by Ed Greenwood
Shaerl giggled. "I wish I'd been there to see that," she said. "Has it thinned the Zhent host appreciably?"
Elminster nodded. "Moreover, I'm not done yet. It's taken me until now to locate my favorite hobgoblin tribe-the Nose Bones-so they'll be er, dropping in on our Zhent friends just before dawn."
"Taken you until now?" Shaerl said in mock alarm. "Why, whatever have you been doing?"
"Holding the Realms together, lass," Elminster told her rather grimly, "and fighting off various old foes who've decided to take advantage of the Fall of the Gods to conquer or destroy as much of Faerun as they can seize-the Malaugrym, in particular, have been troublesome."
"Those Who Walk in Shadow?" Shaerl asked, eyes grave. "Storm and I have talked about them several times, after one attacked you at the inn and you wouldn't tell us anything. They sounded deadly, indeed."
"Ah, but I've acquired three heroes to deal with them now," Elminster said, holding out to her a goblet that shouldn't have been full.
Shaerl stared at it suspiciously, sipped it, and then peered into it again. It was still full-or rather, full again. She gave Elminster a look.
The Old Mage spread his hands with an air of innocence.
The lady of Shadowdale sighed. "So who are these three mighty ones?"
"Sharantyr and two Harpers; men who came to Storm for training."
Shaerl stared at him, mouth open. "The three rangers? Against spell-hurling shapeshifters? El, they'll be killed!"
Elminster shrugged. "That fate could well befall us all in the days ahead. I can't be everywhere, especially now, with bindings failing and magic twisting awry all across Toril. My valiant three've done well enough thus far, I must say. Even if they all perish forthwith, they've dealt the House of Malaug a shrewd blow."
"Will you write that on their tombs?" Shaerl asked quietly.
Elminster shrugged but said nothing. After a long silence, the lady of Shadowdale whispered, "What will you write on ours?"
The ghost of a smile stole across the Old Mage's face. "Perhaps: I should have been laid to rest here long ago, but I'm still busy defending Shadowdale."
"Oh, no," she said quietly, shaking her head as the bedchamber door opened and a weary Mourngrym strode in, tossing down cloak, helm, and sword. "That's what your tomb should say."
"It already does, lass. Ask Lhaeo to show ye some time-on the morrow. It's a good place to hide with thy heir, if the dale's overrun. Oh, in case he forgets to tell ye-don't mind all the floating eyeballs that'll drift around after ye. They do no harm… and if the food runs out, they're good eating."
"Is he teasing you about fried eyeballs again?" Mourngrym asked as he strode into the room. Without slowing to hear Shaerl's reply, he bent over the chair to kiss the top of her head, and then looked up at Elminster as the soft fingers of his wife stole up to stroke his cheek. "And what's this about 'hide'? And 'overrun'? With you here holding the dale against all invaders?"
"We must all fall sometime," Elminster replied very quietly. "That's why I've been grooming every hero I could find these last ten years or so. Someday, defending Shadowdale without me will be your task. Perhaps someday soon." The Standing Stone, the Dales, Flamerule 17
The spellmaster's screams broke off suddenly, and he slumped forward in his seat. Hesitantly one of the swordcaptains took a few paces toward the wizard, sword drawn, and then looked back to the swordlord for instructions. Other officers with ready weapons were also gathering cautiously around the seated wizard.
"Is he dead?" Amglar asked bluntly. The swordcaptain turned to see, taking a few paces closer-and then shrank back in horror as sudden radiances flashed and spun around the body, jerking it convulsively.
Amglar's eyes narrowed. Contingencies, perhaps… not attacks visited from afar, no.
His judgment was confirmed an instant later as the Zhentarim shook himself and stood, looking around irritably at all the grim faces and raised swords. "Put away all this steel," he snapped, "and find something useful to do-such as getting me a hot meal. Spellhurling's hungry work."
The swordcaptain Amglar had just given orders to turned back to the swordlord and spread his hands in a silent question. Amglar waved at him to 'hold hard' for the nonce, got up, and strode over to Thuldoum.
"How are you, mage?" he asked, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"I'll live," Thuldoum said coldly, "and my wits are my own; you need not hack me down for fear I'll turn on you all."
