Illistyl leaned out and called, "Bring him back soon, good lady. And don't let him talk your ears off."

The bard smiled back at her as they both heard Elminster's voice reply, "And why not? Listening does the young good, and makes the patience of the old supple. Besides, my tongue rests more often than it once did."

"Truly?" Illistyl called from the safety of her window. "By the gods, you must have been an endless cataract of nonsense in your youth."

The old sage clambered ungracefully into the saddle, patted the gray reassuringly, and made no answer.

The flourishes of his hands as he lit. his pipe, however, were eloquent.

He nodded to Storm without looking up, blew a smoke ring in the direction of Illistyl's window, and set off at a trot. Storm followed, raising her hand to Illistyl in salute.

The youngest mage of the knights watched them ride until they were out of sight. Then she sighed and went down to join Mourngrym and Shaerl. She held dark fears about the days ahead.

"Not so long, now," Mirt said. "I never thought I could grow tired of the sight o' trees. Stop me vitals, but this clambering about is hard on old legs!"

'fell me truth, do," Delg answered sarcastically, sitting down hard on a nearby fallen tree with a sharp whuff of released breath. "Where, by Marthammor Finder-of- Trails," the dwarf asked as the others took seats around him, "are we going ... if you don't mind my asking?"

"I don't mind in the least, friend Delg," Mirt said grandly and grinned. "I don't know."

Delg's head came up like that of a dog, bristling to strike at a suddenly seen enemy. "You don't know?"

"He says that a lot, doesn't he?" Narm said to Shandril in the silence that followed.

Shandril was too apprehensive to reply. She had been looking constantly here and there into the trees around for signs of the Zhents who must be following them, but Mirt's I don't know had snatched her attention back to him.

The wheezing old merchant in tattered leather chuckled easily and pointed ahead into the trees. "It matters not exactly where we walk, look ye-as long as we keep alongside the road through the forest toward Arabel, and not too close to it. I hope to come. out of the western edge of Hullack as close to deep night as we dare, so that prying eyes are fewer. A certain inn of my acquaintance stands there, The Wanton Wyvern by name. We spend a night in cozy luxury, and walk on west in the morning, suitably disguised. Yer way lies in that direction, does it not?"

"It does," Shandril agreed cautiously. "And I would walk it with you, I think. But first tell us, Mirt, Lord of Waterdeep, what you know of us and the many who pursue us. I am tired of always running, and never sure why I must, and what awaits me."

Mirt nodded, not reacting at all to her identification of his rank. "Get used to that feeling, Lady; it's what life becomes for most of us." He grinned and added more softly, "Wise caution, Lady. Forgive me if I am brief. These old bones grow stiff if I sit about too long."

Clearing his throat pompously as if beginning a grand tale, Mirt said, "Ye are Shandril of Highmoon, raised by an old friend of mine, Gorstag. Ye recently left his inn to join a company of adventurers and therein met this noble and handsome dwarf"-Delg glowered and snorted"and this young lad of thine, too. Along the way, ye also met Elminster and the Knights of Myth Drannor, first discovered yer power of spellfire-inherited, methinksand sent to their graves a dragon and no less than three bone dragons, or 'dracoliches,' if ye prefer, as well as the Shadowsil. Ye also sent Manshoon of Zhentil Keep into headlong flight."

Mirt scratched his nose thoughtfully, fixing eyes that were suddenly very blue on her. "All of this tells me Shandril Shessair is ra?ther more than she appears. Elminster has spoken to Khelben Arunsun of thee in some detail, and the Blackstaff in turn has told me something of thy great power and importance. So have others I know who harp. They tell me ye would meet with a certain sister of Storm to learn more about thy powers, and are on the road to her."

He chuckled. "Chasing thee, no doubt, are some selfinterested mages and brigands who have heard of thy doings by now. Also at thy heels are the Zhentarim, the Cult of the Dragon, and priests of Bane still loyal to the High Imperceptor, all falling over themselves and each other in their hurry to seize thy spellfire. Behind at least two of these groups are darker foes, shapechanging beings of great power who dwell in a world of shadows. They call themselves 'the Shadowmasters,' and many wizards of Faerun have fought them down the centuries. They seek to control Toril and other worlds, deciding who may pass from plane to plane. Here they take care to work through others, for when Elminster can catch them in Faerun, he destroys them."

