Shadows of Doom

by Ed Greenwood

  The Wolf drove one to the floor with his first blow. His second hacking swing struck sparks from their weapons with its fury. A dalesman screamed as his wrist snapped under the impact and his old sword flew from it to clang along the flagstones. Then Belkram leapt in from one side, tackling the Wolf waist-high.

  They went to the floor together, but frantic axe work forced the Harper to break free and roll away without delivering any real blow.

  Itharr was getting up off the table, daggers dripping. The Wolf under it would never rise again.

  There was a shout from the room beyond, and more Wolves rushed into the room. They were lightly armored, but there were six of them.

  Itharr rushed to meet them, trying to keep them entangled in the doorway. “To me, men of the dale!” he called over his shoulder as he sheathed one dagger in his boot and drew his sword again. “To me!”

  His blades met those of the foremost Wolves, hurling them back for an instant. Then he ducked low and lunged in a move Storm had used on him—ages ago, it seemed. A Wolf made a strangling sound as the blade burst up between his arms to slip into his throat.

  Itharr let go of the blade in an instant, spinning to one side, and avoided the angry counterstrikes of the other Wolves. Then Gedaern of the dale was there, his old broadsword in hand, taking one Wolf’s blade on his and darting out an old, hairy hand to clasp the man’s other wrist and arrest the streaking dagger it held.

  Itharr spun two Wolves around with a series of lashing blows, forcing them to parry, and then lunged at one. That Wolf crashed backward into the one Gedaern was facing. Both staggered, giving Gedaern an instant to slide his blade free of the Wolf’s steel and slash the man across the face. The armsman screamed as blood began to flow, and dropped his sword to clutch at his head.

  Itharr drove another Zhent back with a flurry of lunges, using weight and fury to drive the Wolf who’d run into Gedaern’s foe back into him again. This time Itharr’s Wolf fell. A breath later, Gedaern took down the man he’d blinded.

  Behind them, Belkram was still circling the armored Wolf with the axe. The man’s swings were slower and shrewder now. He was tiring and knew the speed of the man he faced. The Harper wore an eager half-smile as they danced and spun, remembering Storm, sweat glistening on her bare shoulders, as she’d fought her way coolly through Itharr’s best blade work, and his own. There was a trick she’d used …

  Belkram feinted a lunge. The great axe swept up to block it, then drew back a little for a return blow. Belkram flung himself forward in a jump, turned his blade sideways, and thrust it into the back of the man’s arms, driving them and the axe upward.

  Then the Harper dropped to the floor, kicking against the flagstones and surging forward into a roll against the Wolfs booted ankles.

  The man toppled, hitting the floor with a metallic crash. An old dalesman sprang forward, almost weeping in rage, and chopped at the man’s helm until it rang like a bell.

  The blade glanced off again and again as Belkram found his feet and was forced to deal with a Wolf charging down almost on top of him.

  When he could turn back again, the Harper saw the old dalesman clutching a broken sword—it had snapped against the helm—and cautiously lifting the Wolfs head. It lolled loosely; the helm had held, but the neck must have given way. The old man knelt beside the man he’d killed and started to cry, gnarled old hands trembling.

  Belkram wheeled and charged back into the fray. From the room beyond, someone called, “Aid! They’re in the castle! They’ve broken in!”

  Another voice called back, “Keep them from the great hall, or the lord’ll have our soft bits!”

  “What lord?” the first voice roared back.

  “Stormcloak,” was the terse reply.

  The first voice snorted. “If it’s him,” it said, “let him use his magic to deal with these. Our swords don’t seem enough.”

  “He’ll find you, after, if you shirk your duty.”

  “Let him,” the first voice responded bitterly, “if he lives. You haven’t seen these idiots fight!”

  Belkram grinned savagely, stepped around a dalesman who was falling with a groan, two swords through his body, and drove his sword point into the mouth of another Wolf. “Friend,” he called out, “which way is this great hall?”

  After a startled moment, the first voice said laconically, “ ’Twould be the most foolish treason to tell you that it’s through here, turn right, and behind the double doors at the end of the straight passage—so I won’t tell you that.”

