by Ed Greenwood
A solitary lantern guttered outside the gates in the gray hour before dawn, but its light was enough to reveal the Purple Dragon emblazoned proudly on the wrinkled surcoat of a yawning sentry. The armsman came alert with a grunt and stepped back to lower the tip of his spear. Something small and sleek and dark slid around the gatepost.
He relaxed and gave it a grin. Surmalkin back from mousing… and irritated at a lack of success, by the look of him.
"How now, little one?" the armsman growled, bending over fondly. The cat gave him a warning, defiant look and minced past. The guard watched him go. Grinning, the man leaned on his spear. It must be a nice, soft life, being a cat…
Something that was strong and swift instead of nice and soft smashed him across the back of the head. He stumbled forward, dazed-and was still gathering wits and breath to shout for aid when the same something took him by the throat. It wrung his neck.
Blood ran from the armsman's nose and mouth as the Malaugrym propped him against the gatepost, hooking the shoulder straps of his armor upon the gate so he seemed to be leaning on it, lost in slumber.
After that, it was the work of a few breaths to scale the crumbling stone walls of the mansion that served the visiting high and mighty of Cormyr as home in Tilverton. From its high site, Lorgyn could see the lamps of the town winking below as his tentacles pulled him onto the balcony. He slid easily into human form… or at least, the appearance of an elegant old Cormyrean courtier he'd once seen, but with hands like large, flexible webbed paddles-akin to the hind feet of a beaver. He glided into the room.
The small blue glimmering of the lady's ward spun her awake in alarm.
But he was already bending low over the bed and whispering, "Good morning, my dear. Alambrara, isn't it?"
With one of those broad hands, he smothered whatever reply she might have made. His iron strength held her down until her sudden struggles subsided.
When she fell limp under him and the tiny lightnings of her collapsing ward had finished jittering through him, Lorgyn checked that she yet breathed. She was alive.
He nodded in satisfaction and set about stripping away the gems she wore at her ears, throat, and ankles. Who knew what sort of tracing magic could be linked to the jewelry of a powerful war wizard?
Her own bedclothes-soft samite sheets, no less-served admirably to gag and bind her, and he was gone from the room before the first light of dawn broke the eastern sky, low beyond the gray walls of Tilverton.
Breaths later, that wan, rosy light fell upon the wagon marked "Pendle's Fine Meats." Lorgyn unlatched its side door and thrust his bundle inside.
It was his wagon now, he thought as he melted into the heavy, grizzled form of Pendle once more and undid the sheet that had covered his prize from the eyes of any overly curious early risers.
Carefully drawing the door closed, he tore the sheet into strips and bound the war wizard Alambrara beside the fat Amnian, Gorluth the Great. He chuckled at the contrast between the shapely limbs of the Cormyrean, the fat and hairy little mage from Amn, and beyond him, Irendue's slim beauty. She was awake, her eyes blazing at him over the gag that was her only garment.
Lorgyn winked at her as he tightened a lashing and stood back to survey the three naked people bound to the meat bars.
The beginnings of a fine collection. If more folk collected wizards thus, there'd be less trouble all over Faerun, to be sure. Still, he'd be needing more if a new gate were to be a truly lasting thing. Two gates, with a hidden one only he knew about, would be even more secure.
Two mages that would be easily found were Jhessail and Illistyl, Knights based in Shadowdale.
Giving Irendue a cheery wave and miming the biting off of a finger (he'd devoured her thumbs thus far, while punishing her, and planned to make of her fingers a long-lasting snack), Lorgyn replaced the padlock that only he had a key for, and went to the next wagon to rouse his men. He wondered briefly how they could sleep through each other's snoring.
"Up, lads," he said, shaking and slapping with brisk enthusiasm. " 'Tis time we set off for Shadowdale. I think we're all due for a little rest… and that's the place."
"Urggh," his cook said, "ye want dawnfry first?"
Lorgyn shook his head. The cook eyed him for a moment, then shrugged. Pendle never refused an early meal, even when it was only cold partridge from the night before-but this was three days now…
Lorgyn gave the man's back a soft smile, and resolved to eliminate him as soon as the wagon was rumbling along the last stretch, between Shadowdale and the Tower of Mortoth. Yes-roasted alive on a spit in his own oversalty brown sauce would be fitting, too.
