All Shadows Fled

by Greenwood, Ed

  Jhessail dropped into her saddle again a scant moment before the Riders spurred ahead into a grim, silent gallop, knowing they’d not be in time. Far behind them, Merith stood up on his own saddle, saw that strife lay ahead, and reached for his bow.

  Lances leveled, the Riders of Mistledale swept east. “Get out of the road!” Kuthe snarled at merchants who could not hear. “Clear the way!”

  “Kuthe! Halt your men!” Jhessail shouted. “Now!”

  The great helm turned her way, the face within dark with anger. “You have some sort of plan?”

  “Yes,” Jhessail cried, leaning close to him as their mounts thundered along side by side. “Just stop them!”

  Kuthe gave her a long, slow look—and then reached for the horn at his belt.

  After the horn rang out around them, the patrol became a confused mass of dust, rearing horses, and cursing men. Lances rang and rattled off armored shoulders, and Jhessail had to duck hastily to avoid being inadvertently unhorsed.

  “Well, mage?” Kuthe demanded when he could be heard. His eyes were on the last merchants, dying up ahead … and at something moving on the tree-lined road beyond them. Their slayers.

  The leader of the Rider patrol shot her a look. “Well?”

  Jhessail’s mouth was a thin, white-lipped line as she told him shortly, “Back away … Give us room side by side.”

  Kuthe waved one great gauntlet in heavy silence; Illistyl was already guiding her mount forward. Jhessail whispered to her, and they raised their arms together, spread as if in supplication to the sky overhead—and waited.

  In tense silence as the Riders eyed them, they watched the road to the east. “Well?” Kuthe demanded. “Have you seen enough?”

  “Wait until they come out,” Jhessail said, her eyes on the road. “It’d be our death to ride down that firing tunnel, the gods know. Let them come out. If I’m right, they’ll be the Zhents we’re expecting … with orders to ride right on and take Mistledale. They probably killed those merchants just to stop them from warning us.”

  Kuthe nodded as the killers of the merchants rode into view: a band of mounted crossbowmen, clad in armor as dark as that of the Riders, streaming out of the road mouth and fanning across the fields of Treesedge. Around the two sorceresses, men swore at the sight of that armor.

  “Zhent blackhelms, all right,” Kuthe said, “and riding hard to encircle us … sixty of them, or more. What now, Lady?”

  “Keep silence for a breath or two,” Jhessail told him softly, “while we do what we have to. Let no man here ride forward until I give the word. When our first spell goes off, your horses may move by themselves; be ready to hold them back!”

  “Whose place is it to give orders?” a Rider demanded gruffly.

  Jhessail turned on him eyes that were dark and cold, and said, “It will mean death to ride forward. Disobey my suggestion freely, but leave word for your widow first.”

  More than one dry chuckle answered her from the men around, and Kuthe growled, “Right. We wait. Work your magic. Shields up!”

  Crossbow quarrels were already hissing their way, though the range was impossibly long. Ignoring them, Jhessail spread her arms again and began the incantation, Illistyl chanting in unison.

  Abruptly the air in front of the Riders was full of shadowy, moving forms—images that suddenly grew dark and solid; the gleaming black armored backs of Riders on horseback, charging away with lances lowered. More than one mount under the real Riders surged forward to join them, and had to be reined in, hard. The ground shook under the thunder of phantom hooves, and dust rose in a cloud as thirty dark horsemen raced away east.

  “Gods,” the Rider who’d challenged Jhessail whispered, watching the illusory Riders charge away into battle. “They certainly look real.”

  “Aye, but how can ghost Riders kill any Zhents?” Kuthe demanded as Merith Strongbow came up beside him, an arrow ready, and nodded in silent greeting.

  “That’s the next spell,” the elf told him with quiet confidence. “I’ve seen this trick before.” He thrust both bow and arrow into the startled Rider’s hands. “Here—hold this.”

  As Kuthe gaped at him, he raised his own hands and joined in the gestures of the next spell, murmuring something the Rider couldn’t quite hear.

  Then he plucked bow and arrow back from the officer’s hands and stared east, watching as the dust cloud behind the false Riders became a thick, swirling mass of yellow and green—and the two forces crashed together.

