Spellfire

Mist rolled about them as the Company of the Bright Spear hurried westward over rising hills, quiet and as wary as possible. Bare rock appeared more frequently now as they passed, and the land rose gently. Somewhere ahead, hidden in the mist, the Thunder Peaks jutted like a great wall. The warriors who had attacked them so suddenly without challenge or banner hastened on before them, unseen but trailed in the tramplings of the wet grass by mule after mule laden with treasure.

Burlane was frowning. "What do you think, Thail? If their bowmen don't return, will they still be warned? Are we rushing into a trap?"

Thail nodded. "Aye. Yet we dare not turn aside and approach the peaks by another way. In this mist we would lose their trail, and knowing not where they lair, could well head 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 stoically, shrugging, "and treasure is guarded the world over." There were nods of agreement.

"We go on, then," Burlane said. "Weapons at the ready, and pick up the pace. We slow only where an ambush seems likely." They began to trot, tugging the reluctant horses into faster gaits. The hills climbed and rolled more steeply, and the company saw no sign of the warriors or their laden mules. The trail led on through scrub, upward into the mountains. Loose stones soon forced them to dismount.

"Who do you think we're following?" Delg grumbled, running hard on his short legs to keep pace. Burlane spread his hands; each bore a weapon.

"Who can say?" their leader replied. "No arms displayed, yet blades were ready, and they weren't slow to use them. They're outlaws, surely, but where did they come from with such booty, and where do they lair? Who can tell?"

"Cheery speech," Ferostil grunted sourly. "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. Ferostil snorted. Delg grinned wolfishly.

"If it's fresh bandages you seek, longjaws," the dwarf said, "I could be seeing my way to providing you with fresh dressings-and fresh wounds to go beneath 'em, too!"

"Ahead!" Thail said quietly but sharply. All fell silent and looked. The trail they followed led up a rocky rise and between two pillars of bare rock. The place looked bleak and uninhabited. The company was leaving the mist behind, and they could see ahead a high, green, deserted valley. Mountains rose up on either side. Beyond the rock pillars the valley climbed to the company's right.

Burlane nodded. "A place to be wary. Yet I see no danger waiting."

"Invisible, by magic?" Ferostil suggested. Delg gave him a sour look.

"Waste all that art to hide from six adventurers?" the dwarf said derisively. "Are you foolish?"

"No, he's just a gloomthought," Rymel said, grinning. "Yet if we climbed a wall of that valley when we get inside, I'd feel safer. This looks like a gods-favored spot for a lookout, if not an attack."

Burlane nodded again. "Climb the right-hand slope, then, once we're through the mouth of the valley. Look sharp, everyone! I want no foes sounding an alarm or rolling rocks down on our heads. Understood?"

Everyone in the company muttered and nodded agreement as they trotted onward between the rock pillars. Shandril noticed Delg peering narrowly at the rock faces to either side. To her eyes, they seemed natural, not quarried. The valley beyond lay empty and quiet.

The trail grew harder to follow as they went on. The grass grew shorter, broken here and there by bare rock, moss, and weeds, but even Shandril's eyes could still find the tracks of the mules. The unshod hooves had left deep marks in the soft, muddy patches between the rocks. The trail led upward, and the company followed until the valley opened out before them.

In the clear light of highsun, the land before them lay green and rugged, walled in by mountains. It was not over-large, and the only trees were stunted and scraggly, huddled along the base of a steep rock face that formed the northwest wall of the valley. Water gleamed in little pools to the company's left. Rocks rose brokenly to their right. Nothing living met their eyes except one lone hawk, circling high above. There was no sign of warriors or of mules, only the faint trail running on.

The company swung to the right and began to climb. Burlane turned to Delg. "Stay with the horses. Bring them on only at my call." The dwarf nodded.

"Does something about this place feel… wrong to you, too?" Delg asked.

