by Ed Greenwood
Sharantyr put a hand down and rolled to her side. “I … I think so.” She looked around. She was lying on Elminster’s robe, on the parapet walk. Dead Wolves littered the battlements around them. A few crows had found the bodies and were fluttering about and pecking experimentally.
The Old Mage was sitting unconcernedly in his clout and boots, the ring of regeneration gleaming on his finger. Sharantyr’s gaze leapt to where the quarrel had struck him.
All she saw was a dark, angry-looking patch. Elminster smiled and held up the quarrel, dark with his own blood.
Sharantyr shuddered, and then dared a glance at her own shoulder. It had been clumsily bandaged with what looked like strips torn from Elminster’s clout: cotton now stiff with dried blood. Her shoulder, unseen beneath—she wriggled it experimentally—felt whole. She raised questioning eyes to Elminster.
“The healing potions ye brought back,” Elminster said. “Ye had all of them.” He scratched at his beard and poked at her bandaged shoulder. “How d’ye feel?”
Sharantyr sat up, feeling light-headed. Under her torn leathers she was sticky and ached, her stiff and bruised muscles complaining, but her probing fingers encountered none of the fresh blood and deep wounds she had feared to find.
“Weak as a weaned kitten, Old Mage,” she said with a smile, “but I’ll live. Give me a few breaths more and I’ll be up and swinging a sword again.”
Elminster looked at the carnage around them. “I’ll stand clear of thy way when ye do,” he told her dryly.
Sharantyr answered his smile, briefly, but her eyes grew somber when she saw the dead. “I like this killing little,” she whispered with sudden urgency, turning to him. “Believe me, won’t you?”
Elminster put a swift, lean arm around her. “I do, Shar. I know ye well enough, now.” He looked around them and added, “Mind, we need ye to try thy hand at it a little time longer.” He held up the magic missile wand. “Ye seem far more effective than this, I must say.”
Daera came out into the street like a silent shadow. There was at least one man outside, in armor. A Wolf!
The man was grinning, one armored hand clutching a twisted handful of long hair. The woman he held grimaced in pain but dared not even whimper; the long curve of his sword was hard against her throat. Another woman watched from a nearby door, mouth agape, frozen in fear.
“A good horse your man has,” the Wolf said, almost conversationally. “I’ve seen it.” His hand yanked her back into the hard embrace of his armor, then came around to her breast.
Deliberately, he tore the worn cloth of her bodice away. “Almost as good as his taste in women,” the Wolf said, caressing her with cruel, bruising fingers. The sword brushed up and down her throat, reminding her not to scream.
“You’re going to take me to that good horse,” the Wolf said grimly as he forced her steadily along the street. “Silence! You, too,” he added to the watching woman in the doorway, “or I’ll slit both your throats and forego the pleasure of your company.”
The awkward procession continued down the street, the captive woman feebly pointing at an alleyway. With a face dark as a hailstorm, Daera waved Ulraea to silence and went after them on silent feet, dagger ready.
She knew he’d look around before entering the alley, and hurried. She had to get his sword away, but how?
The armored back was very close in front of her, the smell of sweat and oiled metal strong. Ylyndaera Mulmar looked at it, knowing she had only a breath more to act, and inspiration came.
She stepped to his blind side as the Wolf’s head started to turn, and slipped her dagger delicately up into the armpit of his sword arm, where armor plate ended and old, sweat-weakened leather began.
The man stiffened, roared in pain, and nearly dropped his blade. He whirled, snatching at it with his other hand, as three women screamed.
Ylyndaera snarled amid the shrieks and stabbed at the man’s eyes from behind.
He shrieked, too, as blood fountained up from the wound in his armpit, and broke into an agonized, stumbling run. She watched him go, goaded by pain, as his bright blood ran down the dagger in her hand, and felt her gorge rise. No. She could not slay him that way, by finding an eye from behind, and feeling the blade go in … ohhh …
As her spew splattered on the stones in front of her, a thought came. She reached for a stone she knew was loose, from long-gone days when she’d played up this alley and down others.
