"Not much better," Devis said, examining his attire. "But it beats the alternative."

Money was in short supply for the two fugitives, but Devis had scrounged enough for a tunic, pants, and boots. He regretted giving up a weapon in his current situation, but had to admit it was a pretty good deal. He had been able to get a few pieces of gold for the dwarven axe. Neither he nor Diir wanted to part with the crossbows; Devis because he was actually a decent shot with the weapon, Diir for his own, undisclosed reasons.

The money was enough to buy the clothes and one other item besides. The bard absently struck a ringing chord on his cheap, used lute.

It, too, beat the alternative.

The rain had stopped completely, and the clouds had finally broken to let beams of warm sunlight cut the morning chill in the autumn air. Devis noodled an old favorite on the lute as he walked along.

The telltale sign of the Silver Goblet appeared as they rounded a bend in the street. "No sign of the town guard," Devis said, not really expecting an answer.

Diir sniffed the air and nodded.

"Glad you agree," Devis said. "Now let's find out what you and my friend Mialee have in common, shall we?"

They emerged from the Silver Goblet ten minutes later.

Devis couldn't understand it. Gurgitt had been more than happy to let him into Mialee's room, especially after Devis charmed the innkeeper with a song-spell and one of their precious gold pieces. What they found only baffled Devis further.

It might have all made perfect sense to Diir, but the elf didn't say so. He simply insisted that Mialee was not in the room—which was obvious—and that Devis should follow him.

They'd found the door to Mialee's room wide open, as were the shutters on her window. Devis's clothing and gear were still scattered across the floor, along with his equipment and all of the gold he'd won from Muhn, which he was glad to recover. The bard also retrieved his thick leather vest and trusty long sword, which now hung from his belt. But strangely, all of Mialee's things were still there, too, including her rapier, wand, spellbook, and magical components.

She'd simply disappeared. The bird was gone, too. Fortunately, nothing indicated another wight attack, which was a relief. But had Muhn succeeded in capturing the girl?

Devis swung the lute around to his back and pulled the small leather pouch from his belt. Mialee had insisted that the pockets on the pouch held birdseed, but Devis knew enough about wizards to realize that was a bald-faced he. He hadn't had time to grab anything else except a papyrus scroll that confirmed Mialee's story about her missing teacher.

Diir broke into a jog as they neared the northern edge of Dogmar, and Devis had to run to keep up. The elf was leading them to a large, wooden building of undeniable elven manufacture, all curved, golden timber and smooth, polished surfaces. A silver crescent four times as tall as Devis crowned the three-story structure.

"The Temple of the Protector?" he exclaimed. "She's that hung over?"

"Inside," Diir replied.

"Maybe you should go first."

Before Diir could move, the doors swung open and a dozen flapping shapes poured out of the open doors. Vultures, Devis realized, but unlike any he'd ever seen.

Judging from their appearance, these vultures were dead.

The horrid, flapping creatures immediately set upon Diir, who whirled and sliced at his attackers with his short sword. Two twitching, feathered corpses splattered to the ground in four pieces, but the rest fled, screeching through torn throats.

"Where is the other?" the wolf's master snarled in the lupine tongue.

"Elf with burning tooth," the wolf growled in reply. "Tooth bites head. Burns my neck."

"The elf escaped?" the master asked.

"Yes," the wolf admitted, "but it says word."

"What word?"

"Elf-talk," the wolf replied.

"I see." The figure on the carved stone throne clasped its hands and concentrated in the orange glow of torches, then placed two bony fingertips on the wolf's ears.

"Speak," the wolf's master commanded in Elvish.

The wolf barked and growled in an approximation of the ancient language of the forests, though it did not comprehend how. "Elf says, 'Mialee'."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing," the wolf barked.

The wolf's master turned to the tortured figure hanging from the wall. "Favrid, old friend," the master growled, "whatever have you been up to?"

The rest of the conversation became incomprehensible to the wolf as its master's spell faded, so the drooling creature busied itself with the delectable pool of scarlet blood collecting beneath the master's prisoner.