The floating monster glared around the ruined chamber, but nothing moved except the thick, dark red fluid on the floor. Two holy symbols lay amid the moving gore, and tin cups and scabbarded swords and knives leaned where the pilgrims had left them, but their clothes were gone. The monster bent its gaze again on the moving liquid.
Slowly, as if with great effort, the red fluid was gathering, joining into two ever-widening pools. The creature watched for a long time; the pools became two rising, glistening red humps. Purposefully the fanged thing flew across the chamber to hang above one pool, and extended a forest of mouths with questing tongues, intending to suck up the pool.
With surprising speed, the pool leapt upward to meet it, roaring in a red column that plunged into all the waiting mouths. The fanged creature darkened, shuddered—and flew apart in a wet explosion of staring eyeballs and slime.
Gelatinous fragments of its riven body were flung to the far corners of the rubble-strewn room … but before they could stain the walls or floor, these wet remnants faded silently away into the air, as if they had never been.
* * * * *
The swordcaptains standing around Nentor Thuldoum nearly swallowed their tongues in startled fear when the wizard let out a sudden raw scream, clawed blindly and convulsively at them all, and then flung himself back in his seat, clutching at his head. The wordless wet gargle in his throat rose again into a screaming, a high keening that went on and on … and men pulled back from the reeling Zhentarim and drew their blades. They shivered.
“What should we do, Lord?” a swordcaptain asked, hurrying to where Swordlord Amglar sat watching, his back against the ancient bulk of the Standing Stone.
The commander looked up expressionlessly at the anxious officer and shrugged. “Either this passes, or it doesn’t. If the latter, we’ll put arrows through him from well away until he falls silent, and then burn the body.” Amglar reached for the wineskin and goblet that sat on the grass beside him, and his lips curved into a mirthless grin. “Wizards are all like that, inside,” he told the swordcaptain softly. “If their control is ever broken, all the screaming and wide-eyed raving bursts out, for us all to see.”
The man shivered. “What does that to wizards, Lord?”
Amglar shrugged. “It’s but magic sweeping away restraint. Mages are just men and maids like all the rest of us. The problem with our kindly Zhentarim is that they all seem to forget that.”
* * * * *
In a ruined chamber deep in the night-cloaked woods, two columns of dark, glistening liquid grew slowly darker and more solid, shifting into manlike shapes. One sharpened into the likeness of the shorter pilgrim while the other was still a glistening humanoid, eyes and mouth just swimming into view on a face of red slime.
“That body?” the unfinished one asked disgustedly.
“Again?”
“You’d prefer this?” The shorter pilgrim flickered and slid, its clothes and bristles melting away into ivory-skinned voluptuousness. A breathtakingly beautiful female human caressed itself provocatively, posing with its hands in a magnificent fall of flame-red hair.
“Where’d you see that?” the unfinished one asked.
The second Malaugrym smiled. “Well, it’s a long story.…”
* * * * *
Tower of Ashaba, Shadowdale, early Flamerule 17
“Is there more moongleam?” Elminster asked hopefully, holding out his goblet.
Chin on hand, Shaerl shook her head. “Not this side of the cellars, and I’m in no state to climb stairs now. Not after—gods, Old Mage, it’s been six bottles! Doesn’t wine touch you?”
“No,” Elminster told her. “I just like the taste.”
Shaerl rolled her eyes. “Of course. Silly of me even to think you’d get tipsy, or take headaches from wine, like mere mortals.”
“Look ye, lass, it took me the better part of a year to get the spell right—and after all that, Mystra laughed and changed me with a wave of her hand! I could have saved myself hours—nay, days—of painstaking research!”
“Aye,” Shaerl agreed dryly. “I can see how long and hard it would have been, drinking every night away to see how long it took you to start reeling, and if ‘twas different than the night before.”
“That’s not how I did it, lass!” Elminster growled at her.
Shaerl spread her hands in apology and sighed. “I’d have more sympathy, El, if I didn’t look in the mirror every morn and see myself getting older, fast. Not all that long ago I was ordering my gowns slit thigh-high to catch the eyes of young blades at feasts, and having gowns made to match so my parents wouldn’t see until the coach was around the first bend, and I could strip them off! Now I couldn’t even get into any of those gowns … if I still dared to dress like that!”
