Kara-Tur or someplace even farther afield. Often it's the friendliest one, the one you least suspect, who has the dagger waiting… and Thammar did wear a sword rather too casually for a soft, nearly retired Sembian merchant.
Oh, to the grave with all this pondering! Any one of them, or all of them, could well be behind this. Or it might be simply the work of a wizard gone off his head, with his daughter, apprentice, or pleasure-maid keeping him company.
Heladar realized with a sudden chill that, in the end, it didn't really matter. If Longspear was to rule in the High Dale more than a winter longer, he must assume all of them were in league against him and waiting for a chance to bring him down. If he didn't-well, one of them at least would try.
And if he was able or lucky enough to survive that attempt, the idea would be in their heads. One of the others would decide that the title of Lord of the High Dale sounded grand enough and-situated on the trade road between Cormyr and Sembia, while Zhent-backed brigands kept the Daerlun road dangerous and expensive- profitable enough to make a grab for it.
Even the best blade can grow dull, if it has to lop off too many reaching fingers.
Heladar's continuing silence had led Stormcloak on to bolder speech. Warmed by the heat of his own wagging tongue, the wizard had even begun to speak as if the High Dale's men-at-arms obeyed him and-the traditional failing of mages-as if the council would agree to his every whim because no intelligent being could help but see things as he did. Heladar just smiled and went on being silent.
Angruin was in the midst of exhorting his fellow councillors to stir their children, their neighbors, their neighbor's children, and any cats and dogs within reach to take up arms and scour every inch of the dale for these intruders, to slay them, capture them, or drive them out. The dale must be cleansed!
Ye gods, he sounds like one of the priests. Heladar turned his gaze again around the table. Of course the mages want every blade out and every child alert. The more who fight, the more they can hide behind, hurling spells from a safe distance.
This could be a real challenge, to the Zhentarim as well as to the lordship of Heladar Longspear. Cormyr could be lurking behind the attacks, or Sembia, or even powerful loners like the fabled Gondegal, Elminster of Shadowdale, or the willful, wandering Witch-Queen of Aglarond who flew endlessly about Faerun in the shape of a black falcon, meddling. The only thing to do was to muster the entire armed might of the dale to track down the intruders, backed by all the magic the wizards could mount. Manshoon would order that if Heladar didn't.
There was something else, though. Even before these attacks, the wizards had been tense and troubled. Had this entire episode been prearranged by someone in Zhentil Keep, part of some deep plan to cast aside Longspear and change the rule of the High Dale again?
Nay. That would not worry the mages so collectively and deeply. They'd looked like lost men, especially the lesser ones. At the time, he'd assumed that Zhentil Keep had given them harsh and unsettling orders not for his ears. Now, though… Nordryn had been upset by the news about his friend, but now his face showed not so much shock and grief as it did fear for his own skin, and a sort of helplessness. He stared down at his open hands for a moment as if not believing that they could ever cast a spell again.
Heladar's eyes narrowed. Was that it? Ildomyl had seized a goodly amount of magic, by all accounts, and certainly the man had a wand or two. He shouldn't have fallen so easily. Had his magic failed him?
He smiled. Watching the mages would take long-perhaps too long. Better to charge in, swinging a blade, and force things his way. He smiled and said quietly, 'Angruin is right, of course. We must rouse the dale.'
Stormcloak's head turned in surprise. He had almost forgotten Heladar was there at all. Longspear met his eyes and added softly, 'Yet there is something I must speak to him about in private. Something about… spells.' He raised his eyebrows, awaiting Angruin's agreement.
That was it! There was something amiss with their magic. The mages were all looking at him as though he'd grown six hissing serpent heads, and all of them breathing fire, too!
Heladar smiled evenly at them all, looking mysterious and enjoying it. Let them think he had his own sources rather than dismissing him as a stone-headed, sword-swinging puppet who'd dance eagerly to whatever tune they told him Zhentil Keep played. This was more the way things should be. He drummed his fingertips in satisfaction on the hilt of his sword, below the edge of the table, and leaned forward.
