My fires ring my foe around, and my fangs and claws strike at her while she flees. Cruel, am I? Nay, for until now she has ne’er really lived, nor known the worth of the life she has used so carelessly. She should thank me.
Gholdaunt of Tashluta
in a letter to all Sword Coast ports
on his hunting of the pirate
Valshee of the Black Blade
Year of the Wandering Waves
Mist rolled about them as the Company of the Bright Spear hurried quietly and warily over rising hills. Bare rock appeared more frequently. Somewhere ahead, hidden in the mist, the Thunder Peaks jutted skyward in a great wall. The warriors who’d attacked them hastened on, unseen but trailed by trampled grass.
Burlane frowned. “What do you think, Thail? If their bowmen don’t return, will they be warned? Are we rushing into a trap?”
Thail nodded. “Aye. Yet we dare not turn aside and approach the peaks another way. In this mist, we’d lose their trail and stumble into any number of traps. Best we continue close on their heels or turn back altogether!”
Burlane looked at them all. “Well?” he asked. “Do we press on, turn back to Myth Drannor, or seek fortune elsewhere? This chase could mean our deaths, and soon!”
“We face death every day,” Ferostil said with a shrug, “and treasure’s guarded the world over.”
There were nods of agreement.
“We go on, then,” Burlane said. “Weapons ready, and pick up the pace; we slow only where attacks seem likely.”
They urged their reluctant horses into a trot. The hills climbed more steeply. Still the company saw no warriors or laden mules. The trail led through scrub, up into the mountains, leaving the mist behind. Loose stones soon forced them to dismount. Slip-hobbling their horses, they proceeded on foot, Ferostil and Burlane setting a brisk pace.
“Who d’you think we’re following?” Delg grumbled, running hard to keep pace.
Burlane spread his hands; each bore a weapon. “Who can say? No blazon displayed, blades a-ready and not slow to use them—outlaws, surely, but from where? Whence such booty, and where do they lair?”
“Cheery speech,” Ferostil grunted sourly. “So we hasten to meet gods-only-know how many bandits, all well-armed and expecting us. And me without fresh bandages on my wounds!”
Rymel chuckled, and Burlane snorted.
Delg grinned wolfishly. “If it’s fresh bandages you seek, longjaws, I could provide fresh dressings—an’ fresh wounds to go under them!”
“Ahead!” Thail snapped sharply. All fell silent and looked.
The trail led up a rocky rise between two pillars of stone. The land on all sides looked bleak and uninhabited. Between the pillars, the company could see a high, green valley, climbing to the right and out of sight. Mountains rose on either side.
Burlane nodded. “A place to be wary. Yet I see no danger.”
“Invisible, by magic?” Ferostil suggested.
Delg gave him a sour look. “Waste all that Art to hide from six adventurers? You are a king among fools.”
“No, he’s just a gloom-thought,” Rymel said, grinning. “Yet if we climbed one wall of that valley as soon as we pass yon pillars, I’d feel safer. This is a spot for ambush.”
Burlane nodded again. “Once within, climb the right-hand slope, the first good place you see—and look sharp! I want no foes sounding an alarm or rolling rocks down on our heads. Understood?”
With nods of agreement, the company hurried into the cleft between the pillars.
Delg peered narrowly at the rock faces to either side. He wore a thoughtful frown, as if old stone could tell him things. The valley beyond seemed quiet and empty.
Ahead, the grass grew shorter, broken by bare rock, moss, and weeds. Even Shandril could see where unshod mule-hooves had sunk into the mud.
In the clear light of highsun, the vale before them lay small, green and rugged, walled in by mountains. Scraggly trees huddled along the base of a steep cliff that formed the northwest wall of the valley. Water gleamed in little pools to the company’s left, and rocks rose brokenly to their right. Nothing living met their eyes save a lone hawk, circling high above. There was no sign of warriors or mules except the trail running on.
