Shadows of Doom

by Ed Greenwood

  Other councillors watched the fight just as intently. There were no other guards in the room. The rest had been outside the doors. The rebels should never have reached this hall.

  On at least two of the watching faces, naked hope and glee were written. The tailor, Rundeth—what was his last name? Hobble? Hobyltar!—normally laconic and stone faced, had eyes as bright as new coins and was struggling not to smile. Down the table, stout Gulkin was grinning openly.

  Stormcloak shot them a look that had a cutting edge to it. Blakkal smiled; the lord was beginning to learn how Heladar had felt, sitting in that chair with a table of men who were openly trying to bring about his fall. Boots may fit just as well on other feet, as the Sembians put it.

  There was a crash as a Wolf and one of the men in leathers went through some of the chairs together, ending up on the floor wriggling like eels as they tried to get their blades into each other.

  Then Mashann staggered back on his heels, raised a failing hand to his throat, and crashed backward to the floor. The man who leapt over him was only six running steps from the table where they sat. Timid Jatham scrabbled for his dagger. Stormcloak scowled but couldn’t help but to break off and watch.

  The last Zhentilar veteran reached sideways with his blade, and the charging man in leathers had to hastily dance back to ward off seeking steel. Raeve held the man for a moment, but the only other Wolf still standing was dropping his blade and sagging slowly to the floor after it, that wild-haired woman standing grim over him.

  Raeve cast one look back at them all, shook his head, and as the tattered intruders advanced, suddenly ducked and bolted through them, making for the door. Steel rang on his warding blade, and then he was through.

  Stormcloak roared at him. “Raeve! As you are loyal to Zhentil Keep, hold! Stand and fight for your lord, or by all the dark gods, I’ll turn you into a dung worm!”

  Raeve turned his head as he reached the doorway, sword rising to guard his exit. He looked at Sharantyr. Silent and blood-spattered, she glided toward him.

  Raeve turned his eyes to meet Stormcloak’s hot gaze, shook his head silently, and was gone.

  The lord wizard’s furious magic missile twisted in the air to become a beam of shining glass shards, but they shivered and crashed against unyielding stone beside the door. A head too far to the left, and a breath too late to impress Raeve.

  Sharantyr turned smoothly to join the silent advance across the great hall. Councillors screamed, cursed, and toppled chairs in their haste to flee, as the High Dale they had ruled so cruelly and casually reached bloody weapons for them.

  Lord Angruin Stormcloak trembled with rage and dawning fear. Where had these … these vagabonds come from? These three in leather, they were no dalefolk! They were Harpers, or worse, sent to bring him down.

  Sharantyr had come for him that day, through guard after guard. Her sword arm was so weary that she could barely hold her blade, and stinging sweat and blood were running into her eyes. Only a few steps more and she would have this wizard.

  Only a few steps more, but she suddenly could not find the strength to run.

  The snarling wizard drew back his hand and pointed directly at her as he shouted words that echoed and hissed, and crushed something small in his other hand. Black blood ran out between his fingers, and he cast a wrinkled thing away—a leech.

  Sharantyr could only go on, blade raised, face like stone. She was only three paces away … two, now—

  The still-pointing finger erupted in writhing black light, boiling upward. A moment later, a rain of black daggers was falling toward her.

  The lady ranger tried to struggle on, waving her blade to ward off the dark points. Her weapon swept through the daggers as though they were so much smoke, but when the blades struck an instant later, they were cold and very hard—and they went in deep.

  Sharantyr screamed in pain and fell. Writhing on the cold, hard stone floor, clutching at her arms and gut in shuddering agony, she heard Stormcloak laugh.

  The wizard put a foot on his chair and gained the top of the table, still laughing. He spun about to stand facing the attackers, as frantic councillors raised their weapons in a protective line in front of him, yelling for him to use his spells to slay. The two Harpers slashed at the waiting blades, but it was quickly apparent that some of the councillors were not the frightened tremble-wits they’d have others believe. Steel rang on steel, and the two Harpers were fighting for their lives, two weary dalesmen at their sides. One of the men threw a dagger at the wizard, trying to ruin whatever magic he was working, but as it left his fingers he knew he was too late.

