It was longer still before he felt whole enough again to roll cautiously over and try to get up. As far as his knees, at least, to stare around at a passage that seemed strangely unmarked for all the raging magic that had so recently been hurled around in it. It was deserted. Dark and empty, with no elves racing to see what had made all the tumult.

And there, mockingly close to him, stood the doors of the crypt of House Nathalanorn that the baelnorn had guarded for centuries before his birth, and had fallen defending against him. Just as-if things went much better than this first bumbling assault-many other baelnorn would fall.

Wincing, for although the pain had fled to no more than a dull ache of reminder, his restored shoulder was stiff, Helgore got to his feet. His shoulder felt ... odd. As if it wasn't truly part of him. It didn't seem to fit, somehow.

He shook his arm and flexed the fingers, numbness racing along them and then fading, as he studied the Nathalanorn House symbol. That entwined salamander and fish, amid a sinuous and clinging forest of ivy. At least, that's what it looked like, and he supposed there was no one left in the world to correct him about that now.

He had won.

Helgore permitted himself a smile, then walked a few cautious steps back and forth in the passage to make sure his body was his own once more. It was high time to, as the arcanists who'd first tutored him had been fond of saying, "Get on with it."

He hadn't much magic left, but this should suffice, right now ...

He worked a swift magic, remembering to step aside as he finished, and had the satisfaction of watching the crypt door shatter.

The pieces, however, hung in place, hovering in midair, the broken edges glowing and pulsing with the angry blue racing glows of disturbed magic. So his way was still barred. Of course.

Helgore snorted. Misbegotten elves!

He spent the slightest of spells to sweep the shattered pieces of door aside, to crash down on the passage floor. Several of them slumped straight into dust.

Leaving him facing another set of doors. An inner pair that were closed and intact and seemingly not locked. These would, of course, bear an enchantment that would slay any non-elf-or any elf not bearing the right token-touching them, to prevent tomb looting.

So it would take another spell to ... wait.

Helgore looked back down the passage the way he'd come, and there it was: the skin of the elf he'd slain. Rippling and lifting a little as he gazed at it, like a cat or quiet dog craving attention.

He gave the skin a wry little smile, worked a very small and simple magic-of the sort wizards these days called cantrips-and bent his will on it.

Obediently, it slithered forward, flowing to the doors and climbing them like some sort of animated, rearing leaf. At his direction, it wrapped itself around the pull ring of the inner doors, turned it, and pulled.

The doors opened in eerie silence, revealing the faint blue glow of a ward. By its light, he could see into the circular, dome-shaped crypt of the Nathalanorns.

He could see dozens of effigies on the floor. Or, no, they were the crumbling, ancient skeletons of elves, cloaked in magic that almost hid them from swift and distant scrutiny-magic that shaped the likeness of the dead as if they were alive but lying on their backs, asleep. Intangible effigies of magic, rather than the sculpted stone that adorned the tombs of some dwarves and humans. And-ahh-what he'd come for and had begun to hope hard for, in addition to the crypt ward itself, was there as well-small areas where the blue ward glow was more intense, unmoving spots centered on swords, hunting horns, harps, gauntlets, bracers, and breastplates interred with or upon the dead. Magic items.

Helgore looked up and down the passage again to make sure no one was approaching. Finding it as deserted and silent as before, he drew in a deep breath, settled himself into a comfortable stance, legs balanced well apart, and worked one of the longest and most intricate magics he'd ever been taught.

He was shaking with weariness when he was done, but if this worked, that would shortly cease to be a problem.

And so would whatever spells any baelnorn hurled his way.

Helgore smiled and held out both hands to what he could see of the crypt, as if it was a young child he was beckoning to run into his arms.

What stole out of the crypt was utterly silent, and slower than a child. It was more like a scent wafting through the air, inexorably drifting toward him, and up his arms-his fingers tingled as if struck by sparks, then went numb-into him.

Yes! His weariness melted away, his hair slowly straightened to stand quivering on end, his scalp lifted and prickled, his teeth started to itch ... power was sliding into him, the force captured and stored by all those enchantments now becoming his, building in him, building ...

Helgore stood silently, watching swords and harps and armor slumping to dust in the crypt as the magic left them and flowed into him, more and more of it.

The effigies faded, the bones slumped to dust, and the walls of the tomb cracked, long jagged lines moving across the hitherto-smooth dome, as the blue light grew fainter and fainter ...

Until all of the power of House Nathalanorn was a visible blue-white line in the air, flowing into his embrace. And he was filling up, feeling the first rising discomfort as he swelled, on his way to bursting with energy-a discomfort that swiftly became pain, and that pain grew and grew ...

He was quivering, a quivering that became trembling, that fell swiftly into uncontrollable shuddering. All of his wounds were gone, healed by the blue-white fire still sliding inexorably into him, but the boon was now agony, his skin starting to glow blue-white, his eyes turning to blue-white flames.

Blue-white fire spilled from his lips as he groaned, a long moan escaping from blue-white lips, a moan that started deep but rose slowly in pitch and urgency- And then it was done.

