Elminster's face grew calm as he nodded and said briskly, "Zhentilar armies march on Shadowdale from all sides-and the avatar of the god Bane rides with them, leading the main body himself."

"Faerun's flying dung," Sylune said crisply. The unaccustomed oath drew startled gazes her way. "Even if the dale can withstand such an assault," she said bitterly, "it'll be torn into smoking ruins in the doing." She turned to look south. "And after all these years, I'll see it destroyed after all."

"Be not so quick to surrender our home to the Black Gauntlet," Elminster said firmly. "I shall be there, fighting to the last… and I've sent Zhentilar troops running bootless away from Shadowdale more times than I care to recall."

"If three swords can make a difference in this, sir," Belkram said heavily, "things must be bad. Tell us in truth what's befallen thus far… where are the Zhents now?"

Elminster nodded. "Four armies are on the march," he said, all trace of testiness gone. "The one coming down through Voonlar is the largest, though my friend Perendra took care of a goodly number of the fools by calling up a lightning storm. Fancy marching through a downpour in full armor; some of these warriors must have cold iron between their ears, not just over them! Meanwhile, I dealt with a few thousand more."

"Oh? How do you 'deal with' a few thousand Zhent troops?" Belkram asked, shifting into a more comfortable slouch in the grass. The more he dealt with archmages, the more it was becoming obvious that their shared concept of 'haste' allowed time for thorough discussions of everything.

"Carefully, lad," Elminster told him predictably. "Carefully."

The two Harpers sighed together… and had many other opportunities to sigh as the wizard rambled on. At one point Belkram muttered despairingly, "Get on with it!" under his breath.

He'd spoken a trifle too loudly. The Old Mage's eyebrows rose, and Belkram gulped.