All Shadows Fled

by Greenwood, Ed

  “He did,” Inder said quickly, “but when Starner came to you with word that the Great Foe was caught in the loop trap you cast at their gate, you told him to gather all kin with spells to spare and make haste to—”

  “Blast all who defy me!” Othortyn roared, and lightning leapt from his eyes like two darting white flames, roaring across the chamber to swallow up Inder and the scrying portal with him.

  Hastrim staggered back with a startled sob as his companion and their spell vanished into wisps of curling smoke.

  “I did tell you, Inder, not to mention the Great Foe again,” Othortyn said chidingly. Then he turned his head from the drifting smoke and said politely to Hastrim, “Please continue with the exposition of events that Inder so abruptly abandoned …”

  Hastrim stared at him in stunned silence, face pale. Muscles rippled around his mouth as he fought for calm.

  “Feel free to be as clever as you feel necessary,” the old Shadowmaster said soothingly.

  Hastrim looked at Othortyn, and then his gaze fell again to regard the greasy curls of smoke that had been Inder. He swallowed.

  “Well,” he said unhappily, “perhaps it would be best to begin when it was first noticed that three humans—bearing a magic sword—had somehow stepped from Faerûn into the heart of Shadowhome … undetected.”

  “Good, good,” the old, bald Shadowmaster said encouragingly, opening another bottle. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Er—” Hastrim began, and then added with sudden firmness, “Yes,” and a long, snakelike tentacle put a dusty bottle in his hand.

  * * * * *

  Faerûn, Daggerdale, Flamerule 15

  “Easy, lass,” a familiar voice rumbled as Syluné of Shadowdale slowly blinked her way back into awareness. “ ‘Twas well done, to be sure. Ye shattered a spell loop, a very nasty Malaugrym magic—and there were a dozen of them waiting with all the spells they could think of, for us to break out. It’s probably best that Shar and the lads were stunned when ye hurled me elsewhere. It saved them from about forty mind-rending attacks, and left me free to use the sort of Art that was really necessary.”

  Elminster gestured down the hillside, and Syluné saw rainbow swirlings there, above torn earth and blasted stumps. The trees around the stream and the leaning bridge were no more … and no doubt the gate to the Shadowmasters’ home plane was gone too.

  “A wild magic area?” she whispered.

  “I fear so,” Elminster replied grimly, “but the gate is gone forever, and a score or so more Malaugrym with it.”

  Syluné shuddered and drifted up out of his hands. Except for the few stones where the Old Mage was sitting—well west of where he had been—the ruined manor was now a crater of mud and gravel.

  She swirled back to face him. “How long has it been since we came back from the Castle of Shadows?”

  “Nigh on a month,” Elminster said quietly.

  Syluné nodded grimly. “I thought so. Has Shadowdale fallen?”

  Elminster gave her a twisted grin. “Not yet.” He got up and trudged west, into the trees. “Come to the meadow.”

  Syluné drifted along beside him, suddenly reluctant to be alone. The old wizard had taken only a few paces before they emerged into a field of trodden grass where Belkram, Itharr, and Sharantyr sat, looking up with welcoming smiles.

  “Thankee, and all that,” Itharr said, his broad shoulders shifting as he smiled.

  “All part of my orders,” Syluné told him briskly, giving Elminster a meaningful look, “as enunciated by the tyrant mage here.”

  “Ah, yes,” Belkram said. “I believe I know just how you feel.”

  “Yes,” Sharantyr agreed crisply. “I think it’s about time, Old Mage, that you told us what befell Faerûn while we were all caught in this magic.”

  “You might have revived us sooner,” Itharr added darkly.

  Elminster looked at the burly ranger. “It took me days to repair and rebuild thy bodies, all three of ye. I had to use necromantic spells I haven’t looked at in ages … and I do mean ages.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps I didn’t get thy head screwed on quite right.”

  “I—” Itharr began, but Belkram interrupted him.

  “If that’s so, sir—why do I feel weary, and in pain?”

  “Aye!” Itharr agreed.

  “The only way I could save ye at all,” Elminster muttered, “was to restore ye to exactly as ye were before the trap took us. As it was, I nearly lost ye more than once—ye in particular, Belkram, five times! The gods know I’ve grown used to never receiving the slightest thanks when I help folk, but betimes I think certain beneficiaries of my arts close enough to me—and perceptive enough, to—ah, ne’er mind …” He glared at the handsome Harper.

  Belkram returned his look of anger.

  “All right,” Sharantyr said, looking from one to the other. “Enough. Tell us about the Realms, El.”

  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.”

  “Faerûn’s flying dung,” Syluné 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.

  “Patience certainly seems to be the provision ye used up most in the shadows,” El observed mildly as his pipe glided in to find its way to his lips. He blew a slow, spreading smoke ring and then banished his pipe again. “Teleportation is one thing that still seems reliable among all this chaos of Art, so I spent the better part of the highsun hours yesterday transporting a dozen monsters—hydras, firedrakes, wyverns, behirs, death kisses, and the like—into the camp of the second, central force, north of the Flaming Tower.”

