by Ed Greenwood
Her words made them all look around-but aside from the two Harpers in the distance and Florin arriving with the Rider rearguard (one of them looking decidedly green), they could see no man or beast.
"But there's no one!" Torm said, waving a hand.
Margrueth shrugged. "There could be a small army of those mages using invisibility, young man. Think before you speak, and you'll not feel so often chastened."
Torm gave her a dark look, and then shook his head and grinned. "I begin to wish I'd had you as my mother."
"So do I, lad," Margrueth replied, "So do I. Your backside would've seen a lot more heat, and valuables belonging to others and good-looking ladies a lot less, in the years since."
"Hmmm," Torm replied with rueful eloquence, and there was more laughter.
"Oh, bloody bats! It's gone wrong again-and they're all laughing!"
"Not at ye," the older man said, watching the young man fling down the tangled trip wire in fury, his fingers trembling in agitated excitement. "Easy, lad," the gray-haired Harper ranger added. "Time for all that falling and dancing about an' all later-when ye've a sword in yer hand an' several hundred Zhents taking their turn at ye."
"How can you be so calm about it?" his younger companion protested. "We're going to die!"
Level brown eyes stared into his. "Aye, so? We all have to, lad, but there's nothing as says we have to behave like craven cattle first." The old man deftly disentangled the thread and held it out. "An' another thing," he continued, "I've been in about forty o' these little affrays before, an' them as came to kill me haven't quite managed the job yet. It might well take 'em as many tries afore they get ye, too! I've seen it all before, lad… take heart, and be easy, I say."
The young man stared into those level brown eyes, took a deep breath, and then bent and tied the trip wire-quickly and surely. Then he stepped back with a flourish, smiled tightly at the gray-haired Harper, and said, "Done. I hope you remember where our hide is."
"Here, under my boot," the older man said with a smile. "Another trick you'd do well to remember."
"Bloody bats to you, too," the younger Harper said almost affectionately, scrambling down into the pit they'd dug. The old man followed, waving to Margrueth as he reached for the turf-covered shield that would hide them from the world.
But Margrueth wasn't looking at him. She was looking up, frowning at a raven circling in the bright morning sky high above. She said something to Sylune, who lifted one shapely arm to hurl magic up into the sky-a spell that was never cast.
The raven came out of its lazy circle like an arrow, streaking south and east. But from the blue emptiness high above came another bird, a steel-gray falcon with talons outstretched. It struck like a hammer, and then flapped up and away in triumph amid a cloud of black feathers. For just a moment, the watchers below caught a glimpse of silver hair and tattered black robes, and then the slayer was a falcon once more.
Even as Torm gasped, "The Simbul!" the falcon's kill fell to earth, twisting and growing as it plummeted.
It was the broken body of a black-robed human wizard that crashed into one muddy bank of Swords Creek. The mage flopped bonelessly once, and then lay sprawled and still. One Zhentarim would never spy on Mistledale again.
The old Harper looked back up at the sky. "Well, I lied to ye," he said to the stunned young Harper beside him. "I hadn't seen it all before. I've seen gales and fog and lances of lightning leaping across the sky-but I've never seen it rain wizards before!" Ordulin, Sembia, Flamerule 16
The morning sun sent bright rays through the casement of tinted glass, casting a many-hued image of light upon the floor furs. That meant it was past time for clients of the Winking Will-o'-the-Wisp Pleasure Palace to be gone so linen could be washed, ladies could bathe and sleep, and coins could be safely exchanged at the nearest bank for soft metal trade tokens stamped with the sunburst symbol of the house.
The occupants of the Red Sash Room on the third floor, however, could not have cared less about the hour-for very different reasons. One of those occupants was Baedelkar the Thaumaturge, rising hope of the Zhentarim, who held the Lady of the Red Sash in his arms as if he never intended to let her go.
Her milk-white skin was soft and smooth against him, and her kisses warm and sweet, with the faintest hint of exotic spices… nutmeg? Dunbark? Cinnamon? Ah, but it mattered not.
At that ardent moment, a fist fell upon the other side of the bolted door. It was an imperious fist, but the door was thick and carpeted to steal away sound, and the couple within, seated together on the edge of the large circular bed, did not want to hear it. Their lips met again, and clung.