  The voice started to say something more but suddenly rose into a scream and abruptly fell silent.

  “So die all traitors,” rumbled a new voice.

  “Hey!” Belkram called, hewing down another Wolf. “I liked that man!”

  “Who speaks?”

  “I do,” Belkram yelled. “Who are you to ask?” The last Wolf fell, and he hurried to join Itharr’s rush forward to the room beyond.

  There stood a hulking armored form as wide as them both but of their own height. It lowered its war helm, and they had a brief glimpse of blond hair, scarred cheeks, and cold, calculating eyes. “I am Gathen Srund,” the rumbling voice came hollowly to them. “I was Left Axe to Lord Longspear. I will avenge him, rebel traitors.”

  The armored man lumbered forward, hefting a huge warhammer. There were other Wolves behind him, but they stayed well back to watch.

  The two Harpers looked at each other and darted a glance behind. All the Wolves were down, and three dalesmen were with them. A fourth dalesman sat against a wall, clutching his broken wrist and cursing softly.

  “Have you noticed,” Itharr remarked, “how pompous these Zhent bully blades always are? They occupy some place, usurping rightful rule and law, and then squeak of ‘rebels’ and ‘traitors.’ It’s odd …”

  “I have noticed that, yes,” Belkram replied as the war-hammer swung, and they ducked and hastily sprang apart. “Scatter, men!” he added urgently over his shoulder to the dalesmen.

  They needed no urging. Belkram heard the clatter of hasty booted feet receding, then the helm of their foe rang with hollow laughter. “Hah! See them run, large-mouths! What say you now?”

  The two old men threw down their swords, halted by the overturned table, panted for an instant, and then heaved it up to their shoulders and came back to the fray in a stumbling rush.

  Itharr attacked, slashing repeatedly and jabbing at the helm’s eye slits, forcing Srund to use his hammer to parry, and pulling it to one side. The table was driven in through the gap Itharr had created, crashing into the Wolf and sending him staggering back.

  “Well met,” Belkram replied mildly in answer to Gathen Srund’s taunt, as he sprang forward to get the warhammer. He got a good grasp on it and was promptly dragged and battered about the floor as the awesomely strong Left Axe tried to wrench his weapon free.

  “I wonder what the Right Axe is like?” Itharr asked him, stretching over the struggle to bury his blade in one of the eye slits of the Zhentilar’s helm. Gathen stiffened, dropped the hammer, fumbled for it with failing fingers, and fell over on his side with a room-shaking crash.

  The dalesmen rushed forward, but the room was emptying of Zhents as fast as they could flee. The warriors all ran down a passage to the right.

  Belkram got up, breathing heavily, and watched them go. “I wager,” he said slowly as he fought for breath, “that we’ll … soon find out … once they get where they’re going … and tell their tale.”

  Itharr nodded. “You’re right,” he said simply.

  Then the two Harpers embraced each other and roared their delight. “What a fight this is!” Itharr shouted happily. “What a fight!”

  The oldest dalesman looked at him, unsmiling, and shook his head. “They’re still young, indeed,” he said to another white-haired veteran, who only nodded.

  Then they heard men begin to scream, down the passage.

  Sharantyr came down the dark stairs like a vengeful wind. The
lighted passage below was full of worried, running men with weapons. Armored men. Wolves. More to be slain.

  In grim silence she leapt down among them, and started to slay. One fell, and then another. A third slipped, and she was past him to run her blade through a foolish one without armor. He clutched himself and collapsed with a horrible groan, and she was on to the next one. Was she killing with her eyes? Men fell wherever she looked, and the passage was warm with the smell of their blood and fear.

  A fresh group of Wolves came running up the passage. She turned to them with a savage smile. The shortest warrior started the screaming as he tried to turn around and found his fellows in the way.

  Then they were all screaming. Sharantyr had never thought she’d enjoy such a sound.

  The men were fleeing from her. Behind them, bloody and bedraggled men were coming out into the passage, well-used weapons in their hands. Dalesmen!

  She snatched a glance back over her shoulder. Wolves were fleeing in that direction too, falling back to join a guard of armored men in front of a set of closed double doors. In their midst was a dark-haired man in full armor who stood a head taller than the rest. “Hold fast,” he said with cold authority. “They cannot pass us.”

