Maligor recognized his limitations. A human mind could hold only so many spells within it, only enough to let him create four or five dozen darkenbeasts a day. However, by transferring those spells onto paper instead—the scrolls in front of him—he would be able to create far more of the beasts tomorrow. He had been adding to his magical scroll collection, having nearly two dozen now. Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, he would read them all, transforming every loose rodent and caged animal in his tower into a deadly creature.
That many darkenbeasts should be enough, he thought. Maligor paused, then decided to take stock of his other magical constructs and servants. It wouldn’t do to take all of his forces out of the tower and leave it unprotected. He took mental inventory of his golems, magical creatures that were manlike in form but were made of stone and clay. They moved slowly, but they were relentless and powerful, and some were ensorcelled with special powers that allowed them to breathe flame. He also had a dozen apprentices here, only half of which he would take with him to the gold mines. The remainder should have enough defensive spells to keep anyone who might make it past his magical guards and wards and golems at bay. There were also the gnoll tower guards and slaves, should anyone be so foolish to attack his holdings.
All of that should be more than enough, if for some reason another Red Wizard decided to attack his keep while he was gone. However, he remained confident that all energies would be directed against his gnolls and their false battle plans.
Reveling in the intricacies of his scheme, the Red Wizard went to the cabinet and retrieved more blank scrolls. More darkenbeasts, he thought—many, many more darkenbeasts. He resumed penning the enchanted scrolls.
In his library, Szass Tam leaned back in his chair, staring at the clear crystal ball that sparkled in the light of the thick tapers. It was undeniable that Maligor had lied to him; the Zulkir of Alteration would have no reason to tell the lich what he really intended to do with the gnolls.
Szass Tam reverently pushed the crystal ball to the side of his desk and cleared a larger space in the center. He rose, paced to a map holder, and ran a slender, bony finger over the unmarked tubular map cases. The lich selected the center tube, which contained a map showing an overview of the central portion of Thay. He returned to his desk and pulled the map from its container. Spreading the clothlike parchment out on the desk, he placed a candle on each corner to weigh it down and prevent it from curling. Amruthar showed several inches from the western edge of the map.
Running his left index finger from Amruthar to the land now held by Rembert Wellford, the lich imagined Maligor’s gnolls marching on the young illusionist.
One thing was certain, Szass Tam decided. Maligor wasn’t interested in Wellford’s holdings. The lich studied maps of Thay until well in the evening, formulating possible uses for the gnolls and probable targets. He was frustrated, however, finding nothing that stood out as Maligor’s likely goal. He resigned himself to continuing his postulations and to keeping his “agreement” with the Zulkir of Alteration.
It was well after midnight when a weary Charmaine rapped on the door. “So sorry to disturb you, master,” she said, her voice muffled behind the wood, “but one of your minions insists on speaking with you.”
Szass Tam put on his fleshly form and gestured toward the door. It creaked open, revealing Charmaine, in her bedclothes, holding a candle. A ghoul stood next to her, attempting to keep its distance from the flame. The undead man shuffled forward, bits of its rotting flesh clinging to the doorframe as it passed through. The ghoul at one time had been a jeweler in Eltabar; gold glinted from around his wrists and neck where his neck chain and bracelets had imbedded themselves in rotting flesh. Pieces of expensive clothing still hung on his unnaturally thin frame.
“Will there be anything else, master?” Charmaine queried softly.
“No. You may go.”
Charmaine gracefully retreated down the hall, the candlelight marking her passage.
The lich turned to face the undead creature as it ambled toward him. The ghoul had difficulty speaking, since half of its lower jaw was missing. Szass Tam opted to pull the information from its undead mind rather than translate its guttural words into understandable conversation.
The ghoul told Szass Tam of the patrol he was a part of, how they had spotted movement and heard voices in a small grove of trees and how the ghouls had hungrily moved in to investigate. In the center of the trees were three humans, one of them likely Thayvian because of his bald head, and a centaur. The bald man died quickly, but the others were unusually strong and resourceful, killing most of the ghoul patrol. It told its master how it escaped to relay this information directly, since somehow in its decomposing brain, it believed the information was important.
Szass Tam mentally pressed the ghoul for more, and it complied, telling him in detail what the surviving humans, a blond-haired man and a fire-haired woman, looked like. To the ghoul, the centaur appeared much like those who worked on the slave plantations and elsewhere in Thay. The lich didn’t find the information especially interesting, assuming that the ghoul described a pair of slaves and their centaur keeper.
But then the ghoul mentioned a shiny chain it saw dangling from the blond man’s neck. It was adorned with a polished silver moon affixed to a harp. The jewelry had come loose from under the man’s clothing during the fight, and the ghoul noticed it because it disliked silver.
Szass Tam’s abandoned his fleshly form as the ghoul continued to describe the unsuccessful battle to the half-listening lich. The lich’s eyes, now pinpoints of hot light, stared into the dark corners of the library.
“Harpers,” he whispered.
Eight
“Don’t!” Galvin admonished, grabbing Brenna’s hand roughly before she could scratch her bald head. He held it for a moment, feeling how soft and smooth it was, how thin and small her fingers were, then released it when he caught her looking at him.
“But it itches!” she moaned. “It feels like ants are crawling on my scalp.”
Wynter, who led the procession down the road toward Amruthar, paused to watch the scene between the druid and Brenna Graycloak, who had stopped several yards behind him. He decided not to involve himself in the conversation and continued on down the road. They’d catch up when they were finished, he thought, and he’d trot slowly, just in case.
This was the trio’s second day on their journey to Amruthar. Today the sky was filled with cottony white clouds. The centaur was certain a wizard would manage to coax rain out of them sometime before dark, and he was tired of getting wet. He wanted to be in Amruthar by nightfall. In the city, he knew that with only one or two of his gold coins, he could get a steaming feast and a sturdy roof over his head. Wynter was hungry. He was tired of the fruit and nuts Galvin provided. The centaur’s cavernous stomach rumbled in response to his thoughts, and he cast his view about the countryside, searching for something else to occupy his mind.
The road narrowed as it wound between young birches, some of them recently planted. Wynter noted that many of the lower branches of the trees had been trimmed to shape them. Ahead, the land changed from flat meadows and landscaped orchards to low rolling hills. Cattle grazed on a rise to the left. Wynter stared at the slow-moving cows and imagined himself eating a thick steak.
His stomach rumbled again, and he turned and concentrated on Galvin and Brenna to keep his thoughts from food.
“It really itches!” Brenna complained.
“That’s from shaving your head with a sword,” Galvin explained.