All Shadows Fled

by Greenwood, Ed

  The Zhentarim brought his hands down with a flourish, pointing at the door, and shouted the last word of the spell that would open it.

  The door winked out. Blue-white flashes ran all over the ceiling of the chamber as a web of magic discharged, and Galath’s Roost fell in on itself with a roar.

  Fflarast saw the ceiling begin to fall and the wizard stare up and then vanish. He did not wait to see a thousand of his fellow warriors crushed, but turned and flung himself headlong down the passage, running as he had never run before.

  There was an earth-splitting crash of stone upon stone, and Fflar was flung off his feet. He landed rolling amid dust and falling stones as the castle shook around him. The entire armor gallery had fallen into the great hall.

  “Gods!” one of the old soldiers in the passage gasped. “The floor, too!” And with a slow, gathering thunder, the overloaded floor gave way, dropping in huge pieces down into dark cellars beneath.

  By then, Fflar was sprinting toward the moonlight, sweat almost blinding him. A last leap over rubble—and he was out, tumbling in the ferns and coming up running, to get well away from the walls.

  “Easy, soldier,” said a swordcaptain, putting out a hand to stop Fflarast’s frantic flight. “What befell?”

  Fflar clung to the man, panting, unable to catch his breath—and from the ruined keep behind him came a slow series of smaller crashes.

  They listened together, and then the officer shook Fflar by the shoulders. “Well?”

  An old soldier came into view out of the same rent in the wall Fflar had used. It was one of the veterans who’d stayed in the passage. He was walking slowly and stiffly, ignoring the occasional falls of small stones from above, and the officer strode toward him with a snarl, dragging Fflar along.

  “What befell?” he snapped, eyeing the old man’s gray whiskers.

  The old warrior looked up at him and said, “Don’t bluster, lad … ye’re an officer, remember?”

  The swordcaptain roared out his anger and snatched at his sword—and Fflar hit him in the side of his neck with one mailed fist, as hard as he’d ever hit anyone in his life. He got in two more good blows before the body reached the ground—and stayed there.

  “Easy, lad … ye’ve broken his neck, there’s no need to dance on his bones,” the veteran muttered, bending over Fflar. “Now ye’d best get away from him and practice looking innocent, afore the next officer happens along.”

  “Too late,” a deep, grave voice said above them both. Fflar and the veteran looked up into the cold, tired eyes of Swordlord Amglar. “But by the sounds of things, I’ve just lost too many blades to waste two more because cruel, spoiled nobles’ sons make bad officers. Consider this—accident—forgotten, and so long as you have no more, scout, I’ll continue to forget it. Now tell me in truth what’s befallen in there.”

  Fflarast and the veteran looked at each other, and then Fflar spoke. “The spellmaster cast a spell to open a door behind the throne, and—I think—set off some sort of magical trap. The whole ceiling came down at once … but I think I saw him vanish before the stones hit. I ran, then … that’s all I saw. Before that, though, my unit—Pelaeron’s Mace—and a lot of others I heard die, but didn’t see, were crushed in rockfall traps … the keep’s bulging with them.”

  The swordlord nodded soberly. “The spellmaster’s magic brought him safely out to us here,” he said, his lips twisting bitterly, “and dearly though I’d love to put him to death for this blunder, we need him in the battle tomorrow.” He leaned in close to them, and his next words came in a whisper.

  “Don’t raise a hand to him this night, whatever the provocation … but if either of you survives the coming battle, and he’s still breathing at the end of it, I want either or both of you to slay him. He may have contingencies, mind—try to dismember the body and then burn it.” He looked from Fflar to the veteran, and then back to Fflar. “Understood?”

  “I understand and will obey,” the old soldier whispered, and Fflar echoed his words. The swordlord nodded. “Good.” He looked at the veteran. “So the ceiling fell … what did you see after that?”

  “The floor an’ all went down into—cellars, I’d guess—below, breaking off and sliding slowly; in bits, ye know. Then the balconies broke off and fell in on top of it all, one by one. I saw spell flashes before each fall … the whole thing’s one huge trap, sir, if ye ask me. I’d sooner sleep in the hot heart of an enemy campfire tonight than go back in there, sir.” He jerked his head to indicate the ruined castle behind him.

