A COLD CALLING
Tongues wag their ways on great adventures with ease. Feet oft find it harder to follow.
Mespert of Baldur’s Gate
The Book of the Coast
Year of the Talking Skull
Most of the long, high hall lay in chill darkness. Here and there, lamps shed eerie, feeble glows into the cold vastness. Menacing shadows swirled where this lamplight was blocked—by a long stone table, the many high-backed seats drawn up around it, and the robed men who sat in them.
“So you have all come,” came a calm, purring voice from one end of the table. “Good. The Lord Manshoon will be pleased at your loyalty—and eager ambition. We are looking for those who in days to come will lead this fellowship in our places. It is our hope that some among you will show themselves suited to do so. Others here, I fear, will reveal just as surely that they are not.”
Sarhthor fell silent. The men around the table knew his slim, graceful form would remain as still and as patient as stone until he wished to move a finger or change his expression. Right now, as the silence stretched, his calm, keen-eyed face was—as usual—expressionless. It might have been carved from the same gray stone as the pillar behind his seat.
Sarhthor’s dark eyes, however, glittered with cruel amusement, a look familiar to many seated there. They were the most ambitious and daring of the apprentice magelings of the Zhentarim, and had all been trained or inspected by this man.
Many long, tense breaths were drawn as quietly as possible in the dimly lit cold as the wizards sat and waited, trying not to show their fear, their personal hatreds of each other—and their mounting impatience.
At length, one of the seated men spoke. “Teacher Sarhthor, we have come to hear High Lord Manshoon’s will of us, and to serve. May we know his plans?”
Sarhthor smiled. “But of course, Fimril. Lord Manshoon will tell you what you are so eager to hear.” He added a little smile, and then let it slide slowly and coldly into calm inscrutability. In the mounting silence, the men around the table regarded his face for a long time, trying to match the calm, unreadable expression Sarhthor wore. Some came close to succeeding.
Someone coughed, and heads turned, glaring. The heavy silence returned and slowly grew old. Sarhthor sat at the end of the table as though he was the tomb statue of some dead king and watched them all with cold patience.
Finally one of the magelings stirred in his seat. He was a handsome, fine-featured man whose upswept beard was scented and adorned with small, highly polished moonstone teardrops. They glistened here and there among his beard’s curled hairs as he spoke. “I am patient, Teacher—but also curious. Where is the high lord?”
“Why, here, as it happens,” said a new voice, full and rich and only gently menacing. Heads turned all down the table.
At the far end of the table from Sarhthor sat a regal, dusky man robed in black and dark blue. A moment before, there had been no man and no chair in that spot. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep smiled at all the turning heads. Before him on the table sat a serving platter covered with a silver dome, steam rising gently from around its edges.
“I’ve only now escaped from the pressing business of governing this great city”—the voice dipped only slightly in silken irony—“to meet with you all. Well met. I trust the patience taught by Sarhthor and wise others among us has kept you all occupied, and I beg you to excuse my not offering you any of my evenfeast. I am”—his voice dipped in soft menace—“hungry this night.”
Then the Lord Manshoon flashed his teeth at them all in a smile that shone very white, and he uncovered the platter before him. Wisps of richly scented steam rose from the deep red ring of firewine sauce. It lay in a channel in the platter, surrounding the lord’s evening meal: a dark, slithering heap of live, glistening black eels from the Moonsea, lying on a bed of spiced rice. A slim, jewel-topped silver skewer appeared in the lord’s hand from the empty air before him. Smoothly, he stabbed the first coiling, twisting eel, and dipped it delicately in the hot sauce.
“Despite my apparent ease,” Manshoon said, waving his laden skewer as he looked down the table, “our Brotherhood—nay, the world entire—remains in peril. You have all heard of the recent commotion among our fellows of the Black Altar, and of the matter of spellfire.”
He paused for a moment. The silence of the listening Zhentarim wizards had changed subtly, and Manshoon knew he had their keen interest now. He smelled the sharp edge of their fear as they faced him and tried to look unmoved and peerless and dangerous. He almost chuckled.
