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“These all of them?” Windstag shouted into the terrified face. When Murandrake managed a desperate nod, the young lord spun around and ran for the door.

Dawntard and Sornstern were right behind him. They fled down the stairs together, Windstag waving the axe in wild triumph.

“Another false Elminster?” Mereld muttered.

Starbridge shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough. Let’s see how he reacts to the moonglow.”

Lemmeth nodded, drew his hands slowly apart … and the hollow was suddenly awash in bright, pearly white light.

Eskrel stared down into it, hard-eyed. He had a dozen highknights—aye, one of them that dolt Narulph, but still—and another three war wizards in the trees all around it, but they stayed there, awaiting Starbridge’s signal.

In the meantime, they were doing the same thing as Starbridge. Staring down into a hollow where bodies were sprawled around a dead fire, with a lone figure standing over them.

The standing one was human in size and shape, and wore a battered old war-helm and motley clothing taken from the fallen, who might or might not be dead.

The figure stood still, silent, waiting for them. Gaunt and tall but stooped over as if weary or old.

“Elminster?” Starbridge asked. “Will you come with us, or be slain?”

The figure slowly spread empty hands in a gesture of surrender—or despair—and sat down on a log beside the remains of the fire.

Starbridge whistled, and the ring of men emerged from the trees and started to close in.

“You are Elminster?” Starbridge asked. “We’d like a word or two.”

A deep growl from within the helm replied, “Oh? I’m about done with dispensing words to armed men who menace me and make demands.”

It was about then that Lemmeth’s conjured light showed them the menacing row of rough twigs—wands!—at the old wizard’s belt. Clenching their teeth against their fear, the highknights pounced.

Hard, swift hands clawed at the wands, grabbed the seated man’s arms, clawed at his garments to have off any amulets or hidden weapons, tore helm, wands, belt, and jerkin away—and the Cormyreans found themselves staring at a pair of round, firm, and very unmasculine breasts.

“Who …?” Starbridge and Narulph snarled in unison, but in far different tones of voice.

Blue eyes looked fearlessly up at them, and the lips beneath them said calmly, “You, gentlesirs, have captured Storm.”

“There!” Wizard of War Glathra roared as loudly as any man, pointing. “There! Take them!”

Then she, Dralkin, and the Purple Dragon patrol with them were all shouting and charging down a dark Suzail street toward the three fleeing men in the distance.

Who, it rapidly became apparent, were too winded and weary to stay ahead of the pursuit for long.

“Halt! Halt in the name of the king!” Dralkin bellowed, as the sprinting lawkeepers closed in on the running trio.

He was answered by a sudden crackling in the air, a surge of energy that brought with it the overwhelming impression of someone smiling maliciously over a glow in a vast, dark cavern. The energy rushed down on the three fleeing men—and they were gone, the street ahead of the rushing patrol empty.

“Dung,” Glathra snapped. “Magic! I hate magic!”

Swordcaptain Dralkin swung his head to look at her in surprise. A wizard of war who hated magic?

Seeing the expression on her face, he decided to wait for a better time to ask her about that. On his deathbed, perhaps.

“Nice, aren’t they?” Storm asked crisply, locking eyes with Highknight Narulph. Who turned a rich shade of crimson and looked away, wincing.

“Lady, they are,” Mereld said swiftly, offering her his own overrobe. “Pray accept our apologies for this … rude handling we’ve given you. I’m afraid we’re going to have to cast a spell or two on you, to learn the truth about what befell all these men around you, but—”

“I’ll save you the trouble,” Storm told him firmly. “I rang their heads for them. ’Twasn’t quite a fair fight, I’ll grant you—there were only eight against me, but sometimes the needs of all the Realms outweigh courtesies. Now, I’ve a question