by Unknown
glittered in it, a dagger meant for Shandril. Narm roared a warning.
Shandril twisted desperately sideways in her seat to get below the table. The knife came down, leaping
through the air at her with frightening speed, twinkling as it came. A straining body leapt to intercept it
in midair over the table, shielding her for a crucial instant before crashing heavily down amid the
scattered remains of their dinner. Narm landed with a ragged gasp and lay still.
Shandril stared at him in horror. Fear and anger coiled in her throat with the rising spellfire. Trembling
with rage, she stood to lash out at the man-but the warrior no longer stood there.
Delg had leapt from the table where he had been fighting and struck the man squarely in the face-knife
first and with all the dwarf's bearded and booted weight behind it. The man was falling with Delg still
wrapped around his head, both of them covered in blood that did not belong to the dwarf.
Off to one side. Mirt had just broken his chair over the disarmed swordsman, who was falling now in a
strangely boneless, flopping way to the floor.
There was no foe left to smite. Shandril stood there, hands smoldering, facing a frightened innkeeper
and two red-faced but rapidly paling cooks with cleavers and crossbows in their hands. Other patrons
stood farther back, swords and daggers and eating-forks held outs, fear on their faces. Silence came
again to the taproom of The Wanton Wyvern.
"No, lass," Mirt rapped out al her, pointing to where Narm lay on the table. The bloody dagger stood
out of the young mage's side, just below his left shoulder. "Delg, take his feet, will ye? We've no time
to lose!"
Delg got up. dripping his victim's gore and panting. "Anyone else hurt?"
Not pausing to answer, Mirt raised his voice in a bellow addressed to everyone in the taproom. "All of
ye-stand aside! I've no quarrel with any of ye, but any who bar our way will end as these did, by
Tempus! And any who raise blade against us will answer for it to King Azoun!"
In the shocked silence that followed, the frightened onlookers silently parted to make way for them,
and Mirt hurried them out to the doors.
"Delg, scout!" he barked, and the dwarf lowered Narm s legs to the ground and hurried past them into
the night outside. "Shandril," the stout merchant added, holding Narm by the shoulders, "take his feet,
gently-but haste matters more than handling, now.... Good, good ... hurry, now...."
Delg was waving them on. They hurried out into the night and across the dark and muddy inn yard.
Narm's eyes were closed, and he was breathing raggedly, breath rasping and wet.
"Where are we going?" Narm asked. Mirt's shaggy, lionlike head was looking this way and that. "To
the gate," he roared and trotted on. In a few jolting seconds they were there, and the old merchant thrust
Narm into Delg's arms.
"Hold him," he panted, "and don't let him fall." And he whirled away from the staggering dwarf to
attack the props and bars of the gate like alt angry bear, snatching and grunting and clawing.
Wooden spars bounced and crashed aside, and before they'd stopped bouncing, lie had the gate open.
Out into the road lie stumbled, looking this way and that - "Baergasra? There ye are! Quickly, we've
need of thy healing." Mirt said in a voice halfway between a snarl and a sob. A breath later, the old
derelict in tattered rags appeared out of the night, running hard. An astonished Shandril realized she
was watching a healthy and fastmoving woman, not a drunken cripple. Mirt waved her in through the
open gate and came after, straight to Narm. "Delg?" Mirt snapped. "All safe?"
"Looks clear," the dwarf replied grimly as he shifted Narm's limp body across his shoulders. Shandril
had been holding her man's head tenderly, but site let go in haste as Mirt plucked him from Delg's
shoulders and laid him against the base of the high fence. Then the Old Wolf snatched out his dagger.
By the glow from its blade, Shandril saw the stout, filthy beggar woman kneeling beside Narm. The
knife stood out of Narm's narrow chest, just forward of the armpit.
Baergasra's grimy fingers plucked the blade deftly out, and Mirt's hand was there to press hard against
the blood that followed. The woman waggled the bloody dagger so that its blade caught the light. She
stared at it a moment, flung it aside, and spit after it.
