Red Magic

Two

Galvin drove himself onward, trotting at an uneven pace for nearly an hour before the pain in his shoulder overwhelmed him, forcing him to pause beneath an ancient cedar. The druid intended to rest for only a few moments to inspect his bandage, but when he leaned back against the massive trunk, his knees buckled and he awkwardly slid down, snagging his cloak and catching his hair on the coarse bark before landing hard on his rump. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to blot out the ache and straighten himself up; he was successful only on the latter account, managing to brace himself against the damp, moss-covered ground with his right hand. He felt his left shoulder and upper arm growing numb from the loss of blood.

Galvin reached for the makeshift bandage. It was too dark to see clearly, but the druid could tell the cloth was warm and wet, blood-soaked and useless. He gritted his teeth and gently tugged it loose, working to replace it by tearing off another strip from his now-ruined cloak. Propping his head against the trunk, Galvin listened to the night sounds as he tied the new dressing tight and gathered his strength. He sniffed the air, straining to catch the scent of water but finding no trace. He was thirsty and wanted to clean his wound, but he knew he couldn’t afford to spend time searching for water. Already he was finding it difficult to keep his eyes open and concentrate. If he fell asleep now, he would not wake up in this world.

Pain wasn’t a new experience for the Harper. Galvin had been injured several times along the path to becoming a druid, particularly when he had tried to familiarize himself with the woods and their denizens. More than one wolf had misinterpreted the immature druid’s attempts at making friends, leaving Galvin with numerous scars and bruises. Eventually, however, Galvin had learned the language and mannerisms of most of the forest creatures and had been accepted by them. By studying druidic arts for nearly two decades, he had learned how to assume the animals’ forms. Galvin now believed himself to be about thirty summers old, though he hadn’t bothered to keep count. The animals never did, and the druid usually considered himself more animal than human. With few exceptions, he preferred the company of animals to that of people.

The druid closed his eyes again. Just for a moment, he told himself, just until some of the pain goes away. He might not be in this predicament now, he mused in his agony-tinged delirium, if his childhood had been different. He might be in a warm, soft bed somewhere, resting comfortably, oblivious to Thay and gnolls.

Galvin had been born to a pair of thieves who were members of a guild in Skuld, The City of Shadows, in Mulhorand. The druid could see his parents clearly, more distinctly now than the trees a few feet away. They had lived comfortably, providing him with toys, clothes, and nearly anything else he desired. Their illicit livelihood had been quite successful until they had robbed an ambassador in the city. Then their lives had ended at the end of a rope, and Galvin, a frightened and confused child of seven, had fled into the woods to avoid the same fate.

Surviving had been difficult; he had nearly died of starvation before he learned to watch the animals and eat the same berries, roots, and nuts they consumed. He had studied the bears hunting in the stream, and he had learned to catch fish with his hands. Occasionally he would sneak into a village to steal warm bread and pastries off window ledges and clothes that were hanging out to dry. But the more he had learned about the wilderness, the fewer trips he had made into towns. Now he avoided them altogether.

The druid struggled to open his eyes, realizing he would be joining his parents in some netherworld if he didn’t get moving. He bit hard on his lower lip, drawing blood and focusing his mind on the new pain to help him stay awake. Gazing at the moon overhead, which he could barely see through the leaf-heavy branches, Galvin realized it was well past midnight.

He pushed with his legs against the trunk, trying to rise, but the pain in his shoulder kept him rooted. Despite the throbbing, which had begun to pulse down his arm, the druid knew the wound dealt by the gnoll could have been worse, perhaps resulting in his immediate death if he hadn’t assumed the form of a bear. Something happened to the druid in the transition from human to animal and back again; his fatigue lessened, and minor injuries healed. This wound, however, was too deep to be erased by the transformation. This injury also was his own fault, he reasoned, as he was certain that had he handled the situation differently, the gnoll would be alive and he wouldn’t be in such a sorry state.

Galvin tried to rise again, this time stretching up with his right arm to grab a low-hanging branch and arduously pulling himself to his feet.

The branches and ferns waved like wheat before him, and the ground seemed to shift. Galvin knew it was his mind that was moving, and he flung his arms backward to grab the trunk, fighting the dizziness that threatened to pull him off his feet. Drawing in a few deep breaths of the cooling night air, he held on to the cedar until his surroundings stopped swaying. Then he resumed his course through the woods, stumbling from tree to tree.

