by Ed Greenwood
“Is that,” the urbane, poker-faced Sembian merchant asked calmly, “what happened to the mages who are not here with us today?” Xanther Srildar sat in his usual seat, right across from the empty chairs. Not for the first time, Longspear wondered if he was more than he appeared to be.
Angruin obviously felt the same. “Yes,” he said flatly. “We lost some of our swordsmen but repulsed the intruders.”
“How many?” The blunt question came from dark-eyed, dark-browed Blakkal Mord, a local leather worker. This one was no friend to any newcomers to the dale—including, of course, all men of the Brotherhood.
Angruin’s eyes narrowed. Certain councillors were always trying to find out just how many soldiers the lord commanded in the dale. Were they truly simple enough to believe they’d ever be given a truthful answer?
“A score and three,” Angruin said promptly. “At the field, when we chased these enemies through the woods, and this morning, when they attacked the road guard at Eastkeep.”
There was a stir up and down the table. Not all here had heard of this before. Not surprisingly, Xanther and the other Sembian merchant, the wine dealer Saddusk, spoke together. “What befell there?”
Angruin looked meaningfully to the Lord of the Dale. Longspear motioned him to continue and picked up his flagon. It was good wine. He gave a silent nod of thanks to Thammar Saddusk, who returned it gravely. Then he turned back to the wizard. It had been happy fortune that the wine merchant had decided to move to the dale, in semiretirement from the bustle and high prices of Sembia’s crowded cities, just after Longspear had taken it. The wine at the High Castle, by all accounts, was better than what one could get in Zhentil Keep itself, unless one was both noble and too rich to care what was charged for it.
Angruin began with a shrug. “Two people—an old man and a young woman, the watchers on the keep wall say—came out of the woods and fought with the guard on the road. They prevailed, entered the guard hut, and then fled.”
“Prevailed?” Gulkin Hammarlin asked, his tone none too friendly. “Were all the guards slain?” The burly former hiresword was no friend to Zhent newcomers, either, and apt to be difficult. He was the best carpenter, glazier, and roofer in the dale, though; too useful to silence.
“Yes.” Angruin’s mouth shut like a trap, leaving only the single word hanging in the air over the table.
“Nine armed men?” Saddusk’s dry voice asked. “What of the guard-wizard? What’s his name—Dommil, or whatever?”
Stormcloak gave Longspear another inquiring look. Heladar took great satisfaction in raising his own eyebrows in mock surprise and motioning him to continue again.
“Ildomyl,” Angruin said flatly. “Dead.”
The mages Nordryn and Hcarla, Stormcloak’s sneering lurkers-at-shoulders, both looked at him sharply. Nordryn and Ildomyl had been friends, and Nordryn looked shaken.
Hcarla just looked irritated, no doubt because Angruin hadn’t told him of this before the meeting. Hcarla always wanted to know everything that was going on. On two late-night occasions when Longspear had shown certain traveling ladies the private chambers of the Lord of the High Dale, Heladar had caught sight of Hcarla’s familiar—a small, ugly, bat-winged cat. On the second occasion, Heladar had taken great delight in cutting the spying creature out of the air with his blade and watching it plummet into the moat. Hcarla had been weak and white-faced for days.
But enough ancient history. No doubt everyone in the dale knew by now that the mercenary band that had seized the High Dale by deposing High Constable Mulmar and slaughtering the constables he commanded had come from Zhentil Keep. Anyone with wits at all knew that no independent band would include more than a handcount of wizards. The dalefolk knew that Heladar Longspear was here at the pleasure of the Zhentarim, even if no whisper of that had ever passed the lips of any Brotherhood agent.
Yet would that connection, even proven, spur a neighboring realm, nearby merchant, or hard-luck mercenary or outlaw band to challenge the rule of the self-proclaimed Lord Longspear? Nay. ’Twas more likely to discourage any open attack.
So, did these magical attacks, first launched through the Zhentarim-created Daggerdale supply gate, come from rivals in the Brotherhood, or were they mounted as some sort of devious test? Heladar studied the faces of the men who sat at his council table, wondering (not for the first time, nor yet, he feared, the last) which ones might be spies or waiting challengers—and who, or what, stood behind each.
