by Ed Greenwood
Sharantyr swiftly said, "Feet for me. Your turn for the blood."
Elminster wrinkled his nose. Together they lifted the body, swung it twice, and tossed it faceup into the oval of light. It passed through soundlessly and was gone. Sharantyr had to grin when Elminster bent to peek under the oval to make sure that the body wasn't just lying on the ground behind it. The grass was bare.
The wizard rose in a smooth pivot that brought him around facing the guard tree again. "Quick, lass. Show me the ladder," he growled, trotting across the grass again.
"The name's Shar, old man," Sharantyr told him, amused. He merely grunted. She raced past him with smooth strides in the darkness and laid her hand on the ladder. "Here."
"Right. Now find me the first tree in that direction ye can climb," he ordered, pointing west along the edge of the dell. Sharantyr gave him a look that he saw most of as she passed, but he merely grinned and followed her, taking out the wand that spat lightnings and muttering something over it.
The lady ranger turned, hand on hip, only her face visible in the darkness. "Here. Is that someone coming?"
"Undoubtedly. Take this"-he handed her the wand, butt-first-"and this." Into the same hand he put a strangling-wire taken from inside his boot.
Sharantyr frowned. "Where'd you-no, strike that. I don't want to know."
"Wise of ye. Take the wand up the tree and affix it there, somewhere sturdy where its aim won't slip with wind or working loose. I want it pointing squarely at the gate, and ye back down here, in a breath or less."
"Oh, yes, Lord," she said in mocking, breathless tones. Elminster grinned and patted some unseen part of her as she climbed past, stepping swiftly back to avoid a kick that did not come.
He bent his head to listen and heard again the hurrying thud of boots and creaking of leather and metal armor that meant death was swiftly coming up the track for them.
He got his other wand into his hand, just to be wise and ready. There was a thump beside him, and Sharantyr was coming back to her feet after her leap, breathing heavily. He took her hand.
"Done? Good, come!"
Together, hand in hand, they ran east. Sharantyr was astonished to find the Old Mage's long, scrawny legs twinkling ahead of hers, as swift as any stag, tugging her along faster across the dell. Abruptly Elminster's hand jerked her to the left along the line of trees, to where the rocks of the mountain began to rise.
"Here! Quick and quiet, now," Elminster panted. "Let's get as far as we can without making any noise." Together, like two heavily breathing shadows, they slipped away along the line of tumbled rocks, creeping and crawling where they had to, cushioning each other to avoid noisy falls, and more than once ending up face-to-face, gasping the same air in the darkness. Behind them they could see the torches and flashing blades, and hear occasional shouted orders of the large group of men-at-arms who were searching the dell and the trees around it.
"What now?" Sharantyr whispered into Elminster's ear as the rocky tongue of a mountain hid the last glimmers of torchlight from their view.
"We go on, east, the length of the dale," the Old Mage whispered back and turned to continue. "If the castle was down that track, we started from about halfway along the dale."
Sharantyr squeezed his shoulder, bringing him to a halt. "It's not that I don't mind losing an entire night's sleep fighting and running about," she whispered, "but I would like some answers, please."
Elminster nodded. "Ye shall have them, after we put another twenty breaths or so of travel behind us. I want no blades following us."
Sharantyr whispered back simply, "Lead on," and he did.
They crossed a small stream and another, babbling rivulets snaking amid the stones and winking back starlight beneath their feet. Elminster stopped finally, in a shadowed spot where they could sit on rocks and look out over a moonlit expanse of rock and scrub below, before the dark wall of the trees began.
"Ask, then," he bid her simply, passing his belt flask over.
Sharantyr wet her lips with its water. "The wand?"
"Most Myth Drannan wands can be speech-set."
Sharantyr chuckled softly and waited.
So did he, of course. She rolled her eyes. "Explain," she ordered flatly.
Elminster grinned in the darkness and said, "Unlike wands made today, ye can cause that wand of mine to unleash its magic by itself, with no hand upon it and no word spoken. Ye're familiar with the spell called 'magic mouth' by most? Aye, like that. When the conditions ye speak are met, the wand fires. I recalled that I'd never set that one-ye can only do it once-so I set it to discharge when someone in robes, or carrying a staff or wand, comes through the gate into the dale."