“That matter remains unresolved. A young lady by the name of Shandril walks Faerûn somewhere south and west of us, guarded only by a dwarf and her mate—a knave by the name of Narm, who is weaker in Art than the least among you has been in some years. This Shandril alone commands spellfire, imperfectly as yet. She seeks training from Harpers and can expect some Harper aid along her way.”
The quality of the listeners’ silence changed again at the mention of the Harpers. Manshoon smiled and, with slow bites, emptied his cooling skewer.
“Sarhthor will tell those of you who are professionally interested all about the known strengths and subtleties of spellfire. Such professional interest will be exhibited only by those who have volunteered for the dangerous but fairly simple task of seizing or destroying this Shandril, and bringing what remains of her in either case here to this hall.
“You all know that something wild and uncontrolled has crept into the Art of late. This chaos may or may not be linked with spellfire—but it prevents us from surrounding the maid and overwhelming her with spells. We can, however, take her deep in the wilderlands, where we can act unobserved, and the unintended effects of such a confrontation can be curbed without much loss or concern.
“All knowledge of her powers and anything you learn or take from her will be placed entirely at the disposal of the Brotherhood. Hold nothing back. Those who fail to exhibit such probity will earn an immediate and permanent reward. Those who merely fail against the girl Shandril will have as many chances as they feel they need to impress us. We will be watching. As always.” His eyes smiled merrily at them as he devoured the head of an eel, touched the bowl casually, and vanished with it in a flickering instant.
The end of the table was utterly empty again. Only faint wisps of spiced steam remained behind, curling in slow silence.
The magelings stirred, shoulders visibly relaxing here and there down the table. Heads turned, throats were cleared—but these stirrings came to a hushed halt an instant later as Sarhthor’s purring voice came again from the near-darkness at the other end of the table.
“So who here volunteers to seize or destroy spellfire for us? Yield me your names, or”—he smiled faintly—“recall urgent business elsewhere and take your leave of this place … and also, I fear, of the Lord Manshoon’s favor.” He looked around, meeting the wary eyes of several wizards too brave or foolish to look away. “Your patience we have seen this night. We have also taught you to be decisive; show me the result of that teaching now.”
In the clamor that followed, a smile slowly appeared and crawled across Sarhthor’s face like an old and very lazy snake. But as each man there volunteered, Sarhthor’s eyes met theirs briefly and bleakly, like a sudden, icy lance-thrust in a night ambush. In his dark gaze, the magelings saw that he expected them to die in this task. Sarhthor felt he owed them at least that honesty.
“What’s wrong with you, then?” Delg asked, drawing himself up as much as his four battered feet of height allowed. The dwarf stood over Shandril, beard bristling as he squinted down at her. A pan of fried onions, mushrooms, and sausages sizzled in his hand. “Or don’t you like an honest panfry?”
Shandril smiled wanly up at him from the bed of cloaks and furs she’d shared with Narm, and she raised a warding hand.
“I—I’m seldom hungry these mornings.” Her slim face was as white as the snowcaps of the Thunder Peaks behind her. She shuddered and looked away from Delg’s steaming pan, wondering if she’d ever arrive at far-off Silverymoon. To reach it, they still had to cross half of Faerûn. The ruined village of Thundarlun was only a day behind them, and even draining the fallen war wizard’s wand had not fully restored the spellfire that smoldered within her.
On the other hand, twenty more Zhentilar would ride and slay no more; she’d left them twisted bones clad in ashes. Shandril shivered as she heard the screams again. Then Delg brought the pan so close to her nose that its sizzle jolted her back to the chilly morning. She pulled away from the smell, biting her lip to keep from gagging. She clutched the furs closer around herself.
“Well, why?” the dwarf demanded, frowning fiercely. “Are you ill?”
“No,” Narm said gently from behind him, “she’s with child.”
The dwarf almost fell as he lurched and tottered about speedily to face the young mage. “She’s what?” he demanded. “Did you have anything to do with this?”
Shandril giggled. “We are married, Delg,” she added sweetly.
“Aye. But—but—what of the babe, with you hurling spellfire about, an’ all?”