  The swordlord nodded grimly. “We’ve been duped by a clever foe—and an arrogant, careless wizard.” He sighed and added, “Gods curse all wizards. If things in Faerûn were all decided by the strength of a sword arm and not sneaking spells, we’d all be a lot better off!”

  Rising with another sigh, their commander pointed toward a campfire. “Go and report to Shieldmaster Tesker; you’re part of my own mace now, both of you.” He turned away, and as they stammered their thanks, he turned back and added, “Oh, and tell him from me that you’re both swords now. If we’ve any armor so blazoned that fits, you’re to wear it tomorrow.”

  “May the gods thank you more than we can, sir!” the old veteran gasped.

  Amglar smiled thinly. “You’ll probably be cursing me on the morrow. Save your delight for when all of this is over, and we’re standing proudly on the battlements of Zhentil Keep again. Then I’ll thank the gods too … just how fervently I do it then, mind you, will depend on what they’ve done to us since.”

  All three of them laughed together, the grim laughter of fighting men who shared the same peril—and the same jaundiced view of the world that had put them there. Then they clasped forearms and parted.

  On his way to the fires, Fflar stopped for a moment as he realized something the other two had already known—most soldiers keep warm with the memories of such moments.

  * * * * *

  Swords Creek, Mistledale, Flamerule 17

  Syluné of Shadowdale lay awake in the darkness, as she did every night. When one no longer needs to sleep and one’s friends are in danger, there is no better way to guard them than to lie among them, feigning slumber, with a watch spell set.

  Through its invisible web she felt Itharr stir, plagued by dark thoughts, building his killing rage for the battle tomorrow. Later, Syluné sent soothing visions to Belkram when a dream made him start in terror and almost awaken. Sharantyr needed no such kindnesses; she lay in peace, her dreams deep.

  They were fine battle companions and good friends. Syluné smiled up at the dark roof of the tent overhead. She closed her eyes again and turned her thoughts to the many folk and places and things she must check on and watch over during this Time of Troubles, if the Realms she loved were to survive, and not some shattered, twisted remnant of Toril. At least the hours when others slept gave her time enough for reflection, to consider and anticipate all the consequences and probable unintended effects of her every action. It could truly be said of the Chosen that, more than any other thinking creatures of Faerûn, they knew exactly what they were doing at all times.

  Right now, Syluné was thinking over the battle tomorrow … the battle that would probably cost her this body. Jhessail and Rathan both carried fragments of stone from her hut should anything befall the one within her now, and—something was amiss!

  A scrying spell swept over the tent, seeing who lay within. Its primary dweomer paused above each sleeping face as Syluné pretended to slumber, but it did not seem to sense the spell web, and withdrew without any disturbance. Yet, that is. Now someone, probably a Zhentarim mage, knew who was in this tent. While most folk still believed that the Witch of Shadowdale was long dead, only a Malaugrym had any reason to view these four sleepers as greater foes than the mightier Knights of Myth Drannor sleeping in other tents.

  Syluné let out her breath in a long gasp and rose from her physical body as a ghostly, shadowy image, questing out into the camp around for any signs of
fell magic. She could feel the frozen fire of magic items lying immobile in the tent Jhessail and Merith shared with Illistyl and a lady Rider, and a few faint dweomers from enspelled glow daggers riding on the hips of watchful sentries around the edge of the camp … but as long moments passed, no hostile spells came out of the night. Far away to the northeast, near ruined Myth Drannor, a wolf howled, but nothing nearby answered.

  Yet a single fireball could do a lot of damage to a force this small. Perhaps she should raise a spell shield. Syluné glanced out of the tent into the still moonlight. To do so over the entire camp would be a punishing drain on the little life essence she had left; she really needed a living being to power such a magic—and to do it for long would leave the creature weak and quivering. Not a sword arm could be spared from the battle, though, so …

  Something was disturbing the spell web! Syluné whirled back to face into the tent in time to see two dark, serpentine bodies rise up through the floor, making the softest of tearing sounds. Their heads, which had parted the canvas so swiftly, were deadly steel blades atop undulating, scaled coils, but they rose up in the darkness, growing swiftly larger.

