"Their commander-have I seen that harness before?" Sharantyr asked.
Elminster nodded. "No doubt. That's a Sword, and these are Zhentilar warriors or I'll miss my breakfast."
Sharantyr grinned. "They're Zhents, then." As they watched, one of the guards returned with a scrap of parchment, which he handed to the red-faced merchant. The wagon and its occupant were brusquely ordered on with imperious waves of naked swords. The wagon rumbled away, the merchant shaking his head.
Sharantyr's eyes narrowed. "What's going on? They took something from him, aye, but what?"
Elminster assumed the pedantic air of the lofty scholar addressing a pupil too dense to be worth the time teaching takes. "Regard ye," he said in measured tones, "yon hut. 'Tis home to a mageling, I doubt me not. He has examined the items they took from the merchant and pronounced them magical. They hold these objects, returning to the unfortunate former owner a receipt. No doubt he has to inform them of the time and place of his leaving the dale, and they'll return his baubles to him-that is, if some wizard in authority here doesn't deem them too useful."
Sharantyr looked at him. "You're sure?"
Elminster affected to take mighty offense, blinking and clucking, drawing his nose high into the air, rolling his eyes fiercely, and saying, "Well!"
Sharantyr giggled.
"Come, lass," Elminster said with injured dignity, rising out of the bushes like a Calishite vizier making a stately palace entrance on a platform rising out of an underground room. "I want my breakfast."
Without pause or any attempt at concealment, he strode through the long grass, still wet with dew, toward the guards on the road.
Rolling her eyes, Sharantyr wondered again how she'd gotten herself into all this. It's what comes of feeling sorry for mages, she concluded. Lunacy if ever there were crazed thoughts. She drew her blade, held it low behind her to keep it hidden as much as possible, and followed.
8
Death calls, it's said, on everyone. Some early, some later. Most find themselves not ready when the ghostly horn sounds-with much left to do and much more regretted. A lucky few die content, or unawares. A haunted handful of beings find death only long after they've desired its arrival. This includes most so-called "immortals." The bony arms of doom also enfold those who seek to cheat death by magical means, or have undeath or an undying curse thrust upon them.
The arms of death also extend to claim those who bear Mystra's burden. Of these Chosen Ones, some welcome death sooner than others. All render to the living attentive service, examples of life at its most splendid and active, and a certain silence, keeping secret the despair and weariness that long life brings.
And so it was that the late morning sun found Elminster, the archmage without any spells, eagerly eyeing the guards he'd been watching all morn. He'd made four long strides toward them, the unconcerned beginning of a direct attack, when the lady ranger who had come to keep him from harm caught up to him and put a firm hand on his shoulder.
He stopped and looked around questioningly.
Sharantyr looked back at him-at his white hair, thin limbs, and alert, intent face-and shook her head. "Elminster," she asked quietly, "when you do foolish, reckless things-like attacking yon sentinels, with a fortress at their backs and at least four things of magic we've seen them seize with our own eyes-aren't you ever afraid of death?"
Elminster looked at her for a long moment and said dryly, "Death has often come calling on me, but so far I've always been out, ye see."
And with those impish words he slipped from her grip and marched straight out of the trees toward the waiting Wolves. Sun glinted on black helms as they turned his way.
With a sinking heart, Sharantyr sighed, slowly raised her sword, and followed.
"Hold, old man!" The Oversword of the guard spoke impatiently, scarcely looking at the old man in robes. His attention was bent on a fat Sembian merchant who was sweating with fear. The many rings gleaming on his pudgy white fingers ran through the air like a starving fisherman combs the depths of an empty net. The merchant was almost gabbling as he assured the nine stone-faced guards that his wines were the best, oh, yes, only the best, why everyone said so, just ask at the Black Stag in Selg-or, well, perhaps not-nay, speak to the merchant Lissel, of nearby Daerlun, and he'd vouch for…
At about that time, the Oversword realized the gaunt old man with the overlong white beard had not halted and was proceeding with confident, unhurried steps toward the guard hut. He spun around, reaching for his sword.
"Old man," he barked, "hold!"
The gaunt figure in tattered robes continued on its way, beard flapping.
The Oversword caught up in three quick strides, ignoring grins that had begun to appear on the faces of his men, and jerked the old man roughly around.
Cool blue-gray eyes regarded him. "Yes?" a mild voice inquired, as if humoring a rude child.
The Oversword snarled and said fiercely, "Never ignore orders in the High Dale, old man, if you would live."
Slow eyebrows rose. "What orders?"
"I told you to hold, whitebeard, and I meant it! I'll see to you when I'm done here, and I care nothing for your haste or importance!"
"Oh. I see," Elminster said courteously. "I misunderstood ye."
The Oversword looked him up and down coldly. "My words were quite clear," he said slowly and dangerously. "What was your problem?"
"Ye kept saying 'old man,'" Elminster told him. "I assumed ye were speaking to someone else. I'm not old-not yet, by the sun, though if ye waste much more of my morning I may come to be." He turned and continued on his way.
The Oversword snarled again and gestured. Drawn swords rose to bar Elminster's way on all sides.
Elminster turned about. "Yes?" he asked mildly.
"Sirs!" Sharantyr's voice came urgently from behind them. "Please forgive my fa-"
"That will be enough, girl," Elminster told her sharply. "How can ye learn, if ye persist in speaking out of thy place? Be ashamed. And better, be silent."
He turned to face the Oversword. "My daughter," he explained apologetically. "She's not been out of Zhentil Keep before and is overexcited."
The Oversword's eyebrows drew together in a wary frown. "Zhentil Keep?"
"Aye. I was speaking with a friend there, Lord Manshoon, and as I was passing this way, he asked me to look in on a certain wizard for him. To-ah, forgive me-deliver a private message." He smiled. "While I appreciate your diligence, Oversword, I am in some haste. I was told that the one I sought would probably be here, either in yonder hut or in the keep beyond. May I?"
Politely he turned his back, pushed aside two blades with the backs of his open hands, and went on. Without turning, he called back, "Come, lass!"
Sharantyr bent her head and lowered her blade. "Yes, Father," she replied in tones of weary resignation. In wary silence the Wolves stood back to let them through.
The Oversword noted that none of his men would meet his eyes. Good. He turned savagely back to the fat Sembian and curtly ordered his men to slit open the seams of everything, including every stitch of clothing the man was wearing.
But somehow, he couldn't enjoy the fun that followed.
The fat man was making so much noise, wailing and cursing and calling on more gods than the Oversword had ever heard of, that it was a good while before they heard the disturbance from the guard hut: the sounds of shrieking and sobbing, and the frenzied cracks of a whip wielded with some strength. The guards did not react; they were clearly used to such sounds. One or two glanced casually back at the hut and saw the white-beard's daughter standing uncertainly near the curtain that hung across its open doorway. The guards shrugged and turned away.