"Into-Ah, that's why the 'keep low' warning for Harpers. A nasty trap." Her last words had an edge to them.
Elminster looked at her closely. "Are ye all right, lass?"
Sharantyr shook her head angrily. "I'm just-Slaying Zhents is one thing, but killing people I have no quarrel with, and whose faces I haven't even seen, just doesn't sit well with me, that's all."
Elminster put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry I've dragged ye into all this," he said quietly.
After a long, silent moment she put strong fingers over his and said as softly, "Don't be."
They sat together, silent and unmoving, for a long time.
After awhile, Elminster looked up at the stars, chuckled, and asked, "Can I have my hand back now, Shar?"
Sharantyr patted it and let it go. "I've another question, Old Mage."
" 'Elminster,' please. 'El,' if ye prefer. Ask."
"Aren't you worried about all those mages the guard told us about? Will they not find you by magic?"
"Nay, they can't find me. Those who bear Mystra's burden can't be put to sleep, held immobile, or commanded by magic that strikes at the mind. To all magic that searches, spies, or tries to control, we are simply not there."
"I thought thy amulet-the greenstone amulet like Storm wears-did that."
Elminster grinned. "I wear it to conceal those powers of the burden. Besides, if I wear it, I have it to give to a traveling companion in need of it. If I'd been wise enough to be wearing it when I went walking, I'd give it ye now."
Sharantyr's eyes were dark again. "Without it, how can I avoid being found by these prying magics?"
"Ah, yes." Elminster grinned and put a bony arm around her shoulders. "Now that's why these stars find ye and I hurrying about in the dark." He rose and tugged at her hand. "Come on," he said briefly, and she got up and went with him into the night.
"Nothing, sir," the ranking swordsman said, torchlight gleaming on his black armor.
"Do you mean," Mrinden said in a voice thick with incredulous rage, "that someone came through the gate, slew the watchman, and disappeared, all in the time it took us to get up the hill from the barracks? How stupid d'you think I am?"
"There's no trace of them, sir," the senior Sword replied stolidly. "They're either deep in the woods or are past us into the open dale already. Or they went back through that." He inclined his head toward the flickering gate. "You've seen the blood, sir."
Mrinden turned to Kalassyn. "Well?"
Kalassyn drew his fellow wizard into a face-to-face huddle and spoke in low tones. "If they're past us, we'll never find them. It's either a personal affair-a man, maybe even one of ours, bent on killing whomever we left on watch, for his own reasons-or a lone meddler who will turn up in the dale tomorrow. There's been no time to bring in a large band and hide them all or get away without us hearing. Most likely they went back through the gate."
Mrinden frowned. "That trail is just a mite obvious, isn't it?"
"A trap?"
Mrinden nodded.
Kalassyn shrugged. "We've no choice but to go through, unless you want to explain to Stormcloak or Bellwind why we did not. Sabryn went through earlier this evening, on some secret affair I'm not supposed to know the slightest thing about. Perhaps he needs help and tried to get to us."
&nbs
p; "And the attempt ended in slaughter? That means we'll be walking into alert and waiting death!"
Kalassyn shrugged again. "You sound like one of the younger priests. What mage doesn't walk toward death, where'er he goes? Eh?"
Mrinden jerked his head about angrily to glare at the silently waiting men-at-arms. "We're going through the gate!" he snarled at them. "Form up in an arrow. I want twelve to remain behind and watch for any strangers in the trees. If you cross blades with anyone, send a band down to rouse the rest of the barracks. The rest of you, load crossbows and point them at the sky. Move!"
In weary silence the black-armored Wolves formed up, the senior Sword choosing the dozen who would stand rear guard. The two Zhentarim walked into the midst of the wedge of armed men, almost invisible in their black robes, and gestured curtly for the arrow to close around them, protecting their backs.
Mrinden addressed the men. "This gate is perfectly safe. Simply walk into it as if it weren't there. You'll set foot next in a wooded area where armed and ready foes may be waiting. Don't stop to gawk. If something moves, shoot it and move on in haste to let the rest of us through." He looked around. Expressionless black helms looked back at him. He drew in a deep breath. "Right, then move!"
