Ed Greenwood - Elminster's Daughter

"T-Thank you, sir," she murmured, staring at him. "You're . . . Rhauligan. A Highknight of Cormyr, I believe. I owe you my life. Why? What do you intend for me now?"

Rhauligan shook his head. Quick-tongued, these Sembian nobles, even while weary and weak with half their life-blood spilled. "Bed rest in one of the state guestchambers yonder," he told her, "a meal if you're up to it-and I'm certainly going to feast, even if you want nothing-and we'll talk in the morning. Cormyr has a certain shortage of nobles the realm can trust, right now."

"And one cast-aside highskirts woman from Sembia can make a difference?"

"Lady, one person can always make a difference-and their name need not be Azoun Obarskyr, Vangerdahast, or even Glarasteer Rhauligan, for that matter. What's Cormyr__or any fair realm-but a lot of lone persons, who believe in the same thing?" "This is the dream you believe in?" Noumea murmured, as Rhauligan picked her off her feet and carried her into the next chamber.

"Lady fair," Rhauligan told her, as he laid Noumea gently on a bed and started to arrange pillows behind her head, "'tis what gets me up in the morning."

* * * * *

Bezrar made a choking sound and lurched toward the rail. The Witch of the Dragon Waves was starting to roll and wallow already, with the harbor barely astern.

"Nine blazing Hells," Surth hissed, swallowing hard to keep his own gorge down, "are you going to do that all the way to Yhaunn?"

His fat business partner's reply was a whirl of impressive alacrity to grip Malakar Surth's throat with fingers that were as hard as their arrival was sudden.

"You shut up, for once, Cleversneer," Aumun Tholant Bezrar snarled furiously, "or by all the gods I'll-"

He fell silent to gape up into the sky and shrank away from Surth to cower.

Surth whirled around to see what had frightened his partner, knowing as he did so that it was an action he was going to regret.

He was right. Out of the mists something was gliding past, slow and low and menacing. Something larger than the Witch of the Dragon Waves, and far more graceful: a gigantic fang dragon with a rainbow-hued swath of scales on one flank.

When it was quite gone, Bezrar and Surth swallowed in white-faced unison, there as they cowered on the deck of the creaking, wallowing merchant cog.

"We can't reach Sembia swift enough for me," Surth whispered, though in truth he cared not if the rolling ship beneath him was bound for Yhaunn or the Pirate Isles, or Westgate, or anyplace else in all wide Faerun that wasn't controlled by Red Wizards. Yet.

"Well," Bezrar growled, from beside him, "at least we're well away from Darkspells, and all his schemes. That one made me shiver, I can tell you!"