"The Roost's defended, then?"
"No," the spellmaster said. "It's deserted. A little overgrown and tumbledown to be an ideal camp, but safe enough."
"Safe? Why the screaming then?"
"My creation encountered two beings who can shift shape. They were camped in one of the rooms."
"Doppelgangers? If they impersonate our swordcaptains, they can play merry death and chaos with this Sword!"
"These weren't doppelgangers," Nentor Thuldoum said grimly. "One of them tried to merge with my monster, destroying it. I was held in thrall, and saw into its mind. It was old, very old, and it hates Elminster of Shadowdale more than you or I do; possibly more than High Lord Manshoon does. They've been feuding for centuries."
"And so?"
"It also hates three other humans I don't know; they looked like rangers. It thinks all of them are in Mistledale right now… and was headed there to feed on them, the moment it was satisfied the human shape I saw it in-a pilgrim of Tyr-was good enough to fool them."
"You think these two shapechangers are on the way to Mistledale by now?"
"Yes," the Zhentarim said flatly. "I couldn't break free until it ate the monster's mind, but the last thought I overheard was that it was eager to get to its prey."
"Then we'll be just as urgent in our advance on the Roost, once you set us a directional spell so we can get there through the woods, and not have to use the road and the open dale."
"The moment I've eaten," the spellmaster told him coldly, "you'll have that spell. The drink, I think, is even more important right now."
Wordlessly Amglar undipped a chased metal flask from his belt and held it out. The Zhentarim regarded it and then him suspiciously, then in sudden resolve undid the stopper and took a sip-then a long pull.
When he could stop gasping, the spellmaster wiped at his numbed lips and asked, "B-By all the gods, what is that stuff?"
"Firewine," Amglar told him, surprised. "You don't get out much, do you, wizard?"
"Enough," Thuldoum told him darkly. "More than enough."
"Spellmaster?" A swordcaptain was hurrying up with a covered platter that trailed wisps of steam. "Your evenfeast!"
"Ah, that's better," Thuldoum said, and turned to Amglar. "You see, Swordlord? Properly treated, I will deal with you properly in return… just like any man. You might remember that."
"Aye," the swordlord said, remembering Myarvuk's still, staring face as they buried him. "I will keep it in mind-always." Mistledale, Flamerule 17
The larger of the two owls fluttered down to a branch on the edge of the dale, and grew a human mouth. "Best be wary," it said to the owl alighting beside it. "They may have spying spells set-and a single arrow could slay us in these shapes."
"Take on something larger, Yinthrim?"
"No," the larger Malaugrym said firmly. "That'd just invite discovery and attack… and they'll have mages about. No, Atari, just take care. After we avenge the despoiled honor of the House of Malaug, let us return here and await the dawn. On a battlefield, amusements will be many." Swords Creek, Mistledale, Flamerule 17
"Yes?" Sylune inquired, turning from her lamp and mirror and raising an imperious eyebrow. On either side of the tent door, Belkram and Itharr stared out and raised their blades warily, waiting.
"Your servant, Lady," said the voice outside. A man's voice. A familiar man's voice.
"Yes, Torm?" Sylune asked, a trifle wearily. The two Harpers relaxed, trading grins across the dim tent mouth. "Come to undress me? Or just to collect
all your Lingerie?"
"No," the thief said in a low voice. "May I come in?"
Sylune turned to Sharantyr, who nodded. The three Harpers were sleeping in all but their boots, drawn swords to hand, and had already lain down. The Witch of Shadowdale was sitting up before a mirror, looking at the body she might well lose again on the morrow. "Yes-but leave your pranks outside the door. I'm not in the mood."
"Your command is my wish, as I believe Elminster once said," Torm said with just a hint of his usual impishness, looking warily into the tent. Belkram and Itharr saluted him silently with their blades; he answered them with a sardonic lift of his brows, and stepped into the tent. He was holding something behind his back.
Sylune turned on her stool to face him. With the candlelight behind her, lighting her silver hair into flame, she looked unearthly as well as beautiful. "Well, Torm?"
"I… ah, I came to do your hair," Torm said, bringing a fistful of combs and a tiny scent bottle into view. All four folk in the tent stared at him, and his face grew pinker. Looking down at his hands, he said, "I seem to have grown used to it." He looked up at Sylune. "If you don't mind?"