The crypt of House Nathalanorn stood dark and empty, and Helgore Ulitlarathulm swayed and shuddered in the passageway, swollen with blue-white light that boiled and leaked out of him as he turned, lurching like a drunken man whose knees were too stiff to bend, and stalked like a zombie down the passage.

Drunk on power, swollen to gasping pain from all the energies surging through him. Heading for the next crypt.

It was surprisingly close to the one he'd just ravaged. This one had a device he recognized on its doors, an emblem that had been in the records that had been gathered to prepare him for his task. It was not something easily described-privately, he thought of it as the tangled collision of three harps-but Helgore knew it at first glance. It marked the crypt behind it as that of House Erembelore.

He lurched up to the doors, but no baelnorn appeared. So he fought the pain down to a few moments of precise control-and blasted the doors to nothingness, aiming sideways so if anything more shattered, it would be the stone of the doorframe, and nothing in the crypt beyond.

That brought out the Erembelore baelnorn, in a cold rage that Helgore was still in too much pain to indulge with high words.

He merely sent enough energy to make himself feel far more comfortable right through the undead guardian, a roaring that consumed it before it could utter a sound.

Helgore took five unsteady steps forward, right through the sighing, eddying, glowing dust that a moment ago had been an elf who'd spent centuries guarding his dead kin. He paused just long enough to make sure it was indeed gone, and not lurking as some sort of malicious remnant, and-fell headlong into the dim blue radiance of the last resting place of the Erembelores.

That hadn't been so hard, he thought dully, trying to collect his thoughts. The pain was almost all gone, and the dazedness that had almost overwhelmed him had been dashed out of him by his sudden meeting with the cold and unyielding floor.

He rolled over, almost absently spending a little more of his seized energies to banish the bruises of his fall, and settled himself on his back, listening hard.

There were no sounds in the passage outside, no sign that anyone had heard. All that was audible was his own breathing. Around him, the crypt was still and silent, the Erembelores sleeping the slumber from which no one awakens.

Good.

Now for the spell the Most High had devised just for him. Now that at last he had gained excess energy enough to fuel it, and didn't have the more pressing need to heal himself.

Lying on the floor, Helgore cast that magic with slow and exacting care ... and just as slowly, something dark and edged in purple formed in the air above him, half seen and menacing.

The dark outline of a sword, floating horizontally. A sword large enough for a smallish giant, nine feet long and utterly dark, with no hint of light reflected back off metal-or of metal at all.

A Shadow Sword. Just as Telamont had crafted, and just as had formed when he'd first practiced the spell. Helgore released the stolen energy roiling in his body into it. Blue-white fire silently streamed out of him, flaring into brief tongues of flame, ere it vanished into the blade's all-devouring darkness.

Every moment brought relief, less pain, and the opportunity to relax. So relax he did, at last, indulging himself in a long moan of bliss.

Then Helgore rolled over and up to his feet, feeling marvelous. He chuckled and pointed the sword-and stood watching as it drained the wards and magics of this second crypt, family treasures sighing into little heaps of ash and dust as the Shadow Sword drank all their magic, effigies fading and the bones beneath them sighing into eddying dust.

This time, the darkness flared momentarily blue-white around its edges, seeming more solid and a trifle larger.

Then it subsided into darkness that verged on invisibility again.

Soon would come the time to slice at the mighty mythal above and around him with it, to sever it from most of its anchors so its energies could be drained quickly. Soon.

But not yet. To do so now would be to alert every elf of Myth Drannor to the doom yawning before them.

For now, the Shadow Sword would slay baelnorn and drink in more elven magic.

Helgore went hunting more prey. Haughty elves who'd lurked down here for centuries, serenely confident in their hollow achievements and service. The world was better off without them. Was better off without any toothless posers, least of all those who lorded it over humans as inferior barbarians, uncouth and dim-witted and ...

Lip curling, Helgore stalked on. Following the passage around several scalloped curves, as the ancient way snaked around the mighty roots of age-old forest giants, to yet another double door carved with the device of an elf House. Its baelnorn faded through the closed doors to confront him.

Smilingly, he sketched a mocking bow.

"Who are you?" the undead guardian asked sternly. "You are no elf, and I fear you intrude here for no good or honorable reason. What is your purpose, smirking human?"

Helgore made no reply to this tiresome challenge, but merely willed the Shadow Sword forward. It glided down to transfix and drain the baelnorn in midspeech, destroying it before he had to lift a finger.

Helgore didn't bother to even look at the House carving this time. After all, what did it really matter?

Just another tomb full of dead elves, already forgotten. The sword drank them, and Helgore smiled and headed for the next crypt, his great weapon a silent silver line rippling with shadow in his wake.

Only to find his way barred, this time, by elves in armor. Faces furious, and hastening to form a line, swords out.

"Foul despoiler, your life is forfeit. Go greet the gods!" one of them cried.

"After you, elf." Helgore sneered, dropping to one knee and letting the Shadow Sword pass over him.

Sped by his will, it raced forward to devour.

Living, unliving, magic; what did it matter?

CHAPTER 10.

