by Ed Greenwood
Steel spun through the night. The venomed blade had served Unthlar Highsword well over the years, slipping into many a rival's back or unwary eye. Its touch meant death. Unthlar watched his deathfang hurtle toward Shandril's stall, unprotected back, and he started to smile.
Too soon. Mirt saw the flicker of its flight. Groaning in his haste, he leapt between Shandril and the attack, throwing up both his own blades to knock the dagger aside.
At the same time, words of soft anger came out of the night beside the puffing merchant. The strongest spell Narm could hurl-one that always left him utterly drained of wits and strength-rent the night, exploding in the air right in front of Unthlar.
Mairara shut her eyes and flung her head to one side as wetness splattered the rocks around. She looked back in time to see Unthlar's lower half-all that was left of him stagger backward and fall heavily among the rocks beside her.
She heard curses and scrambling sounds from behind her as the few surviving Zhentilar fled in terror. Then Mairara looked down again-straight into the hard eyes of the maid who bore spellfire.
Shandril stood staring up at the Zhentarim sorceress. Her hair was moving about her shoulders with a life of its own, curling in slow menace.
"By Mystra's mercy," Mairara whispered, looking at Shandril with wide eyes, "make it quick."
Shandril granted her that last wish. When the roaring had died away, all that was left was drifting smoke and the cracking of overheated rock.
White-faced, Shandril looked down at Delg's still body, and then turned to look east. The tears that fell from her cheeks burned the ground they touched. "Right, then, Lord Manshoon," she said, voice brittle and quavering. "I've done all the running I'm going to do. Now you will learn what it is to be hounded!"
A skull that floated unseen in the darkness near the top of Irondrake Rock looked down and chuckled, the teeth of its perpetual grin chattering hollowly.
"It's not as though I've naught else to do, look ye," Elminster said, spreading his hands. Released from his grasp, the pipe floated off by itself to hang ready in the air nearby.
Storm glanced up from the strings of her harp. "More important than spellfire?"
Elminster's expression was sour. "Who’s to say what's more important — my giving a little boy a scroll to play with so he grows up to become an archmage-or passing on word of a foe to a nomad chieftain-or telling a Waterdhavian guildmaster of a plot against him? I've done all these in the last few days, and there's always much more still to do — the untended garden grows weeds best"
Shandril needs help now," Storm said quietly, her eyes in and troubled. "I can feel it"
“And she shall have it," Elminster said, hands moving in the opening gestures of a spell. "Why d'ye think we rode out of the dale, if not to keep it safe against spells I need to hurl-or the careless cruelty of those who might come looking to hurl spells at me? But know ye, timing is all-important in affairs of power-and tier moment is not come."
He cast a stern look at Storm's harp, and she obediently stilled the strings and shifted it to her shoulder. "I spent much of the night serving the Realms as ye slept, and saw-too much. Matters that must be dealt with now, l tell thee! The lass must find her own wings to fly with while I deal with Dzuntabbar of Thay-and the wizard Vlumn's plans to create ice golems the size of mountains in the High Ice-and a little matter of twisting awry some poison-creating spells that certain Calimshite satraps are perfecting before they get the idea such deadly craziness might work."
"All that, before highsun?"
"Aye, and more. Come!" The Old Mage squinted at the night sky and muttered, "With luck, we'll have time to look in on Shandril by now tomorrow."
"If she's not dead by then," Storm murmured in reply, just before Elminster’s spell swirled around them both.
Irondrake Rock trembled, melted. and slid down into liquid ruin. The stars around it wavered and fell, as Shandril looked away from the spire. She blinked, and fresh tears came. Again.
Mirt knelt beside her. 'Thy lad's okay," he said roughly, as he awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders. "But milord dwarf, here…"
Shandril nodded. She was crying freely now, tears raining into her empty hands.
Mirt looked at Delg s body, shook his head sadly, and said, "We haven't even time to bury him. Shan, will you take him to ashes? He'd prefer that to Zhentarim spell pestering, I'm sure."