  Belkram chuckled, but Shar looked troubled. “What’s to stop their using spells to drive those beasts before them, south into the heart of Shadowdale?”

  “Me,” the Old Mage told her impishly. “I took care of their mages first.” He watched another smoke ring drift away on the wind and added, “Some of the beasts I sent into their midst were rather hungry, too.”

  “Can’t Bane teleport just as easily as you can?” Itharr asked quietly.

  Elminster nodded his approval at such tactical thought. “Of course. He’ll have to come to the aid of his Central Blade or lose the lot of them … but the doing will keep him occupied f
or a time, too busy to work other mischief.” He ran fingers through his beard. “The same consideration governed my treatment of the smallest force. Fzoul’s leading four hundred or so mounted men-at-arms past us right now, through Daggerdale.”

  “Four hundred Zhentilar?” Belkram asked, holding up his daggers. “You want us to take down four hundred warriors? Shouldn’t we get horses to ride on, just to make it a little fairer?”

  Shar and Itharr snorted together. Syluné reclined gracefully on thin air, as if sprawled on a couch, and awaited Elminster’s answer.

  The Old Mage shook his head and asked softly, “Bold today, aren’t we, friend Harper?”

  Lesser men might have quailed before that tone, but Belkram merely shrugged, smiled, and waved at Elminster to continue.

  Inclining his head in a mock bow of thanks, Elminster said, “That task is not yours.” He lifted his lips in a mirthless grin. “I suspect a few orcs can do it better.”

  “A few orcs?” Sharantyr roared, her voice rising from deep and ragged tones, for all the world as if she were a burly male and not a lithe lady. “Elminster!” That last squeaked word of reproach sounded more like a lady’s pique, and goaded Syluné into peals of tinkling laughter.

  “Yestereve,” Elminster told them in tones of injured innocence, “I approached several orc bands foraging in Daggerdale, and undertook to alert them that a well-provisioned Zhent force was entering the territory. That should make things a little warmer for Fzoul than he anticipated, and rob him of most opportunities to reach Shadowdale ahead of the other Zhent forces, hole up in the woods around Grimstead, and amuse himself by using his spells to harass the good folk of the dale.”

  “All right, El. You’ve been both clever and busy,” Syluné reassured him, her voice soothing. Her next words, however, came out as sharp as the crack of a whip: “But so have we. My friends here grow stiff and tired and hungry. Armies march on Shadowdale from all sides, you said, and have told us of three, so what attack is coming from the south—and what is our duty in dealing with it?”

  Elminster bowed his head again to hide a grin, cleared his throat in apparent embarrassment, and said, “I need ye four to deal with the fourth Zhent attack: the Sword of the South. It’s a band of Sembian mercenaries and the covert Zhentarim agents who hired them. They’ve been assembling in Battledale for a month and more, drawn from all over Sembia and the eastern dales.”

  “They’re going to try to march through the Elven Court woods?” Shar asked, one shapely eyebrow raised. “That’s not a wise tactic for any armed band.”

  The Old Mage shook his head. “Their orders are to take and subdue Mistledale, and without pause press on up the Mistle Trail, to drive into Shadowdale from the south.” He smiled gently. “You will stop them.”

  “I thought we were going to defend Shadowdale,” Belkram said. “You may be able to dance around the Realms with a thought and a wiggle of your hips, but we have to walk … and I don’t feel like running back and forth between two dales, sword in hand, through gods know how many Zhent blackhelms!”

  Elminster held up a quelling hand. “I said I’d come to send ye where ye are most needed. Right now Shadowdale is crowded with frightened troops bustling about. I don’t want them to relax because the heroes have come to town, and I don’t want them in thy way, or ye in theirs. Mistledale is thy battlefield. The defense of Mistledale will be the southern defense of Shadowdale.”

  “How strong is this fourth host?” Belkram asked suspiciously.

  Elminster shrugged. “About seven thousand, when last I counted.”

  “Seven thousand!” Itharr burst out as jaws dropped all round.

  Shar shook her head. “You love us, don’t you?” she murmured.

  El chuckled. “Oh, ye’ll have help. All of Shar’s battle companions, the Knights of Myth Drannor, are in Mistledale already, mustering the Riders.”

  “There are only thirty Riders, perhaps six more if the graybeards who can still walk and breathe at the same time come out of retirement, and another dozen if their sword apprentices ride with them, too,” Syluné said softly, “and barely a dozen Knights, even if all who’ve retired or strayed off come running to Mistledale.”

  El frowned. “And ye, of course … isn’t that battle might enough?”

  “Ah, Old Mage,” Syluné said gently, “you may not have noticed, being old and terribly important and even busier than usual … but I’m not … er, the woman I used to be.”

  El chuckled. “I’ve been spreading stories of the Ghost Witch of Shadowdale these last few months … I think ye’ll find, on a battlefield, that ye’re rather more than ye used to be.”

