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  Torm snatched up a goblet. "Drink this, Narm! You'll feel better,"

  Storm shook her head. "It's not the universal cure you think it is, Torm" The hard put her arms comfortingly on Narm's shoulders, but the young mage seemed not to feel them,

  "Where is she?" Narm almost screamed, and then went on, voice trembling, "We must go to her, Now!"

  Storm looked at the Lord of Eveningstar. "Have you spells enough?"

  Torm asked quickly, "And what should I do?"

  "Belt up before any more time's wasted," Mirt said roughly, "and ye, Tess, go and get me one or two o' them healing potions ye keep stowed away, Hurry!"

  They all looked at him. and then Tessaril nodded and rushed out, Mint drew his sword and slashed at the air. The blade gleamed in the light.

  Narm' s reddened eyes followed it, and the young mage clenched his jaw. "What's your plan?"

  The Old Wolf grinned at him but said nothing. Then Mirt's smile turned rather grim as he brought out the notched and battered axe that had been Delg's. He hefted it in his other hand. "Where're those potions?" he bellowed.

  Tessaril ran in, hair streaming behind her in her haste, "Here," she gasped, thrusting two steel vials into his hand, Mirt jammed them into his belt, sighed heavily, and gestured at Narm. "Guard him here, lass."

  Tessaril nodded, and came forward to kiss him, "Guard yourself, Old Wolf," she said, eyes bright "I'd like to see you-alive-again."

  Mirt laughed, accepted her quick peck on his grizzled cheek, and said, "Ye will, lass. Ye will."

  "If I've got to die," he roared at them all. "I'd like to have a kiss to remember, at the last, Pray to Tymora for me!"

  Torm spread his arms pleadingly. "Kiss me, Old dolt," he trilled in mocking imitation of a swooning maiden. "Oh, kiss me!"

  Mirt glared at him and backhanded his almost empty goblet off the table. It sailed into Torm's face. The thief was still sputtering when the old merchant bowed to them all, murmured something, and vanished.

  Narm looked around the room and said grimly, "Can everyone here cast a teleport spell except me?"

  Storm gathered him into her arms, "That was no teleport, Narm. Do you remember the gem Shandril found in Tethgard-the rogue stone?"

  Narm nodded, frowning, tears still bright on his cheeks. "Delg and Mirt knew something about it that they weren't telling,"

  "Undoubtedly," Storm said dryly. "Mirt put it there for her to find, It was prepared by Khelben the Blackstaff and linked to a spell that many a thief has used down the years, which lets one who speaks the right words teleport

  to wherever the stone is, long after the spell is cast. Mirt's at Shandril's side right now,"

  Narm looked at her and asked very softly, "And why not me?"

  "You'd be killed, idiot," Torm told him, "unless you've learned a god's ransom of spells since I saw you last. Those Zhentarim'd blast you to ash before you could draw breath to cast your first spell."

  Narin stared at him.

  "Blunt," Storm told the young mage gently, "but true," "Besides, you can't follow her until I memorize another teleport spell," Tessaril said, "and I'm reluctant to do that."

  "Why not?" Narm almost screamed,

  Tessaril turned her back. "I won't send you to certain death," she said, voice trembling.

  "You sent Shan !"

  "I-couldn't stop her, Narm. I can stop you."

  Narm stared at her back, fresh tears on his face, "Let me be with Shan!" he cried in anguish, "Please!"

  Sadly, Tessaril shook her head and turned to meet his gaze with dark eyes that held tears of their own. "Shandril and Mirt can both withstand far more than you can, Norm. You'd wind up a hostage in Fzoul's hands, one he could use to compel Shandril to surrender, Then spellfire would be his, after all,"

  Narm s eyes blazed, Abruptly he whirled away from her gaze to stamp the length of the chamber and back again. "I should be there!" he protested and turned away again,

  "Gods look down damnation," he cursed, Then he pivoted slowly to face the Lord of Eveningstar again. "There's another reason, isn't there?" he asked softly, almost whispering.

  Tessaril nodded, "Shandril may fall under Fzoul's control, or be twisted by Zhentarim magic-or spellfire

  itself-once she uses it in unbridled anger rather than to defend. If she becomes something akin to a Zhentarim, we must try to control her power by using you as hostage to her good behavior." She turned away, sighed, and said to the wall, "As Manshoon would have."

