“Get down!” she screamed at Galvin, and then she began furiously digging through the canvas. The druid ignored her and staggered to his feet to draw the creature’s attention.
But the darkenbeast, determined to finish off the woman first, paid no attention to the Harper. It reveled as it closed for the kill, extending its talons toward her throat. A moment more and it would have her. A moment more and.. .
Brenna flattened herself over the collapsed tent, her arms and legs spread wide, her left hand grasping what she had desperately sought from her belongings. She smelled the creature’s rank odor and felt the air rush across her back as the thing passed inches above her. Gathering her courage, she rolled over and sat awkwardly, like a young child, amidst the jumble of rope and canvas. With the rain pelting her face, she opened her left hand, palm upward, holding her right hand above it to keep the sulfur dry. Once more she began a singsong chant, this time her voice sharp and loud.
Again the darkenbeast banked and sped toward her, anxious as it smelled her fear intermingled with the cloying scent of lilacs. Then it heard the sharp crack of a lightning bolt and smelled burning flesh—its own.
The bolt had arced from the woman’s hand to the darkenbeast, striking the creature squarely in the breast and nearly splitting it asunder. The magical lightning illuminated the clearing, revealing the astonished expression on the druid’s face. The darkenbeast felt its insides burn and boil, and it flapped maddeningly, not realizing it was dying.
It struck the ground and beat its wings feebly for a moment more while its body twitched.
Sheets of rain drenched the creature’s smoking form as Galvin and Brenna leaned against each other for support. Then they stepped forward cautiously to get a closer look at it.
The beast twitched once more, then began to shrivel.
Ensconced in his tower in Amruthar, Maligor screamed.
The Red Wizard felt the lightning surging through the darkenbeast’s body, experienced its death throes. When it was over, he threw back the red silk covers from his bed, breathed deeply to clear his mind, and rose to pace about his bedchamber. Maligor was puzzled. He had sent the creature after a gnoll, but he in his mind, he had seen it fight a woman. He had seen the woman conjure a magical blast of lightning. The woman could be a Red Wizard, Maligor thought, despite her long hair. Had she already killed the gnoll? Was she protecting it? Or had the darkenbeast crossed paths with her merely by accident?
Maligor was so caught up in the mystery, working the puzzle through his mind again and again, that he unknowingly relaxed his personal wards, the magical guards that kept prying eyes from him.
A pair of eyes watched him now, deep-socketed, ancient orbs that stared at a crystal ball and through it watched Maligor pace. The observer, a lich and rival Red Wizard, sensed that Maligor was up to something. A creature of the living dead, the lich had all the time in Faerûn to discover his adversary’s plan. He had no need for sleep or food, but he did have a need to keep the other Red Wizards in check. He was perhaps the most powerful Red Wizard in all of Thay, and he had no intention of allowing another wizard to challenge his standing.
The lich smiled evilly and continued to spy on Maligor.
I will find what you are plotting, and I will crush you utterly, the lich thought as he leaned back in his fine, leather-padded chair and listened to the rain outside his window. It was a large storm, the lich knew, covering an immense area, from Amruthar well into Aglarond. It had been one of his better weather enchantments, and the downpour matched his mood.
The rain continued to beat down in the clearing.
“What’s this?” Wynter’s deep voice boomed. The centaur galloped into the campsite, his hand pushing the wet curls out of his face. “I’m gone a few minutes and disaster strikes.” He looked sharply at Brenna and arched an eyebrow, then glanced down at the transforming darkenbeast.
Before the trio’s eyes, the shrinking darkenbeast’s skin began to bubble like boiling oil, producing a noxious stench that made Brenna back up several paces. Then the thing began to melt, leaving behind only the tiny, withered, winged husk of something that looked long dead.
Wynter prodded the thing with an extended hoof and gasped as the creature continued to transform. Its dried-out neck and legs shook visibly, then slowly began to retract into its decomposing torso. The lifeless wings beat the ground, as if the dead creature was trying to fly again, then were washed away by the pounding rain. What was left of the darkenbeast was a lump of dried flesh with bristling spines, the smoldering corpse of a hedgehog.
Galvin knelt and gently turned over the hedgehog’s body. Tied about its neck was a dirt-stained piece of tattered cloth.
“Sorcery,” Brenna muttered, shivering. “I don’t know of any wizards in Aglarond who would have the power to do something like this. It could be the work of a Red Wizard. I wonder why the thing attacked us.”
“It probably followed me,” Galvin volunteered, looking up at the enchantress. Brenna’s nightdress was soaked and soiled with dirt and blood, and her hair lay slick and straight from the rain.
Wynter moved between the pair and dropped a small sack in front of Galvin. “Your herbs, my friend. I suggest you use them quickly in case that creature has a friend or two.” The centaur’s right front hoof pawed at the ground nervously as he looked at the hedgehog. “You know how I feel about magic, Galvin.”
Brenna glanced at Wynter. “There’s no shortage of magic within the borders of Thay.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” The centaur’s tone was solemn.
“Second thoughts?” she queried, a concerned expression on her face.
“No.” The centaur turned suddenly and trotted toward her tent. “I’ll help you repair this. Maybe you can still get a few hours rest. Then I’ll take you back to Glarondar.”
“I’m going to Thay with you!” she declared as she sloshed after Wynter.
“No, you’re not,” Galvin said as he watched the pair begin to struggle with the canvas. The tent seemed to put up a fight of its own against the centaur and the enchantress, then finally yielded as the centaur anchored the center pole. The drenched councilwoman quickly slipped inside. Cursing the foul weather, Wynter trotted back to Galvin.
The druid was preparing a poultice from the herbs, but he was having difficulty keeping it dry. Galvin was usually unmindful of the rain, seeking cover from it only in the fiercest storms. Usually he reveled in it, enjoying the sensation as the water splashed over his skin. Now, however, he simply tolerated it.
Wynter began to dig a hole to bury the hedgehog. “We’re not taking one step toward Thay until you’re well,” he stated firmly.
“I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” Galvin grunted. He considered himself in charge of this expedition, and he wasn’t about to take orders from a centaur. He watched Wynter place the charred hedgehog into the earth and build a small mound over it. Satisfied the creature was at rest, the druid returned to his soaked backpack and lay down beside it. He quickly fell into a deep, troubled sleep.
It was dark when Galvin awoke. The moon and stars shone overhead, and the druid cursed himself for sleeping most of the day away. He felt the ground around his hands; the grass was dry, the earth only slightly damp. He ran his hands over his clothes—they, too, were dry. He cursed himself again, realizing his first guess was wrong—he had slept for more than a day and a half. His shoulder felt sore, but not nearly as bad as before. The herb poultice had healed it considerably. He flexed his fingers and rotated his shoulder. The numbness was gone.
Reasonably healed, the druid knew he would be able to travel. He stretched on the ground and was debating taking Brenna back to Glarondar tonight when he heard her voice—and Wynter’s. He listened to pick up their conversation.