"Come on!" shouted Pawldo.
"You are miner shrieked the cursed prince, creeping forward, extending flaming limbs toward the two halflings. Half-Ear roared forward in a raging attack, ignoring the flames to sink his teeth into the black figure's torso.
The thing that had been Ketheryll lashed out with its long talons, but the wolf ducked underneath the swiping blow. In the flashing light Pawldo saw the wounds on Half-Ear's flank and he knew: this was the creature that could destroy an entire pack, could nearly kill this brave wolf who had all but led the two halflings here on a quest for his own vengeance. The black shape and the snarling canine whirled around on the floor, the two intruders forgotten for the moment.
Stefanik stumbled to his knees as the floor pitched beneath him, but then scrambled back to his feet. His will had returned with the breaking of the monster's concentration. Pawldo propelled him toward the door, and the youth sprinted from the room, followed by the lord mayor and then the bounding wolf.
In blind terror they ran through the halls of the Palace of Skulls, fleeing the menace that they felt, rather than saw. They raced along corridors, hurled themselves down long stairways, gasping for breath but not daring to slow the frantic pace of their flight. Objects bounced from the satchel as Pawldo ran. Glass baubles and cheap metal figurines clinked and shattered along the floor behind him, and he took no note of the lost treasures.
Finally the door, with its overhanging arch of bone, yawned before them. Lungs straining and eyes tearing, the two halflings tumbled out of the bone-walled structure, collapsing onto the forest floor amid the gray mists of advancing dawn. The wolf followed them through the portal but then spun and crouched, glowering into the palace.
They saw no sign of movement or pursuit as they hugged their aching sides. Their breathing slowed and their rubbery legs gradually regained their strength. Staggering against a tree for support, Pawldo dropped the satchel in frustrated anger.
"Were they all worthless?" asked Stefanik as he looked through the junk in the satchel.
"Illusions," Pawldo said in disgust. "Stuff to draw intruders farther into the palace-until finally they faced Ketheryll."
"Look! Here's something that didn't turn into junk!" Stefanik exclaimed. He pulled out the pair of golden rings, set with the Great Bear-the only objects that had been dirty when Pawldo found them.
"The rings," mused the lord mayor. "These were real-a treasure of slain victims, not the transformed minions of Ketheryll."
"Here," said Stefanik, handing the two bands of metal to Pawldo. "You should have these."
"Nay, lad. Too much trouble has come of this."
Yet, when Stefanik insisted, Pawldo remembered his original intention in seeking the source of the platinum dagger-to find a present for the king's and queen's anniversary. The rings bore the symbol of the Moonshae's royal family, a symbol that now could be traced back to the human rulers slain long, long ago by the mad prince.
Pawldo slipped the rings into his pocket. At least, he reflected, he had found a suitable present for Tristan and Robyn.
What's more dangerous than a mage out to rule the entire world? Why, a mage at play, of course.. .
Year of the Dark Dragon (1336 DR)
The rosy light of early morning had scarcely brightened into the full radiance of day, but the bard and her gaunt companion had already been in the saddle for some time.
Storm Silverhand, the Bard of Shadowdale, was an adventurer of wide experience and fame. She was also a senior and respected member of the Harpers, that mysterious band always working for the good of the world. A veteran of many perilous forays, always alert, she watched her surroundings constantly as the she traveled, hand never far from the hilt of her sword. Its blade had run with blood more than once already on this journey. As she rode, Storm sang softly to herself. She was happy to be in the saddle again-even on a ride into known danger.
For two tendays she had ridden beside a white-haired man as tall as herself, but thinner. The man was aged and a clumsy rider. He wore simple, much-patched robes covered with old food stains, and trailed sweet-smelling pipesmoke wherever he went.
Though he didn't look it, the old man was an adventurer even more famous than Storm: the Old Mage, Elminster of Shadowdale. More than five hundred winters had painted his long beard white. His twinkling blue eyes had seen empires rise and fall, and spied worlds beyond Toril, vast and strange. He knew more secrets than most wizards- and simpler, more honest men, too-might ever suspect to exist. The years had sharpened Elminster's temper and his tongue, and built his magic to a height that most mages could only dream of.
This great wizard wore old, floppy leather boots, and, most of the time, an irritated expression. At night, on the far side of the fire, he snored like a crawhorn in torment- but he knew it and used magic to mute the noise for sake of his friend and trail mate. Storm loved him dearly, snores and all, even if he tended to treat her like a little girl.
Despite their friendship, it was unusual for Storm to be riding at the Old Mage's side. When Elminster left Shadow-dale on prolonged trips, it was his habit to trust the defense of the dale to the bard. This time, just before the mage's departure, a Harper agent had brought a request from one of Storm's sisters: would she please guard Elminster when he went to the magefair?
In all her years of adventuring, Storm had never heard of a magefair, but the very name sounded ominous. She had been surprised at the easy good humor with which the Old Mage had accepted her announcement that this time, when he left home, she'd be riding with him. In fact, she suspected he'd used horses for the trek, rather than whisking himself across Faerun in a trice by magic, just to prolong their time together.
Every night Elminster settled himself and his pipe down beside their fire to listen to her pluck a harp and sing old ballads. In return, when she lay down under the watching, glittering stars, he'd softly tell tales of old Faerun until sleep claimed her. After years of riding the wastes with hearty, hardened warriors, Storm was astonished at how much she'd enjoyed this trip with the odd mage.
But now, it seemed, they had reached their destination, though it was nothing at all like the bard had imagined.
"Why here?" Storm Silverhand asked with tolerant good humor as she reined in beside Elminster on a ridge far from Shadowdale. The bright morning sun cast long shadows from the stunted trees and brush around them. As far as the eye could see, rolling wilderness stretched out, untouched by the hands of man. "We must be halfway to Kara-Tur by now."
The Old Mage scratched his nose. "Farther," he replied with seeming innocence, "and 'here' because one we seek is close-at-hand."
As he spoke, a man appeared out of thin air and floated in front of them. The horses snorted and shifted in surprise. Elminster frowned.
The man stood on nothing, booted feet far above the ground. Midnight eyes glowered down out of a thin, cruel white face. He towered impressively over them, clad in a dark and splendid tabard adorned with glowing mystic signs and topped with an upthrust high collar. A carved, gem-adorned staff winked and pulsed in one of his many-ringed hands.
"Challenge!" He addressed them with cold, formal dignity, raising his empty hand in a gesture that barred the way. "Speak, or pass not!"
"Elminster of Shadowdale," the Old Mage replied mildly, "and guest."