by Ed Greenwood
Three sets of eyes narrowed. “How do we know,” Broglan asked slowly, setting down his glass untasted, “that you are truly the Bard of Shadowdale—and not some deadly shapeshifter?”
Storm shrugged. “You don’t. On the other hand, I doubt our deadly shapeshifter would know just where I promised to scratch old Vangey when next we met—do you recall?”
“Yes,” Broglan said with a sigh. “Forgive my ill manners, Lady; pray sit down. The doors, Insprin?”
“I’ll gladly sit and chat in a moment, Sir Broglan,” the lady bard told him, “but there is a casting I must do first.” And without further ado, she raised her hands and made a complex series of passes in the air, murmuring words the wizards could not quite hear.
Broglan flushed in anger, and opened his mouth to protest—but she was done, and smiling sweetly at him. He shrugged, reached for his glass, and said in acid tones, “I suppose you’ll get around to telling me just what you’ve done when you have, say, some idle hours?”
Storm chuckled. “You war wizards certainly lack for fun,” she told him merrily. “All this grim silence and snapped orders, and keeping your laundry lists deathly secret! Aren’t you even going to offer a lady a drink?”
The worried-looking senior war wizard sighed. “On one condition, Lady Storm: that you drop this giggling maiden act. I’d appreciate the teasing more if I wasn’t scared witless, and facing the first truly important threat to the realm that I’ve seen in years. Treat us as equals.”
“Will you in turn accept the authority Lord Vangerdahast gave me over you?” Storm asked quietly, meeting his eyes.
Broglan sighed again, and then said quietly, “Lady, I will. Corathar? Insprin?”
“We will,” they said in rough chorus.
“Then let us drink to seal it,” Storm said, extending her hand.
“There’s only the one glass,” Broglan protested.
“So fill it, and we’ll share,” Storm told him crisply. “The spell I just cast here is called a ‘watchful eye.’ Like a magic mouth spell, it is triggered by certain conditions—in this case, by any attack in this room that unleashes fire or draws blood, or by entry into this room through any way but the doors I know of. I’ll write down the word of activation for you; don’t speak it aloud until you really need to.”
“What does uttering the word bring?” Insprin asked from close behind her.
“The spell creates sound and moving images of what befell in its area of effect when it was triggered—hopefully showing us just what was said and done after an attack occurred.”
“So the survivor can see who killed the rest of us,” Corathar said sarcastically.
“Corathar!” Broglan snapped angrily, but Storm held up her hand.
“A fair reaction,” the lady bard said quietly, “being as you’ve given this mage under you no comfort.” She sipped from the glass Broglan was holding and then offered it to Corathar.
“Drink, sir,” she said quietly, “and know this: giving in to fear doesn’t help. Let it keep you awake, and wary, and thinking, yes … but don’t let it master you. Watch old Insprin, instead of envying and hating him; he knows this.”
Corathar’s eyes blazed, but he sipped from the cup carefully, and then passed it to Insprin, who murmured in mock-quavering tones, “Eh, Storm! Not so much of the ‘old,’ hear ye?”
It was just the right thing to say; they all burst into sputtering laughter, and rocked together in shared mirth for a moment.
Broglan took back his glass before the last of the wine got spilled. “We know we face a shapeshifter—something called a Malaugrym, Lord Vangerdahast ventured—so what will seeing a shape assumed by this killer tell us? Why set the spell?”
It was Storm’s turn to sigh. “My magic is little better than yours, gentlesirs; not all who serve Mystra can rend mountaintops. I can’t bring this foe to stand and fight, so I’m trying to learn all I can of him.” She shrugged. “He seems able to shapeshift at will … so I’d like to catch a few more of his shapes.”
“Are you sure it’s a ‘he’?” Broglan asked quietly.
Storm frowned, and then sprang up, almost bowling Corathar over. “Mystra aid my wits!”
She was across the room in two strides, snatching the door open, and snarling, “Shayna!”
Behind her, as the three war wizards stared in astonishment at the racing bard, the air shimmered slightly as the watchful eye spell activated.