The gate guards were almost as sleepy and surly as his own grumbling men, but at last they did their work with bars and chains. Pendle's three wagons rumbled out of Tilverton, the first farers forth onto the road.
Even the horses complained as their burdens groaned and bumped along east toward Shadowdale. Pendle's men rode all around them with ready weapons and sleepy faces, wondering what madness had taken their master this time. Pendle smiled back at them all, and more than one man shivered at the soft promise in that smile. The Castle of Shadows, Shadowhome, Midsummer Day
The glimmer of the scrying portal faded as it sank into the shadows, spinning away into nothingness. The face above its dissolution was a mask of wiggling, questing worms, but owned eyes that blazed like two lanterns of raging spellfire. Worms beneath them parted, and a calm voice said to the vast, long-empty chamber of the Castle of Shadows, "It is time to move at last. Let the hunt begin in earnest." Faerun, Shadowdale, Midsummer Day
The horn had cried out peace and parley, so the guards at the bridge over the Ashaba had not roused the folk of the tower in swift earnest. Lord Mourngrym and Lady Shaerl had been in the morning room over a leisurely dawnfry when their heralds brought word of the coming of a special envoy of Cormyr, Sir Tantor Dauntinghorn.
Just as they were, the lord and lady hastened down to the sward outside the tower, intent on welcoming the envoy and seeing to the needs of his large escort of Purple Dragons and war wizards.
With a glint in his eye, Mourngrym assured the stiff and magnificently mustachioed Sir Tantor that he was not now standing in a holding of Zhentil Keep, and that all minds in the dale were free of insidious Zhentarim spells. He thanked Cormyr for its obvious intent to do battle with the Zhent evil, given the handsome array of battle might and ready sorcery, come so long and dusty a way from the Forest Kingdom to Shadowdale-still proudly independent. He added that he hoped there would always be warm friendship between Cormyr and Shadowdale-coupled with mutual respect for each other's views, aims, and continued freedom.
The lord of the dale invited all of Cormyr into the Tower of Ashaba for a highsun meal as he made himself and his lady available to Sir Tantor, to hear the most important of messages and views from the Forest Kingdom.
The invitation was accepted. Bells rang to bring servants flooding into the feast hall just steps ahead of the hard-striding armsmen of Cormyr-and transform the already-bustling kitchens into a frantic whirlwind of steam and rushing folk and shouts.
"Pray come up to my morning room," Lord Mourngrym said to Sir Tantor. He led the way up the stairs. Shaerl followed beside the envoy's personal escort, a senior war wizard, as they ascended from the tumult below.
"If we can speak bald truth for a breath or two-" Mourngrym added as they stepped into a room still aromatic with the odor of buttered bread, sausages, roast pheasant in sauce, melted cheese with mustard on biscuits, and the other dishes of a light dawnfry, and he drew the door firmly closed "-pray tell me plainly why you're here."
Sir Tantor drew himself up to his full height and growled, "My lord, this is most irregular! While a free and open exchange of views is-"
"Mourngrym," said the old, gaunt war wizard standing at Shaerl's side, "I am Luthtor of Suzail, empowered to speak to you with the voice of Azoun and the candor of Vangerdahast. We're here to investigate rumors of Elminster's deat
h, to make sure Zhentil Keep hasn't gained control of, or influence over, this dale-and to strongly put forth the sixtieth or so offer from Azoun that Shadowdale become a protectorate of Cormyr."
"My thanks for your candor," Mouragrym said dryly. "Let us gently refuse Cormyr's kind offer once more, at once, so that no unpleasantness need follow between us. I want to be Azoun's friend-but not his subject. He cannot have me continue as the one if he must insist on the other."
"Well, if we're being quite candid," Sir Tantor growled, "what's to stop us from simply seizing Shadowdale?"
"Me," Shaerl said sweetly. They all turned to stare at her. "I have Azoun's personal promise," she told them, "that I'd have a free hand in Shadowdale, and that no Purple Dragon nor war wizard of fair Cormyr would meddle east of the Ashaba until I gave them leave to do so."