Mirt leaned forward, his face for once serious. "Ye are still alive today, Shandril and Narm, because Elminster and the Simbul have been weaving spells, spying, and setting all manner of things to sprawling chaos in order to keep these Shadowmasters from striking ye down."

Shandril, face pale, stared at him numbly. Was everyone on all the worlds and planes out looking to kill her? Why had the gods given spellfire to Shandril of Highmoon? She had asked herself this, she reflected ruefully, far more than once before.

"After ye were attacked in ShadowdaIe," Mirt went on, "Torm and Illistyl of the knights took yer shapes, and camped on Harpers' Hill. They were guarded by soldiers, the knight Rathan, and a few Harpers. There was an attack on the hill by things like the one ye fought two nights back-dark horrors, or 'darkenbeasts'-fearsome things created from dogs, sheep, and the like by cruel magic. That attack was set by the two youngest, most reckless Shadowmasters, and they paid for it with their lives."

Mirt sighed. "Elminster's hands have been red with blood, indeed, protecting ye this last tenday; that attack was but one of many. Why, think ye, did he keep ye in a spell-sphere one night?-I hear ye brought it down, too, testing spellfire?-Welt, outside the tower, several Harper mages spent much of the night darting all over the sky, trading lightnings-and worse-with these Shadowmasters."

Delg's eyes were large and round; Narm was somehow glad that this was as much news to him as to them. "One of these dark ones died that night, too," Mirt went on, "when he got past them to strike at ye. Elminster used some sort of spell I've never heard of before to snatch the sphere from around all of ye and hurt it about the Shadowmaster, like a tightening fist, until all its prismatic effects were visited on the creature. It was trapped, unable to escape to another plane, and was destroyed." Shandril shuddered, and cast a quick look at Narm. His fists were clenched in his lap, and he looked chilled and frightened.

Mirt frowned. "Yer faces say ye've not known of this before. Ab, well-perhaps that was for the best.

Terrified folk seldom make wise decisions." He got up with a grunt and added, "Enough talk for now.

On, or night'll come long before we see open land beyond these trees."

Shandril nodded, her face rather white. "Why has no one ever told us about these 'Shadowmasters'?"

she almost whispered, as they all stood up. "I would rather have known."

Delg shrugged. "What difference could it have made, lass, save to worry you?"

Mirt nodded. "Aye. One thing more, too. Does one put a sword into a child's hand and march her out to face the gathered host of the Flaming Fist, just to see her expression? That's sheer cruelty."

"While standing her in the mist so she can't see the army she faces, is merely slaughter-is that it?"

Shandril asked softly, eyes steady on his, flames leaping deep within them.

Mirt held her gaze in silence for two long, slow breaths before he reached out one gnarled hand to touch hers. Then, to the astonishment of the others, he knelt before Shandril, as one does before a king.

Looking up over her hand, her fingers still in his gentle grasp, he said roughly, "Aye. Ye have the right of it, Lady. That's why I came here. It's never nice to die alone."

"It always takes longer to get out of a forest than it does to get in," Mirt grumbled as the last of the light failed. Dusk hung heavy around them as they made a hasty camp amid the trees.

Delg seemed upset with their route and everything else; when Narm asked him what was amiss, the dwarf turned dark eyes up at him and said, "I feel ill luck ahead, soon."

The gloomy dwarf stood first watch, and Mirt was soon snoring like a contented bear on one side of the fire. Shandril and Narm lay together in their blankets and held each other. After Narm fell asleep, Shandril stared into the fire.

It seemed very long ago that they'd flown over Shadow dale together at their wedding-and longer still since she'd left The Rising Moon in search of adventure. And now, folk she hadn't even heard of plotted her death.

The watching skull was patient. It waited, floating low in the concealing darkness while silent tears fell onto Shandril's blanket. It waited, motionless, while she settled herself down against Narm, stroking his cheek tenderly.

It waited, as she fell asleep, and waited still, until Delg's attention was elsewhere. Then, silently, it drifted down to feed.

One bare shoulder had been left exposed as Shandril and Narm lay huddled together. The skull sank down and bit the smooth white flesh. Shandril stirred-and then, with a sort of sigh, relaxed. Spellfire flowed slowly, unseen, out of her.

Delg got up then, as good sentries do, to walk about and check on the safety of those he guarded.

