Hand of Fire

The old guard gave Voldovan a sidelong growl of disgust. "She's a blade at our backs, I tell thee!"

Orthil put a hand on his arm. "Easy, Darhabran. Twon't be for much longer; of that, at least, I can assure you. And if we have to dagger her in a hurry-well, I know who I can call on."

Rathrane hung close above the grunting, brutally thrusting men until long after they'd leaned panting on their swords around the sprawled, much-hacked figure in the trampled grass. The crumbling remnants of the wand he'd drained were plucked up, tossed aside with sighs, and the men wiped their blades and wearily began looting the body of the man they'd slain.

Not a spark of magic shone about any of them, so the wraith-wizard drifted on, heading away from the river now. Distant echoes of recent great magic roiled ever so faintly off to the northeast. That was as good a direction as any.

The taste of the wand had awakened fresh hunger in him. He was so close to being able to materialize fully, to have a body once more, to stride this changed Faerun as boldly as any of these swaggering fools who called themselves wizards. He could taste once more, smell again, and feel the cool breezes he was riding.

Evaereol Rathrane would be a name heard again in Faerun, a name feared and respected. A name that would be spreading soon… he needed but a trifle more, and if these echoes were good indication of what lay ahead, he'd shortly have more than enough, perhaps more might than ever before.

Greywings were honking in the distant backlands as Beldimarr waved them off the road close by the crude gates of Triel.

Obediently Shandril guided their groaning wagon along a palisade of huge, graying old tree trunks toward the distant figure of Arauntar, who stood atop some rocks, directing wagons. As they bumped across the grassy but much-rutted field, Narm frowned. "Why aren't we going into Triel?"

Shandril shrugged. "Ask him," she said, waving a hand at the grizzled Harper, so Narm did.

Arauntar swung himself up on the perch and growled, "Just along here… aye… right, halt! Tether and hobble, lad. I'll chock your wheels."

"Well?" Narm prompted him, a few minutes of stooping and rein-wrestling later.

In a low voice Arauntar told them both, 'Ter short answer: Triel's ruled by a madman, Elvar the Grainlord. He's so afraid outlanders'll try to steal food from him-he who's no slouch at thieving himself-that he won't let any of us stay a night inside his walls."

Narm looked at the decaying but still formidable stockade, and muttered, "Is he one of those gigantic waddling gluttons?"

Arauntar gri

Shandril gagged, and Arauntar gri

Narm, still slightly green from a vivid vision of curled-up rat claws sticking up by the dozens out of an open cask of pickling-wine, asked reluctantly, "Mad about the gods how?"

"Every four mornings or so-or swifter by now, I've not been in to see, yet-Elvar awakens after new dream-visions, and a

"Anything else?" Shandril asked, a little faintly.

"Enough, be it not? That's why nary a caravan goes anywhere but around Triel or camps outside, here or over yon."

"What's that other road?" Narm asked, pointing.

"The Dusk Road, from Elturel. It joins the Trade Way at Triel midmoot, inside. That roof atop the knoll hard by is Duskview House-an i

Shandril raised an eyebrow. "Particularly dangerous?"

"For the lady who hurls spellfire, every place we'll see is 'particularly dangerous,' but no, 'tis just too pricey for Master Voldovan's tastes. 'Tis a highcoin house, newly built an' all, sitting all serene on its height looking down the Dusk Road. It caters to the safety of the lone traveler, and charges accordingly."

"So why do I see Voldovan on his way there?" Shandril asked quietly.

"He has to look for replacement guards somewhere," Arauntar said heavily, "or we'll none of us live to see Waterdeep."

"Can we go inside by daylight?" Narm asked, squinting at the sky to judge how much day was left.

"I might lead an armed band inside to buy us food, later- a barrel of rats or two, whatever they'll sell," Arauntar growled amiably, "but you won't be along with me, nor any of these fat wagon-merchants."

Shandril raised the other eyebrow. "Thieves in the streets? Brawlers rule the taverns?"

"Exactly," the Harper snapped. "Taking down travelers is their sport an' their chief source o' coin, an' there's no law nor justice to appeal to."

He swung himself nimbly over Narm and down off the perch in one energetic lunge, landing boots-first on the ground with a solid thud, and squinted back up at them through the dust of his own landing.

"So stay here," he said sternly, "both of you. Triel's like Scornubel but a twentieth its size, thrice its desperation, an' no tense standoffs to forge peace. Here, 'tis every man for himself, an' daggers see heavy use."

Shandril smiled thinly. "So how exactly, Arauntar, is it different from anywhere else in Faerun?"

Pleasing The Bringer of Doom

The true purposes of kings are to set fashions, take blame for famine and harsh laws and oppressions practiced by nobles, to give commoners someone to shout at and throw dung upon, bards and romantics someone to be proud of or wax tragic about, and to feed the rats-personally, with their own bones. I just wish some of them would get around to doing it sooner.

Hanjack Thallowblade, "The Farfaring Minstrel"

Why I'll Never Be A Respected Bard

Year of the Leaning Post

"Behold," Voldovan muttered to Beldimarr. "The only man in Triel we can trust."

The guard nodded, his weatherbeaten face expressionless, and murmured as softly as any sly courtier, "Pity we can't hire him and leave these others."

They were looking across the palatial lounge of Dusk-view House at a tall, gaunt man who looked every bit as Realms-worn as Beldimarr. Voldovan had no idea what his real name was, but he'd been a fixture in Triel for thirty winters at least: the local herald, Stormshield. He was here to witness any bonds of hiring Voldovan might arrange with the motley crew of swordsmen gathered in the lounge.

The caravan master didn't need to look at Beldimarr to know the burly guard shared his assessment of this bunch; gutter-scrapings and broken men. "Loyalty" was a worthless fiction to most of them, whatever words came out of their mouths and no matter what papers they signed. But then, the way things were going, most of them would probably be dead in a day or two.

Along with the rest of us, Orthil Voldovan thought grimly, as he took the high-backed chair the stone-faced Duskview stewards provided. Beldimarr took up a stance behind Voldovan's right shoulder, arms folded across his chest-and fingers on the hilts of two of the many throwing-daggers sheathed down his baldrics.