There was a little cry of relief, and a familiar, long-gowned woman burst through its archway and came running to him, arms spread.

"Allys," he growled, throwing his free arm around her as she embraced him fiercely, sobbing. "I'm-I'm all right. Steady, pet, steady. What by the Harbor Deep has befallen up here, while we were all killing each other down below?"

Lady Allys Jardeth pointed with the hand that held her little jeweled belt-dagger. "Men who look like monsters have been coming up-just a few of them-and when they saw us all looking, they went through those doors there, and there-and there!"

"The big bedchambers," Lord Jardeth said grimly, not caring if he was revealing his familiarity with the festhall to his wife. "Well, they can only get out of there through a stair up onto the galleries or a tunnel back down to the sewers… or right back out yon doors to face us again, so they'll keep for now. Gods, lass, 'twas butchery down there-who else has come up?"

Allys Jardeth stiffened in her husband's arms. This time words failed her, so she contented herself with screaming.

Lord Jardeth swung them both around-in time to see an army of monster-men running across the shattered forehall toward him. "Oh, blast," he growled, "I'm getting too old for this! Allys, get out of here!"

Shoving his wife behind him, he hefted his sword and planted his feet to await the doom charging so swiftly down upon him.

Screams burst from the watching women in the feasting hall as the beastmen raced toward them.

"For the Amalgamation!" a huge, caterpillarlike monster-man thundered, rearing up amid the running throng as tall as two men.

"For Waterdeep!" someone shouted from behind the running beastmen, as Lord Jardeth swung his sword and prepared to die.

Then a bolt of lightning crackled between two drawn blades, searing the hands of the astonished jackcoats who wielded them and dealing death to a score of beastmen caught between.

"We're under attack!" a stag-headed man snarled, whirling around, and the loping, wolf like creature who was about to pounce on Lord Jardeth turned as swiftly as most of his fellows.

Not much more than a dozen of Elaith's jackcoats had come up out of the cellar on their heels, but until that war-cry, they'd been stabbing, tripping, and slaying with swift and stealthy ease, leaving a trail of half-beast bodies.

Seeing their own losses, the monster-men of the Amalgamation turned their backs on the feasting hall in an instant to face their dark-clad foes.

The cavernous forehall became a furious battleground in the space of an angry breath, as beastmen howled, trumpeted, roared, and died. Jaws, claws, and tails, both scything and stinging, made short work of unarmored jackcoats, but many of Elaith's men bought with poisoned blades, and there was fearsome slaughter.

When all the jackcoats were dead, less than a dozen monster-men remained to turn and rend the lone old lord who stood in their path-which was when the Gemcloaks came racing up out of the cellar to plunge in among them, hacking and stabbing with neither war-cry nor hesitation.

With shouts and roars of rage and dismay, the monster-men whirled around again-to find a foe already in their midst.

"Die," Taeros gasped furiously, as he chopped aside eyestalks and fangs, his hands as black with blood as his sword. "Stop being so bloody stubborn and just die!"

"Starragar?" old Lord Jardeth roared, catching sight of a face he knew in the fray. "Starragar? To me, boy! For Jardeth and Waterdeep!"

That war-cry was echoed from Ulb Jardeth's flank. He turned in astonishment as his wife, tangled hair flying around her, burst in among men with scales and horns and barbed arms. She stabbed with her dagger, grunting with effort. Tearing it free, she gasped, reeled, and struck again.

Other elderly nobles and merchants were advancing from the feasting hall now, unsteadily or uncertainly or both, with canes and belt-knives and table legs in their hands. "That's young Hawkwinter!" someone shouted. "And the Thongolir heir, by the Mountain!"

Lord Eremoes Hawkwinter shot to his feet from where he'd been bandaging and comforting the injured among the tables. He dragged out a wicked warsword, cast aside its jeweled scabbard, and bellowed, "A Hawkwinter? Where?"

His lumbering run brought him into the forehall in time to see Taeros Hawkwinter smash aside a lion-headed man's sword with his own, snarling as fiercely as if he himself had lion-fangs, and sink his dagger hilt-deep in a leonine throat.

"Blood and valor! Taeros!" Eremoes cried in pleased wonder. He pointed at his son with his sword and roared in a voice that echoed around the shattered hall, "Rally to Hawkwinter, men!"

"I hate this," Piergeiron raged. "To stand here doing naught, while brave folk of Waterdeep fight and die before my eyes! Friends, this is killing me!"

"Nay," Mirt growled, "any attempt on an over-foolish paladin's part to get out there will result in me killing ye. Take your brains out o' your sword-scabbard for once and sit tight. Your staying inside the shielding here is all that stops whoever's behind all these man-beasts from burying us all! If they can make the Statues Walk, they need no blasting-spells to bring the Silks down on our heads! Only knowing this magic is protecting your head stops them, as 'tis your head they want!"

"Mirt's right," Madeiron Sunderstone said quickly, seeing the lack of logic in the moneylender's words but praying the First Lord would not. Stones had bounced from the golden shield-hardly the actions of a foe who wished to take Piergeiron alive! "So sit down again and belt up. For once."

The wizard Tarthus was doing more than sitting down: he was lying down, face pale and sweat streaming from it. Holding up the shielding under a succession of swift, hard probing spells was exhausting. It was flickering on the verge of collapse. "We're… we're going to have to risk it," Tarthus gasped.

"Right," Mirt growled, lurching as far away from the others as he could get. Drawing a little carved gem from its own inner belt-pouch, he set it on the floor, joined it with a good deal of huffing and puffing, and touched it with his outstretched arm, muttering, "Fancylass, I need ye."

There was a flash, the shielding pulsed with a throbbing groan that made them all wince-and there was suddenly a fifth person standing under the golden dome.

She was female, of mature years, and wore a revealing ruffled nightgown and a startled, less-than-pleased expression.

Most mages of the Watchful Order were frankly scared of "Mother" Amaundra Lorgra. There was something forbidding about a woman who refused all rank but gave no polite word to anyone and whose glares and simple utterances could cow noble lords and senior Guard officers alike. Her bare feet were covered with corns, her thin legs a-crawl with blue veins, and her eyes were already beginning to flash in exasperation.

"Mirt, what by all the lusts of Sune have you and these idiot lads gotten themselves into this time? Can't a woman get some sleep in Waterdeep these nights? Must you little boys always be waving swords and shouting around the place?"

"Fancylass," Mirt growled back, not a whit abashed, "I'd not have disturbed ye had the present threat not been too great to deal with by lesser means. Consider yourself our sharpest blade, if ye will."

"How so?"

"Ye have the strength and the skill to join with Tarthus, here, and keep the shielding up. They've made the Statues walk and are trying to bring this festhall down on all our heads."

Amaundra shook her head, went to the floor with the fading remains of graceful agility, and clasped hands with Tarthus. "You can tell me who 'they' are later-and why young Piergeiron here can't just send the Statues back to their places. Right now, let me dispute something more immediate with you. Are 'they' sane? That is, do they intend to still have a city left to rule, once they've prevailed?"