'I shall give you, Ahorga, the same mercy you gave to Lord Thael Sembergelt,' was the calm response. 'The same mercy Malaugrym always afford mere mortals… none. This is a cleaner death than you deserve.' The silver flames roared up to claim him.
When the body was a burnt husk, Storm cast it down atop the body of the Malaugrym Lunquar, and watched them both blaze. The flagstones beneath them cracked and shivered with the heat, and more than one of the servants fainted away, torches toppling to the terrace to gutter out. Storm stood motionless above the pyre until ashes were all that remained of the two shapeshifters.
She looked up, half-naked, front and back in bleeding ruin. Oburglan and the seneschal, Hawklan, gazed white-faced at her, swords in their hands.
'Lady,' Hawklan asked, 'what are you?'
'One of Mystra's Chosen,' Storm answered him wearily. 'These were two fell shapeshifters; the real Thael Sembergelt and Dathtor Vaeldeir are dead.'
The seneschal licked his lips and asked, 'Was that, then, Mystra's silver fire?'
Storm smiled wanly. 'It was… pray that you never see its like again.'
'Lady,' Oburglan asked, his voice husky with fear, 'are you… will you be all right?'
'I will be fine soon enough, Lord Sembergelt,' Storm said to him. 'I grieve for your uncle. I would have liked to come to know him well.'
Tears spilled from both their eyes, then, but Oburglan's trembling lips shaped the wondering words, 'Lord Sembergelt? You called me…'
One bloody hand came up to trace his chin. He did not raise his blade or flinch away. 'You are Lord Sembergelt now,' Storm said to him, 'and if ever you need comfort or guidance or the aid of Those Who Harp, come to me-or tell any Harper.' A trace of a smile came to her lips. 'We even help spoiled Sembian lords.' She stepped forward and kissed him.
His face was covered with her blood as she drew back, but his eyes shone with a new light through the tears.
'Lady,' the seneschal said haltingly, stepping forward, 'if there is anything we can do… any aid we can render…' His eyes fell to her wounds, then rose again to her face.
Storm shook her head. 'My thanks for your offer, noble Hawklan, but no. I'll be fine. I'll be even better if I know your new lord enjoys the same loving guidance you gave his uncle.'
'Lady,' Hawklan said quietly, 'it shall be so. If you'll permit me?'
And he took her hand, went to his knee, and kissed her bloody fingertips.
Storm smiled at him. 'As I bid Oburglan, so also I ask you: Call on me if there is need.'
She stepped back from them, looked around at Low Rythryn Towers and the ragged circle of torches, and shook her head.
'One good thing has come of this, at least,' she told the two weeping men. 'Lord Thael lies where he would have wished: buried in his garden.' She smiled at them again, then turned away. It was a long walk back to Shadowdale-and she'd need all that time to heal herself.
15
In a place of shifting shadows, behind hidden doors, in the heart of the ancient castle of the Malaugrym, was a light. The bright, glowing eye of a scrying portal floated in the murk, reflected from the tentacled face of a watchful figure bent over it… a figure whose skin was as dark and ever-shifting as the sliding shadows themselves.
His eyes, however, were two bright flames, and the doomstars winked brightly as they spun endlessly about his wrist. He stretched, watched them dim momentarily as they passed through a dark drift of shadow, sighed, and murmured, 'Fools… this house is breeding fools by the score. Lunquar and Ahorga both gone-and they deserved it.'
He turned again to the light, watching the wounded Storm walk through a merchant camp and wave away someone who rose to offer aid. Studying her kind, weary smile, he sighed again and passed his hand across the portal.
It rippled, then lit with tongues of leaping fire: a bonfire, this time. Steel flashed back its light as three figures in leather armor battled with twice as many men in black. They fought in a clearing-the camp of the black-armored ones-and the three in leather were winning. As he watched, a black-armored figure took a blade in the face and fell back into the fire, throwing out a shower of sparks. Small wonder; if those three could fight their way alive out of the Castle of Shadows and leave more than a score of the blood of Malaug dead behind them, a few Zhentilar armsmen should prove no trouble for them at all.
Wearing a smile that did not mean he was amused, the figure let his scrying portal fade away, stood up, and melted into the shadows. It was time to do what had to be done. Faerun, northwest Elven Court woods, Flamerule 26
'How many?'
'Seven Zhentilar and one orc,' Belkram said, counting on his fingers. 'Oh, and that snake.'
'Oh, yes-mustn't forget the snake!' Sylune said merrily. She turned to grin at Sharantyr. They rolled their eyes in unison.
'I,' Itharr said triumphantly, 'stand ahead of you. My valiant blade has accounted for eleven Zhent deserters, one brigand, and three fingers off the left hand of another brigand!'
'Men will be boys,' Sharantyr murmured. A ghostly giggle answered her from just ahead of her left cheek. She winced; Sylune had become invisible again.
They were tired, filthy, footsore-gods, how did anyone stay in armor more than a day? The itching, to say nothing of the small things crawling in their matted hair. They hadn't expected the last four Zhents, and had wasted a day chasing them-a day more than their rations. Empty bellies were groaning now, too.
All in all, it had been a successful patrol.
They trudged thankfully past the familiar beauty of Harpers' Hill. Passing it meant warm baths and familiar beds were only paces away.
'Daylight!' Itharr broke into a trot.
Sharantyr gritted her teeth and managed a sprint, her raw joints and blistered feet shrieking in protest. Catching up to Itharr a bare three paces from Treesedge, she snarled, 'Walk across someone's crops, and they'll kill you! We go that way until we strike the road!'
She pointed, and Itharr gave her a dirty look. He sighed and began to trudge in the indicated direction. 'You never spared two breaths about turnips before!'
'I was never hungry enough to eat raw turnips before!' Sharantyr snarled back at him.
Behind them, Belkram chuckled wearily and waved a hand. 'Lead on, the pair of you… and talk to me of roast goose, and gravy and old ale… ham and dressed pheasant and stuffed snake-not gods-be-kissed turnips!'
'Ye gods!' Itharr cried, slapping his forehead. 'The snake! You forgot to bring the snake!' He turned reproachful eyes on Belkram. 'We could've eaten that snake!'
'No,' Belkram corrected, 'You could've eaten that snake. I saw all the human skulls in its lair.'
'Death, death, death,' Sharantyr muttered. 'Is that all adventurers talk about?'
Belkram gave her a look. 'Well, let's see-there are other topics: butchering monsters for the stew pot, burning helpless villages, pillage, ra-'
'Death it is,' Sharantyr said firmly. 'Only a few hundred more paces now. Talk to me of death.'
'Only a few hundred more paces?' Itharr gasped. 'Good! Go and make them for me, so I can fall asleep right… here…'
'Oh no, you don't,' Sharantyr said, pulling hard on his hair as he sagged. 'Come on-I'm sure that tree wants to grow to reach the light, and it can't if you're draped all over it, snoring like a flatulent bull! Move!'
'Yes, sir!' Itharr responded sarcastically, moving smartly forward for all of three paces before sinking into a
