As though these words were a call to arms, the chapel burst into furious motion. Captain Rulathon and men of the Watch flooded up the aisles as the congregation recoiled from the caskets, streaming toward the doors. Many of the hurriedly departing had barely survived the first onslaught of fire warriors a month ago. That had been a wedding; who could guess what dread mayhem was coming to this funeral?

Into the chaos of charging Watchmen and cowering nobles Khelben descended, alighting in a whirl of black cloth and magely fury just before the caskets.

A seasoned-looking warrior in gilded armor was the closest flame-borne intruder to the Lord Mage. His warhammer flashed out.

Lightning cracked from Khelben's fingertips. The weapon spun free of the warrior's hand and clanged, hissing and scorched, to the new carpets.

Another warrior-a scrappy-looking young fighter, this one-reached a hand for Khelben's throat, something bright and sharp swinging up beyond his shoulder for a fatal blow. There was a sound like broken, falling icicles, and the fighter froze. His hand hung rigid in the air, just shy of Khelben's throat.

The Lord Mage spared no glance for the stilled man. He was dodging the third warrior, a leather-garbed man hauling hard on a scourge. With a wave of wriggling fingers, Khelben awakened the gold filigree of Piergeiron's casket. Sculpted vines on its flanks came suddenly to life, whirling out to entrap the man in a tangle of living gold.

The fourth warrior, an olive-skinned rogue, was caught in the arms of Madieron, who'd roused himself from his despair, face white with fury, to take a captive. The invader had gone slack in Sunderstone's grip, a sword dangling whitely to one side.

No, not a blade-an arm bone. The man's left arm was bare bones from the elbow down. The rest of him Khelben recognized.