Elaine Cunningham, Ed Greenwood, Troy Denning, Christie Golden, William W. Connors, Monte Cook, Douglas Niles, J. Robert King, Jeff Grubb, Jean Rabe, Kate Novak-Grubb, Jess Lebow, Keith Francis Strohm, R. A. Salvatore

The Best of the Realms, Book I

RITE OF BLOOD

Elaine Cunningham

CHAPTER 1

Journey into Darkness

There were in the lands of Toril powerful men whosenames were seldom heard, and whose deeds were spoken only in furtive whispers.Among these were the Twilight Traders, a coalition of merchant captains whodid business with the mysterious peoples of the Underdark.

There were perhaps six in that exclusive brotherhood,all canny, fearless souls who possessed far more ambition than morals.Membership in the clandestine group was carefully guarded, achieved onlythrough a long and difficult process monitored not only by the members, but bymysterious forces from Below. Those who survived the initiation were granted arare window into the hidden realms: the right to enter the underground tradecity known as Mantol-Derith.

An enormous cavern hidden some three miles below thesurface, Mantol-Derith was shrouded with more layers of magic and might than a wizard'sstronghold. Secrecy was its first line of defense: even in the Underdark, notmany knew of the marketplace's existence. Its exact location was known only toa few. Even many of the merchants who regularly did business there would havebeen hard pressed to place the cavern on a map. So convoluted were the routesleading to Mantol-Derith that even duergar and deep gnomes could not hold theirrelative bearings along the way. Between the market and any nearby settlementlay labyrinths of monster-infested tunnels complicated by secret doors,portals of teleportation, and magical traps.

No one "stumbled upon" Mantol-Derith; amerchant either knew the route intimately or died along the way.

Nor could the marketplace be located by magical means.The strange radiations of the Underdark were strong in the thick, solid stonesurrounding the cavern. No tendril of magic could pass through-all spells wereeither diffused or reflected back to the sender, sometimes dangerously mutated.

Even the drow, the undisputed masters of theUnderdark, did not have easy access to the market. In the nearest dark elvensettlement, the great city of Menzoberranzan, no more than eight merchantcompanies at any one time knew the secret paths. That knowledge was the key toimmense wealth and power, and its possession the highest mark of statusattainable by members of the merchant class. Accordingly, it was pursued withan avid ferocity, with complex levels of intrigue and bloody battles ofweaponry and magic, all of which would probably earn nods of approval from thecity's ruling matrons-if indeed the priestesses of Lolth were inclined tonotice the doings of mere commoners.

Few of Menzoberranzan's ruling females-except forthose matron mothers who maintained alliances with this or that merchantband-had much interest in the world beyond their city's cavern. Those drow werean insular people: utterly convinced of their own racial superiority,fanatically absorbed in their worship of Lolth, completely enmeshed in thestrife and intrigue inspired by their Lady of Chaos.

Status was all, and the struggle for power all-consuming.Very little could compel the subterranean elves to tear their eyes from theirtraditionally narrow focus. But Xandra Shobalar, third-born daughter of a nobleHouse, was driven by the most powerful motivating forces known to the drow: hatred and revenge.

The members of House Shobalar were reclusive even bythe standards of paranoid Menzoberranzan, and they were seldom seen outside ofthe family complex. At the moment, Xandra was farther from home than she hadever intended to go. The journey to Mantol-Derith was long-the midnight hour ofNarbondel would come and pass perhaps as many as one hundred times from theoutset of her quest until she stood once again within the walls of HouseShobalar.

Few noble females cared to be away for so long, forfear that they would return to find their positions usurped. Xandra had no suchfears. She had ten sisters, five of whom were, like Xandra, counted among therare female wizards of Menzoberranzan. But none of these five wanted her job.

Xandra was Mistress of Magic, charged with the wizardlytraining of all young Shobalars as well as the household's magically giftedfosterlings. She had a great deal of responsibility, certainly, but there wasfar more glory to be found in the hoarding of spell power, and in conductingthe mysterious experiments that yielded new and wondrous items of magic. Ifone of the Shobalar wizards should ever try to wrest the instructor's positionaway, the powerful Xandra would certainly kill her-but only as a matter ofform. No drow female allowed another to take what was hers, even if she herselfdid not particularly want it.

Xandra Shobalar might not have been particularlyenamored of her role, but she was exceedingly good at what she did. TheShobalar wizards were reputed to be among the most innovative inMenzoberranzan, and all of her students were well and thoroughly taught.

These included the children-both female and male-ofHouse Shobalar, a few second-born sons from other noble Houses, which Xandraaccepted as apprentices, and a number of promising common-born boy-childrenthat she acquired by purchase, theft, or adoption-an option that usuallyoccurred after the convenient death of an entire family, rendering themagically-gifted child an orphan.

However they came to House Shobalar, Xandra's studentsroutinely won top marks in yearly competitions meant to spur the efforts of theyoung drow. Such victories opened the doors of Sorcere, the mage school at thefamed academy Tier Breche. So far every Shobalar-trained student who wished tobecome a wizard had been admitted to the Academy, and most had excelled in theArt. Their high standard was a matter of pride, which Xandra Shobalar possessedin no small measure.

It was that very reputation for excellence, however,that had caused the problem that brought Xandra to distant Mantol-Derith.

Almost ten years before, Xandra had acquired a newstudent, a female of rare wizardly promise. At first, the Shobalar mistress hadbeen overjoyed, for she saw in the girl-child an opportunity to raise her ownreputation to new heights. After all, she had been entrusted with the magicaleducation of Liriel Baenre, the only daughter and apparent heiress of GromphBaenre, the powerful Archmage of Menzoberranzan. If the child proved to betruly gifted-and that was almost a certainty, for why else would the mightyGromph bother with a child born of a useless beauty such as SosdrielleVandree? — then it was not unlikely that young Liriel might in due time inherither sire's title.

What renown would be hers, Xandra exulted, if shecould lay claim to training Menzoberranzan's next arch-mage-the first female tohold that high position.

Her initial joy was dimmed somewhat by Gromph'sinsistence that the arrangement be kept in confidence. It was not animpossibility, given the reclusive nature of the Shobalar clan, but it wasbrutally hard on Xandra not to be able to tout her latest student and claim theenhanced status that Baenre favor conferred upon her House.

Still, the Mistress Wizard looked forward to the timewhen the little girl could compete-and win! — at the mageling contests, and shebided her time in smug anticipation of glories to come.

From the start, young Liriel exceeded all of Xandra'shopes. Traditionally, the study of magic began when children entered theirAscharlexten Decade-the tumultuous passage between early childhood and puberty.During those years, which usually began at the age of fifteen or so and weredeemed to end either with the onset of puberty or the twenty-fifthyear-whichever came first-drow children at last became physically strong enoughto channel the forces of wizardly magic, and well-schooled enough to read andwrite the complicated drow language.

Liriel, however, came to Xandra at the age of five,when she was little more than a babe.

Though most dark elves felt the stirrings of theirinnate, spell-like powers in early childhood, Liriel already possessed aformidable command of her magical heritage, and furthermore, she could alreadyread the written runes of High Drow. Most importantly, she possessed inextraordinary measure the inborn talent needed to make a magic-wielding drowinto a true wizard. In a remarkably short time, the tiny child had learned toread simple spell scrolls, reproduce the arcane marks, and commit fairly complexspells to memory. Xandra was ecstatic. Liriel instantly became her pride, herpet, her indulged and-almost-beloved fosterling.

And thus she had remained, for nearly five years. Atthat point, the child began to pull ahead of the Shobalar's Ascharlexten-agedstudents. Xandra began to worry. When Liriel's abilities surpassed those of themuch-older Bythnara, Xandra's own daughter, Xandra knew resentment. When theBaenre girl began to wield spells that would challenge the abilities of thelesser Shobalar wizards, Xandra's resentment hardened into the cold,competitive hatred a drow female held for her peers. When young Liriel gainedher full height and began to fulfill her childhood promise of extraordinarybeauty to come, Xandra simmered with a deep and very personal envy. And when thelittle wench's growing interest in the male soldiers and servants of HouseShobalar made it apparent that she was entering her Ascharlexten, Xandra saw anopportunity and plotted a dramatic-and final-end to Liriel's education.

It was a fairly typical progression, as drow relationshipswent, made unusual only by the sheer force of Xandra's animosity and thelengths she was willing to go to assuage her burning resentment of GromphBaenre's too-talented daughter.

That, then, was the succession of events that hadbrought Xandra to the streets of Mantol-Derith.

Despite her urgent need, the drow wizard could nothelp marveling at the sights surrounding her. Xandra had never before steppedoutside of the vast cavern that held Menzoberranzan, and the strange and exoticmarketplace bore little resemblance to her home city.

Mantol-Derith was set in a vast natural grotto, acavern that had been carved in distant eons by restless waters, which werestill busily at work. Xandra was accustomed to the staid black depths ofMenzoberranzan's Lake Donigarten, and the deep, silent wells that were the carefullyguarded treasures of each noble household.

In Mantol-Derith, water was a living and vital force.The cavern's dominant sound was that of moving water. Waterfalls splashed downthe grotto walls and fell from chutes from the high-domed cavern ceiling,fountains played softly in the small pools that seemed to be around every turn,and bubbling streams cut through the cavern.

Apart from the gentle splash and gurgle echoing ceaselesslythrough the grotto, the market city was strangely silent. Mantol Derith was nota bustling bazaar, but a place for clandestine deals and shrewd negotiations.

Light was far more plentiful than sound. A few dimlanterns were enough to set the whole cavern asparkle, for the walls wereencrusted with multicolored crystals and gems. Bright stonework was everywhere.The walls containing fountain pools were wondrous mosaics fashioned fromsemiprecious gems, the bridges spanning the stream were carved-or perhapsgrown-from crystal, and the walkways were paved with flat-cut gemstones.Xandra's slippers whispered against a path fashioned from brilliant greenmalachite. It was unnerving, even for a drow accustomed to the splendors ofMenzoberranzan, to tread upon such wealth.

At least the air felt familiar to the subterraneanelf. Moist and heavy, it was dominated by the scent of mushrooms. Groves of giant fungi ringed the central market. Beneath the enormous, fluted caps,merchants had set up small stalls offering a variety of goods. Perfumes, aromaticwoods, spices, and exotic, sweetly scented fruits-which had become afashionable indulgence to the Underdark's wealthy-added piquant notes offragrance to the damp air.

To Xandra, the strangest thing about the marketplacewas the apparent truce that existed among the various warring races who didbusiness there. Mingling among the stalls and passing each other peaceably onthe streets were the stone-colored deep gnomes known as svirfneblin; thedeep-dwelling, dark-hearted duergar; a few unsavory merchants from the WorldAbove; and, of course, the drow. At the four corners of the cavern, vaststorehouses had been excavated to provide storage as well as separate housingfor the four factions: svirfneblin, drow, duergar, and surface dwellers.Xandra's path took her toward the surface dweller cavern.

The sound of rushing water intensified as Xandraneared her goal, for the corner of the marketplace that sold goods from theWorld Above was located near the largest waterfall. The air was especially dampthere, and the stalls and tables were draped with canvas to keep out thepervasive mist.

Moisture pooled on the rocky floor of the grotto and dampenedthe wools and furs worn by the surface dwellers who clustered there-a motleycollection of orcs, ogres, humans, and various combinations thereof.

Xandra grimaced and pulled the folds of her cloak overthe lower half of her face to ward off the fetid odor. She scanned thebustling, smelly crowd for the man who fit the description she'd been given.

Apparently, finding a drow female in such a crowd wasa simpler task than singling out one human. From the depths of one tentlikestructure came a low, melodious voice, calling the wizard properly by her nameand title. Xandra turned toward the sound, startled to hear a drow voice insuch a sordid setting.

But the small, stooped figure that hobbled toward herwas that of a human male.

The man was old by the measure of humankind, withwhite hair, a dark and weathered face, and a slow, faltering tread. He had notgone unscathed by his years-a cane aided his faltering steps, and a dark patchcovered his left eye. Those infirmities did not seem to have hampered hissuccess.

His cane was carved from lustrous wood and ornamentedwith gems and gilding. Over a silvered tunic of fine silk, he wore a capeembroidered with gold thread and fastened with a diamond neck clasp. Gems thesize of laplizard eggs glittered on his fingers and at his throat. His smilewas both welcoming and confident-that of a male who possessed much and was wellsatisfied with his own measure.

"Hadrogh Prohl?" Xandra inquired.

The merchant bowed.

"At your service, Mistress Shobalar," hesaid in fluent but badly accented Low Drow.

"You know of me. Then you must also have someidea what I need."

"But of course, Mistress, and I will be pleasedto assist you in whatever way I can. The presence of so noble a lady honors thisestablishment. Please, step this way," he said, moving aside so that shecould enter the canvas pavilion.

Hadrogh's words were correct, his manner proper almostto the point of being obsequious-which was, of course, the prudent approachwhen dealing with drow females of stature. Even so, something about the merchantstruck Xandra as not quite right. To all appearances, he seemed atease-friendly, relaxed to the point of being casual, even unobservant. In otherwords, a naive and utter fool. How such a man had survived so long in thetunnels of the Underdark was a mystery to the Shobalar wizard. And yet, shenoted that Hadrogh, unlike most humans, did not require the punishing light oftorches and lanterns.

His tent was comfortably dark, but he had no apparentdifficulty negotiating his way through the maze of crates and cages that heldhis wares.

A curious Xandra whispered the words to a simplespell, one that would yield some answers about the man's nature and the magiche might carry. She was not entirely surprised when the seeking magic skitteredoff the merchant. Either he was astute enough to carry something thatdeflected magical inquiry, or he possessed an innate magical immunity thatnearly matched her own.

Xandra had her suspicions about the merchant's origins,suspicions that were too appalling to voice, but she did not doubt that the" human" was quite at home in the Underdark, and quite capable oftaking care of himself, despite his fragile, aged facade.

The half-drow merchant-for Xandra's suspicions wereindeed correct-appeared to be unaware of the female's scrutiny. He led the wayto the very back of the canvas pavilion. There stood a row of large cages, eachwith a single occupant. Hadrogh swept a hand toward them, and stepped back sothat Xandra could examine the merchandise as she wished.

The wizard walked slowly along the row of cages,examining the exotic creatures destined for slavery. There was no shortage ofslaves to be had in the Underdark, but the status-conscious dark elves were evereager to acquire new and unusual possessions, and there was a high demand forservants brought from the World Above. Halfling females were prized as ladies'maids for their deft hands and their skill at weaving, curling, and twistinghair into elaborate works of art. Mountain dwarves, who possessed a finer touchwith weapons and jewels than their duergar kin, were considered hard to managebut well worth the trouble it took to keep them. Humans were useful as beastsof burden and as sources of spells and potions unknown to the Underdark. Exoticbeasts were popular, too. A few of the more ostentatious drow kept them aspets or displayed them in small private zoos. Some of those animals found theirway to the arena in the Manyfolks district of Menzoberranzan. There, drow whopossessed a taste for vicarious slaughter gathered to watch and wager whiledangerous beasts fought each other, slaves of various races, and evendrow-soldiers eager to prove their battle prowess or mercenaries who covetedthe handful of coins and the fleeting fame that were the survivors' reward.

Hadrogh could supply slaves or beasts to meet almostany taste. Xandra nodded with satisfaction as she eyed the collection.

"I was not told, my lady, what manner of slaveyou required. If you would describe your needs, perhaps I could guide yourselection," Hadrogh offered.

A strange light entered the wizard's crimson eyes.

"Not slaves," she corrected him."Prey."

"Ah." The merchant seemed not at allsurprised by that grim pronouncement. "The Blooding, I take it?"

Xandra nodded absently. The Blooding was a uniquelydrow ritual, a rite of passage in which young dark elves were required to huntand kill an intelligent or dangerous creature, preferably one native to theWorld Above. Surface raids were one means of accomplishing that task, but itwas not unusual for the hunts to take place in the tunnels of the wildUnderdark, provided suitable captives could be acquired. Never had theselection of the ritual prey been so important, and Xandra looked over theprospective choices carefully.

Her crimson eyes lingered longingly on the huddledform of a pale-skinned, golden-haired elf child. The hate-filled drow bore aspecial enmity for their surface kindred. Faerie elves, as the light-dwellingelves were called, were the preferred target of those Blooding ceremonies thattook the form of a raid, but they were seldom hunted in the Underdark.Accordingly, there would be great prestige in obtaining such rare quarry forthe ritual hunt.

Regretfully Xandra shook her head.

Though the boy-child was certainly old enough toprovide sport-he was probably near the age of the drow who would hunt him-hisglazed, haunted eyes suggested otherwise.

The young faerie elf seemed oblivious to his surroundings.His gaze was fixed upon some nightmare-filled world that only he inhabited. Theboy-child would command a fabulous price; there were many drow who would paydearly for the pleasure of destroying even so pitiful a faerie. Xandra,however, was in need of deadlier prey.

She walked over to the next cage, in which prowled amagnificent, catlike beast with tawny fur and wings like those of a deepbat. Asthe creature paced the cage, its tail-which was long and supple and tipped withiron spikes-lashed about furiously, clanging each time it hit the bars. Thebeast's hideous, humanoid face was contorted with fury, and the eyes thatburned into Xandra's were bright with hunger and hatred.

Now this is promising! she thought.

Not wishing to appear too interested-which wouldcertainly add many gold pieces to the asking price-Xandra turned to themerchant and lifted one eyebrow in a skeptical, questioning arch.

"This is a manticore. A fearsome monster,"wheedled Hadrogh. "The creature is driven by a powerful hunger for humanflesh-though certainly it would not be adverse to dining upon drow, if such isyour desire. By which," he added hastily, "I meant only to imply thatthe beast's voracious nature would add excitement to the hunt. The manticoreis itself a hunter, and a worthy opponent."

Xandra looked the thing over, noting with approval itsdaggerlike claws and fangs.

"Intelligent?" she asked.

"Cunning, certainly."

"But is it capable of devising strategy anddiscerning counterstrategy, to the third and fourth levels?" the wizardpersisted. "The youngling mage who will face her Blooding is formidable. Ineed prey that will truly test her abilities."

The merchant spread his hands and shrugged.

"Strength and hunger are also mightyweapons," he said. "These the manticore has in abundance."

"Since you have not said otherwise, I assume itwields no magic," the wizard observed. "Has it at least some naturalresistance to spellcasting?"

"Alas, none. What you ask, great lady, are thingsthat belong rightfully to the drow. Such powers are difficult to find in lesserbeings," the merchant said in a tone calculated to flatter and appease.

Xandra sniffed and turned to the next cage, where an enormous,white-furred creature gnawed audibly on a haunch of rothé.

The thing was a bit like a quaggoth-a bearlike beastnative to the Underdark-except for its pointed head and strong, musky odor.

"No, a yeti is not quite right for yourpurposes," Hadrogh said thoughtfully. "Your young wizard could tracksuch a beast by its scent alone!"

The merchant's uncovered eye lit up, and he snappedhis fingers.

"But wait! It may be that I have precisely whatyou require."

He bustled off, returning in moments with a human malein tow.

Xandra's first response was disgust. The merchantseemed a canny sort, too knowledgeable in the ways of the drow to offer suchinferior merchandise. Her scornful gaze swept over the human-noting his coarse,dwarflike form, the pale leathery skin of his bearded face, the odd tattoosshowing through the stubble of gray hair that peppered his skull, the dustyrobes of a bright red shade that would be considered tawdry even by one of thelow-rent male companions who did business in the Eastmyr district.

But when Xandra met the captive's eyes-which were asgreen and as hard as the finest malachite-the sneer melted from her lips. Whatshe saw in those eyes stunned her: intelligence far beyond her expectations,pride, cunning, rage, and implacable hatred.

Hardly daring to hope, Xandra glanced at the man'shands. Yes, the wrists were crossed and bound together, the hands swathed in athick cocoon of silken bandages. No doubt some of the fingers had been brokenas well-such precautions were only prudent when dealing with captivespellcasters. No matter. The powerful clerics of House Shobalar could heal suchinjuries soon enough.

"A wizard," she stated, keeping her voicecarefully neutral.

''A powerful wizard," the merchantemphasized.

"We shall see," Xandra murmured."Unbind him-I would test his skills."

Hadrogh, to his credit, didn't try to dissuade her.The merchant quickly unbound the human's hands. He even lit a pair of smallcandles, providing enough dim light so that the man could see.

The red-robed man flexed his fingers painfully. Xandranoted that the human's hands seemed stiff, but unharmed. She tossed aninquiring glare at the merchant.

"An amulet of containment," Hadroghexplained, pointing to the collar of gold that tightly encircled the man'sneck. "It is a magical shield that keeps the wizard from casting any ofthe spells he has learned and committed to memory. He can, however, learn andcast new spells. His mind is intact, as are his remembered spells. As are hishands, for that matter. Admittedly, this is a costly method of transportingmagically-gifted slaves, but my reputation demands that I deliver undamagedmerchandise."

A rare smile broke across Xandra's face. She had neverheard of such an arrangement, but it was ideally suited to her purposes.

Cunning, quickness of mind, and magical aptitude werethe qualities she needed. If the human passed those tests, she could teach himwhat he needed to know. That his mind could be searched at some later time, andits store of magical knowledge plundered for her own use, was a bonus.

The drow quickly removed three small items from thebag at her waist and showed them to the watchful human. Slowly, she movedthrough the gestures and spoke the words of a simple spell. In response to hercasting, a small globe of darkness settled over one of the candles, completelyblotting out its light.

Xandra handed an identical set of spell components tothe human.

"Now you," she commanded.

The red-clad wizard obviously understood what wasexpected of him. Pride and anger darkened his face, but only for a moment-thelure of an unlearned spell proved too strong for him to resist. Slowly, withpainstaking care, he mirrored Xandra's gestures and mimicked her words. Thesecond candle flickered, then dimmed. Its flame was still faintly visiblethrough the gray fog surrounding it.

"The human shows promise," the Shobalarwizard admitted. It was unusual for any wizard to reproduce a spell-evenimperfectly-without having seen and studied the magical symbols. "Hispronunciation is deplorable, though, and will continue to hamper his progress.You wouldn't by chance have a wizard in stock who can speak Drowic? Or evenUndercommon? Such would be easier to train."

Hadrogh bowed deeply and hurried out of sight. Amoment later he returned, alone, but with one hand held palm-up andoutstretched so that Xandra could see he had another solution to suggest. Thefaint light of the fog-shrouded candle glimmered on the two tiny silver earringsin his hand, each in the form of a half-circle.

"To translate speech," the merchantexplained. "One pierces the ear, so that he might understand, the otherhis mouth, so that he might be understood. May I demonstrate?"

When Xandra nodded, the merchant lifted his empty handand snapped his fingers twice.

Two half-orc guards hastened to his side. They seizedthe human wizard and held him fast while Hadrogh pressed the rings' tiny metalspikes through the man's earlobe and the left side of his upper lip. The humangave off a string of Drowic curses, predications so colorful and virulent that,astonishment and fear darkening his gray-skinned face, Hadrogh fell back astep.

Xandra laughed delightedly.

"How much?" she demanded.

The merchant named an enormous price, hastening toassure Xandra that the figure named included the magical collar and rings. Thedrow wizard rapidly estimated the cost of those items, added the potentialworth of the spells she would steal from the human, and threw in the death ofLiriel Baenre.

"A bargain," Xandra said with darksatisfaction.

CHAPTER 2

Shades of Crimson

Tresk Mulander paced the floor of his cell, histrailing scarlet robes whispering behind him. It had not been easy, persuadingthe mistress to provide him with the bright silk garments, but he was a RedWizard and so he would remain, however far he might be from his native Thay.

Nearly two years had passed since Mulander had firstencountered Xandra Shobalar and begun his strange apprenticeship. Though he hadnot once left the large chamber carved from solid rock, vented only by tinyopenings in the ceiling well above his reach, he had not been badly treated.He had food and wine in plenty, whatever comforts he required, and, mostimportantly, an intense and thorough education in the magic of the Underdark.It was an opportunity that many of his peers would have seized without a qualm,and in truth, Mulander did not entirely regret his fate.

The Red Wizard was a necromancer, a powerful member ofthe Researcher faction-that group of wizards who sought ever stronger and morefearsome magic. Mulander was somewhat of an oddity among his peers, for he wasone of a very few high-ranking wizards whose blood was not solely that of theruling Mulan race.

His father's father had been Rashemi, and his inheritancefrom his grandsire was a thick, muscled body and a luxuriant crop of facialhair. From his wizard mother had come his talent and ambition, as well as theheight and the sallow complexion that were considered marks of nobility inThay.

Mulander's cold, gemlike green eyes and narrow scimitarnose lent him a terrifying aspect, and though he conformed to custom and affectedbaldness, he was rather vain of the thick, long gray beard that set him apartfrom the nearly hairless Mulan. In all, he was an imposing man, who carried hissixty winters with ease upon his broad, proud shoulders. He was strong of body,mind, and magic. The passing years had only served to thin his graying hair,which he regretted not at all, for it made the daily task of shaving his pateless onerous.

Mistress Shobalar had indulged him in that as well,providing him with incredibly keen-edged shaving gear and a halfling servant todo the honors. Indeed, the drow female seemed fascinated by the tattoos thatcovered Mulander's head. As well she should have been: each mark was a magicalrune that, when activated with the appropriate spell, could transform bits ofdead matter into fearsome magical servants. Provide him with a corpse, and hewould produce an army. Or could, were he able to access his necromanticmagic.

Mulander grimaced and slipped a finger under the goldcollar that encircled his neck-and imprisoned his Art.

"In time, you will be permitted to removethat," said a cool voice behind him.

The Red Wizard jolted, then turned to face XandraShobalar. Even after two years, her sudden arrivals unnerved him, as they wereno doubt intended to do.

But that day the implied promise in the drow's wordsbanished his usual resentment.

"When?"

"In time," Xandra repeated. She strolledover to a deep chair and, in a leisurely fashion, seated herself. Two years wasnot a long time in the life of a drow, but she was obviously well aware of thehuman's impatience, and she intended to enjoy it.

* * * * *

Enjoyable, too, was the murderous rage, barely contained,in the Red Wizard's eyes.

Xandra entertained herself with fantasies of seeingthat wrath unleashed upon her Baenre fosterling. At last, the long-anticipatedday was nearly at hand.

"You have learned well," Xandra began."Soon you will have a chance to test your newfound skills. Succeed, andthe reward will be great."

The drow plucked a tiny golden key from her bodice andheld it high. She cocked her head to one side and sent the Red Wizard a cold,taunting smile. Mulander's eyes widened with realization, then gleamed with anemotion that went far beyond greed. His intense, hungry gaze followed the keyas Xandra slowly lowered it and tucked it back into its intimate hiding place.

"I see that you understand what this is. Wouldyou like to know what you must do to earn it?" she asked.

A shudder of revulsion shimmered down the Red Wizard'sspine. Xandra's smile widened and grew mocking.

"Not this time, dear Mulander," she purred."I have another sort of adventure in mind for you."

She quickly described the rite of the Blooding, theritual hunt that each young dark elf was required to undergo before beingaccounted a true drow. Mulander listened with growing dismay.

"And I am to be this prey?"

Anger flashed in Xandra's eyes like crimson fire.

"Do not be a fool," she snarled. "Youmust prevail! Would I have gone to such trouble and expense otherwise?"

"A spell battle …" he muttered, beginningto understand. "You have been preparing me for a spell battle. And thespells you have taught me?"

"They represent all the offensive spells youryoung opponent knows, as well as the appropriate counter-spells." Xandraleaned forward, and her face was deadly serious. "You will not see meagain. You will have a new tutor for perhaps thirty cycles of Narbondel. Abattle wizard. He will work with you daily and instruct you in the tactics ofdrow warfare. Learn all he has to teach during the course of thissession."

"For he will not live to give anotherlesson," Mulander reasoned.

Xandra smiled and said, "How astute. For a human,you possess a most promising streak of duplicity! But you are among drow, andyou have much to learn about subtlety and treachery."

The wizard bristled.

"We in Thay are no strangers to treachery,"he said. "No wizard could survive to my age, much less reach my position,without such skills."

"Really?" the drow asked, her voiceddripping with sarcasm. "If that is the case, how did you come to behere?"

Mulander responded only with a sullen glare, but themistress of magic did not seem to require an answer.

"You possess a great deal of very interestingmagic," she observed. "More than I would have guessed a human capableof wielding, and judging from your pride, more than most of your peers haveachieved. How, then, could you have been overcome and sold into slavery, but bytreachery?"

Not waiting for a response, Xandra rose from herchair.

"These are the terms I offer you," she said,her manner suddenly all business. "At the proper time, you will be takeninto the wild tunnels surrounding this city-as part of your preparations, youwill be given a map of the area to commit to memory. There you will confront afledgling wizard, a drow female with golden eyes. She will carry the key thatwill release you from that collar. You must defeat her in spell battle-dowhatever you must to ensure that she does not survive.

"You may then take the key from her body, and gowheresoever you will. The girl will be alone, and you will not be pursued. Itmay be that you can find your way to the World Above-if indeed there is still aplace for you there. If not, with the spells I have taught you, as well as thereturn of your own death magic, you should be able to live and thrive in theUnderdark."

* * * * *

Mulander listened stoically, carefully masking thesudden bright surge of hope the drove's words awoke in his heart. For all heknew, it could all be an elaborate trap, and he refused to display his elationfor the wretched female's amusement.

Or did she perhaps expect him to show fear?

If that was the case, she would also be disappointed.He knew none. The Red Wizard did not for one moment doubt the outcome of thecontest, for he knew the full measure of his powers, even if Xandra Shobalardid not.

He was more than capable of defeating an elf girl inspell battle-he would kill the little wench and set himself up in some hiddencavern of the underground world, a place surrounded by warding magic andmisdirection spells that would keep even the powerful dark elves from his door.

This he would do, for the Shobalar wizard was rightabout one thing-there was no welcome awaiting Mulander in Thay, and no welcomefor Red Wizards in any land other than Thay. Another of Xandra's thrusts hadfound its mark, as well: he had indeed been undone through treachery. Mulanderhad been betrayed by his young apprentice, as he himself had betrayed his ownmaster. It occurred to him, suddenly, to wonder what treachery Xandra's youngprodigy might have in store for her mistress.

"You are smiling," the drow observed."My terms are to your liking?"

"Very much so," Mulander said, thinking itprudent to keep his fantasies to himself.

"Then let me add to your enjoyment," Xandrasaid softly.

She advanced upon the man and reached up to place oneslim black hand against his jaw. His instinctive flinch, and his effort todisguise the response, seemed to amuse her. She swayed closer, her slim bodyjust barely brushing against his robes. Her crimson eyes burned up into his,and Mulander felt a tendril of compelling magic creep into his mind.

"Tell me truly, Mulander," she said-and herwords were mocking, for they both knew that the spell she cast upon him wouldallow him to speak nothing but truth, "do you hate me so very much?"

Mulander held her gaze.

"With all my soul," he vowed, with morepassion than he had ever before displayed-more than he knew he possessed.

"Good," Xandra breathed. She raised botharms high and clasped her hands behind his neck; then she floated upward untilher eyes were on a level with the much taller man. "Then remember my faceas you hunt the girl, and remember this."

The drow pressed her lips to Mulander's in a macabreparody of a kiss. Her passion was like his: it was all hatred and pride.

Her kiss, like many that he himself had forced uponthe youths and maidens apprenticed to him, was a claim of total ownership, agesture of cruelty and utter contempt that was more painful to the proud manthan a dagger's thrust. He winced when the drow's teeth sank deep into hislower lip.

Xandra abruptly released him and floated away, suspendedin the air like a dark wraith and smiling coldly as she wiped a drop of hisblood from her mouth.

"Remember," she admonished him, and shevanished as suddenly as she had come.

Left alone in his cell, Tresk Mulander nodded grimly.He would long remember Xandra Shobalar, and for as long as he lived he wouldpray to every dark god whose name he knew that her death would be slow andpainful and ignominious.

In the meanwhile, he would vent some of his seethinghatred upon the other drow wench who presumed to look upon him-him, a RedWizard and a master of necromancy! — as prey.

"Let the hunt begin," Mulander said, and hisbloodied lips curved in a grim smile as he savored the secret he had hoardedfrom Xandra Shobalar-a secret he would soon unleash upon her young student.

CHAPTER 3

A GrandAdventure

The door of Bythnara Shobalar's bedchamber thuddedsolidly against the wall, flung open with an exuberance that could herald onlyone person. Bythnara did not look up from the book she was reading, did not somuch as flinch. She was too accustomed to the irrepressible Baenre brat to showmuch of a reaction.

But it was impossible to ignore Liriel for long. Thedark elf maid spun into their shared bedchamber, her arms out wide and her wildmane of white hair flying as she whirled and leaped in an ecstatic littledance.

The older girl eyed her with resignation.

"Who cast a dervish spell on you?" sheinquired in a sour tone.

Liriel abruptly halted her dance and flung her armsaround her chambermate.

"Oh, Bythnara!" Liriel said. "I am toundergo the Blooding ritual at last! Mistress just said."

The Shobalar female disentangled herself as inconspicuouslyas possible as she rose from her chair, and she looked around for some pretensethat would excuse her for wriggling out of the younger girl's impulsiveembrace. On the far side of the room, a pair of woolen trews lay crumpled onthe floor. Liriel tended to treat her clothes with the same blithe disregardthat a snake shows its outgrown and abandoned skin. Bythnara was foreverpicking up after the untidy little wench. Doing so then allowed her to put asmuch space as possible between herself and the unwanted affection lavished uponher by her young rival.

"And high time it is," the Shobalarwizard-in-training said bluntly as she smoothed and folded the discardedgarment. "You will soon be eighteen, and you are already well into yourAscharlexten Decade. I've often wondered why my Mistress Mother has waited solong."

"As have I," Liriel said frankly. "ButXandra explained it to me. She said that she could not initiate the rite until she had foundexactly the right quarry, one that would truly test my skills. Think of it! Agrand and gallant hunt-an adventure in the wild tunnels of the DarkDominion!" she exulted, flinging herself down on her cot with a gusty sighof satisfaction.

"Mistress Xandra," Bythnara coldly correctedher.

She knew, as did everyone in House Shobalar, thatLiriel Baenre was to be treated with utmost respect, but even the archmage'sdaughter was required to observe certain protocols.

"Mistress Xandra," the girl echoedobligingly. She rolled over onto her stomach and propped up her chin in bothhands. "I wonder what I shall hunt," she said in a dreamy tone. "Thereare so many wondrous and fearsome beasts roaming the World Above. I have beenreading about them," she confided with a grin. "Maybe a great wildcat with a black-and-gold striped pelt, or a huge brown bear-which is ratherlike a four-legged quaggoth. Or even a fire-belching dragon!" sheconcluded, giggling a bit at her own absurdity.

"We can only hope," Bythnara muttered.

If Liriel heard her chambermate's bitter comment, shegave no indication.

"Whatever the quarry, I shall meet it with equalforce," she vowed. "I will use weapons that correspond to its naturalattacks and defenses: dagger against claw, arrow against stooping attack. Nofireballs, no venom clouds, no transforming it into an ebony statue. ."

"You know that spell?" the Shobalardemanded, her face and voice utterly aghast.

It was a casting that required considerable power, anirreversible transformation, and a favorite punitive tool of the Baenrepriestesses who ruled in the Academy. The possibility that the impulsive childcould wield such a spell was appalling, considering that Bythnara had insultedthe Baenre girl twice since she'd entered the room. By the standards ofMenzoberranzan, that was more than ample justification for such retribution.

But Liriel merely tossed her chambermate a mischievousgrin. The older wizard sniffed and turned away. She had known Liriel for twelveyears, but she had never reconciled herself to the girl's good-naturedteasing.

Liriel loved to laugh, and she loved to have otherslaugh with her. Since few drow shared her particular brand of humor, she hadrecently taken to playing little pranks for the amusement of the otherstudents.

Bythnara had never been the recipient of those, butneither did she find them particularly enjoyable. Life was a grim, seriousbusiness, and magic an Art to be mastered, not a child's plaything. The factthat that particular "child" possessed a command of magic greaterthan her own rankled deeply with the proud female.

Nor was that the only thing stoking Bythnara's jealouslyMistress Xandra, Bythnara's own mother, had always showed special favor to theBaenre girl-favor that often bordered on affection. That, Bythnara would neverforget, and never forgive. Neither was she pleased by the fact that her ownmale companions had a hard time remembering their place and their purpose wheneverthe golden-eyed wench was about.

Bythnara was twenty-eight and in ripe early adolescence.Liriel was in many ways still a child. Even so, there was more than enoughpromise in the girl's face and form to draw masculine eyes. Rumor had it thatLiriel was beginning to return those attentions, and that she reveled in suchsport with her characteristic, playful abandon. That, too, Bythnara disapprovedof, though exactly why that was, she could not say.

"Will you come to my coming-of-ageceremony?" Liriel asked with a touch of wistfulness in her voice."After the ritual, I mean."

"Of course. It is required."

Bythnara's curt remark finally earned a response-analmost imperceptible wince. But Liriel recovered quickly, so quickly that theolder female barely had time to enjoy her victory. A shuttered expression cameover the Baenre girl's face, and she lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug.

"So it is," she said evenly. "I faintlyremember that I was required to attend yours, several years back. What was yourquarry?"

"A goblin," Bythnara said stiffly.

It was a sore spot with her, for goblins were as arule accounted neither intelligent nor particularly dangerous. She haddispatched the creature easily enough with a spell of holding and a sharpknife. Her own Blooding had been mere routine, not the grand adventure of whichLiriel dreamed.

Grand adventure, indeed! The girl was impossiblynaive!

Or was she? With a sudden jolt, it occurred to Bythnarathat Liriel's last question had hardly been ingenuous. Few verbal thrustscould have hit the mark more squarely. Her eyes settled on the girl andnarrowed dangerously.

Again Liriel shrugged.

"What was it that Matron Hinkutes'nat said inchapel a darkcycle or two past? 'The drow culture is one of constant change,and so we must either adapt or die.' "

Her tone was light, and there was nothing in her faceor her words that could give Bythnara reasonable cause for complaint. YetLiriel was clearly, subtly, giving notice that she had long been aware ofBythnara's verbal thrusts, and that henceforth she would not take them insilence, but parry and riposte.

It was well done; Bythnara had to admit that. Shefound herself at a complete and disconcerting lack for words.

A tentative knock on the open door relieved Bythnaraof the need to respond.

She turned to face one of her mother's servants, ahighly decorative young drow male discarded by some lesser house. Inperfunctory fashion, he offered the required bow to the Shobalar female, andturned his attention upon the younger girl.

"You are wanted, Princess," the male said,addressing Liriel by the proper formal title for a young female of the FirstHouse.

Later, the girl would no doubt be accorded more prestigioustitles: Archmage, if Xandra had her way, or Mistress of Sorcere, or Mistress ofthe Academy, or even-Lolth forbid-Matron Mother. Princess was a title of birth,not accomplishment. Even so, Bythnara begrudged it. She hustled the royal bratand the handsome messenger out of her room with scant ceremony and closed thedoor firmly behind them.

Liriel's shoulders rose and fell in a long sigh. Theservant, who was about her own age and who knew Bythnara far better than hecared to, cast her a look that bordered on sympathy.

"What does Xandra want now?" she asked asthey made their way toward the apartment that housed the mistress of magic.

The servant cast furtive glances up and down the corridorsbefore answering, "The archmage sent for you. His servant awaits you inMistress Xandra's chambers even now."

Liriel stopped in mid stride.

"My father?"

"Gromph Baenre, Archmage of Menzoberranzan,"the male affirmed.

Once again Liriel reached for "the mask"-herprivate term for the expression she had practiced and perfected in front of herlooking glass: the insouciant little smile, eyes that expressed nothing but abit of cynical amusement. Yet behind her flippant facade, the girl's mindwhirled with a thousand questions.

Drow life was full of complexities and contradictions,but in Liriel's experience, nothing was more complicated than her feelings forher drow sire. She revered and resented and adored and feared and hated andlonged for her father-all at once, and all from a distance. And as far asLiriel could tell, every one of those emotions was entirely unrequited. Thegreat Archmage of Menzoberranzan was an utter mystery to her.

Gromph Baenre was without question her true sire, butdrow lineage was traced through the females. The archmage had gone againstcustom and adopted his daughter into the Baenre clan-at great personal costto Liriel-and promptly abandoned her to the Shobalars' care.

What could Gromph Baenre want of her? It had beenyears since she had heard from him, though his servants regularly saw that theShobalars were recompensed for her keep and training and ensured that she hadpocket coin to spend at her infrequent outings to the Bazaar. In Liriel'sopinion, the personal summons could only mean trouble. Yet what had she done?Or, more to the point, which of her escapades had been discovered and reported?

Then a new possibility occurred to her, one so full ofhope and promise that "the mask" dissipated like spent faerie fire. Abubble of joyous laughter burst from the dark elf maid, and she threw her armsaround the astonished-and highly gratified-young male.

After the Blooding, she would be accounted a truedrow! Perhaps then Gromph would deem her worthy of his attention, perhaps eventake over her training himself. Surely he had heard of her progress, and knewthat there was little more for her to learn in House Shobalar.

That must be it! concluded Liriel as she wriggled outof the servant's increasingly enthusiastic embrace.

She set out at a brisk pace for Xandra's chambers,spurred on by the rarest of all drow emotions: hope.

No dark elf male took much notice of his children, butsoon Liriel would be a child no more, and ready for the next level of magicaltraining. Usually that would involve the Academy, but she was far too young forthat. Surely Gromph had devised another plan for her future.

Liriel's shining anticipation dimmed at the sight ofher father's messenger: the elf-sized stone golem was only too familiar. Themagical construct was part of her earliest and most terrible memory. Yet eventhe appearance of the deadly messenger could not banish entirely her joy, orsilence the delightful possibility that sang through her heart: perhaps herfather wanted her at last!

At Xandra's insistence, a full octet patrol ofspider-mounted soldiers escorted Liriel and the golem to the fashionableNarbondellyn district, where Gromph Baenrekept a private home. For once, Lirielrode past the Darkspires without marveling at the fanglike formations of blackrock. For once, she did not notice the handsome captain of the guard, whostood watch at the gates of the Horlbar compound. She even passed by theelegant little shops that sold perfumes, whisper-soft silk garments, magicalfigurines, and other fascinating wares without sparing them a single longingglance.

What were such things, compared with even a moment ofher father's time?

As eager as she was, however, Liriel had to steel herselffor the first glimpse of Gromph Baenre's mansion. She had been born there, andhad spent the first five years of her life in the luxurious apartments of hermother, Sosdrielle Vandree, who had served for many years as Gromph's mistress.It had been a cozy world, just Liriel and her mother and the few servants whotended them. Liriel had since come to understand that Sosdrielle-who had beena rare beauty, but who lacked both the magical talent and the deadly ambitionneeded to excel in Menzoberranzan-had doted upon her child and had made Lirielthe beloved center of her world. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, Lirielhad not been able to bring herself to look upon her first home since the dayshe left it, more than twelve years before.

Carved from the heart of an enormous stalactite, thearchmage's private home was reputedly warded about with more magic than anyother two wizards in the city could muster between them. Liriel slid down fromher spider mount-a distinctively Shobalar means of conveyance-and followed thesilent and deadly golem toward the black structure.

The stone golem touched one of the moving runes thatwrithed and shifted on the dark wall, and a door appeared. Gesturing for Lirielto follow, the golem disappeared inside.

The young drow took a deep breath and fell in behindthe servant. She remembered, vaguely, the way to Gromph Baenre's private study.There she had first met her father, and had first discovered her talent for andlove of wizardry. It seemed fitting that she begin the next phase of her lifethere, as well.

Gromph Baenre looked up when she entered his study.His amber eyes, so like her own, regarded her coolly.

"Sit down," he invited her, gesturing withone elegant, long-fingered hand toward a chair. "We have much to discuss."

Liriel quietly did as she was told. The archmage didnot speak at once, and for a long moment she was content merely to study him.He looked exactly as she remembered: austere yet handsome, a drow male in hismagnificent prime. That was not surprising, considering how slowly dark elvesaged, yet Gromph was reputed to have witnessed the birth and death of sevencenturies.

Protocol demanded that Liriel wait for the high-rankingwizard to speak first, but after several silent moments she could bear no more.

"I am to undergo the Blooding," sheannounced with pride.

The archmage nodded somberly and said, "As I haveheard. You will remain here in my home until the time for the ritual, for thereis much to learn and little time for preparation."

Liriel's brows plunged into a frown of puzzlement. Hadshe not been doing just that for the past twelve years? Had she not gainedbasic but powerful skills in battle magic and drow weaponry? She had littleinterest in the sword, but no one she knew could out-shoot her with the handcrossbow, or best her with thrown weapons. Surely she knew enough to emergefrom the ritual with victorious and blooded hands.

A small, hard smile touched the archmage's lips whenhe said, "There is much more to being a drow than engaging in crudeslaughter. I am not entirely certain, however, that Xandra Shobalar remembersthis basic fact."

These cryptic words troubled Liriel.

"Sir?"

Gromph did not bother to explain himself. He reachedinto a compartment under his desk and took from it a small, green bottle.

"This is a vial of holding," he said."It will capture and store any creature that the Shobalar Mistress pitsagainst you."

"But the hunt!" Liriel protested.

The archmage's smile did not waver, but his eyesturned cold.

"Do not be a fool," he said softly. "Ifthe hunt turns against you and your quarry gains the upper hand, you willcapture it in this vial. You can spill its blood easily enough, and thusfulfill the letter of the ritual's requirements. Look…."

He twisted off the stopper and showed her the glisteningmithral needle that thrust down from it.

"Cap the vial, and you have slain your prey. Allyou need do is smash the vial, and the dead creature will lie before you, adagger-the transmuted needle, of course- thrust through its heart or into itseye. You will carry an identical dagger to the opening ceremony, of course, toforestall any possible inquiries into the weapon that caused the creature'sdeath. This dagger is magical and will dissipate when the mithral needle isblooded, to remove the possibility that it might be found discarded along yourpath. If pride is your concern, no one need know the manner of your quarry'sdeath."

Feeling oddly betrayed, Liriel took the glass bottleand pressed the stopper firmly back into place. In truth, she found theunsporting solution appalling. But since the vial was a gift from her father,she searched her mind for something positive to say.

"Mistress Xandra will be fascinated bythis," she offered in a dull voice, knowing well the Shobalar wizard'sfondness for magical devices of any kind.

"She must not know of the vial, or of any of thespells you will learn in this place. Nor does she need to hear of your other,more dubious skills. Please, save that look of wide-eyed innocence to beguilethe House guards," he said dryly. "I know only too well the mercenarycaptain who boasts he taught a princess to throw knives as well as any taverncutthroat alive. How you managed to slip past the guard spiders MatronHinkutes'nat posts at every turn, and find your way through the city to thatparticular tavern, is beyond my imagination."

Liriel grinned wickedly and said, "I stumbledupon the tavern that first time, and Captain Jarlaxle knew me by my Housemedallion and indulged my wish to learn … to learn many things. But it istrue that I have often fooled the spiders. Shall I tell you how?"

"Perhaps later. I must have your blood oath thatthis vial will be kept from Xandra's eyes."

"But why?" she persisted, truly perplexed bythis demand.

Gromph studied his daughter for a long time.

"How many young drow die during theBlooding?" he asked at last.

"A few," Liriel admitted. "Surfaceraids often go wrong-the humans or faerie elves sometimes learn of the attackin time to prepare, or they fight better than expected, or in larger numbers.And it is likely that from time to time a drow dagger slips between ayoungling's ribs. In those rites that are taken Below, sometimes initiatesbecome lost in the wild Underdark, or stumble upon some monster that is beyondtheir skill with magic and weapons."

"And sometimes, they are slain by the very thingsthey hunt," Gromph said.

That was a given. The girl shrugged, as if to ask whatthe point was.

"I do not desire to see any harm come to you.Xandra Shobalar may not share my good wishes," he said bluntly.

Liriel suddenly went cold. Many emotions simmered anddanced deep within her, waiting for her to reach in and pluck one free-yet shetruly felt none of them. Her tumultuous responses remained just beyond hertouch, for she had no idea which one to choose.

How could Gromph suggest that Xandra Shobalar couldbetray her? The mistress of magic had raised her, lavishing more attention andindulgent favor upon her than most drow younglings ever dreamed of receiving.Apart from her own mother-who had given Liriel not only life, but a wonderfulfive-year cocoon of warmth, security, and even love-Liriel believed that Xandrawas theperson most responsible for making her what she was. And that was saying agreat deal. Though Liriel could not remember her mother's face, she understoodthat she had received from Sosdrielle Vandree something that was rare among herkindred, something that nothing and no one could take from her. Not evenGromph Baenre, who had ordered her beloved mother's death twelve years before.

Liriel stared at her father, too dumbfounded torealize that her churning thoughts were written clearly in her eyes.

"You do not trust me," the archmage statedin a voice absolutely devoid of emotion. "This is good-I was beginning todespair of your judgment. It may be that you will survive this ritual, afterall. Now listen carefully as I describe the steps needed to activate the vialof holding."

CHAPTER 4

The Blooding

The Blooding ritual took place on the third darkcycleafter Liriel's meeting with her father. She was returned to House Shobalar asthe day grew old, for all such rituals began at the dark hour of Narbondel.

When the great timepiece of Menzoberranzan dimmed tomark the hour of midnight, Liriel stood before Hinkutes'nat Alar Shobalar, thematron mother of the clan.

The young drow had had few dealings with the Shobalarmatriarch, and she felt slightly unnerved by the dark and regal figure beforeher.

Hinkutes'nat was a high priestess of Lolth, asbefitted a ruling matron, and she was typical of those who followed the waysof the drow's goddess, the Spider Queen. Her throne room was as grim andforbidding a lair as anything Liriel had ever seen. Shadows were everywhere,for the skulls of many Shobalar victims had been fashioned into faintlyglowing lanterns that threw patterns of death upon every surface and castghastly purple highlights upon the dark faces assembled before the matron'sthrone.

A large cage stood in the middle of the chamber, readyto receive the prey for the Blooding ceremony. It was surrounded on all foursides by the giant, magically bred spiders that formed the heart of theShobalar guard. In fact, giant spiders stood guard everywhere-in every cornerof the chamber, on each of the steps that led up to the throne dais, evensuspended from the chamber's ceiling on long, glistening threads.

The throne room was a fit setting for the Shobalarmatriarch. The matron resembled a spider holding court in the center of her ownweb.

She wore a black robe upon which webs had beenembroidered in silver thread, and the gaze that she turned upon Liriel was ascalm and pitiless as that of any arachnid that had ever lived. She wasspiderlike in character, as well: even among the treacherous drow, theShobalar matron had earned a reputation for the tangled nature of the deals shespun.

"You have prepared the prey?" the matroninquired of her third-born daughter.

"I have," Xandra said. "The younglingdrow who stands before you shows great promise, as one would expect of a daughterof House Baenre. To offer her less than a true challenge would be an insult tothe First House."

Matron Hinkutes'nat lifted one eyebrow.

"I see," she said dryly. "Well, that isyour prerogative, and within the rules set for the Blooding ritual. It isunlikely that recourse will be taken, but you understand that you will bear thebrunt of any unpleasantness that might result?" When Xandra nodded grimacceptance, the matron mother again turned to Liriel. "And you, Princess,are you ready to begin?"

The Baenre girl dipped into a deep bow, doing her bestto dim her shining eyes and school her face into expressionless calm.

Three days in Gromph's household had not quitedestroyed her eagerness for adventure.

"This, then, will be your prey," MistressXandra said.

She lifted both arms high, and brought them down toher sides in a quick sweep. A faint crackle vibrated through the damp and heavyair of the chamber, and the bars of the cage flared with sudden fey light.Every eye in the room turned to behold the ritual quarry.

Liriel's heart pounded with excitement-she was certainthat everyone could hear it. The light surrounding the cage faded, and she wasequally sure that all could feel the hard, cold hand that gripped her chest andmuffled its restless rhythm.

Within the cage stood a human male garbed in robes ofbright red. Liriel had seldom encountered humans and had few thoughtsconcerning them, but suddenly she found that she had no desire to slaughterthat one. He was too elflike, too much like a real person.

"This is an outrage," she said in a low,angry voice. "I was led to believe that my Blooding would be a test ofskill and courage, a hunt involving some dangerous surface creature, such as aboar or a hydra."

"If you misunderstood the nature of the Blooding,it was through no fault of mine," Mistress Xandra retorted. "Foryears you have heard tales of surface raids. What did you think wereslain-cattle? Prey is prey, whether it has two legs or four. You have attendedthe ceremonies; you know what has been required of those who have gone beforeyou."

"I will not do this thing," Liriel said witha regal hauteur that would have done justice to Matron Mother Baenre herself.

"You have no choice in the matter," MatronHinkutes'nat pointed out. "It is the part of the mistress or matron tochose the prey, and to name the terms of the hunt.

"Proceed," she said, turning to herdaughter.

Mistress Xandra permitted herself a smile and said,"The human wizard-for such he is-will be transported to a cavern in theDark Dominions that lie to the southwest of Menzoberranzan. You, LirielBaenre, will be escorted to a nearby tunnel. You must hunt and destroy the human,using any weapon at your disposal. Ten dark-cycles you have to accomplish this.We will not seek you before this time is up.

"But you must take this key," Xandracontinued as she handed a tiny golden object to the girl. "I have strungit upon a chain. Keep it on your person at all times. It is not our purposethat you come to grief: with this key, you can summon immediate aid from HouseShobalar, should the need arise.

"You have much talent, and you have been welltrained," the mistress added in a less severe tone. "We have everyconfidence in your success."

The older female's apparent concern for her well-beinggave Liriel a glimmer of hope.

"Mistress, I cannot slay this wizard," shesaid in a despairing whisper, letting her eyes speak clearly of her distress.

Surely Xandra, who had trained and fostered her, wouldunderstand how she felt and would lift the burden from her.

"You will kill, or you will be killed," theShobalar wizard proclaimed. "That is the challenge of the Blooding, and itis the reality of drow life."

Xandra's voice was cold and even, but Liriel did notmiss the glint in the wizard's red eyes. Stunned and enlightened, Liriel staredat her trusted mentor.

Kill or be killed. There could be little doubt whichoutcome Xandra preferred.

Liriel tore her gaze away from the vindictive crimsonstare and did her best to attend to the ceremony that followed. As she stoodsilently through the matron's ritual blessing, the girl was struck by a strangeand very vivid mental image: somewhere deep within her heart, a tiny lightflickered and died-a harbinger, perhaps, of darkness to come. A moment ofinexplicable sadness touched Liriel, but it was gone before she could marvel atso strange an emotion. To a young dark elf, such a vision seemed right andfitting-a cause for elation rather than regret. Soon, very soon, she would be atrue drow indeed!

CHAPTER 5

Kill or be Killed

On silent feet, Liriel eased her way down the darktunnel. One of the gifts her father had given her were boots of elvenkind,wondrous treasures crafted of soft leather and dark elven magic. With them, shecould walk with no more noise than her own shadow.

She also wore a fine new cloak-not a piwafwi, forthat uniquely drow cloak was usually worn only by those who had proventhemselves by that very ritual. Of course, there were exceptions to that rule,and Liriel did indeed possess one of the magical cloaks of concealment-itplayed a significant role in her frequent escapes from House Shobalar-butyoungling dark elves were not permitted to wear them during the Blooding. Theadvantage of invisibility removed most of the challenge, and was thereforedeemed inappropriate for the first major kill.

Thus Liriel was plainly visible to the perceptive eyesof the Underdark's many strange and deadly creatures, and therefore in constantdanger.

The young drow kept keenly alert as she walked. Yether heart was not in the hunt. She was not entirely certain she still had aheart: grief and rage had left her feeling strangely hollow.

Liriel was accustomed to betrayals both large andsmall, and she was still trying to assimilate her realization that she mustshrug them off and move ahead-albeit with caution. So it had been withBythnara, whose snippy comments and small jealousies had once pained herdeeply. So it had been even with her father, who twelve years earlier hadwronged Liriel more deeply than any other person had before or since.

But it would not be so with Xandra Shobalar, Lirielvowed grimly. Xandra's betrayal was different, and it would not gounremarked-or unavenged.

Vengeance was the principle passion of the dark elves,but it was an emotion new to Liriel. She savored it as if it was a goblet ofthe spiced green wine she had recently tasted-bitter, certainly, but capable ofsharpening the passions and hardening resolve. Liriel was very young, andwilling to accept and overlook many things in her dark elf kindred. But for thefirst time, had seen the desire for her death written in another drow's eyes.Liriel understood instinctively that it could not go unpunished if she herselfhoped to survive.

But at a deeper, even more personal level, the girlbitterly resented Xandra for forcing her to disregard her own instincts andact against her will.

Liriel rebelled bitterly against the need to submit toher mistress's demands, yet what else could she do if she was to be accounted atrue drow?

What else, indeed?

A smile slowly crept over Liriel's dark face as a solutionto her dilemma began to take shape in her mind. There was much more to being adrow, her father had admonished her, than engaging in crude slaughter.

The painful weight on the young drow's chest lifted abit, and for the first time she realized a very strange thing: she did not fearthe dreaded wild Underdark. It seemed to her that the wilderness was awondrous, fascinating place full of unexpected turns and twists. There wasdanger and adventure and excitement in the very air and stone. UnlikeMenzoberranzan, where every bit of rock had been shaped and carved into amonument to the pride and might of the drow, out there everything was new,mysterious, and full of delightful possibilities. There she could carve out herown place. Liriel fell suddenly, deeply, and utterly in love with the vast anduntamed Underdark.

"A grand adventure," she said softly,repeating without a trace of irony the words of her own discarded dream. Asudden smile brightened her face, and as she bestowed an affectionate pat uponan enormous, down-thrust spire of rock, she added, "The first ofmany!"

Without warning, a bright ball of force rounded thesharp corner of the tunnel ahead and hurtled toward her.

The battle had begun.

Training and instinct took over at once. Lirielsnapped both hands up, wrists crossed and palms out. A field of resistancesprung up before her an instant before the fireball would have struck. Thegirl squeezed her eyes shut and tossed her head to one side as the brilliantlight exploded into a sheet of magical flame.

Liriel dropped flat and rolled aside, as she'd beentaught to do in such attacks. The magical shield could not withstand more thanone or two impacts of such power, and it was prudent to get out of the line offire. To her astonishment, the second blast came in low and hard-and directlytoward her. Liriel leaped to her feet and dived for the far side of the tunnel.She managed to put the large stalagmite between herself and the coming blast.

The explosion rocked the tunnel and sent a shower ofrock fragments cascading down upon the young drow. She coughed and spat dust,but her fingers darted undeterred through the gestures of a spell.

In response to her magic, the dust and the sulfuroussmoke swirled to a central spot of the tunnel and gathered into a large globe.Liriel pointed grimly in the direction of the unseen wizard, and the floatingglobe obediently rounded the corner toward its prey.

She waited, hardly daring to breathe, for the nextattack to come. When it did not, she began to creep slowly and cautiouslyaround the bend. There was no sound in the tunnel ahead, other than the distantdrip of water. That was promising: the globe of hot, smoky vapor had beenenspelled to seek out and surround its source of origin. If all had gone well,the human wizard would have been smothered by the sulfurous by-products of hisown fireball. Liriel picked up her pace. If that was so, she would have alimited amount of time to find and revive him.