  With startled speed, the Zhents plunged through the phantom Riders—into the thick of the yellow-green cloud. And men who rode into that cloud did not come out again.

  “I hate doing that to horses,” Illistyl said, her voice as thin and cold as a knife.

  Merith’s eyes, however, were on those who’d ridden wide. “Jhess!” he snapped urgently. As his wife peered past Kuthe, Merith drew his bowstring back to his chin, angled the ready arrow up into the sky, and loosed.

  Kuthe had never been so close to a spell being cast before. He stiffened and swallowed as one slim and shapely arm brushed his breastplate in an arcane gesture, and a clear, musical voice spoke two distinct words.

  She turned her head and winked at him. Kuthe blinked at her—and when he looked again at the sky, the arrow had already split into a dozen shafts, plummeting down on the hard-riding Zhents in a deadly rain.

  All but two of the invaders fell in that volley. Kuthe glared at the surviving Zhents and snapped, “Orold—take them!” Six of the Riders spurred away without a word, waving their lances as they followed Orold into battle.

  “It feels … unfair, killing men like that,” Jhessail said quietly.

  Kuthe stared at her, and then at the fading yellow cloud where only a few horses still choked and rolled.

  “Lass, lass,” one of the older Riders replied through his snow-white mustache, “there’re still near seven thousand of them, if our scouts be right. When we face all of ‘em, sweeping down on our homes, d’you think they’ll turn their mounts back if we yell ‘unfair’ then? Aye?”

  Another Rider spoke then. “I can even things just a trifle more.”

  Jhessail turned her head to see who’d spoken; the voice had sounded surprisingly old. The Rider guiding his mount toward her wore worn armor that had been recently burnished at the joints to quell creeping rust. The armor was of an older, bulkier design than what Kuthe wore, though most of it matched the ebon gloss of the other Riders’ harnesses. The Rider doffed his helm—and Jhessail stared into the lined face of a very old man.

  “Lead us if you will, Baergil,” Kuthe said quietly.

  “Nay, lad,” the old Rider told him. “My commanding days are done. I know daily just how good I was—I order my cabbages about in the garden, and they heed me not a whit.”

  “Ho, Baergil,” Merith said with a smile, and the old man matched it as his cloudy blue eyes met the elf’s steady gaze. “I remember you.”

  “And I you, Sir Elf,” Baergil replied. “Though it’s been thirty years gone since then.”

  “Baergil led the Riders that many summers ago,” Kuthe told Jhessail, “when I was but a lad. Then he turned to the worship of Tempus, Lord of Battles, and left our ranks.”

  “They’re all dead,” Illistyl told them bleakly; she had never stopped watching the Zhents die. “I guess we’ll not need your spells, priest of the war god.”

  Baergil smiled. “Nay, lass; their deaths’re what I was waiting for. There’s a spell that raises the fallen.…”

  “To do—what?” Jhessail asked quietly.

  “In the hours before dawn,” Baergil said, “if they ride as hard as I’ll bid them, sixty skeletal reavers will ride into Essembra, striking at anyone with drawn weapons —or who hurls spells at them. Those who offer them peace they’ll leave be, but Zhents being Zhents …”

  There was a roar of hard laughter. “Do it!” Illistyl told him delightedly, and the warrior priest nodded, watching Orold and his men return.

>   Then he turned back to them. “That should buy us the time we need,” Baergil said with a certain satisfaction, “to make Galath’s Roost ready to properly welcome Zhent butchers.” The Riders around him laughed again—a chorus of low, quiet sounds that held no humor.

  Jhessail shivered despite herself, and caught Illistyl’s eye. The two of them shared a comforting look as the priest turned away.

  As Merith moved up beside his wife and stretched out a long arm to embrace her, Jhessail felt a pat on her knee—and looked up to see Kuthe wheeling away from her.

  “Well done, Knight,” he said gruffly. “See you at the Roost!” He urged his mount into a canter, and all around Riders spurred their horses after him, heading for the distant trail into the trees that would take them to the Roost … to turn the ruined keep into a deathtrap for Zhentilar blackhelms.

