The Sword's eyes were bleak. 'You'd be digging your own grave, wizard. Even if all the men who heard you giving orders were dead, and their bodies ruined past what dark magic can recall or speak to, there's this.' He shook the gauntlet off his free hand and raised his fingers until Nordryn could see the heavy ring that glinted upon the middle one. 'Look well,' the soldier suggested.
The wizard felt cold fear creeping down his spine. He knew all too well what that sigil meant: Manshoon. This cold-eyed soldier was one of the High Lord's personal agents. He swallowed and turned abruptly away to hide the fear he knew was showing on his face-fear, and something else. The man had to die before Manshoon heard of this or Nordryn Spellbinder's career would be short and painful… or long, cold, and frustrating, posted to all the worst places, with new magic forever denied to him, and under the constant, cruel eye of some watcher appointed by the High Lord.
'Don't think of arranging my death,' came the Sword's cold voice from behind him. 'Lord Manshoon always probes such things very carefully-by speaking to the deceased, if necessary. He knows my worth; you'd probably have to face me again. If Manshoon got tired of raising me, you'd pay the price, never doubt it. You'd make an adequate walking dead man, I suppose.'
Nordryn turned and walked toward the flames, wondering which of the careers he'd just seen so bleakly would be worse. The flames roared and crackled, warming his face even from this distance, and he just couldn't decide.
Sharantyr came awake slowly, enfolded in unexpected warmth. She opened her eyes and looked around hurriedly, coming up to one elbow and feeling for her sword.
During the night, the Old Mage had somehow wrapped his bony arms around her without wakening her. That simply shouldn't have happened, but Sharantyr did not move away when that familiar, wild-bearded visage smiled at her, only inches away.
'Fair morn, Lady,' Elminster said with courtly formality and leaned forward with smooth speed to kiss the end of her nose.
Sharantyr blinked. Some sorceresses would die, or kill, or whatever, to trade places with her, no doubt. His beard tickled like something between a scurrying centipede or an amorous cat. After a few breaths, she remembered to smile in reply.
Elminster chuckled. 'Up, lass,' he said. The mists were rolling away down through the trees as they rose and stretched to ease the stiffness that comes from sleeping in the open on rocky ground. 'I fear I neglected to provide us breakfast, but I remain both open to suggestions and thy humble servant.'
Sharantyr shook her head incredulously and pecked him on the cheek, more to shut him up than anything else. Ye gods, what had she gotten herself into now?
The day grew both warm and splendidly clear. The ranger and the wizard spent the morning sitting in the shrubbery at the trees' edge, watching black-armored gate guards working the road into the High Dale. Eastkeep rose small but grim at the warriors' backs, and they were most efficient.
Sharantyr didn't know the place and said so, but Elminster told her grandly that he knew it and would recognize it for her. Sharantyr rolled her eyes, not for the first time. Their stomachs chose that romantic moment to growl together.
The gate guards went steadily about their work, extracting passage tolls from all travelers coming into the dale from the east, inspecting their goods and gear, and turning back all wizards. Traffic leaving the dale from the west was given only a cursory search. These well-armed guards expected no trouble from that front.
There was a stir, once, as the guards suddenly swarmed over the wagon of a fat merchant. A shout brought six more guards with drawn swords out of the little shanty that served them as a duty shelter. The newcomers surrounded the merchant with a ring of sword tips at his throat while the search went on.
Shortly, two stout guards clambered triumphantly down from the wagon, each showing something to the officer in charge. He nodded and waved his head; the two men trotted away to the guard hut.
'Their commander-have I seen that harness before?' Sharantyr asked.
Elminster nodded. 'No doubt. That's a Sword, and these are Zhentilar warriors or I'll miss my breakfast.'
Sharantyr grinned. 'They're Zhents, then.' As they watched, one of the guards returned with a scrap of parchment, which he handed to the red-faced merchant. The wagon and its occupant were brusquely ordered on with imperious waves of naked swords. The wagon rumbled away, the merchant shaking his head.
Sharantyr's eyes narrowed. 'What's going on? They took something from him, aye, but what?'
Elminster assumed the pedantic air of the lofty scholar addressing a pupil too dense to be worth the time teaching takes. 'Regard ye,' he said in measured tones, 'yon hut. 'Tis home to a mageling, I doubt me not. He has examined the items they took from the merchant and pronounced them magical. They hold these objects, returning to the unfortunate former owner a receipt. No doubt he has to inform them of the time and place of his leaving the dale, and they'll return his baubles to him-that is, if some wizard in authority here doesn't deem them too useful.'
Sharantyr looked at him. 'You're sure?'
Elminster affected to take mighty offense, blinking and clucking, drawing his nose high into the air, rolling his eyes fiercely, and saying, 'Well!'
Sharantyr giggled.
'Come, lass,' Elminster said with injured dignity, rising out of the bushes like a Calishite vizier making a stately palace entrance on a platform rising out of an underground room. 'I want my breakfast.'
Without pause or any attempt at concealment, he strode through the long grass, still wet with dew, toward the guards on the road.
Rolling her eyes, Sharantyr wondered again how she'd gotten herself into all this. It's what comes of feeling sorry for mages, she concluded. Lunacy if ever there were crazed thoughts. She drew her blade, held it low behind her to keep it hidden as much as possible, and followed.
8
Death calls, it's said, on everyone. Some early, some later. Most find themselves not ready when the ghostly horn sounds-with much left to do and much more regretted. A lucky few die content, or unawares. A haunted handful of beings find death only long after they've desired its arrival. This includes most so-called 'immortals.' The bony arms of doom also enfold those who seek to cheat death by magical means, or have undeath or an undying curse thrust upon them.
The arms of death also extend to claim those who bear Mystra's burden. Of these Chosen Ones, some welcome death sooner than others. All render to the living attentive service, examples of life at its most splendid and active, and a certain silence, keeping secret the despair and weariness that long life brings.
And so it was that the late morning sun found Elminster, the archmage without any spells, eagerly eyeing the guards he'd been watching all morn. He'd made four long strides toward them, the unconcerned beginning of a direct attack, when the lady ranger who had come to keep him from harm caught up to him and put a firm hand on his shoulder.
He stopped and looked around questioningly.
Sharantyr looked back at him-at his white hair, thin limbs, and alert, intent face-and shook her head. 'Elminster,' she asked quietly, 'when you do foolish, reckless things-like attacking yon sentinels, with a fortress at their backs and at least four things of magic we've seen them seize with our own eyes-aren't you ever afraid of death?'
Elminster looked at her for a long moment and said dryly, 'Death has often come calling on me, but so far I've always been out, ye see.'
And with those impish words he slipped from her grip and marched straight out of the trees toward the