“I—” Shandril began, then fell silent, spreading her hands in a gesture of helplessness. The dwarf saw something almost desperate in her eyes, and he whirled about again to face Narm. The young wizard also spread his hands anxiously but said nothing. Then he shrugged.
“You don’t know,” said the dwarf heavily. “You truly don’t know what you’ll give birth to after all this hurling fire and collapsing and hurling fire again.…” Delg let his words trail away as he looked at them both challengingly, but the two young humans were silent.
The dwarf sighed heavily and tossed up his arms in resignation. Mushrooms and sausages left the pan to soar into the air, still steaming.
Narm leapt forward but missed catching one. Most of the others landed on Delg’s head or back in the pan. The dwarf stood a moment more, looking down at Shandril and shaking his head. Sausages shifted in his tousled hair. “Ah, well,” he said, rather sadly. “Ah, well …”
Narm brushed off the sausage he had picked up. “Delg Hammerhand,” he asked softly between bites, “have you been so lucky—sorry, favored of Clanggedin—as to have gone your entire life through always knowing exactly what you’re doing and what the right thing to do is and what everything means and the consequences of all?”
Delg glared at him, beard bristling. “D’you mock me, lad? Of course not!”
“Well, then,” Narm said mildly, “you will understand how we feel, doing our best with what the gods have given us, beset by foes and wandering lost in the wilderness, far from aid and wise advice. Uh, save yours.”
Shandril laughed helplessly. Delg turned back to look at her, sighed theatrically, rolled his eyes for good measure, and said, “Right. I stand corrected. Thy panfry awaits, great lord.” He bowed to Narm, waving with the pan at a nearby rock. “If you’ll be seated, herewith we two can sate our hunger and discuss how best to feed your lady without having her spewing it all back at us.”
The morning sun shone down bright and clear through the trees of Shadowdale, leaf-shadows dappling the rocks on the rising flanks of Harpers’ Hill. Storm’s blade flashed back its brightness as she slid the steel edge along the whetting stone. The Bard of Shadowdale sat thoughtfully under a tree, putting a better edge on her old and battered long sword. She kept silent, for that was the way Elminster seemed to want it, this morn.
The Old Mage stood looking east, whence a cool breeze was rising. His eyes flashed as blue as the sky as he raised the plain wooden staff he bore, and the staff seemed to glow for a moment in answer. The wind rose, and the wizard’s long white beard and mane stirred with the rustle and dance of the leaves all around. Elminster was muttering things under his breath, using his old and deep voice, and Storm knew that her sister, on her throne in far-off Aglarond, heard them and was whispering words back. None other was meant to hear them. Storm took care that she did not, for that was the way she was.
Elminster stopped speaking and smiled. The wind died away again, and birds rose from the trees around, twittering. The Old Mage stared eastward, unmoving. Storm watched him, frowning a little. She knew him well enough to see the sadness hidden behind his eyes. The Old Mage stood silent and motionless for long minutes.
When Storm began to grow stiff and the edge on her sword threatened to become brittle and over-sharp, she slid her shining blade softly into its sheath and went to him.
Elminster turned to her thoughtfully. “I thought,” he said slowly, his eyes very blue, “I’d put such love behind me, long ago. Why do I keep finding it again? It makes the times apart from her”—he turned away to stare into the green shadows under the trees—“lonely indeed.”
Storm put a hand on his arm. “I know. It’s a long walk back from Harpers’ Hill. That’s why I came.”
In silence one old, long-fingered hand closed over hers and squeezed his thanks, and together they went down the twisting trail through the trees.
“Ready? We’d best be off, then. Even with spellfire to fell our foes, it’s a long way to Silverymoon, an’ we’re not out of the Zhents’ reach yet.” As he spoke, Delg hoisted a pack that bulged with food, pots, and pans onto his shoulders.
Shandril put on her own pack, but said softly as she came up beside the dwarf. “No … we haven’t any spellfire to fell our foes. I’m not going to use it again.”
Delg’s head jerked around to look up at her, but it was Narm who spoke, astonished. “Shan? Are you—crazed? What—why?”
His lady’s eyes were moist when she looked up at him, but her voice was flat with determination.