The fist, however, was persistent. Another blow fell upon the door, and then another, and so on, until they were joined by a softly menacing, magically sent voice: "I know you're within, Baedelkar. The Inner Circle has need of us both, immediately. We've been ordered to join the Sword, somewhere north of Essembra, right now."
After a momentary, answering silence (during which the Lady of the Red Sash murmured and moved in Baedelkar's arms) the voice went on: "Neither High Lord Manshoon nor I am used to waiting… for an apprentice. Presently one or both of us shall grow weary of it, Baedelkar-and then it will be too late for you to continue as a Zhentarim… or anything else."
Baedelkar the Thaumaturge cursed in a soft whisper with feeling, and made as if to pull free… but the large, sapphire eyes staring into his pleaded with him, and sweet lips begged, "Just one more kiss, proud lord… a brief parting, until we meet again." Those lips lifted longingly toward his.
Baedelkar hesitated for only a moment before he bent his head hungrily forward. It was the last mistake he ever made.
The arms caressing his back seemed stronger and broader, the tongue in his mouth thicker. Starting to choke, the Zhentarim tried to pull away, but found that he was locked in an embrace as unyielding as steel, and tentacles were sliding around him. The eyes so close to his held a horrible flame of triumph as the flesh of her exquisite face bulged and moved, flowing up and over his own visage, covering his nose even as the cold and questing tentacle that had been a velvet-smooth tongue flowed down his throat, choking him. And preventing him from uttering even the simplest spell.
Baedelkar the Thaumaturge struggled in earnest, then, fighting with sudden desperation against the death embracing him. A red roaring rose up in his head, and creeping flesh rolled over his eyes, blotting out his last glimpse of Faerun-a sun-splashed room and those malevolent, glittering eyes in a face that had become a nightmare of flowing flesh…
Bane aid me… Bane aid me… Bane…
"Right, Baedelkar," the cultured voice beyond the door snarled, suddenly losing its drawling grace. "You've defied me long enough! I hope you'll still think she was worth it, after I do-this!"
The wizard's body began to shake violently, and pulse with light. The tentacled thing hurriedly flung it back onto the bed and flowed away across the room, to where the wizard's robe lay across a discarded body harness: a thing of leather straps that held a slim satchel of potion vials, several bulging pouches of sundries to spin spells, and… a small, well-worn spellbook with battered metal corners.
The creeping thing flowed up and over this heap of magic and, without slowing, turned and slithered along the wall. In its wake, the wizard's belongings were gone, the side chest bare. Meanwhile, the body on the bed jerked and thrashed in spell thrall, and then leapt up into the air once and crashed down in limp silence.
As tentacles hurriedly tore open the casements and let the chill air of morning into the room, there was a snarl of fury from beyond the door-and then a muttered incantation. It rose to a singing final word, and then came ominous silence.
The monstrous, shapeshifting mass flowed out the window and up the wall outside, disappearing from the room seconds before the gilded door of the Red Sash Room burst apart in a rain of dust and splinters.
Nentor Thuldoum of the Zhentarim stood in the doorway, blinking in incredulous rage.
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"You worm! You disobedient ti-" Nentor's fury fled as he saw what lay on the bed. His jaw dropped, and he stared down in horror at the riven remains. His spell had scorched Baedelkar with a lashing lightning, but should not have eaten away body and brains from within, leaving behind a shriveled husk… and empty eye sockets. Swords Creek, Mistledale, Flamerule 16
Thuds and splinterings resounded across Swords Creek as the defenders of Mistledale drove tree trunks into the ground in an outward curve west of the stream. A steady stream of wagons was creaking east along the road from Ashabenford as Riders watched the land to the east for any sign of the approaching foe.
"Leave openings there and there," Kuthe directed as Riders swarmed past him in pairs, carrying logs. Beyond them, more of the black-armored men were hewing the ends of the sloped stakes into sharp points. "I hope well need room to ride out into the fray in force."
"I hope the Zhents fall dead of the blistering plague and we don't have a fray at all," a farmer muttered, snapping his reins to begin the run back to town for more supplies. He stood up as the empty wagon rattled away, looking around the busy camp, and shaking his head. Not a hundred swords to defend Mistledale against-how many? Two, three thousand, or more? The word from Essembra was that they'd outgrown all the beds in the place a tenday ago, with not a third of the force mustered. The Sword of the South, indeed-and they'd have a Zhentarim wizard or three with them, too.
