by Ed Greenwood
"And the Lord of Battles at that," Lorgyn agreed. "Now is not a good time."
"'Now' is never a good time," Bralatar said dryly.
"At first light," Florin ordered, looking around the map-strewn room, "we ride north to Shadowdale, where our swords are sorely needed."
Kuthe nodded grimly. "Haste must be our course, yes." He looked at the cot where Nelyssa lay, nodding weakly.
"I shall ride to Shadowdale on the morrow," she said firmly, "and any man who shouts at me not to go will serve me as a replacement mount!"
Kuthe closed his open mouth stiffly, and turned his head away, then swung it around again, opened his mouth to speak, caught her eye-and closed his jaws once more.
Torm and Rathan, scratching at their rough, stiff bandages, sputtered with mirth and went out hastily.
"Ah,'twas worth all that jabber to see Lord High-and-Mighty's face!" Torm chuckled. "Now, let's be finding that drink I was talking of…"
"I'll go with ye," Rathan said grimly. "Too many friends fell this day. I want to feel a small fire in my belly this night."
Torm raised his eyebrows. "And why not? You do that every other night; why change things now?"
Rathan favored him with both a weary look and an unpriestly gesture.
Just after the two Knights had wearily passed around a corner of the street, a door swung open, and Illistyl hurried, white-faced, out into the waiting night. Her mind yet burned with the sight of a Rider's crushed leg being amputated, the grim faces of sawing surgeon and patient, the Rider's rolling eyes. Illistyl shook her head as she stumbled along in the darkness, but could not shake the images away…
Suddenly something was rising within her. She fell heavily to her knees and vomited into the dark grass.
A weary Rider turned his head at the sound, watched her sobbing out the contents of her stomach, and turned back to sewing up a comrade's slashed arm.
"Hmm," he said thoughtfully, "it seems great adventurers are human after all."
His older companion winced as the needle went in again. "Oh, they're human, lad… all too human. That's where most of the trouble begins."
9
Even Wizards Must Die
The Castle of Shadows, Shadowhome, Flamerule 15
The mists of morning were still drifting off the river as the Knights of Myth Drannor and the Riders of Mistledale rode north together, leather creaking loudly among the riverbank trees. They pressed on, stiff and sore from yesterday's fighting, but more than one Rider wore a wondering smile as he looked around at the awakening forest on this bright morning he'd not expected to see.
"Such a victory," one man muttered to his companion. "Thousands we sent to their graves. 'Twas the favor of the gods, to be sure, that we weren't all sent to the Deathrealms in their first charge, and Mistledale laid waste before highsun!"
"Aye, we place much store in the favor of the gods," his comrade replied, "or we'd not be riding straight into another battle!" He pointed ahead. Plumes of smoke rose into the sky to the north.
Shadowdale was burning.
The Knights and Riders pressed on up the Mistle Trail, urging their mounts to greater haste.
Torm waved a hand at the smoke and said loudly and bitterly, "Look! We'll get there in time to join the Zhents at their fires, with the dale pillaged and burned and not a man or maid left to fight for!"
"Say not so!" Merith told him, but Kuthe and Nelyssa nodded slowly.
"We've taken this way in haste before," the captain of the Riders said, her eyes very dark, "and spent more than a day in the forest… and that was a few riders on fresh, swift mounts-not a force this large that fought yesterday."
Belkram was frowning and holding his head to one side, as if listening to something. He straightened in his saddle and said, "There is a way to take us there more swiftly."
Florin Falconhand, who rode at the head of the column, turned his head. "You mean magic," he said grimly. "Is that wise, given the chaos ruling sorcery?"
Belkram listened for a breath longer, and then shrugged. "Sylune says teleportation seems unaffected-it served her even on the battlefield yester-morn, passing wild magic shields to do so."
"Without a body, she can't cast any spells," Kuthe pointed out. "What good is it if the Lady Jhessail here hurls one of us on ahead? A lone rider makes a better target than a relief force!"
"There is a way to take us all," Belkram replied slowly, passing on the words from the stone that held the Witch of Shadowdale. "Elminster taught it to m-her."
