shape.' 'Revenge for this?' Rathan asked, nodding his chin at the dead bulk of the tentacled thing.
'Aye, but there's an older score,' the Old Mage said. 'I slew their father, long ago. I wonder why they dared to come here, after all the years between.' Then he stiffened. 'She's after Shandril,' he snapped. 'Of course.'
'Well, slay her, then. With your own spell laid on her, tracing her should be easy enough,' Torm said. He looked around at the grass, trees, and muddy waters of the pool — and then, reluctantly, his gaze fell again to the dead monster at Elminster's feet.
Elminster shook his head. 'I can only trace her when she takes her own form.'
'That?' Torm asked, gesturing toward the rank heap on the ground.
Elminster nodded. 'When she takes the shape of a creature of Faerun, she's hidden from me. Without magic, and given all those already hunting Shandril, her own hunt will cost her some time and care-and during it, she'll spend most of her time as a human, of course.' He looked at the two knights, and the ghost of a smile crossed his face. 'That's where the two of ye are called again to glory.'
Two sighs answered him. 'Why is it always us?' Torm asked the rock beside him. Wisely, it chose not to answer. As the light of Elminster's last spell faded in the spell chamber high in the Twisted Tower, Rathan sniffed at a burnt smell that seemed to cling to him. The gaze that he turned on Elminster was rather sour. 'What have ye done to us this time, Old Mage?'
'Cast a fog of forgetfulness on ye; it'll make folk forget they've seen ye. It will also slightly alter thy looks from time to time, while it lasts.'
Torm sighed. 'Will I look human most of the time? Male? As handsome as usual?'
'As usual,' Elminster agreed in dry tones. 'I can't trace the Malaugrym herself, but I can find Shandril. I'll send ye to her-but mind ye keep back from the lass; if ye stand guard with her, she'll relax, and ye'll have no hope against the Malaugrym. Thy only hope of besting this menace in battle is to strike when she's already battling spellfire and those who stand with Shandril to defend her.'
'This Malaugrym is that powerful, eh?' Rathan asked quietly, out of habit touching the silver pendant of his goddess. Tymora was said to grant luck to her faithful when it was truly needed-and Elminster was nodding his head rather grimly.
'Her name is Magusta, and she's one of a powerful clan who walk many worlds, shifting their forms to whatever best aids them in seizing all the power they can. We are very old enemies, they and I'
'If these folk are so old and powerful, how is it that we've heard nothing of them before?' Torm demanded, eyes narrowed in suspicion. 'Are you sure this isn't another of your little plots?'
Rathan turned his head patiently to look at his longtime friend. 'Would ye like me to tell ye what an idiot ye are, or shall I save the breath?'
At the same time, Elminster said with a dry smile, 'Of course this is one of my little plots.' He snorted. 'My mastery of diplomacy forbids me from involving ye in any of my big ones.'
Where she sat in the dimness against one wall of the chamber, Storm Silverhand smiled and spoke up for the first time. 'It is another `little plot,' to be sure — but these Malaugrym are old indeed, Torm. Most folk in the Heartlands, if they've heard of them at all, know them as 'the Shadowmasters' Individually, their mastery of magic is about as powerful as that of an experienced mage. They are ruled by venom and pride, and practice at magic-or anything else-is foreign to their nature.' She stretched, and added soberly, 'It may be your only advantage against them.'
Rathan had nodded in recognition at the name 'Shadowmaster.' Now he rumbled, 'We two are poor weapons indeed to use against such a foe. I know that Those Who Harp are even busier than the Knights of Myth Drannor… but will we have no aid from thee?'
Storm spread her hands. 'The Malaugrym-for there may be others in Faerun, mind-know us, whatever guise we take; someone not known to them will fare better, seeking to strike at them unexpectedly.'
Elminster nodded. 'Look into the eyes of any creature ye meet, from squirrel to horse, and every man. If ye see a golden light there-or the blue glow of my spell ye're facing a Malaugrym. Strike then to slay, speedily, and stop not until all has been burned away.' He waved his hands, and an oval of flickering blue light appeared in the air before the two knights-a magical gate that would transport them to the region where Shandril Shessair toiled on.
Torm sighed. 'You make it sound simple enough… but simple orders have found their ways onto tombstone carvings often enough before. What if it happens that we really need you-will you come?'
'Soon enough to save thy life, if ye are beset?' Elminster's eyes were sad. 'Ye're old enough to know that no answer I give ye will serve as a sure shield. Death watches always, waiting, and has a swifter hand than I'
The slim, handsome thief waved a hand with a theatrical flourish. 'Granting all that-are we on our own in this?'
Elminster looked up at the ceiling of the spell chamber, where an old enchantment made the stars wink and glitter as they drifted across an illusory night sky. 'The gods above know I am a busy man,' he told the stars innocently, pretending not to hear the resulting snorts of the knights, and am beset at present with matters even weightier than spellfire-but I should not be overmuch surprised if I find myself sparing time for a charge over the hill or two, when my business takes me that way. What say ye, Storm?'
The bard inclined her head and patted the hilt of the well-used long sword scabbarded at her hip. 'I, too, will do what I can-and there are my fellow Harpers along the way. One of them does nothing but wait for Shandril and Narm. To say nothing of Delg the dwarf, I'll be surprised if he has not caught up to them already. We will all of us do what we can.'
As the knights nodded and started toward the gate, checking their weapons, Elminster added quietly to Rathan, 'Ye might pray to Tymora that our efforts will be enough.'
Torm rolled his eyes. 'Don't tell me,' he said, putting the back of his hand to his brow in a mock swoon. ''The future of all Toril hangs in the balance. Again.'
Elminster raised one of his own eyebrows in a parody of the thief's own manner. 'Of course.'
Two
Try as we may, none of us can be in all places at all times. Not even the gods can do that. So we do what we can and measure our success, if we are wise, by what our hearts tell us at the end of a day, and not what our eyes tell us of how much we have changed Faerun.
Their last glimpse of Thunder Gap, far behind, was blocked by dark, sinister winged shapes in the sky. Narm watched them flapping out of the mountains, found his mouth suddenly dry, and swallowed with some difficulty.
'Delg,' he managed to croak.
The dwarf did not even turn to see where he was pointing. 'I've been ignoring them,' Delg told him sourly. 'It's easiest.'
'Ignoring them? That's all?' Shandril asked incredulously, looking back at the dark, hunting shapes as they grew ever larger, ever closer.
'You've a bright scheme of some sort, lass?' The dwarfs woe was sharp as he hastened on, an errant skillet banging on metal somewhere inside his pack.
'Well, we've got to hide,' Shandril said hotly. 'I haven't spellfire enough to-'
'That's why I've been saving my breath and not stopping to look back,' the dwarf said in dry tones. 'It brings the trees closer, as fast as I can make them move… See the little dip ahead there? It's a ravine: the branches'll be thick, and there'll be a stream to hide our own noises — arguing with wise dwarves, for instance…'