The druid moved through the foliage, bending leaves and branches, something he could have avoided were he in better condition. The forest he had grown up in was much like this, he recalled, attempting to keep his mind occupied with all manner of things to remain conscious and improve his chances of making it through the woods. His home was a temperate timberland filled with a multitude of conifers and deciduous trees. These woods were older, however, a climax forest that had two canopies, the highest being the tops of trees more than a hundred years old, while the second consisted of smaller trees and large bushes that could thrive in the diffused light. The two canopies were so dense that little starlight filtered through, making it difficult for Galvin to find his way.

Most of this forest’s floor was covered with thick, soft moss, which in places grew partway up the trunks of the trees. Morels were also abundant. Galvin subconsciously noted the varieties of trees he paused to lean against—birch, cedar, oak, hemlock, pine. Temperate forests rarely had more than a handful of different species of trees. However, the wildlife was more diverse—badgers, deer, wild pigs, bears, squirrels. The predators consisted mainly of wolves, foxes, and occasional wild cats. He hoped none of the latter had picked up his trail of blood. The birds were quiet, indicating a predator was about, and he didn’t have the strength to defend himself. He was a wounded animal, easy prey. He ached to turn into a sparrow and fly to his destination, but he didn’t have the energy to effect another transformation.

From high above, the darkenbeast’s piercing red eyes scanned the wooded area, endeavoring to follow the man’s trail. The sorcerous creature glided at a steady speed just beneath the upper canopy of the forest, angling its ungainly, misshapen body to pass between the leafy branches, blotting out the moon overhead. The forest denizens scattered in the beast’s wake, fearful of its powerful bearing and unnatural scent. The darkenbeast paid them little heed, intent on the man, its single purpose. It peered diligently for broken branches and listened for snapping twigs and rustling leaves to indicate the passage of something large.

At last it was rewarded. Hovering, its great wings keeping it suspended above the lower canopy, the darkenbeast noticed a trace of blood fresh enough to smell. The creature pulled its leathery wings close to its body and pointed its grotesque head downward. It plummeted toward the mossy ground below, halting inches above the earth on widespread wings. At the base of a tall cedar lay a cloth drenched with blood, and clinging to a split section of bark a few feet up the trunk was a clump of blond hair.

The darkenbeast’s quarry was near.

In morbid elation, the creature rose, flying nearly parallel to the trunk of the cedar until it was high enough to gain a better vantage point. As its wings beat faster to carry it over the branches and tall bushes, the darkenbeast rolled its head back on its elongated neck and voiced a victory cry that threw the occupants of the woods into an unnerving quiet.

The creature skimmed above the lower canopy, urged on by the scent of blood and the hope of reward the man’s broken body might bring.

Galvin ambled slowly, exhausted and thankfully near his destination. Every several feet, he stretched out his right arm to steady himself against a tree. He felt weak and apprehensive. Something bothered him even more than his wound, making the short hairs rise on the back of his neck. Insects were in abundance. Droves of flies and mosquitoes were drawn to his bleeding shoulder, their soft buzzing annoying. But there were no louder night sounds, no birds, no frogs, no snapping twigs from foxes or other night-hunting creatures. He glanced nervously about as he continued his trek, stopping frequently, the quiet nagging at him. Eventually he dismissed his worrying as silly fears brought about by his loss of blood. He glanced about once more, then pushed on.

It was shortly before dawn when the woods began to thin. Gradually the ground cover turned to ferns and large, thick-leaved waxy plants and vines, and Galvin found himself at the edge of a campsite by the great marsh. He had put almost ten miles between himself and the buried gnoll. He started toward a one-man tent at the far side of the clearing, halting halfway there and whirling shakily at the sound of hoofbeats muted in the thick grass.

“You’re winded, something I thought I’d never see,” a deep voice observed. “And you’re late—also unusual for you, my two-legged friend. I swear by my mane that this mission might be worthwhile after all. It’s just barely started, and it’s already showing me a new side of you.”

