Manshoon strolled across the room and then turned to look up at the floating body of the Zhentilar. "Then we take the girl someplace secure," he continued, "and let the lich lord drain her-or use magic to bind tier wits and will ere site recovers. then study her at leisure." He snapped his fingers. "Whatever plans we pursue, a watch must be kept on Elminster from this moment on to ensure he doesn't show up to rescue her or ruin attempts to take her."
He gestured, and a guard at the door went out, returning in a few breaths with a wizard just old enough to master his awe and fear. After a quick glance at the hovering beholders, the young mage kept his eyes on the floor or on Manshoon.
"Heldiir," Manshoon said in a cold, smooth voice, "you are to take twenty of your fellow mages, now, and keep a continuous spellwatch over Shadowdale. Monitor all magic wielded there, keep track of the doings of Elminster and report any major castings or movements on his part to me immediately, whatever the hour. Go, speedily, and do this."
"I-I will," Heldiir managed to croak, then hurried out Manshoon looked up in time to see the beholders drifting back toward the arched windows through which they had first entered the room.
"Your plan has some merit," one said.
"We shall watch-and see," the other added in a deep, neutral rumble, as both eve tyrants drifted from view. Fzoul Chembryl glided to a door, spread his hands, and said simply, " "The risk is yours." Then lie was gone. Manshoon watched the door close behind the priest, smiled without humor, and looked tip at the silent, dripping soldier.
"Mercy, Simron?" he asked mildly. "Mercy is for the dead." He made a small gesture with one hand, and there was a dull, splintering crack from the body overhead.
Its head jerked, and then dangled limply at an angle, tongue protruding. Manshoon strode toward his own door and did not look back as the floating corpse slowly drifted down toward the bowl of blackening blood.
"Watch sharp, now," Mirt warned as they peered into the last gleams of fading sunset over the Storm Horns, far off on the horizon. "There's sure to be at least one snake hereabouts who seeks Shandril and spellfire."
"Is there? By the ever-observant gods, your perception is keen. You surprise me," Delg muttered sarcastically, keeping a hand over his axe blade to shield it from reflecting any of the suns failing glow. It was growing dark fast here in the trees, evening descending quickly on the rolling farmlands ahead.
"What, again?" Mirt replied teasingly. "What an exciting life ye must lead."
Delg raised an eloquent eyebrow but thought it wiser to make no reply. Somewhere near at hand, Shandril sighed, and in mimicry of one of the haughty Sembian ladies who used to stop at the Moon for a night, she murmured, "Really, milord. Must you?" She smiled as Narm s comforting arm closed around her shoulders.
Mirt uttered a satisfied sound, came to a halt, and pointed. -chat fence line, there? That's the eastern paddock of the Wyvern. Come. My belly tells me it's past time for some hot roast dinner."
"Master, we obey," Narm said in gentle mockery. Mirt sighed heavily, rolled his eyes, and waved at them all to follow him. The stout old merchant pushed past a tangle of wild raspberry canes, creating angry crackling and tearing noises. He waded through the canes toward the road, slipped on a muddy patch of bank-and fell with a heavy splash into the ditch.
For a long, breathless moment, silence descended. -Shandril smothered giggles, not very successfully. Delg cut his own way through the canes with a few cleft swings of his axe, and then launched himself into an exaggerated pratfall down the bank, coming to rest so I hat one boot just crashed down into the edge of the water with a splash. The spray drenched Mirt's face, which had just arisen from the muddy waters wearing a dark expression.
"Unusual maneuver," the dwarf remarked cheerfully, "but I can see its virtues now, O Great Warrior. It'll certainly lull any waiting foes into false overconfidence and allow us to make a grand entrance while they're still rolling about on the ground, laughing helplessly.
One muddy paw lashed out from the water, enfolded the dwarfs boot in a loving grip, and pulled. Delg's mirth was cut suddenly and damply short, leaving only bubbles to mark its passing.
"I hope you don't expect us to join you," said Shandril carefully, reaching a hand down to him. Mirt waved it away, spitting muddy water considerately off to one side.
"Nay, nay, lass-if ye gave me yer hand, ye'd end up in the wet here beside me, instead o' getting me out of it. Nay, me an' the intrepid Delg here'll just wallow about for a bit, and then join ye on the far bank. If ye don't feel up to leaping the ditch, any of ye, just step on my shoulder here-and find yer way across… blast it!"
Shandril did giggle then, but made use of his offer. Full darkness had fallen by the time they all reached the road beyond. Mirt and Delg dripped their way to the front and rear of the hand, respectively, and both set off in grim silence for their goal.
The farms and woodlots of Cormyr stretched out before them in the gloom, and stars winked overhead. Selune had not yet risen, and the four travelers went over the hill under the cloak of night
Before them, at the bottom of the slope, two bright pole-lamps flickered on the right-hand side of the road. The lamps flanked a stout gate that led off the road into a high-fenced yard. Up out of the dark shadows of this enclosure rose several large, dark buildings. The nearest one was a rambling place: they could see part of it by the light of another, dimmer lamp on a post near the door.
From a leaning spar that jutted above the closed gate, a rusty shield hung down on a chain. On the shield, the words “Strike to enter" were painted. Under this sign slumped the body of someone filthy, dressed in a very tattered collection of rags, and sitting up against one of the gateposts.
In heavy silence, Mirt went alertly forward, his sword drawn. The figure did not move. As they drew nearer, they heard faint snoring. Nonetheless, Mirt warily faced the fat, unmoving, ragtag figure, and lie rapped the shieldgong with the pommel of his raised, ready sword.
The snores broke off abruptly, just as a small wooden window squealed open in the gate above. A face looked out at them. "Travelers?" came a gravelly, not unfriendly voice.
"Aye," Mirt replied. "Two men, one women, and a hedwarf, on foot. We're armed but come in peace, and prepared to pay well for a warm meal and a good bed-if they're as good at the Wyvern as I remember."
“Well met!" The voice was less wary. "Welcome to The Wanton Wyvern then. I'll open the gate." The window closed, and they heard the hollow sounds of wooden bars and props being shifted. Then the gate groaned inward.
The man standing inside looked tall and battered, and so did the stout wooden staff in his hand. They'd scarce got a look at him before lie leapt out, past Mirt-who turned automatically to keep his drawn sword facing the man-and raised his staff threateningly over the ragtag, awakened sleeper.
"Be off, you! Move, Baergasra! I've told you before away from the gate!" The staff thumped the tattered derelict solidly in the shoulder, and the tall man used it to shove and roll his bedraggled, gruntingly protesting target awry from their path.
"Please come in," he puffed over his shoulder. He raised the staff again as the bundle of rags moaned and tunibled hastily out of reach. "This old leper is always hanging about here-but we've never let her inside the gate. The Wyvern is clean, I assure you."
Mirt merely nodded and strode into the inn yard. The others followed.
The tall man came after them, closing the gate hurriedly. "Please go within," he said. "There, under the lamp. We've plenty of room tonight, and there's food hot and ready."