by Unknown
Illistyl, who had seen but nineteen winters herselfrather less than the Lady Shaerl-smiled tolerantly.
"Impetuous action being the province of the very young and the very old, my lord?" she asked, eyes all
too innocent.
Elminster snorted. "Now girl, grant ye I could sit here happily amid books and all and let the Realms be
hurled down and laid waste around me, but 'tis not impetuous nor foolish to lift a hand to prevent such
a thing. Some of thy deeds, and those of thy fellow Knights, may be hastily thought on or taken at
whim, but I do consider acts ere I take them-consider them well, as all sh-"
"Aye, aye," Mistyl interrupted him smoothly. "I shall, I shall. As ever." She patted the Old Mage's arm.
"I would be more at ease if most of us weren't galloping all over the Dales, distracting those hunting for
spellfire ... and if Dove and Jhessail could spare more time from their little ones, though I know that
above all we must keep such younglings safe. Alone, I can give Mourngrym little aid if aught
demanding power or influence should befall."
Elminster's eyes were briefly moist. Her softly spoken, archaic words had reminded him of a young
maid he had stood with long ago, as beautiful and as skilled in Art, a lady now only ashes. Too many
young lasses laughed only in his memories now, gone to dust, naught left of them but their fading
writings in spellbooks and his even more faded memories. Abruptly, the Old Mage looked south
toward the trees that hid the millpond and the burned flagstones of Sylune's Hut. Gods be struck down,
there is another lost lady, he thought briefly, then swept aside his dark thoughts angrily. I must be
getting old!
He raised his eyes to look at lazily drifting clouds and, with an effort he cared not to show, said
teasingly, "Perhaps Torm will again come to thy aid."
Beside him, slim Illistyl stiffened. "You jest, I trust," she answered coldly.
The old sage's eyes twinkled merrily as he gravely replied, "Aye. Of course." He turned then, took her
hand gently, and kissed it.
Illistyl shred at him, astonished. His mustache rasped across her knuckles like a bristle-brush for a
moment, and she found herself staring into very blue, very keen old eyes. She shivered involuntarily;
Elminster's gaze made her feel quite naked, and more than a little ashamed. It seemed that he saw into
the very depths and corners of her being, parting all the shadowy curtains of old jealousies, regrets, and
small deceits. And yet his voice, when it came, was both tender and approving.
"I must go, little one," he said. "I foresee a need to face the archwizards of the Zhentarim before long-
and with the spells and monstrous assistance they employ in battles, I've no wish to be anywhere near
Shadowdale when the fray begins. Forget not what Jhessail and I have taught thee, and follow thy good
sense, and all will be well in the ending of it. Thy good reason is more important than all the power ye
will ever wield."
As he released her hand, Illistyl shivered again, closed her eyes briefly as if gathering her strength, and
then snorted at him, eyes flashing open. "A lot my good reason will do if Zhentil Keep's soldiers march
down that road there!"
Elminster clucked, reprovingly. "Manshoon has other worries, girl, worse than ye know. Myself, for
instance. He needs his armies-or thinks he does, and that's all the same to us-to face other foes." He
patted her hand. "Abide here and keep the dale safe. Lhaeo will serve thee in need. Mystra shield thee."
"And comfort thee," she replied formally, and added, "mind you return speedily, Old Mage. You will
be needed -and missed."
"Many have said so," he said over his shoulder as he swept down the stairs, "over the years. And when
I was not there, the will of the gods unfolded anyway."
Illistyl shook her head in amused silence, followed him
down one flight of steps, and then crossed to a gallery with a window over the meadow.
Below, Storm Silverhand sat calmly upon a magnificent black horse and held the reins of a smaller,
fatter dapplegray for Elminster. Her alert eyes saw Mistyl arrive at the window, and she waved.
Illistyl leaned out and called, "Bring him back soon, good lady. And don't let him talk your ears off."
