by Ed Greenwood
The man came on, peering into the shadows. “Who’s—? Hold!”
The crossbow kicked and death hissed into the Wolf’s throat. He fell on his side, convulsed, and lay still, one hand raised in a claw that would never close.
“I’m getting a little weary of all this bloodshed,” Itharr said quietly. His voice was stronger.
Belkram nodded. “I’m not overfond of it, either, but a guard down is one less sword to hunt us. You sound better.”
“I feel better,” Itharr said, putting the second vial carefully into his belt pouch. “We’re too close,” he added, watching the flames leap higher. “Well be well lit, soon.”
“Aye,” Belkram agreed, and they scrambled back into the trees. The dell, with its gate, was just a little way beyond.
Itharr looked toward it and then back at Belkram questioningly.
His Mend shrugged. “We’ve not found Elminster, and I know he came here. I can feel it.”
Itharr nodded. “Aye,” he agreed, “and these look like Zhent Blackhelms to me, from what little we’ve seen.”
Belkram nodded. “Any work we can do against them is well done, whenever we get a chance.”
“Whither, then?”
Belkram tossed the crossbow away and stared into the night for a moment. “Do you see mountains beyond?” he asked.
Itharr held up a hand to shield against the light of the leaping flames and said, “Aye. Not too far off, either.”
Belkram nodded. “Come day, they’ll be searching these woods for our our trail. The rocks this side are the natural place to hide, and for them to look. Why not take ourselves across to those, over there?”
“And spare ourselves much of the hunters’ attention?” Itharr asked. “I like it. Let’s use the road, and look for a stream to turn aside from it. Now, before the flames bring everyone out to watch.”
Belkram nodded, and they hurried around the back of the blazing building, flitting like shadows from tree to tree. Below them, houses and shops—and beyond, a smallish stone castle—rose out of the night.
“Where are we, then?”
“A mountain pass?”
“Aye.” Itharr nodded slowly. “If there’s a cart road through the lowest part, there, I’d say yes.”
“But where?” Belkram obviously did not recognize their surroundings.
Itharr yawned. “I’ll think about it,” he promised, “when we’re safely hidden.”
The two Harpers drifted into the night, seeking their stream.
“Bane curse us all,” Nordryn gasped, too astonished for anger. “The barracks!”
“Now do you see,” the Sword said in a voice of cold steel, “why I ordered the men to fall back there to make their stand? This is your doing, softskull!”
Nordryn stared at him, eyes glittering. “You would speak to me so?”
“Aye. Be glad I do not cut you down where you stand, mage. I’d be doing High Lord Manshoon a favor, if this is any example of the glorious bungling you’ll inflict on his plans in times to come.” He barked short, mirthless laughter. “I’d be doing you a favor, come to that, saving you from Manshoon!”
Nordryn stepped back a pace, raising his hand. The officer’s sword slid out to float menacingly just above it, preventing the wizard from gesturing to unleash a spell.
“Don’t,” the Sword suggested in soft, heavy tones of menace.
Nordryn stepped away again, a brittle smile visible on his face where the leaping flames lit it. “What if I told Stormcloak that the foray into the woods was your plan?”
The Sword’s eyes were bleak. “You’d be digging your own grave, wizard. Even if all the men who heard you giving orders were dead, and their bodies ruined past what dark magic can recall or speak to, there’s this.” He shook the gauntlet off his free hand and raised his fingers until Nordryn could see the heavy ring that glinted upon the middle one. “Look well,” the soldier suggested.
The wizard felt cold fear creeping down his spine. He knew all too well what that sigil meant: Manshoon. This cold-eyed soldier was one of the High Lord’s personal agents. He swallowed and turned abruptly away to hide the fear he knew was showing on his face—fear, and something else. The man had to die before Manshoon heard of this or Nordryn Spellbinder’s career would be short and painful … or long, cold, and frustrating, posted to all the worst places, with new magic forever denied to him, and under the constant, cruel eye of some watcher appointed by the High Lord.
