Cloak of Shadows

by Greenwood, Ed

  “Belkram is my name,” Belkram said calmly, “and that’s Itharr. We’re both rangers, wandering the Realms getting to know its ways, a common thing for folk in our line of work to do. One travels the wilds of Faerûn, looking for the places one is loved and needed.” Itharr nodded his agreement but said nothing.

  “And I am Sharantyr,” the lady Knight told him. “I dwell in Shadowdale, and yes, I am an adventurer. We grew restless and accompanied a friend of ours on a journey as his sword escort. The Realms have become dangerous this last year, and he was headed through Daggerdale, which has been a perilous land for some time, thanks to the Zhentarim.”

  “Ah, yes,” the Shadowmaster said with a bleak smile, “we’ve had our own occasions to thank those ambitious wizards of Zhentil Keep.” He bent his head to one side. “Through Daggerdale, you say?”

  Sharantyr shrugged. “He didn’t … live to tell us his destination.”

  Amdramnar’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh? Some misfortune befell him?”

  “He was killed,” she said flatly, “by some rival mages. A day ago. This morning, wandering open country in Daggerdale, we stumbled through some sort of glowing door and found ourselves here, in your castle.”

  “Oh? Where in the castle?”

  They gave him three shrugs. “Somewhere shadowy,” Itharr told him, straight-faced. The Shadowmaster almost smiled.

  “I … see,” he replied. “And who was your friend? ‘Rival mages,’ you said. Was he a mage of some reputation?”

  “Oh, yes,” Belkram replied quickly. “Quite famous, in the Dalelands at least. His name was … Elminster of Shadowdale.”

  Eyebrows rose. “I have heard of him, yes,” Amdramnar said mildly, reaching for his glass. “He must have been, oh, several hundreds of years old, at least.”

  Itharr nodded. “We believe so.” The Shadowmaster fixed bland eyes on him and seemed to be waiting for him to say more, but the burly ranger spread his hands to indicate he had no more to say, and kept silence.

  “Would you judge that the gate that brought you here was of his making?” Amdramnar asked. “Could he have been taking you to it, perhaps?”

  Sharantyr and Belkram spoke together, “No.” After exchanging quick glances, Shar went on. “We don’t think so. The place where we camped was not in quite the direction we’d been faring, and he’d said nothing of such things to us.” She let a note of sadness creep into her voice and added, “He … liked to talk. There were very few things about magic that he didn’t warn us about, not just on this venture but always, in all the time I’ve known him.”

  The Shadowmaster frowned. “I’m sorry to hear of his passing,” he murmured, “though not all of my kin would share that view, I’m afraid. Some of the elders here in the castle are—were—sworn foes of his. Just what disagreements they had with him were very much before my time, so I’ve never known just why this … coolness … existed between Elminster and my kin.” He stirred. “Nevertheless, Shadowdale—Faerûn—has lost a great mage, and that’s something all should be saddened by. ’Tis only the advances in magecraft that make life, in whatever small ways, better and better with the passing years. Are things seen this same way in Shadowdale?”

  “They are.” Sharantyr agreed. “Though the power of sorcery corrupts far too many men, and far too often, some good always finds its way down to the farmhands and the honest tradesfolk. His death diminishes us all.”

  Amdramnar frowned over his glass, then looked up. “What you say leaves me downcast, but also curious. If Elminster of Shadowdale knew nothing of the gate that brought you here, how came it into being, and when?” He smiled thinly. “It’s no secret that we haven’t seen any stream of visitors from Daggerdale before you.”

  It was Itharr’s turn to shrug. “Truly, we went through the gate by accident. We’ve heard of such things before—fireside tales of wizards fighting wizards are full of them—but we’d never seen one. At first, well, I thought it was some sort of trap to lure us, or even something to do with mating, that a will o’ wisp had spun.”

  The Shadowmaster chuckled. “Oh, that’s something I’ve never thought of. How do they mate, I wonder?” He set aside his glass again. “Can you find this end of the gate again, to get back home?”

  Sharantyr shook her head. “No,” she said simply. “We don’t even know for sure if they work in both directions.”

