'Such places are seldom deserted,' Storm said mildly. 'I can think of only four that stand empty at present, and those are isolated ruins infested by monsters-extremely primitive and dangerous accommodations. How were you planning to take possession of a suitable place?'
'I–I…' Rethuld looked trapped, his eyes darting wildly from side to side, his lips trembling. When he spoke again, his voice was low and despairing. 'Ah-seize it by force of arms.'
There was a sigh of resignation from the men all around, and swords grated out, but Storm sat still in her saddle and said calmly, 'I thought so. Tell me; was the idea your own?'
'Ah, no, Lady,' Rethuld said, his voice rising to a sudden, desperate squeal, ''twas brought to me by another.'
'And the name of-?'
Rethuld sobbed suddenly; a blade that seemed to be made of bone protruded from his chest. He shook, mouth working, looked down at the bloody point in horror, and slumped over. The bone slid out of him from behind.
'I thought so,' Storm said calmly, ignoring the blades that were slashing through her. 'Malaugrym.'
The man behind Rethuld suddenly writhed and dwindled-and a falcon sprang into the air, leaving an empty saddle behind. The bird darted south.
The blades were passing through the Bard of Shadowdale as if her body was made of smoke. She said to the men wielding them, 'Submit to the others who patrol with me, and you shall have peace,' but the fearful hacking continued unabated as the stone she wore between her breasts flashed with sudden blue fire. She rose from her own saddle and flew after the falcon, still in her own form.
'Gods,' Belkram said as they ranged their mounts across the road to meet the oncoming mercenaries, 'how can she take so many wounds?'
'She wears a gorget that protects her with ironguard magic,' Sylune replied. 'Metal weapons pass through her as if she were… as insubstantial as I.'
Lightnings blazed out from her, and mercenaries cried out, reeling in the shadows and dropping their weapons.
'You heard the Bard of Shadowdale,' Sharantyr cried, standing up in her saddle. 'Turn back to Essembra, in peace!'
As they stared at her, the ghostly head of Sylune drifted forward, its pale glow reflected back from swords and armor all around. She added briskly, 'Battledale holds manors in plenty left empty by the Zhents. I'm sure their rightful owners would be happy to sell them to you. Those who are adamant in their determination to press on will, before this day is put, find themselves sharing a grave with me.'
That was all the Sembian band needed to see and hear. They wheeled their mounts in hasty terror and fled from the ghostly female head that flew toward them trailing long, silvery hair. They galloped south as fast as they could, leaving their wagons behind.
Belkram laughed aloud. 'That was the easiest fight I've ever been in!'
Sylune turned. 'Be not so quick to laugh; your work is just beginning.'
'It is?'
'These wagons must be taken up the Stone, turned around there, and driven back to their owners, wherever they may flee to. I'll fly ahead to Essembra to get us enough drovers.'
'Flying around like that? They'll flee just like all these hardened warriors here did!' Itharr protested.
'Not the Harpers,' Sylune replied without turning. 'The wagons, gentlesirs,' She flew away down the road like an arrow shot from a bow.
Belkram sighed. 'Why do we always get the sweat work, eh?'
'You're Harpers,' Sharantyr reminded him sweetly. 'Such unpleasantness provides meaning and purpose in your lives.' Itharr shot her a grin, and she added, 'You should be grateful: many folk never find meaning or purpose in their existence.'
'Huh,' Belkram grunted, climbing up onto the boards of the foremost wagon. 'Why can't they all come and do this for us, then?'
14
The falcon winged frantically southward, trailing feathers in reckless haste as no real falcon would dare do- and growing new ones as no real falcon could hope to do.
Storm followed in its wake. Her fly spell thrust her steadily on through the air. She kept low above the trees so she might survive her tumble to the ground when the magic failed or went wild, and to make sure the falcon could not veer off or descend suddenly without her seeing just where it went.
The falcon's flight was southeast over the forest until Essembra lay on their right. Once past the town, it heeled westward, passing south across the road to Sembia and the outlying farms of Battledale, heading for the distant silver ribbon of the fast-flowing Ashaba, where it left the Pool of Yeven. Long before it got there, the falcon turned north again, flew a little way, and dived suddenly to earth.
Storm hurriedly swerved behind a tree to avoid being seen; as she'd expected, the shapeshifter halted its descent to skim along the stone walls of an estate, and peered into the trees all around as it went.
The falcon completed its circuit of the walls. Apparently satisfied he was alone, the Malaugrym sank down beyond the wall.
Storm hastily flew nearer, working her way through the trees; she wanted to be inside the walls too, when her spell ran out. Even if this turned out to be a garden of deadly Malaugrym.
Beyond the wall was a cluster of towers, one of the many walled villas that rich Sembians and wizards had built for themselves. They were enclosed for safety against the monsters and brigands that roamed these lush wilderlands. The road past the gate would be one of the long, winding lanes that fed into Rauthauvyr's Road just north of Blackfeather Bridge.
She dare not tarry or work her way along the wall to avoid detection; her spell would run out in moments. Darting over the wall, Storm found herself over deserted gardens and a small ornamental pond. She turned sharply to keep herself over dry land, and dived hastily down, righting herself to land feet first. It was good she did. She was well above the turf when her magic gave out, and she fell precipitously to earth.
'Once more to embrace the soft lips and bruising talons of adventure, friends,' she murmured to herself, quoting a ballad she had written hundreds of summers ago. She got up and dusted herself off
The placid waters of a small garden pool showed her a rather fierce-looking lady in leathers, so she stripped off her clothes and sword, bundled them up together, and said a soft word over them.
They vanished obediently-at least that small magic had worked right; now for the next one. She checked that she still had the dagger in its sheath under her hair, at the back of her gorget band. These days, a lady never knew when she'd need a good sharp knife. The gorget itself, stuffed with coins, bore a chased design that was elegant enough to accompany the attire she planned. To it, then…
Standing nude above the pool, she worked a magic she'd not used in quite this way for years, creating an ornate off-the-shoulder gown that would pass muster in the most exclusive circles in Sembia, and elegant high sandals to go with it. Her silver hair would do as she bid it, so she gave herself a sleek fall of tresses over one shoulder, and an elaborate braid over her brow. 'Twould do, indeed.
Taking a last look around to mark the place she'd left her gear, Storm strolled languidly across the gardens, eyes missing little despite her relaxed manner. She spotted the spatters of fresh blood beside a stone bench in a little bower, about where the falcon had landed, and wondered which inhabitant of the household was now a broken, unrecognizable boneless thing hastily buried nearby.
The Malaugrym awaited her somewhere inside these walls, all right. Storm strolled ahead as if no such peril was near, enjoying the gardens. A winding path girt with fragrant flowers took her to two small bridges that hopped from islet to islet across the large pond, to a terrace where stone urns stood in floral ranks along low, scalloped stone walls. Within those walls she could see folk moving-liveried servants.