“Don’t think of arranging my death,” came the Sword’s cold voice from behind him. “Lord Manshoon always probes such things very carefully—by speaking to the deceased, if necessary. He knows my worth; you’d probably have to face me again. If Manshoon got tired of raising me, you’d pay the price, never doubt it. You’d make an adequate walking dead man, I suppose.”
Nordryn turned and walked toward the flames, wondering which of the careers he’d just seen so bleakly would be worse. The flames roared and crackled, warming his face even from this distance, and he just couldn’t decide.
Sharantyr came awake slowly, enfolded in unexpected warmth. She opened her eyes and looked around hurriedly, coming up to one elbow and feeling for her sword.
During the night, the Old Mage had somehow wrapped his bony arms around her without wakening her. That simply shouldn’t have happened, but Sharantyr did not move away when that familiar, wild-bearded visage smiled at her, only inches away.
“Fair morn, Lady,” Elminster said with courtly formality and leaned forward with smooth speed to kiss the end of her nose.
Sharantyr blinked. Some sorceresses would die, or kill, or whatever, to trade places with her, no doubt. His beard tickled like something between a scurrying centipede or an amorous cat. After a few breaths, she remembered to smile in reply.
Elminster chuckled. “Up, lass,” he said. The mists were rolling away down through the trees as they rose and stretched to ease the stiffness that comes from sleeping in the open on rocky ground. “I fear I neglected to provide us breakfast, but I remain both open to suggestions and thy humble servant.”
Sharantyr shook her head incredulously and pecked him on the cheek, more to shut him up than anything else. Ye gods, what had she gotten herself into now?
The day grew both warm and splendidly clear. The ranger and the wizard spent the morning sitting in the shrubbery at the trees’ edge, watching black-armored gate guards working the road into the High Dale. Eastkeep rose small but grim at the warriors’ backs, and they were most efficient.
Sharantyr didn’t know the place and said so, but Elminster told her grandly that he knew it and would recognize it for her. Sharantyr rolled her eyes, not for the first time. Their stomachs chose that romantic moment to growl together.
The gate guards went steadily about their work, extracting passage tolls from all travelers coming into the dale from the east, inspecting their goods and gear, and turning back all wizards. Traffic leaving the dale from the west was given only a cursory search. These well-armed guards expected no trouble from that front.
There was a stir, once, as the guards suddenly swarmed over the wagon of a fat merchant. A shout brought six more guards with drawn swords out of the little shanty that served them as a duty shelter. The newcomers surrounded the merchant with a ring of sword tips at his throat while the search went on.
Shortly, two stout guards clambered triumphantly down from the wagon, each showing something to the officer in charge. He nodded and waved his head; the two men trotted away to the guard hut.
“Their commander—have I seen that harness before?” Sharantyr asked.
Elminster nodded. “No doubt. That’s a Sword, and these are Zhentilar warriors or I’ll miss my breakfast.”
Sharantyr grinned. “They’re Zhents, then.” As they watched, one of the guards returned with a scrap of parchment, which he handed to the red-faced merchant. The wagon and its occupant were brusquely ordered on with imperious waves of naked swords. The wagon rumbled away, the merchant
shaking his head.
Sharantyr’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on? They took something from him, aye, but what?”
Elminster assumed the pedantic air of the lofty scholar addressing a pupil too dense to be worth the time teaching takes. “Regard ye,” he said in measured tones, “yon hut. Tis home to a mageling, I doubt me not. He has examined the items they took from the merchant and pronounced them magical. They hold these objects, returning to the unfortunate former owner a receipt. No doubt he has to inform them of the time and place of his leaving the dale, and they’ll return his baubles to him—that is, if some wizard in authority here doesn’t deem them too useful.”
Sharantyr looked at him. “You’re sure?”
Elminster affected to take mighty offense, blinking and clucking, drawing his nose high into the air, rolling his eyes fiercely, and saying, “Well!”
Sharantyr giggled.
“Come, lass,” Elminster said with injured dignity, rising out of the bushes like a Calishite vizier making a stately palace entrance on a platform rising out of an underground room. “I want my breakfast.”