“I’m not going to go through my life killing people. Even Zhents and others who wish me ill. It’s … not right. What would the Realms be like if Elminster walked around just blasting anyone he chose to?”
“Very much as it is now for you—if everyone he met tried to kill or capture him,” Narm said with sudden heat. “Folk have more sense than to attack the mightiest archmage in all the Heartlands.”
“But not enough to leave alone one maid who happens to have spellfire—‘the gift of the gods.’ ” Shandril’s tone made a cruel mockery of that quotation. She looked away into the distance. “I … hate—all this. Having folk hate me … fear me … and always feeling the fire surging inside.…”
“You’re not the first maid who’s been afraid of things, you know,” Delg said.
Shandril’s head snapped up. “Afraid?”
“Aye, afraid,” the dwarf said softly. “You’re afraid of what you wield. Afraid of how good it feels to use it, I should say … and of what you might do with it—and become in the doing.”
“No!” Shandril said, shaking her head violently. “That’s not it at all!” She raised blazing eyes to glare into his own. “How can you know what I feel?”
The dwarf shrugged. “I’ve seen your face when you’re hurling spellfire. One look is enough.”
Shandril stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed, and then buried her face in her hands. The small, twisted sound of a despairing sob escaped between her fingers, and they saw her shoulders shake.
Then Narm’s arms were around her. “Shan, love,” he said soothingly, trying to calm her. “Shan—easy, now. Easy. We … both love you. Delg’s telling truth, as he sees it … and truth’s never an easy thing to hear. Shan?”
His lady said nothing, but her sobs had died away, and Narm knew she was listening. He kissed the top of her head, stroked her shoulders soothingly, and said, “I know how you feel. We both do … and we … know well how hard it is for you to use spellfire. But our lives depend on it. We’ll both die if you refuse to wield it—or hang back from using it until too late. Our foes won’t wait for you to wrestle with any decisions.” He stroked the hair back from her temples, and then added quietly, “And I’d hate to die because you chose a Zhentarim over me.”
Shandril stiffened in his embrace. Narm caught Delg’s eyes, saw the dwarf’s expressionless nod of approval, and went on firmly, “That’s what you’ll be doing, you see, if you don’t use spellfire as fast as Delg draws his axe or I work a spell—you’ll be choosing the life of a Zhent wizard over ours.” He smoothed her hair, and added softly, “And then you’ll be alone before you die.”
“Which won’t be long after, if I know Zhents,” the dwarf grunted. He lumbered forward and dealt Shandril’s rear a gentle blow. “Come on, lovejays. You can cry while you walk, lass: we haven’t time for you to stand here and find all the wrinkles in your soul. Zhents are after us—and the gods alone know who else—so we must be on our way. Unless, of course, you’re really fond of this particular spot … as the site of your grave.”
Shandril raised stony eyes to glare at him, tears glistening on her cheeks. Delg nodded approvingly. “That’s right, lass—hate me, just so long as you do it while you’re moving. On!”
“My spells and my love are yours,” Narm said quietly. “Use them as you will … all I ask is that you use spellfire when we need it.”
Unspeaking, Shandril looked at him and nodded. Narm smiled. His lady reached out, took hold of his chin, pulled it close, and kissed him firmly. Then she sighed, turned, and set off in the direction Delg had been heading. The man and the dwarf exchanged silent glances, then followed.
Elminster was still melancholy when he reached his tower. A handful of days ago he’d watched Shandril Shessair and her half-trained lad Narm set out from the dale, heading for Silverymoon in the North … and, the Old Mage feared, for their deaths. Even with all the Knights of Myth Drannor misdirecting agents of the Cult, the Brotherhood, Thay, and the gods alone knew who else—Narm and Shandril were probably doomed.
Aye, doomed. Elminster of Shadowdale might have commanded the experience great age brings, as well as magics powerful enough to tear apart castle keeps and dragons alike—but such things did not give him any right to tell young folk what to do or to shape their lives for them. Even though the girl commanded spellfire with power enough to rival Elminster, he could not directly intercede. Perhaps his hands were tied especially because she held such power.
