by Ed Greenwood
“Storm,” Lhaeo asked quietly, his voice almost steady, “was that—?”
“Our sister Syluné,” Storm answered as quietly. “Yes, and what we tried did more harm to her than to either of us.” She turned dark eyes up to theirs and added, “So now you know. Take up the weight of another secret, for the good of the dale.”
Two intent faces nodded silently.
Then the Simbul stirred and said into the table, “Is any of that firequench swill left?”
After the laughter had died away, Lhaeo dared to lay tender hands on perhaps the most powerful sorceress alive in Faerûn, raising her and wiping her sweat-soaked brow. The Simbul smiled silent thanks up at him and said, “Well, you know we failed. Know more; there’s worse news.”
Lhaeo and Jhessail both looked at her sharply. “Tell,” Elminster’s scribe bade her simply.
“All Art in the Realms is going rogue,” the Simbul answered, “for all who wield it, everywhere. We can unleash it, but our control slips and fades, and most of the time is lacking entirely. Magic has gone wild, and we can do nothing, it seems, to stop that. El and Shar are truly beyond our reach and aid.”
Dread came and went on her white face, and she reached thoughtfully for the decanter again. “Across Faerûn,” she added softly but firmly, “not a single mage, archmage, or hedge-wizard can rely on spells anymore.”
Lhaeo and Jhessail exchanged looks and then spoke together, framing the same question as one. “In the name of all the gods, why?”
Storm answered softly, eyes on the flame of the nearest candle. “That’s just why. All the gods have been cast down into the Realms to contend among us, struggling and striving as we do. With Mystra gone, there’s none to control magic. It’s why Elminster’s gone away.”
“Cast down?” Lhaeo almost whispered. “By whom? Who has such power?”
Storm spread her hands. “In the oldest writings he was called the Overgod. Nowadays, to those who know of him at all, he is the ‘One Who Is Hidden.’ ” She smiled. “If you meet him, you might ask his truename and aims. There are a lot of souls, mortal and divine alike, who’d like to know.”
Jhessail drew a deep, ragged breath and smiled. “I’ll get straight to work on it,” she jested, and shook her head in rueful disbelief. Her hands trembled as they reached for the second decanter. When she put it down, it held far less than when she had taken it up.
Storm shook her head. “Easy, lass,” she murmured, “or well have to carry you back to the tower.”
Jhessail crooked an eyebrow. “Who, wench,” she said readily, “will be carrying whom?”
Lhaeo sighed and rose. “Come, Jhess,” he said. “Elminster and Sharantyr are on their own, and we’ve done enough harm this night. Storm needs her sleep, even if we do not.”
Storm thanked the scribe with her eyes. Jhessail read that look and blew them all a kiss before taking Lhaeo’s arm and slipping swiftly out into the night.
A long time passed. As the candles died, one by one, the two sisters sat at the table unmoving, eyes far away.
At last Storm moved unwilling lips. “Did you see or feel anything when you reached for Shar? Anything at all?”
“No,” the Simbul said shortly, staring down at her empty hands. “Nothing. I was like the worst apprentice I’ve ever had—alone, wavering, helpless in the dark.”
“I saw three things, sister,” came the eerie voice they had feared not to hear again. “Fire and tears and stars, overhead it seemed, though they were all mixed together. Our stars.”
Storm raised her head, and there were tears in her eyes. “Syluné,” she said softly, “my thanks. They’re not dead, then.”
“Yet,” came the voice of Syluné’s ghost dryly. “Yet.”
It was dark in Dagger Wood, save for an upright oval of amber light, an unsleeping eye staring into the night. Overhead, glittering stars watched what the eye’s glow illuminated: two blades that glimmered, leapt, and sang as they dealt death.
The two men who held the blades said nothing as they danced and ducked. Both knew they must keep the seven black-armored guards—well, only three guards now—from fleeing through the oval radiance to raise the alarm.
The men in full armor were strong, hardened veterans, efficient experts at dealing death with cold steel by night or day, in alleys or high streets, in open battle or in crowds.