“Why don’t ye dare dress like that?” the Old Mage asked, trying to peer around the edge of the table to see her ankles. “A few years and a child don’t ruin one’s legs!”
“But they do add to one’s belly. Never mind about me … you know what I’m talking about, Old Mage. You’ve had centuries—and may well have centuries more. I’ll be lucky to see sixty summers.”
“ ‘Tis not the shining thing ye think it, this longevity,” Elminster told her gravely. “I bury friends every day, it seems … and one grows so tired of it all. If ye didn’t need me so sorely in the days ahead, ‘twould be so easy to just bid it all good-bye and lie down in a tomb somewhere to dream the ages away … but ye always need me.”
“I do?” Shaerl asked challengingly, but hastily added, “No offense, Old Mage.”
Elminster waved a dismissive hand. “Not ye personally—thou art one of the bright spots, lass. Cormyrean noble ladies who can think for themselves are rarer than they should be! I meant the Realms in general, and Shadowdale in particular. There’s something here that the gods need very badly just now—and I must guard it from them.”
“Ah, with us caught in the middle, as usual,” Shaerl said sarcastically. “Wonderful.”
“Ye wanted adventure when ye left the castle of thy father,” Elminster reminded her. “So ye took the oath to Azoun and joined Vangerdahast’s service, were sent to Shadowdale and promptly married the man ye were sent to spy on … so here ye are. Too late by far to criticize the bed ye made for thyself, dear.”
“I know,” Shaerl replied in exasperation. She got up, leaning on the table for support, and then strode restlessly about the room. “It’s just—”
She threw up her hands in surrender, whirled around, and ran to the old wizard, flinging her arms around him.
“I’m just so scared, El,” she said, tears standing in her eyes as she stared into his. Her lower lip trembled. “Every time Mourn goes out that door, I think it’s the last time I’ll see him alive. Zhentil Keep attacks us every gods-be-damned spring … and now the entire world seems torn apart, with gods everywhere and orcs and brigands, and magic going wild! Mourn needs me to be strong, I know, when what I want to do is run away from it all, just the two of us, and—”
“The two of us? Ye and this old wizard? Miss, I’ll remind ye that ye’re married!” Elminster said primly.
“I meant Mourngrym, you dolt,” Shaerl said scornfully, voice wavering on the edge of tears.
“I know ye did, little one,” Elminster said. He folded her gently into his arms. That brought the explosion of sobs he’d known it would. He held the lady of Shadowdale, murmuring comforting promises and stroking her hair until her tears were spent.
She lifted her head from his breast at last, red eyed and wild haired, and blinked at him tremulously, morose thanks in her eyes.
“Ah, ye’re done!” Elminster said brightly. “Now, how about that wine?”
“Ooohh!” In mock rage Shaerl snatched up a cushion from the chair and belted him with it.
“That’s better,” the Old Mage said gruffly, through the rain of blows. “Beat the wits out of the only archmage left to defend Shadowdale, that’s a smart girl.”
Shae
rl let fall the cushion as if its touch suddenly burned her fingers. “Sorry,” she whispered, turning her head away.
Elminster chuckled and clapped her shoulder. “I was jesting, lass. Why don’t ye settle into a slightly more cozy position on my lap—one in which thy knee isn’t pressing hard into this old bladder, mind—an’ I tell ye all the wild tales about which avatar is walking where in Faerûn, and what a mess they’re making of things. When ye’re thoroughly scared, I’ll pass on to news of the main Zhent army, currently being warmly entertained in Voonlar by several hobgoblin bands I sent thence … ah, dropped literally atop their camp, actually.”
Shaerl giggled. “I wish I’d been there to see that,” she said. “Has it thinned the Zhent host appreciably?”
Elminster nodded. “Moreover, I’m not done yet. It’s taken me until now to locate my favorite hobgoblin tribe—the Nose Bones—so they’ll be er, dropping in on our Zhent friends just before dawn.”