"My lady," Luthtor said sternly, "you know very well that Azoun's word held only so long as you were on your promised mission for the crown… a mission Vangerdahast considers you abandoned on your wedding day, cleaving to this man"-he bowed to Mourngrym-"rather than your sworn duty."
"My lord," Shaerl said, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous light, "you are obviously unaware of the precise wording of Azoun's bidding and my promise, so I'll not argue the point with you. Be assured that if you move against us, Azoun will be foresworn."
"And if we know nothing of these ah, private words, and present the throne of Shadowdale to him anyway?" Sir Tantor huffed.
"It will be my duty to resist you," Mourngrym said, "and that of all the Knights of Myth Drannor."
"Their fame is not inconsiderable," the war wizard Luthtor granted. "But do you seriously think a handful of adventurers, however bold, can stand against the forces accompanying us? More than a dozen war wizards are watching over more than two hundred and sixty veteran armsmen in your feast hall right now."
"And just how long, Lord Luthtor," Shaerl asked sweetly, "do you think all of them would last against the Queen of Aglarond?"
Both Cormyreans paled slightly. The war wizard shrugged and asked, "And what evidence can you give us you can even contact her, let alone command her to battle at your bidding?"
"None," Shaerl said softly. "As with other armed endeavors in life, goodsirs, you'll just have to take that risk and find out the hard way. Or back down, as is far more prudent, and go home wondering for the rest of your lives if we were bluffing." She seemed to think of something, and added calmly, "Of course, the second way, you will have a 'rest of your lives' to wonder in."
"Moreover," Mourngrym said pleasantly, "the second way preserves our friendship, whereas the first loses forever any hope Cormyr may have that Shadowdale will not ally with Hillsfar, say, or Sembia, against the Purple Dragon."
"I…" Sir Tantor seemed unsure of how to proceed. He looked quickly to Luthtor.
The war wizard nodded, smiled, and said, "Perhaps, indeed, we've speculated with extreme imprudence. Permit me to tender our deepest apologies, and pass on to the other matters we mentioned, to whit-"
"What?" The envoy had turned a dangerous shade of purple. He glared at Luthtor, and snarled, "You're just going to-back down? Abandon our mission, just like that? Well, be advised that my first recommendation, upon seeing Vangerdahast at our return, will be to repl-"
"Enough of this," Shaerl snapped in tones that brought the envoy to instant silence. "Why don't we involve Azoun and Vangy in this discussion directly? I'd like to hear just what they intend." She held up one finger, and turned a ring upon it so that its black sapphire caught the light. It winked with a blue-white radiance as she stroked it-and both Cormyreans stared at it in surprise.
Like two coldly leveled spears, Shaerl's eyes caught those of the war wizard. "Shall I speak to them myself, Lord-or will Vangy stop merely listening through you, and have the grace to introduce himself?"
Sir Tantor stared again at the war wizard, and Mourngrym looked as if he were hiding a smile.
Luthtor sat very still, his eyes suddenly older and sadder than they had been. When he spoke, his voice was deeper and rougher than before. "Well played, li-"
Suddenly the scene before them melted away into swirling mists of gold and gray, and left the two Malaugrym staring at the fetid insides of a dungeon.
"By the blood of Malaug!" Argast snarled, "is every spell you cast going to twist wild?"
Amdramnar shrugged. "I've another." He strode across the cavern and muttered an incantation, raising his hands to trace intricate gestures. The golden mists returned. They swirled around him for a moment-and then turned into bunches of grapes and fell.
Argast watched the fruit splatter on the stone floor and cast a quick look behind him. The torch in its sconce blazed as before, and there was no watching helmed head nor shout of alarm. They were alone in the dungeons of the tower, on the worst guard duty one could draw… unless one were really a Malaugrym, and wanted a little privacy for some spell-casting.
That is, if any spell would work. Amdramnar looked up from the grapes and muttered, "We don't have time to study that spell again-half their talking'll be done before we're ready."
Argast growled in slow anger, and said, "Then it's time for you to take the shape of two guards for a while."
Amdramnar lifted a questioning eyebrow. His fellow Malaugrym was already blurring and dwindling… until a rat blinked at him, winked once, and then turned to dash away into the darkness.