The company swung to the right and began to climb, Burlane waving Delg to the fore.
The dwarf nodded, swarming up the rock with swift ease that gave way to slow, wary movements … and finally to a pause. Delg stood like a statue among the rocks above. Slowly he turned his head. “Does something about this place feel … wrong?”
Mounting a rock, Burlane nodded, “Yes, and until—”
A man in maroon robes seemingly stepped out of thin air and onto a rock farther up the slope. He was broad, stout, and thin-bearded. Though he bore no staff or weapon, he did not look friendly.
“Who are you,” he called angrily, “and why have you passed the gates without leave? Speak! Show me the sign forthwith or perish!” The man held up his hands like a wizard and glared at them, his eyes black and glistening.
Shandril had never before seen a man who looked so cruel and … evil.
“What gates?” Burlane called, climbing nearer.
Though Shandril crouched behind a rock, the rest of the company advanced with weapons out. They shifted apart.
Their challenger watched them, his black eyes darting coldly back and forth. “The Gates of Doom,” came his cold reply. His fingers moved as if they were crawling spiders. He chanted a rising phrase, and lightning leaped from the empty air before his fingers in a spitting, crackling bolt.
In its blue-white flash, Ferostil raised his sword in a convulsive, jerking dance. The warrior’s roar of agony died away as his body blackened, tottered, and fell. The corpse dropped out of view between two rocks.
Rymel threw a dagger as the company leaped to attack. The short blade flashed end over end toward the dark-eyed mage. In midair, the knife struck an invisible barrier and bounced to one side.
The mage pointed at the company and said something clipped and cold. Nine streaks of light blossomed from his finger. Glowing missiles darted down with frightening speed, turning to follow the adventurers. Thail and Burlane were struck by two bolts each before there was a flash of light around the edge of Shandril’s boulder. Something cold and burning and almost alive hit her. Very hard. Such pain …
Shandril twisted in agony, crying out as she hugged herself. She wrapped her arms tightly around the searing fire in her gut. It burned into her chest and nose and brought tears to her eyes. At last, it died away, leaving her empty, weak, and sick.
Shandril found herself on her knees leaning against the rough rock, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She knew she should draw her blade and attack, but the world spun around her in gathering darkness.… Stone scraped cold and hard against her cheek as she slid down it.
Down … down … gods above! What had the wizard done to her?
From somewhere dark and increasingly chill, Shandril tumbled back to the Realms again, rising, drifting … here.
Where was here? She slumped against stone, stiff and torn. From somewhere above her, cold laughter came.
She should have stayed at the Rising Moon.…
Groaning, Shandril looked up over rising, broken rocks to where the dark-eyed wizard stood, his hands twisting in spellcasting. Rymel was only a few feet below him, climbing grimly. Not far below Rymel, the radiance of the Bright Spear bobbed into view. Burlane leaned in pain on his enchanted weapon as he climbed. On the rocks below lay the still, twisted form of Thail. Delg, obviously hurt, crouched beside the fallen mage.
Rymel was not going to reach the dark-eyed wizard in time. A spell was going to tear open his face while he was still half a spear’s length away.
The wizard snarled and brought his hands down with a flourish, as if thrusting a great sword at Rymel. The bard sprang into the air like a child playing at being a frog, caught at the top of a higher rock, and desperately swung himself onward and upward, shoulders rippling.
Shandril tasted blood. She spat it out angrily and started her own grim climb, knowing that long before she could reach the wizard he’d have doomed the company with his spells—but also knowing she had to do something.
Rymel whirled. His outstretched sword bloodied the mage’s hand and ruined another spell that might have slain them all. The bard drew back his sword to strike again, fighting for balance.
The wizard stepped back and shouted one thunderous word in desperate haste.
An instant later Rymel stood alone on the high rock. His sword glittered as he spun, searching for his foe.
Air trembled above a rock in front of Shandril but behind the rest of the company. Suddenly the dark-eyed wizard stood there, very near.
