All Shadows Fled

by Greenwood, Ed

  It did look rather splendid, but Syluné bent all her attention to making the still unfamiliar body move—pushing against the bed with utmost care to sit up silently, and then leaning forward into a quick barefoot step, slipping her arms around him. Her lips went straight to his ear, and before she kissed its hairy lobe, she murmured into it, “Torm … I’ve come for you! Torm …”

  With a gratifying shriek, Torm leapt into the air, red silk flying. Syluné clung to his trembling limbs and made the leap with him, but the Knight twisted in the air to fling her free and grabbed at his belt dagger. The Witch of Shadowdale put one leg behind her, bounced on it, and lifted her other knee smartly between his, ere she bounded backward onto the bed.

  Lord Torm of Shadowdale, Knight of Myth Drannor and thief of some skill, rose into the air once more, sobbing. His darkening eyes met hers for just a moment—with a look of mingled pain, terror, and disbelief—before he crashed face first to the floor.

  Some minutes later, the figure sprawled on the furs beside the bed stopped moaning and writhing, and asked hesitantly, “Syluné? Is it you, truly?”

  She stood up and walked slowly around the room, kicking experimentally to limber up stiff legs and toes. “It is, Torm … which is why you still live, I suppose.”

  Weakly, the thief on the floor began to chuckle. “Bits of me do. Others I’m not so sure about. I’m sorry, Lady.”

  “Apology accepted, lecherous scum.”

  He laughed openly this time, his whooping breaking off with a catch as the shaking brought him fresh pain. “Ohhh, gods,” he said at last, rolling over. “I’ve not felt this much pain since … well, never mind.”

  “I hope she was worth it,” Syluné said teasingly, and then asked curiously, “Why weren’t you wearing one of your usual flamboyant codpieces?”

  Torm looked hurt. “I wasn’t dressed yet! Can you see me going downstairs in this?” He held his arms wide to fully display the patched and stained cotton undersuit that went under his fighting leathers. “Ladies first,” he added, gesturing at her.

  Syluné put her hands on her hips and gave him a level stare as she gestured, up and down, at herself. “This is your idea of ‘dressed,’ I take it?”

  Torm gave her a sly look from the floor, and rolled up to a sitting position, wincing once. “Well, you hadn’t complained before tonight,” he said, feigning innocence.

  “Yet—as you may just have noticed—I’m doing so now,” Syluné told him calmly Then she snapped, “Take this frippery off me—at once!”

  Torm bounded to his feet with an alacrity that belied the severity of his injury. “My pleasure, Lady Syluné!”

  “I’ll bet,” she said dryly. “Try to keep your hands on the buckles and thongs, now, and when you’re done, I’ll need a neck rub. Hmm—my calves, too. This body is as stiff as old wood!” She struck a pose, pirouetted experimentally, admired herself in the burnished metal looking glass, and rubbed her nose. “You’ve taken some care with my hair,” she said in tones of pleased surprise. “Diligent brushing, at the least. My thanks, Torm.”

  “Lady,” Torm said seriously, reaching out a finger to stroke the silvery fall of her hair, “in all my life I’d never dared touch your hair, or Storm’s, but I always wanted to. It’s … truly beautiful … like spun silver.”

  Syluné laughed lightly and laid a hand on his cheek. “Why, thank you, Torm—this, from the maid-chaser of Shadowdale?”

  “Lady, I meant it,” the thief replied, and bowed. “ ‘Twas an honor caring for your body.” A twinkle crept into his eye. “In fact, if you weren’t so many years my senior …”

  Syluné glared at him, and gestured again at herself. “You were hard at work removing all this saucy stuff, remember?”

  Torm’s gaze dropped—and he discovered the fallen garter. Plucking it up from the floor, he offered it to her mutely. Syluné gave him a withering look, so he shrugged and tossed it over his shoulder. Then he undid her sash, put his hands on her shoulders and spun her around lightly. He stripped her with a speed and expertise that told her he’d done this a time or two before.

  “This bit’s much easier when you’re standing up and—er, with us,” he commented. “Oh, by the way … the stone that lets you occupy this body is implanted here.” He touched the inside of her left arm, just above the elbow. Syluné probed cautiously, and thought she felt the magic stone deep within, alongside the bone.

