by Ed Greenwood
Erlandar shook his head in exasperation. Storm helped herself to the haunch—one of her favorites—generously. “No, I didn’t, lady, but frankly I care not. Elven men aren’t likely to be high on my list of conquests—or anyone else, for that matter, if this shapeshifter decides to slaughter me! What else can you tell us about … well, Shayna, and just what this foe can do?”
“Our foe can somehow drink knowledge and abilities—spells he can cast, for instance—from his victims. This power has something to do with the burnt-out state of the bodies we’ve found,” Storm told them. “As to Shayna—well, she refers to this shapeshifter as her ‘Master,’ and can talk mind to mind with him … presumably another power he’s gained.”
“You said he had her in thrall,” the wizard Insprin said quietly. “Can this foe do the same thing to the rest of us?”
Storm shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said, “but surely his killings could be fewer, and he could show himself less, if he could control anyone from a distance.”
“Azoun’s eyes,” the understeward announced, carefully not meeting Storm’s gaze.
“What’s ‘Azoun’s eyes’?” Corathar whispered, eyeing the steaming tureen set down in front of him.
“Oysters in spiced ale,” Storm told him, leaning forward conspiratorially.
Erlandar’s gaze went involuntarily to the pectoral gleaming on her breast—and his eyes narrowed. “That jewelry you’re wearing … isn’t it the same design as one I see often on Queen Filfaeril?”
“Yes,” Storm told him, filling a bowl with a hearty helping of Azoun’s eyes. “It bears some magical defenses.”
“Such as?” Thalance asked.
Storm smiled thinly. “It’s unwise to reveal such things when anyone may be your foe, but I’ll show you just one.” She pushed back the sleeve of her open shirt, unbuckled the dagger strapped to her forearm, and fastened it high up by her shoulder, to hold the sleeve up.
Extending her bare arm out across the table, she said gently, “My Lord Erlandar, I know that the death of Pheirauze troubles you—and you ache to have something to smite and carve with your sword. So strike at me now, with all your strength and savagery!”
Erlandar frowned at her. “This is—not right, lady,” he said in protest, shaking his head.
“Please,” Storm said. “Thalance needs to see a little magic.”
She held up her other hand in warning. “Only pray balance yourself, as if you might miss, to avoid a fall.”
Erlandar stood up, still frowning at her, and his blade slowly slid out. “It’s a trick, then—the magic will make me miss.”
“Try to cut my arm off,” Storm replied gravely, “and you’ll see. You will not be harmed.”
Erlandar shrugged, and then raised his blade. With a smooth lift of his shoulders, he swept his blade down in a cut across her forearm. The steel slid through her flesh as if it were empty air, and left no wound behind. Her arm was untouched. Thalance stared at it in fascination.
“An ironguard,” Broglan said, and Storm nodded. “Try again, Erlandar—really hack; you’ll feel better.”
The eldest Summerstar man gave her a hard look, and then growled and swung his blade down again, hacking and hewing like a man possessed. In the midst of the flashing steel the understeward came in at the head of another line of servers, glided to a stop, and waited politely until Erlandar lowered his blade, panting—and Storm withdrew her unmarked arm.
“Old coins,” Thurdal announced gravely, setting down the lead platter.
When the servers had done the same and turned away, Corathar leaned forward and whispered, “Right—what’re ‘old coins’?”
“Egg, cheese, and marrow pies,” Storm and Insprin told him, more or less in unison. The bard was still standing, calmly rolling her sleeve down, when the unmistakable crack of a crossbow firing echoed across the hall—followed by the loud, rising thrum of a streaking quarrel.
With an angry buzz, it zipped between Thalance and Broglan, burst right through Storm’s body, and splintered against the far wall. Everyone at the table whirled around—except Thalance, who kept his awed eyes on the lady bard. Storm herself was already gazing at her would-be slayer.
Everyone else saw a Purple Dragon hurl down his crossbow and flee, the doors banging wide in his wake. The passage beyond was strewn with the bodies of other guards.
“Gentlesirs, the foe,” Storm announced calmly.