Burlane nodded. "Yes," he said, mounting a rock, "and until-"

At that moment a man in robes appeared on a rock above them, farther up the slope. He was broad and stout and thin-bearded, and he wore robes of dark burgundy.

"Who are you," he called angrily, looking down on the company, "and why have you passed the gates without leave? Speak! Show me the sign forthwith or perish!" The man bore no staff or weapon. His eyes were black and glistening. Shandril thought she had never before seen a man who looked so cruel and evil.

"What gates?" Burlane called, climbing nearer. From where she crouched behind a rock, Shandril could see all of the company moving, weapons out, advancing on the man, shifting apart from one another. The black eyes darted coldly back and forth.

"The Gates of Doom," came the cold reply, and the mage's fingers moved as if they were crawling spiders. He chanted one rising phrase, and lightning leaped from the air before his fingers in a spitting, crackling bolt.

In the blue-white flash of the bolt, Shandril saw Ferostil raise his sword in a convulsive, jerking dance. The fighter's roar of agony died away faintly as his body blackened, tottered, and fell. Shandril was too shocked to make a sound. The corpse toppled forward out of view, down 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, but he ignored it, speaking something coldly as he pointed at the company. Before it reached its target, the knife seemed to strike some sort of invisible barrier, and it bounced suddenly away to one side.

Abruptly, nine streaks of light darted at the company from the mage's pointed finger. Shandril watched in morbid fascination as each glowing missile flew with frightening speed, turning in the air to follow her scrambling companions. She watched as Thail and Burlane were struck by two bolts each before there was a flash of light around the edge of her boulder and something cold and burning and almost alive hit her. Very hard. Such pain…

Shandril twisted in agony, crying out as she clutched herself, arms tight around the searing fire in her gut that burned up into her chest and nose and brought tears to her eyes.

It passed, finally, leaving her empty, weak, and sick. She was dizzy, and as she leaned against the rock, her hands were shaking uncontrollably. Shandril knew she should draw her blade and attack, but she could not. The world spun around her in gathering darkness as she wept and shook helplessly, dropping to her knees. Then she fell sideways against the rock, its cold stone hard against her cheek. Gods above! What had the wizard done to her?…

After what seemed most of a day, Shandril's eyes saw again. Pain from her stiff neck and bruised check roused her from where she lay slumped against stone. She looked up over the hillside to where the mage stood, his hands twisting in spellcasting, only feet above where Rymel grimly climbed. On the rocks between there and where she crouched lay the still, twisted form of Thail. Delg, obviously hurt, crouched beside Thail helplessly. Beyond, the radiance of the Bright Spear bobbed into view as Burlane leaned on it. He was climbing toward the mage, mounting a massive boulder slowly and painfully.

Shandril could taste blood in her mouth. She spat it out angrily as she watched Rymel's sword bloody the mage's hand and ruin another spell that might have slain them all. The mage struck aside Rymel's blade with his other hand. The bard drew back his sword to strike again, and the mage shouted a word in desperate haste.

An instant later he was gone. Rymel faced empty air, sword flashing as he spun about to look for his foe. Shandril saw him, suddenly, very near, behind all the company but herself. She cried out in rage and terror and drew her own blade, knowing even as she did that she was too weak and too unskilled to do anyone any harm.

Burlane heard her cry. With cool speed he took his balance, turned, and threw the Bright Spear all in one smooth motion. Shandril, her eyes fixed on the mage who stood grinning down at her, his hands moving again, saw only a flicker before the spear struck home. The mage, intent on her, did not see danger approaching.

Suddenly the spear's long shaft stood out of the mage's side, and he was thrown sideways by the force. As his knees buckled, he fell crumpled up around the spear's shaft, out of sight. Shandril clambered feebly over the first rock between them, peering anxiously. But even as hope grew and rose in her throat, the mage's shoulder and drawn, furious face appeared again.

He flung one hand into the air in a fist. On it he wore a brass ring that twinkled with sudden magical light. She ducked down behind the rock she had been about to climb, praying aloud to Tymora that whatever the ring unleashed would spare her. But after she had drawn two long, ragged breaths and nothing had occurred, she dared to look up again, slowly and warily, sword raised.

