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  "I'll try to kill you. So will Elminster, and the Knights-and, of course, the Zhents and everyone else in

  Faerun who's been hunting you all this time."

  "Tell me," Narm said to the dwarf, his voice like a quietly drawn sword, "what you'd say if I stood by

  Shandril then, even if-gods forfend-she did come to love killing ... what then?"

  Delg looked at him. "Before you died," he said gruffly, hefting his axe meaningfully, "I'd be very proud

  of you." Then he walked away over the edge of the ridge, axe in hand, looking very old and very alone.

  Narm and Shandril peered at each other. "I hope I'm never that sad," Narm said quietly as he put his

  arms around her.

  "I hope I'm never that short," Shandril said with a sudden smile. The mood broken, they laughed

  uneasily-and then heartily when they heard Delg snap the words, "I heard that!" from the other side of

  the ridge. After their laughter was done, they walked back together and found the dwarf gloomily

  surveying a scorched stone in the center of the clearing where the medallion had been. Delg sighed,

  lifted his eyes to Shandril's, and said gruffly, "Just keep your fires away from my axe, lass.

  Oh, aye-and the seat of my breeches."

  Narm chuckled to rob those words of their sting, but Shandril did not manage a smile.

  Not far away, men in black armor crept through the forest, their drawn blades blackened with soot.

  Their progress was marked by muffled curses and stumbling noises from time to time as rocks and tree

  roots disputed passage with the soldiers.

  A swordmaster near the rear muttered, "A little more care and quiet, there!" Silence answered him, and

  after a few cautious breaths the officer turned his head and added, "Keep a good watch out behind,

  Simron-or you'll wind up owlbear-meat."

  "Aye, sir," Simron replied. low-voiced, and laid a restraining hand on the shoulder of the man beside

  him. They knelt unmoving until they heard the swordmaster scramble away.

  Simron turned and surveyed the night in all directions behind them. After being satisfied that they

  weren't followed, he turned back to his companion and said, "I'm in no hurry to move on yet and get

  cooked like an ox on a feast night. Have ye heard the one about the six dancing girls and the glow-

  worm? No? Well, then..."

  "Enough, lass. It's too dark to keep hurling flames about, even down in this vale. Your fires'll draw the

  eyes of beasts-and worse-all around in these woods." Delg put a cautious hand on her elbow, which

  was about as high as he could reach.

  Shandril let the smoldering spellfire in her hands die away and then stood trembling, drenched with

  sweat. Managing a weary smile, she said, "Thanks, Delg. I suppose I got carried away - I even forgot

  about evenfeast"

  "Ifs waiting," the dwarf said, leading her briskly back to where Narm lay against their packs, dozing.

  "If the flies haven't had it all by now-"

  Whatever else he'd been going to say was lost forever in the sudden crack of a whip, very near in the

  darkness. A startled, tired Shandril watched light blossom here and there among the trees as lanterns

  were unhooded. More than one lamp was sent streaking through the air, borne by hurled spears-and in

  the light they shed, the horrified dwarf saw dark, sinuous shapes leaping at them.

  "War dogs!" Delg swore. "Narm, 'ware! Narm!" He was running as he bellowed, axe flashing out.

  In eerie silence the dogs bounded toward him. Their tongues must have been cut out, Shandril thought

  in horror, as she raised weary arms and sent killing spellfire into the night

  Gods, but they were fast! Dogs dodged and leapt, bared fangs flashing as they came. She struck again,

  and blazing hounds writhed in soundless agony, rolling over and over, smoke rising from their flanks.

  She saw N arm's hands fall, a spell done--and a dozen or so dogs came to an abrupt, brutal stop, falling

  and thrashing about together in a confused mass. He must have conjured another spellweb. But many

  more dogs streamed around the fallen ones and toward them. Shandril hurled spellfire again, and in the

  midst of it, one dark form rose up, pawed the air for a moment, and then fell over on its back, dead. By

  the light of her spellflames she saw a score of leaping dogs still coming, snapping and snarling as they

  came.

