Red Magic

Four

In the clearing, Galvin waited for dawn to break and watched Wynter help Brenna pack her tent. The druid was disturbed at overhearing the sorceress’s revelation that someone had been magically watching them—“scrying on them,” she had called it. A Red Wizard possibly, Galvin thought. No… if someone had been spying on them, it was definitely a Red Wizard.

No matter, the druid decided. The mission would continue even if someone in Thay was aware of them.

A soft breeze blew across Galvin’s face, refreshing him and causing him to get a good whiff of himself. Caked blood and sweat made him stink worse than a dirty, wet wolf. He was certain his companions would make a worse analogy, and he resolved to take care of his odoriferous condition—and get breakfast—while they finished packing. The sky was still dark and devoid of clouds, but it was tinged with gray and deep blue, indicating the sun would be up in less than an hour. He scanned the horizon for several minutes, fearing another transformed beast might be nearby, but he saw nothing.

He was certain a Red Wizard was behind the obscene creature that had attacked them; Galvin wanted to believe that. If the creature was sent in retaliation for his killing the gnoll spy, he speculated, why weren’t more of the beasts dispatched? Perhaps whoever or whatever had sent the beast had only meant it to be a warning. If that was the case, it was a warning the druid didn’t intend to heed.

His fever was gone, and his shoulder felt considerably better, although it was still stiff. It would serve as a physical reminder, at least for a few more days, of his folly with the gnoll. He listened to a bullfrog croaking in the distance. It was searching for a mate; the druid could tell by its prolonged, deep, throaty song. Closer, he heard the buzzing of insects. There were plenty of them in this area, particularly mosquitoes, because of the recent rain and the nearness of the marsh. Fortunately, Galvin mused, insects never bothered him.

“Gnats!” the centaur reached back and swatted his rump with his hand. “You always find the nicest places to camp, Galvin. Plenty of water. Shade in abundance. And more insects than blades of grass.”

The druid ignored his friend’s complaints and rubbed his hand over his chin, feeling the scratchy stubble growing there. He grabbed his dirty canvas satchel and started to jog toward the trees and the welcome gurgling of a nearby creek, but he slowed almost immediately when a knifing pain cut through his shoulder and into his chest. I’m not entirely well yet, he decided.

Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the centaur watching him closely and looking concerned. Galvin forced a smile and turned and headed into the trees.

By the time Galvin returned with an armload of fruit, the sun was beginning to edge above the horizon. Brenna was reclining on her rolled-up tent. Two satchels sat just beyond her. She wisely had packed lightly, the druid surmised, unlike other city people he knew. She wore her hair twisted in tight braids about her head. That, too, was practical, since they would be traveling among trees and bushes that would hopelessly tangle it. But her garb was far from functional. Today she wore a long blue gown of heavy cotton that was full along the bottom and edged with lace; its only saving grace was the tight sleeves. Galvin resigned himself to the thought that apparently all wizards dressed in billowy, expensive drapery. Maybe they felt that made them appear more important than people who dressed practically. Still, she looked pretty in it, he thought.

Galvin had taken time to bathe, shave two days’ growth of beard off his face, and wash his hair. Still wet, it lay flat against the sides of his head and dripped on the back and shoulders of his cloak. He had changed into the only other set of clothes he had brought, which consisted of a forest green tunic, darker green leggings, and a plain knee-length cloak—also green. He regretted ruining the cloak he had worn yesterday. It had been a gift from a female Harper associate in Tsurlagol who had had designs on the druid. That had been a few years ago, and Galvin hadn’t been interested in romance. But he liked the cloak and had worn it often. Wynter frequently chided him because he dressed only in green, but the druid considered it a functional color in the forest, since it helped him blend in with the foliage.

Wynter eyed him and winked. “A special occasion? Or are you just trying to impress the lady?”

The centaur’s longbow was slung over his right shoulder, and an embossed leather quiver full of arrows rested between his broad shoulder blades. His staff, a thick piece of black-stained oak nearly eight feet long, rested against a tree. Beyond that, Wynter carried only a small leather sack strapped to his waist. It contained several silver and gold coins and a silver pin—a harp inside a crescent moon. Galvin often envied the centaur because he didn’t need to pack clothes and other human essentials.

“No meat this morning?” Wynter continued, eyeing the druid’s selection. The centaur knew Galvin refused to eat animal flesh, choosing instead to live on fruits, nuts, and vegetables he recovered in the wild and on bread and cheese he traded for with traveling merchants. Wynter, however, had a fondness for roast pig, despite the fact it didn’t sit well in his equine stomach, and was glad his friend never objected when he ate it or grew angry when he repeatedly offered to share the flesh with the druid.

Galvin handed the centaur a large piece of citrus fruit. “This is better for you,” he said.

Brenna eagerly selected a few pieces of fruit for herself. Galvin wondered what she and Wynter had eaten while he slept. Probably little, he thought. The centaur wasn’t a very good hunter; he was a farmer by trade, when he wasn’t gallivanting off with the druid on Harper assignments, a profession that kept him fit and well fed. Galvin noted that Wynter devoured the fruit eagerly, and Brenna was eating hers ravenously.

The councilwoman finished first, glanced at her bags, and then looked to Galvin for assistance.

“I won’t be able to carry all this,” she said, adding a weak smile.

The druid returned her smile, strapped on his scimitar, slung his satchel over his shoulder, and eyed her thin, shapely frame. “Then you’d better decide what to leave behind.”

