The sorcerer gestured down at the collapsing ashes that had been the Malaugrym, and went on, 'Against such a one, all must stand together-or no man in Faerun will know freedom, in the end.'
He did something to his staff, and a glass vial appeared in the air above Sharantyr's hand. As it came to rest gently in her palm, he bowed to them both and turned away.
The flash of his departure lit up the rune graven in the glass. 'A healing potion of the utmost power,' Sharantyr said wonderingly. She went to her knees beside Itharr.
Blood was bubbling at his lips with every breath. She unstoppered the vial with infinite care and tipped it deep within, feeling his teeth tighten on the glass as a sudden spasm racked him.
'May the gods ascend to their rightful places, so that we can pray to them once more,' she said feelingly, holding the vial firmly in place as Itharr bucked and writhed in Belkram's arms.
'May these accursed shapeshifters return to their rightful places,' Belkram said to her, 'so that we don't have to!'
'Gnorlgh,' Itharr agreed weakly, from beneath them. 'Gut thlisgh out ou my-mouth!' He spat out the vial and struggled to sit up.
'Itharr!' Shar said joyfully, and embraced him, covering his lips with her own.
'Some men,' Belkram said, watching her weep and meeting one of Itharr's eyes through her hair, 'are far luckier than they have any right to be.' Then he discovered something must have gotten into his own eye. The world suddenly glimmered and blurred and a sound large and raw rose in his throat… Tower of Mortoth, Sembia, early Midsummer Day
A crystal ball spun unheeded in a darkened room in the Tower of Mortoth. It flickered fitfully, then came to a sudden halt. As its inner glow died and it crashed to the privy chamber floor, a woman screamed nearby, high and despairing, and drowned out the sound of the crystal shattering… Tilverton, early Midsummer Day
A solitary lantern guttered outside the gates in the gray hour before dawn, but its light was enough to reveal the Purple Dragon emblazoned proudly on the wrinkled surcoat of a yawning sentry. The armsman came alert with a grunt and stepped back to lower the tip of his spear. Something small and sleek and dark slid around the gatepost.
He relaxed and gave it a grin. Surmalkin back from mousing… and irritated at a lack of success, by the look of him.
'How now, little one?' the armsman growled, bending over fondly. The cat gave him a warning, defiant look and minced past. The guard watched him go. Grinning, the man leaned on his spear. It must be a nice, soft life, being a cat…
Something that was strong and swift instead of nice and soft smashed him across the back of the head. He stumbled forward, dazed-and was still gathering wits and breath to shout for aid when the same something took him by the throat. It wrung his neck.
Blood ran from the armsman's nose and mouth as the Malaugrym propped him against the gatepost, hooking the shoulder straps of his armor upon the gate so he seemed to be leaning on it, lost in slumber.
After that, it was the work of a few breaths to scale the crumbling stone walls of the mansion that served the visiting high and mighty of Cormyr as home in Tilverton. From its high site, Lorgyn could see the lamps of the town winking below as his tentacles pulled him onto the balcony. He slid easily into human form… or at least, the appearance of an elegant old Cormyrean courtier he'd once seen, but with hands like large, flexible webbed paddles-akin to the hind feet of a beaver. He glided into the room.
The small blue glimmering of the lady's ward spun her awake in alarm.
But he was already bending low over the bed and whispering, 'Good morning, my dear. Alambrara, isn't it?'
With one of those broad hands, he smothered whatever reply she might have made. His iron strength held her down until her sudden struggles subsided.
When she fell limp under him and the tiny lightnings of her collapsing ward had finished jittering through him, Lorgyn checked that she yet breathed. She was alive.
He nodded in satisfaction and set about stripping away the gems she wore at her ears, throat, and ankles. Who knew what sort of tracing magic could be linked to the jewelry of a powerful war wizard?
Her own bedclothes-soft samite sheets, no less-served admirably to gag and bind her, and he was gone from the room before the first light of dawn broke the eastern sky, low beyond the gray walls of Tilverton.