  Malaugrym!

  The Witch of Shadowdale sent a shrieking warning through the spell web to awaken her companions as she hurled her ghostly form back across the tent. She had to reach her body! Very few of her spells were available to her in this ghostly form, when she could hold nothing solid.

  One serpent-blade was arching over her own body, and the other was rearing above Sharantyr, whence it could plunge itself down into her sleeping breast. Syluné cast a curving shield of force over the lady ranger as she swept past.

  Just in time! The blade came down at Sharantyr’s face and was struck aside by the invisible barrier, trailing a line of white sparks.

  The other serpent-thing struck at Syluné’s body before she could slip into it, throwing its coils around her throat and wrists. The rest of its body extended toward Belkram, blade rearing back to strike.

  She’d warned all three rangers to keep silence and find their blades as they awakened, and as the serpent-thing stretched over toward him, Belkram came boiling up out of his furs, hacking at the thing savagely.

  Its hammer strike burst through his frantic parry and almost pinned to him to the tent floor, laying open his shoulder as he twisted desperately aside. He roared in pain. Sharantyr tried to scramble to his aid, and found herself a prisoner under the shield, but Itharr came leaping across the tent with his blade gleaming, bellowing, “Aid! An attack! Knights of Myth Drannor, to us!”

  Syluné slid into her body, heedless of the strangling coil about her throat. She did not need to breathe, and so could take no harm from the crushing constriction of the Malaugrym—whose constraint prevented her from hurling spells. She gathered her will as ironlike coils tightened about her, and hauled her shield of force away from Sharantyr. She angled it up to wall herself away from the rest of the tent and shoved the Malaugrym’s blade away from Belkram in the process.

  The shapeshifter simply extended its body farther to strike at the Harper once more, but Itharr slashed it aside—and with her companions safe behind the shield, Syluné unleashed a spell that made steel shards burst from her body.

  The Malaugrym took them all, convulsing in agony and flailing about the tent, sweeping her body off its bed and hurling Itharr to sprawl atop Sharantyr and the other serpentine Shadowmaster. Belkram sprang upon it and drove his blade home, but it writhed under him, not mortally harmed by his steel, and tried to shake him off. He sat on it, stabbing it repeatedly, so it grew fangs and bit his thigh.

  Sharantyr and Itharr rolled around among the furs with the other Malaugrym, hacking and stabbing at it in a frenzy—and then the tent flap burst open and the Knights of Myth Drannor charged in.

  Florin had doffed his armor for the night and wore only breeches, but his stout sword was in his hand. He dived without pause onto the serpent-thing on the beds, hacking at its blade-head with a flurry of blows, trying to sever the serpent’s dark steel. Torm took one look at Syluné, who struggled upright with coils thick around her throat, and howled in fury, leaping across the tent with his dagger flashing.

  Syluné kicked out one foot, trying to touch him, and Rathan saw what she was doing. He pushed past the thief and grasped Syluné’s ankle firmly. What she said to him mind-to-mind he shouted aloud: “Malaugrym! Use silver on them to slay! They’re shapeshifters! Use silver!”

  At the door of the tent, Jhessail and Illistyl both nodded grimly. As Merith dived past them and buried his silver-bladed dagger in the Malaugrym that was battering Belkram all around the tent, they ran to where Itharr and Sharantyr were stabbing the other, and murmured spells as they slapped their hands at the blades, heedless of sharp, flashing edges.

  The weapons glowed blue-white as Jhessail snatched her hand back, shaking drops of blood from it. When the glow faded, they shone silver … and the wounds they made did not close. Sharantyr and Itharr set to work chopping with frenzied speed, gasping their thanks.

  Florin severed the blade-head of the other Malaugrym with a last blow and grabbed at the gory serpent-form, trying to hurl it away from a groaning Belkram. It grew many fanged mouths as he pounced on it, and one of them shot forth on a long stalk to snap at Torm, who ducked his head aside. Rathan raised his hand to cast a spell—and the jaws expanded with lightning speed to envelop it, biting down with cruel force.

