by Ed Greenwood
Storm Silverhand
To Harp at Twilight
Year of the Swollen Stars
Their last glimpse of Thunder Gap, far behind, was blocked by dark, sinister winged shapes in the sky. Narm watched them flapping out of the mountains, found his mouth suddenly dry, and swallowed with some difficulty.
“Delg,” he managed to croak. The dwarf did not even turn to see where he was pointing.
“I’ve been ignoring them,” Delg told him sourly. “It’s easiest.”
“Ignoring them? That’s all?” Shandril asked incredulously, looking back at the dark, hunting shapes as they grew ever larger, ever closer.
“You’ve a bright scheme of some sort, lass?” The dwarf’s tone was sharp as he hastened on, an errant skillet banging on metal somewhere inside his pack.
“Well, we’ve got to hide,” Shandril said hotly. “I haven’t spellfire enough to—”
“That’s why I’ve been saving my breath and not stopping to look back,” the dwarf said in dry tones. “It brings the trees closer, as fast as I can make them move.… See the little dip ahead there? It’s a ravine: the branches’ll be thick, and there’ll be a stream to hide our own noises—arguing with wise dwarves, for instance.…”
Narm and Shandril exchanged glances, then hurried after the dwarf toward the ravine he’d indicated. Only after they had reached cover did any of them speak again.
“What are they?” Narm’s voice was low. He’d never seen such ugly things before—huge, fat, scaled things with bat wings, claws, and horselike heads that ended in two probing, twisting snouts. Each snout held sharp jaws; even down here Narm could smell the rotting reek of their breath.
“Foulwings,” Delg said. “Well named, aye?”
Narm watched the heavy, ungainly things flap over them, wheel, and dart this way and that, searching along the road and the edges of the forest for signs of a maid, her man, and a dwarf. He shivered as a foulwing turned overhead, and the head of the robed and hooded rider pivoted, scanning the forest. For a moment it seemed that the foulwing rider looked right at him. Fear rose in Narm. Frantically he searched his mind for some spell that wouldn’t reveal their location to the foes above.
And then the foulwing wheeled in the air, belching and snorting angrily as its rider struck it cruelly with a metal goad. In the man’s other hand, a wand glinted for a moment before he flew onward, out of sight. His companions, some ten or twelve others, followed afterward.
“Who rides foulwings?” he asked, trying to sound calm.
“Evil folk,” Delg said brightly. When Narm looked at him in disgust, the dwarf added a savage grin. Narm folded his arms and waited for further explanation.
Delg rumbled, “If you must know, lad: the Zhents; the Cult of the Dragon; I’ve heard the Red Wizards of Thay do, too; I saw the private army of a lich riding ’em once, in the Vilhon—and the tavern-talk in Suzail, when last I was there, had some lord or other of Westgate using them, in league with a pirate. For all I know, half the rich merchants in Sembia keep ’em as pets.”
“If they’re as common as all that, why’ve I never heard of them before?” Narm protested.
Delg rolled his eyes. “D’you know how many folk I’ve heard say that down the years, lad? Most of ’em had been adventuring longer than you have, too—and the things they hadn’t met with before killed ’em just as dead as if they’d been old friends. Had you seen or heard of spellfire before you met with your lady? D’you think I could stand in the midst of it, protesting I’d never heard of it before, and thereby escape being burned?”
Narm opened his mouth to reply, but another voice spoke first: Shandril could move very quietly when she wanted to. They’d left her lying silent and still under spread cloaks in the ravine—but neither Narm or Delg was surprised to find her beside them on their perch on a low, gnarled bough of an old phandar tree. Her eyes smoldered a little as she asked softly, “Could these foulwing riders be the darker, greater foes Elminster warned us about back in Shadowdale, do you think?”
Narm spread his hands. “He never said enough about ‘Those Who Watch’ to tell us how to recognize them.”
Delg shrugged, and added, “I’d rather not call those bat-horses down to ask.” He squinted up at them and asked, “Does it matter? Whoever they are, they’re bold enough to fly openly into Cormyr in broad daylight. Just one of those foulwings could tear all of us apart if it catches Shan by surprise, with no spellfire ready. It’s the forest for us, from now on.”