  Stormcloak’s rolling laughter came again. Lightning leapt from his spread hands in crackling, spitting arcs, a bolt from each finger. He flicked his hands to lash all the rebels with the reaching lightning.

  As the bolts leapt, however, they were changing, and Stormcloak’s laughter faltered. One of his spells had twisted again. Where lightning had crackled with fury, feeble blue sparks were fading away around a cluster of ceramic vessels and earthenware pottery that had not been there an eye-blink earlier.

  As Sharantyr gasped and groaned on the stones, crockery rained down out of thin air to shatter around her. A jagged shard laid open her cheek in one long gash as it spun past, and she ducked her head, hoping nothing would find her eyes or throat. Then the crashing sounds were gone and sudden silence fell upon the hall.

  “Very impressive,” a new, rather acerbic voice said into the thick of the hush, commenting calmly from the doorway. “But if ye hope to challenge Manshoon for control of the Zhentarim someday, yell have to do better than a few teacups.”

  An old man stood there, a gaunt but wiry old man in tattered robes, with long, flowing white hair and a longer beard. He stood taller than most men but was as thin as a sharp-tongued noblewoman. It hardly seemed possible that he had the strength to hold up the naked high constable, who dripped blood from many half-healed wounds and still trailed the long, heavy chains of his enslavement from arms that were gnarled and knotted with muscle.

  Yet the old man not only held up the wounded giant, he half-carried him forward into the room and leaned him carefully against the wall. When he straightened up, his eyes were like two blue-white flames as they met those of Angruin Stormcloak.

  “Ill met,” he said, and every soft word cut like a leaping knife as it left his lips. His gaze bored deep into Stormcloak’s eyes, and it was the Zhentarim who looked away first.

  “Elminster of Shadowdale!” gasped Cheth Moonviper of the councillors, and ducked under the table.

  Angruin Mvyrvult Stormcloak paled and snatched at the wand in his belt. He half expected the world to explode before he ever got it out, but exultantly he got it free, aimed, and hissed a word only he knew.

  Lightning leapt and crackled across the suddenly darker great hall toward the old man in tattered robes who stood empty-handed, hair wild-tangled and blood running down his face from a cut on his forehead.

  And Elminster stood there and waited for the lightning to come to him, watching calmly.

  Ylyndaera Mulmar smiled a mirthless smile as a Wolf came out of a door ahead, saw them, and with a startled oath whipped out his sword. She advanced steadily, Ulraea trembling at her side.

  They were both startled when Tanshlee suddenly burst past them, shrieking, “You! You’re the one! You!”

  She hurled herself on the Wolf, knocking his blade aside more by luck than skill, and took him to the floor, sobbing and raking with her nails.

  The women broke into a run. In an instant the Wolf would find room and strength to get his blade out from under her, and then it would all be over.

  It was Jharina who threw the mace she’d plucked up several rooms back, while they were still marveling at being inside the castle and unseen for so long. It wobbled through the air drunkenly and just touched the Wolfs shoulder as it went on its way past him.

  He jerked, dropped his sword from numb, burning fingers, and snarled in startl
ed pain. Tanshlee’s hands found his throat.

  She held on, white-faced, eyes blazing, as he gasped and struck at her and thrashed about, trying to break free of the deep-sunk fingers squeezing out his life. But he was too young to think of breaking those fingers, or gouging at the reproachful, staring eyes of his nemesis, or even breaking her hold by shattering her jaw with a punch—and so his face went dark and then gray, and he sagged back and died.

  Daera and Ulraea stood over him, but the Wolf did not escape. They let Tanshlee have her revenge on the one who’d wronged her—months ago, now—and stood silently by as she sobbed atop the body of the unknown man who’d fathered the child within her.

  Ulraea looked at Ylyndaera, standing there with her sword ready, and saw a much older woman than the girl who’d been hidden away in the mill. Daera raised eyes dark with fury to meet hers and said quietly, “Let’s go kill us some Wolves.”

  They put a sword ready beside Tanshlee in case she needed it and wouldn’t pick up the one the Wolf had wielded, left her in her own dark world of tears, and went on down the passage.