The doors at the other end of the hall, behind them, burst open, and the boldshield hastened in with his sword drawn, Purple Dragons all around him. They glanced quickly around the tables and then ran on down the hall, toward their dead comrades.
As if in unspoken accord, everyone at table turned to look at Storm. She was unhurt, no mark left in her breast—where the pectoral glittered almost tauntingly. Calmly buckling her dagger back into place, she looked up and said brightly, “Oh, did I forget to mention that this collection of baubles is also a protection against missiles?”
“Gods, lady,” Erlandar growled, “you’re a laughing lunatic to top all!”
Storm tossed her head as she shook her sleeve back down into place. “I fear so. Folk always seem to remember my kinder side, and forget what an imp I am.” She bowed to them gravely, and added, “My apologies.”
There was a general shout of relieved laughter. The understeward glided serenely into the midst of it to announce, “Marsemban tarts, roast pheasant, and roast quail in a sauce of cheese, saffron, and white wine.”
“All right,” Corathar said disgustedly. “What are Marsemban tarts?”
There were chuckles, and Erlandar rose, said grandly, “May I? Pastries topped with parsley and potato, containing diced salmon and crab in a sauce of almond milk, wine, leeks, and persimmons.”
There was a smattering of applause—but then, there were few diners left to give it. Erlandar and Storm both sat down.
The old Summerstar noble said, “I must thank you, lady, for making what I feared would be a grim meal indeed into something … entertaining.”
Storm shrugged. “Death comes for us all, and unpleasantness, too,” she told him, filling her glass with amberheart sherry. “Some of us are given very little time to live, so why not enjoy all we can and share that joy with others? It’s better than melancholy moping, to be sure!”
“Magely philosophy?” Broglan asked with a smile.
Storm shrugged. “I’m more an adventurer than I am an all-knowing sorceress, Broglan. Far from it; Mystra wants her Chosen not to be tower-girded tome-studiers.” She saw Insprin and Corathar leaning forward again in keen interest, and added, “It’s Mystra’s Way to let us all forge our own paths in life; we know only what we can learn ourselves … and I’ve spent far more time with a sword in my hand down the years, than a spellbook.”
Broglan nodded slowly. “Do you … speak of such things often?”
Storm shook her head. “Only with Harpers—or, most recently, with the foe, as we fought,” she told him. There were gasps and dropped jaws up and down the table.
Erlandar swore. “Gods, but you’re a cool one,” he murmured, shaking his head and reaching for his decanter.
“I’m not, you know,” Storm told him intently, her tone making him look up and meet her gaze. “I’ve just had more years of learning control and acting than the rest of you.”
“Chicken livers in spiced cream broth,” the understeward said then.
Corathar made a face. Thalance ignored the tureen placed before him. Erlandar, Insprin, and Broglan, however, lifted the lids and ladled out generous portions.
As soon as her first spoonful touched her lips, Storm waved her arms and snarled, “Don’t eat this!” Insprin dropped his spoon, and Broglan spat out the spoon that had just entered his mouth. Erlandar—who’d just swallowed—stared at her in horror.
“Oh, Mystra aid me!” Storm moaned in exasperation, and dived over the table, scattering dishes and decanters in all directions.
Erlandar was already tu
rning purple around the lips when she leapt on him, knocking noble and chair over with a crash and coming down on top of him. In frantic haste, she glued her lips to his and called forth the silver fire. She’d just have to hope the foe didn’t test the barrier now.…
He didn’t, thank the gods. The Summerstar noble bucked and squirmed under her, trying to speak. He then fell still, and slowly raised his hands to cradle her in his arms, as tenderly as any lover.
When Storm lifted her head from his at last, he was grinning at her, eyes shining. She gave him a slap and rolled off him.
“You old rogue,” she said affectionately. She looked up to the others. “Let those livers be cast into the braziers without delay! What’s in them could kill anyone who takes a mouthful. An earlier dish held poison meant just for me, but this time it seems the foe decided to leave me as alone as he could, by eliminating everyone else.
“Corathar, please hasten to the boldshield and tell him two things: he must check on the Lady Zarova without delay—and he must consider the understeward dead, and anyone who looks like him to be … the foe.”