The bard smiled back at her as they both heard Elminster's voice reply, "And why not? Listening does
the young good, and makes the patience of the old supple. Besides, my tongue rests more often than it
once did."
"Truly?" Illistyl called from the safety of her window. "By the gods, you must have been an endless
cataract of nonsense in your youth."
The old sage clambered ungracefully into the saddle, patted the gray reassuringly, and made no answer.
The flourishes of his hands as he lit. his pipe, however, were eloquent.
He nodded to Storm without looking up, blew a smoke ring in the direction of Illistyl's window, and set
off at a trot. Storm followed, raising her hand to Illistyl in salute.
The youngest mage of the knights watched them ride until they were out of sight. Then she sighed and
went down to join Mourngrym and Shaerl. She held dark fears about the days ahead.
"Not so long, now," Mirt said. "I never thought I could grow tired of the sight o' trees. Stop me vitals,
but this clambering about is hard on old legs!"
'fell me truth, do," Delg answered sarcastically, sitting down hard on a nearby fallen tree with a sharp
whuff of released breath. "Where, by Marthammor Finder-of-
Trails," the dwarf asked as the others took seats around him, "are we going ... if you don't mind my
asking?"
"I don't mind in the least, friend Delg," Mirt said grandly and grinned. "I don't know."
Delg's head came up like that of a dog, bristling to strike at a suddenly seen enemy. "You don't know?"
"He says that a lot, doesn't he?" Narm said to Shandril in the silence that followed.
Shandril was too apprehensive to reply. She had been looking constantly here and there into the trees
around for signs of the Zhents who must be following them, but Mirt's I don't know had snatched her
attention back to him.
The wheezing old merchant in tattered leather chuckled easily and pointed ahead into the trees. "It
matters not exactly where we walk, look ye-as long as we keep alongside the road through the forest
toward Arabel, and not too close to it. I hope to come. out of the western edge of Hullack as close to
deep night as we dare, so that prying eyes are fewer. A certain inn of my acquaintance stands there, The
Wanton Wyvern by name. We spend a night in cozy luxury, and walk on west in the morning, suitably
disguised. Yer way lies in that direction, does it not?"
"It does," Shandril agreed cautiously. "And I would walk it with you, I think. But first tell us, Mirt,
Lord of Waterdeep, what you know of us and the many who pursue us. I am tired of always running,
and never sure why I must, and what awaits me."
Mirt nodded, not reacting at all to her identification of his rank. "Get used to that feeling, Lady; it's
what life becomes for most of us." He grinned and added more softly, "Wise caution, Lady. Forgive me
if I am brief. These old bones grow stiff if I sit about too long."
Clearing his throat pompously as if beginning a grand tale, Mirt said, "Ye are Shandril of Highmoon,
raised by an old friend of mine, Gorstag. Ye recently left his inn to join a company of adventurers and
therein met thi
s noble and handsome dwarf"-Delg glowered and snorted"and this young lad of thine,
too. Along the way, ye also met Elminster and the Knights of Myth Drannor, first discovered yer power
of spellfire-inherited, methinksand sent to their graves a dragon and no less than three bone dragons, or
`dracoliches,' if ye prefer, as well as the Shadowsil. Ye also sent Manshoon of Zhentil Keep into
headlong flight."
Mirt scratched his nose thoughtfully, fixing eyes that were suddenly very blue on her. "All of this tells
me Shandril Shessair is ra?ther more than she appears. Elminster has spoken to Khelben Arunsun of
thee in some detail, and the Blackstaff in turn has told me something of thy great power and
importance. So have others I know who harp. They tell me ye would meet with a certain sister of Storm
to learn more about thy powers, and are on the road to her."
