One then spoke. “Aye, Dread Lord.” He was gestured to continue. “I met with a merchant loyal to The Black Lord”- he bowed to the great throne-”who told me of a young girl now on her way to Shadowdale in the company of those who call themselves the Knights of Myth Drannor. This maid can by some means produce spellfire. He said this fire can strike through magical barriers and empty air alike, and is very powerful.”
The High Imperceptor was leaning forward on his throne now, interested. At a subtle signal of his hand, an unseen upperpriest behind black tapestries nearby had cast a spell to detect any lies Theln might speak. “They take her to Elminster, no doubt. Very powerful, indeed. If we held this power, we could strike down those who stand opposed to our great Lord”-all save the High Imperceptor bowed again-”and those traitors who were once our brothers, alike. We must try for this spellfire, if this tale be true. This faithful-who is he, and how old his news?”
“One Raunel, a dealer in sausages from the Vilhon Reach. He spoke to me on my way to you, on the road very close. He said he’d spoken with a forester who’d seen the girl and all himself, near the Thunder Peaks, in the late morning yesterday. He met this forester, one Hylgaun, yestereve at a roadside fire they shared.”
The High Imperceptor nodded again, and almost smiled. “You have done well, Theln. You will be rewarded. Go you and call upon the priest Laelar to attend us at once. All of you, leave us.”
The last to leave stepped from behind tapestries, bowed, and said merely, “No lies, Dread Lord,” as he left. Good. That left only two possible liars in this matter: this Raunel and the one called Hylgaun. It felt true.
When he was alone, the cold-eyed, wan man looked thoughtfully across the empty chamber. “Maruel… Maruel. I know that name.” He caught up the great black mace of Bane and hefted its dark and cruel length absently as he pondered. Why could he never remember such things? Why? It could well bring death one day… the wrong detail forgotten, the wrong precaution taken. The High Imperceptor sighed. It had not been a good day.
The black dragon flew heavily and raggedly. Often its wings faltered and it would sink down and to one side or the other, despite Manshoon’s commands and curses. Orlgaun was sorely hurt, and might never bear him again. That thought burned in Manshoon’s mind, atop his defeat, and he almost turned back in anger to slay with the art he yet held ready.
It was impossible. Orlgaun was flying on the last of its lagging strength now, lower than Manshoon would have preferred. The seemingly endless green of the great Elven Court stretched on beneath them as the dragon flew north and east. Manshoon thought back over the fray and concluded bitterly that he’d probably not slain a single one of those who’d stood against him. Elminster had shielded them at the first, aye, but few could survive he and Orlgaun both, even in passing. That cursed elf, and the ranger with his flying shield! He could feel their blades yet… they’d not live long, when he had that girl in his hands, even if they’d had nothing to do with Symgharyl Maruel’s death.
The thought of The Shadowsil’s passing made him feel dark and weak inside, and he rose out of that momentary sadness feeling savage. He clutched a wand fiercely and wanted badly to strike down something. Then he frowned.
The girl. Yes. Spellfire, it had been. He yet smarted where it had briefly touched him, despite all the healing potions he’d drunk since, emptying the belt he wore across his stomach. Gods, but it hurt yet! It had been fortunate she was so untutored and so unused to battle, or Manshoon the Mighty might well have fallen this day. Her power must be his own, and soon, before Elminster mastered it! Not such an old fool, that one. Not aggressive, but even stronger in art than he’d thought. No doubt he’d take a measure of killing-something best prepared in haste when back at-
Gods! They were flying among the trees!
Orlgaun had sunk lower and lower as Manshoon had pondered, the great wings moving more and more feebly, and suddenly its claws and belly were crashing and thrusting through the small uppermost branches of the tallest trees in the forest. Manshoon shouted, hauling hard on the fin before him and staring ahead. But the dragon did not respond, and the trees stretched on as far as the eye could see, with only a few gaps just ahead. Manshoon cursed feelingly as the dragon crashed further downward amid snapping and wildly whipping branches, rocking and buffeting its rider. The blows and crashes grew steadily harder as Orlgaun sank full into the trees, crushing them with its vast bulk and smashing them aside with the velocity of its fall.
More and more slowly they struck the next tree, and the next, and Manshoon crouched low and fended off flailing branches grimly as the great wyrm came down to earth. Orlgaun did not even grunt; perhaps its spirit had fled its torn and battered body in the air while still above the trees. Certainly this would be its last flight. Manshoon saw one wing smashed limply backward by a gigantic phandar that itself broke asunder, the trunk groaning as it parted, and then the dragon struck a stand of shadowtops head-on and the world itself seemed to shake and split asunder.