Without pause or any attempt at concealment, he strode through the long grass, still wet with dew, toward the guards on the road.
Rolling her eyes, Sharantyr wondered again how she’d gotten herself into all this. It’s what comes of feeling sorry for mages, she concluded. Lunacy if ever there were crazed thoughts. She drew her blade, held it low behind her to keep it hidden as much as possible, and followed.
8
Mysterious Attacks and Lawless Outrages
Death calls, it’s said, on everyone. Some early, some later. Most find themselves not ready when the ghostly horn sounds—with much left to do and much more regretted. A lucky few die content, or unawares. A haunted handful of beings find death only long after they’ve desired its arrival. This includes most so-called “immortals.” The bony arms of doom also enfold those who seek to cheat death by magical means, or have undeath or an undying curse thrust upon them.
The arms of death also extend to claim those who bear Mystra’s burden. Of these Chosen Ones, some welcome death sooner than others. All render to the living attentive service, examples of life at its most splendid and active, and a certain silence, keeping secret the despair and weariness that long life brings.
And so it was that the late morning sun found Elminster, the archmage without any spells, eagerly eyeing the guards he’d been watching all morn. He’d made four long strides toward them, the unconcerned beginning of a direct attack, when the lady ranger who had come to keep him from harm caught up to him and put a firm hand on his shoulder.
He stopped and looked around questioningly.
Sharantyr looked back at him—at his white hair, thin limbs, and alert, intent face—and shook her head. “Elminster,” she asked quietly, “when you do foolish, reckless things—like attacking yon sentinels, with a fortress at their backs and at least four things of magic we’ve seen them seize with our own eyes—aren’t you ever afraid of death?”
Elminster looked at her for a long moment and said dryly, “Death has often come calling on me, but so far I’ve always been out, ye see.”
And with those impish words he slipped from her grip and marched straight out of the trees toward the waiting Wolves. Sun glinted on black helms as they turned his way.
With a sinking heart, Sharantyr sighed, slowly raised her sword, and followed.
“Hold, old man!” The Oversword of the guard spoke impatiently, scarcely looking at the old man in robes. His attention was bent on a fat Sembian merchant who was sweating with fear. The many rings gleaming on his pudgy white fingers ran through the air like a starving fisherman combs the depths of an empty net. The merchant was almost gabbling as he assured the nine stone-faced guards that his wines were the best, oh, yes, only the best, why everyone said so, just ask at the Black Stag in Selg—or, well, perhaps not—nay, speak to the merchant Lissel, of nearby Daerlun, and he’d vouch for …
At about that time, the Oversword realized the gaunt old man with the overlong white beard had not halted and was proceeding with confident, unhurried steps toward the guard hut. He spun around, reaching for his sword.
“Old man,” he barked, “hold!”
The gaunt figure in tattered robes continued on its way, beard flapping.
The Oversword caught up in three quick strides, ignoring grins that had begun to appear on the faces of his men, and jerked the old man roughly around.
Cool blue-gray eyes regarded him. “Yes?” a mild voice inquired, as if humoring a rude child.
The Oversword snarled and said fiercely, “Never ignore orders in the High Dale, old man, if you would live.”
Slow eyebrows rose. “What orders?”
“I told you to hold, whitebeard, and I meant it! I’ll see to you when I’m done here, and I care nothing for your haste or importance!”
“Oh. I see,” Elminster said courteously. “I misunderstood ye.”
The Oversword looked him up and down coldly. “My words were quite clear,” he said slowly and dangerously. “What was your problem?”
“Ye kept saying ‘old man,’ ” Elminster told him. “I assumed ye were speaking to someone else. I’m not old—not yet, by the sun, though if ye waste much more of my morning I may come to be.” He turned and continued on his way.
The Oversword snarled again and gestured. Drawn swords rose to bar Elminster’s way on all sides.
Elminster turned about. “Yes?” he asked mildly.
