All Shadows Fled

by Greenwood, Ed

  “Lord?” Belurastra asked in a low, cautious voice, as the apprentice mage hurried away.

  “Aye, envoy?”

  “I-I am unused to war. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I am,” Ondeler said flatly, watching a dozen men-at-arms hacking undead limb from limb across the street. An attacker rode toward them, and the wizard swept a stone from another hidden pocket, whispered a word over it, and held it out to make an intricate gesture.

  An instant later, a boulder the size of a small cottage appeared above the undead mount and rider and crashed to the cobbles, crushing them both into a tangled, bloody mass. Ondeler nodded in satisfaction. “Another fireball may not be necessary,” he announced.

  “That’s good news, wizard,” the sour voice of Swordlord Amglar grunted from the room behind. “Your last fire spell sent at least seven of our swords to their graves … and a few more bid fair to join them before the day is full.”

  “Their surviving swordbrothers might just be able to deal with a few zombies,” Ondeler said sarcastically. “Weight of numbers and all that.”

  Amglar ignored this, refusing to rise to the challenge. It was not the first time this arrogant Zhentarim had likened loyal troops of Zhentil Keep to pitiful inferiors not able to match wits or swords with the walking dead. He wondered idly if Ondeler would have dared to act thus if he’d known that Amglar was under orders to report regularly to Draethe, steward of the Inner Circle, on the wizard’s performance. Well, no matter; one such report was soon going to be the last, featuring the sorrowful news that Ondeler’s own incompetence had brought about his death in battle. Amglar had been considering elegant ways of wording that missive for some time now.

  But enough; it was time to play the stone-skulled soldier again. “I’ve ordered all the troops awakened, fed, and made ready to march,” he said heavily. “As soon as the last undead ones are hewn down and burned, we go north. They’re probably laughing in Mistledale now, thinking they’ve the whole day to dig in and await us … I’d like to take most of that preparation time away from them.”

  “All the troops?” Ondeler turned, raising an eyebrow. “Even”—he gestured expressively at the boudoir around them, taking in the entire red-lantern house in his meaning—“the rest of the magelings?”

  Amglar set his jaw. “The whole host,” he said flatly, and held up his sword hilt, the black hand of Bane gleaming in obsidian on the pommel, in silent reminder that he held overall command of the Sword of the South, supreme even in dealings with Ondeler.

  The wizard shrugged. “I am ready, as always.” As Myarvuk returned with a bundle of clothing, his master said coldly, “Rouse the ‘prentices in as much haste as is seemly. Our swordlord is impatient to find other battlefields than this town.”

  Myarvuk nodded in silence and withdrew, leaving Lady Belurastra curiously eyeing the belt, boots, breeches, and tunic.

  “Put them on,” Ondeler ordered her as Belurastra stood stroking one of the smooth-carved balls that surmounted her wooden bedposts. She wore a slightly bewildered expression, and made no move to take up the small sheathed dagger that lay atop the heap.

  “If you ride nude,” Ondeler told her coldly, “you’ll be raw before the sun is bright, and of no use to me.”

  Belurastra raised large, dark eyes to meet his and asked, “Lord, you are determined to do this?”

  “Of course—and if I must tell you again, young Landras of my ‘prentices will have the use of your backside to practice his firewhip spell tonight.”

  The lady escort sighed—it was almost a shiver—and said, “Very well,” in a small voice as she undid the lace and let her shift fall to the floor. Ondeler watched it form a puddle of cloth around her feet and turned his head away in satisfaction to glare at the swordlord once more.

  Amglar had raised his own blade as if to stare at its edge critically, but the wizard saw his gaze dart to the woman, and smiled. Brains in their codpieces, all of these swordswingers. ‘Twas a pity that they were needed at all, to hold what the wizards of the keep won.…

  The swordlord was a veteran soldier. After that first glance to see what she was doing, he kept his gaze resolutely away from Belurastra until it was too late.

  Smoothly, the most beautiful woman in Battledale, senior escort of the Bold Banners house, twisted and pulled on the wooden bedpost ball. It came away, and she reached into the hollow interior beneath it and snatched forth a slim poniard. Tossing the ball on the rumpled bed, she used her freed hand to strip away a wax-sealed sheath from the weapon as she raised it.