The mage had not moved. He leaned against a rock, clutching his side where the spear was still lodged. Burlane was climbing over the rocks toward him, brow bristling in fury, sword drawn. Ferostil and Rymel also clambered among the rocks to the attack, moving faster but coming from farther off. The mage raised bloody hands and began 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, and the blade missed, clanging lightly on the rocks before it slid out of sight. Burlane cursed horribly and went on, staggering as he came down off a large rock and hurried to the next. He drew the long knife he carried at his belt as he climbed nearer.

Shandril remembered the knives in her own boots then and plucked one out, sheath and all. Carefully she judged the distance, drew off the sheath, and threw the blade.

She was too late. The mage finished his spell. Burlane was suddenly shrouded in a dark, sticky web of strands that held him fast among the rocks, his roar of baffled rage almost deafening even as he struggled. Shandril had the small satisfaction of hearing the mage cry out and curse, too. He glared at her in hatred, clutching the back of his left hand where her dagger had cut him.

Cold fear settled in her, but she raised her heavy sword and climbed toward the wizard. Only a few rocks separated them, but Rymel was near, climbing over the rocks in angry haste. The mage backed away, the spear quivering. Its end caught and scraped on a rock. The mage gasped and stopped, sinking down briefly in pain. Then he staggered to his feet and turned away from them all.

"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-and then they heard the roar.

Shandril looked up. In the sky above the valley, 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, and then it dipped its great serpentine neck and dove down at the company.

Vast and terrible it was, and in its glittering eyes Shandril saw her death. Paralyzed with dragonfear, she could not even scream as the dragon spewed out a billowing cloud of thick, greenish yellow gas. Shandril heard screams, saw for an instant the mage laugh in triumph as Rymel's hurled blade missed, and then the shadow of the flying wyrm fell upon them. She could not breathe. Her lungs were suddenly burning, her eyes smarting. Shandril choked and coughed and choked again and fell hard to her knees, the searing pain spreading in her lungs. Darkness claimed her.

After drifting through shifting, blood-red mists, Shandril dreamed of dragons dancing…

It was cold, and Shandril was lying on something hard and rough. The air itself was cold and smelled of earth and old dust and damp mold and decay. She opened her eyes, tensing herself against the pain-and was astonished to find she felt none. She was no longer hurt. How this was, she did not know-magic, most likely. Whose, and why so used, she had no idea-but she could move freely, without pain. Even her shoulder felt whole, she realized, touching it in wonder.

Shandril lay against a stone, and from beyond it, somewhere very close to her, two human male voices she did not know were speaking.

"… No, I say your men shall not have her! Her blood is too valuable to use for that-valuable, mind, only so long as she is inviolate!" The voice was excited, imperious.

"How can you be sure of that! " an older, deeper, more sour voice snarled. "These days-"

Shandril listened no more. With frantic haste she scrambled up and began searching for a means of escape. The stone was cold under her bare feet. Someone had taken her sword, dagger, the remaining knife from her boots-and the boots themselves. She had been lying against a large stone which had evidently been rolled across the mouth of the cavern in which she stood.

The cavern was small, narrowing at one end into a crack impossibly small to pass through. There were no other visible doors, cracks, or side passages. Her prison was lit by a pale violet magical radiance which outlined a smooth, obviously carved stone block. The block lay horizontally in the center of the cavern, the height of two men or so in length and breast-high to her. Shandril was horrified to realize that the block was really a casket; she could see the edge of the lid. Two other, unlit caskets lay on either side of it. With growing despair, she wondered how, gods willing, she was going to get out of this tight spot.

She listened at the stone again but heard nothing; the men had left. She pushed futilely at the stone, felt around its edges carefully, heaved at it with all her strength, kicked at it and, in hysterical desperation, rushed at it and leaped on it. Nothing. Finally Shandril beat upon it with her fists. Still nothing.