The two men in dusty leathers, however, were Harpers and men who’d just spent some goodly time crossing blades with Storm Silverhand. They knew who’d win this battle.
As frantic moments passed, their opponents came to know it too, with the cold, sinking certainty of death. The Harpers caught each other’s eyes once, in the skirling dance of steel, and laughed together. A few panting breaths later it was over.
Belkram and Itharr faced each other across the black-clad fallen, looked all about with trained wariness, and nodded to each other, signaling that they were both unharmed. Then they turned together in silence to look at the flickering, man-high oval of light. It glowed silently back at them, waiting.
Belkram’s eyes descended to a corpse that lay in front of the gate. He bent forward. “What’s this?”
“Harper signs?”
“Aye.” He leaned closer get a better look at the slashes on the corpse’s leather tunic. “ ‘Trap ahead,’ it says. ‘Keep low.’ ” Belkram hefted his bloodstained blade. “Well? Ready?”
Itharr chuckled, and stroked the wispy beginnings of a moustache in a gesture Belkram had seen before. “Remember, adventure is where you find it,” he replied, waving with his own blade at the light to indicate that Belkram should go first.
“Why, thank you,” Belkram replied in exaggerated, courtly tones, and stepped through, keeping low.
7
A Night of Mardered Peace, and After
Beyond the gate, all was dark and silent. Grass whispered underfoot, and there were trees ahead—and a strong smell of recent wood smoke. Belkram took a pace forward, then crouched and leapt warily aside, out of the light. Itharr came through, saw Belkram’s move, and turned toward the other side of the gate to do the same.
Then both Harpers heard the unmistakable deep tung of a crossbow firing. Itharr whipped around to follow Belkram and dived frantically to the ground. The first bolt whistled past his head as he fell. Then the night was full of hissing death, biting at them as they rolled, leapt, and ran to the left toward the trees.
A bolt from right in front of them came leaping out of the night. Itharr twisted desperately aside. The missile drew a line of red fire across his chest and shoulder, and was gone. Itharr snarled out his pain as he raced on. More quarrels sought his life, whirring past like angry wasps. He heard them clattering on rocks off to his left, and shot a glance that way. A mountain rose up beside them, and then he was following Belkram along its base, sprinting into the concealing trees.
A short scream ahead told him Belkram had opened a way through at least one defender. Itharr ran faster. To think he’d once dreamed of glorious adventures as a Harper, dreams that involved (between parties with beauteous women) charging castles single-handed! Dreams where no arrows ever struck hi—
Itharr grunted as a crossbow bolt struck him in the shoulder, picking him off his feet and hurling him a pace or two toward the rocks with the force of its flight.
He landed hard on his good arm, sprang up—spit on the pain; his life depended on getting up!—and ran on, hoping he’d not drop his sword from the hand he could no longer feel.
“After them!” Nordryn snarled. At the Sword’s dubious look he almost shrieked his next words, so great was his fury. “Get them! They can’t use any magic. I’ve cloaked them with a spell of my own! Go on!”
Around him, Wolves drew blades, but they looked to the Sword for orders, not him. The Sword looked at him again, long and coldly, then nodded his head at the fleeing men.
With a shout and a breath of creaking leather and flashing steel, the Wolves boiled up out of the trees and were gone.
<
br /> Nordryn looked at the Sword, eyes hot. “I’ll remember this,” he spat.
The veteran swordsman looked back at him steadily, his eyes the same hue as the raised tip of his drawn sword. “See that you do,” he replied softly.
“Where are we, d’you think?” Itharr panted as they raced along.
Belkram turned at the sound of his friend’s voice. “Are you hurt?” He reached out a hand, swinging his fellow Harper around sharply.
The bolt protruding from Itharr’s shoulder struck a nearby branch; he made a choked sound and stumbled back. Belkram’s searching hands caught him, located the bolt, and felt the shoulder it was buried in.
Itharr tried to cough and whimper at the same time, and failed. He settled for making another little choking noise and fell down.
Belkram sighed, laid down his blade, and tore out the bolt in one swift, hard jerk. Itharr shook once under his hands and lay still.
