Torm handed Shandril a hooded lantern and slapped a dagger in her hand. He moved Lanseril’s body onto his shoulder, and they moved quickly through the boulders.

Their route rose and fell in the rubble. They heard the sound of battle several times but never encountered an enemy.

Soon they saw torchlight, and a voice from beyond bawled out merrily, “Where in the Lady’s name have ye been?”

“Around and about,” Torm called back. “I found Shandril and she found Lanseril, but he needs help. Have you spells left?”

“Aye, if the accursed balhiir stays elsewhere,” Rathan rumbled, striding towards them. Jhessail was at his back, and Merith, and-Narm!

Wordlessly, Shandril rushed forward to embrace him, passing Torm like the wind.

He smiled and said, “I raced back to tell you that some seventy riders are coming up to the keep above us; dragon cultists, most likely. Shall we hit them with spells or take them by surprise down here?”

“No magic remains to us that we can trust,” Florin told him grimly.

“Well”-Torm grinned-”I hadn’t planned on dying of old age, anyway.”

Shandril and Narm held each other, feeling that they could take on anything as long as they had each other to count on.

Torm tapped Narm on the shoulder. “If you ever find yourself tired and need someone to stand in for you, just call my name.”

The look he got made him roar with laughter. Somehow, Narm didn’t see anything funny about the offer.

“The only place the few of us can defend against so many is that dead-end where Florin found you both. Let’s move,” Jhessail said.

The torches flickered as they hurried through the twisting tunnels in wary silence. They saw no living creature. There was no sign of the balhiir. Finally, they reached the dead-end and readied their weapons.

“I presume you returned to Shadowdale to stow away your magic,” Florin asked Torm. “Did you ask the aid of Elminster?”

The thief grinned. “Yes, but he always suspects me of youthful overexcitement. I know not how serious he thinks our situation. I did mention the dracolich and that ought to intrigue him into putting in an appearance.”

“Done,” Rathan rumbled, getting up from the healing of Lanseril. “He’ll live a little longer.”

Lanseril sat up with a sigh and locked eyes with Shandril. “Permit me to introduce myself, good lady. After all, if one must die, it is best to do so among known friends. I am Lanseril Snowmantle, of… of…” The druid’s words trailed away and he fell back with eyes closed.

“Is he dead?” Narm asked in alarm.

“He’s fine; just needs sleep. One must sleep to heal. But enough of imprudent druids… let us speak of the chosen of the gods-clerics. Myself, for instance.” He drew himself up grandly, girth and all. “I am Rathan Thentraver, servant of Tymora.”

“Well met,” Narm said politely.

Rathan was bending to bring Shandril’s hand to his lips. “Lady, with all this running and butchering, there’s scarce been time to get to know each other. Although I dare say ye two have managed it. I know what it is to be young, and in a hurry.”

“I must ask-you are a cleric,” Shandril said, “yet you seem so-forgive me, ah, normal, much like the men I knew who came into the inn each night. Does worship of the Lady Tymora not change one?”

Rathan nodded at her question. “We do not all live the stuff of rousing tales. For all the glory of victories and treasure won there are painful days of marching hurt, lying wounded, or swinging swords or maces in weary practice. The Lady helps those who help themselves. She doesn’t ask for change, she just asks for our best.”

“Yes,” Merith said, working on his blade with an oily rag, “the gods are strange. Those who come against us now worship the monster that nearly slew us all.”

“The Cult of the Dragon,” Shandril said slowly. “Why would anyone want to worship a dead dragon?”

“Don’t worry about them,” Torm boasted. “I keep around me a few magics that should… damn!” The sparkling mist swirled around him. “Well, I had some magic,” he finished ruefully.

“Why did it leave us before?” Narm asked curiously, watching the coiling mist rise again above Torm, drifting along the ceiling over them all. It seemed larger and somehow brighter.

“I think it went to the greatest concentration of magic,” Rathan said, his eyes not leaving the balhiir, “either the dracolich’s hoard, or the spells of Rauglothgor. Seventy cultists, you said?” The cleric grunted.

“And a dracolich. Let us not forget the dracolich,” Merith added dryly.

“Enough. Something comes!” Florin said sternly. The ranger rose, lifting his two-handed sword as though it was a thing of feathers. At his back, the knights snuffed out lights and readied themselves for battle. Merith, striding catlike over the rocks, joined Florin. Jhessail moved behind the rocks in line with the entrance. Rathan moved to shield Lanseril, saying gently, “Wake now.”

The druid’s eyes flickered. Shandril heard him whisper, “Weapons out?” as Torm took her by the hand and led her and Narm to the left. The druid became a blur, and the balhiir moved toward the vanishing form. A small gray bird appeared where the druid had been.

Torm took the couple to a pile of hand-sized stones. “A thrown stone can spoil spells and aimed arrows better than the strongest art.” The thief of Deepingdale noticed that the balhiir had drifted above Jhessail in an incriminating, winking cloud.

“Not too quick with those stones now,” Torm whispered. “If they don’t see us at first, we’ll let them come ahead until there are some to slay in the midst of our ring. Strike when they first notice us, not before.”

Beyond the entrance, a bobbing sphere of radiance could be seen floating in the air, moving nearer as it danced and played about like a curious firefly. The balhiir gathered itself like a snake, then plunged forward along the roof of the cavern in silent haste, toward the light.

The light shone on the dark-robed shoulder of a man wearing some sort of large hat. He seemed to be alone as he clambered over the rocks of the entrance. He was white-bearded, and bore a long, knobbly staff of wood a head taller than himself. Then the balhiir reached the glowing globe that hung at his shoulder. The globe’s radiance flared into the twinkling cloud, and then died.

“Put away that overlong fang, Florin, and light me a torch,” said a somehow familiar voice, disgustedly. “Ye have a balhiir indeed. Young Torm managed to keep to the truth for once.”

“Elminster!” the ranger said in calm, pleased greeting.

“I know, I know… ye’re all delighted to see me, or will be if ye ever manage to make a light to see anything by.”

Light flared up as the ranger relit his torch. Elminster stood in the flickering light looking at Shandril and Narm. “A fine dance ye’ve led me on, ye two… Gorstag was in tears when I left him, girl; nearly frantic, he was. Ye might have told him a bit more about where ye were going. Young folk have no consideration, these days.”

Then he winked, and Shandril felt suddenly very happy. She cast the stone in her hand so that it crashed at the old mage’s feet.

“Wall met, indeed,” Elminster said dryly, “O releaser of balhiirs. We may as well get to know each other before the dying starts.”

To Face the Baihlir

Tell ye of the baihiir? Ah, a curious creature, indeed. I hear it was first-the short version, ye say? Very well; ye are paying. The short version is thus: a curious creature, indeed. Thank ye, good sir; fair day to ye.

The sage Rasthiavar of Iraiebor

A Wayfarer’s Belt-Book of Advice

Year of Many Mists

“I expected to see the cultists here long ago,” Torm said, slipping lightly up onto a high, flat rock. “Or at least to see something of the dracolich. Why so long?”