Gasping for breath, she slumped down against the stone. It hadn't budged. Her blows had not even made any noise. She was trapped, and she was going to die. She shuddered at the memory of the voice speaking about not giving her to "your men"-and then her blood ran cold at the phrase "her blood is too valuable to us."

"I have to get out of here!" she cried aloud. She had to!

But there was no escape. She had looked everywhere, and there simply was no way out. The cavern was not large, and she had felt, beat upon, or run her hands over the floor and almost all of its walls that were within her reach. The cavern ceiling above her looked just as solid. She had looked everywhere. Suddenly her eyes fell on the black boxes in the center of the cavern.

She had not looked in the caskets.

Shandril stared at the lit one, sitting there in the cold gloom. It was huge, featureless, and silent. There were no runes or inscriptions cut into or painted on its sides or top.

It had been smoothed with great care and skill and then left unmarked. Dwarvenwork, most likely. Now that she had 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, her imagination whispered. Or worse, one of those terrible undead creatures-vampires, or ghouls, or skeletons that were dead and yet moved. Her skin crawled. She had nowhere to run if something in the casket reached for her. Why was only one lit? Would a spell be unleashed upon her if she touched or opened it? Or did something magical lair-or lie imprisoned-within?

For a long time Shandril stood staring at the caskets, trying to master her fear. Nothing stirred. No voices could be beard. She was alone and unarmed.

Trapped. At any moment she might hear the stone covering the portal begin to grate open, and then it would be too late… for anything. Shandril swallowed. Her throat seemed suddenly very dry. She heard her own voice again, as if from far away, saying softly to the company, "I understand you need a thief."

Briefly she wondered if they were all dead now: Oelg, Burlane, and the others… then firmly she thrust such thoughts aside by concentrating on the casket. What if my friends, dead and bloody, are inside, shut in here with me? She screamed inwardly at the thought.

Then into her mind came Gorstag's kind, weathered face, smiling at her. Gorstag must have been in worse straits once or twice, and he was still around to tell the tales…

Again Shandril turned to the lit casket. Swallowing the dry lump in her throat, she strode forward and stared at the glow and at the stone within it. There was no flickering in the radiance, no change, as she laid a hand on the lid.

Nothing happened. She was not harmed. Silence reigned. Shandril took a deep, shuddering breath and pushed. Still nothing happened. The stone lid was massive and old and did not move. Steeling herself, Shandril crouched beside the eerily glowing casket and put her shoulder to the lid, feeling nothing as the radiance played about her. Then, snarling with the effort, she gathered all her strength into a heave, bare feet slipping as she drove the lid sideways. It scraped and shifted, and she caught herself before her arm or head could dip into the open tomb.

She looked in. Nothing moved, nothing stirred. Bones… yellow to brown, scattered about inside the cold, black box. A human skull, a jawbone elsewhere. Peering carefully into the darker corners, Shandril made sure that there was nothing within but bones. She sighed, looking at the tumbled mess of bones. Someone had obviously ransacked this casket already; any weapons or things of value must have long ago been carried away. Why then the radiance?

Shandril stood in the cold, wondering who lay buried here-or rather, lay uncovered-bones scattered like so many rotten twigs on the forest floor. Idly she looked for certain bones in the tangle. There, a thigh bone… he (for some reason she thought of the poor soul as a he) must have been tall… And then she noticed something odd.

There were three skeletal arms in the casket.

Just the one skull, and… yes, only bones enough, give or take a few, for one body. One body with three arms? She peered at those arms, one crumbling into separate bones, another almost intact, strips of withered sinew still clinging to the wrist and holding all together. And a third that was larger… Curious, she reached into the tomb and touched the hand that did not belong.

Idiot! she thought, too late, the bones cold under her fingertips. What have you done? She froze, waiting for some magical doom to befall her, or the old bones to take her rash hand in a bony grasp, or a stone block to fall from the ceiling-something!