The choice had been their own, the trail theirs to take, the consequences their tutors … and the chances of their making it alive to Silverymoon slim. Very slim … even if a certain Old Mage raised a hand to aid them from time to time. Aid them, but not dictate their fate. That would hurt, too, when in the end he heard whatever doom had claimed them.
This sort of dilemma had come up too many times over too many years. It grew no easier to take. Not for the first time, Elminster felt the weight of Mystra’s burden and wished he could just grow old as other folk did, laying aside all cares as he sank into gray, endless twilight. Or perhaps he could call out one of his mightiest foes and go down fighting, hurling spells linked to spells and sealed with his own life energy in one last magnificent spell-battle that would reshape the Realms anew; it would give folk such as Shandril a new morning to walk into, fearless and happy, a new world before them.
Maudlin fool. The death such a spellstorm would cause! Entire realms shattered—folk and trees alike twisted for years to come … no. Get out and have a pipe and think more useful thoughts.
As always, Elminster’s feet led him to the rocks beside his pool. Their familiar ledges, smoothed by his backside over many hours of sitting, were solid and reassuring beneath him as he looked out across the still waters and made smoke.
Blue-green and thick, it coiled up out of his pipe, sparks swirling in its heart as they sought the sun high above. Elminster watched them leap and spiral; his eyes saw Shandril hurling spellfire instead, and he wondered how far she’d gotten by now, and if worse foes than bumbling Zhentilar had found her.
Two stones at his feet clicked together, a tiny enchantment that told him someone was coming up the path to his tower. Elminster did not turn to look—not even when they clicked again to tell him his visitor had turned down the short run of flagstones that led to the pool. He merely let the pipe float out of his mouth, and said calmly, “Fair morning.”
“Oh. Ah, aye. That it is.” The voice was high and uncertain. Elminster looked into eyes that were very blue; they belonged to a young boy he’d never seen before, a lad in a nondescript tunic and gray hose. He came hopping down to the edge of the pool and kicked at a half-submerged stone at the water’s edge. He looked back over his shoulder at the Old Mage, and asked, “You’re Elminster, aren’t you?”
The Old Mage regarded him thoughtfully. “I generally answer to that name, aye.”
The boy grinned at him with the impish confidence of youth; an older person would never have dared utter the next question Elminster heard. “So why’re you just sitting here, an’ not making blue dragons turn cartwheels, or the sky go black, or—or—you know?”
“I’m thinking,” the Old Mage said simply. There was a silence, but the lad waited patiently for him to say more. Surprising, for one so young. After a breath or two Elminster added, “It’s a harder thing to do than hurling dragons around or bringing down night during the day.”
“It is? So what’re you thinking about?”
Elminster looked warily into those guileless eyes. They stared back at him with no hint of unsavory motive—clear, direct, and innocent; deep, brown, and steady. Elminster watched a golden light growing in them, smiled inwardly and, without a word or gesture to betray his intent, called into being four balls of writhing fire.
Trailing sparks, the spheres of flame roared away from him, smashed into the boy, and hurled him far out over the pool. There was a ground-shaking blast as the morning exploded into bright flame. The noise was followed by a mighty splash.
The pipe glided to the Old Mage’s lips again. He smoked, sober eyes fixed on the roiling waters of the pool, waiting.
He did not wait long. Something smoldering and tentacled rose up out of the pool. The plumes of smoke rising from it thickened as it broke clear of the waters. It no longer looked anything like a human boy. Its mottled, bubbled skin seemed to flow and shift as Elminster watched it grow two limbs that became humanlike arms, the ends parting and melting into fingers. As the coalescing hands waved, butter-colored eyes swam into view in the thicker bulk below, fixing him with a hard stare. The skin parted in a gash that shaped itself into a mouth, that—
The spell the Old Mage hurled this time tore the very water out of the pool. Fish, startled turtles, and slimy plants flapped and spun in the air—and in their midst, bright blue flames raced over the tentacled form as it rose into the sky, screaming and twisting frantically. It struggled, arched a spine it hadn’t possessed a moment earlier—and then fell limp, a-dangle in midair.
Elminster’s eyes were hard as he watched the tentacled mass drift toward him, held fast by his spell. Beyond its smoldering bulk there was a terrific crash as all the water fell back into the pool. Startled birds called, and then flapped hastily away from the trees around.
