Cloak of Shadows

by Greenwood, Ed

  Belkram and Itharr exchanged glances and shuddered together. More impressive still.

  The mood was broken when a hitherto hidden door opened a little way along the balcony, and a youngish-looking man ran toward them, his shapeshifting blood betrayed only by the wormlike flexibility of his arms, wriggling at the elbows in apparent distress.

  “Is this Malaug now?” Belkram asked lightly, earning a hard look from the Shadowmaster.

  “Bheloris,” the newcomer said sharply, after a swift, searching glance at the three rangers and a second, involuntary one at Shar and her sword, “you must come. Ahorga’s looking for Milhvar. He’s—”

  “Enough, Neleyd,” the Shadowmaster said quickly. “You can tell me as we go to him.” He turned. “My deep regrets, friends,” he said, leaving his mouth behind on a tentacle as he rushed to the door. “If you follow me out this door and take the first stair down on the right, the third door on the left opens into the Lute Gallery.”

  “Thanks!” Sharantyr said hurriedly as the mouth sped away from them. “Itharr—the door!”

  “Aye,” the Harper said, diving for it. He got there before it could close and leaned against the door frame, looking swiftly ahead and then back at Shar and Belkram. “Well?” he asked.

  Shar was looking at Belkram, and Belkram was leaning forward over the rail, looking down at the floating body of Glyorgh. “No, Belkram,” Shar said firmly. “Come on.”

  Belkram looked at her, eyes bright. “But …”

  “No, Belkram,” Shar said, taking him by the arm and towing him toward the door. He sighed once as they went out and down the stairs. “What’s the appeal of this Lute Gallery, anyway?”

  “Enchantments are supposed to play soothing music there all the time,” Sharantyr told him. “Many Malaugrym go there to relax … strolling about, thinking. Didn’t you listen to Amdramnar?”

  “Yes, and I didn’t hear anything about traps waiting for me in the Red Chamber,” Belkram replied, “so I wouldn’t place overmuch credence in what he said, if I were hurrying along through the castle.”

  “My, Belkram, that’s the wisest thing you’ve said in days!” a voice said unexpectedly from Sharantyr’s breast.

  “Syluné!” they chorused, coming to a halt. “Where have you been?”

  “Here all along. I’ve only just managed to break a spying spell our kind host Amdramnar sent along with us. I didn’t dare speak before. Don’t get into the habit of talking to me, though. You’re going to need a secret ally against these Malaugrym. This place is full of treachery and fey spells.”

  “Can you stay hidden,” Shar asked in low tones, “in a place where so many mages dwell?”

  Syluné sniffed. “Of course. Weaving shadows is so easy that they’re all lazy and careless.”

  “Easy?”

  “Like commanding an endless supply of fresh, loyal warriors that surround you eagerly wherever you go, waiting to jump at your bidding. To these shapeshifters, spell weaving’s more idle thought and whimsy than work.”

  “So they don’t have to work hard to destroy us,” Belkram said. “Heartening news.” He looked up and down the passage. “So what should we do now?”

  “Start looking for gates out of here,” Syluné said, “so you have an escape route when things come to battle—and they soon will!”

  “Just open doors and look around for gates?” Belkram asked.

  “Just go back to Amdramnar’s quarters. The passage that leads to the jakes also leads on to a gate, if you go far enough.”

  “I’m going to have a few words with our friend Amdramnar,” Belkram said grimly. “Let’s go!” He strode off down the passage, and then slowed to a halt. “Uh … which way?”

  Itharr chuckled. “Syluné?”

  “Turn left as soon as you find something that looks major. You’ve a fair distance back that way to cover,” the Witch of Shadowdale directed, one ghostly hand appearing for a moment to point in the proper direction. They set off without delay.

  * * * * *

  In a room spun of shadow, six Malaugrym sat around a table, gambling. Gems and lumps of gold floated lazily around each of them as they bent forward over the table, studying the intricate pattern of cards laid out there.

  Small plumes of colored flame flickered above the cards, dancing here and there as Olorn studied them, his face an expressionless mask. Between two fingers he held the card he must place this turn, tapping it gently on the tabletop.

