by Ed Greenwood
"Of course," Itharr replied. "After all, you taught us."
Storm chuckled. "To dance with your blade, aye, a little-but fighting as one is your own doing."
"They're coming again," Dove said, striding forward.
" 'Ware, all!"
She swung her sword in wide, wild arcs to loosen stiffening muscles, and set herself to meet the Zhentilar attack; a cautious affair this time, with two or three blackhelms moving against each defender.
"This could be bad," Belkram murmured.
Sharantyr sighed. "Just try to stay alive… I need you both."
"You do?" Itharr asked, adopting Torm's manner of mock astonishment.
"I do," Sharantyr growled back at him. "We've got those Malaugrym to catch, remember?"
"Gods," Belkram cursed as he caught a hard-swung Zhent blade on his own and was driven a pace back. "Do Elminster's little tasks never end?"
"Where is Elminster, anyway?" Itharr panted, slashing a staggering Zhent across the face and bringing his blade up into the throat of the blackhelm fencing with Sharantyr.
"Off saving some other corner of the Realms, no doubt," Belkram said, driving his foe back with a few solid swings.
"I don't care about other corners of the Realms," Torm called to them, "only the one I'm in."
"An essentially selfish philosophy," Dove scolded him.
"But one that all lesser mortals must needs cling to, if they want to cling to life," Torm returned archly. He threw the blade in his hand into one eye of a snarling Zhent, who was charging in beside the one he was fighting. The man crashed down, and the thief leapt high to avoid being knocked over. His Zhent opponent wasn't so nimble, and toppled sideways, whereupon Hammerhand Bucko, the wagonmaker of the dale, calmly crushed the man's head with a sledgehammer.
"Thank you," Torm told him politely.
After gaping at him for a moment in amazement, Hammerhand grinned.
A trumpet rang out, the Zhents pressed forward, and the defenders of Shadowdale became all too busy to talk.
A tortured scream topped the fray as Nelyssa's mount reared up, three blades in its belly, and went down. The paladin threw herself clear at the last moment. Only some desperate bladework by Storm and Dove, sparks dancing from their furiously plied blades, kept the captain of the Riders alive until she could find her feet and fight on.
Kuthe grunted in pain and went down, a spear through him, and a moment later the Rider beside him fell, transfixed by three Zhent blades.
"Too many of them!" Merith snarled in frustration, swinging two swords in deadly, whirling unison. "What price sundown now?"
"There's too many! We can't hold them!" Illistyl shouted, swinging a sword awkwardly.
"We must hold them!" Mourngrym snarled back at her from the heart of a knot of Zhents.
"Where in the name of the Seven Dancing Gods is the Old Mage?" Storm raged as she carved her way to the lord of Shadowdale. "Especially now that we need him-for once."
"The temple," a wounded priest of Lathander gasped from behind her. "He stood alone there-or with a woman, some said-against Bane himself!"
Storm turned and stared at the rising column of black smoke that marked the distant temple. "No," she whispered. "Oh, no." She leapt clear of the fray, scant inches ahead of a Zhent blade, and sprinted away across the heaped dead.
Sharantyr turned, hacked through a Zhent blackhelm twice her size, and saw Storm spring into the saddle of a dale war horse. It leapt into a full gallop like an arrow shot from a bow, heading west.
Though Shar whirled back to face another foe, she still saw Storm's anguished face in her mind. No one should look like that. Nothing should ever happen in Faerun to make the Bard of Shadowdale look like that.
She parried the Zhentilar blade and spun away to run after Storm's racing dapple gray, heedless of the heaped dead.
Uncertainly, Belkram turned to follow, but Itharr shouted in alarm.
"Look you!" He pointed the other way, east beyond Krag Pool, where new plumes of smoke were rising through the green leaves of the trees.
"Gods," Shaerl gasped, her face white, as she stared east into the blazing forest. "The Zhents have fired the wood! The dale may become our pyre yet!"
The defenders of Shadowdale, too few and too weary to fight a blaze, stared at the quickening flames in horror.
"Now," Dove said firmly, " 'tis time!" She held up the blade she bore and called, "Eanamorrath!"
