by Unknown
name `Calauthas' in your modifying incantations, you can control Thraun from a distance-an absolute
control that compels the lich lord's nature. If you choose to do this through a lesser mage whose mind
you control, you can even command the lich lord without its knowing who you are."
"So Thraun, who doubtless intends to destroy us all when it regains spellfire, becomes our helpless
pawn. A nice twist." The High Lord of Zhentil Keep took two thoughtful paces across the gleaming
marble, and then looked up again.
"The time to use Thraun is not yet," he said. "To gather our mages or to have the lich lord widely seen
will arouse Fzoul's suspicions. If you agree, I'll send a mageling to serve Thraun, a wizard this lich lord
believes it can easily destroy-but one whose mind I control. We tell Thraun our difficulties in capturing
Shandril continue, and it's best not to reveal a lich lord whom others may fear and attack, unless we
have the maid in hand."
"I have noticed," the larger beholder observed, "that the priests of our Brotherhood regard all undead as
things to be either their slaves or swiftly destroyed."
Manshoon nodded. "That is why there have always been very few liches in the Brotherhood." He began
to pace again. "If Thraun grows restive, or Shandril eludes us for too long, we allow it to go after her--
exerting our control only when necessary."
The beholders drifted toward the dark hole, and the false window began to slide out over it again. "We
are agreed," the larger eye tyrant said simply. "This meeting ends."
"We are agreed," the two wizards echoed, "and this meeting ends." They stood together in silence and
watched the dragon window settle back into place.
Manshoon looked at Sarhthor. "Useful news."
"If kept secret, Lord. As it shall be." Their eyes met for a long moment-dark, steady eyes set in
expressionless faces.
Then Manshoon nodded and turned away. They strode together across the marble to where the unseen
gate waited to take them back to the High Hall of Zhentil Keep.
"One thing occurs to me," Sarhthor said thoughtfully, a pace or two before Manshoon would have
vanished. The high lord looked back at him silently.
"Others use this place besides us," the wizard said. "If I were to leave a tracing spell behind to record
changes in Art, we'd know precisely what castings had been done here between our meetings. No
spying magic could escape our notice."
Manshoon was already nodding. "Do it." He turned away and disappeared.
Left alone in the chamber, Sarhthor took a few steps back the way he had come, and then cast a spell
with quick, precise movements. A faint, sparkling radiance seemed to gather out of nowhere to coil
around his wrists and then leap outward in all directions, streaming away until it faded back into
nothingness. Wearing the faintest of smiles, the wizard looked slowly around the chamber, turned on
his heel, took a few strides, and vanished in his turn. Silence fell.
Then the marble floor seemed to ripple and flow, like the farthest tongues of water that waves throw up
onto the sands of a beach. Gathering in one corner behind a tapestry, the ripples rose up smoothly into a
man-sized pillar, spun for a moment, and sharpened into the form of a tall, thin, bearded man in plain,
rather shabby, homespun robes.
Elminster of Shadowdale dusted himself off, looked around with a critical eye at the glowing tapestries,
and then stared thoughtfully up at the dragon window. Scratching his beard, he grunted, "Tis high time,
indeed ... for certain folk to set down their harps and get their hands dirty. Again. Just as its time old
Elminster got walked all over, again. Tis not the first time, this tenday, the world's needed saving."
Three
SWORDS GATHERED IN THE SHADOWS
Stormy weather is always with us, somewhere in Faerun. Beneath it, all too often, swords are out, the
hand that wields one seeking to bury it in the body that wields another Part of the way of things as the
gods order, perhaps-or just the way of all of us flawed beings who walk this world I fear I'll never see a
day when no swords will be drawn-or needed. But then, perhaps my sight fails too soon.
Alustriel, High Lady of Silverymoon
To Harp and to Help
Year of the Deep Moon
It was, as the minstrels say, a bright and beautiful morning in the forest. Birds sang and swooped in the
branches as three Zhentilar warriors, whose faces and backs ran with sweat, bent to their work.
Grunting under its weight, they lowered the stout frame of wooden poles into the pit where they stood.
"How're we to know she'll come this way? Aye?"
"Not our worry, Guld." The swordmaster's voice came from above them at the lip of the pit. "We're just
swordarms. When the cover's done, we just hide by it and wait with blades out and that's exactly how
Lord Manshoon said it."
The swordmaster had meant to awe them into silence with his last words, but the three sweating men-
now climbing out of the pit and struggling to drag the dirt-andbrush-covered wooden lid properly onto
the greased axlepole-were young. They still owned tongues that wagged faster than the muzzle applied
by prudence would allow.
"What makes high-an'-mighty Manshoon think we can do what he couldn't? Him with a dragon and all
his spells and wands, too!"
"He obviously knows your true worth better than I do, Alorth." The swordmaster's tone was biting.
Guld bent to slide the thin twigs into the sockets provided for them, taking care. The branches would
hold the trap-cover up until this Shandril's weight was on it. Giving the last one an extra tap, he looked
up, wiping sweat and hair out of his eyes. "Seriously, Sir: what leads Lord Manshoon to send swords
against this lass, where spells fail?"