The other councillors were agreeing, of course. They could hardly appear loyal, or even prudent in matters touching the safety of their homes, if they did not. If they were all spies, though, the coming turmoil could only give them chances to kill off Zhent mages and warriors, weakening the invisible but heavy hand in which Zhentil Keep held the High Dale.
'Have we agreement, then?' he asked softly, surprising them all this time. He gathered them in with his eyes, one by one around the table. All met his gaze. All, even the wizards, nodded to his authority.
Heladar Longspear rose to his feet and looked down that long table. 'As we are all agreed,' he began formally, 'I have no hesitation in giving the orders: We loose all our hounds and go to war.'
It was cold, churning along up to their knees in the swampy backwaters, and the smell was incredible. 'See the far reaches of the Realms,' Sharantyr muttered.
'Walk where no mortal has trod… Is this what those mercenaries mean when they go spinning tales in the taverns?'
'To lure idle young bravos? Aye.' Elminster chuckled. 'This is exactly what they mean, though they sing a different song.' He strode along in the muddy water unconcerned, his long robes drawn up through his belt into a ridiculous bundle. Seeing her look, he laid a hand suggestively on his hip, batted his eyelashes at her, and winked. Sharantyr saw that he'd tied the long end of his white beard into a club knot.
It was too much. She shouted with laughter, doubled up over the fetid water, then stopped suddenly, clapping a dripping hand over her mouth.
'Tymora bless me!' she hissed. 'I'm sorry, Old Mage! The guards-'
Elminster chuckled. 'Don't worry,' he assured her. 'That last cliff back there, the one like the ship's prow, marks the western end of the dale, or used to. We've slipped clean past Westkeep and into what they call the Hullack Stairs-or used to.'
Sharantyr chuckled at that. 'I'll be hearing you say 'or used to' in my sleep.'
Elminster's eyebrows rose. 'Oh?' he asked with dignity. 'I was aware that I'd given thee leave to accompany me, young lady, and that ye'd behaved thyself-more or less-impeccably, given our physical proximity and, ah, dire straits. But I assure thee I do not recall giving thee any intimation that ye'd be welcome to listen to me while ye pretend to slumber!'
Sharantyr sighed, and shook her head. 'All right, Old Mage, all right,' she shushed him. 'What now?'
'Now we look for the marker stone that should be right about… here.' Elminster trotted around a clump of shrubs, over a fallen tree, and paused dramatically, pointing at a weathered pillar of stone.
'You knew where to find this?'
Elminster shrugged. 'Unless someone took it into his head to move it since I placed it here, some three hundred winters ago.'
Sharantyr rolled her eyes. 'And having found your marker?' she asked the sky.
The Old Mage did not reply. He was leaning forward, staring at the stone. On the side closest to the High Dale, someone had written with the ashen end of a burned stick: 'Death To The Tyranny Of All Mages.' Elminster frowned at it for a long breath or two, then slowly grinned.
He turned. 'Eh? Oh, aye. We sleep hereabouts, then turn back and enter the dale openly on the morrow. That's when our fun begins.'
'You mean we attack these Zhents openly? But, your magic-'
Elminster spread open hands. 'I have my baubles, and thee, to keep me safe.'
Sharantyr sighed, then smiled and said formally, 'We ride well together, Old Mage.' Her eyes flashed.
Elminster bowed, gave her a sad, slow smile in return, and answered, 'Ye're not the first lass that's said that to me, but I thank thee for saying it.' And he leaned over and kissed her cheek tenderly.
Sharantyr looked at him, somewhat surprised. The Old Mage smiled back at her for a moment. Then he suddenly stiffened, turned white, and abruptly sat down on some ferns.
'Elminster!' She sprang forward and bent over him anxiously. 'What befalls?'
