Shadows of Doom

by Ed Greenwood

  A tyrant’s banner still floated from the battlements ahead. An outlander still called himself lord of their dale, took tax coins from deep in their pockets, slew them at his pleasure, and told them what to do. Enough—as some forgotten warrior had said ages ago and half the Realms away—was enough. At long last they were going to war.

  The road under their marching feet grew wider and cobbled. For this time of day, the way was strangely empty.

  Word had spread, and the dalefolk hid and watched, or found what arms they could and came out to join Irreph. The Wolves must have gone to the castle for orders—the marchers could see the glint and gleam of helmed heads on the walls, looking down—for none showed themselves as the ragged but growing band of dalefolk approached the dark bulk of the High Castle.

  The castle rose like a tall stone ship out of the houses in the center of the dale. A steep-sided earthen ditch surrounded the rocky ridge on which the fortress stood. A cobbled road descended steeply from its forekeep gate down to a large open space, the dale’s marketplace. Since the arrival of Longspear, a dark, gaunt double gibbet had arisen in the center of this space. The great open well, once freely used by all, had been covered, its locked pumps used for the Wolves and their horses only.

  Angry murmurs rose from the crowd as the dalefolk came out into the marketplace and saw these hated reminders of unwanted rule. The murmurs became a roar as they saw what awaited beyond.

  Where the cobbled road to the castle rose out of the beaten earth, a line of Wolves stood in full coat-of-plate battle armor gleaming silver and deep blue in the sun. Swords and daggers were at their sides, and in their hands they held the long black-shafted lances they were wont to use from horseback. They barred the way grimly, the lances coming down like a forest of leveled, waiting teeth as Irreph strode steadily toward them.

  Cold eyes met angry ones. The crowd came to a slow, milling halt just beyond the sharp, steady-held lance points. The sun beat down on them all.

  The leader of the Wolves with the lances was Kalam Bloodsword, a veteran of Zhentil Keep’s armies. He looked coldly at the angry dalefolk and kept all fear from his flat, commanding voice.

  “Mulmar, go back to your work at the mill or perish, in the name of Longspear, lord in this place. Go back now, and take these old men with you, or we shall slay you all before highsun.”

  Silence was his answer. No one moved.

  Kalam glared at them all, looking slowly from left to right, at old men with fire in their eyes, a young maid—Mulmar’s brat?—and the man in chains, who looked back at the Wolf with death in his eyes.

  Kalam cleared his throat. “You’ll all miss your meals, and your loved ones will wait for you in vain—forever. Think on this and go back to your homes.”

  Still, no one moved. Kalam blazed a silent curse at this Mulmar for somehow getting free of the wizards’ spells, and added another at the mages. For all their arrogance, wizards were flighty, careless fools one could never rely on save to send one speedily to the grave.

  “Go now, all of you,” he said, keeping his voice level. “Or we shall put Irreph Mulmar to the death, here and now. The stain of his blood will be on all of your hearts.”

  “Stand with me,” Irreph said almost gently. “Stand fast, folk of the dale.”

  They stood. Long moments dragged past. Kalam made another silent curse, added a prayer to Tempus, and motioned his line of men forward.

  They pushed forward to take Mulmar. Practiced old hands struck aside lance points and ducked under the long shafts. Mulmar raised his chains to his shoulder, ready to flail. The Wolves, trained not to let foes who might have knives get in under wielded polearms, halted and stepped back.

  “Stand back!” Kalam roared. “Any who bar our way will hang as outlaws! Back!”

  He drew his sword and strode forward. Old men with eyes and faces like cold stone stepped into his path, weapons raised. Kalam whipped his blade back and forth like a man threshing grain. It clanged against old axes and short swords and pitchforks until sparks flew and the numbed hands of their wielders wavered. Some fell back.

  Kalam, too, stepped back and glared across the small open space he’d created. “Get back, and go to your homes!” he ordered sternly. “I want no blood shed this day. What gain will you see, if you lie dead here in the marketplace before highsun?” He looked around at cold and silent faces. “Go back!”

