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  asked us to ... they were set upon by some Harpers, and killers sent by the Cult of the Dragon. We won

  both battles, but Arluth is dead, and Chsalbreian, and-"

  Manshoon held up his hand, and the mageling fell silent. "Our thanks for your diligence, Sundarth. We

  are pleased. Leave us now; our favor goes with you."

  Stammering thanks and farewell, the young mageling bowed himself out.

  When lie was gone, Manshoon looked up at the bleeding, moaning man hanging in midair, and he

  sighed loudly.

  "Too many foes are after spellfire for me to just sit back and wait for blundering, ambitious underlings

  to bring it to us," the High Lord of Zhentil Keep announced. "I'll have to become directly involved in

  the hunt for this Shandril."

  The beholders, hovering watchfully overhead, said nothing. Manshoon looked across the chamber to

  meet the eyes of the High Priest of the Black Altar.

  Fzoul shrugged and said, 'That's the way of wizards. For my part and my counsel, hold back for now,

  and watch to see if the claws we've sent out catch anything."

  Manshoon rolled his eyes. "I grow no younger," he said carefully. "What use is spellfire-or the triumph

  of our Brotherhood over all-to me, if I'm toothless, blind, and failing in my dotage before we gain

  either?"

  Fzoul raised an eyebrow. "You may not live to find any of these things if you move openly now. I hope

  you've not forgotten that your open participation in this hunt is sure to bring out Elininster of

  Shadowdale-to say nothing of the Simbul, Khelben Arunsun, and others against you. Azoun has

  already doubled his patrols in eastern Cormyr and is killing our warriors as fast as he finds them."

  Manshoon shrugged. "If I feared danger or opposition, I would never have come to hold the title I do

  now, nor to stand in this place."

  A rumbling voice broke in on his words then, from overhead. It sounded amused. "How will you

  succeed, Lord Manshoon, where others have failed? Finding magic that will stand against spellfire will

  take time you have too little of, and much luck-or both."

  Manshoon shrugged again, giving the eye tyrants overhead a thin smile. "The Brotherhood is often

  guilty of a fault dear to our natures: in trying to outdo each other, we try to be too clever. A far simpler

  approach than the schemes we've pursued so far will probably be all that is needed-brute force."

  Fzoul raised an eyebrow and gestured for Manshoon to continue.

  The High Lord of Zhentil Keep turned expressionless eyes on them all and said, "Club the wench into

  submission with an army of zombies controlled by underlings using items of power. Bury her under

  undead, no matter how- many she destroys-and bring her down. My magic is strong enough to take

  care of any Harper or Cult meddling in such a battle."

  Manshoon strolled across the room and then turned to look up at the floating body of the Zhentilar.

  "Then we take the girl someplace secure," he continued, "and let the lich lord drain her-or use magic to

  bind tier wits and will ere site recovers. then study her at leisure." He snapped his fingers. "Whatever

  plans we pursue, a watch must be kept on Elminster from this moment on to ensure he doesn't show up

  to rescue her or ruin attempts to take her."

  He gestured, and a guard at the door went out, returning in a few breaths with a wizard just old enough

  to master his awe and fear. After a quick glance at the hovering beholders, the young mage kept his

  eyes on the floor or on Manshoon.

  "Heldiir," Manshoon said in a cold, smooth voice, "you are to take twenty of your fellow mages, now,

  and keep a continuous spellwatch over Shadowdale. Monitor all magic wielded there, keep track of the

  doings of Elminster and report any major castings or movements on his part to me immediately,

  whatever the hour. Go, speedily, and do this."

  "I-I will," Heldiir managed to croak, then hurried out Manshoon looked up in time to see the beholders

  drifting back toward the arched windows through which they had first entered the room.

  "Your plan has some merit," one said.

  "We shall watch-and see," the other added in a deep, neutral rumble, as both eve tyrants drifted from

  view. Fzoul Chembryl glided to a door, spread his hands, and said simply, " "The risk is yours." Then

  lie was gone. Manshoon watched the door close behind the priest, smiled without humor, and looked

  tip at the silent, dripping soldier.