The tunnel grew ever brighter as she made her way downits twisting length. The path dipped dramatically, and Liriel saw laid outbefore her a cavern stranger than any she had ever seen or imagined.

Luminous fungi covered much of the stone and filledthe entire cave with a faint, eerie blue glow. Stalagmites and stalactites metin long, irregular pillars of stone, and large crystals embedded in them tossed off glitteringshards of light that stabbed at her eyes like tiny daggers.

A brilliant ball of light flashed into being in thecenter of the cavern. Liriel reeled back, clutching at her blinded eyes. Herkeen ears caught the whine and hiss of an approaching missile; she dropped flatas yet another fireball blazed toward her.

The fireball missed her, but barely. Heat assailedLiriel with searing pain as it passed over her, and the smoke and stench of herown scorched hair assaulted her like a blow to the gut. Coughing and gagging,she rolled aside. She blinked rapidly as she went, trying to dispel the lingeringsparks and flashes that obscured her vision.

Think, think! she admonished herself. So far she hadonly reacted: along that path lay certain defeat.

To give herself a bit of time, Liriel called upon herinnate drow magic and dropped a globe of darkness over the magic light ahead ofher. That leveled the field of battle, but it did not steal the human wizard'svisual advantages: there was still plenty of light in the cavern to allow himto see. She had not yet seen him, however.

A suspicion that had taken root in Liriel's mind withthe wizard's first attack blossomed into certainty. He had anticipated herresponses; he seemed to know precisely how she would react. Perhaps he had beentrained to know. Setting her jaw in grim determination, Liriel set out to learnjust how well he'd been prepared.

Her hands flashed through the gestures of a spell thatGromph had taught her-a rare and difficult spell that few drow knew of andfewer still could master. It had taken her the better part of a day to learnit, but the effort was repaid in full.

Standing in the center of the cavern, ringed and partiallyshielded by a circle of stone pillars, stood the human. A stunned expressioncrossed his bearded face as he regarded his own outstretched hands. The reasonfor that was all too apparent: a piwafwi, which should have granted himmagical invisibility, hung in glittering folds over his red-robed shoulders. Hehad not only been prepared, but equipped.

The human wizard recovered quickly from his surprise.He drew in a deep breath and spat in Liriel's direction. A dark bolt shot fromhis mouth, then another. The drow's eyes widened as she beheld the two livevipers wriggling toward her with preternatural speed.

Liriel pulled two small knives from her belt andflicked them toward the nearest snake. Her blades tumbled end-over-end,crossing the viper's neck from either side and neatly slicing the head from itsbody.

The beheaded length of snake writhed and looped forseveral moments, blocking the second viper's path long enough for Liriel to getoff a second volley.

She threw only one knife. The blade plunged into theviper's open mouth and exploded out the back of its head with a bright burst ofgore. Liriel allowed herself a small, grim smile, and she resolved to properlythank the mercenary who'd taught her to throw.

It was a moment's delay, but even that much was toolong. Already the human wizard's hands were moving through the gestures of aspell-a familiar spell.

Liriel tore a tiny dart from her weapons belt and spatupon it. In response to her unspoken command, the other needed spellcomponent-a tiny vial of acid-rose from her open spell bag. She seized it andtossed both items into the air. Her fingers flashed through the casting, and atonce a luminous streak flew to answer the one flashing toward her. The acid boltscollided midway between the combatants, sending a spray of deadly greendroplets sizzling off into the cavern.

The human flung out one hand. Magic darted from eachof his fingertips, spinning out into a giant web as it flew. The weird bluelight of the cavern glimmered along the strands and turned the sticky dropletsclinging to them into gemlike things that rivaled moonstones and pearls. Lirielmarveled at the web's deadly beauty, even as it descended upon her.

A word from the drow conjured a score of giantspiders, each as large as a rothé calf. On eldritch threads, the arachnid armyrose as one toward the cavern's ceiling, capturing the web and taking it withthem.

Liriel planted her feet wide and sent a barrage offireballs toward the persistent human. As she expected, he cast the spell thatwould raise a field of resistance around himself. She recognized the gesturesand the words of power as High Drow. The wizard had indeed been trained fortheir battle, and trained well.

Unfortunately for Liriel, the human had been schooled toowell. She'd hoped that her fireball storm would weaken the stone pillarssurrounding the wizard, so that they might crumble and fall upon him after themagic shield's power was spent. But it soon became apparent that he had placedthe magical barrier in front of the stone formation, thereby undoing herstrategy. His shield did not give way before her magic missiles, rather itseemed to absorb their energy. It grew ever brighter with each fireball thatstruck. It was a drow counterspell, but it was one that she herself had neverbeen taught.

Finally Liriel lowered her hands, drained by the sheerpower of the fireballs she had tossed into Xandra's magical web-and theknowledge of the full extent of the Shobalar wizard's treachery.

The human had been trained in the magic and tactics ofUnderdark warfare and moreover, he knew enough about his drow opponent toanticipate and counter her every spell. He had been carefully chosen andprepared-not to test her, but to kill her. Xandra Shobalar did not contentherself with wishing for her student's failure: she had planned for it.

Liriel knew that she had been well and thoroughlybetrayed. Her only hope of defeating the human-and Xandra Shobalar-lay not inher battle magic, but in her wits.

Liriel's nimble mind flashed through thepossibilities. She knew nothing of human magic, but she found it highlysuspicious that the wizard cast only drow spells. He had to have had priortraining in order to master such powerful magic; surely he possessed spells ofhis own. Why did he not use them? As she studied the human, the reason for thatbecame apparent. Her fingers closed around the key that Xandra had given her,and with one sharp tug she tore it from the thin golden chain she'dtied to her belt.

Wrath burned bright in Liriel's golden eyes as shereached for the green vial her father had given her. She pulled off the stopperand dropped the key inside. But before she put the cap back into place, shesnapped off the mithral needle and tossed it aside.

Kill or be killed, Mistress Xandra had said.

So be it.

CHAPTER 6

Recurring Nightmares

Tresk Mulander squinted through his glowing shieldtoward the shimmering image of his young drow opponent. So far, all had goneas anticipated. The girl was good, just as Mistress Shobalar had claimed. Sheeven had a few unanticipated skills, such as her deadly aim with a tossedknife.

Well enough. Mulander had a few surprises of his own.

It was true that Xandra Shobalar had raped his mind,plundered his vast mental store of necromantic spells. There was one spell,however, that the drow wizard could not touch: it was stored not in his mind,but in his flesh.

Mulander was a Researcher, always seeking new magicwhere lesser men saw only death. Moldering corpses, even the offal of theslaughterhouse, could be used to create wondrous and fearsome creatures. Buthis strangest and most secret creation was waiting to be unleashed.

In a bit of unliving flesh-a tiny dark mole that clungto his body by the thinnest tendril of skin, he had stored a creature of greatpower. To bring it into existence, he had only to make that final separationfrom his living body.

The wizard worked his thumb and forefinger beneath thegolden collar. The enspelled mole was hidden beneath the magical fetter.

Mulander twisted off the bit of flesh, reveling in thesharp stab of pain-for such was a miniature death, and death was the ultimatesource of his power. He tossed the tiny mole to the cavern floor and watchedwith sharp anticipation as the contained monster took shape.

Many of the Red Wizards could create darkenbeasts,fearsome flying creatures made by twisting the bodies of living animals intomagical atrocities. Mulander had gone one better. The creature that rose upbefore him had been fashioned from his own flesh and his own nightmares.

Mulander had begun with the most dreadful thing heknew-a replica of his long-dead wizard mother-and added to it enormous size andthe deadliest features of every predator that ever had haunted his dreams. Thetattered, batlike wings of an abyssal denizen sprouted from the creature'sshoulders, and a raptor's talons curved from its human hands. The thing hadvampiric fangs, the haunches and hind legs of a dire wolf, and a wyvern'spoisoned tail. Plates of dragonlike armor-in Red Wizard crimson, ofcourse-covered its feminine torso. Only the eyes, the same hard green as hisown, had been left untouched. Those eyes settled upon the drow girl-the hunter whohad become prey-and they filled with a brand of malice that was only toofamiliar to Mulander. An involuntary shiver ran through the powerful wizardwho had summoned the monster, a response engraved upon his soul by his ownwretched, long-gone childhood.

The monster crouched. Its wolflike feet tamped down,and the muscles of its powerful haunch bunched in preparation for the spring.Mulander did not bother to dispel the magical shield. The monster retainedenough of a resemblance to his mother for him to enjoy its roar of pain as theforce field shattered upon impact.

Enjoyable, too, was the wide-eyed shock on the face ofthe young drow. She regained her composure with admirable speed and sent a pairof knives spinning into the monster's face. Mulander knew a moment's supremeelation when the blades sank into those too-familiar green eyes.

The monster shrieked with rage and anguish, raking itsface with owl-like talons in an effort to dislodge the knives. Long bloodyfurrows crisscrossed its face before the drow's knives finally clattered to thecave's floor. Blinded and enraged, the creature advanced toward the dark elfgirl, its dripping hands wildly groping the air.

The drow snatched a bola from her belt, whirled itbriefly, and let fly. The weapon spun toward the blinded creature, and wrappedtightly around its neck. Gurgling, the monster tore at the leather thongs. Asharp snap resounded through the cavern, quickly followed by a grating roar.Sniffing audibly as it sought its prey, Mulander's monster dived withoutstretched talons toward the drow girl.

But the drow rose into the air, as swift and asgraceful as a dark hummingbird, and the monster fell facedown upon the cavernfloor. It quickly rolled onto its back and leaped up onto its feet. Athunderous rush filled the cavern as its batlike wings began to beat. It roseslowly, awkwardly, and began to pursue the drow.

The young wizard tossed a giant web at the monster;the creature tore through it with ease. She bombarded it with a barrage ofdeath darts, but the weapons bounced harmlessly off the creature's plated body.

The drow summoned a bolt of glistening black lightningand hurled it like a javelin. To Mulander's dismay, the bolt slashed downwardthrough one leathery wing. Shrieking with rage, the monster traced a tightspiral to the cavern floor and landed with a stone-shaking crash.

No matter, the magical battle had taken its toll onthe drow maid as well. She sank slowly toward the cavern floor, and toward thejaws of the wounded but waiting monster.

Her golden eyes grew frantic and darted towardMulander's gloating face.

"Enough!" she shrieked. "I know whatyou need-dispel the creature, and I will give you what you want without furtherbattle. This I swear, by all that is dark and holy!"

A smile of malevolent satisfaction crossed the RedWizard's face. He trusted no oath from any drow, but he knew that her battlespells were nearly exhausted. Nor was he surprised that she had lost heart forthe battle. The girl was pathetically young-she looked to be about twelve orthirteen by the measure of humankind. Despite her fell heritage and magicalprowess, she was still a callow lass and thus no match for such as he.

"Toss the key to me," he told her.

"The monster," she pleaded.

Mulander hesitated, then shrugged. Even without themagical construct, he was more than the equal of that elf child. With a flickof one hand, he sent the monster back into whatever nightmares had spawned it.But with the other, he summoned a fireball large enough to hurl the drowagainst the far wall of the cavern and leave nothing of her but a grease spot.He saw by the fear in her eyes that she understood her position.

"Here-it's in here," the girl saidfrantically, reaching into a pouch at her waist and fumbling about.

Her efforts were hampered by her own fear. Her breathcame in exhausted little gasps and sobs, and her thin shoulders shook withterrified weeping. Finally she took out a tiny silken bag and held it high.

"The key is in here," she said. "Takeit, please, and let me go!"

The Red Wizard deftly caught the bag she tossed him,then shook a small glistening sphere into his palm. It was a protectivebubble-a bit of magic easily cast and easily dispelled-that contained adelicate vial of translucent green glass. And within that vial was the tinygolden key that promised freedom and power.

Had he glanced at the drow child, Mulander might havewondered why her eyes were dry despite her weeping, why she no longer seemedto have any difficulty maintaining her ability to levitate. Had he taken hisgaze from that longed-for key, he might have recognized the look of coldtriumph in her golden eyes. He had seen that expression once before, briefly,on the face of his own apprentice.

But pride had blinded him to treachery once before,and had lured him into a mistake that had condemned him to lifelong slavery.

When understanding finally came, Mulander knew thatthat mistake would truly be his last.

CHAPTER 7

Ritual

Liriel Baenre returned to Menzoberranzan after a meretwo days, battered and bereft of a bit of her abundant white hair, but grimlytriumphant. Or so everyone assumed. Not until the ceremony was she required togive formal proof of her kill.

All of House Shobalar gathered in the throne room ofMatron Hinkutes'nat for the coming-of-age ceremony. It was required, but mostcame anyway for the vicarious pleasure to be had in witnessing the grislyrelics, and to relive the pride and pleasure of their own first kills. Suchmoments reminded all present of what it meant to be drow.

At Narbondel, the darkest hour, Liriel stepped forwardto claim her place among her people. To Xandra Shobalar, her mistress andmentor, she was required to present the ritual proof.

For a long moment, Liriel held the older wizard'sgaze, staring into Xandra's crimson orbs with golden eyes that were cold andfathomless-full of unspoken power and deadly promise. That, too, was somethingshe had learned from her dreaded father.

When at last the older wizard's gaze faltered uncertainly,Liriel bowed deeply and reached into the bag at her waist. She took from it asmall green object and held it high for all to see. There were murmurs as someof the Shobalar wizards recognized the artifact for what it was.

"You surprise me, child," Xandra saidcoldly. "You who were anticipating a 'gallant hunt,' to trap and slay yourprey with such a device."

"A child no more," Liriel corrected her.

A strange smile crossed her face, and with a quick,vicious movement, she threw the vial to the floor.

The crystal shattered, a delicate, tinkling sound thatechoed long in the stunned silence that followed-for standing before theMistress of Magic, his green eyes glowing with malevolence, was the humanwizard. He was very much alive, and in one hand he held the golden collar thathad imprisoned him to Xandra's will.

With a speed that belied his years, the human conjureda crimson sphere of light and hurled it, not at Xandra, but at the dark elfmale who stood guard at the rear door. The hapless drow shattered into bloodyshards. Before anyone could draw breath, the bits of flesh whirled into the airand began to take on new and dreadful shapes.

For many moments, everyone in the throne room was busyindeed. The Shobalar wizards and priestesses hurled spells, and the fightersbattled with arrows and swords winged creatures given birth by their drowcomrade's death.

At last, there was only Xandra and the wizard, standingnearly toe to toe and blazing with eldritch light as their spells attacked andriposted with the speed and verve of a swordmasters' dual. Every eye in thethrone room, drow and slave alike, was fixed upon the deadly battle, and allwere lit with vicious excitement as they awaited the outcome.

Finally, one of the Red Wizard's spells slipped pastXandra's defenses. A daggerlike stab of light sliced the drow's face fromcheekbone to jaw. The flesh parted in a gaping wound, deep enough to reveal thebones beneath.

Xandra let out a wail that would have shamed a banshee,and with a speed that rivaled that of a weapons master's death blow, she lashedback. Pain, desperation, and wrath combined to fuel a blast of magic powerfulenough to send a thunderous, shuddering roar through the stone chamber.

The human caught the full force of the attack. Hissmoking body hurtled up and back like a loosed arrow. He hit the far wall nearthe ceiling and slid down, leaving a rapidly cooling streak on the stone. There was a holethe size of a dinner plate where his chest had been, and his sodden robes werea slightly brighter shade of crimson.

Xandra, too, crumpled, utterly exhausted by themomentous spell battle, and further weakened by the copious flow of bloodspilling from her torn face. Drow servants rushed to attend her, and her sistersgathered around to murmur spells of healing. Through it all, Liriel stoodbefore the matron's throne, her face set in a mask of faint, cynical amusement,and her eyes utterly cold.

When at last the Mistress of Magic had recoveredenough breath for speech, she hauled herself into a sitting position andleveled a shaking finger at the young wizard.

"How do you dare commit such an … anoutrage!" she sputtered. "The rite has been profaned!"

"Not so," Liriel said. "You stipulatedthat the wizard could be slain with any weapon of my choice. The weapon I chosewas you."

A second stunned silence descended upon the chamber.It was broken by a strange sound, one that no one there had ever heard beforeor had ever expected to hear:

Matron Mother Hinkutes'nat Alar Shobalar was laughing.

It was a rusty sound, to be sure, but there wasgenuine amusement in the matron's voice and in her crimson eyes.

"This defies all the laws and customs of.." Xandra began, but the matron mother cut her off with an imperious gesture.

"The rite of Blooding has been fulfilled,"Hinkutes'nat proclaimed, "for its purpose is to make a true drow of ayoungling dark elf. Evidence of a devious mind serves this purpose as well asbloody hands."

Ignoring her glowering daughter, the matron turned toLiriel and said, "Well done! By all the power of this throne and thisHouse, I proclaim you a true drow, a worthy daughter of Lolth! Leave yourchildhood behind, and rejoice in the dark powers that are our heritage and ourdelight."

Liriel accepted the ritual welcome-not with a deepbow, but with a slight incline of her head. She was a child no longer, and as anoble female of House Baenre, she was never to bow to a dark elf of lesser rankagain. Gromph had schooled her in such matters, drilling her until sheunderstood every shade and nuance of the complicated protocol. He had impressedupon her that the Blooding ceremony marked not only her departure fromchildhood, but her full acceptance into the Baenre clan. All that stood betweenher and both those honors were the ritual words of acceptance that she mustspeak.

But Liriel was not quite finished. Following animpulse that she only dimly understood, she crossed the dais to the place wherea defeated Xandra sat slumped, submitting glumly to the continuedministrations of the House Shobalar priestesses.

Liriel stooped so that she was at eye level with herformer mentor. Slowly she extended her hand and gently cupped the older drow'schin-a rare gesture that was occasionally used to comfort or caress a child,or, more often, to capture the child's attention before dictating terms. It wasunlikely that Xandra, in her pain-ridden state, would have consciously attachedthat meaning to her former student's gesture, but it was clear that she instinctivelygrasped the nuance. She flinched away from Liriel's touch, and her eyes werepure malevolence.

The girl merely smiled. Then, suddenly, she slid herpalm up along the jawline of Xandra's wounded cheek, gathering in her cuppedhand some of the blood that stained the wizard's face.

With a single, quick movement, Liriel rose to her feetand turned to face the watching matron mother. Deliberately she smearedXandra's blood over both hands, front and back, and she presented them toMatron Hinkutes'nat.

"The ritual is complete. I am a child no more,but a drow," Liriel proclaimed.

The silence that followed her words was long andimpending, for the implications of her action went far beyond the limits ofpropriety and precedence.

At last Matron Mother Hinkutes'nat inclined herhead-but not in the expected gesture of completion. The Shobalarmatriarch added the subtle nuance that transformed the regal gesture into thesalute exchanged between equals. It was a rare tribute, and rarer still was theamused understanding-and the genuine respect-in the spidery female's eyes.

All of which struck the young drow as highly ironic.Though it was clear that Hinkutes'nat applauded Liriel's gesture, she herselfwas not entirely certain why she had done what she did.

That question plagued Liriel throughout the celebrationthat traditionally followed the ceremony. The spectacle provided by herBlooding had been unusually satisfying to the attending drow, and the revelryit inspired was raucous and long. For once Liriel entered into festivities withless than her usual gusto, and she was not at all sorry when the last bellsignaled the end of the night.

CHAPTER 8

Her Father's Daughter

The summons from the Narbondellyn district came earlythe next day. Gromph Baenre sent word that Liriel's belongings were to bepacked up and sent after her.

The young drow received that information stoically. Intruth, Liriel did not regret her removal from House Shobalar. Perhaps she didnot understand the full meaning of her own Blooding ceremony, but she knewwith certainly that she could no longer remain in the same complex as XandraShobalar.

Liriel's reception at the archmage's mansion was aboutwhat she had expected. Servants met her and showed her to her apartment-a smallbut lavish suite that boasted a well-equipped library of spellbooks andscrolls. Apparently her father intended for her to continue her wizardlyeducation. But there was no sign of Gromph, and the best the servants could dofor Liriel was to assure her that the archmage would send for her when she waswanted.

And so it was that the newly initiated drow spent herfirst darkcycle alone, the first of what she suspected would be many to come.Liriel found the solitude painfully difficult, and the silent hours crept by.

After several futile attempts at study, the weary girlat last took to her bed. For hours she stared at the ceiling and longed for theoblivion of slumber. But her mind was too full, and her thoughts too confused,for sleep to find her.

Oddly enough, Liriel felt less triumphant than sheshould have. She was alive, she had passed the test of the Blooding, she hadrepaid Xandra's treachery with public humiliation, she had even devised a wayto keep from slaying the human wizard.

Why was it, then, that she felt his blood on her handsas surely as if she'd torn out his heart with her own fingernails? And whatwas that soul-deep sadness, that dark resignation? Though she had no name togive the emotion, Liriel suspected that it would ever after cast a shadow uponher blithe spirit.

The hours passed, and the distant tolling of Narbondelsignaled that the darkest hour was once again upon Menzoberranzan. It was thenthat the summons finally came. A servant bid Liriel to dress and await thearchmage in his study.

Liriel was less than anxious to face her drow sire.What would Gromph have to say about her unorthodox approach to the Bloodinghunt and ceremony? During her three days of preparation, the archmage hadrepeatedly expressed concern about her judgment and ambition, pronouncing hertoo trusting and carefree, and he had wondered at the strange bias of hercharacter. It seemed likely to her that he would not approve.

Liriel did as she was told and hastened to herfather's sanctum. She had not long to wait before Gromph appeared, stillwearing the wondrous, glittering piwafwi that held an arsenal of magicalweapons, and that proclaimed his power and his high office. The archmageacknowledged her presence with a curt nod and sat down behind his table.

"I have heard what transpired at yourceremony," he began.

"The ritual was fulfilled," Liriel saidearnestly-and a trifle defensively. "I might not have shed blood, but MatronHinkutes'nat accepted my efforts."

"More than accepted," the archmage saiddryly. "The Shobalar matron is quite impressed with you. And moreimportantly, so am I."

Liriel absorbed that in silence then, suddenly, sheblurted out, "Oh, but I wish I understood why!"

Gromph lifted one brow.

"You really must learn to speak with less thancomplete candor," he advised her. "But in this case, no harm isdone. Indeed, your words only confirm what I had suspected. You acted partlyby design, but partly by instinct. This is indeed gratifying."

"Then you're not angry?" Liriel ventured.When the archmage sent her an inquiring look, she added, "I thought youwould be furious upon hearing that I did not actually kill the human."

Gromph was silent a long moment then said, "Youdid something far more important. You fulfilled both the spirit and the letterof the Blooding ritual, in layers of subtle complexity that did credit to youand to your House. The human wizard is dead-that much was a needed formality.Using Xandra Shobalar as a tool was a clever twist, but washing your hands inher blood was brilliant."

"Thank you," Liriel said, in a tone soincongruously glum that it surprised a chuckle from the archmage.

"You still do not understand. Very well, I willspeak plainly. The human wizard was never your enemy. Xandra Shobalar was yourenemy. You recognized that, you turned her plot against her, and you proclaimeda blood victory. And in doing so, you demonstrated that you have learned whatit is to be a true drow."

"But I did not kill," Liriel saidthoughtfully. "Why do I feel as if I had?"

"You might not have actually shed blood, but theritual of the Blooding has done its intended work all the same," thearchmage asserted.

Liriel considered that, and she knew her father'swords as truth. Her innocence was gone, but pride, power, treachery, intrigue,survival, victory-all of those things she knew intimately and well.

"A true drow," she repeated in a tone thatwas nine parts triumph and one portion regret. She took a deep breath andlooked up into Gromph's eyes-and into a mirror.

For the briefest of moments, Liriel glimpsed a flickerof poignant sorrow in the archmage's eyes, like the glint of gold shiningthrough a deep layer of ice. It came and departed so quickly Liriel doubtedthat Gromph was even aware of it. After all, several centuries of cold andcalculating evil lay between him and his own rite of passage. If he rememberedthat emotion at all, he was no longer able to reach into his soul and bring itforth. Liriel understood, and at last she had a name to give the final, missingelement that defined a true drow:

Despair.

"Congratulations," the archmage said in avoice laced with unconscious irony.

"Thank you," his daughter responded in kind.

ELMINSTER AT THE MAGEFAIR

Ed Greenwood

What's more dangerous than a mage out to rule theentire world? Why, a mage at play, of course….

— The Simbul, Witch-Queen of Aglarond

WARNINGS

The Year of the Dark Dragon (1336 DR)

The rosy light of early morning had scarcelybrightened into the full radiance of day, but the bard and her gaunt companionhad already been in the saddle for some time.

Storm Silverhand, the Bard of Shadowdale, was anadventurer of wide experience and fame. She was also a senior and respectedmember of the Harpers, that mysterious band always working for the good of theworld. A veteran of many perilous forays, always alert, she watched hersurroundings constantly as she traveled, hand never far from the hilt of hersword. Its blade had run with blood more than once already on that journey. Asshe rode, Storm sang softly to herself. She was happy to be in the saddleagain-even on a ride into known danger.

For two tendays she had ridden beside a white-hairedman as tall as herself, but thinner.

The man was aged and a clumsy rider. He wore simple,much-patched robes covered with old food stains, and trailed sweet-smellingpipe smoke wherever he went.

Though he didn't look it, the old man was an adventurereven more famous than Storm: the Old Mage, Elminster of Shadowdale. More thanfive hundred winters had painted his long beard white. His twinkling blue eyeshad seen empires rise and fall, and spied worlds beyond Toril, vast andstrange. He knew more secrets than most wizards-and simpler, more honest men,too-might ever suspect to exist. The years had sharpened Elminster's temper andhis tongue, and built his magic to a height that most mages could only dreamof.

The great wizard wore old, floppy leather boots, and,most of the time, an irritated expression. At night, on the far side of thefire, he snored like a crawhorn in torment-but he knew it and used magic tomute the noise for the sake of his friend and trail mate. Storm loved himdearly, snores and all, even if he tended to treat her like a little girl.

Despite their friendship, it was unusual for Storm tobe riding at the Old Mage's side. When Elminster left Shadowdale on prolongedtrips, it was his habit to trust the defense of the dale to the bard. Thistime, just before the mage's departure, a Harper agent had brought a requestfrom one of Storm's sisters: would she please guard Elminster when he went tothe magefair?

In all her years of adventuring, Storm had never heardof a magefair, but the very name sounded ominous. She had been surprised at theeasy good humor with which the Old Mage had accepted her announcement that thattime, when he left home, she'd be riding with him. In fact, she suspected he'dused horses for the trek, rather than whisking himself across Faerûn in a triceby magic, just to prolong their time together.

Every night Elminster settled himself and his pipedown beside their fire to listen to her pluck a harp and sing old ballads. Inreturn, when she lay down under the watching, glittering stars, he'd softlytell tales of old Faerûn until sleep claimed her. After years of riding the wastes withhearty, hardened warriors, Storm was astonished at how much she'd enjoyed hertrip with the odd mage.

But it seemed they had reached their destination,though it was nothing at all like the bard had imagined.

"Why here?" Storm Silverhand asked withtolerant good humor as she reined in beside Elminster on a ridge far fromShadowdale. The bright morning sun cast long shadows from the stunted trees andbrush around them. As far as the eye could see, rolling wilderness stretchedout, untouched by the hands of man. "We must be halfway to Kara-Tur bynow."

The Old Mage scratched his nose.

"Farther," he replied with seeminginnocence, "and 'here' because one we seek is close at hand."

As he spoke, a man appeared out of thin air, floatingin front of them. The horses snorted and shifted in surprise. Elminsterfrowned.

The man stood on nothing, booted feet far above theground. Midnight eyes glowered down out of a thin, cruel white face. He toweredimpressively over them, clad in a dark and splendid tabard adorned with glowingmystic signs and topped with an up-thrust high collar. A carved, gem-adornedstaff winked and pulsed in one of his many-ringed hands.

"Challenge!" he addressed them with cold,formal dignity, raising his empty hand in a gesture that barred the way."Speak, or pass not!"

"Elminster of Shadowdale," the Old Magereplied mildly, "and guest."

The man's eyes narrowed, and he said even more coldly,"Prove yourself."

"Ye doubt me?" Elminster asked slowly."Why, Dhaerivus, I recall thy first magefair!" He nodded inreflection and added dryly, "Ye made a most fetching toad."

Dhaerivus flushed.

"You know the rule," he said harshly, wavingthe staff.

Lights began to race along its length, brightening thecrystal sphere that topped it. With slow menace, the floating manbrought that glowing end down to point at the Old Mage.

"Aye," Elminster replied. He wagged a fingerback and forth and announced lightly, "Nicely!"

The staff that menaced them snapped back upright,forced away by the power of Elminster's sorcery. The sentinel who held itgaped at them in astonishment and fear before the muscles of his face rippledand lost their struggle against another dose of the Old Mage's spell-casting.

The magic made Dhaerivus giggle involuntarily for afew moments, then released him. His grin turned rapidly into a scowl of darkanger.

Elminster took no notice. "There ye go," hesaid jovially to the shaken sentinel as he urged his mount onward. "Happymagic!"

Storm looked back at the furious man as they toppedthe next ridge. The staff was flashing and flickering like a lightning storm atsea, and the sentinel was snarling and stamping angrily on the empty air.

Storm glanced at Elminster and asked wonderingly,"You cast a cantrip? Making him giggle is 'proving yourself'?"

Elminster nodded and said, "A wizard must proveto a magefair sentinel only that he can work magic. Er, to keep the rabbleout."

He rolled his eyes to show what he thought of thatattitude and calmly urged his horse down through a tumble of boulders and longgrass.

"Guests like thee are exempt from the testing,but each mage is limited to only one such compatriot. No mage can avoid thetest and be allowed into the fair. Generally, young bucks cast powerfulexplosions and the like, or exquisite and-ahem-voluptuous illusions, butin this case I, ah, well, ah … meant it as an insult."

Storm wrinkled her brow. "I see," sheobserved carefully, "that I'm going to have to be very careful at thisfair."

Elminster waved a hand and replied, "Ah, nay,nay. I must merely get a certain magical key from someone who isn't expected tobe insane enough to bring it here-or to have anything at all to do with it-andhave a bit of fun. Certain Harpers asked me to come here to protect this friendI must meet. No doubt ye were asked to come along too-to keep a certain OldMage out of trouble."

He favored her with a level look. Storm smiled andnodded ruefully.

The Old Mage chuckled, "These magefairs areprivate little gatherings. I haven't been to one in years, and we're far enoughfrom home that my face won't be well known. Certain rules govern those whoattend, rules meant to keep things from sinking into a general spell-brawl, butye'd do well to keep in mind that most everyone here can wield magic-quitewell. Walk softly. Drink things that are offered to ye only if I am present anddeem it wise. Draw thy magical blade only if ye must. Some come here to gainnew spells, but most come to show off what they can do, like children at play.Cruel, over-powerful children, a lot of them."

He scratched at his beard and looked thoughtful.

"As to those who work against us," he added,"the names and faces of their servants at the magefair are unknown tome." He grinned suddenly. "Suspect everyone, as usual, and ye shoulddo all right."

"What is this key we seek?" Storm asked,"and why is it so valuable?"

Elminster shrugged and said, "It's precious onlybecause of what it opens. Its form and purpose ye'll learn soon enough-which isanother way of saying I scarce remember what it looks like and haven't thefaintest idea why, after so many years, its importance has risen so suddenlyand sharply." He cast a dry look at her and added, "Mysterious enoughfor ye?"

Storm replied with a look that had, over the years,plunged more than one man into icy fear.

Unperturbed, the Old Mage smiled at her as they rodeup the heather-clad slope of another ridge.

"Sorry, my dear, but I got quite a lecture lasttime-from thee, as I recall-on speaking freely about all sorts of littledetails that should be kept secret in matters like this, so I'm flapping myjaws as little as I can this time around and acting as if only I know the great secretupon which the safety of the entire world rests-oh, there I go. Ye see, I justcan't help myself. 'Tis so hard to do all this intrigue and world-saving withgrim and solemn seriousness when ye've done it so often down the centuries.Now, where was I? Ah, yes …"

There were worse fates, Storm reminded herself with aninward smile, than traveling across half of Faerûn with Elminster. To buoy herspirits, she spent some time trying to remember what some of them were.

That dark reverie took them across several scrub-coveredridges, to the lip of a deep, bowl-shaped valley. A narrow trail wound downinto it from somewhere on their right, crossing in front of them to enter agrove of trees. The trees hid the rest of the valley from the two riders.

It was then that a man in rich purple robes sailedinto view. Floated would be a more accurate term, since he perched serenely ona carpet that undulated through the air like an eager snake, following thenarrow trail far below. And as the bard and wizard watched, the man on the flyingcarpet sailed into the trees. Their leaves promptly changed color from theirformer green to a bright coppery hue, and several voices could be heard, raisedin cries of praise of the new arrival.

They had obviously reached the magefair.

Far off, on the heights that rose on the other side ofthe still unseen valley, Storm saw balls of fire bursting in the air.

Elminster followed the direction of her stare andsaid, "Ah, yes-the fireball throwing contest, d'ye see? Magelings get allexcited about it. . something about impressing their peers. No doubt we'llend up there all too soon. They're allowed to challenge us olderdweomer-crafters, ye see, to prove their manly mettles by beating feebledodderers. Er, womanly mettles too, mark ye, though many maids have senseenough to avoid such vulgar displays of power."

Storm raised an eyebrow and asked, "How does onefireball impress more than another? As the saying goes, aren't all that hit youthe same?"

The Old Mage shook his head patiently.

"If a few words of the incantation arechanged," he explained, "the spell becomes more difficult to cast andthe size and force of its blast mirrors the power and experience of the onethrowing it. One wizard can boast that his is bigger than that of the nextwizard, y'see. An archmage's firesphere can be quite impressive."

He paused meaningfully, then added, "I mean toget in and get out of the fair, mind ye, with a minimum of dallying. Tossingfire about is more a sport for the green and foolish. Try not to seek outtrouble by challenging anyone. Stay close and speak not. It's safer."

And with these melodramatic words the Old Mage kickedhis heels and sent his horse galloping down the steep track in reckless haste,raising dust. At the bottom, Elminster plunged his mount into a crowd oflaughing, chatting mages. Storm, close on his heels, had time for one starebefore she entered the assembled mages.

The gorge was full of folk standing shoulder toshoulder. Their robes formed a moving sea of wild colors, and the chatter wasnearly deafening. There were men and women of all shapes, ages, and sizes-and afew whose gender the bard wasn't sure of. Traditional dark, flowing,wide-sleeved robes were amply in evidence, but most of the mages wore stranger,more colorful garments. Storm, who had seen much in the way of garb over manyyears of wandering, stared in wonder. It is widely held in Faerûn-amongnon-mages, at least-that those who work Art are all, in varying degrees, crazy.In eccentricity of dress, Storm saw, that was certainly correct.

All manner of strange headpieces and body adornmentsbristled and sprouted around her, shimmering and sparkling and in some casesshifting shape in fluid movements. One lady mage wore nothing but a gigantic,many-feathered snake, which moved its slow coils continuously around her lithebody. A man nearby seemed clad only in dancing flames. The wizard he wasspeaking to wore a shifting, phosphorescent fungus, out of which grew smallleafy ferns and thistles. Next to them stood a half-elf maiden clad in aflowing gown of gleaming, soft-polished gems strung upon many silken threads.She was arguing with a long-haired dwarf wearing furs and leather upon which apair of insect-eating lizards crawled ceaselessly, long tongues darting. Asnatch of their conversation came to Storm's ears:

"Well, what did the Thayan do then?"

"Blew up the entire castle, of course. Whatelse?" Other voices crowded in, drowning out the previous speakers.

"What was that? Purple zombies? Why purple?"

"She was bored, I guess. You should have seen theprince's face the next morning. She made a dozen tiny red hands appear out ofthin air and pinch him in all the places he had pinched her … in front of allthe court, too!"

Elminster was riding steadily through the throng. Heseemed to know where he was going. Storm followed, past a man who was balancinga full bottle of something dark and red on his large nose and protesting inmuffled tones to those watching that he wasn't using any magic to help him. Shelooked away just before the bottle toppled and spilled all over him, but couldnot resist looking back at the damp result. She was careful not to smile.

"How many times must I tell thee? First you kiss,then cast the spell-or it stays a frog forever!"

Storm shook her head, trying to concentrate on Elminsterand ignore such talk. A terrific din of conversation, strange music, humming,and weird little popping noises raged over the crowd. Wizards gestured toimpress those they were speaking with, and varicolored smokes and many-huedglobes of radiance obediently bobbed or writhed in the air over their heads.Enspelled birds sang complicated melodies, and some flew graceful aerial ballets.Storm peered this way and that, trying to see everything, watching for danger.

Everywhere folk stood talking, arguing, laughing, ordickering, with goblets and flagons of varying sizes and contents in theirhands, or floating handily in midair at their elbows. Some sort of rule, Stormguessed, kept the mages themselves from flying, floating, or teleporting about. Mostlythey just stood in groups, talking. Storm threaded her mount carefully amongthem. Three olive-hued tentacles slid out from under a mage's hood as shepassed. Small, glittering eyes opened at their ends, surveyed her, and winked.She tried not to show her involuntary shudder as she rode on, past a man withbright green hair and beard who was juggling a ring of hand-sized balls of firein the air. The lady mage he was trying to impress was in the act of stifling ayawn.

The next group was made up of old and wrinkled croneswith cold dark eyes and sinister-looking black robes. They were chuckling andswigging beer from clear glass tankards that didn't seem to empty.

"First babe I ever saw that was born withwings," one was saying delightedly. "Flew around the nursery, giggling,the little scamp. Well, the king nearly swallowed his crown, I tell thee!"

Storm left the women behind, riding across a littleopen space where rising smoke and ashes suggested someone had experienced awarm and possibly fatal accident very recently. Beyond it, she plunged intothe chatter once again.

"You must understand, old friend, that taking theshape of a dragon is an experience that changes one forever-forever, I tell you!"

A mage in florid pink and purple, lace at his wristsand throat, was underscoring that point by flicking a long, forked tongue atthe mage he was speaking to-a wizardess with white, furry hair running downher arms and the backs of her hands. Her skin was a deeper purple than the garbof the wizard speaking to her. Her reply to his claims about dragonshaping wasan eloquent snort.

Then Storm was threading her way past six enchantinglybeautiful half-elf sorceresses, whose heads were bent together in low-voicedintrigue. One looked up alertly, only to relax and give the bard a relievedsmile. The others, intent on deal-making, never saw her.

"Well, just change the name and the way you castit, and he'll never know. I mean, anyone could have come up with a spell likethat. Teach it to me, and I'll not tell where I got it. In return, I'll showyou that trick of Tlaerune's, the one that makes men swoon and-"

Shaking her head, Storm hurried on through the magicalbedlam, trying to catch up with the Old Mage. Where had he gone? She looked upand down the crowded gorge-there were hundreds of mages there! Yet, thanks toher keen eyes, she managed to find Elminster again. The Old Mage continued tocut through the gathered wizards without slowing or dismounting-until he cameto a tree-shaded corner on the far, rocky wall of the gorge. There, in thedappled gloom, a short, stunningly beautiful lady mage was talking with five orsix obviously smitten men of the Art.

Storm saw laughing black eyes, flowing black hair, anda gown whose scanty front seemed to be made of glowing, always-shiftingflowers.

Then the Old Mage vaulted, or rather fell, straightfrom his horse into the arms of the lady, with the words, "Duara! My dear!Years have passed! Simply years!"

Dark eyes sparkled up into his, and the Old Mage'seffusive greetings were temporarily stilled by a deep kiss. Slim hands wentaround his neck, stroked his tangle of white hair, and moved downward, in atight, passionate embrace.

After Elminster's glad greetings and the long kiss,Storm heard a low, purring voice replying enthusiastically. On the faces ofthe men around she saw astonishment, then anger, resignation, or disgust, andfinally resigned disinterest. Storm also noticed Duara's fingers at the mage'sbelt, moving nimbly.

Other eyes had seen it, too-particularly those of atall, hook-nosed man in a dark green velvet doublet with slashed and puffedsleeves. He'd been watching the Old Mage's affectionate greeting closely, hisexpression hidden by the smoke from his long, slim clay pipe.

When Elminster finally bid the smiling beauty a noisy adieu,the hook-nosed wizard let his pipe float by itself as he strode forward,gesturing wordlessly. In response, Elminster's pouch levitated upward andopened in midair. Silence fell among the mages standing near. It was obvious bytheir expressions that the green-clad wizard's spellwork was a serious breachof etiquette.

Storm half drew her sword, but Elminster's bony handstayed her firmly.

In merry tones, he asked, "Lost thy magic,colleague? Want to borrow a cup of this or that?"

The wizard in green looked narrowly at him and at thelone item the pouch held: a twig. "Where is it, old man?"

"The powerful magic ye seek? Why, in here,"replied Elminster, tapping his own head with one finger. Unsettled, Stormpeered at him; his voice seemed thicker than usual, but his eyes were as brightas ever. "But ye can't get it with a simple snatching spell cast in amoment, ye know. Years of study, it took me, to master even-"

The green wizard gestured curtly. The twig flew towardhis open, waiting hand. Before it got there, Elminster snapped his fingers andwiggled his eyebrows. As a result, the twig shot upward, curved in a smootharc, and darted back toward the Old Mage.

The wizard in green frowned and gestured again. Thetwig slowed abruptly, but continued to drift toward the smiling face ofElminster. The wizard's hands moved again, almost frantically, but the twig'sflight-and Elminster's gentle smile-held steady as the wood settled into theOld Mage's hand.

Elminster bowed to the white-faced, shaking wizard.

Pleasantly, the Old Mage said, "But if it's thismagical staff ye want-" the twig instantly became a grand-looking,ten-foot-long, smooth black staff with brass ends wrought in coiling-snakedesigns-"by all means have it."

And the staff flew gently across empty air to theastonished man's hands.

"But. . your staff?" Storm asked inwonder as she watched the sweating, dumbfounded wizard in green catch the staffnot four paces away. "How will you replace it?"

"Cut myself another one," the Old Magereplied serenely. "They grow on trees."

Clutching the staff and eyeing Elminster anxiously,the velvet-clad wizard reclaimed his pipe, muttered something, andrapidly gestured. Abruptly, he was gone, staff and all, as though he had neverbeen there at all.

Elminster shook his head disapprovingly.

"Bad manners," he said severely. "Very.Teleporting at the magefair! It just wasn't done in my day, let me tellye-"

"When was that, old man? Before the founding ofWaterdeep, I'll warrant," sneered a darkly handsome young man who stoodnearby.

Storm turned in her saddle.

The speaker was richly dressed in fur-trimmed silks.His black-browed, pinched face was always sneering, it seemed. Storm recognizedhim as one of the wizards who'd been speaking with Duara when Elminsterarrived.

His voice and manner radiated cold, scornful power ashe curled back his lip a little farther and said, "By the way, graybeard,you may call me 'Master.'"

Gripping his own staff-one made of shining red metal,twelve feet long and adorned with ornaments of gold-the dark-browed magereached for the reins of the Old Mage's riderless horse.

Storm kicked out at his hand from her saddle. The toeof her boot stung his fingers and smashed them away from Elminster's mount. Thehandsome mage turned on her angrily-to find a gleaming sword tip inches fromhis nose.

"Heh, heh," chuckled Elminster in thick,rich tones. "Not learned to leave the ladies alone yet, YoungMaster?"

The mage flushed red to the roots of his hair andwhirled away from Storm's blade to face the old man again.

"Why, no, grandsire," he said sarcastically."Though it's obvious you've been without one for many a year!"

The loud insult brought a few snickers from theyounger mages standing near, mingled with gasps and whistles of shockedamazement from older wizards who evidently knew Elminster. The murmuringintensified as some mages shoved closer to watch the coming confrontation,while others suddenly recalled pressing business elsewhere and slipped away toa safe distance.

Elminster yawned.

"Put away thy blade," he said softly toStorm. Then he said more loudly and almost merrily, "It appears boastfulstriplings still come to magefairs for no greater purpose than to insult theirbetters."

The Old Mage sighed theatrically and went on, "Isuppose, cockerel, that now ye've picked a quarrel and will challenge me, eh?Nay, nay, that's not fair. After all, I've the wisdom of ages with which tomake the right choices, whereas ye have only the hot vigor of youth … um,pretty phrase, that… so I'll even thy odds a trifle: I'll challenge thee!Fireball-throwing, hey? What say ye?"

A cheer arose.

The red-faced mage waited for it to die, then saidscornfully, "A sport for children and, I suppose, old lack-wits."

Elminster smiled, very like a cat gloating over corneredprey, and said, "Perhaps. On the other hand, perhaps ye are frightened oflosing?"

The mage's face grew redder still. He cast a lookaround at the interested, watching faces, and snapped, "I accept."Then he struck an ostentatious pose and vanished.

An instant later, amid a puff of scarlet smoke, hereappeared on the edge of the gorge and made an insulting gesture at the OldMage from afar. Elminster chuckled, waved a lazy hand in reply, and climbedclumsily back up onto his long-suffering horse. Storm saw him salute Duara witha wink. Then Duara's eyes met her own, and Storm could read the silent plea inthem as clearly as if the young sorceress had shouted it in her ear: Lookafter him, lady-please.

By the time they had ridden up out of the valley tothe meadows beyond, many wizards had gathered to watch. Haughty young sorcerershad been hurling fire about all day, but the expectant silence hanging over thescene seemed to indicate that the mage with the red staff had won a reputationat the fair, or many elders remembered Elminster, or perhaps even both.

With more haste than grace, Elminster fell from his saddle.He hit the ground at a stumbling run, staggered to a halt, and dusted himselfoff.

Then he saw his waiting opponent and, with obviouspleasant surprise, said, "Well… lead off, boy!"

"One side, old man," said the young magedarkly, waving his staff. "Or have you no fear of dying in a ball offlame?"

Elminster stroked his beard.

"Yes, yes," he said eagerly, his mindseemingly far away. "Well do I remember! Oho, those were the days … greatbursts of fire in the sky…."

The young mage pushed past him.

"Now, how did that one go, eh? Oh, my, yes, Ithink I recall…." Elminster burbled on, voice thick and eyes far away.

Contemptuously the young mage set his staff in thecrook of his arm, muttered his incantation in low tones so the Old Mage couldnot hear, and moved his hands in the deftly gliding gestures of the spell. Aninstant later, above the grassy meadow, fire grew from nothingness into a greatred-violet sphere. It seethed and roiled, rolled over once, and burst in orangeruin over the meadow, raining down small teardrops of flame onto the grass.Heat smote the watchers' faces, and the ground rocked briefly.

As the roaring died away, the quavering voice of theOld Mage could still be heard, murmuring about the triumphs of yesteryear.

He broke off his chatter for a moment to say mildly,"Dear me, that's a gentle one. Can't ye do better than that?"

The young mage sneered, "I suppose you can?"

Elminster nodded calmly and replied, "Oh, yes."

"Would it be possible to see thee perform thisawesome feat?" the mage inquired with acidic courtliness, his voice amocking, over-pompous parody of Elminster's own thickened tones.

The Old Mage blinked.

"Young man," Elminster said disapprovingly,"the great mastery of magic lies in knowing when not to use the power, else allthese lands would long ago have become a smoking ruin."

The young mage sneered again and said, "So youwon't perform such a trifling spell for us, O mightiest of mages? Is that theway of it?"

"No, no," Elminster said with a sigh."We did agree, and ye have done thy little bit, so I-" he sighedagain-"shall do mine."

He gestured vaguely, then paused and harrumphed.

"Ah, now," the Old Mage said, "how doesthe rhyme go?"

There were a few titters from the watching crowd as hescratched his beard and looked around with a puzzled air. The young magesneered at his back, and turned to favor Storm with the same disdain. The bard,who stood close by, hand on the hilt of her sword, met his gaze with a wintrylook of her own.

Elminster suddenly drew himself up and shouted:

"By tongue of bat and sulfur's reek,

"And mystic words I now do speak,

"There, where I wish to play my game,

"Let empty air burst into flame!"

In answer, the very air seemed to shatter with anear-splitting shriek. A gigantic ball of flame towered over the meadow, itsheat blistering the watchers' faces.

It was like the sun had fallen.

As mages cried out and shaded their eyes, the fireballrolled away from the awed crowd for a trembling instant, then burst in ablinding white flash, hurling out its mighty energies in a long jet of flamethat roared away to the horizon. The ground shook and seemed to leap upward,throwing all but the Old Mage to their knees.

When the shaking had died away, Storm found herselflying beside the horses on the turf. By the time she had struggled to her feetand shaken her head clear, the roiling smoke had died away and everyone couldsee what Elminster's magic had wrought in the meadow. Or rather, what had beenthe meadow. Where a broad expanse of flame-scorched grass had stretched amoment before, a smoking crater yawned, large and deep and very impressive.

"Umm … nice, isn't it?" Elminster saidrather vaguely. "I'd forgotten how much fun hurling fire is! How does thespell go again?"

The Old Mage merely waved a finger.

His young opponent, clinging to a red metal staff thathad been bent in six places, was just getting to his knees when another ball offlame as big as the first roared over the meadow. That was enough to send himtumbling again, and the young mage soon found himself atop a dazed and rotundCalishite sorcerer. When he could see clearly again, the mage saw a secondcrater smoking in the distance. Awed murmuring could be heard from the watchingwizards all around.

"Now," Elminster said mildly, drawing thestunned young mage to his feet with a firm hand, "was there aught else yewanted to speak of? Sendings and such, or prismatic spheres-pretty, aren'tthey? I've always enjoyed them. Or crafting artifacts, say? No? Ah, wellthen… fare thee well in thy Art, Young Master of the Cutting Tongue, andlearn a trifle more wisdom, too, if ye've the wits to do so. Until next wemeet."

Elminster patted the young mage's arm cheerily,snapped his fingers, and vanished. A moment later he reappeared beside ananxious Storm.

"Mount up," he said cheerily. "We'verealms to cross tonight."

"Realms?" asked Storm. As they rode up theridge and left the magefair behind, she did not look back. "I thought youhad to get a key-or was it the twig? Did that mage take the key from you?"

"Oh, no," replied Elminster merrily.

He rode close and touched her forearm. Abruptly thelandscape was gone, replaced momentarily by shifting, shadowy grayness. Thetravelers seemed to be standing on nothing, but the horses trotted as if it wassolid ground. Even before Storm could gasp a breath, there was another jolt,and they were somewhere else again-a place of darkness where rocks of all sizescrashed together endlessly, tumbling and rebounding as they hurtled throughthe emptiness. There was a constant thunderof stone smashing into stone, the scenelit by flashes of phosphorescence from each violent impact.

Storm took one look at the scene and tore her weathercloakfrom behind her saddle, flinging it over the head of her mount to prevent itsrearing and plunging forward off the rather small area of rock they'd appearedon. The Old Mage's mount stood calm, controlled by his magic, no doubt.

Storm stared around at the endless destruction andfound herself ducking low as a large, jagged boulder thundered toward them. Itwas easily as large as four horses and tumbled end over end as it came at them.

Elminster gestured, unconcerned, and the boulderveered off to strike another, larger rock nearby. A deafening crash filled theair, and a shower of stone chips rained down upon the bard. Storm shook herhead. Whatever the place was, they were no longer in Faerûn.

"The green-clad dolt thought he had taken ourprize," the Old Mage continued casually. "He suspected Duara mightpass me the key, but he's found by now that his mighty staff is indeed just atwig. Now he'll have to go on watching her for the rest of the magefair, tryingto see if she passes the key on to someone else. And for all he knows, anyonemight be me, just wearing another shape. Duara'll lead him a merry dance. Shelikes hugging young men, and all that." He chuckled. "Shining schemesoft come to naught, ye know."

Boulders rolled and crashed right in front of them.Storm bit her lip to quell an involuntary shriek, shielded her eyes againstflying stone shards, and asked, "Duara? You got the key from her, didn'tyou? I saw her hands at your belt."

Elminster nodded and replied, "Aye, she gave itto me. All three of our foes at the fair saw it, too: the two who challengedme, and one who did not dare come forward."

He fended off six small stones hurtling toward themand continued, "The third mage was there only to watch what transpired, nodoubt, and report where we went. I used magic to blind him-and the young masterof fire-hurling, too-under cover of my firesphere blast. They're bothfortunate magefair rules prohibit spells that enfeeble the wits, or they'd bestaring at nothing for a long time, indeed. The blindness will wear off soonenough, but they'll find us safely gone, and the key with us."

"What-and where-is this key?" Storm askedpatiently, reaching into a saddlebag for some cheese. "Why did they notknow where you'd hidden it?"

"They saw, but they did not see," the OldMage replied, using magic to float the cheese she held out deftly to his mouth."They knew not that Duara and I were old friends-or how quick her witsare."

He reached into his mouth and drew out a small spindleof metal set with a large emerald.

"The key," he said grandly, his voicesuddenly its usual clear-edged, fussy self again. "It's been in theresince Duara first kissed me." He licked his lips and added, "Shestill likes almonds."

The waiting cheese slid into his mouth. He chewed,made an approving face, and took Storm's hand. Around them, at his will, theworld shifted again.

In the blink of an eye, the darkness and crashingrocks were gone. Their horses stood on a crumbling stone bridge in the midst ofa fetid swamp, ringed by vine-hung trees. Slimy stone statues protruded fromthe still, black waters on all sides. Storm could see they perched on a raisedavenue, part of an ancient city that lay drowned in the mire around them.

As Storm glanced behind her, several glistening blacktentacles rose lazily from the inky waters and rolled in languid curls acrossthe stone span. After the questing limbs bobbed and swayed-almost as if theysniffed the air-they slid slowly into the water again.

The bard pointed to a trail of ripples, which seemedto mark the path of something large moving toward them just under the water'ssurface. Elminster nodded, smiled, and waved a hand casually-and they weresomewhere else again. The horses were on an old, sunken road in the heart of adark forest.

Storm sighed.

"The Harpers wanted me to protect you?" she began to ask.

But when she spied the dull glint of many eyes watchingthem from dim, shadowed places under the trees, Storm reached for her sword.

Elminster grunted and pitched himself heavily from hissaddle. Then he reached up and laid gentle fingers on the wrist of her swordarm.

"Nay," he said softly," 'Tis morelikely, far, they wanted ye to protect others from me."

Storm rolled her eyes. Smoothly she swung herself downfrom her saddle.

"I shouldn't be here," she said. "Keyor no key. This hopping from place to place, world to world, is neither safenor wise."

Elminster grinned and said, "And coming to themagefair with me was? I've taken us this way home, jumping so often, to givethe slip to any mages who might have followed us. Few have the breadth of mindto shift from one world to another as often as we have." The Old Magepatted her arm. "Thanks for thy patience, lass. 'Tis not long now beforewe'll be at ease, and ye can chat with a good friend."

As Elminster led the way on foot down an uneven paththrough the trees, bright morning dawned upon the old, unfamiliar forest. Therosy light seemed to make the Old Mage recall something. He turned and gesturedbehind them. Storm looked back in time to see their horses vanish. She lookedat Elminster. He answered her wordless question only with a merry grin andheaded back down the path again.

Holding her tongue, Storm followed. And she drew hersword, despite the Old Mage's words; knowing Elminster, his 'friend' could be ablue dragon-or worse.

The path led between two old, moss-covered stones. Asthey drew near, Elminster reached back and took Storm's hand. They steppedbetween the stones together, and the bard felt an odd, tingling chill.

They were somewhere else again. Somewhere familiar.Storm knew almost at once that she was in Shadowdale.

Elminster let go of her hand and strode away, reachinginto his robes for his pipe. Storm stood staring after him for a moment. Then,in two quick strides, she caught up to him. Setting a firm hand on hisshoulder, the bard spun Elminster around.

"Not a step farther," she warned. "Notuntil you tell me just what's going on. Where are our horses? Why'd we have toride across half of Faerûn for the key, anyway? Can't this Duara teleport? Andwh-"

Elminster laid a finger over her mouth and said,"The need for haste is past. I doubt anyone could have followed us throughall the places I took us-not yet. Our mounts have preceded us to the Twisted Tower's stables. Come to my home. There ye'll meet a friend to us both: Lhaeo."

The Old Mage lit his pipe and said not a word moreuntil they were strolling up the flagstone path to the door of his ramshacklestone tower.

It opened at his approach, and he turned and said,"Put away thy blade, Storm, and be welcome."

As they went in, his scribe Lhaeo called from thekitchen, "Tea shortly, Old One!"

"For Storm, too," Elminster said softly.

By some trick of magic, Lhaeo heard his master andcalled out, "Welcome, Lady Bard!"

"Hello, Lhaeo," Storm replied, looking atthe Old Mage with amusement.

Elminster was calmly shoving piles of papers onto thefloor, emptying a chair for her to sit in. Dust curled up in thick tendrils.Muttering, he gestured, and it was gone.

"A mite dark in here for me to see beautiful ladyguests," the Old Mage murmured, then reached out to touch a brass brazier.

He made a popping sound, and flames flared up, castinga warm, dancing glow on the chair. Elminster gestured with courtly grace,indicating that Storm should sit down. The bard stared at the brazier inpuzzlement.

"How does it burn," she asked, "withoutany fuel?"

"Magic, of course."

Elminster turned away, raising yet another dust cloudon his foray through more piles of parchment.

"Of course." Storm reached out and tappedhis shoulder, "Elminster," she said coldly, "talk."

Her tone held the sudden ring of steel.

The Old Mage seated himself calmly on thin air, puffedon his pipe, and grinned at her through the rising smoke.

"Ye deserve to know, lass. Right, then, Duara wasbriefly an apprentice of mine. She dwells in Telflamm these days, and joinedthe Harpers a summer back." He puffed his pipe, and a blue-green smokering rose slowly up into the low-ceilinged gloom overhead. "She can't usea teleport spell because she hasn't the power yet. Like all young, overeagermages, she took to adventuring to gain magic quickly-and unlike most magelings,came across a dragon's hoard."

Another smoke ring rose up from the pipe. The Old Magewatched its drifting journey, nodded approvingly, and went on.

"Er, the hoard had a dragon attached to it, ofcourse, but that's another tale. Among the baubles, she found my key, so shesent word to me by caravan letter that she had it and would bring it to themagefair if I was interested."

"Who are your mysterious foes, then? How did youlose the key?" Storm asked. "And why was Duara so dim as to send openword to you?"

Elminster shrugged and replied, "She'd no ideaanyone save me would be interested in the key-or even know what her letter wasabout. When I got her note, I used magic to farspeak with her, telling her I'dbe coming to the fair. She told me that since sending the letter, she'd beenattacked several times, twice found her tower ransacked, and even beenthreatened one night in her bedchamber by a mysterious whispering voicedemanding the key."

Storm rolled her eyes. "So what is thiskey?"

"The key to this closet, of course,"Elminster said calmly, reaching out a long arm into the dusty gloom behind him.

The key gleamed in his hand as it slipped through aslyly smiling dragon head carved into the wall. Lines appeared in the stonearound the small carving, outlining a door. It began to swing open by itself.

Elminster pulled the key out and waved it at her.