  Sharantyr gave him a sneer and turned to join the dalesmen in their slaughter. She snuck a glance back, but the man had refused to be drawn out of the guard. He stood coldly waiting as they butchered the few milling Wolves in the passage.

  The lady ranger embraced the two men in leathers she’d seen fight so well in the marketplace and said, “Sharantyr. Knight of Myth Drannor.”

  They bowed. “Itharr and Belkram of the Harpers, with true men of the dale.”

  They exchanged grins, and one of the old men lumbered forward. “Give us a hug, lass. Then, live or die, I’ll do it happily.”

  Sharantyr shed a few tears as she put blood-spattered arms around him.

  Then they all turned, in sudden silence, to face the Wolves at the door.

  “Lay down your arms,” the tall man said flatly, “or we’ll kill you, as painfully as we know how.” He looked at them with cold confidence and added, “Consider this: We are warriors of Zhentil Keep. We know much of killing.”

  “You certainly know much about dying, after this day,” Itharr told him, “if this is all of you there are left.”

  “Save your brave words for pleading,” the tall man told him contemptuously, “and we may let you live.”

  “My thanks to you,” Sharantyr told him with biting sarcasm. “Your generous pacifism overwhelms me. Tis so sudden and heartfelt.”

  The tall man lifted his head, pointing his chin at her. “Bring me that one alive,” he told the Wolves around him. “I have … plans for her.”

  “Aye, Right Axe,” several voices murmured in reply.

  Beside Belkram, Gedaern nodded suddenly. “Ah. This one’s Heladar’s Right Axe—his trusty, like, and probably their commander, now. A merchant told me, a few months back, that he’s known for cruelty and butchering women and younglings when he gets a chance. Sunthrun Blackshoulder’s his name.”

  The tall man laughed shortly. “Your merchant friend was right.”

  Belkram saluted him with raised sword. “Then it will be a pleasure killing you, Sunthrun Blackshoulder.”

  The tall man sneered. “A pleasure you’ll never live to see.” He drew a blade as long as the shortest dalesman there was tall. Its blade was dull black and menacingly evil.

  Belkram smiled tightly and looked around at Itharr, the dalesmen, and Sharantyr. He collected nods from them all and jerked his head forward. Calmly, unhurrying, they strode down the passage to where the Wolves waited.

  Itharr struck first. His blade met that of one Wolf and thrust it sideways toward another. That man moved to avoid catching two battling blades in the face, and the Wolf on the other side of Itharr moved to take advantage of a chance to strike at the Harper’s unprotected side. This opened a gap in the line, and Sharantyr leapt through it to lunge at the Right Axe himself.

  The tall man smiled coldly, parrying with such force that her numbed fingers tingled. Somehow she held on to her sword, but now the men on either side of Blackshoulder were striking at her. She dodged, letting the blade of one man slip past her ear, and ran in under it to open his throat. Behind her, Belkram felled a man and came up against the Right Axe in his turn.

  Sunthrun Blackshoulder attacked with dazzling speed, striking at Belkram’s face and throat. Only frantic parries saved the Harper’s life. Sharantyr turned, punched the back of a Wolf’s neck she found within reach, and lashed out with her blade to cut the Right Axe on the elbow above his free hand.

  Blackshoulder roared and turned on her. Sharantyr leapt to one side, got her arm around the neck of another Wolf, and swung him in front of her as a shield, just in time to take the Right Axe’s vicious thrust. She fell back as the tip of his black blade came out of the Wolfs back, parting the plates of his armor as if it were rotten leather.

  Sharantyr rolled on the floor and contrived as she came up to trip another Wolfs feet out from under him. Itharr killed that one, tossing her a smile as he attacked the next. One of the dalesmen gurgled horribly and went down as a blade found his throat.

  They were still killing old men, these Wolves. Angrily Sharantyr ran at the Right Axe again as he shook the corpse from his blade. Belkram hacked down a Wolf to reach Blackshoulder from one side just as the Right Axe’s blade came free, and the lady Knight came at him from the other.