Elminster frowned. His pipe had gone out.
He guided the dead, tentacled thing to the grass at his feet. It landed with a wet plop, still enshrouded by flickering blue radiance.
The Old Mage snapped his fingers, and a long black staff inset with runes of silver appeared in his hands. He pointed one end of it at the ganglious bulk and waited, eyes never leaving the monstrous form. He raised his chin and said clearly to the empty air before him, “Torm. Rathan. Come to me, by the pool. I have need of ye.”
He peered around warily, sniffing the air. Such otherworldly foes seldom hunted alone.
It seemed a very long time before he heard thudding feet and the warning clicking of the stones near at hand. The two summoned knights skidded to a stop when they saw the dead thing. They were breathing heavily in their haste, and they held weapons ready.
The slimmer, younger knight in the lead was Torm—a black-haired, green-eyed charmer with a fine mustache. Torm’s shoulder was currently being used as a support by the stout and puffing cleric Rathan, whose brown hair and stubbly mustache were disheveled from the run, and whose strong features had gone quite red.
Torm looked down at the dead monster, then back up at Elminster, and he raised an impudent eyebrow. “Been fishing, have we?”
“This is a shapeshifter,” Elminster replied calmly, “of a very powerful family who call themselves the Malaugrym. The glow denotes a spell of mine that holds it powerless to work magic.”
Before Elminster could stop him, the thief Torm kicked one still-smoking tentacle. There was no response. Torm shrugged and said, “Looks dead to me.”
“And that will stop it from using Art?” The Old Mage’s voice was sarcastic. “My thanks for thy assurance; as one so learned in magic, thy judgment cannot help but be correct.”
Torm shrugged. “Your blade hits home, Old Mage; I stand corrected.”
Elminster held out the staff, keeping its end pointed at the fallen Malaugrym. “Take over my binding, Rathan. I must work a spell to seek out any kin of this one who may lurk near.”
The stout priest took the staff, and Elminster turned away, making complicated gestures and murmuring many odd-sounding words that the two knights could only half hear. Then the archmage paused, raised his hands, and turned slowly around. He nodded with a satisfied air.
Torm raised an eyebrow. Elminster saw it, and explained, “There was another Malaugrym present—the sister of this one. My Art has entrapped her; she cannot use any spells while she remains in Faerûn.”
Torm glanced at the trees and meadows around them. “She fled?”
“For now; she’ll return to take revenge on me. Spells I may have denied her, but she can still shift her shape.”
“Revenge for this?” Rathan asked, nodding his chin at the dead bulk of the tentacled thing.
“Aye, but there’s an older score,” the Old Mage said. “I slew their father, long ago. I wonder why they dared to come here, after all the years between.” Then he stiffened. “She’s after Shandril,” he snapped. “Of course.”
“Well, slay her, then. With your own spell laid on her, tracing her should be easy enough,” Torm said. He looked around at the grass, trees, and muddy waters of the pool—and then, reluctantly, his gaze fell again to the dead monster at Elminster’s feet.
Elminster shook his head. “I can only trace her when she takes her own form.”
“That?” Torm asked, gesturing toward the rank heap on the ground.
Elminster nodded. “When she takes the shape of a creature of Faerûn, she’s hidden from me. Without magic, and given all those already hunting Shandril, her own hunt will cost her some time and care—and during it, she’ll spend most of her time as a human, of course.” He looked at the two knights, and the ghost of a smile crossed his face. “That’s where the two of ye are called again to glory.”
Two sighs answered him. “Why is it always us?” Torm asked the rock beside him. Wisely, it chose not to answer.
As the light of Elminster’s last spell faded in the spell chamber high in the Twisted Tower, Rathan sniffed at a burnt smell that seemed to cling to him. The gaze that he turned on Elminster was rather sour. “What have ye done to us this time, Old Mage?”
“Cast a fog of forgetfulness on ye; it’ll make folk forget they’ve seen ye. It will also slightly alter thy looks from time to time, while it lasts.”
Torm sighed. “Will I look human most of the time? Male? As handsome as usual?”