With a cry of rage and terror she snatched out her sword, knowing she was too weak and unskilled to do any harm.
Burlane heard her cry. He turned and threw the Bright Spear in one smooth motion.
The mage stood grinning down at Shandril, his hands moving again. A flicker came behind him. He glanced back a moment too late.
Suddenly the spear’s long shaft was standing out of the mage’s side. Its strike hurled him sideways off the rock. Crumpling around the spear, he fell out of sight.
Shandril clambered over the rocks toward the spot, peering anxiously. Even as hope rose in her, the mage’s shoulder and drawn, furious face appeared again.
He thrust a fist into the air. On one of his fingers was a brass ring that flashed with sudden light.
Shandril ducked hastily behind a rock, praying aloud to Tymora that whatever the ring unleashed would spare her. Two long, ragged breaths after her prayer had ended, with no cries or flashes, Shandril dared to rise again, sword ready.
The mage hadn’t moved. He stood against a rock, clutching his side where the spear was still lodged. Burlane climbed over the rocks toward him, brow bristling in fury, sword drawn. Rymel also clambered to the attack, moving faster among the rocks but coming from farther off.
The mage raised bloody hands to cast another spell. Burlane cursed and flung his blade. The mage ducked and stepped back a pace, but did not cease his weaving of Art. The whirling sword missed, clanging on the rocks before it slid out of sight.
Burlane cursed horribly, staggering as he came down off a large rock. He drew the long knife he carried at his belt and hurried to the next rock.
Shandril remembered the knives in her own boots. She plucked one out, sheath and all. Carefully she judged the distance, drew off the sheath, and threw the dagger.
She was too slow.
The mage finished his spell, and Burlane was suddenly shrouded in a dark, sticky web of strands that held him fast among the rocks, shouting in helpless rage.
A moment later, the mage cried out and cursed. He glared at Shandril in hatred, clutching the back of his left hand where her dagger had cut him.
Cold fear settled in her, but she raised her sword and climbed toward the wizard. Only a few rocks separated them, but Rymel was even nearer, springing rock to rock in angry haste.
The wizard backed away, the spear quivering. Its end caught and scraped on a rock. The mage gasped and stopped, sinking briefly in pain. He staggered to his feet and turned away from them, his ring flashing as he lurched between two rocks, seeking to flee.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Rymel roared, leaping wildly over Burlane’s webbed form and landing precariously on the rocks beyond. He drew back his arm to hurl his own sword—
A deep roar shook the rocks. The wizard turned with a triumphant laugh. The light of his ring seemed a bonfire on his hand.
The roar filled the valley, echoing off the mountains around—and no wonder. In the sky above, turning ponderously as it emerged from between two frowning crags, was the vast, scaled bulk of a green dragon. Its huge, batlike wings beat once. It dipped its great serpentine neck and dived at the company.
Vast and terrible, it was, as long as seventy Rising Moons or more.
In its glittering gold-and-white eyes, Shandril saw her death. Paralyzed with dragon fear, she could not even scream as the dragon spewed a billowing cloud of thick, greenish-yellow gas.
Rymel’s hurled blade flashed past the laughing wizard, company members cursed or screamed—then, amid racing, whirling green mists, the shadow of the flying wyrm fell on them.
Shandril couldn’t breathe. Her lungs burned, her eyes smarted. Choking and coughing, Shandril fell to her knees, a searing pain racking her lungs. Darkness closed talons around her, and she fell.…
Drifting through shifting, blood-red mists, Shandril dreamed of dragons dancing.…
It was cold. Shandril lay on something hard and rough. The chill air smelled of earth, old dust, damp mold, and decay. She opened her eyes, tensing against the pain—and realized, astonished, she felt none. She was no longer hurt—healed by magic, most likely, but whose and why? Even her shoulder felt whole.