  In the lamplight, a dark green liquid gleamed on the needle-slim steel. Something—perhaps a momentary flash of reflection—alerted the wizard, and he whirled about to face Belurastra.

  “I regret,” she said firmly as she plunged the poisoned blade into his right eye, “that I cannot accept the position of envoy to any Zhentarim wizard!”

  As she jerked the blade free, the swordlord leapt at her. Ignoring Ondeler’s crumpling body, he caught her wrist in steely fingers before she could turn the blade on herself.

  The deadly poniard hung bloodily just above her bare breast for a perilous moment as they strained against each other—and then the Zhentilar twisted and yanked. Belurastra sobbed in helpless pain, and the blade spun to the floor. It struck the floorboards and stood quivering there.

  “Poisoned, Lady?” Amglar asked in low tones. “Bravely done—but to throw your life after his would be a waste … a foolish waste.” He released her wrist, and the nude woman took a smooth step back.

  “You’ll not slay me?” she asked, rubbing her wrist.

  The Zhentilar officer shook his head. “Nay, Lady, if you agree not to bury that little fang in me—though you’ll forgive me if I neglect to mention your name or heroic deed in my reports. Best hide that blade after we’re gone, somewhere that doesn’t tie it to you. And neither of us speaks of this, or remembers it, for the rest of our days.”

  The lady escort’s eyes widened in sudden hope.

  Amglar regarded her gravely. “Well? Have we agreement?”

  “We do,” Belurastra said, eyes bright with unshed, grateful tears.

  He smiled. The heels of his boots clicked together. “As to your query: slay you? Nay; I salute you. You’ve done something none of us dared to … and freed us of his idiocies just when we could no longer afford them.”

  A smile flickered across her face. Amglar realized it was because of his elaborate dignity—the boots he’d clicked together were all he wore. He grinned back at her, and said, “If you’re so adverse to wearing breeches an’ all, I’ll see if they’ll fit me.”

  Myarvuk came bustling in a few breaths later and looked sharply down at the body sprawled facedown on the floor, blood pooled about its head.

  Amglar, resplendent in too short breeches, said briefly, “Spell went wrong. You’re spellmaster of this sword now.”

  Myarvuk brightened. Then his eyes narrowed and he took a quick pace back, out of the swordlord’s reach. “How can I be sure your next report to the steward won’t contain a note of how I treacherously slew my master? I think I must know where we both stand … or if I must ensure that I’m very soon the only one still standing.” He raised one hand threateningly, wriggling his fingers in a pantomime of spellcasting.

  Amglar shrugged. “Save your spells for the foe, boy. Even if I did report that you killed Ondeler, ‘twould not paint you ill in their eyes. You know that. Rest assured my reports won’t say you had any part of it, unless you want me to write thus. Now stop prancing about trying to impress me, an’ see what you can salvage of this carrion’s”—he nudged the dead wizard with his foot—“magic, for your own use.”

  Myarvuk bent to his task eagerly, but stiffened a few breaths later when Amglar growled, “Just one other matter, Spellmaster. You don’t need an envoy, an’ Battledale doesn’t need its best lady escort slain. If we are to have a deal, she stays here, unhurt—your witness, if you ever need one, that you weren�
�t anywhere near when Ondeler so unfortunately left us.”

  Myarvuk nodded and shrugged. “No argument here, Lord.” He bent gingerly to the body. “I don’t suppose you—?”

  “Nay, boy. Loot your own bodies … an’ don’t be all day about it. The Sword of the South rides out of Essembra as soon as it’s light enough to see full quarrel range ahead. There’ll be no scouting and creeping about, either. We ride looking for battle. Someone in Mistledale seems to want death, and I mean to bring it to him!”

  * * * * *

  Ashabenford, Mistledale, Flamerule 16

  “Clever battle strategies?” Florin asked, wrinkling his brow. “What clever battle strategies, Torm, do you think a force of seventy—twenty of whom are untrained farmers—can essay on the field? Against seven thousand?”

