The Dathran handed back the dwarf's medallion, shaking her head.
'Nothing.' Surprise laced her voice. 'Not a face, not a name. Again, naught. What sort of magic have you been bringing Dathran?'
'I was hoping,' Beldar replied grimly, 'you could tell me.'
'It's elven magic, you ignorant hag,' murmured Elaith Craulnober, answering the question floating up from one of his gently glowing scrying bowls.
Strictly speaking, the rune was Netherese, but the long-ago mage who'd crafted it had based his Art on elven lore. Of course, few elves these days knew such ancient magics, and fewer still would use them.
Elaith had no such scruples. Moreover, he'd added a twist to the rune, binding a rebounding spell to it so any attempt to magically seek the killer would be turned back against the seeker, revealing his identity.
Yet another incantation had empowered the rune still more. Elaith uncorked a tiny vial and tapped a pinch of its glittering powder into the scrying bowl. The ripples took the noble and the witch away, replacing them with a miniature map of the city, lit by a lone red spark.
Its radiance marked just where their conversation had taken place. The area around it began to expand, bringing to mind the way the ground loomed up at one riding a giant eagle to the ground. In moments Elaith was regarding a close, clear view of the witch's lair. Softly glowing footprints marked a path from her rooms up a stair to a hidden door and out into an alley Elaith's henchmen knew well.
With a small silver ladle the Serpent dipped some fluid from the bowl into a crystal goblet. Dipping a finger into that liquid, he traced circles around the goblet's edge, coaxing an eerie note from it.
All of his agents wore rings adorned with flat silver ovals that sang in unison with the crystal, awakening a magic that sent anyone wearing them a mind-vision of the telltale map. It would only loom large and clear enough to read in the minds of those close to the site.
The water in the goblet began to boil, without heat or steam- the signal that his message had been received and understood. Elaith poured the contents of the goblet back into the scrying-bowl and waited to see which agents' faces took shape in the swirling water.
When three faces became clear, a smile touched a corner of his lips.
Lord Beldar Roaringhorn was said to be an excellent swordsman. The coming battle would sorely test his skills. It should, therefore, be most amusing to observe.
Or very, very short.
Beldar Roaringhorn plodded up the dark stone steps, the Dathran's words ringing in his ears. Nursery tales and hedge-wizards' claims notwithstanding, magic wasn't going to answer all secrets and banish all troubles in a trice and a twinkling of stars. 'What a large surprise,' he murmured mockingly, as he came to the tiny chink of light around the door out into the alley. Slipping out into the familiar refuse, Beldar wondered where, in this city of myriad secrets, he should go now to lay bare this latest mystery.
The route to the Dathran's lair was a blind alley, with no other way out other than a warehouse door somewhere to his right that had long ago been buried in a huge heap of shattered stone and rotting wooden shards tossed down in a clumsy rebuilding.
So it was hardly likely that the three figures advancing purposefully down the alley with blades drawn and hard faces fixed smilingly on him were here for trading purposes-or to consult the Dathran, for that matter.
They were here for him.
Beldar's hand wavered between swordhilt and eyepatch as he watched the foremost flex long and slender arms. Both held long, hooked swords that had been tarred to quell their shine. The movement pushed back the hood of his foe's half-cloak, revealing a face that was far from human.
A silver beard tufted the chin of a long, narrow face topped with a crest or shock of stiff hair or… or something. Eyes as gold as a sun elf's bore slitted vertical pupils. It seemed as if a proud elf had tumbled into bed with a dragon and in time had somehow borne-this.
His gold-eyed foe also boasted things no elf had ever possessed: massive shoulders and faint silvery scales. The two bullyblades flanking him a respectful-cautious?-step behind looked human enough, but hardly more welcoming.
Oh, naed. Beldar gave them a bright smile and an airy wave-and spun around to sprint back to the hidden door.
He was through it in moments and racing back the way he'd come. There were crashings of shifting rubble under hurrying boots behind him.
Beldar half-ran and half-fell down the slippery stairs, shoulders and knees bouncing bruisingly off stone, and lurched to the waiting skull.
'Dathran,' he gasped, scooping a handful of bloodstones onto the nose-ledge from his smaller purse, 'I must consult with you- urgently!'
'So soon? Years steal memories and leave grayer men forgetting things and having to return. To see this in one so young and bold…'
Fortunately, the teeth-stones were moving during these mocking words. Beldar flung himself into the widening way and tumbled onto the rune-bedecked rugs of the witch's hearth-chamber. 'Close the portal!'
The Dathran, imp alert on her shoulder, was staring past Beldar at his three onrushing pursuers.
'You bring these?' the crone snapped.
'Not by invitation,' Beldar gasped. 'I-'
As the three slayers dived into the room, rolling up into fighters' crouches, the Dathran calmly turned to touch a tapestry with a single murmured word. It promptly melted away into nothingness, revealing a shelf of human skulls.
Beldar snatched off his eyepatch and backed away as the three slayers advanced menacingly. The half-dragon thrust one of its swords through a belt loop and fumbled something small out of a belt-pouch, reaching back as if to slap it against the skull-wall.
The Dathran turned a cold smile upon the half-wyrm and folded her arms across her breast. Three skulls soared off the shelf behind her and raced across the room at the intruders. Flinching back, the dragonblood threw whatever it held at them.
Beldar dropped to the ground just before three bright, ear-splitting blasts rocked the room and flung him upright again, stumbling unsteadily amid swirling dust.
There were hoarse shouts of pain, a shriek, and the imp's shrill laughter. Then warmer light was blossoming somewhere in front of him, as the Dathran called, 'Follow the light, Lord Roaringhorn. That way lies your safety. Go!'
Beldar staggered forward into fresh dustfalls, small stones stinging him as they plunged and bounced all around. He could see nothing but glowing dust, tapestries, and… a door.
Opening it, he stepped into quieter, damper darkness, and the faint privy-reek and stronger mold-stench that proclaimed 'sewer' to any Waterdhavian.
An eerie chiming rose behind him, and with it came a blue-green radiance that swirled, clung to Beldar numbingly, and thrust him forward in a fell tide, shoving him along dark stone walls.
It released him suddenly, retreating to hang in a singing, seething cloud. Beldar whirled around to behold a blue-greenmist that seemed studded with half-seen, gently drifting spikes and chains. A narrow face began to form in its roilings.
The half-dragon. Beldar drew his sword and thrust hard between those golden eyes, hoping to slay the dragonblood before it could fully regain solidity.
Frigid pain slammed up his arm into his chest, so sharp and searing that he fell. Beldar rolled away, fighting for breath-gods, the cold!-but his collapse had thankfully torn him free of the killing frost.
The strange mist drifted nearer. Floating in the glowing blue-green haze were three skulls, empty eyesockets
