by Ed Greenwood
She was cautious at first, fearing a beating if she wandered. Then she saw shrieking mill maids scurrying along the hall below her loft. She had to see whatever could make them run so frantically. There’d been no war trumpets or clash of arms—her first leaping hope, that the dale was under attack from Cormyr or Sembia, had died already—but something was amiss down below.
Where Father was.
“This is the place?” Itharr asked, squinting up at the mill. The old man nodded.
“Our thanks,” Belkram said. As he turned, the tip of his sword lifted a little as if it were eager for battle. “Wait here,” he added over his shoulder and stepped toward the stout, closed wooden doors before them. Itharr moved with him.
“Oh, no,” the old man said emphatically. “I’m done with waiting and doing nothing. I’m going with you.”
Itharr turned and flashed him a smile. “Be welcome, then,” he said, “but follow our lead.” He nodded at Belkram, who was courteously knocking on the door.
It opened, and a man with a ratlike face looked out, squinting in the bright light of day. “Yes?” he asked, though it was more of a challenge than a question.
Belkram flashed his brightest smile. “Good day, sirrah! We’re with the Zhentil Keep Grain Inspectors Guild and have come at the express request of High Lord Manshoon to see what a fine establishment you’re running here.” He’d been pressing forward as he spoke. His audience stepped back, gulped, and taking the word “running” as a cue, sprinted off into the dimness as if a band of horse lancers were galloping after him.
“Thank you,” Belkram told his retreating back. He turned to his companions, indicating the mill interior. “Shall we?”
“Indubitably,” Itharr agreed, stepping past him with a half bow, blade raised.
The old man gave them both looks and snorted. “Young jack-fools,” he growled, stumping after them.
Inside, the mill was a dim forest of stout pillars, stacked crates, spilled flour, sturdy barrels, and piles of sacks. The two Harpers strolled unconcernedly down a cluttered aisle that opened into a large threshing floor. There, darkness awaited them.
Four pillars of darkness, in fact, with the man they’d spoken to at the door busy beyond, struggling to get a crossbow ready.
“We’re here,” Belkram said briskly, “to see the former high constable.” As he strode forward, he made a gesture only Itharr saw. The shorter Harper obeyed it, moving to one side.
The pillars of darkness were already advancing. Itharr casually tossed a dagger at the nearest. It struck something within the magical gloom and clattered to the floor. There was no play of lightnings, and the pillar shifted slightly; men walked within the darkness. The two Harpers sprang forward, converging on one dark column.
It stepped aside, drawing close to another darkness-shrouded guard so as not to be outflanked. Behind the two Harpers, the old man sighed and flung his axe. It flashed end over end across the room and caught the doorman in the shoulder. He shrieked, dropped his half-wound bow and windlass, and collapsed to the floor, moaning. Then the old innkeeper grabbed at the nearest barrel, toppled it, and with a few practiced heaves sent it rolling at the gathered columns of darkness. They scrambled to get clear and the Harpers darted in, blades flashing. There were grunts, curses, and heavy thuds as bodies bounced on the floorboards, followed by another deep rumbling as the innkeeper sent a second barrel into the fray. “Well done!” Belkram called back as the barrel crashed into a pillar, pinning a column of flickering darkness there for a dazed moment. Belkram’s blade slashed into it, thrice, and it toppled, leaving only one column of darkness, which promptly fled, racing down a back passage.
“After him!” Itharr yelled excitedly. The old man shook his head as the two Harpers rushed off, muttering, “I’m young enough to fight but too old for a lot of charging about,” as he retrieved his axe. Going from one darkness-shrouded form to another, he let his axe fall where their heads must be. Then he walked up to the writhing man with the crossbow, shook him, and growled, “How many guards are there here?”
“I—I daren’t tell—” the wounded man began. The innkeeper punched his injured shoulder firmly, and when he repeated the question, the shrieking Zhentilar found sudden courage to dare an answer.
“Ondarr! Ondarr! We’re being attacked!” the fleeing jailer shouted as he pounded down the passage. Belkram and Itharr sprinted after him in the dimness, bouncing painfully off the corners of stacked crates and the projecting ends of barrow handles. “Ondarr!”