  Ahead was the din of battle—the clash of sword upon sword, shouts, and cracklings—but muffled as if from behind a door. The three women exchanged glances. “The great hall,” Ulraea said. “Of course.”

  Daera swept hair out of her eyes impatiently, swung her sword at nothing to loosen her arm, which was beginning to ache—how did men swing these things all day?—took a deep breath, and said, “Come on.”

  They’d rushed a dozen steps before four—no, six—Wolves came out of a side passage. The warriors halted, half-lowered their weapons, and smiled slow, cruel smiles as they began to advance slowly.

  “Oh, gods,” Ulraea said in her throat.

  Daera laughed. “There are only six of them,” she said loudly, “and Tanshlee showed us just how easily they die. Are you with me?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she charged. Ulraea and Jharina exchanged despairing glances and followed.

  Jharina’s mace, lying unnoticed on the floor, tripped the first Wolf. He fell heavily, and Ylyndaera’s blade slid into and out of his throat before he could even draw back the breath that the fall had driven out of him.

  The Wolves saw a young maid rising to meet them, bloody blade in hand. One of them cursed, spun about, and ran. The others watched him go and then followed, breaking into frantic flight, as Ylyndaera’s astonished laughter rang out down the passage.

  “For the dale!” she called after them. “For the High Dale, free again!”

  Beside her, Ulraea burst into tears.

  Not far away, lightning reached the old man.

  Sharantyr, struggling to her knees in pain, found the breath to scream, “No!” but as is the way with most despairing screams, the gods did not hear her.

  Or perhaps they did. The blue-white bolt of death did not strike, but coiled in the air around Elminster’s hand where a ring glowed suddenly blue-white in answer. The lightning coiled, gathering speed like an aroused serpent, then lashed back out, arrow-straight, across the great hall.

  The wizard on the table stiffened as the lightning found a home.

  The Lord of the High Dale shrieked, dancing involuntarily. Smoke curled out from his robes. Then the lightning was gone, leaving him staggering in the midst of a faint haze of smoke.

  He turned a face of clenched hatred and pain to Elminster and gasped only one word as his hand darted into his robes, came out with something dark and round and metal, and hurled it.

  “Die!”

  The sphere flew through the air, expanding into an opening latticework of metal bands as it approached the Old Mage. In the instant before the sphere struck, Sharantyr recognized it as another set of iron bands of Bilarro.

  The Old Mage stood quite still. The bands flared wide to go around him, pulsed with a brief flash of light, and then shrank with horrible speed, drawing down around the old man.

  The two Harpers battled the councillors with frantic haste. One of the councillors fell with a ragged cry, but there were still many blades between them and the wizard atop the table.

  Stormcloak crouched and drained a flask from his belt—a healing potion, Sharantyr had no doubt—and straightened, wiping his lips. As she struggled to find strength, biting her lip and whimpering against stabbing pain, the Zhentarim wizard calmly drew forth a glass bead from his robes, smiled a brittle smile down on her, and cast a spell that brought a shimmering sphere into being about him.

  She’d seen one before: a globe of invulnerability or one of its variants. No ball of fire or bolt of lightning could touch Angruin now. The Lord of the High Dale drew himself up and sneered down at Elminster, who stood wrapped in tightening bands of iron.

  “Toothless old men seem to have haunted me of late, hurling proud, empty memories of power against me—until I destroy them. If you had any wits left, graybeard, you’d stay at home, dreaming and grumbling by the fire, and leave mages of real power well alone.”

  Elminster whispered something, and the iron bands shuddered and fell away from him, clattering about his feet like so many hoops stripped from a barrel.

  Stormcloak stared at him in astonishment. Elminster strolled forward, wand in hand, as if he were in a hurry to get to the other side of a peaceful garden, and observed mildly, “Talk grows no more expensive as the years pass, does it?”

  The wand in his hand pulsed, and spat two magic missiles. Two councillors stiffened, and one hadn’t even time to groan before Gedaern of the dale hewed him to the floor.

