All Shadows Fled

13

Shadows roiled around them, sliding past in an endless murmur of green and gray motes, streaming between the massive stone pillars. Each pillar, some of the kin whispered, held an unfortunate Malaugrym, entombed alive as part of the cruel magics Malaug employed. These traitors thus kept the very foundations of the Castle of Shadows from being swept away by shadows.

Argast and Amdramnar both suspected those whispers held truth. There was something eerie about the Undercrypt. One felt the scrutiny of an unseen presence here. As the Malaugrym stood facing each other in the stream of ever-shifting shadows, they could feel it very strongly. Was the watcher all that was left of Malaug himself? If it was the First to Walk Shadows, he must be truly ancient… and he never broke silence or gave any sign that he knew what befell his descendants. Other Malaugrym believed the castle itself was sentient, that the Undercrypt was where it was most truly awake and aware.

"I am ready," Argast announced calmly, "but I have one question: how much greater is the risk to us, traveling to a place neither of us has actually been?"

"Oh, but we have," Amdramnar said with a smile. "That's the beauty of it. Moreover, when we visited, I let fall a focus token there. The risk is vanishingly small."

Argast frowned. "You say I have been to this place?"

"Yes. We stood in the sky hurling spells down at the Great Foe and the three rangers with him when they were encamped in a ruin, and-"

"There? The ruin?"

"It's as good a place as any," Amdramnar said. "Close to places we've viewed, but in the wilderlands. We're not likely to be seen arriving, nor be swiftly called upon to shift shape or act at being something we're not-until we choose to do so. Let us smell and feel Faerun first."

A faint smile crossed Argast's face. "Good points, all. Let us be going, then. I have waited a very long time for this."

"I, too," Amdramnar said, and reached out his hand to touch Argast's shoulder. He spoke a single word, there was a momentary falling, spinning sensation-and they were suddenly standing in the long grass of upland Daggerdale, with the ruins of Irythkeep around them.

"See how easy it is?" Amdramnar said, shaking his head. "It seems incredible that all of our clan has been kept from this for centuries, for fear of one old man!"

A helmed head promptly bobbed into view above a section of crumbling wall, and a voice roared, "Enemy mages! Strike-strike to slay, for the greater glory of the Dead Dragons!"

The two Malaugrym exchanged startled looks, then ducked away in opposite directions as a ball of flame hissed through the air, divided into two smaller balls, and chased them.

"By the blood of Malaug, who've we stumbled into this time?" Amdramnar snarled, somersaulting over a jagged wall and falling down the steep drop-off beyond with a jolt that rattled his very teeth. A moment later, there was a flash and a ground-shaking roar. The fireball struck the wall and blew it apart; it promptly toppled, burst, and plummeted down on top of him.

The furious Malaugrym grew one long leg and leapt-crazily off-balance-from under a huge pile of rubble that thudded into the turf where he'd lain a moment before.

He landed, rolled, and came up facing back where he'd been, in time to see a large war bird that must be Argast flap into view, rising sharply. A robed man who bore a gleaming staff stood on the edge of the drop-off. As Amdramnar hastily backed away, the man discharged the staff, spitting a beam of flame at Argast that scorched him all along one flank and startled him into a fall.

Another man took up a dramatic stance, a wand raised in his hand. He peppered Argast with magic missiles, sending him down to a hard landing on the rubble pile.

Argast got up shrieking in fury, but his Art was feeble. He could do little against wizards of power. He fled desperately downhill, changing shape into a large, bounding jackrabbit for greater speed-and outrunning a web of crimson bolts from the staff.

Very soon Amdramnar fetched up beside Argast, his eyes blazing. "Somewhere quiet in the wilderlands? By the fist of Malaug, what're the cities like?"

"Someone else must have decided this ruin would be quiet and secluded, too-or they wouldn't be so eager to throw away powerful magic on two men they haven't even spoken to yet," Amdramnar said calmly. "Let's withdraw."

"There seems little point to it," Argast said grimly, pointing at another swarm of bright bolts headed their way: magic missiles, unavoidable and painful. "Who are the Dead Dragons, anyway? An adventuring band? Some of the Great Foe's apprentices, out for some fun?"

Amdramnar suddenly chuckled. "No, I think they're some sort of cult that were always bothering the Great Foe… idiots who worship skeletal undead dragons."

