an upright amber oval of radiance hanging motionless in the trees.
They looked at each other, nodded, started forward-and came to a halt almost immediately. Armored men had suddenly appeared out of the light, scattering into the open space in front of it with swords drawn. The two Harpers saw robed men gesturing commandingly.
They traded glances again. Belkram laid a hand on Itharr's arm and murmured, 'Let's stay low and just watch. I'd wager a large amount that Elminster is involved in this, but I don't see him anywhere.'
Itharr had been watching the men intently. 'Aye. They seem to be looking for him, or us, or anyone about.'
They sank down to their elbows, looked behind them, and shifted apart to lie under the shelter of shrubs, blades ready beside them. Itharr scratched his nose.
'Those are Zhents, or I'm a Calishite.'
Belkram peered at him through the darkness. 'No,' he said, 'you haven't turned into a Calishite, and I can't say I've noticed you oiling your hide and perfuming your gold coins these last few summers.'
Itharr sighed theatrically. 'No? I try to be so subtle.'
Belkram snorted and they fell silent, watching the Zhentarim searching the woods, closer and closer. The two Harpers waited intently, as still as stone, like two hawks on a perch watching for prey.
'Nothing,' Mrinden said angrily.
'Nothing save this,' Kalassyn pointed out, nudging the sentinel's body with his foot. Mrinden made a rude noise and waved his hands in exasperation.
'Either we've been raided and the raiders have got clean away-we'll never find anyone in these woods, in the dark, unless by pure chance we fall right over them-or they're in the dale right now, whoe'er they are, and past us. In either case we must return. Call the men back.'
Kalassyn gave curt orders to the Sword, who nodded and hastened away.
Mrinden stared angrily at the stars above and the trees around until the Sword returned and spoke at his elbow. 'Lord, we are here and await your orders.'
Mrinden tossed his head like an angry stallion and glared at the man. 'Choose seven of your best to remain behind. They are to let no one through the gate but a ranking mage of the Zhentarim and those with him. Their orders are to slay all others; let no one see this gate and live to tell of it. When light comes, they must search the area carefully. No intelligent creature must elude their search, or it will go ill with all of you later. Understood?'
'Aye, Lord.' A cool night breeze slid past them. Mrinden shivered and turned abruptly toward the light.
'The rest of you follow me.' He strode back into the radiance. The Sword was already waving a gauntleted hand; the main body of warriors hastened to follow. Kalassyn joined their line near the back, looking around one last time at the dark trees and the stars overhead.
As he glanced up, a star fell, trailing a silent path across the cloak of night. Kalassyn looked down, quickly, and said nothing. He wanted no soldiers reading ill omens into signs none in Faerun were wise enough to interpret. Even as he told himself that, his own heart sank, and it was with fear that Kalassyn returned to the High Dale.
Perhaps the star brought good fortune. Kalassyn was safely through the gate, and the last of the returning Wolves with him, when two Harpers rose out of the night behind the seven-man guard like two death-dealing temple pillars. The guards had not yet turned from watching the last black boot heel vanish into the silent light when steel took the throats of the first.
The third man to fall managed a strangled roar as he went down, and the remaining Zhentilar wheeled around in frantic haste. An instant later, blades flashed in the amber glow, steel rang, and men twisted, lunged, and scrambled. Overhead another star fell, but each man there was too busy to notice it.
When Kalassyn strode forward and in a footfall returned to the High Dale, it was like stepping into an inferno. The rumble and flash of fire was dying away all around him. Somewhere nearby a man was sobbing, and smoke was so thick in the air that he could see nothing of trees or lights or the men who had preceded him.
Then, without warning, fire came again.
Kalassyn staggered in helpless, sightless pain, struggling to stand amid the roiling winds of the bright, searing blast. Off to the left, a man screamed, and an instant later Kalassyn fell over a huddled, armored form.
He landed hard atop another guard, whose black armor was hot enough to burn. Kalassyn rolled off as hastily as he could, cursing weakly. Crawling pain told him his robes were ablaze. Tears blinded him as he tore away his garb in flaming strips, shrieking at the agony spreading from his frantic, trembling hands.
Somehow he staggered on and sank to his knees at last in grass that was not scorched or ablaze.
He must… now would be the time to…
Kalassyn of Zhentil Keep fought for and found an instant to wonder if he was dying, but it was snatched away again by flames that roared in to fill his mind.
6
'Lord? Lord, do ye live?'
Kalassyn struggled to reply and discovered he was lying on scorched grass, legs twisted awkwardly under him.
He raised his head and, through a blur of tears, made out a dark, helmed head bent anxiously over him. Behind the first man, another guard stood holding a torch. Kalassyn winced, turning his eyes away from the flickering light.
'Aye,' he said at last, struggling to move stiff, blackened lips. They cracked, with little twinges of pain, but the rest of him hurt far worse. 'What-what happened?'
'Fire out of the night, Lord. From a tree next to the guard tree. We've surrounded it, but there's been no sound or movement since the second strike felled ye.'
Kalassyn struggled. Pain stabbed at him. 'Help me up,' he snarled.
'Aye, Lord.' Hands like heavy stones fell upon his shoulders, and he whimpered despite himself as he was gently hauled to his feet. Reeling, he fell to one knee. The hands steadied him, raised him again, and stayed there. He clung to them without shame and looked around.
After what seemed a very long time, as breath whispered and hissed in and out of his tortured lungs, he could see again.
It was not an inspiring sight. He was naked, covered with matted grass and burned hair. Behind him, smoke still rose from a ring of grass in front of the calmly glowing, unchanged gate. Within the ring lay the blackened bodies of five… six… no, eight Wolves and, facedown at their forefront, Mrinden. Bones showed here and there in the ashy ruin of the wizard. Kalassyn doubted he'd ever hear that nasty voice snapping orders again.
He looked away and saw other men groaning and clutching themselves in agony, their armor blackened and burned, or torn off. Others stood as if dazed or walked with the stiff strides of strong men in pain but determined not to let it diminish them. Of the band that had hurried up from the barracks not so long ago, only a handful still stood.
Kalassyn swallowed, thinking of Stormcloak's face-or the visage of sneering, sarcastic Hcarla Bellwind-and closed his eyes. The scorched smell of overcooked flesh hung sickeningly in the air. Kalassyn knew it would be a very long time before he'd want to eat bacon again.
He opened his eyes and drew himself up. Men were looking at him. There was anger in some faces and anxiousness in others. Something remained to be done. Something they were waiting for.
He stepped forward, free of the helping hands. 'Get me my robes,' he said hoarsely, without looking at the guards behind him. 'The burned ones, all the scraps you can find.'
He waited in the cool night breeze until a black form moved in front of him. 'Here, Lord.'
He angrily waved a torch nearer and with eager fingers probed the sorry scraps held out to him. Ah, there!