"This was stolen from me by an unscrupulous man,long ago, who was-very briefly, mind ye-my apprentice. He was an ambitiousCalishite, I recall, named Raerlin. I suppose he ended up in the jaws ofDuara's dragon."

"Well, what do you keep in there, that mageschase after the key?" Storm asked, looking at the closet's dusty door.

"Old spellbooks, picked up over the years whilewandering the world," Elminster replied as the door swung wide.

Storm saw an untidy pile of thick, moldering tomes.

Eerie green and white light flashed suddenly frombehind her. As it lit up the Old Mage's face, Storm saw his look of surpriseand whirled around, upsetting her chair.

The eerie light came from a flickering oval of flame.It hung upright in the air, in the middle of the tiny, cramped room. Itspresence defied the mighty magic that guarded Elminster's tower, magic, Stormknew, that kept the place safe from the archmages of the evil Zhentarim, theRed Wizards of Thay, and worse. No one should have been able to open a gateinto the tower.

But the oval of flame was, Storm decided, most certainlya gate. When the bard looked through the flickering magical doorway, she saw along, stone-lined hall, stretching away into darkness. And something wasmoving in the gloomy passageway….

Elminster strode forward, frowning, hands weavingspells out of the air.

"Impossible," he murmured.

A shadowy figure was walking slowly toward them, outof the darkness of the phantom hallway. The creature was tall and very thin.Its eyes were two cold, glittering points of light set in dark pits. As it camenearer, Storm could see that the robes it wore hung in tatters, eaten away byrot.

The bard's heart sank. It must have been a lich, awizard whose magic was so powerful that he lived on, beyond death. Few couldfight a lich and hope to survive, few even among the ranks of the greatarchmages of Faerûn.

The lich came still nearer, and Storm met its fellgaze, staring into the cold, flickering lights of its eyes. They danced in theempty sockets of its skeletal face, measuring her, and turned from hercontemptuously to Elminster.

"Death has come for you at last, Old Mage,"the lich whispered, its hissing voice surprisingly loud. It was still far downthe hallway.

"D'ye know how often I've heard those words?Every murderous fool in Faerûn tries them on me at least once." Elminsterraised an eyebrow and added, "Or in thy case, Raerlin, twice."

With one hand he traced a glowing sign in the air.

The lich gave him a ghastly, gap-toothed smile andkept coming. Elminster's other eyebrow went up. His hands moved swiftly inseveral intricate gestures.

A barrier of shimmering radiance sprang into beingacross the mouth of the portal. Raerlin's hands moved in response, and thebarrier burst into tiny motes of light that scattered like dancing sparks froma campfire, then winked out.

The lich's fleshless skull managed, somehow, to sneer.

"You thought yourself very clever, duping my twoservants at the magefair, Elminster," came that hissing whisper again,"but I am not so easily fooled or defeated."

The skull seemed to smile.

"I was at the fair, too," the lich went on."Your blindness spell failed against me, of course, and you did not evensee through my spell-disguise. Are such simple sorceries beyond yourunderstanding now?"

From the kitchen, muted by its stout, closed door,came the sudden rising, incongruous shriek of Lhaeo's kettle coming to a boil.

Elminster's hands were moving again. Storm saw linesof crackling power form between his fingers before he cast forth a bolt at thelich. As the energy flashed away from his hands, it lit up his face in tints ofgrowing worry.

The lich laughed hollowly as Elminster's bolt crackledaround its desiccated form. Tiny lightnings spat and leaped around its body,but seemed unable to do any harm. The lich raised a bony hand and cast a spell ofits own.

Storm looked back at Elminster in alarm-and saw one ofthe books in the open closet behind the Old Mage glow suddenly with the samegreen and white radiance as the flames of the lich's gate. And when she glaredat the lich, its eyes glinted at her in triumph. Ghostly gray tendrils of forcewere moving from the undead mage, toward them both. Raerlin was very close, onlypaces away from entering the room.

"Flee, Storm!" Elminster snapped. "Icannot protect thee in what will follow!"

His hands were moving in another spell.

Storm shook her head, but stepped back out of the way.Shimmering light burst from the Old Mage's fingers, lancing out to encircleand destroy each reaching tendril in crackling fury. Yet the lich merelyshrugged, and its bony fingertips wove another silent spell. The book in theopen closet glowed again.

Storm saw a sheen of sweat on Elminster's forehead ashis hand darted to his robes and drew forth some small talisman. Then thetalisman was gone, vanished right from the Old Mage's hand. As if in reply, ared-glowing band of energy shot out from the lich's shoulders as it steppedover a toppled chair into Elminster's study. The ghostly magical arm reachedmenacingly forward.

A shield of shimmering, silver-blue force hung in theair in front of the Old Mage, guarding him. The red arm swung easily, almostlazily around it, reaching for-not Elminster, but the closet behind him.

The lich was reaching for the book! Storm's swordflashed out and she slashed at its pages. There was a sudden hissing shriek ofhorror from the portal, and the red glow rose around her.

The lich's spell-arm clawed at her, trying to hold herback. Leather was torn away, and Storm felt sudden, searing pain across herbreast. Thin, dark ribbons of her own blood curled past her eyes, borne uponthe energy of the lich's sorcerous arm as it enveloped her.

The Bard of Shadowdale set her teeth and struck backhanded withher magical blade, trying to free herself from the crimson band of force. Therewas a sudden flash and a roar. Sparks snapped and flew. The riven shards of herblade glinted brightly before Storm's eyes as she was flung back into a stackof dusty tomes. Blood ran into her eyes, and her breast felt like it was onfire.

Dimly Storm heard Elminster groan. Blinking furiouslyto clear her sight, she struggled to her feet. The Old Mage was crumpled to thefloor, a thin beam of light from one out-flung hand reaching toward her. Behindhim, the lich stood triumphant, outlined in a flaming crimson aura. Hands onhips, it laughed hollowly.

The light of Elminster's spell touched Storm, and shefelt warm, fresh strength flowing into her. Her fingertips tingled, and theblood was suddenly gone from her eyes and brow.

The lich gestured sharply, and the red cloud around itbecame a forest of tendrils, overwhelming the darkening spell-shield over the OldMage. As Storm watched, the shield crumbled and was gone-and the crimson forceswirled around Elminster. He gestured weakly, then fell onto his face and laystill.

The blue-white energy of the Old Mage's last enchantmentwas drawn up into the red cloud. The mystic aura blazed brighter as the lichstepped over the Old Mage's body and strode toward the bard. Raerlin wasdraining Elminster's magic to power his own dark spells!

Another crimson arm lashed out from that cloud,smashing the bard aside with casual, brutal force. Storm was flung into anotherpile of books. She saw the red arm reaching in a leisurely manner for the tomeinside the hidden room.

Storm got up from the tumbled heap of books as quicklyas she could, panting, the smell of her own singed hair strong in her nostrils.Blood still trickled down her chest, and she still held a blackened, twistedsword hilt in her hand. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she flung the ruinedblade at the lich and dived for the tome for which the creature had risked somuch. Redness swirled around her, but the book was clenched tightly in herfingers.

Raerlin's voice rose into a hollow, fearful shriek asStorm clutched the book to her bloody chest.

"Myrkul take you, wench!" the lich cried."You'll ruin it!"

And at last Storm was sure of her course.

She tore at the pages with trembling fingers andthrust the crumpled scraps into the flames of Elminster's magical brazier. Thefire flared, and the bard held the parchment in the rising flames, heedless ofthe searing pain in her hand.

Raerlin's magic struck. Red claws tugged and tore ather. Storm snarled and fought to hold her position, one arm crooked around thebrazier. Flames licked greedily at the crumpled pages she held.

Storm felt hair being hauled out of her scalp, yankingher head back. Tears blinded her, and something-her own hair! — tightened aroundher throat, driven by the lich's magic. The Bard of Shadowdale set her teeth tohold back a scream as she hauled the book up, wrestling against the lich's darksorcery with all the strength in her arms. And she thrust the tome into thebrazier.

There was a hungry roar, and Storm was hurled away.She had a confused glimpse of flying bones and the brass brazier tumbling endover end, away from a rolling, motionless ball of bright flame. Then shecrashed again into Elminster's chair with bruising force. Hair blinded her fora moment. Impatiently Storm raked it aside and stared at the ball of fire.

It hung a few feet above the floor of the study,roiling and crackling. At its heart, the blackening, still-glowing book waswreathed in many-colored flames. As she watched, the tome crumbled to ashes andwas gone. Off to Storm's left, there was a hissing sound.

She turned in time to see the lich's skull crumble topieces. The red glow of Raerlin's magic flickered and faded away to nothing. Ina moment, the lich was only so much eddying dust.

In the sudden silence, Storm closed weary eyes, wonderingwhen her burned hands would stop trembling.

From somewhere to her right came a loud cough. The bard blinkedher eyes open and tried to rise. Elminster was shaking his head as he gotslowly up off the floor, patting at smoldering patches on his robes.

"I must not forget, lass," Elminster saidwith dignity, "to thank ye properly, at some future time, for once againsaving my life."

Storm sputtered in sudden mirth, despite her pain. Amoment later, they were laughing in each other's arms, eyes shining. As theyshook together in a tight embrace, a door opened, spilling kitchen sounds intothe devastated study.

The sudden clatter of crockery was followed by Lhaeo'scheerful voice saying, "Tea's ready! You were making quite a racketin-" He sobered suddenly and blinked at the two singed and wounded friends."Wh-what happened?"

Elminster pushed Storm away and waved his hands withincredible agility for one so old. An instant later, Storm found herself on herchair again, wearing a splendid gown. The raw pain in her chest and hands wasgone. Across a round table set for tea, Elminster sat facing her, clad insplendid silken robes embroidered with dragons. He was smiling gently, his litpipe ready in his hand.

"Nothing," the Old Mage said airily,"more than a visit between old friends."

As the tea tray descended, Elminster winked at thebard. Storm shook her head, smiling helplessly.

DARKSWORD

Troy Denning

20 Flamerule, the Year of the Moat (1269 DR)

Lost on the Road Across the Bottomless Bogs

Out of the fog ahead came mist-muffled voices, many ofthem and not far off, mothers singing, children crying, fathers shouting …oxen bellowing, hoarse and weary. Melegaunt Tanthul continued walking asbefore-which was to say very carefully-along the road of split logs, whichbobbed on the spongy peat with every step he took. Visibility was twenty pacesat best, the road a brownish ribbon zigzagging off into a cloud of pearlywhite. Not for the first time, he wished he had taken the other fork at thebase of Deadman Pass. Surely he was still in Vaasa, but whether he wastraveling toward the treasure he sought or away from it was anyone's guess.

The voices grew steadily louder and more distinct,until the hazy outline of the road ahead abruptly dissolved into nothingness.Strewn along a narrow band at the end of the road were a handful of head-shapedspheres, some perched atop a set of human shoulders with arms splayed wide tospread their weight. Farther back, two sets of nebulous oxen horns rose out ofthe peat, the blocky silhouette of a fog-shrouded cargo wagon sitting on thesurface behind them.

Melegaunt pulled his heavy rucksack off his back andcontinued up the road, already fishing for the line with which he strung hisrain tarp at night. As he drew nearer, the head-shaped blobs seemed to sproutbeards and wild manes of unkempt hair. He began to make out hooked noses anddeep-set eyes, then one of the heads shouted out, and with a terrible slurpingsound, sank beneath the peat. The cry was echoed by a chorus of frightenedwails deeper in the fog, prompting the nearest of the remaining heads to cranearound and bark something in the guttural Vaasan dialect. The voices fellimmediately silent, and the head turned back toward Melegaunt.

"T-traveler, you would do well to s-stopthere," the Vaasan said, the frigid bog mud causing him to stutter andslur his words. "The 1-logs here are rotted through."

"My thanks for the warning," Melegauntreplied. Still fifteen paces from the end of the road, he stopped and held upthe small coil of line he had pulled from his rucksack. "My rope won'treach so far. I fear you have spoiled your own rescue."

The Vaasan tipped his head a little to the side andsaid, "I think our chances b-better with you out there, instead of in herewith us."

"Perhaps so," Melegaunt allowed.

He peered into the fog beyond the Vaasan's tribe,trying in vain to see where the road started again. As annoying as it was inthe first place not to know where he was going, the possibility of being forcedto turn back before he found out absolutely vexed him.

"Where does this road lead? To Delhalls orMoors-town?"

"Where d-does the road lead?" the Vaasanstammered, his voice sharp with disbelief and anger. "What about mypeople? After I saved you, y-you are not going to help us?"

"Of course I'm going to help you. I'll doeverything I can," Melegaunt said. Somewhere deeper in the fog, anotherVaasan screamed, and sank beneath the bog with a cold slurp. "You might,uh, disappear before I pull you free. If that happens, I'd still like to knowwhere this road leads."

"If that happens, the knowledge w-will do you nogood," the Vaasan growled. "Your only hope of reaching yourd-destination is to rescue my clan, so that we can guide you wherever you aregoing."

"Something is dragging your tribe underone-by-one and you are trifling over details?" Melegaunt demanded. Hepulled his black dagger, then dropped to his hands and knees and began to probethe logs ahead for rot. "This is no time to negotiate. I won't abandonyou."

"Then your patience will be rewarded," theVaasan said firmly.

Melegaunt looked up, his brow furrowed into a deliberatescowl. "Am I to understand you don't trust me?"

"I trust you to try harder if you have n-need ofus."

"An answer as slippery as the bog in which youare mired," Melegaunt snapped. "If I am successful, you will have noneed of me. How can I trust you to guide me then?"

"You have the word of Bodvar, leader of the MoorEagle Clan," the Vaasan said. "That is all the trust you need."

"Trust has different meaning for outsiders thanfor Vaasans, I see," Melegaunt grumbled, "but I warn you, if you goback on your promise…."

"You have nothing to fear on that account,"Bodvar said. "You have but to keep yours, and I will keep mine."

"I have heard that before," Melegauntmuttered. "Far too many times."

Despite his complaint, Melegaunt continued to advanceup the road, probing ahead for rotten logs. By all accounts, the Vaasans hadbeen a harsh but honest people until the fabled bloodstone mines of Delhallsand Talagbar were rediscovered and the outside world intruded to teach themthe value of duplicity and fraud. Since then, save for a few villages likeMoortown where a man's word was rumored to be more precious than his life, theywere saidto be as corrupt and sly as everyone else in a world of liars and cheats.

Melegaunt was beginning to doubt Bodvar's story aboutthe rot when his dagger finally found soft wood. He pressed harder, and theentire log disintegrated, crumbling into red dust before his eyes. Then theone beneath his hands grew spongy, prompting him to push back onto hishaunches. The log beneath his knees began to soften as well, and a muddy domeof peat welled up not three feet in front of him, a long line of dorsal barbsbreaking the surface as the spine of some huge, eel-shaped creature rolledpast.

Melegaunt dropped onto his seat and pushed away,scrambling backward as fast as he could crawl. By the time the wood ceasedgrowing soft, he was five paces farther from Bodvar, distant enough that hecould no longer make out even the shape of the Vaasans' heads.

Another clansman screamed, then slipped beneath thebog with a muffled slurp.

"Traveler, are you still there?" Bodvarcalled.

"For now," Melegaunt replied. He stood andbacked away another couple of paces. "Something came after me."

"One of the bog people," Bodvar said."They are attracted by vibration."

"Vibration?" Melegaunt echoed. "Liketalking?"

"Like talking," Bodvar confirmed. "Butdo not worry about me. My armor muffles the sound-it is made of dragonscales."

"All the same, rest quiet for a while."Melegaunt's opinion of the Vaasan was rising-and more because of the risk hewas taking for his tribe than because he wore dragon-scale armor. "I'llget you out. I promise."

"A man should not promise what he cannot becertain of delivering, Traveler," Bodvar said, "but I do trust you todo your utmost."

Melegaunt assured the Vaasan he would, then retreateda few more paces up the road and held his hand out over the road edge. Therewas not even a hint of shadow. Melegaunt's magic would be at its weakest, andhe had already seen enough of his foe's power to know it would be follyto duel him less than full strength-even in a world of decay and rebirth, woodsimply did not rot as fast as had those logs.

Doing his best to ignore the occasional screams thatrolled out of the fog, Melegaunt removed a handful of strands of shadowsilkfrom his cloak pocket and twisted them into a tightly-wound skein. In acentury-and-a-half of reconnoitering Toril, he had yet to risk revealing himselfby using such powerful shadow magic where others might see-but never before hadhe been given reason to think his long quest might be nearing its culmination.Bodvar was a brave one, and that was the first quality. He was also wary,neither giving oaths nor taking them lightly, and that was the second. Whetherhe was also the third remained to be seen-and it soon would, if matters went asexpected.

Once Melegaunt had twisted the shadowsilk into atightly wound skein, he uttered a few words in ancient Netherese and felt asurge of cold energy rising through his feet into his body. Unlike most wizardsin Faerûn, who extracted their magic from the goddess Mystra's all-encompassingWeave, Melegaunt drew his magic from the enigmatic Shadow Weave. As universalas the Weave itself, the Shadow Weave was less known and far more powerful, ifonly because the cloaked goddess-she who must never be named-kept ituncompromisingly secret and maddened anyone who revealed its existence.

When he was sufficiently imbued with the ShadowWeave's cold magic, Melegaunt tossed the skein of shadowsilk out over the bogand made a twirling motion with his fingers. The cord began to unwind, but sankinto the peat before it finished and continued to spin, drawing long tendrilsof fog after it.

An oxen bellowed in alarm, then there was a hugeglugging sound followed by the crackle of splintering wood and the shrieks ofterrified women and children.

"T-t-traveler?" called Bodvar, soundingweaker and colder than before. "H-have you left us?"

"Stay quiet, Vaasan, or there will be no reasonfor me to stay," Melegaunt shouted back. "I am working as fast as Ican."

Judging by the restless voices that followed, the clanof the Moor Eagle took little comfort from his assurance. Melegaunt urged themagain to be patient. While he waited for his first spell to do its work, heprepared himself for battle, girding himself with magic armor and shields ofspell-turning, readying power word attacks and casting enchantments that wouldallow him to walk on mud or swim through it with equal ease. By the time hefinished, his spell had thinned the fog enough that he could see a long line ofmired Vaasan men and overloaded wagons curving away toward the jagged gray wallof a distant mountain range. The end of the column was perhaps two hundredpaces distant, and fifty paces beyond that, he could see the brownish ribbon oflogs where the road resumed again.

Instead of looking impressed or grateful, Bodvar andhis equally bearded warriors were all searching the blue sky with expressionsof alarmed expectation. Those with free sword arms were holding their weaponsready, while on the wagons, women and old men were stringing longbows andraising spears. Melegaunt glanced around the heavens and found nothing exceptsnow clouds-then heard two loud slurping sounds as another pair of warriorswere drawn down into the muck.

He stepped to the end of the log road and held his armout. Finding that there was enough light to cast a shadow, he swung his armaround until the dark line pointed at Bodvar. Though a good twenty pacesremained between them, the fog was so thin that Melegaunt could see that withsapphire-blue eyes and hair as red as bloodstone, Bodvar was both handsome andfair-haired by Vaasan standards.

"You caused this clearing, Traveler?" Bodvarasked.

Melegaunt nodded, then lied, "I like to see whatI'm fighting." Actually, he was more comfortable fighting in darkness thanlight, but if he could keep the Vaasans from pondering the nature of hispowers, there was a good chance they would be unfamiliar enough with outsider spells to thinkhe was using normal magic. "The battle goes faster."

"Indeed," Bodvar answered. "Let us hopenot too fast. There is a reason the Mountainshadow Bog is crossed only in thickfog."

Melegaunt frowned and asked, "That wouldbe?"

"On its way."

Bodvar raised his hand-the one that was not trapped inthe bog-and pointed west. The nearby peaks had grown distinct enough that theyresembled a line of snowcapped fangs, and curving down from their summits, Melegauntsaw several lines of pale specks.

"Griffons?" he asked. "Orwyverns?"

"You will wish."

"Well, as long as they're not dragons,"Melegaunt said. "Anything else, I can handle."

"You have a high opinion of yourself,Traveler."

"As shall you," Melegaunt replied.

With that, he spoke a few words of magic, and theshadow he had lain across the bog expanded to the width of a comfortablewalking trail. Melegaunt stepped off the logs and, continuing to hold his armout, followed the shadow forward. To prevent the path from vanishing as hemoved forward, he had to utter a spell of permanency-and that was when thesodden peat let out an explosive glub beside him.

Melegaunt turned to see a pair webbed hands clutchingthe edge of his shadow-walk, between them a slimy reptilian head shooting up toattack. The face itself was rather broad and froglike, save that its dead blackeyes were fixed on Melegaunt's leg and its lips were drawn back to reveal amouthful of needle-sharp fangs. He lowered a hand and spoke a magic power word,unleashing a cold black bolt that drilled a fist-sized hole through the thing'shead. The hands opened, and its lifeless body slipped back into the sodden peat.

"What magic is that?" Bodvar gasped,watching from a few steps ahead.

"Southern magic," Melegaunt lied. He stoppedat the Vaasan's side and stooped down, offering his hand. "You wouldn'tknow it."

Bodvar was not quick to reach for the shadow wizard'sswarthy arm.

"Who would?" he demanded. "We are notso backward here in Vaasa as you may think. We know about the dark magic ofThay."

Melegaunt had to laugh. "You have no idea."

He uttered a quick spell, and tentacles of darknessshot from his fingertips to entwine the Vaasan's wrist.

"Now come out of there," said Melegaunt."You made a bargain."

Melegaunt stood and drew the tentacles back into hisfingers, pulling Bodvar's arm along. A muffled pop sounded fromsomewhere below the peat, and the Vaasan screamed. Though Melegaunt was fairlycertain he had just separated the chieftain's shoulder, he continued topull-pulled harder, in fact. As loud as Bodvar had screamed, the bog peoplewould be after him like a school of snagglesnouts after a waterstrider.

The Vaasan did not budge, and though Melegaunt had thestrength to pull the arm off, that would not free Bodvar of the sodden peat'scold clutch. He stopped pulling. Bodvar continued to groan-though less loudlythan he had screamed before-and a long ridge of upwelling peat began to snakeits way toward the chieftain.

Melegaunt pointed a finger at the head of the ridgeand uttered a magic syllable. A ray of black shadow shot down through the peat.The creature was too deep to see whether the attack hit home, but the ridgestopped advancing in Bodvar's direction.

"Be quiet," Melegaunt urged. "See ifyou can slip free of your boots and trousers."

Bodvar stopped groaning long enough to cast a sidelongglance at Melegaunt. "My trousers? My dragon-scale trousers?"

"You must break the suction," Melegauntexplained. "It is your trousers or your life."

Bodvar sighed, but struggled to move his free handunder the peat.

"Can you reach them?" Melegaunt asked.

"No, I can't-" Bodvar's eyes suddenly wentwide, then he began to yell, "Pull! Pull!"

Melegaunt felt the Vaasan being dragged downward andbegan to haul in the opposite direction. Bodvar howled in pain and rage, hisbody squirming and thrashing as he struggled to free himself. There was amuffled crunch that sounded something like a breaking bone, then Bodvar finallycame free, rising out of the bog with no boots or pants, but a dagger in handand his sword belt looped over his elbow.

Melegaunt glimpsed a slimy figure slipping down thehole with the Vaasan's trousers trailing from one corner of its smiling mouth,then the bog closed in and concealed it from view. Melegaunt cast a shadow boltafter it, but it was impossible to say whether the spell hit its target orvanished into the bottomless depths without striking anything.

"Hell-cursed mudbreather!" Bodvar swore."Look what it did to my sword!"

Melegaunt lowered the Vaasan to the shadow-walk, thenlooked over to find the man naked from the waist down and one arm sagging askewfrom the shoulder socket, holding the flopping scabbard of a badly shatteredsword in his good hand.

"How am I to fight with this?"

"Fight? In your condition?"

Melegaunt glanced toward the mountains and saw thatthe distant specks had become V-shaped lines, all angling toward the bog wherethe largest part of the Moor Eagle clan was still trapped. He opened his cloakand pulled his own sword, a slender blade of what looked like black glass, fromits scabbard.

"Use this," Melegaunt said, "but with alight hand. It will cut much better than that iron bar you're accustomedto."

Bodvar barely glanced at the weapon.

"I'll use my dagger," said the Vaasan."That thing'll break the first time-"

"Not likely."

Melegaunt brought his sword down across Bodvar'sdagger and sliced through the blade as though it was made of soft wood insteadof cold-forged iron, then he flicked the stump out of the grasp of theastonished Vaasan and replaced it with the hilt of his own weapon.

"Be careful not to take off your foot."

Bodvar closed his sagging jaw and, one arm still hanginglimply at his side, stepped past Melegaunt and lopped the heads off two bogpeople emerging from the peat behind him.

"It'll do," he said. Despite the obviouspain from his separated shoulder, the Vaasan did not even clench his teeth ashe spoke. "My thanks for the loan."

"Consider it a gift," Melegaunt replied,turning back to the rest of the clan. "I use it so seldom."

To Melegaunt's dismay, the bog people had been farfrom idle while he was rescuing Bodvar. Half the warriors who had been miredwhen he arrived had already vanished beneath the surface, while the women andold men were struggling to keep dozens of bog people from clambering onto thecargo wagons with the clan's sobbing children. Melegaunt pulled a handful ofshadowsilk from his cloak and flung it in the direction of the wagons, then hespread his fingers and waggled them in a raining motion. A dark pall fell overthe six closest wagons, and everyone it touched-Vaasans and bog peoplealike-fell instantly asleep.

"How did you do that?" Bodvar demanded."Sleep magic doesn't work against the bog people!"

"Clearly, you have been misinformed."Melegaunt held his arm out toward the nearest wagon, extending the shadow-walkto within three paces of the driver's bench. "Do you think …"

Bodvar was already sprinting down the shadow-walk,borrowed sword in hand. When he reached the end, he launched himself into a wildleap over the horns of a mired ox, bounding off its half-submerged shoulders,and came down on the seat between the slumbering driver and the old man slumpedbeside her. Despite Melegaunt's warning to handle the weapon lightly, he set towork on the sleeping bog people with an ardor that left little doubt about theprimitive state of Vaasan weaponsmithing. Melegaunt saw him cut two enemiescleanly apart across the torso and cleave through three of the wagon'ssideboards before he could no longer bear to watch and turned his attention tothe mired warriors.

The nearest vanished beneath the surface as Melegauntapproached, and two more cried out in alarm. Seeing he had no hope of rescuingeven a dozen of the remaining warriors, he tossed his tarp line onto the surfaceand uttered a long spell. The far end raised itself out of the peat, and theblack rope began to slither forward. He pointed at the nearest of the warriors,and the line angled in the man's direction.

"As the rope comes by…."

That was all Melegaunt needed to say. The firstwarrior snatched the line and, slipping free of his trousers, allowed it topull him free. He slid across the slippery surface for three paces, then rolledonto his back and began to hack at something beneath the surface with hissword. Seeing that he had at least a reasonable chance of defending himself,Melegaunt directed the rope to the next warrior in line, who also came freewithout his pants or boots, and there were two Vaasans slashing at their unseenpursuer.

They seemed to slay it after a dozen yards, but bythen Melegaunt had three more warriors on the line, and two of them were beingtrailed by the tell-tale rise of a bog person traveling just beneath thesurface. He summoned the rope over to his shadow-walk and used his last shadowbolt to kill one of their pursuers, and the warriors themselves took care ofthe last one before bounding off after Bodvar to help defend the wagons.

Melegaunt glanced toward the mountains. To his alarm,the distant fliers were so close that he could make out not only the whitebodies hanging beneath their wings, but their bandy legs and curved swords aswell. Whatever the creatures were-and he had yet to see their like in a centuryand a half of wandering the world-they were as fast as baatezu. He only hopedthey were not as adept as the pit fiends at defeating shadow magic.

Melegaunt sent the rescue rope out again and managedto pull in six more warriors before the bog people claimed the rest. Though hewas not happy to fail so many-the number had to be nearly twenty-the Vaasanstook their losses in stride, pausing only to grunt a half-understood word ofthanks before rushing back to join Bodvar and their fellows in defending thewomen and children.

Seeing there was no more to be done, Melegauntretrieved his tarp line and turned toward the mired wagons. With the half-nakedwarriors he had rescued rushing back to help, the women and old men were holdingthe bog people at bay with surprising displays of swordsmanship and bravery. Nomatter how well they fought, though, it was clear that the younger children andolder clansmen lacked the agility to leap from wagon to wagon-especially overthe heads of panicked oxen-as the warriors were doing.

Melegaunt rushed alongside the caravan, laying hisshadow-walk close enough that the trapped Vaasans could jump from their wagonsonto the path behind him. The bog people redoubled their attacks, glugging upalongside the walk in a near-solid wall. But all of Bodvar's clansmen were aswell-trained and disciplined as his warriors, and they repelled the attackseasily. Though Melegaunt failed to understand why the bog people did not usetheir rotting magic on the wagons themselves, he was relieved that they werenot. Perhaps their magic-user had run out of spells, or maybe the enchantmenttook too long to cast.

With their panicked masters rushing past, the miredoxen bellowed for help that would never come. Given time, Melegauntcould certainly have freed the creatures and saved the cargo in their wagons, butas things were he would be doing well to lose no more of their masters. As heneared the end of the caravan, he was astonished to see that the bog people hadnot pulled even one of the beasts from its yoke. Whatever their reason forattacking the Moor Eagles, it had less to do with hunger than wanting to wipeout the tribe.

Melegaunt was twenty paces past the last mired wagonwhen a trio of bog people emerged before him, snatching at his legs with theirwebbed hands. He drilled the middle one with a black shadow bolt, then heardhooked finger-talons clattering off his spell-armor as the other two attemptedto slash his legs from beneath him. He brought his boot heel down on a slopingforehead and heard a loud pop as the skull caved in, then he caught hisother attacker by the arm and jerked it out of the peat. Save that the bog manwas covered in slimy brown scales and had a flat, lobsterlike tail in place oflegs and feet, it looked more or less humanoid, with powerfully-built shouldersand a navel that suggested it was born rather than hatched.

It slashed at Melegaunt with its free hand severaltimes. When its claws continued to bounce harmlessly off the wizard's shadowarmor, it gave up and opened its mouth, attacking with a long, barb-tippedtongue so fast Melegaunt barely had time to tip his head aside and save his eye.He caught the tongue as it shot back toward the creature's mouth, then whirledaround to find Bodvar and the rest of the Vaasans staring at him withexpressions that were equal part awe and terror.

"Don't just stand there," Melegaunt ordered,"kill it!" Only Bodvar had possession enough of his wits to obey,slashing the thing across the waist so hard that his borrowed sword came ahair's breadth from opening Melegaunt's ample belly as well. Eyeing thechieftain sidelong, Melegaunt tossed aside the lifeless torso, then pointed ata long line of bog people rising out of the peat beside the gape-mouthedVaasans.

"Lift your jaws and see to your enemies!" Without waiting to see whether they obeyed, he turned and extended theshadow-walk the rest of the way to the logs, then he led the way to therelatively solid footing of the road. The bog people had no choice but to giveup their attack, for all the Vaasans had to do to be safe was retreat to themiddle of the road where they could not be reached. The creatures flying infrom the mountains were another matter. Only a few hundred yards distant, theywere close enough that Melegaunt could make out scaly white bodieswith long, pointed tails, and also craggy saurian heads with long snouts,swept-back horns, and huge yellow eyes. One of the creatures flung something intheir direction and began to make spell gestures.

Melegaunt flattened a ball of shadowsilk between hispalms, then flung it toward the approaching dragonmen and uttered a few wordsin ancient Netherese. A hazy disk of darkness appeared between the two groupsand began to bleed black tendrils of shadow into the sky, but Melegaunt had notbeen quick enough to raise his spell shield. He felt a familiar softeningunderfoot, and the Vaasans cried out and began to stampede up the road. It wasexactly the wrong thing to do. The rotting logs came apart all the faster,plunging the entire tribe to their knees in sodden peat.

In an attempt to spread their weight and slow theirdescent, they immediately threw themselves to their bellies and splayed theirarms. Still standing atop the peat by virtue of the spells he had cast beforethe battle, Melegaunt cursed and laid his shadow-walk again, then turned tomeet the dragonmen.

They were nowhere to be seen, at least not near hisspell shield. Pulling another strand of shadowsilk from his pocket, Melegauntpivoted in a slow circle and-as expected-found them diving out of the sun.Melegaunt allowed himself a tight smile. They were wise to respect hisabilities-much wiser, in that regard, than had been better-known foes in thesouth. He tossed his shadowsilk into the sky and uttered the incantation of oneof his more potent spells.

That whole quarter of the sky broke into a shower ofshadowy tears. Instead of rolling off when they fell on a body, however, thesedrops clung to whatever they touched, stretching into long threads of stickyblack fiber. Within moments, the entire column of dragonmen had become swaddledin gummy balls of darkness and was plunging headlong into the bog. Melegauntwatched long enough to be certain that none of the fliers would escape, thenturned to find the Moor Eagles rushing onto the log road behind him.

They were glancing at him over their shoulders, makingsigns of warding that might have kept a demon at bay, but that only madeMelegaunt feel lonely and unappreciated. Stifling bitter laughter, he walkedacross the bog to where Bodvar and three more brave warriors stood waiting forhim at the edge of the road.

"I'm sorry for your losses, Bodvar," hesaid. "I might have saved more, but there was much you didn't tellme."

"And much you didn't tell us," Bodvarreplied. He laid the hilt of Melegaunt's black sword across his arm and offeredit to the wizard. "My thanks."

Melegaunt waved him off.

"Keep it. As I said, I seldom use itanymore."

"I know what you said," Bodvar replied,"but only a fool takes gifts from a devil."

"Devil?" Melegaunt snapped, still not takinghis sword. "Is that how you repay my kindness? With insults?"

"What is true is no insult," Bodvar said."We saw the things you did."

"It was only magic," Melegaunt protested."Southern magic. If you have not seen its like before. . "

"Now it is you who are insulting us," Bodvarsaid, continuing to offer the sword. "In Vaasa, we are backward in manythings-but wisdom is no longer one of them."

Melegaunt started to repeat his protests, thenrealized he would only anger Bodvar by insisting on the lie-and revealing thetruth about the Shadow Weave was, of course, out of the question. If he werelucky enough to avoid being struck dead on the spot, he would lose forever thedark power that had so impressed the Vaasans.

When Melegaunt made no further attempts to argue,Bodvar said, "We will keep the bargain we made." He tipped his chintoward the three warriors with him. "These are the guides I promised. Theywill take you wherever you wish to go in Vaasa."

Melegaunt started to say that he no longer neededthem-then thought better of it and smiled. "Anywhere?"

Bodvar looked uncomfortable, but nodded and said,"That was our bargain."

"Good. Then I want them to take me wherever the Moor Eagles aregoing." Melegaunt took his sword back and added, "And no tricks,Bodvar. I'm sure we both know what happens to those who play false withdevils-don't we?"

Higharvestide, the Year ofthe Moat

In the Shadows of the Peaksof the Dragonmen

Bodvar came to the island, as Melegaunt had known hewould, late in the day, when the sun was sinking low over the Peaks of the Dragonmenand the shadows of the mountains lay long upon the cold bog. What the wizardhad not known was that the chieftain would bring his wife, a young beauty withhair the color of night and eyes as blue as a clear sky. She seemed a littlethicker around the middle than the last time Melegaunt had seen her, though itwas always hard to tell with Vaasan women- their shape tended to vanish beneathall the furs they wore.

Melegaunt watched them pick their way across hiszigzagging boulder-walk until a metallic sizzle behind him demanded hisattention. He checked the sky to be certain there were no white-scaled fliersdiving down to trouble them, then he donned a huge leather mitt and pulled along narrow mold from the oven he had kept blazing for three days. In the mold,floating on a bed of liquid tin, lay a sword similar to the one he had offeredBodvar all those tendays ago-save that it was still molten and glowing whitehot.

Melegaunt placed the sword on a bed of ice-freezescame early to that part of the world-then he waited for the mold to cool. Whenhe was sure the cold would draw the tempering elements down to the underside,he began to lay fibers of shadowsilk on the molten glass, taking care toarrange them first lengthwise, then diagonally in both directions, thenlengthwise again so the weapon would have strength and resilience in all directions.Finally, he used his dagger to open another cut on his arm, dripping his warmblood into the mixture and quietly whispering the ancient words that gave the bladeits magic thirst.

By the time that was finished, the sword had hardenedenough that he could lift it from its mold and plunge it into a vat of slushywater, placed at just the right distance from the furnace to keep it that way.Once the heat had melted all of the slush, Melegaunt removed the sword, thenplaced it on its bed of hot tin with the opposite side down and returned themold to the oven again. Such was the art of the shadow blade, heating andcooling a thousand times over, tinting them with shadowsilk until the glasscould finally hold no more and began to shed fibers like an unbrushed dog.

A soft boot scuffed the stone at the edge ofMelegaunt's work site, then Bodvar called, "I see you are still here, DarkDevil."

"You can see that by the smoke of myfurnaces," Melegaunt answered. He pulled the sleeve of his cloak down tohide the cuts on his arm, then turned to glower at the chieftain. "Comefor a sword, have you?"

"Hardly," said Bodvar. He cast an uneasyglance at the nineteen weapons racked at the edge of the work site. Though allwere completed and honed to a razor edge, they were paler than Melegaunt'ssword, with a crystal translucence that still showed the lay of the shadowfibers embedded in the glass. "You are wasting your time on thataccount."

"Am I?" Melegaunt smirked knowingly andadded, "Well, they will be here when you need them."

"Our need will never be that great."

Melegaunt did not argue, only swung an arm toward thefurnace behind him and said, "That will be twenty. Twenty warriors is allthat remains to you, is it not?"

Instead of answering, Bodvar glanced around the clutteredwork area and shook his head.

"Only a devil could live out here alone. It isexposed to every wind that blows."

"It's a safe place to work."

Melegaunt glanced at Bodvar's young wife and smiled.Idona smiled back, but said nothing. Though Vaasan women werehardly shy, he had noticed that most of them preferred to keep their silencearound him.

He looked back to Bodvar and said, "The bogpeople protect every ground approach but one, and the dragonmen are easy tospot from here."

"The dragonmen can watch you," Bodvarcountered, "and the bog people have you surrounded."

"Vaasans may see it that way." Melegauntknelt and began to feed his furnace from the charcoal pile beside it. "Theway to destroy an enemy is to make him fight in his home instead ofyours."

Melegaunt raised his mitted hand toward a white-hotpoker, and Bodvar, not thinking, reached for it-then shrieked in surprise asMelegaunt used a cantrip to summon the utensil and spare him a burned palm.

Idona giggled, drawing an embarrassed, though tender,frown from her husband. Melegaunt shook his head in mock exasperation atBodvar's clumsiness, and she broke into full laughter.

"You see?" Bodvar complained lightly."This is what comes of treating with devils."

"Of course, my husband," Idona said."This bearded one is always saving you from something, the mudbreathingknave."

"That is what worries me," Bodvar said, histone more serious.

Desperate not to let Bodvar's suspicious nature underminethe unexpected openness his humor had won from Idona, Melegaunt poked at thecoals, then changed the subject.

"Speaking of mudbreathers and saving you, Bodvar,you never did tell me why the bog people and dragonmen were trying so hard towipe out your tribe."

"Were?" Idona echoed. "They still are. Why do you think we stay camped atthe other end of your walkway? If it wasn't for you-"

"Idona!" Bodvar snapped.

Hiding his delight behind a tolerant smile, Melegaunttossed the poker aside-it remained hovering in the air-and began to feed morecharcoal into the fire.

"I'm only happy to be of use." Melegauntfixed his gaze on Bodvar and added, "But that still doesn't answer myquestion."

Bodvar flushed and said nothing.

"Are you going to answer him, Husband,"Idona, smirking, asked, "or am I?"

The more Idona spoke, the more Melegaunt liked her.

"By all means, Idona," Melegaunt said,"I would rather hear it from your-"

"I had this idea," Bodvar began. "Iwanted to build a fort."

"Fort?" Melegaunt asked.

He stopped feeding the flames and stood.

"For the treasure caravans," Idona said,rolling her eyes. "He actually thought outlanders would give us good coinjust to sleep with a roof over their heads."

"And to have us stand guard," Bodvar addeddefensively. "When we're out hunting, they're always asking to share ourcamps and fires."

"Do they pay then?" Idona demanded.

Bodvar frowned and said, "Of course not. Who'dpay to pitch his own tent?"

"I see." Melegaunt found it difficult tokeep the delight out of his voice. At last, he had discovered something thatmight move Bodvar to take help from a "shadow devil." "But thebog people and dragonmen prey on the caravans, and they have other ideas?"

Bodvar nodded and said, "The dragonmen sacked ourfirst fort before it was half completed, and when we tried to move south to amore defensible site … well, you saw what happened."

Idona took his hand.

"We're better off anyway," she said."Who wants to live one place the whole year? What happens when the herdsmove?"

"What indeed?" Melegaunt asked absently.

He was looking over his shoulder toward the granitesummit of his little island. On a clear day, it was possible to look across thebog clear to where the log road ended-or began, if the caravan was coming fromthe mountains with its load of treasure. If he could see the road,then anyone on the road would be able to see the top of the island.

"Melegaunt?" Bodvar asked.

Realizing he had not been paying attention, Melegaunttore his gaze from the summit and turned back to Bodvar.

"Sorry," he said. "You weresaying?"

"He was inviting you to take feast with us,"said Idona. "It's Higharvestide, in case you have lost track."

"It's Idona's idea," Bodvar added, thoughhis friendly tone made it clear that he did not object too strenuously."She says it's only common courtesy."

"And no more than we owe," Idona added,frowning at Bodvar. "Considering all you have done for us."

"All I have done for you?" Melegaunt waved ahand in dismissal. "It's nothing, truly, but I can't join you. NextHigharvestide, perhaps."

"Next Higharvestide?" Bodvar scowled at the furnace where the last sword lay on its bed of sizzlingtin. "If you're staying to watch over that sword, you may as well come,because-"

"It's not the sword," Melegaunt said."The sword will be done by nightfall. I must have my rest tonight.Tomorrow will be a busy day for me."

Idona's face was not the only one that fell.

"Then you are leaving?" Bodvar asked."If you are, be certain to take your swords with you, because they willonly-"

"I'm not leaving." Melegaunt had to turntoward the island's granite summit-try as he might, he could not hide hissmile. "Tomorrow, I start work on my tower."

"Tower?" Idona echoed.

"Yes." Finally in control of his expressionagain, Melegaunt turned around. "To watch over the treasurecaravans."

But Melegaunt knew he would have no rest that night.He had read in the dawn shadows that it would be the evening when the MoorEagles moved onto the island with him. His divinations proved correct shortlyafter dark, when the clan's mead-induced revels were interrupted by theclanging of the sentry's bell. Melegaunt lita signal beacon he had prepared for theoccasion, then went to the front of the work site to inspect the situation.

A cloud of white forms was descending from the peaksof the dragonmen, their wings flashing silver in the moonlight as theyspiraled down toward the bog's edge. Their spellcasters were already hurlingmagic bolts and balls of golden flame at the Moor Eagles, but the rest of thewarriors were taking care to forestall counterattacks by keeping theirmagic-users well screened from Melegaunt's island. A sporadic stream of arrowsbegan to rise from Bodvar's camp and arc into the night, falling pitifullyshort of their targets.

Melegaunt spread his arms and cast a shadow fog overthe camp, more to prevent the Moor Eagles from wasting their time and arrowsthan to delay the dragonmen. Still, they had not forgotten the sticky rain hehad called down on them in the bottomless bog-half their number had sunkbeneath the peat and drowned-so they gave the dark cloud wide berth, anglingaway to land in the foothills on the far side of camp.

Leaving the Moor Eagles to fend for themselves, Melegauntturned his attention to what he was sure would be the second part of thedragonmen's plan and found a company of bog people slithering up to block hisboulder walk. The clan women were gamely rushing forward to meet them, Idonaand a few of the others wielding iron swords or wood axes, but most armed withnothing more deadly than fire-hardened spears and cudgels so light Melegauntcould have snapped them over his knee.

"Hold!"

Melegaunt's Vaasan had grown passable enough over thepast few months that Idona recognized the command for what it was and calledher sisters to a stop. He pointed at a hole in the exact center of theshadow-walk and spoke a single word of magic. A whirling pinwheel of black tentacleserupted from the hole and slashed the bog people into so many chunks of slimyflesh, then withdrew back into the hole.

"Now youcan come," Melegaunt called, using his magic to project his voice."And bring those foolish husbands of yours, or the only Higharvestidefeast will be that of the dragonmen."

Idona raised her sword in acknowledgement and sent theother women forward with the children, then rushed back into the shadowswaddled camp. Melegaunt waited impatiently for her return. It seemed to takeher forever, and he feared the surviving bog people would regain their couragebefore she could convince her husband to retreat to the safety of the island.Finally, warriors began to stagger onto the boulder walk in twos and threes,often supporting and sometimes carrying each other. Melegaunt thought for amoment that the evening's festivities had simply been proceeding faster than heexpected, but then he noticed that one of the men was missing an arm andanother had something dangling on his cheek that might have been an eye.

Bodvar came last with Idona at his side, holding anarmful of quivers over one arm and a shield over the other, alternately feedingarrows to her husband and stepping forward to intercept the wicked barbs flyingtheir way from somewhere deeper in the camp. Melegaunt allowed them to retreatto the first sharp bend in that fashion, then, speaking a magic command word,he pointed at a crooked crevice bisecting the boulder closest to shore.

A wall of faintly writhing shadows shot up from thefissure, sealing the boulder walk from the Vaasans' camp. Bodvar and Idonaturned and raced for the island, moving so fast that they nearly overran thenext turn. Only Idona's quick feet-and quicker hands-kept Bodvar from goingover the edge and plunging into the cold bog. They took the next corner morecautiously, then reached the island and started up the trail behind the others.

By then, the first wave of dragonmen were flying overand around the shadow wall at the other end of the boulder walk, staying lowand close to avoid making themselves targets. It was a bad mistake. As theypassed by, the writhing shadows struck out like snakes, entwining anything elsethey could reach. Whatever they touched vanished, and soon arms, legs, wings,even heads were raining down on the shore and into the bog.

The dragonmen's pursuit stopped cold, and the MoorEagles' women and children began to pour onto the work site. Melegaunt directedthem into the shallow shelters he had hollowed out behind the sword rack. Whenhe turned back to the battle, the tentacles in his shadow wall were swirlingoutward in three separate cones, each spiraling toward a small cluster ofdragonmen hovering over the village. The spinning cones tore through thewarrior screen as easily as they had the pursuit fliers a moment earlier, thendiced the spell casters they had been trying to shield.

"Try to dispel my magic, will you?" Melegaunt called in ancient Draconic. "Come hither. I have more of thesame waiting here!"

The last few dragonmen sank behind the shadow andvanished. For a time, Melegaunt feared he truly had defeated the attack thateasily. The warriors began to reach his work site and check on their families.There were a handful of anguished cries and panicked calls for missingchildren, but with Melegaunt's help, the Vaasans had managed their retreatwithout losing many of their number. Three warriors who were too badly injuredto fight were given over to the clan's healing witch, then Bodvar and Idonaarrived, breathing hard and supporting each other, but both whole and sound.

"Well, Devil, it seems you have saved usagain," Bodvar said. "Whether we like it or not."

Melegaunt spread his hands and said, "I live toserve."

Bodvar scowled and started to make a retort, thensomeone called, "Whitescales from the east!" and someone else yelled,"And from the west! Thirty at least, coming in low over the bog!"

Melegaunt rushed to the western edge of his work siteand saw a long rank of dragonmen approaching the island, their white scalesshining like ivory against the dark peat. Their line curved behind the islandand, from the cries behind him, continued all the way around to the other side.The clan of the Moor Eagle was surrounded. Struggling to bite back his smile,Melegaunt turned to find Bodvar and Idona standing behind him.

"It seems your faith in me was misplaced,"Melegaunt said. "My apologies, Bodvar."

"None necessary. I'm the one who brought this onus," Bodvar said. He fluttered his fingers in the direction of theapproaching dragonmen. "Just do what you can."

"I am afraid that will not be much, myfriend." Melegaunt spoke loudly enough to be sure that nearby warriors,already gathering to eavesdrop, would be certain to overhear. "Even I havemy limits."

"Limits?" Bodvar growled.

"I did not expect this. My magic is all butexhausted."

Bowstrings began to thrum around the perimeter of thework site, but they were too few-and their arrow points too soft-to turn backthe dragonmen.

Melegaunt drew his black sword, stepped away from theedge, and said, "But I can still give a good accounting of myself."

As he had hoped, the sight of his darksword proved an inspiration.

"The black swords!" Idona cried, turningtoward the rack. "Those will balance the-"

"No." Calm though it was, Bodvar's voice wassurprisingly masterful and imposing. "Of all the women in the tribe,Idona, you should know better. A devil's gift is no gift at all."

Idona looked as though she wanted to argue, but herrespect for her husband-and for her chieftain-was too strong. She bit hertongue and pointed at the hidden shelter.

"Then we had better fall back," she said,"before there is nothing left to defend."

Bodvar gave the order, and the dragonmen were on them,streaming onto the work site from all sides. They flew headlong into battle,thrusting at their overwhelmed enemies with iron-tipped spears and relying ontheir size and speed to carry the attacks home. Half a dozen human voiceswailed in pain in the first three heartbeats alone, then the second wave camecrashing down from the island summit, and it grew clear that the Vaasans hadn'ta chance. When they were lucky enough to land a strike, their brittleweapons either bounced off or broke like icicles against the dragonmen's thickscales.

Still, the Vaasans fought bravely and well, fallingback toward the shelter behind the sword racks in good order, defending eachother and striking at eyes and armpits and other vulnerable areas whenever thechance came. Within moments, there were as many dragonmen lying on the stonyground as there were humans.

And Melegaunt quickly added to the toll. Protected ashe was by an aura of impenetrable shadow and holding a sword that would cutthrough any armor known in Faerûn, he turned and whirled through the dragonmanranks, slashing legs off here and behorned heads there, dancing past spearthrusts and shrugging off claw strikes like a drow blademaster.

One of the huge saurians managed to clasp him frombehind in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground and trapping his arms so thatit was impossible to wield his sword. Perhaps thinking to take him out over thebog and drop him to his death, the creature spread his wings and leaped intothe air. Melegaunt slammed the back of his head into his attacker's snout,smashing it flat and driving one of the bony horns back into the thing's brain.When the wizard dropped back to his work site, the other dragonmen fell overeach other to find someone else to attack.

Then it happened.

A trio of dragonmen spotted the hidden shelter and,battering a pair of human defenders aside with their powerful wings, chargedfor the children. The first warrior scrambled to his feet and rushed afterthem, shattering his brittle sword against the back of a thick reptilian skull.

The other Vaasan grabbed one of Melegaunt's glassswords. He sliced one dragonman's legs out from beneath him, then cleaved asecond's spine on the backstroke and ran the blade through the third one'sheart from behind. As the last saurian crashed to his knees, the warrior letout an anguished gasp. He stumbled back clutching at his heart, and one of thewomen in the shelter wailed in despair, and cried out his name. But he did notfall. Instead, his hair and beard went as white as snow. Theswarthiness drained from his face and his skin turned as pallid as ivory, andwhen he turned back to the battle, his eyes were as dead and black as those ofthe bog people, and the sword in his hand had lost its crystal translucence. Itwas as dark and glossy as Melegaunt's, with no hint at all of the shadowfibers embedded in its heart.

A dragon man stepped out of the mad whirl, thrustingat the warrior's heart with an oaken spear. The Vaasan brought his sword up toblock and slashed through the shaft as though it was a twig, then he smileddarkly, opened his attacker across the chest, and waded after more victims.

His success inspired another warrior to snatch one ofthe weapons, and a woman in the shelter grabbed one to defend her children froman approaching dragonman. They killed their first enemies and underwenttransformations similar to the first sword-taker, then they, too, began to cuta swath through the attacking saurians. A dozen dragonmen leaped into the air,angling for the rack of deadly swords. They were met by a like number ofVaasans, all pulling weapons off the hangers and putting them to good use.

Bodvar appeared at Melegaunt's side, nearly losing hishand when he made the mistake of grabbing the wizard's shoulder withoutwarning.

"Stop them!"

"How?" Melegaunt asked. He caught abattering wing on his shoulder, then lopped it off and slashed his attackeracross the back of the knees. "The choice is theirs. They would ratherlive than die."

"Not live in your service!" Bodvar objected."You arranged this."

"Not arranged," Melegaunt replied. Hepointed his palm behind the angry Vaasan's head and blasted a would-be attackerwith a shadow bolt. "You give me too much credit."

"And you do not give me enough," saidBodvar. The Vaasan stepped close, and Melegaunt felt the tip of a sword pressedto his back. "Release my clan."

Melegaunt glared at the chieftain and said, "Atthe moment, Bodvar, you have worse enemies than me." Relying on hisshadow armor to protect him, he reached back and snapped the steel sword withhis bare hand. "If you want them released, do it yourself. All you need dois persuade them to set aside their swords."

Melegaunt shoved the chieftain away and turned back tothe battle. With most of the glass swords in hand, the Vaasans seemed to havematters well under control. The dragonmen were being forced steadily away fromthe shelters, and even when they attempted to use their wings to slip over thedefenders, they were met with a flurry of flashing shadow. Finally, they gaveup trying and took wing-at least those who could.

Dozens of wounded saurians remained behind with wingstoo shredded or broken to lift them, yet still strong enough to fight-andferocious enough to do it well. The Vaasans quickly set to work on them,herding them into a tight ball and driving them toward the cliffs on the eastside of the work site. Seeing that only one sword remained, Melegaunt left themto their work and quietly went to the rack and slipped the last sword into hisempty scabbard-and that was when Bodvar choose to assert himself again.

"My warriors, look at each other!" hecalled. "See what Melegaunt's devil weapons have done to you?"

Melegaunt groaned and shook his head in resignation.Were Bodvar not so stubborn and sure of himself, the wizard supposed, he wouldnot be worth the trouble in the first place. He turned to find the chieftainand his loyal wife standing behind their warriors, Idona holding a cloak loadedwith an armful of steel swords, which Bodvar was trying none too successfullyto press into his clansmen's hands.

"Finish the battle with your own weapons,"he said.

One of the sword-takers-Melegaunt thought it was thefirst-scowled.

"Why would we do that?" He hefted hisdarksword and said, "These are better."

"Better?"

Bodvar lunged for the sword-and was dropped to theground by a solid elbow to the face.

"This one belongs to me," the warrior said.

"Does it?" Idona dumped the steel swords onthe ground. "Or do you belong to it?"

She glared over her shoulder with a look that sent acold shiver down Melegaunt's spine, then she grabbed her husband beneath hisarms.

"Come, Bodvar." She pulled him to his feetand turned to leave. "We are Moor Eagles no more."

"Leaving?" gasped the warrior who had struckBodvar. He looked at his darksword a moment, then, as a discontented murmurbegan to build among his fellows, lowered the weapon. "Wait."

Melegaunt cursed Idona for an ungrateful shrew and,fumbling in his thoughts for some way to salvage the situation, startedforward. As usual, it was the dragonmen who saved him. All at once, they burstinto action, hurling themselves at the distracted Vaasans. The firstsword-taker and another warrior fell instantly, and the work site erupted intoa maelstrom of violence even more confused and ferocious than the first.Melegaunt saw pair of saurians springing in Bodvar's direction and took thefirst out with a bolt of shadow, but the second was too quick. It bowled thechieftain over on the run and lashed out for Idona, then a half-dozen othermelees drifted between Melegaunt and the chieftain's young wife, and he losther.

Melegaunt rushed forward swinging sword and sprayingshadow, but the battle was as mad and confused as it was quick. Before he couldfind Bodvar again, he had to slay two dragonmen and use a spell ofshadow-grabbing to keep from being dashed lifeless on the rocks at the base ofhis own cliff.

When Melegaunt did find the chieftain, he wished hehad not been so quick to save himself. Bodvar was standing in the midst of abloody pile of Vaasans and dragonmen, holding two broken swords of steel andsearching the carnage with a look of utter terror on his face.

"Idona?"

Bodvar found a female leg kicking at the ground frombeneath a dead dragonman and used a boot to roll the white-scaled corpse away,but it turned out that the leg belonged to another woman.

He turned away from her without comment and called again,"Idona?"

"There," rasped someone. "They've gother."

Melegaunt spun toward the speaker and found apallid-faced sword-bearer pointing across the work site to a small knot offleeing dragonmen. They were just starting down the trail toward the boulderwalk, each one with a limp Vaasan body slung over its shoulders. The last bodyin line was that of Bodvar's young wife, her throat ripped out and her headdangling by the spine alone, her blue eyes somehow still locked on Melegaunt'sface.

"No!" Melegaunt gasped. He laid a hand onBodvar's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Bodvar. Sorry beyond words."

"Why? You have what you came for," saidBodvar. He reached down to Melegaunt's scabbard and drew the last darksword,then raced after the dragonmen to reclaim the body of his dead wife. "Youhave your twenty souls."

BLOOD SPORT

Christie Golden

"I understand you're used to being on the otherside of these iron bars," said the woman called the Shark. Her black eyeswere hard as she gazed through the barred window into the Mistledale prisoncell. "Weren't you once captain of the Riders? They called you Rhynn 'theFair,' right? Oh, but that was before you turned traitor to the people you weresworn to protect."

Inmate Rhynn, an indigo-haired moon elf, did notreply. Only her clenched hands, their slim wrists encircled by metal shackles,betrayed her tension.

The Shark opened the door with the key given her bythe new captain of the Riders. She leaned her tall, well-muscled frame casuallyagainst the cold stone of the cell. The elf's glare grew more hostile, thoughshe trembled violently. A malicious smile spread across the Shark's tanned face. Herfunctional, masculine garb-wool tunic, breeches, and cape-kept her warm, evenin the middle of the month of Hammer. Rhynn Oriandis was clad only in a shabbytunic that dozens of prisoners before her had worn. Her skin, pale as that ofthe quarry the Shark hunted, was covered with gooseflesh.

The Shark knelt and brought her tawny face within aninch of Rhynn's.

"It's all come out, Rhynn. I want thevampire."

"I don't care what lies you've heard. He deservedto go free."

"Ah, you elves do protect your own, don'tyou?" The Shark's lips curled in a sneer. "I've never heard of anelven vampire before. I'm looking forward to this case."

"Race had nothing to do-"

"It had everything to do with your actions!" the Shark interrupted. "What you forgot is that this creature is not anelf any longer and therefore did not deserve your misplaced protection. He's avampire. They are things of purest evil. They know no race, and the only thingthey 'deserve' is a stake through the heart. Give me the information I want,or I'll simply take it from you."

Rhynn's eyes remained steady. "Torture me all youlike. I won't break."

"I wouldn't be so sure. They call me the Sharkbecause I'm the predator's predator. I've fought twenty-two vampires andcountless humans, and I've always made my kill." Pride colored in herwords. "Now-" her hand was a swift blur as she tangled strong fingersin Rhynn's hair-"cooperate, and you come out of this with your sanity andmaybe your freedom. Fight me-" she tightened her grip until Rhynn gaspedsoftly-"and you'll have neither."

