Fearing the worst, Dru put his shoulder against the wreckage
and bulled it aside. Galimer's fine clothes were ruined, but—miraculously—he appeared
unbloodied, unburnt. Dru cautiously rolled him onto his back.
"Tell me where it hurts, Gal—"
"All over. I tried—My mind went blank of everything except dust," he said sobbing, "and I
couldn't get it cast. I panicked. I hid, Dru. I hid. When they lifted their fog and called off their minions,
I just stayed here where I'd hidden myself. Even when they ransacked the wagons and set them ablaze,
I couldn't make myself move. I should have died."
Druhallen closed his good hand over Galimer's. "It didn't matter. They had us beat from
the first scent. At least you know what they did and said. I tangled with something undead
and wound up out cold, two hundred paces away from everyone."
"At least you
fought!
You cast what you could and then you fought." Galimer pulled his
hand away from Dru and covered his face. "I should have died."
"What's cut, stays cut," the carpenter's son advised. "If you hadn't hidden, you might well
have died, and I'd be facing the road to Elversult with only a broken wrist for company."
Galimer expressed concern for his friend's injury, but Druhallen wasn't interested in
sympathy.
"Can you stand? Walk? We need to find your mother. You said you saw them—"
"Heard them," Galimer corrected as he grabbed Dru's shoulder and sat himself up. "I didn't
see
anything."
"Kept your eyes closed, eh?" Dru laughed and stood.
"I got hit by something bright when it all started. Everything's been blurred since." He
flailed for Dru's arm with an awkwardness that lent credence to his claim. "I heard them, and
that's about it. I didn't recognize their language. They came a damn long way to steal that girl
and her dowry."
Druhallen pitied the misbegotten girl, but cut was cut and his pity was worthless. He hoped
she was dead. The dead didn't remember ... usually.
Leaning on each other, the friends surveyed the killing ground. It was just as well that
Galimer's eyes weren't working too well. He was spared what Dru saw all too clearly once the
sun was up. Whatever had killed Ansoain had torn her apart like so much stale bread. He
recognized her by pieces: bits of cloth and scalp, a bloody chunk of her hand with fingers and
rings still attached.
Fighting nausea, Druhallen retrieved her rings. They were magically potent, not to mention
intrinsically valuable. It was difficult, for many reasons, to understand why they'd been left
behind.
"She'd want you to have them," he told Galimer as he pressed the metal bits into his
friend's hand. "Now, let's get out of here. I can see a few of the horses. You be the hands, I'll
be the eyes ..."
Galimer balked. "Guide me to the hilltop. Maybe those bastards left something traceable
behind."
"Cut is cut," Druhallen muttered, but he led Galimer through the grass.
The scents of spellcraft and malice lingered on the hilltop, and something else: a palm-
sized glass disk. The disk was dark, but neither black nor completely opaque. So smooth and
slick that it slipped through Druhallen's fingers when he tried to retrieve it. The disk was
colder than the claw of winter when he finally had it in his grasp.
Ignoring numbed fingers, Dru held it up to the risen sun. Gold flecks sparkled within the icy
glass.
"There's something written on the edge," Galimer interrupted.
"I thought your eyes were bad."
"My body's eyes. My mind's eye sees clearly enough. That thing reeks of sorcery and
there's writing on the edge."
Dru rearranged his fingers and saw the truth of Galimer's statement. "I don't recognize the
script."
"Doesn't it tell you something through your fingertips?" Galimer asked.
"Only that it's colder than winter."
Dru balanced the lens in his left hand. It was an agonizing error. He gasped and the disk
thumped
to the grass. While Druhallen swore at himself and his pain, Galimer swept the
grass with his hands.
"Sweet Mystra!" the gold-haired mage swore as he clutched, then dropped, the glass.
"Cold's not the half of it!"
"Aye, but what
is
that other half?"
Galimer pinched his fingertips to the scripted edge and lifted the disk carefully. "How about
a way to control their undead minions?"
Dru considered the possibility. "Did you see the robes they were wearing when they first
appeared?"
"That was the last thing I did see. Their robes were red."
"Red robes. Red-robed wizards. The Red Wizards of Thay. They pool their magic and one
wizard casts the spells for all of them. Nobody—nobody—knows how they do it. Until now."
Druhallen fumbled with his folded magic box. It would have been easier to manipulate with
both hands, but he'd designed it for single-handed work. As the hidden locks opened, the box
unfolded, increasing in size and complexity. Reagents filled the revealed compartments.
Dru's traveling spells were etched into the compartment dividers. With the third unfolding, he
found an empty compartment large enough to hold the disk.
Galimer squirted the disk into the empty compartment. "Being cold and dark, it's more
likely a device for controlling the undead."
"It's the circles." Dru clung to his opinion as if it were one he'd held for a lifetime though,
before today, he hadn't given more than ten thoughts to Thay in the last year. "Anyone can
control the undead. You or I could, if we chose to learn the art. But only the Red Wizards rely
on the undead, because their circles make it feasible to control whole bone-yards. The
arrogance! They descend from nowhere, take what they want, leave everyone for dead, and
don't even bother to collect their trash."
"Is it trash? How can you be sure? It didn't feel spent to me."
"It's cold and dark," he snapped. "If it's not spent, it's useless."
"Not useless," Galimer countered thoughtfully. "We can use it to prove that we were
ambushed by the Red Wizards. That ought to put the wind in the Zhentarim."
摘要：

TheNetherScrollBook4ofLostEmpiresseriesAForgottenRealmsnovelbyLynnAbbeyAProofpackreleaseProofedandformattedbyBW-SciFiEbookversion1.0ReleaseDate:January,11th,2005Thevictimbrokefree.Aboutthesizeofagoat,itchargedtowardthedoorway'sfreedomandcollidedwithDruhallen,whowasblockingit.Helookeddown:abatteredan...

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