by Ed Greenwood
"You?" Mourngrym snorted, making a rude gesture with what was left of his sausage. "Working?"
"Indeed," Torm replied with dignity, "I have just returned from a dawn foray-a bold and brazen foray, let me say, fraught with peril and shining bravery-into the road camp just south of Voonlar, looking for certain things our departed Zhentish friends may have left behind!"
"More women?" Merith asked slyly. "Torm, how many can one man have?"
"The answer, Sir Elf, would surprise you," Torm said loftily, "but that is a matter for converse at some more relaxed time. I speak of the Central Blade's pack train… sixteen wagons of it, at any rate."
"Thieving still?" Shaerl sighed. "Torm, in case you haven't noticed, there's a war on! Must you indulge in petty thievery?"
Term's eyebrows rose. " 'Petty thievery,' Lady? You wound me to the quick! What did you think your surviving troops would eat? And be paid with? Starving men"-a dagger spun from his hand to transfix one of Mourngrym's sausages, and the thief jerked on the silken cord affixed to the hilt and snatched the food away from Mourngrym's hasty grab-"who feel they've been cheated tend to make unsafe guardians, particularly when they're also well-trained warriors."
"Belt up, well-trained warrior," Florin suggested kindly as Torm reeled in a dusty sausage and bit into it with satisfaction. The ranger looked around the table to address them. "We're here to talk some things out and decide how best to proceed, given the perils abroad in the land and… our lack of Elminster." In the silence that followed, he added, "In the absence of the Old Mage, Sylune is the eldest here, and should speak first."
"My thanks, Florin-I think," the ghostly Witch of Shadowdale said dryly. "For my part, I have unfinished business Elminster set me to. Sister, will you hand my stone to Itharr of the Harpers? He is the only one of our Rangers Three who hasn't borne me yet."
"I will," Storm said gravely, drawing the chain from her neck and rising to carry the stone around the table.
"The Rangers Three? Sounds like a chartered adventuring band," Torm commented. Itharr took the stone carefully, a little awed. The thief added, "Or a traveling minstrel show."
"Torm, dearest," Sharantyr said sweetly, "Tell me: do these idiocies just tumble out whenever you open your mouth-or do you actually sit there and think them up?"
"Thinking?" Torm frowned at her. "Who said anything about thinking? Kill first, then loot… and the thinking part is that unpleasant shouting business at the end when it all has to be divided. It makes brains hurt."
"Mine certainly does," Mourngrym said with feeling, "but I believe Sylune still has the high tongue in this round of converse."
"For my part," Sylune responded, "there is no more to say. I am a thing of ghosts and shadows. My will is bound to duty."
"Yes, but what would you like to do?"
"Find my sister the Simbul and beseech her to do as Elminster did," the Witch of Shadowdale said very quietly. "That is, make me a new body."
There was an embarrassed silence at the raw longing in her voice. Florin stepped into it by saying, "Next senior among us is my lady, Dove. What say you?"
Dove smiled at him and looked around the table. "My first duty-our first duty-must be to defend the folk of the Dales against brigands, Zhents, roving monsters, and the like. Otherwise, there'll be no crops, and starvation come winter. Time of Troubles or no, the work of daily life must go on. We have to find all the Zhents scrambling around the woods and deal with them, discover who or what else is lurking about to prey on our people, find and tend all the wounded, and rebuild what was ruined in the fighting."
"Well, that takes care of the council," Torm said lightly. "Let's be getting on with it. Mourngrym can make us all more sausages-I'm certainly hungry enough-and we can meet again when the snows fall."
"Rathan? Gag him, will you?" Illistyl snapped scornfully. "To think that I once bedded that!"
"Once? From what I recall, twi-"
"Enough, Torm," Dove said firmly, "or have you forgotten the fish bucket?"
"The fish bucket?" Mourngrym asked, leaning forward with interest. "Is this some sort of torture device fine upstanding noble lords can use on annoying thieves?"
"After he made a particularly crude remark," Jhessail explained, "Dove held Torm's head under water in the bucket of live fish she was bringing to the tower for evenfeast… until he ran out of bubbles."