  Blackshoulder tried to duck and parry, to force them into each other. It would have been a good move against the inexperienced warriors he obviously thought them to be.

  Both the Harper and the Knight followed the Right Axe’s move. As Belkram’s blade bound and lifted the Zhentilar’s weapon, Sharantyr’s sword found the armpit of his raised sword arm. She moved with him, driving it in deep. After a moment’s resistance, her blade slid in easily. Right Axe Sunthrun stiffened, spat blood, and collapsed silently to the floor. Gedaern of the dale, intent on a battle of his own, stepped on the Axe’s head a moment later and almost apologized before he saw whom he’d trampled.

  “Are there more?” Itharr asked as the Wolf he’d been fighting fell heavily against the wall and slid down it, gauntleted fingers clawing feebly for a hold.

  They looked around. Not a Wolf was left, but Gedaern and the oldest graybeard were the only dalesmen still standing. The two Harpers looked at Sharantyr, and she looked back at them.

  “Shall I?” Itharr asked, waving at the door. Sharantyr smiled.

  Belkram sighed. “Itharr, one always opens doors for a lady,” he said in mock despair.

  Itharr bowed and opened the door silently. They went in.

  19

  How High Dale Changed Hands

  The great hall seemed full of councillors, all of them frightened and trying not to show it. They fumbled nervously for swords as the guard of Wolves seated just inside the door stopped looking bored and leapt up to bar the way with bared blades.

  Sharantyr did not slow down. With a set, grim face she struck aside the blade of the first Wolf and leaned past him to put her blade into the face of the Wolf behind, who was still rising. His gurgle as he slumped down again died away unheard amid the sudden babble of fearful voices.

  “Gods! They’ve reached us—here!”

  “A woman! Who—?”

  “Zarduil’s down! She’s killed Zarduil! Wasn’t he Heladar’s best?”

  “The men—those two! They’re the ones who slew Longspear!”

  “Steady! The guards can handle them!” Stormcloak snapped. He turned eyes of cold iron on Sharantyr, who looked icy death back at him, then deliberately turned his back on the intruders and waved the councillors back down into their seats.

  “Ignore them,” the wizard said coldly. “They will be dead in a moment.”

  Several of the councillors shot frightened looks past him, their expressions telling all who had eyes to see that they were not so confide
nt. Another looked on with silent interest.

  The leather worker, Blakkal Mord, had once been a fighting man. The scars on his face and arms betrayed his past to all. None in the High Dale, he was sure, knew that he was still a warrior, in the service of the Cult of the Dragon. If they had known, he would not be here still. This Stormcloak, or one of the lesser Zhentarim magelings, would have seen to that.

  His place here was not to act openly, which was no doubt the reason he’d not been probed beyond the shielding strength of the little ring that he never took off, the one that masked his thoughts. He would save himself, and otherwise be as loudly ineffectual as these other councillors.

  Nonetheless, he was a man of the sword. He knew battle skill, and he agreed with what the excitable Moonviper had said. Zarduil had been one of Heladar’s best.

  Zarduil should not have fallen. Blakkal leaned forward to see better. The door guard that Stormcloak had set for this meeting was more than the usual three thickheads, and their relief man had been added to make up a foursome of competent bladesmen. Heladar’s former bodyguards had orders—Zhentil Keep’s orders, Blakkal had no doubt—to diligently protect and serve the lord of the dale, whoever that lord was. Wherefore they, too, had been at the doors: Zarduil, Mashann, and Raeve.

  None of those three were men Blakkal cared to face, even in an unfair fight. They were Zhentilar veterans—men of steel nerves, steel wrists, and the swiftness of serpents.

  And they were being beaten. Blakkal watched one of the two men—Harpers? Thief-adventurers from Cormyr?—dart through Mashann’s guard and run his sword tip in under the shoulder plate of the big man’s armor. Something even more surprising happened next. The man in leathers ducked and wrenched and got his blade back out again to parry before Mashann’s own fast sword touched him.

  Blakkal did not even try to look like he was listening to Stormcloak. The self-styled Lord of the High Dale was blathering something about treachery from neighboring realms, as if only Zhentarim were allowed to usurp the thrones of strategically located farming dales.