Shadows of Doom

by Ed Greenwood

  What use, after all, is great power if one cannot use it to indulge one’s smallest conceits?

  Wherefore Manshoon—Lord of the Zhentarim, Overmage of the Dark Ring, The Hand of Darkness, and the holder of many other titles he was pleased to give himself from time to time—stood tall in his high-horned cloak, thigh-high boots, and silken tunic and breeches. He looked down on a keen-eyed mageling of the Brotherhood, a young, hawk-eyed youth whose eager ambition burned so hot that one could almost smell it, and smiled.

  “Avaerl of Sembresh,” he asked softly and formally, “would you serve the Brotherhood in ways greater than you have so far?”

  “Yes, Lord Most High,” the wizard said quickly and proudly.

  “Be not so swift to promise,” Manshoon almost purred. “Others have tried and failed at the task I would set for you.”

  “I shall not fail,” Avaerl said boldly.

  Manshoon inclined his head and smiled. “Good,” he said. “Go then, and bring me the head of Elminster of Shadowdale.”

  Avaerl’s eager grin slipped, just for an instant, hung lopsided on his face in a perfect match of the ghastly smile worn by many a corpse, and then returned in full. It did not waver as he bowed his head and looked back up at Manshoon. “Lord,” he promised, “it shall be done. I will not fail.”

  Manshoon bowed his head in dismissal. “Your reward, then, will be very great. Go in power.”

  Avaerl turned on his heel, robes swirling, and strode away down the path between two waiting lines of motionless armored forms. They turned in unison to face him as he passed, impassive visors down, but made no sound or other movement.

  Avaerl carefully did not look at any of them. Their silent vigilance unsettled braver magelings than he. It was whispered among the lesser wizards of the Brotherhood that the suits of armor were empty, or appeared to be. Fell spirits, or worse magic, moved them to Manshoon’s will. Helmed Horrors they were called.

  When Avaerl stepped onto the spell-guarded stair that led away from Manshoon’s cave-lair, the last two Horrors stepped forward behind him to ceremoniously cross curved, naked blades, barring passage along the silent gantlet the ambitious mageling had just walked.

  Ascending steps that glowed vivid blue under his feet, Avaerl heard that whisper of metal kissing metal, and shivered involuntarily. The very sight of the uncanny Horrors chilled him, probably because the cold, deadly watchfulness of Manshoon himself moved them. It was a reminder—deliberate, without a doubt—of the awesome power of the Lord Most High of the Zhentarim.

  Not for the first time, Avaerl thought himself crazy to even contemplate challenging Manshoon, some day, for lordship over the Brotherhood. Yet … with the power of Elminster, the Old Mage of Shadowdale, under his belt, bards would tell a different tale. He grinned as he saw himself blasting Manshoon to screaming bones, the Overmage’s mind pleading for mercy as it faded away, the bones softening, sagging, and collapsing into wind-whirled dust before Avaerl’s might.

  Gulkuth, he reminded himself. Gulkuth. His key to making this mere dream into reality. It was a mage’s truename, the key to mastery over the man, whoever it was. By where he’d found it, written in blood on a hidden altar, it belonged to a wizard alive today. A wizard who served Bane. A wizard of great power.

  One of the Inner Ring of the Brotherhood, without doubt. But who? Or was it a trap laid by one or all of them against ambitious mages?

  Avaerl dared not reveal that name until he had power enough to use it. That meant magic enough to overmatch Manshoon, for the name could very well be his.

  If it was Manshoon’s truename, and Avaerl held the knowledge and power of Elminster, the Lord Most High could not stand against him. The Zhentarim would know a new lord.

  And then a small, cold voice deep inside him added, “For a little while.” Avaerl shivered again as he reached the top of the stair.

  As the blades came softly together at the far end of the gantlet, Manshoon beckoned with a long and lazy arm. One of the dark-robed and cruel-faced men who’d stood silent and motionless among the dark, fanglike stalagmites stepped smoothly forward.

