All Shadows Fled

by Greenwood, Ed

  But two white-faced women in robes appeared—Knights of Myth Drannor. They raised their hands and snapped out incantations. Their magic twisted wild as they hurled it, and the tentacles swept down at them, too.…

  “Here!” Laeral called. She tossed two of her silver-bladed daggers to the Knights—who fielded them expertly, waved in thanks, and set to work.

  The Malaugrym Amdramnar was writhing under the blades of the two furious Harper rangers, and the other one—the one he’d called Argast—was shrinking into a xornlike beast with many massive clawed arms instead of tentacles. The shifting body of Argast was flickering with strange magics as Khelben Blackstaff struggled to control spell after spell hurled at the shapeshifter.

  Itharr was weeping incoherently now. He stood hip-deep in a gory hole he’d hacked in Amdramnar, and stabbed down endlessly.

  None of the armsmen of Cormyr saw Storm Silverhand burst out of the trees, running hard, but they all saw her swarm up the scorpionlike third Malaugrym and plunge her sword deep into one of its eyes. It shuddered and convulsed madly under her, and she grimly clung to it as she tumbled to the ground, one arm around Sharantyr’s broken body.

  “Burn it! Burn the things with oil!” she bellowed at the armsmen. She found her feet amid writhing ropes of shapeshifting flesh—ropes that rose to fling Khelben and Belkram together in a helpless tangle into the gathered armsmen.

  The soldiers stared at Storm; who was this woman? An old woman staring at the fray from the door of the Old Skull suddenly tossed away her tankard, plucked down one of the lanterns from beside the inn door, and flung it.

  It shattered, spilling oil down the tentacled bulk of Amdramnar—and Illistyl murmured the simplest fire spell she knew.

  Flames flared. The oil caught, boiling up with a roar. The Malaugrym convulsed and reared, shrieking, and the air was suddenly full of oil as every armsman scrambled to find and fling any lamps they could.

  The Malaugrym shrieked as flames rose around them, and through the growing roar of the flames, Belkram cried, “Khelben! Can’t you do something for Shar?”

  He practically dragged the lord mage of Waterdeep to his feet. Khelben blinked at him, then said grimly, “Er—eh—well, I’ll try.”

  The archwizard looked at Sharantyr’s sprawled body and raised his hands to cast a spell—only to pitch forward, falling on his face in the dirt.

  Belkram stared at the man whose pike had struck Khelben down from behind: a warrior of Cormyr, who smiled coldly, shivered slightly for an instant … and became someone else.

  Someone who wore doomstars at his wrist, and answered to the name of Dhalgrave.

  19

  We, the Rangers Three

  Blue stones flashed and pulsed, spitting out beams that cut the air to strike Laeral and Storm. The two silver-haired women stiffened as blue fire raged around them—and then fell limply to the ground, their eyes dark.

  “With the Chosen out of the way,” Dhalgrave said almost pleasantly, “I can really enjoy what I came for.”

  The Shadowmaster High ignored an armsman’s sword that thrust through him, and when another warrior thrust a torch in his face, he grew a bone spur and casually stabbed the man through the face. All the while wearing that deadly smile, the senior Malaugrym advanced leisurely toward the weary, panting rangers.

  Belkram and Itharr watched him come; they grimly stood their ground, leaning on battered blades. The three Malaugrym burned behind them, and from the flickering flames a weak voice called, “Shadowmaster High! Aid, please, in the name of Malaug! I’m burning! Great Dhalgrave, aid me!”

  Dhalgrave never took his eyes from the two rangers, and never paused in his slow, menacing advance. Argast soon fell silent … and joined Amdramnar and Lorgyn in death.

  * * * * *

  Deep in the Castle of Shadows, in a place where thinking shadows glided, was a grotto. At its heart were two stone seats that faced each other in the bone-white glow. On one of them, something blazed briefly, then burst.

  A hand promptly reached down out of darkness to pick up the largest of the fragments and sweep the seat clean … and a soft chuckle echoed through the grotto.

  Dhalgrave stopped just beyond the reach of the two weary rangers and smiled a gloating smile at the fearful warriors, noting many Purple Dragon surcoats. “All the way from Cormyr, just to die?” he asked in mock sorrow, shaking his head.