He chuckled. "Chasing thee, no doubt, are some selfinterested mages and brigands who have heard of
thy doings by now. Also at thy heels are the Zhentarim, the Cult of the Dragon, and priests of Bane still
loyal to the High Imperceptor, all falling over themselves and each other in their hurry to seize thy
spellfire. Behind at least two of these groups are darker foes, shapechanging beings of great power who
dwell in a world of shadows. They call themselves `the Shadowmasters,' and many wizards of Faerun
have fought them down the centuries. They seek to control Toril and other worlds, deciding who may
pass from plane to plane. Here they take care to work through others, for when Elminster can catch
them in Faerun, he destroys them."
Mirt leaned forward, his face for once serious. "Ye are still alive today, Shandril and Narm, because
Elminster and the Simbul have been weaving spells, spying, and setting all manner of things to
sprawling chaos in order to keep these Shadowmasters from striking ye down."
Shandril, face pale, stared at him numbly. Was everyone on all the worlds and planes out looking to kill
her? Why had the gods given spellfire to Shandril of Highmoon? She had asked herself this, she
reflected ruefully, far more than once before.
"After ye were attacked in ShadowdaIe," Mirt went on, "Torm and Illistyl of the knights took yer
shapes, and camped on Harpers' Hill. They were guarded by soldiers, the knight Rathan, and a few
Harpers. There was an attack on the hill by things like the one ye fought two nights back-dark horrors,
or 'darkenbeasts'-fearsome things created from dogs, sheep, and the like by cruel magic. That attack
was set by the two youngest, most reckless Shadowmasters, and they paid for it with their lives."
Mirt sighed. "Elminster's hands have been red with blood, indeed, protecting ye this last tenday; that
attack was but one of many. Why, think ye, did he keep ye in a spell-sphere one night?-I hear ye
brought it down, too, testing spellfire?-Welt, outside the tower, several Harper mages spent much of the
night darting all over the sky, trading lightnings-and worse-with these Shadowmasters."
Delg's eyes were large and round; Narm was somehow glad that this was as much news to him as to
them. "One of these dark ones died that night, too," Mirt went on, "when he got past them to strike at
ye. Elminster used some sort of spell I've never heard of before to snatch the sphere from around all of
ye and hurt it about the Shadowmaster, like a tightening fist, until all its prismatic effects were visited
on the creature. It was trapped, unable to escape to another plane, and was destroyed." Shandril
shuddered, and cast a quick look at Narm. His fists were clenched in his lap, and he looked chilled and
frightened.
Mirt frowned. "Yer faces say ye've not known of this before. Ab, well-perhaps that was for the best.
Terrified folk seldom make wise decisions." He got up with a grunt and added, "Enough talk for now.
On, or night'll come long before we see open land beyond these trees."
Shandril nodded, her face rather white. "Why has no one ever told us about these 'Shadowmasters'?"
she almost whispered, as they all stood up. "I would rather have known."
Delg shrugged. "What difference could it have made, lass, save to worry you?"
Mirt nodded. "Aye. One thing more, too. Does one put a sword into a child's hand and march her out to
face the gathered host of the Flaming Fist, just to see her expression? That's sheer cruelty."
"While standing her in the mist so she can't see the army she faces, is merely slaughter-is that it?"
Shandril asked softly, eyes steady on his, flames leaping deep within them.
Mirt held her gaze in silence for two long, slow breaths before he reached out one gnarled hand to
touch hers. Then, to the astonishment of the others, he knelt before Shandril, as one does before a king.
Looking up over her hand, her fingers still in his gentle grasp, he said roughly, "Aye. Ye have the right
of it, Lady. That's why I came here. It's never nice to die alone."
"It always takes longer to get out of a forest than it does to get in," Mirt grumbled as the last of the light
failed. Dusk hung heavy around them as they made a hasty camp amid the trees.
Delg seemed upset with their route and everything else; when Narm asked him what was amiss, the
dwarf turned dark eyes up at him and said, "I feel ill luck ahead, soon."