The smile that the Witch of Shadowdale gave him then took his heart away. Torm swallowed as she stretched forth her hands to him. "Mind? I am honored. Please!"
As Torm stepped forward, eyes shining, Belkram said kindly, "Haul your tongue in, there's a good boy. We've done the tent floor already, and you'll look more sensible with it safely stowed away."
Sharantyr shot her comrade a sharp look, but Torm did not even turn around.
"I know it's been said before," he said calmly, "but if you go around giving folk a piece of your clever mind, Belkram, soon enough you'll have none left for yourself."
Belkram spread his hands in apology. "Aye, it's the real Torm. Sorry for shattering your gesture, sir. With all these shapeshifters around, one can't be too careful."
Torm rounded on him then. " 'Too careful'?" he asked, incredulously. "You folk make berserkers look like timid moles! When you discover what the word 'careful' means, come and tell me! You certainly haven't displayed any great store of it thus far! I doubt Elminster'd dare to do what you have… let alone this thief!"
"He's right, you know," Sharantyr said with a chuckle.
"Of course he's right," Itharr told her. "We've just been charging ahead as fast as we could into peril after peril, hoping the gods, our foes, and ourselves alike wouldn't notice what reckless fools we're being, and pay us off for it! And now he's gone and spoiled it, and on the eve of battle, too! Bad thief! Naughty, naughty bad thief!"
The tent erupted in helpless laughter. In the night outside, two Rider sentries exchanged wondering glances, and shook their heads.
"Harpers and adventurers… crazed wits, if you ask me," one said feelingly.
"No argument here," his fellow replied, watching the darkness around warily. Something glided past-and he tensed to shout and hurl his spear-until he saw that it was only an owl. Another owl flapped along in its wake. Now that was something rarely seen.
The guard frowned at the two birds as the night swallowed them again. He shrugged. As long as they weren't arrows, dragons, or flying wizards, things in the sky were no concern of his. He yawned and peered all around again, seeking real danger. Galath's Roost, Mistledale, Flamerule 17
"The wizard said it was deserted, and safe," the Zhentilar swordcaptain grunted, "but we know all about wizards, don't we, lads? Swords out, watch wary, and be ready for the worst!" He glared around at the Zhentilar soldiers and told them, "I don't want to lose one of you because someone wasn't looking, or was thinking about his mistress back at the Keep, or how many coins this or that jack owed him. So take yer time, and let's do this the right way. Torches and mage lights to the fore."
There was a creaking and rattling, and the men moved as one. Then the only sound was the soft whisper and rustle of disturbed foliage. The first scouts of the Sword of the South advanced up the steep, thickly forested slope toward the ruin of Galath's Roost.
When the foremost man was an easy ten paces from the overgrown stones of a wall, he turned and shrieked like an owl, thrice. In response, the mage lights drifted silently forward, over the helmed heads of the soldiers, into the dark and hollow places of stone ahead.
Nothing moved. There was no sound that could not be put down to small things that flap or scuttle in a forest by night. Cautiously the Zhentilar moved forward, swords out, probing the ferns and brambles ahead for spring bows, trip cords, and pits. They found nothing.
From here and there along the edges of the ruin, double owl hoots rang out as scout after scout signalled his safe entry into the keep. Files of men bearing torches began to work their way through the trees in answer to the calls.
A scout halted in a dark chamber, hearing the stony scrape of something moving to his right, through an archway thick with vines and mottled moss. "Be that you, Baeremuth?" The whisper was cautious, and the reply was quick and low.
"Aye. Fflarast?"
"Me," Fflarast confirmed, turning his loaded hand crossbow aside to prevent any accidents. "Anything of interest?"
"Lots of rubble, and something's nest… vole bones an' the like. I think this place really is deserted."
"Good. Crazed orders, hacking through the woods in the dark just to camp in a ruin, but…"
"Better'n trying to fight our way into Mistledale down that bow-shot throat, if we'd taken the road. They must have at least a dozen archers-an' a dozen's all they'd need, Fflar, to take down four hundred or more of us, for sure. This way, we can strike out of the woods all along the south side of the dale. Those farmers'll run themselves crazed trying to be everywhere at once to stop us."