The speaker measured well over seven feet tall from the hooves of his front legs to the top of his head, which was crowned with a shock of curly, ink-black hair, cropped short on the sides with a hank in the back hanging braided below his shoulders. He possessed the body of a man from the waist up, boasting a tanned, muscular, hairless chest and an angular face covered with a short, well-trimmed black beard streaked with gray. The remainder of his body resembled a war-horse, big and black and powerful, the kind only the wealthiest knights in Faerûn rode. The centaur, Wynter, smiled broadly at Galvin, then pursed his lips when he saw that the druid was injured.

“What happened?” Wynter’s voice was unusually gentle for his size. The centaur moved closer to better assess Galvin’s wound, but the druid pivoted and stumbled to the far side of the camp, where he had left his belongings. Bending to rummage in a satchel, he pulled out a wine flask, uncorked it, and took a deep draft, letting the warm, red liquid run around in his mouth before answering.

“I killed the spy, Wyn.”

“Did the spy attack you? Why? How badly are you hurt?” the centaur pressed, worry etched on his handsome face.

Galvin paused to dig deeper into his satchel, keeping his back to the centaur. He valued strength and was too proud to let Wynter know his condition. Nor did he want the centaur to know he was bothered by killing the gnoll spy. Wynter was a pacifist, and the druid couldn’t admit that Wynter’s beliefs had affected his own through the years. At last his searching was successful, and he retrieved a handful of berries that appeared freshly picked. The druid scooped them into his mouth and swallowed, then knelt and made a show of rearranging the contents of his pack. He was growing weaker by the minute and was angry at himself for not realizing the severity of his injury. While he continued his ruse, he felt the special berries begin to work, lessening his discomfort. He didn’t have the right herbs in his pouch to stop the bleeding, but he would attend to that soon.

“Talk to me, Galvin.” Wynter was determined. “Tell me what happened.” The centaur was patient, accustomed to slowly extracting information from his druid friend.

“It was my fault,” Galvin said, glancing at the tent. He was relieved that their small band’s other member, a politician from Aglarond, remained asleep. There would be time enough in the morning to discuss the situation and send the council member back to Glarondar, where Aglarond’s chief officials were gathered.

“And … ?” Wynter coaxed, laying a large, callused hand on Galvin’s head.

“The spy was a gnoll. I pushed him too hard … made him mad.”

“And…?”

“And he attacked me, but not until I was able to get some information from him.”

“Are you all right?” The centaur refused to let the issue drop.

Galvin grimaced; he never lied to the centaur, who was the closest friend he would admit having. He usually just avoided Wynter’s questions when they became too personal. However, this time he knew the centaur was going to bulldog him. He relented.

“It’s a deep wound, but I’ll live,” Galvin finally replied, keeping his voice down so the council member wouldn’t hear them. “And I’ll learn not to be so careless this close to Thay.” He drew his cloak over his injured shoulder, turned to face the centaur, then felt himself growing faint. He sat quickly and crossed his legs. “I’ll get some rest, then I’ll find some healing herbs. I’ll be fine.”

“Fine. At least tell me what you learned.” The centaur’s face still showed concern, and Galvin offered him a weak smile to put him at ease.

“It seems a Red Wizard called Maligor, who is somewhere in Amruthar, wants to expand his holdings. Red Wizards are always looking for ways to become more powerful. But there’s something about this that catches my interest.”

“I remember the name Maligor,” Wynter interrupted. “He had just become a zulkir when I left Thay.” The centaur scratched his head, then indicated the tent. “Maybe the Aglarond council member is right. If a zulkir’s involved in this, maybe Aglarond is in jeopardy. Did you find out if Aglarond is Maligor’s target?”

“The gnoll didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know? Well, Galvin. Give me your best guess. What do you think is up?”

The druid leaned against his pack for support. “I’ll have to go to Thay to find out.”

“We, you mean.” Wynter shook his head and grinned, showing a row of even, white teeth. “The Red Wizards of Thay are one of your demons, my friend. I think you’re looking for an excuse to poke around inside that evil country.”

The druid started to argue, but the centaur cut him off.

“I was born there, and I have no love for the country nor the wizards’ malevolent politics.” Wynter flicked his tail for emphasis. “You’ll need me as a guide.”

“I’m going, too.” The tent flap parted. Despite the temperate climate, the young woman had a blanket pulled about her. Foolish civilized modesty, Galvin thought.

