All Shadows Fled - Ed Greenwood [93]
No one attacked her there. Afterward, she went for a walk in the gardens in the last faint moonlight, avoiding the torchlit areas. Someone at that friendly table was a shapeshifter… and a Malaugrym dare not leave her alive, when she could call down the Simbul upon him or point him out to half a hundred wizards. The poison raging through her veins was proof enough of that.
No, an attack would come. She kept to the shadows as Loth Shentle strolled past, a little unsteadily, singing an old familiar ballad about ladies fair and fey. He startled her a few steps farther on when he paused on one of the bridges, announced, "Gods, but she's beautiful!" and proceeded to vomit his evenfeast helplessly into the pond.
Someone else was walking among the far fern beds, impossible to identify in the gloom. Storm sat down on a bench in the lee of a spiky bush, only then discerning the seneschal, Burldon Hawklan, who strode softly past, hand on sword, eyes sober and alert, taking care to make little sound.
Storm rose thoughtfully and watched him vanish into the night. In one hand, she hid the small thing she'd taken out in the garderobe.
"Out takin'-takeeng-air, pretty lady?" said a loud voice by her elbow. The drunken priest of Tymora tried to lean against the tree, missed, and went for a short stagger before finding his balance again. Storm brought her hand to her mouth to cover her smile as he grinned loosely at her, sketched a shaky salute, and said, "Doan-doant-don't you worship the Lady Tymora, e'en as I do? C'mere!"
He was upon her, and the smell of wine was strong, and triumph blazed up in his eyes as he embraced her. His arms tightened… and seemed to be changing shape.
This was it. Their lips brushed together, and Storm worked her small magic in careful haste.
An instant later cruel claws raked her back, tearing away her gown and the flesh beneath in ribbons. Storm gasped and stiffened at the raw pain-but instead of trying to pull away from the Malaugrym, she leaned into his embrace, deepening their kiss. His savaging of her back slowed in astonishment, but Storm clung to him with all her own great strength, holding him firmly as her tongue thrust her saliva into his mouth. With it went the powdered silver from the coin she'd dissolved with her spell.
The shapeshifter spasmed in sudden agony, fear, and desperation. The silver was as poisonous to him as the liquid he'd been feeding Storm all night. Had she not been one of Mystra's Chosen, she'd have died hours ago, after the first sip Lord Thael offered her. She kept that in mind as she drew her mouth away from his and watched him closely. The creature who was not Dathtor Vaeldeir shuddered in her arms, convulsed, and died.
When she was sure he was dead, Storm swung his body over one shoulder, letting the claws that still dripped her blood dangle, and carried it grimly toward Lord Thael's kitchen wing, where there should be firewood enough to burn it.
She was most of the way there, crossing the great flagstone terrace, when many doors opened in the manor walls and a score of servants rushed out with lit torches, enclosing her in a wide ring.
Lord Thael stepped out last and faced her, sword in his hand. "What have you done, witch?" he bellowed, monocle dangling. He peered at her, and asked, "Or… is that you, Lunquar?"
Storm met his eyes coldly. "You know what I've done, Malaugrym. And what I must do." She lifted one side of her mouth in a mirthless smile, and asked, "Just to save time, tell me-how many more are there of you in this house?"
"I need no aid to deal with the likes of you, mortal woman," was the cold response. "With your precious El-minster dead, there's no one to watch us… and no one to stop us!" His teeth glinted in the torchlight as they lengthened into fangs, and he added with soft smile, "Faerun will be ours!"
One of the servants screamed. Lord Thael was turning slowly into