“Taken you until now?” Shaerl said in mock alarm. “Why, whatever have you been doing?”
“Holding the Realms together, lass,” Elminster told her rather grimly, “and fighting off various old foes who’ve decided to take advantage of the Fall of the Gods to conquer or destroy as much of Faerûn as they can seize—the Malaugrym, in particular, have been troublesome.”
“Those Who Walk in Shadow?” Shaerl asked, eyes grave. “Storm and I have talked about them several times, after one attacked you at the inn and you wouldn’t tell us anything. They sounded deadly, indeed.”
“Ah, but I’ve acquired three heroes to deal with them now,” Elminster said, holding out to her a goblet that shouldn’t have been full.
Shaerl stared at it suspiciously, sipped it, and then peered into it again. It was still full—or rather, full again. She gave Elminster a look.
The Old Mage spread his hands with an air of innocence.
The lady of Shadowdale sighed. “So who are these three mighty ones?”
“Sharantyr and two Harpers; men who came to Storm for training.”
Shaerl stared at him, mouth open. “The three rangers? Against spell-hurling shapeshifters? El, they’ll be killed!”
Elminster shrugged. “That fate could well befall us all in the days ahead. I can’t be everywhere, especially now, with bindings failing and magic twisting awry all across Toril. My valiant three’ve done well enough thus far, I must say. Even if they all perish forthwith, they’ve dealt the House of Malaug a shrewd blow.”
“Will you write that on their tombs?” Shaerl asked quietly.
Elminster shrugged but said nothing. After a long silence, the lady of Shadowdale whispered, “What will you write on ours?”
The ghost of a smile stole across the Old Mage’s face. “Perhaps: I should have been laid to rest here long ago, but I’m still busy defending Shadowdale.”
“Oh, no,” she said quietly, shaking her head as the bedchamber door opened and a weary Mourngrym strode in, tossing down cloak, helm, and sword. “That’s what your tomb should say.”
“It already does, lass. Ask Lhaeo to show ye some time—on the morrow. It’s a good place to hide with thy heir, if the dale’s overrun. Oh, in case he forgets to tell ye—don’t mind all the floating eyeballs that’ll drift around after ye. They do no harm … and if the food runs out, they’re good eating.”
“Is he teasing you about fried eyeballs again?” Mourngrym asked as he strode into the room. Without slowing to hear Shaerl’s reply, he bent over the chair to kiss the top of her head, and then looked up at Elminster as the soft fingers of his wife stole up to stroke his cheek, “And what’s this about ‘hide’? And ‘overrun’? With you here holding the dale against all invaders?”
“We must all fall sometime,” Elminster replied very quietly. “That’s why I’ve been grooming every hero I could find these last ten years or so. Someday, defending Shadowdale without me will be your task. Perhaps someday soon.”
* * * * *
The Standing Stone, the Dales, Flamerule 17
The spellmaster’s screams broke off suddenly, and he slumped forward in his seat. Hesitantly one of the swordcaptains took a few paces toward the wizard, sword drawn, and then looked back to the swordlord for instructions. Other officers with ready weapons were also gathering cautiously around the seated wizard.
“Is he dead?” Amglar asked bluntly. The swordcaptain turned to see, taking a few paces closer—and then shrank back in horror as sudden radiances flashed and spun around the body, jerking it convulsively.
Amglar’s eyes narrowed. Contingencies, perhaps … not attacks visited from afar, no.
His judgment was confirmed an instant later as the Zhentarim shook himself and stood, looking around irritably at all the grim faces and raised swords. “Put away all this steel,” he snapped, “and find something useful to do—such as getting me a hot meal. Spellhurling’s hungry work.”
The swordcaptain Amglar had just given orders to turned back to the swordlord and spread his hands in a silent question. Amglar waved at him to ‘hold hard’ for the nonce, got up, and strode over to Thuldoum.
“How are you, mage?” he asked, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“I’ll live,” Thuldoum said coldly, “and my wits are my own; you need not hack me down for fear I’ll turn on you all.”
“The Roost’s defended, then?”