Argast gave him a disbelieving look, but gritted his teeth as the swarm of magic missiles struck home, hurling them both onto their backs in the grass. "Let's move out of sight," he said, sounding sick. "That hurt." Keeping low, they crawled over a ridge and became two wolves, trotting in a wide circle around the ruin.

"Shall we go elsewhere?" Amdramnar asked.

"Revenge first," Argast said in iron tones. "No one should try to slay Malaugrym out of hand and get away with it!" They trotted on. "So what does worshiping undead dragons have to do with hurling spells at everyone you glimpse?"

Amdramnar shrugged. "They seize treasure to offer dragons," he said slowly. "Perhaps they thought we were thieves come to take it."

"They walk around heavily laden with killing magic all the time?"

"Perhaps the Shadowmasters High were not such fools as we thought to ban entry into Faerun," Amdramnar said mildly.

"Bah! Bralatar and Lorgyn still live-and have done well here. If those two overconfident lackwits can thrive in Faerun, we certainly can!"

"Talking wolves?" A man's voice said from behind them. "Shapeshifters, more likely! "Ware a trap!"

Without bothering to look around, the two Malaugrym broke into a run. The fireball, when it came, exploded just above their heads.

Somewhere in the red, roaring inferno of the fireball's fringes, Argast fetched up very hard against a boulder and felt many things snap. He saw Amdramnar hurtle helplessly past, turning over and over in midair, so racked with pain that he was losing wolf form. Tentacles and a misshapen gray mass wobbled and thrashed the air just before he landed in a cloud of dust.

"A fireball!" snapped the first voice they'd heard. "They must know we're here! Attack!"

As the two Malaugrym lay in pain among the smoldering grass, forty or more mages and warriors boiled up over a ridge ahead of them and raced past, to the place whence the fireball had come. The sounds of battle arose from thereabouts.

When Argast had fought down the pain and shifted shape into something resembling a long-limbed crocodile, he moved hastily away. He was just in time. A whirling cloud of flashing blades suddenly twinkled into being above the rocks where he'd lain, clanging and crashing off stone-then turned into slowly drifting white butterflies. Not far away, they heard someone curse all gods and wild magic.

Amdramnar managed to slither to where Argast lay panting. "What befalls?" he hissed.

"The dragon idiots were waiting for these others, and thought the fireball cast at us was an attack meant for them. They rushed the ambush they were planning and are attacking here and now. Who these others are is yet beyond me; you're supposed to be the expert on Faerun!"

Amdramnar winced. "Truly said. Let's try to work our way over to the ruins. From that higher ground we can look back at the fighting."

"And get attacked by all the dragon worshipers who aren't quite so eager to get killed as these here are," Argast said sourly. "I await the experience with eager glee."

"Ah, be easy! Magic's starting going wild here anyway-see those blades turn to butterflies?"

"I'm not overwhelmed with joy," Argast said coldly, "at the prospect of starting my exploration of Faerun as a butterfly! Or as anything else twisted or shackled by sorcery, strange as it may seem!"

"I'll admit my idea of coming to Irythkeep has turned out badly," Amdramnar replied quietly, "but we've seen a wand and a staff in use already, and magic is a large part of what we came here for. Why flee from it now that we know what we face? Why, they're busy battling each other!"

As he spoke, lightning cracked into the sky, split apart into three bolts with a spectacular crash, and leapt to earth, one striking quite close. Their hair rose, and their bodies tingled.

Argast said dryly, "That's why. Have you experienced enough yet? Can we go somewhere safer?"

"The ruins," Amdramnar insisted, "where we first appeared-if these Cult of the Dragon fools were preparing an ambush, they must be camped there. It's the only landmark in this stretch of country; the people they're fighting must have been planning to camp there, or at least use it to keep on the route they intended, and pass close by."

"What shapes do you suggest we take? Fireballs, so we can pass unnoticed, perhaps?" The sarcasm in Argast's tone was venomous; it was clear he suspected Amdramnar of having deliberately sent him into danger.

"Trust me, Argast," Amdramnar said firmly. "This fray was not of my doing. I've been hurt as badly as you. We'll both be spending some time healing. We'll need a large blood meal as fuel for it, too."

"What if we bite unknowing into a wizard and trigger nasty contingency spells?" Argast said warily. "What then?"