  “If you’re trying to win by waiting until we all die off, Olorn,” an eagle-headed Malaugrym said sourly, “just remember that I’m younger than you.”

  “Hold,” another of the players said softly. “See who comes.”

  Something in his tone made everyone turn and look down through the floor of shadow—transparent to them but opaque to eyes below—in time to see three rangers approaching down the length of the long room below.

  Olorn cast aside his cards with a joyous snarl and dropped through the floor in a single bound, plunging down to bar the path of the three humans.

  “Going somewhere, cattle?” he sneered. “I think not.”

  “You would be the one called Olorn?” Sharantyr asked softly.

  “I am, breeding maiden. We can discuss such things later, when these two lumps of meat with you are dead!” the Malaugrym snapped. As the two Harpers charged him, swords flashing, he brought his hands together. From where his palms met leapt a beam of white-hot, crackling flame.

  As it rushed to meet them, Sharantyr didn’t even have time to scream.

  20

  A Sword Against the Shadows

  The Castle of Shadows, Kythorn 20

  Without thinking, the Knight of Myth Drannor swung her sword. There was a flash of blue radiance, a moment of roaring brightness around her, and the flames were gone.

  Olorn glared at her, eyes flat with fear and hatred. “How dare you?” he snarled, raising his hands again.

  “What, stay alive?” Sharantyr replied. “I dare it every day. I’m even getting good at it. What is your quarrel with us, anyway?” As she spoke, she felt the stone that held Syluné vibrate once … and then again.

  “Dung! You defile our castle by your insolent presence!” Olorn hissed, his hands moving in the gestures of a spell.

  “He sounds like a priest of Bane in full rant!” Belkram commented, drawing in close behind Sharantyr on one side. “Aye,” Itharr agreed, taking the corresponding position on her other flank, shielded behind the swing of the blue blade.

  Olorn’s next attack was a spell to pluck them from their feet and hurl them against the ceiling high above, but it did no more than thrust them a few feet up into the air, wavering, before the sword’s magic broke its effects.

  The three rangers advanced together, swords raised. The room suddenly seemed to be full of watching Malaugrym standing around the walls. Their eyes were alive with interest, and none of them lifted a hand to help Olorn.

  Flames suddenly flared up in a wall before the three Faerûnians, blistering heat rolling out from its roaring to sear and singe. But Sharantyr snarled and flailed about with her sword, and where it cut and slashed, the fire flickered and faded.

  Then the air around them was suddenly full of other blades, whirling and flashing, ringing off the Harper’s hasty parries in a constant din. Sharantyr cried out as one blade spun across her arm, shearing through the worn leathers. A moment later, another carried away most of her right ear in a burst of blood, along with the hair around it.

  Olorn laughed at the sight, then choked and caught at his throat, tearing out the dagger Itharr had hurled. The Malaugrym flung it down in a fury and swept both his hands together, pointing at the burly Harper, and all the flying blades came whirling out of the air around them to hurtle toward Itharr.

  The deadly converging rain of leaping points met the sweep of Sharantyr’s blazing blue blade, shimmered, and was gone. Only a few weapons glanced aside enough to escape, missing Itharr entirely.

  Sharan
tyr strode another pace closer to their foe, but a table, flaming cards, and chairs suddenly rained down from above as Olorn spun all the shadows of the gaming room into a cloaking spiral, trying to smother the powers of the blade that seemed able to slay all his spells. Shadow would not fail him. It never had.

  The table smashed Belkram to the floor. Itharr was flung aside, face bleeding, under the blows of two chairs, leaving Sharantyr standing alone, struggling to keep hold of her blade as shadows roared and wheeled around her, clawing and tugging.

  Olorn smiled triumphantly at the lady ranger, a smile that slowly grew fangs. Shar’s eyes fell from the glistening teeth to the Shadowmaster’s hands, and saw that they’d become tentacles. As she gasped at the terrible, ever-growing power of the shadows mounting against her, he reached forward. He’d tear one man limb from limb, and then the other. By then the maid should be disarmed and he could have some fun.

  Then the whirling blades were back, making bloody ruin of the tips of his tentacles. Olorn recoiled, hissing in pain. Could the sword drink spells and then spew them back? He’d b—by the blood of Malaug!

