"Don't even set foot outside your forest," Raedel growled. "In my land, you're marked for death."
Aeron shrugged. "So be it."
The count of Villon stood slowly. "What if we refuse to heed your warning? I've only seen you work two minor magics. Why should I fear your wrath?" He gestured oddly with his hand, and Aeron suddenly felt the ripple in the Weave as the count wove a spell. From his fingertips, a brilliant arc of light snapped forward, striking Aeron full in the chest with a thunderous crack! "I, too, know something of the wizard's art," Villon gloated.
Aeron staggered back two steps in blank surprise before he managed to blink the glare from his eyes. Unconsciously, he clasped his chest, and he slowly smiled as he realized he was unhurt. In his hand, Fineghal's staff hummed brightly with the power of the trapped lightning; Aeron silently thanked the elven mage for the day he'd enchanted the staff. Count Villon's face fell open in shock as he realized his spell had failed.
Aeron regained his composure first. "It's not for nothing that I call myself the Storm Walker," he said. He gestured and worked a powerful spell, one of the most formidable he knew, that immobilized Raedel, Villon, and the other remaining noblemen. Clasped in an invisible grip of iron, they watched him with terror in their eyes. "I will return tomorrow. I expect your camp to be gone. I have the means to compel you if you do not care to listen to reason. Now I bid you good night. You should regain the ability to move in an hour or two."
Mustering all the dignity he could, Aeron turned his back on Raedel and strode to the door. Over his shoulder, he added, "Remember, I had you all in my power and chose not to harm any of you. Don't make me regret that decision." With that, he sketched a shallow bow and left.
* * * * *
The following day Aeron took the shape of a small falcon and soared over the campsite, expecting the noblemen to resist his directions. To his surprise, the camp was gone. He easily found their trail and followed it north. They'd left the forest by the most direct route possible. He arrowed out over the terraced hills and green fields of Maerchlin, reveling in the rush of the wind past his face and the intoxicating freedom of flight, and even circled the gray towers of Castle Raedel three times before heading back to the forest. None of Phoros's guests remained.
Aeron returned to the small campsite he'd made for himself, resumed his own shape, and greeted Baillegh with a good scratch behind the ears. "I suppose Lord Raedel's guests didn't care for my hospitality," he said. He exulted in the first successful defense of his domain.
Baillegh turned a heavy, measuring gaze on him, as if the hound were asking if he'd really done the right thing. "Of course I did," Aeron answered. "I protected the forest without harming even a single soul." But a small, dark seed of doubt grew in his heart. But for the lightning ward Fineghal had placed in the staff, Aeron would have been killed by Villon's spell, and if the count had happened to strike with other deadly spells, Aeron would have been defeated in his first confrontation. And he'd enjoyed the sensation of bending others to his will with the strength of his magic, and that disturbed him greatly.
I used my power to defend the Maerchwood, a noble purpose, so my shielding against the corruption of shadow magic held that time. But what happens if I lash out in anger or work a spell for a less altruistic purpose? he wondered. The taint of the shadow in his magic might have already twisted his judgment, giving him pleasure in the fear of others. "Perhaps I shouldn't be so quick to compel their cooperation," he said after a time.
Baillegh barked once in affirmation. Aeron looked up, frowning. "Did Fineghal leave you in my care, or the other way around?" he asked. The hound poked her nose into his stomach and bounded away down the path, yipping impatiently. Aeron sighed and followed.
Autumn passed, then winter, ending the Year of the Shield and marking the arrival of the Year of the Banner. From time to time, Aeron detected intrusions against the Maerchwood, and he responded to the forest's call. Several times he had to rein in timber seekers or miners who were pushing too far into the wooded hills. Some were amenable to his suggestions and curtailed their efforts voluntarily; others refused to heed him, and he compelled them to listen to his words. On other occasions, Aeron found bands of brigands or raiders lairing in the recesses of the woods, preying on the honest folk who lived along the forest's verge. Fineghal had never moved against these vermin, preferring to leave human affairs to human law, but Aeron saw no reason to allow the Maerchwood to serve as their refuge. He drove them out when he encountered them, or quietly helped the constables or rangers of the neighboring towns to locate the bandits' dens.
As the seasons passed, Aeron maintained his watch on Maerchlin, taking the form of a falcon by day, or an owl by night, and flying over the castle. Aeron had no intention of interfering with Phoros Raedel's rule of Maerchlin, but it seemed wise to make sure he'd know beforehand if the count ever meant to raise his hand against him. Perching on the battlements, he noted who entered and who departed, and sometimes he even listened in on a conversation by clinging to a window ledge.
One overcast summer day, almost a year since his last encounter with Phoros, Aeron approached the castle and sensed something wrong. He circled it carefully, searching for the source of his unease, but everything appeared normal. He drifted in toward the courtyard and suddenly felt an invisible hand shoving him aside, forcing him to flare his wings and wheel awkwardly to one side. What in Faerun was that? he thought.
He circled outward, gliding past the castle. He concentrated on the emanations of the Weave that surrounded the castle and discovered a subtle weave of light and dark doming the entire fortress. At each cardinal point, an intricate rune had been drawn on the battlements, scrawled in rough circles of red paint the size of a small shield. Wards against magic, he realized. But who made them? Since Aeron kept his falcon shape by means of a spell, the wards were sufficient to bar his physical passage. If he released the spell, he could walk right past them . . . but he'd lose his disguise in the process. He orbited the gray tower, thinking.
As he wheeled over the keep itself, he spied a dark figure standing in an open window. It was a thin man, his features obscured by a loose cowl over his head. Aeron slipped a little closer, drawn to the man by an intangible mantle of power that streamed around him. This was the maker of the runes, an adept of no small skill. Aeron peered at him with first one eye and then the other, trying to discern the robed man's features.
Without warning, the dark hood swung his way. He caught a glimpse of a dark, bone-thin face with long teeth bared in a snarl of challenge. At the same time, an electric jolt arrested his heart, seizing him in a fierce contest of will. Aeron reeled and fluttered, trying to break free, the wind howling in his ears as the ground and sky tumbled crazily. He sensed the man below him knotting his fists in the stuff of the castle, gathering magical strength for a fearsome onslaught.
Screeching shrilly, Aeron broke free of the sorcerer's will and arrowed away, regaining his strength and determination as he widened the distance between them. But he could still feel the hateful eyes of the wizard on his back, waiting for him to resume his presumptuous reconnaissance of the castle. Aeron declined the fight, although he didn't feel that the encounter was done until long after the gray towers of Castle Raedel had slipped beneath the horizon behind him.
When he returned to the Storm Tower, Aeron resumed his own shape, stretching his arms and legs. He turned to let himself into the tower's door, but suddenly an odd wind shifted and blew at his back, clutching his cloak. Aeron tensed and whirled, scenting sorcery in the air, a manifestation of the shadow weave that deadened the breeze with a cold, clammy odor. He searched the dark forests nearby for any sign of a foe, but nothing appeared until a small yellow slip of paper blew into sight, scuttling across the ground until it came to a rest right at his feet. With that, the eerie breeze failed.