"We're a long way out in the uplands; they probably all came here on horses," Amdramnar replied patiently. "Now let's move… looking like horses ourselves might not be a bad idea. Someone might try to catch a horse, but they're hardly likely to waste a fireball killing it!"

"Now you speak wisely," Argast said, beginning the shift into equine form. Amdramnar sighed in relief and did likewise. He had begun to fear there was some sort of curse afflicting this foray into Faerun.

They trotted in a very wide route, keeping to easy ground and almost out of sight of the ruined keep to be sure of avoiding the attention of anyone who might have a spell to hurl. They approached the ruins in the lee of a stand of trees, and made their hooves soft and pliable to keep as silent as possible. When they were near enough to hear voices and see men moving, they began to graze, drifting slowly around into view, hoping they'd be taken for mounts belonging to the camp.

"We'll take losses now, for sure," someone was grumbling. "How could they have seen us from so far off?"

"Mayhap they did not," a deeper voice replied.

"Mages don't waste fireballs on nothing, or throw them across grassland at a whim! That's sheer foolishness!"

"I've known some wizards whom the mantle of 'fool' would fit right well," the deep voice responded.

"Don't let Chaladar hear you say that! Some of the dragons like to chase and eat human warriors who put up a fight, you know!"

"Aye, I do know," the deep voice replied calmly. "Why do you think we asked you along?"

"What? How can you be-did Chaladar tell y-oh, gods! My horse… all unsaddled… sweet Tymora, aid me now!"

"That's not a very judicious prayer for a faithful follower of the Scaly Way, wouldn't you say, Malarnus?"

"Quit baiting the lad, Ornthar… you'll have him running into things and shrieking in a breath or two! Sit down, Felus! He was merely jesting with you!"

"Now what have you done with your wand, boy?" Ornthar growled. "Dropped it, no doubt, while running around like a man who can't find the privy seat and babbling to Lady Luck!"

The Malaugrym exchanged a look and moved closer.

"Here it is!"

"That's my wand, idiot!" Malarnus told him. "Where did you walk, Felus, and where've you been sitting? Go back to all those places and look for it, and-there!" There came a thud and a groan. Malarnus added sarcastically, "See how easy it is to find things when you trip over them?"

"Dolt!" Ornthar added helpfully.

Amdramnar took a step nearer and had a sudden idea. He began to shift shape, turning into a scorched-looking man, hairless and blackened, clothes hanging in tatters. When he was done, he turned to Argast and gestured for him to do the same. Argast gave him a doubtful look for a moment, but complied.

Amdramnar gestured to Argast to follow. He staggered around the last few trees and right into the camp.

"By the Dragon! Keep back!" a scarred veteran in half armor said, raising a wand in one hand and holding a blade in the other. Ornthar, no doubt. Seated on either side of him were an anxious youth and a sleek man with a spade beard. Felus and Malarnus.

"I–I… help us," Amdramnar gasped, staggering a pace closer. "Fireball…"

"Who are you?"

"Followers… we were to meet Chaladar here," Amdramnar husked. "All dead now but us…"

"Felus," the seated man rapped, "get them some water." Malarnus indeed, by his voice. How generous.

Amdramnar staggered right over to the lad as he reached for a saddle skin, and Argast followed. Ornthar kept his eyes and his wand trained on them all the time. Malaug's curse on all well-trained warriors, Amdramnar thought, and worked magic that called forth fire.

Flames flared up right behind Malarnus, who heard the hiss and crackle, looked around with a frown, and jumped up with an oath. "Fire! Magic!" He spun around, eyes narrowing. "There's none here but y-"

He was, of course, too late. A tentacle whipped lash-like around his throat, jerked, and broke his neck. He joined Felus and Ornthar, who'd been distracted for one fatal moment by Malarnus's shout. All three lay broken on the ground.

"Take anything that looks magical," Amdramnar said. "We can discard things later. We'll ride two of their horses."

"And eat them later, too," Argast agreed, bending to the work of feverishly examining the camp.

They found three wands and an old cup… and that was all. If this Cult of the Dragon band carried heavy magic, it was in use beyond the ridge, where green smoke was drifting and the bright flashes of spells could still be seen.

Figures ran toward the ruined keep, now! Three… more… a dozen, but still small distant dots. Time to be gone.

"Come," Amdramnar snapped. He turned toward the nearest horse.