  Mirt saw swirling mists for a moment, and then his boots struck something hard, Flagstones, He staggered, and waved his weapons out of habit. They struck nothing.

  He stood in a courtyard somewhere in the Citadel of the Raven-he could see raven banners flapping overhead. There were folk screaming and running through the courtyard nearby, and the ground suddenly heaved underneath him, Mirt crouched to keep his balance, He watched in amazement as flagstones rippled and heaved, as if a giant wave were passing underneath them,

  All around him soldiers were fleeing, running away from a lone figure standing not far away, near the gates of a tall tower. Shandril, of course; the spell on the gem was set to deliver him about twenty paces from her, Mirt's eyes widened as he saw what she was fighting: a ring of beholders,

  Ye gods! Couldn't the lass just have a nice, comfortable fight with half-a-dozen evil archmages? Or a dragon or two? Liches, now-aye, liches were good, even mind flayers.. . .

  The Old Wolf was running toward her by then, boots kidding on the broken flagstones of the courtyard, What use he'd be to her, the gods alone knew; he could barely see the lass now, outlined in a white halo of fire, Streamers of spellfire lashed out from it-and beholders died, or reeled back in a shower of sparks, blackened and burning.

  The beholders drifted above her like angry dragons, baffled, They were used to foiling the magic of foes with the large eyes in their bodies-but spellfire tore through their anti-magic fields as if nothing were there. They had magic of their own that lashed out from the snakelike eyestalks writhing atop their bodies. But spellfire drained away or boiled into nothingness the rays from their eyes, and it stabbed out at them in return. When their own disintegrating gazes were not brought to bear quickly enough, spellfire lashed through their defenses, and they died,

  The Old Wolfs ears were ringing by the time he got close to her: the din of shrieking, air-ripping, crashing magic was incredible. A particularly violent spellblast shook the courtyard and threw him to his knees-and that saved his life. A beholder that would have crushed him with its fall crashed down in front of him instead, body blazing. Mirt got a good whiff of the reek of burning beholder, and was violently, uncontrollably sick, As he raised his head, the eye tyrant's body plates shattered from the heat within, and their darkened shards bounced past him.

  Mages of the Zhentarim saw Mirt, a lone man in the midst of that field of ruin and magical chaos, but they could not have done anything to aid or attack him, even if they'd known who he was: a whirling spellstorm had begun to form over the courtyard, created by the struggle between magic and spellfire. Mages who tried to cast spells screamed, their minds burned to cinders-or they watched in horror as their magic went wild, creating mis-shapen flowers or rains of frogs or worse,

  Spell-lightning arced repeatedly from the gathering storm cloud to the tallest spires of the citadel around, humming and crackling, Men plunged to their deaths from those heights, cooked alive, or fell into piles of bone and ash where they stood. And still the battle raged on.

  Such a mighty outpouring of wild magic had to go somewhere-and it did:

  Far to the west of the citadel, near the Border Forest, a great meadow of red-petaled flowers quivered, bowed slowly in a spreading ripple that washed from one end of the scarlet field to the other, and then straightened again, One after another, the flowers all quietly turned blue.

  In the woods near the shaking citadel, along the foot of the Dragonspine Mountains, a small tree tore itself up bodily, scattering soil in all dire
ctions, and shot up into the sky, The branches of the trees around it splintered and crackled and were utterly destroyed by its passage, A startled satyr who looked up through the newly created clearing saw the tree heading west high in the air, tumbling and spinning as it went.

  One of the smaller towers along the south wall of the citadel simply vanished, With a groan like a dying dragon, another citadel tower grew a crack as wide as a man's hand from top to bottom, At the same time, smoke billowed suddenly out of the highest windows of Wizards' Watch Tower, followed by stray bolts of lightning, shadowy apparitions, and many-hued, winking spell-sparks. Startled Zhentilar warriors, arming hastily in their barracks, found themselves floating near the ceiling, their flesh glowing a brilliant blue.

