Elminster raised a hand. Two of its long, bony fingers pointed at Torm and Rathan.
"Not ye two. Thy sort of mischief is best worked here- keeping Fzoul at bay, trouncing any daemonfey foolish enough to come skulking hereabouts; that sort of thing. Ye know."
Then the great archmage strode forward, tiny stars winking out of the empty air around him as he went. Everyone watched them drift into the shapes of two long sword blades in his hands.
Elminster rounded the table, followed by curious stares, to nod at Storm and add gruffly, "Bide ye safe here, lass. Someone has to protect the dale against yon prize pair of fools." He inclined his head in the direction of Torm and Rathan, walked right up to the great trunk of the shadowtop tree that grew in the heart of Storm's kitchen, and stepped into it as if it was made of mere shadow.
Dove was on her feet in an instant, murmuring, "Hurry. 'Ere yon way closes again. Just pluck up and carry your boots."
The Knights hastened, plunging into the dark nothingness of the tree after Elminster in a few swift moments, leaving Torm and Rathan staring rather crossly at each other.
"Now what was all that about?"
"Aye, tell us nothing, as usual. We happy dancing fools never need to know anything important."
With one accord, they turned to Storm Silverhand- and fell silent, jaws dropping open in unison.
Storm Silverhand stared in dismay at the tree five friends had just vanished through, and her face was as white as the fresh-fallen snow outside her kitchen windows.
The world was white. Not the cold, wet heavy white of Shadowdale snow, but drifting mists amid an endless web of smooth strands, some large, some small, all curving… and all thrumming with tireless force that made teeth ache and skin itch. All white, and nothing else-no sky, no horizon, no keeps nor trees, nor anything else to make for.
"Is it permitted," Florin asked quietly beside Elminster's ear, as the Knights hauled their boots on, "to ask where we are?"
The ranger was startled by his lady Dove taking his head in both her hands and kissing him deeply. Through the faint lace of the firewine she'd been drinking in Storm's kitchen, her mouth seemed hot, her tongue like fire against his own.
Before Florin had time to feel real surprise, she drew back to look longingly into his eyes, their noses almost touching, and murmur, "Remember me always."
And she was gone, stepping back from him to stand with her back pressed against the nearest large strand- one of countless thousands within his view that rose like leafless trees in the misty, endless web. Spreading her arms and legs wide into a great X, Dove slapped them against the thrumming whiteness, her eyes steady on his.
Florin made a small sound of bewilderment and stepped forward, raising a hand toward her-even as she gasped, shivered, arched her back, and… went white all over, her curves thrumming like the strand she had become part of. The ranger watched his wife's face… and the rest of her
… melt into smooth featurelessness, in utter silence and within mere moments becoming no more than a suggestive prow on the strand.
And as quietly and easily as that, a Chosen of Mystra was gone.
Florin turned to Elminster, shaken. "My lady spoke as if she did not expect to see me again. So one or both of us will likely die here?"
"We all die, lad," the Old Mage said, peering into the distance with his two swords of twinkling stars raised and ready. "More than that, I cannot say."
Jhessail's sigh of exasperation was sharper than usual. "Where are we?"
"The Tshaddarna. What some call the 'Worlds of the Weave.'"
"Oh, well" Merith said, "that explains everything." The raven-haired moon elf drew his slender sword. Its silvery blade went sapphire-blue and started to thrum.
He gave it a look of disgust and set his jaw, marched up to Elminster, and stepped right in front of him, drawing himself erect to try to block the Old Mage's view with his own slender, leather-clad bulk. "Now just what, by Mystra's whispered secrets, is or are the Tshaddarna, and what does our being here mean? Straight answers for once, wizard."
"So the gentle and charming Strongbow has fangs, after all," Elminster observed, something that might have been a twinkle shining in his normal eye. The other one rippled like restless silver flame. "Lore useful to know."
"Something you have in plenty, Old Mage, and the rest of us lack," Merith snapped. "I'm tired and beyond tired of following you hither and yon, to places only the gods know or have forgotten, to do sweat-work while you smile and nod and tell us nothing. So speak, Elminster. What is this place, and why are we here?"