  No one moved. Deliberately Kalam sheathed his sword, stepped back into the line, and took up a lance. “Lances down!” he ordered, and the line of sharp points was leveled again. Glittering death took a step forward. And then another.

  A stone fell by Kalam’s feet as if from the empty sky. The leader of the Wolves glared at the mob angrily. “Who threw that?”

  Another stone sprang past his eyes and rattled down a shield behind him. Kalam Bloodsword aimed his lance in the direction from which the stone had come and charged forward with a yell. The line of Wolves followed.

  The lance tore through a shoulder, forced a second man to leap aside, and stuck solidly into a wooden shield that was as gray with age as the bearded man who held it. The old man staggered under the impact but gathered his feet under him defiantly and set himself against Kalam’s shoving.

  Kalam snarled and gained a step. Then another. A man with red hair joined the graybeard, then, and the lance went no farther.

  “Make way!” Kalam spat. The red-haired man met his eyes steadily and shoved … and it was the leader of the Wolves who was forced back. A low, murmuring roar of approval rose around him. For the first time since he’d come to this place between the mountains, Kalam was truly afraid.

  Another stone came winging right toward him. He lowered his head hastily and the rock struck his helm a solid, ringing blow. Kalam snarled and jerked the lance up and down roughly, trying to tear it free.

  Folk were moving now, looking over their shoulders and scattering to the right and left. Good! Reinforcements had arrived, no doubt, and not a moment too soon.

  Pushing forward into view from the rear of the crowd were two men in worn, nondescript, bloodstained leathers whom he’d never seen before, with naked swords in their hands. An old man with an older war axe in his hands followed them, grinning from ear to ear. The first two men fixed eyes on the leader of the Wolves. As he met their gazes, Kalam’s blood ran cold. They meant his death.

  The leader of the Wolves let go the lance and snatched at his sword. He got it out in time to strike aside the first reaching blade, but the man danced past, moving with Kalam’s parry, and struck at him from behind.

  Kalam ducked and dodged, and grunted with the sudden pain brought by the second blade, running up under the edge of his breastplate. He reeled away, doubled up against the burning, stabbing pain, and found himself face-to-face with the graybearded veteran who’d stopped his lance. His blade swept up as he snarled, “Death!”

  “Aye,” came the calm reply. “Yours.”

  The short sword that stopped his own blade as if it had been driven against a stone wall leapt suddenly into his face, and Kalam of the Wolves had time for only a gurgle or two before he fell and was trampled in the general surge forward. The last, fading thing he heard was a voice far behind him yelling, “Freedom for the dale! Death to the Zhent Wolves!”

  Shoulder to shoulder, Heladar Longspear and Angruin Myrvult Stormcloak stood on the battlements, looking down as the mob below surged forward and the lancers were overwhelmed.

  As their roar of victory rose and the ragged band surged triumphantly up the cobbled road, Longspear ordered curtly, “Now. Break their charge.”

  Guards around him hastened to the wall, loaded heavy crossbows in their hands. Their bolts fell like rain on the road below, and villagers fell back—or fell transfixed, to lie crumpled on the ground like crows slain around a guarded granary.

  “And now?” Lord Longspear said, looking old. “Those are my people we’re killing.”

  The mage who called himself Stormcloak turned cold eyes o
n Heladar. “What of it?”

  “I’d rather not rule an open graveyard,” Longspear replied coldly. “Who knows where it’ll end, now that the bloodletting’s begun? There’s not a one left we can trust, and if we slay them all, what do I rule then?”

  “A strategic pass that we can hold with twice our strength in two days, by means of the gate,” Stormcloak told him. “If it’s rabble you want to rule over, are there no prisons in Zhentil Keep? Are there no outlaws in these mountains? Manshoon’s orders will bring all he wants to let out or be rid of, and if we spread the word in Cormyr and Sembia that there are hill farms for the taking, we’ll soon have the dale as crowded as you like, Lord Longspear.”

  He turned away from Longspear and gave an order to the Overswords who stood behind them. “I want twenty full-armored men—lances and blades, all of them—mounted and ready in the courtyard as fast you can get them there.”