As the young wizard hurried from the room, Erlandar looked up at her with something like worship in his eyes. She reached out a hand and hauled him to his feet.
“Consider yourself honored, Lord Summerstar,” Storm told him. “You’re one of the few mortals to taste the divine fire of Mystra—and live.”
“Lady,” the old noble said huskily, “I shall worship the Mother Of All Magic henceforth, to my dying day.”
“Dare we touch anything else on our plates,” Broglan asked faintly, “or is it too late?”
Storm spread her hands. “Poison’s not so easy to get or make as some think, but I doubt … well, let me taste a bit of everything, and then you can eat and drink all you like.”
“Right now, Lady Storm,” Insprin said heavily, “that won’t be much. What with crossbow bolts, and men lying dead by yonder door, poison on our platters, and the fire of Our Holy Lady of Spells, I’m … no longer hungry.”
There was a general rumble of agreement.
Thalance grinned and said, “I feel a trifle ill, lady—kiss me?”
“Perhaps later,” Storm told him with a grin. “I’m still hungry.”
Broglan’s eyes narrowed. “This silver fire,” he asked, “it can’t sustain you while it’s holding that barrier, can it? You have to eat, to stay strong enough to go on—that’s it, isn’t it?”
Storm’s eyes met his gravely. “Broglan, you see far too well for your own safety. Say nothing of this, any of you—or the foe will know of another gap in my armor.”
“There’s something else I should tell you, lady,” Broglan said awkwardly. “We kept Athlan’s notes from you. Frankly they don’t hold much of use. They were largely what any novice mageling would write of his discoveries, plus a lot of dream visions, and—”
Storm frowned and held up a staying hand. “Did he dream a lot about dragons watching him?”
“Why, yes,” the war wizard replied, matching her frown. “Do you know what it meant?”
Storm shrugged. “No. Not yet. Please say on.”
“Well, the only thing we found of real interest is a few passages about the subsumption you spoke of—stealing powers from beings one kills. It seems that, long ago, Athlan discovered instructions for gaining this ability—instructions we can’t find. He wrote that he found the process in notes made by a mad recluse, Glondar of Hilp, once a war wizard of Cormyr.”
“And where did Glondar learn of it?” Storm asked softly.
Remembering, Insprin shook his head and shivered. The bard glanced at him, and then back at Broglan.
The leader of the war wizards looked grave. “Ah. Well. Glondar claimed, or so Athlan writes, to have come upon it in notes left by men he came to believe were avatars of two gods: Gargauth and … Bane.”
* * * * *
In a chamber of dank darkness, sudden light flickered and glowed, eddying about a motionless figure slumped on a stone bench. Cold laughter arose as the radiance settled down to a steady glow.
“Soon,” a tentacled thing told the slumped man. “Soon you’ll be ready, my Hungry Man. And then—” His voice rose and danced with glee. “Then it will be time—” He chortled and began to shuffle about the room, the shape of his body flickering and changing wildly. “Time to feed!”
The cold laughter rose again, high and sharp, echoing around the chamber until it rolled out through the empty passages and rooms of the Haunted Tower.
After a moment, another sound joined it. Slobbering, the Hungry Man began laughing, too.
Thirteen
DRAGONS IN THE KEEP
“All of this is edible,” Storm said, looking at the grim-faced men around her. “Take it, just as it is, to some place in the keep you can defend. Go to the pantries and take what raw foodstuffs you can find, too. You’ll need water more than anything. Erlandar, where in Firefall Keep are a few secure rooms—no secret passages and no cracked walls or ill-fitting doors? The rooms must have water, and space enough to improvise a privy.”
Lord Summerstar frowned, looked at Thalance, and then said, “Well, there’s a pump-room by the kitchens.…”
He looked a question, but Thalance shrugged. “The only other pumps I know of are by the stables. There’re wells in the Haunted Tower and in the courtyard, but I don’t suppose we could defend either of those.”
“The kitchens it’ll have to be, then,” Storm said, “but try to choose rooms that you can’t be smoked out of if our foe sets the ovens or pantries alight with everything that’ll burn.”