The ranger nodded. "There is a risk," Florin said; it was a statement, not a query. He looked around at the others, holding up his hand for a halt. "Are you willing to take on that danger? All of you?"
The Knights nodded without hesitation. Among the Riders were some swift glances back and forth, and shrugs. One leaned forward and asked Florin, "Are you?"
The Shield of Shadowdale shrugged. "Of course."
"He's a Knight of Myth Drannor," Rathan explained as if to a child.
"Which is to say, he's a reckless idiot," Torm elaborated in a stage whisper.
The men of Mistledale were still chuckling when Captain Nelyssa said crisply, "I will undergo this magic. Let us be about it."
"We'll need some space," Belkram said, and pointed into the trees. "That glade there."
Nelyssa nodded. "Let all who are unwilling to chance this spell stay here on the trail." She turned her horse's head and guided it into the trees.
As they followed, Belkram looked at Jhessail. "You must do the casting."
She wrinkled her nose at him. "So I'd gathered."
No one stayed on the road. When everyone was arrayed around Belkram, he took off the chain and gave it to Jhessail. She held up the stone, and grew still for a moment as she listened. Merith, who'd been in such castings before, slid deftly from his saddle and lay on the ground, taking hold of one hoof of his horse and one of his lady's ankles. Florin edged his mount over to take a firm hold on Merith's horse, and Sharantyr, Itharr, Belkram, Captain Nelyssa, and Kuthe followed, creating a human chain.
Jhessail smiled her thanks, and said, "Draw in close, everyone-to touch at least one other person or their mount. Remain that way, and don't pull free until we're elsewhere."
She drew a deep breath and put the stone into her mouth. Closing her eyes in concentration, Jhessail followed Sylune's guidance in the casting. The loop of chain dangling from her chin rattled as she moved. After a brief series of gestures, she threw both hands high into the air and froze.
A blue mist raced out from her body to swirl around them all. It rose, growing thicker and winking with small flashes of blue light… light that was suddenly blinding, blotting the world out in an shifting, drifting swirl… that faded away to show Faerun again.
They were in a different clearing-a larger space littered with felled trees and stacked firewood. To the north was daylight, where the woods gave way to the first fields of Shadowdale. Through the cloaking trees, they saw the stone bridge over the Ashaba, where a watchful guard always stood.
A guard of three frightened old men, whose spears trembled in their hands as they shouted in alarm at the sudden appearance of so many horsemen. Florin took his hand from Merith's horse to raise it in a reassuring salute.
Jhessail shuddered and collapsed silently onto her husband, the stone falling from her mouth.
"Is she-?" Belkram and Itharr said together, leaning anxiously down. Merith cradled her as he reached out, plucked up the stone that was Sylune, and held it up to Belkram.
"Drained, not dead," the elf said softly. "A mass teleport is something far beyond her Art. Though Sylune gave direction, my Jhess worked the spell."
"We must still make haste," Nelyssa reminded.
Illistyl frowned. "Florin! Come back here!"
The ranger, who was halfway to the bridge, acknowledged the relieved greetings of the dalesmen before he turned questioningly.
"I haven't Art to equal Jhess's," the younger sorceress said,
"but I can manage something you should use now."
Florin was already hurrying his war horse back to her. Firefoam had paced restlessly back and forth behind the lines of the battle yesterday, and was eager to get into a proper fray; he snorted and tossed his head as they approached Illistyl, fearing he would be relegated to stand and watch, again. The diminutive sorceress stood looking up at him as his great muzzle lowered to her nose.
"How would you like to fly?" she asked softly.
Firefoam's bugle awoke echoes from the trees around and made many of the other horses stamp and whinny.
"Fly ahead," Illistyl said, looking up at Florin, "and see where we're needed. Rally folk, and return if you need us anywhere in particular-otherwise, we'll just charge on up the road and kill Zhents!"
"A shrewd grasp of tactics," Captain Nelyssa said dryly.
Illistyl cast her spell with deft speed.
Florin scooped the limp form of Jhessail from Merith's arms and settled her against his own chest.
