“More than that,” he was already adding-her query just brought a vigorous nod as he went on talking. “There’ve been thefts and ransackings-by-night seeking things in many nobles’ mansions. Bodyguards killed or struck senseless, and many lords and ladies left seething this night at having their chambers looted.”
“Farruk,” Glathra said crisply. “Farewell, slumber.”
She stepped around him and started to stride down the street.
“I know who’s behind all this. Take me to the lodgings of the dancer Amarune Whitewave,” she snapped back at him, over her shoulder. “We’re hunting Elminsters.”
The cave was a long, narrow hovel of damp dirt, stones, and sagging old rough-tree furniture, more a hermit’s cellar than a druid den. Two small, flickering oil lamps hung from a crossbranch over a rude table, and somewhere behind their glows sat a stout, broad-shouldered old man, blinking at the band of adventurers past a fearsome beak of a nose. He had a long, shaggy white beard.
The floor was an uneven, greasy, hard-trodden litter of old bones and empty nutshells, and roots thrust out of the dirt walls here, there, and everywhere; on many had been hung a pathetic collection of rotting old scraps of tapestry and paintings.
“So ye’ve found Elminster,” wheezed the old man, “ye adventurers, and to earn thy hire would speak with me? Well, speak, then; I’ve naught to share, I fear, and if ye were expecting great magics or heaped gems, I’m afraid ye’ve come a century or so too late.”
“I am Sir Eskrel Starbridge, highknight of Cormyr,” Starbridge replied. “I’ve come to bring you back to Suzail with me, where your presence is … desired.”
“L-leave Shadowdale?” the wizard quavered. “I’m-nay. Impossible.”
Around Starbridge, his dozen highknights-and the five war wizards, too-stood as still as stone. Legend insisted-shouted-that this old man blinking at them had spells enough to rend kingdoms, and had done so, more than once. To say nothing of toppling castles, snatching down dragons from the sky and rending them, and transforming charging armies into smears of blood on the earth and a red mist of gore blowing away on the breeze.
Starbridge had said he would try diplomacy first. Not a one of them thought it would succeed, but, well, if there was a time for prayer, this was it.
“Elminster,” Starbridge asked gently, “what keeps you here? We have woods as wild as these in Cormyr-the Forest Kingdom-and the farm on the far side of that ridge is fast disappearing beneath new saplings. What makes Shadowdale so special?”
The old man smiled. “All the Realms knows Elminster dwells here, so the fools all come to me. Fools like you.”
The walls erupted, the air full of hissing arrows, quarrels, and darts.
All of which struck air that did not quite glow, a foot or so away from every one of the Cormyreans, and shattered against it to fall harmlessly to the floor. The war wizards responded almost lazily, spells lashing the walls in red-orange fire that tore into the pale, struggling forms of howling doppelgangers hiding behind the tapestries, who convulsed in agony in the heart of those flames and died.
“Your … servants?” Starbridge asked, in the silence that followed. “Handmaidens?”
The old man behind the table flung himself out of his chair. A highknight darted after him.
“Narulph,
“Too late to hold it in its shape,” the war wizard snapped in reply, craning his neck. “Another doppelganger, shifting fast-I’ll have to blast it, or it’ll get away!”
Starbridge sighed in disgust. “Do it!”
He turned. “Baerengard?”
“Wizard of War Lemmeth was fast enough, sir,” came the prompt reply. “The youth-Thal-was a ’ganger too. He has it held.”
“Good. We question that one. Though I doubt any of them knew where Elminster is, beyond ‘not here.’ Stlarn it.”
Manshoon smiled into the moving glows and cast a swift spell.
In midgasp the young lords Windstag, Sornstern, and Dawntard all clutched at their heads, reeled, rebounded off the walls, and bit their lips hard enough to draw blood, eyes wide and wild.
Then they shivered, shuddered, and came out of whatever had just smitten them, to blink at each other.
Nodding in grim unison, they rushed with one accord to put their shoulders to the door of the rented rooms of old Lord Murandrake.
And broke it down.
As they came crashing into a lamplit and pleasant room, an elderly man in a nightrobe started up from his chair, dropping his book of derring-do tales and his drink, as he fought to somehow pass through his seat backward to get away from them and to keep his balance at the same time.
It was a battle he lost, and swiftly. Wherefore Lord Barandror Murandrake ended up on the floor, cowering back in the cave made by his toppled chair, with three bright, sharp swords menacing him.
“An axe-d’you have an axe?” one swordsman snapped.
“A hand axe?” the second spat accusingly.
“An
Murandrake’s quavering voice failed him, and he gabbled incoherently in his fear, but with wild wavings of his arms managed to indicate that there was
The trio of lordlings charged through the open doorway, found themselves in a luxuriously appointed bedchamber, saw a gleaming helm mounted high on one wall in pride of place with a sword and a hand axe crossed beneath it, snatched all three trophies, and stormed back to the old noble on the floor.
“These all of them?” Windstag shouted into the terrified face. When Murandrake managed a desperate nod, the young lord spun around and ran for the door.
Dawntard and Sornstern were right behind him. They fled down the stairs together, Windstag waving the axe in wild triumph.
“Another false Elminster?” Mereld muttered.
Starbridge shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough. Let’s see how he reacts to the moonglow.”
Lemmeth nodded, drew his hands slowly apart … and the hollow was suddenly awash in bright, pearly white light.
Eskrel stared down into it, hard-eyed. He had a dozen highknights-aye, one of them that dolt Narulph, but still-and another three war wizards in the trees all around it, but they stayed there, awaiting Starbridge’s signal.
In the meantime, they were doing the same thing as Starbridge. Staring down into a hollow where bodies were sprawled around a dead fire, with a lone figure standing over them.
The standing one was human in size and shape, and wore a battered old war-helm and motley clothing taken from the fallen, who might or might not be dead.
The figure stood still, silent, waiting for them. Gaunt and tall but stooped over as if weary or old.
“Elminster?” Starbridge asked. “Will you come with us, or be slain?”
The figure slowly spread empty hands in a gesture of surrender-or despair-and sat down on a log beside the remains of the fire.
Starbridge whistled, and the ring of men emerged from the trees and started to close in.
“You
A deep growl from within the helm replied, “Oh? I’m about done with dispensing words to armed men who menace me and make demands.”
It was about then that Lemmeth’s conjured light showed them the menacing row of rough twigs-wands! — at the old wizard’s belt. Clenching their teeth against their fear, the highknights pounced.
Hard, swift hands clawed at the wands, grabbed the seated man’s arms, clawed at his garments to have off any amulets or hidden weapons, tore helm, wands, belt, and jerkin away-and the Cormyreans found themselves staring at a pair of round, firm, and very unmasculine breasts.