  "Mercy, Simron?" he asked mildly. "Mercy is for the dead." He made a small gesture with one hand,

  and there was a dull, splintering crack from the body overhead.

  Its head jerked, and then dangled limply at an angle, tongue protruding. Manshoon strode toward his

  own door and did not look back as the floating corpse slowly drifted down toward the bowl of

  blackening blood.

  "Watch sharp, now," Mirt warned as they peered into the last gleams of fading sunset over the Storm

  Horns, far off on the horizon. "There's sure to be at least one snake hereabouts who seeks Shandril and

  spellfire."

  "Is there? By the ever-observant gods, your perception is keen. You surprise me," Delg muttered

  sarcastically, keeping a hand over his axe blade to shield it from reflecting any of the suns failing glow.

  It was growing dark fast here in the trees, evening descending quickly on the rolling farmlands ahead.

  "What, again?" Mirt replied teasingly. "What an exciting life ye must lead."

  Delg raised an eloquent eyebrow but thought it wiser to make no reply. Somewhere near at hand,

  Shandril sighed, and in mimicry of one of the haughty Sembian ladies who used to stop at the Moon for

  a night, she murmured, "Really, milord. Must you?" She smiled as Narm s comforting arm closed

  around her shoulders.

  Mirt uttered a satisfied sound, came to a halt, and pointed. -chat fence line, there? That's the eastern

  paddock of the Wyvern. Come. My belly tells me it's past time for some hot roast dinner."

  "Master, we obey," Narm said in gentle mockery. Mirt sighed heavily, rolled his eyes, and waved at

  them all to follow him. The stout old merchant pushed past a tangle of wild raspberry canes, creating

  angry crackling and tearing noises. He waded through the canes toward the road, slipped on a muddy

  patch of bank-and fell with a heavy splash into the ditch.

  For a long, breathless moment, silence descended. -Shandril smothered giggles, not very successfully.

  Delg cut his own way through the canes with a few cleft swings of his axe, and then launched himself

  into an exaggerated pratfall down the bank, coming to rest so I hat one boot just crashed down into the

  edge of the water with a splash. The spray drenched Mirt's face, which had just arisen from the muddy

  waters wearing a dark expression.

  "Unusual maneuver," the dwarf remarked cheerfully, "but I can see its virtues now, O Great Warrior.

  It'll certainly lull any waiting foes into false overconfidence and allow us to make a grand entrance

  while they're still rolling about on the ground, laughing helplessly

  One muddy paw lashed out from the water, enfolded the dwarfs boot in a loving grip, and pulled.

  Delg's mirth was cut suddenly and damply short, leaving only bubbles to mark its passing.

  "I hope you don't expect us to join you," said Shandril carefully, reaching a hand down to him. Mirt

  waved it away, spitting muddy water considerately off to one side.

  "Nay, nay, lass-if ye gave me yer hand, ye'd end up in the wet her
e beside me, instead o' getting me out

  of it. Nay, me an' the intrepid Delg here'll just wallow about for a bit, and then join ye on the far bank.

  If ye don't feel up to leaping the ditch, any of ye, just step on my shoulderhere-and find yer way across

  ... blast it!"

  Shandril did giggle then, but made use of his offer. Full darkness had fallen by the time they all reached

  the road beyond. Mirt and Delg dripped their way to the front and rear of the hand, respectively, and

  both set off in grim silence for their goal.

  The farms and woodlots of Cormyr stretched out before them in the gloom, and stars winked overhead.

  Selune had not yet risen, and the four travelers went over the hill under the cloak of night

  Before them, at the bottom of the slope, two bright pole-lamps flickered on the right-hand side of the

  road. The lamps flanked a stout gate that led off the road into a high-fenced yard. Up out of the dark

  shadows of this enclosure rose several large, dark buildings. The nearest one was a rambling place:

  they could see part of it by the light of another, dimmer lamp on a post near the door.