"Ah, that explains what happened to his wits," Merith said delightedly. "They got soaked through and grew mildew…"
"Gods in their palaces," Belkram said to Itharr in low tones, "are all their council meetings like this?"
"Oh, no, no," Storm assured him cheerfully. "Best manners this morn… because of you. Usually we just shout Torm down and get on, and no one speaks in turn."
"Strange you should mention that," Florin said with a smile, "as seniority brings us now to you."
"Aye, indeed," Storm said with a smile. "I concur with my sister Dove, but be aware that aside from Shar, Sylune, and my two Harpers here"-Belkram and Itharr smiled around the table and swept mock bows-"this assembly is just going to have to abandon chasing Malaugrym for the time being."
"Malaugrym?"
"The shapeshifters who attacked us in the tent, the night before the battle in Mistledale," Sharantyr explained.
"Those weren't doppelgangers?"
"No, something far worse."
"Oh… one of Mourngrym's speeches?"
"Stow it," Florin ordered with a grin and a sigh.
"Because some among us can't resist the urges to be clever, these little get-togethers are always so much fun."
"Hold hard," Shaerl said, leaning over the table with a frown. "Do I hear you rightly? Chasing Malaugrym? Are there a band of them?"
"A family, actually," Storm explained softly. "An ancient clan who kill those who know about them-so guard your lips. For centuries Elminster has slain any of them who dared to enter the Realms."
"So with him gone…"
"Chasing may no longer be necessary. They'll probably find us soon enough," Sharantyr observed.
"Is there any way-short of magic that may go wild, and blow this tower apart, or cover us all in cow dung-of knowing they're not here in this room, right now, taking the shape of one of us?" Torm asked sharply.
"No," Storm and Dove said in quiet unison.
"Well," Rathan joked, "You did come in late, Torm…"
"Oh, no, you don't," Torm said warningly. "No one's opening me up to see if I'm really a scaly monster!" There was suddenly a dagger in his fingertips, and he waved it meaningfully.
"You're safe, Torm," Jhessail said with a smile. "No one could impersonate that debonair manner, that outrageous tongue, that-"
"Utter stupidity," Illistyl told the ceiling.
"As to the internal defense of the dale, and helping our folk set things to rights," Storm added, "journeyman Harpers will shortly gather in Shadowdale from all directions. To prevent the Zhents and… others from sneaking agents in among them, they all will report to Dove, who will cast a spell that marks them with a visible badge, a spell that contains nasty surprises for anyone trying to duplicate it. To get such a badge, of course, the Harpers will submit to mind-reading magic, allowing us to weed out ambitious Malaugrym."
"So this band of confirmed Harpers helps rebuild the dale," Torm said, "freeing us to do-what?"
"Ride patrol through the Elven Court woods, southeastern Daggerdale, and the other lands around Shadowdale, scouring it of brigands and monsters, giving us warning of attack from Zhentil Keep, Daggerdale, or Hillsfar. I've heard rumors of fell beasts leaving the ruins of Myth Drannor to roam the woods, and even talk of some wealthy merchants in Sembia hiring small armies in hopes of seizing a dale or two as private estates."
"What?" Torm laughed. "Armies, yes… but ambitious Sembian merchants? Show me the fool who'd dare challenge the famous Knights of Myth Drannor!"
"Look in yon mirror," Jhessail advised him in dry tones, pointing across the morning room. "You challen
ge us all too often."
"Vile slander!" Torm said severely, waving a finger at her. "May the gods look down and-"
"Gift thee with an egg, valiant Torm," Shaerl said. She swept a peppered plover egg up from Mourngrym's plate and thrust it whole into Torm's mouth.
"Nnnmumph," he protested.
"I agree completely," Rathan replied earnestly, patting the thief's hand (the one without the dagger). "Thy every word is as a pearl of wisdom, glistening among the dull pebbles of other oratory!"
"Oh, please" Illistyl said. "You're as bad as he is!"
Rathan gave her a hard look. "I prefer to say 'as good as,' young miss-'tis more charitable, far."
"If the free entertainment could subside for a moment," Merith said patiently, "perhaps we can hear the rest of Storm's plans."
