by Ed Greenwood
Fzoul answered it with a wintry smile-and the words, "I have learned the benefits of waiting until the bat?tlehungry and the foolish have worn a foe down, and then
stepping in at the end. An open attack on Shandril would not be prudent, for the Brotherhood or for myself; if I fight her, it must be another way."
"We think so, too," Xarlraun replied. "And because of this, we have chosen to support you, Fzoul, over Manshoon. You seem wise enough not to act against him, or reveal our part, openly-for in a struggle between you two, both you and the wizard would be destroyed; the only question would be whether you would succeed in taking Manshoon down with you."
The beholders jaws opened, and swallowed the temple guard whole. Fzoul inclined his head in a nod of agreement, and then waited for the crunching sounds to subside.
When they did, the beholder went on as if there had been no interruption. "You wondered as to my sources earlier. Most important among them is a creature Manshoon thinks he controls absolutely-a lich lord known as Iliph Thraun. He is mistaken; you now control it absolutely-with this."
The beholder's sides heaved, and it spat out something from an internal organ. Fzoul ignored the red saliva dripping from the thing as the beholder's eye powers brought it smoothly down to him. Before he had to foul his hands on it, it spun in the air, unwrapping itself. Soiled cloth fell away; Fzoul stepped back hastily when he saw the marble floor smoking where drops of saliva had fallen.
Out of the last wrappings floated a fist sized black gem in a brass cage. From the stone, a neck-chain dangled. Fzoul put out his hand for it; and the beholder nodded approvingly.
'Put it on only when you wish to see out of the lich's eyes and work your will on it. Your identity and mind is shielded from Manshoon, the lich itself, and all others; use your will to break Manshoon's only when you deem the time is right-that will probably come when he tries to use the lich lord against you."
"What, precisely, is a lich lord?" Fzoul asked carefully, eyeing the gem in his hand. It felt cold and heavy and seemed to watch him menacingly, looking up from his palm and awaiting its chance.
"A failed lich, of an ancient sort. It needs to feed on spell energy to continue its unlife, and takes the form of a disembodied, flying human skull, able to see, speak, think, and cast spells. The gem you hold contains the soul of Iliph Thraun; through it you can control the lich lord absolutely, even to drive it to its own clear destruction. Your will prevails over all other spells, items, and inducements acting on the lichnee."
The beholder drifted away. "I strongly recommend you keep that gem hidden; at all times beware the treachery of Manshoon and the ambitious wizards he commands. I am grateful for the meals you so thoughtfully provided; you should be grateful that I forgive you for the poisons you introduced into the first one; sadly for your ambitions, I have been immune to those particular killers for several centuries. Farewell, priest."
Fzoul stood frozen as the beholder drifted out of the chamber. Whatever unseen barrier had blocked the open doorway was gone now, or had no effect on Xarlraun.
Then the priest suddenly set down the gem and slid it away from him with hasty force. As it skidded into a corner, he hurriedly cast a spell. And stood waiting, tense and watchful, hands raised to cast another spell. Silence. Fzoul let out a heavy breath, and drew in another. Time passed. He drew another breath. Nothing happened. The gem lay quiescent.
Still protected by his spell and looking very thoughtful, Fzoul regarded it. Then he suddenly strode to the door, and called for six upperpriests by name.
Turning, he cast another spell-and the gem was suddenly gone from the room. He nodded, satisfied, and then set off down the passage, snapping orders to the priests at hand; there was much to do.
Five
Old Ale In An Older cask
At last even the old wolf lies down under the weight of his years. He may be strong, but know ye: some years are heavier than others.
Annath of Neverwinter, Sayings of the North, Year of the Cold Soul
"Up, lass. I know you're exhausted, but it's walk exhausted or meet death right soon-so let's see you up, lass!" The dwarf's rough voice was close by her ear, one strong hand gentle on her shoulder.
Shandril was adrift in a horrific dream: burning all the friends she'd ever known with runaway spellfire. Writhing and arching in the flames, they melted away to blackened, bare skeletons-except for their heads, screaming at her in anger and agony. She heard the rough burr of Delg's voice from somewhere near and reached out a lazy hand. Her fingers found bristling hair, trailed through it-and caught in a tangle.