Lighting leapt from its suddenly blazing length, crackling along the line of blackhelms to strike the blade Lord Florin wielded. His sword flashed. Florin hissed at the shock of the bolt surging through the weapon, and then the lightning leapt back, sinking back into Dove's blade as if it were an errant phantom returning home.
In its wake lay a blackened path of dead Zhentilar, sprawled wherever the bolt had danced, and the air was sharp with the smell of the strike that had felled them. The surviving Zhent warriors drew back in disarray, leaving the defenders alone with the dead.
"Florin!" Itharr shouted. "Lord Florin!"
The Shield of Shadowdale turned his head.
Itharr called, "We must pray to Mielikki for a downpour!"
"But if all the gods are cast down and powerless…" a Rider leaning on his sword nearby said.
"No! He's right!" Illistyl snapped. "Mielikki and Eldath dwell in Faerun; their power is sourced here. Shaerl! Is your maid, Jenna, anywhere about?"
"I–I sent her to help Jhaele tend the wounded at the Old Skull," Shaerl said doubtfully, wiping sweat and tangled hair out of her eyes. "Why?"
"She worships Eldath," Illistyl snarled. "Come!"
"And what of the Zhents?" Mourngrym bellowed. He waved an arm to indicate the hundreds of Zhentilar still facing them, though the blackhelms seemed to be retreating to the trees at the edge of the dale.
"Fall back," Illistyl told him. "Back to this ridge of bodies. You can see the inn from there, and Florin and the Rangers Three can join Jenna in prayer. If the woods burn, we are all lost, whether we fight for Shadowdale or Zhentil Keep!"
They all stared at her a moment, then scrambled to take up new positions among the mounds of fallen. Belkram, Itharr, and Sharantyr found themselves trotting toward the inn, panting, while Florin ran on ahead, feet racing as if he were rested and fresh. Shaerl and Mourngrym ran along behind them as rearguard, and the stout priest Rathan puffed after the hurrying band.
"Gods," Belkram said, stumbling as his throbbing feet sent fresh lances of pain upward. "I don't think the gods meant me to be a hero! Being one of those sleeping temple guards seems more within my grasp!"
"Here, now!" Rathan Thentraver said in offended tones. "Dost thou slander the holy?"
"All too often," Itharr told him as they picked their way among the wounded laid on blankets, restless in their pain. Someone was wailing in grief, and blood-soaked bandages-and flies-were everywhere. "What does this Jenna look like?"
"Just look for Florin," Belkram instructed, pointing at the open inn door, "He must be in th-"
The ground heaved. A deafening howl of rage and grief smashed into the ears of everyone in Shadowdale. Thrown to their knees, the three rangers looked back east, from whence the sound had come.
A sphere of raging flames hung high in the air over the burning trees, spinning. The flames from the woods below were being drawn up into it. It pulsed, becoming almost blinding in its fury-but against the bright whirling flames a figure could be seen standing in its fiery heart; a wildly leaping figure clad in the black tatters of a gown.
"Oh, sweet gods spare us!" someone gasped.
The woods were dark and hissing now as the last fire soared up out of them. The sphere spun once more before it hurled its fire down in a ravening beam of utter destruction, into the Zhent soldiers crowded along the Voonlar road. They did not even have time to scream before they were tumbling ashes. The scouring flames lashed the very stones into ruin.
The Central Blade of Bane's Black Gauntlet was no more.
"Who-?" one of the Riders asked in awe, staring up at the figure who stood on empty air above the trees, all her flames spent now.
"The Simbul," Shaerl whispered. She turned, swept a tankard off a table, and drained it at a single gulp.
"The Witch-Queen?" the man gasped. "The Shield Against Thay?"
"The same," Shaerl replied bitterly, and turned into Mourngrym's arms with a sob.
"This can only mean one thing," the lord of Shadowdale said grimly, holding his shaking, weeping lady. "Elminster is dead."