"Done! Get you gone!" Illistyl cried, waving her hands; Florin smiled his thanks and saluted as Firefoam bounded aloft-and was gone across the sky, heading for the distant Tower of Ashaba.
As they hurried across, Jhessail asked the first old farmer on the bridge, "How goes the battle?"
"Not well," he rasped. "Too many Zhents!"
"A problem we're familiar with," Torm agreed grandly, urging his horse off the bridge.
An instant later, the ground rocked and thundered. Riders fought to control snorting mounts and stay in their saddles as they gaped at a huge ball of flame that rose up, up into the sky over Shadowdale.
"The tower?" Illistyl gasped, white to the lips. "Florin?"
"Not the tower," Jhessail said, shaking her head. "But close by, west and south."
"The temple of Lathander," Rathan grunted, "or I'm an idiot."
"You are an idiot," Torm pointed out.
Rathan's reply was a certain wordless gesture with his mace as he hauled on the reins, taking his horse to one side of the cart road and gaining room to gallop. Torm cast a quick look back to see all the Riders doing so, and pulled his mount to the left, catching a glare from Kuthe for his tardiness.
"Ready, all?" Captain Nelyssa asked crisply. "Forward!"
At her yell, they nudged their mounts into a gallop and swept north into the heart of Shadowdale.
The smoke lay like a haze in the air here, drifting out of the trees to the east, and the fields around them were green and deserted. Up ahead, they could hear the swelling sound of shouts and screams and the clangor of steel on steel. Here and there a blade flashed as it caught the sunlight through the smoke and swirling dust.
The crossroads in front of the Old Skull Inn was heaped with dead. The twisted mounds were so high the Zhentilar, advancing in a great horde from the east, had to scramble and climb. The grisly, slippery wall was being held against them by desperate dalesmen wielding axes and blades.
Among the dusty defenders were Storm Silverhand and her sister, Dove, both clad in battered and scorched plate armor but bareheaded, their silver tresses swirling as they fought. Storm leapt into the air and smashed aside a foe's blade, her other hand snaking in to take him by the throat. Muscles rippled in her arm as they crashed back down to earth together. The Zhent blackhelm struggled for a moment in her iron grip-then fell limp, his neck broken. Two of his fellows scrambled up the mound of dead, waving blades to get their chance at the Bard of Shadowdale.
Dove Falconhand took that chance away, rushing along the line of defenders to thrust one Zhent desperately aside into the other armsman. Off-balance, the blackhelms stumbled among the corpses. Storm dumped the man she'd just slain atop one, and kicked the other in the face with her boot. He fell down the heap, head rolling limply, and was smashed aside by more Zhentilar rushing up to challenge Storm in their turn.
"That's the problem with Zhents," Rathan growled as they turned their horses toward the black-armored host crowded up against the wall of dead. "There're always too many of them."
"Lances down!" Nelyssa cried, and led the charge.
Through the thunder of pounding hooves they heard someone of Shadowdale cry, "The Riders! The Riders of Mistledale!"
"And the mighty Torm, too!" the thief shouted back, just before they crashed into the Zhent lines.
Men reeled like broken dolls under the impact of hooves and lances and thundering war horses, and when the press of bodies slowed their progress, the Riders let go their lances and laid about themselves with swords and maces.
"Shadowdale!" Dove Falconhand snarled, leading a charge from the ridge of slain.
There were screams of agony and frustration from the Zhents, packed too tightly together to raise weapons or move from the blades.
A desperately wielded spear sought Torm's thigh; he sprang from his saddle and vaulted into the fray, drawn sword extended between his boots. He came down atop a Zhentilar and rode the man to the ground, stabbing viciously with the dagger in his free hand. The man convulsed and lay still; by then Torm was two kills away, his slim blade and dagger sliding in and out before the close-packed Zhents could react.
With a wall of corpses around him like a shield, he struck out from between their bodies, swift and sure, thrusting, dancing away from blades… until the crash of a felled Rider and his horse cleared some space, and the dead began to topple and slump all around.
Into the opened space leapt Storm, clapping a gasping Torm on his shoulder. "Bravely done!"