The stone was large, flat, and very heavy. She caught up to the staggering Wolf, roughly tore off his helm from behind, and with both hands brought the stone down hard on his head.
He shuddered, started to curse, and fell. She did it again. Again. And again before something gave. His body jerked under her knees before it fell still.
As she rose, she looked into the great, dark eyes of the horse owner’s wife, who stood watching, the marks of cruel fingers dark on her flesh. Daera managed a smile as she took up the man’s sword, hefted it, and said, “Come with me, Jharina. I’m for the castle. We’re going to kill us some Wolves.”
From behind her, Daera heard a shocked gasp. Without turning she said, “Ulraea? Bring along Tanshlee, too. She’ll catch a chill, standing gawping in that doorway all day.”
Her eyes looked deep into Jharina’s. The older, prouder lady looked back at the gangling girl with the sword and the bloody dagger, and drew in a deep, shuddering breath.
“Well?” Ylyndaera asked softly. “Are you with me?”
Jharina smiled. “Yes,” she said, her voice almost steady. “Yes, I am.” She stepped forward and embraced the high constable’s daughter, treading on the fallen Wolf uncaringly.
“Lead us, lass,” she said, “as your father does. Lead us.”
Daera kissed her cheek, handed her the dagger, and started back out of the alley. “Hurry, then,” she said. “The men may need us. All’s gone quiet up there, and when magic’s about, that means ill.”
The bloodstained and mud-smeared Wolf who came stumbling out of an alley just then, to make a run for the castle, was unlucky indeed. The angry howls and screams of the women warned him before they reached him, but not in time for him to outrun them on a wounded leg. He swung his blade twice, jarring Ylyndaera with two hard parries, before his leg gave way and they had him. He did not scream long.
They paused for a moment to let Tanshlee be sick all over the body, then hastened up the road to the open castle gates. Men were hurrying about inside, halberds and swords gleaming in their hands. Wolves.
“Tymora,” Daera breathed, “let us not be too late.”
The words had scarcely left her lips when there was a great flash and booming sound from within the walls. A man’s head, still wearing a helm and a shocked expression, flew past them amid a shower of stones, dirt, and other things best not examined too closely.
“Oh, gods,” Daera cursed, and broke into a run. “Come on!”
They were almost at the gate before they heard the growing thunder of hooves clattering and pounding toward them. Frantically they flung themselves aside, diving to the turf, as the world exploded in racing horses.
“Daera,” Ulraea quavered as they hugged the ground together amid rolling dust, “could you stop praying, d’you think? Every time you call on a divine one, something happens!”
“Oh,” Daera replied, clutching her sword. “All right.”
16
Stormcloak’s Humor
Elminster coughed. “If ye feel up to standing,” he said, “I’d best be putting my robe back on now. Thy reputation, ye know. Besides, ’tis cold when one is old and thin and not used to drafty battlements.”
Sharantyr chuckled and rolled to her feet. She felt a little weak at the knees and caught hold of the rampart for support, but when she moved there was no great pain, and everything turned and flexed as it should. She found her sword and took it up. Its familiar weight made her feel all was well again.
Elminster held up his robe and ostentatiously brushed it clean.
After an undignified moment of struggling as he put it on over his head, he smoothed his beard and hefted his much-used wand. “I fear more bloodshed awaits us,” he said, almost eagerly. “Now, if someone will show us where the battle’s gotten to …”
As if in reply, someone not far away laughed exultantly. They tensed, staring in the direction the sound had come from, and seeing only empty walks and stairs, lifeless turrets. The sound came again, from the far side of one of the turrets. A door or a window must be hidden from their view. In unspoken accord they hurried along the battlements as silently as they could.
“Fools,” a voice that matched the laughter called, “you have come here, your hard and desperate way, only to find your own deaths!”
The taunt was not directed at them; it was hurled down into the inner courtyard, where men with weapons—pitchforks, old felling axes, and a few swords and daggers—stood warily in a corner, livestock milling all around them.
