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  Try as we may, none of us can be in all places at all times. Not even the gods can do that. So we do

  what we can and measure our success, if we are wise, by what our hearts tell us at the end of a day, and

  not what our eyes tell us of how much we have changed Faerun

  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.

  "DeIg," 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 dwarfs woe 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 winestrong broth. Delg insisted on doing all the cooking. "1'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," DeIg 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 th
e 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 thick, 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 Faerun 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 into 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 therehow 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 sh
e 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, DeIg was alarmed. Damn all magic, anyway! Honest folk

  couldn't-

  "Hold, Shandril of Highmoon!" The voice 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