A secret panel slid aside in the ceiling above the table where Broglan sat, and three glossy black tentacles reached down for the wizards. Each eely intrusion ended in a bony joint from which three human forearms sprouted. Behind each tentacle came a many-fanged mouth, surrounded by a nimbus of purple light. The hands reached for the necks of the mages, but the mouths opened in silent eagerness as they drew near the tops of the wizards’ heads.
Corathar saw the monster first, and screamed.
“A Sharn!” Insprin said in awe, as he looked up and triggered his wand. Magical bolts burst from it in blue-white pulses, curving to follow those reaching arms.
Corathar screamed again and triggered his own wand.
Broglan dived for the floor as fast and as frantically as he’d ever done anything in his life.…
Eleven
THE TAPESTRY TORN
Magical radiances flashed and spat as Broglan rolled over and over in frantic haste, terrified the beast would fall on him. Blue-white magic missiles streaked overhead and tore into the glossy black monster. Corathar was shouting at the thing in wordless, furious fear, and there were answering, startled shouts from the corridor outside as Purple Dragons came running.
The armsmen couldn’t get to the monster protruding from the ceiling without hacking through the finest war wizards ever to come to Firefall Vale. Grimly, Broglan found his feet and his own wand. They were going to have to do this themselves.
Insprin was backed against a wall, calmly emptying his wand into the beast. The black hands reaching for him recoiled and convulsed in an endless dance of pain.
Corathar was producing more noise than damage, firing his wand wildly as he dodged and fled from relentless clutching hands. Only frantic struggles had kept him alive this long; his robes were already torn away at both shoulders.
Broglan sighed inwardly and abandoned the young mage to whatever fate the gods had in store for him. Blasting down this beast was more important. His own wand pulsed in his grasp as he made it roar forth deadly fire.
Glossy black arms shrank away. Drooling jaws snapped and snarled in retreat. All three wands were firing now, and the purple radiance around the sharn was gone, seared away by the raw fury of the magic hurled against it.
Then the hole in the ceiling was suddenly empty. The thing had fled. Broglan shouted for a halt, and let his hands fall to his sides. He quickly discovered how violently his hands were trembling.
* * * * *
The blazing pain was behind him, and he could think again. The glossy black blob hissed out agony from mouths that drooped and flowed back into it as it grew thinner … and taller … and became a man again.
The shapeshifter panted slightly in remembered pain as he stood in the cool, dark places of the Haunted Tower, idly watching a spectral gowned form glide past. An eerie chord of wild, high harp music echoed briefly through the empty room behind him, but he did not flinch or turn; he feared no phantom—nor armed mortal, for that matter. Prudence sometimes forced retreat upon every mortal.
The folk of Firefall knew about him now and walked the halls ready for battle. Firefall Keep was becoming a fortress armed against him. It was time to find some magic and gain the upper hand again.
From Pheirauze, he’d learned how pitifully few enchanted items of consequence the Summerstars owned. A few light globes, a healing hand that Athlan had hidden away somewhere, a brazier that needed no fuel … little that could readily serve in a battle. He needed more—something that could blast hands and feet off an arrogant Chosen of Mystra and leav
e her helpless to his subsumption.
The Summerstars might have all too little magic, but the place to find items of power in Cormyr—away from the palace, with its alert guards and war wizards—was in the hands of nobles. And the greatest concentration of nobility … moreover, the place of most danger to them, and where they might most need to impress or coerce others … was the grand city of Suzail.
He’d best give this persistent servant of Mystra the slip and go hunting nobles. She’d dare not raise a general alarm in the kingdom, or the panic might bring on war between neighbors all over the realm. He’d have a little time while war wizards scurried here and there, trying to keep secrets. Yes …
He laughed aloud in the empty, echoing darkness and became a war hound again, padding across the cold stone with paws that still trembled from the ravages of those searing wands. Well, that would pass soon enough.
By now, they’d suspect any beast flying over the battlements or slipping past gate-guards. The sluice gate below the kitchens, where refuse and garderobe washouts went down a long pipe to the midden by the barns, was the wisest route.