He looked back at the camp once more and spat thoughtfully into the rising road dust. An army this small wouldn't delay the Zhent host more than an hour or two on its march to Mistledale. Death might well come for him before dusk today-but where was there to run? He couldn't pluck up his steading and stow it in a pack to take with him. Stand or fall, it'd be here, in Mistledale, where he'd lived his life. The farmer slowed the wagon to make his trip back down the dale as long as he could-it might be his last look around at the finest place to dwell in all Faerun. He tried not to think about the likelihood that by sundown tomorrow it might also be the finest graveyard in Faerun.
A steel-gray falcon circled high in the cloudless sky overhead, for all the world as if it was taking interest in the encampment taking shape by the creek. The farmer squinted up at it, spat again, and went down the dale toward Ashabenford, where the high councilor would be waving his black scepter and barking orders. Heedless of him, wagoners would load in haste and head east, and fleeing townsfolk would drive overloaded carts west.
The breezes died away to the softest of stirrings, what the folk of the dale called a ghost's kiss. By the banks of the creek, a tall, broad-shouldered man in gleaming plate armor looked around the palisade of wooden fangs and saw that it was now almost a full circle. He nodded in satisfaction and turned to where a farmer stood by his laden wagon.
"Bring the tents," Florin Falconhand said to the man. "We'd best get started."
Kuthe frowned at the tall ranger. "This soon?"
"I doubt they'll attack before dark," the Knight of Myth Drannor replied. "Before they could get here, it'll be sundown; they'd have to charge with the setting sun in their eyes."
Kuthe grunted his agreement and turned away. "No cooking fires until the tents are up!" he bellowed, "and don't drop those barrels of beer or I'll leave you to face the men who have to go thirsty!"
"Noisy, isn't he?" Torm muttered, critically inspecting the wicked-looking point he'd whittled on the end of one stake.
"A paragon of authority," Rathan grunted, taking a swig from his belt flask. "I've no quarrel if he's as much in evidence when we start hacking at each other in the mud and the blood." He took another pull at the flask, which gurgled.
Torm looked up at the sound. "Hey! Give that here," he suggested, extending a hand.
"What's this?" Kuthe growled, striding past. "Drinking?" His eyes flashed.
"He sees the flask and instantly knows what we're doing!" Torm gasped in mock fear. "Can no man stand against this tower of perception?"
"I fear not," Rathan growled. "He makes my boots quake, and me in them. Wits as keen as a sword blade-and tongue sharper, too!" Both Knights threw up their hands as if in awe and cowered, wailing.
"Bah!" the Rider officer snarled, and turned away. "Adventurers!"
"Bah!" Torm called after him, his mimicry perfect. "Stiff-necked local constabulary!"
Kuthe stiffened as more than one of the Riders around them chuckled, but did not turn around. After a moment, he strode on.
"Hind end of a blind boar," Torm muttered conversationally as they moved to the next stake.
"Torm's entertaining himself as usual, I see," Sharantyr observed to Sylune as they worked on their own stakes not far away.
The Witch of Shadowdale grinned. "He doesn't know it yet, but I volunteered him for digging the privies."
Sharantyr sighed. "You use the ladies' first, then. I've no wish to be the one who tries out his latest collection of 'humorous' traps."
"Does he do that to the pit for the men, too?" Itharr asked, looking up from the fire pit he and Belkram were digging. Sharantyr looked over at him and nodded. "Ah, thanks for the warning," the Harper grunted, and knelt to begin lining the pit with stones.
A pair of men in black armor emblazoned with the white horse of Mistledale approached with two large, rope-wrapped canvas bundles. "Your tent," the Riders told Itharr, "and one for the ladies."
"One is all we'll need," Sharantyr said serenely, moving to the last unsharpened stake. "I'm used to the snores of these two by now."
The Rider raised his eyebrows and looked her up and down. Sharantyr raised her own eyebrows in reply, and said coolly, "I'm an adventurer, remember?"