The sorceress puffed out her chest and readied a verbal assault, but the centaur stepped between her and the druid.

“I’ll help you, Brenna,” Wynter offered.

Galvin looked at the centaur quizzically. The druid had never known him to make such an offer to anyone. Wynter didn’t want anyone to consider him a packhorse.

Openly smiling at the druid, Wynter balanced the rolled canvas tent across his long horse’s back and secured it so it wouldn’t slide off. The maneuver wasn’t easy, but the centaur made it seem effortless. Next he looped the larger of her two bags over his left shoulder.

Galvin was mollified to see that Wynter was at least making her carry one bundle. The druid had learned at a very early age to carry only the bare necessities into the wilderness, as the extra weight only slowed him down. Brenna would have learned that lesson fast if the centaur hadn’t agreed to help. Now she might never learn.

The druid shrugged and set off on the journey toward the First Escarpment. Wynter and Brenna fell in behind him. The druid knew it would take the trio most of the day to reach the imposing cliffs that placed Thay at a higher elevation than the surrounding countryside. Galvin decided to lead Wynter and Brenna north and east, following the River Umber, which would take them straight into Thay. It would be easier to travel along the river because water would be plentiful and the centaur was familiar with the territory. It was the route Wynter had taken when he had fled the country years ago.

As they traveled, the sun climbed and the trees thinned, giving way to a flat plain. Waist-high wild grain waved in the morning breeze and stretched invitingly to a thick stand of pines on the horizon. Galvin listened to the rhythmic swishing noise the grain made against Brenna’s dress as the enchantress made her way through the field behind him. She was lagging behind, and the druid feared if she couldn’t pick up the pace, it could take them twice as long to reach Thay.

The centaur moved effortlessly over the flat ground. He stretched his arms away from his body, nearly parallel to the earth, and threw his head back. Wynter relished the sun and the long hours he spent under its rays on his farm. The warmth felt invigorating on his tanned skin.

Wynter reached down and pulled loose a handful of the crop, examining the grain carefully. He decided it was a variety of wild wheat. He grew something similar to this, although it didn’t grow this well. The centaur wondered why Aglarond hadn’t built farms on this ground. The soil beneath his feet was certainly fertile; the wild grain seemed to thrive on it. Likely the nearness of Thay kept the farmers from settling it, he thought. The threat of the Red Wizards kept a lot of people from doing what they would like.

The River Umber rolled lazily through the plain, cutting a broad course into Aglarond. The Umber regularly overflowed its banks because of the Red Wizard’s rain spells, helping to keep the area fertile. The centaur considered this the only good done by the Red Wizards. Before their interference, sages described this area as a savanna, windswept and subject to frequent droughts.

The trio followed a course nearly parallel to the river, staying well back from its muddy banks. Wynter could tell that the Umber was an old river, since it meandered like a boa constrictor, comfortable in its course. He knew when they came closer to Thay, its path would straighten. The waterfall that fell from the First Escarpment breathed new life into the aging river, giving it a quick, even current—at least for a number of miles.

Near midmorning, the fields ended at the edge of a pine grove. The tall branches provided enough shade to keep out the hottest of the sun’s rays. Farther into the woods, the pines gave way to deciduous trees, mainly walnuts, hickories, and oaks. The travelers paused in the grove for more than an hour. The druid told Wynter the break was needed because Brenna was tiring. While that was true, his real reason was to rest his shoulder. He collected more herbs for another healing poultice and applied it while Wynter gathered a bag of nuts. Feeling much better, Galvin called an end to the break and resumed their trek.

The druid followed a path closer to the riverbank now, where the trees thinned and the land could be navigated more easily. For the next four hours, the councilwoman kept up surprisingly well, negotiating through tall weeds, wrestling with bushes that seemed to clutch at her dress, and slogging her way through wide patches of mud where the river had overflowed its bank and then receded. However, about midafternoon, when she was concentrating on the tricky footing in some muddy ground, she neglected to see a low-hanging branch. Wynter and Galvin had sidestepped it, but she walked right into it blindly, giving her head a good banging and somehow managing to fasten her braids securely to the thick foliage.

“Damn!” she cursed, dropping her satchel in a puddle and pulling with both hands to try to free her hair. “I hate this horrible, gods-forsaken place!” The Harpers turned to see one of her braids uncoil from around her head. It was still obstinately attached to the branch, and it looked like she was playing tug-o-war with the tree, using her hair for the rope. Galvin watched with amusement. She would eventually succeed, but the tree was putting up a good fight.

Wynter trotted to Brenna’s side, holding the branch steady so she could tug the braid loose. Her fingers worked furiously, pulling and fraying the braid and angering her even more. Finally it came loose, and she stood red-faced next to her muddy bag, eyeing her mud-soaked hem.

“Damn!” she swore again, forgetting her cultivated manners and firmly swatting the tree branch.

“That’s enough,” the druid stated, walking toward Brenna and Wynter. “No need to take out your frustration on the tree.”

“Oh, no?” she said sarcastically, batting at the branch again. “I’m tired, I’m wet, I’m dirty, and I look horrible.” She struggled with the braid, trying to twine it back about her head, but the gold clasp used to fasten it was missing. “Damn!”

She moved to strike the branch a third time, but the druid’s arm shot out and his hand closed firmly about her wrist.

“I said that’s enough.”

Brenna fumed and glared at Galvin. Wrenching her arm free, she fell to her knees and began feeling about among the ferns for the clasp.

