Crown of Fire

A man, the only occupant of the room, turned from studying glowing symbols on the floor, Orbs of shimmering glass floated above the runes, drifting in slow orbits above the symbols they were linked to, Fzoul came to an abrupt halt and said coldly, "I did not expect to find you here, Sarhthor."

Sarhthor nodded, not smiling. "I could say the same of you, Lord Priest." He waved at the floor. "I've been working spells, trying to trace the maid Shandril-she must be in the citadel still, cloaked by the scrying defenses we've built up so carefully, Otherwise, I'd surely have found her by now.

"Have you set the magelings to searching in person?" "That's why you find me alone," Sarhthor replied calmly. "My time for spitting orders is cast."

FzouI gave him a sharp look but said nothing. The high priest looked down at the winking runes inset into the floor, and up at the orrery turning ponderously overhead, and finally said, "Well, I suggest we begin to work together, tracking Shandril by magic," He turned, "Ansiber-you and all other Brothers of Striking Hand rank and greater, attend here to me, The rest of you-split into sixes and rights and search the citadel, Instant elevation to the I

There was an excited murmur and a rushing of robes until only a dozen or so priests remained. Fzoul looked at them, nodded, and said to Sarhthor, "Have you any water?"

"The quenching-pool, there; the drinking-ewer, there and, somewhat used, in the chamber pot behind that screen."

'The pool will do," The Master of the Black Altar turned to the priests. "Attend!" he commanded, and they hastened to his side, He pointed at the pool and ordered, "Prepare it for scrying." priests bent to their work, and soon a thin, dripping disc of water as large across as the span of seven men's arms floated at waist height in the spell chamber, rippling and glowing faintly.

As he stepped forward to look into it, Fzoul smiled. "She ca

Eighteen

SEWERS, SWORDS, AND SPELLS

Gone to the city to seek great adventure, is he? I wager he'll see more of stinking sewers and swords in the dark than ever he does of splendor and spells.

Overheard in a tavern, and quoted by Tasagar Winterwind Scribe to the Guilds of SelgauntTalk of the Taverns Year of the Lost Helm

By the time he caught up with Shandril, three streets away, Mirt was puffing like an old and irritated walrus, He came around a corner to find her surrounded by wary Zhentilar warriors. A patrol, by the black backside of Bane! Well, he reflected sourly, the best thief that ever lived couldn't wander the streets of the citadel and amid them forever.

The soldiers must have stepped out of doorways and side alleys; they'd managed to form a ring around Shandril. She was walking unhurriedly on, toward two anxious-looking Zhentilar whose blades were raised. The others were drawing in around her as she walked, their swords ready.

Finally one of the warriors in her path said uncertainty, "We have you, woman, Kneel and surrender, in the name of the Raven!"

Shandril raised a hand and burned him like a torch, The other soldiers backed away, blanching, Oily smoke rose up from the huddled form in the street-and then Zhentish shouts echoed on the cobblestones as they broke and fled. As they went, they tugged horns from their belts, and ragged calls went up, echoing off the grim towers around.

"By my halidom!" Mirt snarled, "Now ye've roused the whole place," He laid a hand on Shandril's shoulder.

She whirled, Spellfire blazed before his eyes, and he danced away with a startled cry, Shandril looked stricken, "Sorry, Mirt-I didn't mean to…"

"But you almost did, anyway," he growled. "Come on, lass-we've got to get out of here before all the Zhentarim in Faerun come down on us."

Shandril shook her head, her face white to the lips, "I'm not ru

Mirt rolled his eyes. "Ye'll find no shortage of battle, then," He looked over his shoulder at the two Harper women and moved his fingers in a certain sign.

The pleasure-queens traded glances, Belarla swallowed, looked at Oelaerone with an unspoken prayer in her eyes, and glided forward with silent speed, From behind she slid one slim, skilled hand over Shandril's nose and mouth, and her other arm around Shandril's throat.

Shandril stiffened. Spellfire flashed, and Belarla hissed in pain as it cooked her arm and fingers. She was sobbing by the time Shandril's eyes dimmed and she went limp. The Harper made sure she was senseless, and then lowered her gently to the street.

The Old Wolf bent over Belarla. Tears of pain ran down her cheeks as she knelt on the cobbles, Shandril across her lap, Mirt handed two steel vials to Oelaerone, gesturing for her to pour it down Belarla's throat. "Healing potions," he said gruffly, "See that she drinks them both-every drop,"

Then he scooped up Shandril, grunted as he heaved her onto his shoulders, and said gruffly, "Thanks, Belarla. Myrintara should he able to set things right for you again, if we can reach her."

Belarla swallowed, shuddered as the potions took effect, and said faintly. "I-I can manage."Then her gaze rose from an empty vial to fix Mirt with a different pained expression, "By my halidom?"

Mirt spread his hands, "Eh… heroes say it in all the best bardic tales," he said sheepishly.

Belarla made a rude sound. Oelaerone pointed silently, Mirt glanced along her arm and saw perhaps twenty-no, more-Zhentilar warriors approaching warily down the street. He eyed them and asked quietly, "Know you any hiding-holes? They'd come in mighty helpful, about now."

"Isn't it a bit late to be thinking about that?" Belarla asked him, but Oelaerone pointed again-this time, at the stones under their feet.

"The sewers," she said simply, then turned, "This way," They hurried after her shapely form, She led through a short alley and then across a broad street, Another alley led them out onto a long, winding lane, Oelaerone turned down it, ducked into a warehouse, and slipped through a dim maze of high-stacked crates and curious men, to yet another street.

Mirt shifted Shandril over one shoulder, drew his sword, and trotted after her,

Belarla watched behind.

As Oelaerone crept into another alley. Belarla said in satisfaction, "We must have lost them by now-nicely done, Oelae."

They were all startled when a tall, burly Zhentarim mage appeared in their path on the next street In addition to robes rolled up at the sleeve, the wizard wore a single metal gauntlet that winked with spell lights. For a moment, Mirt and the pleasure queens blinked abruptly at him. The street had been empty moments before.

The mage took one huge step and viciously swung his studded gauntlet backhanded at Oelaerone. She dived headlong to avoid being struck. He ignored her, striding on toward the Old Wolf and his burden.

Mirt raised the tip of his sword, but the wizard darted to the Old Wolf's burdened side, keeping Shandril between himself and Mirt's blade.

"It's past time for you to lie down and die, old man," the Zhentarim snarled contemptuously, leaning in to smash Mirt across the face with the gauntlet. The enchanted weapon was hard, and its magic numbed and froze the victim for an instant so that the full force of its blow struck home. Mirt staggered.

Belarla's blade sang in at the wizard, The sudden sparks of a protective spell spat and shimmered where the blade touched the wizard, then the knife tumbled away, The Zhentarim stiffened, hissed a word, and a web of radiant bolts flared out. Belarla reeled back, clutching her breast in pain, and fell heavily to her knees, her sword clattering on the cobbles.