Shadows of Doom

by Ed Greenwood

  Magic missiles swooped and swarmed around the battling swordsmen and streaked at the old man with the white beard again.

  Elminster stood watching them come. His face did not change, but the ring on his finger was fast becoming too bright to look upon. Glowing missiles circled it like sparks flying about a smith’s grinding wheel and swept away again.

  The Zhentarim smiled like a cat playing with cornered prey, and his hands moved again. Sharantyr stared up at him from the floor, sudden tears blurring her sight. Blazing missiles burst forth from his fingers again and flew over her.

  Throat suddenly dry, Sharantyr turned to look. There was a sudden flash and a roar, and a puff of smoke hid the Old Mage from her.

  As she choked for breath, frantically trying to scream, Sharantyr heard the Lord of the High Dale’s low, coldly satisfied laughter.

  20

  Feast, Fine, and Fury

  Even though Elminster was braced, waiting for the magic to strike, his body still shook—and it still hurt. The ring of spell-turning, old when this Stormcloak’s great-great-grandsire was a babe, shattered under the onslaught of Art.

  As Elminster had known it would. He closed his eyes against the flash and spread his fingers wide to keep them from being torn apart.

  The ring burst, its shards leaping from him, and much of his nearby flesh went with it.

  The Old Mage clutched the wrist of his torn, smoking hand and roared in pain. Well, he thought with surprising calm, staring at what was left of that appendage, those who spend centuries hurling spells must bear their share of spells coming back at them. But holy Mystra, it hurt!

  Belkram laid open a councillor’s face and literally ran up the man as he fell, leaping for the table. Too late. Too cursed often, he thought grimly, Harper blades came too late!

  Stormcloak’s triumphant laughter broke off long enough for him to hiss a word, and he abruptly vanished from in front of the astonished Harper.

  Belkram slashed empty air in case the wizard had merely cloaked himself with invisibility, then looked wildly around, sword held high.

  Sharantyr’s raw-throated scream warned him. The Zhentarim mage stood beside Elminster, wearing a sneering smile. His hand was coming up from his robes quite slowly, and a long dagger gleamed in it.

  A dagger with a tapering, up-curving blade, a blade of black glass that winked and sparkled with many tiny, moving lights.

  “A death dagger!” Itharr gasped, turning from the councillor he’d been about to kill. “He is a Zhentarim!”

  Stormcloak gave him that cruel smile and waved a hand. Magic missiles burst from his fingers and streaked across the hall.

  Itharr stiffened as they struck him, light flaring for an instant. Then he collapsed with a groan.

  The Zhentarim laughed again in triumph and raised the dagger above his head. He met Sharantyr’s horrified eyes, and she cried weakly, “No! No!” as she crawled toward him. A sudden spasm of agony made her clench her teeth, swallowing her cry. She shook her head, helpless in pain.

  Angruin Myrvult Stormcloak looked down at Elminster, dagger winking in his hand as he slowly raised it, and savored the moment.

  And then the forgotten Irreph Mulmar rose up behind the Zhent wizard like a vengeful ghost.

  The rattle of chains warned the Zhentarim. Stormcloak spun around, hands rising to ward off a heavy length of chain that swept into him like the mighty slap of a breaking wave. The first blow shattered the dagger and the arm that held it, and left Angruin gasping in pain. Tiny lightnings fizzed and crackled to the floor as the death dagger’s magic fled.

  “It’s too late for you to learn, wizard,” Irreph rumbled, pain making his words sharp and hissing, “to beware toothless old men.” His shoulders rolled like the aroused leap of an angry old lion, and the chain swung again.

  The second terrible blow split Angruin’s skull like the shattering of a hurled egg striking a stone wall, and nearly tore his jaw off. The corpse clawed at the air convulsively and vainly—and fell.

  Irreph stood looking down at the body for a long time, chain clenched in his hand for another blow, but the mage called Stormcloak did not move again.

  Silence fell as dalefolk and councillors left off trying to kill each other. The high constable finally lifted his head and looked slowly around the room as if seeing it for the first time. His gaze fell on the Old Mage, who knelt clutching the wrist of a blackened, broken hand.