  A shimmering barrier of swirling rainbow hue had appeared in front of him, spanning the entire breadth and height of the Hall of Stars, walling him away from the three humans. How could they have such power?

  The rainbow wall bulged, and out of the bulge stepped Amdramnar, smiling tightly at him. “Fingers burned, Olorn?” he asked. “That’s what happens when you pick fights with innocent folk who’ve no quarrel with you.”

  “And just what are they to you?” Olorn snarled, growing tentacles at a furious rate.

  “They are guests of mine, idiot kin,” Amdramnar said meaningfully. “I observe the rules and courtesies of our family, if you do not. They remain under my protection.” Many glances were exchanged among the watching Malaugrym.

  “And you let them wander the castle freely, to poke and pry where they may?” Olorn raged, drawing his tentacles up before him like a nettled giant spider, ready to strike.

  “What can they see, Olorn, but shadows, doors, chambers, and walls? What is there to learn that can hurt any of us?” Amdramnar answered, adding lightly, “What cards you still held in your hand, perhaps?”

  There were chuckles from several Malaugrym, and Olorn’s eyes turned flat, dark, and dangerous. “You’ve gone too far,” he said softly, “and have become a traitor to our people. I must do what Dhalgrave no longer can. Die, traitor!”

  A forest of tentacles shot forward, only to vanish in a welter of gore about halfway to Amdramnar, writhing and disintegrating in a mist of blood. Olorn screamed and staggered back, hauling away what was left of his rubbery arms. They left a trail of glistening gore to where he whimpered against a wall.

  “You don’t learn, do you?” Amdramnar asked incredulously. “Did you not see my blades? Did you actually think me so weak or careless a mage that I’d have to dispel them in order to raise a barrier against you? Nay, I just made them invisible, you dolt. I should finish you.”

  He gestured as if to move the invisible blades closer to Olorn, but that worthy Malaugrym was dwindling and flattening, air whistling out of him from twenty places in his haste to flow out the door at the back of the hall. Amdramnar took a pace forward as if to pursue him, but other Malaugrym shook their heads and closed ranks to block his route.

  “No, Amdramnar,” one elder said. “I care nothing for your quarrel, but I’ll see no kin slain in the very halls of our castle, fighting over custody of mortals! Keep better watch over your humans in future. If they wander, troubles are bound to befall.”

  “I bow to your wisdom, Cortar,” the young Malaugrym replied, “and I’ll see to their whereabouts.” He withdrew a few paces, and the rainbow barrier fell away around him.

  Several Malaugrym started forward from the walls, but Amdramnar said merrily. “ ’Ware the blades—remember?”

  They came to abrupt halts and glared at him, and he recognized at least two of Olorn’s cronies among their ranks. He gave them soft smiles that held deadly promise as he put an arm around Sharantyr’s shoulders—she gave him a glare almost as black as Olorn’s had been, evoking more chuckles from the watchers around the walls—and nudged Belkram with his foot.

  The Harper rolled over with a groan. “Ye gods and little ground-snails,” he gasped, “I think something in my shoulder’s broken. It burns like fire!”

  “Crawl over to Itharr for me, will you?” Amdramnar asked him. “We’d best get gone speedily. You somehow wandered into the Hall of Stars, where our mages practice spell-hurling!”

  “We’re going to talk, later,” Belkram promised him grimly, wobbling to his feet. Shar laid a hand on his arm, and through it he heard Syluné say, There’s a ring to heal you in her boot, remember. Hang on and do as the shapeshifter bids.

  By your command, Belkram told her mockingly, and began the painful journey to where Itharr knelt, clutching at his forehead, blood still streaming down his fingers. “How are we, old blade?” Belkram asked, collapsing beside him.

  “Chairs … chairs are beating the soft stuff out of me,” Itharr grunted. “The head on the left hurts the most.”

  “Up, lad. We can stagger off to the graveyard together,” Belkram said tenderly, rising and hauling Itharr to his feet by main strength.

  “Where’s a quiet place we can go?” Sharantyr asked Amdramnar.

  “My chambers, of course.”