Argast hesitated for a moment, looking as if he was about to refuse and go his own way. Then he peered back at the running men, shrugged, and followed.

Amdramnar frowned, and was not gentle with his horse.

"I'd guess he's taken with some scrying spell and we won't see him until dusk," the younger and louder of the two men said.

"Peering at wenches in the brothels of Ordulin, most likely," the older man grunted. He ran a finger down the script in a thick and dusty book.

"Turnold!" the third apprentice in the library said sharply. She scowled. "You know I don't like to hear talk like that!"

The older man sighed. He replied without bothering to look up from his book, "You've got to learn about human nature and the ways of the world sometime, Irendue. You must notice how he looks at you."

"That's a private matter between the master and myself," was the even sharper response, "and no concern of yours!"

"Oh, I'm not concerned," Turnold said easily. "If I were in your place I would be, but he's not interested in me."

"For your information, Master Prentice Turnold, he's not interested in me in the manner you so crudely allude to, either!"

"Oh? And just when I thought I'd got right the scrying spell the master taught me ten years ago! I particularly like the black-and-gold gown, by the way…"

"You worm!" Irendue shrieked, leaping to her feet, her face white to the lips. "You utter… spying snake!"

"Oh, I was following the master's instructions… as was Lareth here. The master told us we might learn something…"

The door banged furiously as Irendue left, and Lareth, who'd blushed as red as his scarlet robe, coughed uneasily. "You shouldn't bait her like that. You know she'll just run to the master and there'll be trouble."

"We have to pay for our training," Turnold said calmly, "and pay dearly. She pays in another way. I don't mind that; I'd just like her to be honest about it and not play the prim and prissy high lady with us."

"Why should she be honest?" Lareth asked, amused. "She's training to be a mage, not a hermit priest!"

"I could probably tell you things about hermit priests," Turnold replied calmly, turning a page.

"My, you have been busy with that scrying spell," Lareth returned. He held the grimoire he'd been frowning at under Turnold's nose and pointed at a notation in one margin of a battle spell. "Oparl's hand, do you think?"

Turnold shook his head. "Too spidery. Jamryth's, for a gold lion."

"I'll not wager with you, Turnold," Lareth said ruefully. "You're too often right!"

"That has always been my trouble," Turnold agreed calmly, eyes on his own book again.

"Thirsty work, this," Lareth said. He set down his book and flipping its spine ribbon to mark the page with Jamryth's notes. "I'm for a flagon. Join me?"

"Plenty of time left to get drunk today," Turnold replied. "I'll be along later."

"Right," Lareth said with a grin, and swept out.

Only a moment later, he added a scream.

By the time Turnold got out into the passage, wand in hand, Lareth had joined Irendue-and the master! — in a web of cold white fire that seemed to fill the privy chamber. Two women he'd never seen before-no, men wearing the faces of wenches-were standing in the passage facing him, with wide and ruthless smiles on their faces.

As he swept the wand up, Turnold felt the horrible strength of the tentacles that were falling on him from all around the door frame… tentacles that trailed back along the floor to join up with the men-women's bodies!

The wand was slapped from his hand, but a horrified Turnold scarcely noticed. He was trying desperately to scream, but discovering, as tentacles crowded into his mouth and slid coldly up his nostrils, that it was much too late… Daggerdale, Flamerule 23

"I begin to think Lunquar's approach is the right one," Argast said as his exhausted horse collapsed under him. "Hide as much as possible. Keep to crow shape and the like, take human form only when another shape will win suspicion. Lie low and learn."

"We'll have to lie low for a bit to heal fully," Amdramnar grunted. "Kill these now and eat?"

"Why not? They're too weak to be of any other use!"

The Malaugrym had ridden across half Daggerdale without a break; Argast's mount had collapsed on a steep slope in the rolling hills of the southeastern dale, hard by the woods that stretched to Shadowdale.

"I think the most important thing is to hide ourselves from the common folk," Amdramnar said slowly. "They seem very swift to call on adventurers when they see something amiss, and this world does have crude shapeshifters…"

"Doppelgangers, yes, I remember all the tales about how Malaug must have bedded one and thus given us the power."

"It matters little now. I just want to hunt down this Sharantyr woman and the two men who came to Shadowhome with her."

"And kill them, slowly and painfully?"

"The two men, yes. The woman's fate depends on what she agrees to…"

Argast shook his head and mouthed the words: then I'll kill her. He was careful to turn his head so that Amdramnar had no chance to see his lips.

