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  Sharantyr, puffing under Mulser’s dead weight, said only, “Take his feet, then.”

  They spent a few uncomfortable breaths puffing and struggling in the darkness and then were done. The bodies lay in a corner of the ruins where two walls met, buried under all the rubble Sharantyr could shift: stones, old beams, tiles, and a few tangled creepers.

  Elminster walked slowly back and looked at the oval of floating, glowing light. Sharantyr rolled her eyes, breast heaving with her efforts, and set the last large rock on the pile before going after him.

  “Well,” she panted, as she joined him, “what now?”

  Elminster smiled at her mildly, gestured at the gate flickering silently before him, and then calmly strolled through it.

  They were somewhere dark. Out of the night above and ahead of them came a hissing crossbow bolt. Elminster calmly shoved Sharantyr to one side and leapt the other way. The quarrel hissed past.

  They were crouching on turf, with mountains rising at their backs and far ahead of them. Just ahead, the ground descended into the High Dale. From the trees there came another bolt, this one close enough to stir Elminster’s thinning hair though he was well away from the gate’s glow. The shaft must have been fired blind.

  Then from the trees came the unmistakable booming sound of an alarm gong, the finest brass-and-drum sort sold in Sembia for a gold piece each.

  “Oh, dung,” Elminster said clearly into the night. From somewhere off to his left he heard a snort as Sharantyr stifled a giggle. Elminster rolled his eyes and trotted forward. The sentinel would have to be up a tree, now that the heroic archmage of Shadowdale was getting a bit too old for climbing trees in the dark. Oh, dung and double dung, indeed.

  5

  Alarms, and Adventure Found

  Sharantyr had expected trouble on the other side of the gate. A temple or gloomy spell chamber, perhaps, crowded with evil-looking men and weird, gibbering creatures who slunk, slithered, or prowled the lengths of their chains—or worse, prowled unleashed.

  She’d expected trouble, and Elminster had not failed her. They’d found it.

  Instead of a castle or cavern, they stood under the open sky between two mountain ranges. By the stars, they were south and a little west of Shadowdale, and she was facing south. Here it was a fair, clear night with a cool breeze blowing gently from the east. The grass under her feet descended to trees, the source of their trouble: an alarm gong and someone who had fired two ready crossbows dangerously well. Or more than one someone.

  That thought kept Shar crouched low as she ran forward across the little dell, dodging but heading to the left, trying to get as far as possible from the amber radiance of the gate behind her. The gong sounded again, a faster, repeated ringing as if the sentinel were scared. Wise of him.

  Sharantyr’s rapid progress brought her to the lip of the dell. A track—grassy and rutted, wide enough for carts—descended toward barnlike buildings, lamplight, and, in the distance amid a torchlit cluster of buildings at the bottom of the valley, the unmistakable walls of a small, stout old castle.

  A faint crackling of branches warned her of the guard’s descent and probable attack. Sharantyr turned to face the sound and shrank farther to the left into the concealing shadow of bushes. What was Elminster doing?

  More crackling. The guard was descending a wooden ladder, snapping branches aside in his haste. Sharantyr tried to look like part of the night, her blade held low and ready in her own shadow, her head bowed to keep her eyes small and screened by her hair. Soon … soon … Now!

  The guard was hurrying the last few steps. His haste would carry him right past her. His gaze could not help but fall on her, and he could stick her with anything long and sharp he might have before she could even land a blow. Gods spit on us all!

  A familiar, testy voice came out of the night from the other side of the ladder, behind the descending guard. “I’m over here, by the gods! Who taught ye to shoot a crossbow, anyway, Manshoon himself?”

  Sharantyr didn’t blame the guard. She could not have heard that taunt and failed to turn and look. The shadowy man pivoted as he landed, blade sweeping around to confront the unseen speaker. Sharantyr rose out of the night from behind him like a hungry shadow. Her hand jerked his head back sharply, covering his mouth and robbing him of breath at the same time. Her blade flashed as she drew it sideways with cold precision, and she ducked low to keep most of the blood out of her hair.

  “Done this before, have ye?” Elminster asked out of the darkness. Sharantyr sighed loudly and shook her head as the man died in her arms.

