All Shadows Fled

by Greenwood, Ed

  * * * * *

  “I’d guess he’s taken with some scrying spell and we won’t see him until dusk,” the younger and louder of the two men said.

  “Peering at wenches in the brothels of Ordulin, most likely,” the older man grunted. He ran a finger down the script in a thick and dusty book.

  “Turnold!” the third apprentice in the library said sharply. She scowled. “You know I don’t like to hear talk like that!”

  The older man sighed. He replied without bothering to look up from his book, “You’ve got to learn about human nature and the ways of the world sometime, Irendue. You must notice how he looks at you.”

  “That’s a private matter between the master and myself,” was the even sharper response, “and no concern of yours!”

  “Oh, I’m not concerned,” Turnold said easily. “If I were in your place I would be, but he’s not interested in me.”

  “For your information, Master Prentice Turnold, he’s not interested in me in the manner you so crudely allude to, either!”

  “Oh? And just when I thought I’d got right the scrying spell the master taught me ten years ago! I particularly like the black-and-gold gown, by the way.…”

  “You worm!” Irendue shrieked, leaping to her feet, her face white to the lips. “You utter … spying snake!”

  “Oh, I was following the master’s instructions … as was Lareth here. The master told us we might learn something.…”

  The door banged furiously as Irendue left, and Lareth, who’d blushed as red as his scarlet robe, coughed uneasily. “You shouldn’t bait her like that. You know she’ll just run to the master and there’ll be trouble.”

  “We have to pay for our training,” Turnold said calmly, “and pay dearly. She pays in another way. I don’t mind that; I’d just like her to be honest about it and not play the prim and prissy high lady with us.”

  “Why should she be honest?” Lareth asked, amused. “She’s training to be a mage, not a hermit priest!”

  “I could probably tell you things about hermit priests,” Turnold replied calmly, turning a page.

  “My, you have been busy with that scrying spell,” Lareth returned. He held the grimoire he’d been frowning at under Turnold’s nose and pointed at a notation in one margin of a battle spell. “Oparl’s hand, do you think?”

  Turnold shook his head. “Too spidery. Jamryth’s, for a gold lion.”

  “I’ll not wager with you, Turnold,” Lareth said ruefully. “You’re too often right!”

  “That has always been my trouble,” Turnold agreed calmly, eyes on his own book again.

  “Thirsty work, this,” Lareth said. He set down his book and flipping its spine ribbon to mark the page with Jamryth’s notes. “I’m for a flagon. Join me?”

  “Plenty of time left to get drunk today,” Turnold replied. “I’ll be along later.”

  “Right,” Lareth said with a grin, and swept out.

  Only a moment later, he added a scream.

  By the time Turnold got out into the passage, wand in hand, Lareth had joined Irendue—and the master!—in a web of cold white fire that seemed to fill the privy chamber. Two women he’d never seen before—no, men wearing the faces of wenches—were standing in the passage facing him, with wide and ruthless smiles on their faces.

  As he swept the wand up, Turnold felt the horrible strength of the tentacles that were falling on him from all around the door frame … tentacles that trailed back along the floor to join up with the men-women’s bodies!

  The wand was slapped from his hand, but a horrified Turnold scarcely noticed. He was trying desperately to scream, but discovering, as tentacles crowded into his mouth and slid coldly up his nostrils, that it was much too late.…

  * * * * *

  Daggerdale, Flamerule 23

  “I begin to think Lunquar’s approach is the right one,” Argast said as his exhausted horse collapsed under him. “Hide as much as possible. Keep to crow shape and the like, take human form only when another shape will win suspicion. Lie low and learn.”

  “We’ll have to lie low for a bit to heal fully,” Amdramnar grunted. “Kill these now and eat?”

  “Why not? They’re too weak to be of any other use!”

  The Malaugrym had ridden across half Daggerdale without a break; Argast’s mount had collapsed on a steep slope in the rolling hills of the southeastern dale, hard by the woods that stretched to Shadowdale.

