Kuthe grunted his agreement and turned away. “No cooking fires until the tents are up!” he bellowed, “and don’t drop those barrels of beer or I’ll leave you to face the men who have to go thirsty!”
“Noisy, isn’t he?” Torm muttered, critically inspecting the wicked-looking point he’d whittled on the end of one stake.
“A paragon of authority,” Rathan grunted, taking a swig from his belt flask. “I’ve no quarrel if he’s as much in evidence when we start hacking at each other in the mud and the blood.” He took another pull at the flask, which gurgled.
Torm looked up at the sound. “Hey! Give that here,” he suggested, extending a hand.
“What’s this?” Kuthe growled, striding past. “Drinking?” His eyes flashed.
“He sees the flask and instantly knows what we’re doing!” Torm gasped in mock fear. “Can no man stand against this tower of perception?”
“I fear not,” Rathan growled. “He makes my boots quake, and me in them. Wits as keen as a sword blade—and tongue sharper, too!” Both Knights threw up their hands as if in awe and cowered, wailing.
“Bah!” the Rider officer snarled, and turned away. “Adventurers!”
“Bah!” Torm called after him, his mimicry perfect. “Stiff-necked local constabulary!”
Kuthe stiffened as more than one of the Riders around them chuckled, but did not turn around. After a moment, he strode on.
“Hind end of a blind boar,” Torm muttered conversationally as they moved to the next stake.
“Torm’s entertaining himself as usual, I see,” Sharantyr observed to Syluné as they worked on their own stakes not far away.
The Witch of Shadowdale grinned. “He doesn’t know it yet, but I volunteered him for digging the privies.”
Sharantyr sighed. “You use the ladies’ first, then. I’ve no wish to be the one who tries out his latest collection of ‘humorous’ traps.”
“Does he do that to the pit for the men, too?” Itharr asked, looking up from the fire pit he and Belkram were digging. Sharantyr looked over at him and nodded. “Ah, thanks for the warning,” the Harper grunted, and knelt to begin lining the pit with stones.
A pair of men in black armor emblazoned with the white horse of Mistledale approached with two large, rope-wrapped canvas bundles. “Your tent,” the Riders told Itharr, “and one for the ladies.”
“One is all well need,” Sharantyr said serenely, moving to the last unsharpened stake. “I’m used to the snores of these two by now.”
The Rider raised his eyebrows and looked her up and down. Sharantyr raised her own eyebrows in reply, and said coolly, “I’m an adventurer, remember?”
The man rolled his eyes and turned away, face expressionless behind his bristling mustache. His companion growled “Lucky dogs” quite distinctly as they went on down the line of stakes.
“If you knew,” Belkram said to the Riders’ backs. “If you only knew.”
“I heard that,” Syluné said warningly, and both Harpers looked up at her with such looks of bewildered innocence that she giggled.
Sharantyr puzzled out how the ropes were tangled, and got the tent unrolled. She hummed a merry tune as she laid it out, shaking her head to clear her nostrils of the strong—and expected—reek of mildew. Such things were always put away damp. She critically surveyed the forest-green tent and its white horse blazon. “Does someone in the dale run a camp for bored Sembian nobles?”
“Aye,” Belkram told her as the two Harpers came to join her, expertly plucking the poles out of the heart of the rumpled canvas. “But they’re under the misapprehension that they’re just housing the short-coin laborers who arrive each harvest to help get the crop off the fields … it’s not until they see their hired help at work in the fields that they realize how many bored Sembian nobles they’re carrying.”
Sharantyr chuckled at that as Belkram held the tent up with one pole, and Itharr crawled inside to raise it from within. “I could get used to having both of you gallant blades around,” she said affectionately, fielding the tangle of tent rope that Syluné tossed to her.
“Just two of us? Is that enough to keep up with you?” Belkram asked with a grin.
“On some mornings,” Sharantyr said, thrusting over his head the emptied sack that had held the tent pegs. “On some mornings.”
“Mmphffh,” he replied firmly.
“Exactly what I was going to say,” Itharr agreed, head emerging from the half-raised tent. “Mmphffh.”