And so it was that the only known wielder of spellfire and her companions turned off the road into the vast and deep Hullack Forest. They rested after several hours of struggling through thick stands of duskwood. While they sat, Shandril managed to eat some cheese, preceded by some rather old milk, and followed by some rather wine-strong broth. Delg insisted on doing all the cooking. “I’d probably starve if I left the food to you or your husband there” was the gentle way he put it when she’d protested. Shandril was just as glad not to handle their provisions—too much had been salvaged from the ruin of Thundarlun, bringing memories of its slaughter back into her mind. She was growing tired of the killing—and of seeing fear in the eyes of folk she was fighting for, or alongside, when they looked at her.
None of the three wore smiles this day. None had been eager to enter the dark, tangled forest. It stretched on for miles, sprawling over most of eastern Cormyr, a wild and forbidding place. Foresters and hunters seldom ventured far into its dim depths. Long before night stole up to cast its cloak over Cormyr, the three had come to the end of the last, fading forest trail—and plunged on into the trackless, shady depths of the heart of Hullack Forest.
“We can’t see far enough or move fast enough for my liking,” Delg said, axe in hand. He glared at the trees all around them in the gathering gloom. “I’m beginning to hold the opinion that we’d have done better to have stayed on the road and faced whatever your enemies had left to hurl at us.”
“I’m beginning to hold the opinion,” Narm replied in a low voice, “that your words are wiser now than when you led us off the road.”
“Belt up, lad!” Delg put little anger behind his words; he peered tensely around them as if expecting an immediate attack.
“Wherever wisdom lies,” Shandril said softly, “we can’t find our way back now. We must go on. Night comes swiftly—we daren’t travel blindly about in it, for I’ve heard of boars and worse hunted here. We must find a place to rest, before dark.”
“Aye. A safe place,” Delg grunted. “A place one of us can defend while the others sleep. A place with rock at our backs is best.”
“Assuredly,” Narm agreed. “I’m sure I’ve several such places just lying about here, somewhere … now where did I leave them, I wonder? Cou—”
“You,” Shandril told him severely, “have been listening to the nimble tongue of Torm too much of late. Let’s hurry, ere the light fails entirely: we must seek high ground and hope we find a cliff, or perhaps a cave.”
“One without a bear,” Delg added, hastening on in the gathering darkness. They could hear him puffing as they hurried on over leaves and tangles of fallen, mossy logs. More than once he slipped or stumbled and broke branches underfoot with dull cracking sounds. “I never liked forests,” he added gloomily on the heels of a particularly hard fall.
Shandril and Narm both chuckled. They were climbing a tree-clad slope toward a place of slightly greater brightness in the deepening twilight; a glade, perhaps, or rocky height where trees grew more thinly. The forest around them was coming alive with mysterious rustlings and eerie, far-off hoots and baying calls. The three hurried onward and upward over tumbled stones, racing to find a refuge before nightfall caught up with them.
The trees thinned, and then the weary travelers came to an open space. Looking up, Narm saw stars winking overhead in the gathering night. A huge shadowtop tree had toppled here, perhaps a season ago, its vast trunk smashing aside smaller saplings to clear a little space in the th
ick, tangled forest. The three wanderers looked around for a moment, met each other’s eyes, and nodded in unison. This place would have to do.
Delg caught Narm’s elbow. “Gather firewood,” he said. “You and me. One each side of her, while Shan unpacks. Don’t make noise you don’t have to.”
“A fire?” Narm said. “Won’t that draw anyone who’s searching—”
“They’ve magic, lad,” Delg told him dryly. “They could find us if we stuffed leaves in our hair and stood like trees ’til morning. The big beasts, too—an’ the smaller ones’ll come to look, but not dare approach too near. We may as well have some comfort.”
“Dear, dear,” Gathlarue said, not very far away, as she looked into her softly glowing crystal, where three tiny shapes moved and spoke. Her slim lips crooked in a little smile. “I was so looking forward to seeing you stuff leaves into your mouth, Sir Dwarf. Now I’ll have to stare at your fire—and looking into dancing flames always makes me sleepy.”
“Wine, Lady?” Gathlarue’s older apprentice stood over her, a dark shape against the trees that rose all around them. The slim, raven-haired girl held a silver-harnessed crystal decanter in her hands.
