have time enough in the fray to try all they knew against her. To feel, face, and master their fear rather than being paralyzed with terror and, an instant later, sinking into eternal red-edged darkness.
Belkram matched Storm's smile as he remembered a crossing attack he'd seen in a sea fight long ago. He arched to his left, parrying Storm's blade with a series of short, binding, feathering strokes of his own blade. His own side was exposed now, but Itharr should be attacking from that side, protecting it.
Then, not for the first time in that clash of steel, Storm was gone. Ducking smoothly to one knee, dropping below Belkram's parries, she spun back to face Itharr, tossing her sword to her left hand and raising it to parry his descending blade. In the same motion, her now-empty right hand grabbed Belkram's ankle and jerked.
The ranger hopped, trying to twist his foot loose, and fell helplessly. Storm straightened and put her shoulders into two furious strokes that drove Itharr-a burly man a hand shorter but at least six trade-blocks heavier than she, with arms and wrists twice as thick-back across the clearing. With a twist of her blade she disarmed him, sending his blade singing off into the trees.
Belkram chuckled ruefully as he rolled to his feet and brought his own blade up barely in time to turn aside her sword point, inches away from his cheek. He dodged and twisted, his moves slowed and blunted by growing weariness. In an attempt to win past her blade, he tried a circular cut that extended into a lunge.
In the midst of the ring and skirl of their blades, Storm's face suddenly twisted. She stiffened as a blue-white glow surrounded her hair. Belkram didn't even have time to gape in astonishment as his blade slid into her breast.
It went into the leather-clad swell of her bosom just as easily as a hot knife into butter, as they say-a good three inches or more before he could stop. Beside him, Belkram heard Itharr gasp, but Storm made no sound. Her eyes had closed, and her mouth was parted in pain.
'Gods, you've killed her!' and 'Oh, Lady! Forgive-' rang out together as Storm swayed, clutched the steel that stood out from her breast with both hands, and opened her eyes at last.
'My apologies, both of you,' she said in a low voice. 'Something… linked to me… took hold for a moment. No blame to you, Belkram.'
Storm smiled at them, but the two Harpers were staring at her as if she had suddenly become a ghost or a dragon. Her eyes were two dancing flames of blue-white fire, and more flames crackled in her mouth as she spoke. Her hands moved down Belkram's blade, and in their wake blue-white fire danced along the steel. The ranger, who still held his sword, felt a tingling in his hand. The tingling grew to a painful burning. Without thought he let go of his blade.
Slowly Storm drew the steel out of herself, the blade blazing with cold, silent, blue-white fire from end to end. She laid a hand on her breast, and flames licked between her fingers. Then she smiled and glided forward to hand the blade hilt-first to Belkram. She did not move as if she were hurt.
In wonderment Itharr asked, 'Are you all right, Lady?'
Storm nodded. 'I am.' The fire in her eyes was dying down, and she looked almost herself again.
Belkram felt the eerie tingling spread up his arm from the blade and said quietly, 'Lady, I am sorry. It was as you said; I could not stop in time. But you have shown us both that you can halt your blade where you will, time and time again. I have never seen your like in battle, and hope never to do so. Tell me, if you will. Are you a mage also?'
Storm shook her head. 'I am a bard and no more. This'-she spread out her hand and looked at the fading blue-white glow with interest-'is not of my doing. It was what… caught me and gave us all this scare.' She raised eyes that were normal again, but somber, and added, 'Let us bathe and then go in for wine and talk. I've no more stomach for fighting, this day.'
'Aye,' the men agreed together and put away their swords. Belkram had slid his weapon half into its scabbard before he remembered Storm's blood and hastily pulled the blade out again. A sword must never be sheathed wet, lest it rust. This blade had traveled long and far with him. Yet to wipe it clean in front of the very lady one has just wounded with it…
Storm saw his look and laughed. 'No need, Belkram. See?' She caught hold of his blade with two deft fingers and turned it. Light flashed along the sword's length. It was shiny-clean and glowed faintly blue as if freshly oiled. 'It will never rust now,' Storm said softly. Both men looked at her without speaking.