  From among the warriors, lightning lashed at the Malaugrym, and on his other flank something that looked like a white mist driven by churning human bones rose and drifted speedily toward him.

  Dhalgrave simply watched those deaths come for him. The spells faded away as they reached him, and he sketched a mocking bow.

  “My thanks, Ladies,” he said. “Jhessail and Illistyl, isn’t it?” He gestured lazily down at himself. “Unfortunately for your valiant endeavors, I wear a cloak of shadows that wards all your spells … and hides me even from the Chosen. I had to ‘die’ for a time to get it, but watching my underlings scramble to try to take my throne was richly entertaining compensation.”

  The doomstars lashed out again, and four armsmen were hurled back against their fellows, their bodies trailing blue fire. Blades fell from their hands … blades that shone with silver. Sir Tantor Dauntinghorn peered at the dead and trembled with anger, reaching for his own blade.

  “No, envoy, keep your life,” the Malaugrym told him. “I shall need your services to inform Azoun that the Purple Dragon throne is mine now. My realm will take in Sembia, too, of course … but you won’t be bored. I’ll be sending all the brave warriors of both lands against Zhentil Keep—and none of you shall rest, nor fail me, until that city and all its folk are eradicated.”

  He took another slow pace forward. “Before all of that, however, I must attend to the business that brought all of the blood of Malaug lately to Faerûn … a little matter of revenge.”

  Dhalgrave looked at Belkram and Itharr and smiled again. “Your deaths will be slow,” he said softly, “very slow.” A frown crossed the handsome human face he wore, and he asked the world at large, “I wonder if I can transform them to mushrooms, as that woman did?”

  He raised his hands slowly, nodding in sudden satisfaction, and said, “Yes!”

  The doomstars hummed, dimmed, and grew still. The Malaugrym began the gestures of a spell—and the two Harper rangers erupted into a last desperate charge, swinging their blades as they came.

  The cloak Dhalgrave wore spoke.

  “Yes, indeed,” it agreed, and two gnarled old hands grew out of it on the shapeshifter’s flanks, and dug fingers deep into Dhalgrave—fingers that blazed with spellfire!

  The Malaugrym screamed. His hands faltered, the doomstars winking wildly, and the hands literally tore him apart.

  Dhalgrave convulsed, struggling to throw out a tentacle here and an eyestalk there amid the spreading spellfire—and as the two Harpers came to hasty halts, blades held ready, the Malaugrym sported the long, jagged jaws of a crocodile for just a moment … before collapsing into a swirling cloud of ash. What remained was a raging, man-high column of spellfire, with the hands that had slain Dhalgrave protruding from it.

  The doomstars spun and winked by themselves in midair for a breath, then drifted obediently into one of those old, waiting hands.

  As they settled, all of the spellfire seemed to roar down into them—and burst in a flash that made unwary men cry out and clutch at their eyes.

  Those stricken did not see the beams that lanced out from the destruction of the doomstars to touch Storm, Laeral, and Khelben, and awaken them to vibrant life.

  As the Bard of Shadowdale came unsteadily to her feet and reached down to help her sister up, a familiar voice said disgustedly, “Do I have to do everything myself, look ye?”

  “Elminster!” Laeral cried delightedly.

  The Old Mage puffed one last time on his pipe before calmly tapping out its coals onto the ash that had been the Shadowmaster High.

  “But you—you di
ed!” Mourngrym said, laughing, as he shouldered through the armsmen, Shaerl at his side.

  “Reports of my death,” the Old Mage said solemnly, “have been—ahem—greatly exaggerated.”

  * * * * *

  The scrying portal shook as Hulurran’s rage almost ended his control over it. “No!” he snarled, but the other two who stood in the shadows with him kept silent. One of them laid a silent tentacle against his cheek for a moment.

  After they’d stood staring into Faerûn for a long time, Gathran stirred.

  “If we could get that cloak,” he began, “we—”

  He fell silent again as, below, Elminster stirred the ashes, held up a tattered scrap—and firmly burned it to nothingness with a jet of spellfire from his finger.

