But Narm was safely to one side, in the grip of a grinning Rathan. Malark stood staring at her, black eyes very dark and very large, and over his shoulder Torm was grinning.
In the thief s hands were the ends of the waxed cord that had choked off Malark’s spell in mid-word. Malark was hanging from the cord now, face terrible, frantic fingers clawing at the cord about his throat growing feeble. Malark’s eyes rolled up into his skull, and he began to sag. Torm held the cord tight as he lowered the mage slowly to the ground.
“Well met,” the thief said cheerfully as he rolled the body over, drawing his dagger in one fluid motion, and beckoned Rathan over with a jerk of his head. “His purse, quickly, before he is fully dead… these damned mages all have spells set to trigger all manner of mischief at their deaths.”
Rathan bent to work obediently. “Ho, Shandril-thy lad’s all right,” he said quickly. Shandril stared at the boulder, now sunk into the grass nearby, and shuddered. “Nothing but a bit of rag and a handful of coppers,” Rathan told Torm.
“His boots,” Torm directed, still holding the cord tight. Malark’s face looked so dark and terrible that Shandril turned away.
“Is-is he dead?” she asked weakly.
“Nearly. I’ll cut his throat in a moment… Then, lady, it would be best to burn the body completely, or some bright-minded bastard of the cult will raise him to lurk on your trail.” Torm turned professional eyes upon the boots. “Try that heel.”
“Hah!” Rathan said in satisfaction a moment later, holding up six platinum pieces. “Hollow, indeed!”
“Hmmph,” Torm said, wrinkling his nose. “No magic? Scarce worth all this trouble. Have off his robe, Rathan, and we’ll cut his throat and be done with it.”
“His robe?”
“Aye, his robe. Where he conceals the components for his spells, a few extra coins, and the gods know what else… which we’ll soon learn. Come on-my arms grow weary!”
“They do? Pretend they’re around a wench, and ye’ll have no trouble at all,” Rathan told him gruffly, tugging off the mage’s robe. He stepped back, looked at the body as Torm laid it down with both ends of the cord in one fist and a dagger gleaming long and wickedly in the other, and then grinned at Shandril.
“Not unimportant, are you?” he said. “Malark, one of the rulers of the Cult of the Dragon. An archmage in his own right. You watch out, now. There are lots of other rats like this one in Sembia, mind, and there’s one in Deepingdale, too..-..”
“Yes,” Shandril said. “Korvan.”
Rathan nodded. “Aye, that’s the name! You’ve been warned, then? Good. Well, you’re doing fine thus far!”
“Fine,” said Shandril bitterly, looking at Malark as Torm freed his cord at last and slashed with cruel speed. Her gaze fell next on Narm, who still lay silent in the grass. “Oh, yes. Fine indeed.” She burst into tears.
Rathan sighed and went to her. “Look, little one,” he said awkwardly, “Faerun can be a cruel place. Men like this have to be slain-or they will kill thee. Nor is there any shame in defeat at his hands-this one could have slain any of us knights, in an open fight. He was an archmage.” He enfolded her in a bear hug. “Ye wouldn’t be thirsty, perhaps?”
Shandril’s shoulders shook helplessly then, as tears were overwhelmed by laughter. She laughed for a long time, and a little wildly, but Rathan held her tight, and when at last she was done, she raised bright eyes and said, “Are you finished, Torm? I think I’d like to wield a little spellfire.”
Torm nodded and stepped back, and Shandril raised a hand and lashed the body with flames, pouring out her anger. Oily smoke arose almost immediately, and the horses snorted and hurried off in all directions.
Torm and Rathan let out brief despairing cries and ran after the horses, just as Narm rolled over and groaned, and then asked faintly, “Shandril? Wha-why did you do that? Am I not to kiss you?”
“They could be dead by now!” Sharantyr said angrily. “I ride patrol for a few days and return to find you’ve put your toes to the behinds of two of the nicest young people I’ve met! One struggles with half-trained art, and the other bears spellfire that every mage in the Realms would slay her to gain or destroy, and both are mad enough to seek adventure. And but days married, too! Where is your kindness, Knights of Myth Drannor? Where is your good sense?”
Easy, Shar,” Florin said gently. “They joined the Harpers and wanted to walk their own road. Would you want to be caged?”
“Caged? Does a mother turn her infant out of the house because it’s reached twenty nights of age? Alone, you sent them!” She turned upon Elminster. “What say you, old one? Can they best even a handful of brigands on the road? Brigands who attack by surprise in the night? Speak truth!”
“I have never done aught else,” Elminster answered her. “As to the fight ye speak of, I think ye’d be surprised.” He drew out his pipe. “Besides,” he added, “they’re not alone. Not by now. Torm and Rathan rode after them.”
Sharantyr snorted. “Sent the brightest lances, didn’t you?” She paced, sword bouncing on her hip, and then sighed.
“Well enough. They are not unprotected.” She folded her arms and leaned back upon the wall by the hearth. “Gods spit upon my luck,” she said more softly. “I wanted to say farewell, not just ride away and never see them again.”
“They’ll be all right, Shar,” Storm said, “and they’ll be back again.”
“Sharantyr raises a good point, though,” Lanseril said from his chair. “The wisdom of sending them alone, with only a rescue squad hurrying along behind, can well be questioned.” He raised thoughtful eyes to Mourngrym and Elminster. “I take it you considered their slipping away while we rode a distraction to Hillsfar was a good risk?”
Elminster nodded. “It had to be. Think on that, Sharantyr, and be not so angry, lass.”
“They passed the vale without loss or upset,” Merith put in, “I heard from one of the people who was watching the road there.”
Sharantyr nodded. “Since then?” she prompted. Merith shrugged.
“I scryed Torm and Rathan yestereve,” Illistyl spoke up. “They were cutting across country, southeast of Mistledale, and had met with no one then. I’U try them again tonight.”
“Soon?”
“Aye… you can watch, if you like. You too, Jhess, if you have no greater game afoot”-she looked meaningfully at Merith, who grinned-”at such an early hour of the evening. We might need your spells if there is danger or alarm.”
Jhessail chuckled. “It is a good thing none but the gods look over your shoulders to see all we-and Narm and Shandril, gods smile upon them-get up to. It would make a long, confusing ballad.”
Elminster scowled. “Life is seldom as clear-cut, smooth, and as easily ended as a ballad,” he said and put his pipe in his mouth with an air of finality. The fire crackled and flared up in the hearth. The sage stared at it thoughtfully. “She’s so young to wield spellfire,” he murmured.
“He lies within,” the acolyte said fearfully, hastening away from the door. Sememmon thanked him curtly and said, “Open it.”
The acolyte stood a moment in silence. Then he glided forward and swung the heavy oak and bronze door wide. Sememmon motioned him to pass through. The acolyte nodded and stepped forward, face impassive. The mage followed, through very thick stone walls, into a vast chamber that glowed a faint and eerie blue.;
This was the center of The Black Altar, the Inner Chamber of Solitude, where one was said to be closest to the god. The forces of the High Imperceptor had not penetrated this far, although Sememmon felt much hidden satisfaction at the extensive damage he’d already seen. The priesthood would be a while recovering its strength, indeed. Perhaps, Sememmon thought, never, if certain misfortunes befall them now, while they are weak and disorganized.