Manshoon found himself, when he could see straight again, hanging head-down in a tangled ruin of shadowtop branches and leaves, Orlgaun’s scaled back above him. The dragon lay belly uppermost among smashed and splintered wood, impaled and twisted horribly. The mage crawled and slipped about until he fell out of the branches to the leaf-strewn ground beneath, and moved out from under the vast carcass as soon as he gained his feet. He had lost the wand, though he still carried other items of power aplenty. Ahead, in the direction Orlgaun had been flying, the trees thinned into some sort of clearing. All about lay green dimness, still echoing with the last rustlings of Orlgaun’s fall.
Manshoon took a step forward, and another, and then stared in shock at a bat-winged, horned, and tusked creature that had appeared out of the trees in front of him. A malebranche! Beyond it he could see another, and quick glances about told him that others were approaching. The devils of Myth Drannor!
The High Lord of Zhentil Keep cast a spell in grim haste, backing away, and then cursed loudly and feelingly as his lightnings struck down the nearest devil. He turned away from the clearing and fled as fast as his legs could go. The trees here grew too thickly even to fly! As he ran, Manshoon drew a wand of paralyzation from its holder at his belt and thought on how best to use the magics he had left. It had not been a good day.
Fall Flagons
I have known high honor, proud fame, and great riches, and have drunk deep of good wine at feasts where my mouth watered and my belly was filled with delightful viands amid good fellowship and conversation… and I tell you that all these pale and drift away as idle dreams before the gentle touch of my Lady.
Mirt ‘the Moneylender’ of Waterdeep
In a letter to Khelben ‘Blackstaff Arunsun in proclamation of his lover Asper as his lawful heir
Year of the Harp
The knights had traveled swiftly into the woods, moving northward, after the retreat of Manshoon. The Thunder Peaks marched north on their left with them as they went, leaving Rauglothgor’s shattered lair behind. They walked until night fell, rose with the dawn, and went on again until another nightfall.
In Mistledale, the knights purchased mules. Elminster let lapse the last of a succession of floating discs he had conjured up to carry Shandril, despite her protests. The others had walked.
A footsore Narm clambered up onto his mule, which favored him with an unfriendly look, and glanced enviously at the knights who still sprang about and vaulted up into their saddles and traded jests with unflagging enthusiasm. They were obviously all used to walking miles at a stretch, from aged Elminster to the Lady Jhessail. Narm’s thighs were achingly stiff. He grinned as Rathan, who had begun a ballad that told of the glories of Tymora’s favor, gave up helplessly under Torm’s persistent needling. The thief had quickly parodied line after line as they plunged into a narrow, gloomy path in the woods. Rathan ceased with a sigh when they were barely out of sight of Mistledale’s sunlight.
The green dimness of the woods was all about them now. Shandril leaned over to Narm and asked in a low voice, “How far away is Myth Drannor?” They traded sober glances, and Jhessail turned in her saddle and said, “Due east of us, several days distant. The river Ashaba lies between us and Myth Drannor at all times, this trip. That gate The Shadowsil took you through in the ruined city took you across half the Dalelands to the dracolich’s lair”
The couple’s involuntary shared sigh of relief was cut short by Torm’s dry, sharp voice saying from where he rode watchfully behind them, “Ah, yes. We can head that way if you’d like. I hear one can have a devil of a time there, heh-heh…”
He smiled benignly at the chorus of dirty looks flung his way. Someone has to provide entertainment, after all.
It was late. The golden light of approaching sunset glinted on leaves ahead of and above them. Vet the knights pressed on. Riding beside each other except where trees in the trail forced them into single file, Narm and Shandril clasped hands reassuringly. Whatever happened, they were together. When it grew suddenly much darker, Jhessail and Merith conjured glowing motes of light that drifted along in midair with them, bobbing and floating about, occasionally darting to one side to illuminate this or that tangle of brush or dark thicket.
They rode on slowly amid the giant trees and smaller saplings alike, the soft singing of crickets all about them. The chorus would die away in front of them and begin again behind them. Off to one side or the other, particularly to the right, eerie gray-green and blue radiances-small and scattered glows that did not move-could be seen occasionally.
“What’s that?” Narm asked, pointing. “Is it witchfire?”
Merith nodded. “Glow moss, witchfire, and the other fungi of the forest that shine at night. The elven name for all of them is, in Common, ‘nightshine’.” The elf lounged in his saddle, helm hung from its horn, very much at his ease. Of course, Shandril thought, feeling suddenly less awed and much safer, to Merith this endless wood is home. She relaxed, and very soon sank low in her saddle.