Baergasra then laid her hands on Narm and murmured something. Her fingers glowed briefly. When
the light died she slowly sat back, sighed, and rested her hands on her thighs. With careful fingers, Mirt
began to unlace and draw off Narm’s robes.
The beggar woman helped him. Shandril could hear her talking to the old merchant now. "It went deep,
indeed. but it carries only sleep venom, not the usual Zhentarim killing blackslime. He'd have lived, but
it's good I was close by ... so how are you, old Wolf? It's been awhile, it has . . ."
Behind her, Shandril heard a sharply indrawn breath. She turned.
"Who let her in here?" demanded a furious voice. The tall, battered doorguard of the inn stood facing
them, staff in hand. Barring his way with drawn knife, Delg squinted up at the man fearlessly.
"I did," Shandril said hotly. "She can heal, and it was needed."
The man strode forward and, with a sweep of his staff, thrust Delg aside into a helpless sprawl. "But
she's a leper! She's-"
-Always wanted to pay you back for belting me, Thomd." said the woman in rags, rising with smooth,
agile speed to thrust the reaching staff aside and embrace its wielder. They went over together with a
splash into the mud, and the filthy lips met his sputtering ones firmly. Then the beggar woman rose
atop him and laughed heartily.
"Ah, but it's a good thing I've not got the wasting disease, Thomd, or you'd be sharing it now." She
rolled off the panting, frantic man in the mud and winked at Shandril with cool gray eyes. Pulling open
the filthy lacings of her bodice for an instant, she revealed a tiny silver harp pendant nestling in the
filthy folds of a gargantuan bosom.
Then she turned back to Mirt, shook her head resignedly, and said, "Well, now that you've let the world
know I'm not as I seem, perhaps you'll let me use your bath, Mirt, while I watch over the healing of
your young man, here. Give me your cloak, Thomd."
The struggling man in the mud looked at Delg's dagger, inches from his nose, and with a helpless grunt
unpinned the cloak and rolled out of it
"Hand it here," Baergasra said merrily, "and don't mind the mud-I'm used to it, gods know." Delicately
she began to strip off rag after rag, dropping them all into the trampled mud at her feet
"One more thing, Thomd," she added, nudging the tall man with tier foot as he slowly sat up, "burn
these for me, will you.' I never want to see. any of them again."
Delg and Thomd watched in identical amazement as the barrel-shaped woman stripped off rag after
rag, and stood at last clad only in grime. Lots of grime and mud, caked thickly in places. She scratched
some of those places, grinned at them both and held out an imperious hand for the cloak.
Delg bowed low and presented it to her as one would to a great lady. She swirled it about her shoulders
and reached for the pin. Thomd handed it to Delg with a sigh, and Delg handed it on with a low whistle
of appreciation.
The filthy woman stuck her tongue out at him as she pinned the cloak close about her, grin
ned again,
and said to Thomd, "Did you see any leprous bits? Well?"
Thomd shook his head. "N-No," he managed through his teeth. "But the smell. . ."
Baergasra sighed. "You know," she said slowly, "one gets used to it?" She scratched again and said,
"Well-get up, man, and get going! I want that bath"
Mirt looked up from Narm. Shandril could see an ugly purple scar just forward of his armpit, but the
skin was whole again, and the blood had stopped. He still slept, presumably from the venom.
Venom. The dagger. Shandril looked in the direction the Harper had thrown it, and saw its glint in the
shadows. Carefully she picked it up and stuck it in her belt. You never know. . . .
"Ah, Thomd?' Mirt said. "If ye go in and fill the bath, I'll bar the gate again. Delg, go in and tell them to
calm down, hey? Well clean up, I give my promise.... If anyone gives ye trouble, mention my, er, close
friendship with King Azoun. Shandril, as much as I hate to ask ye to do it, will ye guard us, until we're
in and settled?"
"Of course, Mirt. It's a pleasure," Shandril said happily, and meant it.
