Ed Greenwood: Cloak of Shadows

And the world fell apart.

Daggerdale, Kythorn 20

The blue blade sizzled deep into the turf of a familiar-looking hillside with a ruined manor house at its top and a decrepit bridge across a stream at the bottom.

As they tumbled to the grass in a last slow spiral, the blade exploded in blue radiant shards that went spinning past them, soft blue shards that dissolved into the shimmering air in moments. The sword of Mystra was gone as if it had never been. As Mystra no longer was.

Three rangers and a spectral sorceress sat up and blinked. Around them, seven other figures rose too, beings who had tails and spike-studded arms and angrily curling tentacles.

"Oh, blast!" Belkram cursed, and several Malaugrym flinched, expecting a spell to explode over them at his words.

When nothing befell, they acquired cruel smiles and flexed their tentacles and barbed tails and pincer claws. Then they began the slow climb up the hillside toward the rangers in tattered leathers. The ghostly woman who'd been with them had disappeared.

"To come all this way…" Shar said, close to tears, as she saw sure death coming up the hill toward her.

"See the world! Have daring adventures! Join the Harpers!" Belkram and Itharr chorused, in the deepest, most stirring and cultured town crier voices they could manage. And they waved their weapons.

"Hey, breeding maiden!" Belkram called. "Catch!"

His sword-still silver-came flashing through the air to her. Sharantyr caught it, tears in her eyes at his gesture, as she saw him draw a boot dagger, salute her with it, and stand beside Itharr. Each them held two drawn daggers to use against seven ever-changing monsters.

"Mystra and Tymora," Shar said between her teeth, "this is not fair!"

She raised the sword wearily, resolved to die well-and white light broke over the hillside, fire that raged briefly across the Malaugrym.

The shapeshifters danced in agony. When the fire subsided, all stood in human form. There were gasps of horror from the Malaugrym, and frantic cries as they tried to shift shape and could not.

Ahorga, face streaming sweat with the effort, finally managed to produce wings. He sprang back, retreating down the hill, and cried, "I go now, cowards! Know that you've made a foe forever this day! I'll be back!"

"Don't hurry," Belkram called to him as the shape-shifter flapped his wings and climbed heavily into the sky. As Ahorga turned into the wind, to rise, Belkram thought he saw that great shaggy head bare its teeth in a cold answering grin. Then the Malaugrym mounted the winds and soared aloft.

Two more shapeshifters, panting and groaning with the effort, overcame Sylune's magic and managed the same trick. They wasted no breath on proud exit lines because by then their audience was gone.

Men and women were rolling over and over in the grass, tearing at each other in desperate fury, one side trying to snatch weapons and the other, smaller side trying to use them.

While the two Malaugrym flew frantically away from any place where that ghostly sorceress might be able to see them, Sylune used her last forcebolt to blow apart the head of a Shadowmaster who was throttling Belkram.

As the smoking, headless body toppled sideways, Belkram rolled to his feet to find Itharr and a blood-drenched but unhurt Sharantyr doing the same thing.

They stood looking soberly at each other across the corpses.

"Well," Itharr said with a sigh, "we're back."

From out of the ruins of the manor atop the hill, something small and dark came flying. Belkram snatched up a fallen dagger to make a throw, but the object banked smoothly past him and he saw that it was a pipe. A curved, familiar-looking pipe that trailed wisps of smoke and drifted to a halt in their midst.

"Back, are ye?" The voice that issued from it was even more familiar, and as testy as ever. "A fine mess ye leapt into, and stirred up further, to be sure!"

"That wouldn't be who I think it is, would it?" Belkram asked wearily as Sharantyr groaned and covered her eyes.

"Aye," Itharr replied. "It would be."