She was slight, little more than five feet tall, and slender and graceful like an elf. Yet Brenna Graycloak was a human, with earth-brown eyes, rounded cheekbones, and a nose that turned faintly upward at the end. In the moonlight, her skin looked pale, the complexion of a scholar who locked herself in libraries all day. Her dark red hair hung to her waist, blue ribbons intertwining with the curls and smelling altogether of lilacs. Galvin found her distracting and out of place.

“I need to know what’s happening in Thay,” she continued, glancing at the druid. “If there’s a Red Wizard planning war, I’m going to find out about it.”

For long minutes, Brenna lectured the Harpers, detailing her council’s responsibility to protect the people of Aglarond and her own duty to discover Thay’s current military plans. She tossed her hair back, crossed her arms beneath the blanket, and eyed them sternly.

“The council asked you to investigate all of this,” Brenna stated firmly. “I’m on the council. And you’re going to need my help.”

Galvin sighed and changed his position, pushing his pack out of the way and lying back on the grass. He propped his head up with his right arm. He had no intention of letting Brenna Graycloak accompany him and Wynter into Thay. It would be light soon, and Wynter could escort her back to Glarondar while he healed himself. Thay was no place for a dainty politician who belonged in a city.

Galvin’s thoughts drifted. He knew going into Thay might take him inside heavily populated areas, something he dreaded. He hadn’t set foot in a city for more than a year, and that had been on Harper business. It was Wynter who had gone into Glarondar several days ago to meet with the Aglarond council and bring Brenna out to talk to the druid. Galvin felt uncomfortable in cities, caged in by all the walls. There were many things that caught his eye amid the buildings—well-made clothing, fine food, excellent wine—but when he had made an attempt to purchase such things during his last foray, he had felt awkward and embarrassed. The few coins he had hadn’t even been legal tender within the boundaries of the city, and the shopkeepers had laughed at him. So the druid remained firm in the conviction that he didn’t need cities; they were dirty, crowded, and filled with unpredictable humans and demi-humans. No doubt many cities in Thay would be filled with worse. As he continued to contemplate the possibilities, a drop of rain plopped on his forehead, followed a moment later by another and another. He looked up at the dawn sky, which was dotted with bleak, dark clouds. For a moment, he thought he saw a large bird. Blinking, he realized it must have been his imagination.

Maligor’s malignant creation hung undetected in the sky, concealed by the gloom and protected by the clouds from the sun’s first rays. It skimmed over the thinning trees and spotted its target lying prone below. The beast hovered for a moment in the shadow of a cloud, studying the scene. It hadn’t considered the possibility that the man would join others. It wanted to fight the man alone.

The darkenbeast began to circle the campsite, becoming increasingly irritated over both the situation and the rain—and oblivious to its own peril, the sun. It watched and waited and was finally rewarded when the rain became a downpour and chased the woman into the tent. The odds were improving. It would wait a few minutes longer.

Below, the creature regarded the centaur pacing in front of the prone man, the darkenbeast’s quarry. The darkenbeast’s unnaturally keen ears picked up their conversation.

“We’ll stay here a day or two—just until you’re feeling all right. Then we’ll move on to Thay. I think we should take the woman along if she can keep up,” Wynter said. “She seems to know her way around in cities better than you or I do.”

“She stays behind,” Galvin countered firmly. He would have expounded on the matter, but he felt another wash of dizziness and decided he’d been foolish not to ask for the centaur’s help.

“Wyn,” he said softly. “I need those herbs now, but I’m not up to getting them. The leaves are small, fernlike. You’ve seen me gather them. I’ll need an entire plant, maybe two. Please.”

Wynter’s eyes bore into Galvin’s. The centaur was angry that his friend had been more concerned with the Red Wizards than with his own health. Without replying, Wynter galloped from the clearing, his hooves sending mud and water flying.

The darkenbeast circled the campsite again, its dark spirits soaring now that its quarry was at last alone. It pulled its wings close to its body, plummeting like a rock and crying loudly as it separated from a low-hanging cloud. The sound was a peculiar, irritating shriek that sent shivers racing down Galvin’s back and brought him unsteadily to his feet. The druid was familiar with thousands of animals, but he had never seen the likes of this beast. It stank of sorcery.