  The Overswords looked at him, and at the magnificently armored back of Lord Longspear. The back did not turn, and Stormcloak snarled, “Move at my orders, you thickheaded orc-sons! When I signal, send them out. They’re to ride down the mob at full gallop, slaying any who resist. Longspear, you lead them.”

  The lord of the dale did not move or reply. The mage snarled and advanced on the Overswords, cursing them and raising threatening hands in gestures of spellcasting, until they wheeled and ran down the stairs. Men on the walls around them reloaded their crossbows and carefully looked away. Stormcloak gestured at Heladar’s back.

  The Lord of the High Dale straightened rather stiffly and turned about. His eyes were clouded and distant, his expression set. Stormcloak looked at him in satisfaction and said, “Go down and lead your men, Lord. Ride to victory.”

  The charmed lord tramped across to the stair in his gleaming armor. As he passed, Stormcloak considerately thrust the visor of his helm down, covering his set face.

  Then the mage glared at the men all around him and ordered, “Loose your bolts, then leave your bows here and go down to the courtyard to await my orders.”

  The Sword who commanded those on the battlements said hesitantly, “Leave our bows? What—”

  The mage wheeled on him. “Address me as Lord Angruin, if you would live!”

  All around them, bows were grounded, and silent Wolves hastened to the stairs.

  “Back!” Belkram and Itharr shouted together, waving their swords. “Back! What good do you for the dale, by going forward and dying?”

  Crossbow bolts, fired straight out from the castle walls to carry as far as possible, hissed down around the shouting Harpers. Dalefolk groaned and staggered as they were struck. Here and there men fell, pitching onto their faces to lie still or writhing weakly in the mud.

  Men were running, now, back across the marketplace, leaving the dead behind, revealing the bloody, trampled bodies of Wolves as they receded.

  “No!” Irreph roared as the two Harpers came up to him. “What have you done, you fools? Once we’ve scattered, they’ll ride us down one by one!”

  “High Constable,” Belkram said, meeting Ylyndaera’s frightened gaze, “we must fall back now and rally the people in the shops and alleys around the edge of this open space, or we’ll all go down under whatever magic those wizards can hurl!”

  Even as he spoke, there was a flash of amber light, and smoke curled up from the foot of the castle road. In a spot that had been empty a moment before, Angruin Stormcloak stood grandly in his dark robes. He laughed, his cold mirth ringing out loudly across the corpse-littered marketplace, and raised his hands.

  Stones flung at him fell short. Mulmar cursed and swung around to shield his daughter, picking her up at a lumbering run with the two Harpers, back into an alley mouth. “We haven’t a bow among us,” the high constable said bitterly. “They took them all, and most who could wield them were maimed, cut down, or hanged here in the square.”

  “You had a lot of bowmen?” Itharr asked as they crouched together against a wall.

  Irreph looked at him. “All my armsmen,” he said quietly, cold death in his eyes again. He looked across the square at the wizard and whispered harshly, “All of them.”

  The air crackled lightning then, and men screamed as the blue-white bolt spat and snapped down the street they stood in, dancing them with its fury until it passed and they fell burned and lifeless to the ground. As the lightning faded, men of the dale showed themselves at doors and alley mouths, waving weapons angrily.

  Stormcloak laughed again and raised his hands with nonchalant, almost clinical grace. This time a ball of fire roared down another street. As the screams died away, the strong smell of cooked flesh was borne across the marketplace by a rising breeze.

  Men began to flee, running down the streets and alleys in blind flight. The two Harpers looked at each other helplessly, then at Mulmar.

  “I will not retreat,” Irreph said slowly. “They will not take me this time.”

  “Well stand with you,” Belkram told him.

  “No, you will not,” Irreph Mulmar said in a voice of steel. “As I am high constable, hear and obey me. You will take my daughter, both of you. Guard and keep her safe, and get her away to safety—to Azoun’s court or to a lady called Mineira, a healer, in Saerb. She can get word, via the Harpers, to the mage Elminster of Shadowdale. Ylyndaera must live to rule the dale in years to come, when these serpents have fallen and been swept away.”

  “We are Harpers, sir,” Itharr said, “and we came here seeking Elminster, who has left Shadowdale. We think he has come here.”

