“Where is thisss lair we ssseek? In the Thunder Peaksss?” the great voice hissed back at Symgharyl Maruel. She did not try to shout into the wind ripping past her ears, but used instead her cult ring to speak to Aghazstamn’s mind: Yes, great one. On the eastern flanks of the range, above Lake Sember.

“Ah, yesss! Fried Elf Water! I know it.”

The Shadowsil winced but managed to stifle her giggle. ‘Fried Elf Water? No doubt. And there had been an elf among the adventurers who had attacked when she’d been questioning the wench before Rauglothgor. Well, who knows what the future holds and the gods see?

Upon the back of the mighty blue dracolich, she rode back toward the lair of Rauglothgor, to deal death upon them all. Die, all, and let The Shadowsil rise up on your bones!

She did not realize she had cried that aloud until she heard Aghazstamn chuckle.

Symgharyl Maruel

A woman, or a man, may come to hold many treasures in life. Gold, gems, a good name, lovers, good friends, influence, high rank-all of these are of value. All of these most covet. But of them all the most valuable, I tell ye, are friends good and true. Have these, and ye will scarce notice the lack if ye never win aught else.

The adventuress Sharanralee

Ballads And Lore of One Dusty Road

Year of the Wandering Maiden

“Treasure! Aye, treasure for all, and to spare!” Rathan’s voice rolled heartily out over the newly daylit crater where many of the knights stooped and gathered treasure. “More even then ye can carry, Torm Greedyfingers!”

“Hah,” came Torm’s reply from beneath a pile of rubble. “Change your tone, faithful of Tymora?” The thief rose up in his dusty gray, and in his hands was a gleaming disc of polished electrum. Six handwidths across.

“For love of the Lady!” Rathan gasped delightedly. “Good Torm, may I h-”

“ ‘Good Torm,’ now, is it?” the thief answered mockingly. “Good Torm Greedyfingers, perhaps?”

“Shut your yapping maw, Good Torm Greedyfingers,” Merith said from behind him. “Or else some good dale farmer will mistake thee for a nimble shrew and marry you.”

“Some nimble dale shrew did marry you,” Torm told him in return, “and look whaaa-!” His words ended in the roar of a crock full of gold coins being dumped over his head.

Narm watched in amazement as the air suddenly filled with small pieces of treasure, as it was pitched about from knight to knight with enthusiasm. “They’re like children!” he exclaimed at last in astonishment.

“Sir Evoker,” Jhessail said to him with a gentle smile, “they are children.”

“But they are the famous Knights of Myth Drannor!” Narm protested mildly, matching her smile.

“We are all in the hands of children,” she answered. “Who else would ride into danger with enthusiasm and swing swords against fearsome enemies far from home and saner pursuits?”

“And yet you are a knight,” Narm pointed out. The lady mage spread empty hands.

“Did I say I was not a child?” she answered mildly. “Dear me.” She rose in a shifting of skirts and threw a set of knuckle-claws of wrought brass set with small carbuncles hard and accurately at Torm’s back. She favored Narm with an impish grin as she sat down demurely and turned to check Shandril. Behind them both, Elminster chuckled, as Torm let out a roar of pain and spun about, seeking his foe.

Amid the tumult, Narm’s lady lay motionless, eyes still closed, breathing shallowly. She looked peaceful and young and very beautiful, and Narm’s heart ached anew. “Will she-?” he asked helplessly. Jhessail patted his arm.

“It’s in the hands of the gods,” she said simply. “We will do all we can.” Elminster nodded and took the pipe out of his mouth. Coils of greenish smoke and small sparks continued to drift from its bowl.

“She held and handled more power than I have ever seen come out of a balhiir,” the old sage said. “More, I think, than this creature had in it.” Jhessail and Narm both turned to stare at him in surprise.

“What, then?” Jhessail asked, but Elminster shook her question aside with his head.

“Too soon,” he told them both. “Too soon for aught but idle chatter… and idle chatter will help no one and could well upset our young friend.”

Narm fixed eyes upon him and said, “With all respect, Lord Elminster, I am upset already. What do you fear?”

But Elminster was lost in chuckles. “I fear most, boy, being called ‘Lord Elminster’ Now grip thy temper and thy grief and master them. There are good reasons not to talk on this now. If it makes ye feel better, I am amazed and awed at what thy Shandril has done.”

“Oh?” Narm urged him on, trying to speak calmly.

“Aye. The most common way to destroy a balhiir requires at least three mages, and at best, five or more. They must hold the balhiir between them by force of art, opposing their telekinesis to offset its wild movements and struggles. They then tear it apart, each absorbing what he or she can of it. It is a spectacular process to watch-and,” he added dryly, “it kills a lot of mages.”

“Yet you sent Shandril alone up against the thing?” Narm protested, his frustration changing suddenly to rage. Elminster’s gently sad gaze stilled his tongue against further, more bitter comments.

“I had not five mages,” the sage said simply. “We still faced a dracolich and could not turn away from that even if we wanted, lest we and all our friends perish. If ye had tried to stand as one of those mages, Narm, ye would be dead now. Hold thy peace, I bid thee, for thy lady’s sake. High words will not help her now.”

“Are you always right?” Narm asked, but his tone was weary, not angry. “Is the good and true way always so clear before you?”

Jhessail shook her head warningly, but Elminster was chuckling again.

“Ah, slay me, but thy tongue is as sharp and as busy as Torm’s!” The mage sucked upon his pipe once and turned within the smoky haze it produced to regard Narm gravely. “In tavern-tales the hero is always high and shining and his foes dark and dastardly,” Elminster said with a smile. “It would be simpler if life were like that, each one knowing if he were good or evil, and what each should do and could expect to achieve before his part in the Great Play ends. But think on how boring it would be to the gods-everyone a known force, events and deeds preordained or at the least easily predictable-and so things are not so.

“We are here to amuse and entertain the gods, who walk among us. They watch and enjoy and sometimes even thrust a hand or quiet words into daily life, just to see the result. From this comes miracles, disasters, religious strife, and much else we could do without.”

Narm met his eyes for the space of a breath and then nodded soberly. “You do think and care, then. I had feared you swaggered about serenely blasting with your art all who opposed you.”

“That’s just what he does do.” Torm’s voice broke in as he approached, arms full of gold. “Wizards! Wherever one sees battle in this world, there’s some fool of a dweomercraefter jabbering and waving his hands. Honest swordswingers fall doomed-slain by a man who would be too craven to stand an instant against them, could they but reach him! Less art about would please me well! Then the brave and strong would rule, not sneaking old graybeards and reckless young fools who play for sport with the forces that give light and life to us all!”

“Aye” said Elminster with a smile. “But rule what? A battlefield covered shoulder-deep with the rotting dead, the survivors dying of hunger and disease. There would be none left to help the sick, or to harvest, or sow seeds. It is a grand king, indeed, who rules a graveyard.” He drew on his pipe. “Besides, ‘tis no good complaining about what is and cannot be changed. Art we have. Make the best of it.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Torm replied with a wolfish grin.