  “I think the most important thing is to hide ourselves from the common folk,” Amdramnar said slowly. “They seem very swift to call on adventurers when they see something amiss, and this world does have crude shapeshifters.…”

  “Doppelgangers, yes, I remember all the tales about how Malaug must have bedded one and thus given us the power.”

  “It matters little now. I just want to hunt down this Sharantyr woman and the two men who came to Shadowhome with her.”

  “And kill them, slowly and painfully?”

  “The two men, yes. The woman’s fate depends on what she agrees to.…”

  Argast shook his head and mouthed the words: then I’ll kill her. He was careful to turn his head so that Amdramnar had no chance to see his lips.

  Then he felt a tentacle brush his leg. He was about to strike it away angrily when he saw that Amdramnar was sinking down into the shape of a horse, and lying as if dead in the grass … and that his lone tentacle was pointing urgently across the valley.

  Argast crouched down. He had already begun to take horse shape when he saw them: a dozen or so men and women in drab leather armor. Dirt-caked weapons hung in their hands, and they crept cautiously through the trees. A patrol.

  Someone’s patrol. Argast made himself as much like the real horse beside him as possible and lay still.

  It seemed a very long time before a voice said, low-pitched and near, “They’re still warm … this one, at least, still lives. Ridden to death.”

  “So their riders must be close by … hiding from us, no doubt.”

  “Zhent troops, for a gold lion.”

  “That’s a wager I’ll never take, Yheldon. If we find them and they have arrows, we’ll end up just as dead as the mighty Elminster—and the Zhents’ll be picking the gold coins out of both our purses!”

  Argast twitched in excitement. The Great Foe dead!

  It was dark before the two Malaugrym dared move again, coming up to clutch each other and hiss excitedly, “Elminster, dead!”

  “We must confirm this,” Amdramnar muttered. “I’ve heard tell men have thought him dead many times before.”

  “Of course,” Argast agreed, “but if it be true, we can hunt freely!”

  “Don’t forget that woman back at the keep who turned our kin to mushrooms and slaughtered us like cattle! He’s not the only one in Faerûn we must beware of.”

  “Aye, but he was the one who watched and waited for us. Moreover, with magic gone wild and gods walking Faerûn and everything in confusion …”

  “You’re right,” Amdramnar acknowledged with a sigh, turning to look east.

  “You sound disappointed that he’s dead.”

  “I am, a little. I was dreading having to face him … but to strike him down myself! The honor of our house demands it! Someone has robbed me of the chance to fell the Great Foe.” Amdramnar shook his head, and chuckled. “With Elminster gone, whatever will the elder kin blame their failures on now, I wonder?”

  “They’ll find something,” Argast said. “They always do. I think skill at finding targets for blame is part of the wisdom of being an elder.”

  * * * * *

  Near the Standing Stone, the Dales, Flamerule 24

  “There’s a large party on the road south of the Stone,” Sharantyr said. She leapt lightly down from the lowest bough of the tree. The others were already loosening weapons in sheaths and taking up their gauntlets.

  “Did you see lots of armor?” Belkram asked eagerly.

  Sharantyr shook her head as she unlooped the reins of
her mount. “No, bold warrior. I saw horses, men’s heads above them, and dust. At least twenty horses, and probably more.” She vaulted into the saddle and looked to Storm.

  The Bard of Shadowdale smiled. “It’s always good to have a look at the Stone before one rides there. It avoids a lot of surprises.”

  “Could it be another Zhent army?” Itharr asked as they guided their horses cautiously around roots, down mossy banks, and out onto the Hillsfar road.

  Storm frowned. “Blackhelms riding openly, no. Some of our people”—they knew she meant the Harpers—“would have brought me word of any such force gathering or on the move through Sembia. Zhent agents could well have sponsored some hireswords—but on the other hand, were I an honest merchant in times as troubled as these, I’d travel in a large band with plenty of bought blades to defend me, too.” A faint smile crossed her face, and she added, “So, as usual, we’d best be ready for anything.”

  They rode in wary silence past the ancient Standing Stone, seeing the glitter of steel in the forefront of the travelers coming north toward them. It was soon evident that the front rank consisted of five hard-eyed mercenaries with ready crossbows and full armor. They came on without stopping, loading and leveling their bows as they saw the armed rangers.

