why. Perhaps the gods do. What I do know is that we're adventurers and that, yes, the world isn't fah. Making it fair is our job. Yours, mine, all of us.'
Silence fell after he finished speaking those words, and in its cloak the Knights walked on, one by one nodding and murmuring agreement in their various ways.
Lost in thought, the wizard Targon turned from a high balcony in Zhentil Keep and strolled across the gloomy and deserted chamber into which the balcony opened. He had no particular quarrel with most of the Zhentarim wizards of lesser rank-they were ruthless graspers-after-power, to be sure, but who of the Brotherhood was not? — bur the five or six mages he did want brought down were difficult targets. To avoid being exposed to the entire Brotherhood as a peril to all, he would have to move very carefully against whichever one of them he chose to slay first.
That meant he still had to learn a lot more abour their alliances with beholders and Bane priests and the gods alone knew who else, so as toHe staggered, arched over backward, and stood trembling, suddenly transfixed by the sword Armaukran.
It had come racing out of the sky and swooping through the archway from the balcony so swiftly that the light ward spell he was using hadn't even had time to chime. Now the agony was so white-hot, he could barely frame coherent thoughts.
He should have been able to sense the sword approaching.
What had happened to it?
Grimly, Old Ghost felt for the sword's enchantments with his will, red mists of pain rising to flood his mind with the looming threat of oblivion…
'Die!' Horaundoon snarled, his hatred a deafening bellow crashing through Old Ghost's thoughts. 'I've been changed and need never fear you again, cruel schemer!'
The Zhentarim staggered blindly across the room with the blade through him, as two minds wrestled amid gathering darkness inside his head-a darkness that smiled and drew in around Horaundoon with tightening talons.
From somewhere near at hand, he heard Old Ghost ask silkily, 'Oh? Need you not?'
Then the darkness struck, bursting into ctimson fury as sentience flooded into and overwhelmed sentience.
This time, Old Ghost made sure of his foe, rending a howling Horaundoon ruthlessly and utterly.
When the mind thunder had fallen quiet again, and he stood alone in the dripping ruins of Targon's mind and dying body, he knew only the sword was vessel enough to trust in and inhabit.
He looked and felt, coiling through threads of enchantment and long-disused powets… finding excitement again, after so long…
There is much room in this blade. Room for a dozen minds or more, if I can command that many at once. Company for centuries, to warm me with their fancies and memories and hatreds-until I tire of them and subsume or destroy them.
The dying Targon slumped down, and the sword drew back out of him and flew away, out from the balcony in a great soaring arc, heading for Shadowdale.
One less fool to trammel me. On to find others.
As the humming, blue-silver blade flashed through the air, Old Ghost wondered idly if it was smiling as smugly as he was inside it.
Not that there was any hurry. There would be plenty of time to subvert adventurers when the Knights of Myth Drannor finally arrived in Shadowdale.
Brorn Hallomond found the old casket he was looking for. It would take the strength of an owlbear to drag aside the stone lid and maul him. Here he could sleep and heal.
Gods, he wished he'd been able to steal another healing vial.
Huh. As to that, he wished he'd been able to steal himself a castle full of servants and fine food and a title to go with it, too.
Perhaps next time.
He hammered the sliding stone catch with the pommel of his dagger, gasping with the pain each blow brought him. He hauled up the hinged lid with a howl of pain and more or less fell in on top of the btittle, shrouded corpse inside.
It crackled into riven boneshards and dust under him, and he clutched himself to lessen the inevitable agony of coughing and sneezing that followed. When at last that was done, Brorn clawed the lid back down, rolled to the crack in the stone so he could breathe, and lay still, waiting for weariness to overcome pain and let him sleep.
Thank whatever gods had smiled upon him. When that war wizard lass-Santress, or whatever her name was-discovered her little token missing, it would probably be about then that she'd remember that a certain bullyblade had vanished from the hollow where all the healing was going on, too.
Hopefully she wouldn't be mule-headed enough to come back here looking for him.
Though most war wizards were just that, stlarn it.
He felt for the dagger at his belt, so he could be ready if she did haul back the lid. Hah. A dagger against her wands. And probably those of half-a-dozen more oh-so-brave Wizards of War.
Still, 'twas the best he could do. He was only Lord Yellander's bullyblade, not Lord Yellander. Yet.
'Night fog, and we're getting into rising rocks,' Florin muttered. 'I don't like the looks of this.'
'Rocks at least ate a solid shield at our backs,' Islif said. 'I've yet to find a tree, however large, that I dared trust as much.'
'We must stand watch,' Pennae said from ahead of them all, 'and find some shelter we can defend. Even if we have to butcher some bear or other and take his cave.'
'Adventure,' Jhessail said in an acidic voice that struggled along the edge of a yawn.
'Up there,' Doust said, pointing a little way up a slope of loose stones on their left that turned into a cliff face farther up. 'That overhang. If we sleep up there, nothing that doesn't have wings can get to us without making a lot of noise.'
'Rolling rocks aplenty down to the Ride under their feet, or claws, or slithery belly,' Pennae agreed. 'Well spotted,' Luck of Tymora.'
'Lathander smiles upon us too!' Semoor said.
'I've heard far better bed-me lines,' the thief told him almost kindly. 'Now, the swifter you get yourself up there and bedded down, the sooner you can be praying to the Morninglord to keep us alive to see his next glorious morning-and the faster we'll all get some sleep.'
Semoor sighed, beckoned Doust, and started climbing.
'Sleep fully clad, boots and all,' Islif put in, watching Semoor leading Doust gingerly up the slippery slope of sliding, tumbling stones. Then she looked at Florin and grinned. 'Guess camp's been decided, valiant leader.'
'I'm not our leader,' Florin said wearily.
'Oh, yes, you are,' Jhessail told him quietly. 'You just happen to lead some adventurers afflicted with the minds of jesters that succeed in bursting out and conquering their wirs from time to time.' She started up the slope, unbound red hair swirling around her shoulders.
A little way up she stopped, looked back at him over one shoulder, and asked, 'Tuck me in, valiant leader?' Florin hoped she was teasing.
'Their names were Harreth and Yorlin,' the young Wizard of War said to Vangerdahasr as they stood gazing at the two corpses in rhe dungeon cell. 'We've learned that much. Worked for the ttaitor Lord Yellander. I know not how Harreth got down here or how he thought he'd free Yorlin, but whatever he did failed and killed them both.'
The Royal Magician sighed. 'A reasonable enough conclusion, lad-but wrong. Yorlin may be hanging in yon spell chains now, but he wasn't the prisoner I put in here nor the prisoner who was in here yestereve, when last I scryed the deep cells. There's a man missing from this cell, a war wizard trairor, and Wouldn't be a daring wager to say he was freed through the actions of these two and rewarded them for it by slaying them.' His mouth crooked