  From a leaning spar that jutted above the closed gate, a rusty shield hung down on a chain. On the

  shield, the words “Strike to enter" were painted. Under this sign slumped the body of someone filthy,

  dressed in a very tattered collection of rags, and sitting up against one of the gateposts.

  In heavy silence, Mirt went alertly forward, his sword drawn. The figure did not move. As they drew

  nearer, they heard faint snoring. Nonetheless, Mirt warily faced the fat, unmoving, ragtag figure, and

  lie rapped the shieldgong with the pommel of his raised, ready sword.

  The snores broke off abruptly, just as a small wooden window squealed open in the gate above. A face

  looked out at them. "Travelers?" came a gravelly, not unfriendly voice.

  "Aye," Mirt replied. "Two men, one women, and a hedwarf, on foot. We're armed but come in peace,

  and prepared to pay well for a warm meal and a good bed-if they're as good at the Wyvern as I

  remember."

  “Well met!" The voice was less wary. "Welcome to The Wanton Wyvern then. I'll open the gate." The

  window closed, and they heard the hollow sounds of wooden bars and props being shifted. Then the

  gate groaned inward.

  The man standing inside looked tall and battered, and so did the stout wooden staff in his hand. They'd

  scarce got a look at him before lie leapt out, past Mirt-who turned automatically to keep his drawn

  sword facing the man-and raised his staff threateningly over the ragtag, awakened sleeper.

  "Be off, you! Move, Baergasra! I've told you before away from the gate!" The staff thumped the

  tattered derelict solidly in the shoulder, and the tall man used it to shove and roll his bedraggled,

  gruntingly protesting target awry from their path.

  "Please come in," he puffed over his shoulder. He raised the staff again as the bundle of rags moaned

  and tunibled hastily out of reach. "This old leper is always hanging about here-but we've never let her

  inside the gate. The Wyvern is clean, I assure you."

  Mirt merely nodded and strode into the inn yard. The others followed.

  The tall man came after them, closing the gate hurriedly. "Please go within," he said. "There, under the

  lamp. We've plenty of room tonight, and there's food hot and ready."

  "Good, good. My thanks," Mirt called, and waved at Delg to lead the rest in. As Shandril followed, she

  noticed Mirt's sword was still drawn, and his eyes darted around alertly, peering into the shadows.

  Their rooms were simple but warm and clean, clustered together at one end of a low-ceilinged gallery.

  Broad stairs led down from the center of that passage to a landing overlooking the main taproom of the

  inn, and from there descended again to a lobby just within the front doors.

  The Wanton Wyvern was old and dusty and dark, paneled in fine woods and hung with torn and faded,

  oncefine tapestries. "Battle spoils." Mirt identified them briefly as they passed; Delg nodded

  agreement. Everyone noticed the crossbows hanging ready behind the front desk of the Wyvern.

  The place was warm and friendly, however, with perhaps a dozen other guests-two warriors, a rosy-

  robed priest of Lathander with two servants, and the rest merchants already drinking and joking in the

  taproom. The staff was easygoing and attentive; a serving lass whose girth matched Mirt's own showed

  them to a table against one wall, near the crackling hearth-fire.

  Shandril looked around, taking in the colors and lights and warmth for a while, letting the talk and the

  strong smells of wood smoke and cooking wash over her. She heard Mirt rumble something about this

  being one of those inns you could feel at home in. and Delg growling something in reply, about too

  much wood and not enough honest solid stone, but at least they didn't give dwarves funny looks ... and

  suddenly, even before the promised dinner came, Shandril felt something hard touch her forehead, hard

  and unmoving and restful...

  "Thy lady, lad," Mirt said, reaching over to poke Narm. "She’s out dreamstalking already... Nay, nay,

  don't wake her. Just keep her hair out of the soup when it comes...."

  Unmoving, Shandril lay face forward on the table, her hair spread out around her in a swirl of ash-

  blond tresses. Narm's gentle hands gathered it back to her shoulders, combing out the worst tangles.

  Shandril slept on, shoulders rising and falling faintly.