  The fat cleric doggedly intoned his spell, sweat running down his face—and fire from his hand burst forth within the Malaugrym, causing it to recoil with a roar of mingled fury and pain.

  Illistyl’s eyes narrowed as flames gouted from the beast. She dug a hand into her purse, snatched a silver coin, and snapped out a cantrip that crumbled the metal to powder in her hands. Flinging the powdered silver into the flames, she leapt back.

  The explosion that followed was spectacular. The coils around Syluné spasmed, flinging her free—and then smashed into her body with the force of a charging war horse, hurling her like a rag doll against the side of the tent. She struck, tumbled, and came to rest atop Torm, who madly stabbed the Malaugrym and sobbed with rage.

  “It’s dead, Torm,” Syluné told him gently, putting a hand on his shoulder as she looked over him at the gory lumps that had been the other Malaugrym. “And so’s the other one.”

  “Gods,” the thief hissed, eyes blazing, “they could have killed you!”

  “Yes,” Syluné agreed, “but they did not, thanks in part to you.” She put up her hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, then leaned forward and kissed him. He stared at her for a moment, and threw his arms around her, weeping uncontrollably.

  “It’s been rather a long time since any man got this angry for my sake,” she murmured into his shoulder, “but try not to get yourself killed defending me, Torm!”

  “Why not?” the thief said when he found enough control to speak. “Have you seen what they did to your hair?”

  8

  The Ring of Skulls

  Swords Creek, Mistledale, Flamerule 17

  Sharantyr shades her eyes again and is sure of it. Another flash, there … and another. And then Zhents are pouring out of the woods in a hundred places, the bright morning sun glinting on ebon armor.

  There is a stir along the banks of Swords Creek, and the short bark of Kuthe’s order off to the right. The Riders of Mistledale move amid a growing thunder of hooves, hurrying along the southern edge of the dale to meet the invaders. Lance tips glitter as they sweep down.

  Restless, the lady ranger hefts her own gleaming blade, licks her lips, and watches Kuthe’s lance lowered with menacing force. He flicks it expertly, taking out the throat of a Zhentilar as he passes, and with bright blood still trailing from the tip, buries it deep in the face of the first Zhent horseman to appear out of the woods.

  The man crumples as he’s flung back out of his saddle. A score of crashes follow up and down the edge of the trees as Zhent maces and spears find shields or
the Riders behind them and a horn sounds from just behind Shar, calling the retreat.

  Horses wheel and rear. Zhentilar soldiers race in to gut the retreating warriors as they turn away. One Rider tarries too long, and Shar sees him go down, hacking frantically with his blade at a dozen foes as they drag him to ground and stab him. The riderless mount in fear lashes out with its hooves, leaps wildly into the air, shedding broken Zhent armsmen like rag dolls, and lands running west down the dale to where Kuthe is rallying the Riders.

  Arrows hiss past Shar’s shoulder as the farmers of Mistledale, faces set in fear and determination, strike their own first blows against the foe. Only a few black-armored figures fall, and now they’re streaming out of the trees by the hundreds, a glittering black carpet of death that advances west with casual confidence. More than one of the watchers along Swords Creek gasps or retches in fear; there are thousands of Zhents!

  “Gods,” a man nearby mutters in despair and disbelief, “have they been breeding armsmen like rabbits? Look at them!”

  * * * * *

  Certain death was coming for them, and they all knew it. Shar traded tight grins with Belkram and Itharr as they heard Torm’s voice lifted in jaunty song:

  “Come, oh, come play with me!

  Bring, oh, bring your sword, and

  We’ll be three!”

  The Riders had succeeded in keeping the foe east of the creek. Secure in their numbers, none of the Zhentilar had moved to outflank the paltry line of waiting warriors … yet. Nor were they bothering with any sort of tight formation, merely gathering in mobs around a dozen steadily advancing standards.

  Shar’s lip curled in derision, and then she shrugged. Outnumbering us hundreds to one, what do they need of discipline or battlecraft?

  The Sword of the South came on without pause or parley. Shar looked again at the Riders, wondering if they’d mount another charge to disrupt the steady Zhent advance. Kuthe’s helm turned; the white-horse blazon caught the sun as he looked back at her. And then his helm jerked sharply back east again.