“No,” the spellmaster said. “It’s deserted. A little overgrown and tumbledown to be an ideal camp, but safe enough.”
“Safe? Why the screaming then?”
“My creation encountered two beings who can shift shape. They were camped in one of the rooms.”
“Doppelgangers? If they impersonate our swordcaptains, they can play merry death and chaos with this Sword!”
“These weren’t doppelgangers,” Nentor Thuldoum said grimly. “One of them tried to merge with my monster, destroying it. I was held in thrall, and saw into its mind. It was old, very old, and it hates Elminster of Shadowdale more than you or I do; possibly more than High Lord Manshoon does. They’ve been feuding for centuries.”
“And so?”
“It also hates three other humans I don’t know; they looked like rangers. It thinks all of them are in Mistledale right now … and was headed there to feed on them, the moment it was satisfied the human shape I saw it in—a pilgrim of Tyr—was good enough to fool them.”
“You think these two shapechangers are on the way to Mistledale by now?”
“Yes,” the Zhentarim said flatly. “I couldn’t break free until it ate the monster’s mind, but the last thought I overheard was that it was eager to get to its prey.”
“Then we’ll be just as urgent in our advance on the Roost, once you set us a directional spell so we can get there through the woods, and not have to use the road and the open dale.”
“The moment I’ve eaten,” the spellmaster told him coldly, “you’ll have that spell. The drink, I think, is even more important right now.”
Wordlessly Amglar unclipped a chased metal flask from his belt and held it out. The Zhentarim regarded it and then him suspiciously, then in sudden resolve undid the stopper and took a sip—then a long pull.
When he could stop gasping, the spellmaster wiped at his numbed lips and asked, “B-By all the gods, what is that stuff?”
“Firewine,” Amglar told him, surprised. “You don’t get out much, do you, wizard?”
“Enough,” Thuldoum told him darkly. “More than enough.”
“Spellmaster?” A swordcaptain was hurrying up with a covered platter that trailed wisps of steam. “Your evenfeast!”
“Ah, that’s better,” Thuldoum said, and turned to Amglar. “You see, Swordlord? Properly treated, I will deal with you properly in return … just like any man. You might remember that.”
“Aye,” the swordlord said, remembering Myarvuk’s still, staring face as they buried him. “I will keep it in mind—always.”
* * * * *
Mistledale, Flamerule 17
The larger of the two owls fluttered down to a branch on the edge of the dale, and grew a human mouth. “Best be wary,” it said to the owl alighting beside it. “They may have spying spells set—and a single arrow could slay us in these shapes.”
“Take on something larger, Yinthrim?”
“No,” the larger Malaugrym said firmly. “That’d just invite discovery and attack … and they’ll have mages about. No, Atari, just take care. After we avenge the despoiled honor of the House of Malaug, let us return here and await the dawn. On a battlefield, amusements will be many.”
* * * * *
Swords Creek, Mistledale, Flamerule 17
“Yes?” Syluné inquired, turning from her lamp and mirror and raising an imperious eyebrow. On either side of the tent door, Belkram and Itharr stared out and raised their blades warily, waiting.
“Your servant, Lady,” said the voice outside. A man’s voice. A familiar man’s voice.
“Yes, Torm?” Syluné asked, a trifle wearily. The two Harpers relaxed, trading grins across the dim tent mouth. “Come to undress me? Or just to collect all your lingerie?”
“No,” the thief said in a low voice. “May I come in?”
Syluné turned to Sharantyr, who nodded. The three Harpers were sleeping in all but their boots, drawn swords to hand, and had already lain down. The Witch of Shadowdale was sitting up before a mirror, looking at the body she might well lose again on the morrow. “Yes—but leave your pranks outside the door. I’m not in the mood.”
“Your command is my wish, as I believe Elminster once said,” Torm said with just a hint of his usual impishness, looking warily into the tent. Belkram and Itharr saluted him silently with their blades; he answered them with a sardonic lift of his brows, and stepped into the tent. He was holding something behind his back.
Syluné turned on her stool to face him. With the candlelight behind her, lighting her silver hair into flame, she looked unearthly as well as beautiful. “Well, Torm?”
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