“Let’s move on,” Galvin urged as he scanned the ground and spotted the glint of something metal—her hair clasp—in a puddle. “There it is. Grab it and let’s get going.”

The sorceress, still on her hands and knees, looked up at him haughtily, then glanced back down at the puddle. “You’re so kind to help me find it,” she said sarcastically.

“So uncommonly kind.” She stretched forward and plunged her fingers into the puddle, retrieving the clasp, which was partly covered with mud. She tried to clean the clasp in the murky water, but the mud was lodged in the intricate filigree work and wouldn’t wash out.

Wynter bent forward and offered her a hand to help her up. Ignoring it, she rose, then looked about for her satchel, which was sitting in another puddle. Picking up the bag, she swung it clumsily over her shoulder, causing mud to drip down her back and spray over Wynter’s chest. Angry and puffing, she started to follow the bank to catch up to the druid.

Quickly reaching his side, she thrust out an arm and grabbed his shoulder. “We’re stopping right here until I clean up,” she said firmly. When he shook his head from side to side, she added, “You’ll just have to wait for me. That’s that.”

Her ultimatum delivered, the councilwoman dropped her bag, stuffed her hair clasp in a pocket, and started toward the river.

The druid turned toward the centaur and grimaced. Galvin noticed that Wynter was keeping his distance from the woman. Safe, the druid observed, but the safe approach wasn’t always the best—especially when he was in a hurry.

“We’re not waiting,” the druid said simply, expecting Brenna to accede to his decision. Instead, she ignored him and bent to unlace her boots. Determined, the druid strode purposely toward her.

“Galvin, don’t…” the centaur began.

But the druid was not about to be slowed down by a pacifist centaur and a politician who was overly concerned about her appearance. In a handful of steps, Galvin reached Brenna before she could step out of her boots, grabbed her about the waist, and threw her over his good shoulder. She kicked and struggled, her fists beating futilely against his chest and her knees bludgeoning his back. She reminded the druid of a deer he had pulled out of a mud bog last month.

Galvin held her fast and resumed his trek along the bank of the river, wishing he would have grabbed her the other way so her face was behind him.

Wynter, slack-jawed at the performance, fell in behind them.

The sorceress continued to kick and squirm, even though she realized his strength would prevail. Furious, she tried another tactic. “Wynter, help me!” she gasped as she continued to pummel the druid’s chest.

“Galvin,” the centaur admonished. “Put her down.”

The druid tarried only long enough to scowl at the centaur. Then he lengthened his stride. Wynter came alongside them on the side toward the stream, watching the river and avoiding Brenna’s angry gaze.

“She’s out of her element, Galvin,” Wynter said softly, watching a large leaf swirl in the current, “but at least she’s trying.” He brushed the mud specks off his chest, then finally turned to glance at the sorceress. She groaned as one of her boots fell free and hit the ground behind her.

“I hate you!” she sputtered at Galvin.

Galvin ignored her and looked up at the centaur. “She’s very trying. But at least this way we’ll make better time.”

An hour later they stopped to rest. Galvin dumped Brenna unceremoniously amidst a patch of tall grass. Wynter watched the sorceress right herself and sit cross-legged on the ground, fuming. She tried to pick the caked mud from her skirt hem. Her face was red from anger. She was exhausted from struggling with the pigheaded druid.

Brenna’s limbs ached. Most of her exercise back in Aglarond had consisted of strolling from her home through the city streets to the council chambers or the wizards guild’s library. She took a rented carriage to market and to various civic functions, and she was silently cursing herself now for being so out of shape physically. Being one of the youngest members of a council dominated by elves and half-elves, she had argued that she was the natural choice to travel cross-country with the Harper duo. She hadn’t thought it would be so physically demanding. From her perspective, Galvin and Wynter looked the same as they had before the trip started, and that frustrated her all the more. No, Galvin looked even better, as his shoulder was healing.

The sorceress said nothing to them for quite a while, and although the druid usually enjoyed the quiet, he found this silence uncomfortable. He determined he had made a mistake in letting her come along in the first place and would rectify the situation now.

Trying to act civilized, he broke the silence. “Brenna,” he began, “we can’t turn back now, but if you don’t think you can make it, I can leave you along the bank a few miles up the river.” The druid knew where a stream branched off from the river there; merchants regularly traveled downstream to reach the villages to the south. He was certain the enchantress could arrange transportation with a passing merchant. The area was relatively free of large predators and should be safe. He guessed she wouldn’t be on her own for more than a few hours.

“You’re not leaving me behind!” she snapped. “I have to go to Thay. Thay is a threat to Aglarond. Not that you’d really care about that.”

“I understand.”

“I bet you do,” she spat. “You spend your life in the woods trying to understand animals, not people.”

“I understand Thay,” Galvin answered, avoiding her eyes and leaning back on the grass to stare into the sky. The druid knew about the evil country because he had studied it, had questioned merchants journeying from the major Thayvian cities, and had spent long evenings with Wynter discussing the country’s ills.

“I might as well be talking to a parrot. The conversation would be better.” She stuck out her bottom lip and glared at the druid.

“The Harpers are interested in Thay, too,” Wynter offered. “This mission is important to both our organization and Aglarond.” The centaur looked at Galvin. “We should let her in on the plan,” Wynter advised. The druid continued to watch the sky, and the centaur took his lack of objection as agreement.

“We’ll pose as Thayvians,” Wynter began, noting that Brenna seemed to be calming down a little. “Centaurs walk freely in the streets of Thay, and humans are the dominant race. We’ll have no trouble.”