Shandril lay on stone and against stone. From somewhere nearby on the other side of that rock, two human male voices rose in converse, coming nearer.…
“… No, your men shall not have her! Her blood is too valuable—valuable, mind, only so long as she is inviolate!” The voice was excited and imperious.
“How can you be sure of that?” an older, deeper, and more sour voice snarled. “These days—”
Shandril listened no more. In frantic haste she scrambled up and searched for an escape. The stone was cold under her bare feet. Bare—?
Someone had taken her sword, dagger, the remaining knife from her boots … and the boots themselves. She’d been lying against a large stone rolled across the mouth of the cavern. It was a small cave, narrowed at one end into a crack too small to pass through, bereft of other visible doors, clefts, or side passages. She was imprisoned.
Her cell was lit by a pale violet glow. It came from the center of the cavern where a carved stone block stood, as long as two tall men and breast-high to Shandril. A seam ran around its top, the edge of a lid.…
In breath-snatching horror, Shandril realized the glowing stone must be a casket. Two lower, unlit caskets lay on either side.
With growing despair, she wondered how, gods willing, she would get out of this.
She listened at the door stone again but heard only silence; the men must have left. She pushed vainly at the stone, and then felt around its edges for a lever or catch or handle but found nothing. With all her strength, she heaved, kicked and, in hysterical desperation, leaped at it. Nothing.
Gasping, she slumped against the stone. She was trapped, and she was going to die. She shuddered, recalling the voice: “your men shall not have her! Her blood is too valuable—”
“No!” she hissed. “I have to get out of here!”
The cavern wasn’t large, and she felt, beat upon, and ran her hands over the floor and all of the walls she could reach. The cavern ceiling looked just as solid. She’d looked everywhere.
With a sighing groan, she slumped against the cavern wall, staring in despair at the three blocks of stone, so large and still, like—
She had not looked in the caskets.
Shandril stared at the glowing one, massive at the heart of the cold gloom. It was huge, featureless, and silent. There were no runes cut into or painted on it; it had been smoothed with great skill and left unmarked. Dwarven work, most likely.
Now that she’d thought of opening it, she hardly dared do so for fear of what she might find. A fresh corpse, horribly mutilated and crawling with worms, or one of those terrible undead creatures—vampires, or ghouls, or skeletons. Her skin crawled.
She had nowhere to run if something in the casket reached for her. Why did this one glow? Would a spell be unleashed on her if she opened it? Did something enchanted lair—or lie imprisoned—within?
For a long time Shandril stared at the caskets, trying to master her fear. Nothing stirred. No voices spoke. She was alone and unarmed.
Trapped. At any moment the stone covering the portal might grate open, and then it would be too late … for anything. Shandril swallowed. Her throat was very dry. She heard her own faraway voice saying softly, “I understand you need a thief.”
Are they dead? Burlane, Rymel, Delg …? Shandril wondered. Thrust such thoughts aside. The casket is your concern. Nothing else. But what if my friends, dead and bloody, are inside, shut in here with me?
She screamed inwardly, though all that came out was a whimper.
Into her mind came Gorstag’s kind, weathered face, smiling. Gorstag must have been in worse straits once or twice, and he was still around to tell tales.…
Shandril drew a deep breath and faced the lit casket. Swallowing a dry lump, she strode forward and laid a hand on the lid. There was no flickering in the radiance, no change.
Nothing happened. She was not harmed. Silence reigned.
Shandril pushed. The stone lid was massive and old and did not move. Steeling herself, she crouched beside the casket and put her shoulder to the lid, feeling nothing as the radiance played about her. Snarling with the effort, she gathered her strength into a heave, bare feet slipping. She drove the lid sideways. It scraped and shifted. She caught herself before her arm or head could dip into the open tomb.
Within, nothing moved, nothing stirred. Bones … yellow to brown, were scattered about inside—a human skull, a jawbone … nothing more.
Shandril sighed, looking at the tangled bones. Someone had ransacked this casket already; anything of value had been carried away. Why then the radiance?
