It was highsun when Narm awoke. The sun was streaming in the small round windows at either end of the attic, and the curtain had been drawn back. Lureene sat upon a cushion beside them, mending a pile of torn linens. She looked over at Narm and smiled. “Fair morning,” she said. “Hungry?”
“Eh? No, but I suppose I could be.” Narm sat up and looked at Shandril. She lay peacefully asleep with the amulet gleaming upon her breast, Narm’s discarded robe clutched in her hands. Narm chuckled and tugged at it. A small frown appeared on Shandril’s face. She held hard to it and raised a hand in an imperious, hurling gesture. Narm flinched back, but no spellfire came.
“Shandril,” he said quickly, bending close to her. “It is all right, love. Relax. Sleep.”
Her hands fell back, and her face smoothed. Then, still deep asleep, she muttered something, turned her head, and then turned it back and murmured quite distinctly, “Don’t tell me to relax, you…” and she trailed away into punings and mutterings again. Lureene suppressed a giggle into a sputter. Narm did likewise.
“Aye, we’ll let her sleep some more. If you want to eat, there’s a pot of stew in the taproom, untouched by Korvan’s hands, on the hook over the hearth. I’ve bread and wine here. Go on… I’ll watch her.”
“Well, I-my thanks, Lureene. I’ll…” He looked about him. Lureene chuckled suddenly, and turned about on the cushion until her back was to him. “Sorry. Your clothes are over there on the chest, if you can live without that robe Shan’s so fond of.”
“Urrr… thanks.” Narm scrambled out of the bed and found his clothes. Shandril slept peacefully on. Lureene gave him a friendly pat as he climbed down the stairs past her. He was still smiling as he went down the hall from the stairs, past the kitchen, and came face to face with Korvan. The cook and the conjurer came to a sudden stop, perhaps a foot apart, and stared at each other. Korvan had a cleaver in one hand and a joint of meat in the other. Narm was barehanded and weaponless.
Silence stretched between them. Korvan lifted his lip in a sneer, but Narm only stared straight into his eyes and said nothing. Korvan raised the cleaver suddenly, threateningly. Narm never moved, and never took his gaze away from Korvan’s own. Silence.
Then, giving a curse, Korvan backed away and ducked into the kitchen again, and the hallway was free. Narm strode forward without hesitation into the taproom; and greeted Gorstag as though nothing had happened. Elminster had been right. This Korvan wasn’t worth the effort. A nasty, mean-tempered, blustering man-all bluff, all bravado. Another Marimmar, in fact. Narm chuckled at that, and was still chuckling as he went back past the kitchen door. There was an abrupt crash of crockery from within, followed by a clatter, as if something small and metal had been violently hurled against a wall.
Thiszult cursed as he looked up at the sun. “Too late, by half. They’ll be out of the dale and into the wilderness before nightfall! How, by Mystra, Talos, and Sammaster, am I to find two children in miles of tangled wilderness?”
“They’ll stay on the road, Lord,” one of the hitherto grimly silent cult warriors told him. Thiszult turned on him.
“So you think!” he snarled. “So Salvarad of the Purple thinks, too, but I cannot believe two who have destroyed
The Shadowsil, an archmage of the Purple, and two sacred dracoliches can be quite so stupid! No, why would they run? Who in Faerun, after all, has the power to match them? No, I think they’ll turn aside and creep quietly about the wilderness slaying those of their enemies they come upon, while the rest of us search futilely elsewhere, until we are all slain or overmastered! I must reach them before dark, before they leave the road!”
“We cannot,” the warrior said simply. “The distance is too great. No power in the Realms could-”
“No power?” Thiszult fairly screamed. “No power? Why think you I follow these two, who felled such great ones! Hah! That which I bear is power enough, I tell you!” He reined in sharply and cast his eyes over the warriors in leather who rode behind him. “Ride after us, all of you-to Deepingdale, and the Thunder Peaks beyond! If you see my sigil-thus-upon a rock or tree, know that we have turned off the road there, and follow likewise.”
“We?” the warrior who had spoken before asked him.
“Aye-you and I, since you doubt my power so much. Trust in it, now, for it is all that stands between you and spellfire!” He gestured at all of them. “Halt!” Turning to the warrior, “You, dismount… No, leave your armor behind!” He touched the warrior, and spoke a word.
They both vanished, warrior and mage, in an instant. The other men-at-arms stared. One of the now riderless horses reared and neighed in terror; the other snorted. Quick hands caught bridles. “Stupid beast,” one warrior muttered. “There’s no danger, now. Why’d it take fright?”
“Because the smell of the man that was on its back a breath ago is gone” another, older fighter told him sourly. “Gone-not moved away, but suddenly and utterly gone. It would scare you, if you had any wits. A stupid beast, you call it? It goes where you bid it, and knows not what waits, but you ride to do battle with two children who have destroyed much of the power of the cult hereabouts in but a few days, and know they await you, and still ride into danger… So who, of man and mount, is the stupid one?”
“Clever words,” was the reply, but it was made amid chuckles. The reins of the two mounts were lengthened so that they could be led, and the warriors hastened on.
“Is it in your mind, then,” one asked the older warrior, “that we ride on a hopeless task?”
The older warrior nodded. “Not hopeless, mind you-but I’ve seen too many young and over-clever mages who follow our way-like that one, who just left us-come to a crashing fall, to think that this last one has any more wisdom or real power than the others.”
“What if I tell Naergoth of the Purple of your doubting words when we return? What then?” asked the one he had rebuked earlier. The old warrior shrugged and grinned.
“Say the word, if you will. It is my guess you’ll be adding them to a report of Thiszult’s death, unless he flees. I’ve served the cult awhile, you know. I know something of what I say, when I speak.” His tone was mild, but his eyes were very, very cold, and the other warrior looked away first. They rode on.
A wild-eyed Shandril was buckling and lacing and kicking on her boots for all she was worth, at the head of the stairs. “We must away,” she panted to Narm, as Lureene fussed about her. “Others come… I dreamed it… Manshoon, again, I tell you-and others! Hurry and get dressed!”
“But… but…” Narm decided not to argue and began to eat stew like a madman, wincing and groaning as he burned his lips on hot chunks of meat. Lureene took one look at him, as he danced about Shandril on bare feet, and fell back onto the beds hooting in helpless laughter.
“Forgive me,” she gasped when she could speak again. By then Shandril had straightened her belt and started down the stairs, and Narm had halted her with a firm arm to the chest. He handed her the bowl of stew.
“-You two,” Lureene continued, “but I doubt I shall ever see a mage of power so discomfited! Whhooo! Ah, but you looked funny, gobbling like that!”
“You should see me casting spells,” Narm said dryly. Then he asked, “When did she awake like this?”
“Scarce had you gone down when she sat upright, straight awake, and called for you. Then she scrambled up, grabbing for clothes and the tike, all in haste. She dreamed that enemies follow fast upon your trail.”
“She’s probably right,” Narm said ruefully, and began scrambling for clothes himself.
“Did your art have the desired effect?” Sharantyr asked softly.