They were running into the heart of the mill, where rumbling wheels ground endlessly. Passing through a succession of crowded chambers, they abruptly came out into a lamplit room where a sleepy-looking Wolf in chain mail was rising from a couch as darkness frantically tugged at his arm.
The Wolf’s eyes widened as he saw the two Harpers bearing down on him. “Ondarr, I presume?” Belkram asked pleasantly. The Wolf got his blade out just in time to parry Belkram’s thrust, leaving his left arm raised and underarm exposed to Itharr’s blade.
Itharr of Athkatla ended his charge in a leap that brought him onto the bed, feet up. His blade burst through the Wolf’s shoulder an instant before his feet slammed the man against the back of the couch, which broke off with a splintering crash, twisting the unfortunate Zhentilar onto the floor with Itharr atop him. The Harper’s dagger made short work of the guard, and Itharr looked up to see Belkram slamming the last darkness-shrouded jailer against a pillar. The man collapsed, and Belkram thrust his hands into the blackness, groping.
“Lost something?” Itharr asked lightly. “Or is this some new thrill?”
Belkram made a face at him. “I’m looking for keys, Great One. If the high constable’s here, he must be in some sort of cell—”
“Or right there,” Itharr said, pointing. Belkram looked up and stared. The great wheels had ground to a halt because the man chained to the lever that drove them had stopped walking and was standing glaring at them with eyes that shone in the dimness like two flames.
“Irreph Mulmar?” Itharr asked.
“Aye,” the man snarled, bunching his chains with a menacing rattle. “Who are you?”
“Harpers,” Itharr said simply. “Itharr, once of Athkatla, and this is my blade-brother Belkram, from Baldur’s Gate. We mean to drive the Zhents from your dale.”
“But first,” Belkram said, rising from the unseen body, “we have to find the keys to your shackles.”
“Don’t bother,” the naked man in the chains said in a deep voice. “Just thrust yon spike into the spindle stop over there.”
Itharr did as the man directed, and with a rattle of chains the man shoved at the lever. It shuddered but did not move. The man nodded in satisfaction, ducked under the lever—a wooden bar as thick as his arm, worn smooth by the hours his hands had grasped it—and braced himself against it, shoving in the opposite direction from the way he’d been pushing it for so long.
The lever groaned, and the man pitted against it snarled, veins standing out like ropes on his neck. His body quivering like a bent bow, he took a slow, deliberate step forward—and the great lever groaned and shivered and … broke.
And Irreph Mulmar, former high constable of the High Dale, stood tall amid the wreckage, tearing his shackles loose from the splintered wood, and said in a voice of iron, “No more.”
“Well met,” Belkram said calmly. Irreph gave him a terrible smile and gathered his chains into a bunch in his right hand. “My thanks, both of you. I’ve a mage to slay—and I must learn what has befallen my daughter—as soon as I’m free of this stinking mill cellar.”
Suddenly, out of the darkness above, the pointed, rusting fang of a halberd stabbed down at him. Irreph twisted aside, flung a loop of chain over the weapon as it bobbed and reached again, and hauled hard.
Cursing darkness came helplessly down atop him. Irreph lashed it with his chains until its groans and shrieks had died into silence. Then he swarmed up the spindle in angry haste. Belkra
m and Itharr exchanged looks and followed.
Darkness fled from him along a gallery. Irreph followed, bounding along on legs stiff from not stretching for so long. Chained to the wood, there’d been nowhere to run. He laughed exultantly as he caught up with the darkness—just another man wearing a ring that cloaked him in concealing magic—and flung a loop of chain around the unseen throat from behind. A dagger clattered to the floor. Limbs flailed against him frantically and gasping sounds began … and then died away in slow agony.
Irreph strode on to the stairs. Somewhere ahead was the sun, and the men who’d stolen his wits and dale from him. They must die, all of them. Soon.
Ylyndaera hurried down the stairs like a ragged wraith, clinging to railings from time to time to peer ahead. Doors slammed here and there, men shouted and ran, their booted feet thundering on the old, uneven wooden boards, and from below came dull crashings, thumps, and an occasional short scream. What was happening?