Swordmaster Bluth bent his critical gaze on the finished pit trap, watching as Alorth spread a basketful
of earth and leaves over its edges, kicking them into place with a practiced boot.
Then Bluth shrugged and looked up. "We're only intended to wear this Shandril down so she's tired and
hurt and has used most of her spellfire before the magelings attack her. I'd like to surprise a few
wizards, though, by capturing her ourselves."
"Ourselves being those of us who're still alive, you mean." Alorth's voice was hard. "Why attack her at
all if we're just going to our deaths? Why not leave her for the wizards-tell them she's slipped past us
somehow?"
The swordmaster walked all around the pit trap and nodded his acceptance; it was well-concealed. He
stepped back to look at the trees around, searching for any signs they might have left of their presence,
then replied, "Duty, lad. Duty to orders. It's what we live for-and die for."
"So lords can sit safe in their towers," Alorth replied bitterly.
Bluth turned a cold eye on him. "Dangerous talk, Alorth. Taking the venomed dagger of your tongue to
the plans and deeds of your betters is a sport that was oldand deadly-long before you were born."
He looked around one last time, and then drew his sword and said to the other men briskly, "Best we
get dressed again and ready. If the other lads do their work as well as we have, they'll be here soon."
"I'm done, Shan." Narm shut his spellbook with a snap. "Mighty magic once more up my sleeves."
"At least you're not as overblown about it as most mages," Delg said, looking up at him. "Though
/>
you're not much better than most of 'em at walking, or cooking, or digging latrines ... or anything else
much useful. ."
"Delg!" Shandril and Narm protested together. The dwarf laughed and settled his bulging pack on his
sboulders. As usual, he carried far more than his larger companions.
"We'd best be off before some more Zhents find us," he said merrily. "North as before, then?"
Shandril shrugged. "You know better than I. Lead on." Without further words, the dwarf set off into the
waiting woods.
"How do you feel today, love?" Narm's voice was low. Shandril gave him a smile. "Better than I have
since we left Shadowdale. About time, too-it's a long way to Silverymoon. From what Storm said, if we
walk and have to avoid Zhents more than once or twice, winter could well find us before we're halfway
there."
"See Faerun," Narm said, gesturing at the trees around them. "Know high adventure. Meet strange and
fearsome beasts, the like few folk have ever seen-"
"And slay them." Shandril's voice was wry. She seemed to be looking at something far away. "I never
dreamt, back at the Moon, that when I finally got my taste of adventure, it would mean I went around
burning powerful wizards and veteran warriors to ash-and that the Cult of the Dragon, the Zhentarim,
and just about everyone else I met would attack me."
Narm hastened to head off her darkening mood. "Who else your age, though, has fought dragons-
undead dragons, even-and lived?"
He caught his lady by the shoulders, eyes dancing, and went on jovially, "Has been rude to Elminster
the Sageand lived? Blasted Manshoon of Zhentil Keep and the dragon he rode out of the sky, and sent
them fleeing for home? Blown up entire castles? Made friends with the Harpers, with Elminster, and
with the Knights of Myth Drannor? Walked the ruined streets of Myth Drannor, that folk all over
Faerun talk of?"
Shandril smiled ruefully. "Yes, and hasn't had a spare moment to draw breath, yet alone enjoy any of
it."
"You married me-and seemed to enjoy that," Narm protested in mock hurt.
"She must have been deaf, then," Delg put in, ahead of them. 'Me way you babble day and night
through." Narm favored the dwarf with a certain rude sputtering noise made by small children
throughout Faerun. "You'll have to be a little closer to kiss me, lad," the dwarf replied, eyes twinkling.
Then his face grew more grave. "Shan-are you having thoughts against this journey?"
Shandril shook her head. "No-whatever I do, danger waits for me or comes looking. At least if I'm
going somewhere, I have the feeling I'm doing something rather than just running from the latest
attack." She looked at them both and spread her hands. "If 1 wasn't trying to get to Silverymoon-even if
it doesn't turn out to be a friendly haven-I'd be dead by now. I'd have surrendered, just to be free of
always running and worrying and fighting. I'm so sick of it all-I could scream!"
Fire danced in Shandril's eyes for a moment, and then died away, leaving her expression empty, her
eyes like two dark, despairing pits. "I do scream," she added, voice unsteady, "when I have to use
spellfire--cursing the gods for playing this jest on me."
Delg squinted up at her. "Others have cursed the humor of the gods, lass, even among the dwarves-but
I've heard elders tell them the gods jest with us all, and we are measured by how we deal with what
befalls. Of course, you want to be free of all who harry you. Who in Faerun wouldn't?"
He shifted his heavy pack on his shoulders and added, "More than that: I'd be sad if one so young and
inexperienced as you had already decided exactly what she'd do her entire life through ... because she'd
have to be a fool to be so certain about so little."
"My thanks, Delg-I think," Shandril told him a little stiffly.