Shandril wondered who lay buried here—or rather, unburied—bones scattered like rotten twigs on the forest floor. Idly she looked for certain bones. There, the thighbone; he must have been tall. There, the skull—
She noticed something odd. There were three skeletal arms in the casket.
Just the one skull, and only bones enough, give or take a few, for one body. But three arms? One crumbled into separate bones. Another remained intact, strips of withered sinew clinging to the wrist and holding all together. The third was larger.… Curious, she reached into the tomb and touched the hand that did not belong.
Idiot! she thought, too late. What have you done?
She froze, waiting for some magical doom to befall, or the old bones to take her hand in a bony grasp, or a stone block to fall from the ceiling—something!
Nothing.
Shandril peered around the cavern warily. She shrugged and lifted the skeletal arm. It dangled limply at the wrist, small finger bones pattering back into the casket as she peered curiously at it. Something had caught her eye a moment ago, something different—
Faint scratches caught the light along the bone, writing of some sort!
Shandril peered at it closely, wrinkling her nose in anticipation of a rotting smell that wasn’t there. The writing was a single word.
Why would someone scratch a word on a bone and leave it here? Squinting, Shandril made out the word.
“Aergatha.”
Suddenly, she was no longer in the cavern. Still clutching the bones, she stood somewhere dimly lit and smelling of earth. Cold air moved against her face.
Cold claws reached for her. She barely had time to scream.
White with fear, Narm desperately swung his staff. The skull faces of two bone devils grinned at him as he backed away, trying to keep their hooks at bay and flee Myth Drannor.
They stalked him lazily, with horrible, throaty chuckles, entertained by his struggles. Thunder rolled, and it was growing dark under the trees.
Narm backed away, gasping. Thrice they’d tried to outflank him, and only frantic leaps and acrobatics had saved him. By turns, they faded into invisibility. He’d swing wildly at the empty air, hoping to deflect an unseen bone hook swinging for his throat. Once, his staff crashed into something, but the devil reappeared unaffected, grinning just beyond his reach.
Twice he’d been wounded, hook slashes that stung under his sweat. The glistening sheen drenched him and left him nearly blind. His feeble Art was useless against these creatures, even if he’d had time to cast anything. Far stronger magic hadn’t saved Marimmar.
The pompous mage was overwhelmed after a few spectacular spells, then slowly torn apart with bone hooks—the same bloody weapons that even now tormented the screaming ponies.
The elf and his lady had given fair warning, and Marimmar had scoffed. Now the Mage Most Magnificent was dead, horribly dead. One mistake, only one, and now it was much too late to undo their fates.…
He was going to die here, in agony, as cruel devils laughed.
Suddenly Marimmar’s severed head appeared before him in midair, dripping blood, eyes lolling in different directions. Narm screamed as those eyes focused on him. The blood-bearded mouth opened in a ghastly smile.
Frantic, Narm swung his staff. It cut empty air. The head was gone, gone as if it had never been! Illusion, Narm realized in helpless anger, as devils hissed laughter around him.
Around him—they’d gotten on both sides! Desperately, Narm turned and charged one, swinging his staff to batter it down. It danced aside, its barbed tail curling at him. Narm stumbled and sprawled in the dry leaves and dirt.
Rolling over, heart pounding, he found his feet and flailed about with his staff.… He was dead anyway. He’d never escape. If only he and Marimmar had turned back!
Then, amid a blinding flash, the world exploded.
Narm hit something, hard. Putting out a hand, he felt bark. He hauled himself along the tree until he was upright. Something hampered his grasp. He came slowly and dazedly to the realization that he still held his staff.
A dry female voice spoke, close by. “He lives, Lanseril. If your bolt had been a couple of hands closer …”
“Your turn, remember?” a lilting male voice replied, pointedly. Then both voices chuckled.
Narm blinked desperately. “Help,” he managed to say, almost sobbing, “Help! I can’t see!”