The Shark chanted an incantation, blunt-nailed fingersdigging into Rhynn's skull. Rhynn arched in pain, her shackles rattlingfuriously, but she could not resist. The Shark's spell tore open the elf'smind.

The woman's emotions had obviously been confused bythe vampire's magical charms, for she saw him as a being devoted to good ratherthan the monster he was. The Shark had probed other minds in that mannerbefore, and always in the victims' memories the blooder was averitable saint. The Shark concentrated on the elf's appearance, his name, hisdestination, even as Rhynn tried frantically to secret the information. In herweakened condition, Rhynn could not bear the mental violation. Her mouth openedin a soundless scream, then unconsciousness claimed her.

She's luckier than she knows, thought the Shark; hadshe resisted further, the struggle to protect the vampire would have destroyedher sanity.

Triumphant, the Shark released her hold on Rhynn. On awhim, she tossed the keys within the elf's reach. Rhynn might revive and freeherself before her captors realized it. Maybe she'd escape. Maybe they'd killher. It didn't really matter. The Shark slipped the hood of her cloak over herhead and vanished, thanks to the cape's enchantment. With hardly a thought, shewalked out of the small prison and passed the two guards. Her horse was waitingfor her behind the jail, out of sight of the guards. Quietly she mounted. Snowmuffled the hoofbeats as the Shark headed toward Mistledale's single main gate.The idiot guards there noticed nothing.

According to Rhynn, the monster wanted to return toEvermeet, the elven homeland. The Shark snorted with contempt. Did the blooderactually think he could cross water? No, he'd be stranded along the Sword Coast, probably in Waterdeep. He already had a three month head start. She'd have toride hard to catch up with him.

The Shark turned her mount westward, toward the placethat was becoming known as the "City of Splendors," and kicked theanimal savagely.

The hunt was on.

A bawdy song spilled out of the Orc's Head Inn. TheShark, clad in demure feminine attire and appearing deceptively fragile,entered the noisy tavern. She brushed snow off her cape as she observed thenoisy, slightly drunken crowd, then unobtrusively seated herself in a shadowedcorner. The blooder wasn't there yet, but her sources had assured her he wouldmake an appearance that night.

She had only been seated a moment when a pretty youngbarmaid plunked a foamy tankard of ale in front of the Shark. The girl wassmall but full-figured, with a tumble of golden curls cascading down her back.

"On the house tonight," the barmaidexplained. "Shallen Lathkule-" the girl gestured to an extraordinarilyhandsome youth surrounded by merry companions-"is to be wed tomorrowafternoon. He's buying drinks for all, in memory of his lostbachelorhood."

"Well, to Shallen and his bride. He seems to be apopular young man," ventured the Shark, hoping to draw the barmaid intoconversation. Perhaps Shallen knew the blooder.

"Oh, he is indeed. Friendly as you'd like. Andtalented. Crafts the prettiest baubles this side of Evermeet, so theysay."

"He's a pretty bauble himself, isn't he?" joked the Shark.

Before the girl could answer, the door opened and thebarmaid's eyes lit up with pleasure. The Shark followed her gaze-and her owneyes flashed in excitement.

A slim figure entered, carrying a large crate. Heleaned on the door to close it behind him. Though he wore a gray cloak over hisblue tunic, his shoulder-length hair was uncovered, brilliant wheat-golddusted with snowflakes. No hood shadowed his fair features and bronze skin. Hiseyes perused the scene with subtle caution, a furtiveness that the Sharkrecognized. The silver gaze settled on her for a moment, then moved on.

Her elf vampire had arrived.

She watched him intently as he moved gracefully to aspot near the door and set down his crate. Unobtrusive as he was, Shallenspotted him.

"There you are!" the young man criedhappily, extricating himself from his less sober companions. "Khyrra toldme to talk you into coming to the wedding tomorrow."

"I'm afraid I cannot," replied the elf. TheMistledale folk hadn't exaggerated when they had described the blooder's voiceas sweet, like music. "But this might take the sting out of myrefusal."

With a small dagger, he cut the rope that had securedthe crate and pulled out a small statue. Carved of soft pine, the figurine wasa mere eight inches high, but the moment the elf brought it into the light, alleyes were upon him and his work.

Balanced in his golden palm was a miniature of Lliira,Our Lady of Joy. Her long hair flowed about her, merging into her swirlingdress as she danced in sheer delight. One hand was raised, palm flat, while theother one curved around her body, following the drape of her garb.

"Her hand is empty, but there's a little hollowright here," the elf pointed out. "Fill it with a jewel that has aspecial meaning for you and Khyrra. Our Lady of Joy will stand in my stead atyour wedding tomorrow."

Shallen's blue eyes were wide and sparkling withtears. The Shark's own eyes narrowed. How easily tricked they were, all ofthem-Rhynn, Shallen, and probably that little barmaid as well, judging by herreaction to the elf's entrance. Like the vampire who had made it, the gift wasbeautiful, but surely also dangerous.

"Thank you. I-" Shallen's throat closed upand he turned back to the bar, embarrassed by his emotion.

"Too much ale," quipped a friend.

The awkward moment dissolved into laughter, and theperformers resumed their tune. Though the music was loud enough to drown outmost conversation in the tavern, the Shark had come prepared to eavesdrop. Sherested her chin on her hand, ostensibly engrossed in the singing. As she did,she held a tiny, perfectly formed horn to her ear, easily concealed by herflowing black locks. She whispered a spell, and the voice of the barmaid cameclearly to her ears.

"That must've taken you months! What's Shallendone for you that you give him so pretty a thing?"

The elf glanced back at the jeweler and said, "Hewears his youth and happiness like a beautiful robe, for all to see and sharein. That's enough. When it's time for you to get married, Maia, I promise I'llgive you and your husband something even prettier."

Maia's response was an uncertain laugh.

"Don't know as I'll ever have a husband,"she said. Slender, nervous hands gestured at her body, a shade too ripe formodesty, and her beautiful face, a touch too hard for innocence. "Most menlike uncharted territory, Master Jander, and I'm more like their ownfields."

The vampire reached to still her suddenly anxioushands.

Gently, he said, "You told me something of thatsort six months ago, when I found you in the City of the Dead. I told you thenthat your past need not destroy your future. I was right-Kurnin hired you atonce, didn't he?"

A sheepish smile played on her full lips.

"Aye," she admitted. "But, MasterJander, none of these people know what I am!"

Her voice had dropped to a near whisper, and the elf'steasing expression grew more solemn.

"You're wrong, Maia. They know what you are. Theydon't know what you were, and that no longer matters."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

As Shallen had been a moment earlier, Maia seemedclose to tears. She blinked them back and allowed herself a true smile,revealing the purity of the beauty that lurked behind the hard facade."You'd charm the very birds off the trees," she laughed, trying tolighten the mood.

Just as he's obviously charmed you, the Shark thoughtwith a slight sniff of contempt. Charmed you into being his next meal.

Maia left to refill the mugs of the celebrants, andthe elf turned his attention to his wares. He carefully emptied the crate of atleast a dozen small carvings, turned it over, and spread his cloak over themakeshift table.

The Shark's heart beat faster with anticipation. Whatshe was about to do next was risky, but it was part of the deadly game sheloved to play, needed to play. She rose and went to meet her quarry.

The vampire glanced up as her shadow fell across him.The Shark noted, as if she needed further proof, that the undead cast no shadowof his own in the flickering lamplight.

"Your work is impressive," said the Shark.

She met the vampire's gray eyes evenly. There hadn'tbeen a blooder yet that could charm her, but she enjoyed the danger of flirtingwith the possibility. To her disappointment, the golden vampire didn't eventry. He merely continued placing his carvings on the crate.

"Thank you," the blooder replied.

"Do you have your own shop here inWaterdeep?"

"I find it more congenial to work during the dayand visit different taverns at night."

I'll bet you do, the Shark noted silently.

She ran a finger along the hull of a tiny, incrediblydetailed elven sailing vessel and said, "People are freer with their coinwhen their throats are wet, I would imagine."

He chuckled politely. "Perhaps they are. Do youlike that piece?"

"I do, but I don't have enough with me to buy ittonight," the Shark replied, feigning disappointment. "Could I cometo your home tomorrow and purchase it then?"

"I value my privacy when I work," respondedthe vampire, a touch too swiftly. "I'll be back tomorrow night. Shall Ikeep it for you?"

"I have an engagement, but I'll send one of myservants for it. Who should she ask for?"

"Jander Sunstar," the elf replied. "Andyou are?"

"Shakira Khazaar. Thank you for holding the piecefor me."

"Standard business practice. I'd hate to lose asale," Jander answered.

There was a strange expression in those silver eyes,and the Shark felt vaguely uneasy. She had done something wrong. She hadgotten careless somehow. The thought was like a slap in the face. She smiled,hoping to allay his suspicion, and was relieved when he returned the gesturewith the artless, seemingly genuine smile she had seen him use with the others,his "friends." Still, she felt his eyes boring into her back as sheleft.

Once outside, the Shark crossed the street and slippedinto an alley. After making sure she had not been observed, she drew the hoodof the cloak over her head. Woven and ensorcelled by her own hands many yearsago, the cloak not only made her invisible, but also disguised the auraproduced by her body heat-something vampires could see. The snow-speckled windwas strong, but she maneuvered herself so that it blew directly in her face.Though she was now invisible to the eyes of blooder and human alike, she wasnot about to risk being betrayed by her scent.

Her wait was not long. Just as the inn closed, the vampireemerged. The barmaid Maia was with him. Carefully, silently, the Sharkfollowed, noting that Jander deliberately left bootprints in the snow,perpetuating the illusion that he was nothing more than an ordinary elf. Toomany blooders, used to walking without tracks, forgot that little detail.

Maia and the vampire chatted quietly as he escortedthe girl to her home, a single room atop a tailor shop. The Shark waited forthe inevitable. The stupid girl, hypnotized by the creature, would invite himin. Of course he would accept, then drink his fill. That was the way it worked,and the Shark never interfered. She knew from a particularly harrowingexperience in Suzail that it was unwise to startle a feeding vampire.

Her expectations were fulfilled. Casually, Maiainvited the vampire inside, as if she had done so often. Courteously, theblooder accepted. The Shark waited with practiced patience, ignoring the cold.Eventually the vampire emerged, descended the stairs, and turned to stride downthe street-still taking care to leave footprints. The hunter followed, slightlypuzzled. Rather than assume the form of a bat or dissolve into mist, Janderchose to retain his elf shape and simply walk the distance. He seemed tense,though, and repeatedly glanced over his shoulder.

He thinks someone's following him, she realized suddenly.How could he know?

The Shark's mind raced back to the incident at theinn, and she finally recognized what she had done to arouse the blooder'ssuspicions. She had not asked the price of the carving. Shame and fear rolledover her, bringing hot blood to her invisible face. Idiot! her mind screamedsilently. How could she have jeopardized herself so? Her carelessness couldhave cost her life-and might still. At that instant, Jander paused to looksquarely at her, just for a moment. The Shark's heart lurched. . But no, hehadn't seen her. The blooder turned and continued on his way.

At last he stopped in front of a small, stone cottagenear the city's outskirts. It wasn't until Jander removed a key and unlockedthe door that the Shark understood, with some surprise, that that was thevampire's home. The wooden shingles and door were solid and in good shape.Beneath the shuttered windows stood the winter skeletons of rose bushes,carefully pruned and planted in neat rows. With a final, anxious glance around,Jander carefully knocked the snow from his boots and went inside.

The Shark tasted disappointment like ashes in hermouth. What kind of a challenge was a vampire who planted rose bushes? Howcould she prove herself against so feeble a foe? Surely something as exotic asan elf vampire ought to push her to her limits, test every bit of clevernessand skill she possessed! She almost felt that she could walk in right then anddispatch the creature without breaking a sweat, but her earlier carelessnesstempered her resentment. She would come back the next day and kill him. Itwould be easy, she knew, yet she still needed to devise a back-up plan just incase something went wrong.

With a final, disgusted look at the cozy cottage thatwas home to a vampire, she turned and retraced her steps to town. There was onemore thing to do that night.

Protected from all eyes by her magical cloak, theShark arrived at the blooder's cottage the following afternoon.

The vampire's domicile was part of a small row ofhouses, which all seemed vacant. Shallen Lathkule's wedding, held at the otherend of Waterdeep, had indeed drawn a huge crowd. With speedy efficiency, the Sharkpicked the lock and slipped inside. Closing the door behind her, she allowedher eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness, then looked around.

On the ground floor of the two-story building, she sawnothing sinister, apart from the shutters that were nailed closed and coatedwith pitch to seal out sunlight. There was a large workbench, with thewoodcarver's tools neatly organized. Half-formed carvings sat patiently onshelves. Where they were not covered with shelving, the walls bore lovelypaintings and tapestries. In one corner, carefully preserved, was a suit ofmail, a sword, and a shield. Relics, no doubt, from the vampire's days as aliving being. The stone floor was strewn with fresh rushes. Small squeakingsounds came from behind a curtain toward the back. Senses alert, the Sharkmoved forward carefully and drew back the curtain.

Dozens of rats milled about in a large pen. Shewatched them carefully for a few moments, aware that sometimes such simplebeasts could be controlled by vampires, but the rats behaved in a perfectlyordinary fashion. Wrinkling her nose at the smell, she let the curtain fall.

"Between meal treats," she said softly. Mostblooders kept something of the sort on hand.

She checked the wooden floor for any hidden doors, butfound none. The Shark frowned, puzzled, and she glanced at the ladder that ledup to the upper floor. Most undead liked their lairs cool and dark, belowground if possible. The Shark shrugged. Upstairs, downstairs-it made nodifference to her. Soundlessly, she climbed up to the small loft. She raisedher head cautiously, then drew a swift intake of breath.

The vampire had no coffin. Neither did he he rigidwith his hands neatly folded atop his chest. He slept sprawled on the floor,arms and legs bent at unnatural angles. The beautiful features that had smiledin the lamplight the previous night were contorted in what looked like fear.For an instant, the Shark hesitated. She'd never seen a blooder sleepin that position. Could she possibly have been wrong?

No, she decided in the next heartbeat. She had neverbeen wrong where blooders were concerned. Quietly she climbed the rest of theway up and walked carefully over to Jander. No chest movement. He was certainlydead-but why that position? Then it came to her. Blooders slept as they haddied, and most had been laid out and buried in coffins. Jander Sunstar hadobviously met his vampiric fate in a less tranquil fashion and had never seen aproper ritual burial.

She leaned forward for a better look, and the hooddropped into her eyes. Annoyed, she slipped the hood to her shoulders,instantly becoming visible. It didn't matter. Jander, like every blooder she'dever slain, was vulnerable, unable to move, let alone fight, during daylighthours. He would die, too. The only question in her mind was how she would killhim. Her strong hands fell to her wide belt, which hosted her tools. Jander'scontorted position did not give her a clear shot with her favorite weapon, asmall, specially crafted crossbow she could wield with one hand. She had to gowith the traditional implements-the stake and hammer.

Straddling the undead body, she placed the tip of thesharpened stake to his breast.

She raised the hammer and said the words that shealways uttered before a kill: "The Shark sends you to the NineHells." Then, in a disgusted tone, she added, "You were tooeasy."

A gold-skinned hand seized her left wrist. Silver eyesgazed up at her.

"Not that easy," replied the vampire.

The Shark recovered almost at once from her shock. Aquick flick of her wrist liberated a small glass ball from up her sleeve.Liquid-holy water-sloshed within the delicately blown sphere. She shoved itdown toward the vampire's face, but he was unbelievably fast. He loosed hisgrip on her arm, his hand flying up in a blur to protect his face. The glassball broke, but instead of searing his eyes, the holy water ignited hisfingers.

Before the monster could take mist form and flee, theShark leaped clear, pulled her crossbow from its harness behind her back,aimed, and fired. The slim wooden bolt sank deep into the vampire's chest.Immediately his body began to desiccate; the flesh shriveled and turned fromgolden to dull tan. Gasping, he dropped to his knees on the wooden floor. TheShark watched eagerly, hungry for the creature's pain. She hadn't expected thevampire to retain so much of his former race that he could move during the day.But she had gotten him, in spite of-

Flailing golden hands closed on the shaft, and theShark realized that, though the wooden arrow had hit Jander's chest, perhapseven grazed the heart, it had not pierced that most vital of the vampire'sorgans. With a mighty tug, Jander pulled the shaft free. His golden colorationreturned in a rush, and his features took on their normal shape-save that thegentleness was gone from his face.

The Shark scrambled for the ladder, Jander in furiouspursuit. She could not defeat him there, not then, and was intent on leavingwith her skin intact. Behind her, she heard a savage growl and knew he hadtaken wolf form. She let go of the rungs and dropped the rest of the way downto the first floor, but not before sharp teeth clicked shut mere inches fromher fingers.

She hit the ground running. Shoving her left hand intoone of the pouches on her belt, she felt the gooey combination of bat guanoand sulfur.

"Twelve feet ahead, three feet high!" shecommanded, then pointed her right index finger at the far wall of the cottage.

A small ball of fire appeared at her fingertip,growing in size as it hurtled toward the wall. It exploded on contact,igniting many of Jander's beautiful carvings. Sunlight streamed into thecottage, and the Shark dived headfirst through the opening.

Despite the cushion of snow, she landed hard, and thewind was knocked out of her. For a wild instant, she wondered if the vampire,in addition to being active during the day, was also immune to sunlight. ButJander did not follow her.

The Shark rolled over, gasping for breath. At last shestumbled to her feet and peered in through the hole in the wall. He was nowhereto be seen, of course; he was hiding from the burning light. She was glad thatshe had taken the time to plan for just such trouble.

"Vampire,'' she called. Silence. "Vampire! Iknow you can hear me."

"I hear you." The same voice as the previousnight, melodious, but laced with pain and anger. The sound gave her pleasure.He had surprised her up in the loft. But she had a surprise for him.

"I have Maia," she said.

Silence. Then, "You lie."

"I followed you both from the inn last night,then I went back and got her."

A low groan was her reward, and her pleasure grew.

"Don't hurt her…. Please. She's innocent. Shedoesn't know anything about me. I'm the one you want!" The sounds ofmovement came from within. "I'll … I'll come out."

Alarms sounded in her head.

"No!" she cried with more emotion than shehad intended.

She'd fallen for that trick before, let a vampirevolunteer to die in the sunlight, only to discover that the blooder was also amage who could cast a sphere of darkness around them both. Unconsciously, herhand went to her throat, touched the healed scar there. She'd been bitten, butshe'd won-and had learned a lesson about the treacherous nature of vampires.

But if this blooder was acting, he was quite the thespian.The Shark heard real pain in his voice.

"Why would you want to do that?" she asked."What is Maia that you would surrender yourself?"

She wanted to hear his answer, but she kept alert forany attack.

From inside, Jander said softly, "She's lovely,and I appreciate beauty."

The Shark snorted. "So you were simply admiringher beauty last night in her room."

A pause, then, "She is untouched. I visit hereach night. I'm teaching her how to read."

"Untouched is hardly the term I'd use to describea two-copper whore. And as for reading …"

"What she did to survive does not concernme." Anger thrummed in the rich voice. "What she is now, and what shemight be, is what I care about. She is eager to learn. I want to help."

"You want to help, not kill, is that right?"

"Someone once gave me a chance to atone for mypast. How can I not do the same for Maia?"

The Shark couldn't help it. Her amusement grew untilshe actually laughed aloud. He couldn't possibly expect her to believe such awildly preposterous story.

"You are most entertaining, Master Elf. But Iremain unconvinced. If you truly wish to ensure Maia a pleasant future, you'llfollow through on your offer. My terms are simple: your unlife for her truelife. Meet me tonight, at the monument in the City of the Dead. If you don'tshow up-well, the slut means nothing to me."

Another pause.

"Most who hunt the nosferatu are holypeople," the vampire said at last. "You are not, Shakira Khazaar. Hadyou been, I would have rejoiced that you had found me, and I would have knownwhy I was hunted. You have asked questions of me, now I ask you: Why would youuse an innocent like Maia so? Why do you wish to kill me when I have done noone in this city harm?"

The Shark was taken aback by the unexpected query. Noone had ever asked her that before. She killed because that was what she did.She'd done it all her life-first in self-defense, then for coin as a hiredassassin. When the pleasure of taking human life paled, she'd turned tostalking the undead. Blooders were a challenge, and everyone wanted themdestroyed. She was no longer the thief Shakira, afraid and alone. Neither wasshe a nameless assassin, who hunted and hid in shadows. She had transformedherself into the Shark, who always caught her prey, whose prowess in the fineart of killing was sought after and widelypraised. But those reasons did not cometo her lips then.

Instead she spat venomously, "Because CaptainRhynn Oriandis wants you destroyed, you gods-rotted bloodsucker."

Jander's soft gasp made the Shark's hatred-blackenedheart skip a beat.

The fool believes me!

Her face contorted in a grimace that she thought was asmile as she left the vampire alone to agonize until nightfall.

For a place of death, the City of the Dead was verypopular with the living. Many generations and many classes of Waterdhavianscrumbled to dust side-by-side in pauper's graves and gorgeously carvedmausoleums: warriors, sea captains, merchants, commoners. The struggles theyhad with one another in life ceased to matter as, united in their mortality,they slept the final sleep. Waving grass, shady trees, and beautiful statueslent the place an aura of tranquility. During the day, the little" city" was a peaceful haven for visitors. Night, however, brought adifferent class of people to the cemetery-those who conducted business besttransacted under the vague light of the moon and stars, business handled bypeople who did not want witnesses.

The centerpiece of the necropolis was a giant monumenterected only a few years past. Designed to pay tribute to the originalsettlers of Waterdeep, the statue was a gorgeous work of art. Dozens ofindividual stone carvings, depicting life-sized warriors battling with allmanner of nonhuman adversaries, comprised the sixty-foot high monument. Wide atthe base, it narrowed with each level until a lone hero stood atop the fray.Frozen forever at the moment of greatest action, orcs speared theiradversaries, doughty swordsmen slew bugbears, and heroes and monsters alikedied in a variety of dramatic poses.

There the vampire had met Maia several months before,plying her unsavory trade. There he hoped to see her again that night.

Jander came in elf form, walking, but leaving no footprints.He stopped as he neared the monument. A pale white ring encircled the grandstatue, and the pungent scent of garlic filled the cold night air. There came asound of muffled sobbing, and he glanced upward. With deliberate irony, theShark had tied the barmaid to a conquering stonework hero, who stood atop themountain of fighters, arms raised in victory. The girl was lashed securely withrope at hands and feet. A piece of cloth shoved in her mouth stifled words, butnot her sounds of fear.

Jander walked slowly around the ring of garlic untilhe came to a two-foot wide gap in the otherwise unbreachable barrier. He hesitatedonly an instant before stepping into the circle. It was obviously a trap, butwhat choice did he have?

At the base of the monument Jander cried out and fell.His foot had been caught in a cleverly concealed, sharp-jawed animal trap madeof wood, not steel. And when he hit the ground, a second trap clamped on one ofhis hands. Holy water soaked the traps' jagged teeth. Steam and blood hissedfrom the vampire's wounds, glittering black in the moonlight.

With his good hand, Jander splintered the wood thatbit into ankle and wrist. On his feet at once, he glanced around, expecting asecond attack. None came.

He moved toward the statue more cautiously, his eyeson the snow in front of him rather than the monument itself. There were severalmore concealed traps waiting to close upon him. Treading delicately, he avoidedthem.

"I'm here, Maia," he called. "You'resafe now."

The stone figure in front of him was a warrior womanwith a single braid of long hair. He reached out to it, prepared to begin theclimb up to Maia. But the statue smiled and sprang to life. The illusion shed,the Shark drew a small crossbow and fired a wooden shaft directly at Jander'schest. She was no more than two yards away.

Jander grunted at the impact, but the shaft bouncedoff his body and fell to the grass.

The Shark gasped. The vampire smiled and tapped hischest with a golden forefinger. It clinked. Too late, the Shark recalled thechain mail shirt she had seen in Jander's cottage. She pulled down her hood,safely invisible, and jumped aside. The vampire's hand closed on her cloak,but she yanked it out of his grasp and began to run.

Jander followed without pause.

It took the Shark a moment to realize the blooderdidn't need to see her to follow her churning tracks in the snow. At once sheleaped straight up, seized the mighty arm of a stone orc, and hauled herselfatop it. She scrambled to the left, balanced precariously on a helmeted headand a stone shoulder, then she paused, holding her breath.

For a time, the golden vampire stood as still as astatue himself, gazing about as if he could penetrate the magic that concealedher by sheer force of will. His gaze traveled over and past her. Then Janderturned and began to climb.

When he had gotten halfway up the monument, the Sharklowered herself to the ground as quietly as she could. She readjusted the hoodof her cape, making sure it would not slip off as she moved. She hoped shecould complete her task before the vampire noticed her telltale footprints.

Hastening to the circle of garlic, she closed theopening with the remainder of the bulbs she had with her. He had no escape-hecouldn't even fly over the ring. She returned to the statue and followed thevampire up.

His movements were swift and sure, but not unnaturallyso. Jander was taking great care not to reveal his true nature to Maia. Thusfar, his deception was to the Shark's advantage. She followed at her own briskpace, climbing up the battling warriors as easily as if they were limbs of aparticularly gnarled tree.

He had reached the top. There was silence, and theShark knew that the blooder was staring at the holy symbols she'd drapedacross Maia's body. Carefully, quietly, the hunter continued to climb,listening all the while.

"Lathander, protect me!" came Maia'sfear-shrill voice as Jander pulled the gag from her mouth. "Don't kill me!Please! She-she told me what you are. I'll do whatever you want, but, please,don't kill me!"

Stunned silence. The Shark pulled herself up over adying archer, awaiting the blooder's response with malicious glee.

"No, Maia," came Jander's voice, filled withan ancient weariness. "I won't kill you. I just… here, let me set youfree."

The Shark was able to see him. Safely invisible, shewatched, tense, as Jander moved to untie the hands of the still-hystericalyoung girl. He successfully freed her hands and knelt to work at the knots thatbound her ankles. Light exploded from the small pink medallion hidden in thefolds of Maia's skirts. The Shark's spell had worked beautifully.

The vampire flung his arms up to shield his eyes,stumbled, and hurtled off the monument. The Shark hastened forward. One handgripping a dying troll, the hunter watched Jander's fall. His body shimmered,recasting itself into a small brown bat. He began to fly back up to the top.

Behind her, the Shark heard Maia sob as she workedloose the knots. Then, whimpering, the barmaid started the climb down from themonument. The Shark ignored her. Maia had served her purpose.

Instead, the hunter kept her attention focused on thevampire. Leaning out precariously over the raised stone swords and bracedjavelins that pointed up from below, she clung to the troll statue and withdrewa small pouch from her pocket. Grains of wheat fell in a shower over the bat.It was the Shark's favorite trick to play on a vampire in bat form. The grainwould confuse the vermin's senses, making it fly wildly. And that would givethe Shark a chance to prepare another, more deadly attack.

But Jander did not veer off. The little bat flittedcrazily for a moment, then continued moving directly for the Shark's face. Nocloak of invisibility could protect her from the heightened senses provided tothe vampire in his bat form. She could see the vermin's tiny,sharp-toothed jaws opening as it approached her eyes.

Startled, the Shark ducked. Her foot slipped from thesnow-slicked perch, and she dropped toward the upturned stone javelins below.She did not cry out, merely grunted when her death plummet was abruptly cutshort. A spear wielded by a bugbear had snagged her cloak. Her throat wasbruised from the sudden tug, but she was alive.

The Shark hung, dangling, swinging slightly back andforth. Her mind raced, and she cursed herself. She'd prepared no spells forsuch an eventuality-no floating, flying, or transformational magic. Gruntingwith the effort, she reached up, trying to grab the stone spear that held hersuspended. She could not reach it. She then stretched to the right as far asshe could in hopes of seizing the ugly, porcine face of an orc beating down ahapless stone hero. She grasped only empty air.

More frightened than she had been in decades, theShark craned her neck to look upward.

The blooder was a silhouette against the star-filled skyas he bent to look at her. Then, slowly, he moved. One arm reached down.

Crying incoherently, the Shark twisted away. Her cloaktore a little, and she dropped four inches. At least the vampire was too farabove her to reach her-but, ah gods, he could crawl….

"Give me your hand."

For a moment, she couldn't comprehend the words, sounexpected were they. Jander stretched his hand farther.

"Give me your hand! I can't quite reachyou."

The cloak ripped again. The Shark stared down at thenext tier of battling warriors and their pointed stone weapons. It was at leasta twenty-foot drop.

"I'm coming, Shakira. Hold on."

And indeed, the golden vampire began to climb, headfirst,down to reach her.

She suddenly knew, knew with a deep, inner certainty,that Jander Sunstar was not coming to kill her. He was coming to save her life,to pull her back to safety. She, the Shark, the woman who had spent her lifeperfecting the art of murder, had finally failed to kill. And having failed,she would owe her life to the creature she had sought to destroy. If hisforgiving hands closed on her, she would never be able to lift a weapon again.She would cease to be the Shark.

She didn't even have to think. Reaching up, she twinedboth hands in the cloak.

"The Shark sends you to the Nine Hells," shesaid aloud, but the words were intended for her own ears.

As the vampire's fingers reached out to her, the Sharksmiled like the predator she was, spat at his despairing, beautiful face, andtore the cloak free.

SIX OF SWORDS

William W. Connors

I

Moonlight on a silver blade was the last thing Jaybelever saw.

Fifteen years ago, when he and his closest friends hadbeen adventuring throughout the Western Heartlands, he might have expected sucha demise. In those days, he had made his living as an expert picking locks,disarming traps, and unobtrusively eliminating enemies-tasks known forshort-lived practitioners. Indeed, on more than one occasion, he'd beensnatched from death's dark abyss only by the mystical healing power of theacolyte Gwynn.

In the years since, however, Jaybel had given up therogue's life. Following the tragedy of his company's last quest, when they hadbeen forced to leave the dwarf Shandt to the so-called mercy of a hobgoblintribe, the glamour had gone out of that life. Indeed, so terrible had thatordeal been that every member of the Six of Swords had secondthoughts about his career.

"I've made my fortune," Jaybel told hiscomrades. "Now I plan to relax and enjoy it."

With his next breath, he asked Gwynn to marry him, andshe hadn't even paused before accepting. The company parted, and he and Gwynntook up residence in the great city of Waterdeep.

With the treasures they had gathered from countlessforgotten tunnels and valiant quests, Jaybel and Gwynn had built themselves amodestly elegant home. It included a chapel where she could teach her faith,and a locksmith's shop where he could keep his fingers nimble and his eyessharp.

For nearly a decade and a half, he and Gwynn had beenhappy. They had put tragedy behind them and started a new life together. WhenJaybel had looked back on those wild days, he always said, "It's a wonderI'm not dead."

Now he was.

II

The metallic ringing of steel on steel fell upon earsso long past ignoring it that they may as well have been deaf. With eachimpact, sparks filled the night air, streaking upward like startled fireflies,becoming brief ruddy stars, and finishing their fleeting lives with meteoricfalls to the stone floor. Thus it went as the sun set and night cloaked thecity of Raven's Bluff. Time and time again, Orlando repeated the ritual of hiscraft. Hammer fell, sparks flew, and the wedge of a plow gradually took shape.

When the farmer's blade was finally completed, thenoise ended and the smoldering coals of the forge were left to cool. Thebrawny, dark-skinned Orlando set about returning his tools to their places,taking no notice of the ebony shape that appeared in the open doorway of hisshop.

For a fraction of a second, the shadow filled the doorway,blocking out the stars and crescent moon that hung beyond it. Then, with thegrace of a hunting cat, it slipped through the portal and into the swelteringheat of the blacksmith's shop. In the absence of the ringing hammer, the shadowdrifted in supernatural silence.

Without prelude, a sepulchral voice wafted from thedarkness. Though a whisper, the intonation and clarity of the words made themas audible as any crier's shout.

Jaybel and Gwynn are dead.

Orlando froze, hishand still clutching the great hammer, half-suspended from an iron hook. The voicesent a chill down his spine, raising goosebumps across his body just as it hadwhen he'd last heard it years ago. Orlando turned slowly, keeping the hammer inhis hand and trying to spot the source of the voice. As had always been thecase when she desired it, Lelanda was one with the darkness.

Relax, Orlando, said the night. I didn't do it.

"Then show yourself," said the blacksmith,knowing she wouldn't.

It had been years since Orlando had taken up a weaponaside from a tankard in a tavern brawl. Still, even the passing of the yearsdidn't prevent the well-honed reflexes of his adventuring days from surgingback to life. If the witch tried anything, his life wouldn't command a smallprice. Still, he knew who would walk away from the battle. He doubted Lelandahad given up magic. She was probably even more powerful. So, Orlando's rustyreflexes would provide her only brief entertainment.

To Orlando's surprise, the darkness before him parted.Lelanda's face, crowned with hair the color of smoldering coals and set withemerald eyes that reminded him all too well of a cat's, appeared no more than ayard away from his own. As always, he was stunned by the shocking contrastbetween her external beauty and her malevolent soul within.

If he struck just then, there was no way the witchcould save herself. The muscles in his arm tensed, but he could not bringhimself to strike first. He had to hear her out.

"Satisfied?" she asked.

Her voice, no longer distorted by the magical shroudof shadows, seemed gentle and alluring. Orlando knew that, like her beauty, hervoice was a deadly illusion. Black widows were beautiful as well. Even knowingthe truth, his pulse quickened.

The retired warrior put aside the distraction andasked the only question that made sense: "What happened to them?"

"It wasn't an accident," she said, her eyeslowering to the hammer still in Orlando's hand. He grinned halfheartedly andtossed it toward the nearby workbench. She returned his smile and went on."Someone killed them."

"You're sure it wasn't you?" he asked.

"Fairly," she said. "I'm on my way toWaterdeep to find out who. We made a lot of enemies in those days."

"We made friends, too," the blacksmith said.

"We lost them as well," said the witch.

Orlando's memory wasquick to pull up an image of Shandt, his enchanted battle-axe glowing as itswept back and forth through the ranks of hobgoblins that swallowed him up. Itwasn't the way he would have wanted to remember the smiling dwarf.

"If we leave in the morning, we can be there in afew days," said Lelanda. "I know some … shortcuts."

"If we leave now, we can be there sooner,"said Orlando. "Give me an hour to get ready."

III

Orlando moved throughhis darkened house without so much as a flickering candle to light his way.Outside, Lelanda sat unmoving on the back of a horse even blacker than thenight sky. Orlando knew she was anxious to get under way, and so went from roomto room as quickly as possible. The walls of his home were decorated withswords, shields, and other reminders of his adventuring life. Like a thief inhis own house, he gathered up three of those heirlooms.

The first of them was Talon, the curved sword thathe'd recovered from a dark labyrinth beneath the sands men called the Battle of the Bones. The arcane blade proved almost unstoppable when turned against theliving dead. Removed from its traditional place above the hearth, the enchantedblade was returned to the scabbard on Orlando's black leather belt.

The second item removed from his collection was abronze breastplate. Countless attackers had learned that it had the uncannyability to turn aside even the most deadly missiles. Arrows, quarrels, and evenbullets had all proven impotent against the charms of the bronze armor. Orlando liberated it from the wooden mannequin that guarded an empty first floor hallway.As the yellow-orange armor once again embraced Orlando's muscular chest, henoticed that the passing of his youth made it more snug than he remembered..

With the sword and armor safely recovered, Orlando moved on to the last item he planned to bring with him: a good luck charm. Pausingbeside the small shrine adjacent to his bedroom, Orlando slipped a smallsilver amulet from the hook on which it hung and looped it around his neck.Unconsciously, his fingers ran across its surface, tracing the outlines of thecrossed battle-axes that were the icon of the dwarf god ClanggedinSilver-beard. There was no magic in the simple pendant, but it had been apresent from Shandt. Since it had been given to him not five hours before thenoble dwarf met his fate somewhere in the Underdark, Orlando couldn't look uponit without remembering the broad, crooked smile and gleaming eyes that had madehis best friend's countenance so pleasantly memorable. The memory brought Orlando both a smile and a tear.

Locking the door behind him, Orlando left the houseand moved to join Lelanda by the stable. She had already saddled Zephyr, hisdappled gray horse.

Without a word, the warrior placed his foot in thestirrup, swung himself onto his mount, and nudged the horse into atrot. Many miles passed before either of the old adventurers spoke a word tothe other.

IV

Orlando drew back onZephyr's reigns. The animal, well trained and eager to please its master,slowed quickly from its trot to a full stop. The enigmatic black equine thatLelanda rode did the same, though Orlando saw no sign of a command from riderto mount. The horse seemed always to know what the enchantress expected of it.

"Aren't we going a bit out of our way?" Orlando asked.

"Only slightly," responded the witch."I thought we might stop at Jolind's estate and tell her what happened.She won't be interested in joining us, of course, but she was one of the Six.She has a right to know."

Orlando was surprisedto hear Lelanda speak like that. In their adventuring days, she'd had littleuse for the individual members of the Six of Swords. To her, they werebodyguards, scouts, and healers who enabled her to explore the mysteries ofmagic, recover rare spell components, and otherwise practice her arcane art.Perhaps time had softened her heart, or perhaps there was more to the detourthan she was telling him.

With the aid of Lelanda's magic, the miles passed asfleeting images in the corner of the eye. Even at that rate, however, it wasseveral hours before the lights of Jolind's tower were visible. When theyreached the edge of the clearing in which it stood, both riders brought theirmounts to a stop.

"She's done a remarkable job here," said Orlando as his head swept back and forth to indicate the lush forest that rose aroundthem. "I remember when we first found this clearing. The soil was sopoisonous that nothing less robust than spitweed would grow here."

"I'll go in first," said Lelanda, ignoringhis attempt at conversation. "Jolind always valued her privacy, and I'dhate to have a druid angry at me in the heart of her own forest."

She slipped the hood of her cloak over her head, causingthe sunset colors of her hair to vanish into a thick darkness. Even as hewatched, Orlando found that he could no longer focus clearly on her. Though heknew exactly where she was standing, he was able to see her only as a fleetingimage in the corner of his eye.

I'll be back as quickly as I can, said the darkness.

Before he could respond, Orlando realized he and thehorses were alone by the side of the road. He wanted to chuckle, but the chillsthat her macabre voice had left running along his spine wouldn't let him.

While he waited for his companion to return, Orlando opened the saddlebags draped over Zephyr and pulled out an apple. He fished aroundfor a few seconds more and brought out a small knife. With a deft flick of hiswrist, he split the fruit cleanly in two. After wiping off the blade andslipping it back into the leather pouch, he offered one of the halves to hishorse and considered the other for a moment. With an unconscious shrug, hereached over and held it before Lelanda's mount. The ebon animal eyed hisoffering, but then snorted and turned away. Orlando shrugged again and ate ithimself. The first hints of dawn were lighting the horizon, and he had anunhappy feeling that the animal's snobbery was to set the tone for the dayahead. He was right.

Jolind is dead, came the too-familiar voice of the darkness. And the body is warm.The killer must still be nearby.

V

The inside of the tower stirred Orlando's memories ofthe time when the Six of Swords had first explored it.

In those days, the surrounding lands had been defiledby the black dragon that made its home there. The entire area had been poisonedby the creature, with pools of acid, swarms of stinging insects, and tangles ofslashweed dominating the tortured remnants of the forest. From the moment they'dentered that fell region, the druid Jolind had become solemn and morose. Suchdestruction, she swore, could not go unpunished.

When they reached the tower-a ruined structure builtby an unknown hand centuries before any of the Six were born-Jolind had ledtheir attack against the dragon. Turning the very elements of nature againstthe creature, she had been instrumental in its destruction.

Eighteen months later, when the company disbanded, sheannounced her intention to return to that place and restore the forest to itspast glory. She had done an outstanding job.

Jolind had not, however, restored the tower. At least,she hadn't done so in the way that Orlando would have. The interior floors andwalls had been stripped out, a great glass dome placed atop the tower, and abubbling fountain set into the ground at its center. The combination of thefish-eye skylight and the dancing water of the fountain made the climate insidethe tower hot and sticky.

Under normal circumstances, this would have made theplace unbearable. With the careful hand of Jolind to shape the place, however,it had been transformed into a tropical paradise. Great tresses of ivy climbedgracefully up walls dotted with brilliantly colored flowers. Shafts of morninglight, shunted downward by the facets of the glass dome, illuminated a dozentrees and the colorful butterflies that flitted between them.

The horrors of the past had been completely banishedby the careful hand of the druid. Sadly, they had been replaced by the horrorsof the present. At the heart of all this splendor was a copper-smelling pool ofred. And at the center of that scarlet expanse lay the body of the druidJolind. Her head had been cleanly cut from her neck.

It took all the courage Orlando could muster toapproach the body. Jolind had been a friend, a companion, and more. For a time,the warrior and the druid had been lovers, seeking escape in each other's arms.Their relationship had lasted less than a year, but in that time, each hadlearned much about the other's philosophy and profession. For Orlando, that meant a keen appreciation of the ways of nature, the give-and-take of theenvironment, and an understanding of his place in it. Jolind had not feareddeath. In her mind, it was nothing more than the end of life. To Orlando, death had always been an enemy to be held at bay. In the end, he knew, deathwould triumph. For the present, however, he preferred to keep that most finalof foes as far away as possible.

"Horrible way to die," he said softly.

The same way Jaybel and Gwynn were killed, said a voice from nowhere.

Though the sound still irritated him, Orlando had already adjusted to the macabre intonations that came from empty air. It wasamazing to him how quickly the old ways of thinking returned. Indeed, even asthat thought crossed his mind, he realized he had subconsciously drawn Talonfrom its scabbard. Without the slightest thought, he had made ready to defendhimself from Jolind's attacker.

"A pretty fierce struggle," said Orlando, examining the disturbed earth around the pool of blood and beneath thedecapitated body. "But something doesn't make sense. All of thesefootprints were made by Jolind's sandals. Whomever she was fighting didn't makethe faintest impression as he moved about."

Perhaps we're dealing with a doppelganger or otherform-shifter. If her killer assumed Jolind's shape, you wouldn't be able totell one set of prints from another.

"I doubt it," responded the warrior. Hetilted his head to one side, then to the other. "No, the positioning ispretty clear. Only one person made these prints. What about the undead?Remember that vampire we tracked down near Dragonspear? He didn't leavefootprints, throw a shadow, or make any sound when he moved."

As soon as he mentioned that adventure, he wished hehadn't. It was in the ancient crypt where the vampire's coffin had been hiddenthat Lelanda found the mysterious shroud of shadows.

Possible, respondedthe enigmatic shadows of the garden, but unlikely. This place is prettyheavily warded against intrusion by the undead and other unnatural creatures.If the killer is something like that, he'd have to be extremely powerful toenter the tower. For our sakes I'd prefer to believe that isn't the answer.

Orlando said no morefor several minutes. Instead of allowing dark thoughts to dominate his mind, heforced his attention back to the matter at hand. With measured steps, he walkedto and fro around the area, using his experience in combat to piece togetherthe puzzle, whose pieces had been scattered in the darkness of the previousnight.

After a time, he noticed something and reached into abeautiful but painfully prickly shrub. Cursing and wriggling, he pulled backhis arm and drew out a slender, wooden rod some three feet long. Covered in agleaming white lacquer, it was painfully cold to the touch. From pastexperience, however, he knew that it was warmer than it should be.

What have you found? inquired the stillest part of the garden.

On some level, Orlando realized it wasn't the factthat he couldn't see Lelanda that bothered him most. It was the spectral natureof her voice while she wore the shroud. There was too much of death anddarkness in that place already.

Orlando could stand nomore of the one-sided conversation.

"Take off that damned shroud, and I'll showyou!" he hissed.

Almost at once, the shadow of a pear tree lightenedand the elegant sorceress was standing beside him. She quickly complied withhis request, making the hostility in his voice seem suddenly unnecessary.

"I'm sorry," Orlando said softly, "butyou have no idea how quickly that thing gets on your nerves."

He expected her to argue the point, just as she wouldhave in the past. To his surprise, her response was quite civil.

"No," she answered, "I suppose I don't.You see, it's been a very long time since I've had a traveling companion. I'vegotten rather used to wearing the shroud all the time. I'll try not to use itunless it's an emergency."

There was a brief pause, a moment of still contrast tothe violence that had unfolded around them. Orlando searched for something tosay, but failed.

Lelanda seemed only slightly more at ease, picking upthe frayed threads of conversation.

"I asked you what you had found," shereminded him.

"Looks like a piece of that staff Jolind used tocarry with her; feels like it too, almost as cold as those blizzards it couldsummon up."

Lelanda tilted her head and looked at the brokenstaff. Her lips pursed as she considered the broken end and several placesalong its length where something had cut deeply into it.

"There was some pretty powerful magic woven intothis thing," she said. "It wouldn't be easy to break. The weapon thathacked these notches out of it and finally broke it must have been every bit aspowerful. That doesn't bode well for our future."

Silence fell upon the garden again. Orlando went backto fishing through the shrubs, eventually finding the other section of Jolind'sstaff.

Lelanda examined the head, looking into the druid'seyes as if she might read the woman's dying thoughts. Then she walked adistance toward Orlando and called to him. He met her halfway between theshrubs and the fallen body.

"We've learned a little bit from an examinationof the area and the body, but Jolind can tell us more."

"Necromancy?" asked Orlando, the wordsounding just as bitter as it tasted in his mouth. She nodded. He growled."I suppose there's no choice. Get it over with."

"I'll have to …"

"I know," he said.

Two steps brought the witch to the edge of the bloodypool, another to the place where Jolind's severed head had come to land. Shelooked back at Orlando, flashed him an uncomfortable smile, and raised the hoodof the shroud above her head. Instantly, it became difficult for the warriorto focus his eyes on her. Even knowing where she had been standing only a fewseconds earlier, he could discern nothing but the faintest impression of the shroudedfigure.

The magical energies of death and darkness answeredLelanda's urging. She spoke words of power whose sounds had no meaning to Orlando's untrained ears. He felt the strange tugging of death at his spirit and knew thatsomething stood nearby, hungering for the taste of his soul, contained only bythe power of Lelanda's will. If her concentration failed, the consequencescould well be disastrous. Then, with a cry of agony from the unseen mage, thespell was completed.

Orlando steeled hisnerve as the eyes on Jolind's severed head snapped open. The thin-lipped mouthdid likewise, and a hissing, hollow scream filled the garden. Unable to standthe sight, Orlando turned his head away. He felt the need to vomit, butretained control of his traumatized body by remembering that a deadly enemymight lurk nearby.

Jolind, saidthe spectral necromancer, can you hear me?

"Yesss," responded an empty, lifeless voice."Who are you? Your voice is familiar … but distant."

Jolind, this is Lelanda. I'm here with Orlando. We've come to help you.

At that, the disembodied head released a humorless,rasping laugh and said, "You're a little late for that, old friend."

Orlando's nervebuckled, but did not fail him.

I know. We're sorry. But we want to find the personwho did this to you. He murdered Jaybel and Gwynn, too. Can you help us? Didyou recognize your killer?

"Yes, I know who killed me," whisperedJolind.

Then tell me, Jolind. Be quick; the spell is failingfast, urged Lelanda.

Orlando couldn'tdecide which was more macabre, the living but unseen spirit of the wizard orthe dead, but substantial head of the druid.

"Kesmarex," hissed the head as the eyes slippedquietly shut and the jaw went slack.

The spell had ended, and the spirit of the druid hadgone to rest with those of her ancestors.

Orlando hoped shewould find peace there. In his heart, he said a last farewell to the woman whohad meant so much to him so long ago. It seemed a crime to have drifted awayfrom her. He wondered what mysteries had died with her. A single tear slippeddown his bronze cheek.

Kesmarex? saidthe witch, slipping the hood of the shroud from around her locks and emergingbeside the fallen druid. "Who is that?"

"It's not a who," said Orlando. "It's awhat. That was the name given to Shandt's battle-axe by the dwarves who forgedit. It mean's something like 'Vengeance of the King,' but the words don'ttranslate perfectly into our language."

"But Shandt is dead…" said the witch, hervoice trailing off into a haunting silence.

"I know." Orlando exhaled. "He couldn'thave survived." After a moment of reflection, he continued, "Tell memore about the wards around this place. Just how certain are you an undeadcreature couldn't have gotten in here?"

An hour or so later, Orlando still hadn't made senseof Jolind's warning.

"If it was Shandt, he'll be back to get us,"said Orlando. "He wasn't one to leave a job undone."

Rather than answer, Lelanda merely poked at thecampfire they'd lit at the heart of Jolind's tower.

In the past few hours, her beauty had begun to lookworn and haggard. Orlando studied her face, which was still delicate andgentle, with innocent features that belied the cunning viper that lurkedwithin. Still, there was something human showing through the facade shemaintained.

"How did you ever become a wanderingadventurer?" Orlando asked.

"I don't really know," said the witch."It just happened, I guess. I was studying in Waterdeep, the usual coursesthey force on a child of a merchant prince, but they just weren't enough tokeep my attention. One of the other students said he was being tutored in magicby an old woman on the outskirts of town. I followed him one day and learnedwhere his teacher lived. When he left, I paid her a visit and demanded sheteach me magic. She looked me over carefully and refused.

"I was furious. I guess I was more than a littlespoiled in those days. When I tried to pay her for the lessons, she wouldn'ttake my gold. I'd never met anyone like her before, anyone that gold couldn'tbuy. It took me tendays of pestering her, but she finally agreed. I guess shewanted proof of my devotion.

"About a year later, I showed up for my lessonand found her dead. She had been murdered by a pack of thieves-assassins,really, in the service of a dark priest. I vowed to avenge her death. That tookme another year. By then, I'd gotten used to life on the road, and returning toWaterdeep just didn't seem very palatable to me. I never went back to school orto see my family. I suppose they assumed I'd been killed while trying to avengemy mentor. Somehow, it just didn't matter anymore."

A gust of wind swirled through the tower, twisting theflames that danced above the hearth and lifting a cloud of glowing embers intothe air. Lelanda gazed silently at them as if there might be some hiddenmeaning in their traces.

"How about you?" she asked.

"Ever been a farmer?" he asked in answer.

"No," she said.

"Well, if you had been, you'd understandperfectly."

Lelanda laughed, a clear and sweet sound that Orlando never would have expected from her. There, in the garden where they had once slaina black dragon and had recently buried an old friend, he saw a side of her hehad never thought existed. His hand, as if it had a will of its own, reachedout and rested atop hers. Her laugh faded away, and her green eyes shifted tomeet his.

"Orlando," she said, and a shock wentthrough her body.

Every muscle was rigid for a second, and her eyesbulged. As suddenly as the spasm had struck her, it passed. She went limp andtoppled forward, the blade of the great axe Kesmarex buried in her back.

The warrior, his rekindled reflexes already in action, sprang back.Without conscious thought, he brought the enchanted sword Talon into play,interposing it between himself and whoever might wield the ancient battle-axe.

"Shandt," he cried, "is that you?"

There was no answer, but in a second Orlando knew nonewould be forthcoming. With a swift and sudden motion, the axe Kesmarex liftedinto the air. Lelanda's blood dripped from the blade, but no living hand wieldedthe weapon.

At last, Orlando understood. He had always knownShandt's blade was enchanted, but had never realized the full extent of itspower. But years after the death of its owner, the weapon had tracked down thepeople it blamed for Shandt's death.

Describing a great arc in the air, Kesmarex swepttoward the warrior. He fell back, uncertain how to attack a weapon that had nowielder. He jabbed feebly with Talon, but found that the axe was every bit asmaneuverable as it had been in Shandt's hand.

"You don't understand," Orlando cried."We had no choice!"

The battle-axe chopped at his legs, causing him toleap backward. When his feet touched the ground, he felt the soft earth shiftand give way. He had landed squarely on Jolind's grave. Unable to retain hisbalance, Orlando toppled over and thudded hard on his back. The blade of theaxe flashed through the air inches above his nose. Had he still been standing,it would certainly have severed his leg at the knee.

"Shandt was buying us time to escape!" heyelled.

The axe, unheeding, swept upward as if it was beingheld aloft by its departed master. For a brief second, it hung there. Then,like the blade of a headsman at the block, Kesmarex plunged downward. Orlando tried to roll aside, but the enchanted blade sensed his intention and twisted to followhim. With a metallic crash, it smashed into the warrior's bronze breastplate,tearing through the amber metal and biting into the soft flesh beneath.

Pain burned through Orlando's body as clouds of redrolled across his vision. Talon fell from a nerveless hand, making no soundas it landed atop Jolind's newly dug grave. As the vengeful weapon drew backfor its fatal strike, Orlando's hands clutched at the searing wound. Hisfingers touched jagged metal, exposed flesh, and warm, flowing blood.

And something else. Something smooth and warm andcomforting: the amulet of Clanggedin Silverbeard. His fingers closed upon themedallion, and he snatched it clear of his neck. The silver chain upon which ithung stretched and snapped. As the great weapon began to sweep downward, Orlando held the holy symbol high.

"Shandt was my friend!" he cried. "Iwould have died to save him!"

Moonlight, sifting down from the cloudless sky, struckthe glass dome and streamed down into the garden. It fell upon the fallen bodyof Lelanda, the druid's fresh grave, and the silver axe that sought to avengeits owner's death. Two pinpoints glinted brightly in the shaft of moonlight,one the blade edge and the other the pendant.

VI

Orlando stepped back fromthe wall. He had returned Talon to its place and cocked his head left and rightto make sure it was positioned properly. He reached out and lifted the hilt animperceptible fraction of an inch.

"Don't worry," said Lelanda from the couchon which she lay. "You've got it right."

Orlando nodded and turnedback to the table behind him. With his right hand, he reached tentatively forthe great battle-axe Kesmarex, but something stopped his fingers just short ofits haft. His other hand slipped to his neck and touched the silver pendantthat hung from its recently repaired chain.

His thoughts drifted back to the battle in Jolind'sgarden. He remembered the great blade falling toward his head, the hollow soundof his voice as it filled the silent garden, and the flash of light that camewhen the holy symbol was presented. Somehow, the battle-axe recognizedthe amulet and knew that the silver symbol belonged to the same warrior whosehands had once wielded it. Knowing that anyone who wore that particular crossedbattle-axe medallion must be a friend of its owner, it had fallen inert. As faras Kesmarex was concerned, its mission was completed.

He returned to the present as a delicate hand touchedhis shoulder. He turned and found the emerald eyes of Lelanda scant inches awayfrom his own. The gold band on her finger reflected a greatly distorted imageof his own countenance.

"You shouldn't be up," he said, urging hergently back to the couch.

"I'll be all right," she said, "thewound's almost healed. Hang up the axe and come to bed."

Orlando nodded and liftedthe magical weapon from its resting place. He turned and elevated it to a placeof honor above the hearth. Next to it, he hung the amulet that had saved hislife.

"Rest quietly, old friend," said thecrimson-haired witch.

Orlando said nothing, butin his heart he knew that Lelanda's wish had been granted.

THE ROSE WINDOW

Monte Cook

I hope against hope that no one ever reads this.

I suppose I learned the truth the day beforeyesterday, but it all started a few tendays before that. You see, I was therewhen the Abbey of Byfor was torn down. I had to go. Loremaster High Tessen hadbeen my mentor. It was like paying my last respects to an old friend.

The late autumn day was overcast and gray, with acold, northerly wind tearing at us with angry talons. All those attending kepttheir cloaks tightly wrapped around themselves like armor against the chill. Iwas surprised at how many had come to take part in the simony that took place.

The abbey was old, and had not actually functioned asa monastery in many years. Nevertheless, until recently, it had still servedthe surrounding community as a place of worship one day in ten and shelter intimes of inclement weather. Now, however, the western wall had begun tocollapse and the roof sagged so badly that the local masons claimed thebuilding was no longer safe. A man named Greal had taken over the abbey afterthe bishop's death a few years earlier. I never was able to determine exactlywhat station he held in church hierarchy, if any. Greal claimed that he had nocoin to instigate the necessary repairs, so he began selling the stone andfurnishings alike. He claimed to hope that with the coin he raised he couldbuild a new church, dedicated to Oghma, for the local folk.

I stood outside the decaying edifice and watched asyoung men carried pews, the lectern and even the stone-topped altar out intothe barren, leaf-covered yard. I saw people come and go, purchasing all of theold accouterments that had served the abbey and its parishioners forgenerations. Later in the day-I had not moved-I saw the young men brandishhammers and tools. Soon, I knew, the stones from the abbey would be taken awayand used to build pasture walls and farm houses.

Something-perhaps fate, but now I'm not so sure-bid meto look up to the abbey's tall roof. There, high upon the gable, was thebeautiful rose window that I remembered so well from my time as an acolytethere. The round window was fitted with light blue-green glass that formed anextremely complex rose pattern. Though it was dull in that day's gray sky, Iknew that in any brighter sunlight it scintillated like a jewel with abrilliant cascade of light.

I left my spot and approached the man called Greal,reaching into an inner pocket in my cloak. I produced a bag of gold-all that Ihad. He turned toward me with a foul expression.

"Excuse me, sir," I began, "but Iunderstand that you are selling the abbey's, ah, parts." His expressionsoftened, and I continued. "Well, you may not know this, but I once helda position here as a seeker-an acolyte-before I was given my own parish. LoremasterHigh Tessen was the priest at the time-my mentor."

Greal's dark gray eyes were flat and his mouth was drawn thin. Hefolded his arms in front of him, but did not say a word.

"Well," I said, "that old rose windowmeant a lot to me." I pointed at it, and his eyes followed my gesture."I would be willing to pay you for it, so that I could put it in my ownchurch."

"Really," he did not ask, but stated.

A light came to his eyes as he turned back toward me.His tight mouth was tense.

"Yes, it would be an excellent …" Isearched for the right word."… reminder of the Loremaster High and hissteadfast faith."

Greal smiled, and I cannot say that I liked it. It wasthe wide, tight-lipped grin of a predator.

"Yes," he said finally. "An excellentreminder. He was an inspiration to us all."

He held out his hand, and I dropped the purse in it.Emptying the coins into his wide, soft hand, he counted slowly. The sightdisturbed me, so I looked up at the window instead. Though it cost me greatly,I knew that I would enjoy the window and the remembrance of Tessen for manyyears to come.

Satisfied with the price, Greal told the young men toclimb up and carefully remove the window for me. I had come to the abbey in mysmall wagon, and there was room for the window. It all seemed like fate hadmeant for it to be, for not long after I was driving my team back across thevalley to my parish home.

Within a tenday, I had hired some men of my own tocome to the church and help me install the window high above the floor of thesanctuary. There I knew it would bring brilliant light down upon the worshipersduring each Binding and Covenant, our morning and evening rituals. The windowwould glorify Oghma as well as the faith of Loremaster High Tessen. I was gladdened.Once it was in place, I noticed that young Pheslan, my own seeker, wastransfixed by the window.

"It's so wonderful," he said, "and yetso odd."

I looked up at the window myself, and at the portlyPheslan, and asked, "Odd?"

"Forgive me, brother, I mean no disrespect. It isnot odd in an ill fashion. It's just… the pattern. Each time I look at it Isee something new. Some different facet to the way the glass has been fitted,or some new way the light plays upon the angles. Yes, that's it. It is theangles that are so fascinating."

Looking at the window again, I had to admit that hewas right. It was fascinating.

"The workmanship of those days has known no equalsince," I said, knowing that such was something that elders always said tothe young.

