Crown of Fire

They watched the dwarf burn to ashes. When all was done, Mirt said grimly, "Now, we walk-before all the rest tithe Zhentarim come down on our heads here. I carry a ward that shields us against magical mind-prying and scrying. With that and thy spellfire, we can win our way on, as long as we give them no more chances to gather against us."

"No," Shandril said softly.

"What then, lass?" Mirt asked, peering at her in the night.

"I'm done with ru

"Here? Shan, every outlaw and prowling beast in the Stonelands heard the battle-and saw the pillar of flame ye just raised, burning Delg. Yer spellfire's gone for now, an' all Narm's spells-and without Delg, I'm too old and fat to wave swords enough to defend both of ye. We must be gone from this place!"

"Yes. Gone-to Zhentil Keep." "Lass, are ye crazy?"

"Probably," Shandril said, her voice very steady. "Mirt, will you guide me there?"

"Before all the gods, why?"

"My days of ru

The old merchant sighed. "Aye, Shan," he growled. "I'll stand with ye. But I'll do it in the morning, mind-and if ye're in such a whirling hurry to get to Zhentil Keep, I know where we can get a teleport there, instead of stamping across the Stonelands and Daggerdale for days upon days, fighting every beast of the wilds and Zhentilar patrol."

"Where?" Shandril's voice was quiet and calm.

Mirt fought back a shiver when he heard it. "In Eveningstar, south and west of here. In the spells of a good lady by the name of Tessaril."

"Another old friend?" Narm sounded on the edge of tears, but managed a hint of the wry tone he usually adopted when sparring with the Old Wolf.

Mirt bowed his head. "Aye, and I am honored she calls me so. No jests now, lad-I'm busy trying to keep yer little one, here, from throwing her life away."

For two long, cold breaths, Shandril stared at him thinlipped, and then managed a smile, and turned to look west.

"Find Eveningstar for me, then, and Tessaril." she said. Mirt's gusty sigh of relief echoed off the rocks around. Then they all looked back at the drifting ashes that had been Delg, and there were fresh tears.

Later that night, as Mirt led the way up a narrow cleft, heading west out of the still-smoldering meadow, the Old Wolf said, 'Tell me, lass: if ye've any plan for this attack, or if we're all going to rush headlong to our deaths."

"We get there, you show me Manshoon, and I burn him," Shandril said sweetly.

"That's it? No battle plans at all?"

"You're my battle plans, Old Wolf," Shandril told him. Mirt sighed and stumped onward. The. comforting weight of Delg's battered axe rode in his hands, and he stared ahead, looking for certain moonlit crags to guide him to the best way down into Cormyr again.

In his mind, Mirt saw Delg's dead, staring face, and muttered to himself that he really was getting too old for adventuring.

When Mirt fell for the third time, the cold mists and the lightening gloom told them dawn was not far of f. The Old Wolf a

"Is that wise?" Narm was yawning as he spoke.

Mirt managed a shrug in reply-and then stiffened. The other end of the chain Delg had broken must have somehow fallen into the pack. As the Old Wolf's arm came out with kindling, the fine gold lay curving along it Mirt stared. Dangling from the chain was a tiny four-pointed star fashioned of some white metal, set atop a tiny black anvil. Mirt touched it, shaking his head in wonder. "He was an Ironstar dwarf," he murmured.

"What's that?" Narm bent forward, his voice thick with sleepiness.

"The fabled lost clan of the dwarves," Mirt said, his weary voice echoing with awe. "The mightiest, most noble dwarven house, driven into hiding long ago. They're a legend among the Stout Folk-and among men who delve for metal, too." Tears came into the old adventurer's eyes. "Ah, Delg," he growled and shook his head again.

Shandril began to cry and in the same instant, Narm began to snore. Mirt looked over at them. The young mage was asleep where he sat, face gray and drawn with exhaustion, eyes open and unseeing, his mouth gaping. Shandril shook, huddled into a ball, beside him.

Long, still moments passed before Mirt went to lay a comforting hand on her head. Tears streamed down the face she lifted to him, and dripped silently from her chin. Shandril's eyes were very gray as she bit her lip to keep from weeping loudly. She looked at Narm anxiously, not wanting to wake him.

Mirt put an awkward arm around her shoulders. They shook, and Shandril whimpered once, deep in her throat, before she thrust her face against his chest and began to sob. Mirt held her tightly and said nothing. He'd done this before in his life, more than once, but still did not know any words to give her that were both comforting and true. Perhaps there were none.

He stared into the little fire he'd kindled and saw places far away and faces from long ago. The Old Wolf barely noticed when the girl in his arms fell into an exhausted sleep. He was still sitting there when the last coals died away to gray ashes and the pale dawn came creeping over the crags.

Twelve

WHAT FOUL WIZARDRY

Raise not thy voice in anger, lest the sleeping dragon wake.

Old saying of Faerun set down by Glarthlyn of Silverymoon, Sage Shadows in the Firelight Year of Dark Frost

Somewhere in the Stonelands, Manshoon turned in satisfaction from his scrying ball.

"It's time," he said softly, looking around at the encampment. Fear was in the faces that looked back at him; even the veteran Zhentilar here were wary of the High Lord of Zhentil Keep. Manshoon had spent much of yestereve raising their dead comrades until an army of zombies stood around the clearing, silently waiting.

"The wench's fire has burnt out for now," the high lord said as lie strode across the sward to pluck a jack of hot wine-and-mushrooms broth out of the hand of a startled soldier. He drained it, tossed it back, and added. "She'll be easy prey." The soldier nodded uncertainly, not speaking.

Manshoon turned. "Beluard? Where are you?"

"Here, Lord." His latest apprentice trotted hastily up to the master, wiping broth from his lips with the back of one hand. Manshoon favored him with a wolfish smile.

"You recall my discussions with Sarhthor about arranging shortages of pork and sugar in Sembia?"

"To drive prices up just before our caravans arrive, ford?"

Manshoon nodded. "Do it,” he said, and vanished. The last thing Beluard saw was his cold smile.

For a moment the apprentice stared at the spot where Manshoon had stood, and then looked fearfully at the zombies standing all around. They stood in a gray, putrid, unbroken ring-the thin passage he'd threaded through them moments earlier seemed to have disappeared.

Beluard took a deep breath, looked into undead eyes that stared back at him with hundreds of dark, glassy stares, and wondered if tie dared to walk through them. The stench of death was very strong, and he stood there a long time licking his lips, face paling, trying to decide.