“And?” Brenna was curious.

“Then we listen for rumors, study the current political situation, and gather as much information as we can about this Red Wizard Maligor or any other Red Wizard who might make trouble against Aglarond. The more we learn, the better the Harpers can deal with any threat.”

“That’s it? Just gather information?” The sorceress’s ire was rising again. “I thought we were going to do something.”

“Getting information is doing something,” Wynter countered. “The Harpers can’t act in force unless we know what we’re up against.”

“And you think posing as Thayvians will get us that information?” Brenna returned.

“Yes,” the centaur stated. “We haven’t been able to learn much from outside Thay. Inside the country, posing as Thayvians, it should be another matter. Of course,” he added softly, “spying is dangerous. If we’re found out, we’ll likely be put to death.”

The sorceress dug into her pocket to retrieve her gold hair clasp and began picking the dirt out of it with her long fingernails. “I know it’s dangerous, but I’m doing it for my home country.” She glanced at the druid. “Look, Galvin, you don’t really have a home. I mean, you live in the woods. It’s not like feeling you’re a part of a country. When it comes right down to it, you’re only responsible for yourself. But when you live around people, as I do, you feel responsibility toward them.”

“I have a home,” Galvin said tersely. He propped himself up on his elbows and frowned at Brenna. Standing up, he brushed the dirt from his tunic. His home was the wilderness of Faerûn, and he considered himself the protector of the animals who lived in it.

“Fine. You have a home.” Brenna ignored the centaur’s gentle nudge, not sensing when to quit. “It’s just that my home has lots of people—people who may be in grave danger.” She paused to blow her hair away from her eyes. Several stubborn strands stuck to her sweat-stained forehead and she had to move them aside with her hand.

“Our country’s history is wrapped up with the Red Wizards. We’ve battled them on and off for decades.” She paused again, this time to untwine a braid and take another deep breath. Galvin had her started, and she wasn’t going to stop until she finished her say or passed out from exhaustion.

“In the past when we’ve fought the wizards’ forces, like in the battles of Singing Sands or Brokenheads, we were able to defeat them, but our casualties were high. Our ruler, the Simbul, doesn’t want another war. Or if we must fight, she wants to know it’s coming so we can be prepared.”

The druid turned his back to Brenna and resumed his course along the riverbank. The centaur bent at the waist and extended a hand to help the councilwoman up. This time she took it.

“We’re not making good enough time to reach the First Escarpment today,” Wynter said. “We’ll probably travel another couple of hours, then camp for the evening.”

“We can make it. I’ll walk faster,” she volunteered, although she knew she had pushed herself hard already and would have trouble keeping up with only one boot.

The trio, with Brenna in the rear, continued along the bank. Close to the river, ancient willows, one with a trunk nearly as thick as Galvin was tall, dug their roots into the earth to drink thirstily from the river. Their long, whiplike branches danced in the breeze and swept the ground. Galvin carefully moved a few branches aside and disappeared under the largest willow’s umbrellalike canopy.

Dozens of small yellow parrots perched in the giant tree chittered excitedly. When Wynter and Brenna passed through the willow branches and emerged on the other side of the tree, they saw two of the birds sitting on the druid’s shoulder. Galvin was several yards ahead, and he appeared to be talking to them. Wynter moved quietly toward the druid, but Brenna kept her distance.

She stared at Galvin as he chittered back at the birds. Finally curiosity got the better of her, and she took a step forward, her bare foot landing on a sharp rock. “Ouch!” she gasped, balancing herself on her booted foot. Standing on one leg, she pulled the other up in front of her, turning the bottom of her foot up so she could inspect it. Dirt clung to her heel and the ball of her foot, and blood flowed from a gash just behind her toes.

Some distance ahead, out of hearing distance, the centaur and druid conversed, oblivious to Brenna’s discomfort.

“I don’t want to get too close to Thay’s border tonight anyway. We should camp a ways back from it,” Wynter said. “At least one of the wizards uses patrols of undead.”

Galvin shivered at the thought. “I prefer to deal with living creatures.” He nodded in Brenna’s direction and added, “But I’m not sure about that one.”

“Good thing she’s too far away to hear you,” the centaur replied. “She’s spunky, though. She’ll make it. I just don’t think she’s used to this much walking. Maybe I should keep an eye on her.”

“Are you coming?” Galvin yelled back to Brenna as the birds flew from his shoulder.

Brenna wiped the blood from the bottom of her foot with the hem of her dress and limped to catch up. The centaur fell back and matched Brenna’s stride. He noticed she paused every few steps. She had pulled up the hem of her skirt and held it in her right hand, leaving her legs exposed from the knees down. It made for faster hiking, but her legs and one bare foot were getting scratched by the weeds and bushes.

“He’s mad at me,” she sputtered. “And he’s just walking fast to humiliate me.” Brenna watched Galvin, noticing that he took long steps and didn’t look down at the ground. Chipmunks, rabbits, and other small creatures accepted his presence, not bothering to run at his approach. But when she and the centaur came near the animals, they scattered into the dense foliage. The land reminded her of rain forests she had read about in Aglarond’s libraries, and she suspected she would have enjoyed the scenery under different circumstances.

“If he likes animals so much, why does he have anything to do with the Harpers or anybody else?” She winced as a branch of a thorn bush grazed her calf, leaving a pink welt. Hiking with one booted foot and one bare foot was decidedly awkward. Bending over, she pulled her other boot free and hurried to keep pace with Wynter.