Then he felt a tentacle brush his leg. He was about to strike it away angrily when he saw that Amdramnar was sinking down into the shape of a horse, and lying as if dead in the grass… and that his lone tentacle was pointing urgently across the valley.

Argast crouched down. He had already begun to take horse shape when he saw them: a dozen or so men and women in drab leather armor. Dirt-caked weapons hung in their hands, and they crept cautiously through the trees. A patrol.

Someone's patrol, Argast made himself as much like the real horse beside him as possible and lay still.

It seemed a very long time before a voice said, low-pitched and near, "They're still warm… this one, at least, still lives. Ridden to death."

"So their riders must be close by… hiding from us, no doubt."

"Zhent troops, for a gold lion."

"That's a wager I'll never take, Yheldon. If we find them and they have arrows, we'll end up just as dead as the mighty Elminster-and the Zhents'll be picking the gold coins out of both our purses!"

Argast twitched in excitement. The Great Foe dead!

It was dark before the two Malaugrym dared move again, coming up to clutch each other and hiss excitedly, "Elminster, dead!"

"We must confirm this," Amdramnar muttered. "I've heard tell men have thought him dead many times before."

"Of course," Argast agreed, "but if it be true, we can hunt freely!"

"Don't forget that woman back at the keep who turned our kin to mushrooms and slaughtered us like cattle! He's not the only one in Faerun we must beware of."

"Aye, but he was the one who watched and waited for us. Moreover, with magic gone wild and gods walking Faerun and everything in confusion…"

"You're right," Amdramnar acknowledged with a sigh, turning to look east.

"You sound disappointed that he's dead."

"I am, a little. I was dreading having to face him… but to strike him down myself! The honor of our house demands it! Someone has robbed me of the chance to fell the Great Foe." Amdramnar shook his head, and chuckled. "With Elminster gone, whatever will the elder kin blame their failures on now, I wonder?"

"They'll find something," Argast said. "They always do. I think skill at finding targets for blame is part of the wisdom of being an elder." Near the Standing Stone, the Dales, Flamerule 24

"There's a large party on the road south of the Stone," Sharantyr said. She leapt lightly down from the lowest bough of the tree. The others were already loosening weapons in sheaths and taking up their gauntlets.

"Did you see lots of armor?" Belkram asked eagerly.

Sharantyr shook her head as she unlooped the reins of her mount. "No, bold warrior. I saw horses, men's heads above them, and dust. At least twenty horses, and probably more." She vaulted into the saddle and looked to Storm.

The Bard of Shadowdale smiled. "It's always good to have a look at the Stone before one rides there. It avoids a lot of surprises."

"Could it be another Zhent army?" Itharr asked as they guided their horses cautiously around roots, down mossy banks, and out onto the Hillsfar road.

Storm frowned. "Blackhelms riding openly, no. Some of our people"-they knew she meant the Harpers-"would have brought me word of any such force gathering or on the move through Sembia. Zhent agents could well have sponsored some hireswords-but on the other hand, were I an honest merchant in times as troubled as these, I'd travel in a large band with plenty of bought blades to defend me, too." A faint smile crossed her face, and she added, "So, as usual, we'd best be ready for anything."

They rode in wary silence past the ancient Standing Stone, seeing the glitter of steel in the forefront of the travelers coming north toward them. It was soon evident that the front rank consisted of five hard-eyed mercenaries with ready crossbows and full armor. They came on without stopping, loading and leveling their bows as they saw the armed rangers.

At the sight of those preparations, Storm said, "Stay well back, all of you. With magic unreliable, I can't protect you against crossbow bolts."

Itharr made a small sound of protest, but Sylune's soft voice said, "Heed her. Your death can be avoided this time if you act wisely, so why not avoid it?"

In the silence that followed, they watched Storm ride to meet the oncoming band.

"Stand aside, brigand," one of the hireswords ordered shortly.

"Surrender your names and business to me, mercenary," Storm replied calmly, unmoving. "Stand aside, I said!"

"Is anyone in this mounted assembly of a more reasonable mind?" Storm asked mildly. "Most travelers on these roads are well aware that the Knights of Myth Drannor patrol here; if your business is lawful, our encounter may be brief and pleasant… but an exchange of information is expected."