Storm grinned at him. "We'll send two patrols equipped for long forays. The Knights will ride to Daggerdale; the Rangers Three with Sylune will circle Voonlar, the woods near Myth Drannor, and Mistledale. Both bands should make sure the Zhents haven't rallied anyone else in the south and deal with any trouble before it reaches our battle-riven dale. The dalefolk are too exhausted to deal with even sneak thieves."
"Fine, sounds sensible. Let's be doing it," Illistyl said, rising from the table. "I weary of talk. Merith, have you found me a horse?"
"What's wrong with your palfrey?" Mourngrym asked.
"Killed in the battle," Storm informed him curtly. Illistyl nodded, her eyes bright with sudden tears, but said nothing.
Across the table, Torm was in full flight again, leaning around Belkram to smile at Sharantyr.
"Good, my lady," the thief said with a leer, his eyes bright, "I could see my way clear to ably guard so beautiful a flower of the dale! Wouldst thou permit me to accompany thee on patrol?"
Sharantyr almost smiled. "I've grown used to Belkram and Itharr, thanks," she said crisply, taking the arms of the two Harper rangers seated on either side of her.
"I did not mean merely myself, Lady," Torm said, his manner suddenly serious. "Three blades and a disembodied voice isn't enough battle might for what you might well run into."
"I'll be going with them, Torm," Storm said quietly.
Heads turned in surprise all around the table, but the Bard of Shadowdale was looking at the three rangers. "If you'll have me?" she asked quietly.
"Right gladly, Lady," Belkram said, glancing quickly at his companions for confirmation, and receiving it.
A frown had come onto Mourngrym's face, "Torm may have a point about strength of arms. I was thinking of sending you Knights out on the first patrol east; there's word of a Zhent mageling rallying forty or more Zhentilar in the woods."
"I'll look forward to meeting them," Storm said in silken tones. More than one person around that council table shivered at the sound of the bard's voice.
"Are we agreed?" Mourngrym asked, standing up and looking down the table. There was a general affirmative chorus, and he said briskly, "Good-now get gone, all of you, so I can bathe and get dressed and have some food that clever Knights don't snatch off my plate!"
Chuckles and mocking salutes answered him.
Mourngrym made for his bedchamber, shook his head, and reflected-not for the first time-how untenable a position he held, the junior member of a band of adventurers who handed him the lordship of a dale after they were finished with it, but stayed around to drive him witless!
Growling faintly at the thought, he pushed back through the curtains, Shaerl in his wake.
The morning room cleared quickly. When it was quite empty, something moved under the table-something that looked like old and dark wood, but flowed downward to the floor, peeling itself free of the table's underside. It stretched like a hungry snake, slithered out from under the furniture, and rose swiftly, taking on the shape and appearance of one of the tower servants.
The Malaugrym glanced quickly around, but no one was in sight. The servant who was not a servant paused for a long moment to survey the table admiringly. Ahorga had always liked maps. Elven Court woods, Flamerule 22
The embers crackled and glowed ruby red. The two women sat with their backs to it, facing outward on watch, listening to the faint scuttlings and hootings that mark any forest by night. They were in the Elven Court woods, well south of Voonlar, most of the way through their first night on patrol.
Itharr and Belkram had turned over watch duties to them not long ago, and were well and truly asleep, snoring faintly into their cloaks.
"How many nights have you spent thus?" Sharantyr asked quietly.
Behind her, Storm laughed softly. "Hundreds."
The ghostly tresses of Sylune turned, from where her disembodied head floated at Sharantyr's shoulder. "Thousands, Sister," she corrected.
"That's right-emphasize how old we are," Storm said, amused. "I try not to make people feel uncomfortable or lessened in any way."
"I was the Witch of Shadowdale, remember? Making people wary of me was the best way to hold power over them without ever harming anyone," Sylune replied.
Sharantyr sighed. "You seem so carefree," she said, shifting the naked long sword that lay across her thighs so that moonlight caught it at one end, and a faint red glow from the fire touched the other. She flicked it idly, watching the play of light on the steel. "Is it because you've both seen it all before?"
"Partly, Shar," Storm replied, "and partly because we've learned to try to enjoy everything, from being whipped in chains as a slave to being wooed by well-endowed princes."