  “Here?” Mulmar said, rising. “Then we may be saved yet.”

  As he spoke, two bolts of force, white teardrops with wavering trails of light, raced across the marketplace like tiny falling stars to strike Stormcloak. The mage roared in surprise and pain, and staggered back.

  Another pair of missiles sought him. This time the watching Mulmars and Harpers saw their source: an old man in tattered, dirty robes, crouching amid the brine barrels in front of the fishmonger’s stall. Beside him was a woman in leathers, a sword in her hand.

  “That’s one of the Knights of Myth Drannor,” Itharr said excitedly. “Sharantyr!”

  “Then that,” Belkram said slowly, indicating the man with the wand, “must be Elminster.”

  Ylyndaera burst into sudden tears. “I knew there were gods,” she said. “I knew they’d hear me!”

  13

  When Wizards War

  Angruin Stormcloak snarled in anger. They had a mage! So this was no simple uprising, but the work of a powerful enemy—perhaps meddling mages from Sembia or Cormyr, but more likely from within the Brotherhood. This fool attacking him would doubtless be some apprentice given a wand and told to prove himself, but still …

  Stormcloak cast fire again. This time, the air in front of him turned golden, there came a melodious chiming as of many bells, and the scent of fresh-baked bread wafted past—but no flaming death blasted those who stood against him. His magic had gone wild. Again.

  He stood alone, facing enemies across an open place, armed only with spells he could not rely on. Not a prudent situation.

  Angruin turned and beckoned to those waiting in the castle with both his arm and his will. The thread of magic held. He reached silently down it and forced Lord Longspear, mounted at their head, to roar the charge and urge his mount forward. Then the Zhentarim wizard scrambled down off the road, to the side of the marketplace where the fewest dalefolk waited to storm back at him.

  A moment later, he heard the angry thunder of many plunging hooves, and the Wolves swept down from the castle into the marketplace, scattering to level their lances and spur into the mouths of streets and alleys. For a breath or two the world was all snorting horses, creaking leather, and jangling harnesses. Then the black-armored Wolves were in among the buildings, and the ringing of steel—and the shrieking—began. Satisfied, Stormcloak stood watching as screaming men fled and fell. The folk of the dale would pay in blood for their defiance.


  War came to a certain lane on charging hooves. The lances of two Wolves flashed down as they made for the mouth of the street, bellowing laughter and claiming specific targets as their kills.

  The two Harpers there, crouched against a wall in front of Irreph and Ylyndaera Mulmar, rose smoothly, blades flashing. Belkram set his teeth and struck the lance of the first Wolf skyward.

  As the lance flew up, Itharr leapt under it to tumble the Wolf off his horse with a kick. The second Wolf rode over him without slowing, leaning out to drive his lance through the naked high constable. As the glittering point swept down, Irreph put Daera behind him with one strong hand and raised his chains with the other.

  Belkram’s blade came down hard on the butt of that lance. The lance’s tip leapt up and over Irreph’s shoulder to skirl along the stone wall behind him in a shower of sparks.

  Then the Wolf was past, hooves thundering down the lane, and Itharr was rising out of the dust with his dagger dark with blood, letting fall the visor of the first Wolf.

  “Now!” Belkram bellowed, stepping out into the marketplace and waving his blade. “Strike them down in the narrow places! For Mulmar, and freedom!” Roars and waved weapons answered him; dalefolk were still up and fighting.

  Across the open space, the Zhentarim wizard snarled and raised his hand. Belkram ducked hastily back into the lane.

  An instant later, the old man on his knees among the barrels smote Stormcloak again with a pair of magic missiles, spoiling his spellcasting. The wizard’s scream of rage could be heard clearly over the shouting and the thunder of hooves.

  Then a mounted Wolf waving a long, dark mace was thundering across the marketplace toward the lane.

  “Is that Elminster?” Itharr yelled as the two Harpers snatched up a lance and swung it together, like a great broom, to sweep this third Wolf out of his saddle.

  “I think so,” Belkram called back as the man crashed helplessly to earth, boot heels bouncing. Itharr raced in to leap atop him, and their roll together was brief and brutal.