The Lord of Daggerdale nodded. "We are always watched," he said quietly, "by the cruel creatures of Zhentil Keep and by predators hungry for man-meals. Not that there's much difference between them as far as the few surviving good folk of Daggerdale are concerned."
"Then we are forcing you into flight once more," Belkram said, in tones so sensitive that no warrior of Daggerdale thought to take offense at his words.
" 'Tis what we're best at, these days," Brammur rumbled, and there were rueful chuckles from his fellows.
"Then let us part as trusted friends," Itharr said gravely. Then his voice changed. "Anyone have flints handy?"
More chuckles gave him reply, and several hands crowded forward to strike sparks onto the handful of kindling that all wayfaring Harpers carried in their bedding, and coax it into a flame for the torch-rag.
As the kindling flared, Randal Morn said, "We'd best be on our way and leave you to bid farewell to your fallen comrade in privacy. Know that Those Who Harp are always welcome in Daggerdale."
"If you need refuge, doors are always open to you in Shadowdale," Sharantyr replied.
"And more," Belkram said. "That Harper pin you have will allow you safely into a cache of healing potions and the like, in a cave big enough to shelter six, under a tree. Dig under leaves between the two largest exposed roots of the third shadowtop tree south of Dagger Rock, on the east side of the road. Don't stop if you uncover orc bones."
The men of Daggerdale exchanged glances and nodded to each other as they fixed the Harper's words in mind.
"That is princely payment," Randal said quietly, "for cutting a few tree boughs."
"You deserve all that the Harpers can give you, and more," Itharr replied as flame flared under his hands. "Most folk would have fled or thrown their lives away in stiff-necked glory-seeking long ago. Your struggle protects all in the Dalelands."
"It is good," Brammur said gruffly, "to hear someone say that, now and then. Thank you." He turned away quickly, eyes very bright, but spun about again to raise his hand in salute.
Randal Morn and the rest of his men joined in the gesture and then began to back away together, the watchful archer covering their withdrawal.
In two breaths they'd all melted away into the trees, and the three rangers in the ruins could see no sign of them.
"Shar?" Itharr asked, holding out the torch.
"You do it," Sharantyr said shortly, heart suddenly fall and catching at her throat. She stepped back, fighting down the urge to burst into tears.
The Dales should not be lands where men's lives were torn away from them daily by fey shapeshifters and prowling beasts. Where brigands reigned and rightful lords lived like outlaws while arrogant Zhentarim plotted the overthrow of the next dale… and the next.
Belkram touched her arm. "Mount up," he said quietly, "and then you can cry at will."
Shar stiffened, turning blazing eyes on him, but he merely smiled and clapped her on the shoulder-the shoulder covered by leathers he'd mended. She gulped, threw her arms around him, and said tremulously, jaw hard on his shoulder, "I'm… not… going… to… weep now. It was only a false seeming of a mage, anyway, not our old friend."
The pyre crackled and then caught, damp wood hissing loudly as smoke rose from many places in the woodpile. Itharr tossed the torch onto it and sought his mount.
Flames began to show themselves, dancing here and there in the pyre.
The horses danced under their riders, the flames making them restive, so the three rangers pulled back a little way to watch.
"We should be leaving," Belkram said, "before eyes we won't welcome turn hither."
"Let us have a real pyre," Sylune's voice said, from the pouch in the Harper's breast pocket where he carried her stone.
An instant later, the growing crackle of flames leapt into a bright white roar, and a pillar of fire clawed at the sky.
The horses snorted and stamped. After a moment of awed watching, the three riders turned their mounts away and settled into a gallop, heading northwest. No one felt like talking.
9
The Castle of Shadows, Kythorn 17
Shadows danced and shivered around the edges of the scene in the portal. Six sweating elder Shadowmasters, under the gasped directions of Bheloris who stood among them, trembling with effort, fought to hold its view so large and clear.
Most of the kin-sixty or more-were in the Great Hall of the Throne now, but the bell tolled on. Everyone but the struggling elders was talking excitedly, eyes glued to the portal, which showed Dhalgrave sprawled on the gleaming tiles of his private audience chamber. His eyes were two smoldering, empty holes. A long forked tongue trailed from his mouth, and his brow and wrists were bare. The Shadowcrown and the Doomstars were gone.
There was more. A word had been written on the tiles beside the head of the Shadowmaster High… written in his own blood. That word was "UNWORTHY."
The talk was growing excited, as hope to seize the Shadow Throne grew in the hearts of two dozen Malaugrym, tempered only by fear of what might befall anyone who tried to hold that throne without the Shadowcrown and the threat of the Doomstars. Even if the ambushes and treacheries of open rivals were quelled, whoever had the missing items could appear without warning and slay any new Shadowmaster High, to take the throne in turn.
"Who could have done this?" Taernil asked for the sixth time, his voice as awed and outraged as it had been at first. Beside him, Huerbara sighed.
"Someone has," she said simply. "Accept that and go on. What now, for the two of us?"
"Accept that someone-" The rising rage in Taernil's voice broke off abruptly, and he fell silent and looked at her. "You're right. We must decide what to do, and not rage or dither." Then his sharp features changed, and he added softly, almost wonderingly, "The two of us, you said…"
Huerbara blushed, eyes glittering into his, and then abruptly turned her head away.
"Young idiots," Kostil said under his breath, flapping his wings down to reabsorb them into his body, eyes on the quivering scene of Dhalgrave dead in his chambers.
Yabrant shrugged beside him. "We all were, once." He seemed about to say more, but at that moment Bheloris shuddered, cried out, and pitched forward on his face — and the scene of death flew apart into shards and streamers of radiance, fading swiftly into the mists.
"He managed to force the portal's eye through Dhalgrave's defenses?" Kostil muttered. "I'm surprised he held it together so long."
"Dhalgrave wasn't resisting him or directing the shield spells," Yabrant said thoughtfully. "The feat is not that impressive. Doing it with such swiftness is."
"The young she-kin's question remains a good one," Kostil said. "What to we do now, the two of us?"
"Rescue Bheloris, before one of his old rivals decides to take advantage of his condition. We'll need him," Yabrant said, shouldering his way forward. "I believe the killing's about to start."
As he spoke, shouts arose across the Great Hall, and there was frenzied movement. The flaring radiance of a spell followed, accompanied by a scream, as the unleashed magics returned to their caster.
"Didn't that idiot pay any attention to Dhalgrave's words about the defenses he'd added to this hall? He made enough noise about 'a truly safe meeting-ground for all of the blood of Malaug' and such!" Kostil's voice was disgusted. "Do we really share kinship with total idiots?"
"It's a common fate in the multiverse, I'm told," Yabrant replied wryly as they forced their way to Bheloris. They found Neleyd there before them, his body shifted into a shield of many curling tentacles. "Well done, boy."