The skull cast a hasty, silent spell to keep Shandril asleep as its fangs withdrew, and then another to quickly heal the wounds it had made.

By the time Delg looked down at Shandril, the skull was gone. Plucky lass. If she'd been a dwarf, now... Not for the first time, Delg wished he'd married. This was the sort of daughter he could be proud of. Tenderly he covered her bare arm and shoulder with an edge of the blanket, then stalked on.

The skull watched him go and made no move back to where it had fed. Its memories went back a thousand years. It had learned patience.

Seven.

AT THE SIGN OF THE WANTON WYVERN.

Do ye remember an inn, Tessyrana? Old and dark and rambling, lost in the arms of the wild woods a long day's ride from anywhere-but warm and firelit within, against the chill winds of the storm. The smoke slung our eyes, and its old and spicy smell enshrouded us as it did everything eke in the house.

We climbed worn, curving stain away from the ready laughter and ale, into a candlelit room, a cozy den nestled amid others in the night, carved out of low beams, gentle mutterings and creakings, and uneven floors. And for one night, at least, that plain, tiny, and friendly little room was our home.

Amhritar the Tall Tall Tales: A Ranger's Life Year of the Striking Hawk

Manshoon looked up, unsmiling. Fzoul and two silent upperpriests stood across from him, and two beholders floated overhead. In the air between them all, in an inner chamber in the High Hall of Zhentil Keep, hung a naked man.

It was Simron, late of the Eastern Stonelands Company of the Zhentilar, and he was very naked-much of his skin was missing.

Blood flew as Manshoon's invisible spell-claws tore at the veteran warrior's flesh. He screamed hoarsely, the red rain from him being caught below in a huge bowl, for later use in dark, cruel magic.

The Zhentarim did not like to waste the talents of their members.

"You do still have strength enough to scream," Manshoon said calmly. "Good, Simron - that means you've still strength to speak, too. Tell us more of what happened when the maid unleashed her spellfire."

Simron groaned. Manshoon frowned, and unseen claws raked deep, red furrows across the backs of the old warrior's calves. Simron's legs jerked helplessly, and gore spattered the beholders overhead. They did not seem to mind.

"I-I-Lord Manshoon, mercy!" Simron said thickly, coughing crimson between his words.

"Mercy must be bought, soldier," Manshoon said mildly, "and you've still not told me what I want to know. Now, sh- There was a commotion at the guarded door of the chamber. and Manshoon turned in some annoyance to see its cause.

A mageling Manshoon had always thought of as more ambitious than sensible stood among the guards, face lit with excitement. "Lord Manshoon!"

The High Lord of Zhentil Keep made a sign, and the guards drew back to let the young wizard rush into the chamber. Silently, Manshoon gestured to the mage to speak-and he did, words tumbling over each other in haste.

In Sembia, Lord-we've been attacked. Ah, wizards of the Brotherhood, Lord, seeking spellfire as you asked us to ... they were set upon by some Harpers, and killers sent by the Cult of the Dragon. We won both battles, but Arluth is dead, and Chsalbreian, and-"

Manshoon held up his hand, and the mageling fell silent. "Our thanks for your diligence, Sundarth. We are pleased. Leave us now; our favor goes with you."

Stammering thanks and farewell, the young mageling bowed himself out.

When lie was gone, Manshoon looked up at the bleeding, moaning man hanging in midair, and he sighed loudly.

"Too many foes are after spellfire for me to just sit back and wait for blundering, ambitious underlings to bring it to us," the High Lord of Zhentil Keep announced. "I'll have to become directly involved in the hunt for this Shandril."

The beholders, hovering watchfully overhead, said nothing. Manshoon looked across the chamber to meet the eyes of the High Priest of the Black Altar.

Fzoul shrugged and said, 'That's the way of wizards. For my part and my counsel, hold back for now, and watch to see if the claws we've sent out catch anything."

Manshoon rolled his eyes. "I grow no younger," he said carefully. "What use is spellfire-or the triumph of our Brotherhood over all-to me, if I'm toothless, blind, and failing in my dotage before we gain either?"

Fzoul raised an eyebrow. "You may not live to find any of these things if you move openly now. I hope you've not forgotten that your open participation in this hunt is sure to bring out Elininster of Shadowdale-to say nothing of the Simbul, Khelben Arunsun, and others against you. Azoun has already doubled his patrols in eastern Cormyr and is killing our warriors as fast as he finds them."