Shandril nodded, trying to still her tears. "H-He was trying to give me something, when he died… in his hand…"
Mirt looked at Delg's fist, outthrust still in the agony of death. The broken ends of a fine golden chain hung from between the tightly clenched fingers. Mirt tried to pry them open, but he could as well have clawed at the fist of an iron statue. Pitting all his strength against the cooling hand, Mirt managed to ease the dwarf's fingers apart. Saying a silent prayer to Moradin in apology for this desecration, he slid out what lay within.
It was a silver harp pendant the badge of a Harper, torn from around the dwarf's neck. Mirt stared at it, openmouthed-and his vision blurred.
Shandril looked at the shaggy old warrior sharply. A thin, wheezing noise hissed from his bent head. She realized suddenly that the old merchant was weeping.
At her shoulder, Narm asked wonderingly, "Delg was a Harper too?"
Shandril nodded slowly. Mirt abruptly thrust the harp pendant into her hand, rose, and said gruffly, "Burn him, Will ye?"
Narm reached out a hand to him, and the two men embraced in the night like scared children.
Shandril stared at them for a moment. "then she carefully set down the pendant, raised her hands, and gave Delg a warrior's funeral, engulfing the dwarfs body in a pyre of spellfire by the red anger and grief that burned inside her. Flames roared up at the stars, even as the spellfire in Shandril's hands faltered, sputtered, and died.
They watched the dwarf burn to ashes. When all was done, Mirt said grimly, "Now, we walk-before all the rest tithe Zhentarim come down on our heads here. I carry a ward that shields us against magical mind-prying and scrying. With that and thy spellfire, we can win our way on, as long as we give them no more chances to gather against us."
"No," Shandril said softly.
"What then, lass?" Mirt asked, peering at her in the night.
"I'm done with running away," Shandril said in a cold, resolute voice. "We stand and fight."
"Here? Shan, every outlaw and prowling beast in the Stonelands heard the battle-and saw the pillar of flame ye just raised, burning Delg. Yer spellfire's gone for now, an' all Narm's spells-and without Delg, I'm too old and fat to wave swords enough to defend both of ye. We must be gone from this place!"
"Yes. Gone-to Zhentil Keep." "Lass, are ye crazy?"
"Probably," Shandril said, her voice very steady. "Mirt, will you guide me there?"
"Before all the gods, why?"
"My days of running and skulking are done. I'm going to make Manshoon pay for-for Delg, if it's the only thing I do before I die. Manshoon, any other Zhentarim wizards I can find… and anyone else in that city who stands in my way. I'll probably have to kill everyone in the whole Brotherhood to make up for Delg's death. They should pay in blood for those soldiers in Thundarlun, too." The eyes that looked up into Mirt's were like cold, dark iron. "Are you with me?"
The old merchant sighed. "Aye, Shan," he growled. "I'll stand with ye. But I'll do it in the morning, mind-and if ye're in such a whirling hurry to get to Zhentil Keep, I know where we can get a teleport there, instead of stamping across the Stonelands and Daggerdale for days upon days, fighting every beast of the wilds and Zhentilar patrol."
"Where?" Shandril's voice was quiet and calm.
Mirt fought back a shiver when he heard it. "In Eveningstar, south and west of here. In the spells of a good lady by the name of Tessaril."
"Another old friend?" Narm sounded on the edge of tears, but managed a hint of the wry tone he usually adopted when sparring with the Old Wolf.
Mirt bowed his head. "Aye, a
nd I am honored she calls me so. No jests now, lad-I'm busy trying to keep yer little one, here, from throwing her life away."
For two long, cold breaths, Shandril stared at him thinlipped, and then managed a smile, and turned to look west.
"Find Eveningstar for me, then, and Tessaril." she said. Mirt's gusty sigh of relief echoed off the rocks around. Then they all looked back at the drifting ashes that had been Delg, and there were fresh tears.
Later that night, as Mirt led the way up a narrow cleft, heading west out of the still-smoldering meadow, the Old Wolf said, 'Tell me, lass: if ye've any plan for this attack, or if we're all going to rush headlong to our deaths."
"We get there, you show me Manshoon, and I burn him," Shandril said sweetly.
"That's it? No battle plans at all?"
