Shaerl let fall the cushion as if its touch suddenly burned her fingers. 'Sorry,' she whispered, turning her head away.
Elminster chuckled and clapped her shoulder. 'I was jesting, lass. Why don't ye settle into a slightly more cozy position on my lap-one in which thy knee isn't pressing hard into this old bladder, mind-an' I tell ye all the wild tales about which avatar is walking where in Faerun, and what a mess they're making of things. When ye're thoroughly scared, I'll pass on to news of the main Zhent army, currently being warmly entertained in Voonlar by several hobgoblin bands I sent thence… ah, dropped literally atop their camp, actually.'
Shaerl giggled. 'I wish I'd been there to see that,' she said. 'Has it thinned the Zhent host appreciably?'
Elminster nodded. 'Moreover, I'm not done yet. It's taken me until now to locate my favorite hobgoblin tribe- the Nose Bones-so they'll be er, dropping in on our Zhent friends just before dawn.'
'Taken you until now?' Shaerl said in mock alarm. 'Why, whatever have you been doing?'
'Holding the Realms together, lass,' Elminster told her rather grimly, 'and fighting off various old foes who've decided to take advantage of the Fall of the Gods to conquer or destroy as much of Faerun as they can seize-the Malaugrym, in particular, have been troublesome.'
'Those Who Walk in Shadow?' Shaerl asked, eyes grave. 'Storm and I have talked about them several times, after one attacked you at the inn and you wouldn't tell us anything. They sounded deadly, indeed.'
'Ah, but I've acquired three heroes to deal with them now,' Elminster said, holding out to her a goblet that shouldn't have been full.
Shaerl stared at it suspiciously, sipped it, and then peered into it again. It was still full-or rather, full again. She gave Elminster a look.
The Old Mage spread his hands with an air of innocence.
The lady of Shadowdale sighed. 'So who are these three mighty ones?'
'Sharantyr and two Harpers; men who came to Storm for training.'
Shaerl stared at him, mouth open. 'The three rangers? Against spell-hurling shapeshifters? El, they'll be killed!'
Elminster shrugged. 'That fate could well befall us all in the days ahead. I can't be everywhere, especially now, with bindings failing and magic twisting awry all across Toril. My valiant three've done well enough thus far, I must say. Even if they all perish forthwith, they've dealt the House of Malaug a shrewd blow.'
'Will you write that on their tombs?' Shaerl asked quietly.
Elminster shrugged but said nothing. After a long silence, the lady of Shadowdale whispered, 'What will you write on ours?'
The ghost of a smile stole across the Old Mage's face. 'Perhaps: I should have been laid to rest here long ago, but I'm still busy defending Shadowdale.'
'Oh, no,' she said quietly, shaking her head as the bedchamber door opened and a weary Mourngrym strode in, tossing down cloak, helm, and sword. 'That's what your tomb should say.'
'It already does, lass. Ask Lhaeo to show ye some time-on the morrow. It's a good place to hide with thy heir, if the dale's overrun. Oh, in case he forgets to tell ye-don't mind all the floating eyeballs that'll drift around after ye. They do no harm… and if the food runs out, they're good eating.'
'Is he teasing you about fried eyeballs again?' Mourngrym asked as he strode into the room. Without slowing to hear Shaerl's reply, he bent over the chair to kiss the top of her head, and then looked up at Elminster as the soft fingers of his wife stole up to stroke his cheek. 'And what's this about 'hide'? And 'overrun'? With you here holding the dale against all invaders?'
'We must all fall sometime,' Elminster replied very quietly. 'That's why I've been grooming every hero I could find these last ten years or so. Someday, defending Shadowdale without me will be your task. Perhaps someday soon.' The Standing Stone, the Dales, Flamerule 17
The spellmaster's screams broke off suddenly, and he slumped forward in his seat. Hesitantly one of the swordcaptains took a few paces toward the wizard, sword drawn, and then looked back to the swordlord for instructions. Other officers with ready weapons were also gathering cautiously around the seated wizard.
'Is he dead?' Amglar asked bluntly. The swordcaptain turned to see, taking a few paces closer-and then shrank back in horror as sudden radiances flashed and spun around the body, jerking it convulsively.
Amglar's eyes narrowed. Contingencies, perhaps… not attacks visited from afar, no.
His judgment was confirmed an instant later as the Zhentarim shook himself and stood, looking around irritably at all the grim faces and raised swords. 'Put away all this steel,' he snapped, 'and find something useful to do-such as getting me a hot meal. Spellhurling's hungry work.'
The swordcaptain Amglar had just given orders to turned back to the swordlord and spread his hands in a silent question. Amglar waved at him to 'hold hard' for the nonce, got up, and strode over to Thuldoum.
'How are you, mage?' he asked, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword.
'I'll live,' Thuldoum said coldly, 'and my wits are my own; you need not hack me down for fear I'll turn on you all.'
'The Roost's defended, then?'
'No,' the spellmaster said. 'It's deserted. A little overgrown and tumbledown to be an ideal camp, but safe enough.'
'Safe? Why the screaming then?'
'My creation encountered two beings who can shift shape. They were camped in one of the rooms.'
'Doppelgangers? If they impersonate our swordcaptains, they can play merry death and chaos with this Sword!'
'These weren't doppelgangers,' Nentor Thuldoum said grimly. 'One of them tried to merge with my monster, destroying it. I was held in thrall, and saw into its mind. It was old, very old, and it hates Elminster of Shadowdale more than you or I do; possibly more than High Lord Manshoon does. They've been feuding for centuries.'
'And so?'
'It also hates three other humans I don't know; they looked like rangers. It thinks all of them are in Mistledale right now… and was headed there to feed on them, the moment it was satisfied the human shape I saw it in-a pilgrim of Tyr-was good enough to fool them.'
'You think these two shapechangers are on the way to Mistledale by now?'
'Yes,' the Zhentarim said flatly. 'I couldn't break free until it ate the monster's mind, but the last thought I overheard was that it was eager to get to its prey.'
'Then we'll be just as urgent in our advance on the Roost, once you set us a directional spell so we can get there through the woods, and not have to use the road and the open dale.'
'The moment I've eaten,' the spellmaster told him coldly, 'you'll have that spell. The drink, I think, is even more important right now.'
Wordlessly Amglar undipped a chased metal flask from his belt and held it out. The Zhentarim regarded it and then him suspiciously, then in sudden resolve undid the stopper and took a sip-then a long pull.
When he could stop gasping, the spellmaster wiped at his numbed lips and asked, 'B-By all the gods, what is that stuff?'
'Firewine,' Amglar told him, surprised. 'You don't get out much, do you, wizard?'
'Enough,' Thuldoum told him darkly. 'More than enough.'
'Spellmaster?' A swordcaptain was hurrying up with a covered platter that trailed wisps of steam. 'Your evenfeast!'
'Ah, that's better,' Thuldoum said, and turned to Amglar. 'You see, Swordlord? Properly treated, I will deal with you properly in return… just like any man. You might remember that.'
'Aye,' the swordlord said, remembering Myarvuk's still, staring face as they buried him. 'I will keep it in mind-always.' Mistledale, Flamerule 17
The larger of the two owls fluttered down to a branch on the edge of the dale, and grew a human mouth. 'Best be wary,' it said to the owl alighting beside it. 'They may have spying spells set-and a single arrow could slay us in these shapes.'
'Take on something larger, Yinthrim?'
'No,' the larger Malaugrym said firmly. 'That'd just invite discovery and attack… and they'll have mages about. No, Atari, just take care. After we avenge the despoiled honor of the House of Malaug, let us return here and