  Merith and Jhessail’s arms were around each other, and their kiss went on until Illistyl looked up at the sky and remarked brightly, “Beautiful weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

  The sky seemed to know this already, though the two Knights beside her didn’t seem to notice—or care. Illistyl sighed and rode away. In the distance, she saw dead men and horses rising in a stiff ring around the black-armored priest. She shivered, shook her head, and rode after the Riders.

  See the Realms and taste true adventure, they’d said. Well, here we go chasing it again—and flashing swords to that!

  3

  The Dead and

  the Living Both Ride

  Essembra, Battledale, early hours of Flamerule 16

  Gostar yawned and backed into another circular walk, keeping his eyes and attention always on the night to the north. As if his shifting had been a signal, his companions did the same. Those who fell asleep on guard duty or were judged careless often swallowed sword blades on the spot, but the long, cold hours made feet ache and limbs stiffen. It was best to keep moving in the last stretch before dawn, when the mists clouded bright armor and played tricks on eye and ear.

  Now, for instance. A low rumble—Gostar could feel it in his jaw more than he could hear it—was rising from the ever-shifting mists ahead. A helmed head down the line inclined to listen; the others had heard it, too.

  The noise was growing louder, becoming a continuous soft thunder, swirling over and around them with the scudding mists … and seeming familiar. He’d heard this sound before. In his saddle, on the rolling plains near Thentia …

  Then he knew what it was, and ice clawed at his heart and throat.

  Gostar shook himself, swallowed, and shouted, “Rorst! Run back to rouse the camp!”

  “And why’d I risk a flogging to do that, now?” Rorst asked in his usual, careless, I’ve-seen-it-all tone.

  “Can’t you hear it?” Gostar waved one gauntleted hand at the mists before them, where the sound had become a continuous choppy thunder. “Those’re horses, man—half a hundred or more, at full gallop!”

  Helmed heads were looking at him all along the line, now—and in the eyes, their whites flashing in the gloom, Gostar saw the grim realization that he was right. Swords gleamed and sang as they were drawn. Rorst took a few lazily shambling steps away from the line just to show that he didn’t take orders from a fellow ranker, and feared nothing besides. Then he broke into a trot.

  A line of fast-plunging horses leapt out of the north mists, like arrows seeking targets. Atop them rode black-armored warriors, drawn swords in hand.

  Gostar yelled in fear and defiance and raised his own sword, whirling it around his head to get the speed he’d need to cleave armor and unhorse a foe. He sprang deftly aside as a charger galloped right at him, then leaned in to strike his blow. It wasn’t until he looked up into eyes that were dead and dark that Gostar knew something was wrong, horribly wrong.

  The face above his was Estard’s … and Estard was up in Mistledale this night, with sixty fellow Zhentilar blades, carving out a claim there for the Sword of the South. Who, then, was this …?

  Bright pain burst through Gostar as Estard’s sweeping blade cut through the light mail under Gostar’s left arm and into the ribs and chest beyond—and the wounded man hung for a long, burning moment on that cruel edge of steel. The world grew dark around him as he flew free, the ground so hard and close and … more hooves struck him as he fell, crushing him into the turf, but Gostar felt them not. Nor anything else, ever again.

  * * * * *

  A raw scream split the night. Swordlord Amglar came awake, its echo ringing painfully between his ears. He’d been dreaming of gentler, softer, and more welcoming sounds, by far.

  “What befalls, by the gods?” he growled at the darkness, feeling for his sword hilt. Horses were thundering through the camp, and the clash and ring of arms rose around him, mingled with shouts—voices he knew.

  They were under attack by a large mounted force!

  Amglar cursed, snatched up sword and shield, and stamped feet into his boots, but wasted no time on clothes. His sword squire was snoring like a contented whale at the far end of the tent, with all their armor racked beyond him. It might as well be a realm away.

  Boots secure, Amglar spat a heartfelt curse and ran for the back of the tent, where the din was less. The attack was from the north … Hillsfar? Who else could muster enough mounted swords to get through the road guard? Elves never fought from the saddle … and even if every farmer in Mistledale could find a horse, scarce more than a handful’d be able to stay on it while swinging a blade!