  “Old Mage,” she hissed in anger. “Must you?”

  Elminster spread innocent hands. “I’m not sure what ye’re on about, this time, but we have only breaths before whatever comrades this fellow has—er, had—respond to his gong. Flip him over and drag him by the feet, facedown, to the gate. I want a trail of blood even a blind Calishite couldn’t miss. Where’d he drop his crossbow? Ah, I have it. Come!”

  Sharantyr did as she was bid. In the flickering light of the gate, Elminster’s face was intent as he crouched low. “Down, lass. Against the light ye make a most fetching target, I must say, but ’tis not the time. Got thy dagger handy? Good. Make ye the Harper marks for Trap Ahead’ and ‘Keep Low’ on his breast.”

  “On flesh or his leathers?”

  “Leathers, lass, leathers. Harpers have to read ’em, mind, and they’re apt to be as blind as the next cow, in the dark.”

  Sharantyr swiftly cut the two diagonally crossed inverted T shapes that warned of a trap, and then the circle bisected by a horizontal line, with a parallel line atop it, that warned observing Harpers to keep their bodies low.

  Elminster nodded critically, laid the crossbow across the man’s legs, and asked, “Head or feet?”

  Sharantyr swiftly said, “Feet for me. Your turn for the blood.”

  Elminster wrinkled his nose. Together they lifted the body, swung it twice, and tossed it faceup into the oval of light. It passed through soundlessly and was gone. Sharantyr had to grin when Elminster bent to peek under the oval to make sure that the body wasn’t just lying on the ground behind it. The grass was bare.

  The wizard rose in a smooth pivot that brought him around facing the guard tree again. “Quick, lass. Show me the ladder,” he growled, trotting across the grass again.

  “The name’s Shar, old man,” Sharantyr told him, amused. He merely grunted. She raced past him with smooth strides in the darkness and laid her hand on the ladder. “Here.”

  “Right. Now find me the first tree in that direction ye can climb,” he ordered, pointing west along the edge of the dell. Sharantyr gave him a look that he saw most of as she passed, but he merely grinned and followed her, taking out the wand that spat lightnings and muttering something over it.

  The lady ranger turned, hand on hip, only her face visible in the darkness. “Here. Is that someone coming?”

  “Undoubtedly. Take this”—he handed her the wand, butt-first—“and this.” Into the same hand he put a strangling-wire taken from inside his boot.

  Sharantyr frowned. “Where’d you—no, strike that. I don’t want to know.”

  “Wise of ye. Take the wand up the tree and affix it there, somewhere sturdy where its aim won’t slip with wind or working loose. I want it pointing squarely at the gate, and ye back down here, in a breath or less.”

  “Oh, yes, Lord,” she said in mocking, breathless tones. Elminster grinned and patted some unseen part of her as she climbed past, stepping swiftly back to avoid a kick that did not come.

  He bent his head to listen and heard again the hurrying thud of boots and creaking of leather and metal armor that meant death was swiftly coming up the track for them.

  He got his other wand into his hand, just to be wise and ready. There was a thump beside him, and Sharantyr was coming back to her feet after her leap, breathing heavily. He took her hand.

  “Done? Good, come!”

  Together, hand in h
and, they ran east. Sharantyr was astonished to find the Old Mage’s long, scrawny legs twinkling ahead of hers, as swift as any stag, tugging her along faster across the dell. Abruptly Elminster’s hand jerked her to the left along the line of trees, to where the rocks of the mountain began to rise.

  “Here! Quick and quiet, now,” Elminster panted. “Let’s get as far as we can without making any noise.” Together, like two heavily breathing shadows, they slipped away along the line of tumbled rocks, creeping and crawling where they had to, cushioning each other to avoid noisy falls, and more than once ending up face-to-face, gasping the same air in the darkness. Behind them they could see the torches and flashing blades, and hear occasional shouted orders of the large group of men-at-arms who were searching the dell and the trees around it.

  “What now?” Sharantyr whispered into Elminster’s ear as the rocky tongue of a mountain hid the last glimmers of torchlight from their view.