  One of the flagpoles overlooking Spell Court toppled suddenly, sizzling from end to end with lightning. Beside it, a beholder suddenly caught fire and spun away into the sky northward, A moment later, the horizon was lit by a brilliant burst of flame as the distant beholder exploded,

  Wheezing, Mirt found his feet again and lumbered across the courtyard. The aura of spellfire around Shandril was noticeably feebler now. She still stood tall and proud, hair lashing her shoulders as if a high wind raged around her, arms raised to hurl spellfire. Her eyes were two raging flames.

  A horrible bubbling sound came to Mirt's ears from overhead, It erupted from a beholder that hung, smoking, in midair, its glazed eyes rolling wildly about on writhing, cooked eyestalks,

  Mirt ran on, At the edges of the courtyard, now, he could see many armored Zhentilar soldiers coming out of doors and rushing about wildly. They began hacking at folk who fled past them toward those same doorways, Through the archways that led off Spell Court, Mirt saw soldiers pursuing citizens off down the streets, their swords raised. He began to wish Khelben had never given him that rogue stone.

  There came crashing sounds from overhead, as if huge wine bottles were bursting. The Old Wolf looked up and saw balls of lightning forming in midair and streaming in all directions, The leaping lightning struck two beholders and drove them into each other. They reeled apart, and Shandril cut one of them in half with a ragged, faltering boil of spellfire. Mirt looked on anxiously, She staggered as she brought both hands together and pointed them at the last eye tyrant, and for the first time in his long life, Mirt the Moneylender heard a beholder scream.

  Shandril stood alone in the courtyard, her hands smoking, as the last of the beholders crashed to the earth in flames.

  "Magnificent, lass! I've never seen such power. Well done!" Like a joyful buffalo, Mirt galloped toward Shandril through the wreckage of beholder bits and fallen stones.

  She turned and looked at him, and it was a moment before her dull eyes ht with recognition. Shandril smiled wanly, lifted a hand that trembled-and then her eyes went dark, and she fell to the ground in a limp and sudden heap.

  Mirt's old legs got him there a breath or two later. Shandril lay on her face on the stones, Mirt rolled her over; she was still breathing, Thank the gods!

  Then he heard shouts, and the clank and clatter of metal. He looked up from Shandril's crumpled form, then slowly all around.

  The Old Wolf crouched at the center of a grim, closing circle of Zhentilar warriors, Their drawn blades flashed as they came, and Mirt saw teeth flash in smiles of relief as they realized they'd not have to fight the maid who brought down beholders.

  Well, perhaps he shouldn't have thanked the gods all that loudly. The Old Wolf snarled his defiance, beard bristling, and waved his saber at them, None of them turned and fled, Mirt sighed, straightened, and then just waited as they slowly closed in.

  Narm paced back and forth under Storm's watchful eye, "I wish I was with her, right now, I feel so helpless!" he burst out, hurling the words at Tessaril.

  She sat at the far end of the chamber, staring at nothing. Her hands were in her lap, and they trembled.

  "Lord Tessaril," Narm said again, urgently, striding nearer,

  Storm got up, a warning in her eyes, and blocked his path to the Lord of Eveningstar.

  They both heard Tessaril say softly, "I know just how you feel, Narm. Go with Torm and get a good meal into you, whether you feel hungry now or not, Come back when you're done-and I'll have your teleport spell ready."

  Narm could hardly believe he'd heard her say the words. "Thank you! Thank you!"

  "I can't let one go, and then build a cage around its mate," Tessaril said softly, "but you may not thank me so fervently in the end, Narm-nor may that end be far off."

  Narm bowed to her and said, "That's a chance I'll take, Lady-one all who live must take. My thanks for giving me the freedom to take it."

  As he and Torm went out, Storm and Tessaril watched the young maze go, Then they looked at each other; new respect for Narm Tamaraith shone in both their gazes.

  Seventeen

  BUSINESS BEFORE PLEASURE

  Now in that grim, gray city are women called pleasure-queens, who keep house amid furs and silks and perfumes and have mastered the art of snaring a man in the street with one dark glance of promise. Disgusting enchantresses - they're the only reason I ever ride north of Selgaunt, I tell you.

