Sobbing in fear, Alorth turned and reached for the dwarf. Too far. He'd never reach that far, without-he frantically scrabbled at the edge of the pit, but harsh hands were suddenly at his ribs and belt, heaving and shoving.

With a cry of terror, Alorth Bloodshoulder toppled headlong toward the spikes, those cruel points leaping up at his face, and-there was a sudden pain in his knees as he came to a wrenching halt. Alorth groaned. Sweat fell past his eyes-and spattered on the sharpened wood only inches below. The mage must be sitting on his lower legs.

The dwarf, still snarling dwarven curses, swarmed up his arms, digging in fingers with cruel force. Then the weight and the pain were both gone, and Alorth was roughly hauled up onto the ground. Freed, he slumped into the dirt, moaning softly.

The noise like thunder came again. Alorth looked up with tear-blurred eyes, and saw a stream of white, roaring flames rolling down the already blackened gully away from him, the girl silhouetted against its brightness. Crossbow bolts leapt from the trees to either side, caught fire as Shandril looked at them, and crashed down in smoke and ashes. The dwarf, axe in hand, glared at Alorth from a foot or so away, and the Zhentilar fearfully snatched the dagger from his belt.

Shandril heard his grunt of effort and spun around. Spellfire roared, and Alorth found himself staring at the bare bones of his arm. The smoking remnants of the dagger fell from them an instant before they collapsed, pattering to the ground in a grisly shower. Alorth found breath enough to whimper for a moment before the world spun, and he crashed down into darkness…

"Are there any left?" Narm was peering back through the trees as they stood gasping for breath in a little hollow deeper in the forest- They had run from the gully of smoking Zhentilar corpses for what seemed like an hour. The pursuing shouts and crossbow bolts seemed to have stopped-and far behind them, they heard barking calls that probably meant wolves had discovered waiting cooked meals.

"There're always more Zhents, lad," Delg puffed. `they're like stinging flies." The dwarf was glumly looking at his torn and punctured pack. Shredded clothing protruded from the rents the spikes had made.

Narm pushed the cloth back through the holes. Between gulps for air, he said brightly, "That could've been… far worse… aye?"

Delg rolled a severe eye around to meet his. "Many men spend their lives trying to get out of one hole or another. Just take care, Narm, that yours doesn't wind up being a pit with sharpened spikes at the bottom of it."

Shandril managed a weak chuckle, and then got to her feet. "We'd best go on while we can," she sighed. "Or they'll be on us again-and those crossbows can't miss forever."

Narm was muttering something and passing a hand over Delg's pack. Where he touched it, the worst rents and holes shrank and closed, the fabric smoothing out as if new. Narm, finished, probed at his work, and looked up at her. "How are you feeling, Shan?"

"Tired. When I said I was sick of endless battle," Shandril told him grimly, "I meant it."

The glow from the pool lit the face of the Zhentarim priest who stared into it, watching them from afar. He smiled a slow, cruel smile and said, "Oh, maid, if you're sick of battle now, you'll be at the doors of death over it, before long-I can promise that." The warriors standing with him all laughed. It was not a pretty chorus.

As they struggled through the endless green depths of Hullack Forest, and the day wore on, Delg felt the constant weight of watching eyes on them. More than once, he called a halt to peer around suspiciously, looking at the dim legions of tree trunks on all sides. "We're being watched," he said. "I can feel it."

"Magic?" Narm asked.

"Of course magic, stumblehead," the dwarf replied grumpily. "If a beast-or even a Zhent sneak-thief-

was stalking along behind us, I'd have seen it by now."

As you say, oh tall and mighty one," Narm replied, eyes dancing.

Shandril flicked a warning look at her husband as the dwarf growled something under his breath, and Narm raised his hands. "Peace! Peace, oh giant among dwarves!" "A bit less tongue, youngling," Delg replied, "and we'd best be on our way again-unless Elminster taught you any clever spells that can ward off scrying magic."

The mage frowned. "No, no… but I'm trying to remember something Storm said, back in Shadowdale, about the goddess Tymora."

"Tymora?"

"Aye… Rathan gave us a luck medallion blessed by Tymora, and Gorstag gave us another. Storm said something about how such things can be used, but I can't recall-"

The dwarf snorted. "Of course not. You're a mage, and mages can't even remember their own names or ages. Let me look at these medallions."

Shandril obediently pulled on the chain around her neck, drawing her medallion out of the breast of her tunic. Narm brought his out of his robes. The dwarf squinted at them both and sighed.

"By the gods, you two innocents'll be the death of me yet! With these, we can be cloaked from magic, twice – each use will burn away one medallion."

"What?"

"Aye."The dwarf fairly danced in impatience. "There's a charm on these things." He swung around to fix Narm with eager eyes. "You can cast an invisibility spell, can't you, lad?"

Narm nodded. "Y-yes."

"Well, if you cast it on one of these medallions, the spell will last until the next morn, so long as the medallion isn't touched by a living being, or moved. The spell covers everyone within ten paces--or whatever, I forget exactly how far-and nothing can see, hear, or smell them from outside that space. Even sniffing beasts and wizard spells miss you. All the spells that detect things find all sorts of

traces, aye-in the wrong places, and moving in the wrong directions."

"You speak truth?" Narm's astonishment overrode his manners.

"Nay, lad-I want to die under a dozen Zhentarim blades," the dwarf snarled, "after all we've been through thus far. So I'm lying to you both so Manshoon can walk right up to us while you think us safe. Of course I speak truth! One of these saved my life, once, when our company was too badly wounded to go on; with it, we bought time for healing."

"If that's so," Shandril said quietly, "I could use a rest from all this running-and time to practice a bit with my spellfire. I'm still burning things to ashes when I mean only to cook them gently, or send spellflame past them at something else. I've no wish to burn most of this forest down, or slay things I

have no quarrel with."

"Let's go on until we find another clearing, then," Narm said. "And some water to drink."

"We're past highsun," Delg said. "We'd best be getting on."

It had grown late, the sun sinking low amid the trees, before they found another clearing. "Here," Shandril said, giving her medallion to Delg.

The dwarf set it on a stone near the center of the open, grassy space, and sat himself on an old stump nearby. "Your spell, lad," he directed. Narm carefully worked his magic and touched the shining silver disc. It flashed and then briefly sparkled, but nothing else seemed to happen.

"Is it working?" Shandril asked. The young man and the dwarf traded looks and shrugged in unison.

"I don't feel we're being watched anymore," Delg said. He turned to Narm. "Best study your spells, lad, while I get a meal ready."

Shandril sighed, relaxing, and then walked a few paces away. She found some bushes and a comfortable mosscovered stone, and sank down thankfully. Yawning, she rubbed at her shoulders and aching feet. Then she stiffened. There was a tiny fluttering inside her; spellfire tingling faintly… building again.

She bent her will to calling the inner fire up, feeling it surge and roil about within her. When Shandril felt ready, she stood and hurled a tongue of flame between the two trunks of a forked duskwood tree. They smoked and creaked in the heat, but neither burst into flame.