10
Time to be Truly Heroes
The Castle of Shadows, Shadowhome, Flamerule 18
In a deepness that very few Malaugrym know, in the ever-shifting cellars of the Castle of Shadows, there was a place where thinking shadows glided endlessly through the gloom, vast and slow. These ponderous phantoms circled a grotto where shapeshifters who bore the title Shadowmaster High had been wont to hide the bones of rivals and others they'd deemed expedient to make 'vanish.'
The grotto was a cold cavern of rough rock where waters dripped endlessly among the pale, chill glows of fungi, but at its heart two seats faced each other-seats carved out of the flanks of massive, ancient stalagmites… and these seats each bore a curious graven symbol believed to be the sign of Malaug himself. It was a rune found in few places in the Castle of Shadows, and all of its occurrences were well known in the lore of the House of Malaug-save these two.
There was not much else to see in the bone-white glow but tumbled rock and bones… but there was much to feel, hanging heavy and watchful on all sides.
Even the youngest Shadowmasters had heard tales of locales in Shadowhome where mighty magics slumbered, which only the Shadowmaster High could perceive and wield. This was one of those places.
The young and ambitious Malaugrym Argast and Amdramnar had recently discovered the grotto in separate, private explorations. Both had been guided in their wanderings among the shifting shadows by the writings of Shadowmaster High Melvydur. Dead these thousand years and more, Melvydur mentioned the grotto as the place where the dynasty he founded was conceived-and where he laid to rest the bodies of all his sons who rebelled against him. His writings end when the last son succeeded in destroying Melvydur.
This secret grotto of silent bones and uncaring rock was a gloomy place… but it was a place of power. Ancient magic lay heavy in the air, awaiting the right word or gesture to awaken it. And more than anything else, those of the blood of Malaug hungered after power.
Argast and Amdramnar were rivals, and perhaps the best of the younger generation of Shadowmasters. Certainly they were the most subtle, patient, and polite in their dealings-and so commanded the most respect, not to mention fear, among their elders. Those elders would have been most surprised to see them sharing any place in relative peace.
Indeed, as they sat facing each other, their faces were grim and wary, their fingers very close to hurling slaying spells and wielding powerful and deadly items. Yet they sat, and did not move to rend and slay. Their elders were right to fear them.
"Have we agreement?" Argast asked.
"By my name, we do," Amdramnar replied. "Have we agreement?"
"By my name, we do," Argast responded as they watched the drops of their blood slowly flow together into the vial.
They rose as one, and Argast took the vial and stoppered it, handing it to Amdramnar to place on the seat he'd vacated. What befell one Shadowmaster would now also afflict the other-until the vial was broken by someone using the right spells to prevent grave damage to them both.
"If this agreement is to end, we must both meet here to quench it," Argast intoned, continuing the old ritual both of them had read about, but never witnessed.
"Agreed. When we meet, each of us may bring with him one other of the house-no more, and no other beings," Amdramnar responded.
"Agreed," they affirmed together, and walked away from the heart of the grotto, to where the cloaking shadows slid endlessly by.
"Were it not for so many destroyed," Argast said as their eyes met again, "I should never have agreed to work with you in anything. And yet now I welcome the prospect."
Amdramnar inclined his head. "I, too, hope that trust, even friendship, can grow out of this. Whatever befalls, we must work together to destroy the three beings who dared to strike down so many of our blood. They have done it once, and could well come again… and what if they brought the Great Foe with them this time, or an army of lesser mages?"
"You befriended them," Argast said, "seeking to learn their ways and secrets. Do you think they will seek to return?"
Amdramnar opened his mouth to reply, then sighed, shrugged, and shook his head. "I know not. Their deeds and words did not always strike a good match together-and they were accompanied by some sort of vigilant sentience of greater sorcery than I command."
"Elminster, of course."
"No, I think not. A gentler, more neutral regard… less knowing, less… afire with humor, let us say. I touched this intelligence only fleetingly."
Argast lifted his own shoulders and let them fall. "As you say, you have had contact with this mysterious other, and I have not. It is not Elminster, then." He hesitated as they stepped together onto the back of the flapping shadow they'd been waiting for. It bore them away into roiling dimness, and Argast added, "Please do not take my next query as anything more unfriendly than a desire to know if some future use can be made of it. You fancied the woman as a mate?"
