Finding one's true way in life can sometimes take an entire lifetime, for it is often the hardest task one faces-after finding out where the next meal is coming from, how to keep from freezing every winter night, where there's a sleepingplace safe from enemies, and just who one can trust to share it with, that is. Oh, aye-and finding the time to do all of these things…
'It worked! Hah-ha!' Fimril, mage of the Zhentarim, laughed in glee as the Zhentilar hastened to truss their senseless captives. They were careful not to do the three any further damage-the orders they had been so coldly given about this came from much higher up than this capering wizard, and had been most menacingly specific.
Fimril had spent a long and hard year in private, hurling spells and modifying his castings until he'd fashioned a shieldlike band of magical annihilation: a deadly magic that sucked in light, warmth-even campfires and braziers of fire-and solid things, like stools and unfortunate captives, too.
All the way here, through the forest, a tiny voice inside him wailed that his shield wouldn't absorb spellfire after all, that he was marching to his doom. If the spell failed him, he was doomed… even if he escaped the girl's blazing spelIfire, any of the warriors who got away would see that he paid for his folly-painfully and permanently. Magelings were not well loved among the Zhentilar fighting men.
But it had worked-and now not a one of them dared betray him; their orders had been very clear about that. Fimril chortled and gloated, watching the warriors securely truss their unconscious quarry. Ah, but this was sweet! At last, he, Fimril of Westgate, would get what he deserved, rising in the ranks of the Zhentarim… perhaps even all the way.
He cast quick glances around, checking his bodyguard. Yes, they were ready-four burly, well-armed Zhentarim standing in a crescent at his back, making sure that no harm would come to him until he was safely back in Zhentil Keep.
Fimril laughed aloud and shouted down to the man who was busily checking the knots at Shandril's throat, 'Ho! Lyrkon! How are our losses this night?'
The Zhentilar finished his task, controlling his exasperation. The knots seemed tight enough: if she struggled, she'd strangle herself. Aye, good enough. Slowly the Zhentilar stood. 'A moment, Lord Wizard; I'll see.' Gods, but this mage was going to be insufferable now…
He dusted his hands and looked around. Four-no, five; he'd forgotten Duthspurn until his eyes fell on the poor bastard's legs lying motionless on the ground. And that should be all… Wait, wasn't there a sixth, over there? — Lyrkon took a stride down the ruined wall-in time to see another of his men fall as silently as a gentle breeze glides through leafless trees. He stared at the hand that had appeared over Glondar's mouth-and as the soldier slumped, the face that came into view behind it: a fat, grinning face adorned with fierce gray-white brows and mustaches. Its blue-gray eyes met his own-and winked. Gods!
'Out swords!' he bellowed, pointing at where Glondar was being killed. 'We're under attack!'
Along the wall, his men looked up at him, snatching up their clubs or drawing swords-and the one next to Glondar promptly collapsed, a sword through his armpit. The warrior next to him turned at the muffled groan-in time to get the blade of the fat, mustachioed stranger right through his throat.
'Where?' Fimril shouted, peering down at Lyrkon. 'Who's attacking us?'
Lyrkon pointed along the wall with his blade. 'He is, wizard!' he snarled, making an insult of the last word. Fimril's nostrils flared in anger, and he felt his face going red. That was one soldier he could do without when this was over. Right now, though, he'd show them all.
Drawing himself up, Fimril pointed at the stranger, who was now battling his way along the wall. Turning his finger to keeping it aimed at the moving man, the Zhentarim thumbed open a finger-pouch in the breast pocket of his robe and spilled into his hand a dark powder that had once been a large black pearl. He cast it into the air in front of hip lips as he spoke the echoing, awesome words that would bring death to the man-and to the nearest soldiers, but that was the luck the gods gave and drew himself up in cruel triumph to watch the slaughter.
Light that was somehow dark flashed between wizard and fat man-and back again!
The eyes of Fimril, would-be ruler of the Zhentarim, and those of his bodyguard darkened as one. The mage and his men toppled to the ground like emptied husks, dead upon the instant.
The fat, puffing stranger sighed and shook the smoking remnants of a ring from his finger, saying regretfully, 'Watchful Order make… they just don't enchant these gewgaws the way they used to, when I was a lad…'
The last few Zhents, white to the lips, fell back before his lumbering advance, and as he crossed blades with the first and disarmed the man in a skirl- of circling steel, they all turned and ran.
Mirt watched the man he'd disarmed scamper after the rest, and he sighed. When they were gone, he raised his voice in an eerie, singing, wordless call. It echoed mournfully off the tumbled stones of ruined Tethgard, and a long moment later, a soft reply came to him.
Mirt strode toward the origin of the sound. From a pile of rubble before him, a phantom lady slowly rose. She had long, swirling white hair and a beautiful face; her dark eyes stared into his with such sadness that Mirt found himself, as always, on the sudden edge of tears. Buried somewhere far beneath the debris, Mirt knew, lay the crypt where she had been entombed. Lady Duskreene of Tethgard, its door would say. Mirt silently added two words to the inscription he envisioned: Unquiet Spirit.
'Mirt,' she said, in that soft, sad voice. 'It has been long since you called me.'
'Grandlady,' Mirt said huskily. 'I have need of yer powers.'
The translucent, dead-white watch-ghost frowned, emerging in a smooth, silent flight from the rubble, revealing her skeletal, legless torso. She floated in the air before him.
'Name your desire, son of my blood.'
'There are soldiers fleeing this place-Zhentilar. They must be destroyed.'
Duskreene smiled. 'And your girth makes catching them all a doubtful prospect for you? Will you wait for me? I have been so lonely.'
Mirt went heavily to one knee and bowed. 'I will,' he said formally.
She swirled over his head and arrowed off into the trees. After a moment, a terrified scream-suddenly cut off-came to Mirt's ears. A few breaths later, there was another, fainter and farther away.
Mirt got to his feet, grunting at the effort, and went over to Shandril. Checking that she was still breathing, he cut the knots at her throat with his dagger, and set about unbinding her.
A few breaths later, as he was carrying the freed Narm over to the wall, he heard another scream.
Groggily, Shandril roused. 'Whaa-'
'Peace, maid. Lie still while I free Delg, here. He's got more nets on him than several boatloads o' Moonsea fish.' When the ghostly lady at last returned, Mirt and his companions were all awake and were nursing splitting headaches, rubbing at rope burns, and sipping cautiously at firewine from Mirt's belt flask. Mirt had apologized to them for scouting in the wrong direction, and was telling Shandril what he guessed-not much-about magic that could swallow spellfire.
As the glowing apparition flew into view, Delg choked, grabbing Mirt's arm and pointing. 'Hast any spellfire left, lass? L-'
'Relax, Delg,' Mirt said, pushing him back against the wall with one large and firm hand. 'This is a friend-an ancestor of mine-and a lady of high breeding, too. I'd like ye all to meet Duskreene, Lady of Tethgard.'
The three stared up at the translucent lady as she smiled and drifted slowly nearer. Long hair swirled about her bare shoulders and breast and but for the white pallor and translucence of her form, she might have been still a living woman. Below her breasts, however, bare ribs curved from a spine that dwindled away into wisps of glowing radiance.
'Well met, friends of the son of my blood. Be welcome here, in what is left of my home.' Her voice was soft,