  At the sight of those preparations, Storm said, “Stay well back, all of you. With magic unreliable, I can’t protect you against crossbow bolts.”

  Itharr made a small sound of protest, but Syluné’s soft voice said, “Heed her. Your death can be avoided this time if you act wisely, so why not avoid it?”

  In the silence that followed, they watched Storm ride to meet the oncoming band.

  “Stand aside, brigand,” one of the hireswords ordered shortly.

  “Surrender your names and business to me, mercenary,” Storm replied calmly, unmoving.

  “Stand aside, I said!”

  “Is anyone in this mounted assembly of a more reasonable mind?” Storm asked mildly. “Most travelers on these roads are well aware that the Knights of Myth Drannor patrol here; if your business is lawful, our encounter may be brief and pleasant … but an exchange of information is expected.”

  A crossbow snapped, and a quarrel flew. Belkram growled and made to launch his mount forward, sword flashing out.

  At his ear, Syluné said in a voice of iron, “Stand and watch! You may even learn …”

  Storm calmly plucked the crossbow bolt from her breast, examined it critically, and held it out, looking at the gaping man who’d fired it. “Yours, I believe?”

  “Who are you?” another of the mercenaries snapped, face pale and voice sharp with alarm.

  “Ah,” Storm replied pleasantly, “the words you should have spoken first. I am Storm Silverhand, Bard of Shadowdale, and am accompanying a road patrol ordered by Lord Mourngrym of Shadowdale and the Knights of Myth Drannor to keep peace on the roads in these perilous times. Again, I ask you your names and business.”

  She tossed the crossbow bolt, underhanded, back to the man who’d fired it. He juggled it but dropped it to the road, and started to dismount.

  “What’s the delay here?” a man in rich robes called, urging his mount forward.

  A man in a yellow cloak, who rode behind the mercenaries, answered, “Some sort of road patrol asking our business.”

  “Ignore them; we’re in a hurry.”

  “A hurry to go where, goodsir?” Storm asked quietly.

  “Ride her down!” the man ordered the mercenaries curtly. Seeing one of his men out of his saddle, he shouted, “You heard me! Get up and get on!”

  “Lord,” one of the mercenaries said, “this w—”

  “I’ll hear none of it! Onward!”

  “Hireswords,” Storm asked quietly, “is this most audible man your master?”

  A smile flickered on more than one face along the line of armored warriors before one said, “Aye, Lady. Rethuld of Saerloon.”

  “Thank you, good warrior,” Storm said politely. She raised her voice. “Rethuld! I would speak with you!”

  “But I,” the man spat contemptuously, “would not speak with you! Anyone blocking the high road is a brigand, and I slay brigands, not bandy words with them!”

  “By the treaty of the Stone in whose shadow we stand,” Storm said quietly, “any dale lord is empowered to send patrols out on the roads—and all travelers on the road are bound to obey such patrols and surrender to their queries and examinations.”

  “That treaty is centuries old! We pay no attention to it in Sembia!”

  “Old it may be,” Storm replied calmly, “but I was there at its making, and I was also present not so long ago as all that, when the young land of Sembia in turn signed it to gain trade access to the Moonsea North and grow to its present wealth. You would do well to pay continued attention to it if you are a merchant of Sembia. Treaties ignored may be revoked—and with the roads closed, what are the prospects for your wealth then?”

  “You said the dales were unprotected,” the man in the yellow cloak said to Rethuld, frowning. “You said we’d be able to—”

  “Silence! I am not prepared to discuss our private business dealings on the high road! We can speak of this later—if there is to be a later for you, Jasten!”

  “I think,” Storm said quietly, “this has gone far enough. I’ve no wish to see blood spilled this day, so I think we’ll have a little truth here.” She made a gesture.

  Another crossbow bolt hummed past her, but missed, and Storm completed her spell. She looked slowly around at the row of mercenaries and the half a dozen merchants crowded behind them. There were wagons beyond, with a dozen or more additional mercenaries flanking them … and presumably a rearguard. “If there’s no harmful intent in this man’s replies, you’ll all be free to proceed—but I will look unfavorably on men who try to slip past me, or offer violence to me, before I am done. That means you, sir, trying to stay unseen in the trees … come out where I can see you!”