No Shortage of Strife

OH," THE MONK SIGHED, SHOULDERS SAGGING IN RELIEF. "IT'S YOU. Sorry, Chethil, I thought you were-"

He tried to choke and sob in the same moment, and managed only a strangled eep as his eyes bulged, staring at Norun Chethil in shocked disbelief.

Maerandor chuckled. "And you thought that the head cook of Candlekeep could only kill with what he served forth on platters, didn't you? My, my, Wendarl, for such an old and wise man, you're as naive as a green young lad!"

By then, old Wendarl was sprawled at his feet, far beyond hearing jeers and witticisms, so the false cook fell silent. As was most prudent, considering that fighting had broken out in many of the rooms and passages around him. The other hitherto-hidden Shadovar agents among the monks had seen the sign he'd left, and begun murdering monks-only to encounter a few instances of suspiciously strong resistance. More than a few "monks" of the keep who seemed to have become powerful wizards and sorcerers when no one was looking.

Maerandor sighed theatrically. Truly, Toril had become a wallow of common deceit these days ...

He took the time and concentration to make sure his personal wardings were ready to turn back both hurled weapons and mighty magics, then turned and walked away from the monk he'd just killed without a backward glance.

Wendarl had been a superb calligrapher in his day, but Faern held thousands of skilled scribes, and the sooner there were no monks left to hamper the cause of Thultanthar and the wards of Candlekeep could be delivered to the Most High, by far the better ...

He still had no way of knowing who was friend or foe. Telamont had put into his mind images of the faces of the monks who'd been covertly slain and replaced by lesser Shadovar agents-but who knew how many of them might have been killed in their turn, and replaced by Moonstars, or ambitious independents?

After all, the legendary Larloch, mightiest of liches, was very real, might well be interested in all the magic within Candlekeep, and could well seize upon this time of tumult to try to take it all for his own.

Or for that matter, the renegade Chosen of Mystra, the Elminsters and Manshoons, were always on the prowl for more magic.

To say nothing of Szass Tam of Thay, or the mysterious Ioulaum and the shadowy mages who served him, or more than a dozen others the Most High had warned his arcanists to beware.

Telamont hadn't bothered to mention what he and Maerandor both knew-that even if every last one of these threats was accounted for and foiled, wizards lowly and mighty had a habit of lurking and waiting for opportunities to snatch powerful magic, and any one of several thousands of archmages could step out of the shadows at any time and make their own bids for the mastery-or swift plunder-of Candlekeep.

Nor were hedge wizards and archmages the only rogue dangers he must beware of just now. Long ago, Melegaunt Tanthul had warned several young arcanists that certain dragons thirsted for human magic, and had assembled their own secretive forces of agents to steal or seize spells and magic items whenever possible. Many of those agents would be long dead by now, and a handful of their masters, too, but wyrms lived long, their hungers ran deep, and agents could be replaced, generation after generation ...

Maerandor had been one of those arcanists. Some of the others had been revealed as traitors to the Tanthuls, or driven by too-dangerous ambitions of their own, and were now dead. Others were missing, out there somewhere in Toril or elsewhere, on missions the High Prince had sent them on, or gone rogue and pursuing their own aims.

All of these perils meant damned near anyone and anything that hungered after magic could appear in these dim and dusty halls around Maerandor, and he had to be ready to defeat them. And swiftly, too, for while he was fighting one foe, he was necessarily inattentive to the plots and covert deeds of others, not to mention a trammeled, easy target for a second or third enemy-or just too preoccupied to see foes arriving, and what they might do and take.

Of more immediate concern were the known foes whose faces the Most High had shown him and informed him were here in Candlekeep, posing as monks. They had to be hunted down and destroyed, right now, before- "Hold!"

That snarled command came from one direction, at the same moment a spell lashed out from another, catching Maerandor between them.

His wards flashed as the spell that had been meant to slay him was flung back at its caster in a shrieking spray of white sparks, leaving a monk reeling and moaning in pain. Maerandor turned a layer of his wards hard and solid, and used it to shove that man back against the nearest wall, pinning him there, gasping for breath and sobbing from the pain his own spell had caused him.

Then he ignored his attacker, to concentrate on the one who'd told him to halt.

"You hold," he commanded coldly, "or die."

Maerandor could see the monk who'd spoken. Who should be a fellow Shadovar, but ...

"Send any magic my way, and you'll die horribly-and without delay," he added tersely, and lowered his wards enough to use a spell the Most High had given him.

It was a minor magic that identified persons Telamont had long ago magically marked-no guarantee of loyalty, only of identity; those the spell "found" would be arcanists of Thultanthar, no matter who or what they might now look like.

A silver flare kindled around the eyes of the man who'd challenged him, and in those of the man who'd just tried to kill him.

Which meant both were Shadovar.

"I speak with the full authority of the Most High," Maerandor informed them, "and you will accompany me now, and obey me as you would him."

He did not have to add "Or die." He made certain his quiet voice held that flat promise.

"And who are you," the one who'd challenged him asked sharply, "to claim the supremacy of the Most High? I've never seen you before; how do I know you're not one of these Moonstars, up to tricks? Or Old Elminster the Meddler?"

Maerandor gave the man a brittle smile. He'd been waiting for this.