Manshoon shrugged. "If I feared danger or opposition, I would never have come to hold the title I do now, nor to stand in this place."

A rumbling voice broke in on his words then, from overhead. It sounded amused. "How will you succeed, Lord Manshoon, where others have failed? Finding magic that will stand against spellfire will take time you have too little of, and much luck-or both."

Manshoon shrugged again, giving the eye tyrants overhead a thin smile. "The Brotherhood is often guilty of a fault dear to our natures: in trying to outdo each other, we try to be too clever. A far simpler approach than the schemes we've pursued so far will probably be all that is needed-brute force."

Fzoul raised an eyebrow and gestured for Manshoon to continue.

The High Lord of Zhentil Keep turned expressionless eyes on them all and said, "Club the wench into submission with an army of zombies controlled by underlings using items of power. Bury her under undead, no matter how- many she destroys-and bring her down. My magic is strong enough to take care of any Harper or Cult meddling in such a battle."

Manshoon strolled across the room and then turned to look up at the floating body of the Zhentilar.

"Then we take the girl someplace secure," he continued, "and let the lich lord drain her-or use magic to bind tier wits and will ere site recovers. then study her at leisure." He snapped his fingers. "Whatever plans we pursue, a watch must be kept on Elminster from this moment on to ensure he doesn't show up to rescue her or ruin attempts to take her."

He gestured, and a guard at the door went out, returning in a few breaths with a wizard just old enough to master his awe and fear. After a quick glance at the hovering beholders, the young mage kept his eyes on the floor or on Manshoon.

"Heldiir," Manshoon said in a cold, smooth voice, "you are to take twenty of your fellow mages, now, and keep a continuous spellwatch over Shadowdale. Monitor all magic wielded there, keep track of the doings of Elminster and report any major castings or movements on his part to me immediately, whatever the hour. Go, speedily, and do this."

"I-I will," Heldiir managed to croak, then hurried out Manshoon looked up in time to see the beholders drifting back toward the arched windows through which they had first entered the room.

"Your plan has some merit," one said.

"We shall watch-and see," the other added in a deep, neutral rumble, as both eve tyrants drifted from view. Fzoul Chembryl glided to a door, spread his hands, and said simply, " "The risk is yours." Then lie was gone. Manshoon watched the door close behind the priest, smiled without humor, and looked tip at the silent, dripping soldier.

"Mercy, Simron?" he asked mildly. "Mercy is for the dead." He made a small gesture with one hand, and there was a dull, splintering crack from the body overhead.

Its head jerked, and then dangled limply at an angle, tongue protruding. Manshoon strode toward his own door and did not look back as the floating corpse slowly drifted down toward the bowl of blackening blood.

"Watch sharp, now," Mirt warned as they peered into the last gleams of fading sunset over the Storm Horns, far off on the horizon. "There's sure to be at least one snake hereabouts who seeks Shandril and spellfire."

"Is there? By the ever-observant gods, your perception is keen. You surprise me," Delg muttered sarcastically, keeping a hand over his axe blade to shield it from reflecting any of the suns failing glow.

It was growing dark fast here in the trees, evening descending quickly on the rolling farmlands ahead.

"What, again?" Mirt replied teasingly. "What an exciting life ye must lead."

Delg raised an eloquent eyebrow but thought it wiser to make no reply. Somewhere near at hand, Shandril sighed, and in mimicry of one of the haughty Sembian ladies who used to stop at the Moon for a night, she murmured, "Really, milord. Must you?" She smiled as Narm s comforting arm closed around her shoulders.

Mirt uttered a satisfied sound, came to a halt, and pointed. -chat fence line, there? That's the eastern paddock of the Wyvern. Come. My belly tells me it's past time for some hot roast dinner."

"Master, we obey," Narm said in gentle mockery. Mirt sighed heavily, rolled his eyes, and waved at them all to follow him. The stout old merchant pushed past a tangle of wild raspberry canes, creating angry crackling and tearing noises. He waded through the canes toward the road, slipped on a muddy patch of bank-and fell with a heavy splash into the ditch.

For a long, breathless moment, silence descended. -Shandril smothered giggles, not very successfully.