Eight
SOAP, STEAM, AND SOFT CURSES
It's usually around bath time that the tithe collectors cone to call. Besieging warriors, on the other hand-
now they generally have consideration enough to come early so you know how best to plan your day.
Estimyra of High Horn
Twenty Winters a War Wizard
Year of the Dragon
"Allow me, Lady," the dwarf said gruffly, handing a brush and a handbucket of soap around the edge
of the ragged curtain. Steam rose from the other side of it, accompanied by splashing noises and a few
groans of pure pleasure. Baergasra the Harper, priestess of Eldath, was joyfully scrubbing away half a
year's sweat and dirt.
"My thanks, Sir Dwarf. Well met!"
"Our thanks, Baera," Mirt said feelingly. They were gathered in the inn's largest and best bedroom.
Shandril was feeling very sleepy again, but beside her, Narm felt much better-and was hungrily
devouring a second serving of the dinner the innkeeper had brought up to them.
From the other side of the curtain, Baergasra chuckled. "Ah, but it was a little thing I did, and in return
for it you've given me this. It feels good to be clean again!" There was a rueful pause, and she added
despairingly, "But my hair!*
"What about yer hair?" Mirt asked carefully. "I've seen far worse, proudly sailing along the streets of
Waterdeep, assured of a display of the highest fashion."
The reply was mournful. "Most of this'll have to be cut off to get rid of the worst that's really stuck in
the tangles," "If it's not too personal," Delg asked carefully, sitting down again on his stool heside the
curtain, "just why did you choose to wander about in rags, anyway? Is begging so profitable
hereabouts?"
"Little man," Baergasra darkly replied, a nasty insult to any dwarf, "I do what I must, whether it's
harping or begging, and don't snarl overmuch about it. Orders are orders, and a noble cause is, as they
say, a noble cause. But that doesn't mean I enjoy it."
"All," said the dwarf, cocking his head at the word harping. "Of course. Forgive me, big woman."
There was a sputtering laugh from the other side of the curtain, and it suddenly bulged beside Delg's
head as the brush came swiftly back to him-or at least to a momentary embrace with the side of his
brow.
"Ooohhh," he commented from the floor a moment later, lying beside the stool. "This one bites."
"as I recall," Mirt rumbled jovially, "yes. It-"
"A gentle reminder, Mirt," the Harper called from her side of the curtain. "I still have the soap bucket to
return to someone."
"Ahh, aye-'hem! Ahem," Mirt replied hastily. "To be sure, to be sure.... Are ye hungry perchance,
Baera? We've food here, and-"
"Thank you, I will. It's been awhile since I've had something properly cooked, and with sauces, to boot.
And Narm may need another spell or two; I'd best remain here to be certain. I'll stay the night, if you've
room. If he falls asleep, don't try to wake him without me, mind; that venom can't be hurried,"
"Yer bed is ready when ye are. How are things in the Hullack wilds, then?"
"Not so bad, yet," was the reply, punctuated by sounds of a scalp being vigorously scrubbed. "But
getting worse. Zhentarim and bandits both are multiplying in the Stonelands and raiding farther. That
one who called you out, downstairs? He's one of the local Zhentarim rats-a thief by the name of Osber.
He was probably so eager to take all the credit for capturing Shandril of the Spellfire that he didn't
bother to call on any nearby magelings. Tymora smiled on you there; the Zhentarim spell-hurlers
hereabouts lie low and aren't all that strong, but they can lay hands on powerful wands and the like if
they've a mind to."
"But he did manage to round up six men-at-arms," Narm protested.
Baergasra chuckled. "Those were his 'fist,' his own little band of bully-boys. "they're never far away
from him, and tonight three of them were enjoying a quiet evening's entertainment here with several of
the local night girls." "What's that?" Mirt asked. alert. "Shouldn't we-?"
The Harper chuckled again. "No fears there. The girls aren't Zhentarim; two, in fact, like to.. ."