Unseen, he found the dumping room, became a water-snake, and slid into the unpleasant liquid. It would be the work of only a few moments to—
Gods! There was a sudden flare of silver fire in the sludge around him; he thrashed in helpless pain as it raged, burning away scales and flesh beneath.
He struggled on, but the flames rose up with an earnest roar, and flesh melted before them. Gasping, he turned quickly, before it was too late. Pain rode him and clawed at him as he wriggled frantically back up the pipe, out of reach of the flames.
Had the Harper bitch seen him? Or had she merely cast a spell on the pipe to wait for anyone trying to travel it?
He waited a long time, mastering the pain and rebuilding his body where it was torn and melted. He was lessened, but he could do nothing about that. Nothing save go back into the keep … and feed.
First a test had to be made. Slowly and cautiously he descended the pipe again, growing a long, slender tentacle to probe ahead. All too soon it met with the familiar flare of silver flame.
He drew back hastily and departed, becoming a hound again … a wet hound with a tentacle coiled under the dripping fur of its belly. He found the nearest window and stretched the tentacle west toward the heart of Cormyr—a tentacle that soon felt the searing kiss of flame once more. He was walled into the keep by a barrier of goddess-fire!
The shapeshifter growled. He heard a nearby scullery-maid call out to another about hearing a dog, and left hastily, seeking a chamber with rugs to dry his paws on.
When he had done so, his half-hidden tentacle sported a human hand that could open doors. He went on, seeking a room where he could be alone.
* * * * *
Halfway up a curving stone stair, Storm Silverhand sagged against the wall, gasping, her face a sheet of running sweat.
“Mystra preserve me!” she panted, wiping at her brow with the back of a glove.
If she was going to be battered so each time the foe tested the barrier, he might kill her just by going around the keep trying to force his way out! She mustn’t let him know how thrusts against the sphere hurt her.…
Clenching her teeth, Storm pushed herself away from the wall and went on, climbing the steps like an old woman. Her legs were weak and unsteady. She tried to act as if she were merely idling her way up the stair, deep in thought, but she could not hide her pale face or the sweat that still coursed down it, dripping from her nose and chin.
“Gods!” she swore under her breath; even her ears were filling up with it. Perhaps she could tell folk that sweating like a waterfall was a fashionable thing for half-crazed bards to do.…
* * * * *
The man who was not Maxer sat alone in the dusty darkness of a disused back storeroom, old jars and salt-barrels all around him. His eyes were closed, and he hummed softly, as one of the spells he’d gained from those fools of wizards unfolded. Yes, the invisible barrier enclosed all of Firefall Keep in a great sphere … no doubt to keep him in.
Ah, but of us two, who is the hunted, and who is the hunter?
Let it be a barrier for both her and me. If I lace this spell around it, just so, and then cast that one …
The silver fire flared into visibility for the briefest of instants, but seemed to accept his spells, binding them into itself without faltering or backlash. Good. Now the Chosen One of Mystra was caught here, too—his helpless prey in an ever-deepening trap.
The shapechanger opened his eyes, stood up, and smiled. They’d face each other soon enough—and he’d get what he’d come here for. Oh, yes.
With that confident smile still on his face, he stepped out into the passage and strolled openly across the keep, heading back toward the Haunted Tower, to await dusk and his next move. He’d never thought this road he’d chosen would be so much fun.
He crossed the portrait-hung Hall of Honor—full of stuffy-looking Summerstars glaring down out of frames that hadn’t been dusted for a tenday … and why was that, now? Could it be for fear of a certain tentacled prowler?—and headed up the Gargoyle Stair.
Halfway up it he heard a hail from above, and saw a Purple Dragon, drawn sword in hand, standing at its head. “I know you not,” the armsman said, frowning. “Who are you, and why are you here?”
With an easy smile, the man on the stairs spread empty hands, and continued to mount the broad, plum-carpeted stone steps. “I am Maxer,” he said, “a … friend of Lady Storm Silverhand.” He raised an eyebrow. “Do you harp?”