  Then he was out into the night, and war was all around him—Zhent blackhelm fighting Zhent blackhelm! Amglar stared around for a moment at running, half-naked men, horses plunging and trotting stiffly among them, stiff black-armored riders—stiff? The swordlord’s eyes narrowed.

  He ducked back out of the way of a cursing knot of men being dragged behind pikes buried deep in a rider who did not slow or fall from his saddle. The rider clung to the upswept forecantle with one hand while he swung a futile blade back and forth with the other. The horse struggled on under the weight of them all.

  Undead. The attackers must be their own men, raised and sent back from Mistledale. Amglar stared around at Essembra, cursed with loud feeling, and started a perilous run toward the red-lantern house the mages had taken as their own. He hoped he’d make it there alive … and in time.

  He was still running hard, dodging blackhelms who should be dead and frantic quarrels from his own terrified men, when Ondeler appeared at the close-curtained balcony of the Bold Banners and stared at the battle below. There was no hint yet of dawn, but the torches in their tripods still blazed, and in the dancing radiance they cast, the Zhentarim wizard could see the street was choked with struggling men.

  “Bane’s hand!” Ondeler cursed, amazed and fearful. Who could be attacking them here, in the heart of Essembra? Behind him, a lass appeared on the balcony and gasped. He turned and snapped at her, “My robe! Be quick!”

  Scared eyes met his for a moment, and she was gone. Ondeler turned back to the street, crouching low behind the balcony rail, and watched the carnage below. Swordlord Amglar, still a distance off, ran toward the red-lantern house, and then Ondeler heard anxious breathing at his shoulder.

  “Lord?” the lass whispered.

  He reached out without looking, felt the familiar fabric of his robes, grasped it firmly, and said, “Go now and awaken Myarvuk—the mage with the curling black beard, who came in with me. Bid him come here: Ondeler commands. If he seems unwilling, tell him the seven talons await. Haste, now!”

  “Lord, I will,” she hissed, and was gone.

  Ondeler smiled wryly as he felt for what he’d need. Why was it that ladies of the evening obeyed faster and more willingly than any of the Zhents under him? Perhaps he should take all the women of this house with him, to be his swordcaptains and envoys—if he still had any command at all, after this attack.

  He gave up groping for the secret pockets and rose into a cautious crouch to put the robe on. Once it was around him, his
fingers knew the places where this and that were stored, and came up with them.

  He rose up to his full height, made the pass that touched the two crumbling substances together, and chanted:

  “By dung of bat and sulphur’s reek

  And mystic words I now do speak—

  Ashtyn orthruu angcoug laen—

  Let empty air burst into—flame!”

  As the components dwindled and left his hands empty, one end of the street below obediently erupted in ravening flame, in an explosion that hurled blazing bodies against walls in a gruesome chorus of thuds.

  In the flickering aftermath of the fire, Ondeler could see some armored men fighting on despite the flames rising from their bodies. He felt a chill of fear; how—?

  Undead. Ah, of course. Most were ashes, but a few were horses and men, bare-boned or burning, still moving, fighting.…

  Through them stumbled a man with a drawn sword, who wore only boots and a furious expression. Swordlord Amglar had finally reached the red-lantern house. He was heading for the door beneath Ondeler and glaring up at the balcony as he came.

  “Crimson curtains, wizard! Are you trying to burn all Essembra down, and us with it?”

  “It does seem to work, Swordlord,” Ondeler replied with a serenity he did not feel. “Nice uniform, by the way …”

  Amglar made a certain rude gesture with his sword, but the wizard sneered and raised his hands as if to cast a spell. The Zhentilar snarled and hastened out of view, in under the railing, heading for the door.

  “I am here, Ondeler,” Myarvuk said from the chamber behind the balcony where the wizard stood.

  “Good,” said his Zhentarim master. “Did you bring my envoy with you?”

  “Envoy?”

  “The woman who came for you … Belurastra.”

  “The—?” Wisely, Myarvuk swallowed his astonishment and replied levelly, “She stands beside me, master.”

  “Get her some riding breeches, boots, a dagger—you know,” Ondeler said, eyes still on the street below. “Shell be riding with us.”