Amdramnar regarded him expressionlessly. "I did, and do."
"Have you any knowledge of her feelings toward you?"
"She did not know what to make of me. I was not the menacing scaly thing she expected-but she never relaxed, though she did trust me so far as to open herself to attack on several occasions… at least once to see what I'd do, I am certain."
"And what would you do if you met her again?"
"I do not know. I must learn more of her true powers, aims, and loyalties. At present I still desire her as a mate and as part of our house. Although the damage done by her weapon was… unprecedented, she was acting at first to defend herself even as you or I would against treachery from a fellow Malaugrym. That she and her companions came here to do us harm is, I think, likely. That they did not know us is certain, and so I must conclude that they came here on principle, or following the orders of another."
"Elminster? If not the Great Foe, then who?"
"That is one of the things we must learn." The shadow bore them into brighter and more tranquil surroundings, a placid blue pool wreathed in mists, and Amdramnar added, "Yet if the need arises, I would strike to slay her and her two companions without hesitation. The men must die in any case, for the honor of our house. If the woman proves less than I believe her to be, death can come to her whenever her usefulness in breeding the next generation of Shadowmasters is done."
He turned his head to regard Argast. "On the other hand, she is but one of many countless maids who walk Faerun right now… and many of those, I'm given to understand, have a strong talent for sorcery."
"More suitable mates may await both of us?"
"And many of our fellows, perhaps. We shall see. Faerun awaits."
"So many riches… denied to us for so long."
"At the command of the Great Foe, remember-bolstered by craven Shadowmasters High who feared both his magic and the access all of us would have to things not under the control of the Shadow Throne."
"This is truth," Argast said softly. "Even I've seen more in the great scrying portal over the years than Dhalgrave intended, and I am one of those who pays little attention to intrigues and watching over other planes. It is no wonder some of our elders-Milhvar comes to mind-spent much time and effort on covert expeditions into the realms of Faerun, seeking magic."
"And mates," Amdramnar said with the ghost of a smile, "if the rumors are true."
"He has offspring in Faerun?"
"Ignorant of their heritage, and perhaps weak in their shapeshifting, no
doubt," Amdramnar replied, "but yes-several, I believe."
Argast frowned. "Unknown offspring aside, how many of our kin walk Faerun right now?"
"Whoever survived battle with Sharantyr and her companions, when the sword took her back to Faerun. Ahorga, I have seen… and two others who took many shapes, but are possibly Atari and Yinthrim. There are others: two working together, and at least one more. I cannot believe all of these fled the battle; some of the kin must have seized upon the emptiness of the Shadow Throne to defy the standing decrees and make their own ways into Faerun."
"Bralatar and Lorgyn have both vanished from their chambers," Argast said quietly, "and have been absent for more than a dozen feastings."
"So," Amdramnar replied, one side of his face lifting into a smile, "let us do likewise, you and I. To Faerun, to take the shapes of others, and watch patiently, and learn before we move against these mortals. In the chaos ruling Faerun right now, we dare not rely on magic. Any foray there now will be very dangerous-but what opportunities for hunting!"
"I feel its attraction more strongly as the years pass and we visit it not," Argast replied. "I begin to understand why so many of our elders defied the Great Foe even when they knew death awaited them."
"Shadowhome and the planes we can readily reach never felt limiting in any way before," Amdramnar said quietly. "Faerun seemed to be no more than some sort of fanciful land of beasts where the restless of our house went to play, and when careless got hurt there. But now…"
"Let us prepare," Argast said, eyes shining. "I want to be in Faerun without delay!"
The shadow glided to the place it always did, and they stepped off it and went on up a dusty stair choked with the skeletal remains of dead and forgotten servants, into an undercrypt several stairs beneath the Hall of Griffons. There they parted, ascending into the castle proper by different ways so as not to be seen together by interested eyes.
The gigantic shadow that had been their steed drifted on to a place the two Malaugrym did not know. There it rose into a different form and called forth four spherical stones of winking blue fire to orbit one of its wrists endlessly.