The guard’s frown deepened. “I do not,” he said coldly, “and I’ve no love for Harpers—or anyone else who skulks about evading the dictates of rightful authority. I ask again: why are you here?”
“So the harp isn’t to your taste,” the smiling man said, approaching the head of the stair. He raised his hands as if conducting an imaginary band of musicians—making sure the armsman did not see the rising, moving hump between his shoulder-blades—and asked, “What instrument do you play, pray tell?”
“I’m not one for music,” the guard said shortly, raising the point of his blade to menace the throat of the ascending stranger. “I don’t play—or play at—anything.”
“Ah,” the smiling stranger said softly, “I’m sorry to hear that.” The gentle smile still on his face, he lashed out with his newly grown tentacle, snaring the guard’s throat.
The Purple Dragon reeled and fought for breath, hands tearing futilely at what was strangling him. The shapechanger lifted him delicately clear of the ground to render his kicks useless. With casual amusement, he watched the man’s face darken. The valiant boldshield was going to have one less witness to report on the murderer loose in the keep—and one fewer Purple Dragon sword to swing at dangerous shapeshifting beasts.
The smiling man’s eyes caught sudden fire. The choking armsman tried to scream as he stared into those flaming orbs, and managed only an agonized whistle before two needles of flame lanced out. His head caught fire from the inside.
The smiling man drank in a flood of memories from the squalling, spasming body—dark visions of battlefields and tankards and willing lips, mostly. When he was done, he cast the husk casually aside. It slid down the wall as he strode on, licking his lips and murmuring from time to time.
The memories he’d stolen jostled with those he’d already taken, whirling and surging together in a wild cacophony of unrelated, overlaid images.…
With dismay, the shapeshifter realized he’d forgotten who and where he was for some time, drifting along in a tumbling journey through the unfamiliar, stolen memories of others. He was striding down a passage that led to the Haunted Tower and must have walked straight through the floor occupied by guests—such as the war wizards.
He shook his head and saw a servant glance out of a room, frown in concern, and draw its door swiftly closed again. Filled with sudden, savage glee, he sprang to that door, grew talons, and raked the wood, la
ughing wildly when he heard a terrified cry from the room inside.
“I am the Eater of All!” he howled exultantly, dancing on down the corridor and lashing the air around him with a restless tentacle. “I am the Slayer of Mages, the slaughterer of doves and children and helpless little kittens. Fear me! Obey me! Run from me while you can!”
* * * * *
The late afternoon sun brightly lit the battlements of Firefall Keep—a good thing for those brave enough to stand on the heights, given the chill breezes that blew from the mountains.
Those winds whipped the chestnut-hued hair of Lady Shayna Summerstar into an unruly plume. She didn’t care. The ruin of her coiffure was not why her face was tight and tense as she stared at the tall woman with the silver hair—hair that serenely held its shape, defying the winds. Shayna admired this Harper. She felt shame and resentment as question after question politely probed at her secret.
“I know that even now, a Summerstar is aiding the foe who slew your brother and your grandmother,” Storm was saying, her eyes two dark pools Shayna could not escape. “Is it you?”
Dark Master, aid me! With an effort, the young heiress kept her face calm, trying not to show how frantic she truly felt. “I am shocked that such an idea would occur to you or anyone,” Shayna said with just a touch of ice. “I am, after all, a Summerstar.”
“So is Thalance, the scourge of Firefall Vale,” Storm said with just a hint of grim mirth about her lips. “So is Uncle Erlandar, reportedly thrice the rogue in his day than Thalance will ever be.”
Shayna made no more reply to this than to sardonically raise an eyebrow. Inwardly, though, she screamed, Master, can you hear me? What shall I do?
Because Storm was more than a mortal, and the cry was so impassioned and so close, she heard the mental call. Keeping all trace of that hearing from her face, she said, “You can’t hide forever, Shayna. House Summerstar needs a leader as bright and clear as Athlan tried to be. Those who consort with beasts end up as beasts themselves—or, far more often, end up the food of beasts.”