“Can’t think either, if you planned on storming Myth Drannor armed with nothing but a sapling,” the female said to him, and then hissed a word.
Something brightened to Narm’s left and raced off as many moving lights. He could see nothing more in the white fog that cloaked his eyes.
A hand fell on his arm. He stiffened and swung his staff up.
“No, no,” the male voice said in his ear. “If you hit me, I’ll just leave you again, and the devils’ll have you. How many companions had you?”
“I—just one,” Narm choked, letting his arm fall. “Marimmar, the—the Mage Most Magnificent.”
“I take it that he’s no more,” the female voice said gently. A hand took his sleeve, and Narm was being led rapidly over uneven ground.
“Aye,” the man said. “I’ve seen pieces of him, mixed up with two ponies. Can you ride, man?” Insistently he shook Narm, who managed a violent nod. “Good. Up you go.”
Narm felt a stirrup, and then was thrust up onto the back of a snorting, shifting horse. He clutched its neck thankfully.
The female hissed something, and the man said, “Tymora spit on us, they’re persistent! There’s another flying at us now! Ride! Illistyl, lead him, will you?”
Narm heard a sudden flutter of wings. He struck out at it wildly, blindly, with his staff.
“Mystra give me strength,” the woman snarled, and Narm was jerked roughly to one side. “Strike down Lanseril? Idiot!”
A small, strong hand clouted him under the jaw and jerked the staff from his grasp. Narm heard it clatter to the ground.
“I beg pardon!” he stammered, clutching at the horse’s straining neck as it gathered speed. “I meant no harm! Devils flying, he said!”
“Aye, they are, and we’re not out of the woods yet, either,” Illistyl replied tartly. “You might help by letting the horse breathe and turn its head. Loosen your hold on its neck.”
Finding the raised edge of his saddle, Narm did so.
“I am Illistyl Elventree,” his guide added. “Lanseril Snowmantle flies above us. He may forgive you by the time we reach Shadowdale.”
“S-Shadowdale?” Norm asked, trying to remember what Marimmar had told him of the dales. He could see dark things moving … no, he was moving past them—trees! His sight was coming back!
“What—how did you save me? I was—was—”
“Trapped, yes. Lanseril nearly caught you in the lightning he called—wouldn’t have been the first time. Can you see?”
Narm shook his head, trying to clear the white mists. “Trees, a bit, and the head of my horse.” He turned his head toward her voice. “I can’t see you, yet.” Hearing his voice shake, he drew a deep breath. “How came you to find me? And—and—”
“We are Knights of Myth Drannor. Those who venture here for treasure often meet with us. The unlucky, such as yourself and your master, find the devils first.”
“We … we met an elf first, good lady. Strongbow. He stood with a lady mage, and they warned us back. My master was angered. He was determined to find the magic that remains, and so went around another way. He is—was—proud and willful.”
“He stands in large company in life and death. You were apprenticed to him?”
“Aye. I am but new come to the Art. My spells are not of any consequence. They may never be, now.”
“What’s your name, wise apprentice?”
“Narm, good lady.”
“Nay, that I’m not. A lady, yes, when I remember, but I fear my tongue prevents my being called ‘good’ overmuch. Slow your mount, Narm. This next stretch is all roots and holes.”
“Yes, but … the devils?”
“We’re largely clear. They seem under orders as to how far they may venture. If we are beset now, I’ve time enough to call on Elminster.”
“Elminster?”
“The Sage of Shadowdale. He’s seen hundreds of winters, and used them to become one of the most powerful mages in Faerûn. Mind your manners before him, Narm, if you’d see the next morn as a man and not a toad or worse!”
“As you say, lady. This Elminster … ah, is he in need of an apprentice?”
Illistyl chuckled. “He enjoys having a ’prentice as much as coming down with a plague. But you may ask.…”
Narm managed a grin. “I know not if I dare, good lady.”