  “We go on, east, the length of the dale,” the Old Mage whispered back and turned to continue. “If the castle was down that track, we started from about halfway along the dale.”

  Sharantyr squeezed his shoulder, bringing him to a halt. “It’s not that I don’t mind losing an entire night’s sleep fighting and running about,” she whispered, “but I would like some answers, please.”

  Elminster nodded. “Ye shall have them, after we put another twenty breaths or so of travel behind us. I want no blades following us.”

  Sharantyr whispered back simply, “Lead on,” and he did.

  They crossed a small stream and another, babbling rivulets snaking amid the stones and winking back starlight beneath their feet. Elminster stopped finally, in a shadowed spot where they could sit on rocks and look out over a moonlit expanse of rock and scrub below, before the dark wall of the trees began.

  “Ask, then,” he bid her simply, passing his belt flask over.

  Sharantyr wet her lips with its water. “The wand?”

  “Most Myth Drannan wands can be speech-set.”

  Sharantyr chuckled softly and waited.

  So did he, of course. She rolled her eyes. “Explain,” she ordered flatly.

  Elminster grinned in the darkness and said, “Unlike wands made today, ye can cause that wand of mine to unleash its magic by itself, with no hand upon it and no word spoken. Ye’re familiar with the spell called ‘magic mouth’ by most? Aye, like that. When the conditions ye speak are met, the wand fires. I recalled that I’d never set that one—ye can only do it once—so I set it to discharge when someone in robes, or carrying a staff or wand, comes through the gate into the dale.”

  “Into—Ah, that’s why the ‘keep low’ warning for Harpers. A nasty trap.” Her last words had an edge to them.

  Elminster looked at her closely. “Are ye all right, lass?”

  Sharantyr shook her head angrily. “I’m just—Slaying Zhents is one thing, but killing people I have no quarrel with, and whose faces I haven’t even seen, just doesn’t sit well with me, that’s all.”

  Elminster put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry I’ve dragged ye into all this,” he said quietly.

  After a long, silent moment she put strong fingers over his and said as softly, “Don’t be.”

  They sat together, silent and unmoving, for a long time.

  After awhile, Elminster looked up at the stars, chuckled, and asked, “Can I have my hand back now, Shar?”

  Sharantyr patted it and let it go. “I’ve another question, Old Mage.”

  “ ‘Elminster,’ please. ‘El,’ if ye prefer. Ask.”

  “Aren’t you worried about all those mages the guard told us about? Will they not find you by magic?”

  “Nay, they can’t find me. Those who bear Mystra’s burden can’t be put to sleep, held immobile, or commanded by magic that strikes at the mind. To all magic that searches, spies, or tries to control, we are simply not there.”

  “I thought thy amulet—the greenstone amulet like Storm wears—did that.”

  Elminster grinned. “I wear it to conceal those powers of the burden. Besides, if I wear it, I have it to give to a traveling companion in need of it. If I’d been wise enough to be wearing it when I went walking, I’d give it ye now.”

  Sharantyr’s eyes were dark again. “Without it, how can I avoid being found by these prying magics?”

  “Ah, yes.” Elminster grinned and put a bony arm around her shoulders. “Now that’s why these stars find ye and I hurrying about in the dark.” He rose and tugged at her hand. “Come on,” he said briefly, and she got up and went with him into the night.

  “Nothing, sir,” the ranking swordsman said, torchlight gleaming on his black armor.

  “Do you mean,” Mrinden said in a voice thick with incredulous rage, “that someone came through the gate, slew the watchman, and disappeared, all in the time it took us to get up the hill from the barracks? How stupid d’you think I am?”

  “There’s no trace of them, sir,” the senior Sword replied stolidly. “They’re either deep in the woods or are past us into the open dale already. Or they went back through that.” He inclined his head toward the flickering gate. “You’ve seen the blood, sir.”

  Mrinden turned to Kalassyn. “Well?”

  Kalassyn drew his fellow wizard into a face-to-face huddle and spoke in low tones. “If they’re past us, we’ll never find them. It’s either a personal affair—a man, maybe even one of ours, bent on killing whomever we left on watch, for his own reasons—or a lone meddler who will turn up in the dale tomorrow. There’s been no time to bring in a large band and hide them all or get away without us hearing. Most likely they went back through the gate.”