With half the wizards gone, twelve sat before him at the table. Stormcloak, Hcarla Bellwind, and Nordryn—the Zhentarim mages, openly menacing, sure of their power. Everyone at the table knew they ruled in the High Dale as much as he did.
Heladar kept his face impassive—it was second nature by now—and looked to the others. Three were Zhent agents, their loyalties known to himself and the mages but not, he hoped, to others in the dale or to watching outsiders.
There was the local blacksmith, Kromm Kadar, staring back at him impassively. A recent addition to the council and a Zhentilar warrior of bannerlord rank, Kromm was a silent, strong man who saw all and missed nothing. His predecessor, in both council seat and smithy, had been a Sembian spy, the first man Angruin had killed openly in the dale.
There was Alazs Ironwood, local horse breeder and trader, a sarcastic Zhentilar veteran, a Sword with much experience in battle.
Next to him sat the balding, birdlike alchemist who served as physic, pharmacist, and tanner to the dalefolk. He was also their only priest—a finger of the Black Hand, of course—and Heladar trusted him not a whit. He probably reported back to Fzoul Chembryl every time a mouse drew breath in the dale. Cheth Moonviper was his name, and as befitting a blood member of one of the oldest Zhent noble families, he was haughty, fussy, prissy, and far too perfumed and giggling for Heladar to want to approach him closely.
Those, Heladar reflected with dark humor, were his allies.
The other six men at the table could, in secret, serve half the Realms. Unless they were very foolish or unlucky, neither he nor any of these strutting spell-hurlers would ever know their treachery for sure until, of course, it was too late.
Heladar eyed them sourly, suppressing a sigh. He was tired of veiled menace, intrigue, and honeyed words. Swinging a sword was more his style. Did every ruler, even of such petty places as this, have to contend with such dung and serpents? It was a wonder more kings didn’t hold daily executions!
He could think of a few that would do the High Dale, himself, and probably their wives and as-yet-unborn offspring a service by quickly and quietly swallowing a sword blade in some alley near the castle. Heading the list would be the fat weaver, Jatham Villore. The man was a loudmouthed pest and, Heladar suspected, far wiser than he pretended to be. But if the weaver was a spy, whom did he report to?
The leather worker, Blakkal Mord, seemed altogether more sinister. A warrior, before all the gods, and not out of practice, either. He’d lived in the dale a long time, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t the eyes for a local power. Sembia? Cormyr? By the beard of Tempus, he could even serve the Pirates of the Isles! Heladar sighed. Hopeless, this guessing, until the man let slip his true banner. Like all the rest.
The smooth-tongued, saturnine Xanther Srildar was almost too obviously a spy. The Sembian “rarities and collectibles” merchant could be the eyes for Sembia or any merchant cabal one might think of. He might even serve the Cult of the Dragon, the Harpers, or Gondegal the Lost King for that matter. He moved his hands like a wizard. Heladar frowned at those hands, not for the first time.
Then there was the surly, barrel-chested carpenter, Gulkin Hammarlin, one of an old naval family from Daerlun. Gulkin had lived in the High Dale for over twenty winters after a short, hard mercenary career, and fiercely resented Longspear’s rule. His hatred for the mages was even stronger, suggesting it was Zhentil Keep he stood against and not Longspear the usurper. What was more, he didn’t bother to hide his leanings.
Rundeth Hobylta
r was another one. The local tailor and dyer was brighter than Gulkin, almost as much the snake as Xanther. Laconic and cynical, he took pains to appear easygoing. Heladar’s informants said that, in the days before Zhentarim mages had first come to the High Dale, Rundeth had been a shrewd warrior, often hired by Sembian interests to ferret out and destroy outlaws in the mountains, and even thieves in the big port cities of the Land of Silver. Perhaps he was in the pay of someone in Sembia even now.
And last, Thammar. The wine merchant was the only witty, friendly, serenely apolitical councillor, interested only in getting good wine into the dale for all and in lining his pockets liberally along the way. Hmmm … retired from Sembia. Gods spit! Saddusk could be a Sembian spy, or worse. With his contacts, he could be an agent for fabled Kara-Tur or someplace even farther afield. Often it’s the friendliest one, the one you least suspect, who has the dagger waiting … and Thammar did wear a sword rather too casually for a soft, nearly retired Sembian merchant.