The man rolled his eyes and turned away, face expressionless behind his bristling mustache. His companion growled "Lucky dogs" quite distinctly as they went on down the line of stakes.
"If you knew," Belkram said to the Riders' backs. "If you only knew."
"I heard that," Sylune said warningly, and both Harpers looked up at her with such looks of bewildered innocence that she giggled.
Sharantyr puzzled out how the ropes were tangled, and got the tent unrolled. She hummed a merry tune as she laid it out, shaking her head to clear her nostrils of the strong-and expected-reek of mildew. Such things were always put away damp. She critically surveyed the forest-green tent and its white horse blazon. "Does someone in the dale run a camp for bored Sembian nobles?"
"Aye," Belkram told her as the two Harpers came to join her, expertly plucking the poles out of the heart of the rumpled canvas. "But they're under the misapprehension that they're just housing the short-coin laborers who arrive each harvest to help get the crop off the fields… it's not until they see their hired help at work in the fields that they realize how many bored Sembian nobles they're carrying."
Sharantyr chuckled at that as Belkram held the tent up with one pole, and Itharr crawled inside to raise it from within. "I could get used to having both of you gallant blades around," she said affectionately, fielding the tangle of tent rope that Sylune tossed to her.
"Just two of us? Is that enough to keep up with you?" Belkram asked with a grin.
"On some mornings," Sharantyr said, thrusting over his head the emptied sack that had held the tent pegs. "On some mornings."
"Mmpnffh," he replied firmly.
"Exactly what I was going to say," Itharr agreed, head emerging from the half-raised tent. "Mmphffh."
Sharantyr and Sylune sighed, smiled, and shook their heads in unison.
"Get him a bag, too," Torm suggested, pointing at Itharr as he walked past. "Me, too, and Rathan. After all, you know what they say-all men're the same with a bag over-"
"Enough, Torm!" Sylune said, and snapped her fingers. The thief vanished in midstep, and they heard his surprised "Hoy!" of protest from the far end of the camp as he reappeared, looked around, and started back toward them.
"Poor Torm," Sharantyr said, watching him. "I wonder if he'll ever grow into dignity and polite manners? I suppose he must grow up some
day."
"For some of us," Sylune observed serenely, "it's a long walk." Battledale, Flamerule 16
There was a sudden flash of emerald radiance from the empty saddle ahead, and Swordlord Amglar stiffened, hand going to the hilt of his sword-just in case.
Spellmaster Myarvuk rode ahead of the hitherto unladen horse, the mount under him linked to it by a long lead. Now he was twisting around to see what had befallen, clinging to his saddle in an ungainly attempt not to fall off. Amglar watched him in grim amusement. These wizards all rode with the grace and balance of lumpy sacks of feed-and if the expression on Myarvuk's face was any guide, about as much comfort.
As both men stared at the green light pulsing and growing stronger in the saddle, Amglar watched the Zhentarim mage's tense face… until, suddenly, he knew the new thing he was seeing there: fear.
A second empty-saddled horse pulled its lead free and galloped off to the right. The swordlord's gaze darted to it, but no radiance or other sign of magic appeared. If the gods smiled, perhaps there'd only be one high Zhentarim joining them.
Of course, given what utter ice-hearted bastards all powerful mages of the Black Network were, one was more than enough.
The emerald light had built into the shape of a seated man now, and the swordlord sighed amid the endless thunder of hooves. The rest of his time with the Sword of the South was not going to be enjoyable-and might well encompass the rest of his life, given the ruthless and sensitive nature of senior Zhentarim.
The green radiance flashed and faded, revealing a richly cloaked man who sat his saddle as if he'd always been there-and was already looking grimly about, his face as black as old night.
At least this one could ride. Amglar forced a grim half smile onto his own face as the Zhent wizard turned to look behind him.
"For the glory of Zhentil Keep," the swordlord said in formal welcome. The wizard merely nodded curtly and turned his head away. Oh, joy. Getting this one to take the slightest notice of orders was going to be nigh impossible. Best start wading into the blood now, then. Amglar reined his horse in beside the galloping wizard. "Lord Manshoon sends his greetings, Spellmaster Thuldoum," Amglar said loudly, keeping his voice calm and unhurried. Young Myarvuk had lost his title, of course, the moment his superior here had arrived.