  Delg stood among them, axe rising and failing. The light grew stronger as torches were lit. Shandril

  saw the

  gleam of armor all around them in the trees as Narm, his dagger in hand, reached her just in time to be

  bowled over by a leaping war dog.

  Shandril screamed as fangs snapped at her throat. Frantic spellfire flared as she was struck by the beast,

  and the heavy, cooked dog bore her to the ground with the force of its leap. It left the stink of its

  charred, headless body all over her.

  Shandril screamed again, rolling free, as a hurled spear hummed past her ear.

  Amid the hissing torches, the Zhentilar warcaptain watched her crawling as fast as she could for the

  cover of a tree. He grinned cruelly and said to one of his officers, "Now."

  The swordmaster whistled, and the air was suddenly alive with hissing crossbow bolts.

  Four

  GREAT MURDERING BATTLES-AND WORSE

  It is one thing to face a rival with your blade in hand and make a bloody end to all rivalry between you.

  It is quite another to wage war with coins in the shadows and softly striking words in hidden chambers.

  The second way can kilt just as surely-but no one who follows it is lauded as a hero, or grudgingly

  granted as brave even by one's enemies. There is something in us all that admires those who stand tall

  and bold in the bright light of day-even when they pay for this boldness with their lives.

  Azlundar, lion of Neverwinter

  One Warrior's Life

  Year of the Sighing Serpent

  Crossbow bolts hummed hungrily through the night around Shandril. She crouched low, looking

  around frantically for Narm and Delg. There they were, among what was left of the dogs. Shandril's

  stomach lurched and turned over uneasily at the bloody sight; she let her revulsion fuel the rage that

  was building in her. Spellfire flared and raced down her limbs. Her tattered leathers caught fire, flaring

  up in bright flames that rose around her until they licked at her sweat-soaked hair. Armored in spellfire,

  Shandril Shessair stood up and roared her anger into the night, flinging her arms wide. Spellfire blasted

  out of her in all directions, low over the heads of her loved ones, lancing into the Zbentilar warriors.

  The white flash of its striking was blinding. Trees cracked and fell, blazing. Men screamed briefly amid

  the roaring. Crossbow bolts flared into flying cinders. Heat-shattered armor fell from blackened

  skeletons, which toppled slowly after them to the smoking ground.

  The spellfire died slowly and raggedly. There was a last rolling burst, and then only a slow sputtering

  of flames, fading to nothing.

  Shandril stared wearily around at the smoldering devastation, smoke rising slowly from her hair. She

  moaned, her eyes went dark, and she crumpled to the ground.

  DeIg struggled to his feet, hurling bloody dog corpses aside. "Lass!" he bellowed, face white,

  "Shandril! I'm coming!"

  Bloody axe in hand, the dwarf staggered across the beaten turf to where Shandril lay. A few flickering

  lanterns were still alight, and by their dim glow the dwarf found her. She was breathing and appare
ntly

  unscathed, though very pale. Moving as stealthily as he could, he dragged Shandril to cover behind a

  tree. Then Delg straightened to see what foes remained.

  A few Zhent warriors were still standing in the lee of two smoking trees. They seemed dazed; Delg

  counted seven-no, eight: a huge man in cracked and blackened plate armor rose among them, sobbing

  and clawing at his helm with spiked hand-gauntlets that were each as large as Delg's own head.

  Narm was moving feebly among the dogs.

  "Narm!" DeIg roared. "Up, lad-I've need of your spells! Hurl a few balls of fire at yon Zhents!"

  The dwarf knew well that Narm's Art was too feeble to work such magics, but if he read them right, the

  Zhentilar soldiers might run like rabbits at the thought of facing more fire. If he was wrong-well, one

  doom was as good as another.

  He was half right. DeIg heard curses, and saw men running off into the night.

  "Simron, come back, you craven dog!" A swordmaster bellowed. "The curses of Bane and the

  Brotherhood on you!"