Sharantyr and Syluné sighed, smiled, and shook their heads in unison.
“Get him a bag, too,” Torm suggested, pointing at Itharr as he walked past. “Me, too, and Rathan. After all, you know what they say—all men’re the same with a bag over—”
“Enough, Torm!” Syluné said, and snapped her fingers. The thief vanished in midstep, and they heard his surprised “Hoy!” of protest from the far end of the camp as he reappeared, looked around, and started back toward them.
“Poor Torm,” Sharantyr said, watching him. “I wonder if he’ll ever grow into dignity and polite manners? I suppose he must grow up someday.”
“For some of us,” Syluné observed serenely, “it’s a long walk.”
* * * * *
Battledale, Flamerule 16
There was a sudden flash of emerald radiance from the empty saddle ahead, and Swordlord Amglar stiffened, hand going to the hilt of his sword—just in case.
Spellmaster Myarvuk rode ahead of the hitherto unladen horse, the mount under him linked to it by a long lead. Now he was twisting around to see what had befallen, clinging to his saddle in an ungainly attempt not to fall off. Amglar watched him in grim amusement. These wizards all rode with the grace and balance of lumpy sacks of feed—and if the expression on Myarvuk’s face was any guide, about as much comfort.
As both men stared at the green light pulsing and growing stronger in the saddle, Amglar watched the Zhentarim mage’s tense face … until, suddenly, he knew the new thing he was seeing there: fear.
A second empty-saddled horse pulled its lead free and galloped off to the right. The swordlord’s gaze darted to it, but no radiance or other sign of magic appeared. If the gods smiled, perhaps there’d only be one high Zhentarim joining them.
Of course, given what utter ice-hearted bastards all powerful mages of the Black Network were, one was more than enough.
The emerald light had built into the shape of a seated man now, and the swordlord sighed amid the endless thunder of hooves. The rest of his time with the Sword of the South was not going to be enjoyable—and might well encompass the rest of his life, given the ruthless and sensitive nature of senior Zhentarim.
The green radiance flashed and faded, revealing a richly cloaked man who sat his saddle as if he’d always been there—and was already looking grimly about, his face as black as old night.
At least this one could ride. Amglar forced a grim half smile onto his own face as the Zhent wizard turned to look behind him.
“For the glory of Zhentil Keep,” the swordlord said in formal welcome. The wizard merely nodded curtly and turned his head away. Oh, joy. Getting this one to take the slightest notice of orders was going to be nigh impossible. Best start wading into the blood now, then. Amglar reined his horse in beside the galloping wizard.
“Lord Manshoon sends his greetings, Spellmaster Thuldoum,” Amglar said loudly, keeping his voice calm and unhurried. Young Myarvuk had lost his title, of course, the moment his superior here had arrived.
“Give me his message,” Thuldoum said in bored tones, extending a gloved hand. “I do hope to find it still sealed.”
“No message,” Amglar returned calmly as they thundered on up the road toward the Standing Stone. “Manshoon farspoke me, and bade me pass on his feelings.” If this warning had no effect, things were going to be a royal muddle from now on.
“I see,” the senior Zhentarim replied in tones of clear disbelief. Amglar shrugged, letting the man see his gesture. Of course, mo
st Zhentarim would see such nonchalance as the bravado of a fool, not the confidence of a man secure in his power. He was just going to have to educate this one differently.
“Myarvuk,” the new arrival snapped grimly, obviously short on patience, “Baedelkar will not be joining us. Your duties will now include his.”
The younger Zhentarim nodded in expressionless silence; Amglar knew he was wondering if this cheerful newcomer had been the cause of Baedelkar’s disappearance—and if one Myarvuk would be the next wizard to drop out of sight forever when Nentor Thuldoum grew displeased.
He’d never worked with the man before, but knew that Thuldoum had been deadly in battle while riding out of the Citadel of the Raven against brigands, Thentian freebands, and all manner of goblinkin and monsters of Thar. Later the senior Zhentarim had come to Zhentil Keep to train battle mages for the Network; “Dull Doom” he’d been to his apprentices, due to his dry, studious manner and the short, ruthless temper it concealed. Not a man to cross. Nonetheless, Myarvuk, son of Thaelon, was going to do just that. Starting, in a small way, now.