I smiled at the thought, and at the boy as we bothbathed in the blessing of sunlight and looked at the beauty of the rose window.

As the next few tendays passed, I became concernedwith other things. Oghma, the Lord of Knowledge and the Wise God, bids hisservants to spread information and dispense learning as well as watch over thewell-being of the worshipers as we guide them toward enlightenment. Thus, theduties of a parish priest are legion, but I suppose that this is not the time todescribe them. Let it suffice to say that I was preoccupied-so much so that Ipaid little attention to the fact that young Pheslan was still enraptured withthe rose window. One night, after Covenant, we finished our duties and sat downto our simple meal. He told me that he had seen something strange in thewindow. I listened only halfheartedly, for I was very tired.

"It must be within the pattern of the glass, orthe facets," he explained.

We sat at a small wooden table in the room that liesbetween our sleeping chambers at the back of the church. It was dark, the onlylight coming from a lamp on the table at the center of our meager feast.

"What must?" I said, my mouth full of bread.

The young acolyte was too agitated to eat.

"As I said, brother," he said, "therewere things that seemed to move in the window as the sun set."

"You mean the light played upon the glass,"I said, swallowing.

"Yes, probably." His eyes lowered.

"What do mean, 'probably?"

"Well, it seemed so real," he replied,looking into my eyes. "They moved."

"What moved?"

"The images in the window. It was as though somethingwas on the other side."

"Perhaps there was something on the other side,Pheslan." I was becoming slightly irritated. "A bird?"

"But I went outside and looked," he said."There was nothing."

I drank the last bit from my cup and stood.

"Then it was indeed the light of the setting sunplaying upon the glass," I concluded. "Enough now, Pheslan. It istime for bed."

With that we retired. Pheslan was nothing if not obedient.It makes me …

Well, let me finish the tale first.

Two more days passed, and Pheslan said nothing moreabout the window. He was quiet, and slow to finish his duties. I knew I neededto talk to him, but I was just too busy. Later, there would be time.

The night of the second day, after retiring, I heard astrange noise. I had been reading in bed as I often did before blowing out mylamp and going to sleep. I heard the noise again. It sounded as if it wascoming from outside the church. Perhaps someone was knocking at the door. Iplaced my marker in the book, threw the blankets back and made my way to thefront of the church in my nightclothes. Thesound came again, it struck me as though something was scratching on theoutside wall of the building.

The stone floor was cold on my bare feet so I hurriedthrough the dark, only my intimate knowledge of the place keeping me frombumping into anything until I entered the sanctuary. There, the light of thefull moon shone through the rose window lighting my way to the narthex and thedoor.

Though there are dangers in the night, even in ourpeaceful valley, I never bolted the door. The church should always be open, Ibelieved, always there to welcome the poor as well as those in need ofknowledge, Oghma's sacred gift. I opened the door and looked out into the darknight. A bitter wind blew dead, brown leaves all around the yard in front ofthe church.

I could see nothing out of the ordinary.

Again, I heard the scraping. Something was outsidescraping against the stone walls of the church. A tree? It had sounded big, soI had thought it best to check. Despite my lack of shoes, a cloak, or a light,I went outside. As I made my circuit of the building I saw nothing. No treegrew so close as to have its branches move against the walls. My eyes spottedno person or animal that could have done it, but my night vision is poor, andit was very dark.

Yet had there not been the light of the full mooncoming through the rose window? I looked up. The clouds were thick. Besides, Iknew very well-now that my wits were about me-that there was no full moon thatnight.

I went back inside. Yes, both the sanctuary and navewere full of cool, blue-tinted light and it shone through the rose window. As Ilooked up at the window, I knew I had to check. So, steeling myself against thecold, I returned to the outside.

No light. I hurried around to the north side of thechurch, the side that held the rose window. No light. I looked up at the windowbut it looked perfectly normal, or at least as far as I could see in the dark.

Again, I returned to the sanctuary. Yes, it was stillfilled with light (was it dimmer now?). I looked up at the window, and down atthe lighted church. As I stood there, between the sets of wooden pews in thenave leading up to the altar, the light cast a shadow from the window allaround me. To my horror, it was not the rose-shaped shadow it should have been,but that of some great inhuman beast! As I looked down at my feet, I saw thatI stood directly in the gaping mouth of the creature's shadow.

I ran. Yelling for Pheslan, I rushed to the back ofthe church. He came out of his room, his eyes filled with alarm and sleep.Without a word, I grabbed from the night stand the blank scroll that served asa symbol of Oghma's might and led him into the nave.

All was dark.

"Get a light," I commanded with a whisper.

"What is it?"

"Get a light!"

He lit one of the many candles surrounding the altarand brought it forward. It occurs to me now that Pheslan knew the church aswell as I did, for he had found the flint in the dark to strike that light. Ah,Pheslan.

In any event, the candle's light illuminated much ofthe room, albeit dimly. I looked around carefully, first at the floor where theshadow had been, then up at the window.

"Please, Brother," Pheslan said, "tellme what it is."

"I thought I saw something," I saidcarefully-still looking around.

He replied without hesitation, "In thewindow?"

"Yes, I suppose. Actually, it was a shadow from alight in the window."

Pheslan looked at me. His eyes were full of questions.I had the same questions.

"I have no idea, my son."

I put my hand on his shoulder and, with one last lookaround, led him back to our chambers.

I took the candle from him.

"Oghma watches over us, Pheslan," I said."Just because we do not understand, we can know that he does, for nosecret is hidden from him. Besides, while the sights of the night are oftenfrightening, the morning light always dispels the fear they bring. Everythingwill be fine. I should know better, at my age, than to be scared ofshadows."

He smiled and nodded.

After the boy went into his room, I paused. Still holdingthe candle I went to the front door and bolted it. I did not stop to look atthe rose window.

The next day, just to be on the safe side, I performedevery blessing and banishment that I've ever been taught, hoping that divinepower might cleanse the rose window and the sanctuary itself. Those protectiverituals and prayers would surely protect us from any evil that might have beenpresent the night before.

The rest of the afternoon I spent caring for MakkisHiddle, who had taken ill a few miles down the road. My position as loremastermade me also the most knowledgeable healer in the tiny community. In anyevent, I did not return until well after dark. Like the previous night, thewind blew from the north and made my trip cold and unpleasant. I unhitched theteam and put them in their stalls in the barn behind the east end of thechurch. They seemed uneasy and stamped and snorted until I calmed them with anapple that I had been saving for myself. As I walked to the front door, Irounded the north side of the building and looked up.

As I watched, a shadow moved across the colored panesof the rose window. It was big-big enough to be a person. My first thought wasof Pheslan. Had he climbed up there somehow? I ran into the sanctuary, but allwas still. I could see nothing unusual at the window.

The room was lit by a lamp on the altar. Pheslan knewthat I would arrive late, and left it for me, as he always did. I knew, too,that I would find some food and wine left waiting for me on the table. I smiledat the thought, and sighed. I was making a fool of myself with all this nonsense.I ate quickly and went to bed.

That night I awoke, startled. The scraping noise wasback. It sounded a little like a dog scratching at the door of his master'shouse, hoping to get in-a big dog. I lit my bedside lamp with a flame from the coalsin the brazier that attempted in vain to keep the chill from my room.When I opened my door, I could see that the door to Pheslan's room was alreadyopen. I looked in to find it empty. The boy had obviously risen-perhapsawakened by the noise as well?

Then I heard the scream.

I ran into the sanctuary, the flame of my lamp almostgoing out as it passed through the cold air. I looked frantically about.

"Pheslan?" I called out. My voice wasswallowed by the dark emptiness of the room. How had I grown so afraid of myown sanctuary? "Pheslan, boy-where are you?"

No answer came.

My eyes were drawn to the rose window. Dark shapesseemed to move across its surface. Was that light playing against the facets?(How long could I tell myself that?)

I longed for a closer look at the window, but therewas no way for me to climb to that height without a ladder, and that would bedifficult in the dark. I called out again for Pheslan.

I went outside and checked the barn. The horses andwagon were still there. I checked all around the outside of the building, stillcalling for my young friend.

"Pheslan!"

By the time I had searched the inside of the churchagain, the light of dawn was evident, and I blew out my lamp. I knew what I hadto do. I returned to the barn and got the ladder. I maneuvered it into thechurch, despite its weight and size and set it below the rose window. I do notknow exactly what I thought I would find up there, but I grabbed a heavycandlestick from the altar and held it tightly in my grip. Taking a deepbreath, I began to climb.

When I reached the top, I held on to the top rung ofthe ladder with one hand, and gripped the candlestick in the other like aweapon. I peered through the window.

I had no idea what I was seeing. I gazed through therose window and beheld some other place-this was not the churchyard. Instead Isaw some infernal realm of shadows and slime-covered things that slithered overa blasted and dreadful landscape. Something flitted across the sky onbatlike wings that seemed to leave a trail of greasy residue behind thecreature. This window did not look outside. Or rather it did-but not theoutside, the Outside. My eyes saw beyond the veil of our world. My mind wasbesieged by the knowledge that there were places on the other side of the rosewindow, and they were terrible. The things in those places, I also knew, wantedto get to the inside-to our world.

Gods! I knew all at once that this window was a thingof evil. No longer (or was it ever?) a fine piece of some glazier's workmanship,no longer bits of blue-green stained glass cleverly pieced together. The rosewindow was a sorcerous, corrupted thing. It gave me a view no man should eversee. But what else did it give? Was it some kind of portal, or doorway?

I raised the candlestick, my eyes tearing with fearand hatred. I was going to smash the window-shatter it and its evil, to erasethe loathsome view that it provided. This would be no defilement ordesecration, for the window did not actually belong in a holy place, yet still Istopped. One thought came to me (from where?). If I smashed the window, would Idestroy it, or would I let in those things that seethed and writhed in thatinfernal realm? Would shattering the window prevent them from coming through,or would it grant them passage? A burglar in the night often smashes a windowto get in. Smashing it for him only makes his entrance easier.

I had to think-but not at the top of that ladder.There, I could still see into that nightmare realm, and worse, I think thethings beyond could see me. I climbed down and slumped on the floor next to thealtar.

I was at a loss. What could I do? Was Pheslan gone?Was that his scream I had heard, or something else? Had he somehow disappearedinto the window? That seemed so impossible. What would Tessen have done in thissituation?

My thoughts were always drawn back to my old mentor intimes of crisis. I thought of Tessen, and the old abbey, and-

Oghma preserve us.

I saddled one of the horses-I cannot recall which oneanymore. I am not much of a rider, but I thought that I could move fasterriding just one than in the wagon. I rode through a good deal of the morning,across the valley to the old abbey.

The men had worked fast. Only some of the foundationstones were left. Everything was gone, including any clue I had hoped to findregarding the nature of the rose window. The wall where it had set for over onehundred years had been torn down. The floor where it had cast its shadows wastorn apart and covered with rubble, dirt, and leaves.

I stood in the middle of all this and wept. Tessen hadcommitted a sin against Oghma that could never be forgiven. He had kept asecret, and a terrible secret at that. Had he been a guardian over that window,or its servant? I certainly could remember no hint of the malevolence that thewindow now displayed.

Finally, I could weep no more and I got back on myhorse. Perhaps it was just my training in Oghma's priesthood, but I neededinformation to confront this challenge. When I had been here last, I hadlearned of one more place that I could go to find the answers I sought. I beckonedmy steed back onto the road, and led it into the village nearby, to where Ihad heard that Greal lived and had set up his temporary new church.

Once I arrived, nearly exhausted now, I slid to theground. I knocked on the door. When there was no response, I knocked again,pounding now.

"Master Greal?" I shouted.

Still nothing.

"Master Greal, it is Loremaster Jaon."

I continued my pounding, stopping only to confirm thatthe door was locked.

"I must ask you about the rose window I purchasedfrom you!"

My pounding fist accompanied each word like a drumbeatin some southern jungle ritual.

"I need to ask you about Loremaster HighTessen!"

Completely expired, I collapsed against the door. "Tellme," I moaned. "Tell me what we were really worshiping in thatabbey!"

As I rode back to my parish, I knew that someone hadseen me. There had been eyes on me the whole time that I had spent pounding onthat door. And as I had sat there, exhausted in the damp soil in front ofGreal's home, the autumn leaves blowing around me like dead memories that mayvery well have been lies, someone watched. No one in that entire town had comewhen I called out. No one answered their door, but I knew that I was beingwatched. Even now….

How many of them were there, that had taken part in thefoul rites that I could only imagine must have taken place in front of thatrose window? Had those rituals gone on even when I had been there? Could I havebeen so naive? Could-no, I would not think of it anymore. It was too hard, andtoo painful, and there were still things that needed doing back in my ownchurch.

Which brings me to right now.

I am writing this the day after I went to the site ofthe old abbey. I have not yet slept nor eaten. When I came back, I had hopedagainst hope that Pheslan would be here, and that somehow I would have beenwrong. But I was not wrong, and he was not here. I dressed myself in thevestments of my order-white shirt and pants, and the kantlara, a black vestwith gold brocade. My kantlara was made for me by my grandmother, who had alsobeen a loremaster. I prepared my holy symbol and brought out the staff that Ikept by the door for emergencies-the staff with its ends shod in iron and madefor fighting. I prepared to make my move, and take my stand against the evilthat I myself had brought to my parish.

But I waited. What if I was wrong, as I had thought before?What if I let those things through? I somehow told myself that it could not be.An evil thing, like the rose window, must be destroyed. Only good could comefrom destroying it. Perhaps it could even free Pheslan from whatever held him.If indeed he still lived.

I spent the rest of yesterday at the bottom of theladder, which I had never moved from its spot below the window. I looked up,but all day long, I saw only the blue-green stained glass. No movement, noshadows, nothing. Somehow, my indecision still prevented me from climbing toeven the first rung.

So after so many hours of arguing with myself, pushedfarther past exhaustion than I have ever been, I began writing this manuscripton the nightstand in my bedchamber.

On these few sheets of parchment, penned throughoutthe night, I have put my story. Now, as I finish, I prepare myself to climbthat ladder. I will smash the rose window, and destroy every last shard. If Iam right, and the evil is over, I will return here to this manuscript and throwthese pages into the fire so that none shall ever learn of these horribleevents. But if I am wrong, you are reading this now. If that is the caseperhaps you-whoever you are-will know what can be done to right my wrongs.

I am ready.

THE FIRST MOONWELL

Douglas Niles

The goddess existed deep within the cocoon of bedrock,an eternal being, formed of stone and silt and fire, her body blanketed by thedepths of a vast and trackless sea. In the way of immortals, she had littleawareness of the steady progression of ages, the measured pulse of time. Onlygradually, over the course of countless eons, did she become aware that aroundand above her the ocean came to host an abundance of life. She knew thepresence of this vitality in all the forms that thrived and grew; from thebeginning she understood that life, even in its simplest and most transientforms, was good.

Deep waters washed her body, and the volcanic firesof her blood swelled, seeking release. She was a living thing, and thus shegrew. Her being expanded, rising slowly from the depths of the ocean, overmillennia spilling along trench and seabed, pressing deliberately, forcefully upward.Over the course of ages, her skin, the floor of the sea, pushed through therealm of black and indigo and blue, toward shimmering reaches of aquamarine anda warmth that was very different from the hot pulse of lava that measured herown steady heartbeat.

Life in many forms quickened around her, first in themanner of simple things, later in larger and more elaborate shapes. Animationteemed in the waters that cloaked and cooled her form. Gashes opened continuallyin the rocky flesh of her body, and her blood of molten rock touched the chillwaters in spuming explosions of steam.

Amid those hissing eruptions, she sensed great formscircling, swimming near, breathing the chill, dark sea. Beings of fin andtentacle, of scale and gill, gathered to the warmth of the earthmother'swounds-wounds that caused no pain, but instead gave her the means to expand, tostrive ever higher through the brightening waters of the sea.

And, finally, in the life that gathered to her bosom,she sensed great creatures of heartbeat and warm blood. Those mighty denizensswam like fish, but were cloaked in slick skin rather than scales, and rosethrough the sea to drink of the air that filled the void above. Mothers nursedtheir young, much like the goddess nourished her children and her thriving sea.Most importantly, in those latter arrivals the goddess sensed the awakenings ofmind, of thought and intelligence.

Unaware of millennia passing, feeling the coolness ofthe sea against the rising pressure of her rock-bound body, the physical formof the goddess continued to expand. At last, a portion of her being rose abovethe storm-tossed ocean to feel a new kind of warmth, a radiance that descendedfrom the sky. Periodically this heat was masked beneath a blanket of chillypowder, but the frosty layer yielded itself in a regular pattern to morewarmth, to soothing waters that bathed the flesh of the goddess, and more ofthe golden rays shedding steadily downward from the sky.

The flesh of the goddess cooled, weathered by exposure to sky. New anddifferent forms of life took root upon her; beings that dwelled in the sea ofair turned faces upward to the clouds. Many did not walk or swim, but fixedthemselves to the ground, extended lofty boughs upward, creating verdantbowers across the breadth of the land. The growth of those tall and mightytrees, like all forms of life, was pleasing to the goddess. She sensed thefruition and waning of the forests that layered her skin, knew the cooling andwarming of seasons with greater acuity than ever before.

It was this awareness that, at last, gave to theearth-mother a true sense of passing time. She knew seasons, and in the courseof changing climes she learned the pattern of a year. She came to measure timeas a man might count his own breaths or heartbeats, though to the goddess eachheartbeat was a season, each breath the cycle of the annum. As the years passedby the tens and hundreds and thousands, she grew more vibrant, stronger, andmore aware.

The hot blood of earlier eons cooled further; the eruptionsfrom the sea ultimately were capped by solid stone. That firm bedrock, where itjutted above the waves, was layered everywhere in forest, meadow, glade, andmoor. Seas and lakes intermixed with the land, keeping the goddess alwayscool, both fresh waters and brine nurturing the growing populations of livingcreatures.

Still the goddess maintained communion with the beingsof warm blood dwelling in the depths, who swam to the surface and returned,sharing their mind-images of a vast dome of sky, of the sweet kiss of a seabreeze, and the billowing majesty of lofty clouds. Her favorite of those seacreatures was one who had been nourished at her breast from time immemorial,feeding upon the kelp and plankton that gathered to her warm emissions,slumbering for decades at a time in her embrace. She came to know him as theLeviathan, the first of her children.

He was a mighty whale, greater than any other fish ormammal that swam in those seas. His soul was gentle, his mind observant, keen,and patient-as only one who has lived for centuries can know patience. Great lungsfilled his powerful chest, and he knew life with a rhythm that the goddesscould understand. Sometimes he took a breath of air and settled into thedepths, remaining there for a passage of several heartbeats by the reckoning ofthe goddess-a time of years in the more frenetic pace of the other warm-bloodedcreatures.

In long, silent communication with the goddess who washis mother, the Leviathan lay in a deep trench on the bottom of the sea,sensing the lingering warmth of her fiery blood as it pulsed and ebbed belowthe bedrock of the ocean floor. During those times, the great whale passedimages he had beheld above the waves, pictures of growing verdancy among theearthmother's many islands, of the teeming array of creatures swarming not onlysea and land, but even flocking in the skies.

And he shared, too, his memories of clouds. Those morethan anything else stoked the fires of the earthmother's imagination, broughtwonder to her heart, and caused curiosity to germinate in her being.

As she communed with the Leviathan, sharing hismemories of the things he had beheld, she began to sense a thing about herself: The goddess, unlike so many of the creatures that dwelled upon her flesh, wasutterly blind. She lacked any window, any sense through which she could viewthe world of life flourishing upon her physical form.

The only visual pictures that she knew came from thememory of the great whale, and those were pale and vaporous imitations of thereal thing. The goddess wanted to see for herself the sky of cloud and rain andsun, to know the animals that teemed among her forests and glades, the treesthat sank their roots so deeply into her flesh.

From the Leviathan, the goddess earthmother hadlearned about eyes, the orbs of magic that allowed the animals of the world toobserve the wonders around them. She learned about them, and desired them…and devised a plan to create an eye for herself.

The Leviathan would aid her. The great whale drankfrom an undersea fountain, absorbing the power and the magic of the earthmotherinto himself. With easy strokes of his powerful flukes, he drove toward thesurface, swimming through brightening shades of water until again his broadback rolled above the waves, felt the kiss of sunlight and breeze.

Swimming strongly, the Leviathan swam to a deep bay,stroking between rocky necks of land into ever narrower waters, toward thewestern shore of one of the earthmother's cherished isles. Mountains rose tothe north, a stretch of craggy highlands crested with snow as the spring warmthcrept only slowly upward from the shore. To the south was a swath of greenforest, woodlands extending far from the rocky shoreline, blanketing this greatextent of the island.

In the terminus of the bay, the land came togetherfrom north and south, the waters remaining deep enough for the Leviathan toswim with ease. He came to the place the goddess had chosen, and brought thewarm and magical essence of herself through his body. With a great, spumingexplosion, he cast the liquid into the air, shooting a shower of warm rain.Precious water splashed onto the rocks of the shoreline, gathered in manystreams, flowed downward to collect in a rocky bowl near the gravel-strewnbeach.

The essence of the goddess gathered into that pool,milky waters of potent magic. Her presence focused on the skies, on the vaultof heavens she had so long imagined. The first thing that came into view was aperfect orb of white, rising into the twilight skies, coursing ever higher,beaming reflected light across the body and blood of the earthmother.

From the waters of her newly made well, the goddessbeheld the moon. Alabaster light reflected from the shoals and waves of theshoreline and blessed the land all around. The earthmother saw this light, andshe was pleased.

Yet still there was a dimness to her vision, an unfocusedhaze that prevented her from fully absorbing the presence of the world. TheLeviathan lay offshore, rolling in the heavy swell, but the pool was remotefrom him, bounded as it was by dry ground and rocks. She knew then that itwas not enough to have her children in the sea.

The goddess would require a presence on the land, as well.

The wolf, gray flanks lean with hunger, shaggy peltworn by the ravages of a long hibernation, loped after a mighty stag. The buckran easily through the spring growth, exhibiting none of the wide-eyed panicthat might have driven a younger deer into headlong-and ultimatelydisastrous-flight. Instead, the proud animal bounded in graceful leaps, stayingwell beyond the reach of hungry jaws, veering only when necessary to maintain aclear avenue of flight.

In the midst of the keen, lupine face, blue eyesremained fixed upon the lofty rack of antlers. Patience, counseled the wolf'sinstinct, knowing that the pack could accomplish what one strong hunter couldnot. As if in response to their leader's thought, more wolves burst fromconcealment to the side, rushing to join the chase. But the stag had chosen itscourse well; a long, curving adjustment took it away from the newer hunters,without allowing the big male to draw appreciably closer.

A low cliff loomed ahead, and though no breeze stirredin the depths of the glen, the buck sensed another ambush, canine formsconcealed in the thickness of ferns lining the shady depths of the bower. Nowthe stag threw itself at the limestone precipice, leaping upward with catlikegrace, finding purchase for broad hooves on ledges and mossy outcrops.

With snorting exertion and flaring nostrils, the firstoutward signs of desperation, the buck scrambled up a rock face three timesits own height. A trio of wolves burst from the ferny camouflage below, howlingin frustrated hunger as the antlered deer reached the level ground above thecliff and once again increased its speed. Hooves pounded and thundered on thefirm ground as, with a flick of a white-feathered tail, the stag raced towardopen terrain.

But the leader of the small wolf pack would not, couldnot, admit defeat. Throwing himself at the rocky face, pouncing upward with allthe strength of powerful rear legs, the wolf clawed and scraped and pulled,driven by the desperation of the starving hunter. At last, broad forepawscrested the summit, and the carnivore again loped after his prey, howls echoingafter the gasping, thudding noise of the stag's flight.

Others of the wolves tried to follow, though most fellback. Still, a few young males and a proud, yellow-eyed bitch made the ascent.Their baying song added to the din of flight and gave the rest of the pack afocus as smaller wolves raced to either side, seeking an easier way to theelevation above the limestone shelf

Weariness began to drag at the leader, bringing to hisstep a stumbling uncertainty that had been utterly lacking before. Yet thescent of the prey was strong, and mingled with that acrid odor came the spoorof the stag's own weariness, its growing desperation. Those signals gave thewolf hope, and he raised his head in a braying summons to the rest of thepack, a cry of anticipation that rang like a prayer through the silent giantsof the wood, along the verdant blanket of the cool ground.

But the powerful deer found a reserve that surprisedand dismayed the proud hunter. The predator raced through the woods with bellylow, shaggy tail extended straight behind. Those bright blue eyes fixed uponthe image of the fleeing stag, watching antlers brush overhanging limbs andleaves. Straining, no longer howling as he gasped to make the most of eachdesperate breath, the wolf pursued in deadly silence.

And in that silence he began to sense his failure. Theloping forms of his packmates whispered like ghosts through the fern-linedwoodland behind him, but neither were they able to close the distance to thefleeing prey. Even the yellow-eyed female, long jaws gaping in a fang-linedgrin of hunger, could not hold the pace much longer.

Then, with an abrupt turn, the stag darted to theleft. Cutting the corner of the angle, the leading pair of wolves closed thedistance. Soon the male was racing just behind the prey's left quarter, whilethe powerful bitch closed in from the opposite side. The twin hunters flankedthe prey, blocking any attempt to change course.

But the stag continued its flight with single-mindeddetermination, as if it had found a goal. The antlered deer ran downward alongthe slope of a broad ridge, plunging through thickets, leaping large bouldersthat would be obstacles only to lesser creatures. The woods opened still more,and the vista showed a swath of blue water, a bay extending between twin necksof rugged land.

Finally the stag broke from the woods to gallop acrossa wide swath of moor. Soft loam cushioned the broad hooves, and though thedeer's tongue flopped loosely from wide jaws and nostrils flared madly with thestrain of each breath, the animal actually increased the speed of its desperateflight.

But so, too, did the wolves. More and more of the packburst from the woods, trailing across the spongy grassland, running in grimand purposeful silence. If the great male had looked back, he would havenoticed a surprising number of canine predators, more by far than had belongedto his pack when they had settled into the den for a winter's rest. And stillmore wolves came along the shores, gathering from north and south, highland andcoast, drawn toward the scene of the hunt, hundreds of gray forms ghostingtoward a single point.

The stag finally faltered, but not because of fatigue.The animal slowed to a regal trot, proud antlers held high. The sea was verynear, but the buck did not strive for the shoreline. Instead, the forestmonarch turned its course along that rocky beach, toward a pool of liquid thatrested in the perfect shelter of a rocky bowl.

The pond was too high to be a tidal pool, nor did thewater seem like a collection of mere rain or runoff. Instead, the liquid waspale, almost milky-white in color, and it swirled in a hypnotic pattern. Theshoreline was steep, but in one place a steplike progression of rocks allowedthe buck to move carefully downward.

Wolves gathered on the rocks, surrounding the stag andthe pool, knowing that the prey was trapped. Yet some silent compulsion heldthe hungry predators at bay. Glittering eyes watched with keen intelligence asthe stag's muzzle touched the surface of the water; long, panting tonguesflopped loosely as the carnivores waited for their prey to drink.

For a long time, the great deer lapped at the watersof the Moonwell, and when finally it had drunk its fill it stepped away,mounting the steps toward the leader. The stag raised its head, baring theshaggy throat, uttering a final, triumphant bellow at the powdery clouds thathad gathered in the sky.

When the leading wolf bit into that exposed neck, hedid so almost tenderly. The kill was quick and clean, the predator ignoring thered blood that warmed his jaws, that should have inflamed his hunger andpassion with its fresh and welcoming scent. Instead, the wolf raised his ownhead, fixed bright eyes on the same clouds that had been the last things seenby the mighty stag. A long howl ululated across the moor, and the leader wasjoined by the rest of his pack in a song of joy and worship, in music thathailed their mother and their maker.

When the pack finally fell to feeding, the blood ofthe stag ran down the rocky steps in crimson rivers. Though the wolves numberedan uncountable throng, there was meat for them all. With a sense of powerfulsatiation, each predator, after eating its fill, drank from the milky waters ofthe pool.

The feasting went on for more than a day, and at lastthe brightness of the full moon rose above the glimmering waters. Pups wereborn under that light, and youngsters frolicked around the fringes of a mightygathering.

The red blood mingled with the waters of the Moonwell,and the goddess saw and celebrated with her children. The bold sacrifice ofthe stag was, to her, a thing of beauty-and with the mighty animal's blood wasthe water of her Moonwell consecrated.

And the balance of her living children maintained.

THE GREATEST HERO WHO EVER DIED

J. Robert King

The stormy winds that swept up from the Great Ice Sea often brought unwanted things to lofty Capel Curig. Tonight, in addition topelting snow and driving gales, the wind brought a hideously evil man.

None knew him as such when he tossed open the battereddoor of the Howling Reed. They saw only a huge, dark-hooded stranger haloed inswirling snow. Those nearest the door drew back from the wind and the vast formprecipitating out of it, drew back as the door slammed behind the drippingfigure, slammed, and shuddered in its frame. Without discharging the ice fromhis boots, the stranger limped across the foot-polished planks of the Reed to atrembling hearth fire. There he bent low, flung a few more logs on the flames,and stood, eclipsing the warmth and casting a giant shadow over the room.

The rumble of conversation in the Reed diminished asall eyes in the tiny pub turned furtively toward the ruined figure.

Silhouetted on the hearth, the stranger looked likesome huge and ill-formed marionette. He lacked an arm, for his right sleeve waspinned to the shoulder and his left hand did all the adjusting of his fetidform. Deliberately, that widowed hand drew back some of his robes, but thesodden figure beneath looked no less shapeless. For all his shifting, he didnot remove the hood from his head, a head that appeared two sizes too small forhis body. Beneath the hood, the man's face was old and lightless, withcold-stiffened lips, a narrow black beard, and a hooked nose. In all, his formlooked as though a large man hid within those robes, holding some poorlyproportioned puppet head to serve as his face.

He spoke then, and his hollow voice and rasping tonguemade the patrons jump a bit.

"Can any of you spare a silver for a bowl ofblood soup and a quaff of ale?"

None responded except by blank, refusing stares. Noteven Horace behind the bar would offer the stranger a glass of water.Apparently, all would rather dare his wrath than know their charities hadprovided sustenance to him.

The man was apparently all too acquainted with thisresponse, for he shook his head slowly and laughed a dry, dead-leaf laugh. Afew staggering steps brought him to a chair, vacated upon his arrival and stillwarm from its former occupant. There he collapsed with a wheeze like apunctured bellows.

"In the lands of Sossal, whence I hail, a man canearn his blood and barley by telling a good tale. And I happen to have such atale, for my land gave birth to the greatest hero who ever lived. Perhaps hisstory will earn me something warm."

Those who had hoped to dismiss him with bald glaresand cruel silence tried turning away and speaking among themselves. Horace, forhis part, retreated through a swinging door to the kitchen, to the graydishwater and the piles of pots.

Unaffected, the shabby wanderer began the telling ofhis tale with a snap of his rigid blue fingers. Green sparks ignited in air,swirled about him, and spread outward like a lambent palm in the heavydarkness. The sparking tracers lighted on all those seated in the taproom, andeach tiny star extinguished itself in the oily folds of flesh between apatron's knotted brows.

The faint crackling of magic gave way to a single,hushed sigh. In moments, the place fell silent again, and the tale began.

"The lands of Sossal were once guarded by a nobleknight, Sir Paramore, the greatest hero who ever lived…"

Golden haired, with eyes like platinum, Sir Paramorestrode in full armor through the throne room of King Caen. Any other knightwould have been stripped of arms and armaments upon crossing the threshold, butnot noble Paramore. He marched forward, brandishing his spell-slaying longsword Kneuma and dragging a bag behind him as he approached the royal dais.There the king and princess and a nervous retinue of nobles ceased theirconference and looked to him. Only when within a sword swipe of His Majesty didParamore finally halt, drop to one armored knee, and bow his fealty.

The king, his face ringed with early white locks,spoke.

"And have you apprehended the kidnappers?"

"Better, milord," replied Paramore, risingwith a haste that in anyone else would have been arrogance.

He reached into the bag and drew out in one great andhideous clump the five heads of the kidnappers he had slain.

The king's daughter recoiled in shock. Only then didKing Caen himself see the wide, slick line of red that Sir Paramore's bag haddragged across the cold flagstones behind him.

"You gaze, my liege, on the faces of the hoodlumsyou sought," the knight explained.

In the throat-clenched silence that followed, thewizard Dorsoom moved from behind the great throne, where his black-beardedlips had grown accustomed to plying the king's ears.

"You were to bring them here for questioning,Paramore," said the wizard, "not lop off their heads."

"Peace, Dorsoom," chided the king with anoff-putting gesture. "Let our knight tell his tale."

"The tale is simple, milord," repliedParamore. "I questioned the abductors myself and, when I found themwanting of answers, removed their empty heads."

"This is nonsense," Dorsoom said. "Youmight have simply cut the heads off the first five peasants you saw, then broughtthem here and claimed them the culprits. There should have been a trial. Andeven if these five were guilty-which we can never know now-we do not know whoassigned these ruffians their heinous task."

"They were kidnappers who had stolen away thechildren of these noble folk gathered around us," Paramore replied witheven steel in his voice. "If anything, I was too lenient."

"You prevented their trial-"

"Still the wagging tongue of this worm,"Paramore demanded of the king, leveling his mighty sword against the meddlingmage. "Or perhaps these warriors of mine shall do the task first!"

The great doors of the throne room suddenly swungwide, and a clamor of stomping feet answered. . small feet, the feet ofchildren, running happily up the aisle behind their rescuer. Their shrillvoices were raised in an unseemly psalm of praise to Sir Paramore as they ran.

Seeing their children, the nobles emptied from thedais and rushed to embrace their sons and daughters, held captive those longtendays. The ebullient weeping and cooing that followed drowned the protests ofDorsoom, who retreated to his spot of quiet counsel behind the throne. It wasas though the sounds of joy themselves had driven him back into the darkness.

Over the pleasant noise, the grinning Paramore calledout to the king, "I believe, my liege, you are in my debt. As was promisedme upon the rescue of these dear little ones, I claim the fairest hand in allof Sossal. It is the hand of your beautiful daughter, Princess Daedra, that Iseek."

Paramore's claim was answered by a chorus of shoutsfrom the joyous children, who abandoned their parents to crowd the heels oftheir rescuer. From their spot beside him, the children ardently pleaded theknight's case.

Daedra's bone-white skin flushed, and her lips formeda wound-red line across her face. The king's visage paled in doubt. Beforeeither could speak, though, the children's entreaties were silenced by an angrycry.

"Hush now, younglings!" commanded a thin nobleman,his ebony eyes sparkling angrily beneath equally black brows and hair."Your childish desires have no say here. The hand of the princess has beenpledged to me these long years since my childhood, since before she was born.This usurping knight-" he said the word as though it bore ataint-"cannot steal her from me, nor can your piteous caterwauling."

" 'Tis too true," the king said sadly,shaking his head. He paused a moment, as though listening to some silent voicewhisper behind his throne. "I am pressed by convention, Paramore, togrant her hand to Lord Ferris."

Sir Paramore sheathed his sword and crossed angry armsover his chest.

"Come out, wicked mage," said the knight,"from your place of hiding in the shadow of this great man. Your whisperingscannot dissuade my lord and monarch from granting what his and mine and theprincess's hearts desire."

With that, Paramore touched the handle of his mightysword, Kneuma, to dispel whatever enchantment Dorsoom might have cast on theking. Then he snapped his fingers, and the tiny percussion of his nails strucksparks in the air. The king's retinue and the king himself, as though awakeningfrom a dream, turned toward the shadow-garbed mage. Dorsoom sullenly answeredthe summons and moved into the light.

"Milord, do not be tricked by the puny magic ofthis-"

"Hush, mage," replied King Caen evenly,regarding Dorsoom through changed eyes. He turned, then, to address thethin nobleman. "Lord Ferris, I know the hand of my daughter has beenpledged to you since before you could understand what that pledge meant. Buttime has passed, as it does, and has borne out a nobler man than thee to takethe princess's hand. Indeed, he has taken her heart as well, and mine too, withmany great deeds that not a one of them is equaled by the full measure of yourlife's labors."

"But-"

The king held up a staying hand, and his expressionwas stern.

"I am now convicted in this matter. You cannotsway me, only spur me to anger, so keep silence." His iron-hard visagesoftened as he looked upon Sir Paramore. "By royal decree, let the word bespread that on the morrow, you shall wed my darling child."

A cheer went up from all of those gathered there save,of course, Lord Ferris and the mage, Dorsoom. The joyous voices rung the very foundationsof the palace and filled the stony vault above.

It was only the plaintive and piercing cry of onewoman that brought the hall back to silence.

"My Jeremy!" cried the noblewoman, wringinga light blue scarf in tender, small hands as she came through the doors."Oh, Sir Paramore! I've looked and looked through all this crowd and evenchecked with the door guards, and he is not here. Where is my Jeremy?"

Sir Paramore stepped down from his rightful placebefore the king and, tears running down his face, said, "Even I could notsave your son, with what these butchers had already done to him…."

"And her cries were piteous to hear," thecloaked man muttered low, and the crowd in the pub soaked in the sibilantsound of his voice, "so that even evil Dorsoom shut his ears-"

"That's it, then. No more ale for any of you. Idon't care how strong the gale's ablowin' out there; there's a stronger one inhere, and it's ablowin' out this stranger's arse!"

It was Horace, fat Horace who'd tended the bar in thattiny crevice of the Kryptgarden Mountains and fed eggs and haggis to thegrandfathers and fathers and sons of those gathered there. In all that time,the good folk of Capel Curig had learned to trust Horace's instincts aboutweather and planting and politics and people. Even so, on that singular night,regarding that singular man, Horace didn't strike the others as their familiarand friendly confidant.

"Shut up, Horace," cried Annatha, afishwife. "You've not even been listening, back there banging your pots soloud we've got to strain our ears to hear."

"Yeah," agreed others in chorus.

"I hear well enough from the kitchen, well enoughto know this monstrous man's passin' garbage off as truth! He makes out KingCaen to be a dotterin' and distracted coot when we all know he is strong andjust and in full possession of himself. And what of Dorsoom, cast as somemalicious mage when in truth he's wise and good? And Lord Ferris, too?"

Fineas, itinerant priest of Torm, said, "I'm allfor truth-as you all know-but bards have their way with truth, and barkeepstheir way with brandy. So let him keep the story coming, Horace, and you keepthe brandy coming, and between the two, we'll all stay warm on this fiercenight."

The stranger himself extended that trembling left handthat did the work for two and said with a rasping tongue, "It is yourestablishment, friend. Will you listen to your patrons' desires, or turn meout?"

Horace grimaced and said, "I'd not throw a rabiddog out on a night like this. But I'd just as soon you shut up, friend. Asidefrom lyin', you're puttin' a dreamy, unnatural look in these folk's eyes, andI don't like payin' customers to go to sleep on me."

That comment met with more protests, which Horacetried unsuccessfully to wave down.

"All right. I'll let him speak. But, mark me: he's got your souls now. He's worked some kind of mesmerizin' magic on you withthe words he weaves. I, for one, ain't listenin'."

Nodding his shadowed and dripping head, the strangerwatched Horace disappear into the kitchen, then seemed to study him hawkishlythrough the very wall as he continued his tale.

"Though Lord Ferris's forked tongue had beenstilled that morning before the king and nobles and children, his hands wouldnot be stilled that night when he stalked through the dim castle toward SirParamore's room.

"But one other child of the night-the ghost ofpoor dead Jeremy-was not allied to the sinister plans of Ferris. Indeed, theghost of Jeremy had sensed evil afoot and so hovered in spectral watch on thestair to Paramore's room. When he spotted Lord Ferris, advancing dark at thefoot of the stair, Jeremy flew with warning to the bed foot of his former bosomfriend, Petra…."

Petra was a brown-hairedgirl-child and the leader of the pack of noble children. Jeremy found her abedin a castle suite, for the children and the parents had all been welcomed byKing Caen to spend the night. Poor Jeremy gazed with sad ghostly eyes on theresting form of Petra, sad ghostly eyes that had once gazed down on his ownstill body, lifeless and headless.

"Wake up, Petra. Wake up. I have terrible newsregarding our savior, Sir Paramore," the child-ghost rasped.

His phantom voice sounded high and strained, like thevoice of a large man pretending to be a child.

And Petra did wake. When she glimpsed her departedfriend, her brave girl-heart gave a start: unlike greater ghosts decked indiaphanous gossamers, poor Jeremy had no body upon which to hang such raiment.He was but a disembodied head that floated beyond the foot of her bed, and eventhen his neck slowly dripped the red life that had once gushed in buckets. Sogrotesque and horrible was the effect that Petra, who truly was a brave child,could not muster a word of greeting for her dead companion.

"It's Lord Ferris," the ghost-child saidurgently. "He plots to slay our Sir Paramore where he sleepstonight."

Petra managed a stammerand a wide stare.

"You must stop him," came the ghost's voice.

She was getting up from the feather mattress, arrayingthe bedclothes around her knees. With the sad eyes of small boys-who see smallgirls as mothers and sisters and lovers and enemies all at once-poor Jeremywatched Petra's delicate hands as she gathered herself.

At last she whispered, "I'll tell Mother-"

"No!" Jeremy's voice was urgent, strident."Grown-ups won't believe. Besides, Sir Paramore saved your life thismorning. You can save his life now, this evening!"

"I cannot stop Ferris alone."

"Then get the others," Jeremy rasped."Awaken Bannin and Liesle and Ranwen and Parri and Mab and Kara and theothers, too. Tell them to bring their fathers' knives. Together you can saveour savior as he saved us."

Already, Petra was tying the sash of her bedclothes ina cross over her heart and breathlessly slipping sandals on her feet.

"Hurry," commanded Jeremy. "Even now,Lord Ferris is climbing the stair toward Sir Paramore's room!"

Upon that urgent revelation, Petra gasped, and Jeremywas gone.

Alerted and assembled in the next moments, the childrenfollowed Petra to the stair. It was a long and curving stairway that led to thehigh tower where Sir Paramore had chosen to bed. The steps were dark, litmainly by a faint glow of starlight through occasional arrow loops in the wall.But when Petra and her child warriors began to climb, they saw ahead of themthe vague, flickering illumination of a candle.

"Quiet now," whispered she.

Bannin, a brown-haired boy half her age, nodded seriouslyand slipped his small hand into hers. The twins Liesle and Ranwen smiled ateach other with nervous excitement. Meanwhile, Parri, Mab, Kara, and the others clustered atthe rear of the pack and set hands on their knives.

"That's got to be the candle of LordFerris," Petra mouthed, indicating the light. "We've got to be quiet,or he'll know we're coming."

The children nodded, for they adored Petra as much as Jeremy had when he lived. And they followed her, doing their very best to besilent and stealthy, though children have a different sense of that than doadults. They proceeded on tiptoes, fingertips dragging dully across the curvedinner wall, childish lips whispering loud speculations. As they climbed, thelight grew brighter, their fear welled higher, and their voices became froggyfrom the tension of it all.

With all that muttering, it was no wonder they camearound one of the cold stone curves of the stair to find the narrow, black,long-legged Lord Ferris poised above them, his wiry body stretched weblikeacross the tight passage.

"What are you children doing here?" he askedin an ebon voice that sent a cold draft down the stairs and past the children.

The brave-hearted crew started at that rude welcome,but did not dart.

Petra, who alone hadn'tflinched, said stonily, "What are you doing?"

The man's eyes flashed at that, and his gloved handfell to the pitch-handled dagger at his side.

"Go," he said.

The group wavered, some in the rear involuntarilydrawing back a step. But Petra did something incredible. With the catlike speedand litheness of young girls, she slipped past the black-cloaked man and hisknife. She stood then, barring the stairs above him.

"We stay. You go," she stated simply.

Lord Ferris's lip curled into a snarl. His handgripped her shoulder and brusquely propelled her back down the stairs. Herfooting failed on the damp stone, one leg twisting unnaturally beneath her.Then came a crack like the splintering of green wood, and a small cry. Shecrumpled to the stone-edged steps and tumbled limply down to thechildren, fetching up at their feet and hardly breathing.

They paused in shock. Young Bannin bent, alreadyweeping, beside her. The others took one look at her misshapen leg and rushedin a fierce pack toward the lord. Their young voices produced a pure shriekthat adults cannot create, and they swarmed the black-cloaked nobleman, whofumbled to escape them.

They drove their fathers' knives into the man'sthighs. He toppled forward onto them and made but a weak attack in return,punching red-headed Mab between her pigtails and, with a flailing knee,striking the neck of Karn, too. The first two casualties of battle felllifeless beneath the crush, and the steps under them all were suddenly slickwith blood.

As though their previous earnestness had been feigned,the children fought with berserker rage. They furiously pummeled and stabbedthe man who lay atop them, the once-bold Ferris bellowing and pleadingpiteously. At one point in the brawl, Parri dropped down to take the crimsondagger from Mab's cold hand, then sunk it repeatedly into the back of thenobleman.

Yet Lord Ferris clung tenaciously to life. His elbowswept back and cracked Liesel's head against the stone wall, and she fell in aheap. Next to go was her twin, Ranwen, who seemed to feel Liesel's death inkindred flesh and stood stock-still as the man's fallen candle set her ablaze.Ranwen, too, was unmade by a clumsy kick.

Aside from the bodies that clogged the path and madeit treacherous with blood, Lord Ferris had only poor Parri and two others tobattle. His weight alone proved his greatest weapon, for the next children wentdown beneath him, not to rise again. That left only bawling Bannin and broken Petra below, neither able to fight.

The man in black found footing amidst the twistedlimbs of the fallen, then descended slowly toward Bannin and Petra.

"Put the knives away," said he, sputterscoming from his punctured lungs.

The boy-child-young, eyes clouded with blood, ears ringingwith screams-drew fearfully back a few paces. Petra could not retreat.

"I told you to go, you little fiends!" growled Lord Ferris. Red tears streaked his battered face. "Look whatyou've done!"

Bannin withdrew farther, his whimpering giving way tofull-scale sobs. But Petra, with a monumental effort, rose. The desperatecracking of her leg did not deter her lunge.

Through bloodied teeth, she hissed, "Death toevil," and drove Parri's blade into the nobleman's gut.

Only then did Sir Paramore come rushing down thestairs, just in time to see wicked Lord Ferris tumble stiffly past a triumphant Petra. She smiled at him from within a sea of scarlet child's-blood, thencollapsed dead to the floor.

The death of the child in the story coincided oddlywith the death of the fire on the hearth; the stormy night had reached itsdarkest corner. But the rapt crowd of listeners, who sat mesmerized in thestoryteller's deepening shadow, did not even notice the cold and dim aroundthem. Horace, in the now-frigid kitchen, did.

It was Horace, then, who had to trudge out in the snowfor more wood. He wondered briefly why none of the patrons had complained ofthe chill and dim in the taproom, as they had tirelessly done in days andyears past. As soon as the question formed in his mind, the answer struck him: The stranger's story had kindled a hotter, brighter fire this evening, and byit the people were warming themselves.

Aside from lying slurs on King Caen, Dorsoom, and LordFerris-dead now? Horace wondered, fearing that much of the story might betrue-no crime had yet been committed by the stranger, not even a stolen bit ofbread or blood soup. And his story kept the patrons there when Horace wouldhave thought folks would flee to their lofted beds. But something was not rightabout the stranger. The hairs on the back of Horace's neck, perhaps imbued bythe naturalmagic of apron yokes and years of honest sweat and aches, had stood on end themoment the man had entered with his swirling halo of snow. As the darknessdeepened, as Horace heard snatches of the wicked tale that held the others inthrall, his uneasy feeling had grown to wary conviction. The man was not merelya slick deceiver. He was evil.

Despite that certainty, despite the outcry of everysinew of his being, Horace knew he didn't dare throw the man out or he wouldhave a wall-busting brawl on his hands. Even so, as he bundled wood into thechafed and accustomed flesh of his inner arm, he lifted the icy axe that leanedagainst the woodpile and bore it indoors with him.

In the taproom beyond, the stranger was bringing histale to its inevitable end….

There was much that followed the cruel slaying of theinnocent children: Sir Paramore's shock at the assassination attempt, theshrieks of parents whose children were gone for good, the trembling praise ofthe king for the deeds of the fallen, the empty pallets hauled precariously upthe curving stair, the filled pallets borne down on parents' backs, thebrigade of buckets cleansing the tower, the stationing of guards to protect theprincess's betrothed…

And after it all, Sir Paramore prayed long to the mischievousand chaotic heavens, to Beshaba and Cyric and Loviatar, seeking some planbehind the horrific affair. When his shaken mind grew too weary to sustain itsdevotion and his knees trembled too greatly beneath him to remain upright, SirParamore hung the spell-slaying Kneuma on his bedpost and crawled into hissheets to vainly seek sleep.

Without alarm or movement, and as soon as the knightwas disarmed and disarmored, the mage Dorsoom stood inside the closed andbolted door. Sir Paramore started, and an approbation rose to his lips as hesat up in bed.

But the mage spoke first, in a sly hiss: "I knowwhat you have done, monstrous man."

Sir Paramore stood up, gawking for a moment in rageand amazement before reaching for his spell-slaying sword. His hand nevertouched the hilt, though, for in that instant the mage cast an enchantment onhim that froze his body like ice.

Seeing Paramore rendered defenseless, Dorsoom saidwith a cat's purr, "Most folk in this land think you a valiant knight, butI know you are not. You are a vicious and cruel and machinating monster."

Though he could not move feet or legs or arms, SirParamore found his tongue: "Out of here! Just as my young knights slewyour assassin, I will slay you!"

"Do not toy with me," said the black-beardedmage. "Your sword dispels magic only when in your grip; without it, youcan do nothing against me. Besides, neither Ferris nor I am the true assassin.You are."

"Guards! Save me!" cried Paramore toward theyet-bolted door.

"I know how you arranged the kidnappings. I knowhow you hired those five men to abduct the noblemen's children," said themage.

"What?" roared the knight, struggling topossess his own body but bringing only impotent tremors to his legs.

The guards outside were pounding and calling forassurances.

"I know how you met with your five kidnappers topay them for their duties," continued the mage. "But they receivedonly your axe as their payment."

"Guards! Break down the door!"

"I know how you took the clothes of one of thekidnappers you had slain, dressed in them, masqueraded in front of thechildren as him, and in cold blood slew Jeremy for all their eyes to see. Iknow how later, in guise of the noble knight you never were, you rushed in tofeign saving the rest of the children," said the mage, heat entering histone for the first time.

The guards battered the bolted door, which had begunto splinter.

Paramore shouted in anguish, "In the name of allthat is holy-!"

"You did it all for the hand of the princess; youhave killed even children to have her hand. You orchestrated the kidnapping,played both villain and hero, that you might extort a pledge of marriage inexchange for rescuing them."

The tremors in Sir Paramore legs had grown violent; bythe mere contact of his toe against the bedpost, his whole pallet shook, as didthe scabbarded sword slung on the bed knob.

"I know how you sent this note," the mageproduced a crumpled slip of paper from his pocket and held it up before him,"to Lord Ferris, asking him to come up tonight to see you, and knowingthat your 'knights' would waylay him."

"It's not even my handwriting," shouted Paramore.

He shook violently, and the rattling blade tilted downtoward his stony leg.

Louder came the boot thuds on the door. The crackle ofsplintering wood grew. With a gesture, though, Dorsoom cast a blue glow aboutthe door, magic that made it as solid as steel.

"And in that bag," cawed the mage, knowinghe had all the time in the heavens, "in the bag that late held the fiveheads of the five abductors lies the head of Jeremy-the head you carved out toform a puppet to appear at the foot of Petra's bed!"

The mage swooped down to the sack of heads, but hishand never clasped it. In that precise moment, the mighty sword Kneuma jiggledfree and struck Paramore's stony flesh, dispelling the enchantment on him. Amouse's breath later, that same blade whistled from its scabbard to descend onthe bended neck of the sorcerer.

As the razor steel of Paramore sliced the head fromthe court magician, so too it sundered the spell from the door. The guards whoburst then into the room saw naught but a shower of blood, then the disjoinedhead propelled by its spray onto the bed and Dorsoom's body falling in a heapacross the red-stained sack, soaked anew.

Seeing it all awrong, the guards rushed in to restrainParamore. Whether from the late hour or the outrageous claims of the wizard orthe threat of two warriors on one, Sir Paramore's attempt to parry the bladesof the guards resulted in the goring of one of them through the eye. Thewounded man's cowardly partner fell back and shouted an alarm at the head ofthe stair. Meantime Paramore, pitying the man whose bloodied socket his swordtip was lodged in, drove the blade the rest of the way into the brain to grantthe man his peace.

An alarm went up throughout the castle: "Paramoreis the murderer! Stop him! Slay him!"

Sir Paramore watched the other guard flee, then kneltbeside the fallen body at his feet. A tear streaked down his noble cheek, andhe stared with unseeing eyes upon the sanguine ruin of his life. Determined toremember the man who destroyed it all, he palmed the head of Dorsoom and thrustit angrily into his sack, where it made a thudding sound. Then he stoodsolemnly, breathed the blood- and sweat-salted air, and strode from the room,knowing that even if he escaped with his life, he would be unrighteously banished.

And he was.

"And that, dear friends," rasped the robedstranger, his left hand stroking his black beard, "is the tragic tale ofthe greatest hero who ever lived."

The room, aside from the crackle of the hearth fireand the howl of the defiant wind, was dead silent. The people who had oncescorned this broken hovel of a man stared toward him with reverence and awe. Itwasn't his words. It wasn't his story, but something more fundamental abouthim, more mystic and essential to his being. Magic. Those who once would havedenied him a thimble of water would happily feast him to the best of theirfarms, would gladly give their husbands and sons to him to be soldiers, theirwives and daughters to him to be playthings. And that ensorcelled reverence wasonly heightened by his next words.

"And that, dear friends, is the tragic tale ofhow I came to be among you." Even the wind and the fire stilled to hearwhat had to follow. "For, you see, I am Sir Paramore."

With that, he threw back the yet-sodden rags that haddraped him, and from the huge bundle that had been the body of the strangeremerged a young, elegant, powerful, platinum-eyed warrior. His face was verydifferent from the wizened and sepulchral one that had spoken to them. Thelatter-the dismembered head of Dorsoom-was jammed down puppetlike past thewrist on the warrior's right hand. The dead mouth of the dead wizard moved eventhen by the device of the warrior's fingers, positioned on the bony palate andin the dry, rasping tongue. Throughout the night, throughout the long telling,the gathered villagers had all listened to the puppet head of a dead man.

The old man's voice came from the young man's mouth ashis fingers moved the jaw and tongue.

"Believe him, ye people! Here is the greatesthero who ever lived."

A brown-black ooze clung in dribbles to Paramore'sforearm.

Only Horace, stumbling into the taproom, was horrifiedby the sight; the depravity did not strike the others in the slightest. Thesimple folk of Capel Curig left their chairs and moved wonderingly up towardthe towering knight and his grisly puppet. They crowded him just as thechildren had done in the story. Cries of "Teach us, O knight! Lead us,Paramore! Guard us and save us from our enemies!" mingled with groans andtongues too ecstatic for human words.

In their center, the beaming sun of their adorationstretched out his bloodied hand and enwrapped them.

"Of course I will save you. Only follow me and bemy warriors, my knights!"

"We would die for you!"

"Let us die for you!"

"Paramore! Paramore!"

The praises rose up above the rumble of the wind andthe growl of the fire, and the uplifted hands of the people could havethrust the roof entire from the inn had Paramore only commanded it.

The adulation was so intense that none-not even thegod-man Paramore himself-saw Horace's flashing axe blade until it emerged redfrom the knight's gurgling throat.

TERTIUS AND THE ARTIFACT

Jeff Grubb

As I sat on the balcony of the Nauseous Otyugh in Scornubel,suspended between the hangover of the previous evening and the one that was yetto come, I meditated on the phrase "should have stayed in bed." Soundadvice, probably postulated first by some spell-flinger after a particularlybad morning of fireballing and lightning bolting and whatnot.

Of course, it did me little good since I was in bedthe night before when everything went south. Except me, of course.

Let me explain. It was a little before three bells,and Tertius Wands, yours truly, was blissfully asleep in my quarters at theOtyugh, third floor stateroom with an odorous view of the stables. The Otyughis one of the new establishments that have popped up after the last Volo'sGuide. As a result of Volo's work in popularizing certain locations to travelers,those locations have ceased to be popular to natives, necessitating new inns,dives, and hangouts for adventurers to hang out in. Ampi had at one timesuggested that it would be advantageous to follow Volo around, opening new innsin his wake, as the ones he talks about are soon filled to the bursting withwarriors and wizards carrying his dratted little tomes.

But I digress. I was setting the scene, dressing thestage, laying the groundwork. Three bells. Bedroom. Otyugh. Then the ceilingexploded.

Well, it did not exactly explode, but the thunderousboom from above was akin to a roof collapsing. I sat bolt upright, and noticedthat the bed itself, a stout four-poster of ironwood, was shimmying and jumpinglike a nervous carrion crawler. Every loose article in the room, from thechamber pot to the steel mirror, joined in this vibrating dance of doom.

I did what any rational man would do-I hid beneath thecovers and promised whatever gods would listen that I would never touch Dragon'sBreath Beer and death cheese again.

"Tertius Wands!" thundered a frighteninglyfamiliar voice from the direction of the ceiling.

I popped an eye over the edge of the blanket and sawGranduncle Maskar's fiery head. I did not doubt that his head was stillattached to his body back in Waterdeep, and he was sending an astral whatsit ora phantasmal thingamabob to address me. At the moment, I was too frightened tocare.

Bravely, I faced the mightiest mage of Waterdeep.

"It wasn't my fault!" I shouted, pulling thebed sheets back over my head and hoping I could be heard clearly. "Ididn't know she was a priestess of Sune! No one told me about that festhall!I'm innocent!"

"Never mind that!" boomed my granduncle."I have something important for you to do!"

I peeked over the edge of my covers and managed akitten-weak, "Me?"

"You," snarled my uncle, his displeasureregistering fully on his face. "I had a magical artifact, a remnant of powerfulNetheril, which has been stolen from me."

"I didn't do it!" I quickly put in."Have you checked with Cousin Marcus? He's always picking up things thatdon't belong to-"

"Silence!" bellowed the fiery, god-sizedhead floating over my bedpost. "I know who took it-a thief named theRaven, who is heading your way. I want you to get it back. The device lookslike three glass spheres, one set floating within the next. Bring it back tome, and you can return to the City of Splendors!"

"Well, that's just it, then," I ventured."I was thinking about taking up a life on the open road, and. ."

"Find the Tripartite Orb of Hangrist," saidthe phantasmal granduncle, "and find it now!"

And with that, Maskar's head exploded in a cascade offireworks, which succeeded in leaving scorch marks along the wall andshattering the water pitcher. Granduncle Maskar was never one for quiet exits.In fact, in all the years I've known and avoided him, he's never used the dooronce.

In my nightshirt, I rose unsteadily from my bed andpicked up the shattered pitcher. Any thought that I could write this off tosome cheese-induced delirium or nightmare was in as many shards as thepottery. Granduncle Maskar wanted something, and wanted me to get it.

And one does not disappoint one's granduncle, particularlywhen that granduncle could turn one into a toad.