Amdramnar sighed, sat down, and stretched into the semblance of two bored guards sitting together on a crate, down here in the storage cavern. He arranged weapons and armor to conceal the place at the thighs where the two bodies were joined, and settled down to wait, hoping Argast wasn't making a fatal mistake.
18
A Gathering in Shadowdale
From the dungeons, old and dusty rat holes led up to the pantry. In the confusion of all the cooks and scullery maids working in frantic haste and doors everywhere propped open to keep the heat down, the rat was able to streak through the kitchens and outside. The yard behind the tower was crowded with youngsters peeling potatoes and carting away greens, but no one noticed a rodent scuttling around the corner, into the tall grass.
In a trice, the rat became a pigeon, and ascended in a flutter of wings to an open tower window.
The casement gave in to the end of a hall lined with tapestries, paintings, and closed doors. At the far end of the corridor, where it opened out into a meeting with other passages, daylight gleamed on the armor of a tower guard. The guard turned his head as the pigeon's wings blocked the sunlight, but Argast hastily landed on the windowsill. The guard gave the pigeon a glance, then looked away again.
It was sheer mischance that he yawned and looked back down the hall as the pigeon was rising up into a man.
"Hold!" the guard bellowed, leveling his spear as he broke into a charge.
Argast snarled in disgust and ducked behind the nearest tapestry, shifting shape as fast as he could.
All too soon a spear point thrust through the hanging, its point skittering along the stone wall-but the Malaugrym had shrunk down into a wadded mass by the floor to watch the spear strike sparks overhead. He surged upright as it withdrew. As he'd expected, it reappeared more cautiously, drawing the hanging aside. By then he was ready.
The guard found himself blinking at a buxom, very bare female… the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He swallowed as she smiled at him, and blinked again as she held out her arms, beckoning…
An inconspicuous taloned tentacle that had snaked across the floor rose up behind his head, reached around, and tore his face off.
Argast stared down at the twisted, blood-spattered body, satisfied the death had made little noise. But what now? If he posed as the guard, he'd be attacked if he left his post and was seen listening at doors… and this body would be found soon enough. He positioned it against the wall behind the tapestry, using the spear as a prop, but anyone who even glanced into the passage was sure to see the bulge… and the blood all over the floor.
He shrugged then, and became a rat again. They were only humans, after all… Blackstaff Tower, Waterdeep, Midsummer Day
Khelben looked up from his work, startled, as Laeral stiffened and laid a hand on his arm. "Malaugrym!" she snapped, eyes closed, and clutched at her forehead, listening to an inner voice. "Jhessail's found a guard murdered in the tower and suspects Malaugrym did the killing. He was torn by talons on an upper floor, where no beast could reach unseen and no strong magic has been worked lately…"
The sending ended, and Laeral raised her head, her eyes grave.
"Aye, it would be in Shadowdale," Khelben said gloomily, reaching out to stroke her long, curly silver hair. "Have you never noticed: nothing much in Faerun happens anywhere else."
Laeral gave him a tight smile, but said nothing. She was already bustling about the room, gathering cloaks, wands, and boots.
Khelben stared down at his scribblings and litter of material components, and admitted to himself what they both already knew: his Malaugrym spell was going nowhere, right speedily. He pushed back from the table and sprang to his feet. "I'm not trusting teleporting in this, mind," the Blackstaff told his lady irritably.
"I know," she replied brightly. "That's why I'm rushing about gathering things instead of being there already." She held out a wand.
Khelben stared down at it for a long, silent breath. Then the corners of his mouth curled up slightly, and he took it from her. Stepping into the boots she was holding ready, he took both their cloaks over his arm, strode without pause to the door, and held it wide. Laeral gave him a twinkling smile and brushed his cheek with a kiss as she went out.
One of their younger, newer apprentices, Paershym Woodstoke of Neverwinter, was trotting excitedly along a passage, his head down and a precious spell tome clutched in his hands. Its covers, two polished plates of ever-bright silver, flashed suddenly as the lord and lady mage of Waterdeep stepped out of a side door, spilling light into the dim hallway. They leapt across the passage like a pair of pranksome apprentices. With a softly spoken password, they opened the door of a closet that had to be tiny, crunched between two flanking rooms, and crowded into it together, giggling.
