'Take Belgon this, tell him you succeeded, and look to see me no more in Scornubel.'
Tornar looked startled, but he nodded, gingerly took the hair, and hastily backed away.
Sharantyr nodded again. 'Now go.'
Tornar scrambled up the hillside, dodging between bushes, until he reached a bare rocky place a good way off. There he turned in the growing moonlight, smiled crookedly down at the ranger, and called, 'Oh, I'll be telling him of my success, rest easy on that. My bolt was poisoned.'
'I know,' Sharantyr replied, plucking it nonchalantly out-Tornar's eyes widened-breaking it between her fingers-Tornar's eyes grew even larger-and then tossing it into the ditch. 'Bloodbite. You should refrain from using a venom half Faerun takes no harm from. All it does is make me itch-to slay idiots who use it on me.'
She ended her words with a pleasant smile and advanced steadily up the hillside at Tornar, until he whirled around and sprinted away.
The lady ranger watched him go, head to one side to listen.
When she was quite sure he wasn't circling around again-not nearby, at least-and no other large creature was on the move close at hand, either, Sharantyr resumed her long, solitary walk.
A few paces along the road she told the stars softly, 'The gem-dust on that hair will force you away from me for as long as you carry it, Tornar. Wasteful magic, perhaps-but if that wraith comes back, these gems will probably end up as so many crumbling pebbles, and it'll be just my wits and blades against the world.'
Her voice was wry, a few steps later, when she added, 'That's what it always comes down to.'
Another few strides of road fell away behind her before she lifted her head again and asked the stars softly, 'I wonder what mages do when their magic fails them or runs out in a fight, and they've never learned swordplay or how to hide or anything else?'
As usual, the stars declined to answer.
Fire in The Night
When fire leaps up in the night, best have blade ready to hand. Dwarves, men, and elves all seem to feel better when they die doing something-even if it's just screaming and running. Considerate ores and dragons know this and blow trumpets or roar to give their victims time to get properly ready.
Few folk in Triel had even seen the grandest table in town. It gleamed mirror-smooth and bright in a heavily guarded upper room of a granary Elvar had died thinking still held the best cheeses, wines, and smoked meats he'd been able to assemble.
Its new owners had tossed the foodstuffs down the stairs like so much rubble, readying the room for more important uses.
Sitting around a great table staring at a lone tlame dancing in the air by their heads, for instance.
A man with a face like coldly angry stone and the smallest of razor-straight beards tufting the corners of his jaw leaned forward and asked, 'Highest, what should we do now?'
'Unfold to me who on this caravan and harrying it is seeking spellfire-agents, not dreaming-of-luck merchants or hireswords. Everyone from the outset at Scornubel, not just who's still in the hunt now.'
The stone-faced man cast a glance along the table. Another man caught it reluctantly, leaned forwai'd with a nervous throat-clearing, and said, 'H-highest, here are all the ah, players, as we see them. Firstly, those attacking the caravan. Thoadrin of the Cult of the Dragon, and his warriors. He and one survive and have turned back, or so we believe.'
'As do I. Proceed.'
'Rendilar Bluthlock of Scornubel, leading a force of rogues of his city, probably at the behest of the Master of Shadows. All now perished or fled. The Master sent two other agents after the caravan-a woman unfamiliar to us, openly on horseback, and his most trusted spy, Tornar the Eye. They've not yet caught up to the wagons.'
'You know of no one else lurking in the Blackrocks, preparing attack?'
'N-no, Highest. A second group are those keeping watch over the caravan. We suspect someone of the Arcane Brotherhood is aware of the movements of Shandril Shessair but know no one for certain. Yet.'
'Other watchers being the Cult, independent rabble of no account, and the Zhentarim?'
'Yes, Highest. So far as we can tell, no one oversees the Cultists along on the caravan. They are left to their own devices and report back later,'
'If they can.'
“Ah-yes, highest, indeed, this leaves the Znentarim, and of them we've managed to farscry the wizards Korthauvar Hammantle and Hlael Toraunt, who are working together and reporting to the mage Drauthtar Inskirl.'
'A veteran of internal Zhent skirmishes, not to be underestimated by the sensible.'
'Indeed so. Inskirl seems to be under the command of Eirhaun Sooundaeril, called 'The Maimed Wizard' by his fellow Zhentarim.'
'Whom he spies on, seeking treacheries to report to Manshoon. I hear hesitation in your voice. Hold back nothing!'
'Y-yes, Highest. There's another wizard of the Zhentarim involved, but we know not how: Hesperdan. They all seem to fear him, yet he spurns orders and lackeys.'
'Ah. Yes, he's to be feared, perhaps even more than Manshoon and Fzoul, though he has a habit of vanishing for decades at a time, leaving all affairs untouched. Watch him as closely as you dare.'
'Ah-it shall be done, Highest. This brings us to agents in the caravan. We may not have uncovered all but are confident we've found everyone of consequence.'
'Unfold them to me.'
'Indeed. The Cult may have lost all its spellfire seekers. They numbered four warriors-one named Brasker, another Holvan-and a wizard and a thief working together, Malivur and Krostal. Krostal was well known to us; a capable and dangerous man. He told Malivur he recognized a 'far more powerful' Cult mage posing as a merchant of the caravan, but we've not yet identified who. This unknown wizard is probably the only Cult agent left.'
'And the Zhents?'
'Reduced to three ambitious but weak magelings, we believe: Deverel, Jalarrak, and Rostol. We don't yet know which of the caravan merchants each is. Dead already are two priests of Bane, Stlarakur and Sabran-the most formidable Zhent, in our judgment-and the wizards Mhegras, Praulgar, and Aumlar.'
'The last won himself a not inconsiderable reputation… but such accomplishments usually pave roads to early graves.'
'Indeed, Highest. He nearly slew our Pheldred, after Pheldred attacked him; a personal matter, we believe.'
'I agree. Anyone else?'
'Y-yes, Highest, there is one other.'
The stone-faced man nodded at another mage, who went swiftly to the door, unlocked it, and ushered in a man who was smiling.
The flame above the table danced a handspan or so in his. direction, and seemed to flare a little brighter. 'You would be Marlel,' said the Highest in a dry voice. 'The Dark Blade of Doom.'
Marlel sat down in the seat of the man who'd been sent to fetch him, leaving that mage hovering uncertainly, and replied, 'Every man in my profession needs a more memorable name than the one given at birth. Just as you are now 'Highest' and less often 'Hulrivior.'
There was a sharp intake of breath around the table, but the voice from the flame seemed almost amused as it said, 'You learn what you must, I see. How is it that you became interested in me and found your way to this table?'