“A man who fights bone devils with a stick of wood, afraid to ask a question of Elminster? He’d be most flattered.” She chuckled again, the full, throaty chuckle few women allow themselves, and leaned over to lead Narm’s horse by the bridle through a narrow passage and around a large pit.
Narm could see her clearly at last. To his astonishment, she was a tiny wisp of a girl, no older than he, wrapped in a dark cloak over the earthen-hued tunic and breeches of a forester. Her boots were fine leather, but their swash-topped cuffs were plain.
She felt his gaze and gave him a smile. “Well met.”
Narm smiled back as she spurred down a slope in the path. How powerful were these Knights, that one so young might, with but one companion, calmly contend with devils? What would become of Narm in the hands of ones so powerful?
With dull despair Narm realized he’d lost all of his books of magic—worse, all he owned but a knife, a few coins, and the clothing on his back. He had no home, no master, and no means of earning coins anew. What need would Shadowdale have of an apprentice worker of the Art with the likes of Elminster and Lady Illistyl in residence? Narm set his jaw and rode on with a heavy heart.
Illistyl saw and said nothing, for some things must be faced and fought alone.
They rode on. The day waned and grew dark beneath the trees. Suddenly a great eagle swooped down from the sky to join them in a clearing. Writhing before their eyes, it rose into the shape of a lively-eyed man in the simple robes of a druid.
Narm bid grave greeting to Lanseril Snowmantle.
Lanseril returned it and asked if he cooked meals or washed up afterward. There was laughter, and the darkness within Narm lightened.
Nothing disturbed their camp that night, but in his dreams Narm died a thousand times and saved his surly master a hundred times and slew ten thousand devils. Often he awoke screaming or weeping. Each time Illistyl or Lanseril sat close to reassure him. As Narm rolled himself into his cloak once more, he’d shake his head wearily. It would be a very long time before his dreams would be free of grinning, hissing devils.
The next day, riding with the Knights west through the vast wood, Narm knew he must return to Myth Drannor. Not to avenge Marimmar or to try to recover lost spellbooks, but to be free of the taunting devils of his dreams. Half-asleep, he slumped in his saddle and wondered if he’d live long enough, next time, even to glimpse the ruined city.
They rode at last into a beautiful dale of busy farms and gardens and well-loved trees. Beyond stood a keep on the banks of the river Ashaba, at the base of a bald knob of rock known as the Old Skull.
Illistyl nodded to the guards. She turned their mounts out onto a meadow in the care of an old and limping master of horses and three eager youths. She then led Narm into the Twisted Tower.
More guards waited within. They nodded to Illistyl as she strode to a pair of massive arched inner doors. They opened under her hands into a vast chamber where an expressionless man in elegant finery sat on a throne. Two farmers stood before him, arguing about a broken fence and the ownership of hogs.
Lord Mourngrym’s mustache hid his mouth, but one of the lord’s forefingers repeatedly traced a sinuous design of stags and hunters on the gold scabbard of his long sword.
Illistyl led Narm to a bench at the front of the nearly empty hall, ignoring the expressionless scrutiny of the guards flanking the lord’s throne. Huge tapestries hung behind that throne. High above, on Narm’s right, a balcony curved across a corner of the room. A guard stood there, too, and the prow of a loaded crossbow rested casually on the balcony rail.
“Enough,” the lord said suddenly, and the argument stopped in midword. “I’ll send men to repair the fence this day. You are to obey them as you would me. They’ll see you divide all hogs on both farms into two equal groups, one for each of you. You’ll eat together this night, both families, with my men and the wine they’ll bring—and let all hard feelings be put behind you both. See to it.”
He gave each man a level stare and added, “Be true friends again. If any trouble over fences or anything else brings you before me again, it will cost you a hog each.”
He nodded in dismissal, and both farmers bowed and walked out wordlessly. No sooner had they passed into the hall, however, than their voices rose in argument again.
