Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [51]
The wheezing old merchant in tattered leather chuckled easily and pointed ahead into the trees. "It matters not exactly where we walk, look ye-as long as we keep alongside the road through the forest toward Arabel, and not too close to it. I hope to come. out of the western edge of Hullack as close to deep night as we dare, so that prying eyes are fewer. A certain inn of my acquaintance stands there, The Wanton Wyvern by name. We spend a night in cozy luxury, and walk on west in the morning, suitably disguised. Yer way lies in that direction, does it not?"
"It does," Shandril agreed cautiously. "And I would walk it with you, I think. But first tell us, Mirt, Lord of Waterdeep, what you know of us and the many who pursue us. I am tired of always running, and never sure why I must, and what awaits me."
Mirt nodded, not reacting at all to her identification of his rank. "Get used to that feeling, Lady; it's what life becomes for most of us." He grinned and added more softly, "Wise caution, Lady. Forgive me if I am brief. These old bones grow stiff if I sit about too long."
Clearing his throat pompously as if beginning a grand tale, Mirt said, "Ye are Shandril of Highmoon, raised by an old friend of mine, Gorstag. Ye recently left his inn to join a company of adventurers and therein met this noble and handsome dwarf"-Delg glowered and snorted"and this young lad of thine, too. Along the way, ye also met Elminster and the Knights of Myth Drannor, first discovered yer power of spellfire-inherited, methinksand sent to their graves a dragon and no less than three bone dragons, or `dracoliches,' if ye prefer, as well as the Shadowsil. Ye also sent Manshoon of Zhentil Keep into headlong flight."
Mirt scratched his nose thoughtfully, fixing eyes that were suddenly very blue on her. "All of this tells me Shandril Shessair is ra?ther more than she appears. Elminster has spoken to Khelben Arunsun of thee in some detail, and the Blackstaff in turn has told me something of thy great power and importance. So have others I know who harp. They tell me ye would meet with a certain sister of Storm to learn more about thy powers, and are on the road to her."
He chuckled. "Chasing thee, no doubt, are some selfinterested mages and brigands who have heard of thy doings by now. Also at thy heels are the Zhentarim, the Cult of the Dragon, and priests of Bane still loyal to the High Imperceptor, all falling over themselves and each other in their hurry to seize thy spellfire. Behind at least two of these groups are darker foes, shapechanging beings of great power who dwell in a world of shadows. They call themselves `the Shadowmasters,' and many wizards of Faerun have fought them down the centuries. They seek to control Toril and other worlds, deciding who may pass from plane to plane. Here they take care to work through others, for when Elminster can catch them in Faerun, he destroys them."
Mirt leaned forward, his face for once serious. "Ye are still alive today, Shandril and Narm, because Elminster and the Simbul have been weaving spells, spying, and setting all manner of things to sprawling chaos in order to keep these Shadowmasters from striking ye down."
Shandril, face pale, stared at him numbly. Was everyone on all the worlds and planes out looking to kill her? Why had the gods given spellfire to Shandril of Highmoon? She had asked herself this, she reflected ruefully, far more than once before.
"After ye were attacked in ShadowdaIe," Mirt went on, "Torm and Illistyl of the knights took yer shapes, and camped on Harpers' Hill. They were guarded by soldiers, the knight Rathan, and a few Harpers. There was an attack on the hill by things like the one ye fought two nights back-dark horrors, or 'darkenbeasts'-fearsome things created from dogs, sheep, and the like by cruel magic. That attack was set by the two youngest, most reckless Shadowmasters, and they paid for it with their lives."
Mirt sighed. "Elminster's hands have been red with blood, indeed, protecting ye this