"The 'why' seldom changes, young Merith. Faerun needs saving so often these days."
The elf waited, but Elminster merely stepped back, saying no more.
Merith strode forward, after him and demanded, "Saving from what or whom this time? Plain truth, Elminster!"
"Trust not in magic," the wizard replied. "You've finally become wise folk, you Knights. You will know who to trust, and what to do."
He threw up his hands, his sparkling swords touching a great strand rising behind him and melting into it. In utter silence, sudden whiteness fell over Elminster like a curtain.
A moment later, the wizard was no more than a craggy bulge in the strand. Florin, Jhessail, and Merith stared at him-or what he'd become-and frowned at each other. Around them, everything seemed a brighter white, and the thrumming rose swifter and stronger.
With Elminster's dominance hidden, Florin's ruggedly handsome frame and kingly manner shone once more. The tall ranger drew his sword. "I hope," he said to Merith, "you weren't really expecting any answers."
"I never do," the dark-clad elf replied, with a grin as mirthless as that of any fox. "Not this last century, at least."
His wife rolled her eyes, but held her tongue.
The three Knights looked in all directions. The same drifting mist and endless forest of strands met their eyes everywhere.
After they tired of the view, the man and the elf turned to the woman between them. Their silent looks were requests for advice.
Merith's wife stared back at them both with her usually merry face twisted in thought, hands on hips and slender fingers stroking the pommel of her belt-dagger. Despite her elfin beauty and small stature, she'd become something of a stern mother to her fellow Knights over the years. Her large, gray-green eyes looked from one sword-companion to the other, and back again. They knew her well enough to let her think in silence.
She kicked one boot-heel against the smooth, flat white ground; an action that made no sound at all. Florin turned to survey the mists, so Merith watched his wife, enjoy the view. Above knee-high boots, her shapely legs were sheathed in tight, well-worn leather breeches. A broad leather belt gathered her tunic at her slender waist so its flying-free lower end flared like a short skirt around her thighs. Above the belt, a leather vest hid her chest behind a wall of mage-pouches, leather loops for hanging tools, and pockets. Jhess had gathered her long, unbound flame-brown hair into a mare's tail with a leather sleeve, and had left her staff behind in Storm's kitchen.
She reached a decision with an imperious flourish of her hand. "I'm reluctant to leave them," she told her fellow Knights, waving at the misshapen strands that held-or had been-Dove and Elminster. "If we leave this spot, we might never find it again… and what-ever's happened to them, are they not our most likely road home?"
Florin nodded and said, "One spot, in all this, seems no better than any other. I'm glad we'll know what to do- because as of right now, I haven't the flying faintest."
He went to one knee to put a cautious hand on the perfectly smooth, flat whiteness that served as the ground beneath their feet-so flat that his mind insisted it must be a "floor"-and waited for any change in its cool hardness.
None came. After a time Florin shrugged and sat down, setting his sword across his lap. "So we wait. Am I turning white?"
Merith shook his head. "Not even a little. But then, you're not a Chosen."
"
Look!" Jhessail hissed, pointing.
The two male Knights snapped their heads around in time to see it: a tall, dark figure of a woman, standing motionless in the distance with her back to them. She looked both human and-by her hair and the shape of her hips and shoulders-female, but there was something odd about her. Something… gaunt.
And she was gone, and there was nothing where she'd been standing but humming white strands and lazily-rolling mists.
"You didn't see her walk to that spot, did you?" Florin asked, hefting his sword.
"No," Jhessail told him. "I did happen to be looking thereabouts, and I tell you plain and true: She was not there-then she was there. As you saw her, standing still. Facing away from us. No walking, and as far as I saw, she never looked this way."
"Is this some sort of magical place," Merith mused, "that spellhurlers wink through when teleporting? Or casting some other sort of spell?"
"Your guess is as grand as any," Florin replied. "We'd best keep alert for more… visitors."
As if his words had been a cue, a large, dark figure towered over him, come out of nowhere. No gaunt woman, but half a man, its upper half floated in the air with nothing at all below its belt.
