All Shadows Fled

by Greenwood, Ed

  There was a murmur from the defenders of Mistledale as they all saw what Kuthe had espied the casting of, from his high saddle: eight tiny balls of fire spun up into view and roared across Swords Creek, howling through the air and growing in size and fury as they came.

  The line of defenders raised their shields and shifted uneasily as the roaring conflagration spun nearer—but then the spinning flames and sparks rippled, pulsed … and were gone. Swarms of birds and smoke spread harmlessly across the sky. The unseen wild magic shields in front of the defenders had worked.

  A shout of satisfaction arose from the defenders—but it was answered by a ragged cry of excitement, rising from the Zhent ranks. A trumpet blared, and the Sword of the South charged forward. They lowered their spears and trotted into the creek, a sea of soldiers flanked by two bands of mounted armsmen. The horsemen to the north splashed slowly down through the creek, avoiding the road—no doubt fearing traps. Their comrades to the south spurred across the creek in a spray of waters, and gathered speed as they hurtled up the west bank toward the Riders.

  Shar looked from one forest of black helms to the other … and back again. Was it going to be all over in the first few breaths? There aren’t enough of us to stand for more than one charge … and that only with luck.

  The screams began. The Zhent horsemen to the right were raising frantic shields or toppling from their saddles as a storm of blades twinkled and flashed around them at faces and throats.

  “First blow to Chauntea,” Itharr murmured, watching them plunge on into oblivion. None of the Zhentilar horsemen reached the leveled lances of the waiting Riders, and few managed to pull out of that storm of steel to flee.

  Lighting cracked and flashed low over the Zhent ranks, stabbing at the defenders of Mistledale … but became a stream of red rose petals, and drifted away on the quickening breeze. There were chuckles up and down the line of defenders. The sweat of quickening fear was making Shar’s blade sticky; she shifted her grip on it and snatched a last glance to the north before the first Zhents reached her.

  The northern Zhent cavalry had crossed the creek and were lowering their lances to meet a single line of Riders that had come out of nowhere to bar their path. With an exultant roar they swept down through the phantom forms of the waiting Riders … and plunged into the spike-lined disemboweling pits. At about the same time, the arrows of the best archers of Mistledale found them.

  A spear cast out of the Zhent lines clipped the edge of Sharantyr’s shield, and she found herself in the midst of what all battles become: a crowded, confused whirlwind of hard-plied steel crashing down on shields and armor, skirling off opposing blades—and sinking into screaming men.

  A Zhentilar armsman swung a huge morningstar at her. Shar threw herself to her knees. As the weapon rattled past overhead, she struck upward with her shield, hurling her foe off-balance. She swept her sword up into the throat of the next charging armsman, who staggered on, dead already, and ran his blade into the armpit of the man with the morningstar. They crashed down together, and Shar shook their blood out of her eyes and took a hasty step aside to put her blade into the neck of a tali armsman who’d engaged Belkram, and was straining to overwhelm the snarling Harper. The man reeled and went down, spraying her with more blood. Belkram gave her a fierce grin of thanks as they faced the next Zhents shoulder to shoulder.

  Arrows were still hissing past; there were so many Zhents that the dale farmers could fire over the heads of those in the fray and yet find targets in plenty. A horn rang out, calling the defenders of the dale to retreat to the second line of standards.

  In answer to its call, Shar smashed her way free of a tightening knot of Zhentilar and backed hastily from the creek. One of the orange standards that marked a gap in the wild magic shields fluttered off to her left, and she saw Jhessail and Illistyl crouching by it, behind Merith’s raised sword and shield. Their hands wove in spellcasting gestures.

  Shar slashed an overly enthusiastic Zhent across the face, and as he went down, watched the spell of her fellow Knights take effect.

  Upended helms full of metal shards and salvaged arrowheads were rising from the ground with slow, menacing force—one, three … six in all. Zhents were backing uncertainly away from them, but one man hacked at a helm with his blade.

  He was the first to fall, ripped apart as the magic erupted, transforming the helms and their contents into pinwheel sprays of arrows that tore into the Zhent host on all sides.

