Chittering with glee, the gibberlings rushed forward, ready to gobble up their prey.

"Now jump!" Morhion cried.

He leapt backward off the cliff. The others were too surprised to stop him. Clutching the mage, they toppled over the precipice with him, screaming as they plummeted into the darkness below. Above, the thwarted gibberlings howled in dismay.

It will be now or never, Morhion thought in panic.

For a split second, as they fell through the chill dark, speeding toward a bloody death on sharp stones below, it seemed as if they would all die. Suddenly, the scroll in Morhion's hand burst into flame and was consumed as the magic of the spell was released. A heartbeat later, the five reached the bottom of the chasm. However, instead of being dashed upon jagged stone teeth, they found themselves cushioned by a blast of warm air that came from nowhere. The gust of air dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, lowering the five safely—if not gently—to the hard ground.

Slowly, Morhion got to his feet, smiling. His hunch had proved right.

Dazed, the others pulled themselves to their feet, blinking as their eyes adjusted once more to the dim green phosphorescence that filled the cavern, trying to understand what had happened.

A dark shape dropped down from on high, striking the bottom of the defile with a loud plop! Moments later, another shape fell from above, and then another, all landing disconcertingly close to the companions.

"It's the gibberlings," Mari breathed in amazement. "They're jumping after us!"

"Remarkable," Cormik muttered in awe. "They're even more stupid than I thought."

In seconds, it was raining gibberlings. The creatures shrieked and snarled as they fell, striking the ground with wet thuds and dying instantly. Dodging the deadly rain of doomed gibberlings, the five picked their way along the bottom of the chasm.

At last they left the grisly cascade of furry creatures behind. Before long, Jewel caught a faint whiff of fresh air. They ducked into a side tunnel and soon stumbled out of the granite hill and into the night. The storm had ended; now tatters of clouds raced across a moonlit sky. The companions leaned against the rain-slick rocks, catching their breath.

"You know, Jewel," Cormik grumbled, "that was without doubt the worst campsite at which I have ever had the displeasure of spending a night."

"Well, you can pick the next one if you think it's so easy, love," Jewel replied tartly.

Cormik opened his mouth for a scathing retort, but Morhion held up a hand. He had had enough for one night.

"Let's just go find the horses," he said wearily, and that was what they did.

Ten

K'shar had always loved the night. The golden moon of midnight hovered above the low stone buildings of Twilight Hall, its pale-wine illumination conjuring as many purple shadows as it banished. Somewhere in the distance, a nightingale sang in sweet mourning. And despite the lateness of the year, the wild perfume of nightflowers wafted on the wind Silent and wraithlike, K'shar moved from one pool of darkness to the next, piercing the gloom easily with eyes as brilliant and golden as the moon above. He was at home in the dark; but then, darkness was in his blood.

Twilight Hall, which stood on a green hill in the center of the city of Berdusk, was the western stronghold of the Harpers, It was not, as its name implied, merely a large meadhall or gathering place, but rather consisted of a number of stone buildings clustered around a central courtyard. Yet there was more to Twilight Hall than even this, for much of the compound lay beneath the ground—including the dusky meeting hall for which the Harper fortress was named. Though K'shar had joined the Harpers more than twenty years earlier, he had spent little of that time in Twilight Hall itself. Most of his days were spent traveling the Heartlands, hunting down such prey—be it Zhentarim, Red Wizards, or goblin lords—as the Harpers commanded. K'shar was the best Hunter the Harpers had. This was not a matter of pride, just fact.

Tonight, K'shar was to learn the details of his latest assignment. He could only hope that his new quarry would prove more interesting than the last several. It had been long since he felt challenged by one of his adversaries. The Red Wizards of Thay were always overconfident and thus easily tracked; the Zhentarim were simply stupid. Again and again, the fugitives were too easily caught, too easily slain. When they lay dead at his feet, his blood had only just begun to surge with the passion of the chase, and he was left feeling hollow and unfulfilled. Perhaps, he thought—and not for the first time—he should leave the Harpers. Perhaps he should seek out challenges more worthy of his talents.

K'shar pushed aside these foolish, discontented thoughts. He was bored, that was all. As soon as he began the chase again, he would feel better.

K'shar approached the compound's central building and stepped into the pool of torchlight by the main door. Two young Harpers stood guard at the portal, and by the surprise on their faces, he knew they had not heard his soft approach. He bared white teeth in a feral smile. Apprentices! he thought wryly.

The young Harpers did not recognize him—this was not surprising, given the rarity of his visits to Twilight Hall—but after examining his letter of summons from Belhuar Thantarth they let him enter, their eyes wide and respectful. K'shar wound his way down through a dim labyrinth of corridors and staircases until he reached a pair of gilded doors. Without hesitating, he pushed them open, striding into the Great Hall beyond.

Instantly, a dozen pairs of eyes riveted upon him. K'shar was striking to look at. He knew this, even as he dismissed it as meaningless. His skin was a deep, burnished color, like ancient bronze; his golden eyes were eerily at odds with his colorless, close-cropped hair. He was unusually tall and thin, a fact accentuated by the tight-fitting black leather he wore, but he showed none of the awkward gangliness that usually afflicted such individuals Rather, his leanly muscled limbs seemed like supple whips. His slightly pointed ears, tilted eyes, and uncanny grace betrayed the elven blood that mingled with the human in his veins.

The cavernous Great Hall was of ingenious construction. Hewn by dwarven stonesmiths out of the surrounding rock, it seemed not a cavern at all, but a dusky, primeval forest. Countless columns were carved to resemble trees, their stone branches stretching to support the high ceiling. The walls were covered with lifelike leaves of copper and gold that seemed to flutter in the flickering illumination of the rushlights scattered about the hall. The floor, of mottled green-and-brown marble, added to the illusion.

Melhuar Thantarth looked up as K'shar approached. The Master Harper was holding council—hence the presence of so many Harpers in the hall—but when he spotted

K'shar. he quickly dismissed the others with a wave of his hand. In moments, Thantarth and K'shar were alone in the stone forest.

"K'shar, I am glad you could come." Thantarth's deep voice echoed in the now-empty hall.

K'shar inclined his head slightly. "It is my duty to serve the Harpers," he said formally, even as a part of him wondered if this was truly so. Was his duty to the Harpers, or simply to the chase?

"It is with a heavy heart that I set this task before you, K'shar," Thantarth said somberly. "For both of those whom we ask you to seek are—or at least were, until recently—among the most exalted of Harpers."

While K'shar listened with growing interest, Thantarth explained what had transpired. There wasn't a Harper alive who had not heard the tale of the Shadowking in Iriaebor. The deeds of Caledan Caldorien and Mari Al'maren were heroic folklore passed down to all Harper apprentices. Thus it was all the more shocking—and intriguing—that Kshar's new prey were none other than these two legendary figures, now turned renegade.