  “No, Amdramnar,” she said quietly. “Not now.”

  The Shadowmaster’s head swung around, and their eyes met for a long moment. Then he looked away.

  “Out this door,” he said, “and then through here.”

  He led them quickly out into a passage and through the first door they saw into a staircase. They went up a flight to another door, across a hall, and through a dusty room full of shrouded human skeletons. They passed through another door into a dank, dark corridor choked with rubble, thence into some sort of storeroom full of huge casks. Amdramnar led them right through the last, false, cask into a small chamber that he lit by making the end of one finger flame until he found a dusty candle lamp. The room was crowded with small, cobwebbed tables, and Belkram promptly rolled Itharr onto one of them.

  “Rest here,” the Shadowmaster said. “I’ll come back for you.” He turned to go, then turned back. “Would you like me to work any healing magic before I go? Itharr’s head looks pretty bad … and your ear.”

  Take his healing, Syluné said in Shar’s mind, for yourself only, no matter how selfish it makes you look. Act aroused.

  “Heal me,” Sharantyr said in low tones, putting out her hand. “Then I can tend my companions with a clear head. Later, when you come back, they’ll probably be in need of sleep. And then …”

  Quite deliberately she reached behind her and set Mystra’s sword on a table. Then she put her freed hand to her lips, and licked one finger while she looked steadily at him.

  Their eyes met again … and slowly, very slowly, Amdramnar smiled. In spite of herself, Shar felt a stirring within her.

  He nodded and turned away, murmuring something and making an intricate series of gestures and passes in the air with his fingertips. Then he turned back, extending one finger to touch her ear as gently as possible.

  He’s added a glamer to make you want him, Syluné told her, a moment before warmth flooded through her and the pain melted away.

  “Ohhh, yes,” she murmured, and melted against him, turning her cheek to rub against the arm that had healed her. His skin had a strange acrid, spicy scent, but she licked at his fingers avidly, purring deep in her throat.

  When she looked hungrily up at him again, she saw laughter and triumph in his eyes. “I’ll be back,” he said. “Soon.”

  “If you’re quite finished sticking your tongue in his ear, Shar,” Belkram roared, “I need you to hold the other end of this. Itharr’s still bleeding!”

  “I’ll have spells that bring slumber,” Amdramnar murmured, and was gone out the door. />
  Sharantyr leaned against it and trembled. I hope you can do something about that glamer, she told Syluné, or I’m going to be a breeding maiden for shapeshifters … and love it!

  I already have, little kitten, Syluné’s voice told her mockingly. You did most of the warm and caressing play all by yourself.

  Sharantyr growled as she reached for her boot.

  “Now what’re you playing at?” Belkram snarled. “I’m sure yon Malaugrym’ll like you just fine with your boots on!”

  Through a wild web of disheveled hair, Sharantyr gave him her best glare—and overbalanced. She fell over helplessly, boot half off, to land hard on her behind. Belkram hooted with laughter as she rolled angrily onto her back to remove the boot.

  “He cast a lust-glamer on me, if you must know,” she hissed, shaking her boot at him. Then she lifted the sole and snatched the ring she needed, holding it up into his face. “Put this on Itharr. Then when he feels right, wear it yourself.”

  “This the one that regenerates?”

  “Yes,” Shar told him, stamping her boot back on, “and hurry! I want to be gone from here before ardent Amdramnar gets back!”

  “He’ll have put some sort of locking spell on the door, you know,” Belkram said warningly.

  “Then our secret weapon’ll blast a hole through the wall!” Sharantyr hissed.

  That won’t be necessary. Syluné sounded amused. There’s a secret door at the back of this room that opens into the castle library.

  “The Malaugrym have a library? I’ll bet Elminster would give his beard to sit down at leisure and read his way through it,” Shar said aloud.

  Belkram snorted. “Read it? He probably wrote most of it!” He watched Itharr’s bleeding stop, and the gash on the burly Harper’s forehead begin to fade. “Syluné’s looked around for us?”

  “Hush!” Shar told him severely. Touch and hold him, Syluné told her. So Sharantyr walked to Belkram, put her arms around him, and kissed him.