“Sirs!” Sharantyr’s voice came urgently from behind them. “Please forgive my fa—”
“That will be enough, girl,” Elminster told her sharply. “How can ye learn, if ye persist in speaking out of thy place? Be ashamed. And better, be silent.”
He turned to face the Oversword. “My daughter,” he explained apologetically. “She’s not been out of Zhentil Keep before and is overexcited.”
The Oversword’s eyebrows drew together in a wary frown. “Zhentil Keep?”
“Aye. I was speaking with a friend there, Lord Manshoon, and as I was passing this way, he asked me to look in on a certain wizard for him. To—ah, forgive me—deliver a private message.” He smiled. “While I appreciate your diligence, Oversword, I am in some haste. I was told that the one I sought would probably be here, either in yonder hut or in the keep beyond. May I?”
Politely he turned his back, pushed aside two blades with the backs of his open hands, and went on. Without turning, he called back, “Come, lass!”
Sharantyr bent her head and lowered her blade. “Yes, Father,” she replied in tones of weary resignation. In wary silence the Wolves stood back to let them through.
The Oversword noted that none of his men would meet his eyes. Good. He turned savagely back to the fat Sembian and curtly ordered his men to slit open the seams of everything, including every stitch of clothing the man was wearing.
But somehow, he couldn’t enjoy the fun that followed.
The fat man was making so much noise, wailing and cursing and calling on more gods than the Oversword had ever heard of, that it was a good while before they heard the disturbance from the guard hut: the sounds of shrieking and sobbing, and the frenzied cracks of a whip wielded with some strength. The guards did not react; they were clearly used to such sounds. One or two glanced casually back at the hut and saw the whitebeard’s daughter standing uncertainly near the curtain that hung across its open doorway. The guards shrugged and turned away.
That all changed two instants later. The white-bearded man strolled calmly back out into the sun, smiling at his daughter. He seemed as startled as the Wolves when an agonized cry rang out from inside the hut.
“Help! Cabalar! Dhondys! Aid, by Bane and Mystra both! Ohhh! She’s killing me!”
The Oversword paled, jerked out his sword, and snapped, “Sabras! Mykhalar! Stay on the road! Everyone else come with me!” He swept his arm toward the hut and charged. Six black-armored men hastened at his heels,
blades flashing.
The gaunt old man with the long white beard bent down and pulled something from his boot. As he rose, he threw off his tattered over-robes and charged to meet them.
The old fellow was scrawny. The Oversword could see his ribs as he ran toward them, beard streaming back over his shoulder. He wore only dusty leather breeches, gray with age and shiny at the knees, and his boots. A wand flashed in his hand, and from it blue-white death lashed out twice to strike one of the Wolves, leaving the soldier staggering and groaning in pain.
A wizard! And the crossbows were in the hut beyond him, by Bane’s black heart! The Oversword looked over his shoulder and saw that Sabras and Mykhalar were already hastening to join him. He slowed, directing them with his blade, and watched his men race to meet the old man.
The girl, too, was running now, and she had her blade out again. A trained warrior, by her looks; all trace of uncertainty and awkwardness was gone now.
The old wizard must have some trickery ready. Why else charge alone against seven men in full armor?
Abruptly, fear rising cold and ugly in his chest, the Oversword came to a stop. “Spread out!” he roared. “ ’Ware a trap!”
As if heeding him, the whitebeard skidded to a halt. His hand ducked to his boot, replacing the wand there and coming up with a little brass scepter that ended in a spherical cluster of wrought hands.
The Oversword’s heart sank. He’d confiscated that himself, early this morn, from a sharp-tongued, dark-eyed Sembian caravan guard-wizard. The scepter had fairly echoed with power in his hands. Inside the hut, Ildomyl had visibly paled and hastily set the thing aside.
What it was, exactly, the Oversword knew not, but he knew enough to fear it. For the first time the thought that he might have to flee for his life or die here on the road, as highsun stole nearer to end the morn, came to him suddenly and chillingly. The Oversword paled and looked about.
A surprising number of local folk had appeared up the road to watch. They stood silent, still as statues, gazing at the scene.