  The thief shrugged. “The mighty battle mastery of gallant Florin Falconhand is a legend from the Dragon Reach to the Storm Horns, and shiny-eyed maidens await, breathless, for whatever Florin may have up his—”

  “Don’t push it, Torm,” Florin said dryly, and snapped his visor down. His next words boomed hollowly from inside his fearsome great helm. “Armed with my reputation, I’m sure we can take the field with sixty-nine rather than seventy.”

  As the Knights around them chuckled, the ranger stood tall in his stirrups and waved his blade. “Ride out!”

  The cry was echoed by the captain of the Riders, and all the horses surged forward eagerly. They were so few that the road took them easily.

  More than one watching villager shook his head in disbelief at the calm manner of Mistledale’s defenders. One of the riders—the woman with silver hair, who’d sat asleep and nearly naked in the window of the Six Shields several nights running—even laughed merrily at something the thief said to her. The three rangers riding easily behind her exchanged glances and smiles, and spurred their horses to pass her by, giving the watching folk of Ashabenford cheerful waves.

  The villagers were not heartened.

  One spat into the dust of the road and rumbled, “A handful against thousands! We’d best be packing the night through and try for Cormyr, I guess.…”

  “There’s no safe place to ride to,” the woman standing beside him said quietly. “I’ll be staying on. They’ll cut me down in my own fields, to be sure, but at least I’ll die at home, on my own land, an’ I’ll not have run from anyone.”

  “Don’t be daft! You want to die screaming, with half a dozen Zhent blackhelms laughing over you?”

  “Nay, but the gods don’t seem to care what I want—an’ I don’t even know the road to Cormyr. This is as good a place to die as any.”

  “A thousand warriors, and a thousand more, and many more besides, that merchant said,” another villager said softly. “The Riders’ll all be slain, sure. Yet hear them laugh!”

  “Fools,” the first villager grunted. “I’m off to pack. Who’s with me?”

  “I’ll ride to Cormyr with you,” said another. “Even if the gods themselves took the field with our Riders an’ these Knights of Myth Drannor, there’s no hope they’ll win against so many.”

  There were many silent nods at these words, and the villagers sighed and turned away from the road. In the distance, the riders were little more than tiny moving dots now.

  The war band left Ashabenford behind in a few breaths, riding easily east down the dale. The morning was chilly but clear, and as Florin looked around at his battle companions and the tranquil, sun-splashed farms on either side, he was happy. Much blood lay ahead—perhaps the ending of all their bright days—and yet he was doing what needed to be done, and folk needed him to do it. What more can anyone ask than to be needed and wanted and free to answer the call?

  The captain was guiding her mount closer to his; Florin sidestepped his charger to meet her. “Aye, Lady?”

  Captain Nelyssa’s gray-green eyes met his, and her thin lips relaxed into a rueful smile. “I fret still, Florin. I know what we must do, and yet, to ride away and leave Ashabenford with not a sword to defend it … What if a dozen of them—nay, three of them, with ready blades—sneak past us through the woods? Who will defend the old men and maids then?”

  “Harpers, Lady of Chauntea,” Florin told her gravely. “Almost twenty of them, come to us from Twilight Hall in Berdusk with all the magic Lady Cylyria can spare. They will fight to hold Ashabenford even if we fall—and they carry the means to farspeak Twilight Hall and call on swift spell aid.”

  “Aye.” The lady paladin looked troubled. “And spells themselves have become chancy things of late.”

  “Not all spells,” Syluné put in as she rode on Florin’s other side, “else I’d not be here now.”

  “And you are very much here,” Torm purred from the saddle beside her.

  “Stow it, clever tongue,” growled the fat priest Rathan, who rode on the thief’s other side, saddle creaking under his weight. “Ye’re worse than a boar in heat!”

  Torm favored his best friend with a complicated gesture that had nothing to do with casting spells.

  “Tymora forgive ye,” the priest said heavily, crossing his arms disapprovingly across his ample girth, “but I do not. Seven nights of abstinence shall be thy penance, I vow!”

  “You’ll have to chain me somewhere to manage that—and, of course, catch me first,” Torm told him mockingly, ducking his horse smoothly around behind Syluné’s mount.

  Rathan sighed and waved at him in mock dismissal.