Daera reached the ground floor of the mill, a huge room always piled high with full sacks—or, in winter, drifting snow—where stairs went up and down in all directions. Sunlight spilled in through the open door, and there were men running and fighting everywhere. She saw Yoster, the old innkeeper, hacking with a huge old axe at a Wolf as if he were chopping at a tree that wouldn’t fall. There was blood all over the axe.
Beyond the two struggling men she could see others, more Wolves slashing and hacking at two men she’d never seen before. Where was Father?
There was no rumbling. The wheels had stopped! Was he dead? Free? Daera swallowed and had to duck aside as a man reeled out of the darkness, cursing, and almost fell over her. He charged on into the fray, clutching at his shoulder, trailing dark drops as he went.
This was no place for her. Carefully, Ylyndaera peered around a pile of sacks toward the light, just in time to see one of the guards fleeing her way.
She didn’t have time to do anything but crouch in fear. He struck her with a crash, one very hard shin smashing into her side with bruising force. With a fearful curse he pitched over her and crashed to the floorboards, sword bouncing away. Winded, Daera rolled helplessly over against a pile of sacks. She did not even have breath left to moan.
A dark form strode past, not even seeing her. It savagely swung something long and heavy and metal—chains!—at the scrambling guard. Metal thudded down with a horrible, heavy, wet sound. Daera heard a sob, a groan, cracking noises, and more thudding. Then silence.
She lay still, struggling for breath. Booted feet rushed past her, and she saw the flash of a sword. It clashed and slid against chain, and Daera saw the black-armored swordsman flung back against a pile of sacks only to regain his balance and charge again.
The terrible chains swung again, and Daera heard the man’s helm crumple. The sword spun from his hand, and he crashed heavily to the floor.
Father stalked toward her, gathering bloody chains in one hand as he came. Except for long matted hair, he was naked. Ylyndaera could not even speak as he strode past, not seeing her. But—gods be praised!—his eyes weren’t the dull, unseeing things that had wandered over her as he howled in the darkness, but the sharp, clear eyes of the ranger of old, the aroused and angry high constable of the High Dale.
He was gone, out into the sun. The two strangers rushed out after him, swords in their hands, and old Yoster with his axe followed, stumbling in weariness or perhaps because he’d been hurt. On her knees, fighting for breath, she could not tell.
Daera gasped for air, wishing she was at her father’s side this instant to watch him smite down soldier after soldier of the tyrants. To see these black-armored Wolves fall …
Gods watch over us—their bows! Hell be slain, sure!
A terrified Daera, still doubled over in pain, staggered out into the light. She saw much blood, and men in black armor lying still in the midst of it, hands raised vainly to clutch at life now fled.
Dalefolk had gathered, eyes wide and excited. Down the road she saw her father’s broad shoulders amid the small knot of hurrying men moving steadily on toward the castle.
Daera stared at her neighbors as they watched him go and screamed, “Aid me! In the name of the High Dale, aid! He’ll be killed!”
They knew her as she shuddered, whooped breath back into her bruised chest, and staggered upright again. Pity was in some eyes, and rising anger in others. But at her cry, men looked away or shook their heads sadly, and women backed away.
“They’ve magic, lass.”
“Aye, strong magic. We dare not …”
Tears were rolling down her cheeks now, but Daera wiped them away impatiently and ran grimly back to one of the bodies to snatch up a fallen sword and pluck a dagger from a belt.
She shook hair out of her eyes with a despairing snarl and rose to look around, hefting the sword. It was much too heavy; it was all she could do to hold the tip higher than her hands. She thrust the dagger through the bunched cloth at her hip, not caring what happened to the rags she wore, and used both hands to raise the blade, laying it back on her shoulder.
When she looked down the road again, her father’s striding figure was much smaller. Would she be able to catch up with him in time?
In time to see him die? Daera shuddered, furiously blinking away fresh tears, and then saw men near her. She looked around wildly.
Old eyes met her own. She saw pride, and anger that matched hers, and shining hope in them.