"Aaargh! My beard!" The dwarf's angry growl was almost drowned out by a shout of laughter from Narm. Shandril came fully awake, opening her eyes to morning light in the woods and to the angry face of Delg inches from her own, dragged there by her grip on his beard. Horrified, she let go and brought a hand up to cover her mouth in confusion. A breath later, looking at Delg's injured expression, she used that same hand to stifle giggles.
Delg let her laugh until she reached the helpless whooping stage, then sighed, reached out one hairy hand to the front of her tunic, and pulled.
Shandril was dragged bodily up from where she lay slumped against a tree, pillowed on clumps of moss Narm had torn up and arranged for her the night before. They had left the scorched ruin of battle behind and stumbled into the night-the morning, rather-for a good long time before collapsing in a damp hollow, somewhere very dark and near the ever-chuckling sound of running water.
Shandril was a little unsteady on her feet, and the morning-even here, in the dappled shade of the trees seemed very bright. Delg was glaring up at her, his hand on her arm.
"Can you walk?" he demanded gruffly. "Speak, lass! I need to know you've still got all your wits after last night."
"I–I think so," she managed before Narm approached. Her husband bowed, reached a hand toward her as a lord grandly leads his lady into a dance-and in his empty palm a dozen roses appeared.
Shandril gasped in surprise, and he put them in her arms with an air of triumph. Their sweet fragrance swirled around her, and she smiled as she felt the magic that formed them surging into her, making spellfire waken and flow. The roses glowed for a moment and then, with the sound of many tiny bells, faded away and were gone.
Shandril stared at her empty arms a little sadly. "My only regret, love, is that they're gone if I drain them," she said, eyes brimming.
Narm shrugged. "I guess I'll just have to go on studying that spell until I get it right."
"Get it right?" Delg's voice was rough with derision. "Gods, but now I know how wizards get all the lasses… he muttered in a low aside that could be heard at least a hundred trees away.
"Yes," Narm replied with a smile. "I managed the 'no thorns' bit, but the color…"
The dwarf squinted at him. "They were red!"
Narm smiled. "I was trying for blue." Shandril laughed delightedly, and drew his face down to hers. His arms were strong and eager, his mouth sweet-and as they embraced, Shandril heard a loud, hawking sound. Delg, standing just behind them, spat far off into the trees in disgust, startling something small into scuttling flight through the fallen forest leaves.
"There'll be time enough for that sort o' thing later, when we're well away from here," the dwarf growled. "One Zhent band found us, and others may know we're here now, but they're all sure to find us if we stay here, right at the end of the trail we left crashing through things in the dark last night while the two of you cuddle and kiss and whisper sweet secrets. Come on!"
Narm lifted his head. "Sorry, Delg. We're-we're with you." And they stepped out amid ferns and tree roots to begin another long march through the dim depths of the endless wood.
"We've got to move far today," the dwarf said, "and not be found by anyone or anything. With no spellfire and your best spells gone, lad, we can't risk any fights. Since your lady's got such a dainty stomach of mornings, I suggest we do without eating until around highsun… but drink
deep at this stream and fill all our skins while I keep watch."
Narm and Shandril drank, washed, filled their skins, and went off into the bushes. The dwarf meanwhile kept alert, axe in hand as he trotted around, peering suspiciously into the trees.
Shandril took off the spare robe Narm had lent her last night. A few blackened scraps-all that was left of her own clothes-still clung to her here and there. She brushed them off, sighing, and rummaged in her ever lighter pack.
When she swung the pack onto her shoulder, she was wearing her last intact clothes, inherited when she joined the Company of the Bright Spear-the much patched homespun tunic and breeches of a down-on his-luck thief. That bold first step into adventure seemed a long time ago now.
"Why so tense?" Narm asked, coming up beside Delg. "I haven't seen any Zhents about-and I've looked as far off as I can, too."
"Eyes, lad," the dwarf growled up at him. "I can feel them, every moment. We're being watched, again." "Should I tell Shan?" Narm asked quietly.
"Not just after she's been off in the bushes, lad," the dwarf said, looking critically at the blemishes along the edge of his axe-blade. That Zhent idiot had certainly managed to bring it down on a lot of stones last night. "But soon; I don't want her walking carefree."
