"Aye, I do know," the deep voice replied calmly. "Why do you think we asked you along?"
"What? How can you be-did Chaladar tell y-oh, gods! My horse… all unsaddled… sweet Tymora, aid me now!"
"That's not a very judicious prayer for a faithful follower of the Scaly Way, wouldn't you say, Malarnus?"
"Quit baiting the lad, Ornthar… you'll have him running into things and shrieking in a breath or two! Sit down, Felus! He was merely jesting with you!"
"Now what have you done with your wand, boy?" Ornthar growled. "Dropped it, no doubt, while running around like a man who can't find the privy seat and babbling to Lady Luck!"
The Malaugrym exchanged a look and moved closer.
"Here it is!"
"That's my wand, idiot!" Malarnus told him. "Where did you walk, Felus, and where've you been sitting? Go back to all those places and look for it, and-there!" There came a thud and a groan. Malarnus added sarcastically, "See how easy it is to find things when you trip over them?"
"Dolt!" Ornthar added helpfully.
Amdramnar took a step nearer and had a sudden idea. He began to shift shape, turning into a scorched-looking man, hairless and blackened, clothes hanging in tatters. When he was done, he turned to Argast and gestured for him to do the same. Argast gave him a doubtful look for a moment, but complied.
Amdramnar gestured to Argast to follow. He staggered around the last few trees and right into the camp.
"By the Dragon! Keep back!" a scarred veteran in half armor said, raising a wand in one hand and holding a blade in the other. Ornthar, no doubt. Seated on either side of him were an anxious youth and a sleek man with a spade beard. Felus and Malarnus.
"I–I… help us," Amdramnar gasped, staggering a pace closer. "Fireball…"
"Who are you?"
"Followers… we were to meet Chaladar here," Amdramnar husked. "All dead now but us…"
"Felus," the seated man rapped, "get them some water." Malarnus indeed, by his voice. How generous.
Amdramnar staggered right over to the lad as he reached for a saddle skin, and Argast followed. Ornthar kept his eyes and his wand trained on them all the time. Malaug's curse on all well-trained warriors, Amdramnar thought, and worked magic that called forth fire.
Flames flared up right behind Malarnus, who heard the hiss and crackle, looked around with a frown, and jumped up with an oath. "Fire! Magic!" He spun around, eyes narrowing. "There's none here but y-"
He was, of course, too late. A tentacle whipped lash-like around his throat, jerked, and broke his neck. He joined Felus and Ornthar, who'd been distracted for one fatal moment by Malarnus's shout. All three lay broken on the ground.
"Take anything that looks magical," Amdramnar said. "We can discard things later. We'll ride two of their horses."
"And eat them later, too," Argast agreed, bending to the work of feverishly examining the camp.
They found three wands and an old cup… and that was all. If this Cult of the Dragon band carried heavy magic, it was in use beyond the ridge, where green smoke was drifting and the bright flashes of spells could still be seen.
Figures ran toward the ruined keep, now! Three… more… a dozen, but still small distant dots. Time to be gone.
"Come," Amdramnar snapped. He turned toward the nearest horse.
Argast hesitated for a moment, looking as if he was about to refuse and go his own way. Then he peered back at the running men, shrugged, and followed.
Amdramnar frowned, and was not gentle with his horse.
"I'd guess he's taken with some scrying spell and we won't see him until dusk," the younger and louder of the two men said.
"Peering at wenches in the brothels of Ordulin, most likely," the older man grunted. He ran a finger down the script in a thick and dusty book.
"Turnold!" the third apprentice in the library said sharply. She scowled. "You know I don't like to hear talk like that!"
The older man sighed. He replied without bothering to look up from his book, "You've got to learn about human nature and the ways of the world sometime, Irendue. You must notice how he looks at you."
"That's a private matter between the master and myself," was the even sharper response, "and no concern of yours!"
"Oh, I'm not concerned," Turnold said easily. "If I were in your place I would be, but he's not interested in me."
"For your information, Master Prentice Turnold, he's not interested in me in the manner you so crudely allude to, either!"
"Oh? And just when I thought I'd got right the scrying spell the master taught me ten years ago! I particularly like the black-and-gold gown, by the way…"
"You worm!" Irendue shrieked, leaping to her feet, her face white to the lips. "You utter… spying snake!"
"Oh, I was following the master's instructions… as was Lareth here. The master told us we might learn something…"
The door banged furiously as Irendue left, and Lareth, who'd blushed as red as his scarlet robe, coughed uneasily. "You shouldn't bait her like that. You know she'll just run to the master and there'll be trouble."
"We have to pay for our training," Turnold said calmly, "and pay dearly. She pays in another way. I don't mind that; I'd just like her to be honest about it and not play the prim and prissy high lady with us."
"Why should she be honest?" Lareth asked, amused. "She's training to be a mage, not a hermit priest!"
"I could probably tell you things about hermit priests," Turnold replied calmly, turning a page.
"My, you have been busy with that scrying spell," Lareth returned. He held the grimoire he'd been frowning at under Turnold's nose and pointed at a notation in one margin of a battle spell. "Oparl's hand, do you think?"
Turnold shook his head. "Too spidery. Jamryth's, for a gold lion."
"I'll not wager with you, Turnold," Lareth said ruefully. "You're too often right!"
"That has always been my trouble," Turnold agreed calmly, eyes on his own book again.
"Thirsty work, this," Lareth said. He set down his book and flipping its spine ribbon to mark the page with Jamryth's notes. "I'm for a flagon. Join me?"
"Plenty of time left to get drunk today," Turnold replied. "I'll be along later."
"Right," Lareth said with a grin, and swept out.
Only a moment later, he added a scream.
By the time Turnold got out into the passage, wand in hand, Lareth had joined Irendue-and the master! — in a web of cold white fire that seemed to fill the privy chamber. Two women he'd never seen before-no, men wearing the faces of wenches-were standing in the passage facing him, with wide and ruthless smiles on their faces.
As he swept the wand up, Turnold felt the horrible strength of the tentacles that were falling on him from all around the door frame… tentacles that trailed back along the floor to join up with the men-women's bodies!
The wand was slapped from his hand, but a horrified Turnold scarcely noticed. He was trying desperately to scream, but discovering, as tentacles crowded into his mouth and slid coldly up his nostrils, that it was much too late… Daggerdale, Flamerule 23
"I begin to think Lunquar's approach is the right one," Argast said as his exhausted horse collapsed under him. "Hide as much as possible. Keep to crow shape and the like, take human form only when another shape will win suspicion. Lie low and learn."
"We'll have to lie low for a bit to heal fully," Amdramnar grunted. "Kill these now and eat?"
"Why not? They're too weak to be of any other use!"
The Malaugrym had ridden across half Daggerdale without a break; Argast's mount had collapsed on a steep slope in the rolling hills of the southeastern dale, hard by the woods that stretched to Shadowdale.
"I think the most important thing is to hide ourselves from the common folk," Amdramnar said slowly. "They seem very swift to call on adventurers when they see something amiss, and this world does have crude shapeshifters…"