A crossbow snapped, and a quarrel flew. Belkram growled and made to launch his mount forward, sword flashing out.

At his ear, Sylune said in a voice of iron, "Stand and watch! You may even learn…"

Storm calmly plucked the crossbow bolt from her breast, examined it critically, and held it out, looking at the gaping man who'd fired it. "Yours, I believe?"

"Who are you?" another of the mercenaries snapped, face pale and voice sharp with alarm,

"Ah," Storm replied pleasantly, "the words you should have spoken first. I am Storm Silverhand, Bard of Shadowdale, and am accompanying a road patrol ordered by Lord Mourngrym of Shadowdale and the Knights of Myth Drannor to keep peace on the roads in these perilous times. Again, I ask you your names and business."

She tossed the crossbow bolt, underhanded, back to the man who'd fired it. He juggled it but dropped it to the road, and started to dismount.

"What's the delay here?" a man in rich robes called, urging his mount forward.

A man in a yellow cloak, who rode behind the mercenaries, answered, "Some sort of road patrol asking our business."

"Ignore them; we're in a hurry."

"A hurry to go where, goodsir?" Storm asked quietly.

"Ride her down!" the man ordered the mercenaries curtly. Seeing one of his men out of his saddle, he shouted, "You heard me! Get up and get on!"

"Lord," one of the mercenaries said, "this w-"

"I'll hear none of it! Onward!"

"Hireswords," Storm asked quietly, "is this most audible man your master?"

A smile flickered on more than one face along the line of armored warriors before one said, "Aye, Lady. Rethuld of Saerloon."

"Thank you, good warrior," Storm said politely. She raised her voice. "Rethuld! I would speak with you!"

"But," the man spat contemptuously, "would not speak with you! Anyone blocking the high road is a brigand, and I slay brigands, not bandy words with them!"

"By the treaty of the Stone in whose shadow we stand," Storm said quietly, "any dale lord is empowered to send patrols out on the roads-and all travelers on the road are bound to obey such patrols and surrender to their queries and examinations."

"That treaty is centuries old! We pay no attention to it in Sembia!"

"Old it may be," Storm replied calmly, "but I was there at its making, and I was also present not so long ago as all that, when the young land of Sembia in turn signed it to gain trade access to the Moonsea North and grow to its present wealth. You would do well to pay continued attention to it if you are a merchant of Sembia. Treaties ignored may be revoked-and with the roads closed, what are the prospects for your wealth then?"

"You said the dales were unprotected," the man in the yellow cloak said to Rethuld, frowning. "You said we'd be able to-"

"Silence! I am not prepared to discuss our private business dealings on the high road! We can speak of this later-if there is to be a later for you, Jasten!"

"I think," Storm said quietly, "this has gone far enough. I've no wish to see blood spilled this day, so I think we'll have a little truth here." She made a gesture.

Another crossbow bolt hummed past her, but missed, and Storm completed her spell. She looked slowly around at the row of mercenaries and the half a dozen merchants crowded behind them. There were wagons beyond, with a dozen or more additional mercenaries flanking them… and presumably a rearguard. "If there's no harmful intent in this man's replies, you'll all be free to proceed-but I will look unfavorably on men who try to slip past me, or offer violence to me, before I am done. That means you, sir, trying to stay unseen in the trees… come out where I can see you!"

A man shouldered sullenly out through the brush, astonishment on his face and a sword in his hand. "Who-what are you, Lady?" he demanded.

"I am Storm Silverhand. Do you believe nothing in Sembia of the tales of Those Who Harp, or of the Seven Sisters? Or do you dismiss them as idle fancies and turn back to the hard, grasping work of stacking coins ever higher?"

"Minstrels tell many wild tales of the barbaric backlands of Faerun," a fat merchant snapped from behind the line of mercenaries. "If we believed them all, we'd not dare leave our bedchambers for fear of flying dragons and dark elves in the streets and Red Wizards behind every tree!"

"Tell me," Storm asked, widening her eyes, "is your bedchamber tastefully furnished?"

"What?"

"If, as you say, you spend so much time there…"

There were chuckles from the men around, and the fat merchant sputtered in anger. "I-kill her!"

"Lord," one of the mercenaries replied, not turning to take his eyes off Storm, "I don't think that's possible. Not for us. Let's just hear her out, and-gods willing-we can proceed."