Galvin grasped the hilt of his scimitar, but the darkenbeast was on him before he could draw the blade. With surprising strength, the creature’s claws slammed into the druid’s abdomen, knocking him to the ground. The darkenbeast dug its talons into the man’s stomach to gain a solid purchase, then it cried again and moved to drive its sharp beak into the man’s chest, straight through his heart.

Stunned, Galvin watched helplessly as the beast’s glowing red eyes bore into his own and its fetid, acidic saliva dripped on his tunic. The druid shivered in fear as the beast thrust its head forward. Galvin clamped his eyelids shut in terror, then suddenly felt the pressure ease.

Before the darkenbeast could strike, its head jerked back spasmodically, engulfed in a bright blue flash that lit up the campsite like fireworks and stung the creature’s eyes. The darkenbeast, still planted on the druid’s chest, furiously swiveled its grotesque head to face its attacker.

Brenna stood directly in front of the tent, her arms stretched out in front of her, thumbs touching and trembling fingers spread wide. Nervously she mouthed a series of singsong phrases as her hands glowed. Azure sparks shot from her fingertips and struck the darkenbeast’s hide in another brilliant blue flash. The creature cried out again in agony.

In response, the beast streaked toward Brenna, its wings beating furiously only inches above the ground.

Shocked at the creature’s speed, Brenna forgot about her spell and leapt to the side. The darkenbeast crashed into the tent, which collapsed instantly. The creature thrashed about in the canvas for several moments, finally loosening itself and rising from the ground. Flapping its wings to gain speed and altitude, the darkenbeast darted into the trees and hovered in the blackness to plan a new strategy. Hidden in the darkness, it called out to Maligor.

High in his tower in Amruthar, the Red Wizard had been sleeping peacefully. But Maligor’s eyes flew open, his grandiose dreams of power and wealth disturbed, when he felt the tug on his mind of the darkenbeast’s summons. The wizard had no way of knowing his creation was many miles from Thay’s border, but he could tell it was hurt. The wizard could feel the beast’s searing pain. Maligor cast off the stupor of his sleep and concentrated, trying to form a tighter mental link between himself and the darkenbeast in order to determine what was happening. Through the creature’s glowing scarlet eyes, the Red Wizard saw a campsite and a woman. There were no signs of the gnoll the darkenbeast had been sent to find. The woman was dressed in a simple cotton nightdress that was plastered against her in the rain. The darkenbeast and its creator watched as the woman rushed to the side of a man.

Galvin gasped, catching his breath after the ordeal and trying to rise. Bewildered by the creature’s attack, he was equally astonished at Brenna’s magical prowess. He had thought she was a helpless politician.

“Don’t try to get up yet,” she said, gently pushing his shoulders down to the earth and checking his wounds. Her wet hair cascaded forward, the ringlets falling against his face.

“Did you kill the creature?” Galvin asked, again trying to prop himself up despite her admonishments.

“No, but I think I injured it. It flew off beyond the trees.” She picked up Galvin’s scimitar, grasped his tunic at the neckline, and used the blade to cut a V in the material. She handled the weapon awkwardly, and for an instant, the druid imagined that he had survived the perils of the evening only to perish at the hands of a clumsy enchantress attempting to perform first aid. He was relieved when she finished and sheathed his weapon.

But the councilwoman wasn’t done yet. Placing her hands on either side of the V, Brenna yanked hard, and the tunic ripped in a straight line, exposing his chest and left shoulder.

“This isn’t a fresh wound,” she scolded. “Why didn’t you say something about this when you came into camp? You’ve lost a lot of blood. How did this happen?”

Galvin gritted his teeth. His shoulder stung as she blotted it clean with the hem of her nightdress. “Wynter is getting some herbs. When they’ve had a chance to do their work, we’ll be moving on.”

Brenna ignored him. “This is a deep wound. You’re not going anywhere for a while. Wynter and I will be making the journey to Thay. You won’t.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’ll look through my things. Maybe I have something to put on that.”

Like the nine planes you’ll go, Galvin thought as he watched her return to the collapsed tent. No woman is going to take my place on any Harper mission. Still, he reasoned, she was more powerful than he would have imagined, and he owed his life to her for holding off the creature. He began to wonder about the creature’s whereabouts when the sky grew black above him. The beast was returning, heading straight toward the enchantress.

