It was Storm's turn to sigh. "My magic is little better than yours, gentlesirs; not all who serve Mystra can rend mountaintops. I can't bring this foe to stand and fight, so I'm trying to learn all I can of him." She shrugged. "He seems able to shapeshift at will… so I'd like to catch a few more of his shapes."
"Are you sure it's a 'he'?" Broglan asked quietly.
Storm frowned, and then sprang up, almost bowling Corathar over. "Mystra aid my wits!"
She was across the room in two strides, snatching the door open, and snarling, "Shayna!"
Behind her, as the three war wizards stared in astonishment at the racing bard, the air shimmered slightly as the watchful eye spell activated.
A secret panel slid aside in the ceiling above the table where Broglan sat, and three glossy black tentacles reached down for the wizards. Each eely intrusion ended in a bony joint from which three human forearms sprouted. Behind each tentacle came a many-fanged mouth, surrounded by a nimbus of purple light. The hands reached for the necks of the mages, but the mouths opened in silent eagerness as they drew near the tops of the wizards' heads.
Corathar saw the monster first, and screamed.
"A Sharn!" Insprin said in awe, as he looked up and triggered his wand. Magical bolts burst from it in blue-white pulses, curving to follow those reaching arms.
Corathar screamed again and triggered his own wand.
Broglan dived for the floor as fast and as frantically as he'd ever done anything in his life….
ELEVEN
Magical radiances flashed and spat as Broglan rolled over and over in frantic haste, terrified the beast would fall on him. Blue-white magic missiles streaked overhead and tore into the glossy black monster. Corathar was shouting at the thing in wordless, furious fear, and there were answering, startled shouts from the corridor outside as Purple Dragons came running. The armsmen couldn't get to the monster protruding from the ceiling without hacking through the finest war wizards ever to come to Firefall Vale. Grimly, Broglan found his feet and his own wand. They were going to have to do this themselves.
Insprin was backed against a wall, calmly emptying his wand into the beast. The black hands reaching for him recoiled and convulsed in an endless dance of pain.
Corathar was producing more noise than damage, firing his wand wildly as he dodged and fled from relentless clutching hands. Only frantic struggles had kept him alive this long; his robes were already torn away at both shoulders.
Broglan sighed inwardly and abandoned the young mage to whatever fate the gods had in store for him. Blasting down this beast was more important. His own wand pulsed in his grasp as he made it roar forth deadly fire.
Glossy black arms shrank away. Drooling jaws snapped and snarled in retreat. All three wands were firing now, and the purple radiance around the sharn was gone, seared away by the raw fury of the magic hurled against it.
Then the hole in the ceiling was suddenly empty. The thing had fled. Broglan shouted for a halt, and let his hands fall to his sides. He quickly discovered how violently his hands were trembling.
The blazing pain was behind him, and he could think again. The glossy black blob hissed out agony from mouths that drooped and flowed back into it as it grew thinner … and taller … and became a man again.
The shapeshifter panted slightly in remembered pain as he stood in the cool, dark places of the Haunted Tower, idly watching a spectral gowned form glide past. An eerie chord of wild, high harp music echoed briefly through the empty room behind him, but he did not flinch or turn; he feared no phantom-nor armed mortal, for that matter. Prudence sometimes forced retreat upon every mortal.
The folk of Firefall knew about him now and walked the halls ready for battle. Firefall Keep was becoming a fortress armed against him. It was time to find some magic and gain the upper hand again.
From Pheirauze, he'd learned how pitifully few enchanted items of consequence the Summerstars owned. A few light globes, a healing hand that Athlan had hidden away somewhere, a brazier that needed no fuel. . little that could readily serve in a battle. He needed more-something that could blast hands and feet off an arrogant Chosen of Mystra and leave her helpless to his subsumption.
The Summerstars might have all too little magic, but the place to find items of power in Cormyr-away from the palace, with its alert guards and war wizards-was in the hands of nobles. And the greatest concentration of nobility. . moreover, the place of most danger to them, and where they might most need to impress or coerce others … was the grand city of Suzail.
He'd best give this persistent servant of Mystra the slip and go hunting nobles. She'd dare not raise a general alarm in the kingdom, or the panic might bring on war between neighbors all over the realm. He'd have a little time while war wizards scurried here and there, trying to keep secrets. Yes..
He laughed aloud in the empty, echoing darkness and became a war hound again, padding across the cold stone with paws that still trembled from the ravages of those searing wands. Well, that would pass soon enough.
By now, they'd suspect any beast flying over the battlements or slipping past gate-guards. The sluice gate below the kitchens, where refuse and garderobe washouts went down a long pipe to the midden by the barns, was the wisest route.
Unseen, he found the dumping room, became a water-snake, and slid into the unpleasant liquid. It would be the work of only a few moments to-
Gods! There was a sudden flare of silver fire in the sludge around him; he thrashed in helpless pain as it raged, burning away scales and flesh beneath.
He struggled on, but the flames rose up with an earnest roar, and flesh melted before them. Gasping, he turned quickly, before it was too late. Pain rode him and clawed at him as he wriggled frantically back up the pipe, out of reach of the flames.
Had the Harper bitch seen him? Or had she merely cast a spell on the pipe to wait for anyone trying to travel it?
He waited a long time, mastering the pain and rebuilding his body where it was torn and melted. He was lessened, but he could do nothing about that. Nothing save go back into the keep … and feed.
First a test had to be made. Slowly and cautiously he descended the pipe again, growing a long, slender tentacle to probe ahead. All too soon it met with the familiar flare of silver flame.
He drew back hastily and departed, becoming a hound again … a wet hound with a tentacle coiled under the dripping fur of its belly. He found the nearest window and stretched the tentacle west toward the heart of Cormyr-a tentacle that soon felt the searing kiss of flame once more. He was walled into the keep by a barrier of goddess-fire!
The shapeshifter growled. He heard a nearby scullery-maid call out to another about hearing a dog, and left hastily, seeking a chamber with rugs to dry his paws on.
When he had done so, his half-hidden tentacle sported a human hand that could open doors. He went on, seeking a room where he could be alone.
Halfway up a curving stone stair, Storm Silverhand sagged against the wall, gasping, her face a sheet of running sweat.
"Mystra preserve me!" she panted, wiping at her brow with the back of a glove.
If she was going to be battered so each time the foe tested the barrier, he might kill her just by going around the keep trying to force his way out! She mustn't let him know how thrusts against the sphere hurt her….
Clenching her teeth, Storm pushed herself away from the wall and went on, climbing the steps like an old woman. Her legs were weak and unsteady. She tried to act as if she were merely idling her way up the stair, deep in thought, but she could not hide her pale face or the sweat that still coursed down it, dripping from her nose and chin.