"To clinging to the spar of a ship breaking apart in a storm," Sylune put in, sounding amused. "To lying paralyzed under the probes of a drow mage trying to determine if your powers lie in organs he can remove, or if you'll have to be bred to drow to give them your abilities."
Sharantyr shivered. "Don't speak of drow, please…"
"My apologies, Shar," the ghostly head beside her said quickly. "We both spoke of moments from our own experiences-I forgot that you'd been a captive of the drow, too."
Sharantyr turned her head. "You were a slave?"
"For years," the Bard of Shadowdale told her. "Not entirely bad years, either… though I never did develop any enjoyment for being whipped."
"What do you mean, 'not entirely bad years'?" Shar asked incredulously. "How can you enjoy anything about being a slave?"
"That's what we were trying to say, you see," Sylune said softly. "It's not what the gods hand you in life that matters so much, nor what your strivings achieve or fail in the attempt. Whatever befalls, the best way to view life is to savor every moment of it, no matter how sordid or unpleasant… for one thing, the gods give us all only a certain span of time, and time wasted-in misery, despair, drunkenness, or casual inattention-is time gone forever."
"I see what you're saying," Sharantyr said slowly, "but you'll forgive me if I take some time getting to enjoy fighting in great battles, or falling into cesspits, or listening to Torm."
Trying not to laugh aloud, Storm shook with deep, bubbling laughter for a long time before she found breath enough to speak again. "Well said," were her first words. "Do you feel like talking about what befell in the Castle of Shadows?"
Shar chuckled helplessly. "I–I suppose so. What do you want to know?"
"Do you recall Elminster's burning the bodies of the Malaugrym you slew, back at the ruined manor in Daggerdale?" Sylune asked.
Shar nodded, but realized they couldn't see the gesture in the dark, and said cautiously, "Yes."
"He wasn't simply being tidy," the ghostly figure told her. "He was using a spell that destroys the bodies of the recently dead even as it yields up their last few moments of thought. In one of the Malaugrym was a strong desire to slay you-because another Malaugrym, who did not enter Faerun at the time, wanted you as his mate. Another of the dead Malaugrym was reluctant to attack you for the same reason; the Malaugrym who favored you was his ally."
Sharantyr drew a deep, shuddering breath. "I see. You're wondering if I pine after some Ma
laugrym lord, or perhaps even carry a little shapeshifter-to-be within."
"No," Storm said sharply. "Even if either or both of those conditions were true, they are your affairs. We merely meant that it's apparent to us all that some adventures befell all three of you that went beyond 'See Malaugrym, slay Malaugrym, run run run'."
Shar giggled. "That sounds elegant."
"Indeed," Sylune agreed dryly. "So give, Lady Sharantyr. What did you learn in the Castle of Shadows? And I don't mean about Malaugrym, or shapeshifting, or the nature of ever-shifting Shadowhome. I mean about yourself."
"About myself?"
"About Belkram and Itharr, then," Storm said gently. "How are my two half-trained Harpers?"
"Very good companions and able protectors. Belkram has a touch of Torm in him, I think."
Shar heard Storm's silent amusement at that observation, and went on, "Itharr is quieter, and there's a darkness in him. H-He needs to kill, sometimes."
"And how would you look upon spending several years adventuring with them both?" the lady bard asked. "Just the three of you, not a part of the Harpers or part of the Knights of Myth Drannor."
"I'd enjoy it, I hope," Shar replied, then added quickly, "but I fear the Shadowmasters will soon strike back, and-"
"And?" Sylune asked quietly.
"And I'll lose one or both of them," Sharantyr said. Her voice sank almost to a whisper.
"You are fond of them both, then?" Storm asked quietly.
"Aye, I-" Sharantyr's voice sharpened. "Why are you asking me this? Do you want me to shout from the tower turrets that I love them?"
"No, Shar," Sylune said softly. "We want you to admit it to yourself."
In the little silence that followed, Belkram snorted softly in his sleep, and at the comical sound something inside Sharantyr suddenly rose into her throat, and she wept as quietly as she could.
The radiance of Sylune was suddenly all around her, and she felt a gentle, chill touch on her forehead. The ghostly kiss left a tingling behind, and her somehow calmer.
She sniffed away the last of her tears, and said in a small voice, "I'm so afraid of losing them."