  Zhentilar blackhelms screamed in chorus and fell in great swathes, as if harvested by a gigantic, invisible scythe. Shar felt her gorge rise. She turned away from the sight and hastened back to the rallying standards, Belkram and Itharr at her side. There were still thousands of Zhents left; the Sword of the South was surging on across the creek, heedless of the cost. As the defenders gathered at the standards another horn call rang out from their midst.

  This one was meant for the hidden Harpers. Trip wires hidden among the trampled grass were tightened now, and …

  As it happened, Shar watched the first shield rise, spilling a startled Zhent forward—and revealing a Harper with a loaded crossbow. He discharged his quarrel into the face of the nearest Zhent officer, dropped the bow, and snatched up his spear to ward away a charging armsman. That gave the other two Harpers in the hole time to scramble out, gain their feet, and begin their race through the Zhent rear, hacking and slashing at the full run.

  Men and women in leather boiled up out of the ground in two dozen places or more, and there was much shouting and chaos. Shar had a brief glimpse of a furious-looking man in robes—a Zhent wizard, she realized—stumbling hastily away from a seeking blade. Then she was much too busy to look at anything but the foes all around, their blades falling on her own with the force of hammers.

  The Sword of the South rolled into the defenders again, a wall of grim men wielding blades and maces. They pushed the outnumbered dalefolk slowly back to higher ground. Another horn cried out from just behind her, and Shar flung herself flat..

  An instant later, arrows hissed over her in a deadly stream, and the front rank of Zhents melted away, hurled to the ground like torn thorn bushes. A brief blip of the horn indicated it was safe to rise.

  Sharantyr found her feet and stared across blood-soaked ground at the Zhents … over the frightened faces of the Zhentilar rearguard, back across the creek. There, Harper swords flashed, message runners fell, and Zhent officers shouted and flailed in disarray. A rolling ball of flame told her at least one Harper spell had worked—a lone Harper paused, tossed sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes, and lashed half a dozen pursuers with a bright net of fire.

  The Harpers were pitifully few. Most of those fighting south to a rallying point were going down, attacked from all sides by enraged and fearful Zhents. Shar saw one armsman catch his foot on the edge of an open Harper hole and fall helplessly away from the ranger he was attacking. The man leapt across the hole, breaking free of a ring of Zhents, and raced toward a banner that had been set alight as a rallying point.

  Not far behind Shar, Margrueth muttered an incantation. A flying Zhent spear headed past her, and she dived sideways to smash it down with her shield, for fear it would reach the sorceress.

  It skidded into the dirt, and an instant later came Margrueth’s short bark of satisfaction. A wall of twinkling swords blinked into solidity in the air around the surviving Harpers, chopping down pursuing Zhents. Men jerked and fell in that deadly whirlwind.

  A black-robed Zhentarim wizard strode toward the wall of swords, careful to keep in the lee of a trio of large shields held high by armsmen. He raised his hands and gestured grandly—but was answered by fearful shouts as his magic went wild. Instead of fading away, the blades flew in all directions, butchering Harpers and Zhents alike.

  A strident horn call began another Zhent cavalry charge, striking at the Riders again along the southern edge of the dale. The ground shook as sixty or more horsemen gathered speed, heading west. The Zhentilar foot sol
diers advanced, too, striding purposefully to overwhelm the few defenders.

  Shar caught a seeking sword on her dagger, warded it away, and drove her own blade into the man’s throat. As he spun away, clutching the spraying gore, she sprang to meet the next man, leaping high to put all her weight behind the downstroke. Her steel glanced off the guards of a slow parrying blade and sheared through its wielder’s jaw. He fell back, choking, and was trampled by his fellow soldiers in their hunger to get at her.

  “Hold the line!” she heard Rathan Thentraver roar, somewhere to the left.

  A Harper fell against her leg and went down, a sword in his face. Only Belkram’s swift blade saved Shar, and they retreated together, Itharr striking aside Zhent blades from one side.

  “Kiss my steel!” Torm shouted defiantly nearby, and was answered by a short scream.