Gathlarue looked up at her, smiled, and took the goblet she offered. “My thanks, precious one. You know my needs so well.”
Mairara twisted her mouth in a wordless, affectionate reply, bent to kiss her, and glided softly away. Gathlarue grinned faintly into her scrying globe; the blood-spell she had woven long ago let her listen to the thoughts of both her apprentices whenever she chose, unbeknownst to them. For all her kisses and kindnesses, Mairara meant to work her a painful death one day soon.
Before that day came, Gathlarue meant to use her well. To rise in the ranks of the Zhentarim would take more magic than Gathlarue could wield alone. A few days back, while in Zhentil Keep, she’d seen afresh all the cruel striving that would oppose her. The magelings had been gathered to hear Manshoon, and so much cruelty and aroused magic had hung barely in check in that room that the smell of it had almost made her afraid.
Almost. She’d have to be careful, as always; the other mages could bend their wills entirely to hurling destruction, but she always had to spare some Art when in their midst for cloaking herself in male guise. Her Zhentilar warriors respected her, but no women, it seemed, rose high in the robed ranks of the Zhentarim.
That could well change—soon. She had a spell that might handle even Lord Manshoon. More than that, she had one that might just foil spellfire. Gathlarue’s smile deepened as she recalled finding the spell: she had discovered a place high atop a leaning, roofless tower in ruined Myth Drannor where a certain word and touch of a certain stone brought a portal into being in midair. The oval, shimmering door had led into some ancient wizard’s long-abandoned hideaway. It was a cozy room tucked away in nothingness—a room whose walls were covered with shelves groaning under the weight of spellbooks. More spells than she’d ever have time to learn. Yet she’d taken away enough, if the gods smiled on her, to rule any corner of Faerûn she chose. Not that anyone but her knew that, yet.
Gathlarue had learned patience down the years, and now it was an old, comfortable friend. She nodded, sipping the wine, and looked out into the gathering darkness of the forest depths. Her amulet made the drink safe, whatever drugs or poisons Mairara or others might have added to it. She bent her concentration again to the stone.
Ah—the three had their fire lit and their cooking begun. They’d relax soon and talk. She’d listen and learn, not rush in to find death from the maid’s spellfire. Even the great Shadowsil had perished in Shandril’s flames—and Manshoon himself had been forced to flee. No, she’d watch and wait, to strike when the chance shone brightest. As she always had.
Gathlarue took another sip of the warmed, spiced wine, and stretched like a languid cat. From behind her, across their forest camp, came the faint but unmistakable sounds of Tespril entertaining one of the guards in the deepening night. Gathlarue made a face in that direction. Really—the quality of apprentices one was forced to settled for these days …
Delg had produced a rather strong-smelling bundle from the bottom of his pack, and at Shandril’s wrinkled nose and raised eyebrow had said only, “Yes, it’s Zhent stuff. From Thundarlun. Owner past needing it. Handy, carrying an axe—everyone should.”
The meat, whatever it had been, made a flavorful stew. Delg tossed liberal handfuls of onions into the little blackened pot. The warm, sharp smell that followed made Shandril think of Gorstag’s onion-heavy stews back at The Rising Moon, the inn where she’d grown up. Her eyes were suddenly wet with tears. She’d been happy there—how happy, she hadn’t known until too late. Now all that was lost forever; she dared not go back for fear her foes would slaughter her friends and burn the old Moon to the ground. She bit her lip and turned into Narm’s arms, burying her face against his chest just before the hot tears came.
“What’s wrong, Shan—” Narm began anxiously as she sobbed and shook against him.
Delg stumped up to him, shook his head to stop Narm’s words, and reached out one brawny arm to stroke Shandril’s heaving back. His stubby fingers moved gently, lovingly, as his other arm took hold of Narm’s wrist, and guided the young mage’s hand firmly to Shandril’s back. Narm obediently began soothing his lady, and the dwarf stepped back, nodding in satisfied silence.
Shandril cried, seeing again the clutching claws of the gargoyles in ruined Myth Drannor, the cruel, mocking smile of the Shadowsil who’d captured her, the chilling eyes of the dragon who’d lived beyond death, and the burning, roasted men she’d left behind her in Thundarlun. Why, oh why, couldn’t she just go back to Shadowdale or Highmoon and live in peace among friends—and never see a Zhentarim wizard or Cult of the Dragon fanatic again? Gods hear and answer, she thought, if you have pity—why?