So I whistled up my genie, Ampratines. Well, whistledis a bad word. I more rubbed him up, running my finger over the ring andcalling him into being.

Let me make this quite clear: I lack the least bit ofmagical ability, which makes me an exception in the Wands family, overladenedby all manner of conjurers, sorcerers, prestidigitators, and other assortedspellcasters. However, I get by with a genie, attached to a ring I found yearsago in a Waterdhavian sewer. But that's a tale for another time.

Ampratines wafted into view like a phantasmal castlesuddenly appearing in the desert. The djinn by their nature are a clever race,and Ampi is the cleverest of the lot, with more brain cells per cubic inch than any othercreature in Faerûn.

Ampi was dressed as normal, in long blue robes thatset off his crimson skin. His black topknot of hair was immaculately greasedand mannered, protruding through an azure skullcap like the tail of achampionship horse. His solemn mouth was framed by an equally well-manneredbeard and mustache.

"What ho, Ampi?" said I. "Youheard?"

"Druids in the High Forest heard, I have nodoubt," said Ampi calmly, his voice as deep as the crypts of Undermountainand as smooth as a halfling's promise. "It seems your granduncle has needof you."

"Need for a pawn," I muttered, lookingaround for my pants. Ampi waved a hand, and the missing trousers manifested atthe end of his large, well-manicured hand. Genies are wonderful that way, and Ithink everyone should have at least one. Regardless, I was in no mood to listmy djinni's good points after being terrorized by my own flesh and blood."Why does he need me?"

"I can endeavor to find out," said Ampismoothly. "It may take me a brief while."

With this he wafted out of view. Butlers, menservants,and members of the guard would pay good coin to learn how to waft aseffortlessly as this genie could.

I tried to get back to sleep, but once you've beenthreatened in bed by a magical projection of the family patriarch, the blissof slumber is denied. Instead, I paced, worried, and sat up by the windowsill,watching the horses in their paddock and marveling at the simplicity of theirlives.

And with the arrival of morning, and the failure ofAmpi to return, I chowed down a modest breakfast of snakes in gravy (at leastthat's what I assumed it was). Then I retired to the portico of the NauseousOtyugh with orders for the wait staff to send another Dragon's Breath out everyhalf hour, and keep doing so until I was no longer able to send the emptiesback. I sought to stave off the oncoming hangover from the previous night bylaunching directly into the next one.

The Nauseous Otyugh, by the way, is a bit ramshackle,a former general store put out of business by Aurora and her catalog. Thesecond floor was set back from the first, creating a wide porch, suitable forthe major Scornubel sports of drinking oneself into oblivion and watchingothers do the same on the street below. I had gotten quite good at bothactivities for the past two tendays, and was quite prepared to begin my careeras a Waterdhavian expatriate, sopping up the sun and the alcohol and tellingpeople about how horrid it was to live in a city like Waterdeep, where everysecond noble is a mage, and most of those are relatives.

And, of course, now I mentally kicked myself for notleaving Scornubel. Ampi had strongly recommended we keep moving a tenday ago,but I demurred. I would not be like some of my cousins, ordered around byservants, controlled by their butlers, mastered by their own magicalhomunculi. If I was to be banished from Waterdeep, I had told Ampi at the time,there was no better place to begin my exile than the balcony of old Nauseous,watching the caravans go by. But Scornubel was only a few hundred miles down the Trade Way from Waterdeep, and apparently not far enough from GranduncleMaskar's plots.

My mental wandering was interrupted when I was madeaware of a youth to my right, instead of the patient barmaid that had beenbringing my drinks. Surely it could not have been noon already, I thought, andthe changing of shifts. Someone would have come out with a lunch menu, at thevery least.

I strained to focus a bloodshot eye and discoveredthat the newcomer, bearing ale on a silver plate, was a halfling. His wideivory grin was visible in the shadows of a badly woven straw hat. I blinkedtwice, and when he failed to disappear, ventured a conversational gambit.

"Yes?" I asked, that being the soul of wit Icould manage at the moment.

"Beggin' yer pardon, sire," said the smalldemihuman, sweeping off the hat to reveal a tangle of red hair, "but Iunderstand that yer the gentlem'n that was lodgin' on the top flooryesterday eve? The one that had all the thunder and shoutin' andwhatever?"

I deeply wished I had some form of native magical abilityat the moment, for a comprehend languages spell, or a distill dialect, orwhatever would be useful. I chose to stay with a time-proven response: "Yes?"

The halfling shifted uneasily on his furry pads.

"Well, sire, I was outside and heard a lot of it,and the big god-voice said ye was huntin' the Raven."

I nodded slowly, hoping I would appear sage but inreality praying my melon would not pop loose from my shoulders and roll aroundon the porch.

"And you are …?"

"Caspar Millibuck, at yer servants," thehalfling continued. "Well, I'm huntin' the Raven meself, and I figgeredthat one like ye, with such powerful god-voices, could help one like me, bein'small and short and all, and we could both nab the thief together."

"Uh-huh," said I, banishing most of myfoggier thoughts back to the corners of my mind. "And why do you want theRaven?"

I had not just fallen off the spell-wagon, and knewthat halflings always had at least three reasons for doing anything, two ofwhich would violate local laws.

The halfling examined his fur-covered pedicure andsaid, "Well, it's just that the Raven stoled from me family as well, andI'm s'posed to get me coin back. I can't go home till I get it."

Even in its ale-induced state, my heart went out tothe small individual, trapped in a similar situation to my own.

"And what did the Raven steal from you?"

"Gold, sire," said the halfling quickly,"all the gold in me orph'nage."

"Orphanage?" I shook my head. "Ithought you said it was stolen from your family?"

"Indeed, sire," the halfling bobbed his headup and down rapidly. "Ever'body in my family's an orphan. We're veryunlucky."

"Indeed," I muttered, and wondered what thehalfling was really after.

Of course, Ampratines was nowhere about and here itwas nearly noon. If I could wrap things up without my erstwhile ally, thatwould show both the genie and my granduncle I knew a thing or two myself.

"Very well," I said. "Take me to theRaven. We'll sort things out, man to man."

"Ach, ye can't do that," slurred thehalfling. "The Raven's no man, but a doppelganger, and can change shape atwhim. I think I know where to find him, but ye have to be ready to move, andmove quick, when I call. Will ye be helpin' me? For the other orphans, atleast?"

With tears in his eyes, he looked up at me, and ofcourse, I said yes. Noble thing to do and all. And besides, this little fellowknew how to find the Raven, and that would make my job all the easier.

I took the ale from the halfling, but did not finishit. I sent the next ale back undrunk as well, and asked instead for a tabletand a stylus, and some of the house stationary. I was in the midst of composinga letter to Granduncle Maskar, telling him everything was under control, when Ampireappeared. One moment there was nothing to my left shoulder, and the next,there he was-as noble a djinni as ever 'jinned.

"I take it you have something," I snapped,the effects of the long-delayed hangovers coming to the fore. "You'vetaken most of the morning."

Ampi gave a small quarter-bow from the waist.

"A hundred apologies, Lord Tertius," hesaid. "It took some doing to ascertain the nature of the device and whatexactly happened to it. I finally spoke with a sylph that your granduncle usesto clean out the chimneys. She apparently witnessed most of the news on thisunpleasantness."

"Well then, spit it out," I said,impatiently tapping my stylus against the tablet.

"The Tripartite Orb is an artifact ofNetheril," said the genie, putting his hands behind his back like aschoolboy reciting his lessons. "Netheril was a kingdom of wizards thatfell thousands of years ago, before the founding of Cormyr or Waterdeep. Theleast of these wizards, it is said, was more powerful than the mightiest mages ofthe Realms."

"A kingdom of Granduncle Maskars?" I barelysuppressed a shudder. "The mind boggles."

"Indeed, it does, milord," said Ampratines."The Tripartite Orb was apparently a most potent weapon in that kingdom,for it had the ability to kill all magic within its immediate surroundings. Nofireball would explode in its proximity, no summoning would be effective, noward would protect, and no magical weapon would gain its weal. You can see whythis would be effective in a kingdom of wizards."

"Right ho," said I. "You get one nearit, and they're weak as puppies."

"Effectively so," said the djinni. "So,as a result, most of its history in Netheril consists of mages hiding it ininaccessible places while other mages hired warriors to wrest it from thosehiding spots. So it went through most of Netherese history, until the kingdom'sfall. It remained hidden until a dozen years ago, when a group of adventurersfound it in Anauroch. Your granduncle realized the danger of such amagic-destroying artifact immediately, and acquired it and locked it in hislowest dungeon."

"Far away from any prying eyes or othermagics," I put in.

"Quite. The device appears as a set of threecrystal globes, one floating within the next, which are made of iridescentcrystal, such that they resemble soap bubbles, I am told. As with allartifacts, it is indestructible by most normal means, so your granduncle put itunder lock and key in a safe location. And from that safe location, it wasstolen two tendays ago by a thief called the Raven, who is apparently headingdown the Trade Way to Scornubel."

"Which explains why Granduncle Maskar wants me torecover the thingamabob," I said.

"In part," said the genie. "Alsobecause you are one of the few members of the family without natural magicalability, perhaps he thought you would be less at risk if confronted with a lackof magic entirely."

"Or less of a loss if I ended up dead," Imuttered. "Well, at least I have your aid."

Ampratines blanched, which for the genie was a strangething.

"I fear I can be of less aid than you wouldprefer. This antimagic sphere will also remove any summoned creatures from thearea, including myself. Indeed, its very antimagical nature prevents magicaldetection. Perhaps it would be to our advantage to notify the local authoritieson this matter."

My brow furrowed at the news.

"Local authorities." I shook my headdismissively and said, "If they got their hands on something like this,they'd lock it up under tight guard and magical key, and Granduncle Maskarwould be steamed at me until the next Avatar Crisis. No, we can do this on ourown."

"But, milord, the antimagical nature precludes.. "

"No buts." I held up a hand. "While youwere questioning a smoky hearth-wisp, I was diligently pursuing my ownavenues. Even now, my agents are scouring the city, hunting for this Ravencharacter."

"Your-"Ampratines looked stunned, well, asstunned as a creature made of elemental air could look-"agents..?" He struggled to turn the question into a statement, with some success.

"Indeed," said I, rising unsteadily to myfeet. "I will have this small matter solved, with no further involvementon your behalf."

"Milord, I…"

"Tut, tut." I touched my hand to myforehead. Both hangovers, long delayed, were now rushing to the fore. "Ifyou say you cannot help, I will not press the issue. Have faith in the Wandsfamily intuition."

The genie looked unconvinced, but said, "As youwish, milord."

I smiled at the djinni. There was no mistaking who wasin charge of this relationship.

"But if you could, whip up one of your mysticalomelets, tonic to any drinking binge. I think better when the entire Realmsisn't pulsing in time with my heartbeat."

Ampratines started a warning, then merely said,"Of course, milord."

He wafted from view.

I stood on the porch of the Nauseous Otyugh, steadyingmyself on the railing, and tried to look deep in thought. Actually, I wascounting the seconds until Ampi's return with the cure to my now-thunderingheadache.

"That's the Raven?" I asked the halfling."She's a woman!"

"Hush!" hissed the small red-haired humanoidfrom beneath the folds of his brown, tattered robe. "She's no more a womanthan I'm a red dragon. She be a doppelganger! And she'll notice if ye shoutand goggle at her like a fish!"

The woman who was not a woman was seated at a tableacross the crowded common room. She was dressed in traveling leathers and ablue cape, and she was facing us, which made surreptitious observationdifficult. She had a large valise sitting on the table next to her. She cast anerrant glance in our direction, and I retreated into the folds of my own browncloak and hood, turning slightly away from her, trying not to goggle like afish.

Her companion at the table might have been a hillgiant, or perhaps an ogre, for he was as tall as Ampi, and nearly as massive.The companion was dressed in an all-encompassing cloak as well, one of crimson,which made him look like a large sunset at the opposite table.

We were at the Jaded Unicorn, a place that had theunfortunate fate of gaining notice in the aforementioned Volo's Guide. As aresult, the place was filled with newcomers, travelers, hardened mercenaries,and dewy-eyed would-be adventurers. As the Unicorn had a bad reputation(according to Volo), the traditional garb was heavy cloaks with the hoodspulled up. It looked like a convention of specters, wraiths, and grim reapers.

The exception was the Raven. She, I mean it, hadher hood down, showing off golden hair that pooled on her shoulders like spiltale. She looked as if she had elf blood in her. Her ears were slightly pointed,and her chin tapered to a soft, rounded end. I had to remind myselfthat all this was an illusion. She-it, I mean-was a shapechanger, and couldlook like King Azoun or my Granduncle Maskar if it so desired. A doppelgangerin its true form was a slender humanoid-sexless, hairless, and pale gray inshade. Altogether an unappetizing thought.

The Raven was in animated conversation with the giantsunset at her table. Her brow became furrowed at one point, and she tapped heroversized case with a slim hand. We were too far away to hear what was beingsaid, but it was obvious they were haggling about something.

And it did not require a master mage to figure outwhat they were arguing about. The case was about the size and shape that couldcarry a wizard's crystal ball. Or a Tripartite Orb of the ancients.

Whatever Sunset said seemed to calm her down, for herfeatures cleared. She listened, then nodded, then grabbed the satchel andstrode toward the door. Sunset remained at his seat. All eyes were on her, butwhen she arrived at the doorway, the doppelganger turned and, for the briefestmoment, locked eyes with me. I don't know if it was true or not, but I felt asif the world suddenly shifted on its axis and spun in a new fashion.

Then she, it, was gone. I turned back and noticed thatthe giant Sunset had disappeared as well, probably back to some hidden roomwith a cabal of Red Wizards of Thay.

"C'mon!" snapped the halfling. "Welllose 'er if we don' get movin'."

Relieved mildly that my ally was also using the femalepronoun for our target, I followed the smaller cloaked figure out of theUnicorn. Our departure did not create any response or commotion, but then, wekept our hoods up.

Night had fallen like a drunken dwarf, and the streetswere nearly empty. Those with something to lose were already squirreled away intheir beds (unless bothered by their magical granduncles). Selûne was full,however, and reflected like a beacon off our quarry's blond tresses.

We followed her to a small rooming house near theriver. A buck-toothed ogre denied us entry, but a few gold coins did buy theinformation that the young lady (who gave her name as Demarest) had justarrived, always carried the valise, and was staying on the second floor nearthe back of the inn.

So it was that, almost a full day after GranduncleMaskar first manifested himself, I wore a voluminous robe and edged along awindow ledge, a similarly dressed halfling in tow. The breeze off thesurrounding plains was brisk, and at several points, I was afraid the cloakswould catch the wind fully and send us spiraling, head over boot heels, overthe low buildings of Scornubel like errant paper kites.

For the first time that evening, I regretted givingAmpi the night off. He was most perturbed about my pursuing magic-killingartifacts, so I gave him leave. Even now, he was probably curled up in somemerchant's library, digesting some history of the Heartlands, or the CollectedRomances of the Obarskyr Line, while his master was about to takeinvoluntary flight.

Progress was, therefore, slow. Were we near the frontend of the building, we would have undoubtedly been spotted by the watch, intheir plate mail and copper helmets. As it was, we did our best to imitategargoyles when someone passed below us in the alley, and spent the rest of thetime inching toward the desired goal: a lit window. As we approached, theoccupant within doused the light. We halted for another long moment toascertain that the faux Demarest had not dimmed her lamp in order to seeclearly outside. Then we resumed our onerous march.

The window was latched, a wise precaution even on thesecond floor in Scornubel. The halfling Caspar produced a long, thin piece ofwire that, wedged into the slot between the window halves, sprang the latcheasily.

"In ye go, lad," hissed the halfling,smiling with his ivory-white choppers.

"Me?" I whispered back. "I thought youhalfling folk would be better at the 'sneaking into someone else's room' sortof thing, being closer to the ground and all."

The halfling gave a disgruntled snort. "Well, Icould, but then ye'd be out here on the ledge, twice as big as life, waitin' for thecopper-top watch to pick ye off. Of course, if that's yer choice…" He lethis voice trail off.

I could see his point. I also realized that if Iwanted the Tripartite Orb, I had better get my hands on it before he did.

I slid into the room as silently as I was able, thecloak's ability to muffle my steps offset by its own bulky weight. Themoonlight was full in the room, and reduced everything to blue highlights andebon shadows. Demarest, the doppelganger thief known better as the Raven, wasasleep on a wide bed, only her hair, now shining like silver in the moonlight,visible above the wide comforter.

The valise was on a low table across from the bed. Itwould likely hold the orb, the halfling's gold, or both. It would pay, Ithought, to open the satchel and check. If the halfling's gold was not inthere, I was sure that I could convince Uncle Maskar to make good theirfinancial loss.

The satchel's large metal clasp opened with a ratchetingclick, the bag falling open on the table. There was another click, which atfirst I thought was an echo.

Then a very steely feminine voice behind me said,"Step away from the bag, or I will drop you where you stand."

I am by nature very good at taking orders, as befits anon-mage in a family of wizards. I put the satchel down on the table and tooktwo steps backward, holding my hands up in clear view. I left the bag open,more from not being told to do otherwise than from any innate curiosity.Within, there was a glint of crystal, not gold.

"Now turn toward me," said the dulcet voice.

I turned slowly, and as I did, I could see Caspar'ssilhouette at the window. I tried not to flinch, but only hoped that he hadplanned for this possibility. The woman seated on the bed did not seem tonotice him.

The doppelganger was carrying a crossbow, one of thosedrow-made hand-held jobs that looked every bit as dangerous as it was. She heldit level on me and kicked the comforter off her. She was fully dressed beneaththe covers, which I realized with both relief and regret.

She regarded me coolly.

"A more foolish disguise than normal,Raven," she said. "Did you mug some fop of a noble for thatface?"

"P-Pardon?" I managed, my mind in a bit of awhirl. "I'm sorry, I'm not the Raven. I thought you were…."

I made the mistake of lowering my arms slightly. Ravenpointed the crossbow toward my chest, and I raised them immediately.

"Don't even flinch, doppelganger, or I'll drill anew hole through you."

"I'm sorry," I said, wondering if Ampi couldhear my silent plea in whatever library he had ensconced himself, "but I'mnot the doppelganger here. You are, and if you're confused about it, maybe weshould talk about it instead of drilling anyone or anything."

Demarest the not-Raven, not-doppelganger laughed. Itwas a crystalline laugh, but cold and cruel. She raised the hand crossbow topoint at my face, and I closed my eyes. I really did not want my last sight tobe a crossbow bolt barreling in on me.

There was a twang, but surprisingly no impactor even the slight breeze of a near-miss. Instead, there was a low, femininecursing. Taking a breath to assure myself I was among the living, I opened myeyes again.

Demarest was back on the bed, clutching with her lefthand at the small bolt that had pierced her right front shoulder. Her rightarm, though still attached, lay on the bed inert. Of the crossbow I could seenothing. Blood streamed down from the wound along her arm, darkening her blue robesand pooling in a magenta stain on the linens.

I turned to see Caspar amble down out of the window.He was already loading another shot into his own drow crossbow.

I was mildly peeved, and said so. "How long wereyou going to wait until you made yourself known?" I started, but thehalfling raised the crossbow to my face, in much the same way Demarest had doneearlier. This was apparently a theme for the evening.

"Step by the woman, fool," snapped thehalfling in a very unhalfling-like voice. The voice was sharp, like dried twigsbreaking, and apparently used to being listened to.

I took two steps toward the woman, still seated on thebed, her breathing ragged and gasping. Her eyes were turning glassy.

"Poison," said the halfling, keeping thecrossbow leveled on me as he moved sideways toward the table. "Not thefastest, but fast enough. Soon you will feel it too."

As he moved, the halfling began to melt like a waxcandle and elongate. I know that wax candles don't elongate, but that's whatCaspar was doing. The fatty folds of halfling flesh peeled away. The dark cloakturned pale, the head narrowed, and the eyes turned white and pupilless. By thetime the halfling reached the table, he was no more a halfling. He was thenative form of a doppelganger.

"Raven, I presume," I said, fighting to keepthe quivering out of my voice.

"Right for the first and last time," saidthe creature, keeping the crossbow on me while digging into the bag with hisfree hand.

He pulled forth a large crystalline globe. Within itfloated a second globe of crystal, and within that a third globe. The threeglobes twinkled in the moonlight of the room.

"You've been very helpful, Tertius Wands,"said the doppelganger, smiling with even rows of ivory-colored teeth. "Youdrew away my former partner's attention so I could get the drop on her. And nowyou'll serve me again. When they find both your bodies here, the guard willassume that the lady was surprised by a robber and both killed each other,leaving no witnesses to the Tripartite Orb's new owner."

I started to say something about how I could offer avery good price for the orb, but I was drowned out by a low growling. The womanon the bed was fast, faster than I would be in a similar situation-dead ofnight, bedroom, poisonous bolt in one shoulder. As the Raven and I talked, shehad pulled herself into a crouch and now sprang at the doppelganger.

The shapechanger hadn't thought his former partnercould shrug off the poison, and had the crossbow leveled at me. He jerked hishand toward the new target as he fired, and his shot was wide. The poisonousbolt buried itself in the woodwork as the woman slammed into him. The globeflew from his hand like a live thing, dancing and spinning in the moonlight.

I dived for it as if it was the last roll at theHigharvestide feast. My mind told me that after all the aeons, a simple dropwould not harm the device, but my heart held the image of Uncle Maskar. Myheart drove me to spread forward on the floor, snaring the orb before ittouched the carpet.

I caught it with inches to spare, and both I andartifact rolled sideways, away from the sounds of battle. As I rose to my feet,I heard shouts in the distance and felt doors slamming open elsewhere in theinn. Apparently the fight was attracting other attention.

The two thieves, human and doppelganger, brawled inthe midst of the room. The doppelganger had already taken Demarest's form inthe struggle, so that it looked as if two blond twins were rolling about on thecarpet, clawing at each other. I looked at them, at the triple orb in myhands, and back at them, and wondered if I could negotiate my way around themand out the door. I really did not want to go back out the window and along theledge.

That was when the door burst open to reveal at leastthree, and perhaps a dozen, copper-headed watchmen. Each bore a heavytwo-handed crossbow, the type that could punch its way through the wall of astable. Some carried torches and lanterns, and behind them was the giant Sunsetin his crimson robes.

The two battling Demarests detangled and slowly rose,regarding the newcomers. I took another step backward. The window startedlooking like a better option all the time.

Sunset reached up and pulled his cowl back, revealinga very familiar, calm face.

Ampratines. Of course. I felt my heart start beatingagain.

The guards were not as sure as I was, and kept movingtheir aim from one twin to the next, unsure which was the true danger. Boththieves stood up uneasily, trying to put a few feet of distance between them.

I piped up. "The wounded one is real. Theunwounded one is the doppelganger."

The unwounded twin, Caspar/Raven/Doppelganger, wheeledin place and hissed at me, its fangs growing elongated and huge wingssprouting from its back as it did so. It leaped at me, intent on grabbing me ashostage and the globe as a prize.

Two things happened simultaneously. I threw the globeupward, toward the door and Ampi. And there were three or a dozen sharp twangsand the doppelganger collapsed on the floor.

The artifact floated like a soap-bubble across theroom, and into the hands of Ampi.

Ampi looked at me, gave a short quarter bow, thendropped the globe.

It hit the ground with a resounding smash, and bits ofcolored glass spattered in all directions.

It was followed by me, I am afraid, hitting the groundin a dead faint.

Back on the balcony of the Nauseous Otyugh, I hadrecovered sufficiently to watch the sun rise over the ramshackle buildings ofScornubel.

"You could have warned me," I said, poutingover an ale.

The djinni produced one more cold compress and placedit over my fevered brow.

"You did not wish any warning," said Ampi."I pursued matters as I thought I was best able. I have informed the localgendarmes that you realized the doppelganger was a halfling at the start, andplayed along to discover the location of the missing artifact. Therefore youare held blameless in this matter. The doppelganger is dead, and the thiefDemarest, his former partner, has been cleansed of the poison and is ready toaccept the town's justice."

"How did you know?"

"I did not know, exactly, though I thought thefact that you received fortuitous aid quite interesting. A word with the waitstaff at the Otyugh ascertained that your help was the halfling, and it was notdifficult to find a redheaded halfling wearing a straw hat in Scornubel. Inoticed he was watching a particular inn, and let it be known at the inn that Iwas a wizard searching for a particular artifact. Demarest, hoping to unloadthe item before her partner caught up with her, contacted me for the meeting atthe bar, where you saw us. That was when she tried to sell me the fakeartifact."

My mind, battered and worn and threatened, skipped abeat, and I said, "Fake artifact?"

"Of course," said the genie. "As Iexplained to the watch, and took the liberty of putting these thoughts in yourname, if the device was truly the described artifact, then I would be unable toget close to it, being a summoned creature myself. The fact that I could sitat the same table with it was sufficient proof that it was a phony, strung upwith thin crystals and gases of various densities, such that one sphere wouldfloat within the next. At that meeting I purposefully failed to bring the coinshe wanted for it. From there it was easy to alert the watch of a possiblebreak-in at Demarest's room. We arrived in time to hear the battle."

I shook my head.

"Fake artifact? Then the doppelganger had thereal Tripartite Orb hidden elsewhere?"

"The Raven was probably unaware of the fake aswell, since he went to such efforts to recruit you as his pawn. And Demarest,if she had the true globes, would have let the Raven take the fake, convincinghim it was the real one. Neither had time to build a replica."

"Then who built the replica?" I said."Not Uncle Maskar."

"Your granduncle's concern was legitimate aswell, I suspect," said the djinni.

"Then if not the thieves, and not Maskar.." I took a long sip on my ale bottle. "Uncle Maskar never had thereal Tripartite Orb, did he?"

"I don't think so," said the genie."After all, how do you test an item for magic that supposedly refuses allmagic?"

I let a smile crawl onto my face, the first in thepast twelve hours.

"So old Granduncle Maskar was hornswoggled in thefirst place." I chuckled at the thought. "I would love to see thelook on his face when he gets my letter explaining that!"

Ampratines made a solemn, low cough. That kind ofcough he always makes when he disagrees completely, but cannot bring himself tosay something outright. I cast my companion the eye, and he looked up, into themiddle distance.

"If your granduncle never had the device,"he said solemnly, "that means he would have to now get the device. And whobetter to get the device than someone who has already gotten the fakeone?"

I let that sink into my ale-stained brain. "Sothe best thing is to not be here at all when he gets the word, eh?"

"Quite."

"Ah, well," I said with a sigh, draining thelast of the ale and setting the dead soldier next to the others, "so muchfor an expatriate life in Scornubel. I think we need to move farther south,farther away from Waterdeep."

"I thought you'd think so," said Ampratines,with a smooth flourish producing our bags, "so I already took the libertyof purchasing the coach tickets. We leave in an hour."

RED AMBITION

Jean Rabe

Szass Tam eased himself into a massive chair behindan ornate table covered with curled sheets of vellum and crystal vials filledwith dark liquid. A thick candle stood in the middle of the clutter, its flamedancing in the musty air and casting a soft light across his grotesquefeatures.

His pale, parchment-thin skin stretched taut acrosshis high cheekbones, and his wispy hair, the color of cobwebs, spread unevenlyatop his age-spotted scalp. His lower lip hung loose, as if there were nomuscles to control it, and the fleshy part of his nose was gone, revealing twincavities. The scarlet robes he wore fell in folds over his skeletal frame andspread like a pool of blood on the floor around his chair.

He absently swirled his index finger in a puddle ofwax gathering on the table, letting the warm, oily liquid collect on his skin.He rolled the cooling blob between his thumb and middle finger until it hardenedinto a ball, then he released the wax and watched it roll across the rosewoodfinish and come to rest near a decades-old scroll. The piercing points of whitelight that served as Szass Tam's eyes stared at the parchment. It contained thelast enchantment needed to turn his cherished apprentice into a creature likehimself-an undead sorcerer… a lich. Of course, his apprentice would have todie before the spell could be invoked. Killing her would be no great matter, hedecided. Bony fingers grasped the parchment and brought it close to his stillheart.

Szass Tam's mortal life had ended centuries ago on aThayan battlefield a hundred miles north of his comfortable keep. But themagic coursing through him prevented him from passing beyond the land of theliving. It bound him to the human realms in a rotting body that pulsed with anarcane power few would dare challenge. The lich considered himself the mostformidable Red Wizard in Thay. A zulkir, he controlled the realm's school ofnecromancy. His apprentice, Frodyne, was also a Red Wizard, one of an augustcouncil of sorcerers who ruled Thay through schemes, threats, and carefulmanipulation. Szass Tam smiled thinly. None were more treacherous than he.

He listened intently. The soft footfalls in the hallwere Frodyne's. He placed the scroll in a deep pocket and waited. One day soonhe would bless her with immortality.

"Master?" Easing open the door, Frodynestepped inside. She padded forward, the shiny fabric of her dark red robedragging across the polished marble floor behind her. "Am I disturbingyou?"

Szass Tam gestured to a seat opposite him. Instead,the young woman's course took her to stand beside him. She quickly knelt,placed her delicate hands on his leg, and looked up into his pinpoint eyes. Herclean-shaven head was decorated with red and blue tattoos, fashionable forThay, and her wide, midnight-black eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. Thecorner of her thin lips tugged upward into a sly grin.

Szass Tam had taken her as an apprentice several yearsbefore. An amazingly quick study, Frodyne never hid her hunger for spells andknowledge, and she dutifully hung on his every word. The lich thought herloyal, or as loyal as anyone in Thay could be. As she grew in power through theyears, he shared horrible designs with her-how to crush lesser wizards underthe heels of his skeletal army, how to raise men from the grave, how to stealthe souls of the living. He recently confided in her that he was undead, showedher his true, rotting visage, and when she did not shrink from it, he sharedwith her his plans for dominating Thay. Frodyne had made it clear she wanted tobe at his side-forever.

The lich stared at her unblemished, rosy face. Indeed,he thought, she is worthy of passing the centuries at my side. He reached abony hand to her face and caressed her smooth cheek.

"What brings you here so late?" His deepvoice echoed hauntingly in the room.

"I was at the market today, the slave pens,"she began. "I was looking over the stock when I discovered a man askingabout you and the goings-on in the keep."

The lich nodded for her to continue.

"He was an unusual little man who wore only onetattoo: an odd-looking triangle filled with gray swirls."

"A worshiper of Leira," the lich mused.

"A priest of the goddess of deception andillusions, in fact," Frodyne added. "In any event, I followed him.When he was alone I cast a simple spell that put him under my control. I had toknow why he was asking so many questions."

The lich's pinpoint eyes softened, and with hisskeletal finger, he traced one of the tattoos on Frodyne's head.

"And what did you learn?"

"Much, Master. Eventually. The priest had astrong will. But before he died he revealed he was worried about one of yourarmies, the one patrolling Delhumide. There is a ruin in that dead city that afew worshipers of Leira are particularly interested in. The priest believedthat deep inside a crumbling temple rests a powerful relic. When your armypassed nearby, he feared you had learned of the thing and had sent your army toretrieve it. But when your skeletons did not enter the temple, he was uncertainhow much you knew. He came to the city asking about your plans andforces."

The lich gazed into Frodyne's eyes and said, "Myskeletons were patrolling. Nothing more. But, tell me, Frodyne … why didn'tthe priest simply enter the temple and take the relic for himself?"

"I wondered that, too, Master." The youngapprentice beamed. "I pressed him on the matter. He admitted that while hecoveted the relic, he coveted his life more. It seems the Goddess of Liars hasguardians and great magic protecting her prize."

The lich stood and drew Frodyne up with him.

"And just what is this relic of Leira?" heasked.

"A crown. The priest said a great energy isharnessed in the crown's gems," Frodyne answered. She smiled thinly andstroked Szass Tam's decaying chin. "And we shall share that crown andenergy, just as I shared the priest's tale with you."

The lich stepped back and shook his head slowly.

"I shall send my skeletal army into the heart ofthe temple and claim the relic as my own."

"Yours, Master?"

"Aye, Frodyne."

"But you would not know of its existence withoutme." She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "This istreachery, Szass Tam. I could have claimed the bauble for myself, with you nonethe wiser. But I chose to share the news with you."

"And in so doing, you chose to abandon your claimto it," the lich replied icily. "The relic will be mine alone. Youhave done well, my apprentice. I shall have another bauble to add to myhoard."

The comely apprentice strode indignantly to the door,then glanced over her shoulder at the lich.

"But what of Leira, Szass Tam? What if you angerthe Patroness of Illusionists and Liars by breaching her temple and stealingsomething of hers?"

Szass Tam laughed and said, "I have little regardfor the goddess of treachery, dear Frodyne. Get some rest. I shall tell you inthe morning what my skeletons find in Delhumide."

The lich listened to her footfalls retreat down thehall. Soon she would not need sleep. Or food. Soon she would need none of thethings that made men weak, allowing her to one day sit at his side as he ruledall of Thay.

The lich sat straight in his chair and pushed Frodynefrom his thoughts. He concentrated on his army of skeletons in Delhumide,stretching his mind across the miles until he made contact with his undeadgeneral and directed him to march to Leira's temple. The miles melted awaybeneath the soldiers' bony feet as they neared the ruined temple of Leira. In an untiring cadence, they approached the temple steps. Then Szass Tam lost contactwith them.

The lich cursed and cast himself upon the Thayan windsto fly to Delhumide. As he soared, his form changed. His skin took on a ruddytint. His cheeks became puffy, and his body thickened to fill out the red silkrobes that only moments before had hung on his frame in voluminous folds. Hiseyes became black, almost human, and his white hair grew thicker and longer,then darkened to match the color of the night sky. The lich added a thinmustache for effect. Few in Thay knew Szass Tam was one of the dead. Outsidethe confines of his keep he assumed the image of a living man.

The ground passed below him in a blur, the darknessobscuring most of the terrain, but the lich didn't falter in his course. Heknew the way to the dead city. He'd been born there.

It was near dawn when he reached the ruined temple. Hedescended to the rough ground and glared at the crumbling stonework. His eyessmoldered in the gloom and surveyed the carnage. He knew then why he'd lostcontact with his army. Strewn about the shattered pillars were more thana hundred skeletal warriors. Their broken bones and crushed skulls gleamedfaintly. Near them lay more dead-figures with tattered gray flesh and rottingclothes, things that stank of the grave. The lich knelt near a one-armed zombieand slowly turned the body over. It had little flesh left on its frame. Most ofit had been burned away by fire. Szass Tam ran his fingers through the grassaround the corpse. Not a blade was singed. Magical fire had killed the army,the lich realized, fire meant for undead.

The hunt for Leira's relic had become very costly. Itwould take many, many months and considerable effort to raise enough dead toreplace those fallen soldiers. Szass Tam stood, silently vowed retribution forthe slaughter of his minions, and carefully picked his way toward the crumblingtemple stairway. At the base of the steps, the lich spied a twitching form, anundead creature with pasty white flesh, hollow eyes, and protruding brokenribs. The ghoul, lone survivor of the lich's force, tried futilely to rise atthe approach of its master.

"Speak to me," the lich commanded in asonorous voice. "Tell me what happened here."

"Followed your orders," the ghoul rasped."Tried to breach the temple. Tried to get what you wanted. But theystopped us."

"How many?"

"Three," the ghoul replied. "They worethe robes of Red Wizards."

Szass Tam growled deep in his throat and looked up thestairs. If only three had been able to conquer his force, they must bepowerful. He took a last look at his beaten army and padded by the gaspingghoul to carefully select a path up the crumbling steps. Leira's temple lay inruins like the rest of Delhumide. A once-great city, it was now populated bymonsters and was laden with incredible traps-the remaining wards of the noblesand wizards who had once lived there. Creatures roamed freely across thecountryside-goblins, darkenbeasts, trolls, and dragons-and they presentedenough of a threat to keep the living away.

Szass Tam searched for the magical energies that protectedthe fallen temple, and he made his way around them to reach the comfort of theshadows inside. The damp coolness of the ruins reminded the lich of a tomb.This was his element. Focusing his eyes, he separated stonework from thedarkness. He saw before him a crumbling old hallway that extended deep intothe temple and sensed other presences within. He glided toward them.

Eventually the hallway ended, and the lich studied thewalls, searching. Nothing. No moving stonework. He scrutinized the bricks byrunning his fingers over the cool surface to his left and right until he feltno resistance. The bricks before him were not real. Then he heard footfalls,soft and distant. The sound was regular, as of someone walking, and it wascoming from far beneath him. He took a step forward and passed through theillusionary wall.

Beyond lay a damp stairway that led down into darkness.The lich cupped his hand and spoke a single word. A globe of light appeared inhis palm and illuminated the stairwell. Along the walls and on each step wereweathered sigils of various-sized triangles filled with swirling graypatterns-all symbols of Leira. The lich paused to appreciate them. He hadlittle regard for the goddess, but thought the sigils had been rendered bysomeone with considerable skill.

Most Red Wizards in Thay worshiped one or more maligndeities. At one time Szass Tam had, too-but the need to worship some power thatmight grant eternal life had faded away with the years and with the onset oflichdom. Szass Tam still considered himself respectful of some of the powers,such as Cyric. But not Leira.

Szass Tam was halfway down the steps when he felt a presenceapproaching. The minutes passed, and the undead zulkir's patience was finallyrewarded when a pearl-white phantasm with the face of a beautiful woman formedin front of him. The lich pondered its appearance and decided the thing wasnothing more than a hapless spirit tied to the temple.

"Trespasser,'' the specter whispered in a soft,feminine voice. "Begone from the sacred place of Leira, she who is most powerful.Begone from the Lady of the Mists's temple, the place we are sworn toprotect."

The lich stood his ground, eyeing the thing, and foran instant, it appeared the spirit was astonished he did not run.

"I will leave when I am ready," the lichsaid flatly. He kept his voice low so his quarry deeper in the complex wouldnot hear.

"You must go," the spirit repeated, itsvoice changing, becoming deeper and sultry. The visage was that of anotherwoman. "This is not a place for those who do not believe. You do notbelieve in our goddess. You wear no symbol of hers."

"I believe in myself," the lich repliedevenly. "I believe in power."

"But not in Leira."

"No. I have no respect for the Lady of theMists," the lich growled softly.

"Then your bones shall rot here," thespecter cursed in a new voice.

The lich stared at the creature. The undead now borethe image of a young man with a long nose, and the voice was strong andmasculine. Large ghostly hands reached out and thrust into Szass Tam's chest.The lich stood unmoving, unaffected by the spirit's attack.

"This cannot be! You should be dead!" thespirit shouted with the voice of an old woman. Indeed, the pearl-white form wascovered with wrinkles, and the transparent flesh sagged on her cheeks and jaw.

"I am already dead," the lich whispered inreply. "And you will bend to my will-whatever manner of undead youare."

Szass Tam's eyes once more became pinpoints of hotwhite light. They bore into the old woman's eyes and fixed the diaphanous beingin place.

"Who are you?" Szass Tam demanded."What are you?"

"We are Leira's," the old woman replied."We are the last of the priests who lived in this temple. When the cityfell to the army of Mulhorand, we died. But so strong was our faith in the Ladyof the Mists that our wills banded together in one form so we could serve Leiraforever."

The lich's lips curled upward slowly and he said,"It is your misfortune you stayed."

His pinpoint eyes glowed brighter, and he concentratedon the ghostly form before him. The spirit moaned in pain, the voice of a youngman joining the old woman's.

"No!" the spirit cried in a chorus ofvoices. "Do not hurt us! Do not send us from the temple!"

"To the Nine Hells I will send you-to join theother priests of the Patroness of Liars," Szass Tam threatened,"unless you serve me and cease your cacophonous whining."

"We serve only Leira," the spirit wailedeven more loudly.

"Now serve a better master."

The lich raised a fleshy finger and pointed it at thespecter's face. The visage of the young man had returned. A silver beam shotfrom the tip of Szass Tam's finger and struck the spirit's head, sending theapparition flying backward several feet. The beam pulsed wildly while thespirit convulsed in agony.

"Who do you serve?" the lich persisted.

"Leira," the creature groaned in chorus.

Again the lich struck the creature with a silver beam.The ghostly image wavered and began to spread, as if it was being stretched ona torturer's rack. The spirit's arms and legs lengthened to the corners of thestairwell, and it became as insubstantial as mist.

"Who do you serve?"

"We serve you," the spirit finally gasped inits myriad voices.

Szass Tam's eyes softened to a pale glow. He studiedthe spirit to make sure it was indeed under his control. The many minds hetouched berated him, but they swore their loyalty. Smugly satisfied, Szass Tamwilled his human eyes to return.

"Tell me, priests," the lich began."Were you this ineffectual in stopping the Red Wizards who came beforeme?"

"The ones below?" the spirit quipped.

The creature's face was that of a beautiful woman, theone the thing had displayed when Szass Tam first encountered it.

"Yes," replied the lich. "The onesbelow."

"They believe," the ghostly image stated."They wear the holy symbol of Leira upon their shiny heads. All believersare welcome in this temple. All believers-and you."

"You let them pass freely because they tattooedsymbols of Leira on their heads?" the lich queried. "You believedthey worshiped your goddess because of a little paint?"

"Yes," the ghostly image answered."Leira's temple is for Leira's own."

The lich looked past the creature and peered down thestairs.

"You will come with me. You will show me thetraps that litter the path before us. And you will show me the relic Iseek."

Szass Tam resumed his course down the stairway, thespecter at his side pointing out weathered mosaics of its goddess, expoundingon the greatness of Leira, and gesturing toward magical wards on every step.The lich passed by the broken bodies of long-dead trespassers as he moved fromone chamber to the next. He was so intent on finding the relic that he nearlypassed over the only freshly killed corpse. The specter pointed it out to him.The body of a red-robed man, no older than twenty, lay crumpled amid chunks ofstone. The man, who wore the painted symbol of Leira on his head, sprawled withhis limbs at odd angles. His eyes were wide with terror, and a thin line ofblood still trickled from his mouth.

"He was with the other wizards," the spectersaid in an old man's voice. "Pity he died so young. Though he wore thesymbol of the Lady of the Mists and I let him pass, the guardian looked intohis heart. His heart betrayed him as an unbeliever. The guardian struck himdown."

"Guardian?"

"The Lady of the Mists's eternal servant,"the specter replied. "The guardian waits in the chamber beyond."

The lich peered into the black distance and startedforward. The spirit of Leira's priests dutifully followed on his heels.

"Kill the thing!" Szass Tam heard a deepmale voice cry.

The lich quickened his pace and entered a massivecavern lighted by luminous moss. He stopped and stared at the cavern's threeoccupants: Frodyne, a Red Wizard he didn't recognize, and a monstrousconstruct.

"What treachery is this?" the lich's voiceboomed.

"Master!" Frodyne squealed.

She was dressed in a soiled and torn red robe, and thetriangle she had painted on her scalp was smeared with sweat. Her normally softfeatures were set in grim determination as she called for her companion tojoin the fight. The man stayed behind her, ignoring her coarse words, andstared at the great thing before them. Frodyne spread her fingers wide andunleashed a magical bolt of fire at the monstrosity.

Frodyne's foe stood at least thirty feet tall, itshead nearly reaching the chamber's roof. The guardian was not undead, but itwas certainly not living. The lich eyed the thing from top to bottom. It hadthe torso of a man and the head of a goat. Its chest bore the symbol of atriangle filled with swirling mists. The thing possessed four eyes that wereevenly spaced above the thick bridge of its metallic nose, and its mouth gapedopen, exposing pointed teeth made of steel. Four arms as thick as tree trunkswaved menacingly at the sides of its body and ended in six-fingered iron claws.Every inch of the creature was gray. The thing's massive legs ended in clovenhooves that created sparks when they stomped on the ground and rocked thecavern. The shockwaves made Frodyne and her companion scramble to stay on theirfeet.

"It seems you've made it angry, dearFrodyne," Szass Tam said. "Just as you've angered me. You destroyedmy army."

"I wanted the crown!" she said as sheunleashed another bolt of lightning. "I learned about this temple and therelic, but you said the bauble would be yours. It should be mine!"

The lich watched her nimbly avoid a fist that slammedinto the cavern floor where she had been standing.

"I'm sorry!" she yelled. "Help us,please. The crown will be yours. I swear!"

The lich folded his arms and surveyed the battle, notbothering to reply to her plea.

She scowled and brought up her fingers, touching thethumbs together and holding her open palms toward the guardian. She mumbledwords Szass Tam recognized as one of the first spells he'd taught her, and icyshards sprang from her hands. The shards flew true and imbedded themselvesdeep into the breast of the thing. But the attack proved ineffectual, theguardian oblivious. It pulled an arm back to swat her. Frodyne leaped to theside, and the guardian's hand found her companion instead. The sharp metalnails pulled the man's chest open. The wizard was dead before he hit theground.

"Please, Master," Frodyne begged. "Helpme. I'll do anything you ask."

"You destroyed my army," Szass Tam spat."Your soul can rot here for all I care."

Frodyne raised her hands again and mumbled. Asparkling blue globe appeared in front of her. She blew at it, propelling itmagically toward her ebon attacker. The globe impacted just above the thing'swaist, popped, and squirted acid on the black metal. Crackling and sizzlingfilled the chamber, and the guardian bent its head to look at its meltingstomach.

"You wield magic well, my sweet," the lichsaid icily.

"But I need your help to beat this thing!" she cried as she fumbled in the folds of her robe and withdrew a handful ofgreen powder.

Szass Tam slowly shook his head.

"You stopped my skeletons all by yourself. Youstopped my plans for having you rule Thay at my side. Surely you can stop thiscreature."

His voice was gravelly and showed no hint of emotion.

Frodyne started tracing a symbol in the powder in thepalm of her hand. The lich turned to watch the construct, which was somehowrepairing its stomach. Before Szass Tam's eyes, metal flowed like water to cover themelted section. In an instant, there was no evidence it had been damaged. Ittook a step toward Frodyne, its massive footfall rocking the cavern andcausing her to spill the powder she had intended to use in another spell.

"It could kill her," the specter at SzassTam's side said simply. It wore the face of the young man. "But she cannotkill it. You cannot kill it. It is Leira's guardian, and it will continue torepair itself until the end of time. It has looked into her heart anddiscovered she does not honor the black goddess. It cannot rest until she isdead."

"And can it see into my own heart?" the lichposed. "Or perhaps it cannot even see me because the shriveled organ in mychest does not beat."

Frodyne's scream cut off the spirit's reply. Theguardian swatted her like an insect, and she flew across the cavern to land onher back. Her red robe was shredded, and blood oozed freely from gouges in herflesh. Her face was frozen in terror, but still she did not give up. The lichhad taught her well.

Frodyne withdrew a bit of pitch from the pocket of herruined garment. Placing it in her bloody palm, she raised her hand until it wasin line with the guardian's four eyes. A black bolt of lightning shot forthfrom her fingers and struck the creature on the bridge of its nose. Theguardian stumbled backward from the impact, but was not damaged.

Szass Tam coaxed her, "Think, my lovelyapprentice. Cast a spell that will keep it from reaching you. Buy yourselftime."

She drew what was left of her robe about her and struggledto her feet. Words gushed rapidly from her mouth, and she pointed her indexfinger at the cavern floor. The stone beneath the guardian's cloven hooveswavered for a moment, shimmered in the meager light of the chamber, then turnedto mud. But the guardian did not fall into the muck. Rather, the gray constructhovered above the great muddy patch, its hooves dangling inches above it in themusty air. Beneath the guardian, the mud hardened and cracked like a dry riverbed.

"This cannot be!" Frodyne screamed.

She turned to glance at her mentor.

Szass Tam's hands glowed a faint blue, his longfingers pointed at the ebon guardian. An evil grin played slowly across hisface as he returned Frodyne's disbelieving stare. He flicked his wrist, and theguardian floated forward and came to rest on a patch of rock near Frodyne.

"You! You kept it from becoming trapped!" she cried, as she twisted to the side to avoid another blow.

The lich nodded and thrust his hand into the air, mentallysummoning an ancient parchment that lay in his tower. His fingers closed aroundthe curled scroll as the guardian reached for Frodyne. Staring at his terrifiedapprentice, Szass Tam carefully unrolled the parchment.

"I promised you immortality, my dear, a rewardfor your loyalty. You shall have it."

The lich began to read the magical words, and the constructgrabbed Frodyne around the waist. Szass Tam read faster, while the constructlifted her until she was level with its four eyes. The lich finished theenchantment as the guardian squeezed the breath from her lungs and droppedFrodyne's lifeless body like a child would discard a ruined doll.

The parchment crumbled in Szass Tam's fingers, and hisapprentice's dead body shimmered with a pale white glow. A moment passed, thenFrodyne's chest rose and fell. She took great gulps of air into her lungs andstruggled to her feet. She glanced at her mentor, then at the construct, whichagain reached out to grab her. The thing's fingers closed around her once moreand squeezed harder, and Frodyne realized what Szass Tam had done. He had givenher eternal life-of a sort.

"No!" she shouted as her ribs cracked andshe fell lifeless a second time.

The construct stepped back and waited. Again, theyoung Red Wizard was resurrected from the dead. Again she struggled to herfeet.

"Enjoy your immortality, Frodyne," the lichhissed, as he watched the guardian deliver another fatal blow and witnessed herrise again.

He was pleased Leira's construct would busy itselfwith Frodyne and leave him alone.

"The relic," the lich pressed the specter."Show me where the crown is."

The specter gestured to a stony recess. Szass Tamstrode to it and look in the mounds of coins and gems. Perfectly facetedemeralds, sapphires, and diamonds glimmered from every cranny. A crown dottedwith rubies sat atop the mass. The lich quickly snatched it up and felt theenergy pulsing in the metal band.

"Leira's gift," the spirit declared."The prize of our temple."

Stepping from the alcove, Szass Tam placed the crownupon his head then doubled forward as pain shot through his chest. The lich wascaught off guard by the icy hot sensation. He pitched over and writhed on therocky chamber floor until his frantic movements knocked the crown free.

The painful spasms ended, and the lich slowly stood.

"What manner of power was that, priests?" the lich gasped.

The spirit wore the face of the old woman when itanswered, "The power of eternal life. The heart of he who wears the crownwill beat forever."

Szass Tam's human form melted away, revealing hisskeletal frame and pinpoint eyes.

"My heart does not beat," he said flatly.

"So instead, you felt pain," the womananswered. "The Lady of the Mists is indeed more treacherous than you.Leira lured you here. The priest who tempted your favored apprentice with therelic was merely a pawn."

The lich kicked the crown across the floor and glaredat the specter.

"Again the Patroness of Illusionists and Liarsstruck when your apprentice betrayed you and sought the crown herself. Then mygoddess triumphed once more when you lost that which you held dear, a beautifulsorceress who would have spent eternity at your side." The ghostly imagepointed at the struggling Frodyne. "You've lost your army, your woman,your ability to trust others. And the prize at the end of your quest was something you cannever possess. Who is the more treacherous, Szass Tam?" The lich threwback his head and laughed, a deep, throaty sound that reverberated off thewalls of the cavern. The lich roared loud and long as he padded from thechamber and climbed the stairs.

THE COMMON SPELL

Kate Novak-Grubb

"This is a waste of time. I don't need to learnthis," insisted Marl, the cooper's son.

Kith Lias glared at the boy, but she kept her temperin check. Marl was hardly the first to denigrate the skills she was trying toteach. He wouldn't be the last, either. Marl was a big boy, the kind whose leadthe other boys would follow. While none of the other students said a word, someof them eyed Marl with admiration that he'd had the courage to voice what manyof them were thinking. The rest of the students watched Kith curiously, waitingto see how the teacher would handle his challenge to her authority.

"Even a cooper may need to read and writesometimes, Marl," Kith answered, pushing a strand of her long, dark hairback behind her ear. "You may need to write down the orders for yoursuppliers and customers so you can remember them better."

The other students nodded at Kith's example, but Marl snorted derisively.

"I'm not going to be a cooper," the boydeclared. "Soon as I get enough coin to buy a sword, I'm joining a caravanas a guard. I'm going to be an adventurer."

"A swordling without the common spell," Kithmuttered sadly.

"What's a swordling?" asked Lisaka, thetavernkeep's daughter.

"What's the common spell?" Marl demanded.

"A swordling is an adventurer's word," Kithexplained, "for a novice sellsword. A mageling is a young mage who hasn'tproven herself. The common spell is … well, actually it's a story I heardfrom Alias the Sellsword."

The children in the classroom leaned forward as one.Like all students throughout the Realms, they knew that their teacher could bedistracted from the lesson if they encouraged her to reminisce. They were alsoeager to hear a story about Alias the Sellsword. Alias was a famous adventurer-sherescued the halfling bard Olive Ruskettle from the dragon Mistinarperadnaclesand slew the mad god Moander-twice. Only last year she drove the thieves guildfrom Westgate. A story about Alias would be wonderful.

"Tell us, please," Lisaka asked.

"Yeah, tell the story," Marl demanded.

Kith shrugged and said, "I heard Alias tell thisstory in the village of Serpentsford in Featherdale. The people there weresuspicious of all female strangers who passed through the town, even a herolike Alias, for the village was plagued by a penanggalan."

"What's that?" asked Jewel Weaver, theyoungest student in the class.

"It's a female vampire," Marl said with a superior air.

"Not exactly," Kith retorted. "Apenanggalan is undead, and it does drink the blood of the living, but there thesimilarity ends. A penanggalan appears as an ordinary woman in the daylight,and the sun's rays do not destroy it. But at night its head twists away from itsbody, trailing a black 'tail', which is all that remains of its stomach andguts. The body lies motionless while the head flies off and hunts for itsvictims. It prefers the blood of women and girls."

Jewel squealed, and several other students shivered.Even Marl looked a little pale.

"The people of Serpentsford had known enough tocremate the victims of the penanggalan so they would not become undeadthemselves," Kith explained. "But the villagers were beginning tolose hope that they would ever discover the monster, or even any of her secretlairs, for she was very cunning. Alias told this story to raise theirspirits."

"So what's the story?" Marl growledimpatiently.

Amused at the boy's attentiveness, Kith smiled ever soslightly. She sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. Marl squirmed with annoyance.

Kith began the tale.

"This is a tale of the adventuring party known asthe Swanmays. Their members included two swordswomen, Belinda and Myrtle; apair of rogues, Niom and Shadow; a cleric, Pasil; and a mageling, Kasilith. Inthe Year of the Worm, the Swanmays wintered in the city of Westgate. Their landlord, a weaver woman, had an apprentice, an orphan girl named Stelly whowas thirteen. Stelly and Kasilith, the mageling, became close friends, andStelly wanted to leave the weaver to join the Swanmays.

"Now, though it was a master's legal obligation,the weaver had not yet taught Stelly to read or write. Belinda, the leader ofthe Swanmays, wasn't keen on taking responsibility for an illiterate girl whoseonly skills were with wool, and stealing an apprentice was a crime in Westgate.Yet Belinda liked Stelly. She promised Kasilith that if the mageling taughtStelly to read and write, Belinda would go to the city council, challenge theweaver's claim to Stelly, and petition to take Stelly on as an apprenticeswordswoman.

"During the winter, Kasilith taught Stelly how toread and write her letters. Stelly believed what Kasilith was teaching her wasactually magic; it was so awesome to the girl that scribbles on paper couldmean something.

Kasilith joked that if it was magic, it was the mostcommon spell in the Realms.

"That same winter a penanggalan began to prey onthe women of Westgate. Neither the city watch nor any of the adventurersinhabiting the town could discover the creature's lair. In life, the monsterhad been a noblewoman and her family and their power helped to hide her. Bychance or fate, the undead noblewoman came into Stelly's master's shop to havea tear in her cloak repaired and decided to make the weaver her next victim.Explaining she could not call for the cloak until later that evening, thepenanggalan made arrangements to meet the weaver after the shop closed.

"A little while later, the weaver learned ofBelinda's plan to take Stelly from her. Angrily, the weaver ordered Stelly torepair the noblewoman's cloak, then locked the girl in the workroom. Stellycould hear her master ordering the Swanmays out of her house, then barring thedoor.

"After crying for a while over her lost chance,Stelly went back to her work. In the pocket of the noblewoman's cloak, the girldiscovered an expensive locket engraved with a name. Since Stelly could nowread, she recognized the name belonged to a girl who had already fallen prey tothe penanggalan. Stelly shouted for her master, but the weaver, thinking thegirl was just throwing a tantrum, ignored her cries. Much later in the eveningthe apprentice heard her master unbar the door to the house and cry out oncein fear. The penanggalan had come for the weaver in her true form.

"Locked in the workroom, Stelly could make outthe weaver's moans and the sound of the beast slurping up her life's blood.Stelly cowered silently in fear until she became unconscious.

"In the morning the penanggalan, once again inhuman form, unlocked the workroom door to retrieve her cloak. Pretending concernfor the apprentice, the undead noblewoman promised to return and free Stellyafter dark. Stelly hid her fear and her knowledge of the woman's true nature.Knowing the penanggalan intended to return after dark to kill her as it mustcertainly have killed the weaver, Stelly conceived a desperatestratagem. Across the back of the monster's cloak she scrawled 'pnngalin' witha piece of chalk, then folded the cloak carefully so her repair work showed buther markings did not. The noblewoman nodded with satisfaction at the repairsand allowed Stelly to set the cloak about her shoulders. Then the woman leftthe workroom, locking the apprentice back in. It was the last Stelly ever sawof her."

"Because people spotted the letters.. andkilled the penanggalan," Jewel said excitedly.

"That is how Alias's story ended," Kith saidwith a nod. "Reading and writing, the common spell, saved Stelly'slife."

"Is that all?" Marl asked, obviously notpleased with the tale.

"No, that's not all," Kith retorted, hervoice suddenly deeper and more commanding. "The ending Alias gave the talewas a lie."

The students' eyes widened in surprise.

"But why would Alias lie?" Lisaka asked.

Kith shrugged. "She learned the tale from her father,the bard Finder Wyvernspur, and that is how he told it to her. Bards arenotorious for manipulating the facts for their own purposes. But I know it wasnot the tale's true ending. I was staying at the inn in Serpentsford when Aliastold the story," Kith explained, "and when she finished a woman inthe audience accused her of lying and slapped her."

The students gasped, even Marl.

"The woman had been the Swanmay magelingKasilith," the teacher explained. "She was only twenty-seven, but shelooked fifty at least. She told Alias and the villagers the story's trueending."

"Which was?" Marl prompted.

"Kasilith was supposed to teach Stelly to readand write," Kith said, her voice laden with bitterness, "but insteadthe two girls spent the winter playing frivolous games with magic and toyswords and their hair and dresses. When Stelly found the locket in thepenanggalan's cloak she couldn't read it. The apprentice had no way ofdiscovering that the noblewoman was the penanggalan, and even if she hadsuspected anything upon hearing the weaver cry out that night, the girl didnot know enough of her letters to write anything on the back of the monster'scloak. The next night the noblewoman returned to free Stelly. She freed herfrom her life, by draining all the blood from her body."

"Oh, no," Jewel whispered.

"Oh, yes," Kith replied.

"Did they ever catch the penanggalan?" askedTodd, the baker's son. "Wait a minute!" the boy exclaimed. "I'llbet it was the same penanggalan in Westgate that was in Serpentsford. Kasilithwas still hunting her to avenge Stelly's death, wasn't she?"

"That is what she told Alias and her companion,Dragonbait," Kith answered.