  “Well, some do, and some …,” their host replied, tilting his head from side to side in a gesture of resignation. Then he leaned forward again. “Some of my kin certainly know sorcery enough to get you back to Faerûn, though just where you’d emerge is another matter. I must warn you, however, that such powerful spells are regarded as valuable, and the caster will expect payment”—he eyed the sword Sharantyr held—“in the form of a service, if you have nothing more tangible that you’re willing to part with.” He smiled and leaned back again, waving a dismissive hand. “However, that can be a problem for another day.”

  The Shadowmaster spread his hands to indicate the room around them. “Now that you’re here, however accidental your journey, what are your plans?”

  “Uh, to get home again safely,” Belkram said with a tentative smile. The shapeshifter nodded approvingly.

  “A wise ambition,” he said. “I must warn you that, were you to wander freely about the castle, you might well be attacked by those of my kin who fear you’re spies for an army of mages from Thay or elsewhere. Or you just might talk too loosely of what you’ve seen when you get back home, and spur someone more greedy than prudent into trying to take magic from us.”

  He held up a gentle hand to indicate he suspected them of no such failings, and added, “Moreover, shadows are strange things, as you’ve seen. There are some among us whose wits have … shall we say, been changed by their experiences with shadow. They aren’t safe to themselves or to the rest of us. For some of these unfortunates, the sight of mortals is a goad that enrages them into attacking in beast shape or hurling the most damaging spells they know, or … similar behavior. You’ll readily see why wandering about the castle with no good plan is asking for trouble.”

  Amdramnar stood up. “Please don’t misunderstand me,” he continued, walking slowly to a sideboard, “if I say that it might be safest for you if you remained here in my chambers. In fact, I’d like you to stay here tonight, if you will. I’ve room enough to spare to afford you private rooms, all three, and your own bathing and cooking facilities. I must confess I find you entertaining, and welcome a chance to talk more with you about life in Faerûn and, I suppose, tell you more of things in Shadowhome.”

  He turned, a platter in his hands, and smiled. “On the other hand, I know you’re curious about the castle—who wouldn’t be?—and I’ll quite understand if you’d like to explore it. It would be cruelly remiss of me, however, to let you walk out that door without providing you with my protection, or some small magical defense, or something to keep you from another distressing encounter such as the one during which I first met you. And I must stress that not all of my kin would be as easily defeated as Phenanjar.”

  “Well,” Belkram began, “w—”

  “We’d be happy to stay with you this night,” Sharantyr said firmly, giving the Shadowmaster her first real smile in some time, “and talk further. Is there a place we could … ah, refresh ourselves? And is there anything we could do to help with a meal? We don’t want to be a hindrance to you in your living, or in your affairs.”

  The Shadowmaster waved a dismissive hand. “As to the first, go through that door, though I fear you’ll find the facilities somewhat … different. We usually leave wastes behind us through changing shape, you see, and let the shadows take away what we don’t want.” He smiled broadly and went on. “As to the second, be at ease. We can prepare food together if you’d like, or you can leave things to me, as you prefer. It’s no hindrance, and I’m delighted to have you.”

  He set down the platter and turned to the door. “Here,” he said, “let me show you
. You might find that your sword—”

  “Feels best if it stays with me,” Sharantyr murmured softly, and he gave her a surprised look.

  “Ah, yes, of course,” Amdramnar replied, and opened the door by holding his palm up in front of it. He indicated a dim passage beyond. “You see,” he said. “Now, if you’d feel more comfortable venturing down it together, by all means. Your travel arrangements are your own.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Sharantyr said, whirling about to stare hard into Belkram’s eager face. The ranger had already opened his mouth to offer. Staring at her eyeball to eyeball, he shut it again, blinked, gave her a weak smile, and sank back into his seat.

  The Shadowmaster turned quickly back to the platter with what sounded suspiciously like a snort, and announced, “I’ll just get the meat and bring it back here. I won’t be much time at all.”

  And he strode away through the mists, another door opening for him in what had seemed to be a dark and solid wall. Belkram promptly leaned over to Itharr and said in his ear, “If I hear much more of this smooth-as-silk politeness, I may spew! Have you ever heard the like? Not a word wrong. He’s worse than a Waterdhavian courtier!”