Without an answering word, the black-armored dealers of death marched forward into the oval of waiting light.
"They've come this way," Itharr said, examining a faint heel mark of damp earth on a rock. "I'm sure of it."
"Elminster, aye, but who's the other?" Belkram asked, blade out, peering into the night-shrouded trees around them.
Itharr shrugged. "We'll find out, no doubt," he said dryly. "Come on." Silently they stalked on, alert and dangerous.
The two Harpers had been restless, unable to settle down for the night after they'd found Elminster's trail.
They'd been lying on the turf, heads pillowed on their boots, discussing where the Old Mage was most likely heading-northwest, it seemed, straight into the heart of lawless Daggerdale-when they'd both felt a peculiar creeping, prickling sensation. There was a sudden tension in their heads, a rising surge of power that slowly died away. This was followed by another flicker of force, then nothing.
"What was that?" Itharr asked, eyes wide.
"Strong magic unleashed," Belkram said. "I've felt it that strongly only once before, in a battle near the Greycloak Hills against Zhents out of Darkhold, when the spellsinger Andarra was dying. She spent her life-force in a song that made all magic go wild, so Zhent wizards would have to fight, dagger and sword, like all others. We all felt the effect of her sacrifice."
"Strong magic," Itharr said slowly, eyes narrowing. "Elminster!" He rolled to his feet, wincing at the cold, and reached for his boots. "Let's hence!"
Belkram grunted himself upright, breath curling around him like smoke in the night chill, and pulled on one boot. "Hence away," he agreed, feeling for his blade. So they did.
They were now entering the broken, wooded country of ridges and ravines that marked Dagger Wood, the southeast edge of Daggerdale. It would be easy to lose the trail, so the two Harpers slowed. Since Zhentil Keep's forces had hounded Randal Morn and his folk into hiding, the dale ahead had become lawless country, roamed by horrific beasts, brigands, and marauding Zhent-hired mercenary bands, mainly orcs. Not country for two men without magic to wander about in at night.
They were both thinking this, swords held ready as they came up over a ridge, when they saw a light ahead, an upright amber oval of radiance hanging motionless in the trees.
They looked at each other, nodded, started forward-and came to a halt almost immediately. Armored men had suddenly appeared out of the light, scattering into the open space in front of it with swords drawn. The two Harpers saw robed men gesturing commandingly.
They traded glances again. Belkram laid a hand on Itharr's arm and murmured, "Let's stay low and just watch. I'd wager a large amount that Elminster is involved in this, but I don't see him anywhere."
Itharr had been watching the men intently. "Aye. They seem to be looking for him, or us, or anyone about."
They sank down to their elbows, looked behind them, and shifted apart to lie under the shelter of shrubs, blades ready beside them. Itharr scratched his nose.
"Those are Zhents, or I'm a Calishite."
Belkram peered at him through the darkness. "No," he said, "you haven't turned into a Calishite, and I can't say I've noticed you oiling your hide and perfuming your gold coins these last few summers."
Itharr sighed theatrically. "No? I try to be so subtle."
Belkram snorted and they fell silent, watching the Zhentarim searching the woods, closer and closer. The two Harpers waited intently, as still as stone, like two hawks on a perch watching for prey.
"Nothing," Mrinden said angrily.
"Nothing save this," Kalassyn pointed out, nudging the sentinel's body with his foot. Mrinden made a rude noise and waved his hands in exasperation.
"Either we've been raided and the raiders have got clean away-we'll never find anyone in these woods, in the dark, unless by pure chance we fall right over them-or they're in the dale right now, whoe'er they are, and past us. In either case we must return. Call the men back."
Kalassyn gave curt orders to the Sword, who nodded and hastened away.
Mrinden stared angrily at the stars above and the trees around until the Sword returned and spoke at his elbow. "Lord, we are here and await your orders."
Mrinden tossed his head like an angry stallion and glared at the man. "Choose seven of your best to remain behind. They are to let no one through the gate but a ranking mage of the Zhentarim and those with him. Their orders are to slay all others; let no one see this gate and live to tell of it. When light comes, they must search the area carefully. No intelligent creature must elude their search, or it will go ill with all of you later. Understood?"