  “My thanks, Elminster,” Irreph said thickly, “for giving me my home back again. We must feast together, later.” And with a rattle of chains, he collapsed atop the body of the wizard who had dared to usurp his post.

  Elminster shook his head to clear the pain and started the long crawl to where Sharantyr lay. Her eyes had opened again, and the smile creeping onto her face was glorious to see.

  “Hurry up and heal, lass,” Elminster growled as he drew near. “I’m in fair need of that ring meself.”

  From atop the table Belkram said, “Drop your weapons, councillors, if you would live. All who fight on will be declaring themselves Zhentarim … and will know their fate soon, and painfully.”

  As he looked coldly down at the councillors, dalefolk encircled them with weapons ready, and Itharr struggled to his feet.

  The trapped men looked around the room, and steel clattered to the stones as councillor after councillor held up empty hands.

  Belkram waved his sword at the chairs around the table. “Sit,” he suggested. “I’m sure the high constable will have some words for you before long.”

  Through the open doors there came the ring of steel on steel, running feet, and a short, cut-off scream.

  Gedaern looked up at Belkram and said, “We can guard these—and Irreph, the gods bless him. Go hunting Wolves, Harper.” He grinned and looked over many sprawled bodies. “The pair of you certainly seem to have the hang of it.”

  Belkram looked back at him and smiled rather sadly. “It seems that way, doesn’t it?” he replied softly, and looked to his comrade-at-arms. “Itharr?”

  “Here,” Itharr said grimly, rubbing at parts of him that hurt. “I—I’ll be with you, ready to end this slaughter … if you get down off that table slowly and give me time to catch my breath.”

  From somewhere nearby in the castle came a wild yell, a clash of weapons, and another scream—this one long and lingering.

  The two Harpers exchanged glances as Belkram’s feet found the floor. “By the sounds of it,” he replied, shouldering his way warily through the councillors, “there may be no Zhent Wolves left to see to.”

  Itharr only grunted. He limped as they started back across the great hall, but they were both trotting, blades in hand, as they went out into the passage.

  Ulraea stared after them. “They seem more like things of iron and untiring magic than men.”

  “They’re men,” Gedaern told her with a light in his eyes. He hefted the weapon in his hands and stared at the doors the two had left by. “More than that—they’re Harpers.”

  “Better, lass?”

  “It’s ‘Shar,’ remember?” Sharantyr reminded him with a mock severe look.

  Elminster spread innocent hands. “I’m an old man, lass—Shar. I forget things, like all old men.” He looked her slowly up and down as if seeing her for the first time. By the time his gaze rose again to meet her own, Sharantyr found herself blushing.

  “Ye look whole now,” he added. “What say ye?”

  Sharantyr smiled ruefully and handed him the ring. “Well enough, Old Mage. Your turn.”

  Elminster put the ring on his finger and said briskly, “Good. I prefer to heal while I’m up and doing. Come.” He plucked at her arm and set off for the doors at a steady stride.

  Sharantyr followed. Behind them, Gedaern shouted, “Hey!”

  Elminster did not pause. Sharantyr looked back.

  “Both of you,” Gedaern said. “You heard the Harper! Hold!”

  Elminster turned at the door, and said, “Guard those counci
llors well, as he bid ye, young man. I’ve other business to see to yet.” And he was gone.

  “ ‘Young man’?” Gedaern sputtered angrily. Sharantyr spread apologetic hands and followed the Old Mage.

  One of the councillors watching them go frowned thoughtfully and reached inside his tunic.

  Something shattered loudly on the stone floor. When Gedaern whirled around, darkness was already spreading smoky tendrils toward him.

  Elminster moved slowly and kept his injured hand hidden in the sleeve of his robe. Sharantyr caught up to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Elminster,” she said, earnestly, “I’m well enough to get about, and fight if need be, but you! Are you in any shape to be strolling around in the midst of a battle?”

  The Old Mage gave her a tired look. “The answer to that one, lass, is the same one it’s always been: I have to be.”