But nothing happened. Shandril peered around the cavern warily, and then shrugged and lifted out the skeletal arm. It dangled limply at the wrist. Small fingerbones dropped off into the casket as she raised the arm into better light.

Then she saw. Faint scratches caught the light along the armbone she held-writing of some sort. Shandril peered at it closely for the first time, wrinkling her nose in anticipation of a rotting smell that was not there as she brought the bones close to her face. The writing seemed to be only a single word. But why would someone scratch a word on a bone, then leave it here? What did it all mean?

Squinting, Shandril made out the word. "Aergatha," she mumbled aloud.

Suddenly, she was no longer in the cavern. The bones cold in her hand, she stood somewhere dimly lit and smelling of earth. She could feel cold air moving against her face. Shandril barely had time to scream as cold claws reached for her.

Narm, the mage's apprentice, swung his staff desperately, white with fear. The skull-like faces of the two bone devils he faced grinned at him as he backed away, trying to keep their hooks at bay and to flee from Myth Drannor as fast as he could. The devils were making horrible, throaty chuckling noises, tremendously entertained by his struggles. Thunder rolled overhead, and it was growing dark here under the trees.

Narm backed away desperately. Thrice they had tried to catch him between them, and only desperate leaps and acrobatics had saved him. By turns they would fade into invisibility, and he would swing wildly at the apparently empty air, hoping to deflect an unseen bone hook swinging for his throat or groin. Once, his staff did crash into something, but the devil seemed completely unaffected when it reappeared, grinning, just beyond his reach.

Twice now he had been wounded, and he was nearly blind with sweat. Magic as feeble as his own was useless against these creatures, even if he had been allowed the time necessary to cast anything. Magic had not saved Marimmar.

Narm had watched the pompous mage be overwhelmed after a few spectacular spells, then torn slowly apart with those bone hooks-the same bloody weapons that even now were tormenting the two screaming ponies. These two devils were only playing with him. 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 too late.

Suddenly Marimmar's severed head, dripping blood, eyes lolling in different directions, appeared before him in midair. Narm screamed as Marimmar's rolling eyes focused on him. The mouth opened in a ghastly, bloody smile, and the head moved toward him. Frantic, Narm swung his staff.

The wood cut empty air. The head was gone, gone as if it had never been there. Illusion, Narm realized in helpless anger, as the hissing laughter of the bone devils rose around him.

Around him! They had gotten on both sides of him! Desperately, Narm turned and charged at one, swinging his staff wildly, trying to batter it down and win free. It danced aside, still hissing, its scorpionlike tail curling at him. Narm sprawled in the dry leaves and dirt, rolled over, heart pounding, and jumped up to his feet with staff flailing about… He was dead, dead anyway… he'd never escape… if only he and Marimmar had turned back!

Then there was a blinding flash and the world exploded. Narm hit something, hard. Putting out a hand, he felt bark, felt his way up the tree, realizing that he still held his staff in the other hand.

Abruptly he heard a dry female voice close by. "He lives, Lanseril. If your bolt had been a couple of hands closer, mind…"

"Your turn, remember?" a light male voice replied, pointedly. Then both voices chuckled.

Narm blinked his dazzled eyes desperately. "Help," he managed to say, almost crying. "I can't see!"

"Can't think either, if you planned on storming Myth Drannor armed with nothing but a sapling," the female voice said to him and then hissed a word. Narm had the impression that something brightened, suddenly, to his left, and raced off in a spray of separate moving lights. But he could see nothing more-everything looked like a white fog. 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 after all. How many companions had you?"

"J-just one," Narm replied, letting his arm fall. "Marimmar, the-the Mage Most Magnificent." Suddenly Narm burst into tears.

"I take it that he is no more," the female voice said gently. A hand took his sleeve, and then Narm was being led rapidly over the uneven leaves of the forest floor.