Narm thought he saw a smile steal across the lord’s handsome face.
Illistyl rose and tugged at his arm. “Come.” She led him to stand before the throne.
Narm started to bow hesitantly. Illistyl’s grip on his arm jerked him upright. “Narm,” she said, “this is Lord Mourngrym, of Shadowdale. He will ask questions; answer him well, or I shall regret having aided you.” Smiling, she turned to the man on the throne. “We found him beset by devils in Myth Drannor, Grym.”
Lord Mourngrym nodded. The eyes he turned on Narm were very clear and very blue. Their gaze held the apprentice as if at the point of a gentle sword. “Welcome. Why came you to Myth Drannor, Narm?”
Narm was silent a moment. His words came out in a rush. “My master, the mage Marimmar, sought the magic he believes—believed—the city holds. We rode out of Cormyr and up through Deepingdale seeking the ruins, just the two of us.”
The Lord of Shadowdale arched one eyebrow, but his expression did not change.
Narm drew in a deep breath. “There we met Merith Strongbow and Jhessail Silvertree of the Knights, who warned us back. My master was angry. He thought they were trying to keep him from the magic, so we went southeast and turned again to reach the city. We were beset by devils, and my master was killed. I would have died, too, had not this good lady and the druid Lanseril Snowmantle come to my rescue. They brought me straight here.”
Mourngrym nodded. “Their patrol was ended. Here you stand; what will you do now?”
Narm paused. “A night ago, Lord, I’d not have known. But I am resolved: I’ll go back to Myth Drannor, if I can.” He saw devils in his mind and shuddered. “If I run, I shall be seeing devils forever.”
“It could be your death.”
“If the gods Tymora and Mystra will it so, then so be it.”
Mourngrym looked to Illistyl, whose eyebrows had risen in faint surprise. “What say you? Let a man go to his death?”
Illistyl shrugged. “We must do as we will, if we can. The hard task, Grym—decreeing who can do as they will—is yours.” She grinned. “I look forward to observing your masterful performance.”
Mourngrym’s mustache curled in a tight smile ere he turned back to Narm. “You now lack a master. Do you also lack spells?”
“Yes, Lord,” Narm replied. “If I return again from Myth Drannor, I would seek a mage of power to study my Art. I have heard of Elminster. Are there others here who might welcome an apprentice?”
Mourngrym smiled openly this time. “Yes,” he said. “The lady who stands beside you, for one.”
Narm looked at Illistyl. She smiled faintly, eyebrows and gaze raised to the rafters.
Mourngrym continued, “Her mentor, Jhessail Silvertree, for another. Other, lesser workers of Art in the dale may also welcome you. I try to make welcome only those who mean Shadowdale no harm. Do you yet serve anyone—the Dragon Cult, perhaps, or anyone of Zhentil Keep? Have you accepted coin from anyone to observe and report what you see?”
The air around Narm suddenly tingled. “No, Lord,” he said firmly, letting a little more anger into his voice than he should have. “I swear I work for no one, and mean no ill to Shadowdale. You have my word on it.”
The lord of the dale looked at Narm with interest. “And is your word good?”
Narm’s face flooded bright red. “It is. Believe it.”
“I do,” Mourngrym said thoughtfully, “and yet I ask myself why. Perhaps you’ll tell me.”
“I … I must keep it good,” Narm told him grimly, “because it is all I have.”
The lord inclined his head. “Illistyl trusts you,” he said gently, and the smile that followed was as dazzling as it was sudden. “Wherefore you have the freedom of the dale and are welcome, here in the Tower, to our table and a bed. May the gods smile on you when you return to Myth Drannor.”
Narm bowed. “Thank you, Lord.” Turning, he offered his arm to Illistyl. “My lady?”
Illistyl nodded, winking at Mourngrym. “Adventurers and fools walk together, eh?”
“Yes,” Mourngrym agreed. A sparkle glimmered in his eye as he added, “But which is which?”