  He looked down a side passage and added, “So rest ye assured, I am. We go this way.”

  Sharantyr rolled her eyes and followed him. “Just answer me this, then. Where are we going, and why?”

  “Ah, lass,” the answer floated back to her down the dim passage. “Sages and drunkards alike have been arguing over answers to that double-bladed question for longer than I’ve been alive.”

  “Elminster!” Sharantyr wailed despairingly.

  Behind them a councillor slipped out of the great hall in the concealing smoke born of the magical globe he’d shattered. He trotted to where he could watch the lady ranger and the old man in robes turn into the side passage.

  Shouts echoed not far off, followed by the sound of running feet drawing nearer. The councillor frowned and looked hurriedly around. Selecting a certain door, he slipped into the room behind it, closed the door in silent haste, and in the darkness felt his way past the table he knew would be there to the floor beyond.

  On his knees, he drew a slim, smooth wand out of a concealed sheath on his forearm and muttered a word. The wand pulsed with a faint purplish-white radiance, and from its tip a ghostly white glow spun away to form … an eyeball.

  The orb stared back at him, looking very much like his own eye for a silent, floating instant, then faded slowly from view.

  The councillor slid the wand back into its place, took a hidden dagger out of its sheath inside his boot, and lay down on his face, hiding the hand that grasped the dagger under him, his other hand sprawled as if lifeless.

  He blew dust away to ward off sneezing and lay still in the chill darkness. The invisible eye, driven by his will, slipped under the door and sped down the passage in pursuit of Elminster of Shadowdale.

  Elminster rubbed his chin. “It’s been many a winter,” he said slowly, “and they’ve made some changes … but what I’m looking for should be about—here.”

  His slowing stride brought him to a halt between two closed doors. He retraced his steps to the first door and paced carefully along the passage from it. At a certain spot he took off one boot, leaving it as a marker, and padded unevenly on to the second door.

  Pacing back carefully from that door, the Old Mage found himself at his boot again, nodded, and put it back on. He looked up at Sharantyr almost challengingly.

  She merely shook her head. Elminster knelt down, touched with a questing finger the stone he’d marked, and nodded again emphatically.

  Sharantyr cast a quick look behind her, sword in hand. The passage was dark and empty. Then she bent forward to watch as Elminster dug the fingers of his undamaged hand into a dark crack that looked no different from a hundred others in the flagstone floor, and heaved.

  The stone shifted a little. Dust puffed up and swirled as it sank comfortably back into its place again.

  Elminster grunted, dug his fingers in again, shifting for a better grip, and heaved. His shoulders shook.

  Sharantyr leaned closer. “Want any help?”

  The slab rose very slowly as Elminster looked at her sourly. Sharantyr shrugged.

  Unseen above them, the floating eye drifted nearer.

  The slab grated sideways. Sharantyr stared into the darkness of the hole that the Old Mage had uncovered. Air was moving upward. Foul air.

  Sharantyr sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “A cesspool. You’ve found the castle’s cesspool.”

  Elminster sat unconcernedly on the edge of the hole. A lip ran all around its edge to hold the slab he’d dragged aside. He sat on the edge and felt around in the darkness with his feet for the footholds he knew would be there.

  “Lass, we’ve no defense against magic anymore,” he said, holding up his blackened hand. “With the people roused, and the Harpers and Cormyrean agents I recognized among them, the Zhentarim cannot hope to hold this dale any longer and dare not try to openly seize control of it, not with so many Zhentish coins owed to Sembian merchants right now.”

  One foot found what he was seeking. The Old Mage nodded again and went on. “Our work here is done. I’d as soon be gone before some Zhent mageling or other finds us and decides to enhance his reputation by blasting Elminster of Shadowdale into little wisps of smoke.”

  Sharantyr raised her eyebrows. “Another gate?”

  Elminster nodded. “Very old, spell-shielded—and just beside the cesspool, where no Zhent or other high-and-mighty mage would ever get dirty enough to look for it. If we find it now, Mulmar can feast as much as he likes, and well be long vanished in the night before anyone comes looking for us.”