  “Mystra bless you and keep you, Old Mage,” she breathed, “wherever she is.”

  “What about prayers for me?” Torm asked teasingly, fingers busy undoing the black silk choker he’d put around her throat earlier.

  “You’ll be needing more than I feel capable of giving,” she replied with a chuckle. Then the Witch of Shadowdale reached out, caught hold of his chin, and kissed him firmly, darting her tongue into his mouth.

  When she released him, Torm was smiling a little dazedly. “What was that for?” he asked in pleased tones.

  She put her arms around him, smelly undersuit and all. “Torm, you rogue,” she said feelingly, “do you know how long it’s been since I’ve held someone? Kissed anyone? Tasted anything? Even your mouth is preferable to nothing at all!”

  “Hey!” Torm said in aggrieved tones. “What’s wrong with the taste of my mouth?”

  “Nothing,” she said tartly, spinning away from him, “except that it’s the only taste you’ve got.” She sat down on a chair. “Now, about that neck rub.”

  “If my taste is so bad,” Torm said, delving hurriedly into a wardrobe, “how is it that you’re in my bedchamber, out of a dozen more in this place? Hey?”

  “That can be remedied,” she said, rising.

  Torm caught her wrist and sat her back down. “You’re not going out into the hall like that!”

  “Why not?” She gave him a deadly look. “After what I’ve heard about what you’ve been doing to this body before I got here, it could hardly damage my reputation—or yours—any further! Has Illistyl heard about this?”

  Torm looked pained. “How did you—? Oh. Elminster.”

  She nodded in silent satisfaction. The thief looked at her, found his eyes drawn to meet her own, sighed, reminded himself again that this magnificent creature was a woman old enough to be his great granddam many times over, smiled ruefully, and turned her around to face away from him again. “You wanted a rub,” he said, “and you shall have it. Then you can go down those stairs and fight off the entire Zhent army doe-naked if you want … but you might catch cold before they get here.”

  “Not if all the men of Mistledale give me the sort of hot glances you’ve been throwing my way,” she returned. Torm chuckled and tipped some scented oil out of the bottle he’d taken from the wardrobe, rubbed his palms together, and then laid gentle fingers on her shoulders.

  Syluné stiffened. “What’re y—oh. Ohhh.” A few pleasant minutes later, she asked almost sleepily, “How did you know I love the scent of cloves? Did Elminster tell you?”

  “No,” Torm replied, sounding irritated.

  “How, then?”

  “Lady Syluné,” Torm said carefully, “I am a thief.”

  He had to hold her up to keep her from falling off the chair as she bent over and shook with sudden, helpless laughter.

  * * * * *

  Daggerdale, Flamerule 15

  Valaster’s Stand had thrust lancelike into the eastern Daggerdale sky for an age and more, and bid fair to do so for a long time to come. Long before Valaster had chosen to die there, the stand had been an arrowhead-shaped ridge that rose sharply upward as it ran northwest, to end in a jagged, overhanging point of rock under which many a traveler had camped. Wiser folk kept to the thick stand of shadowtop trees that marched up its back, and so stayed hidden from the eyes of predators.

  The trees on the edge of the rocky point were dead or dying. Their bare branches thrust up into the sky like the gnarled fingers of a dead man, a popular roost for birds of prey. Two large and dusty buzzards sat side by sid
e there now. Many another raptor circled, squalling at the buzzards’ refusal to leave, and then flew off in search of other perches.

  The two dusty birds paid them no heed, for they were deep in conversation.

  “We can’t get back without a mage,” one said in tones that threatened to become a wail.

  “If we find one powerful enough,” the larger buzzard added, “there remains the problem of compelling him to create a way between the planes—and yet keep ourselves safe against his treachery.”

  “To say nothing of the wrath of the elders of the blood if they hold us responsible for opening a way into Shadowhome any mortal can use … can you imagine armies of men in the halls of the castle?”

  “I could tell them it’s all your fault, Atari,” said the larger buzzard, sounding amused.

  “I don’t find this a matter for jesting,” the other raptor said coldly, “even from you.”

