Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [141]
Manshoon nodded, 'Perhaps, one day, with trust," he murmured, Option looked at him sharply, but said nothing, There was a faint smell of pipesmoke in the air, but neither of them recognized it for what it was. s» g a s "Be damned to trotting back an' forth all night!" Mirt growled, coming back into the room with the keg on his shoulder, He staggered as he came; it wasn't a hand-keg, but a barrel almost as large around as he was, Shandril looked at Tessaril. "You think we'll drink all that? Lords of Cormyr must be optintists, indeed!" Tessaril looked at her dryly, "No," she replied, "I think Mirt will drink all that-if we want any, wed best pull a tankard each now, before it's gone," She watched Mirt, wheezing and grunting, set the keg onto a couch, "Tankards, Old Wolf?" she called, Mirt gave her what some folk in Faerun call'a dirty took,' and set off toward the door again, He'd got about six steps away from the couch before it collapsed with a groan, settling the keg nearer the floor, but thankfully not dumping it. Tessaril surveyed it and said, "I've a feeling this is going to be a long night, You'd better put something other than that bearskin on, Shan."
Shan was nodding as the Lord of Eveningstar looked across the room and added, "And so should your h-"
Tessaril's words broke off and, frowning, she glanced from one of them to the other, Shandril and Narm both followed her gaze, then looked down at themselves. Both wore identical bearskin rugs,
"What's the matter, Tess?" Shandril asked quietly.
The Lord of Eveningstar's eyes were troubled, "Throw those furs off, right now! There should only be one of them!"
Shandril and Narm stared at her for one shocked moment, then Shan saw a gold light glowing in the eyes of the dead bear. She shrieked and tried to throw off the skin. Narm's fur fell lifeless and heavy to the stone floor, but Shandril's felt suddenly wet and glistening, and it slapped at her breast and flank as she snatched at the fur around her, Frantically she flung it away, just as it grew a long, hooked clawthat tore a thin ribbon of flesh from her ribs. Dancing backward, Shandril stared down at the blood, The fur (in the floor in front of her gathered itself, shifting, and scuttled toward her, Shandril had the brief impression of tentacles as she backed away, Her hands flamed.
"No!" Tessaril shouted at her. "No spellfire in here!" Shandril rushed to her discarded clothes and snatched up the Zhent dagger she'd picked up in the courtyard of the Wyvern-the one that had come so close to taking %arm's life. With a snarl, she turned back to the thing that wasn't a bearskin rug, and drove the blade deep into it. Warm, pink liquid as thick as honey gushed out, and the flesh seemed to quiver under her thrust The thing had grown, rising to about the height of a large dog, It was moving away from her, slashing with clawed, humanlike hands at Tessaril, who was angrily backing at it with a belt dagger of her own, The Lord of Eveningstar turned her head then and called, "Knights!" Her words were still echoing in the room when a door appeared in the ceiling and promptly fell open. Torm and Rathan plunged into the room through it calling, "A rescue! A rescue!" as they came,
"form hit the floor in a roll, bounced up, and slashed at the moving rug with the slim blade in his hand.
Rathan landed hard on the thing with both feet, grunted as it convulsed and threw him off, and staggered back to fetch up hard against the wall. With a flourish he brought a mace out of his belt and swung it down to thump solidly in the middle of the shapeshifting fur, Mirt rolled back in through the door at that moment. "Ye gods!" he said, looking hurt. "I leave for a moment an' ye start the fun without me!"
Tossing tankards in all directions, he snatched out his blade and lumbered forward, bellowing, "My turn, blast ye! Out o' the way, Torm!"
The rug was bleeding freely now under their blows, but rising into a man-high form, Tentacles emerged and coiled and shifted