“The Harpers needed someone with his talents. He’s been with them for quite a number of years, helping them with various problems in and around Thesk, Aglarond, Yuirwood, and the coast. He was even involved with the godswar a while ago.”

Brenna lowered her voice so the druid couldn’t hear. “What’s so special about Galvin that the Harpers wanted him?”

The centaur frowned. “Remember, he’s a druid, what some people call a nature priest. He has talents neither you nor I could fathom. And with the Harpers, he puts those talents to good use. Listen, it’s simple. The Harpers are a diverse group of people. The organization’s strength lies in its diversity. I didn’t hear you asking me why I’m with them. I would think that to you I’d be more out of place in the Harpers than Galvin.”

“No … you’re different. You’re …” For once, she was at an impasse for words.

“I’m Galvin’s friend,” Wynter finished. “He brought me into the Harpers.” The centaur explained that several years ago a group of bandits were raiding farms. It was just after the farmers had taken their crops to market and had been paid in gold coins. The centaur’s farm was among those hit, and he helped Galvin catch the thieves. After that, Wynter joined the Harpers. “I’ve no regrets,” he concluded. “I still find time to tend my farm between Harper missions. And when I’m away, well, at least it gives the weeds an opportunity to grow.”

“But what about your families?” Brenna brushed against the centaur to avoid another thorn bush. There seemed to be a growing number of the annoying plants. She noticed that while the trees remained thick, blotting out some of the sun, the ground cover seemed to be increasing.

Wynter smiled ruefully. “Galvin and I have no families. My relatives are in Thay. I haven’t seen them since I was a child. As for Galvin, his parents were killed when he was young. He’s been on his own—and alone—since then.”

“How did his parents die?” she persisted, puffing to keep up and hopping to avoid rocks and thorns.

“It was … an accident,” he said, continuing to plod forward, staring at the horizon. Through an opening in the vine-covered trees, he thought he caught a glimpse of the First Escarpment. Galvin had told Wynter about his parents stealing something from an ambassador—a Thayvian ambassador. Even though the stolen items were returned, the ambassador demanded their deaths and their property. The ambassador’s wishes were fulfilled, and Galvin grew up hating Thay and civilization in general.

“So he’s not married,” Brenna mused. “But he’s got the Harpers.”

“He has some friends in the Harpers,” Wynter admitted, “But few of them are really close. Basically he’s a loner.”

“What if I wanted to join the Harpers?” Brenna asked. Her voice was somewhat muffled, since her head was directed at the ground to avoid obstacles.

“That depends on you,” Wynter replied, speeding up his pace. “It depends on how much time and effort you’re willing to sacrifice. It depends on whether you’re willing to put your life on hold and on the line for whatever cause might come up.”

“Are there any politicians in the Harpers?”

“Sure.”

“Who? Name some,” she encouraged.

“I can’t do that,” Wynter stated flatly. “We’re a secret organization, remember. Part of our strength lies in our anonymity.”

For the next hour, the pair fell into silence, and the gap widened between Brenna and Wynter and Galvin, who was several hundred yards ahead of them. At times they lost sight of Galvin in the trees, and the sorceress struggled to close the distance, knowing the centaur was lagging behind with her out of courtesy. Her feet burned, and it took considerable effort to keep going. She yearned to stop to rest and tend to the blisters on her feet.

Eventually she and Wynter lost sight of Galvin altogether, and she was worried they had become lost. However, the centaur concentrated on the ground, spotting signs of the druid’s passage here and there and assuring her they were on course. The centaur tried to increase the pace, but Brenna could move no faster.

“He won’t let himself get too far ahead of us,” Wynter offered.

“Shhh! Listen,” Brenna whispered.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“That’s just it,” she said, her voice barely audible. “No birds … nothing.”

The flora had remained as lush as when they first entered the woods many hours ago, but now there were no parrots, chipmunks, or other signs of life. Only a few miles ago there had been so many colorful birds that they looked like flowers on the trees. Straining her eyes, she couldn’t spot even one.

Ahead, she and Wynter saw Galvin step out from behind a tree and motion them to stop. The druid placed his palms against the trunk of a willow and closed his eyes. He laid the side of his head against the bark.

“What’s he doing?” Brenna asked, puzzled.

“He’s talking to the tree,” Wynter explained.

“Yeah, sure he is,” the enchantress retorted sarcastically. But she was glad for the opportunity to stay put. Her side was aching from hiking so long, her feet felt as if they were on fire, and she welcomed the rest.

After several minutes, the druid stepped back from the tree, opened his eyes, and started back toward the centaur and Brenna. He appeared drained, Brenna noted, while a short time ago he had seemed reasonably fresh and energetic.

“We’ll camp over there,” he said, pointing at a patch of ground near the willow. Thorn bushes were still plentiful, but there was enough space between them to accommodate the three travelers.

A rush of relief washed over Brenna. She prayed the trip tomorrow wouldn’t be as long; if it was, she’d never be able to make it. She didn’t believe she could take another step without shoes. As she looked for a spot relatively free of thorn bushes, she listened to Galvin and Wynter.

“Mushrooms and nuts—for dinner?” the centaur complained.

“There aren’t many animals around here.”

Wynter grumbled. “Even the animals know it’s not safe this near Thay, eh?”