  Syluné glared at him, her eyes two white flames dancing in the air. “And just what does that mean?”

  “I’ve had half Twilight Hall modifying their best battle spells since the seasons turned,” the old wizard told her. “If it all works, they can cast them simultaneously through ye, so a dozen or more battle magics—which ye can aim—lash out from ye at once.”

  “And the catch?”

  “The power involved will burn ye out from within, leaving thy body only ashes … killing ye.”

  “El, I don’t have—oh. I see. As I’m dead already, I should survive the destruction of whatever body you’re going to give me.”

  El nodded. “It’s waiting for ye in Mistledale,” he said quietly. “Not the last one I’ll give ye if—gods willing—I survive this Time of Troubles.”

  Tears welled up in her phantom eyes, and he added quickly, “Ye’d best get down there speedily. Torm’s been dressing the body—ye—in all sorts of black leather, red evening lace, and fishnet gauze apparel, most evenings, and seating ye in the porch window of the Six Shields to entertain the locals.”

  “Oh he has, has he?” Ghostly eyes flashed. “I think I’ll just slip into this body of mine at an opportune moment and give him the fright of his life!”

  Shar grinned broadly. “May I watch?”

  “No, that’s ‘may we watch?’ ” Belkram corrected her.

  “Of course,” Syluné told them grandly. “This Six Shields place is unfamiliar to me, though …”

  “A cheap rooming house east of Lhuin’s tannery,” El told her in the manner of a pompous guide, “opened recently to house field workers, drovers, and others too cheap to stay at the Hart or the Arms.”

  Shar and the Witch of Shadowdale sniffed in unison. “It sounds like the sort of place where Torm would stay, tight-pockets that he is.”

  “Much as I’d like to watch ye roast Torm on a spit, just to see him wriggle for once, there is some haste,” the Old Mage added. “By sundown, the scouts of the Sword of the South may well reach Galath’s Roost.”

  “How can we possibly reach Mistledale in time, then?” Itharr asked—unwisely, as it turned out.

  Sharantyr gave him a weary look. “He’s going to mass teleport us,” she said grimly. “It always makes me feel sick for hours afterward.” She sighed and put one arm across her bosom and the other over her stomach, bracing herself. “Get on with it, then.”

  “Wait,” Belkram said, brow wrinkling. “We haven’t even—”

  The last, fading thing the Harper saw as he struggled to finish his sentence was Elminster’s cheery grin. Around him the world flashed and changed—into blue, swirling misty emptiness. Next came a sense of falling, for just one wrenching moment, and then they were standing on a bare board floor in a loft lit by two barrel-sized lamps that hung down on dusty chains from the roof beam. Frowning men in armor stood staring down at large maps whose corners were held down by daggers and gauntlets—or looking up at the newcomers in startled consternation, hands going to hilts.

  Belkram and Itharr stood a little behind Sharantyr. Right in front of her was a tall, broad-shouldered and hard-faced man whose steely eyes raked both Harpers for a moment before he took a catlike step forward and crushed her into an embrace.

  “Shar, by the grace of all the gods!”

  The lady rang
er’s shoulders shook for a moment as she clung to him, her drawn sword forgotten, and she knew tears would be bright on her face when she turned to introduce them. Florin Falconhand did not give her the chance.

  “I’ve missed you, little one,” he growled, and as Shar reached up to tousle his unruly hair, he added, “but you’ve found companions on the trail, I see. Who are these two gentlemen you’ve brought?”

  Eyeing the drawn blades crowding in around them, Belkram deemed the moment right. He bent his knee, parted the leathers at his throat to show his silver harp pin, and said, “Belkram and Itharr of the Harpers to fight alongside you, Lord Florin. Elminster sent us.”

  A good-natured grin split the famous ranger’s face, and he reached one long arm around Sharantyr to clasp their forearms. “Be welcome! We have need of swords, good men to wield them … and adventurers brave enough to stand up to Elminster, too!”

  “Pardon, Lord,” Itharr said smoothly, “but shouldn’t that be ‘foolish enough’?”

  There were chuckles from all around the room, and other men thrust forward their hands in welcome. They were accepted.

  Shar tossed her silver blade under the table and put her freed hand on Florin’s cheek to guide him down into a kiss. As their lips touched, she was overheard to be murmuring, “Well, here we go again.…”

  2

  Bodies, Fresh and

  Otherwise

  Mistledale, Flamerule 15

  It was horribly dark and somehow dusty, followed by a whirling moment of wrenching pain that became a red agony in her chest, rising up to choke her. Threads of pain rolled down limbs stiff from disuse to an aching forest of fingertips … and then light and sound suddenly burst and swam all around her. The Witch of Shadowdale found herself blinking back tears.

  She had a body again!

  Fighting an urge to shriek in triumph, Syluné clung to that thought: she had a body again! A body Torm had obviously just finished dressing in a black lace cutaway gown that left her bare there and there and there.… He stood with his back to her, humming a contented ditty as he held up a red silk garter before the lamp and surveyed it critically.