  “Better than a Waterdhavian courtier, Belk,” Sharantyr told him severely, bending over them both. “Better, do you hear me? I’m rather enjoying it, for a change. Heed ye, gentle sirs!”

  “Ye gods, he hasn’t got you believing him, has he?”

  “He’s probably listening,” Shar hissed, shaking her head to indicate “no.” She straightened, strode quickly across the room, paused in the doorway their host had shown her, and looked uncertainly back at them. “Itharr!” she hissed, and beckoned. He came.

  “Stand in this doorway,” she said, “as if you have to … go, you know … and don’t let the door close. I don’t want to be trapped on the other side of a stone wall that won’t open for me, fighting to the death, while you two sit in here with him swapping ‘and then I changed shape and she swooned’ stories!”

  Itharr looked hurt. “I don’t know any such stories to trade. You’ll have to tell me some.”

  “Itharr!” she wailed under her breath.

  “Go,” he whispered, nodding as he took up his position in the doorway. “And … be quick!”

  “I intend to,” they heard her soft voice floating back to them. “I certainly intend to.”

  Sharantyr was as good as her word. She arrived back through the door, panting and with the sword pulsing sullenly in her hands, a scant instant before their host returned, his platter piled high with what looked like slabs of pork cooked in a variety of green herbs.

  “Boar?” Belkram asked, sniffing the unfamiliar, faintly lemony scent.

  “Ah, no,” Amdramnar replied, looking a little uneasy. “Actually it’s … roast shadowslug.” He watched them draw back and added, “Er … from an earlier meal, too.”

  He took up a fork and speared a piece, saw them all watching, and muttered, “Excuse me,” as one of his hands grew into a needle-sharp knife of bone. Sawing off a long strip of meat, he fed it delicately into his mouth, put forth a shockingly long tongue to lap some of the herbed sauce from his chin, and murmured in appreciation.

  “It’s very good,” he said, “and it’s not harmful to you … really. Try a little.” He offered it to Itharr, who held up a warding hand wordlessly. Then he offered it to Belkram, who leaned forward with a smile, astonishing his companions, and said, “Yes, I think I’d like to try. It looks wonderful!”

  The Shadowmaster gave him a genuine smile, and Belkram realized something. Taking the proffered small piece, he sat back, turning his head slightly so Amdramnar couldn’t see the wink of reassurance he gave Shar, and bit into the shadowslug with gusto.

  The stone that was Syluné vibrated soundlessly, telling him that—so far as she could tell—the meat was safe. He chewed, aware that their host was watching his face almost anxiously. It was good.

  “Did you cook this?” Belkram asked him eagerly. “It’s great!”

  Amdramnar beamed, and Belkram knew he’d guessed right. “As a matter of fact,” the Malaugrym said proudly, “I did, and—”

  And then the door they’d come in by slid open by itself, and his face changed. Belkram’s head swung around, and he suddenly wished he hadn’t eaten a piece of shadowslug—or anything else.

  The passage outside was full of Shadowmasters in human form, standing tall and grim and silent, their faces hard. One shouldered into the room and glared around at them all.

  Amdramnar saw Shar’s hands tighten on her sword and put out his hand in a quick quelling gesture.

  The newcomer’s eyes slid coldly over all of them, lingering for a moment on Sharantyr’s sword, and came to rest, as if nailed there, on Amdramnar’s face.

  “I had heard,” their Malaugrym visitor said coldly, “that you were entertaining humans in your chambers, but I hadn’t thought even you to be quite so foolish. It appears that, sadly, I was wrong.”

  “And not for the first time,” Amdramnar said coolly, “though this is the first time I’ve had an uninvited guest cross the threshold of my chambers.”

  “I don’t like such dangers being harbored—even embraced—in our midst without all of us being informed,” the newcomer said tightly, ignoring Amdramnar’s words. “Such offal must be”—he raised a hand that slowly became a thick, powerful, sucker-studded tentacle—“destroyed!”