"You plot like a swordlord," Fflarast muttered. "We'd better get on, or Dellyn'll be running his blade up our backsides and bellowing at us for being a pair of craven laggards or spies for the enemy."
"Huh. He sees spies under every stone, that one," Baeremuth replied, and suited actions to words by turning over a rock that was suspiciously damp among dry, dusty ones.
There was a sudden rush of rubble and a crash that shook the room. Fflarast cursed and staggered back, trying to keep his feet, but ended up sitting down hard on rubble. When he'd scrambled up and could see again through the rising dust, his mouth went suddenly dry.
Baeremuth Asanter lay under a fallen block of stone nearly as large as a pack mule. Thin rivers of blood were running out from beneath it-and Fflar could just see the tips of the fingers of one hand, reaching vainly for aid. It would reach forever now.
7
Death Grows Impatient
Fflarast Blackriver peered again at his comrade's remains and then backed away very carefully. The rock-fall hadn't been accidental.
Someone had gone to a lot of trouble with wooden wedges and spars and balanced stones-and even flung dust around afterward to hide their work. The wedges were the bright hue of newly cut wood; this had been done within the last day or so.
"Oh, Bane preserve us," Fflarast whispered, backing out of the chamber. At that moment, a heavy booming off to the right marked the discovery of another trap. It was followed by a faint, raw screaming that went on for a long time before ending suddenly in a gurgle. Fflarast knew those sounds. Someone had put a half-crushed man out of his agony with a quick sword thrust to the throat.
"Ye gods and small creeping things hear my plea," the Zhentilar warrior whispered, invoking the old, old prayer of desperate warriors. He wasn't facing half a hundred orcs alone on a crag, like the legendary Borthin had been when he roared out the invocation, but dead is dead, and Fflarast Blackriver had only one life to lose. Moreover, he valued it just as much as Borthin had his own.
There came another rushing of stone off to the left, and startled cursing. Ah-one trap had missed. Good; that meant they were probably all clever feats, and not magic. Maybe-just maybe-Fflar would see the end of this day.
There came a ringing of steel from behind him. "What's ahead, s
cout?" a self-important swordcaptain snapped. Pelaeron himself, scourge of lazy soldiers. Oh, joy.
"Traps, sir," Fflarast said, indicating the fallen block and Baeremuth's arm. "I'm deciding how best to safely proceed."
"Well, hurry up about it," the officer snapped, prodding Fflar's mail-covered backside with his sword tip. "We haven't got all night, you know." A file of warriors was crowding into the room behind the swordcaptain. Fflarast looked at them-and at Pelaeron's steely eye-and then swallowed, shrugged, and carefully climbed over the rubble to the left of Baeremuth, on into the darkness.
Darkness where there should have been light. The torch had been with Baeremuth, and no mage lights were near. "Torch," Fflarast rapped out, keeping his voice as laconic as possible, and reached back.
The swordcaptain curtly waved an armsman with a blazing torch forward. The man reached to hand the torch to Fflarast, shuffled amid loose stones, tripped, and measured his length on the rubble. Stones shifted-and Fflar flung himself backward into unknown darkness as hard and fast as he could.
An instant later, armsman, torch, Pelaeron, and all vanished in a roaring and tumbling of stone as two carefully balanced blocks collapsed sideways, and the floor of the chamber above came down.
Fflarast landed hard on his tailbone on rough-edged rocks and lay there groaning. The chamber he'd come through was now a new-sealed tomb in front of him. He was lying in a cross passage-and listening to fresh crashings off to the left as heavy stones dropped and rolled. Tortured metal shrieked briefly as it crumpled, a man screamed for an instant, and then there were only echoes. Echoes that faded slowly into silence.
Fflar shuddered. He snarled wordlessly. Gods take all wizards! Save my bruised behind! Grunting, he rolled slowly and carefully to the left, to his knees, and felt for his sword.
There was another rolling crash in the distance, and shouts. Fflarast found his sword and clutched it, not moving as he fought down fear. He was alone in chill darkness with death waiting all around him. For the greater glory of Zhentil Keep, whose proud lords would not even know that Fflarast Blackriver had died in the service. Or care one whit, if someone told them.