Marissa recognized the face of the hag, leering out from the trunk, and she began to scream. Pushing herself free, the hag laughed at the druid's obvious terror and began to walk toward her. Pointing a sap-covered finger in her direction, the monster opened its horrifying mouth and said-

"Marissa, are you ready?"

The druid gave an awkward shout as Taen's voice lifted her from the tendrils of her nightmare. Sweat drenched her robe and matted strands of red hair to her face. She gazed around quickly, half expecting to see the hag hovering nearby.

"Is everything all right?" Taen asked, his concern for her obvious to hear.

Marissa nodded vigorously. "Yes," she said at last. "It was just a nightmare." Then she drew herself to her feet and began to gather her things. "Really," she said again when Taen hadn't moved, "I'll be fine."

When at last the half-elf had stepped away to activate the portal, she placed the small pack she carried with her upon her back. Arcane energy swirled around the magic portal, pulsing with newly awakened life.

Please, Rillifane, she prayed silently, guide our steps.

One by one, her companions plunged into the portal, disappearing in a flash of light. When at last she stepped through the mystic circle, Marissa sent one more prayer toward her god.

Protect Taenaran, she implored before arcane power consumed her.

The Old One screamed.

Yulda delighted in the foolish wizard's pain. The sounds of his agony mixed with the delicious sensation of power flowing into her, power that she sucked from the very depths of his spirit. He resisted-even now, after many months of captivity, the wizard fought her control. His will was strong, honed by decades of disciplined study and practice in the arcane arts, and it strained against the mystical bonds of her spell like a wild stallion refusing to break beneath his rider's skill. That was what made him so valuable-and dangerous.

Yulda wished that she didn't have to replenish her power quite so often. She trusted in her own skill and the demonic spell that drained the Old One's strength. Still, the procedure required all of her attention, leaving her little to spare for anything else. The hathran couldn't afford a lapse in concentration. If the damnable wizard slipped his bonds, she would lose a major source of power and be forced to deal with the combined anger of the wychlaran and the Old Ones. She wasn't ready for that.

Not yet.

The witch cursed her meddlesome "sisters" for interfering in her machinations. Dealing with those gods-blighted intruders and wrestling the secrets of the Staff of the Red Tree from her poor little captive was proving to be a far greater drain than she had anticipated. She hoped Durakh would be able to break the pathetic elf's will before too long. Even now, her forces were converging on the isolated villages and hamlets of Rashemen, killing and burning as they marched toward the country's heart. Once the battle was truly joined, Yulda would have to focus her attention on her advancing army. She would have little time to spend mastering the secrets of the staff.

The thought of her eventual victory sent a sweet chill up her back. Combined with the heady sense of imbued power, Yulda felt as if she were truly unstoppable. Soon all of Rashemen would be under her control. Then, perhaps, she would renegotiate her deal with those abominable Wizards of Thay.

Arcane energy crackled behind her, interrupting Yulda's ruminations. She felt, more than saw, the energy from the teleportation circle and couldn't suppress a sly smile. Durakh must have finally broken the mewling elf woman. She didn't even turn to greet the cleric, wanting instead to watch the Old One realize that she had defeated him.

Again.

"So, Durakh," the witch called out, "has the druid yielded-"

Fleshrender's mental warning stopped her midsentence. Durakh had not come through the portal. Yulda spun around, summoning her arcane power with a single thought.

"You!" she screamed and let loose a bolt of pure energy at her "visitors."

Chapter 27

The Year of Wild Magic

(1372 DR)

Taen's vision blurred.

The sudden wrenching of his body from one place to another threatened to overwhelm his senses. He shook his head briskly, as if the violent motion would snap everything back into focus. When at last he could see make out his surroundings, the half-elf saw that he and his companions stood in the midst of yet another cave-the starkness of its gray stone relieved by the glittering incandescence of tiny minerals that reflected the torchlight like thousands of stars strewn wildly by some mad god. Taen had only a few heartbeats with which to take in the undulating expanse of the small cavern before an angry growl caught his attention.

The source of that ominous sound-a rather large snow tiger peering intently at Taen and his companions-lay only fifteen feet from him toward the rear of the cave. Though the beast still reclined languorously on the floor, Taen could see its powerful muscles rippling softly beneath stark white fur-and something else. Despite the shifting light from the cavern's flickering torches, he could make out a faint illumination surrounding the tiger. The glow seemed somehow to soften the edges of the beast's outline, making it seem less than real. The half-elf was about to signal Roberc to rein in Cavan as the war-dog's muted growling reached his ears, but a woman's screeching voice interrupted him.

"You!" Taen heard moments before he saw a weathered old crone, whose black robes had served to hide her against the cave's darker rear walls, spin around to face him. The half-elf caught sight of a craggy, face and a shock of stringy snow-white hair before he realized that the crone had unleashed a powerful wave of arcane energy, which stung his honed senses with its strength as it hurtled toward him.

Taen summoned his own power and quickly erected a wall of pure arcane force to meet the incoming attack. Eldritch energy coruscated and flared along the edges of his spell, spitting scattered power as the old woman's arcane attack met the half-elf's wall. Taen blanched at the strength of the crone's assault. Though his defensive shield held, he could already make out subtle cracks that ran through the arcane wall like tiny filaments of a spider's web. Whoever she was, the crone's power was considerable. Beads of sweat started to run down Taen's forehead. Perhaps they had been unwise to leap into the dragon's den, he thought for just a moment. Then a vision of Marissa, chained and battered from her torturous ordeal, flashed through the half-elf's mind. All thoughts of caution fled like shadows beneath the lash of the sun.

"You dare invade my sanctum," the crone screeched in a voice that sounded eerily familiar.

It took him just a moment to recognize the rough timbre-he'd heard it last beneath the citadel, before he and his companions were attacked by giant spiders. The hag of Rashemar and this decrepit witch were one and the same. Taen knew the moment the others made the connection, for he heard Borovazk's deep bass rumble out a string of curses in his native tongue, while Roberc's own invectives filled the cavern. Only Marissa remained silent, and Taen watched as her lips curled in a snarl that resembled the fang-baring of an angered wolf.

"That's right, you fools," the witch continued, occasionally lashing out with a bolt of arcane power directed at Taen's mystic wall, "you've finally discovered my secret-and too late to do anything with it. By the time those foolish othlor discover that you have failed in your mission, my forces will already be victorious, and with the power of the Staff of the Red Tree"-she pointed a gnarled finger in Marissa's direction-"finally under my control, no force in all of Rashemen will be able to stop me."