the walls of the chamber, threatening to snuff out the torches with the breeze created by their wings.
Controlling the largest of the beasts, Maligor caused the others to move out of his way, in much the same manner that he ordered his guards and slaves. He continued to shriek at them, demanding a response.
The darkenbeasts' mournful cries rose to an obscene cacophony in an evil chorus. He savored the terrible noise. The offensive smell no longer bothered him, for he was a part of it. He had become one with the beast. He flexed the darkenbeast's talons as he would his own fingers and turned its head as he would his own. He continued to circle until nearly all the chamber's inhabitants had joined his exuberant flight.
Then his mind reached out once more, touching the nearest darkenbeasts, then those farther away. Within moments, he controlled a dozen, then two, three dozen, and more. The nature of his sorcery enabled him to link telepathically to one, several, or all of his dark creatures, directing their actions and receiving uncompromising cooperation.
Maligor felt himself flying in many different directions at once. At first the sensation was glorious, but then it became disconcerting. He concentrated harder and drew the darkenbeasts' thoughts together, making them fly according to his will. The scene in the room altered. What a moment before had been chaos now was orchestrated movement. A ring of black circled the room, with the darkenbeasts flying in graceful patterns, performing a lurid ballet. Their cries rose as one, hideous and deafening, threatening to rise above the layers of stone and earth and warn those in the tower above of their presence.
Maligor, realizing the potential for problems, urged his force to land, then began to release their simple minds. Immediately the stench of the place overpowered him again and he retched, nearly doubling over. Gasping, he focused his attention on the large darkenbeast that had returned to the altar.
The Red Wizard staggered from the chamber and began the long ascent to his tower.
Four
In the clearing, Galvin waited for dawn to break and watched Wynter help Brenna pack her tent. The druid was disturbed at overhearing the sorceress's revelation that someone had been magically watching them-'scrying on them,' she had called it. A Red Wizard possibly, Galvin thought. No… if someone had been spying on them, it was definitely a Red Wizard.
No matter, the druid decided. The mission would continue even if someone in Thay was aware of them.
A soft breeze blew across Galvin's face, refreshing him and causing him to get a good whiff of himself. Caked blood and sweat made him stink worse than a dirty, wet wolf. He was certain his companions would make a worse analogy, and he resolved to take care of his odoriferous condition-and get breakfast-while they finished packing. The sky was still dark and devoid of clouds, but it was tinged with gray and deep blue, indicating the sun would be up in less than an hour. He scanned the horizon for several minutes, fearing another transformed beast might be nearby, but he saw nothing.
He was certain a Red Wizard was behind the obscene creature that had attacked them; Galvin wanted to believe that. If the creature was sent in retaliation for his killing the gnoll spy, he speculated, why weren't more of the beasts dispatched? Perhaps whoever or whatever had sent the beast had only meant it to be a warning. If that was the case, it was a warning the druid didn't intend to heed.
His fever was gone, and his shoulder felt considerably better, although it was still stiff. It would serve as a physical reminder, at least for a few more days, of his folly with the gnoll. He listened to a bullfrog croaking in the distance. It was searching for a mate; the druid could tell by its prolonged, deep, throaty song. Closer, he heard the buzzing of insects. There were plenty of them in this area, particularly mosquitoes, because of the recent rain and the nearness of the marsh. Fortunately, Galvin mused, insects never bothered him.
'Gnats!' the centaur reached back and swatted his rump with his hand. 'You always find the nicest places to camp, Galvin. Plenty of water. Shade in abundance. And more insects than blades of grass.'
The druid ignored his friend's complaints and rubbed his hand over his chin, feeling the scratchy stubble growing there. He grabbed his dirty canvas satchel and started to jog toward the trees and the welcome gurgling of a nearby creek, but he slowed almost immediately when a knifing pain cut through his shoulder and into his chest. I'm not entirely well yet, he decided.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the centaur watching him closely and looking concerned. Galvin forced a smile and turned and headed into the trees.
By the time Galvin returned with an armload of fruit, the sun was beginning to edge above the horizon. Brenna was reclining on her rolled-up tent. Two satchels sat just beyond her. She wisely had packed lightly, the druid surmised, unlike other city people he knew. She wore her hair twisted in tight braids about her head. That, too, was practical, since they would be traveling among trees and bushes that would hopelessly tangle it. But her garb was far from functional. Today she wore a long blue gown of heavy cotton that was full along the bottom and edged with lace; its only saving grace was the tight sleeves. Galvin resigned himself to the thought that apparently all wizards dressed in billowy, expensive drapery. Maybe they felt that made them appear more important than people who dressed practically. Still, she looked pretty in it, he thought.
Galvin had taken time to bathe, shave two days' growth of beard off his face, and wash his hair. Still wet, it lay flat against the sides of his head and dripped on the back and shoulders of his cloak. He had changed into the only other set of clothes he had brought, which consisted of a forest green tunic, darker green leggings, and a plain knee-length cloak-also green. He regretted ruining the cloak he had worn yesterday. It had been a gift from a female Harper associate in Tsurlagol who had had designs on the druid. That had been a few years ago, and Galvin hadn't been interested in romance. But he liked the cloak and had worn it often. Wynter frequently chided him because he dressed only in green, but the druid considered it a functional color in the forest, since it helped him blend in with the foliage.
Wynter eyed him and winked. 'A special occasion? Or are you just trying to impress the lady?'
The centaur's longbow was slung over his right shoulder, and an embossed leather quiver full of arrows rested between his broad shoulder blades. His staff, a thick piece of black-stained oak nearly eight feet long, rested against a tree. Beyond that, Wynter carried only a small leather sack strapped to his waist. It contained several silver and gold coins and a silver pin-a harp inside a crescent moon. Galvin often envied the centaur because he didn't need to pack clothes and other human essentials.
'No meat this morning?' Wynter continued, eyeing the druid's selection. The centaur knew Galvin refused to eat animal flesh, choosing instead to live on fruits, nuts, and vegetables he recovered in the wild and on bread and cheese he traded for with traveling merchants. Wynter, however, had a fondness for roast pig, despite the fact it didn't sit well in his equine stomach, and was glad his friend never objected when he ate it or grew angry when he repeatedly offered to share the flesh with the druid.
Galvin handed the centaur a large piece of citrus fruit. 'This is better for you,' he said.
Brenna eagerly selected a few pieces of fruit for herself. Galvin wondered what she and Wynter had eaten while he slept. Probably little, he thought. The centaur wasn't a very good hunter; he was a farmer by trade, when he wasn't gallivanting off with the druid on Harper assignments, a profession that kept him fit and well fed. Galvin noted that Wynter devoured the fruit eagerly, and Brenna was eating hers ravenously.
The councilwoman finished first, glanced at her bags, and then looked to Galvin for assistance.
'I won't be able to carry all this,' she said, adding a weak smile.
The druid returned her smile, strapped on his scimitar, slung his satchel over his shoulder, and eyed her thin, shapely frame. 'Then you'd better decide what to leave behind.'
The sorceress puffed out her chest and readied a verbal assault, but the centaur stepped between her and the druid.
'I'll help you, Brenna,' Wynter offered.
Galvin looked at the centaur quizzically. The druid had never known him to make such an offer to anyone. Wynter didn't want anyone to consider him a packhorse.
Openly smiling at the druid, Wynter balanced the rolled canvas tent across his long horse's back and secured it so it wouldn't slide off. The maneuver wasn't easy, but the centaur made it seem effortless. Next he looped the
