slaughter not sanctioned by me. They seek to whelm all the Uthgardt tribes, rule their minds with potions and spells, and hurl them upon the cities of the North, Neverwinter first. Ye will gather my faithful against them, and Symon here will aid ye. The strife will be hard, and there may well be death in it for ye both. Knowing that, will ye do this?'
'I will!' Roarald gasped, a pink froth rising to his lips. 'But, Lord, I-'
'Be still! Symon, will ye do this?'
'Lord of Battles,' the old warrior said, face to the ground and teeth chattering, 'I will!'
'It is good. Roarald, draw thy hands away from thy belly.'
Hastily the priest did so, and the sword plunged down.
A blaze of white fire shrouded the priest's agonized scream.
When he could see again, Symon struggled to his feet.
'Roarald? Roarald, do ye live, man?'
The priest was rising whole and strong, the stains of blood and dirt gone from his body. 'I do,' he said, wonder in his voice. 'I live!'
'Praise be to Tempus!'
'Praise be!' the priest agreed, and clapped his comrade on the shoulder. 'Speedily, now-find the boy and our horses. We ride on Luskan without delay!'
As Symon hurried off, the priest went to one knee and whispered, 'Thank you, Tempus. I shall not forget.'
'See that ye don't,' a quiet voice came from the empty air, startling the man. He gulped, got up hastily, and ran after Symon.
And behind him a black sword melted out of the air, wavered, and became a thoughtful-looking old man, worn and much-patched robes draped about his thin frame. The morning sun gleamed on the man's long white beard and whiskers as a pipe floated into view from somewhere in the trees nearby and drifted gently up to the old man's mouth.
'That's done,' Elminster muttered. 'Too good a man to lose, Roarald, even if he is as stubborn as an old post. Hmmph! A certain Queen of Aglarond has used those same words to describe me a time or two, hasn't she?'
He strolled away, calling to mind the next place he'd viewed from the hilltop-and abruptly he was there, worn boots stepping onto the soft ground behind a tent.
'Another one dead? Have all the gods cursed this caravan?' The voice was proud and angry. 'Who is it this time?'
'Mider, sir. He's-eaten away, sir, like the others. Only his feet left, and his scalp. In his tent, still in his blankets.'
'Was he the only one of us alone in a tent?'
'Yes, sir. Albrar was his tent mate, until…'
'I know. Maybe it's something they were carrying, the two of them. Burn that tent and everything in it, just as it stands. Now!'
'Yes, sir.' There was the sound of hastily receding booted feet, followed by a rustling of canvas and tent silks.
'Do they suspect?' a new voice asked in a whisper that did not carry beyond the ear it was said into.
'Mider did, but it's just a little too late for him, now,' was the amused reply. The shared mirth that followed was silenced by the meeting of lips, a mouth-coupling that soon became a frantic, muffled screaming as the doppleganger couple found themselves locked in their embrace, immobilized by something that had twisted them into their true, monstrous shapes, and frozen them there. Something that drifted up from the tent like a ghostly mist and whirled back into the shape of Elminster.
'It shouldn't take long for someone to find them,' he said, turning away in satisfaction. 'Live by trickery, die by trickery. That'll be my ending too, no doubt, when at last it comes.'
He stepped through the trees to where his pipe hung. 'Now I'd best hurry,' he murmured. 'Galdus hasn't much time left.' And then he was gone, an instant before a guard, drawn sword in hand, came warily down the path in search of the privy bench.
The Hawkgauntlet Arms was distant indeed from that privy bench at the back of the caravan camp, but it was the pride of Hawkgauntlet, a hamlet north and west of Ilipur too small to grace any map. And too poor to loot, unless one was a brigand too hungry to care.
Elminster shoved open the groaning front door and stepped into the gloomy taproom beyond. The old man behind the bar blinked at him in the sudden shaft of daylight. 'We're not open yet,' he said gruffly. 'Come back at sundown.'
'I'm not thirsty, Galdus,' the Old Mage replied, coming to the bar. 'I've come to give ye something.'
The old man's eyes narrowed, and he peered at Elminster in the dimness. 'I know you, don't I?' he asked thoughtfully. 'That voice…'
'The magefair when Almanthus tried to make the mountain fly,' Elminster reminded him gently. The man's head snapped back.
'Elminster?'
'The same,' El said, sliding a coin across the bar with one finger.
The old man stared at it, and then up at him. 'What'll you have?'
Elminster shook his head. 'I need ye to do something for me. Four things, actually.'
The old man blinked again, and grinned. 'That sounds like the Elminster I knew, to be sure.'
'Ye have only a few minutes left to live, if ye do these four things wrong,' the Old Mage said softly. 'So heed.'
Galdus glared at him, then swallowed and nodded. It had been years since he'd worked magic, and he knew he'd been no match for Elminster even at the height of his striving. 'Say on,' he said shortly.
'Armed men are coming this way-hungry and ruthless wild-swords,' El said, 'and they'll be here very soon. I need ye to stand still whilst I cast two spells on thee.'
Galdus sighed. 'Do it,' he said simply. El nodded, and made two quick sets of gestures, touching the old bartender at the end of each.
'What-what did you do?'
'Made ye immune-for a little while-to all harm from weapons of iron and to all thrown or hurled things, like arrows. The same cannot be said for anyone else ye may employ or dwell with here. So the second thing I need ye to do is to keep all such folk from harm. Warn them now, but be quick!'
Galdus stared at him for a moment, then ducked his head through the door behind him and spoke quickly and sharply. Then he closed the door, and Elminster heard a bar being settled across it from within. 'Done,' the old man said simply.
'I need ye to give this coin to the men when they demand money of ye. Best give them a handful to go with it, so they don't suspect a trick.'
Galdus reached down behind the bar, opened a cupboard door, and dumped the contents of an old, cracked earthen jar onto the bar. A gleaming fan of silver and copper coins slid out. 'I'll be counting coins when they come in, then.'
El nodded. 'I couldn't help but notice, on my way in, that thy outhouse is a bit of a ruin,' he said, nodding his head in its direction.
'That one?' Galdus grinned. 'We don't dare use it. When it falls in, I'll have the lads take away what they want, for manure. If you have to feed the gods, the real one's out back.'
It was Elminster's turn to smile. 'Feed the gods? I hadn't heard that expression!' He chuckled, then stopped at the look on the old man's face. 'Ye call it that because of what befell ye at the temples?'
Galdus nodded, face set. It had been forty summers ago that his health had been broken and his magic torn from him by two warring priests in Sembia. Their temples had grown in size and splendor, and doubtless they'd grown fat and powerful with them, but Galdus had been left with only one spell he could use. There's not much future for a mage who can create magical radiance at will, and do nothing else.
Elminster leaned forward across the bar. 'If it makes ye feel better, old friend, know that all the gods have been cast down into Faerun. That's what's behind all these troubles-the wild magic and roaming monsters, outlaws