  Shar reeled, found her footing again, and glared wildly around. The defenders of Mistledale were reduced to a few knots of struggling swords—themselves and the Knights of Myth Drannor. The gaps in the line were so large now that the farmers, back behind the fray, could loose shafts freely through them—and only that paltry but deadly fire was keeping the Zhents from sweeping forward to surround and rout them.

  The horns called anew. The defenders fell back again, seeking another line of standards as lightnings danced briefly among the Zhents. The creek was far off now, across a sea of bobbing black helms, and the iron taste of grim despair rose in Sharantyr’s mouth.

  They were all going to die here, today, swept away by a thousand Zhent blades, sent to their deaths by Elminster in this dark time on Faerûn.…

  With a crash that shook the battlefield, the Zhent cavalry and the Riders of Mistledale rushed together. A breath later, something flashed across the sky. The Zhentarim spellmaster tried another futile spell—and was answered by Jhessail and Illistyl, who sent a dancing serpent of flame through the ranks of the advancing armsmen.

  Shar heard Syluné’s voice rise in sudden passion. An instant later, a knot of Zhentilar armsmen levitated into the air, waving weapons in futile horror, lofting high above the battlefield.

  Some of their fellows were too slow witted to avoid walking beneath the shouting spell victims and were gawking up at their fellows aloft when the Zhentilar plunged back to earth. They crashed down like so much spilled kindling to smash into bloody ruin on the earth and raised blades below.

  The Zhent advance faltered. In the sudden lull, a man in old and shiny black Rider armor pushed past Shar and strode into the Zhent ranks, a shimmering arrowhead of force preceding him, cleaving men who stood in his way.

  “Here me, Tempus, Lord of Battles!” the man roared as he went, hands raised and empty. “Let the old warriors rise, if it pleases ye! Raise a ring of skulls, I entreat ye! Oh, Tempus!”

  It was the old Rider, Baergil. A Zhent, drawn sword in hand, ducked around behind the old priest’s magic and raced in. As he jerked back the white-horse helm and drew his sword viciously across the exposed throat, there came one last, bubbling cry of “Tempusss!”

  The spell was complete. Baergil’s body blazed with sudden blue fire. His slayer fell back in awe. The dead priest hung upright in the streaming flames, hands uplifted to the sky, and men murmured at the sight.

  Cries of awe and fear came as the trampled turf under the Zhents erupted. Staring things of mottled green and brown bones burst up out of the soil … rising through the horrified armsmen to form into a silent, floating ring of skulls just overhead. Many battles had been fought by the banks of Swords Creek, and countless warriors had fallen here, to lie under the earth until called up by so mighty a magic.

  The eyes of the skulls flared into sudden fire, the same cold, eerie blue flame that blazed around Baergil. Zhentilar cried out in alarm and began to run—but nothing could flee fast enough to escape the rays of chill light that lanced from the skulls through the Zhent host.

  Where those blue rays touched the running or striding armsmen of the Sword of the South, flesh melted away, leaving only bones. Skeletal warriors rushed on for a pace or two, and then collapsed.

  The Zhents on the far side of the creek and the defenders of Mistledale alike stared in horror as thousands of armsmen died.

  When no man was left standing between Baergil’s corpse and the creek, the skulls turned until the rays that streamed from their glowing sockets met in the heart of the field of bones. Blue light pulsed and built to almost blinding fury, and gauntlets were raised to shield eyes all over the battlefield. An armored form strode along in the heart of the radiance.

  It had been striding forever, it seemed, fearless and patient, a figure twelve feet tall and clad in a full suit of gleaming plate armor, visor down. As the rays began to fade and the skulls sank back to the earth in silent unison, the armored figure was suddenly among them, treading on Zhentilar bones without a sound, walking toward Baergil.

  “The War God,” someone whispered. The defenders of Mistledale fell back at the armored giant’s approach.

  In eerie silence, two flaming blue gauntlets reached out and took up the priest’s body, cradling it against the massive chest. The Knights of Myth Drannor parted in respectful silence. The helm turned slowly from side to side to survey them, and for just a moment Shar felt the scorching weight of eyes that blazed like two red flames.

  In silence, Tempus strode on, west toward distant Ashabenford, bearing Baergil’s body in his arms. To those who watched, it seemed the body began to burn, blazing its own miniature pyre.