Oh, to the grave with all this pondering! Any one of them, or all of them, could well be behind this. Or it might be simply the work of a wizard gone off his head, with his daughter, apprentice, or pleasure-maid keeping him company.
Heladar realized with a sudden chill that, in the end, it didn’t really matter. If Longspear was to rule in the High Dale more than a winter longer, he must assume all of them were in league against him and waiting for a chance to bring him down. If he didn’t—well, one of them at least would try.
And if he was able or lucky enough to survive that attempt, the idea would be in their heads. One of the others would decide that the title of Lord of the High Dale sounded grand enough and—situated on the trade road between Cormyr and Sembia, while Zhent-backed brigands kept the Daerlun road dangerous and expensive—profitable enough to make a grab for it.
Even the best blade can grow dull, if it has to lop off too many reaching fingers.
Heladar’s continuing silence had led Stormcloak on to bolder speech. Warmed by the heat of his own wagging tongue, the wizard had even begun to speak as if the High Dale’s men-at-arms obeyed him and—the traditional failing of mages—as if the council would agree to his every whim because no intelligent being could help but see things as he did. Heladar just smiled and went on being silent.
Angruin was in the midst of exhorting his fellow councillors to stir their children, their neighbors, their neighbor’s children, and any cats and dogs within reach to take up arms and scour every inch of the dale for these intruders, to slay them, capture them, or drive them out. The dale must be cleansed!
Ye gods, he sounds like one of the priests. Heladar turned his gaze again around the table. Of course the mages want every blade out and every child alert. The more who fight, the more they can hide behind, hurling spells from a safe distance.
This could be a real challenge, to the Zhentarim as well as to the lordship of Heladar Longspear. Cormyr could be lurking behind the attacks, or Sembia, or even powerful loners like the fabled Gondegal, Elminster of Shadowdale, or the willful, wandering Witch-Queen of Aglarond who flew endlessly about Faerûn in the shape of a black falcon, meddling. The only thing to do was to muster the entire armed might of the dale to track down the intruders, backed by all the magic the wizards could mount. Manshoon would order that if Heladar didn’t.
There was something else, though. Even before these attacks, the wizards had been tense and troubled. Had this entire episode been prearranged by someone in Zhentil Keep, part of some deep plan to cast aside Longspear and change the rule of the High Dale again?
Nay. That would not worry the mages so collectively and deeply. They’d looked like lost men, especially the lesser ones. At the time, he’d assumed that Zhentil Keep had given them harsh and unsettling orders not for his ears. Now, though … Nordryn had been upset by the news about his friend, but now his face showed not so much shock and grief as it did fear for his own skin, and a sort of helplessness. He stared down at his open hands for a moment as if not believing that they could ever cast a spell again.
Heladar’s eyes narrowed. Was that it? Ildomyl had seized a goodly amount of magic, by all accounts, and certainly the man had a wand or two. He shouldn’t have fallen so easily. Had his magic failed him?
He smiled. Watching the mages would take long—perhaps too long. Better to charge in, swinging a blade, and force things his way. He smiled and said quietly, “Angruin is right, of course. We must rouse the dale.”
Stormcloak’s head turned in surprise. He had almost forgotten Heladar was there at all. Longspear met his eyes and added softly, “Yet there is something I must speak to him about in private. Something about … spells.” He raised his eyebrows, awaiting Angruin’s agreement.
That was it! There was something amiss with their magic. The mages were all looking at him as though he’d grown six hissing serpent heads, and all of them breathing fire, too!
Heladar smiled evenly at them all, looking mysterious and enjoying it. Let them think he had his own sources rather than dismissing him as a stone-headed, sword-swinging puppet who’d dance eagerly to whatever tune they told him Zhentil Keep played. This was more the way things should be. He drummed his fingertips in satisfaction on the hilt of his sword, below the edge of the table, and leaned forward.