Elminster and Sharantyr exchanged glances and hurried on. They still could not see the speaker. In front of them was the turret the Wolves with the rope had emerged from. The voice must be coming from its other side.
“Rush in by that door,” Elminster whispered to the lady ranger, “only after ye hear me shout. Move as fast as ye can. Only a Zhent wizard would be foolish and arrogant enough to gloat over foes instead of striking, but he won’t go on forever. Don’t give him a chance to use magic on thee.” He clapped her shoulder affectionately and darted around the curving side of the turret. Sharantyr held her blade high as she came up to the door.
The storm shutters had been thrown wide on an arched window that commanded a view of the courtyard and the parapet walk most of the way around the inside of the castle. Leaning out of the window, resplendent in rich robes, a cruel-looking man wearing earrings and a triumphant sneer was fairly spitting his words down at the trapped men below.
“Thought yourselves victorious, did you? Country idiots! Longspear ruled only as far as we let him. Now that you’ve swept him away and most of his stupid sword-swingers with him, what have you accomplished?”
The man raised his hand. Elminster saw that he held a handful of winking, glowing glass spheres that spun lazily around each other, and his heart sank. Zhent blast-globes!
“All you’ve done, worms, is thrown away your lives—and those of your wives and daughters and mothers—by hewing down all among us who might have shown you any mercy. Now you face wizards of power, dullards, and you’ll discover just how we deal with defiance!”
The globes swept up, pulsing with sudden fire as he drew back his hand to throw them. “Know, worms, that it is I, Haragh Mnistlyn, who destroys you!”
Elminster leaned close then and conversationally said, “Boo.”
The Zhentarim turned a startled face to the Old Mage, who smiled sweetly at him and bellowed, “Now, Shar!”
Elminster raised his wand with a confident smile and tensed to fling himself back around the curve of the wall.
The Zhent wizard didn’t disappoint him. Snarling in surprised fury, he flung the blast-globes straight at Elminster.
If they struck anything, they would explode.
The Old Mage hurled himself back as energetically as he’d ever done anything in his long, long life.
There was a frozen moment when the only thing he heard was his own heartbeat booming between his ears like the muffled, deep call of a far-off marching drum. His shoulder struck stone with bruising force, and he skidded on. Lights winked and flashed past his nose.
It seemed his life might stretch a little longer, after all. A loud crash came from within the turret, accompanied by a startled curse, as the blazing globes spun past Elminster, whirled over the inner parapet wall with a handwidth or so to spare, and plunged down into the forecourt. Safely around the curve of the turret wall, the Old Mage craned to watch the end of their flight and saw folk coming toward the gate from outside the castle.
Folk without armor. Folk of the dale—Women! He had no time even for a prayer to Mystra but brought up his wand and hissed desperately, “Alag!”
The wand gave forth—ah, praise be!—a glowing teardrop of force, firing it out over empty air with a soft phut. It curved gracefully down and then seemed to leap through the air to meet the descending globes just before they could reach the open gate.
Elminster stared hard at the gate—had he been in time?—and barely heard the thin scream, abruptly cut off, from behind him. On its heels came the fury of the blast, smiting his ears like spell-thunder.
Below, a door had just opened in a tower wall. Armored Wolves were hurrying out into the forecourt, halberds and blades ready. Well, he couldn’t stop the luck of Tempus falling on them.
The women had seen the Wolves and hesitated. Yes, that would save them! Elminster laughed aloud.
Gods, if he only had his magic, none of this would be necessary. But still, they’d done well this day. He turned. “Shar?”
A grim, blood-streaked face looked out of the door at him. “I live. That’s more than can be said for this spell-hurler. He was quick, I’ll give him that.”
The lady ranger came out into the light again. Her face was white, and she was shaking with rage.
“What, lass?” Elminster asked, reaching out to her. Sharantyr turned blazing eyes on him.
“Those snakes are laying wagers on who will kill the most with their magic,” she said, seething. “He screamed just after that blast, and someone called up the stairs to see if anything had gone wrong, shouting to ask if he still expected to outdo Stormcloak’s body count and claim the victor’s share.”