Delg let the fire die low as he stumped around the clearing, peering watchfully into the dimness of the woods around him. It would do the lass good to cry awhile—past time for it, for one so young. He stroked the familiar curves of his axe head as he went, remembering Shandril’s anger in battle, her eyes turned to blazing flames as she dealt death to the Zhents. He shook his head to banish those sights from his mind. More power than was good for anyone, this one had—more power than most could carry, and stay good folk.
A little chill went through him as he stopped and looked into the night—and thought about how he might have to kill her, for the safety of all in the Realms. His superiors had been grimly insistent that he never lose sight of that.
It was not the first time he’d had this dark thought. Delg stroked his axe again. It was the first time his mind had envisioned his axe leaping down to cleave Shandril’s head, her long hair swirling amid blazing spellfire … the dwarf shook his head angrily and stumped back toward the fire with unnecessary violence. Enough of such fell dreams! They’re for folk too idle to pay full heed to what’s around them right now.…
Shandril lifted bright eyes to him as he came up, and she managed a wavering smile. Delg nodded at her, and asked roughly, “More stew?”
Narm smiled, shaking his head slightly; Shandril did the same. The dwarf shrugged and sat down beside the fire, shifting the burning branches and adding a few more.
And then there was light where no light should be, touching his face on the side away from the fire. Delg spun, hand going to his axe. Narm and Shandril scrambled to their feet behind him.
In the air above the fallen shadowtop, a patch of light had appeared. It hung at about the height of a tall man’s head, an area of spinning, silvery radiance that pulsed and sputtered. As they watched, it brightened and seemed somehow to look at them.
“Be not alarmed,” came a faintly echoing voice from it. A man’s voice, sounding somehow dignified and elderly, speaking from a long distance away.
A wizard, no doubt. Whatever the voice said, Delg was alarmed. Damn all magic, anyway! Honest folk couldn’t—
“Hold, Shandril of Highmoon!” The vo
ice had grown louder, and stern. “In the name of Azoun, I bid you make answer to me! I am Vangerdahast, Royal Wizard of Cormyr, and by this magic can only speak to you, not cast magic on you or do any harm to you and yours. Shandril, do you hear me?”
Three pairs of startled eyes met. Delg shrugged. Impulsively, Shandril leaned forward and said, “I am here, Lord Wizard.” Her voice quavered; for some reason, she felt guilty and weak and in need of approval from this far-off wizard she’d never met. In Highmoon, she’d heard often of the mighty Vangerdahast—and by all accounts, he sounded less good-natured and forgiving than the far mightier Elminster she knew. The patch of radiance pulsed and grew brighter.
“That is good, Lady Shandril. I repeat: I mean you no ill, and this sending of mine can do you no harm.” The light drifted nearer, and Narm’s face darkened in suspicion. He raised his hands, ready to cast a spell, and stepped between Shandril and the wizard’s glow, waving to Delg to keep watch on the woods around them. The dwarf gave him an approving, mirthless grin and did so.
“What would you, then?” Shandril’s voice was steady now, her tears forgotten. It seemed they were under attack once more. Her fingertips tingled as excitement rose within her, and her spellfire awoke.
“I would know what you intend to do within the borders of Cormyr, and where you are bound. More: I must know what befell at Thundarlun, and your part in it.” The light dwindled slightly, danced, and then strengthened again. “What say you?”
Shandril trembled in sudden suspicion. Just who was listening? Was this really the great Vangerdahast? And who might be listening from the dark woods all round them? She caught Delg’s eyes; the dwarf had turned to look at her levelly, his face expressionless. Shandril took a deep breath and made her decision.
“I intend no harm to the folk and land of Cormyr, nor any challenge to the authority or property of the king,” she said flatly. “I am fleeing enemies who would destroy me—among them, the warriors of Zhentil Keep, who followed me into your land through the Gap and caught up with me at Thundarlun. I can trust no one enough to tell where we are headed, but I assure you that I do not intend to settle or tarry in Cormyr. Let us pass in peace, I ask you.”
