were joined by a softly menacing, magically sent voice: 'I know you're within, Baedelkar. The Inner Circle has need of us both, immediately. We've been ordered to join the Sword, somewhere north of Essembra, right now.'
After a momentary, answering silence (during which the Lady of the Red Sash murmured and moved in Baedelkar's arms) the voice went on: 'Neither High Lord Manshoon nor I am used to waiting… for an apprentice. Presently one or both of us shall grow weary of it, Baedelkar-and then it will be too late for you to continue as a Zhentarim… or anything else.'
Baedelkar the Thaumaturge cursed in a soft whisper with feeling, and made as if to pull free… but the large, sapphire eyes staring into his pleaded with him, and sweet lips begged, 'Just one more kiss, proud lord… a brief parting, until we meet again.' Those lips lifted longingly toward his.
Baedelkar hesitated for only a moment before he bent his head hungrily forward. It was the last mistake he ever made.
The arms caressing his back seemed stronger and broader, the tongue in his mouth thicker. Starting to choke, the Zhentarim tried to pull away, but found that he was locked in an embrace as unyielding as steel, and tentacles were sliding around him. The eyes so close to his held a horrible flame of triumph as the flesh of her exquisite face bulged and moved, flowing up and over his own visage, covering his nose even as the cold and questing tentacle that had been a velvet-smooth tongue flowed down his throat, choking him. And preventing him from uttering even the simplest spell.
Baedelkar the Thaumaturge struggled in earnest, then, fighting with sudden desperation against the death embracing him. A red roaring rose up in his head, and creeping flesh rolled over his eyes, blotting out his last glimpse of Faerun-a sun-splashed room and those malevolent, glittering eyes in a face that had become a nightmare of flowing flesh…
Bane aid me… Bane aid me… Bane…
'Right, Baedelkar,' the cultured voice beyond the door snarled, suddenly losing its drawling grace. 'You've defied me long enough! I hope you'll still think she was worth it, after I do-this!'
The wizard's body began to shake violently, and pulse with light. The tentacled thing hurriedly flung it back onto the bed and flowed away across the room, to where the wizard's robe lay across a discarded body harness: a thing of leather straps that held a slim satchel of potion vials, several bulging pouches of sundries to spin spells, and… a small, well-worn spellbook with battered metal corners.
The creeping thing flowed up and over this heap of magic and, without slowing, turned and slithered along the wall. In its wake, the wizard's belongings were gone, the side chest bare. Meanwhile, the body on the bed jerked and thrashed in spell thrall, and then leapt up into the air once and crashed down in limp silence.
As tentacles hurriedly tore open the casements and let the chill air of morning into the room, there was a snarl of fury from beyond the door-and then a muttered incantation. It rose to a singing final word, and then came ominous silence.
The monstrous, shapeshifting mass flowed out the window and up the wall outside, disappearing from the room seconds before the gilded door of the Red Sash Room burst apart in a rain of dust and splinters.
Nentor Thuldoum of the Zhentarim stood in the doorway, blinking in incredulous rage.
'You worm! You disobedient ti-' Nentor's fury fled as he saw what lay on the bed. His jaw dropped, and he stared down in horror at the riven remains. His spell had scorched Baedelkar with a lashing lightning, but should not have eaten away body and brains from within, leaving behind a shriveled husk… and empty eye sockets. Swords Creek, Mistledale, Flamerule 16
Thuds and splinterings resounded across Swords Creek as the defenders of Mistledale drove tree trunks into the ground in an outward curve west of the stream. A steady stream of wagons was creaking east along the road from Ashabenford as Riders watched the land to the east for any sign of the approaching foe.
'Leave openings there and there,' Kuthe directed as Riders swarmed past him in pairs, carrying logs. Beyond them, more of the black-armored men were hewing the ends of the sloped stakes into sharp points. 'I hope well need room to ride out into the fray in force.'