  She was running barefoot through night-dark woods, flames of spellfire racing up and down her bare

  body like a beacon. Where her feet came down, flames leapt up and left a fiery trail. Behind her, she

  could hear wolves running, wolves and men ... men with dark cloaks and cruel eyes. They rode skeletal

  dragons that laughed hollowly, even after she blasted them. There were more of them, more and more,

  and the spellfire in her hands was fading away and failing. . . . They came nearer, the men laughing

  now along with the bony dragons ... near, nearer... Dark hands shifted suddenly, fingers lengthening

  horribly into reaching, writhing black tentacles....

  "No! No, you won't take me!" Shandril screamed, lashing out with her hands. She was somewhere

  warm and bright-sittingat a table at the inn. With her friends. Shandril blinked and stared about wildly,

  breathing hard.

  "Easy, Shan, easy," Narm said, holding her. "It was only a dream."

  Shandril nodded-but her gaze had settled on a hardfaced man approaching their table. He looked like a

  warrior, and lie strode slowly at the head of four others of similar cut Mirt turned in his seat to face

  these strangers, but did not rise.

  Delg leaned across the table and hissed, "No spellfire unless you have to, Shan. Let us handle this,

  aye?"

  Shandril had no time to reply. The newcomer's voice was already raised in anger. "You're the ones who

  stole my little girl! Thieves! Slavers! You won't get away this time! Innkeeper! Bring your crossbows!"

  He waved a hand and stepped aside. The warriors behind him, all armed, started menacingly forward.

  Mirt rose ponderously from his chair to meet the foremost man, who held a naked scimitar ready.

  "You're first, fat one," die man sneered, drawing up his blade for a slash.

  Mirt ducked suddenly beneath its bright edge and slammed into the man's midriff. The man flew

  backward, crashing into another brigand in a confusion of clattering blades, hard knees, and helplessly

 
flailing hands. Mirt continued his lunge, grabbed the belt of yet another man, and flung him sideways

  into the man who'd first accused them. 'The landing!" he bellowed as he fell amid a growing hubbub.

  Narm and Delg were already looking up. Two more warriors were hurrying down the stairs to the

  landing, cocked crossbows in their hands. Delg's axe flasher! across the room, whirling as it flew. Men

  shouted in fear, and the tables all around emptied in haste. The axe sailed true, and the next moment

  one of the archers was slumped on the stairs, whimpering and clutching at the red ruin of his shoulder,

  where the bright dwarven axe was buried deeply amid the spreading blood.

  Narm stood up coolly, shielding Shandril with his body, and raised his hands to cast a spell. Before he

  could, Delg slapped his leg. Narm looked down-and the dwarf thrust a small, loaded hand-crossbow

  into his hands. Narm stared at it for a moment, and then took it, aimed it carefully, holding it in both

  hands, and fired. An arrow thrummed into the floor as the bow from which it had come crashed over

  the railing. Its owner clutched at Narm's quarrel in his throat, made strangling noises, and followed his

  weaponry to the floor below.

  Without pause, Delg snatched a handful of quarrels from his belt, thrust them into Narm's hands, and

  scrambled up onto the table, drawing a long knife from his boot.

  Men shouted out in the lobby, and the thunder of running feet answered the call. Blades had been

  drawn all over the taproom. Some sort of alarm gong rang behind the bar, and there was a momentary

  lull in its wake-so everyone heard the grisly cracking sound as Mirt calmly broke a man's neck. The

  attacker's body slumped to the floor like a heavy sack of coal as the old merchant's hairy hands released

  hint Wheezing, Mirt snatched up a chair and met the charge of the last swordsman, sweeping aside the

  slashing blade.

  All the while, Narm's trembling hands fumbled at reloading the unfamiliar weapon, He wished he knew

  some better battle spells and cursed himself for not having enough magical strength to protect his lady.

  The bolt slipped once again from its groove. Narm cursed and looked up in frustration. Over his

  shoulder, he glimpsed the man who'd accused them all, drawing back his hand and snarling. A dagger