Shandril ran despairing fingers through her hair as she came toward them. "Oh, for a bath! I stink!"
"We all do, lass," the dwarf told her gravely. "All the easier for dogs to find us, if they've got any more with them."
"Gods," Shandril said, face paling, "don't remind me." "No, no," Narm said, with feeling. "Don't remind me. I can still feel those teeth."
Shandril remembered all too vividly, retched, and turned hastily away. They watched her shoulders shake for a moment, and Narm turned to Delg with a sigh.
"Now look what you've done," he said.
"Nay, lad-yon's your handiwork. Grab her, now, and let's be on our way. We haven't time for foolishness." "Foolishness?" Shandril's voice was weak but indignant, her face the color of old bone as she rose from her knees.
The dwarf glared at her. "Aye, foolishness. You've several days' march of woods to be sick in-you don't have to stop each time you feel ill. On!"
She glared back at him, took a deep breath, wiped her mouth clean, and went on.
"What was that?"
"The sound of your own big feet, Othrogh," the Zhent swordmaster muttered. "Quiet, now-the maid could be the other side of that next tree."
The half-orc sniffed the air, then shook his head with an emphatic grunt. "No. I'd smell her."
Around him, the other members of the patrol rolled their eyes, made various faces, and sighed. Swordmaster Cleuvus looked at Othrogh sourly and said, "Just keep your lips shut for awhile, hey? They gave us all the same orders-and you heard 'em as well as I did." He looked up. "The rest of you," he added shortly, "spread out now! She hurls fire, remember? If you all crowd together under the same tree like that, how could she miss?"
There were various grumbles and dark looks; he knew they'd only gathered to hear him berate Othrogh-and they knew he knew. Cleuvus grinned. Ah, well, swordmasters were never loved. Except when they went to town with coins enough to hire-He was still thinking such vivid, pleasant thoughts when the tree beside him grew a stout arm with a mace at the end of it and rudely crushed the back of his head in. Cleuvus fell on his face like a thrown stone, thinking of love forever.
"Skulk through the forest, would ye? Wear dark armor that offends mine eyes, would ye? Oh, the crimes! The crimes!" The voice rose in mock anguish amongst the startled gasps of the Zhents, and its owner lumbered into their midst-and bowed.
"Rathan Thentraver, Knight of Myth Drannor, at thy service. Looking for little girls in the forest, are we? Well, if ye find any, be so good as t-"
"Get him!" The eldest Zhent snarled, and swords flashed in a sudden rush of dark armor.
A man dropped heavily, cursed-and then gurgled and fell silent. The object he'd tripped over rose, dusted himself off, and then calmly glided forward to bury his bloodied dagger in the back of another warrior.
Torm of the Knights grinned at his comrade Rathan across the tumult of clashing weapons, then said, "Now is that nice? You could've waited for me to get some blood. You could have let Torm-much thinner, handsomer, and younger than a certain priest of Tymora-strike first? You could have busied yourself at some ritual or other; the one where you wear ladies' underthings and pretend to be a paladin, perhaps-but oh, no! The clarion call of battle was too strong. The-" He broke off to duck frantically aside as two Zhent blades crossed in the space where the knight's face had been a moment earlier.
Puffing, Rathan smashed his way through another Zhent's guard, shattering the sword raised against him. As the man fell, spraying blood from his crushed face all over the knight's knees, Rathan said, "Oh, aye let ye strike first and grab all the glory. Betray the commandments of Lady Luck to dare all and leave my life to chance. Let a clever-tongued thief go ahead of a respected, dignified, nay, even rotund-pillar of whatever community I'm currently passing through. Not by the Lady's laughter! When the bards sing ballads of this day, when two knights went up against almost a dozen Zhent sword-swingers in the forest, 'tis Rathan whose deeds will awe. Rathan who'll get the beauteous maiden as his reward. Rathan who'll take his usual pratfall," Torm put in, his blade finding the throat of the Zhent whose frantic swing had made Rathan stumble back hastily. The fat priest tripped over a tree root and sat down heavily. "Oww!" he complained as the ground shook.