Jhessail saw her, and quietly worked a spell of sleep upon her and upon Narm, who rode, nodding himself, beside her. Merith took charge of the mules as his lady cast another floating disc. Torm chuckled softly as he boosted the sleepers from saddle to disc, and then yawned himself.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Jhessail warned him. “Get back on your mule.”
Torm spread his hands in injured and very feigned innocence. “Why you think all these terrible things of me I don’t know-I am grievously wronged, indeed, and-”
He staggered forward a step under the unexpected impact of a solid nudge in the back from his mule, and his friends burst into laughter all around him.
“Be an adventurer,” he grumbled as he settled himself in his saddle again. “Become rich and famous, they said. Hmph.”
“Famous, anyway,” Merith assured him. “Why, I’ve even seen notices with your picture on them posted here and there. And of course all these men with knives keep calling on you…”
Torm made a rude noise. It was returned, with spirit, from where Elminster rode in stately dignity ahead of them all, startling everyone into silence. It all made no difference to the mules.
The sun was bright and high again when Narm and Shandril came slowly awake. Their arms had crept about each other in slumber, and they were drowsy and deep-rested. Narm looked up at the sun-dappled leaves overhead, heard the familiar creak of leather and soft thud of the mules’ hooves, and relaxed, Shandril’s warmth and weight on his left side. His left hand tingled. He wiggled his fingers to bring feeling and strength back and felt her stir. Then he realized he was flat on his back, moving, with no mule bumping and shifting beneath him. He sat up in alarm.
He and Shandril were floating serenely along on a disc of firm nothingness, with Jhessail just behind them and Merith just ahead. Far ahead, over Elminster’s shoulder, he could see Lanseril leading the way toward a brightening in the trees. Jhessail smiled reassuringly at him. “Well met, this morn,” she said. “We are almost in Shadowdale.”
As she spoke, and Shandril sleepily pulled herself up Narm’s shoulder to see, they came out of the trees into a high-walled passage between two redoubts of heaped stones. The silver and blue banners of Shadowdale, showing the spiral tower and crescent moon, stirred in the faint morning breezes, and men in armor with Shadowdale’s arms on their surcoats stood with pikes and crossbows.
“ ’Ware!” called the guard formally, barring the way to the bridge beyond. The sight of the lords and lady of the dale had them bowing and standing aside in the next breath. The sight of Elminster made them more silent than usual, and Narm and Shandril passed over the mill bridge and into the dale without a word of query or challenge.
No escort rode with them as they passed by lush green fields. The date opened out before them, the forest rising on either side like great green walls. Shandril looked about her happily. Narm, who had seen it before, asked Jhessail, “Lady, may we ride? I would feel-less the fool, I suppose. My thanks for the traveling bed, mistake me not-it’s a trick I must learn one day, if you will. It moves where you will it to go?”
“It does,” Jhessail said gravely, “although if you mind it not, it will follow twenty paces or so behind-and if you leave it where it cannot follow, it speedily passes away and is no more.” She grinned. “But of course you shall ride-it would not do for you to look different fools than the rest of us.”
They all rode up to the Twisted Tower together and were made welcome. Mourngrym came striding oat with his cloak slapping around him, and said to Narm, “So here you are back, and I find that not only must you stick your neck into clear danger again and again, you must drag all my protectors and companions with you, even Elminster, and leave the dale undefended.” His eyes twinkled. “And do I look upon the reason for your return to peril? Lady, I am Mourngrym, the lord who is left behind to sit the seat in the dale while his elders take the air, see sights, and enjoy their journeys. Welcome! How may I call you?”
“Lord Mourngrym, I am Shandril Shessair” Shandril said firmly, blushing only faintly in her shyness. “I am handfast to Narm.” Her voice lowered in curiosity. “These are your comrades? You have ridden to battle together?”
Mourngrym laughed. “Indeed,” he said, handing her down onto a stool one of the guards had just whirled into place. “No doubt you can tell from what you’ve known of them already how wild the tales of our adventures are.” Merith clapped him on the shoulder in passing. Mourngrym grinned. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until too much drink has flowed before I start telling any tales, though others here”-he looked meaningfully at Torm-”are weaker?’
They went into the tower. “And how was your journey, Narm?” Mourngrym asked as they entered a feasting hall where the mingled smell of cooking bacon and a great spiced stew made mouths water.
“Oh,” Narm replied mildly, steadying Shandril as they came to the table, “eventful.”