Wynter glanced at Brenna and dropped her rolled-up tent and bag at her feet. She considered the tent, and for a moment she thought about unrolling it, setting it up, and crawling inside. But only for a moment. Instead, she dropped to all fours, slumped to her stomach, placed her head on the canvas, and immediately fell fast asleep.

Brenna woke shortly after dawn to the smell of something cooking. The land was bathed in a thick fog, and through it, she saw Wynter standing before a small fire turning on a makeshift spit what looked like the leg of a deer. Nearby, Galvin was rubbing something into a piece of hide. The young councilwoman struggled to a sitting position. Her legs ached and felt like lead, and her neck was stiff from sleeping at such an awkward angle.

However, she refused to appear beaten. Standing and smiling weakly, she greeted her companions good morning, grabbed the smaller of her bags, and looked around. It was so foggy she had to ask the druid directions to the river, which she was surprised to hear was only a few yards away. She returned about half an hour later, feeling her way through the fog and wearing a new dress, which was beige and decorated with tiny pink flowers. It was no more practical than the ruined blue one she tossed on top of her tent.

“Well, shall we be moving on?” she inquired, feigning being chipper, rested, and ready to go. It was a good performance, she decided. Actually she felt like curling up in a ball and sleeping for a month. Still carrying her bag, she cocked her head in the direction of the First Escarpment.

“Put these on first,” Galvin instructed, tossing a pair of hide moccasins in her direction—the hide he had been working on. “Antelope skin. It’s thick enough to be comfortable and provide some protection.”

The sorceress dropped to the ground and gratefully pulled on the moccasins. She cast a glance in the druid’s direction, wondering if he had killed the antelope in order to make the moccasins.

The druid kicked dirt over the flames to douse them while the centaur packed a large chunk of roast antelope into his bag. Then Galvin started toward the escarpment, and Wynter bent to pick up Brenna’s tent and larger bag.

“Just the bag,” she said, not wanting to bother the centaur with something she wouldn’t have the energy to unwrap. “Leave the tent behind. Sleeping under the stars is just fine.”

The morning fog hung low to the ground and extended upward about fifteen feet. The thick haze looked ghostlike, giving the woods a haunted appearance. Even Galvin had difficulty moving through it, since it cut visibility to only a few feet. The druid wended his way slowly through the trees with one arm extended in front of him and the other off to the side. He looked like a blind man feeling for obstacles. The thorn bushes tore at his leggings, and he tried to push the treacherous branches aside so they wouldn’t prick Wynter and Brenna.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, it burned off most of the fog, revealing the brilliant jade and emerald hues of the large-leafed trees that dominated this section of the woods.

Pressing closer toward the escarpment, they heard the pounding rush of water. Emerging from the edge of the woods shortly after noon, they saw the magnificent falls that cascaded nearly three hundred feet down the First Escarpment and roared into the river. The moisture at the base of the falls looked iridescent, creating a miniature rainbow.

“It’s—it’s beautiful,” Brenna gasped, trying to take everything in.

“I’ve never seen anything more spectacular,” Wynter admitted. “But it’s sad to think such loveliness marks the boundary of Thay.”

“How do we get up?” Brenna asked, still not taking her eyes from the falls. The escarpment looked imposing. Its rocky face ran nearly perpendicular to the ground, and the sorceress couldn’t help herself from looking at the steep cliff in awe.

Layer upon layer of limestone and granite formed the escarpment, the varying bands of rocks looking like orange, tan, and white ribbons. In places, rocks jutted out at odd angles like daggers pointed toward Aglarond. At intervals, lone, stunted trees struggled to survive on thin, rocky ledges. The escarpment stretched from one horizon to the other. Brenna saw no way up or around the rocky barrier.

“There’s a main road that cuts through the cliffs south of the river, but we can’t take that route. It’s guarded closely. But don’t worry, we’ll find a way.” Wynter knew there were other roads and trails that led up the First Escarpment; they were used by slavers, merchants, and other travelers moving in and out of Thay for various reasons. But there were patrols stationed along every one, and only those travelers with the right reasons for coming into or leaving the country were allowed to pass.

Galvin kept just inside the tree line, safe from prying eyes, and started searching to the north. Wynter and Brenna plodded along behind him. The trio scrutinized the base of the escarpment as they moved but saw only sheer, jagged rocks.

“When I was young, my father would take me to the top of the cliffs,” Wynter reminisced. “He’d tell me how grand Thay was, how it sat above the rest of the world because all other countries were beneath it.”

“Your father?” Brenna asked, pleased to at last hear something about the centaur’s past.

Wynter’s eyes looked sad and distant. “My father worked on one of the largest slave plantations in Thay. His dream was to run the plantation. He certainly had the temperament for it. He had no qualms about beating slaves or killing those too ill or old to work. I couldn’t stomach watching my father flay the skin off some poor soul’s back. I tried to change things, but my family was set in their ways. They believed in slavery, and they weren’t going to listen to a child. I left when I was twelve. That was more than a decade ago.”

Wynter clenched his fists and stared at the cliffs. He had promised himself he would never return to his homeland. He was wishing now that he had kept that promise.

“Let’s try farther north,” Wynter suggested. “I remember some places where the cliff isn’t quite as steep. Slaves used to try to escape down the escarpment there.”

“Did any of them ever make it?” Brenna queried.

“A few, probably, though I doubt many did. At least when I lived with my father, I don’t remember any being so lucky. They usually killed the slaves they caught trying to escape.” Wynter’s tone was solemn, and his expression was troubled from talking about the slaves. His hands shook visibly. “But they didn’t kill the strongest slaves. Instead, they beat them into submission. Strong slaves are treasured.”