  A man shouldered sullenly out through the brush, astonishment on his face and a sword in his hand. “Who—what are you, Lady?” he demanded.

  “I am Storm Silverhand. Do you believe nothing in Sembia of the tales of Those Who Harp, or of the Seven Sisters? Or do you dismiss them as idle fancies and turn back to the hard, grasping work of stacking coins ever higher?”

  “Minstrels tell many wild tales of the barbaric backlands of Faerûn,” a fat merchant snapped from behind the line of mercenaries. “If we believed them all, we’d not dare leave our bedchambers for fear of flying dragons and dark elves in the streets and Red Wizards behind every tree!”

  “Tell me,” Storm asked, widening her eyes, “is your bedchamber tastefully furnished?”

  “What?”

  “If, as you say, you spend so much time there …”

  There were chuckles from the men around, and the fat merchant sputtered in anger. “I—kill her!”

  “Lord,” one of the mercenaries replied, not turning to take his eyes off Storm, “I don’t think that’s possible. Not for us. Let’s just hear her out, and—gods willing—we can proceed.”

  Storm gave him a dazzling smile. “Thank you, goodsir. It is always a pleasure to know one is in the presence of patience and good sense.”

  Then she turned to Rethuld, who sat silent and pale, beads of sweat suddenly thick on his forehead, and said gently, “While my spell lasts, you will be able to answer direct questions only with the truth. I ask you now: for what purpose was this band formed?”

  Rethuld licked his lips, and his face contorted for an instant before he said, “To gain property in the Dale-lands.”

  “Why?” Storm asked, “and why now?”

  “Sembia grows unsafe … without watch spells, thieves and brigands are free to loot, kidnap, and slay as they like. I gathered men whose business, like mine, can be run from any locale, and we came north to find a better place to bide until the strife be over.”

  “How did you plan to find this ‘better place’?”
r />   Rethuld looked around helplessly, sweating, and said, “S-Search, until we came upon one to our liking.”

  “And what sort of place would be to your liking?”

  “A stout keep or defensible manor.” The words came out of Rethuld reluctantly, as if he were fighting hard not to utter them.

  “Such places are seldom deserted,” Storm said mildly. “I can think of only four that stand empty at present, and those are isolated ruins infested by monsters—extremely primitive and dangerous accommodations. How were you planning to take possession of a suitable place?”

  “I-I …” Rethuld looked trapped, his eyes darting wildly from side to side, his lips trembling. When he spoke again, his voice was low and despairing. “Ah—seize it by force of arms.”

  There was a sigh of resignation from the men all around, and swords grated out, but Storm sat still in her saddle and said calmly, “I thought so. Tell me; was the idea your own?”

  “Ah, no, Lady,” Rethuld said, his voice rising to a sudden, desperate squeal, “ ‘twas brought to me by another.”

  “And the name of—?”

  Rethuld sobbed suddenly; a blade that seemed to be made of bone protruded from his chest. He shook, mouth working, looked down at the bloody point in horror, and slumped over. The bone slid out of him from behind.

  “I thought so,” Storm said calmly, ignoring the blades that were slashing through her. “Malaugrym.”

  The man behind Rethuld suddenly writhed and dwindled—and a falcon sprang into the air, leaving an empty saddle behind. The bird darted south.

  The blades were passing through the Bard of Shadowdale as if her body was made of smoke. She said to the men wielding them, “Submit to the others who patrol with me, and you shall have peace,” but the fearful hacking continued unabated as the stone she wore between her breasts flashed with sudden blue fire. She rose from her own saddle and flew after the falcon, still in her own form.

  “Gods,” Belkram said as they ranged their mounts across the road to meet the oncoming mercenaries, “how can she take so many wounds?”

  “She wears a gorget that protects her with ironguard magic,” Syluné replied. “Metal weapons pass through her as if she were … as insubstantial as I.”