Elminster looked at her. “So what will ye do?” he asked quietly.
Sharantyr brushed errant hair out of her eyes and raised the bloody tip of her blade. “I’m going down those stairs,” she said fiercely. “Guard my back, Old Mage.”
Elminster nodded. “I will, as best I can.”
They gazed around the battlements—long years of experience made Elminster search the sky for dragons, but he found none—and slipped into the turret, pulling the door nearly closed.
The turret room was awash with blood. The arrogant Zhentarim was draped over the back of a chair, arms flung wide, staring forever at something unseen near the ceiling.
Elminster’s stomach turned over. Sharantyr set her teeth and hurried to the steps.
A light glimmered below. They descended quietly, drifting to a stop when they saw men moving in the room at the foot of the stair. It was some sort of meeting room, where men were draining and refilling ornate goblets steadily as they sat at the table or strode restlessly around it.
“Oh, we’re safe enough,” one cold voice was saying as Sharantyr came within hearing range. “Stormcloak sent an extra guard patrol to the roof. Ten men, I believe, and the strutting ’prentice. What’s his name? Ragh, or something of the sort? The dandy who always wears court robes. It’d take old Elminster himself to break in on us here.”
In the darkness on the stairs, two sets of teeth flashed in mirthless smiles.
The voice that spoke next was deeper and shorter. “The question is: Now that we don’t have Longspear to hold on to his reins, what will Stormcloak do? We need forty bowmen at least to hold the dale. They’re all roused out there now. Even if we slay every man who’s raised sword against us today, we’ll have to take the dale all over again.”
“A harder thing to do now, with Cormyr and Sembia both looking our way and beginning to suspect who our mages are.”
“Aye,” came the deep voice again, “but will Stormcloak call for the aid we need, or will his first concern be impressing Lord Manshoon and other Zhentarim of power with his own strength and battle cunning? He may well try to win the day alone for greater glory. He cares nothing for this place. All can see that much.”
“Hush, will you. Hear? He comes. That must be his guard, for there’s not another large band of sword brothers left.”
Elminster laid a silent hand on Sharantyr’s sword arm
to check her. Silently she laid her own free hand over his and patted it reassuringly. No. The time was not now.
There came the sound of many booted feet, a door opening, and a single, measured tread approaching the table.
“Councillors,” came a cold, confident voice, “we hold the castle. Only a few of those who attacked us yet live. I’m told that women and young girls are all who remain to storm our gates. We’ve not found the mage or the two warriors who led the rabble. I suspect Cormyr is backing them, but I’ll find out soon enough. As you know, the real tragedy today is the loss of our lord, slain by those two warriors.” He paused, but no voice broke the silence.
“With his fall, rule over this dale passes into my hands,” the voice continued flatly, challengingly. The words fell into another silence.
Then a deep voice said, “By what right do you claim lordship here, Stormcloak? Your magic, aye, but have you any less … ah, brutish claim? It is customary for the council to choose who shall rule over the High Dale.” A general stirring accompanied these words, a shifting, rising tension that died into heavy, anticipatory silence.
Stormcloak’s reply was as cold as a glacier wind. “You must know, Councillor, where Lord Longspear came from and what men he led in battle. That place is where I and my fellow mages came from. You are not a fool; you tell me.”
“Zhentil Keep,” the deep voice replied slowly, waiting.
“Aye,” Stormcloak agreed dryly. “Whose orders I have followed, and passed on to Longspear and others, since the day we came here. I held authority over Longspear from the first, whether he acknowledged it or not. As to the vote of this council, consider a simple sum. To be lord I need only a majority of votes, and all the Zhentarim will vote with me.”
“There are fewer of you,” the deep voice reminded him, just as dryly, “than there once were.”
“Well then, good Councillor Gulkin, perhaps it is time that the real strength of the Brotherhood was made known to you—to all of you. Call it a necessity of war, if you will, and if any tongues here today should slip about it later, be warned that their silencing will also be … a necessity of war.”