The ring of stones was old, old beyond the eldest ruined towers Manshoon had seen in Myth Drannor. Perhaps elves had raised it in the dim past-or men who worked magic before Netheril was proud.

The builders had certainly commanded great magic. Down long ages, through gale and blizzard and lightning crashing from the sky, the stones large as giants floated in a ring above the turf and never fell. Some power kept even the smallest birds and wild things away from the silent ring. There was something comforting in such titanic strength of Art-something that awed even Manshoon. He came here when he needed to think, to be alone, and to feel comforted.

It was also the place he knew best in the Stonelands-a sure destination to teleport to. Out of habit, Manshoon put a hand on one of his magical rods as he stepped out of the teleport spell's swirling mists and into the stony ring. From here it would be only a short walk to a height Shandril and her companions would have to pass.

He stiffened. Men were standing by the cliff edge, just beyond the ring. Men in robes, and others in familiar dark armor. Manshoon relaxed just a little. What were mages and soldiers of the Brotherhood doing here?

They had seen him. Swords slid out, and one sorcerer reached for a wand. Manshoon recognized him; Ghaubhan Szaurr, his double agent. Another traitor who wanted spellfire for himself.

"Unhand that wand, or die," Manshoon said coldly. He waited until the sounds of surprised recognition had died and the Zhentilar who were readying crossbows had set them down again. Then he favored them all with a wintry smile-and struck.

Lightnings crackled white and terrible from the rod he held, and men died. He lashed out again at the shouting, running then of the Brotherhood. Warriors scrambled for cover, but their armor cooked them, lightnings dancing around the dark metal like swarms of angry insects, and, screaming, they died. A few magelings were robed in the shimmering cloaks of protective spells, and still lived. They made the pitiful beginnings of spells. shouting and stammering incantations so sloppily in their fear that Manshoon winced at the sounds-and then he worked more powerful magic and they died too, jerking and gasping and falling.

So perish all traitors. Manshoon strode forward, plying the rod with cold precision, until only one man was left. Dread Master Ghaubhan Szaurr stood trembling in his black cloak at the edge of the cliff, one hand on his wand again. The fading, darkening shimmering of a failing protective spell hung around him.

He did not dare draw forth the wand he held as Manshoon's cold smile and dark, dark eyes held his. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep strode toward him.

"M-Master? Lord, what have we done? Why have you slain all my men?" Ghaubhan's mouth was suddenly very dry. He licked his lips, swallowed, and tried again to speak. "Lord Manshoon? It is you. isn't it?"The sorcerer's eyes narrowed. "Or are you Elminster using Art to look like my lord?"

Manshoon's lips twisted. "Elminster!" he spat. "Try not to insult me more than you have already, Ghaubhan. Traitor."

"Traitor? Never, Lord! I swear t-"

Manshoon gave him another wintry smile. "I found Asklannan's book." He watched a sickly look grow on Ghaubhan's face, then added, "I know the orders you've given, and the plans you've made. Ramath was my creature from the beginning."

Ghaubhan stared at him in despair-and then, suddenly, grabbed for the wand at his belt.

With two fingers, Manshoon made a very small gesture.

The Dread Master felt the tingling and twisting, and looked down. His hand was shifting, turning green-and hissing. His arm now ended in the head of a serpent, which rose, reared back, and showed him fangs as it prepared to strike. Ghaubhan stared into its glittering eyes. looked up in horror at Manshoon's grimly smiling faceand then whirled around and ran with a despairing scream.

The edge of the cliff was very near, and in a moment, Ghaubhan Szaurr was gone.

Manshoon walked to the edge, looked out for a moment at Cormyr spread out below him, and then peered clown at the broken body on the rocks far, far beneath the height on which he stood.

A dusty gray bone vulture had been disturbed into flight by the sorcerer's dying plunge. It circled, thick wings flapping, and began its slow spiral down to the remains.

Manshoon watched it and sighed. So we all, in the end, feed the carrion birds… or the worms. Then he stirred. slid the rod into its sheath at his belt, smiled, and turned away. What need had lie of flying skulls, zombie hosts, or incompetent underlings? He'd wasted enough time here. It was past time to seize spellfire.

The High Lord of Zhentil Keep walked past the sprawled corpses without even looking at them. He had quite enough zombies already.

As they descended through ravine after ravine, Mirt tried again to talk some sense into Shandril. "Will ye not change yer mind about this craziness of going up against Manshoon? Ye'll be killed, lass."

Shandril stared at him, eyes burning and chin lifted, and said slowly and very clearly, "I will not run away any longer. If foes seek me, they shall find me, before they expect to, and hearing less mercy than they might hope to find. If that is not the Harper way-too bad! Now guide me to Zhentil Keep-or I'll walk that way, whatever the clangers. and Narm with me."

Narm nodded, and echoed quietly, "I'll be with you." Mirt shook his shaggy head and sighed. "If you must rush to your death, Shan, the fastest way is still south and west, a little ways more, to Eveningstar. It may take us the rest of this day-but it'll save ye a tenday of walking in dangerous backlands. What say ye?"

For a moment, Shandril stared at him with those blazing eyes, then nodded. "Start walking."

Mirt made a noise that [night have been a chuckle, and turned without another word to lead the way to Eveningstar.

Elminster frowned and set down the small crystal orb he'd been staring into. "Hold still, Storm," he said, striding over to where Storm sat by the campfire.

The Bard of Shadowdale froze obediently, the pan she'd been about to pack away still in her hands. Elminster put a hand on her head and muttered a few words.

Storm tingled all over. A whirling light seethed to spin and snap in her mind. When his hand was gone, she looked up cautiously, and asked, "What was that?"

"A spell to make thee more powerful at sorcery. It lasts only a little while-but that's all the time we should need it for." Elminster took hold of her shoulders and knelt facing her. Eyes bent on her own, he uttered some harsh, sliding words, and touched the first two fingers of his left hand to the bridge of her nose.

Force boiled through her, and the silver-haired bard found herself gasping, on her back on the ground, fingers itching and wriggling as a yellow haze swirled and eddied in her head. "And just what, El, was that?" she gasped as her vision cleared.

A spell that allows ye to shoot forth a ray that'll wipe one of a wizard's spells right out of his mind." Elminster gave her a grin that was not pleasant to look at, then added, "Too powerful for ye to carry normally-but I need ye to hit Manshoon with it, very soon now."

"Manshoon?"The bard was getting a little tired of gashing in surprise, but Elminster had managed to take her breath away again.

"Aye. Now put that pan down, get away from the fire, and belt up! Ye've been after me to aid Shandril-well, now it's time. The Zhentarim have been far too busy for their own good, and they've rushed things a little. Stand ye back, roll the drums, and bring on Manshoon!"

Elminster's severe expression melted into a reassuring smile just for an instant-and then his hands were moving, and he stared into the fire and mouthed curses Storm could not quite hear. She found herself glad of that.