"Aye," the man said by Narm's shoulder. "I've seen pieces of him. Mixed up with two horses. Can you ride, man?" Insistently he shook the sobbing Narm, who managed a violent nod, and then added, "Good. Up you go." Narm felt a stirrup, and then he was thrust up onto the back of a snorting, shifting horse. Narm clutched the horse's neck thankfully, and from one side heard the female hiss a word that he had heard earlier.

The male voice spoke again. "Tymora spit upon 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's strength!" the woman said, and Narm was jerked roughly to one side. "Strike down Lanseril? Idiot!" A small, strong hand clouted him under the jaw and then jerked the staff from his grasp. Narm heard it clatter against something off to his right.

"I beg pardon!" he said, clutching the horse's neck as it gathered speed. "I meant no harm-devils flying, he said!"

"Aye, they are, and we're not-as they say in Cormyr-out of the woods yet, either. It might help if you held the reins and let the horse breathe and turn its head by loosening your hold on its neck," she suggested flippantly. "I am Illistyl Elventree. Lanseril Snowmantle flies above us. He may forgive you by the time we reach Shadowdale."

"S-Shadowdale?" Narm 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-it wouldn't have been the first time. Can you see yet?"

Narm shook his head, trying to clear the white mist before his eyes. "Trees, yes, and the horse before me-" he turned his head toward her voice-"but I fear I cannot see you, yet." His voice shook a little, and then steadied. "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 visitors such as yourself and this mage-your master, I take it-encounter the devils first."

"We… we met an elf first, good lady. Strongbow, he gave as his name, and he stood with a lady mage. They warned us back. My master was very angry. He was determined to find the magic that remains and so went around by another way. He is-was-proud and willful, I fear."

"He stands in large company both in life and death, then. You were apprentice to him?"

"Aye. I am but new come to the art, lady. My spells and cantrips are not yet of any great matter. They may never be, now." Narm sighed.

"What is your name, wise apprentice?" the woman asked.

"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, save in courtly politeness. Slow your mount a bit, Narm-this next stretch is all roots and holes."

"Yes, but the devils?"

"We are largely clear. They seem to be under orders as to how far they may venture. If we are beset now, I have time enough to call on Elminster."

"Elminster?"

"The Sage of Shadowdale. He has seen some five hundred winters, and he is one of the most powerful mages in Faerun. Mind your manners to his face, Narm, if you would see the next morning as a man and not a toad or worse."

"As you say, lady. This Elminster-is he in need of an apprentice?"

Illistyl chuckled. "He enjoys having a 'prentice as much as coming down with a plague, as he has often put it. 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 to hear of your trepidation." 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 between two trees and then sharply to the left, around the lip of 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, clad in a simple, dark cloak over the earthen-hued tunic and breeches a forester might wear. Her boots, he noticed, were of the finest leather and make, although their swash-topped cuffs were plain and not of fancy cut or ornament. She felt his gaze and turned in her saddle with a smile.

"Well met," she said simply. Narm smiled back as she turned away and spurred down a slope in the path, and then blinked. How powerful were these knights, that one so young might, with but one companion, calmly contend with devils? And what would become of Narm in the hands of ones so powerful?

With dull despair Narm realized that he had lost all of his books of magic-worse, all he owned but a knife, a few coins, and the clothing on his back. He now 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, and 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, the eagle became a lively eyed man in the simple robes of a druid. Narm bid a grave greeting to Lanseril Snowmantle.

Lanseril returned it gravely and asked him 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. He awoke many times screaming and weeping, and each time Illistyl or Lanseril sat close to reassure him with words and hand-clasps. As Narm lay down again he would shake his head wearily. He knew it would be a very long time before his dreams would be free of grinning, hissing devils.

The next day, riding westward through the vast wood with Illistyl while Lanseril flew above, Narm knew that he must return to Myth Drannor. Not to avenge Marimmar or to try to recover lost spellbooks that would doubtless have been seized by now anyway, but to be free of the taunting devils of his dreams. Half-asleep, he slumped in his saddle and wondered if he would live long enough to see the ruined city itself. They rode on toward Shadowdale.