"You're my battle plans, Old Wolf," Shandril told him. Mirt sighed and stumped onward. The. comforting weight of Delg's battered axe rode in his hands, and he stared ahead, looking for certain moonlit crags to guide him to the best way down into Cormyr again.
In his mind, Mirt saw Delg's dead, staring face, and muttered to himself that he really was getting too old for adventuring.
When Mirt fell for the third time, the cold mists and the lightening gloom told them dawn was not far of f. The Old Wolf announcing wearily that he'd fall asleep walking if they went on. Norm and Shandril both murmured exhausted agreement, and a moment later they slumped together in a little dell, sitting on the turf. Wearily the old merchant wrestled Delg s pack from his back and felt in it for a prickly handful of kindling.
"Is that wise?" Narm was yawning as he spoke.
Mirt managed a shrug in reply-and then stiffened. The other end of the chain Delg had broken must have somehow fallen into the pack. As the Old Wolf's arm came out with kindling, the fine gold lay curving along it Mirt stared. Dangling from the chain was a tiny four-pointed star fashioned of some white metal, set atop a tiny black anvil. Mirt touched it, shaking his head in wonder. "He was an Ironstar dwarf," he murmured.
"What's that?" Narm bent forward, his voice thick with sleepiness.
"The fabled lost clan of the dwarves," Mirt said, his weary voice echoing with awe. "The mightiest, most noble dwarven house, driven into hiding long ago. They're a legend among the Stout Folk-and among men who delve for metal, too." Tears came into the old adventurer's eyes. "Ah, Delg," he growled and shook his head again.
Shandril began to cry and in the same instant, Narm began to snore. Mirt looked over at them. The young mage was asleep where he sat, face gray and drawn with exhaustion, eyes open and unseeing, his mouth gaping. Shandril shook, huddled into a ball, beside him.
Long, still moments passed before Mirt went to lay a comforting hand on her head. Tears streamed down the face she lifted to him, and dripped silently from her chin. Shandril's eyes were very gray as she bit her lip to keep from weeping loudly. She looked at Narm anxiously, not wanting to wake him.
Mirt put an awkward arm around her shoulders. They shook, and Shandril whimpered once, deep in her throat, before she thrust her face against his chest and began to sob. Mirt held her tightly and said nothing. He'd done this before in his life, more than once, but still did not know any words to give her that were both comforting and true. Perhaps there were none.
He stared into the little fire he'd kindled and saw places far away and faces from long ago. The Old Wolf barely noticed when the girl in his arms fell into an exhausted sleep. He was still sitting there when the last coals died away to gray ashes and the pale dawn came creeping over the crags.
Twelve
What Foul Wizardry
Raise not thy voice in anger, lest the sleeping dragon wake.
Old saying of Faerun set down by Glarthlyn of Silverymoon, Sage Shadows in the Firelight, Year of Dark Frost
Somewhere in the Stonelands, Manshoon turned in satisfaction from his scrying ball.
"It's time," he said softly, looking around at the encampment. Fear was in the faces that looked back at him; even the veteran Zhentilar here were wary of the High Lord of Zhentil Keep. Manshoon had spent much of yestereve raising their dead comrades until an army of zombies stood around the clearing, silently waiting.
"The wench's fire has burnt out for now," the high lord said as lie strode across the sward to pluck a jack of hot wine-and-mushrooms broth out of the hand of a startled soldier. He drained it, tossed it back, and added. "She'll be easy prey." The soldier nodded uncertainly, not speaking.
Manshoon turned. "Beluard? Where are you?"
"Here, Lord." His latest apprentice trotted hastily up to the master, wiping broth from his lips with the back of one hand. Manshoon favored him with a wolfish smile.
"You recall my discussions with Sarhthor about arranging shortages of pork and sugar in Sembia?"
"To drive prices up just before our caravans arrive, ford?"
Manshoon nodded. "Do it,” he said, and vanished. The last thing Beluard saw was his cold smile.
For a moment the apprentice stared at the spot where Manshoon had stood, and then looked fearfully at the zombies standing all around. They stood in a gray, putrid, unbroken ring-the thin passage he'd threaded through them moments earlier seemed to have disappeared.