  “By the blazing blood of Malaug,” Hulurran raged in a voice that trembled with emotion, “I’ll never rest un—”

  “Hold your wind!” snapped the youngest and smallest of the Malaugrym. “This disaster is born directly of reckless overconfidence … even on my father’s part.” Huerbara’s eyes blazed with resolve as she scattered the scrying portal with one slim tentacle. “We must not act—we must never act—against folk of Faerûn until we are strong, and prepared … even for the unexpected. Revenge can be won, yes … but it may take years. We must rebuild the House of Malaug first. To do it, I’ll need your help.”

  “You?” Hulurran asked, slack-jawed in disbelief.

  Gathran, however, said quietly, “Command me, daughter of Ahorga.”

  Huerbara nodded to him before turning to the elder shapeshifter. “Are you with me also, Hulurran of the Winds?” The query was soft with menace.

  After a long silence, Hulurran nodded. “Aye. Aye, you have fire enough to be Shadowmaster High. I am yours.” He turned to meet her gaze squarely, and added, “But we must move very carefully, lest our house be torn apart by strife between you and rivals for the throne.”

  “Teach me, then,” Huerbara said to them both, gliding nearer, “how to move very carefully.…”

  “Lady, we will,” they agreed in chorus, and three sets of eager tentacles met and entwined.

  * * * * *

  The folk in Shadowdale fortunate enough to survive the events of that morning had seen wonder upon wonder … but there were still gasps and mutterings and a shrinking back as a ghostly, silver-haired head came floating over the grass. Gawking dalefolk and weary Cormyreans alike melted out of its path, and stared at the three naked, bedraggled folk who followed it.

  “It seems one of the Malaugrym was collecting wizards,” Syluné told Elminster. “And as both you and Mystra seem to be back with us, we’d best be using these three to bring Sharantyr back.”

  The Old Mage stared searchingly at the short, fat man and the two women, and they all nodded their agreement. Jhessail and Illistyl pushed through the crowd, and Sir Tantor was jostled aside by Lord Luthtor, firmly leading a line of war wizards.

  “What did you say?” Itharr hissed to Syluné.

  Belkram put an arm around his shoulder. Weeping, the rangers watched Khelben, Laeral, and even Storm join the circle of wizards. The mages joined hands around Sharantyr’s broken body, then looked to the Old Mage.

  Elminster said softly, “Do it.”

  For a breath or two, it seemed nothing was happening. In silence the wizards stood, unmoving, as warriors craned their necks to look. Next came gasps here and there as folk noticed the radiance silently forming in the air above the circle. Small motes of light twinkled, grew, and shone more brightly. Swiftly the light swelled until a great sphere of white radiance blazed above the wizards.

  They heard Elminster and Khelben grunt in unison—and a shaft of light stabbed down from the sphere to strike the still form of Sharantyr.

  The wizards trembled, and on the bodies of the three unclad mages the watchers could see sweat streaming. The wizards strained as the beam slowly rose from the ground, taking the lady ranger’s body with it.

  Through their tears the two Harpers held each other, wild hope leaping within them, and saw the body of their lady disappear into the light.

  One of the war wizards cried out, and slumped over, but Luthtor firmly held one of his hands and Irendue clung like grim death to the other, and the circle was not broken. The mages wavered. More than one sagged to his knees, but held fast to the hands of the chain.

  Then a great, collective gasp went up from them, the light faded, and out of its heart something sprang.

  Something soft and shapely and whole—and alive!

  Sharantyr fell from the sky as naked as the day she was born, and something seemed to boost her abruptly sideways—of all the assembly, only Mourngrym saw Elminster’s momentary grin—in her fall, so that she landed, heavily, atop Belkram.

  He went to the ground with a startled “Whumpf!” A moment later, Itharr, Belkram, and Sharantyr were rolling over and over in a happy embrace, weeping and kissing and laughing for joy.

  Khelben looked down at them and frowned. “Must they?” he complained to his lady. “And her without a stitch on, too!”

  Laeral grinned happily up at the lord mage of Waterdeep through the sweat glistening on her face—and bowled him over with her own sudden embrace.

  “Whumpf!” Khelben said as he hit the ground. “Get off!” he shouted when he had breath enough to speak again. Grinning faces of armsmen and dalefolk surrounded him. “I said get off!”