  “We’d best begin lurking about cities and towers and the like, looking for wizards and trying to find out just who is mighty, and what interests drive them,” the larger buzzard said. “This may take a long time.”

  “Aren’t they most likely to be found in cities?” Atari responded almost despairingly. “Yinthrim, I don’t know how to look and act in a human city! We won’t be able to learn anything if we’re always running afoul of local laws and customs, and getting attacked!”

  “How to begin, then? We—’ware!”

  A large, dark bird was gliding down out of the high blue sky toward them, headed silently but purposefully for their tree. The buzzards watched it nervously, shifting on their perches. “An eagle?” Atari guessed. “Do they eat buzzards?”

  “Nothing eats buzzards, if I recall old Othortyn’s teachings, except other buzzards,” Yinthrim said tightly, “but if he was wrong …”

  The eagle circled the tree, regarding them both with dark and knowing eyes. “Is this all you’ve managed to do?” it asked coldly. “Take bird-shape and sit around on dead trees feeling sorry for yourselves?”

  “Ahorga?” Atari gasped.

  “Son of Yerga,” the eagle responded calmly as it came to rest, wings flapping, between them.

  “We were just discussing—”

  “I know; it’s how I knew you. Is this all you’ve done—flee into the wilderlands and then sit and talk?”

  “Well, no—” Atari protested, but Yinthrim interrupted.

  “That’s a fair summation of our doings, yes,” he said. “I’d rather tarry now and plan wisely than charge into one blundering battle after another and awaken the attention of the Red Wizards, these Zhentarim, and Elminster’s friends.”

  The eagle nodded. “Fair enough. Have you come to any conclusions as to what to do—as opposed to what not to do?”

  “One question,” Atari said hurriedly. “How many more of us came through with the sword and … survived?”

  “None I know of, but others of the blood seem to have found their own, separate ways into Faerûn.”

  “Will any of them join with us,” Atari asked eagerly, “in hunting down the three violators of the castle? Or the Great Foe?”

  Ahorga turned a cold and glittering eye on the younger Shadowmaster. “Hot for revenge, are you? None of them—nor will I.”

  “What?”

  Ahorga turned to see if the silent Yinthrim was as shocked as Atari, but the larger buzzard merely shrugged and said calmly, “Say on.”

  Ahorga nodded. “Rushing into battle here is a very good way to get slain. They’d no doubt rather see what Faerûn has to offer before getting themselves destroyed … and so should you.”

  He looked back at Atari. “Go after the three rangers if you must—you’re likely to find them and the Great Foe in and around Shadowdale, southeast of here—but you’d better gather some rings and wands and suchlike that wizards here use to store battle magic … you’ll need such power to take even those three. You’d best get some experience in impersonating mortals of Faerûn first … unless you like being burned, lashed, and transformed against your will by frightened wizards!”

  “You make it sound as if every mage of this world can dispose of us with a wave of his hand,” Atari said bitterly.

  “If you sneer at them and rush into battle with them heedless of what might befall,” Ahorga told him, taking flight with a sudden, powerful wingbeat that almost tumbled them from the tree, “that’s exactly what may happen.” He circled around them. “Go softly, and make surprise your best weapon.”

  “Will we see you again?” Yinthrim asked.

  “If you stay alive, almost certainly,” the senior Shadowmaster said. “Remember, an ambush is your best tactic, and against Elminster, it’s your only tactic.”

  “We’ll practice ambushes, then,” Yinthrim promised grimly. “The Realms around here, I think, are suddenly going to become much more dangerous.”

  “Now that sounds like a son of Malaug speaking,” Ahorga said approvingly. Without a farewell, he flew off southwest.

  Atari watched him go, and then said in a small voice, “Are mortal mages really that dangerous?”

  “No,” Yinthrim assured him. “He was just telling us that overconfidence is.”

  “Words to live by? Hmmph,” Atari said, and turned one wing into a tentacle long enough to make a rude gesture into the southwest. Yinthrim chuckled and flew from the branch.

  “Where are you going?” Atari asked in sudden alarm.

  “I’m going to practice ambushing something—anything,” his fellow Malaugrym replied. “I’m hungry.”