“As usual,” Elminster agreed in dry tones. “I can’t trace the Malaugrym herself, but I can find Shandril. I’ll send ye to her—but mind ye keep back from the lass; if ye stand guard with her, she’ll relax, and ye’ll have no hope against the Malaugrym. Thy only hope of besting this menace in battle is to strike when she’s already battling spellfire and those who stand with Shandril to defend her.”
“This Malaugrym is that powerful, eh?” Rathan asked quietly, out of habit touching the silver pendant of his goddess. Tymora was said to grant luck to her faithful when it was truly needed—and Elminster was nodding his head rather grimly.
“Her name is Magusta, and she’s one of a powerful clan who walk many worlds, shifting their forms to whatever best aids them in seizing all the power they can. We are very old enemies, they and I.”
“If these folk are so old and powerful, how is it that we’ve heard nothing of them before?” Torm demanded, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you sure this isn’t another of your little plots?”
Rathan turned his head patiently to look at his longtime friend. “Would ye like me to tell ye what an idiot ye are, or shall I save the breath?”
At the same time, Elminster said with a dry smile, “Of course this is one of my little plots.” He snorted. “Thy mastery of diplomacy forbids me from involving ye in any of my big ones.”
Where she sat in the dimness against one wall of the chamber, Storm Silverhand smiled and spoke up for the first time. “It is another ‘little plot,’ to be sure—but these Malaugrym are old indeed, Torm. Most folk in the Heartlands, if they’ve heard of them at all, know them as ‘the Shadowmasters.’ Individually, their mastery of magic is about as powerful as that of an experienced mage. They are ruled by venom and pride, and practice at magic—or anything else—is foreign to their nature.” She stretched, and added soberly, “It may be your only advantage against them.”
Rathan had nodded in recognition at the name ‘Shadowmaster.’ Now he rumbled, “We two are poor weapons indeed to use against such a foe. I know that Those Who Harp are even busier than the Knights of Myth Drannor … but will we have no aid from thee?”
Storm spread her hands. “The Malaugrym—for there may be others in Faerûn, mind—know us, whatever guise we take; someone not known to them will fare better, seeking to strike at them unexpectedly.”
Elminster nodded. “Look into the eyes of any creature ye meet, from squirrel to horse, and every man. If ye see a golden light there—or the blue glow of my spell—ye’re facing a Malaugrym. Strike then to slay, speedily, and stop not until all has been burned away.” He waved his hands, and an oval of flickering blue light appeared in the air before the two knights—a magical gate that would transport them to the region where Shandril Shessair toiled on.
Torm sighed. “You make it sound simple enough … but simple orders have found their ways onto tombstone carvings often enough before. What if it happens that we really need you—will you come?”
“Soon enough to save thy life, if ye are beset?” Elminster’s eyes were sad. “Ye’re old enough to know that no answer I give ye will serve as a sure shield. Death watches always, waiting, and has a swifter hand than I.”
The slim, handsome thief waved a hand with a theatrical flourish. “Granting all that—are we on our own in this?”
Elminster looked up at the ceiling of the spell chamber, where an old enchantment made the stars wink and glitter as they drifted across an illusory night sky. “The gods above know I am a busy man,” he told the stars innocently, pretending not to hear the resulting snorts of the knights, “and am beset at present with matters even weightier than spellfire—but I should not be overmuch surprised if I find myself sparing time for a charge over the hill or two, when my business takes me that way. What say ye, Storm?”
The bard inclined her head and patted the hilt of the well-used long sword scabbarded at her hip. “I, too, will do what I can—and there are my fellow Harpers along the way. One of them does nothing but wait for Shandril and Narm. To say nothing of Delg the dwarf; I’ll be surprised if he has not caught up to them already. We will all of us do what we can.”
As the knights nodded and started toward the gate, checking their weapons, Elminster added quietly to Rathan, “Ye might pray to Tymora that our efforts will be enough.”
Torm rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me,” he said, putting the back of his hand to his brow in a mock swoon. “The future of all Toril hangs in the balance. Again.”
Elminster raised one of his own eyebrows in a parody of the thief’s own manner. “Of course.”