Finally they reached a place where the escarpment was not so imposing, although it still stretched more than a hundred feet into the sky. The sun had already begun to set, blazing an orange haze across the top of the cliff so it looked like burnished gold.

“This will have to do, eh?” Wynter said, inspecting the rocky surface.

Galvin examined the slope carefully. Though it was less steep than it was farther to the south, he knew it would still give the centaur difficulty. For a moment, he pondered searching for a better place to enter Thay. After several minutes, he decided on a different alternative.

“Give me a moment, Wyn,” he directed as he started up the cliff. The druid was as agile as a monkey, yet displayed more grace. He easily found handholds and footholds and hauled himself up the cliff until he reached a steep section where he doubted the centaur could pass. Then he reached out with his hands and touched the steep rock face.

Below, Brenna watched in amazement as Galvin seemed to work the rock like clay, shaping it into natural, low steps. It was druidic magic Galvin channeled to shape the stone, sculpting it to fit his mental picture. Finished, he scrambled up the remainder of the cliff, his long blond hair flying behind him, turning gold in the rays of the setting sun. Finally he crouched at the top like a mountain lion, surveying his companions below and then glancing around behind him to make sure he was alone. Satisfied, he motioned Wynter up.

The centaur pushed upward with his muscular rear legs and angled the human half of his body forward as he propelled himself up the cliff. Bits of rock flew away from his hooves and rolled down the cliff face in his wake. Brenna had to step back to avoid being pelted. Near the top, the centaur’s momentum slowed, but his four legs continued to pump to keep him from rolling down to the ground below. Brenna feared he would slip and come hurtling to his death in front of her, but at last he made it, breathless, sweating, and showering dirt over the edge of the cliff as he cleared the top.

A minute later the druid threw a long rope over the side. The sorceress assumed he had been carrying it in his satchel. It wasn’t long enough to reach the bottom of the cliff, however. Its end flapped about twenty feet from the ground. But the climbing was easier toward the base of the cliff, and Brenna had little difficulty scaling the rocks on the lower part of the slope. When she reached the rope, Galvin indicated with his hands how she should tie it about her, then motioned for her to use her feet against the rock, as if she was climbing it.

The sorceress followed his instructions, although she considered using her own kind of magic, such as casting a spell to levitate to reach the top of the cliff. It would have been easier, and it likely would have kept her dress in better shape.

At the top of the First Escarpment, the trio turned to gaze into Thay’s interior. They stood near a wooded area, but the trees were cultivated, planted in evenly spaced rows, and each one was shaped by careful pruning. The trees were laden with citrus, yellow and orange fruits that looked ripe and inviting in the sun’s dying rays. Thay was known for its fabulous fruits, born of the wizards’ weather control spells and tended laboriously by slaves.

“I don’t remember the orchards being heavily guarded at night,” Wynter said. “Of course, as a child I never paid a lot of attention to the guards. Beyond the orchard, we’ll likely find a road. We’ll have to get our bearings to determine our route to Amruthar.”

The centaur took a last glance at Aglarond below. Then he said softly, “Let’s get away from the cliff edge. Patrols march along the escarpment all through the night.”

“Agreed,” the druid said, staring into the setting sun. He thought that perhaps Wynter was right—the wizards liked their foul country because it rose above the surrounding land, placing them on a sort of earthen pedestal. Galvin knew they considered themselves superior to all other occupants of Faerûn.

Galvin shook his head to whip his long hair away from his face and began to trot toward the trees. Wynter and Brenna followed close behind. The sorceress shivered. It was one thing to talk about coming into Thay on some grand spying mission for the good of her country, but it was quite another thing to actually be here.

What little she had seen of the land so far didn’t look particularly hostile. Indeed, the grove before her was more beautiful than any orchard in Aglarond or Mulhorand, which she had occasion to visit on council business. But she knew this country had no natural right to be so verdant. From its location and prevailing weather patterns, it should be dry and plagued by frequent droughts. She also knew it was perhaps the most evil place in all this part of Faerûn, and it was drenched in magic. Suddenly her own magic seemed insignificant.

It felt cool in the orchard. The shadows from the trees were lengthening as the sun continued to slip below the horizon. Galvin estimated they would have another half-hour of twilight, and they would have to make their way through the orchard in that time. Wynter explained that the bulk of the slave crews started work at dawn, sometimes earlier, and it wouldn’t be wise to be caught here then. Most slaves had no compunction about turning in trespassers or Thayvians discovered in the wrong territory. Such discoveries often resulted in the slaves being rewarded.

They were nearly through the orchard when the sun disappeared on the horizon and the sky turned a darker blue. In another half-hour, perhaps not even that long, the sky would be totally black. Brenna began to worry that they might become lost in the hostile country.

Just then a sharp cry cut through her thoughts and rooted the Harpers in place.

“You! Intruders! Stop and surrender!” a disheveled figure stepped out from the shadow of a large citrus tree, surprising the trio.

Brenna and Wynter had difficulty noticing any details, but Galvin’s acute eyes picked out a half-dozen more shapes behind the first figure. Their discoverer was human and was evidently in charge of the group; those in the shadows were orcs, pig-faced sentries who were more monster than man.

Galvin smelled their offensive odors and noted that they wore crude uniforms similar to the one worn by the gnoll he had killed, yet different enough to indicate they served another master.

“There are seven of them,” Galvin whispered.