The taller Harper thought for a moment, then rose from his wounded friend and ran lightly back the way they’d come, melting into the cloaking gloom of a tree as a warrior trotted cautiously forward, glancing around in the dim night.
The woods were full of armed Wolves cautiously advancing in the darkness. The lives of two very outnumbered Harpers now depended on stealth and silence, so Belkram reached out with a long arm, slapped the man across the mouth from behind, and jerked hard. The man’s head twisted sharply, and Belkram put all his strength into pulling. There was a brief crunching noise … and the man became limp and very heavy.
Belkram staggered, lowering the warrior as quietly as possible. A sudden crackling disturbance and a triumphant yell erupted nearby. Steel rang, men cursed, and there was a groan of pain.
“You fool,” someone said weakly. “Can’t you tell—?” The words ended in a gasp, followed by the heavy crash of a man falling heavily and helplessly through deadwood and living tanglethorns.
Belkram slipped cautiously back toward Itharr, only to hear branches whip and crackle close behind. He spun, blade up, and was almost knocked over by someone blundering past.
The ranger thrust with his steel and felt it turn aside on armor. His onrushing target gave a surprised yell and turned. Belkram saw a momentary flash of teeth in the darkness, put his sword tip there, and drove his blade in hard. The man crumpled and fell without uttering another sound.
This time the landing was not quiet, and Belkram hastened away. This game of cat and mouse was all too apt to turn against them swiftly, if these warriors brought torches or mage-conjured light.
He couldn’t answer Itharr’s question; he had no idea where they were. Perhaps if he could get safely out from under the trees long enough to get a good look at the stars … Well, they were somewhere not too different in climate from Shadowdale. Somewhere with mountains. Somewhere with at least one Harper—and, he hoped, Elminster—nearby.
In front of him, he saw the flash of steel rising from the ground. He danced to a halt and hissed, “Itharr?”
“The same,” came the weak reply. “Did you have to be so—agghhh! I’m bleeding all over everything.”
“I’ve been rather busy,” Belkram whispered carefully. “Use your blade as a crutch or put it away and lean on me, and with Tymora’s kiss we’ll get out of here!”
Itharr opted for the latter, and they hurried on together as quietly as possible. Steel still rang around them from time to time. Here and there in the night-cloaked woods, men crashed through brush and fell into unseen holes and over the trunks of fallen trees.
“A fine night out they’re having,” Itharr gasped, after awhile. “Could we stop for a breath or two?”
“Aye,” Belkram murmured into his ear. “How d’you feel?”
“Fresh and fine,” Itharr said sarcastically. “The night is young, brave sir, and all that.” He sat down heavily on a tree stump, which promptly collapsed in a damp ruin of fungus and punky wood, dumping him onto the ground. He sighed.
That mournful sound made a few sputters of mirth escape Belkram. The taller Harper shook for a few moments and then leaned near, still chuckling. “I’d like to try to get back to that clearing. We should be able to see the gate’s light. We could go around it, staying in the trees, and look for paths and such. These guards must have a barracks somewhere, where we can get food and mayhap even healing quaffs, for your shoulder. I was in Luskan, once. The idiots there had a barracks with a flat, unguarded roof. We rested above them, all the while they turned the city inside out for us, and hid most of their gear while they were out tramping around.”
“Very nice,” Itharr said. “Now help me up.”
They went into the night together. Belkram had to use his sword only twice before they saw the amber light again.
“Now what, sir?” The Sword might have been a chamber servant back in Zhentil Keep.
Nordryn shrugged. “Wait here. Our duty is still to guard the gate while the others seek out these intruders.”
The Sword nodded. “As you command,” he said expressionlessly. Nordryn looked at him and then all around and found, with sinking fear, that the two of them stood alone by the gate. Their men were all blundering about in the woods. A sudden outbreak of shouting came from the trees, followed by a scream that ended in a dying wail.
“Ah,” Nordryn said with satisfaction. “They’ve got one, at least.”
