A pair of men in black armor emblazoned with the white horse of Mistledale approached with two large, rope-wrapped canvas bundles. 'Your tent,' the Riders told Itharr, 'and one for the ladies.'
'One is all we'll need,' Sharantyr said serenely, moving to the last unsharpened stake. 'I'm used to the snores of these two by now.'
The Rider raised his eyebrows and looked her up and down. Sharantyr raised her own eyebrows in reply, and said coolly, 'I'm an adventurer, remember?'
The man rolled his eyes and turned away, face expressionless behind his bristling mustache. His companion growled 'Lucky dogs' quite distinctly as they went on down the line of stakes.
'If you knew,' Belkram said to the Riders' backs. 'If you only knew.'
'I heard that,' Sylune said warningly, and both Harpers looked up at her with such looks of bewildered innocence that she giggled.
Sharantyr puzzled out how the ropes were tangled, and got the tent unrolled. She hummed a merry tune as she laid it out, shaking her head to clear her nostrils of the strong-and expected-reek of mildew. Such things were always put away damp. She critically surveyed the forest-green tent and its white horse blazon. 'Does someone in the dale run a camp for bored Sembian nobles?'
'Aye,' Belkram told her as the two Harpers came to join her, expertly plucking the poles out of the heart of the rumpled canvas. 'But they're under the misapprehension that they're just housing the short-coin laborers who arrive each harvest to help get the crop off the fields… it's not until they see their hired help at work in the fields that they realize how many bored Sembian nobles they're carrying.'
Sharantyr chuckled at that as Belkram held the tent up with one pole, and Itharr crawled inside to raise it from within. 'I could get used to having both of you gallant blades around,' she said affectionately, fielding the tangle of tent rope that Sylune tossed to her.
'Just two of us? Is that enough to keep up with you?' Belkram asked with a grin.
'On some mornings,' Sharantyr said, thrusting over his head the emptied sack that had held the tent pegs. 'On some mornings.'
'Mmpnffh,' he replied firmly.
'Exactly what I was going to say,' Itharr agreed, head emerging from the half-raised tent. 'Mmphffh.'
Sharantyr and Sylune sighed, smiled, and shook their heads in unison.
'Get him a bag, too,' Torm suggested, pointing at Itharr as he walked past. 'Me, too, and Rathan. After all, you know what they say-all men're the same with a bag over-'
'Enough, Torm!' Sylune said, and snapped her fingers. The thief vanished in midstep, and they heard his surprised 'Hoy!' of protest from the far end of the camp as he reappeared, looked around, and started back toward them.
'Poor Torm,' Sharantyr said, watching him. 'I wonder if he'll ever grow into dignity and polite manners? I suppose he must grow up someday.'
'For some of us,' Sylune observed serenely, 'it's a long walk.' Battledale, Flamerule 16
There was a sudden flash of emerald radiance from the empty saddle ahead, and Swordlord Amglar stiffened, hand going to the hilt of his sword-just in case.
Spellmaster Myarvuk rode ahead of the hitherto unladen horse, the mount under him linked to it by a long lead. Now he was twisting around to see what had befallen, clinging to his saddle in an ungainly attempt not to fall off. Amglar watched him in grim amusement. These wizards all rode with the grace and balance of lumpy sacks of feed-and if the expression on Myarvuk's face was any guide, about as much comfort.
As both men stared at the green light pulsing and growing stronger in the saddle, Amglar watched the Zhentarim mage's tense face… until, suddenly, he knew the new thing he was seeing there: fear.
A second empty-saddled horse pulled its lead free and galloped off to the right. The swordlord's gaze darted to it, but no radiance or other sign of magic appeared. If the gods smiled, perhaps there'd only be one high Zhentarim joining them.
Of course, given what utter ice-hearted bastards all powerful mages of the Black Network were, one was more than enough.
The emerald light had built into the shape of a seated man now, and the swordlord sighed amid the endless thunder of hooves. The rest of his time with the Sword of the South was not going to be enjoyable-and might well encompass the rest of his life, given the ruthless and sensitive nature of senior Zhentarim.
The green radiance flashed and faded, revealing a richly cloaked man who sat his saddle as if he'd always been there-and was already looking grimly about, his face as black as old night.
At least this one could ride. Amglar forced a grim half smile onto his own face as the Zhent wizard turned to look behind him.
'For the glory of Zhentil Keep,' the swordlord said in formal welcome. The wizard merely nodded curtly and turned his head away. Oh, joy. Getting this one to take the slightest notice of orders was going to be nigh impossible. Best start wading into the blood now, then. Amglar reined his horse in beside the galloping wizard. 'Lord Manshoon sends his greetings, Spellmaster Thuldoum,' Amglar said loudly, keeping his voice calm and unhurried. Young Myarvuk had lost his title, of course, the moment his superior here had arrived.
'Give me his message,' Thuldoum said in bored tones, extending a gloved hand. 'I do hope to find it still sealed.'
'No message,' Amglar returned calmly as they thundered on up the road toward the Standing Stone. 'Manshoon farspoke me, and bade me pass on his feelings.' If this warning had no effect, things were going to be a royal muddle from now on.
'I see,' the senior Zhentarim replied in tones of clear disbelief. Amglar shrugged, letting the man see his gesture. Of course, most Zhentarim would see such nonchalance as the bravado of a fool, not the confidence of a man secure in his power. He was just going to have to educate this one differently.
'Myarvuk,' the new arrival snapped grimly, obviously short on patience, 'Baedelkar will not be joining us. Your duties will now include his.'
The younger Zhentarim nodded in expressionless silence; Amglar knew he was wondering if this cheerful newcomer had been the cause of Baedelkar's disappearance-and if one Myarvuk would be the next wizard to drop out of sight forever when Nentor Thuldoum grew displeased.
He'd never worked with the man before, but knew that Thuldoum had been deadly in battle while riding out of the Citadel of the Raven against brigands, Thentian freebands, and all manner of goblinkin and monsters of Thar. Later the senior Zhentarim had come to Zhentil Keep to train battle mages for the Network; 'Dull Doom' he'd been to his apprentices, due to his dry, studious manner and the short, ruthless temper it concealed. Not a man to cross. Nonetheless, Myarvuk, son of Thaelon, was going to do just that. Starting, in a small way, now.
'What was Baedelkar's fate?' Myarvuk asked, with the most casual 'I'd better know' tone he could muster.
'Dead,' Nentor said shortly, 'slain in his bed by'-he shrugged to indicate that his next words were a guess-'something he must have tried to summon.' His mouth shut like a falling portcullis, making it plain that no more would be forthcoming about his absent apprentice. Then he turned his head to glare at Amglar again.
'Swordlord,' he snapped, making it sound as if he'd been asking for it repeatedly and was growing impatient, 'I await your report of the doings of the Sword thus far. Come up here where I can see you.'
Amglar inclined his head in slow, silent acquiescence, and spurred his mount forward. Yes, it was going to be a long road to Shadowdale…
5
Tower of Ashaba, Shadowdale, Flamerule 16
'Snug, my lord?' Shaerl asked, tightening the straps that held the plates around Mourngrym's upper thighs.
'Keep your fingers on the buckles,' the lord of Shadowdale told his wife with an affectionate grin, reaching