And then she shrieked. Out of nowhere, something slim and dark tore through the air, leaping past her
breast to crash into the leaves beyond.
Delg put his head down and charged bruisingly into Shandril_ As they crashed into the damp, dead
leaves together, the dwarf snarled, "Down!" in Narm's direction.
With the hum of an angry hornet, another bolt tore through the air close overhead, and then another.
Narm rolled amid dead leaves nearby, cursing.
Shandril fought for breath as Delg wriggled and grunted beside her, shucking his pack, tearing his
shield free, and getting his arm into the straps. His axe flashed past her nose as he hefted it.
"The Zhents again!" the dwarf hissed, peering into the trees. "There!"
He pointed. Shandril rolled onto hands and knees and came up beside his hairy hand, looking along the
pointing finger-and into the eyes of a Zbent who was loading a cocked crossbow.
From the leaves beside them, Narm muttered something. Two pulses of light leapt from his hand,
streaking through the trees. The man grunted as they hit, staggering and dropping his bow.
Shandril saw others behind him, and rose to her feet, pointing. Spellfire roared down her arm, shaking
her, and white flames shot out through the trees like the breath of a furious red dragon. Leaves blazed
and then were gone. Halfway to the Zhents a tree was burned through by the roaring flames. It toppled
slowly, and crashed ponderously among the dead leaves.
Sbandril snarled and raised her other hand.
Delg caught her arm from behind. "No, Shan!" Then he cursed and shrank back from her, clutching at
his hand. Shandril stared at him in shock. Smoke was rising in wisps from the dwarf's fingers; he shook
his hand, roared out his pain, and looked up at her, eyes bright with tears.
"Remind me not to do that again soon," he growled, flexing his burned fingers. Then he nodded at
where she'd aimed. "You daren't do that in these heavy woods, lass-look."
A burnt scar stretched away through the trees from where she stood, to where a tangle of trees had
fallen. Shandril stared along her path of destruction, face bleak, and saw dark-armored figures moving
amid the trees beyond it.
The dwarf hesitated, then reluctantly reached out and caught at her arm again. This time no ready
spellfire burned him. "Too many. We must run from them, lass-if you use your fire freely, all these
woods'll soon be ablaze around us."
They could see Zhent warriors, blades drawn, in the trees to their right and ahead of them. The Zhents
were advancing cautiously, moving in as a group so as to arrive together, their blades a deadly wall of
steel.
Delg couldn't see any foes to their left. He heaved his pack back onto his shoulders, hung his shield on
it, commanded, "Come!" and broke into a lumbering run, heading to the left.
Narm and Shandril followed, hurrying through the trees. They heard shouts behind them and broke into
a panting run. Narm skidded to a halt, waved his hands hurriedly, and then scrambled to catch up with
his lady.
Close behind him-too close-Zhentilar soldiers cursed and struggled in the invisible spellweb the young
mage had left for them to blunder into.
Shandril looked anxiously back every time her route through the thick-standing trees turned to one side
or the other. Narm grinned at her between gasps for air as he closed the distance between them,
sprinting and leaping as he'd done as a small boy-and never since, until now.
That invisible web Elminster had taught him had come in very handy. A few Zhents must have gotten
had better be long gone.
Narm reached Shandril's side. They crashed wildly through leaves and tangles, leaping over rocks and
fallen branches and slipping on mud and wet leaves underfoot while the dwarf huffed along ahead of
them, completely hidden under his pack. The bulging rucksack looked like it was running away by
itself, leaping and scuttling through the leaves.
With aching lungs and pounding hearts, Narm and Shandril followed, plunging down a slope of old
leaves and soft mosses that gave way and slid under their feet. Soon they reached the bottom of a leaf-
choked gully, and ran along it, gathering speed with the easier footing. Their route looked like an old,
sunken road hidden below the overhanging trees, cutting through a ridge ahead and then dropping out
of sight.
The pack that hid Delg bobbed and wiggled as it fairly flew along ahead of Narm and Shandril, but
their longer legs were beginning to close the distance to the huffing dwarf. Now he was only thirty
paces or so in front of them. Narm growled and put on a determined burst of speed.
Twenty paces ahead. Ten.
There was a sharp cracking sound-and then another. The ground in front of Delg rose suddenly, like the
drawbridge of a keep, and the two puffing humans saw the bulky pack slip back down its slope. Delg's
axe flashed for a moment as he waved it-and then the dwarf and his pack fell out of sight.
Narm and Shandril came to a shocked halt on the very edge of the pit Delg had fallen into, and they
clutched at each other for balance. Delg lay helpless like an upended turtle atop a forest of wooden
spikes that had pierced the pack he wore. Shandril looked over her shoulder to find a vine to drag Delg
out, but just then, four Zhentarim soldiers with drawn swords rose from behind the trees, atop the banks
of the gully.
"Surrender to us," one said heavily, "or-"
Shandril didn't want to hear the choice, it seemed. With a scream very like the angry shriek of a harpy,
she hurled spellfire in a fury. White flames leapt forth, roaring; when they died away, the Zhents