"So, did they catch the penanggalan?" Marl asked.

Kith continued. "Alias had a shard of thefinder's stone, an old broken artifact. If you held the stone and had a clearpicture of someone or something, the shard sent out a beacon of light in thedirection of whomever or whatever you wanted to find. Kasilith said she'd seenthe penanggalan's human body once, so Alias gave her the stone. Its light ledthem to a lair hidden underground, where the penanggalan's torso lay on a bierof fresh pine branches. The monster's head was not there; it would returnbefore dawn, but now it was off hunting.

"With an exalted air, Kasilith used her magic toburn the body. Without its torso the penanggalan would not be able to hide itstrue nature again. If the head was struck by the sunlight and did not return toits torso within a few hours, it would rot, so the penanggalan would not beable to travel in the daylight anymore, either. The adventurers hid themselvesand waited for the penanggalan's head to return."

"And did it?" Marl asked. He sat on the edgeof his seat.

Kith shook her head.

"Then what happened?" Jewel prompted.

"Alias and Dragonbait and the villagers searchedeverywhere. For days and nights they looked for the penanggalan orits remains. They found no other secret lairs, nor did they find any othervictims of the penanggalan. They hoped that the creature had been struck bysunlight and had rotted, but Alias would not give up the hunt until she hadpositive proof the penanggalan was dead.

"Kasilith did give up, though. She was just aboutto leave the village when a great snowstorm came down from the northeast.Travel in any direction outside the vale was impossible for nearly a tenday,and so she remained. The mage grew remote and haggard in appearance. The snowstormbroke, but by then Kasilith was so ill she was too weak to leave her bed. Hertraveling companion, a pretty foundling girl called Jilly, remained at herbedside.

Then one night, just as Alias and her companionDragonbait were about to leave the inn for the hunt, Dragonbait turned aboutand hissed. Now, Dragonbait came from a strange race of lizard creatures calledsaurials, but really they're no different from you and me. Dragonbait was apaladin, a champion of the god of justice, and just like a human paladin hecould sense the presence of evil. He dashed up to Kasilith's room with Aliashot on his heels. The pair smashed open the door.

"Something lay on Kasilith's chest, nuzzling ather neck. For a moment Alias mistook it for a sleeping toddler. It had silkystrawberry blond hair, which Kasilith stroked with one hand. The mage's otherhand was wrapped around what appeared to be a child's arm. Then the innkeepcame to the door with a lantern, and Alias could see the thing lying onKasilith was a penanggalan. It was lapping at the blood that oozed from twowounds on the mage's throat, and a glistening black tail attached to the fairhead writhed like a snake beneath the mage's hand.

The innkeep dropped the lantern and fled. Alias gaggedin spite of herself, and the penanggalan raised its head and hissed. It had theface of Kasilith's traveling companion, Jilly. Jilly's headless torso lay onthe bed beside the mage. The monster rose from the bed, its eyes glowing red,blood gurgling down its throat. In a raspy voice it called out its victim'sname and flew toward the window, but its escape was blocked by the saurialpaladin and his magically flaming sword. Alias slammed the door shut, trappingthe monster in the room with its victim and the two adventurers.

"The penanggalan could fly, but the room'sceiling was low, and Alias's sword was long. She pressed the monster into acorner and was just about to deliver a killing blow when her back exploded withthe pain of five magical darts sinking into her flesh. Alias whirled around insurprise. Her eyes widened in shock as she discovered it was Kasilith who'djust attacked her. The mage was not just the penanggalan's victim; she wasprotecting the undead beast as well.

"Dragonbait threw himself on Kasilith, preventingher from casting any more magic, but the penanggalan, taking advantage ofAlias's diverted attention, had turned on its attacker with a vengeance. Itswooped down upon the swordswoman and lashed its tail about her neck. Aliasflailed her sword awkwardly over her head while she tugged at the creature'stail to keep it from choking her. The tail felt slimy, like a decaying piece ofmeat, and it stunk of curdling blood. Realizing she hadn't long before themonster crushed her windpipe, Alias tried a desperate measure. She dropped hersword and snatched her dagger from her boot sheath.

"A second later she'd slashed the penanggalanalong the length of its tail. Hot blood gushed down on her, momentarilyobscuring her vision. The penanggalan sank its teeth into her cheek. Droppingher dagger, Alias grabbed the hair at the monster's temples and ripped it fromher, smashing it into the wall over and over, until she had crushed its skull.The tail about her throat went limp and slid from her. Alias dropped themonster on the floor and, retrieving her sword, cleaved its head in two.

"An inky cloud rose from the monstrous head,shrank to a pinpoint of blackness, then vanished. From the bed, Kasilith sobbedout, 'Stelly,' and Alias realized what must have happened."

Kith paused in her story and hung her head for a moment.She breathed in deeply and let her breath out slowly.

"Jilly was Stelly," Todd cried out. "Noone had cremated Stelly's body," the boy speculated, "so she became apenanggalan. But what about the other penanggalan? The one whose body Kasilithdestroyed?" the boy asked. "Was that the one that killedStelly?"

Kith shook her head. "No, the Swanmays didfinally find and destroy that one. There was no other penanggalan. Kasilithcreated an illusion of the body and destroyed it so Alias would think themonster was dead and would go away."

"But Alias was too thorough a hunter, and didn'tleave," Marl noted.

"And when Kasilith and Stelly were trapped inSerpentsford by the snow, Stelly had to feed on Kasilith so she wouldn't getcaught," Todd added.

"And Kasilith helped Stelly even though she was apenanggalan because she was her friend," Lisaka said.

"A penanggalan isn't the person she was in life.It's just an evil life-force animating her body that knows what she knew," Marl argued. "Right?"

"That's true," Kith said softly.

"But Kasilith didn't know that, did she?" Jewel asked.

"She knew," Kith replied.

"The penanggalan probably hypnotized her intobeing its slave," Marl said.

Kith shook her head. "No. Kasilith served itwillingly. You see, she felt so guilty that Stelly had died because she hadn'ttaught her to read. So she thought she deserved nothing better for the rest ofher life than to serve as the slave to evil because she'd done an evilthing."

"Then what happened to her?" Jewel askedanxiously.

Kith sighed. "Well, she shrieked and cried andranted and raved for a while. She swore she would never forgive Alias andDragonbait for freeing her from the penanggalan's enslavement. Still, theyattended to her while she was recovering from the penanggalan's wounds."

"More than she deserved," Marl muttered.

"True," Kith agreed. "Alias told themage that Finder Wyvernspur had told her so much about Kasilith thatshe felt she was her friend and would not leave her until she was healed.Kasilith swore she had never met Finder Wyvernspur, but Alias stayed anyway.Finally, one day, something Dragonbait the paladin said made her change hermind about how she felt and about what she should do with her life."

"What did he say?" Jewel asked.

"He told Kasilith that the god of justice abhorspunishment for punishment's sake. That we have to find a way to atone for theevil we do, "and that we cannot atone for evil with evil, but only withgood. He suggested she go out and teach other children who needed to learn toread and write. That way she would honor Stelly's true spirit and maybe bringpeace to her own spirit. And that's just what she did."

"So she became a teacher like you?" Jewelasked.

"She became a teacher like me," Kithanswered. "She teaches the common spell."

Marl the cooper's sonstayed in school another two years before he finally bought his own sword andjoined a caravan as a swordling. By then Kith Lias had taught him to read andwrite the names of every fell creature he might encounter in the Realms and hadmoved to another dale to teach another village's children. It was during Marl's off-duty hours that the other caravan guards taught him the game anagrams. After that,the cooper's son spent even more time wondering about the mage Kasilith and theteacher Kith Lias.

ASSASSIN'S SHADOW

Jess Lebow

Netheril Year 3392

(The Year of Emerald Groves, — 467 DR)

The wet stink of mud hung in the air.

Olostin lowered his foot to the floor at the bottom ofa long flight of stairs. The cellar was dark and wet, and rats splashed,unseen, in the far corners of the room.

"You have come," said a voice from out ofthe darkness.

"As I was directed," replied Olostin.

"You have served us well," came anothervoice.

"Thank you," replied Olostin.

"And you have prospered from the knowledge andpower we have granted to you," continued the first. "Your raiderswreak havoc all over the countryside, and your name strikes fear in the heartsof the common man. Indeed, even the archwizards take notice."

"Your friendship has indeed benefited me greatly.One day I shall bring about the end of thearchwizards' rule, and thus I am foreverin your debt." Olostin bowed toward the sound of the voices.

"Then we have a task for you."

"One that will no doubt be fueled by your hatredof the ruling wizard class," added the second voice.

"Of course," replied Olostin, still bowed."Tell me only what you require, and consider it done."

"An archwizard by the name of Shadow has beenexperimenting with a new type of magic," explained the first voice.

"He calls his new source of power the ShadowWeave," interjected the second.

"This Shadow Weave could be the very thing thearchwizards need to destroy us."

"How is it that I may serve you?" askedOlostin.

"Kill Shadow before he uncovers too much,"affirmed the first voice.

"As you have directed," replied Olostin. Hestood and headed back up the stairs.

"In the name of Olostin, submit or meet yourdoom!"

Cy hurled his torch at a thatch-roofed house andspurred his horse on through the village of Kath. Night had fallen hoursbefore, and the moon was just visible over the high cliffs that outlined oneedge of the valley. The sound of almost one hundred horse hooves beat on intothe slowly brightening night as the southern border of Kath went up in flames.

The door of a house just in front of Cy burst open,and a man in a nightshirt ran into the street, away from the flames and thecontents of his house. The side shutters of the same house creaked open andsmoke billowed out as a coughing woman, dark streaks of ash lining her face,climbed out with a small child under her arm. The child's head lolled to oneside and back in wide flopping arcs with the rhythm of the mother's franticescape.

Cy rode on, herding the villagers toward the north endof the settlement. There, Kath butted up against a heavily wooded forest, andnearly half of the raiding party waited there for the fleeing villagers.

We'll round 'em up, and rob 'em blind, thought Cy.

He smiled. Rich was definitely going to be a good wayto go through life.

Someone screamed ahead. Cy reigned in his horse andstopped in front of a dead-end alleyway. Two other raiders had gotten off theirhorses and had cornered a village woman. She wore only a light white dress, andshe held a tightly bunched section against her chest with one hand. With theother, she was feeling behind her for the wall of the alley, not letting hereyes stray from the men in front of her. Her hair was disheveled, and streaksof dirt or dried blood outlined the curve of her jaw.

"Hey," hollered Cy, getting their attention."Take your pleasures another time. You heard Lume! Force the villagers tothe woods. We don't have time for these games."

The two dismounted men grumbled at Cy and spit towardhis horse. They turned their attention back to the woman. She had backed intothe corner as far as she could and was pounding on the stone behind her indesperation.

Damn fools, thought Cy, and he spurred his horse downthe road.

The village was no more than thirty houses deep fromthe southern border to the edge of the forest. In the confusion of theraid-the unrelenting thunder of horses, the burning roofs, and the hollering ofthe bandits-the villagers scattered and quickly fell into the raiders' trap.

Cy spurred his horse toward the forest, and in thenext moment, he found himself on the ground, his horse barreling away fromhim. His tailbone and back hurt from the fall, and his chest burned in a lineright across the middle. He shook his head and tried to clear his vision. Alarge hulking form loomed up out of the night in front of him. The figureraised its arm, and Cy instinctively rolled to one side. A heavy chain impactedthe ground. Cy rolled back onto his feet and stood up, pulling his scimitar outof its scabbard as he did.

The man with the chain raised his arms over his head,swinging the heavy links around in a circle, gaining momentum withboth hands. Cy's vision cleared somewhat, and he got a better look at hisattacker. The man had long, ragged blond hair and was wearing only black robes,tied at the waist with a length of rope. He was wearing no shoes. Scarscrisscrossed his face and forearms. One near his ear was still covered by adark scab. His shoulders were knotted with lumps of muscle, and his arms easilysuspended the weight of the chain. He moved with a quick, considered motion,passing the chain back and forth between his hands, making arcs in the airaround his body.

Cy turned his blade in his hand, the metal castingreflected light from the fires on the dark ground. He lunged. Metal clanged,and the tip of his scimitar hit the ground. He just managed to keep his grip onthe hilt, but the chain was still moving in quick circles. A crunching thudrang through his ears, and Cy saw stars. His jaw was numb, and he could tasteblood. The chain-wielder seemed to grow much, much taller, then Cy realized hewas on the ground again. He threw himself flat as the chain whistled by hisear.

Lifting himself up on his hands and feet, Cy crabbedbackward, growing the space between himself and the blond man. The chain hitthe ground again, throwing dirt in Cy's face. Rolling backward, the raider cameup on his feet, sword in front of him. The dark-robed man nodded and closed in,moving the chain back and forth, letting it gain momentum as he changed handsagain and again.

This time the chain came in low. Cy jumped and slashedin a flat arc while he was in midair. The tip of his blade tore through thedark robes and cut a deep wound in the blond man's chest. Landing on both feet,Cy leaped backward, narrowly avoiding a blow to his head. The chain was movingfaster now. It looked almost like a solid wall of metal as it careened throughthe air.

Cy pulled his dagger from its sheath. It was the onlyenchanted weapon he owned. Flipping it over in his left hand, he clutched thetip of the blade between two fingers, then he feigned a lunge with hisscimitar. The blond man brought the chain up in a defensive arc, striking atthe hiltof the sword. Cy lowered the blade under the flailing chain and brought thedagger up to throw. The chain-wielder was too fast, and he changed directions,throwing Cy off balance. Just barely able to keep to his feet, the raider heldonto the dagger but had to lower his arm to keep from falling.

The chain whistled as it came down in an overheadstrike. Cy leaped forward, pressing his body as close to his attacker's aspossible. Blood spattered his boots as his scimitar cut a deep wound into theblond man's leg. The chain changed directions and hit Cy hard in the back,knocking him straight into the black-robed man. The raider lost his grip on thecurved sword as he bounced off a human wall of muscles. The ground came up, andCy found himself once more on the rocky, hard-packed dirt in the streets ofKath.

This is starting to annoy me, he thought as he got tohis feet.

He didn't have time for much more as the chain hit himagain right around his midsection. The cold, heavy links wrapped themselvesaround his body and tangled with the rest of the chain as they made one fullcircle around Cy's stomach. Just as the dark metal clanked into itself, theraider felt himself lift off the ground. The blond man pulled him clear off hisfeet, and Cy grunted as all the air left his lungs. Coming down in a heap atthe foot of the chain-wielder, Cy struggled to stay conscious. He felt thechain tug and begin to unravel itself from his body. The force of the largerman pulling caused Cy to roll over onto his back as the chain uncoiled. Helooked up. The blond man glared back, a crease in his brow, his lips pursed,and hatred in his eyes.

Flinging his arm forward with all of his might, Cyhurled his enchanted dagger at the chain-wielder. The magical metal blade sunkeasily into the soft flesh of the neck, and the hilt moved up and down as theman tried to swallow. Blood seeped out around the edges of the wound.

The blond man staggered backward a step and raised hishands to his throat. The look of anger and spite had left his eyes, only to bereplaced by a distinct note of fear and uncertainty. Grabbing the hilt of thedagger, the blond man pulled the blade from his neck. Blood poured out inspurting gouts.

Cy slid away, getting slowly to his feet. The raiderlooked around for his scimitar. It was lying in the dirt a few yards to hisright. As he moved to retrieve it, the chain-wielder fell to his knees, brightred blood covering his hands, and a look of complete disbelief filled his eyes.Before Cy had retrieved his blade, the man was facedown on the dirt.

Cy took a deep breath and looked around. The houseswere completely consumed by flames. The screaming and chaotic sounds of theraiders riding through the village had stopped. His own horse was nowhere insight, and he cursed his bad luck for having ridden past this chain-swingingbaboon. He felt around his own body to assess the damage. The bruise on hischest where the chain had taken him off his horse had already turned deeppurple. His tailbone and back were sore but functional. He had lost a couple ofteeth, but his jaw worked well enough for him to be able to enjoy supper aroundthe campfire that night, and that was all he needed to know.

Sheathing his sword, Cy walked over to the blond man.His enchanted dagger lay just past the man's fallen fingertips. Thechain-wielder lay facedown in a good-sized puddle of his own cooling blood. Cywiped the dagger off on the back of the fallen man's dark robes.

The sound of horse hooves lifted over the crackling ofthe burning thatch roofs. Cy spun around, his dagger in hand.

"That was a nice bit of fighting, if I do say somyself."

Cy recognized the speaker-Lume, the captain of theraiding party. He rode up on his horse and stopped just in front of the fallenman.

"Sir?" Cy looked down at his bruises andbleeding wounds.

"I saw the whole thing. Most of the rest of thisscum-" He waved his arm over his shoulder toward the forest and theraiding party-"would be dead after fighting a man like that."

"Thank you, sir."

Cy looked down at the blade of his dagger and twirledit absently.

"If all my men could fight like that, we'd beable to take Karsus without the rest of Olostin's raiders."

Lume dismounted and walked over to the dead man. Hekicked him once in the ribs, then rolled him over with his boot.

The man's eyes were open but unfocused. His mouth hungwide as if he were trying to catch a last breath, and blood still trickled downhis neck, but it was already starting to harden into scabs.

Lume regarded the dead man for a moment then said,"You know, Cy, I think I might just have a job for you. Stop by my tent inthe morning, and we'll discuss the details."

Lume put one foot in a stirrup and swung his weightinto his saddle.

"In the meantime," the captain said,"head back to camp. The rest of the party has the villagers well in hand."

Lume turned his horse back toward the village.

"And one more thing, Cy," he said over hisshoulder.

"Yes, sir?"

"Enjoy yourself around the campfire tonight, anddon't forget to get your share of the booty. We made a good haul thistime."

"Thank you, sir, I will."

The evening's festivities were grand. The raiders hadmade their biggest haul ever. One of the men had ransacked Kath's stock ofsupplies and come up with several kegs of good red wine and a large cask ofmead. There was more than enough in those barrels to make the fifty or soraiders in Cy's party jolly as monks in a vineyard.

The campfire raged. The wine flowed freely. Men toldstories of their conquests during the raids. The men they had fought grewlarger and more fearsome as the evening wore on. The riches they had stolenbecame fortunes even the most powerful kings would envy. They laughed anddanced and lied to each other until they had all passed out. Then they slept.They would be allowed their excesses for the evening since their booty had beenso large. Captain Lume didn't participate in the campfires, but he didn't wakethe men early after a good night's haul.

Yes, life as one of Olostin's raiders was veryfulfilling for someone like Cy. He had the freedom to do what he wanted, solong as it didn't directly contradict the orders he had been given, and he hadthe camaraderie of the other raiders. He had riches and wine, and from time totime he even had the affections of a lady or two. All in all, life was good.

"You're quite fast, Cy," complimented Lume.

Cy had woken just before midday, and after he haddunked his head in a rain barrel and re-bandaged his wounds from the fight thenight before, he went to see his captain.

"Thank you, sir."

Cy didn't have a military background, but he believedin giving respect to his elders. Lume was the captain of the raiding party andat least ten years older than Cy, so he figured the man deserved the title of" sir."

"Sit down, please." Lume pointed to a simplechair in the corner of his tent.

Cy nodded and did as he was told.

For a tent, Lume's place was comfortable and wellappointed. A hammock stretched from a pole holding up the center of the roof inthe middle of the tent to another support forming the corner. A desk sat in theopposite corner with a chair behind it and a large chest beside. Papers werestacked in neat piles on the desk, and a large water pipe sat near them. It waslit, and Lume took a few puffs on it while Cy got comfortable.

The captain leaned forward in his chair, bracing himselfagainst the desk.

"How long have you been with this raiding party,Cy?"

"About a year now, sir."

"Is that all?" he asked.

Cy nodded.

"You know, I hate to admit it, but I've beenworking for Olostin for fifteen years. I've been leading raiding parties foralmost five years now." He leaned back in his chair. "I'm afraid Ilose track of all of the young men whom I've seen come and go. I would havethought you'd been with this group longer, but I guess I'm just rememberingsomeone else."

Lume looked at the palm of his hand for a moment.

Cy shifted in his chair.

"Cy, I make no apologies for the mistakes ofother men. If a man in my party gets himself killed, then it's his ownfault."

He looked the younger man up and down then stared himright in the eyes. Cy held his gaze for a moment, then let if fall.

"If I can't remember how long you've been withthis group it's only because I've seen hundreds of others just like you getkilled. To tell the honest truth, I can't even remember any of their names. Tome, they could have all been named Cy."

Lume chuckled at this. Cy did not.

The captain became serious and once again looked Cyover.

"I'll come to the point, Cy. I have a job foryou."

"Sir," he said, not sure what else he couldsay.

"You're as good with that dagger as I've seen ina long while, and you managed to keep yourself alive last night. I'mhoping," continued Lume, "that you'll manage to get yourself out ofthis little project alive as well. Tell me, what do you know about ourillustrious leader Olostin?"

"Sir, I know he fights to stop the tyranny of thearchwizards, sir."

"That's a good practiced answer if I've everheard one."

Cy was startled and began to stand to defend himself.

Lume raised his hand and started to laugh. "It'sall right, son," he said. "You've got the basic idea."

Cy settled back down into the chair. He felt as if hehad been scolded by his father.

"Do you want to stop the. . tyranny of thearchwizards?" asked Lume.

Cy just looked at the captain, wondering where all ofthis was leading. For a man who said he was going to get to the point, he surehad a round about way of getting there, Cy thought, and all of this questioningof his loyalty and teasing about his age was starting to make him angry.

"Well, Cy?" The captain raised his voice."Do you believe in what we're fighting for?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

Cy gritted his teeth. He didn't think his performancethe previous evening had been as spectacular as the captain seemed to believe,but as Lume himself had said, he was still alive. Surely he didn't deserve areprimand for killing a skilled fighter in the middle of a raid. This meetinghad started so well, and now it seemed as if the captain was accusing him ofbeing a spy or something.

"Well, then, son," Lume said, his voicecalm, "I need you to assassinate the archwizard Shadow."

The journey to the floating city had taken Cy two dayson griffonback. The archwizard Shadow lived in Karsus, a city unlike any Cy hadever seen before. It floated, for one thing, but that was the least of theoddities this bustling town had in store.

The streets were lined with small gutters of runningwater. Brooms moved purposefully along on their own, sweeping dust and debrisinto the moving water as they went. Bridges lifted streets up over widerrivers, and passersby walked not only on top of the curved stone structures,but on the underside as well. Wizards, carefully carrying parcels of food orarmloads of books passed each other and waved as they casually walked upsidedown. In a city park, four elderly, robed mages rotated freely through the air,their attention focused on a globe the size of a maidensthigh melon thatfloated between them. Each took turns moving intricately carved gems across theglobe and laughing as the result of their moves changed the pitch, angle, orspeed of rotation of one of the other wizards playing the game.

It seemed everyone in Karsus used magic, for everythingthey did defied what little Cy knew about the world and how it was supposed towork. Children played games on the sides of buildings instead of on the groundor in a park. Water flowed uphill, and in some places through thin air. Thestrange canals that lined the streets didn't start or end anywhere, they justsimply continued to flush fresh, clean water through the entire city. Peoplewalked adolescent pet dragons through the busy city streets, waving and smilingas they went. Groups of wizards appeared-as if from nowhere-in mid-conversation,apparently unaware that their surroundings had changed. Bags and boxes floatedthrough the air, suspended by nothing, but bound intently for some destinationor another.

Cy tried not to gawk as he made his way through thecity. Across one bridge and down several blocks, he found a tall, narrowbuilding with dozens of doors stacked one on top of the other all the way upthe building's entire facade. A carved wooden sign on street level read: "The Charlesgate Inn," and robed mages floated casually out of thedoors on the higher levels, turning around, suspended in midair, to lock thedoors behind them.

Cy entered the bottom floor of the inn and rented aroom for a few days. He wanted to learn as much about his target as he couldbefore he had to face the man.

Hopefully, Cy thought, Shadow will be so engrossed inhis research that he won't see me coming.

It was the young assassin's only hope. In open combat,Cy may have been able to defeat that skilled fighter in Kath, but an archwizardwas an entirely different story. If he didn't get a quick, clean, surprisekill, he'd be done for. As he settled into his room, he realized he'd get onlyone chance at this assassination. He intended to make the most of that chance.

Before Cy had left for Karsus, Lume had opened theraiding party's store of materials and weapons to allow Cy his pick ofequipment. They had racks and racks of swords, armor, and bows, and even somethings Cy had never seen used before. The job he had been tasked with would bedifficult for sure, but extra gear wasn't going to make it any easier. In theend. He simply took with him a small crossbow, some magical leather armor, andhis own enchanted dagger. Better to travel light, he decided.

The ornately carved brick tower that Shadow lived inwas easy enough for Cy to break into. In fact, there wasn't even a lock on thedoor. Not wanting to fall prey to over-confidence, the assassin moved throughthe entry hall very carefully, checking every few feet for traps or magicalglyphs. It took him almost an hour to creep slowly down the hall and around thecorner. For all of his caution, there were no traps in the long hallway.

At least I wasn't blown to bits, he thought.

Rounding one corner, he entered a very large, grosslywealthy sitting room. The raider in Cy was in awe. Perhaps Lume should havesent him to simply rob the archwizard. The riches held in this one room couldhave paid for a hundred assassins ten times over. High backed chairs sat aroundornately carved wooden tables. Silver sconces with mage-lit stones in them werestationed around the windows, and jeweled candelabra rested on desks, tables,and windowsills. Leather-bound books sat in hundreds of neat rows, arrayed overseveral dozen large bookshelves lining the walls.

A door swung open on the opposite side of the room. Cycrouched and somersaulted behind one of the high-backed chairs. He pressedhimself close to the furniture and held his breath. Heavy footsteps echoedacross the hardwood floor. Cy clutched his dagger. So much for surprise.

The footsteps got closer then passed the chair. Cyfelt a light breeze pass his cheek, and his vision filled with vivid, swirlingcolors of magenta, yellow, and silver. Theyoung man blinked, trying to clear hishead of the befuddling magic, and the colors passed-but they weren't magic.Cy's vision cleared, and he recognized the hem of a lady's skirts. A youngblonde woman, wearing heavy, embroidered linens and carrying a silver tray hadpassed Cy's hiding place. She walked swiftly past the chair and out into thehall. Her heavy footsteps receded.

Cy stood up, and the door swung open again. Duckinghis head behind the furniture, he was certain he'd been seen. Once again, heavyfootsteps traveled across the floor. Cy dodged behind the chair, rolling acrossthe floor, around a table, to pop up behind whoever had entered the room.Bringing his dagger down in a broad arc, the young assassin stopped cold. Thesame blonde, brightly dressed woman who had just passed, only a moment before,was again standing in the middle of the room, only this time she was carrying alarge silver jug. The woman's skirts rustled as she continued across the floor,unflinching and unfazed by Cy.

The door opened again. Cy spun around, his dagger outin front of him. The blonde woman was coming out into the sitting room for thethird time, but now she had a large box in her hands. Her brilliant blue eyesstared straight ahead as she continued to move toward the young assassin. Twosets of heavy footsteps echoed on the hardwood, one in front and one behind.Shaking his head, certain that he was under magical assault, Cy leaped out ofthe woman's path, landing hard on a plush leather chair and letting it break hisfall as he clattered to the floor.

Spinning around and backing into the corner, Cyscanned the room for any way to escape. Two blonde women-both wearing identicalmagenta, yellow, and silver linen skirts, one carrying a jug, one a box-continuedacross the hardwood floor. Neither seemed the least bit interested in Cy. Theymoved through the room and out into the hallway, intent on carrying their packagesto their final destination. The young man watched them as he stood in thecorner catching his breath.

The door opened again. Two more blonde, brightly dressedwomen-the same woman Cy had seen three times already-entered the sittingroom and proceeded across the hardwood, their footsteps echoing heavily as theycrossed. Cy made no attempt to hide this time, and the women ignored himcompletely. Picking up a book, the young assassin hurled it at one of thewomen. It struck with a thud and fell to the floor. Still, the women ignoredhim.

If they aren't illusions, thought Cy, then they mustbe constructs.

Convinced that he wasn't under a spell, he continuedon his mission.

A set of stairs led down one side of the room. Cycrossed and headed down, avoiding the female golems as he went. The stairwaywas long, and the air grew cooler as he continued down. The old wooden stepswere warped in places, so Cy was careful to transfer all of his weight ontoeach step slowly, so as to avoid creaking. At the bottom, another hallwaycontinued on. A doorway near the end was partly open, and light spilled outinto the hall from the opening. Another of the magenta-skirted women came outof the room and walked down the hall.

Slipping past the unobservant construct, Cy lookedthrough the door. He could see a bed and a night stand in half of a nice, ifmessy, bed chamber. Someone was shuffling around with a drawer and some papersoutside of his field of view. Cy pulled his dagger from his sheath, pressedhimself up against the wall, and waited.

Several moments passed. Sweat started to bead on Cy'sforehead. The shuffling inside the room continued.

A drawer slammed shut, and a figure came into view andsat on the bed. Square jaw, sandy-brown hair, green eyes, small wire-rimmedglasses, and a tell-tale scar on his left cheek-it was Shadow. Though youngerlooking than Cy had expected, the man matched the descriptions Lume had givenhim. The archwizard's attention was focused on a large stack of papers he hadin his hands, and he was making marks on them with a piece of charcoal.

Cy took a deep breath and held it. Raising his dagger up to hisshoulder, he burst into the room, hurling the enchanted blade at Shadow as hedid so. The wizard didn't even look up from his papers. He simply waved hishand, and the dagger stopped in midair. Worse, Cy stood frozen as well, unableto blink or even wipe the ever-increasing sweat from his forehead.

For quite some time, Shadow simply continued to readhis papers. Leafing through them casually as if he didn't have an assassinmagically suspended in his bedroom. Eventually, he finished with his work,straightened the papers, and turned his attention to Cy.

"Aren't you a little young to be anassassin?" he asked.

Cy didn't answer. This had been his firstassassination, so he really didn't know how the industry worked. He supposedhe'd never get the opportunity to find out.

"No matter," reassured the archwizard."Your age isn't important. What is, however, is the fact that you tried tokill me. So?" He looked Cy right in the eye. "What do you suppose weshould do about that?"

Cy tried to spit at the man, to show his indignationand contempt for the wizards who mucked around with the powerful, otherworldlymagic that he felt certain would be the doom of all the world, but he wasstuck. He couldn't move his lips or even his tongue.

"Well?" asked the archwizard. "Aren'tyou going to answer me?"

The man chuckled, then he put his hands on his kneesand stood up from the bed. He plucked the enchanted blade from where it wassuspended in the air.

"Very nice, very nice indeed," he commented."Don't have much use for these sorts of toys." He walked over to achest of drawers and placed the dagger on top of it. "I have a few I keeparound as souvenirs of the assassins who have most interested me, but Igenerally don't like to use them. All that blood and such." Shadow rankledhis nose. "No, magic is much cleaner."

He picked up a wand with a clear stone attached to theend of it by a leather band.

"And," he added, walking back toward Cy,"far more entertaining and punitive. Just think, if I simply poked youwith your blade a few times, sure it would hurt, but in short order you'd die,and the agony you'd feel would be over. With magic-" he brandished thewand-"I can trap you inside this crystal. There you will die slowly asyour predecessors sap your strength and tear at your skin."

He smiled warmly at Cy who was still unable to move.

"The best part, however, is that once you'vedied, your punishment hasn't ended. You will awaken as a shadow, and you'lllive out the rest of eternity as an ethereal creature, unable to affect thesolid world around you. Doesn't that sound far more horrifying?"

Cy grunted, trying everything in his power to simplymove his fingers.

"Yes, I'm sure you'd agree, imprisonment is farworse than simple death."

Shadow turned away from the doorway and startedtidying up the room.

"Though, I don't want you to think my trappingyou in this wand is at all an easy feat."

Cy continued to struggle, gaining a modicum of hopefrom the fact that he could already wiggle his toes and clench the muscles inhis jaw.

"It's taken me years to be able to perfect thiswand," continued the archwizard. "True, the imprisonment spells aresimple enough, as you are now, I'm sure, painfully aware."

Shadow continued to fiddle in the room.

"No, it's the transformation from human flesh tothe insubstantial that has proven tricky, though not impossible."

Cy could feel warmth spreading through his arms andchest, and he was able to shuffle his feet a little.

Shadow looked at the wand with reverent awe.

"This little device right here represents most ofmy life's work. You know," he said, speaking not really to Cy but ratherto himself, "I've lived a long time, and it seems to me that as we'vegrown, things just keep getting smaller and smaller." He chuckled. "Iguess that's what we call progress."

Cy almost had control of his body back. If Shadow continuedto amuse himself for just a few more minutes, he might be able to make a breakfor it, and he'd much rather get killed fleeing than just standing there like astupid jackass.

"Anyway, enough with the chit chat." Thearchwizard turned his attention back to the young assassin and leveled the wandat him. "I suppose I should figure out who hired you to kill me before Idispose of you. I don't suppose you came of your own accord. You're too youngfor that."

The wall behind Shadow exploded outward into the room.What had appeared to be solid stone was actually a secret door made of wood,and the splinters of stone-colored door sprayed out at the two men. Twogigantic ogres stood at the top of a set of stairs in the space where the doorused to be.

Cy was thrown to the floor next to the bed. Shadow,too distracted with the first assassin to protect himself from the two newones, was also knocked face-first to the floor. The ogres didn't waste anytime, and they rushed into the room to clobber the fallen archwizard. Ham-sizedfists began to beat the mage. The two beasts worked together, pummeling the mansimultaneously with opposing blows. Then one stopped pounding the wizard andunsheathed a large sword off its back. The blade slid out of the scabbard withan oily grind.

Cy had regained control of his body, and he got to hisfeet, pulling the larger splinters from his skin. The ogres were completelyignoring him, but they were pounding Shadow into a bloody pulp right in themiddle of the doorway. He glanced over toward the passageway.

If the ogres got in that way, then there must be a wayout, he thought.

He took a deep breath and steadied himself. In themoment he took to compose his thoughts, his mind reeled. What if there weremore ogres down there? What if they had used magic to get into the lowerchamber? If he went down there would he be trapped?

"Lift him up," shouted the ogre with thesword.

The other grunted and stopped beating the archwizard longenough to bend down and grab the man by the robes.

Cy turned back toward the doorway, deciding to takehis chances with the ogres he knew of rather than whatever could be dwellingdown the stairs. While they prepared to behead Shadow, the young assassincharged the door, hoping to slip behind the busy brutes and the doomedarchwizard on his way to freedom.

He took two large steps and dropped into a crouch,trying to ram right through. The ogre holding Shadow took a half step back atthat precise moment, crashing into the charging human as he barreled across theroom. The two assassins got tangled in each other's limbs, and they both hitthe floor with a crash-Cy tumbling head over feet into the hallway, and the ogreagainst the doorframe. Shadow came to his feet, being pulled from the floor bythe ogre and gaining momentum from the great brute's fall.

Wand still in his hand, he shouted, "Shadominiaropalazitsi,"and leveled the crystal end at the standing ogre.

A dark gray stream fired out of the wand in a directline at the ogre assassin. As it approached the ogre's upright form, the streamspread out and began to curve and split. It formed a whirlwind of darknessaround the beast, and the gray areas started to separate and take onindividual, humanlike shapes. The shadows had narrow, elongated heads, andspindly, malformed limbs, and they flew in ever-quickening circles around theogre. For his part, the assassin stood, his sword poised over his head, andgawked in awe and horror.

The shadows attacked, diving toward the armed figureand tearing at him with claws that seemed to form out of thin air. Cy couldhear the ogre howl as if he was in great pain, but no blood issued forth.Instead, the ogre dropped his sword and slowly sank to the floor, landing onthe ground with a thud like a sack of horse manure.

Cy gained his feet and turned up the steps. He'd seenenough. As fast as he'd ever felt himself move, he was up the stairs, dodgingbrightly dressed constructs as he fled out the front door. Never did he turnaround, and it wasn't until he was on his griffon on the way back to report to Lumethat he realized he no longer had his enchanted dagger.

Arriving in camp by sunup the second day, Cy enteredLume's tent at a run.

"Sir, I have terrible, urgent news."

Lume was sitting at his desk eating his morning meal,and the young man's frantic entrance startled the captain, causing him tocough up a mouthful of food.

"In the name of all the gods, what do you thinkyou're doing?" he screamed. Then, abruptly, his tone changed. "Oh,Cy!" Lume stood up. "What is it lad? Did you kill thearchwizard?"

"No, sir, I did not."

Lume slammed his hand on the desk. "Then what areyou doing here?"

Cy proceeded to intone to Lume all the details of hisassassination attempt. He left out nothing, and the captain listened intentlyto the entire story. Then it was Lume's turn to talk.

"Are you certain they were shadows that came outof the wand?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, I'm absolutely positive."

"Gods. A wand with that kind of power could…"

Turning around and placing his hands to the sides ofhis head, he paced out from behind the desk and moved around the tent. After afew moments, he came out of his reverie. He looked at Cy and shook his head.

"But you failed. I should have known thatchain-wielder wasn't an adequate challenge to determine if you could kill anarchwizard."

"Sir?"

Lume whirled, blurting out his words. "Thechain-wielder, son! I sent him to test you. How else do you think a man of thatskill ended up in such a backwater village as Kath?"

"You sentthe blond man after me, sir? But, I… I don't understand."

"Are you stupid, boy? I planted the man in Kathand paid him to attack you," replied Lume.

"But… but why? That man almost killed me."

"To see if you were up to thisassassination," he explained, "but obviously it was a poortest."

Cy stood with his arms limp and his mouth open wide.

Lume paced back and forth for a while longer, then hecaught sight of Cy. "Child, stop your bemoaning. You lived. All thatmatters now is that we go back to kill Shadow and get that wand." Lumewalked over to the young man and put his hand on his shoulder. "Despitethe fact that you failed, you've provided us-provided our great leader Olostinhimself-with a real opportunity to reclaim our world from the haughtyarchwizards."

Cy just stared, fuming at Lume.

"Son, if we get that wand," explained thecaptain, "we could use it against Shadow and all of his kind. We've beentrying to kill that man for years, and now we might finally have an opportunityto use his own research against him. Wouldn't that be beautiful?" Hesmiled and slapped Cy on the shoulder. "You know something Cy, I've sent acountless number of assassins after Shadow over the years, and you're the firstto come back alive. You should take pride in that. You're one in perhaps a thousand,and now you'll get another chance to complete your mission."

Cy pulled away from the captain. "You do what youwant, but I'll have no part of it."

Lume narrowed his gaze. "You'll do what I tellyou, or you'll be dead."

He stepped toward Cy and lowered his hand to hissaber. Cy stood his ground.

"You sent me to die once already. I'm not goingback."

The captain brought his sword up in a quick arc, hittingCy squarely under the jaw with the pommel as the blade scraped out of itsscabbard.

The young assassin fell back, and he held his hand tohis face, trying to stop the flow of blood as he stared up at his captain fromthe floor. Two armed guards came through the tent flap, their swords drawn.

"Take him back to his tent," Lume instructedthe men, "and make sure he doesn't go anywhere." He turned back tothe young man on the floor. "He'll be needed shortly-to finish his failedduties."

Two days later, Lume sent a group of men to escort Cyto the party's armory. The captain was there briefing a small group of men onthe coming assassination.

"I will personally accompany you men to make surethat this time we succeed where Cy failed," intoned Lume. He smiled at Cyas the guards untied the younger man's bonds. "Cy will go along, under mypersonal supervision, to provide the necessary details about Shadow's home andhabits." He looked out at the crowd of assembled assassins. "If thisman-" he pointed to Cy-"attempts to escape or in any other way avoidhis duty to this group, he is to be executed. Do I make myself clear?"

Every head in the group nodded assent.

Each of the assassins was given special boots thatmasked the sound of their footsteps and special cloaks that made them moredifficult to see, and each was issued an amulet that made them less susceptibleto the effects of Shadow's magic.

"These won't protect you from the shadows,"explained Lume, "but they will make you less of a target for thearchwizard."

Cy gritted his teeth. This whole mission might not benecessary had he had one of those amulets on the first attempt.

Then Lume gave each of the men a light crossbow with asingle bolt, and a small dagger, and they left for Karsus. The plan was for Cyto lead the other assassins into Shadow's bedchamber where they would overwhelmhim with sheer numbers.

"The archwizard won't try to use anything toodeadly inside the small confines of that room," strategized the captain."He'll more likely try to subdue us as he did Cy, or enspell the wholegroup to make us think he is our ally, and deal with us individually at his leisure. We'renot going to let that happen. As soon as we get in sight, we unload with thecrossbows. The bolts I gave you are magically enhanced to ensure a perfectstrike. You only have one, because if you fail, there won't be an opportunityfor another shot. Keep him distracted, so he can't use his magic, and we shouldall live through this." Lume looked at each of the assassins in turn."Once Shadow is dead, we find his wand, and we get out of there andcelebrate."

The other raiders let out a loud whoop at their captain'sconfidence. Cy kept his mouth shut. It wasn't going to be that easy, and heknew most of these men, himself included, weren't coming back. He just hopedthat one of those who wasn't going back to camp would be Captain Lume.

At the entry to Shadow's opulent home, Lume jabbed theend of his saber into Cy's ribs and said, "Now, be a good lad and show usin."

Cy lead the silent, nearly invisible band of assassinsdown the long hallway into the decadent siting room. In complete silence, theentire troop weaved through the blonde constructs and marched down toward thebedchamber.

Just as before, the door at the end of the hall wasajar and a light was on inside the room. Cy beckoned the other assassins aheadof him and pressed himself against the wall. The raiders complied and movedaround him, taking up positions on either side of the door. Lume came up behindCy, and he nodded to the waiting troops. One of them held his hand out andsilently counted to three with his fingers, then he charged through the door,the others following him in.

From where he was standing, Cy could only see the menleave the hall. With the boots they were wearing, he couldn't even hear themmove. He and Captain Lume waited for the sounds of a scuffle or of magic beingcast, but they never came. After several moments of silence, one of the mencame back into the hall and waved the two men in. Lume pushed Cy by theshoulder, and he moved around the door in front of his captain.

The bedchamber was still in a shambles, but the wallwas once more intact where the ogres had burst into the room. The otherassassins stood around, casting nervous glances back and forth as if somethinginvisible might sneak up on them. Cy moved over toward the wall, stoppingbriefly at the chest of drawers where his enchanted dagger was still resting.

I'd rather die with this in my hand, he thought. Hepicked up the blade.

When he reached the section of wall where the secretdoor had been, he placed his hand where he thought the doorframe might begin.His fingers slipped through the wall. The archwizard hadn't fixed the brokensection, he had simply cast a spell over the opening. It would be a simplematter of stepping through the illusion to get to the stairs beyond.

Cy straightened up and headed out into the hall,motioning to Lume as he did.

The captain glared at Cy and asked, "What's goingon?"

"Shadow has a laboratory in the basement behindthat wall. He's cast an illusion over the opening to make us think the wall issolid, but if I were him, I'd have other defenses in place as well. I thinkwe're better off hiding out here and waiting for him to come out."

Lume nodded and pushed Cy back through the door. Thecaptain arranged the assassins in strategic positions around the room, then hewent back into the hallway, dragging Cy with him.

Hours passed. The assassins waited. Finally, the wallwobbled as the illusion allowed someone to pass through. Shadow was lookingdown at a contraption in his hands and not at all paying attention to his surroundings.The wand was stuck in the belt of his robe, and he didn't appear to have any ofthe bruises or scars that a man who had been brutally beaten by two ogresshould have.

Two steps into the bedroom, the archwizard realized thatsomething was wrong, and he began to cast a spell. The assassins unloaded theircrossbows, and the man screamed, dropping the gadget in his hands and stumblingtoward the bed, his spell lost on his lips.

Cy watched as the wizard fell to his knees, and Lumelet out an excited yelp and bolted into the room, his dagger in hand. Shadowwas holding his hands against his chest and looking at the ground. He wasbleeding quite heavily.

"Well, well, well," intoned Lume. He wasstanding a few feet away from the archwizard with a large smile on his face."If it isn't the mighty archwizard Shadow. Do you have any idea how longI've been trying to kill you?"

The man looked up from his position on the floor, andhe finished mouthing the lasts words of another spell. He glared up at thecaptain as the magical bolts jutting from his body shot back out, sailingacross the room and striking the assassins who had shot them. Every one ofthem fell to the floor, dead with a bolt buried in his forehead. Shadowcontinued to bleed, and he put his hand out to steady himself. His skin turnedquite pale.

"No. Frankly," said the wizard, "youhave a lot of competition when it comes to assassinating me."

Lume didn't waste any time. He crossed to the wizardand pushed him to the floor, taking the wand from his belt with one hand andplacing the edge of his dagger to Shadow's throat with the other.

"Well allow me to introduce myself. My name isLume, and I work for Olostin."

"Yes-" Shadow coughed hard-"Yes, Irecognize the name. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Believe me, the pleasure is all mine." Heturned to Cy. "Is this the wand you spoke of," he asked, holding upthe crystal-tipped rod.

"It appears to be, yes."

The captain took a step back and turned again to thearchwizard.

No longer under the watchful eyes of a band of assassins,Cy lunged at Lume with his dagger.

"Die, you pig!"

The captain sidestepped the blow, but hestumble-stepped to one side.

Cy swung again at the older man's back. The enchantedblade sliced through Lume's leather armor, opening a long, bloody gash in thecaptain's side.

"You stupid fool," Lume hissed.

Pulling his saber is a flash, the captain made twoquick slashing attacks.

Cy parried the first blow, but the second landed justbelow his wrist, knocking his dagger from his hand. Lume swung again, and Cystruggled backward, avoiding the blade but falling back over the bed. Cy landedon the floor against Shadow, cradling his wrist where Lume had cut him.

The captain leveled the wand at the two men on thefloor.

The archwizard struggled to breathe, but he laughedanyway.

"You can't use that," he said. "Youdon't know the command word."

"You're wrong, wizard, and now I'm going todestroy you with your own toy." Lume smiled down at Shadow. "Ironicthat you could spend so much of your life perfecting a tool such asthis-" he shook the wand-"only to be killed by it in the end."

"You don't know what sort of forces you'remessing with." He coughed, blood trickling down the corner of his mouth.

"Neither did you." Lume straightened his armand spoke the word Cy had repeated for him back at camp. "Shadominiaropalazitsi."

Once again a column of rushing dark gray plasma flowedout of the wand. It headed straight for the prone archwizard, coalescing intohumanlike forms along the way. As it jetted forward, the stream of shadowssplit into a curling mass. Shadow raised his hand instinctively to protect hisface, but this time, the shadows broke into individual swirls, and twisted,wavering forms spread out all over the room. They filled every corner and placeof darkness.

Now spread out, the shadows began to collect again,forming a cyclone around Captain Lume.

Lume screamed, "What's happening? What's goingon?"

"Don't you see, you fool?" explained thearchwizard. "Don't you recognize any of those shadows?"

"No, no, I don't." He swung his saber inwide, swooping arcs. "Stay away from me," he screamed. "Stayaway, you hear?"

Shadow lifted himself off the floor.

"Is that any way to treat your previousassassins?" asked the archwizard.

Lume's face dropped, and his swinging momentarilyslowed.

"That's right." Shadow smiled. "Ipunished your assassins by turning them into shadows and trapping them in thatwand, and you just released them to seek vengeance on you for earning them aneternity of suffering."

The shadows wasted no time, diving in to touch thestunned captain while he listened to the archwizard.

Lume's knees went weak, and he began his franticswinging again.

"But you were the one who sent them to theirdeaths," he screamed.

"They don't blame me for defending myself fromassassination. They blame you for sending them to kill an archwizard. Youshould learn to not mess with forces beyond your control."

Lume was getting tired, and his defense was weakening.His wild arcs with his saber were slowing, and the shadows were touching himrepeatedly. He dropped to the ground, lifting his head to speak again toShadow.

"Those are fine words, coming from the likes ofyou."

Lume collapsed, his head hitting the wooden planks ofthe floor with a decided thud.

The shadows spun around in a pack over the limp bodyon the floor. A dark shape formed around the captain's corpse, then itcoalesced into a humanlike shadow and lifted into the air, joining the swirlingmass above. As a group, they dived toward the wand still gripped in Lume's deadhand. The dark gray stream narrowed as itapproached the crystal, and as quickly asthey had come forth, the shadows disappeared.

The archwizard reached into the sleeve of his robesand pulled forth a large purple bottle. Uncorking the vial, he swiftly drankdown the contents. A strange white glow surrounded his skin, and the bleedingstopped. He looked much better, though not quite whole and hearty.

He looked at Cy, who was still on the floor cradlinghis bleeding wrist, and said, "As I said before, you are entirely tooyoung to be an assassin. I suggest you find another line of work."

With that, he turned around and went back through theillusionary wall.

Cy looked down at the dead body of Captain Lume andnodded, then he turned around and headed back up the stairs, dodging a prettyblonde golem on his way out.

AND THE DARK TIDE RISES

Keith Francis Strohm

7 Eleint, the Year of the Gauntlet

The last rays of the setting sun spun out over thewaters of the Inner Sea, transforming its rippled surface into shimmering gold.Umberlee's Fire, the sailors called it, and considered it a good omen, a signthat the Sea Queen had blessed their work. Morgan Kevlynson stood on the bow ofthe sea-worn fishing dory that had served his family for years and ignored thespectacular display. Absently, he pushed a strand of coal-black hair from hisface, blown there by the swirling, salt-flecked fingers of the wind, and lethis thoughts wander beneath the fiery skin of the sea.

Darkness surrounding, like a cocoon, the wild impulsesof the deep; blue-green presences where sunlight caresses sea-halls.

There were mysteries here. He knew that as surely ashe knew his own name. The sea held an ancient wisdom-wild and untamed; carried dark promisesupon its broad back. And sometimes, when he sailed the waters in silence, theycalled to him.

Today was such a time.

Morgan closed his eyes, absorbed in the dance of windand wave and foam. He felt a familiar emptying, as if some inner tide receded; hisheartbeat pulsed to the rhythm of the sea, slow and insistent, like thewhitecaps that struck the side of the dory, until everything became thatrhythm-heart, boat, sky-the world defined in a single liquid moment.

That's when he saw her: eyes the color of rich kohl,skin as green-tinted as the finest chrysoberyl, and blue-green hair that flowedmore freely than water itself. Yet, there was a sadness, a vulnerability aboutthis creature that set an ache upon him more fierce than any he had ever felt.He was about to ask what he could do to set a smile back upon her face when sheopened her mouth and-

"Tchh, laddie!Lay off yer sea-dreamin' and give us a hand." The voice was deep,resonant, and rough as coral, worn smooth only by the companionable lilt of thefishermen of the Alamber coastline.

Morgan opened his eyes and spun quickly to face thesound, only just catching himself as his sudden movement set the dory rocking.Angus, his grandfather, sat athwart the starboard gunwale stowing line with theease of long practice. The old man's sun-burnished skin covered his face andhands like cracked leather. A thick shock of silver hair crowned the ancientfisherman's bowed head, and his rough woolen clothes were worn thin and dustedwith dried salt. Despite the weathering of years, Angus showed no signs ofslowing down. His wits and his grasp remained firm, as was the way of those whospent their entire lives fishing the rough shores and islands of Alamber.

Despite himself, Morgan smiled at the thought of his grandfatherever needing anyone's assistance.

"But Granda, I was just-"

" 'Tis sure I knew what you were about,lad," the old man interrupted. "Moonin' over the water. 'Tis notnatural. The sea'd just as soon swallow you up as leave you be. Never doubt theright of that, boyo. She's a fickle lover, she is, and a man cannot hope tounderstand her."

Morgan sighed, moved to the small wooden mast at thecenter of the boat, and carefully folded up the coarse cloth that made up thedory's only sail. He had heard this same lecture at least three hundred times.His grandfather would never tire of it. The old man's voice droned on as theyoung fisherman gathered up the now-thick bundle of sailcloth. It was difficultto keep the irritation out of his movements. Morgan was sure that he felt hisgrandfather's disapproving stare when he dropped the cloth a bit too forcefullyinto its storage area beneath the prow.

Still, the old fisherman continued his lecturing. Itwas not fair, really. Morgan had lived nearly eighteen summers-and had sailedfor most of those. He was no land-bred lackaday, ill-prepared for work upon afishing boat, nor was he a pampered merchant's son come to the Alamber coaston holiday. He was a fisherman, born into one of the oldest fishing families onthe Inner Sea. Yet his fascination with the sea seemed to frighten hisgrandfather-and the close-knit inhabitants of Mourktar.

Thinking back, he knew the reason why. The superstitiousvillagers had never really accepted him. His mother dead from the strain ofchildbirth, his father lost in grief so deep that he sailed out into the InnerSea one winter night, never to return, Morgan had grown up wild, spending manya sunset running across the rocks and cliffs that jutted out over the water,listening to the song of the waves and breathing in the salty musk of the wind."Sea-touched," they had called him. Changeling. Pointing to his blackhair and fair skin, so different from the sun-golden complexion and reddish hairof Mourktar's natives, as outward proof of the very thing they whispered softlyto each other in the deep of night, when the wind blew hard across the shore.Even now, Morgan knew that many still made the sign of Hathor behind his backif he gazed too long out at sea or sat on Mourktar's weathered quay in deepthought.

He searched for signs of bitterness, for someresentment of his reputation, but found none. He had grown up with the simplereality that no one understood him. He had friends, conspirators who were happyto while away the time between childhood and manhood by stealing a mug or twoof frothy ale from old Borric's tavern or playing at war amid the scrub-chokeddunes, and there were evenings enough of stolen kisses beneath the docks. Butno one truly knew what went on in his deepest core, that silent part of himthat heard the measured beat of the sea's heart, that felt its inexorable pulllike a vast undertow of need. No one could know these things-except perhapshis father.

Morgan shuddered at that thought and shook himselffree of his reverie. His frustration and resentment drained out of him, leavingbehind only emptiness and a numbing chill. The sun had nearly fallen beneaththe horizon, and he looked up to find his grandfather staring expectantly athim in the purplish haze of twilight, his discourse apparently finished.

"I said, 'tis a fierce storm'll blow tonight, andwe'd best be finishing soon." The old man shook his head and mutteredsomething else under his breath before opening the waterproof tarp they used tocover the boat.

Morgan hmmphed guiltily and moved to help hisgrandfather, threading a thin rope through the small holes around the tarp'sedge and running it around the metal ringlets attached to the sides of theboat. In truth, not a single cloud floated anywhere in the twilit sky, but thecoastal breeze had picked up, bringing with it a sharpening chill. He had longago stopped doubting his grandfather's ability to guess the weather.

Once he'd finished securing the tarp, the old man spatand walked down the quay toward Mourktar.

"Come lad, we've a fair catch to bring home, andthere's a dark tide running in. Besides, I've a yearning for some of yer gran'sfish stew."

Morgan bent and hefted the sack of freshly caught fishover his shoulder, thanking the gods that they had sold the rest of the day'scatch to the merchants earlier. As he turned to look one last time at the dory,rising and falling to the swelling of the waves, he caught sight of afurtive movement near the boat. He was about to call to his grandfather,fearing the mischievous vandalizing of a sea lion, when he caught sight of ahead bobbing just above the surface of the water. Morgan couldn't make out anymore of this strange creature, but that didn't matter. Staring at him in thefading light, he saw the face of his dream.

In a moment, she was gone, and he turned back to hisgrandfather. Though the two walked back to the village in silence, Morgan'smind was a jumble of confusion and disbelief.

The storm raged throughout the night, battering therough thatch of the simple hut. Morgan tossed fitfully under his thick quiltwhile the wind howled like a wolf through the dirt lanes and footpaths ofMourktar. His grandparents slept deeply in the main room. He could hear theirthroaty snores, a rough counterpoint to the storm's fury. Sleep, however,refused to grant Morgan similar relief. Instead, he lay there curled up into aball, feeling lost and alone, and very small against the night.

It had been like that the entire evening. When he andAngus had arrived at their family's hut for supper, storm clouds had alreadyblotted out the newly shining stars. Morgan had barely noticed. The vision ofthe sea woman's face had flared brightly in his mind since he'd left the docks,and his thoughts burned with her unearthly beauty. Everything else seemed dullin comparison, hollow and worn as the cast off shell of a hermit crab.

He had sat through supper mostly in silence, distractedby the rising song of the wind. Several times he had almost gasped in horror,for he heard in that mournful susurrus the slow exhalation of his nameushering forth from the liquid throat of the sea. His grandparents had bornethis mood for as long as they could. Morgan's muttered responses to his gran'squestions, however, had finally earned him a cuff from Angus. Though even that blow had feltmore like an echo of his granda's anger, a memory of some past punishment.Frustrated, the old fisherman stormed away from the driftwood table, cursing.Morgan mumbled some excuse soon after and staggered to his cot, seeking reliefin the cool release of sleep.

He failed.

Thoughts of her consumed him, and his skinburned with the promise of her touch. She wanted him, called to him in a voicefull of moonlight and foam and the soft, subtle urging of the sea. He lay therefor hours, trying to hide from her, trying to retreat into the hidden places ofhis mind. But she followed, uttering his name, holding it forth like a lamp.

Morgan, come!

Come, my heart-home!

Come!

Briefly, irrationally, he wondered if his father hadheard the same voice on the night he stole a boat and, broken by grief, sailedout to his death on the winter sea. Perhaps, Morgan thought wildly, thismadness was hereditary.

Come!

The voice. Stronger this time, driving away allthought except obedience. With a cry, he flung himself out of the cot, nolonger able to resist the siren call. The compulsion took a hold of him now,drove him out of the hut into the gray stillness of false dawn. The storm hadspent itself. Wind and rain no longer lashed the shore. The world held itsbreath, waiting.

Waiting for what? Morgan thought.

In an instant he knew. It waited for him. Rubbing hisarms briskly to ward off the predawn chill, he followed the dirt road down tothe docks. Every step brought Morgan closer to her. He ignored thedowned branches, shattered trunks, and other detritus that littered the road,and began to run. He had no choice.

And yet, there was a sense of promise to this call, ahint of mystery unveiled. If he was going to end his life sea-mad like hisfather, he would at least receive something in return, a gift from the darkwaters that had been his true home these past eighteen seasons more trulythan the insular huts and close-minded folk of Mourktar. He understood thatnow, and the notion filled him with equal parts terror and fascination.

At last, he reached the end of the dock, sweat soakedand gasping for breath. He cast about desperately, hoping to catch some glimpseof the mysterious creature that haunted both his waking and dreaming, proofthat he had not simply lost his wits. She was there, floating idly tothe left of his family's dory.

Even from a distance her beauty stung him with itspurity. The skin of her green-tinted face was creamy and smooth as marble, andher delicate features set his fingers twitching, so much did Morgan long totrace the curve of chin, nose, and throat. Long blue-green hair, though mattedwith moisture above the water, floated tenderly over the outline of her body.

Morgan would have dived into the chill sea that verymoment to be with her, had she not opened her full-lipped mouth and spoken.

"Greetings, Man-child, son of Kevlyn. I fearedthat you would not come in time."

Her voice was sweet and clear, her intonation fluid,making it sound to Morgan as if she sang every phrase.

Questions filled his head to bursting. Who was she?How did she know him? Why did she call him here? As he hurriedly tried todecide which one to speak aloud, he realized that the compulsion was gone. Histhoughts were his own.