Storm gave him a dazzling smile. "Thank you, good-sir. It is always a pleasure to know one is in the presence of patience and good sense."

Then she turned to Rethuld, who sat silent and pale, beads of sweat suddenly thick on his forehead, and said gently, "While my spell lasts, you will be able to answer direct questions only with the truth. I ask you now: for what purpose was this band formed?"

Rethuld licked his lips, and his face contorted for an instant before he said, "To gain property in the Dalelands."

"Why?" Storm asked, "and why now?"

"Sembia grows unsafe… without watch spells, thieves and brigands are free to loot, kidnap, and slay as they like. I gathered men whose business, like mine, can be run from any locale, and we came north to find a better place to bide until the strife be over."

"How did you plan to find this 'better place'?"

Rethuld looked around helplessly, sweating, and said, "S-Search, until we came upon one to our liking."

"And what sort of place would be to your liking?"

"A stout keep or defensible manor." The words came out of Rethuld reluctantly, as if he were fighting hard not to utter them.

"Such places are seldom deserted," Storm said mildly. "I can think of only four that stand empty at present, and those are isolated ruins infested by monsters-extremely primitive and dangerous accommodations. How were you planning to take possession of a suitable place?"

"I–I…" Rethuld looked trapped, his eyes darting wildly from side to side, his lips trembling. When he spoke again, his voice was low and despairing. "Ah-seize it by force of arms."

There was a sigh of resignation from the men all around, and swords grated out, but Storm sat still in her saddle and said calmly, "I thought so. Tell me; was the idea your own?"

"Ah, no, Lady," Rethuld said, his voice rising to a sudden, desperate squeal, "'twas brought to me by another."

"And the name of-?"

Rethuld sobbed suddenly; a blade that seemed to be made of bone protruded from his chest. He shook, mouth working, looked down at the bloody point in horror, and slumped over. The bone slid out of him from behind.

"I thought so," Storm said calmly, ignoring the blades that were slashing through her. "Malaugrym."

The man behind Rethuld suddenly writhed and dwindled-and a falcon sprang into the air, leaving an empty saddle behind. The bird darted south.

The blades were passing through the Bard of Shadowdale as if her body was made of smoke. She said to the men wielding them, "Submit to the others who patrol with me, and you shall have peace," but the fearful hacking continued unabated as the stone she wore between her breasts flashed with sudden blue fire. She rose from her own saddle and flew after the falcon, still in her own form.

"Gods," Belkram said as they ranged their mounts across the road to meet the oncoming mercenaries, "how can she take so many wounds?"

"She wears a gorget that protects her with ironguard magic," Sylune replied. "Metal weapons pass through her as if she were… as insubstantial as I."

Lightnings blazed out from her, and mercenaries cried out, reeling in the shadows and dropping their weapons.

"You heard the Bard of Shadowdale," Sharantyr cried, standing up in her saddle. "Turn back to Essembra, in peace!"

As they stared at her, the ghostly head of Sylune drifted forward, its pale glow reflected back from swords and armor all around. She added briskly, "Battledale holds manors in plenty left empty by the Zhents. I'm sure their rightful owners would be happy to sell them to you. Those who are adamant in their determination to press on will, before this day is put, find themselves sharing a grave with me."

That was all the Sembian band needed to see and hear. They wheeled their mounts in hasty terror and fled from the ghostly female head that flew toward them trailing long, silvery hair. They galloped south as fast as they could, leaving their wagons behind.

Belkram laughed aloud. "That was the easiest fight I've ever been in!"

Sylune turned. "Be not so quick to laugh; your work is just beginning."

"It is?"

"These wagons must be taken up the Stone, turned around there, and driven back to their owners, wherever they may flee to. I'll fly ahead to Essembra to get us enough drovers."

"Flying around like that? They'll flee just like all these hardened warriors here did!" Itharr protested.

"Not the Harpers," Sylune replied without turning. "The wagons, gentlesirs," She flew away down the road like an arrow shot from a bow.

Belkram sighed. "Why do we always get the sweat work, eh?"

"You're Harpers," Sharantyr reminded him sweetly. "Such unpleasantness provides meaning and purpose in your lives." Itharr shot her a grin, and she added, "You should be grateful: many folk never find meaning or purpose in their existence."

"Huh," Belkram grunted, climbing up onto the boards of the foremost wagon. "Why can't they all come and do this for us, then?"