“Yes,1 Jhessail said heavily. “This dream-weaving’s wearisome work. No wonder Elminster was so reluctant to teach it to me. Yet, I think I scared Shandril enough to get her moving before the cult tries again.” She lay back in her chair wearily, rubbing her eyes. “Ahhh, me,” she said. “I’m ready for bed.”
Sharantyr arose. “I’ll get Merith,” she said, but Jhessail shook her head.
“Nay, nay… it is sleep I need, not cuddling and companionship… you have no idea, Shar-it is tike a black pit of oblivion before me, I am so tired…”
With that the lady mage of the knights drifted forward into the pit, and was gone. Sharantyr found a pillow for her head, drew off her boots, wrapped her in a blanket, and left her to sleep.
Then she drew her sword and sat down nearby where she could- watch Jhessail, laying it across her knees. After all, it had been overlong since Manshoon had worked his last mischief in Shadowdale.
They kissed Lureene good-bye in excited haste, thrust the empty bowl into her hands, and were downstairs and out through the taproom, and into the sunshine, before they drew breath again.
There in the innyard Gorstag stood with their mounts and mules ready-harnessed. The latter two mules of each train bulged suspiciously here and there where they had not bulged before.
“Bread. Sausages. Cheeses. Two casks of wine. Pickled greens-this jar, sealed with clay. A crate of grapes and figs. A coffer of salt. Some torches,” Gorstag said briefly. “And the gods watch over you.” He enveloped Shandril in a crushing hug and swung her up into her saddle. “Carry this,” he said, and pressed a bottle into her hands. “Goat’s milk.., drink it before highsun tomorrow, or it may well go bad?’
He turned to Narm without waiting an instant, like a swordsman turning from a kill in battle, shook the conjurer’s hand in a bruising grip, took him by both elbows and lifted him bodily into the saddle. He then thrust a small, curved and polished miniature disc of silver into his hands.
“A shield of Tymora, blessed by the priests in Waterdeep long ago. May it bring you safe to Silverymoon.”
He stood looking up at them. “You are in haste,” he said gruffly, “and I was never one for long good-byes. So fare you well in life-I hope to see you again before I die, and ‘you both as happy and as hale as you are now. I wish you well, both of you.” He stretched up to kiss them both. “You have both chosen well, in each other.” He patted the rumps of their horses to start them on their way, and raised his fist in a warrior’s salute to an honored champion as they called their good-byes.
As they turned out of The Rising Moon’s yard, Shandril burst into tears. When Narm looked from comforting her to wave, Gorstag still stood like a statue with his arm raised in salute. He stood so until they were out of sight.
When Lureene came down to him, standing there, she heard him muttering prayers to Tymora and Mystra and Helm for the two who had gone. When she put her arms around him from behind, and leaned against the old might of his many-muscled back, she could feel the trembling as he left off praying and began to cry.
It was dark in the meeting chamber of the Cult of the Dragon. Only a single oil-tamp flickered on the table between the two men who were there.
“Do you really think this boy-mage can defeat Shandril, after she has destroyed your best and most powerful?” Dargoth of the Purple said angrily.
“No,” Naergoth Bladelord replied simply. “Another of our dragons pursues her right now.”
“Another dracolich?” Dargoth said in angry astonishment. “We haven’t many more sacred ones to lose!”
“True,” Naergoth said, turning cold eyes upon him. “This one went of its own will. I did not compel it or ask it to go to war-but I did not forbid it, either. One does not forbid Shargrailar anything.”
Dargoth looked at him. “For the love of lost Sammaster! Shargrailar the Dark flies? Gods preserve us!” He sat back, shocked, shaking his head.
“They will hardly start doing that after all this time,” Naergoth said to him dryly, reaching to extinguish the lamp. Darkness descended.
Suddenly they were in a place of fragrant vapors, pots, and knives. The warrior looked around and snorted. “A kitchen!” At his words, the cook, who stood with his back to them over a bloody cutting board, gave a start and whirled around, cleaver rising.
Thiszult smiled coldly at him. “So pleased to see us, Korvan?”
The sour-faced cook struggled to regain his composure; hatred, envy, fear, and exultation chased rapidly across his mean face. “Why, Thisz-”
“Hush. No names! How long ago did the wench leave?” Thiszult strode forward. “Which is the way out of here?”
“Outside, the back, that way. Or, in front: that way, right into the taproom, then left across it to the front door,” Korvan said. “She and the boy-mage left but ten breaths back, if that, thou may well be able to catch them if you-”
“Have horses. Where are the stables?”
“Around the side; that way. There’s a good strong black, and a stouter but slower bay, down the end, and-”
“The cult thanks you, Korvan. You will receive an appropriate reward in time.” Thiszult strode coldly out into the hallway with a snap of his dark cloak, the warrior at his heels. As the man went out, he drew his broad, stained sword and held it ready in his hand.
“Korvan,” Lureene whispered as she came out of the open pantry, eyes dark with anger, “do you know those-those folk?”
The cook stared at her, white-faced, for a moment-and then he raised his cleaver again and went for her, determined. Lureene cast the tin of flour she held at his face and fled out the door, into the hall and then the taproom beyond. It was empty.
She ran across it, dodging between tables, and burst out the front door in time to see the dark-cloaked mage spur out of the innyard like a vengeful whirlwind.
Before her, in the mud, Gorstag stood with his hands locked about the forearms of the warrior who had come with the mage. They stood straining against each other, the warrior’s sword shaking in his grasp as he tried to force it’ between them. Lureene ran as hard as she could toward them, sobbing for breath.
Behind her, the front door of The Rising Moon banged open again. Korvan. Her death. Lureene ran on, slipping and sliding desperately, knowing she had to warn Gorstag before Korvan’s cleaver could reach him.
The two men were only ten paces away, now… now six, now three… Suddenly Gorstag slipped to one side arid pulled hard on the man’s wrist instead of pushing against it, and the blade lunged forward-harmlessly past Gorstag’s shoulder. He crashed into the man’s chest and drove his fist as hard as he could into the man’s throat.
Throat, neck, and man crumpled without a sound, and Gorstag turned in time to catch Lureene about the shoulders and spin her to a halt. “Love?” he asked, and Lureene pointed past him.
“Korvan!” she gasped. “He serves the cult! Look out!” As she spoke, the cook put on a last burst of speed and chopped at them as he came. Gorstag pushed Lureene hard to one side so that she staggered and nearly fell, and leaped away in the other. The cleaver found only empty air.
Korvan looked about, wildly, at both of them-too late, as fingers of iron took him by the neck from behind. The cook staggered and lashed out blindly to that side with the cleaver-only to have that wrist deftly captured and twisted. Korvan let out a little cry and dropped his weapon from suddenly numb fingers. Gorstag wrenched him around bodily until they were face to face.
“So,” the innkeeper said, “so… first you molest my little one… and now you would slay my bride-to-be! You threaten me with steel here in the yard, and you serve the Cult of the Dragon-in my own kitchen.” His voice was low and soft, but Korvan twisted in his grasp like a frantic, hooked fish, face white to the very tips.
“This has been coming for a long time,” said Gorstag slowly. “But at least I’ve learned something about cooking.” The hand that held Korvan’s wrist let go and darted to his throat, whip-fast, and the two old hands twisted mercilessly. There was a dull crack, and Korvan of the cult was no more.