  Oblut Thoim, Master Merchant of Teziir

  Letters to a Sheltered Son

  Year of the Striking Falcon

  Mirt waved his saber, sunlight flashed and glimmered along its edge, More than one Zhentilar eyed that blade warily. The fat man obviously knew how to use it and the bare fist that held it was as large as some men's heads. Yet there were over sixty blades set against it, and nothing to protect the old one's back, The outcome was certain; he and Shandril were doomed.

  A Zhentilar officer muttered, "Easy, now-strike all at once, and we'll run him through from all sides like a pleasure-queen's pincushion."

  There were scattered chuckles as the Zhentilar took the last few steps they'd need. Mirt stared around at them, wild-eyed, sword waving desperately, And then he smiled and flung himself backward, arching over Shandril's body, He raised his arm as the warriors rushed in, and the plain brass ring on it flashed, once.

  The air was suddenly full of whirling, deadly steel, As the blood spattered him and the screams sounded all around, Mirt drew back his arm and felt for the hilt of his saber, Only a short time passed before the blades vanished again, but the screams ended even sooner, The courtyard around him ran with blood; it looked like a butchers back-room floor.

  Mirt grinned and clambered to his feet "Handy things, blade barriers," he said, surveying the carnage, His eyes searched the walls for archers or overenthusiastic wages, Tymora smiled on him, for once.

  "Up, lass," Mirt growled, and plucked Shandril's limp form up from the flagstones, He draped her over his arms, his saber still held securely in one hand, and staggered across the courtyard, wheezing under his load.

  The maid in his arms grew no lighter as he lumbered out through an archway, down a lane strewn with bodies of citizens the Zhents had slain, and turned left at the first cross street, Smoke rose from shattered towers here and there; fallen stone was everywhere, and priests and wizards rushed wildly in all directions, each accompanied by a trotting bodyguard, "The high priest is dead!" one mage shouted excitedly to another.

  "Blasphemous nonsense!" another shrieked back, and the two men's bodyguards surged into each other in a crash and skirl of viciously plied weapons,

  Whether Fzoul was dead or not, the spell-battle had reduced the Zhents to a state of chaos.

  Mirt was glad he saw no Zhentilar patrols as he made his way down the ruined streets, turning right then left. He trotted down avenues and up short rises, and still no soldiers blocked his way. A few folk gave him startled glances, and one warrior did step out of a tavern as he passed. But the soldier took one look at the blood-covered warrior with a drawn sword and a woman dangling in his arms-Mirt gave him a fierce grin-and his face paled, He hastily drew back out of sight

  "Tymora, I owe you one-or even two," Mirt gasped, as he sighted the purple floor he
was looking for and crossed to it

  The door was closed, and the iron-caged lamps on either side of it had burned low, But Mirt kicked out hard, and the door boomed satisfyingly, Once, twice, and a third and fourth time his boot found its mark.

  His toes were beginning to feel a little the worse for wear, but as he drew back his foot for another assault, the door swung open as far as its safe-chains would allow, A painted, pouting lady looked disapprovingly out She surveyed Mirt up and down-blood. Shandril, and all-and her expression did not improve.

  "We've had all the trade we can handle for the night, thank you-you'll just have to come back morrow-even, and-"

  Mirt handed her his sword, "Here-hold this."

  The lady hesitated, then took it, staggering for a moment under the weight of the old, massive saber, Mirt shifted Shandril more fully into his freed hand, and shoved his other hand under the pleasure-queen's nose, The small silver harp winked at her, catching the light, Her eyes rose slowly from it to his blood-spattered face, and then she undid the chains hurriedly, whispering, "Come in!"

  "Oh, Great Dark One, lord of the heights and depths, hear us!"

  Elthaulin was in his element, intoning the ritual in the deepest, grandest voice he could manage, his words rolling into the farthest echoing corners of the Grand Chancel of the Black Altar.

  "Lord Bane, hear us," the thunderous murmur of half a hundred underpriests and postulants answered.

  Elthaulin raised his hands slowly, trembling for maidmum effect. "Bane, hear us!"

  "Lord Bane, hear us," came the massed response. Elthaulin let the dark purple faerie fire radiance ripple into view at the tips of his fingers and crawl slowly down his upraised arms, There were a few gasps from the assembled worshippers: the upperpriest hid his smile, That trick got some of the innocents, every time.