  * * * * *

  Shadowdale, Midsummer Night

  The fire spat sparks in the kitchen hearth, and Sharantyr put her bare feet up on Storm’s kitchen table, crossed one shapely ankle over the other, and sighed in satisfaction. A huge tankard of strong home brew was ready at her elbow, and she was leaning back against Belkram. Itharr smiled and reached out a hand to stroke her foot.

  “Ahh,” Sharantyr said happily, “all this, and we’re done with the Malaugrym for now, too!”

  “We are,” Storm agreed. “Elminster rode the shadows through their castle this afternoon, and tells me it is a place of confusion and back-stabbing disorder. Only three of them know what befell here, and plan any sort of revenge.”

  “Oh, joy,” Belkram said, raising his tankard.

  “Oh, joy, indeed,” Storm said with a smile, turning from her cooking cauldron and crossing her arms. Itharr decided not to tell her that her ladle had decided to drip all down her hip. “That means, Harpers bold,” she continued briskly, “that it’s time for your next assignment.”

  Belkram choked, and brought his tankard down onto the table with a crash as he sputtered and coughed. There were titters from some of the other Knights at the table.

  “Which is?” Itharr asked, giving his companion an amused look.

  Storm noticed the spill, ran a finger up her hip, and licked it. “Aid embattled Randal Morn in Daggerdale,” she told her ladle.

  “A simple matter,” Belkram said with airy dignity.

  “Well, after battling Malaugrym, aye,” Mourngrym agreed, “but you’ll no doubt have the lord-devouring Sir Tantor and Luthtor’s war wizards to contend with.” Shaerl dealt her lord’s shoulder a mock blow, and he put an arm around her with a chuckle.

  “Does this mean your students are taught, and they’ll be leaving Shadowdale?” Sharantyr asked quietly.

  Storm nodded. “It does.”

  Sharantyr swung her feet down from the table and stood up. “Then I have to tell all of you something.” She looked around the table at the assembled Knights, from Florin and Dove at one end to Jhessail and her new apprentice, the shyly silent Irendue, at the other. “Whether it costs me my place among you or not, I will go with Belkram and Itharr … because”—her voice sank almost to a whisper, but she stared across the room at Elminster’s encouraging smile, where he sat in a dark corner, and continued steadily—“I can’t bear to be parted from them.”

  And as the room erupted with cries of “Well said!” “Of course!” and “A Knight forever, wherever you go!” the tears came.

  Sharantyr l
eaned on the table and wept until two pairs of strong arms went around her, and Belkram and Itharr said into her ears in unison, “The Rangers Three—forever!”

  * * * * *

  The crystal ball glimmered, and Laeral turned away from it with misty eyes and a sigh of satisfaction. “She did the right thing,” the lady mage of Waterdeep told Khelben happily. “She’s following her heart.”

  “That’s nice,” Khelben said absently, his attention deep in a spell tome. Laeral looked at him, shook her head fondly, and grinned impishly as she rose.

  Three gliding steps brought her to the table, and a little jump and turn brought her behind down firmly atop the open book, even before her arms went around her man in a fierce embrace.

  She fondly kissed the balding pate of the lord mage of Waterdeep, and felt his muffled roar as he snarled into her bosom, “Get off! I said, get off!”

  * * * * *

  It was very late when the floating, disembodied head said to Elminster, “You promised me another body of my own, Old Mage.”

  “Aye,” he said as they stood together in the dusty, paper-choked main room of his tower. “Would n—”

  The front door flew open, startling them both, and a wild-eyed woman, garbed in the black tatters of a once fine gown, strode in. Without slowing, the Simbul smiled at Syluné, took Elminster’s hand in her own, and practically snatched him up the stairs to the bedchamber.

  “My body?” Syluné asked softly.

  “It will be the first act I set him to when we awaken,” the Simbul told her sister as they vanished around the first curve of the stair. “I’ll see to it.”

  “Perhaps I should get to it now,” Elminster’s voice came floating down the stairs, sounding a trifle anxious.

  “I have other uses for you first,” the Simbul told him fiercely. “Gods, El, I’ve missed you!”

  Her arms went around him hungrily. In the room below, Syluné listened, a smile growing on her face. Then she chuckled softly, and flew out into the night.