They rode at last through a beautiful dale of busy farms and gardens and well-loved trees to a keep on the banks of the river Ashaba, at the base of that bald knob of rock known as the Old Skull. Illistyl nodded to the guards and turned their mounts out into a meadow, into the care of an old and limping master of horses and three eager youths, and led Narm into the Twisted Tower.

Watchful guards within nodded to Illistyl as she turned left in the great hall that led back from the doors. She nodded back and went through massive arched inner doors into a vast chamber where an expressionless man in elegant finery sat on a throne and listened to two farmers argue over the ownership of some hogs, stemming from a broken fence. Lord Mourngrym's moustache hid his mouth. One finger repeatedly traced a chased, sinuous design of stags and hunters worked into the gold scabbard of the slim long-sword he wore.

Illistyl led Narm to a bench at the front of the nearly empty hall. The stolid faces of the guards flanking the throne watched Narm and Illistyl steadily. Looking about the room, Narm saw that huge tapestries hung behind the throne. A balcony curved across a corner of the room to the right, high above them. A guard stood there, too, and Narm noticed the front of a loaded crossbow resting casually on the balcony rail.

"Enough," the lord said then, and the argument stopped immediately. "I shall send down men to repair the fence this day. You are to obey them as you would me. One of them will see you divide all hogs living on both farms into two equal groups, one to each. You will eat together tonight, both families, with my men and the wine they'll bring, and I expect you to drop hard feelings, put them behind you, and be true friends again. If any trouble over the fence brings you here again, a hog each it will cost you."

He nodded then, and both farmers bowed and walked out wordlessly. But no sooner had they passed into the hall than their voices could be heard breaking into argument again. Narm thought he saw a smile steal briefly onto the lord's handsome face. Illistyl rose and tugged at his arm.

"Come," she said simply and led him to stand before the throne. Narm started to bow hesitantly. Illistyl's hand 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 address the man on the throne. "We found him beset by devils in Myth Drannor, Grym."

Lord Mourngrym nodded and turned clear blue eyes upon Narm. "Welcome," he said. "Why came you to Myth Drannor, Narm?" His gaze held the youth as if at the point of a gentle sword.

Narm was silent a moment, and then 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 to the ruined city, just the two of us.

"There we met Merith Strongbow and Jhessail Silvertree of the knights, who warned us back. My master was angry. He thought that they were trying to keep him from the city's magic, so we went southeast and turned again to reach the city. We were set upon 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 have 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 would not have known. But I am resolved. I will go back to Myth Drannor, if I can." He saw devils in his mind again and shuddered. "If I run," he added softly, "I shall be seeing devils forever."

"It could be your death."

"If the gods Tymora and Mystra will it so, then so be it," Narm replied. Mourngrym looked to Illistyl, whose eyebrows rose 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 moustache curled in a tight smile. He turned to Narm. "You lack a master; do you also lack spells?"

"Yes, lord," Narm replied. "If I return 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 stand in welcome to an apprentice?"

Mourngrym smiled openly this time. "Yes," he said. "The lady who stands beside you, for one." Narm looked at Illistyl; she was smiling faintly, eyebrows and gaze raised to the rafters high above. Mourngrym continued. "Her mentor, Jhessail Silvertree, for another. Other, lesser workers of art in the dale may also welcome you."

He inclined his head. "Illistyl trusts you. You have the freedom of the dale and are welcome, here in the tower, to our table and a bed. May the gods smile upon you when you return to Myth Drannor."

Narm bowed and placed his arm firmly on Illistyl's. "Thank you, lord," he said to Mourngrym and turned to go. "My lady?"

Illistyl nodded, winking at Mourngrym. "Adventurers and fools walk together, eh?"

"Yes," Mourngrym agreed. Only Illistyl saw a sparkle glimmering in his eye. "But which is which?"