  Mrinden frowned. “That trail is just a mite obvious, isn’t it?”

  “A trap?”

  Mrinden nodded.

  Kalassyn shrugged. “We’ve no choice but to go through, unless you want to explain to Stormcloak or Bellwind why we did not. Sabryn went through earlier this evening, on some secret affair I’m not supposed to know the slightest thing about. Perhaps he needs help and tried to get to us.”

  “And the attempt ended in slaughter? That means we’ll be walking into alert and waiting death!”

  Kalassyn shrugged again. “You sound like one of the younger priests. What mage doesn’t walk toward death, where’er he goes? Eh?”

  Mrinden jerked his head about angrily to glare at the silently waiting men-at-arms. “We’re going through the gate!” he snarled at them. “Form up in an arrow. I want twelve to remain behind and watch for any strangers in the trees. If you cross blades with anyone, send a band down to rouse the rest of the barracks. The rest of you, load crossbows and point them at the sky. Move!”

  In weary silence the black-armored Wolves formed up, the senior Sword choosing the dozen who would stand rear guard. The two Zhentarim walked into the midst of the wedge of armed men, almost invisible in their black robes, and gestured curtly for the arrow to close around them, protecting their backs.

  Mrinden addressed the men. “This gate is perfectly safe. Simply walk into it as if it weren’t there. You’ll set foot next in a wooded area where armed and ready foes may be waiting. Don’t stop to gawk. If something moves, shoot it and move on in haste to let the rest of us through.” He looked around. Expressionless black helms looked back at him. He drew in a deep breath. “Right, then move!”

  Without an answering word, the black-armored dealers of death marched forward into the oval of waiting light.

  “They’ve come this way,” Itharr said, examining a faint heel mark of damp earth on a rock. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Elminster, aye, but who’s the other?” Belkram asked, blade out, peering into the night-shrouded trees around them.

  Itharr shrugged. “We’ll find out, no doubt,” he said dryly. “Come on.” Silently they stalked on, alert and dangerous.

  The two Harpers had been restless, unable to settle down for the night after they’d found Elminster’s trail.

  They’d
been lying on the turf, heads pillowed on their boots, discussing where the Old Mage was most likely heading—northwest, it seemed, straight into the heart of lawless Daggerdale—when they’d both felt a peculiar creeping, prickling sensation. There was a sudden tension in their heads, a rising surge of power that slowly died away. This was followed by another flicker of force, then nothing.

  “What was that?” Itharr asked, eyes wide.

  “Strong magic unleashed,” Belkram said. “I’ve felt it that strongly only once before, in a battle near the Greycloak Hills against Zhents out of Darkhold, when the spellsinger Andarra was dying. She spent her life-force in a song that made all magic go wild, so Zhent wizards would have to fight, dagger and sword, like all others. We all felt the effect of her sacrifice.”

  “Strong magic,” Itharr said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Elminster!” He rolled to his feet, wincing at the cold, and reached for his boots. “Let’s hence!”

  Belkram grunted himself upright, breath curling around him like smoke in the night chill, and pulled on one boot. “Hence away,” he agreed, feeling for his blade. So they did.

  They were now entering the broken, wooded country of ridges and ravines that marked Dagger Wood, the southeast edge of Daggerdale. It would be easy to lose the trail, so the two Harpers slowed. Since Zhentil Keep’s forces had hounded Randal Morn and his folk into hiding, the dale ahead had become lawless country, roamed by horrific beasts, brigands, and marauding Zhent-hired mercenary bands, mainly orcs. Not country for two men without magic to wander about in at night.

  They were both thinking this, swords held ready as they came up over a ridge, when they saw a light ahead, an upright amber oval of radiance hanging motionless in the trees.

  They looked at each other, nodded, started forward—and came to a halt almost immediately. Armored men had suddenly appeared out of the light, scattering into the open space in front of it with swords drawn. The two Harpers saw robed men gesturing commandingly.