“What was Baedelkar’s fate?” Myarvuk asked, with the most casual ‘I’d better know’ tone he could muster.
“Dead,” Nentor said shortly, “slain in his bed by”—he shrugged to indicate that his next words were a guess—“something he must have tried to summon.” His mouth shut like a falling portcullis, making it plain that no more would be forthcoming about his absent apprentice. Then he turned his head to glare at Amglar again.
“Swordlord,” he snapped, making it sound as if he’d been asking for it repeatedly and was growing impatient, “I await your report of the doings of the Sword thus far. Come up here where I can see you.”
Amglar inclined his head in slow, silent acquiescence, and spurred his mount forward. Yes, it was going to be a long road to Shadowdale.…
5
Glorious Victories Are
Elusive Things
Tower of Ashaba, Shadowdale, Flamerule 16
“Snug, my lord?” Shaerl asked, tightening the straps that held the plates around Mourngrym’s upper thighs.
“Keep your fingers on the buckles,” the lord of Shadowdale told his wife with an affectionate grin, reaching down to tousle her hair. They were alone in their bedchamber in the Tower of Ashaba, hiding Mourngrym’s wounds from the wagging tongues of rumor. He didn’t want half of Shadowdale fleeing because they’d heard he was dead.
It had been a very near thing. Without Elminster, Storm, or Syluné to hand, with the temples already crammed to the rafters with wounded, and with Lhaeo busy ransacking the heavily trapped cellars of Elminster’s Tower in search of healing potions and weapons, there were few people left in the dale who could deal with wounds caused by poisoned blades. A white-faced Shaerl had spent a long evening cutting open her lord, tears and his blood mingling together on her face as she brushed errant locks of hair out of her eyes and bent repeatedly to her grisly task.
Mourngrym winced as she forced a sideplate over the quilted undertunic on his ribs, which bulged where they shouldn’t because of the bandages beneath. “Sorry, Mourn,” she muttered, feeling his muscles tighten under her hands.
The lord of Shadowdale let out a sigh. “Don’t be. Without you I’d be dead right now, and the dale fallen.”
Shaerl made a rude noise. “Such dramatics! Do you think I’d flee or put a dagger in my heart if you died, when your killers and those who sent them will come marching into my reach in a few days?”
Mourngrym smiled and put out a hand—the one without the gauntlet—to the side of her face, tilting her jaw up so that he could kiss her.
His wife, the fiery temper of her noble Rowanmantle upbringing lurking not far behind her eyes, kissed him with ardent passion, locking her fingers in his hair to ensure that this wouldn’t be a brief brush of lips.
“Try not to get carved up this time,” she chided him when she released him at last. “I don’t want to spend another night like yestereve.”
“As the dancer said to the high priest,” Mourngrym murmured. Shaerl sighed at this, her lord’s habit of lame Waterdhavian humor, and handed him his helm, sword, and remaining gauntlet.
Nodding in acknowledgment, the lord of Shadowdale said, “Now I really must get to horse.” He strode away—but before he’d taken three paces, she’d slipped around to bar his path, a slim but imperious hand slapped hard against the Amcathra arms emblazoned on his breastplate.
“Sword and gauntlet on and in place before you go out that door—and the helm before you set foot outside the tower. I don’t want to be married to a headless man. They’re not quite talkative enough.”
Mourngrym sighed, smiled, and did as he was bid. It was easiest to comply, as always, and his sharp-tongued mate was right—as always. Who was to say a Zhent agent, or merely someone in need of the coins they’d pay, wasn’t lurking a bowshot away from the tower, or in a balcony above the courtyard, awaiting his chance?
These past two rides Zhent raiders had kept Shadowdale’s defenders busy fighting off several attempts to burn the dale’s smithy and granaries. There had also been the setting of several fires along the roads into the dale, no doubt to widen them and rob defenders of any cover; the attempt to taint the River Ashaba upstream by dumping carrion into it; and the poison dumped into the well of the Old Skull Inn—which had forced Lhaeo to call on the Simbul and endure her acidic lecture on placing a guard over basic necessities. The problem was that Mourngrym had too few competent guards to do that, let alone hold Shadowdale against thousands of well-equipped Zhentilar troops led by gods-knew-how-many Zhent priests and mages.
