Mirt held her gaze in silence for two long, slow breaths before he reached out one gnarled hand to touch hers. Then, to the astonishment of the others, he knelt before Shandril, as one does before a king. Looking up over her hand, her fingers still in his gentle grasp, he said roughly, "Aye. Ye have the right of it, Lady. That's why I came here. It's never nice to die alone."

"It always takes longer to get out of a forest than it does to get in," Mirt grumbled as the last of the light

failed. Dusk hung heavy around them as they made a hasty camp amid the trees.

Delg seemed upset with their route and everything else; when Narm asked him what was amiss, the dwarf turned dark eyes up at him and said, "I feel ill luck ahead, soon."

The gloomy dwarf stood first watch, and Mirt was soon snoring like a contented bear on one side of the fire. Shandril and Narm lay together in their blankets and held each other. After Narm fell asleep, Shandril stared into the fire.

It seemed very long ago that they'd flown over Shadow dale together at their wedding-and longer still since she'd left The Rising Moon in search of adventure. And now, folk she hadn't even heard of plotted her death.

The watching skull was patient. It waited, floating low in the concealing darkness while silent tears fell onto Shandril's blanket. It waited, motionless, while she settled herself down against Narm, stroking his cheek tenderly.

It waited, as she fell asleep, and waited still, until Delg's attention was elsewhere. Then, silently, it drifted down to feed.

One bare shoulder had been left exposed as Shandril and Narm lay huddled together. The skull sank down and bit the smooth white flesh. Shandril stirred-and then, with a sort of sigh, relaxed. Spellfire flowed slowly, unseen, out of her.

Delg got up then, as good sentries do, to walk about and check on the safety of those he guarded.

The skull cast a hasty, silent spell to keep Shandril asleep as its fangs withdrew, and then another to quickly heal the wounds it had made.

By the time Delg looked down at Shandril, the skull was gone. Plucky lass. If she'd been a dwarf, now… Not for the first time, Delg wished he'd married. This was the sort of daughter he could be proud of. Tenderly he covered her bare arm and shoulder with an edge of the blanket, then stalked on.

The skull watched him go and made no move back to where it had fed. Its memories went back a thousand years. It had learned patience.

Seven

AT THE SIGN OF THE WANTON WYVERN

Do ye remember an inn, Tessyrana? Old and dark and rambling, lost in the arms of the wild woods a long day's ride from anywhere-but warm and firelit within, against the chill winds of the storm. The smoke slung our eyes, and its old and spicy smell enshrouded us as it did everything eke in the house. We climbed worn, curving stain away from the ready laughter and ale, into a candlelit room, a cozy den nestled amid others in the night, carved out of low beams, gentle mutterings and creakings, and uneven floors. And for one night, at least, that plain, tiny, and friendly little room was our home.

Amhritar the Tall Tall Tales: A Ranger's Life Year of the Striking Hawk

Manshoon looked up, unsmiling. Fzoul and two silent upperpriests stood across from him, and two beholders floated overhead. In the air between them all, in an inner chamber in the High Hall of Zhentil Keep, hung a naked man.

It was Simron, late of the Eastern Stonelands Company of the Zhentilar, and he was very naked-much of his skin was missing.

Blood flew as Manshoon's invisible spell-claws tore at the veteran warrior's flesh. He screamed hoarsely, the red rain from him being caught below in a huge bowl, for later use in dark, cruel magic. The Zhentarim did not like to waste the talents of their members.

"You do still have strength enough to scream," Manshoon said calmly. "Good, Simron – that means you've still strength to speak, too. Tell us more of what happened when the maid unleashed her spellfire."

Simron groaned. Manshoon frowned, and unseen claws raked deep, red furrows across the backs of the old warrior's calves. Simron's legs jerked helplessly, and gore spattered the beholders overhead. They did not seem to mind.

"I-I-Lord Manshoon, mercy!" Simron said thickly, coughing crimson between his words.

"Mercy must be bought, soldier," Manshoon said mildly, "and you've still not told me what I want to know. Now, sh- There was a commotion at the guarded door of the chamber. and Manshoon turned in some annoyance to see its cause.

A mageling Manshoon had always thought of as more ambitious than sensible stood among the guards, face lit with excitement. "Lord Manshoon!"

The High Lord of Zhentil Keep made a sign, and the guards drew back to let the young wizard rush into the chamber. Silently, Manshoon gestured to the mage to speak-and he did, words tumbling over each other in haste.

In Sembia, Lord-we've been attacked. Ah, wizards of the Brotherhood, Lord, seeking spellfire as you asked us to… they were set upon by some Harpers, and killers sent by the Cult of the Dragon. We won both battles, but Arluth is dead, and Chsalbreian, and-"

Manshoon held up his hand, and the mageling fell silent. "Our thanks for your diligence, Sundarth. We are pleased. Leave us now; our favor goes with you."

Stammering thanks and farewell, the young mageling bowed himself out.

When lie was gone, Manshoon looked up at the bleeding, moaning man hanging in midair, and he sighed loudly.

"Too many foes are after spellfire for me to just sit back and wait for blundering, ambitious underlings to bring it to us," the High Lord of Zhentil Keep announced. "I'll have to become directly involved in the hunt for this Shandril."

The beholders, hovering watchfully overhead, said nothing. Manshoon looked across the chamber to meet the eyes of the High Priest of the Black Altar.

Fzoul shrugged and said, 'That's the way of wizards. For my part and my counsel, hold back for now, and watch to see if the claws we've sent out catch anything."

Manshoon rolled his eyes. "I grow no younger," he said carefully. "What use is spellfire-or the triumph of our Brotherhood over all-to me, if I'm toothless, blind, and failing in my dotage before we gain either?"

Fzoul raised an eyebrow. "You may not live to find any of these things if you move openly now. I hope you've not forgotten that your open participation in this hunt is sure to bring out Elininster of Shadowdale-to say nothing of the Simbul, Khelben Arunsun, and others against you. Azoun has already doubled his patrols in eastern Cormyr and is killing our warriors as fast as he finds them."

Manshoon shrugged. "If I feared danger or opposition, I would never have come to hold the title I do now, nor to stand in this place."

A rumbling voice broke in on his words then, from overhead. It sounded amused. "How will you succeed, Lord Manshoon, where others have failed? Finding magic that will stand against spellfire will take time you have too little of, and much luck-or both."

Manshoon shrugged again, giving the eye tyrants overhead a thin smile. "The Brotherhood is often guilty of a fault dear to our natures: in trying to outdo each other, we try to be too clever. A far simpler approach than the schemes we've pursued so far will probably be all that is needed-brute force."

Fzoul raised an eyebrow and gestured for Manshoon to continue.

The High Lord of Zhentil Keep turned expressionless eyes on them all and said, "Club the wench into submission with an army of zombies controlled by underlings using items of power. Bury her under undead, no matter how- many she destroys-and bring her down. My magic is strong enough to take care of any Harper or Cult meddling in such a battle."