  * * * * *

  Verdant farms stretched away on both sides of the road, which ran like a sword blade down the length of Mistledale. Along the backs of those prosperous steadings stood the unbroken green wall of the encircling Elven Court woods. On this bright morning Mistledale was a beautiful place to ride, with a good mount moving strongly beneath the saddle—even if the rider rode in the midst of a solid ring of ebon-armored warriors, who took care to keep their armored forms between her and any possible attack.

  For the third time, Jhessail Silvertree lost sight of everything but moving black-armored bulks and a forest of lances. She studied the small circle of blue sky visible above her—all she could see of the world around—sighed, and decided she’d had about enough. From the mutterings behind her, she could tell that her apprentice, Illistyl, whose tongue was apt to be sharper than that of almost anyone else, was clinging to her temper with grim talons. Jhessail smiled tightly, thanked Torm for his work in outfitting her with riding breeches—though her lack of armor was why the Riders were treating her this way—and swung her legs suddenly up underneath her.

  She heard a startled, wordless exclamation from a Rider on her right as she spread her hands for balance and stood up on her saddle. She had time for a good look around before the Riders on either side of her were extending their lances around her like the bars of an upturned portcullis and crying out:

  “Lady, get down!”

  “Catch hold of my lance!”

  “Careful, Lady!”

  She folded her arms across her breast and waited for them to fall silent—and soon enough, uncertainly, they did. “Thank you for your kind concern, Gentlesirs,” she said as the horses slowed to a rather jarring trot, “but both Illistyl and I find it rather hard to do any scouting or become familiar with the land around us—land you gallants already know well, but which we’ve seen only once or twice in passing—through a solid wall of plate armor.”

  “That’s just it,” the leader of the patrol rumbled, his deep voice sounding almost scandalized. “You wear no armor! What if a Zhent arrow came from the trees? How could we shield you better than we have been?”

  “Kuthe,” Jhessail said soothingly, “ ‘tis not your diligence or skills I reproach, but my lack of any good way to see around or through all of you. I’m saving my one ‘long eyes’ spell for any spying we need do in the forest. I know the risks of riding to war; I’ve done it before, remember.”


  “But to expose yourself needlessly,” Kuthe growled, “is foolish, Lady.”

  “To a vigilant guard of his homeland, yes,” Jhessail said, still standing on her saddle, “but I am an adventuress. One who plays with spells. An explorer of baatezu-haunted Myth Drannor. Wedded to an elf, remember? I’ve done far more crazed things in my life than riding out without armor, I assure you.”

  “But the little lass—” Kuthe said, gesturing helplessly.

  “Call me that again, ironhead,” Illistyl advised him sharply, “and you’ll be chasing your teeth around the inside of that great helm of yours.”

  There were guffaws from the Riders, but one of them cut through the chorus of mirth. “Lone rider behind!”

  Heads snapped around, and Jhessail turned, smiled, and announced, “It’s Lord Merith. The reinforcements Elminster promised us must have arrived.”

  “Reinforcements?” Kuthe rumbled, looking up at her. “We’ve heard nothing of this … How many, Lady?”

  “Four,” she told him sweetly, and there were more guffaws. Illistyl was sure she heard an angry snort as Kuthe’s helm swung away from them, but a moment later Jhessail snapped, “Ahead—at Treesedge! Look!”

  The eastern end of Mistledale, where the flanking arms of the forest met to form a narrow green tunnel around the road to the Standing Stone, had always been called Treesedge. The spot was marked by a covered well and the crumbling rampart of a tiny keep—well known to Riders on patrol who’d sheltered from downpours under its remnants. It was a beautiful spot to spend a night, but a bit lonely to be a grave site.

  It seemed likely, however, that men were going to be buried there now. Crossbow quarrels were humming down the road from the east, raking the rear of a hard-riding band of merchants on lathered, stumbling horses fleeing west into Mistledale.

  The strength of the merchant band was dwindling steadily. The bolts found easy targets. As Jhessail watched, a fat merchant threw up his hands with a strangled wail and pitched from his saddle, choking on the quarrel that stood out of his throat. On the other side of the road, a horse’s head flopped and swung—and a breath later both horse and rider crashed and rolled in the dust, collapsing into the long silence of death.