“Brenna!” Galvin yelled, pushing himself to a sitting position in time to see the creature swoop through the clearing toward the woman. Brenna caught sight of it at the last moment and dove into the canvas, narrowly avoiding its talons. The beast swept on to the edge of the clearing and then gracefully banked to return.

Brenna rose to her knees and pushed her rain-soaked, tangled locks away from her face in one motion. She glanced about the campsite as the creature swept back for another strike.

“Get down!” she screamed at Galvin, and then she began furiously digging through the canvas. The druid ignored her and staggered to his feet to draw the creature’s attention.

But the darkenbeast, determined to finish off the woman first, paid no attention to the Harper. It reveled as it closed for the kill, extending its talons toward her throat. A moment more and it would have her. A moment more and.. .

Brenna flattened herself over the collapsed tent, her arms and legs spread wide, her left hand grasping what she had desperately sought from her belongings. She smelled the creature’s rank odor and felt the air rush across her back as the thing passed inches above her. Gathering her courage, she rolled over and sat awkwardly, like a young child, amidst the jumble of rope and canvas. With the rain pelting her face, she opened her left hand, palm upward, holding her right hand above it to keep the sulfur dry. Once more she began a singsong chant, this time her voice sharp and loud.

Again the darkenbeast banked and sped toward her, anxious as it smelled her fear intermingled with the cloying scent of lilacs. Then it heard the sharp crack of a lightning bolt and smelled burning flesh—its own.

The bolt had arced from the woman’s hand to the darkenbeast, striking the creature squarely in the breast and nearly splitting it asunder. The magical lightning illuminated the clearing, revealing the astonished expression on the druid’s face. The darkenbeast felt its insides burn and boil, and it flapped maddeningly, not realizing it was dying.

It struck the ground and beat its wings feebly for a moment more while its body twitched.

Sheets of rain drenched the creature’s smoking form as Galvin and Brenna leaned against each other for support. Then they stepped forward cautiously to get a closer look at it.

The beast twitched once more, then began to shrivel.

Ensconced in his tower in Amruthar, Maligor screamed.

The Red Wizard felt the lightning surging through the darkenbeast’s body, experienced its death throes. When it was over, he threw back the red silk covers from his bed, breathed deeply to clear his mind, and rose to pace about his bedchamber. Maligor was puzzled. He had sent the creature after a gnoll, but he in his mind, he had seen it fight a woman. He had seen the woman conjure a magical blast of lightning. The woman could be a Red Wizard, Maligor thought, despite her long hair. Had she already killed the gnoll? Was she protecting it? Or had the darkenbeast crossed paths with her merely by accident?

Maligor was so caught up in the mystery, working the puzzle through his mind again and again, that he unknowingly relaxed his personal wards, the magical guards that kept prying eyes from him.

A pair of eyes watched him now, deep-socketed, ancient orbs that stared at a crystal ball and through it watched Maligor pace. The observer, a lich and rival Red Wizard, sensed that Maligor was up to something. A creature of the living dead, the lich had all the time in Faerûn to discover his adversary’s plan. He had no need for sleep or food, but he did have a need to keep the other Red Wizards in check. He was perhaps the most powerful Red Wizard in all of Thay, and he had no intention of allowing another wizard to challenge his standing.

The lich smiled evilly and continued to spy on Maligor.

I will find what you are plotting, and I will crush you utterly, the lich thought as he leaned back in his fine, leather-padded chair and listened to the rain outside his window. It was a large storm, the lich knew, covering an immense area, from Amruthar well into Aglarond. It had been one of his better weather enchantments, and the downpour matched his mood.

The rain continued to beat down in the clearing.

“What’s this?” Wynter’s deep voice boomed. The centaur galloped into the campsite, his hand pushing the wet curls out of his face. “I’m gone a few minutes and disaster strikes.” He looked sharply at Brenna and arched an eyebrow, then glanced down at the transforming darkenbeast.

Before the trio’s eyes, the shrinking darkenbeast’s skin began to bubble like boiling oil, producing a noxious stench that made Brenna back up several paces. Then the thing began to melt, leaving behind only the tiny, withered, winged husk of something that looked long dead.

Wynter prodded the thing with an extended hoof and gasped as the creature continued to transform. Its dried-out neck and legs shook visibly, then slowly began to retract into its decomposing torso. The lifeless wings beat the ground, as if the dead creature was trying to fly again, then were washed away by the pounding rain. What was left of the darkenbeast was a lump of dried flesh with bristling spines, the smoldering corpse of a hedgehog.