  "Rally them!" This hoarse voice belonged to the giant with the spiked gauntlets. "Rally them,

  Swordmaster and spellfire shall yet be ours! Does the priest live?"

  "By the grace of Bane," a cold and smooth voice answered him, "I do indeed. How fare you,

  Warcaptain?"

  "My eyes, man! Cast a healing on me, by the Black Altar! I cannot see!"

  As quietly as he could, Delg clambered over a tangle of grounded spears and the contorted bodies of

  dogs in order to reach Narm. With a grunt, the dwarf rolled a dead canine aside and dragged the still-

  groggy wizard to a sitting position.

  "Up, lad!" he said sharply, slapping Narm's face. "Up, and take this!" He thrust his belt dagger into

  Narm's hand; startled eyes fell on it and then rose to meet his.

  "Awake, lad? Good. Guard your lady; I've work to do." Delg pointed out where Shandril lay, clapped

  Narm on the back, and set off through the smoking ruin to where the Zhents clustered.

  Only five still stood there-the priest, the blinded but still-blustering warcaptain, a swordmaster, and two

  warriors. The last three had swords in their hands, and the swordmaster was snapping orders at the men

  to gather lanterns and make ready to look for the lass.

  The dwarf went forward slowly, keeping his axe low and behind him, lest its blade flash back light and

  warn of his approach. Smoke still drifted lazily amid the blackened trees, but it seemed Shandril was

  not fated to burn down Hullack Forest this night.

  Good. Thank all the gods for that. Now, if they'd just spend a skybolt or two to deal with five Zhents. . .

  Perhaps he'd not been devout enough. Or perhaps as a dwarf, he thought wryly, he was expected to act

  for the gods. Whatever, no bolt came from the sky. Delg grinned savagely at the thought of what

  spellfire must have seemed to the Zhents who'd run. Oh, there'd be tales of tanar'ri or gods making the

  rounds of the Moonsea North before long-unless the owlbears and wolves were thorough tonight.

  Delg's boot found a stone, painfully. With iron control, he halted and bent to feel it. Small enough.

  Good. Setting aside his axe, he took up the stone, leaned back almost to the ground with the rock in his

  raised hand, and came upright in a throw sped by all the weight of his stout body. The hurled stone

  sailed up into the night-and crashed down in the brush behind the Zhents.

  "Who's that? By Bane, answer!" Silence gave the warcaptain the reply he feared. "It's one of them,

  getting away-swordmaster, see to it! Bring him down!"

  The swordmaster looked about helplessly, caught the priest's cold and level gaze, and reluctantly took

  up a lantern, tersely ordering the two warriors to his flanks.

  A moment later, they waded cautiously into the brush, swords raised. DeIg, axe held ready, used the

  noise they made to cover the sounds of his own cautious advance. He crept to the lit area w?here the

  warcaptain was pleading with the priest to heal him, and the priest was insisting that the helm come off

  first.

  "It won't," said the big man, voice approaching a sob. "I've tried... it feels stuck to my skin. Gods!"

  Keep sniveling, the dwarf thought savagely. Just a breath or two longer, and I'll

  The axe came up quickly as Delg rounded the last tree, but it was impossible to move silently in the

  bad light. The priest saw and heard-and was very fast. He shoved the warcaptain into Delg and fled

  cursing into the darkness.

  The fearful Zhentilar felt the impact, heard the priest's fearful oath, and concluded something was

  wrong. He lashed out.

  Delg had stumbled clear-but not quite far enough. One of those war-gauntlets caught him square in the

  ribs. He grunted and sat down with a crash. The stout dwarven mail held, but the breath had been

  driven out of him, leaving a searing pain behind.

  The sightless man reached forward. He sensed where his foe lay. Delg dropped his axe and rolled aside,

  pivoting on his own knee to come in close to the warcaptain.

  Those blindly grasping gauntlets triumphantly closed on the axe handle and used its blade to flail at the

  ground. Delg winced as his axe struck sparks from more than one rock-and then his reaching hands

  found the man's belt dagger and tore it free.

