Crown of Fire

"Up, lad!" he said sharply, slapping Narm's face. "Up, and take this!" He thrust his belt dagger into Narm's hand; startled eyes fell on it and then rose to meet his.

"Awake, lad? Good. Guard your lady; I've work to do." Delg pointed out where Shandril lay, clapped Narm on the back, and set off through the smoking ruin to where the Zhents clustered.

Only five still stood there-the priest, the blinded but still-blustering warcaptain, a swordmaster, and two warriors. The last three had swords in their hands, and the swordmaster was snapping orders at the men to gather lanterns and make ready to look for the lass.

The dwarf went forward slowly, keeping his axe low and behind him, lest its blade flash back light and warn of his approach. Smoke still drifted lazily amid the blackened trees, but it seemed Shandril was not fated to burn down Hullack Forest this night.

Good. Thank all the gods for that. Now, if they'd just spend a skybolt or two to deal with five Zhents… Perhaps he'd not been devout enough. Or perhaps as a dwarf, he thought wryly, he was expected to act for the gods. Whatever, no bolt came from the sky. Delg gri

Delg's boot found a stone, painfully. With iron control, he halted and bent to feel it. Small enough. Good. Setting aside his axe, he took up the stone, leaned back almost to the ground with the rock in his raised hand, and came upright in a throw sped by all the weight of his stout body. The hurled stone sailed up into the night-and crashed down in the brush behind the Zhents.

"Who's that? By Bane, answer!" Silence gave the warcaptain the reply he feared. "It's one of them, getting away-swordmaster, see to it! Bring him down!"

The swordmaster looked about helplessly, caught the priest's cold and level gaze, and reluctantly took up a lantern, tersely ordering the two warriors to his flanks.

A moment later, they waded cautiously into the brush, swords raised. Delg, axe held ready, used the noise they made to cover the sounds of his own cautious advance. He crept to the lit area where the warcaptain was pleading with the priest to heal him, and the priest was insisting that the helm come off first.

"It won't," said the big man, voice approaching a sob. "I've tried… it feels stuck to my skin. Gods!"

Keep sniveling, the dwarf thought savagely. Just a breath or two longer, and I'll-

The axe came up quickly as Delg rounded the last tree, but it was impossible to move silently in the bad light. The priest saw and heard-and was very fast. He shoved the warcaptain into Delg and fled cursing into the darkness.

The fearful Zhentilar felt the impact, heard the priest's fearful oath, and concluded something was wrong. He lashed out.

Delg had stumbled clear-but not quite far enough. One of those war-gauntlets caught him square in the ribs. He grunted and sat down with a crash. The stout dwarven mail held, but the breath had been driven out of him, leaving a searing pain behind.

The sightless man reached forward. He sensed where his foe lay. Delg dropped his axe and rolled aside, pivoting on his own knee to come in close to the warcaptain.

Those blindly grasping gauntlets triumphantly closed on the axe handle and used its blade to flail at the ground. Delg winced as his axe struck sparks from more than one rock-and then his reaching hands found the man's belt dagger and tore it free.

The Zhentilar turned at the tugging, and Delg climbed the arm that swept around to strike him, clambering up it to drive the short blade hilt-deep through the helm's eyeslit and the unseen and unseeing orb beneath.

Dark, hot blood splashed him as he leapt free, to the sound of startled shouts from the swordmaster and warriors, who saw the warcaptain topple dead with no apparent foe. Delg lay prone in the darkness and waited.

A moment later they were fleeing, crashing in headlong flight through the trees. Delg retrieved his axe and scrambled atop the warcaptain's corpse so he could see farther.

His hunch was right. The priest had fled back into the darkness only a little way, and then stopped to watch what befell-so as to return triumphant, should his side win. He stood alone, uncertain, between two trees. Delg smiled grimly, shook his head at the man's arrogant stupidity, and raised his axe.

Lanternlight caught the blade. It flashed once, and the startled priest half-turned to flee, peering through the darkness and trying to see what was happening.

That was time enough. Delg hurled his weapon, grunting as he threw his entire body into the attack. The blade whirled free, and Delg rolled on the ground. The spi

Only a pace behind it, a stout figure hid in the deep night-shadows. It held a drawn blade up and ready; if the priest had gone a pace or two more, he'd have impaled himself on the steel. The figure shrugged, gri

Delg, panting, thought it prudent to retrieve the warcaptain's dagger before venturing out into the night in search of his axe. He had to tug the blade several times to tear it free of the helm. Turning, he set out, and had almost reached his axe when he heard Shandril calling his name, her voice soft with fear.

Fimril, mageling of the Zhentarim, smiled as he rose from his crouch over the dancing flames. The sweat ran down his pale, drawn face in sheets and dripped from his chin; the spell he'd just used was too exhausting to hold for long. Few mages-in or out of the Brotherhood could call images from the flames of a campfire as clearly as he could. He shook with weariness-but it was crucial that he saw it all.

His voice, when he could find it, was warm with satisfaction. "Karkul and the priest are both dead, as are almost all of their men-and the maid's spellfire has run out. The time to strike is now."

He showed an eager, vicious smile to his frightened sell-sword bodyguards. None of them, however, saw the skull floating in the night gloom beyond the circle of firelight. Its smile matched Fimril's own.

The twin doors flashed and flared as various magical locks and bindings were released-and then ground slowly and ponderously open.

A handsome, cold-faced man in swirling black robes strode through the doors, onto a midnight sea of slick black marble. He walked to the center of this room, which was always dark, turned to face the doors, and halted. Tiny motes of light flickered and pulsed on his robes, rising slowly into the air. They winked and drifted in small circles, gathered over the man's head, and coalesced into a sphere of flickering light.

Under the gathering radiance of his conjured driftlight, Fzoul Chembryl waited patiently, like an impassive statue, in the center of the i

The silence that then fell outside told Fzoul his guest had arrived. In moments, its massive shadow loomed up in the doorway. It drifted in with slow caution, eyestalks darting this way and that.

Fzoul lifted his head a little and said calmly, "Greetings, Xarlraun."

The beholder turned its pale eyes toward him. Xarlraun was dark, the chitinous plates of its outer skin covered with many old and ill-healed scars. The monster was as large as a woodsman's hut, its spherical body as high as three tall men standing on each other's shoulders. For many years it had dwelt in its own high mountain valley, feeding on herds of rothe that roamed the grassy slopes. As the decades passed, it grew large, and its hunger had grown with it. Finally the day had come when all the rothe were gone from the valley, so the beholder had descended into the world of men-and found far more plentiful food. Men were bonier than their livestock-especially those who wore bits of metal but far tastier. Xarlraun stayed, and grew wise in the ways of men.