Breaths later, that wan, rosy light fell upon the wagon marked 'Pendle's Fine Meats.' Lorgyn unlatched its side door and thrust his bundle inside.
It was his wagon now, he thought as he melted into the heavy, grizzled form of Pendle once more and undid the sheet that had covered his prize from the eyes of any overly curious early risers.
Carefully drawing the door closed, he tore the sheet into strips and bound the war wizard Alambrara beside the fat Amnian, Gorluth the Great. He chuckled at the contrast between the shapely limbs of the Cormyrean, the fat and hairy little mage from Amn, and beyond him, Irendue's slim beauty. She was awake, her eyes blazing at him over the gag that was her only garment.
Lorgyn winked at her as he tightened a lashing and stood back to survey the three naked people bound to the meat bars.
The beginnings of a fine collection. If more folk collected wizards thus, there'd be less trouble all over Faerun, to be sure. Still, he'd be needing more if a new gate were to be a truly lasting thing. Two gates, with a hidden one only he knew about, would be even more secure.
Two mages that would be easily found were Jhessail and Illistyl, Knights based in Shadowdale.
Giving Irendue a cheery wave and miming the biting off of a finger (he'd devoured her thumbs thus far, while punishing her, and planned to make of her fingers a long-lasting snack), Lorgyn replaced the padlock that only he had a key for, and went to the next wagon to rouse his men. He wondered briefly how they could sleep through each other's snoring.
'Up, lads,' he said, shaking and slapping with brisk enthusiasm. ' 'Tis time we set off for Shadowdale. I think we're all due for a little rest… and that's the place.'
'Urggh,' his cook said, 'ye want dawnfry first?'
Lorgyn shook his head. The cook eyed him for a moment, then shrugged. Pendle never refused an early meal, even when it was only cold partridge from the night before-but this was three days now…
Lorgyn gave the man's back a soft smile, and resolved to eliminate him as soon as the wagon was rumbling along the last stretch, between Shadowdale and the Tower of Mortoth. Yes-roasted alive on a spit in his own oversalty brown sauce would be fitting, too.
The gate guards were almost as sleepy and surly as his own grumbling men, but at last they did their work with bars and chains. Pendle's three wagons rumbled out of Tilverton, the first farers forth onto the road.
Even the horses complained as their burdens groaned and bumped along east toward Shadowdale. Pendle's men rode all around them with ready weapons and sleepy faces, wondering what madness had taken their master this time. Pendle smiled back at them all, and more than one man shivered at the soft promise in that smile. The Castle of Shadows, Shadowhome, Midsummer Day
The glimmer of the scrying portal faded as it sank into the shadows, spinning away into nothingness. The face above its dissolution was a mask of wiggling, questing worms, but owned eyes that blazed like two lanterns of raging spellfire. Worms beneath them parted, and a calm voice said to the vast, long-empty chamber of the Castle of Shadows, 'It is time to move at last. Let the hunt begin in earnest.' Faerun, Shadowdale, Midsummer Day
The horn had cried out peace and parley, so the guards at the bridge over the Ashaba had not roused the folk of the tower in swift earnest. Lord Mourngrym and Lady Shaerl had been in the morning room over a leisurely dawnfry when their heralds brought word of the coming of a special envoy of Cormyr, Sir Tantor Dauntinghorn.
Just as they were, the lord and lady hastened down to the sward outside the tower, intent on welcoming the envoy and seeing to the needs of his large escort of Purple Dragons and war wizards.
With a glint in his eye, Mourngrym assured the stiff and magnificently mustachioed Sir Tantor that he was not now standing in a holding of Zhentil Keep, and that all minds in the dale were free of insidious Zhentarim spells. He thanked Cormyr for its obvious intent to do battle with the Zhent evil, given the handsome array of battle might and ready sorcery, come so long and dusty a way from the Forest Kingdom to Shadowdale-still proudly independent. He added that he hoped there would always be warm friendship between Cormyr and Shadowdale-coupled with mutual respect for each other's views, aims, and continued freedom.