  The Zhentilar turned at the tugging, and Delg climbed the arm that swept around to strike him,

  clambering up it to drive the short blade hilt-deep through the helm's eyeslit and the unseen and

  unseeing orb beneath.

  Dark, hot blood splashed him as he leapt free, to the sound of startled shouts from the swordmaster and

  warriors, who saw the warcaptain topple dead with no apparent foe. Delg lay prone in the darkness and

  waited.

  A moment later they were fleeing, crashing in headlong flight through the trees. Delg retrieved his axe

  and scrambled atop the warcaptain's corpse so he could see farther.

  His hunch was right. The priest had fled back into the darkness only a little way, and then stopped to

  watch what befell-so as to return triumphant, should his side win. He stood alone, uncertain, between

  two trees. Delg smiled grimly, shook his head at the man's arrogant stupidity, and raised his axe.

  Lanternlight caught the blade. It flashed once, and the startled priest half-turned to flee, peering through

  the darkness and trying to see what was happening.

  That was time enough. Delg hurled his weapon, grunting as he threw his entire body into the attack.

  The blade whirled free, and Delg rolled on the ground. The spinning axe took the priest in the head,

  ending all his thoughts in one brief, bright moment of pain. The blackrobed body crashed down into

  rotting leaves.

  Only a pace behind it, a stout figure hid in the deep night-shadows. It held a drawn blade up and ready;

  if the priest had gone a pace or two more, he'd have impaled himself on the steel. The figure shrugged,

  grinned, slid his sword back into its sheath, and melted into the night, unseen.

  Delg, panting, thought it prudent to retrieve the warcaptain's dagger before venturing out into the night

  in search of his axe. He had to tug the blade several times to tear it free of the helm. Turning, he set out,

  and had almost reached his axe when he heard Shandril calling his name, her voice soft with fear.

  Fimril, mageling of the Zhentarim, smiled as he rose from his crouch over the dancing flames. The

  sweat ran down his pale, drawn face in sheets and dripped from his c
hin; the spell he'd just used was

  too exhausting to hold for long. Few mages-in or out of the Brotherhoodcould call images from the

  flames of a campfire as clearly as he could. He shook with weariness-but it was crucial that he saw it

  all.

  His voice, when he could find it, was warm with satisfaction. "Karkul and the priest are both dead, as

  are almost all of their men-and the maid's spellfire has run out. The time to strike is now."

  He showed an eager, vicious smile to his frightened sell-sword bodyguards. None of them, however,

  saw the skull floating in the night gloom beyond the circle of firelight. Its smile matched Fimril's own.

  The twin doors flashed and flared as various magical locks and bindings were released-and then ground

  slowly and ponderously open.

  A handsome, cold-faced man in swirling black robes strode through the doors, onto a midnight sea of

  slick black marble. He walked to the center of this room, which was always dark, turned to face the

  doors, and halted. Tiny motes of light flickered and pulsed on his robes, rising slowly into the air. They

  winked and drifted in small circles, gathered over the man's head, and coalesced into a sphere of

  flickering light.

  Under the gathering radiance of his conjured driftlight, Fzoul Chembryl waited patiently, like an

  impassive statue, in the center of the innermost sanctum. He listened to the familiar chants in the

  temple passages outside with the air of an old and jaded critic. In the growing light, his long red hair

  gleamed like new polished copper.

  The silence that then fell outside told Fzoul his guest had arrived. In moments, its massive shadow

  loomed up in the doorway. It drifted in with slow caution, eyestalks darting this way and that.

  Fzoul lifted his head a little and said calmly, "Greetings, Xarlraun."

  The beholder turned its pale eyes toward him. Xarlraun was dark, the chitinous plates of its outer skin

  covered with many old and ill-healed scars. The monster was as large as a woodsman's hut, its

  spherical body as high as three tall men standing on each other's shoulders. For many years it had dwelt