“What did you say? Speak up, trespasser!” the human called.

Quick to realize that they faced an orchard patrol, Wynter trotted forward, roughly pushing Galvin out of the way and knocking the druid to the ground. Galvin’s rump stung, and he started to get up.

“We’re no intruders,” the centaur said sternly, planting the tip of his thick staff on Galvin’s chest to keep the druid from moving. “I work at the slave plantation near Thaymount, and I’m returning these runaways.” He curled his lip when he glanced at Brenna and waved his arm indicating she should move near Galvin. She complied, cowering visibly.

The man came closer, motioning his orc charges to join him. “You’re a long way from Thaymount, centaur. Your plantation workers were lax to let a pair of slaves get this far.”

“They’re a tricky pair, these two,” Wynter said. Then he thumped Galvin with the end of his staff and ordered him to get up. The druid stood next to Brenna and cast his eyes at the ground sullenly. Brenna copied him.

“These two escaped many days ago,” Wynter continued. “I was sent to retrieve them, and if I didn’t find them, I was told not to come back. It wasn’t hard to follow them. The clumsy fools don’t know how to cover their tracks.” He smiled at the sentry.

Wynter reached out with his free hand and yanked Brenna’s hair to pull her closer to him. She yelped in surprise and pain. “I would’ve killed them, but the boss wouldn’t have stood for it. No. Not at all.” He yanked on Brenna’s hair again until she cried out. “She’s been around awhile. Him, too. Look at the hair. It would have been my mane if they’d gotten killed.”

The patrol leader grinned, showing a row of dirty broken teeth; the front two were missing. Despite his poor appearance, Wynter guessed he was probably an able fighter. He was muscular, the sleeves of his uniform fitting snugly over the large biceps beneath. A longsword hung in a tooled leather scabbard on his right side, while a broadsword hung on his left. Half a dozen daggers were strapped to his chest. The orcs behind him each carried two weapons.

“So… they’re special slaves,” the sentry observed, his attention obviously directed at Brenna. “Why don’t you let me see just how special the female is. Then I’ll let you pass through the orchard. No problems.”

“I couldn’t do that,” Wynter retorted, pulling Brenna closer to him. “This pair is prime breeding stock. You’d better let us pass. I’m not looking for any trouble.”

The man motioned his orcs to remain still. “Breeding stock? A wizard’s stock?”

“Yeah,” Wynter replied. “They belong to a zulkir. Do you want me to say his name nice and loud, just in case he might be listening?”

“No,” the man growled morosely. “You can go.”

He waved a thick arm forward, and Wynter proceeded. Brenna stuck close to his side, and Galvin walked a few paces in front, prodded along by the centaur’s staff. The three were relieved that the ruse had worked, but their optimism was crushed when one of the orcs shouted, “Weapon, boss! Slave weapon!”

The speech was crude, but the trio knew the meaning. The patrol had spotted Galvin’s scimitar. All eyes had been on Brenna before, which is likely why they had gotten this far.

“Run!” Galvin ordered, but Wynter and Brenna were already in full stride.

The sorceress was lagging behind, however. The day’s journey and the climb up the cliff had already taxed her to her limits. Wynter doubled back to get her.

“Help her up on my back!” Wynter yelled to Galvin.

“No time,” Galvin replied, positioning himself between the centaur, Brenna, and the oncoming ores. “They’re on us.” The druid drew his scimitar and squinted his eyes, reaching out with his mind to the citrus trees.

The screaming orcs, led by their angry leader, closed fast, and the druid could smell the dried sweat on their grotesque bodies. Their lips curled back in a hyenalike snarl as they chanted for the trespassers’ blood.

Galvin continued to concentrate on the trees, and in response, the branches snaked forward like striking snakes to entangle the orcs. The limbs whipped around the orcs’ flailing arms and legs, holding them fast and hoisting them several feet above the ground.

The lead sentry struggled and barked a few orders in the orcish tongue, but his charges were slow to respond, looking astonished at the branches that were like ropes about their limbs.

Brenna took advantage of the situation to begin a spell. Her singsong chant was uneven because she was out of breath. Still she persevered, padding through the grass toward the entangled guards as she continued to murmur the arcane words. When she stood in front of the sentry, she finished the incantation. His struggles stopped, and he stared at her with wide, attentive eyes.

“I’ve bewitched him,” she announced over her shoulder to the Harpers. “He’ll be mine for several days, but now that I have him, I’m not so sure what to do with him.”

“He can be our guide,” Wynter answered. “Can you make him lead us?”

“Sure,” Brenna said. “I could even make him cook for us and polish your hooves if you want. What about the orcs?”

“The entanglement won’t last much longer,” Galvin said, a touch of concern in his voice. The orcs had begun to strain against the branches. “Do you have something else—some spell to keep them quiet about all of this?”

The enchantress smiled broadly, pleased to have Galvin ask her for help. She searched through a small pouch at her side, gathering more spell components.

“I can try to make them forget about us, but I’m not sure it will work. They seem rather dense. But I’ll do what I can.” She breathed deeply and began another enchantment. Between phrases, she thought she heard the druid say, “Thanks.”

When she finished, she returned to the Harpers and her charmed friend. “We’d better get out of here,” she suggested, “just in case it didn’t work.”

Wynter fell in behind Galvin, Brenna, and their newfound guide. The centaur’s legs felt weak; he suspected it was nerves. He continued to remind himself how much he hated this country as they proceeded to move deeper into Thay.