“So we build ourselves a cage and cower in it,” Thalance said, acquiring a frown of his own. “I can see how that’ll prevent this shapeshifter from catching us alone … but doesn’t that give him free run of the keep, and keep us all in a known space he can hurl magic into whenever he pleases?”
Storm nodded. “All of that, yes. Consider warriors expendable—as most Purple Dragons already believe their commanders do—but necessary to guard the few war wizards we have left.”
Thalance glanced at the two mages, wondered briefly what horrible fate might have already befallen the third. “And what will they be doing?”
“Trying to identify and keep track of our foe by means of wizard eye spells, so that I can shrink down my barrier around him and put him in a trap. This won’t be quick or easy, especially after he guesses or learns what we’re trying to do. The mages will need to sleep in shifts and be watched over constantly … we don’t know how far the foe’s mind powers can reach.”
“Into our midst, you mean,” old Insprin said calmly.
Storm nodded.
Broglan shook his head. “I don’t like it,” he said, looking around at the tureens and platters, “but I can’t see any better way of doing things. We should act like we’re taking this food back to the kitchens to start with, and all go to these rooms together. Then we’ll have to shuttle our spellbooks and all down from our rooms.”
He looked at the two Summerstars, and added, “If I may presume to give orders to you two, my lords, you’re going to have to learn how to use wands that hurl magic missiles, so that you can defend us while we’re packing up, dismantling, and such.”
Thalance and Erlandar both nodded soberly. “We can take orders,” the younger Lord Summerstar said quietly. “I’m just glad to have some sort of plan to follow, at last.”
He looked down at the silver-haired woman at their feet, where she was settling the last lid onto a tureen, and asked, “Lady Storm, will you lead us?”
“No,” she said, rising smoothly. “I have to go and think—and, to cover all of you, hunt shapeshifters while I’m at it.” She smiled at them all, and then said briskly, “I believe that side table over there, if you upend it, can bear all the food at once; if two of you carry it like a litter, the rest can guard. Just remember to set it down at once if you’re attacked.”
“You’re going off by yourself?” Broglan aske
d. “Lady, is that wise?”
Storm rolled her eyes at him. “Broglan, if I’d stuck to what was ‘wise’ down the years, I’d be long dead. Mystra would have given up on me, and I’d have lived and died a house drudge in some village or other in the North, safe and growing daily more bent and crabbed and frustrated. If I were wise, I’d never have come here—I’d have stayed safely at home working on my farm until word came that Cormyr was awash in blood, and the king and Lord Vangerdahast were able to change their shapes at will, and the realm was whelming for war! Speak to me not of ‘wise,’ all right?”
“Yes,” Thalance told Insprin, “she’s definitely a marchioness.”
“Definitely,” the thin, gray-haired elder wizard agreed.
“Right,” Storm said. “Be about it, then. Broglan, before the lot of you leave this chamber, tell Ergluth or whichever officer is at the doors where you’re going—and ask him to tell Corathar where to find you when he returns.” She started away.
Storm turned, silver hair swirling about her shoulders, and added, “Of course, bear in mind that when you see him again, it might be the foe walking into your midst—but then again, it might just be a scared young mage, of lesser powers than the rest of us.”
“I’ll test him by asking about his noble past,” Erlandar offered.
“If the foe can take the memories of those he slays,” Storm reminded him, “he already has those of Athlan, and Pheirauze, and the gods know who else in this kingdom!”
“Get gone,” Broglan growled, “before you raise our spirits too high, and make us overconfident!”
They chuckled hollowly, and Storm turned away again.
Thalance watched her go and murmured, “There goes a woman I’d go on my knees to wed …”
“After me, boy,” Erlandar told him. “I’m th—”
“No,” Broglan said firmly from beside them, startling them both into silence. “After me.”
* * * * *
With unhurried confidence, the Bard of Shadowdale strode past the guards—after all, if your enemy can be anywhere, why run? She went up the first flight of stairs she found, and then down the next staircase toward the cellars, only to double back and climb again. There was an unused closet she’d seen on her way to the fire … a gown-room, by the looks of it.