then spoke an incantation and launched himself into the air.
After flying over the wall of fire, he found himself above a slope of peat that fell sharply away to the sheer banks at the confluence of the Serpent's Tail and Winding Water. Judging by the number of pointy-eared corpses strewn along the lower half of the pitch, Ryence had tried to screen his crossing by sending part of his force to attack uphill. That the final line of bodies lay near the top of the slope spoke well of the elves' courage- if not of their commander's wisdom.
An enemy charge had caught the main body of the company preparing to cross the stream. The elves had felled most of the mind flayers and easily half of the bugbears on the way down, leaving the lower half of the slope strewn with almost as many foes as elves. The survivors had slammed into the rest of the company atop the gravelly bank of the Serpent's Tail, where a terrific melee continued to rage, with the bugbears trying to shield their last two mind flayers from an onslaught of gleaming elven steel. Nearly two dozen of Ever-meet's swordmages lay writhing on the ground, their palms pressed to their ears in a futile attempt to shut out illithid mind blasts, but Khelben did not pause to hurl any spells into that quarter of combat. Even as he swooped down toward the battle, a pair of bugbears fell with elven steel through their hearts, and a trio of golden bolts shot through the resulting gap to blast the nearest mind flayer.
The scene in the middle of the Serpent's Tail was far less encouraging. Ryence sat astride his horse, tumbling ever so slowly to the water. Just ahead of him, Bladuid and two other Gold elves-presumably the rest of Ryence's high mages- were also slipping from their horses, one bent almost in two by the torpidly-rising water column of a spell blast. They were followed by several dozen slow-motion bodyguards, all caught in mid twist as they turned in their saddles to fling bolts and blasts at two phaerimm hovering behind them.
One of the phaerimm was moving as slowly as the elves, as much a victim of its companion's powerful reality-altering magic as Ryence and the high mages. The caster of the spell was floating forward through the contingent of bodyguards, its four arms lashing out to rip open their throats as it bumped its way forward toward Ryence. Had Khelben believed the target to be Ryence alone, he would have tried mightily to save the elf, to blast the phaerimm with a death spell or banish it to the depths of the ninth hell.
But Ryence was not alone. He was with the high mages, and Khelben could not take the chance that his spell would be reflected or absorbed by the phaerimm. He needed something powerful and direct, something that would burn through even a phaerimm's natural magic resistance. He needed his silver fire.
Not for the first time, Khelben cursed the name of Laerm Ryence. The phaerimm cleared the last of the guards, reaching for Ryence's throat with one arm and for Bladuid with the other three. Khelben swooped down behind the creature, plummeting headfirst down from the sky, pointing one hand at the thing's open mouth and summoning his silver fire. A blissful pain hissed through his body, gathered for an instant in the pit of his stomach, then left his arm in a long streak of roaring fire. The phaerimm spun toward the sound on its tail, and the silver flame shot straight down its gullet. The creature came apart in a halo of white flame.
The reality-altering spell ended with the thing's death. Ryence and his high mages completed their falls, hitting the water with a loud series of splashes. Khelben wheeled toward the remaining phaerimm, frantically searching his mind for the safest way to destroy the thing quickly. It would take an hour for his body to reabsorb enough of Mystra's raw magic to use his silver fire again, so he would have to chance a spell.
A thunderous chugging filled the air, and elves began to wail. A scintillating tornado of gem-colored light appeared below him and began to dance across the river, raking the bodyguards of the high mages with spinning tentacles of death-dealing radiance. Each color brought an end more terrible than the previous. Those struck by red erupted into flames. The flesh of anyone touched by green sizzled away in a cloud of emerald gas. Blue brought death by choking, yellow by the foulest of stinking diseases, orange by spontaneous bleeding from every pore. Those touched by a black tentacle oozed away putrid part by putrid part, while those caught by white froze solid and floated away in the cold current.