'I hope the Zhents fall dead of the blistering plague and we don't have a fray at all,' a farmer muttered, snapping his reins to begin the run back to town for more supplies. He stood up as the empty wagon rattled away, looking around the busy camp, and shaking his head. Not a hundred swords to defend Mistledale against-how many? Two, three thousand, or more? The word from Essembra was that they'd outgrown all the beds in the place a tenday ago, with not a third of the force mustered. The Sword of the South, indeed-and they'd have a Zhentarim wizard or three with them, too.
He looked back at the camp once more and spat thoughtfully into the rising road dust. An army this small wouldn't delay the Zhent host more than an hour or two on its march to Mistledale. Death might well come for him before dusk today-but where was there to run? He couldn't pluck up his steading and stow it in a pack to take with him. Stand or fall, it'd be here, in Mistledale, where he'd lived his life. The farmer slowed the wagon to make his trip back down the dale as long as he could-it might be his last look around at the finest place to dwell in all Faerun. He tried not to think about the likelihood that by sundown tomorrow it might also be the finest graveyard in Faerun.
A steel-gray falcon circled high in the cloudless sky overhead, for all the world as if it was taking interest in the encampment taking shape by the creek. The farmer squinted up at it, spat again, and went down the dale toward Ashabenford, where the high councilor would be waving his black scepter and barking orders. Heedless of him, wagoners would load in haste and head east, and fleeing townsfolk would drive overloaded carts west.
The breezes died away to the softest of stirrings, what the folk of the dale called a ghost's kiss. By the banks of the creek, a tall, broad-shouldered man in gleaming plate armor looked around the palisade of wooden fangs and saw that it was now almost a full circle. He nodded in satisfaction and turned to where a farmer stood by his laden wagon.
'Bring the tents,' Florin Falconhand said to the man. 'We'd best get started.'
Kuthe frowned at the tall ranger. 'This soon?'
'I doubt they'll attack before dark,' the Knight of Myth Drannor replied. 'Before they could get here, it'll be sundown; they'd have to charge with the setting sun in their eyes.'
Kuthe grunted his agreement and turned away. 'No cooking fires until the tents are up!' he bellowed, 'and don't drop those barrels of beer or I'll leave you to face the men who have to go thirsty!'
'Noisy, isn't he?' Torm muttered, critically inspecting the wicked-looking point he'd whittled on the end of one stake.
'A paragon of authority,' Rathan grunted, taking a swig from his belt flask. 'I've no quarrel if he's as much in evidence when we start hacking at each other in the mud and the blood.' He took another pull at the flask, which gurgled.
Torm looked up at the sound. 'Hey! Give that here,' he suggested, extending a hand.
'What's this?' Kuthe growled, striding past. 'Drinking?' His eyes flashed.
'He sees the flask and instantly knows what we're doing!' Torm gasped in mock fear. 'Can no man stand against this tower of perception?'
'I fear not,' Rathan growled. 'He makes my boots quake, and me in them. Wits as keen as a sword blade- and tongue sharper, too!' Both Knights threw up their hands as if in awe and cowered, wailing.
'Bah!' the Rider officer snarled, and turned away. 'Adventurers!'
'Bah!' Torm called after him, his mimicry perfect. 'Stiff-necked local constabulary!'
Kuthe stiffened as more than one of the Riders around them chuckled, but did not turn around. After a moment, he strode on.
'Hind end of a blind boar,' Torm muttered conversationally as they moved to the next stake.
'Torm's entertaining himself as usual, I see,' Sharantyr observed to Sylune as they worked on their own stakes not far away.
The Witch of Shadowdale grinned. 'He doesn't know it yet, but I volunteered him for digging the privies.'
Sharantyr sighed. 'You use the ladies' first, then. I've no wish to be the one who tries out his latest collection of 'humorous' traps.'
'Does he do that to the pit for the men, too?' Itharr asked, looking up from the fire pit he and Belkram were digging. Sharantyr looked over at him and nodded. 'Ah, thanks for the warning,' the Harper grunted, and knelt to begin lining the pit with stones.
