glanced along the trail and saw more chunks and shards that had recently been the very best sort of Cormyrean coat-of-plate battle armor. He could see pieces of at least two helms without taking another step.
'Mystra' he swore, softly but with feeling-and hurriedly called forth a shielding-spell around himself from his rod. Whoever or whatever had done this must still be lurking nearby. That last blast had been only moments ago. Yes, there!-some of the shards were still rocking in the wake of the force that had hurled them to where they now lay. The War Wizard shook his head, went into an alert crouch, and advanced carefully along the trail.
Almost immediately he caught sight of a boot. The leg wearing it belonged to a man clad like a downcoast merchant-breeches, boots, the hip-length tunic so little seen in the King's Forest or the uplands where smocks were for field-work and belt-tunics for riding or stalking in the forest-who was lying beside a tan-glethorn bush, eyes closed and one hand a-dew with fresh blood. He'd never seen the man before. His eyes fell to the belt-a long-knife, of the sort used in Marsember. Just a longknife. Whoever this man was, he'd had something to do with the destruction of the helmed horrors . . . but he certainly didn't look like a brigand or a wizard or any prepared foe of Cormyr. As for whether he was really senseless or not. . .
Pheldemar leaned closer, pointing his rod at the man. A blast of conjured water sho-
There was a sudden crash and rustle from right behind the War Wizard. He whirled, rod rising-but was still halfway through his turn when something large, hairy, fat and sweating smashed into him and ran right over him, trampling hard.
'Reeeeaaaaaaaagh!' Aumun Tholant Bezrar screamed, waving his arms wildly as he ran pell-mell through the forest, crashing into trees and saplings wherever the trail wandered and his frantic flight did not. 'Rrrrruuhhhhh!'
He was trying to frame the word 'run' with his mouth and call it out to Surth, somewhere behind him, but. . .
The War Wizard hit the ground with a grunt and bounced hard, rod flying away into the shrubs. His body settled and lay still, limp and silent, eyes closed.
Trembling with fear, Malakar Surth could see that much of the man through the slit of his almost-shut eyelids. Bezrar was still screaming through the trees, his cries echoing weirdly, and only the deaf could hope to avoid noticing the sound Bez was making. 'No more wizards, ever! No more dealings with spellhurlers, oh no! I told Surth, I told him! No! No magic, not for any price! No no no NO!'
Surth grimaced. With that racket this 'Brorm' and probably some other wizards couldn't fail to be here soon, all right-probably a lot of other wizards. He had to leave. He had to leave now.
The fallen War Wizard groaned and moved one hand, eyelids flickering. In sudden terror Surth burst to his feet and ran right over the man.
He might have made it cleanly over the Cormyrean, but the gray-haired wizard flung up one hand blindly, clawing the air for balance. Surth tripped on it and went sprawling.
Clawing at moss and dirt, never slowing, he found his feet again with a frantic mew of fear and ran on, pelting down the trail Bezrar was still shouting his distant way along.
Pheldemar of the Fireballs groaned again, shook his numbed hand, and rolled over. In the distance a head bobbed briefly in his field of view ere its fleeing owner raced around a bend in the trees and was gone behind a confusion of old, gnarled trunks.
Something gleamed on the trail in the mysterious man's wake, something that was winking back sunlight as it spun around and around, obviously just fallen.
Pheldemar got to his knees then up, took two unsteady steps, and saw his rod. He retrieved it, wincing at the new aches he'd acquired-gods, that man had hit him harder that the pony that had run over him when he was but a lad!-and plucked up the gewgaw from the trail.
It more than filled his hand: an oval of shiny-smooth, polished silver metal, with an shine of blue where it caught reflections. Thick in the middle and thinning to its edges like a dainty-pastry, and graven with . . . runes of power, yes, but not ones he'd seen before. This looked like Eastern script.
His eyes narrowed. He turned it over in his fingers, finding nothing illuminating on the obverse, and-the light dimmed behind him.
Pheldemar of the Fireballs made sure he turned around fast enough this time, in a crouch and with his rod ready-
Two helmed horrors were floating along the trail toward him. They came to smooth halts, their enchantments recognizing him as a commander rather than a foe. Pheldemar frowned down at the gewgaw in his hand, lifted his gaze to the nearest helmed horror-and on an impulse tossed the oval lazily at the chest of the armored sentinel.
The singing of his shielding, still in place around him, flared into a high shriek as the helmed horror blew apart, tumbling its still-intact fellow end-over-end through the air for an impressive distance. Shards of twisted silver-blue battle armor crashed and rattled off branches in all directions, pattering down through dancing leaves. Several pieces sped into his shield and were slowed to a snail-drift by it. Pheldemar stepped out of the way of the only one of these that was proceeding into a collision with him and peered at it with interest as it ghosted past.
The surviving helmed horror was upright again, flying impassively back toward the trail with its sword raised. Pheldemar looked at it then down at the wreckage at his feet, and lifted both of his eyebrows aloft in earnest.
'Well, now,' he said thoughtfully, hand straying to the alarm-horn at his belt. 'Well, now . . .'
* * * * *
Ah, Great Mystra? Goddess? Are you here, in my mind?
If so, what should I do?
Narnra smiled wryly. And if you're there, WHY are you lurking in my mind, without telling me? Are you a Cormyrean, perhaps?
She expected nothing but silence in reply to that.
Silence she got, but also a stirring in the darkness of her mind.
Seven sparks winked, just for a moment, as if amused . . . and that was all.
* * * * *
Something like a wavering shadow appeared in the air of the room Rauthur had first brought him to, thickened, and grew an arm and an alertly peering head.
'I come from Suzail with urgent news for the Lord Vangerda-hast,' it announced excitedly, and then waited. Silence was the reply.
The head smiled, and surged forward, growing a body. It did not look like the customary handsome form Harnrim Starangh was wont to wear, but then he wasn't called Darkspells for nothing.
Aside from himself, the dim room was deserted. He cast a swift spell and nodded in satisfaction. 'Off that way, where the shield-spells grow strongest,' he murmured, 'I must not go … but here, these shields I can work with. . . .'
That fool Rauthur's mind had been fearfully a-bubble with rushing memories during their visit together, wherefore the boldest Red Wizard in Cormyr now knew there were scrolls in plenty beyond that door down this passage and also that one, which also led to a closet that held some wands and a rod or two better left undisturbed because hidden tracer-enchantments could well have been built into them. The really powerful-and experimental- magics Vangerdahast kept hidden behind shields that could slay, shields attuned only to him, but there'd be chances enough to gain those later. First, the-
'Blaedron? Is that you?'
Starangh sent a slaying-snake spell through the air even before he melted his body back into a shadow flickering among the pulsing shields. The War Wizard coming around with the corner with a frown on his face and a wand in his hand walked right into the fangserpent and managed only the choked beginnings of a scream before his face was sucked away by the magic-eyes, breath, flesh, and all.
Blood-drenched bone stared with empty sockets at Starangh for a moment ere the man toppled.
Darkspells smiled and cast another magic that made the body a flickering shield-shadow like himself. It'd