“Wouldn’t it be nice,” he asked Shaerl as he settled the sword on his hip and she surveyed the result critically, “if some mad god or other would just crush Zhentil Keep to rubble for us?”
“I’ll see to it,” she told him briskly, “but I’d take it more kindly if they’d settle for simply crushing the hosts on their way here to slaughter us … and if I knew where Elminster was just now.”
“Boo!” breathed an all-too-familiar voice on the back of her neck.
Shaerl shrieked as she leapt forward into Mourngrym’s arms. The lord of Shadowdale began to laugh helplessly, shaking his lady—and she broke free and spun like a dancer on one small bare foot to confront the Old Mage, her eyes snapping with anger.
“Must you always creep up on folks invisibly and then try to startle them with grand entrances?”
“Everyone needs a hobby, look ye,” Elminster said, regarding her with eyes that sparkled in amusement, “and that’s one of mine.”
“Well, find another! Gods! My heart’s still—feel it! It’s—”
“No, love,” Mourngrym said hastily as the gleam in Elminster’s eye grew brighter, “you don’t want to make that sort of offer! Not with Elminster!”
Shaerl turned on him. “And you! Laughing at my discomfort, like a boy playing in the street! You ought to be—”
“Somewhere quieter,” Mourngrym said sarcastically, striding past her, “like the heart of a battle with the entire Zhent army!”
Shaerl made a gesture in his direction. Mourngrym waggled one steel-clad finger at her in mock admonishment, and went out.
The lady of Shadowdale sighed away her exasperation and turned back to Elminster. “Be welcome, Old Mage,” she said softly. “I’d appreciate a chance to talk about what lies ahead for us, if you’ve the time.”
“ ‘Tis why I came,” Elminster rumbled, “now that my work at the Standing Stone is done: three arrow swarms, and a little something extra.” He went straight to Mourngrym’s most comfortable chair and sat down with a grunt of pleasure, swinging his feet up over one of its massive arms.
Shaerl smiled at that and started toward the sideboard where the decanters of wine awaited—but she’d taken only a few steps before a full goblet of her favorite vintage came gliding up to hang in the air in front of her. She took it, turned, and saw Elminster raising an identical drink in salute.
“To a lady who does not take serious contributions from idiots,” he announced.
Shaerl grinned, shook her head slightly, and returned his toast. “To a wizard who takes more delight in misbehaving than does a small child—and is all the more welcome here for it.”
They both drank. Shaerl discovered the bottom of her glass, shrugged, and continued to the sideboard to take up the decanter. She had a feeling she was going to want a lot more of this before they were done.…
* * * * *
The Standing Stone, the Dales, Flamerule 16
“Dusk comes swiftly,” Swordlord Amglar told the two wizards, pointing at the red sun glimmering low in the west.
“We press on,” Nentor Thuldoum told him coldly. “If we try to camp at the Standing Stone, we’ll be in the trees or strung out along three roads—and we can be attacked along each one.”
“So much is common knowledge,” Amglar agreed calmly. “I merely wish to point out that if we press on to Mistledale, it’ll be dark by the time we ride out of the trees—ideal conditions for our foes to ambush us.”
The spellmaster turned on him with menacing slowness. “Are you trying to tell me what to do?”
“Yes,” Amglar said evenly, locking eyes with him. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. Manshoon does expect you to take orders from me; his description of you, as I recall, was ‘a fool, but a biddable fool.’ Shall I report to him that he was wrong?”
Thuldoum held his eyes for a long, cold moment as their saddles creaked under them. Myarvuk, riding just ahead, hummed a tune, trying to pretend he could hear nothing of this. Thuldoum said softly, “I’m watching you, Swordlord. Watching and waiting for the slightest slip, the smallest excuse … be careful. Be very, very careful.”
Amglar raised his eyebrows, but his face remained expressionless. “I always am,” he said, and the spellmaster could have sworn that the warrior’s eyes held a glint of mocking laughter.
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