  The captain of the Riders watched with interest. “Can yon thief run at any speed?” she asked Florin.

  “Watch him during the battle,” Florin told her dryly. “There’re few folk—even winged things—that can keep up with his retreat.”

  In reply to this, Torm treated the ranger to an even more intricate gesture. Nelyssa’s eyebrows rose. “Droll fellow … did he succeed at thieving by outrunning guards?”

  “No,” Florin told her, not quite smiling. “Just by staying alive this long. And he did that by outrunning husbands.”

  Nelyssa rolled her eyes. “I can see we’re going to have to watch ourselves,” she said sarcastically.

  Torm turned in his saddle, winked at her, and then leered at the Shield of Chauntea until she curtly ordered to him to scout ahead.

  Laughing, Torm waved and galloped away.

  “I’d best go after him to keep him out of trouble,” Sharantyr said to Belkram and Itharr. “Come with me?”

  “Of course, Shar,” they said together, and the three horses leapt ahead as one.

  Syluné watched the three rangers pull away and sighed. “I’ve grown used to them,” she told Florin. “See you at the battle.” She urged her mount into a canter.

  “We’re only going to Swords Creek!” Florin said in amused protest. “Torm’s probably reached it by now!”

  “All the more reason for my being there in haste,” Syluné told him severely. “The less time I give him on his own, the less I’ll have to patch or set right!” And she was gone, galloping hard through the black-armored ranks of the Riders. Some of them amusedly watched her go; others cast appreciative glances at the silver hair that streamed out behind her as she crouched low over her horse’s neck.

  “Are your Knights always this pranksome?” Captain Nelyssa Shendean asked Florin quietly, visions of chaos on the battlefield rising before her eyes … chaos that could kill them all.

  Florin gave the Shield of Chauntea a smile that had cold steel in it. “Usually far worse than this,” he told her. “They’re taking it gently so as not to upset you, I’d say.”

  Nelyssa sighed—and then her eyes widened in horror as she realized he wasn’t jesting. Her hand went to the electrum earth pendant around her neck and brought it to her lips. “Mother Chauntea, preserve and shield us,” she murmured feelingly.

  An instant later, the ground rumbled under the hooves of the hurrying horses, rocking them all. As startled men cursed and hauled at their reins around her, Nelyssa looked around at Mistledale with a sudden, d
azzling smile. Then she stood up in her stirrups, whooped, drew her sword, swung it in a wild, flashing salute to the sun overhead, and galloped off toward Swords Creek in tearing haste, scattering astonished Riders in all directions.

  Florin met Rathan’s gaze. He took in the priest’s eloquently raised eyebrows, and shrugged. “We seem to have that effect on folks,” he observed. “Tymora should be happy.”

  “Oh, she is,” Rathan told him. “Wherever we go, the entire Realms around seems to be plunged into taking wild chances.”

  “I’ve noticed that,” Florin said in dry tones. “It’s not a state of affairs to everyone’s taste.”

  The stout priest of Tymora shrugged in his turn. “Their loss,” he said piously, “and Faerûn’s gain. May Tymora smile upon ye in the battle, Florin.”

  “And upon thee, stout heart,” Florin told him. Rathan looked sharply at the ranger’s innocent smile, and found it not quite innocent enough. He snorted and spurred away, leaving Florin alone with the Riders of Mistledale.

  The ranger caught a few questioning looks from the black-armored armsmen around him, and smiled. “Easy, lads. There’s no need to rush into our graves. The gods wait for us all.”

  “There’re going to be gods at this battle?” one of the Riders asked fearfully.

  “Now, lad, let’s not get our hopes up,” an older Rider said with a grin. “You’ve got to save some excitement for your next battle!”

  The younger Rider swallowed. “If I live to see another one,” he whispered, “I’ll begin to worry about such things, Ostyn.”

  “That’s the spirit!” the older Rider told him. “Cast your worries aside, and ride on into battle!”

  The young Rider looked at him with a very white face and said nothing.

  “Keep track of kills, shall we, lad?” Ostyn proposed.

  “See which of us can slay the most Zhents?”

  The younger Rider stared at him for a moment—and then fainted dead away, his eyes rolling up as he slid limply from his saddle.