He looked at the mysterious creature again, noting forthe first time the thick webbing splayed between the fingers of her hands asshe easily tread water. She tilted her head slightly to the side, obviouslywaiting for his response.

Morgan said nothing, letting the moment stretchbetween them, letting the rhythmic slap of water against dock, the wail ofearly rising gulls, and the faint rustling of the coastal wind fill the voidher compulsion had left inside of him.

He was angry, and not a little frightened. Thiscreature had used him, manipulated him, and when at last he spoke, his voicewas full of bitterness. "Of course I came. You gave me no choice."

She laughed at that, though he heard no humor in it,only a tight quaver that sounded suspiciously to his untrained ear likesadness.

"There's little choice any of us have now,lad," the creature said softly, almost too softly to be heard. Thenlouder, "But you must forgive me, Morgan. These are desperate times. Isent out the Call; you came. And a truer Son of Eldath never walked or swamupon the face of Toril."

Now it was her turn to stare, deep-colored eyeslocking on to his. Morgan felt his anger drain away, only to be replaced by hedidn't know what-embarrassment? Shame? He felt like an ungainly boy under theweight of that otherworldly gaze.

"H-how do y-you know my-my name?" hestuttered quickly, trying to focus the creature's attention elsewhere.

The sea woman chuckled, her amusement plain to hear,and said, "You mortals wear your names as plainly as a selkie does herskin. It is child's play to pluck it from you-if you know how to look forit." Her smile faded. "Ahh, but I see that I am being rude. Forgiveme, again, for it has been a long time since I have spoken with a mortal. I amAvadrieliaenvorulandral. You may call me Avadriel. I am Alu'Tel'Quessir, thosefolk your ancestors called 'sea elves,' and I need your help."

Morgan sat on the dock, stunned. Alu'Tel'Quessir. Seaelves. Morgan had only dreamed of ever seeing such a creature, and here hestood, talking to one in the flesh.

"You need my help?" he askedincredulously. "But lady-"

"Avadriel," the creature interrupted."I gave up such formalities centuries ago."

"Avadriel," he continued, choosing to ignorethe implications of the sea elf's last statement. "I'm but afisherman."

Clearly, Morgan thought, this beautiful creature whofloated up out of the depths was mistaken. Soon, she would realize this andreturn to her watery realm, leaving him alone and feeling the fool. At this moment, he didnot know which would be worse.

"A fisherman," Avadriel scoffed. "Youare far more than that, Morgan. You are one of the few mortals left who canhear the Old Song.

"Yes," she continued, noticing his look ofconfusion, "the sea has set its mark upon you, even if others of your kindfear and distrust you because of it. That is why I have come."

Here were words straight out of a bard's fancy, theyoung man thought, but could he laugh them away, dismiss them as so muchnonsense, when they came from the mouth of such a creature? Morgan's world hadspun out of control since he first saw her. He felt caught in the grip of someimplacable tide, carrying him to the depths of a black abyss. Yet, Avadriel'swords rang with the truth, and her presence gave him something to hold on to,an anchor in an otherwise tumultuous sea. Gravely, he nodded, too afraid tospeak.

Avadriel shot him a half smile and said, "It isgood to see that the children of the sun are still brave-though I fear evenbravery may not be enough to save us. You see, Morgan, a great evil hasawakened deep within the blackest abyss of the sea, leading an army of itsdark minions. Already this force has destroyed Avarnoth. Many of my people.."

The sea elf faltered, and Morgan saw the pain she hadbeen hiding burst forth, marring her beautiful features. He looked away, notwishing to intrude. After a few moments, she continued-her voice a tremulouswhisper.

"Many of my people made the journey to Sashelas'shalls, but it will not stop there. This evil grows daily, and it will sweepacross the lands of Faerûn like a tidal wave, destroying everything in itspath."

Something in her voice made Morgan look up. Avadriellooked pale, her face drained of color. He was about to ask her what was wrong,when a large wave pushed her hair aside, revealing a deep gash across her rightshoulder. Flesh, muscle, and vein were ripped apart, exposing thin white bone.

Morgan cursed softly. "Lady-Avadriel, you arewounded!"

He was angry; at himself for not noticing sooner, andat her for concealing such a thing.

How she had managed to carry on with such a grievousinjury was beyond him. Hurriedly, he searched about the wooden wharf for one ofthe small dinghies used to ferry fishermen to boats anchored away from thelimited space of the docks. He soon found one tied off near a set of rustingcrab traps. Adroitly climbing down a rickety rope ladder, the young fishermancast off and rowed the battered dinghy toward the wounded creature.

"Do not concern yourself with my well being,Morgan," Avadriel protested weakly as he neared. "My message is farmore important than my life."

Ignoring the sea elf's instructions, for he hadalready concluded that her life was far more important than his own, the youngman drew close to Avadriel and gently pulled her into the rude craft, carefulnot to further damage her wounded shoulder. The sea elf was surprisinglylight, and, despite her initial protest, offered Morgan no resistance.Carefully, he laid her down, folding his sweater under her head for a pillowand covering her naked body with a weather-worn tarp.

Avadriel's skin was cold to the touch, and her oncebright eyes began to glaze over. Even so, she reached out to him with herwebbed hands, turning her head to reveal three gill slits running througheither side of her delicate throat. He bent down to her, fascinated as theslits sucked noisily in the air.

"Morgan. . you. . must listen," shewhispered unevenly. "There is something you must… do … something…" Her voice trailed off into silence.

At first, he thought she must have died, for her gillslits had stopped opening, but his fears were allayed when her chest began torise and fall shallowly. Avadriel was sorely wounded, but by the gods, Morganthought, she was alive.

Quietly, he sat down in the small boat. The early morningwind raked his now bare arms and neck. His thin, short-sleeved undertunicoffered him little protection against the seasonal cold. Morgan ignored thechill, however, and began to row. There were several shallow sea caves not farfrom the docks. He would take Avadriel there, away from the prying eyes andfearful minds of Mourktar's inhabitants. He would tend to her wounds, and whenshe awakened, he would travel to the ends of Toril for her. He remembered herimpassioned plea. He was needed.

Blood. The scent of it filled the water, thick, heavy,and rich. T'lakk floated idly amid the waving kelp strands, savoring the headyaroma, sucking it in with each flap of his gill slits. It stirred somethingdeep within his hunter's heart, an ancient hunger, older than the sea itself.He waited, letting it grow, letting it build, until the hunger sang withinhim-tooth and claw and rending flesh, a savage, primal tune.

Quickly, he shook his green-scaled head, refusing togo into the Place of Madness. Though it cost him great effort, the creaturefocused his senses back on the hunt. He still had work to do, and the masterwould be displeased if he failed in this task. Three long clicks summoned theother hunters from their search along the rocky sea floor. Balefully, he eyedeach one as they arrived, satisfied that they approached with the properhumility. He would brook no challenges now. Not when their quarry lay so close.

He smiled grimly, revealing several rows of needle-sharpteeth, as the assembled hunters scented the blood. A quick signal sent themarrowing through the water to follow the trail. Soon, T'lakk thought gleefullyas he swam after his companions. Soon the Hunt would be over.

Morgan sat in the damp cave, watching the measuredrise and fall of Avadriel's chest as she slept. A battered lantern lay at hisfeet, perched precariously between two slime-covered stalagmites. Its rudelight licked the jagged rocks of the cavern, revealing several twisted stoneshelves surrounding a small tidal pool.

He had arrived at the bank of sea caves just as themorning sun crested the horizon, grateful that he was able to reach shelterbefore most of the village boats sailed through the area in search of theirday's fishing. Once he had maneuvered his small craft deep enough into one ofthe caves to shield it from sight, Morgan had gently lifted Avadriel out of thedinghy, placed her on a low, relatively flat lip of stone overhanging thetidal pool, and set about binding her wound as best he could.

Now he sat stiff-necked and attentive, anxiouslywaiting for the sea elf to awaken. The silence of his vigil was broken only bythe slow drip of water echoing hollowly in the enclosed space. Hisgrandparents would be frantic by now-though Morgan knew that his granda wouldno doubt have sailed the boat out to sea, not willing to miss the day'sfishing, thinking all the while of ways to box his grandson's lazy head. Still,he thought in the foreboding chill of the cavern, he would gladly suffer agreat deal more than his grandfather's wrath for Avadriel's sake.

As Morgan kept a cold, damp watch over the sleepingsea elf, he marveled at how much his life had changed in such a short time.Yesterday, he had given no thought to the world beyond the coastal waters ofMourktar. Today, he found himself hiding in a cave with a wounded sea elf,ready to leave behind everything for the beauty of a creature he'd neverthought he would actually see.

When Avadriel finally awoke, several hours later, thewater level in the tidal pool had risen, lapping gently around her body. Shesat up with a start, looking rather confused and frightened, until her eyes metMorgan's. He smiled, hoping he didn't look as foolish as he felt, andapproached her carefully, determined not to turn his ankle on the slipperyrocks in his eagerness.

If he had expected a long litany of thanks and gratefulness,he would have been disappointed. Though there was a softness about the seaelf's face, a gentle hint of a smile in answer to his own, her words wereabrupt and as hard as steel.

"You must leave at once," she said."Before it is too late."

Morgan stared at Avadriel once again. He didn't understand-didn'twant to understand. He only knew that his place was by her side.

"Leave?" he asked incredulously. "ButAvadriel, you're still hurt. Perhaps once you have healed a bit we could traveltogether."

He tried to keep the wistfulness out of his voice,failing miserably.

"If only that were possible, Morgan, but we don'thave that much time. You must go to Firestorm Isle and tell the wizard Dhavrimthat Avarnoth has fallen. An ancient evil is free once again. Its black army iseven now poised to strike at Faerûn, and the wizards must be warned." Shepaused, then added, "Please, Morgan. I need your help."

Silently, he cursed the luck that separated him fromhis heart's desire the moment he had discovered it. It would be difficult toleave, but Morgan knew that he would do it. Too much was at stake.

Avadriel smiled then, as if reading the young man'sthoughts, and drew herself closer.

"Thank you," she said simply, and brushedher lips lightly over his.

Morgan closed his eyes at her touch. Avadriel's scentsurrounded him, intoxicating in its subtlety. Their lips met each other'sagain, firmer this time. A wave of desire crested through him, wild and strongas a riptide. The world faded away in the wake of that desire, leaving only theebb and flow of bodies.

After a time, Avadriel pulled away.

"Morgan," she whispered softly, sadly intothe shadows of the cave.

He nodded once, and wiped a blossoming tear from hereye.

"I know … it's time." With that, he stoodand climbed into the waiting boat. "I shall return as soon as I can."

Slowly, he rowed out into harsh light of day.

With a grunt of effort, Morgan let the rhythmic slapof oar on water carry him through another hour of rowing. The sea surged andfoamed around him, threatening to turn aside the small force of his craft.Spume sprayed his face as the boat's bow bounced hard against the trough of arolling black wave. Insistent burn of chest and arm muscles long-since spent,harsh gasp of salted air into lungs, sting of wood chafing raw skin-these werehis offerings, sacrificial prayers to the gods of his people.

They ignored him.

Slowly, he made his way across the churning water,more by force of will than anything else. When his energy flagged and the oarsseemed to weigh as much as an iron anchor, he summoned a picture of Avadriel'sface. The memory of her lips on his, the salted taste of her tongue, renewedhis determination. Too much lay at stake, for his heart and his home. He wouldnot fail.

By mid afternoon, the heat of the sun had dried the sweatfrom his body, and his tongue felt thick and swollen, like a piece of boiledleather. With a deep sigh, he pulled up the oars and gave his knotted muscles abrief rest. Shielding his eyes from the sun's glare, he scanned the horizon.

Several years before, he had stolen out with a fewfriends and sailed to the wizard's island on a dare. Though none of theintrepid band of explorers had set foot on the island, Morgan alone sailed hisship around the rocky shore of that forbidden place.

Even now, amid the burning heat of the sun, he shiveredwith the memory. Dhavrim's tower had stood stark and terrifying, thrusting upfrom the coral of the island like the tooth of some giant whale. As Morgan hadguided his craft around the island, he couldn't help but wonder if the wizardwould send some deadly spell arcing out from his demesne to punish thetrespassing boat.

The upsurge of a wave snapped Morgan out of hisreverie. He still had a fair distance to row before he reached the island, andhe felt as if time were running out.

By late afternoon, when the sun began its lazydescent, a calm fell over the waters. Morgan quickly wiped his brow andsurveyed the silent scene. The sea lay placid and serene, its gently stippledsurface resembling nothing so much as the facet of a blue-green gem in thesunlight. In the distance, he could make out a small shadow, a black pimple onthe horizon that could only be Dhavrim's tower. Before Morgan could evencelebrate his good fortune, he caught sight of something that tore an oath outof his parched throat. There in the distance, dark and ominous, a roiling wallof haze bore down on him.

Terrified, Morgan renewed his efforts, hoping that hecould reach his destination before the line of fog enveloped him. The sailorsof his village called such unnatural weather the Breath of Umberlee. It oftenlured unsuspecting boats to a watery grave. Even the beacon fires set upon thecliff walls of the Alamber coast were often not enough to save the doomedvessels.

With a determined grunt, Morgan bent his back to thetask once again. Whipcord muscles already pushed beyond their limit protestedmightily, but he pressed on. Time seemed to slow in that silent moment, untilhe felt as if he were trapped in some artist's sketch. He continued to row, ofthat he was sure, but the island did not seem to draw any closer. At first hethought himself dreaming, until the first patchy cloud of fog rolled across thebow of his craft, followed soon after by more until the fog drew close aroundhim like a thick blanket. Desperately, he cast about for sign of the island,for any landmark in the sea of gray that surrounded him, but to no avail. Eventhe sun, which had lashed at his skin with its fierce rays, hung muted and dim,a hidden jewel in the murky sky.

Filled with frustration and not a fair bit of rage atthe unfairness of it all, Morgan shouted fiercely at the blanket of fog,"Damn it all! I will not fail. I can not!"

Savagely, he beat his fist against the oarlock and continuedto hurl invectives at the fog, at the gods, at the wizard in his thrice-damnedcastle, but most of all at himself, for agreeing to this fool's errand in thefirst place.

The answering cry of a gull surprised him so much thathe stopped his railing in midsentence. Again, its wail cut through the fog,echoing in the gray murk, followed by a white streak and a light thump as thecreature landed on the bow of his craft. Startled by the gull's appearance,white-crested and intent, Morgan didn't even wonder why such a creature shouldfly out so far from shore.

"Heya, silly bird," the young man saidpitifully. "Fly away before you become stuck like a poor fisherman's sonin a fog bank."

The large gull simply cocked its head slightly andregarded the young man with a serious gaze.

"Go!" he shouted finally at the stupidcreature, letting frustration and anger creep into his voice.

The bird ignored his command and continued to stare athim. Finally, with a soft chirrup, the gull flapped its wings and hoveredgently a few feet from his craft. It was then that Morgan noticed a smallcrystal clutched in the bird's grasp. The jewel began to pulse slightly as hestared at it, softly illuminating the gloom around him.

The bird landed again on the boat, casting a knowingglance at Morgan, before it lifted off once more, now flying a few feet infront of the craft. Surprisingly, the light from the crystal pushed some of thefog away, allowing him the opportunity to see a few paces on all sides.

Confused, but unwilling to pass up this odd gift,Morgan dipped oars to water and followed the gull and its gleaming treasure.Hours passed-or minutes-it was difficult to measure the passing of time in thegray waste that surrounded him, and still the young man rowed after thewitchlight. Without warning, he burst through the spidery maze of fog into thefading evening sunlight. In front of Morgan loomed the great white stretch ofDhavrim's tower, set only fifty feet or so from the shore. A few more quickstrokes brought him scraping onto the rock-strewn beach.

Offering a quick prayer to any god within earshot, hegratefully stumbled out of the boat, stretched knotted muscles, and pulled hiscraft safely onto the shore. Now that he had arrived on the wizard's island,fulfilled part of Avadriel's wish, he felt hopeful. Perhaps the sea elf had chosencorrectly, he thought, as he basked in the pleasurable warmth of sun-bakedsand. The simple fisherman, braving wind, wave, and fog to deliver a desperatemessage. He liked the sound of that, and despite the all-too-real urgency ofthe situation, he could not help but think himself a hero.

The crash of surf on shore reminded him of the reasonfor this journey. Anxiously, he studied the stone structure, searching for someentryway. In the fading light of day, the wizard's tower looked more weatheredthan forbidding. Thick lichen and moss covered parts of the cracked stonestructure in mottled patches, and even from this distance he could make out thelong, thin stalks of hearty scrub vines twining up the tower's base. Gone werethe mystical guardians and arcane wards that had populated his adolescentimaginings, replaced by the mundane reality of sand, rock, and sea-blown wind.Smiling ruefully at his fancies, Morgan the fisherman headed up the path towardthe black tower.

And found himself face-to-face with death.

He had little warning, just a slight scrape of sandand the span of a heartbeat in which to react, before he was struck by apowerful blow. He hit the ground hard, felt the air explode out of his lungs.Gasping and dazed, he struggled to his knees, only to find himself staringinto the heart of a nightmare. It stood nearly six feet, covered in thick greenscales that glistened wetly in the dying light. Deep scars pitted its humanoidface, nearly closing one large eye completely. The other eye fixed Morgan witha baleful stare, its cold black orb seemed to pull what little light remainedinto its depths.

The creature took a step forward, opened its slightlyprotruding jaw. Still kneeling on the ground, Morgan could make out row uponrow of needle-sharp teeth, no doubt eager to rend the flesh from his bones. Hewanted to scream, but the wind was still knocked from him. Instead, he forcedhimself to his feet and stumbled desperately toward the wizard's tower. If hecould just make it from the sandy footing of the beach to the tower's path, hewould have a chance to outrun the creature.

Morgan felt the beast's claws rip through his shirt,scoring the flesh underneath, just as the path came into sight. He twisted tothe side, avoiding the creature's next strike-and tripped. The last thing hesaw before his head exploded into light was the outline of claws against thesky.

By the time the world resolved itself back into color,the sun had set. A pale half moon bathed the island in gentle illumination. Byits light, Morgan could see a figure standing over the smoking corpse of thenightmare creature. The figure, obviously a man by the suggestion of a beardvisible from this distance, prodded the ruined body with the end of a longstaff. The smell of burnt flesh wafted off the corpse, fouling the sea air.

"Ho, I see our visitor has come back to us,"the strange man called out, ending his grisly examination.

Morgan's voice caught in his throat as he tried toreply. Dhavrim Starson-for who else, he reasoned, would he find standing on theshore of the wizard's island- resembled nothing of the legendary mage. Shortand fat, with a deep-jowled, ruddy face and scratchy salt-and-pepper beard, helooked like nothing so much as a drunken wastrel whose appetites had long sinceconsumed him.

The wizard wheezed heavily as he lumbered toward thefallen fisherman. Morgan watched in morbid fascination as the man's prodigiousgirth stretched the fabric of his generous blue robe with each step. OnlyDhavrim's white staff, inlaid with spidery runes that flowed like molten silverdown its length, betrayed the wizard's true power.

That, and his eyes.

Cold and gray, charged with the promise of a hundredstorms, they held the young man frozen beneath their ancient gaze. Morgan felthimself pulled within their depths, felt the weight of the wizard's gaze as itmeasured him, searched him, then cast him aside.

"Can you stand?"

A voice. Calm. Reassuring.

Release.

He felt his body once again, reached for the pudgyhand extended before his face.

"Y-yes, th-thank you," Morgan stammered. Helooked once more at the corpse lying in the sand. "What… what manner ofbeast was that?" he asked unsteadily, not really sure if he wanted to knowthe answer.

Dhavrim followed the young man's gaze. "Those whowish to appear learned call it a sahuagin. Those who truly understand it,simply call it death." The wizard paused for a moment and turned to lookat Morgan once again, one silvered eyebrow arched expressively. "The realquestion, however, is why it followed you here."

Morgan hesitated before answering. Wizards, he knewfrom the old stories, were unpredictable and quick to anger-this one most ofall. For a moment, he was once more that headstrong youth who sailed a smallboat around the mage's isle, fearfully waiting for the wizard's wrath to fall.

I don't belong here!

The moment passed, and Morgan mustered his courageenough to speak-he owed that much to Avadriel.

"I bear a message from the sea elfAvadriel," he said in what he hoped was a firm tone.

Dhavrim's expression grew grave.

"Go on," he replied simply.

The wizard stood in silence as Morgan finishedrecounting his message.

The young man wondered what the wizard could bethinking, but was loath to interrupt the mage's rumination. The silence grew,charging the air with its intensity like the moments before a lightning storm.Morgan's skin prickled as he watched Dhavrim grip his staff tighter.

Abruptly, the wizard spun and began to march back tohis stone tower.

"Come!" he barked commandingly, "thereis much to be done this night."

"Wait!" Morgan called to the retreatingfigure. "What of Avadriel? If these. . sa-sahuagin. ." Morgan

stumbled over the unfamiliar word before continuing,"followed me, then they must surely know where she is. We have to helpher."

"Avadriel is a warrior and daughter of a noblehouse. She can take care of herself," Dhavrim replied, not stopping."But if what she reported is true, then all of Faerûn is in danger. Agreat war is coming, and we must be prepared!"

Morgan ran after the heavyset wizard, the thought ofAvadriel being torn apart by sahuagin driving everything else from his mind.

"She may be a warrior," he shouted atDhavrim, "but right now she's gravely wounded and alone, while thosecreatures are out there ready to tear her apart."

He watched in disbelief as the wizard, only a fewsteps ahead of him, ignored his plea. Avadriel would be killed and the fatcoward refused to do anything about it.

Wizard or no wizard, he thought acidly, I will makehim come with me.

Increasing his pace, Morgan caught up to Dhavrim andjerked hard on the wizard's meaty shoulder.

"Listen to me!" he shouted.

And instantly regretted his decision.

The wizard rounded on Morgan, his eyes flashing dangerouslyin the moonlit sky. Horrified, Morgan took a step back as Dhavrim pointed theglowing tip of his staff right at him-and began to laugh.

"By the gods, boy," Dhavrim managed towheeze in between chortles, "you've great heart, you do. There are fewwarriors who would dare brave the wrath of Dhavrim Starson." Another waveof laughter racked the wizard's frame. Seeing the young man's obviouslyconfused expression, Dhavrim sucked in a huge gulp of air and tried to calmhimself. "You've wisdom, too," he continued, "though I doubt youknow it. Avadriel is perhaps the only witness to the strength of the enemy.Such information is undoubtedly critical."

Morgan stood in stunned disbelief as the wizard, stillquietly chuckling, raised his arm and called out a name. A few moments later, afamiliar white form hurtled out of the night to settle upon Dhavrim's pudgyarm. The wizard whispered something to the gull, then Morgan watched the nightreclaim it as it flew away.

"It is time we were off, boy," Dhavrim saidsoftly.

He started down the path toward the beach, leavingMorgan to wonder briefly at the quicksilver nature of wizards.

Dhavrim stood at the stern of the boat and whispered aword into the deepening night. To Morgan, sitting anxiously in the smallcraft, it sounded like the dark hiss of sea foam-ancient and redolent withpower. The boat surged forward and cut across the waves, eventually piercingthe thick wall of fog. Another word brought light, pale and ghostly, pulsingforth from the silver-shod tip of the wizard's staff. The magelight shreddedboth fog and night. In its path, Morgan watched Dhavrim scan the horizon, grimand rigid as the unyielding stone of his tower.

Despite himself, he could not suppress a shiver offear. The wizard's words had frightened him. War. It was coming, and the tideswould run dark with blood before it was over. Damn it all, he thought,everything and everyone he knew was threatened by a danger he could scarcelycomprehend, let alone fight.

Especially Avadriel.

That's what frightened him the most. The sea elfwounded and alone, while a host of Umberlee's darkest creatures hungered forher flesh. If she should die, he knew that the world would seem empty. Geas ornot, he loved her.

This was madness, he thought bitterly. Perhaps hisfather had it right, sailing into the moonless arms of the sea, silent andalone. Perhaps some forms of madness were better than others.

Lost in the darkness of his thoughts, Morgan was surprisedto hear Dhavrim's voice cut through the night. "We're close now, lad. Keepwatch."

With that, he extinguished the light from his staff.

They had traveled through the thick bank of fog, andthe moon shone once more in the sky. By its light, he could make out theghostly silhouette of the sea caves just ahead.

As they drew nearer, Morgan's blood ran cold. In thepale light, he saw several figures creeping around the rocks near Avadriel'scave. Their movements seemed stiff and awkward, but even at this distance hecould identify them as kin to the creature that had attacked him on Dhavrim'sisland. He reported this to the wizard.

"Aye, lad, I see them," Dhavrim replied."Wait until I give you the signal, then cover your eyes."

Morgan nodded silently and waited as the dinghy drewcloser to the sea cave. His heart pounded heavily in his chest. The names ofseveral gods came to his lips, but he was too scared to utter a prayer. What amI doing here? he thought.

"Now!" shouted Dhavrim.

Hastily, Morgan drew both arms over his eyes. Evenwith this protection, his vision flooded with light. Just as suddenly, itdisappeared. The boat rocked and he heard a splash, followed by the wizard'svoice.

"Row hard for the cave and bring Avadriel out. I'llkeep the foul creatures occupied."

All thought stopped as Morgan struggled to obey thevoice. Quickly, he set the oars to water and rowed toward the cave. Off to hisside he could hear the sibilant hiss of sahuagin and the fierce cries ofDhavrim, but he forced them out of his mind. When he reached the sea cave hecalled out for Avadriel.

A small voice answered, "Morgan? What are youdoing here?"

"Quick, Avadriel, you must get in. I've broughtDhavrim, but the gods-cursed sahuagin are everywhere."

She jumped into the boat. Morgan found it difficultnot to crush her to his chest. Avadriel was alive, he thought, though theirsurvival depended on his strength and the power of an inscrutable wizard.Desperately, he turned around and rowed back out toward the wizard. In the wanmoonlight, he could see the evil creatures lying in crumpled heaps upon therocks. Dhavrim leaned heavily against his glowing staff, a beacon of hope amidthe broken sahuagin bodies.

Relief flooded through Morgan. They were safe.Steadily, he propelled the boat back toward the wizard, thinking all the whileof what his life with Avadriel would be like. He couldn't help but smile as shedrew her body closer to his. He turned toward her, ready to speak his heart,when the water in front of the boat began to froth.

Suddenly, the last sahuagin slavered out of the churningwater into the boat. With a cry, Morgan pushed Avadriel back, drew one of theoars out of the lock, and swung it at the beast.

It glanced off the creature's thick hide with a dullthud.

The sahuagin hissed loudly and brought its scaled armdown upon the oar, snapping it in half. Morgan watched helplessly as the beastmade a grab for Avadriel. Desperately, he took the splintered haft of the oarand jammed it into the creature's chest. This time the wood pierced the beast'sscales, sliding past muscle and bone. The sahuagin roared in pain and lashedout wildly, raking Morgan across his throat, before the boat overturned.

As Morgan struggled feebly to the surface, his throata corona of agony, he cast about for signs of Avadriel. In the distance, hecould still see the glowing tip of the wizard's staff, obscured by the crest ofa black wave. His limbs grew heavy, as if they were weighted anchors,threatening to pull him down, and his head spun from loss of blood. Disorientedand in pain, it took him a few moments to realize that he no longer needed tokeep himself afloat. Silently, Avadriel had come up from behind to supporthim.

Morgan tried to turn and see her, but his sluggish limbswould not respond. Instead, Avadriel gently laid him on his back, and carefullyheld his head above the water. He watched her in silence for a few moments, marvelingat the way her eyes absorbed the crystalline light of the moon, beforespeaking.

"The sahuagin?" he gurgled from the ruinedstrip of flesh and cartilage that remained of his throat.

Avadriel touched a webbed finger to his lips.

"Hush, Morgan. The beasts will trouble us nomore." She paused before saying, "Twice now, I owe you my life."

He tried to protest, to profess his love before thedarkness that danced at the edge of his vision claimed him forever, but aspasm of pain racked his body. All he could do was let out a single, frustratedgasp.

The sea elf gently stroked his forehead, and, as ifreading his mind, spoke gently into the night.

"Do not worry, my love, I, too, hear the callingof my heart." She looked away, but not before Morgan caught the look ofpain and sadness that creased her face. "Come, the wizard has recoveredthe boat. It's time to go."

As she turned her face back toward him, Morgan stareddeeply into her eyes. He nodded, understanding flooding his awareness.

"May Deep Sashelas bless you until we meetagain," Avadriel whispered before touching her lips to his.

At that contact, Morgan felt his pain flow out of him,leaving only a steady, measured sense of peace. Water enfolded him, circlinghim gently like the protective arms of a lover. They had succeeded, he thoughtdully, as his body slid through the depths. The wizards knew of the sahuagininvasion, and Avadriel was safe. Smiling, Morgan floated down into the darkwaters of oblivion.

And beyond.

EMPTY JOYS

R.A. Salvatore

Artemis Entreri looked down the sloping rocks to thedistant fishing village on the shore of some lake he did not know. Small wavesrippled in, gently rocking the many ships and sending their tall masts into ahypnotic sway.

Usually impervious to such fits of introspection,Entreri allowed himself to follow that dance for a bit, to ponder the unlikelycircumstances and unlikelier companion that had delivered him to that spot.

With four decades of life behind him, and nearly threeof those spent surviving alone in the harsh underbellies of Calimport and othercities, it struck Entreri as curious and ironic that, into middle-age, he foundhimself being guided by the machinations of another.

Was it a testament to Jarlaxle's persuasiveness thathe was allowing himself to be tugged along that strange road, or was it,perhaps, some inner need of his own, unrecognized and unexamined?

What was Jarlaxle offering to him? Adventure? Entrerihad known that for most of his life, and most of it had not been of hischoosing, but rather had been foisted upon him by circumstances dangerous andtroubling.

Wealth? To what end?

Never had Entreri desired anything substantial ofmaterial value, unless one counted the possessions of his trade that he eventhen carried, particularly his signature jeweled dagger on his right hip, andthe fabulous sword, Charon's Claw, on his left.

The assassin noted the approach of his dark elf companionJarlaxle, and shook the thoughts from his mind, and he wouldn't lie to himselfsufficiently to deny that he did so with some measure of relief.

For deep within, Artemis Entreri understood what itwas that Jarlaxle was giving to him, and despite his rational objections, theloner survival instinct shouting most prominently among all of his emotions, hewould not reject that one gift: friendship.

Jarlaxle held his wide-brimmed and outrageously-plumedhat in one hand as he casually strode toward Entreri, revealing his angulardrow features and bald head in all their ebon-skinned beauty. His travelingcloak was thrown back over one shoulder in a dignified, almost aristocraticmanner, and it flapped out in the breeze behind him, accentuating his lithe elfform. So thin and agile was he, with no weapon visible, and yet he exuded aconfidence and power, a simple physical presence, beyond that of any manEntreri had ever known.

He was carrying a new item, Entreri realized as thedrow moved closer. At first, the assassin had thought it a simple walkingstick, a broken branch collected along a wooded trail, but as Jarlaxle neared,Entreri began to see the beauty and craftsmanship of the cane. It was made allof silvery metal, the head curved forward and was carved into the likeness ofan alert ferret, head craned in ready posture. The eyes were two black gems-andflawless ones, if Entreri knew Jarlaxle.

What a pair of opposites the duo must seem, Entrerimused, considering his own appearance, with boots often mud-caked and cloakweather-beaten. But as he considered that, the assassin did a cursoryinspection of himself and had to wonder just how much his traveling companionwas beginning to wear off on him.

His black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail andhe had shed his bulkier and oft-torn leather surcoat for a shirt of fine fabricand quality, that he kept unfastened several inches down from the collar. Morethan a fashion implement, though, the shirt, furnished by Jarlaxle, was sewnwith fine strands of enchanted metal threads that could turn a blade at leastas well as the bulkier leather.

Entreri was looking trim and fit as well, at least asmuch so as he had been over the past decade. Jarlaxle was keeping him on histoes, keeping him constantly on the move and in practice.

And perhaps there was something else contributing tothat fitness, Entreri knew, and he couldn't help but wince a little bit as heconsidered it. In one of their last encounters, Entreri had utilized hisvampiric, life-stealing dagger on an unusual creature, a shade, and in thatstrike, something of the essence of the creature had apparently found its wayinto Entreri's being, as was evidenced by the slightly grayish tone his skinhad taken.

Jarlaxle had professed ignorance to what it might portend,and Entreri had no idea at all, and so he had chosen to simply ignore itall-except on occasions when he took a moment to consider his present state.

"They are in their cave," Jarlaxle informedhis companion, referring to a ragtag band of highwaymen they had followed intothe foothills.

"Why do we care?"

"Must I explain every adventure to you, detail bydetail?" the drow replied with that grin of his that always promisedEntreri that they were going to get into serious trouble.

Jarlaxle, freed from the confines of the Underdark byhis decision to turn his mercenary band of dark elves over to a lieutenant,seemed to desire life right on the edge of disaster.

Entreri wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

They were living fairly well, in those times they satstill long enough to realize the spoils of their adventures. They traveledfrom town to town, putting down no roots, taking jobs-usually as bodyguards orbounty hunters-as they found them. Every so often, circumstance forced atactical retreat-it didn't take long for Entreri and Jarlaxle to wear out theirwelcome, after all-but on most occasions, it seemed to Entreri that theirconstant movement and hunting for adventure was more the realization ofJarlaxle's agenda than the pressing pursuit of any authorities.

"You truly want us to join in with a band ofhighwaymen?'' Entreri skeptically asked. "Are we to climb through theirranks, position by position, by proving ourselves worthy in the eyes of theirself-appointed leader?"

"You live for sarcasm."

"I am being tutored by the best."

"At least in that, unlike in other matters, youadmit your inferiority, then."

Entreri had no answers, and didn't even bother to fixJarlaxle with a scowl. The dark elf would only find some witty answer for it,anyway, and would hardly be either threatened or bothered.

"We need not stay with them for long," thedark elf explained. "But they have some good food-of that I am certain,and I tire of our rations. Besides, this group might well lead us to somegreater ally or adventure; we will never learn unless we seek."

Entreri didn't bother to argue, and fell right intostep as Jarlaxle started away, moving toward the road they both knew thehighwaymen to be currently working.

Sure enough, within an hour, the two came upon a cleararea of trail, lined by only a couple of trees, and there they were predictablyaccosted.

"Stand where you are!" came the order fromthe boughs of one of the trees.

"It took you long enough to discover us,"Jarlaxle called back.

"There are a dozen bows trained upon you!"

"Then at least four of your fellows are holdingtwo, which would leave them quite ineffective, I would wager," said thedark elf.

"You are a wealth of information," Entreriremarked.

"Impress them with intellect."

"Tell them everything we know," Entrericorrected. "And perhaps our life's tale that brought us to this point.What next, Jarlaxle? Will you draw them a map to your mother's house?"

Jarlaxle's lips curled at the amusing notion ofsending a stream of surface dwellers trotting happily to House Baenre inMenzoberranzan.

Entreri dropped his arguing and glanced around, tonote that several of the bandits were about, a couple with bows and allscrambling for a better angle on the pair. The one who had verbally accostedthem dropped down from the tree, then, and started forward, sword in hand.

Entreri measured the balance (or lack thereof) of thatstep, and figured that he could have the man dead in three moves, should itcome to a fight.

"Strip yourself of your weapons, your coin, andeven your clothing," the man demanded in a falsely haughty voice, a toneof sophistication that did not match reality, both the friends knew, and onedesigned to convey superiority over his slobbering fellow robbers."Perhaps my friends and me will let you walk away."

"And I," Jarlaxle corrected.

"Aye, yourself as well."

"No no, you said 'my friends and me,' but theproper-"

"Let it go," Entreri interrupted.

"Quit yer whispering!" the man demanded,reverting to an accent that seemed far more fitting to one of his lowly anduneducated stature. "Now go ahead and start dropping the goods."

"Now, now, friend," said Jarlaxle. "Wecome not as enemies, and surely not as victims. We have been watching you andyour fellows for some time now, and have decided that a joining of ourresources might prove a valuable alliance."

"Eh?" the man responded, his face blank.

"Oh, wonderful," Entreri remarked.

"They have not shot their bows yet, havethey?" whispered the dark elf.

"All owing to the brilliant diplomacy ofJarlaxle, no doubt."

"Enough o' that, both of ye!" the highwaymanyelled. "Now I'm warning you for the last time to start dropping thegoods!"

"It will be the last time if I choose to cut outyour throat, to be sure," Entreri replied.

He saw Jarlaxle explode into motion before he ever finishedthe sentence, and heard as well the twang of bows.

But Jarlaxle was the quicker, pulling a black discfrom his mightily magical hat, spinning it (and hugely elongating it in theprocess), then throwing it down at their feet, creating an extra-dimensionalpocket, a portable hole.

Entreri and the drow dropped in as the arrows zoomedoverhead.

The human assassin landed easily, dropping fast into acrouch, while Jarlaxle, with hardly a thought, it seemed, caught himself withlevitation and lightly touched down beside him.

Up came Entreri, up and forward, and Jarlaxle threwhimself against the hole's front wall and turned fast, cupping his hands infront of him and offering Entreri a boost. The assassin light-stepped ontothose delicate but surprisingly strong fingers and Jarlaxle hoisted him.

He came out of the hole in a dead run at one very surprisedhighwayman.

Entreri fell into a roll, threw himself over sideways,then scissored his legs around the highwayman's, tripping him up. The man hadbarely hit the ground before Entreri was over him, that devilish jeweled daggerat his throat.

"Tell them we are your friends," Entrerisaid, and when the man hesitated, he pushed the dagger's tip in Just a bit.

But enough for him to activate the enchanted weapon'slife-stealing ability.

The would-be robber's eyes widened with horror as he realizedthat his very life force was suddenly being sucked out of him.

"Tell them," said Entreri, and the man beganto shout for the others to stand fast.

Entreri pulled the man up roughly and rolled aroundbehind him, using him as a shield against any of the archers. He saw Jarlaxlefloat up out of the hole then, standing perfectly still and perfectly calm.

"Drow elf." one of the others yelled andthey all began firing their bows, lines of arrows streaking at the dark elf,who didn't flinch in the least.

Every arrow went right through him-or right throughthe illusion of him that he had brought forth from the hole.

"Are you quite done?" the drow asked, whenat last the firing subsided.

"Very well, then," he added when there cameno response, and no further arrows.

Entreri stood up and pulled his captive to his feetbefore him, then roughly shoved the man away and flipped his dagger back intoits sheath in one fluid motion.

"We wish to join your band," the assassinremarked, "not thin your ranks so that there might be room for us."

Entreri's attention went back to the hole, whereanother Jarlaxle was floating up to stand beside the illusionary. He lookedout wide to both sides, to see the archers nervously fumbling with their bows,though none offered a shot.

"Have they learned?" came a call from withinthe hole.

"They seem willing to talk first, at least,"Entreri answered, and a third illusion of Jarlaxle drifted up from the hole.

When a few moments passed and the archers still madeno move to fire, a fourth image of the dark elf appeared, and immediately beganinspecting the other three, nodding his head admiringly before he finally madehis way to the side of the hole, stepped onto solid ground and lifted theextra-dimensional device.

The three images began to slowly fade.

"Very well then," Jarlaxle said, moving toEntreri and the befuddled and terrified would-be robber. "Lead on."

"I–I will have y-your weapons," the manstammered, trying futilely to sound as if he was back in control as his fellowsclosed in.

"In your throat or your chest?" Entreriasked. The man gulped audibly and said no more about it.

Entreri sat on a ledge, nearly twenty feet up from thefloor of the cave that his newly-adopted band of cutthroats used as theirlair. It was a large and airy chamber, and the band had been quite adept atadding homey comforts. Many beds sat on the different levels of the shelvedmain cavern and there was a complete cooking area, with a well-constructed firepit, counters, and cabinets. Numbering fourteen, with the addition of Jarlaxleand Entreri, the rogue band had plenty of space.

There was only one separate chamber, used by Pagg, theband's leader, a tough if somewhat simple ruffian with more scars than Jarlaxlehad magical devices.

Even with the comforts offered by the cave, it didn'ttake Entreri long to come to wonder why in the world the band had decided uponthat particular location for their base. They were off the main merchantroutes, and the only towns around were poor farming and fishing communities.Even if they cleaned out every village within a twenty mile radius of every valuable,the robbers would still be poor.

Entreri watched with amusement as a game of dicecontinued on the main floor of the cave. Jarlaxle was playing, and winning ofcourse, as was evidenced by the continuing growls and complaints of the others.

Entreri shook his head and wondered if the drow wouldpush his winnings far enough to start a terrible row-and Entreri honestlywished that he would. They had been among the band of ruffians for the betterpart of two tendays, and Entreri was growing dreadfully bored. He had been outon the road twice with Jarlaxle and some others, and once they had even managedto overtake a merchant wagon, relieving the terrified man, a baker, of hisgoods. The ruffians had then moved to murder the man, but Jarlaxle had stoppedthem, explaining that doing so would only incite the wrath of authorities.

Entreri could hardly contain his grin as he recalledthat moment of terror for the poor, trembling baker, when Jarlaxle had turnedto him and elicited a promise that he would not tell anyone about the theft.

After tasting one of the man's creations, a sugarycookie, Jarlaxle had then gone one step further, insisting in no uncertainterms that the man surrender his previous life and join in the group at thecave.

And there he was, Entreri mused, working away by thefire pit on some new creation to satisfy the unusual creature who most surelyterrified him beyond anything he had ever known.

A shout of victory from below turned the assassin's eyesback to the game, where Jarlaxle had apparently lost a rather large pot, to thedelight of the three people rolling against him and their four watchingfriends. A short time later Jarlaxle lost yet again, and he put his hands up indefeat and walked away from the game, moving to the ladders and climbing up tosit beside his friend.

"And when all is counted, Jarlaxle makes just abit, while giving the others the satisfaction that they finished strong,"Entreri reasoned.

"That and the hope that their luck will continuewhen next we play," the drow agreed.

"This is as sorry a band in as worthless a landas I have ever known," said Entreri.

"Ever do you see the dark side of it all."

"As compared to?"

"I have learned much of the region from ourdice-rolling friends," said Jarlaxle. "And there is fat PiterMcRuggle," he added, motioning down at the hardworking baker. "A fineand useful chef."

"All we need are a few women, and why wouldanyone leave?" came the assassin's predictably sarcastic reply.

"Well, there is Jehn, and of coursePatermeg," Jarlaxle reminded, speaking of the bands two female associates,one a weather-beaten human and the other a half-orc- and reflecting much moreof her orc heritage than her human side. "An inspirational pair."

"To anyone aspiring to celibacy, one wouldsuppose."

Jarlaxle laughed, but Entreri was hardly in the moodto follow that lead. Both he and the dark elf turned as a figure moved by. itwas Pagg, the group's leader.

"You two'll be out on the road later thistenday," he instructed. "And far off to the south. I'm hearing thatthere might be another caravan coming through. Ye'll get to prove yer mettleand yer worth."

He walked on by, and neither Entreri nor Jarlaxle evenbothered to follow him with their gazes.

"He keeps hoping that he'll find another wealthyhit," said the drow. "Akin to the one that put him in the positionof leadership in the first place."

Entreri nodded his agreement, and did glance over atthe departing Pagg. The man had risen to prominence among the ruffians with oneparticularly profitable haul-the only profitable haul the ragtag bunch had everrealized. Pagg had led them to intercept a merchant caravan moving fromSundabar to Silverymoon, and buried among the more mundane goods the thieveshad found one wagon laden with actual treasure.

That had been a long time ago and a long way away,however, as the band had then been fervently pursued by some of Sundabar'squite capable authorities. When the dust had settled, their numbers depleted,their leader dead, the remaining thugs had allowed Pagg the position ofleadership, and he had taken them … nowhere.

Entreri, no stranger to thieves' guilds and the workingsof noblemen, figured it was only a matter of time before Pagg angered the wronggroup and got his band exterminated.

"Perhaps when we set out tomorrow, we should justkeep walking," Entreri remarked.

Jarlaxle looked at him curiously, as if he was missingthe entire point of it all.

"Well," the drow began, "I cannot leavebaker Piter trapped here with these uncouth and uncivilized creatures."Both looked down at the poor man, working furiously as always, over by the firepit. "And I assured him that I would supply him with better equipment-aproper oven, even."

"You feel responsible for him? If it weren't foryou, the thugs would have murdered him on the road."

"To the loss of all the world," Jarlaxledramatically replied. "For truly the man is an artist with thespoon."

Artemis Entreri just snorted and looked away.

The next day, Jarlaxle was back at his gaming area,surrounded by eager gamblers. Dice rolled and cheers erupted repeatedly, andwhen Entreri finally found his curiosity piqued, he moved closer to see whatmight be going on.

"Quick Cut and Snatcher are coming in with acatch," one filthy wretch said to him.

The stupid nicknames such lowly thugs always seemed toplace on each other never ceased to amaze Entreri. He hardly paid attentionother than that quick musing, focusing instead on events at the dice area.

Entreri's eyes widened as he saw more coins there thanhe thought the entire band could possibly possess, piles and piles of gold andsilver, and even a few jewels. He started toward Jarlaxle, thinking to ask whatmight be going on, when he realized suddenly that those piles, most of which werein front of the rogues, had to be a portion of Jarlaxle's wealth!

The notion of Jarlaxle actually losing to those foolswas beyond comprehension, and that led Entreri quickly down a different path ofreasoning.

He finally caught the gaze of Jarlaxle, who smiled andshrugged, as if helpless, and motioned with his chin, albeit subtly, toward thenarrow cave entrance.

The one escape from the lair.

Entreri moved back from the gathering and the shouting,found a few handholds and deftly went up onto the lowest ledge. His attention wasdiverted before he could even begin to focus back on the surprising game, forhe heard a commotion over by the door.

Several dark forms appeared in that opening, and asthey entered, Entreri recognized a couple of the missing ruffians-the stupidlynicknamed men who had been sent out on the road that morning-along with a pairof new additions: two young women, plainly dressed and obviously terrified.

Daughters of fishermen, Entreri realized.

The thugs pushed them forward into the open area, andall interest in gaming fell away fast as the band came to recognize theirnewest playthings. They surrounded the girls. Even Jhen and Patermeg came outto inspect the prize, with ugly Patermeg pawing the two girls rather lewdly, tothe hoots and howls of the appreciative audience.

"Wonderful," Entreri muttered when Jarlaxlecame over to stand just below him. "And I will bet that our compatriotsfound a king's treasure trove on the cart with those two. Or perhaps we canransom them off to their families for a goat, or even a fat pig."

"A win is a win," Jarlaxle chimed in, andEntreri stared at him incredulously.

"Did I just notice you losing a rather large sumof coin to these dolts?"

"The coins are only shiny metal unless one has aplace at which to spend them," the drow replied.

Entreri didn't even try to search for the reasoningbehind that statement.

"Wonderful life, this," he muttered."So much hardship for a pittance and the empty joys in reveling in themisery of others."

"Empty joys?" Jarlaxle echoed, and whenEntreri looked at him, the dark elf seemed like a smug and judgmental mirrorreflecting back upon him.

Unwilling to acknowledge that sly retort, howevertruthful, in any positive way, the assassin just shook his head and stood as ifto leave.

"My friend," said Jarlaxle, "it is acave, with but one easily defended exit. Where are my coins and jewels togo?"

Entreri started to offer a smug retort, but he stoppedshort as Jarlaxle's intent became clear. One corner of Entreri's lip curled, asclose to an expression of intrigue as he had been able to muster on histypically dour face in some time, something the grinning Jarlaxle obviouslydidn't miss.

"They are a dozen," the assassin remindedhis black-skinned companion. "Seasoned and skilled."

"Have you so lost the will for a challenge?"

It was Entreri's turn to smirk.

"No," he replied. "In traveling withyou, I simply have not found a worthy challenge placed before me."

Jarlaxle glanced upward at the higher ledges, andEntreri took the cue, moving to one of the rope ladders and scaling to thehighest ledge, where he quickly gathered up one of the ropes used for slidingfast back to the main floor.

Jarlaxle, meanwhile, ambled over to the gathering,where the two terrified girls were being prodded and pushed around as the thugsbegan to sort out the order of the coming assault. At one point, Patermeg, outof jealousy or just her typical nastiness, balled up her fist and punched oneof the girls in the face, knocking her to the ground.

"Don't ye ugly her up!" one of the mencomplained.

Patermeg stormed over anyway and kicked at the girl.

Or started to, for a howl from above turned them allthat way, to see Pagg standing on the high ledge, staring down at them, hisface locked in an expression that none could immediately decipher.

Until he fell forward, quite dead before he ever hitthe floor.

The bandits all watched that descent, and so nonenoticed the sudden movement up above as another form came leaping off thatledge, angling out to the side. Entreri released the rope perfectly as he went,launching himself into a long and fast-descending swing, angling down in agreat swoop that brought him sweeping right at the gathering.

The assassin slammed in hard against the first thug inline, his knees tucked at a perfect angle to shatter the man's hip and send himsprawling to the floor in agony. Letting go of the rope and drawing forth hisdagger and sword, Entreri fell into a wild roll and charge, slashing andstabbing every which way as he cut through the group.

Charon's Claw, his magical blade, began issuing forthits stream of ash, leaving black lines hanging in the air that only added tothe confusion.

Around went Entreri, coming to his feet and turning acircuit, launching a backhand stab with his dagger and cutting down one foolwith his sword-and nearly cleaving the man's head in half in the process.

He knew that he had to move swiftly, that he and Jarlaxlehad to take down at least half the remaining cutthroats before any organizeddefense could begin to take shape, but even as he started to gain truemomentum, even as he found his footing so that he could offer more substantiveand devastating strikes, he found his blade deftly deflected by a perfectlytimed parry, and he had to throw himself out far to the side to avoid acountering thrust.

As he squared up in a defensive posture, he heard awhistling noise, and despite being pressed hard by three of the killers,including both women, he glanced back at his companion.

Jarlaxle, surrounded, was spinning his cane over andover in his hand, and it was the item that was "singing" like somestrange musical instrument. The octave raised as Jarlaxle increased the spin,bringing the walking stick in diagonal swoops back and forth to either side ofhim.

A sword came hard at Entreri and he brought Charon'sClaw across in a parry, then slashed it back the other way, releasing a wall ofblack ash. He rushed around to the right of the ash, sword swiping and buildinga perpendicular visual barrier.

Entreri stopped short and pivoted back the other way,ducked low as he quick-stepped, then turned back and plunged right through thefirst of his ash barriers.

Patermeg was still looking to her left, to the far endof the second wall, when he burst out right beside her, his dagger stabbingdeep into the side of her chest, his sword going across the half-orc female'storso to poke her opposite shoulder, keeping her sword at bay.

Entreri twisted the dagger and called upon itslife-stealing abilities, then tore it free and hopped forward over thecrumbling Patermeg, engaging Jhen and the other in a sudden and furiousexchange.

The whistling continued from across the way, and wasaccompanied by a series of grunts, shouts, and squeals that Entreri could notignore. He glanced back to see the ring of thugs about Jarlaxle collapsing,bandits grabbing at their bellies, at their faces, and falling away, stunghard. Entreri's scan of Jarlaxle registered the truth.

As the walking stick twirled, the drow was fasttapping his little finger against one of the ferret eyes, and that was settingloose a needle dart to fly forth from the other end. A stream of the tiny,stinging (and no doubt poison-coated, judging from the spasms of those beinghit) missiles flew forth.

Entreri focused completely on the task before him,slapping aside Jhen's sword and that of his other attacker. He had anopportunity to strike at that man, but held his defensive posture, and whenboth blades came at him side-by-side a moment later, he swiped his sword acrossand up, taking them both high.

Entreri fast-turned inside that parry and slashedCharon's Claw back down, painting the air black before his turning and dodgingattackers.

And they were face-up before the wall of ash, apparentlyexpecting Entreri to burst through it or come running around either end.

Except that the pivoting Entreri had been on the nearside of the ash wall when he'd created it, and so was behind them, watchingwith some amusement.

Jhen, to her credit, got it first, and she gave ascream and spun wildly around. She ducked the swinging Charon's Claw, but thesword wasn't aimed for her anyway, and instead went across and lopped the headfrom the male thug, who still stood staring stupidly at the ash.

No, for Jhen, Entreri had reserved his jeweled dagger,taking her right in the face as she conveniently ducked low.

The assassin pulled the blade free and looked back tosee Jarlaxle with only a pair of thugs remaining, and both of them takingrefuge behind the two captured girls.

A third man was sprinting for the door, but Jarlaxlereached into his innate drow magic and placed a globe of impenetrable darknessover that opening. The man ran right into the globe, and from within its darkconfines came a crash and a grunt.

"He has most of my coin, I fear," Jarlaxlecalmly said, as if intending to spur Entreri to motion.

But the assassin just stood and watched the standoffwith amusement, wondering if Jarlaxle would barter for the lives of theinnocent girls.

Jarlaxle stood calmly, his only movement that of hiswalking stick, still spinning before him, rocking back and forth.

"Empty of darts?" Entreri asked in the drowlanguage, guessing correctly that the others could not understand.

"Not quite, though the poison is depleted,"Jarlaxle replied.

That prompted Entreri to glance around at those fallennear to the drow mercenary, most squirming on the floor weirdly.

Drow poison, Entreri recognized, a paralyzing anddebilitating mixture.

"And so I should be ready to take this pair, Isuppose?" Entreri asked.

"Yeah stop yer blabbering and let us go!" one of the thugs demanded, and to accentuate his point, he brought his shortsword up against the throat of one of the girls.

Entreri watched Jarlaxle's delicate movement, a slightturn to put himself in better alignment with the rogues.

Entreri gave a shout and charged forward.

Jarlaxle's walking stick clicked twice in rapid successionand the poor girls screamed.

But both men fell back from them, each hit in the faceby a stinging needle. One recovered quickly, to his credit, while theother, a needle buried deep into his eye, thrashed about on the stone floor.

As for the other, he would have been better off had henot recovered, for as he reached back for the girl, she was suddenly thrownaside, her place taken by Artemis Entreri.

The man responded with a thrust of his sword, but theassassin parried it once, twice, thrice, moving it to a lock between his daggerand sword, where a twist and flick of his wrists had the blade flying free.Before the man could even respond, before he could plead for mercy or surrender,if that was his intent, or before he could punch out with his bare hands, ifthe fool had that in mind, Entreri was suddenly up against him, both theassassin's blades buried to the hilt into his chest.

A sudden shove dropped him dead to the floor.

And still the girls were screaming. And still many ofthe others joined in, or flopped about on the floor.

"We should be leaving," Entreri suggested,turning around to regard his friend, who was standing calmly again, leaning onhis walking stick.

"Indeed," Jarlaxle agreed, motioning to thecave opening, where his globe of darkness was now gone, and gone, too, was theman Jarlaxle claimed had taken much of his coin. "To the hunt?"

"What about them?" Entreri spat with obviouscontempt, as he regarded the two shivering girls.

"Our rescue would be less than complete if we didnot escort them to their homes," the drow answered, and it seemed toEntreri as if both the poor girls would just fall over and die. "And thereis Piter, of course," the drow added, and he called loudly,"Piter?"

The fat baker came out from around a rock near theback of the cave.

"Come along then, friend," said the drow."I am afraid that I cannot deliver a proper oven to you here, so we mustsettle for depositing you back in your shop where you belong."

It occurred to Entreri then that he and his companionhad garnered no spoils from their two-tenday adventure, and indeed, ifthey could not catch up to the fleeing thug, had apparently lost some coin. Hetook out his frustration on the face of one unfortunate rogue who was trying torise against the pervasive pull of the drow poison, kicking the man hard in theface and laying him low.

"Be at ease, my friend," said Jarlaxle."You are a hero! Does it not fill your heart with joy?"

Entreri's returning expression could not have been abetter combination of venom and incredulity.

But of course, Jarlaxle merely laughed.

"He is reveling in the adoration ofgratitude?" asked Kimmuriel Oblodra, the handsome and slender drowpsionicist whom Jarlaxle had placed in charge of Bregan D'aerthe.

"That one?" Jarlaxle replied with a chuckle."He is too suspicious and angry to allow himself such pleasantries. Ireally must find him a woman who will help him to release his tensions."

"By killing her?" the other dark elf saidwith obvious contempt.

"He is not as bad as that," said Jarlaxle.He glanced back in the direction of the small fishing community where Entreriwas waiting, though of course the buildings and the assassin were long out ofsight. "There is hope for that one."

"With the right teacher?"

Jarlaxle turned back to Kimmuriel and asked, "Isthere any better?"

The other drow respectfully bowed.

"How did you find the walking stick?" heasked as he straightened.

"It is slow in the loading, but was quiteenjoyable in action. And effective, yes."

"I find your demands pleasantlychallenging," Kimmuriel replied, and he held out one hand, dangling aneye patch and holding a wide-brimmed hat that perfectly resembled Jarlaxle'sown. Jarlaxle removed his hat and swapped it with the new one after only a cursoryinspection, then spent more time in comparing his own eye patch with the one hewas trading, even ensuring that the stitching was identical.

"They will offer me new opportunities?" Jarlaxle asked.

Kimmuriel looked as if he might pout, and the otherdrow retracted the doubt with a burst of laughter. Had Kimmuriel everdisappointed him in that regard, or in any regard, for that matter?

Almost as an afterthought, Jarlaxle pulled the plumeout of his newly-acquired hat and handed it over, plucking his old plume backand slipping it into his new hat's band.

"I have grown fond of the beastly bird itsummons," Jarlaxle explained.

"But did you not fear that the man beside you wasfiguring out your various tricks?" Kimmuriel replied. "Was that notthe point of this exchange?"

"Entreri is a clever one," Jarlaxleadmitted. "But we have thrown him off any advantage he might have gainedwith this trade, even though you have not yet prepared my new bracers."

"And if you are wrong?"

Jarlaxle's face grew very tight and threatening, butonly for a second.

"I will find him a woman," the drow decidedwith a wide and confident grin. "That will take the sting from hisdagger."

Kimmuriel nodded, and Jarlaxle, so enamored of hissudden plan, didn't even bother to get a complete report of the goings-on inMenzoberranzan from his trusted drow friend, but just turned and skipped offback toward the town.

With a thought, literally, the powerful KimmurielOblodra was back into the Underdark.

Leaving Jarlaxle alone to plan his next escapade withArtemis Entreri.

Content

Elaine Cunningham, Ed Greenwood, Troy Denning, Christie Golden, William W. Connors, Monte Cook, Douglas Niles, J. Robert King, Jeff Grubb, Jean Rabe, Kate Novak-Grubb, Jess Lebow, Keith Francis Strohm, R. A. Salvatore
The Best of the Realms, Book I

RITE OF BLOOD

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

ELMINSTER AT THE MAGEFAIR

WARNINGS

DARKSWORD

BLOOD SPORT

SIX OF SWORDS

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

THE ROSE WINDOW

THE FIRST MOONWELL

THE GREATEST HERO WHO EVER DIED

TERTIUS AND THE ARTIFACT

RED AMBITION

THE COMMON SPELL

ASSASSIN'S SHADOW

AND THE DARK TIDE RISES

EMPTY JOYS