The helm that regarded Florin hung dark and empty, above great black-armored shoulders that shifted in menacing silence as long, mighty-thewed arms swung a black greatsword back-then down at the ranger.
Florin sprang aside into a roll that brought him to his feet, brushing through strands that wavered aside like breeze-plucked leaves, and whirled, blade rising In time to see Merith Strongbow's blade bite into the apparition's right vambrace with a curiously dull, muffled clang. No blood flew, but armor plate shattered and tumbled, and hacked flesh could be seen beneath. Gray skin over flesh, neither withered nor shriveled but dry, with no hint of blood.
The sinister thing whirled to face its new foe, snake-swift and showing no signs of pain. Merith raised long sword and dagger, wearing the gentle smile battle always brought onto his face-and Jhessail sprang at it from behind with her dagger raised.
"No!" Merith snapped, measuring his wife's meager leather vest against the fell length of that black great-sword, even as the floating thing spun around again to hew her down.
Florin, leaping high, put all of his weight behind a two-handed slash aimed at its gauntlets, but angled so he could hook his blade up its arms and into that empty helm where the face and throat should be.
His steel bit into what felt like leather with flesh and bone beneath, every whit as solid and heavy as the last living man-a Zhentilar spy-he'd carved. An armored finger flew, tumbling, the greatsword rang and shivered and spun after it, and his own blade sliced Empty air. There was nothing solid in that dark, staring helm, and nothing corporeal between it and the armored shoulders beneath. Nothing but Merith's long sword, striking a spark off Florin's blade as it came darting up through the empty armor from below.
So the thing was hollow, save for its arms. Merith's blade sliced viciously sideways inside the dark armor- and in uncanny silence one of those burly arms fell off the floating thing, plunging to the smooth whiteness underfoot. It bounced once, Jhessail dodging aside, and… faded away-presumably to the same place the severed finger and the greatsword had gone.
Florin had no time to do more than glance around at his footing and see not a trace of them-the sinister thing's remaining arm came at him like a flying lance. Dark and terrible, its black-gauntleted fingers reached as if to grab.
As it loomed and he fought to bring his blade up before him and back in time to hew it aside, Florin saw tiny mouths open in the tips of its fingers, maws ringed with little fangs like those of blood-bats, opening to snap at his eyes.
Jhessail hissed in disgust and worked a spell. Whatever she tried to hurl turned into rippling silver flames in the air just beyond her fingertips, fire that snarled vainly toward the armored thing, but dwindled and faded before Florin could even draw breath.
Merith's blade bit into the silent thing's helm, but seemed not to bother it in the slightest. Old steel, it must be, and soft. Very old steel.
Old steel that still reached for Florin with chill patience, swooping around to his other flank, that chorus of tiny fangs gnashing and clattering. Merith pursued it, whipping his blade around sidearm like a flail, hacking until fingertips flew. Florin Falconhand leaned into the heart of that singing steel and slid his own stout sword home, deep between the fingers and up the arm behind, armor plates rippling.
Still no blood, but unseen force shoved against him until his hilt fetched up against spasming fingers. Merith grinned as he pruned fingers-and winced back from the sudden flood of sparks that marked Jhessail's dagger-thrust through the open front of the helm into the baleful nothingness there.
The dark armor tumbled away, falling and fading at once. With a faint clank and rattle it was gone, leaving three panting Knights facing each other across unmarked, smooth whiteness, ringed by apparently curious mists.
"What was it?" Jhessail asked, a little wild-eyed. She worked her fingers as if she could still feel something, around the hilt of a dagger that was clouded as if with frost.
Merith shrugged. "Now, do I look like Elminster?" he teased.
Florin, who was darting glances in all directions, took time enough to eye the white semi-statue he knew to be the Old Mage, and frowned. "You will know who to trust, and what to do," he murmured. "I think not."
Suddenly he was staring into the glittering eyes of a skull-faced man in robes who'd just winked into visibility among the strands off to his right.
" 'Ware!" he snapped, hefting his sword, but before the word had quite left his lips the lich-if that's what it had truly been-was gone.
