the sword-wielding skeleton. 'They're called hargaunts.'
'That's nice,' Dauntless said. 'It's always the height of urbane courtesy to know the name of what's trying to kill you.'
Beyond the advancing skeleton, the hacked-apart pieces of hatgaunts were flowing together like worms mindlessly converging on something dead and beginning to rise up into a vaguely humanlike figure.
'Saers!' Florin called to Dauntless and the Harper as he stepped to the left and waved at them to move to the right. He was motioning them to move so the three of them could strike at the skeleton from its front and from both of its sides, all at once. Ree and the ornrion nodded back and moved as the ranger had directed.
'Tluin,' the skeleton said.
He felt much better with the shielding around him.
Two wardings and a lesser ironguard woven into the result, to turn back most magics and make him untouchable by the swords and daggers of Knights of Myth Drannor-or anyone else, unless those blades bore strong magics.
Yet there was room for something more. A simple deception for simple adventurers. He'd not face the Knights as Onsler Ruldroun or as some crone in a dirty dress-but as the ornrion Dauntless, in the shreds of a failed disguise, out here stalking them under Crown orders.
That, they'd believe in a trice. Letting him walk among them, rather than spending his days skulking out in forests, straining to get close enough without being noticed.
The hargaunt was alteady stirring approvingly, even before he really concentrated on the remembered face of-the ornrion.
A few moments of creeping and flowing, and he'd be hurrying on again to the battle.
The Lion Room was warm and richly paneled, and the firesparkle in their goblets was good. They were almost past the sneering and elbowing each other stage, carried along on their own rising excitement into being fellow conspirators. And that was saying something, considering how fervently these young noble rivals had hated each other before this night.
Royal Sage Alaphondar knew how to defer to nobility. He knew their strengths and had praised them, saying nothing of their pride and pratfalls and indiscretions. Wherefore Lharak Huntcrown, Doront Rowanmantle, Beliard Emmarask, Cadeln Hawklin, Faerandor Crownsilver, Garen Truesilver, and Talask Dauntinghorn were all secretly thrilled to be sitting in this ptivate chamber of the Royal Palace.
Youngbloods of most of the foremost titled families of the realm, they had all been recruited for some mysterious 'special missions for the Crown.' That meant something. Just being born into the families whose names they bore was enough to puff them up with their own importance when dealing with lesser folk. But every last one of them knew that they themselves had as yet done nothing to merit any personal respect. Or earn one thin coin of any minting.
It did not take more brains than those of the nearesr dolt to suspect that if they performed these missions well, important Crown posts-and salaries, to boot-would be theirs. That would make their fathers sit up and take notice.
Wherefore they were now sitting, several-times-refilled goblets in hand, conferring with Alaphondar over a map-strewn table in the richly paneled Lion Room, as the doors opened and a few aging senior servants in splendid livery brought in a light repast. Platters of fried, breaded, and sugar-dusted soft-shelled crabs.
'That bastard!'
The hiss that came through the open doors in the wake of the steaming food was furious, unexpected, and feminine. Every head around the table snapped up in unison ro regard the open doors.
In time to witness the Princess Alusair in her nightgown, striding furiously past the Lion Room without a glance and on down the passage, with a similarly garbed female war wizard half a step behind her.
With one accord, the young noblemen set down their goblets and reached for the hilts of cetemonial swords that no longer rode in their scabbards.
Then they sighed or cursed, recalling that they'd had to surrender their blades earlier. They boiled out into the passage in the wake of the princess to see what was afoot.
The forgotten Royal Sage smiled fondly at their backs and strode silently after, them.
A dozen chambers and passages along, he murmured the brief incantation that silently restored seven courtsabers to as many rightful scabbards. It was interesting to watch just how many strides it took most of the youngbloods to notice the reappearance of their weapons. Truly, the Forest Kingdom stood not unguarded.
Alaphondar snorred at another thought. There would be trouble over this, but it would be well worth it to see Vangerdahast's face.
Finally, his chance!
Drathar wasted not an instant on a triumphant smile. There'd be time enough for that later. He was too busy weaving the strongest foeblasting spell he had left.
One long, hissing incantation later, it was done.
And the Harper Dalonder Ree exploded, flattening his fellows as his shredded limbs were hurled everywhere.
Drathar's spell cut the walking skeleton in half, too, and collapsed the hargaunts back into scattered, blazing scraps.
And what of it?
Then Drathar smiled.
It was a grin that lasted a mere instant or two. The ranger and the ornrion were sturdier stuff-and had keener eyes-than he'd thought. They were up and charging at him already, with some of the other Knights-the young wench with the knife and one of the priests-in their wake.
Naed.
No matter how many years one spent mastering the Art, it all came down, again and again, to how fast you could run. Hrast it.
Drathar ran, ducking under and past clawing branches, dodging around tree trunks that stood in his way like so many tall black statues, and whirling from time to time just long enough to catch sight of a pursuer. He sent a battlestrike spell back at them.
Those flaring blue bolts never missed, and it didn't take many of them to wound all but the strongest-or most foolishly determined-pursuer.
He was just starting to really gasp for breath and stumble because his feet were getting heavy, when he realized he'd managed it. The trees behind him were no longer filled with the crashings of angry, hurrying Knights of Myth Drannor.
Doust found them by the simple tactic of falling over them. Pennae broke off gasping for breath long enough to chuckle.
'Well met,' she said, hauling on the priest's hait to lift his face out of the dirt. Doust spat out some twigs and crumbling old fern fronds and thanked her.
'I'm done,' he added, unnecessarily.
'We all are,' Florin said grimly, as they knelt together in the little hollow, panting hard.
'So he'll be out there,' Pennae said, 'lurking. Able to blast us at will, as he did to Ree. Hrast it, all he has to do is wait until we fall asleep!'
Florin nodded. 'You're right,' he said grimly when he'd found breath enqugh to speak. 'We have to go after him. Doust, can you- can Tymora-give us light, yonder? If so, do it. Pennae, you and I are going wizard-hunting. You make noise, dodge about, and don't attack him.'
'Oh?'
'Yes. That will be my task. I liked Dalonder Ree.'
The Princess Alusair was good at stotming. Many guards were quaking behind her by the time she'd traversed much of the Palace and the Royal Court to burst in on the Royal Magician in a certain little-known
