thrust a torch in his face, he grew a bone spur and casually stabbed the man through the face. All the while wearing that deadly smile, the senior Malaugrym advanced leisurely toward the weary, panting rangers.
Belkram and Itharr watched him come; they grimly stood their ground, leaning on battered blades. The three Malaugrym burned behind them, and from the flickering flames a weak voice called, 'Shadowmaster High! Aid, please, in the name of Malaug! I'm burning! Great Dhalgrave, aid me!'
Dhalgrave never took his eyes from the two rangers, and never paused in his slow, menacing advance. Argast soon fell silent… and joined Amdramnar and Lorgyn in death.
Deep in the Castle of Shadows, in a place where thinking shadows glided, was a grotto. At its heart were two stone seats that faced each other in the bone-white glow. On one of them, something blazed briefly, then burst.
A hand promptly reached down out of darkness to pick up the largest of the fragments and sweep the seat clean… and a soft chuckle echoed through the grotto.
Dhalgrave stopped just beyond the reach of the two weary rangers and smiled a gloating smile at the fearful warriors, noting many Purple Dragon surcoats. 'All the way from Cormyr, just to die?' he asked in mock sorrow, shaking his head.
From among the warriors, lightning lashed at the Malaugrym, and on his other flank something that looked like a white mist driven by churning human bones rose and drifted speedily toward him.
Dhalgrave simply watched those deaths come for him. The spells faded away as they reached him, and he sketched a mocking bow.
'My thanks, Ladies,' he said. 'Jhessail and Illistyl, isn't it?' He gestured lazily down at himself. 'Unfortunately for your valiant endeavors, I wear a cloak of shadows that wards all your spells… and hides me even from the Chosen. I had to 'die' for a time to get it, but watching my underlings scramble to try to take my throne was richly entertaining compensation.'
The doomstars lashed out again, and four armsmen were hurled back against their fellows, their bodies trailing blue fire. Blades fell from their hands… blades that shone with silver. Sir Tantor Dauntinghorn peered at the dead and trembled with anger, reaching for his own blade.
'No, envoy, keep your life,' the Malaugrym told him. 'I shall need your services to inform Azoun that the Purple Dragon throne is mine now. My realm will take in Sembia, too, of course… but you won't be bored. I'll be sending all the brave warriors of both lands against Zhentil Keep-and none of you shall rest, nor fail me, until that city and all its folk are eradicated.'
He took another slow pace forward. 'Before all of that, however, I must attend to the business that brought all of the blood of Malaug lately to Faerun… a little matter of revenge.'
Dhalgrave looked at Belkram and Itharr and smiled again. 'Your deaths will be slow,' he said softly, 'very slow.' A frown crossed the handsome human face he wore, and he asked the world at large, 'I wonder if I can transform them to mushrooms, as that woman did?'
He raised his hands slowly, nodding in sudden satisfaction, and said, 'Yes!'
The doomstars hummed, dimmed, and grew still. The Malaugrym began the gestures of a spell-and the two Harper rangers erupted into a last desperate charge, swinging their blades as they came.
The cloak Dhalgrave wore spoke.
'Yes, indeed,' it agreed, and two gnarled old hands grew out of it on the shapeshifter's flanks, and dug fingers deep into Dhalgrave-fingers that blazed with spellfire!
The Malaugrym screamed. His hands faltered, the doomstars winking wildly, and the hands literally tore him apart.
Dhalgrave convulsed, struggling to throw out a tentacle here and an eyestalk there amid the spreading spellfire-and as the two Harpers came to hasty halts, blades held ready, the Malaugrym sported the long, jagged jaws of a crocodile for just a moment… before collapsing into a swirling cloud of ash. What remained was a raging, man-high column of spellfire, with the hands that had slain Dhalgrave protruding from it.
The doomstars spun and winked by themselves in midair for a breath, then drifted obediently into one of those old, waiting hands.
As they settled, all of the spellfire seemed to roar down into them-and burst in a flash that made unwary men cry out and clutch at their eyes.
Those stricken did not see the beams that lanced out from the destruction of the doomstars to touch Storm, Laeral, and Khelben, and awaken them to vibrant life.
As the Bard of Shadowdale came unsteadily to her feet and reached down to help her sister up, a familiar voice said disgustedly, 'Do I have to do everything myself, look ye?'
'Elminster!' Laeral cried delightedly.
The Old Mage puffed one last time on his pipe before calmly tapping out its coals onto the ash that had been the Shadowmaster High.
'But you-you died!' Mourngrym said, laughing, as he shouldered through the armsmen, Shaerl at his side.
'Reports of my death,' the Old Mage said solemnly, 'have been-ahem-greatly exaggerated.'
The scrying portal shook as Hulurran's rage almost ended his control over it. 'No!' he snarled, but the other two who stood in the shadows with him kept silent. One of them laid a silent tentacle against his cheek for a moment.
After they'd stood staring into Faerun for a long time, Gathran stirred.
'If we could get that cloak,' he began, 'we-'
He fell silent again as, below, Elminster stirred the ashes, held up a tattered scrap-and firmly burned it to nothingness with a jet of spellfire from his finger.
'By the blazing blood of Malaug,' Hulurran raged in a voice that trembled with emotion, 'I'll never rest un-'
'Hold your wind!' snapped the youngest and smallest of the Malaugrym. 'This disaster is born directly of reckless overconfidence… even on my father's part.'
Huerbara's eyes blazed with resolve as she scattered the scrying portal with one slim tentacle. 'We must not act-we must never act-against folk of Faerun until we are strong, and prepared… even for the unexpected. Revenge can be won, yes… but it may take years. We must rebuild the House of Malaug first. To do it, I'll need your help.'
'You?' Hulurran asked, slack-jawed in disbelief.
Gathran, however, said quietly, 'Command me, daughter of Ahorga.'
Huerbara nodded to him before turning to the elder shapeshifter. 'Are you with me also, Hulurran of the Winds?' The query was soft with menace.
After a long silence, Hulurran nodded. 'Aye. Aye, you have fire enough to be Shadowmaster High. I am yours.' He turned to meet her gaze squarely, and added, 'But we must move very carefully, lest our house be torn apart by strife between you and rivals for the throne.'
'Teach me, then,' Huerbara said to them both, gliding nearer, 'how to move very carefully…'
'Lady, we will,' they agreed in chorus, and three sets of eager tentacles met and entwined.
The folk in Shadowdale fortunate enough to survive the events of that morning had seen wonder upon wonder… but there were still gasps and mutterings and a shrinking back as a ghostly, silver-haired head came floating over the grass. Gawking dalefolk and weary Cormyreans alike melted out of its path, and stared at the three naked, bedraggled folk who followed it.
'It seems one of the Malaugrym was collecting wizards,' Sylune told Elminster. 'And as both you and Mystra seem to be back with us, we'd best be using these three to bring Sharantyr back.'
The Old Mage stared searchingly at the short, fat man and the two women, and they all nodded their agreement. Jhessail and Illistyl pushed through the crowd, and Sir Tantor was jostled aside by Lord Luthtor, firmly leading a line of war wizards.
'What did you say?' Itharr hissed to Sylune.