"Aye, Lord." A cool night breeze slid past them. Mrinden shivered and turned abruptly toward the light.
"The rest of you follow me." He strode back into the radiance. The Sword was already waving a gauntleted hand; the main body of warriors hastened to follow. Kalassyn joined their line near the back, looking around one last time at the dark trees and the stars overhead.
As he glanced up, a star fell, trailing a silent path across the cloak of night. Kalassyn looked down, quickly, and said nothing. He wanted no soldiers reading ill omens into signs none in Faerun were wise enough to interpret. Even as he told himself that, his own heart sank, and it was with fear that Kalassyn returned to the High Dale.
Perhaps the star brought good fortune. Kalassyn was safely through the gate, and the last of the returning Wolves with him, when two Harpers rose out of the night behind the seven-man guard like two death-dealing temple pillars. The guards had not yet turned from watching the last black boot heel vanish into the silent light when steel took the throats of the first.
The third man to fall managed a strangled roar as he went down, and the remaining Zhentilar wheeled around in frantic haste. An instant later, blades flashed in the amber glow, steel rang, and men twisted, lunged, and scrambled. Overhead another star fell, but each man there was too busy to notice it.
When Kalassyn strode forward and in a footfall returned to the High Dale, it was like stepping into an inferno. The rumble and flash of fire was dying away all around him. Somewhere nearby a man was sobbing, and smoke was so thick in the air that he could see nothing of trees or lights or the men who had preceded him.
Then, without warning, fire came again.
Kalassyn staggered in helpless, sightless pain, struggling to stand amid the roiling winds of the bright, searing blast. Off to the left, a man screamed, and an instant later Kalassyn fell over a huddled, armored form.
He landed hard atop another guard, whose black armor was hot enough to burn. Kalassyn rolled off as hastily as he could, cursing weakly. Crawling pain told him his robes were ablaze. Tears blinded him as he tore away his garb in flaming strips, shrieking at the agony spr
eading from his frantic, trembling hands.
Somehow he staggered on and sank to his knees at last in grass that was not scorched or ablaze.
He must… now would be the time to…
Kalassyn of Zhentil Keep fought for and found an instant to wonder if he was dying, but it was snatched away again by flames that roared in to fill his mind.
6
Fire in the Night
"Lord? Lord, do ye live?"
Kalassyn struggled to reply and discovered he was lying on scorched grass, legs twisted awkwardly under him.
He raised his head and, through a blur of tears, made out a dark, helmed head bent anxiously over him. Behind the first man, another guard stood holding a torch. Kalassyn winced, turning his eyes away from the flickering light.
"Aye," he said at last, struggling to move stiff, blackened lips. They cracked, with little twinges of pain, but the rest of him hurt far worse. "What-what happened?"
"Fire out of the night, Lord. From a tree next to the guard tree. We've surrounded it, but there's been no sound or movement since the second strike felled ye."
Kalassyn struggled. Pain stabbed at him. "Help me up," he snarled.
"Aye, Lord." Hands like heavy stones fell upon his shoulders, and he whimpered despite himself as he was gently hauled to his feet. Reeling, he fell to one knee. The hands steadied him, raised him again, and stayed there. He clung to them without shame and looked around.
After what seemed a very long time, as breath whispered and hissed in and out of his tortured lungs, he could see again.
It was not an inspiring sight. He was naked, covered with matted grass and burned hair. Behind him, smoke still rose from a ring of grass in front of the calmly glowing, unchanged gate. Within the ring lay the blackened bodies of five… six… no, eight Wolves and, facedown at their forefront, Mrinden. Bones showed here and there in the ashy ruin of the wizard. Kalassyn doubted he'd ever hear that nasty voice snapping orders again.
He looked away and saw other men groaning and clutching themselves in agony, their armor blackened and burned, or torn off. Others stood as if dazed or walked with the stiff strides of strong men in pain but determined not to let it diminish them. Of the band that had hurried up from the barracks not so long ago, only a handful still stood.