  The implacable avatar vanished over the hill … and left the handful of weary men and women to defend Mistledale against several thousand shaken Zhentilar soldiers.

  What was left of the Sword of the South stood along the east bank of Swords Creek, still more than enough armsmen to crush the few who resisted them. Their hireswords and booty brothers were among the fallen; those who remained were veteran Zhent blackhelms. In fearful, sullen silence, they eyed the field of death before them, but orders were shouted, and officers ran about brandishing maces … and reluctantly, the soldiers of Zhentil Keep began to advance.

  “It must be now,” Sharantyr heard Syluné say quietly.

  In the distance, there came a sudden burst of radiance as the Witch of Shadowdale appeared in the heart of the Zhents … in the small space between Swordlord Amglar and Spellmaster Nentor Thuldoum. The men broke off their arguing to gape in unison at the beautiful woman who stood between them, the glow of her magic fading around her.

  “Well met indeed, gentlesirs,” Syluné told them softly, raising her lithe arms in glee.

  The magic missiles that streamed out of her riddled both men, even before the fireballs and bolts of lightning leapt forth in their wake.

  Amglar and Nentor of the Zhentarim died screaming.

  Syluné sang a terrible, wordless song of rage and sorrow for the body she was losing, and her slim-hipped form blazed white with the fury of the magic coursing through her.

  Zhentilar stared at the dancing, burning figure in their midst, and then perished in the whirlwind of unleashed spells that sprayed death in all directions from the woman.

  Florin swallowed what might have been a sob as he watched bright flames gout from Syluné’s eyes and mouth, streaming across scorched turf to immolate shouting Zhentilar, whose vainly hurled spears vanished in that inferno.

  There came a quickening of the spell fury, and Syluné’s head was gone, blown away with the awesome energies pouring from her. The headless body turned as if it could see, and raised its hands to burn fleeing Zhent horsemen from their distant saddles. Flames streamed from her neck and hands … and before she turned away, her hands were gone, and spells were now leaping from the stumps of her arms.

  Someone was rallying the Zhentilar as the stream of spells flickered, and then ceased … and men in ebon armor charged across the smoking ground, blades raised to slay the swaying, disintegrating Witch of Shadowdale.

  “No!” Belkram roared, waving his own blade in sudden fu
ry. “For Mistledale! For Syluné!” He rushed across the strewn bones, his sword held high. Itharr and Florin raced to catch up to him. Sharantyr was moving before she thought about it, following her companions into a band of scattered, dazed-looking Zhent blackhelms still several hundred strong.

  Beside her, Shar saw flashing legs and a bouncing bosom, and turned to see Jhessail sprinting along, weaponless, with Illistyl running at her heels and Merith moving with fluid grace and drawn sword.

  “Wait!” Rathan puffed, behind them. “Save some Zhents for me!”

  They were almost at the stream and the grim-faced foremost Zhents who stood there when what was left of the Witch of Shadowdale vanished in a burst of snarling flames that threw men headlong or sent them fleeing wildly back toward the trees.

  Then Belkram, Itharr, and Florin splashed across the stream, roaring out their grief together. They fell upon the Zhents like three maddened reapers mowing wheat. It was the last such harvest that their foes needed to see: the shattered Sword of the South broke and fled, an army no more.

  Belkram ran on toward the dying flames that had been Syluné, and Itharr and Florin paced him, swording the few blackhelms foolish enough to get in their way. Sharantyr tried to catch up, but her lungs were burning; she’d never seen men run so fast before.

  By the time she reached the spot where Belkram knelt, the Harper was on his knees amid the smoldering ashes, weeping.

  The stone cradled so gently in his gauntlets had cracked in the heat. “Lady,” Belkram sobbed despairingly, “leave us not!”

  But there came no reply but the creak of cooling stone. The Harper raised a face that streamed tears and cried to Florin, “Do something!”

  The Knight smiled down at him and undid the last buckle of his chest armor. As it fell open, he drew forth something he wore on a chain. A lump of stone. All of the gathered adventurers saw a streak of ghostly radiance arc from the shattered stone to the good one.