  Councillor Xanther watched from the darkness under a table. So this was the Old Mage of Shadowdale, one old man who’d done nothing so far beyond the powers of the wand he held and a ring he wore. His magic must be gone, or failing. The Brotherhood could yet win this day.

  How, though, with Stormcloak hurling death in all directions? Stormcloak must prevail, if Elminster was to be defeated at all. Could the Old Mage be compelled to surrender the knowledge of where some hoard lay hidden, how a particular spellbook was guarded, and what words governed a certain staff or rod or wand? That old man’s head must be stuffed with a vast wealth of such thoughts, treasure beyond the grasping of most mages, but how could he be kept alive to reveal it?

  From outside the great hall came the thunder of running, booted feet pounding on stone, followed by the sound of a young woman laughing, her voice high and gleeful. “For the dale!” she called. “For the High Dale, free again!” The door of the hall burst open, and a group of wild-eyed women burst in, blades flashing in their hands.

  The councillors exchanged fearful glances. The castle was lost. They were doomed. The people would probably tear them apart bare-handed!

  Elminster’s unhurried walk took him to the woman in tattered leathers, still groaning on the floor. He took a ring from his finger—not the ring that had warded off the lightning, but one from his other hand—and slipped it onto her finger. Then he scuttled away from her, facing Stormcloak, a hand darting beneath his robes.

  “Still so haughty, Zhentarim?” he asked, raising mocking eyebrows.

  Angruin Stormcloak snarled at him and moved his hands angrily in the motions of a spell.

  Irreph Mulmar tried not to gasp too loudly. Pain still throbbed deep inside with every move he made. He crawled slowly across the stone floor—one he’d strode across often enough in years before this one, covering the distance that now seemed so agonizingly long in a few swift strides. He watched the old wizard skillfully take the Zhent usurper’s attention onto himself, and managed a smile. Gods, he hurt. He’d not worn that healing ring nearly long enough.

  He crawled and crawled, the heavy layers of leather weighing on his shoulders. Elminster had found the hide in a room near the stables, and they’d wrapped his chains in it to silence them. The chains were heavier by far, now.

  Trying to ignore their cold weight, he crawled past the still-writhing lady ranger. She wore the ring now, and needed it worse than he did by the look of her face. Gods, but
she must have cut her way through most of the Wolves in the castle to get here! Irreph took a good look at her and managed a smile. The tearing agony of his movement turned it into a grimace as he went on. The high constable looked up at the table through a growing mist of red pain and wondered if he’d get there in time.

  Stormcloak hurled lightning again. Councillors fled or cowered behind chairs all around the room as the white light flashed across to Elminster, was turned aside by his ring, and crackled back at the Zhentarim mage.

  The shimmering globe around the mage absorbed the lightning. It was still sputtering and fading when the angry mage cast his next spell. Nothing happened.

  Outside the castle walls, a tree tore up out of the earth with a noise like tearing canvas, shot up into the air past an astonished farmer, and headed west.

  Stormcloak snarled his bafflement. His hands were already moving again. His only power lay in his magic, and nothing he’d seen yet could withstand it forever. This old man must fall.

  Magic missiles streamed from Stormcloak’s fingers in a glowing swarm that leapt and darted restlessly as they sped toward the Old Mage. Around and around him they swooped and ducked, only to turn back on Stormcloak and fade away as the ring on Elminster’s hand glowed more brightly.

  That glow was brighter and stronger than it had been. Stormcloak’s eyes widened, then narrowed. Could the old fool be wearing a Myth Drannan ring?

  Primitive things, made long ago, they had limits and could be overloaded by the sheer amount of Art hurled against them in a short time. Stormcloak grinned. Well, then …

  Missiles streamed again from the Zhentarim’s fingers, and the ring grew brighter as it hurled them back at him.

  Angruin Myrvult Stormcloak laughed aloud. His hands moved again in the same smooth, rapid gestures as before.

  The two Harpers hacked at those councillors who stood against them in the service of Zhentil Keep, or perhaps out of fear for the magic of the man who stood on the table behind them. The councillors knew how swiftly and harshly he would reward treachery, and so fought with the agility and recklessness of desperation. Their line held.