Beluard took a deep breath, looked into undead eyes that stared back at him with hundreds of dark, glassy stares, and wondered if tie dared to walk through them. The stench of death was very strong, and he stood there a long time licking his lips, face paling, trying to decide.
The ring of stones was old, old beyond the eldest ruined towers Manshoon had seen in Myth Drannor. Perhaps elves had raised it in the dim past-or men who worked magic before Netheril was proud.
The builders had certainly commanded great magic. Down long ages, through gale and blizzard and lightning crashing from the sky, the stones large as giants floated in a ring above the turf and never fell. Some power kept even the smallest birds and wild things away from the silent ring. There was something comforting in such titanic strength of Art-something that awed even Manshoon. He came here when he needed to think, to be alone, and to feel comforted.
It was also the place he knew best in the Stonelands-a sure destination to teleport to. Out of habit, Manshoon put a hand on one of his magical rods as he stepped out of the teleport spell's swirling mists and into the stony ring. From here it would be only a short walk to a height Shandril and her companions would have to pass.
He stiffened. Men were standing by the cliff edge, just beyond the ring. Men in robes, and others in familiar dark armor. Manshoon relaxed just a little. What were mages and soldiers of the Brotherhood doing here?
They had seen him. Swords slid out, and one sorcerer reached for a wand. Manshoon recognized him; Ghaubhan Szaurr, his double agent. Another traitor who wanted spellfire for himself.
"Unhand that wand, or die," Manshoon said coldly. He waited until the sounds of surprised recognition had died and the Zhentilar who were readying crossbows had set them down again. Then he favored them all with a wintry smile-and struck.
Lightnings crackled white and terrible from the rod he held, and men died. He lashed out again at the shouting, running then of the Brotherhood. Warriors scrambled for cover, but their armor cooked them, lightnings dancing around the dark metal like swarms of angry insects, and, screaming, they died. A few magelings were robed in the shimmering cloaks of protective spells, and still lived. They made the pitiful beginnings of spells. shouting and stammering incantations so sloppily in their fear that Manshoon winced at the sounds-and then he worked more powerful magic and they died too, jerking and gasping and falling.
So perish all traitors. Manshoon strode forward, plying the rod with cold precision, until only one man was left. Dread Master Ghaubhan Szaurr stood trembling in his black cloak at the edge of the cliff, one hand on his wand again. The fading, darkening shimmering of a failing protective spell hung around him.
He did not dare draw forth the wand he held as Manshoon's cold smile and dark, dark eyes held his
. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep strode toward him.
"M-Master? Lord, what have we done? Why have you slain all my men?" Ghaubhan's mouth was suddenly very dry. He licked his lips, swallowed, and tried again to speak. "Lord Manshoon? It is you. isn't it?" The sorcerer's eyes narrowed. "Or are you Elminster using Art to look like my lord?"
Manshoon's lips twisted. "Elminster!" he spat. "Try not to insult me more than you have already, Ghaubhan. Traitor."
"Traitor? Never, Lord! I swear t-"
Manshoon gave him another wintry smile. "I found Asklannan's book." He watched a sickly look grow on Ghaubhan's face, then added, "I know the orders you've given, and the plans you've made. Ramath was my creature from the beginning."
Ghaubhan stared at him in despair-and then, suddenly, grabbed for the wand at his belt.
With two fingers, Manshoon made a very small gesture.
The Dread Master felt the tingling and twisting, and looked down. His hand was shifting, turning green-and hissing. His arm now ended in the head of a serpent, which rose, reared back, and showed him fangs as it prepared to strike. Ghaubhan stared into its glittering eyes. looked up in horror at Manshoon's grimly smiling faceand then whirled around and ran with a despairing scream.
The edge of the cliff was very near, and in a moment, Ghaubhan Szaurr was gone.
Manshoon walked to the edge, looked out for a moment at Cormyr spread out below him, and then peered clown at the broken body on the rocks far, far beneath the height on which he stood.
A dusty gray bone vulture had been disturbed into flight by the sorcerer's dying plunge. It circled, thick wings flapping, and began its slow spiral down to the remains.