  17

  Hot and Cold Running Receptions

  Somewhere in Faerûn, Kythorn 19

  The midmorning sun laid dappled patches of golden light and shadow across the forest trail. Elminster appeared out of empty air behind his favorite boulder. He sniffed, frowned, and looked critically at the nearby evidence that some wolf had been using it as a boundary marker. Ah, well. Life in Faerûn was at least never dull.

  He looked to one side, frowned again, and rubbed his nose. Small wonder the wolves had been about. Enough fresh-gnawed bones to make up at least a dozen folk lay strewn down the hillside in the lee of the rocks. Hmm. It had been his experience that feeding hungry wildlife wasn’t usually the goal of so many kindhearted folk in one locale, during peacetime. He’d found the spot, right enough, so ’twas time to stow the ’prentice philosophy. To work!

  Stepping out from behind the stone, the Old Mage strolled down to the path, hitching at his robes so that it might look to an observer as if he’d had urgent business in the bushes off the trail.

  Reaching the cart ruts, he stepped up onto the worn grassy strip between them and trudged along. As he’d expected, one of the bushes beside the path ahead trembled slightly.

  “Oh, a wizard may well find time for much fun (for much fun), but an old rogue’s work is seldom ever done (ever done)!” Elminster warbled, taking up a tune he’d heard a world away from this one.

  “Aghh! Do ye mind!” A deep voice growled from the bushes. “I was plannin’ just to rob thee, but if ye don’t’en belt up, I’ll be happy to gut ye instead.”

  “Gut me?” Elminster looked properly terrified. As expected, he drew back and turned to run, only to find himself staring into the grinning, unshaven visage of a half-orc whose parentage was attested to by one broken-off tusk, flat, piglike features, and a cruel smile.

  “Don’t mind Glorym. He’s not hungry today, so he probably won’t nibble on ye, being as ye aren’t a pretty maiden.” The brigand leader stepped into view, guffawing loudly at his own jest and scratching himself with his free hand in an ongoing quest for fleas. The other hand held an axe that might have once served to chop down trees—young saplings, that is, and several hundred years ago.

  Elminster looked from one outlaw to the other and suppressed a wild urge to hoot with laughter by quavering, “Wha-what will ye be doin’ to me?”

  “Well, minstrel boy,” the brigand leader drawled, displaying teeth that might have made a boar envious—an old and very sick boar, mind—“the proud army of which I’m swordlord hasn’t been paid in a goodly while, and—�
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  “Pike,” the half-orc rumbled from behind Elminster, “what army? There’s just ye ’n me, near’s I can tell—”

  “Hush!” the brigand leader said severely, and favored Elminster with another crookedly reassuring smile. “Pay no attention to my friend behind ye. I—hem hem blaugh ahum—chose him for this duty because of his, ah, kindly ways toward donors we meet on the road. Donors, I say, because ’tis our habit to, at this time, ask ye for some small tokens for passage on our road … a toll it pains us to request, mind ye, but—”

  Elminster forestalled more of this by scaling a gold piece into the man’s grubby outstretched palm.

  Pike’s eyes widened as he looked down at it, and then narrowed. He scratched his nose and stepped forward.

  “Well,” he said jovially, “ ’tis a beginning, right enough, an’ I’m right grateful to see ye’ve got the idea of the th—”

  Elminster added a second gold coin to the first and turned to face Glorym. “Would ye like the same? I’m in a hurry …”

  “Aye,” Glorym rumbled, but Pike’s eyes had narrowed again. “In a hurry? That’s an awful shame …”

  Elminster smiled pleasantly at him and said, “So it is, friend Pike, because I perceive ye and Glorym here share the same fondest wish. Ye both want to die rich.”

  He gestured, and both brigands wriggled in midair, their faces telling the world of their sudden terror at discovering they could no longer move. As the white-bearded, gaunt old man between them crooked a finger, one of the gold coins in Pike’s palm drifted smoothly through the air to settle into Glorym’s grasp.

  Elminster smiled at them both and steered their frozen, floating bodies together, gently arranging their hands on each other’s throats, tossing away their weapons, and closing the fingers of their free hands firmly around the coins. Then he snapped his fingers. Magic made none-too-clean fingers tighten, and the trapped, frightened eyes began to bulge almost immediately.