The Sword raised an eyebrow. “Someone died, aye. In the trees, Lord, it could be one of us killing another just as easily as those we’re after. You can’t tell … until it’s too late.”
Nordryn looked at him. “Oh, no?” he scoffed. “Are you telling me Zhentilar soldiers can fight only in the full light of day?”
The Sword looked back at him, and shrugged. “No,” he said briefly. “At night, though, we seldom know whom we’re killing.”
Nordryn stepped back hastily, eyeing the gleaming sword between them.
“What happens if you slay one of … of our men?”
The Sword shrugged again. “As I said,” he drawled mildly, “by then, it’s too late.”
Nordryn backed two paces farther from the blade.
“A wizard?” Itharr breathed, staring into the night.
Belkram nodded. “No doubt. We go wide to the left now, down slope a bit. I see lights, so there’ll be a track we can follow.”
Itharr grunted. “Good. I’ve lost more blood than I thought I had in me.”
Belkram sighed. “Hold up a breath or two longer,” he said. “It would have to be your sword arm.”
Itharr growled agreement deep in his throat. “Thanks to Storm,” he said, “I can at least use a blade properly with my left hand. Next time, run to the right, will you?”
Belkram made a little bow. “As you wish, Lord.”
Itharr decided it was his turn to sigh. Again.
Thalmond shifted his weight off the stool experimentally and winced. The burned leg shrieked at him. He unbuckled his sword and leaned on it, scabbard and all, hopping awkwardly across the guardroom. Aye, it would serve.
Someone groaned from one of the beds. Thalmond hesitated, then turned and went out. None of the others could walk unaided. If he hurried, he would not be seen.
He’d fought for Black Master Manshoon more years than most of these lads had been alive, and knew a thing or two about standing orders. What he sought had to be somewhere in the meeting room.
He hopped along as fast as he could and saw no one on the way. Shouldering the door open, he leaned against the wall for support and waved a seeking arm along it. Metal dangles clinked; he’d found the cord that ran up to the lamp. He lowered the lamp and felt at his belt for his flint.
With the skill of long practice, he struck the stone a glancing dagger blow that showered sparks where he needed them. Six careful breaths later he was easing the door closed and turning back to a room lit by the warm glow of the hanging oil lamp. The object he sought would be somewhere within reach of this lamp, where it could readily be found in the darkness by feel. Not u
nder the chairs or tables, for every blade who grew bored was apt to run his fingers along the edges of his seat or rub itching hands or forearms on the underside of the table edge, and might discover what Thalmond now sought.
No, it was somewhere—here? He stared at the map on the wall and carefully pulled at its edge. Nothing. He pushed. No. He slid the map carefully to the right and it moved—three finger-widths, no more.
There! In the revealed niche, two metal vials hung one above the other by leather thongs. Thank Tymora for her good favor. Even priests of Bane used the warrior symbols for healing! He’d just have a little, enough to stop this Bane-blasted burning in his leg.
Thalmond plucked the sword-rag from his belt—if he never actually touched the vial, no clever magic could tell he’d been here—wrapped the cloth around his hand, and reached out.
A gentle voice, very close by his ear, said, “My thanks, and farewell. Greet Tempus for me, old warrior.” The steel at his throat was very cold. Thalmond had only a little time to feel surprised, time to tell himself that at last he knew what death would feel like, time to grow just a little angry that he’d heard no one behind him … and then, no time at all.
“Did you have to set the place alight with them all inside?” Itharr whispered, face white in the darkness.
Men rushed past them, shouting. Belkram raised the loaded crossbow carefully on his knee and whispered back grimly, “I had to kill one old warrior to get these. He flung up his hand as he fell, and by Tymora’s favor broke the lamp that hung just above. Flaming oil everywhere! I scarce got out in time. Have you finished that yet?”
“Aye,” Itharr said in the sleepy voice of one who has fought pain for a long time, or pushed too far and done too much and now finds ease.
“Stay awake!” Belkram said sharply. “Is one going to be enough?”
But he’d spoken too sharply. One of the running figures turned its head and took two steps toward them, sword raised. The Harpers lay still.