Galvin knelt and gently turned over the hedgehog’s body. Tied about its neck was a dirt-stained piece of tattered cloth.

“Sorcery,” Brenna muttered, shivering. “I don’t know of any wizards in Aglarond who would have the power to do something like this. It could be the work of a Red Wizard. I wonder why the thing attacked us.”

“It probably followed me,” Galvin volunteered, looking up at the enchantress. Brenna’s nightdress was soaked and soiled with dirt and blood, and her hair lay slick and straight from the rain.

Wynter moved between the pair and dropped a small sack in front of Galvin. “Your herbs, my friend. I suggest you use them quickly in case that creature has a friend or two.” The centaur’s right front hoof pawed at the ground nervously as he looked at the hedgehog. “You know how I feel about magic, Galvin.”

Brenna glanced at Wynter. “There’s no shortage of magic within the borders of Thay.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” The centaur’s tone was solemn.

“Second thoughts?” she queried, a concerned expression on her face.

“No.” The centaur turned suddenly and trotted toward her tent. “I’ll help you repair this. Maybe you can still get a few hours rest. Then I’ll take you back to Glarondar.”

“I’m going to Thay with you!” she declared as she sloshed after Wynter.

“No, you’re not,” Galvin said as he watched the pair begin to struggle with the canvas. The tent seemed to put up a fight of its own against the centaur and the enchantress, then finally yielded as the centaur anchored the center pole. The drenched councilwoman quickly slipped inside. Cursing the foul weather, Wynter trotted back to Galvin.

The druid was preparing a poultice from the herbs, but he was having difficulty keeping it dry. Galvin was usually unmindful of the rain, seeking cover from it only in the fiercest storms. Usually he reveled in it, enjoying the sensation as the water splashed over his skin. Now, however, he simply tolerated it.

Wynter began to dig a hole to bury the hedgehog. “We’re not taking one step toward Thay until you’re well,” he stated firmly.

“I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” Galvin grunted. He considered himself in charge of this expedition, and he wasn’t about to take orders from a centaur. He watched Wynter place the charred hedgehog into the earth and build a small mound over it. Satisfied the creature was at rest, the druid returned to his soaked backpack and lay down beside it. He quickly fell into a deep, troubled sleep.

It was dark when Galvin awoke. The moon and stars shone overhead, and the druid cursed himself for sleeping most of the day away. He felt the ground around his hands; the grass was dry, the earth only slightly damp. He ran his hands over his clothes—they, too, were dry. He cursed himself again, realizing his first guess was wrong—he had slept for more than a day and a half. His shoulder felt sore, but not nearly as bad as before. The herb poultice had healed it considerably. He flexed his fingers and rotated his shoulder. The numbness was gone.

Reasonably healed, the druid knew he would be able to travel. He stretched on the ground and was debating taking Brenna back to Glarondar tonight when he heard her voice—and Wynter’s. He listened to pick up their conversation.

“It won’t help my political career any to go jaunting off into Thay as a spy,” he heard Brenna say. “My rivals will surely use it against me, claiming I have more interest in what goes on outside my country than in Aglarond.”

“But if we uncover some plot against Aglarond, you’ll be a hero,” Wynter commented.

“Perhaps, but I think the negatives will outweigh it. Do you have any interest in politics?”

“I don’t, and I don’t care to,” Wynter countered. “But I do know something about people. And—” there was a lengthy pause as Galvin strained to hear what came next— “you’re going to have to find some other way to gain fame. Galvin says you’re staying behind, and I trust his judgment. Thay’s a harsh place—no place for you. I know. I was born there.”

Galvin sat up to watch the pair. Brenna sat cross-legged on a straw mat outside her tent, her arms crossed defiantly. Wynter stood above her, looking amused.

“Can you keep up with us?” Galvin asked.

She looked through the centaur’s legs at the druid and nodded emphatically.

The druid glanced up at Wynter. “We leave at dawn.”

The centaur grinned broadly and joined Galvin. “I’m not sure about her motives, but she just might be an asset. At least she knows her way around cities.”

Galvin frowned, hoping desperately that he hadn’t made a mistake by allowing Brenna Graycloak to come along.