"Harp?" Delg offered, back on his stool again.
"Indeed they do, Sir Dwarf." Her voice changed again. "But there's darker news than that." She
coughed briefly and went on. "The real reason I want to see Narm safely back on his feet myself, in
fact, is that all across the Realms, these last three rides or so, spells have been going wrong. Going
wild, sometimes."
She paused, but no one said anything. Narm stared at the curtain in growing horror. If that was true,
what in the name of all the gods was he going to defend Shandril with? And what, a small voice
whispered chillingly inside him, will befall if Shandril's spellfire itself becomes unreliable?
"Magic is no longer the sure thing it once was." Baergasra said quietly. "A certain friend of mine
reminded me of Alaundo the Seer, and his prophecies. Something about ‘chaos of Art.' Remember,
Mirt?"
"Aye. Aye." The old merchant's voice was rough. "That's part of the one about the gods walking the
world and making war, isn't it?"
"Yes," Baergasra said in a near whisper from behind the curtain. She was silent for a long time, and
then added, "I knew you'd remember, Old Wolf. It's good to see you again, if Realmsdoom is really
upon us. That's another reason I'd like to stay until morn."
Mirt nodded and rose quietly, wheezing only a little. He walked around the curtain and replied, "It's
good to see ye again too, Baera. Hmmm-the rags did add a certain something, didn't theeeeaaHHH!"
He reeled back into view again, doubled over. Mirt, sometimes the Merciless, had ducked too slowly.
The soap bucket looked most fetching on his head.
Delg convulsed in silent laughter. Narm and Shandril could not keep so quiet. The dwarf rose amid
their mirth and solemnly handed Mirt the brush, pointing meaningfully at the curtain.
Mirt removed the bucket slowly and winced, but took the brush. "I'll save it for later," he muttered, and
sat down again. "Thanks, Delg."
"No quarrels," said the dwarf, finding his stool. "You were impressive indeed, downstairs."
Mirt grinned. "So it's my turn to be the giddy-goat here and n
ow, hey?"
"Something like that," Delg agreed, and they laughed. "You've certainly assembled a band of giggling
idiots this time, Mirt," came the sharp voice from the other side of the curtain.
Mirt raised an eyebrow. "What d’you mean, 'this time?"
.
Storm took off her second boot and stretched, catlike. On the other side of their leaping fire, Elminster
sat sucking his pipe into life in a cloud of drifting, snapping white sparks and curling green smoke.
“The wards, El?" the silver-haired bard asked. Elminster nodded. "Set as strong as my Art can make
them in these troubled times. None can see us or reach us, short of the gods. Ye can lay blades aside,
take thy ease, and undress-if that's what ye're asking."
Storm grinned at him and began unbuckling and unlacing. Then she frowned. "What do you mean, 'in
these troubled times'?"
Elminster puffed on his pipe; a small inferno went up. "Magic's not the sure thing it was a winter ago,"
he said. "It's going wild now sometimes, and not even Mystra herself will answer me over it-"
Storm met his eyes for a long breath of silence, then shivered. "Alaundo," she whispered, and he
nodded. Storm stared at him a moment longer and then sighed, shrugged, and went on disrobing. Silver
hair curled free about her shoulders and down her back; she removed dagger sheaths and safe-pouches
from where they were strapped next to her skin, and with obvious pleasure rubbed away the marks they
left behind.
The old man across the fire had seen her do this many a time before, since the days when he himself
had changed her, when she was only a babe. He sat and smoked companionably, directing discarded
apparel away with magic that spun unseen from one lazy finger. Clothing floated silently through the
air in his direction; more than once Storm smiled her thanks at him. When she was done, he said
merely, "Ye still look magnificent, lass."
"It's a good thing ye're the great age ye are, isn't it?" Storm teased him, mimicking his own voice and
manner before lie could utter the same sentence. Elminster chuckled and wiggled his eyebrows.
Obediently his pipe extinguished, rose up into the darkness overhead, and vanished.