Jhessail tossed her head, nodding to tell Florin she'd seen it too, and backed her hips toward his even before the ranger commanded, "Back to back! That thing could reappear any-"
"Naeth," Merith cursed, as quite a different undead man-one wearing a crown askew on its yellowed skull, and an armored tabard of arcane design-blinked into existence not ten paces away. It gave them a cold stare 'ere it vanished again, just as suddenly.
"Knights!" Jhessail cried, and in response two swords whistled past her shoulders to bite where her dagger couldn't reach.
The lich that had just appeared-a female with blackened teeth dropping like shed pearls from sagging jaws as she reared back from clawing at Jhessail to avoid the two points of thrumming steel-tried to smile, her head twisted to one side and wobbling sickeningly, before she winked out of existence again.
"D'you think our presence here is drawing them?" Merith asked, swinging back to his former position, to peer again into mists all around, his blade up and ready.
"I wouldn't doubt it," Florin replied. "Things seem… whiter, somehow, just here."
"And spreading out from here," Merith added.
"Spreading from Dove and Elminster," Jhessail murmured. "I'd like to know why they did-whatever they did, bonding with these strands."
"I think they're… powering this place, somehow, or augmenting its forces… or something," Merith muttered.
"Thank you, sage most learned," Florin chuckled. "Yet I find I must agree. That musing feels right, somehow. That thing we fought, and the liches, are probably drawn to El and my lady-love, not we three."
"But why?" Jhessail hissed, almost weary. "What is this place?"
Something arose out of a drift of mists at her feet and soared steadily upright. She almost stabbed at it 'ere she saw sapphire-blue hair, elfin features, and a smile that she could only term "tender."
"This is a place only the Weave can reach, now," a musical voice replied. "Well met, Knights of Myth Dran-nor. Be welcome. You are needed. You see, there are liches-and there are liches."
This apparition was certainly easier on the eyes than the others. The three Knights beheld an elf of dainty stature, curvaceous and yet so slender as to be wasp-waisted, with a glorious fall of rich sapphire-blue hair, eyes like beaten gold, and that gen
tle smile. She wore a tur-quoise-and-moonstone girdle around her hips, leggings of turquoise shimmerweave, and a matching breastplate trimmed with golden teardrops. Her skin was a pale tan, and her tiny hands were empty and… fading, going swiftly translucent and… she was gone again, leaving only mists behind.
Jhessail sighed. "So 'there are liches-and there are liches.' As my life unfolds, I increasingly find that I hate cryptic utterances and mysterious puzzles. Would it not be easier and more efficient for all if folk simply spoke plainly?"
She turned to her mate, only to find Merith staring past her at Florin, his eyes wide with wonder. "Was that-?"
Florin nodded once. "You think so, too?"
Whatever else any of the Knights might have gone on to say then was dashed into forgetfulness forever by another looming apparition, appearing out of a sudden swirl of mists between Florin and Jhessail.
They found themselves close enough to smell its whiff of herbs and faint decay, and brought their blades up.
It was an elf taller than Florin, retreating swiftly even before their warsteel menaced it, gliding back from between the ranger and the mage as it cast glances of silent alarm at all three Knights, out of eyes that were two glowing white motes in deep, hollow sockets.
It looked… dead, its skin faint blue and shriveled. In clawlike hands it clutched a fell scepter, nigh as long as one of its legs, that whispered of stored magic. It wore an ornate tabard of archaic design over robes of white silk that age had darkened to black in every crease and curl. The Knights of Myth Drannor had met baelnorn before, and knew it for what it was.
Merith bowed and spoke to it in the tongue of elves, adding the lilts and nourishes he'd heard the eldest of his kin use: "Revered Guardian, we are well met, for there is no quarrel between us. We stray and are lost, and would fain know: What is this place, and what guard you here?"
Any elf who has a right eye of blue and a left one of green, as Merith did, was used to sharp and appraising glances from other elves, but he was sure it was his speech that earned him the hard stare, and the muttered reply, "I guard the Weaving of Raulauve, and you should not be here, thaes. Yet I begin to think I should not be here, for I feel the Weaving but faintly. What is this place?"
The Realms of the Elves a-11 Page 23