The other councillors were agreeing, of course. They could hardly appear loyal, or even prudent in matters touching the safety of their homes, if they did not. If they were all spies, though, the coming turmoil could only give them chances to kill off Zhent mages and warriors, weakening the invisible but heavy hand in which Zhentil Keep held the High Dale.
“Have we agreement, then?” he asked softly, surprising them all this time. He gathered them in with his eyes, one by one around the table. All met his gaze. All, even the wizards, nodded to his authority.
Heladar Longspear rose to his feet and looked down that long table. “As we are all agreed,” he began formally, “I have no hesitation in giving the orders: We loose all our hounds and go to war.”
It was cold, churning along up to their knees in the swampy backwaters, and the smell was incredible. “See the far reaches of the Realms,” Sharantyr muttered. “Walk where no mortal has trod.… Is this what those mercenaries mean when they go spinning tales in the taverns?”
“To lure idle young bravos? Aye.” Elminster chuckled. “This is exactly what they mean, though they sing a different song.” He strode along in the muddy water unconcerned, his long robes drawn up through his belt into a ridiculous bundle. Seeing her look, he laid a hand suggestively on his hip, batted his eyelashes at her, and winked. Sharantyr saw that he’d tied the long end of his white beard into a club knot.
It was too much. She shouted with laughter, doubled up over the fetid water, then stopped suddenly, clapping a dripping hand over her mouth.
“Tymora bless me!” she hissed. “I’m sorry, Old Mage! The guards—”
Elminster chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “That last cliff back there, the one like the ship’s prow, marks the western end of the dale, or used to. We’ve slipped clean past Westkeep and into what they call the Hullack Stairs—or used to.”
Sharantyr chuckled at that. “I’ll be hearing you say ‘or used to’ in my sleep.”
Elminster’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?” he asked with dignity. “I was aware that I’d given thee leave to accompany me, young lady, and that ye’d behaved thyself—more or less—impeccably, given our physical proximity and, ah, dire straits. But I assure thee I do not recall giving thee any intimation that ye’d be welcome to listen to me while ye pretend to slumber!”
Sharantyr sighed, and shook her head. “All right, Old Mage, all right,” she shushed him. “What now?”
“Now we look for the marker stone that should be right about … here.” Elminster trotted around a clump of shrubs, over a fallen tree, and paused dramatically, pointing at a weathered pillar of stone.
“You knew where to find this?”
Elminster shr
ugged. “Unless someone took it into his head to move it since I placed it here, some three hundred winters ago.”
Sharantyr rolled her eyes. “And having found your marker?” she asked the sky.
The Old Mage did not reply. He was leaning forward, staring at the stone. On the side closest to the High Dale, someone had written with the ashen end of a burned stick: “Death To The Tyranny Of All Mages.” Elminster frowned at it for a long breath or two, then slowly grinned.
He turned. “Eh? Oh, aye. We sleep hereabouts, then turn back and enter the dale openly on the morrow. That’s when our fun begins.”
“You mean we attack these Zhents openly? But, your magic—”
Elminster spread open hands. “I have my baubles, and thee, to keep me safe.”
Sharantyr sighed, then smiled and said formally, “We ride well together, Old Mage.” Her eyes flashed.
Elminster bowed, gave her a sad, slow smile in return, and answered, “Ye’re not the first lass that’s said that to me, but I thank thee for saying it.” And he leaned over and kissed her cheek tenderly.
Sharantyr looked at him, somewhat surprised. The Old Mage smiled back at her for a moment. Then he suddenly stiffened, turned white, and abruptly sat down on some ferns.
“Elminster!” She sprang forward and bent over him anxiously. “What befalls?”
The wizard shook his head and waved a hand at her before reaching up to unknot his beard. “Much power was suddenly drawn out of me. It was—upsetting.”
He brightened, then frowned. “Perhaps Lady Mystra is with us again and had need of it. Or—perhaps another being has found a way to steal what I carry, and the Realms are doomed.” He shrugged, and brushed aside a few branches to stretch out more comfortably.
“Ah, well,” he said. “Stretch out here beside me, las—Shar, sorry. No doubt we’ll find out which has befallen tomorrow.”