Four—no, five—old men of the dale, graybeards she’d known as long as she could remember, leaning on fences to talk and smoke pipes, and shuffling into the inn for a tankard. Except on their chins, their hair was sparse, and they wore clothes as ragged as her own.
But in their hands shone old, lovingly cared for weapons, swords worn thin with years of sharpening, gleaming now, and axes with long curving blades. One carried a halberd in spiked gauntlets so old and worn that she could see his bony fingers through rents in the leather.
“We’re with ye,” one said simply.
“Aye,” another spoke through a moustache that almost hid his missing teeth. “Like in the old days. We’ll follow a Mulmar to the death, for the High Dale.”
“My thanks,” Ylyndaera said thickly, fresh tears streaming. Then she added hurriedly, almost sobbing, “Come, then, before it’s too late!”
She hurried down the road. The graybeards trotted and shuffled and kept up with her. Some even had the breath to call out as they passed cottages.
“To arms!”
“For the dale!”
“Out, lads! To arms!”
One man looked out his door, amazed, and yelled, “Ho, Baerus! Where be ye off to?”
The old man just behind Daera grinned ferociously and waved his sword. “The high constable’s free! An’ we’re following the maid, here—Irreph’s lass—to the castle, to see to the running of these Wolves!”
There were roars of approval, and Daera saw men with pitchforks and axes running to catch up.
“For the dale!” another of the graybeards bellowed. The answering roar drowned out the fit of coughing that shook him a moment later.
“For the running of the Wolves!” a younger voice roared. Daera looked around. She was leading a band now.
“Death,” she cried, “to all Wolves!”
“Death!” they roared back at her in excitement and anger, and swept down toward the castle.
12
Blood in the Marketplace
The sun shone down brightly. Eyes drawn into slits against its unaccustomed brightness, Irreph looked around his dale like a hungry hawk seeking dinner. In quick, sharp glances he noted changes without slowing. The chain grew warmer in his hands. Out in the sun, away from the damp, he stretched and stood taller, and felt better than he had in a long, long time.
Which was just too bad for the two Wolves who happened to cross his path.
The first drew steel and tried to charge in and gut him. Irreph swung his chains, danced aside, and swung them again. The ma
n grunted, dropped his blade from numbed, broken fingers, and never had time to pick it up again.
The second drew sword, too, then turned and ran, crying the alarm. He got about three houses away before a goodwife hobbled hurriedly down her steps, fell in front of him, and reached out carefully to trip him with her cane as he ran past. Irreph did not give him time to get up.
“Irreph,” she said eagerly, as he helped her to her feet. “Lord, are you come to lead us to war?”
Mulmar looked down and smiled through his mask of dust, sweat, and blood. “My thanks, Ireavyn. I am. Tell all, if you will, to bring arms as soon as they are able. I march on the castle.”
“Alone?”
“Aye,” he said grimly. Her face fell.
“And, Ireavyn, I’m your high constable, not your lord. No lord rules in the High Dale.”
She nodded almost sadly and looked around. No Wolf was watching, but over Mulmar’s shoulder her face lit.
“Look! Folk have risen, Irreph! They come! They come!”
She stared harder and her jaw dropped open. “Is that your Daera with them?”
Irreph whirled, almost felling the goodwife with an errant swinging shackle.
“Gods!” he cursed as he saw Ylyndaera’s white face amid all the old men. Their eyes met, and the high constable suddenly discovered something wet was blurring his eyes.
The sun. Aye, the sun. He ran to meet his daughter, love and pride rising almost to choke him as he went.
The high constable of the High Dale walked slowly toward the castle, his chains in his hand. A crowd gathered in his wake, and those who bore weapons grew steadily in numbers. Beside him was his daughter, Ylyndaera, and behind them walked many old men of the dale, gray of beard and snow-white or thin of hair, with wrinkled old faces and stiff old limbs. They clutched weapons green or rust-red or worn thin with age, but carried themselves like old lions looking for a fight. Pride, joy, and a certain reckless defiance showed in their faces, and their eyes glinted when they looked ahead to where death awaited. At long last they were going to strike back.