The gloomy dwarf stood first watch, and Mirt was soon snoring like a contented bear on one side of the
fire. Shandril and Narm lay together in their blankets and held each other. After Narm fell asleep,
Shandril stared into the fire.
It seemed very long ago that they'd flown over Shadow dale together at their wedding-and longer still
since she'd left The Rising Moon in search of adventure. And now, folk she hadn't even heard of
plotted her death.
The watching skull was patient. It waited, floating low in the concealing darkness while silent tears fell
onto Shandril's blanket. It waited, motionless, while she settled herself down against Narm, stroking his
cheek tenderly.
It waited, as she fell asleep, and waited still, until Delg's attention was elsewhere. Then, silently, it
drifted down to feed.
One bare shoulder had been left exposed as Shandril and Narm lay huddled together. The skull sank
down and bit the smooth white flesh. Shandril stirred-and then, with a sort of sigh, relaxed. Spellfire
flowed slowly, unseen, out of her.
Delg got up then, as good sentries do, to walk about and check on the safety of those he guarded.
The skull cast a hasty, silent spell to keep Shandril asleep as its fangs withdrew, and then another to
quickly heal the wounds it had made.
By the time Delg looked down at Shandril, the skull was gone. Plucky lass. If she'd been a dwarf,
now... Not for the first time, Delg wished he'd married. This was the sort of daughter he could be proud
of. Tenderly he covered her bare arm and shoulder with an edge of the blanket, then stalked on.
The skull watched him go and made no move back to where it had fed. Its memories went back a
thousand years. It had learned patience.
Seven
AT THE SIGN OF THE WANTON WYVERN
Do ye remember an inn, Tessyrana? Old and dark and rambling, lost in the arms of the wild woods a
long day's ride from anywhere-but warm and firelit within, against the chill winds of the storm. The
smoke slung our eyes, and its old and spicy smell enshrouded us as it did everything eke in the house.
We climbed worn, curving stain away from the re
ady laughter and ale, into a candlelit room, a cozy
den nestled amid others in the night, carved out of low beams, gentle mutterings and creakings, and
uneven floors. And for one night, at least, that plain, tiny, and friendly little room was our home.
Amhritar the Tall
Tall Tales: A Ranger's Life
Year of the Striking Hawk
Manshoon looked up, unsmiling. Fzoul and two silent upperpriests stood across from him, and two
beholders floated overhead. In the air between them all, in an inner chamber in the High Hall of Zhentil
Keep, hung a naked man.
It was Simron, late of the Eastern Stonelands Company of the Zhentilar, and he was very naked-much
of his skin was missing.
Blood flew as Manshoon's invisible spell-claws tore at the veteran warrior's flesh. He screamed
hoarsely, the red rain from him being caught below in a huge bowl, for later use in dark, cruel magic.
The Zhentarim did not like to waste the talents of their members.
"You do still have strength enough to scream," Manshoon said calmly. "Good, Simron - that means
you've still strength to speak, too. Tell us more of what happened when the maid unleashed her
spellfire."
Simron groaned. Manshoon frowned, and unseen claws raked deep, red furrows across the backs of the
old warrior's calves. Simron's legs jerked helplessly, and gore spattered the beholders overhead. They
did not seem to mind.
"I-I-Lord Manshoon, mercy!" Simron said thickly, coughing crimson between his words.
"Mercy must be bought, soldier," Manshoon said mildly, "and you've still not told me what I want to
know. Now, sh- There was a commotion at the guarded door of the chamber. and Manshoon turned in
some annoyance to see its cause.
A mageling Manshoon had always thought of as more ambitious than sensible stood among the guards,
face lit with excitement. "Lord Manshoon!"
The High Lord of Zhentil Keep made a sign, and the guards drew back to let the young wizard rush
into the chamber. Silently, Manshoon gestured to the mage to speak-and he did, words tumbling over
each other in haste.
In Sembia, Lord-we've been attacked. Ah, wizards of the Brotherhood, Lord, seeking spellfire as you