  He climbed down into the hole until only his head and shoulders could be seen and beckoned her. “Ye’re young, Shar,” he said gently. “I know how it tugs at thy desires to leave this place before we’ve seen an end to it all. But learn a little wisdom and come now.”

  He waited until she moved forward, and added, “Oh, aye. Bring the stone, lass, and pull it down above thee. Ye’ll find lines scratched on its underside to mark how it fits.”

  Sharantyr rolled her eyes in the gloom as she went to pick up the slab. With a sudden grunt of effort, she lifted it, staggered to the edge of the hole, and carefully set it down. A strong whiff of air from below made her cough.

  “You certainly know how to find troubles to land me in,” the lady Knight complained as she started to follow him down the hole.

  “Ah, that’s adventure, lass. Adventure,” Elminster said cheerfully from somewhere in the darkness beneath her. “Some folk would envy ye.”

  Sharantyr rolled her eyes again. They were beginning to water. This gate had better be close by.

  As the stone settled slowly back into place, the floating eye dipped to inspect it carefully. After a moment it soared into the darkness near the ceiling of the passage and sped away like an arrow fired from a strong forester’s bow.

  “Lord Most High,” Councillor Xanther Srildar said, in the safe confines of a tiny secret room deep under the oldest tower of the High Castle, “Brothers Angruin Myrvult and Heladar Longspear have both perished this day, and Harpers and agents of Cormyr lead the people of the dale in armed rising. This dale is lost to us. Over my head, they’re taking the castle as I speak. Almost all of our sword brothers and mages are dead.” Xanther’s words shook only a little.

  When it issued out of the floating, darkly glowing black spindle in front of him, Manshoon’s voice was silken in its easy softness. “Indeed. Have you an explanation for how this came about?”

  Xanther swallowed. His throat was suddenly dry again. The lord’s tone was a sudden and cold reminder that his position as Manshoon’s spy on the other Zhentarim here, a Brother above and secret from them, would not preserve his life if the lord was sufficiently displeased.

  “Yes, Lord,” Xanther said boldly. “Elminster of Shadowdale led the forces that attacked the dale, accompanied by at least one of the Knights of Myth Drannor. I saw Elminster myself and overheard him talking to this Knight, a woman in leathers. He called her ‘Shar.’ They’re presently going down a shaft that leads to the castle cesspool, where there’s a hidden gate Elminster hopes to escape by.”

  “Esc
ape?” came that smooth voice out of the speaking stone, quick with interest, and Xanther began to breathe more easily. It might be that his news would please the Dread Lord of the Zhentarim enough to save his own life after all.

  “Yes, Lord,” Xanther confirmed. “I heard him tell the Knight that they had no defense against magic anymore. His hand was burned where Stormcloak’s magic missiles destroyed a ring of spell-turning he was wearing—I didn’t know such rings could be affected that way, but I saw it fly apart. He said it as if the ring had been his only defense against magic. Then he said their work was done and he’d prefer to be gone before some ‘Zhent mageling or other finds us and decides to enhance his reputation by blasting Elminster of Shadowdale into little wisps of smoke.’ Those were the words he used.”

  The speaking stone floated before him, silent for the space of two long breaths. Then the silken voice came again. Its words made Xanther glad that the stone’s magic carried only voices, and that he could neither see nor be seen by the leader of the Zhentarim.

  “Tell me, Xanther Srildar,” Manshoon’s voice asked him, “why—hearing that as you did—you did not attack them both at once?”

  “I—was far away, Lord,” Xanther said, swallowing, “using the wand you gave me. By one of its eyes I followed them across half the castle full of men fighting.”

  The spindle floating at the height of his head hung silently.

  Emboldened, Xanther added, “Had I been there, Lord, I doubt Elminster would have spoken so plainly.”

  “You’ve done well, Xanther,” the smooth voice came again. “The Brotherhood is pleased with you, despite the disaster in the High Dale. Hear now my orders. Do whatever you can, and enlist whomever you feel necessary, to destroy Elminster of Shadowdale. Bring evidence of his death to me if you can—but whatever befalls and by any means, you must bring about his death. Your reward will be very great.”