place, the spot between the two little humps of stone, on this side-see, here? It will take you across half Faerun to the far edge of Anauroch, the Great Desert. Those who go through reach a central hall in an old, ruined castle, a place they call Spellgard today. It's a one-way journey, and the castle has a fell reputation. I recommend that those who love the High Dale not take the gate. The way between there and here is long, and not safe.'
'That's our road, then,' Itharr said quietly.
Belkram nodded and said, 'Our thanks, Jatham… and Gedaern, and all of you, for risking your necks again this night. May the High Dale know peace for a good long time now. We must leave you in haste, for we're charged to follow Elminster and keep him safe.'
Jatham raised an eyebrow. 'May I ask why?'
The two Harpers exchanged a look. Belkram shrugged. 'The one who set us this duty told us it was the most important task in the Realms. Elminster of Shadowdale must live-or, I fear, even gods will fall.'
In the shocked silence that followed, the two young men saluted their fellows-in-arms with raised blades, nodded a special farewell to Gedaern, and without hesitation marched out over the cesspool.
In midstep above the mire, with all eyes on them, they vanished. Itharr and Belkram were tired, hurt, and walking into unknown danger. But they strode ahead without pause, for they were Harpers.
Spellgard was tall and dark and gloomy. Mushrooms and luminescent mosses grew here and there about its empty stone chambers. There was no sign of life. Even the torn, dusty cobwebs seemed to have been spun long ago by spiders now vanished. Yet there was a curious presence about the place, a silent, waiting feel as if something unseen were watching. They went on in silence.
Room after room was empty save for little heaps of collapsed wood, gilt, and stone where furniture had fallen before relentless passing years. Here and there, the archmage without magic and the lady Knight found the scars of battle: scorched, blackened areas on the walls and floor, shattered stone panels, and buckled flagstones. This strife had happened long ago. Mold, moss, dust, and rot overlaid all. Elminster shook his head from time to time as they went on through the silent, waiting castle. Silence reigned.
The Zhentarim thieves were trained, experienced men. Gloomy ruins did not begin to test their nerves. They spread out, slim black-bladed swords ready in their hands, and moved slowly forward, watching and listening intently, making no more noise than a faint breeze. Behind them, Zalarth tried not to make too much noise as he followed.
The brightest archway opening out of the high-ceilinged hall led into a smaller chamber. It was thickly grown with gray-green glowing moss, and dark stalks of mushrooms half the height of a man reared up in the corners. The men peered all around the room carefully, paying special attention to the ceiling, before they proceeded through it, avoiding all the growing things, to the archway beyond.
It led into another chamber, smaller still. A large, smooth-carved, unadorned stone table leaned in the center of this room, one leg crumbling. Beyond the table were two arches-and someone standing facing them!
Or something. It was tall and very thin, clad in dark and dusty robes. Its face was skull-like and white, its eyes dark sockets.
A lich! Or perhaps just an illusion, a trap laid by Elminster-or even by Avaerl. The men cast glances back at Zalarth. In calm silence he gestured, making the Brotherhood's hand signs for 'advance' and 'beware.' In cautious unison they approached.
The figure moved. Something tinkled to the stone floor, falling and rolling. An unmistakable sound: coins. Another trap-lure, or just a pocket collapsing in the rotting garment of something that should be in a grave, not on its feet?
They were close enough now to see the figure was-or had been-female. Long gray-white hair framed a withered, dead face. As Zalarth watched, a chill spread icy fingers along his spine. Two points of glittering light, deep in the dark eye sockets, were expanding rapidly.
As the Zhentarim wizard tensed to lash out with a spell, the skeletal figure spoke. 'Well met and welcome, adventurers. Put aside your weapons and speak with me in peace, if you would. I mean no harm. I've waited so very long for someone to find me.'
More looks. Zalarth gave the 'weapons out and ready' sign and asked calmly, 'Who-or what-are you, and what place is this?'
'I am Saharel, and this is my home. The years have been no kinder to me than to Netheril itself, but I still abide here. Who are you?' The voice was feminine and dry, as loud as Zalarth's own, and held a trace of pride.
Once-beautiful long hair, now a mold-covered, wild mane of gray and white, clung to the shriveled, half- skeletal travesty of a face as the figure bent forward.
In answer, Zalarth began the ugly syllables of a spell to control undead.
The figure scowled and said sharply, 'Now is that friendly? What do you here? Are you come merely to plunder?'
She waved a skeletal hand, and a thief more frightened than the rest hurled his knife.
The figure watched the blade whirl through the air at her, and raised a hand with sudden speed to protect her face. The knife tore through the wasted flesh to lodge between two bones in the forearm. The figure raised her arm to study it.
'So you would bring death to me, where the gods failed? Die, fools, and despoil my home no longer!'
The figure gestured. Purple and black bolts of magic spat from each bony finger, streaking unerringly across the chamber to smite the thieves.
His spell done, Zalarth watched aghast as his men shrieked, stiffened, and died. The lich-if it was a lich-was ignoring his magic, and he could feel no ties of Art to give him power over it.
'What are you, that you defy my Art?' he asked, one hand darting to the other.
The undead lights of her eyes regarded him coldly. 'An archlich. Apologize, if you would live.'
'I'm sorry indeed to have met with you,' Zalarth said from the depths of his heart, and turned the ring he wore.
Abruptly he was elsewhere, back in the great hall he'd first entered when coming through the gate. He ran, then, ran as he had not done for years, feet pounding on the stones. Headlong down a dark passage, up a stair, through a weirdly lit, moss-choked gallery, and up another stair.
It opened onto a landing that led to another ascending stair on one hand and an archway on the other-an archway that opened onto a balcony overlooking another large hall. What ruin was this? It was huge, and-He glanced over the edge of the balcony, stopped, and stood very still.
In the room below stood Elminster of Shadowdale, the ranger Knight at his side. Her sword was drawn, and he held a wand. Both were facing that young fool Avaerl.
'Die, old fool,' Avaerl taunted the bearded, battered old man, a wand glowing in the young mage's hand. 'Die by the order of Manshoon, Lord Most High of the Zhentarim! Die at the hand of Avaerl of Sembresh!'
Sharantyr drew and hurled a dagger in one smooth, flashing movement and charged after it, leaping over small piles of rubble. 'I think he's trying to talk us to death, Old Mage!' she cried, raising her blade.
Avaerl howled and clutched at his slashed fingers, the wand falling as the dagger spun away into the gloom. Sharantyr raced toward him, hair streaming behind her.
Lightning flashed and cracked from a balcony above, outlining her in blue-white dancing death. She staggered, groaned loudly, and fell to her knees.
Zalarth stared across at the balcony whence the bolt had come, then swiftly ducked low and moved far aside from where he had been standing.
Cold laughter came from the dimness that had spawned the lightning. 'Not so threatening now, are you, Sharantyr?'
The speaker moved to the low, broad stone balcony rail and stared down triumphantly. 'And so it is by the hand of Xanther that the famous Elminster shall perish!'
The old man had moved forward involuntarily as the lady ranger was struck. He stopped now, amid the rubble, and sighed. 'If ye knew just how many times I've heard that line down the years-and mind, mageling, Manshoon himself has said it, twice, and I'm still standing for all his empty boasting!'
Xanther snarled and aimed his wand. Elminster calmly took out his pipe and sucked on it.
Lighting flashed, but Elminster was suddenly elsewhere. He appeared out of empty air on the balcony just