Storm looked back at them. 'It has tasted Mystra's fire,' she explained. When she undid her leather jacket and peeled it unconcernedly off, her naked skin beneath was unmarked. There was no sign of the bloody wound that should have been there, and that should have drained her life away.
The Harpers stared and then quickly looked away with muttered apologies. One does not stare at a lady so. They had gone another six steps toward the stream before they realized that no sweat had glistened on her skin. That, too, must have been burned away.
They were very quiet as they stripped to bathe in the stream with her, and kept a respectful distance. One does not speak loudly or appear overbold when walking with one who might be a goddess. Storm tried to put them at their ease with light talk but dared not tell the two men what had really happened to her in the clearing. And so another legend of Storm Silverhand was born.
In the clear and early dawn, Elminster swung a cloak about his shoulders, left the tower quietly, and went for a walk in the dew that cloaked Shadowdale.
He felt as if he were drifting this morn and not really alive or present at all. Hardly surprising, he reflected; he'd not slept a wink all night.
The moon had gone down before Merith Strongbow had slipped into the tower looking for his wife. He'd found Jhessail asleep by the fire, wrapped in furs and snoring ever so faintly. Lhaeo provided slumbrous harmony from the stool in the corner, and Elminster sat sleepless, silent watch over them both, his pipe lit and his eyes as empty and dark as the night outside.
He and Merith had shared a silent toast to Jhessail's love and caring with chill green Calishite wine. Rather than wake her or Lhaeo, Merith had curled up in Elminster's last chair to sleep. Elminster had finished the bottle of wine by himself, and thought much.
Answers and clear paths seemed as elusive as ever, but after a time Elminster arose and opened the door. There he softly spoke a word and pointed into the night with one of the wands Lhaeo had found. His heart leapt as lightning crackled and spat into the darkness. This sort of magic, at least, he could still command.
He went to a certain railpost on the stairs, bent to a particular spot, and pushed just so. A curved section of the post swung open, and a dusty, long-forgotten bag fell out. The Old Mage selected two plain brass rings from the bag, put them on, and went down to the door again.
The rings worked, too. Much heartened, Elminster drew himself a cool tankard of beer. Then he frowned and got up again to close and bolt the door, locking it for the first time in years. He and Lhaeo usually left it open, for anyone who needed them at night to get in with a minimum of fuss. He'd have to remember to change such habits now.
As he had been changed, the wry thought rose unbidden. He pushed it away and went to find another tankard. He did not take the rings off.
So the night had gone, stealing slowly toward morning. Grieving for his lost magic, Elminster walked alone as morning came. He was drawn, as always, into the welcoming green reaches of the trees that cloaked Shadowdale. He walked among them in soft-shod silence for what seemed a very long time as the dale awoke behind him. Birds called, small things scampered in the underbrush, and rising breezes stirred the leaves.
Elminster smiled, breathed deep, and looked all around. It had been long indeed since he'd taken the time to really see this forest. From ahead on the path, Elminster heard the sudden clear call of a child.
'Well met!' the young treble voice called out.
Giggles answered, followed by another child's voice replying, 'Are we so, base villain?'
The children of the dale awoke early for farm chores and were now playing. The Old Mage stepped aside from the path, pulling his cloak around him, and leaned against a tree to listen.
He was startled to hear, very loud and close at hand, a young but confident male voice declaim grandly, 'I, Elminster the Great, smite thee with fires and lightnings that none can withstand!'
There was movement on the other side of the tree. Elminster cocked his head to look around the trunk and saw a smooth but rather crooked twig cutting the air, flourished in a young boy's hand.
Its bearer pointed the stick across a little open place at a rather dirty little girl, perhaps six summers old, who