For their next few breaths, the knights were too busy slaying the last few Zhentilar to notice that the tree whose root had felled Rathan shook now in soundless laughter. Two golden eyes high on its trunk watched the last blood spilled, and then closed, just as Torm leaned against the bark below them, breathing hard, and said, "Well, still no sign of what we seek-how many Zhents is that, now?"
"Thirty-three," Rathan's voice came back gloomily to him from the other side of the tree. "Why do they always come along just when I need to relieve myself? Tymora, if ye're listening-tell me that!"
The day passed in continuous plodding travel-one weary stride after another, slipping and ducking and scrambling through, around, and over trees-fallen trees, leaning trees, and gnarled, tangled, growing-in-all directions trees, damp leaf-mold slippery under their feet. Here and there pale brown mushrooms the size of halflings' heads rose up in clumps, and rotting stumps held lush green cushions of moss.
Shandril hadn't thought she could ever tire of trees-but then, she'd never thought she'd see so many trees in her life, let alone in one day. These weren't the beautiful giants of the Elven Court; Hullack Forest was dark and dense and damp, its trees grown thick together.
The three travelers felt like unwelcome intruders; none of them had wanted to stop at highsun to eat. They'd hastened on, instead, searching for higher ground and a clearing where they could camp.
The sun had sunk low by the time the ground began rising again. Here and there, rocks showed through the moss and the fungi-cloaked wreckage of fallen trees. Ravines and gullies appeared more often, and the black pools of standing water were smaller and fewer. As the sun slipped to a last, low red ribbon under the trees, the weary travelers' hearts rose. They were climbing sharply at last.
"Delg," Narm said excitedly from behind the dwarf as they slipped and clambered upward, Shandril between them, "some of these rocks have been cut and dressed. Look: straight edges on this one-this must be some sort of ruin."
"You don't say," the dwarf said softly. "It wouldn't surprise you overmuch, I suppose, if I told you I'd noticed a thing or two about these rocks myself…"
The dwarf's voice died away in wonder as they came out into a height of crumbling stone arches, walls, and broken stairs. Shattered pillars reached like jagged fingers up at the twilight sky. Selune shone faintly just above the horizon as night came down on them.
"Well, here we are for the night, whatever your likings," Delg said, peering all around with keen inter
est. "'This is old, old indeed-and not dwarven nor yet elven, either. I'll have a look at this in morning light… I can tell the age of the stonework better then."
"For now," Narm put in firmly, looking at the dark trees behind them, "we'd better find a corner of this we can defend, or we may not live to see the morn."
Delg sighed. "Shandril," he said plaintively, "you had a thousand thousand dalesmen to choose from after-after the company fell. Did you have to choose a whiner and a worrier?"
Shandril sighed right back. "Delg," she said mildly, "I love this man. Give him at least the respect you'd give a dwarf of his age, will you?"
"I am, Lady. I am," Delg replied, and they saw his grinning teeth flash in the growing moonlight. He lurched over to Narm and clapped him low on the back, hard enough to send the young wizard stumbling ahead helplessly.
"Forgive my manner, lad. I don't mean most of it-much. Your lady can tell you how it was in the company. We were swordmates together-and, mind you, she survived it, then. Ferostil was nastier than ever I was, and Rymel more the prankster, too. If mere words are enough to hurt you, lad, grow some armor speedily: it doesn't get any easier on the ears as you get older."
"My thanks, Delg," Narm said shortly, "but I'd be happier if you could tell me what that is."
"What, lad?" Delg's axe glinted in the moonlight.
"That thing, there!" Narm said fiercely, pointing. Far away across tumbled arches and broken rubble, something dark and winged seemed to both fly and to flow over the stone beneath it, like some sort of giant black snake. A snake with batlike wings, eyes like glimmering rubies, and a cruel snout. It was coming toward them, not hurrying, as though dinner seldom escaped it.
"Shandril!" Narm said commandingly. "Hold still, and I'll cast my light spell." He lowered his voice, and added, "It's my last-to feed your spellfire… Ready?"
Shandril nodded, and Narm hurried through the gestures of casting the spell as the dwarf advanced to stand as foreguard, hefting his axe. "Battle again, is it?" he muttered. "Then let it come! Clanggedin be with me and guide my axe."