Khelben had never before seen such a war spell. Nearly half the bodyguards already lay dead or dying, and the other half were scattering in every direction. The phaerimm itself did not seem to be aware of him, high in the air above it. Leaving the tornado to wander on its own, the creature glided toward the splashing forms of the high mages.
It was too late to be safe. Khelben stopped to hover and summoned to mind his most deadly spell. The phaerimm paused above a tangle of elf corpses, then reached down beside an ice-capped boulder to retrieve its companion's shredded tail. Khelben turned his palm toward the creature and barked out a syllable.
The phaerimm did not wave its arms or try to swing itself upright, nor even to make a last, desperate counterattack. At the sound of Khelben's voice, it simply teleported away, leaving his spell to splash harmlessly into the icy stream. Damn, but they were fast.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
28 Nightal, the Year of the Unstrung Harp
The celebration was an uneasy one, and not only because Elminster spent the evening glowering at Melegaunt. Galaeron kept glimpsing a dark shape just beyond the glowcircle, a stout little figure that vanished into the shadows the instant he turned to look upon it. Were it not for the agitation of the sentries, he would have dismissed the apparition as the product of a weary mind, but the night watchers kept flitting about up under the stars, swinging from tree to tree or rushing silently along barren limbs to scrutinize something on the ground. Still, they never gave the owl call, so perhaps it was no more than the playmagic of mischievous Wood elf children, and Galaeron was content to take his cue from his mother's people. The moon rose silver and bright, filling the wood with a milky snowlight, and out came the starlutes. The melodies were airy and cheerful, as always among Wood elves. Takari made a show of dragging Galaeron away from his mother-and coincidentally also Melegaunt and Vala- and being the first to dance. Though the song would have been more suited to a feather step, she pressed herself into Galaeron's arms and began a matched gambol.
'Don't overdo it,' Galaeron said, struggling to stay in step as they skipped through the moonlit snow. 'You still look weak.'
'I'm well enough.' Takari pursed her lips into a playful pout. 'The only wound that troubles me is the one in my heart-the one you put there tonight.'
'I'm sorry.' Galaeron's apology was sincere, for he had been so absorbed with Elminster, Turlang, and the rest that he had not even thought of inquiring as to whether Takari had arrived. 'I should have stopped by your nesting as we came in.'
'My nesting?' Takari raked her heel down his shin. 'I'm talking about Vala, ore nose! What's wrong with you, taking a human for your mate… over me?'
'Vala?' Galaeron's foot nearly slipped from beneath him. 'I haven't taken her!' Takari gave him a doubtful look. 'Not even once?'
Now Galaeron did slip, stumbling over a half-buried log and bringing them both down in the snow The fall drew a chorus of laughter, and the musicians embarrassed them further by slipping into a slow meter.
'Not even once,' Galaeron whispered, lying in the snow. 'Though it's not really your business who I take.'
Takari gave him a frisky smile. 'But it could be.' With that, she leaped to her feet and took a good-natured bow, then stretched a hand toward Vala. 'Come help me, human. This one is such a hoof-foot it will take two to keep him in step.'
Before Vala could object, Morgwais pushed her out to join Takari and Galaeron, and soon the three of them were whirling around the glowcircle arm-in-arm. Vala could keep even the quickest meter, but her steps were heavy and conspicuous by elf standards. Nevertheless, their antics proved inspirational, and soon the rest of the Wood elves were gliding about the glowcircle in whirling trios, stomping the beat and pumping their knees like centaurs on parade. Even Lady Morgwais joined the merriment, slipping one arm around Elminster's waist and the other around Melegaunt's-no easy task, given the girth of the pair.
Sometime during the festivities, Aris dropped a six-foot boulder next to the Honor Chair and set to work, hammering and clinking to the music. The boulder quickly assumed the rough shape of three whirling bodies, and it was not long before dancers began to spin past to check his progress. The figures emerged as if by magic, the