"Ah-all for… you… Lady," Torm huffed, trying to essay a courtly bow-and slipping in gore so that he lurched to one knee. The fall saved his life; a whirling axe meant for his head flashed harmlessly through empty air.
Storm hauled him upright. "The battle's this way," she said helpfully, pointing with a sword that was red to the hilt.
He gave her a fierce smile in answer. Then his jaw dropped. "By the gods, look!" he bellowed, pointing. Storm turned in time to see Belkram, Itharr, and Sharantyr advance another pace through the ranks of Zhentilar. Fighting in unison, standing close together in a human arrowhead, they were dealing death with furious speed.
"The Rangers Three," Storm said, watching her pupils in admiration.
The hesitant gangliness she'd seen all too often the day she'd fought Belkram and Itharr at the farmhouse was gone. Now they moved like dancers, deft and quick. Sharantyr was the key. Her smooth style had drawn the two Harpers into a team. Storm began to believe their survival in the castle of the Malaugrym was more than good fortune bolstered by the aid of Mystra and Elminster. She shook her head in pleased admiration and threw herself into the battle once more, coming up alongside the Rangers Three in their bloody foray into the Zhent ranks.
The Rider charge had cleared space enough to fight, and the easy killing was done. Fresh Zhents were pressing forward for their first chance to fight, and there seemed no end to them.
They'd struck at Shadowdale from the west, and from the north. Some fell magic had wrought a great explosion and fire westward, hard by the Twisted Tower. There was fighting all over the dale, and the day might still be lost-but this welcome, unexpected aid had come from Mistledale, from whence she'd expected only more blackhelms.
"Azuth be with us," she breathed, feeling fresh sorrow at the thought that Mystra was no more.
Storm swept her notched long sword up to strike aside a reaching halberd. Catching hold of it as the man rushed helplessly forward, she pulled, sprawling him to the turf in front of her. A dalesman stabbed the Zhent in the face before he could rise, and from somewhere near at hand Storm heard the deep laughter of Bronn Selgard, the smith. Dove must be rallying the last folk from the inn to join this push, to drive the Zhents back into the trees.
There was a ringing sound as the great iron-headed hammer Bronn wielded crashed down on some unfortunate Zhent's helm. The winded Rangers Three began to fall back. A spell hurled bodies in all directions, tearing a breach in the wall of corpses behind her.
Sto
rm turned, frowning-creating a breach for the Zhents to pour through? What simpleton had birthed such a plan? — and then laughed aloud in delight.
"For Shadowdale!" came the roar from beyond the wall. Warriors in full plate armor rode through the breach, lances gleaming. At their head, three figures rode abreast: Florin; Mourngrym, lord of Shadowdale; and Shaerl, his lady.
"'Ware!" Storm yelled to the Rangers Three, waving them aside.
Dove sprang acrobatically across the path of the charging horses, somersaulted in a clanking of protesting armor, and fetched up beside Storm. Just then, the lances of the charging dalefolk came down, crashing into the massed Zhentilar in a great screaming of men and horses and tortured metal.
As first, the horses were slowed by the sheer weight of blackhelms standing against them. The mounted armsmen of the tower spurred out and around them, striking at the foe on either side. When the last horseman had charged, the Zhent lines had fallen back a good twenty paces-a distance marked by a carpet of black-armored fallen.
The dale riders pulled back to spare their horses from Zhent blades, and a cheer went up from the weary farmers and merchants who'd held the wall of dead so long against the forefront of the Zhent army.
A little space opened up between the defenders and the army of Zhentil Keep; Dove stared across it and hissed, "Oh, for some arrows…"
"All gone, hours ago," Storm told her, and they embraced wearily, eyes on the foe. Both sides had paused to catch breath, it seemed, staring at each other across the fallen, but making no move to attack.
"Gods, look how many there are," Shaerl murmured. "Can we hold them until sunset?"
"We must," Mourngrym replied shortly, looking around at the dead. "And dark'll bring the wolves and wild dogs out to feed, too."
"Well fought, you three," Storm called to Belkram, Itharr, and Sharantyr, who'd sat down together on some dead Zhentilar, rubbing at aching shoulders and bruised forearms.