  “Zalarth, I have work for you.”

  “I await your orders, my lord.”

  Cold eyes met. Each stared into cold, falling depths in the soul of the other, and Manshoon said slowly, “Follow that puppy and do what he will undoubtedly fail to do.”

  “Me, my lord?” Zalarth asked, inclining his head at other, mightier mages who stood watching from the shadows.

  Manshoon held his eyes. “I trust you the more,” he said coldly, “and believe your thinking in battle to be clearer. You shall succeed where he fails, and bring me Elminster’s head … if you would rise in our councils.”

  “May I use items, or the aid of others?”

  “Use what you deem necessary.”

  As Zalarth climbed the glowing stairs in his turn, faces swam in his memory—faces of thieves and trained killers of the Brotherhood. From those faces, the Zhentarim wizard chose the members of the band he would lead. Elminster would die. Manshoon had commanded the death; it was as good as done. The sentence would befall.

  After too many hundreds of years, Elminster of Shadowdale would perish. Zalarth would seize his might and his magic. Zalarth would use them to rule. When bards, tavern drunks, and wizards whispered of high and mighty deeds in years to come, it would be Zalarth’s name they would remember as the one who brought down Elminster of Shadowdale, not Manshoon’s. Zalarth would see to that.

  It was late. Smoke hung thick in the air; wine had been spilled here, there, and everywhere else; and arms that had swung swords, axes, and clubs all day were stiffening to painful, iron-hard immobility.

  All around the great hall of the High Castle, happy but utterly exhausted folk slumped in chairs or simply sprawled on the floor and gave themselves up to snoring slumber. Sharantyr stifled a yawn and glanced at the Old Mage.

  Elminster winked at her and raised a drinking jack of shadowdark ale whose owner was too fast asleep to miss it. It was full.

  “Had enough, Old Mage?” she asked, challenging him.

  “There’s no such thing as enough, lass,” Elminster told her severely. “After ye’ve seen a few hundred winters, ye’ll know that. There’s no such thing as too much, either. Only too little time to enjoy it in.” He winked again and added with apparent innocence, “That’s true for drinks, too.”

  Sharantyr sighed. “ ‘Lass’ again, is it?” she protested, then added in quieter tones, “Do you still plan to leave by the gate tonight?”

  Elminster nodded. “I’d located the gate just about the time every daleman still able to stagger along with a blade hastened up to watch. They’re still watching us now—no, lass, don’t look around at them; they’ll get excited. We’d best to bed, or we’ll never be free of all these interested eyes.”

  “Bed?” Sharantyr crooked a forbidding eyebrow at him.

  Elminster rolled his eyes. “Let them show you somewhere to sleep. I’ll go out for a pipe, and …”

  Sharantyr nodded, yawned theatrically, and got unsteadily to her feet.

  Down the table, an old dalesman’s face dipped forward gently onto the table. Over the now-bowed head, Gedaern, whose face had been wearing a fierce smile all evening, saw her.

  He rose a little unsteadily. “All well, Lady Knight?”

  “Aye, goodman Gedaern,” Sharantyr told him truthfully, “but I am most weary after all that blade work. If there’s any place in this castle I can sleep …?”

  “But of course!” Irreph Mulmar said heartily from behind Gedaern. He extended a massive hand to her. “I’ve never seen such fighting as yours, today. We and the dale owe you much. The best bedchamber in the High Castle would be honored by your presence. Let me take you to it, if—?” He turned his head.

  “It is ready, Sir,” Ireavyn assured him quickly, beaming. At her shoulder, Ulraea nodded happily. Shar could ask for the moon, this night, and they’d climb atop each other on the battlement
s to reach it down for her.

  “No, no,” Sharantyr said, “please. Nothing grand. Just somewhere quiet and out of the way, with a good bed.” She glanced back at Elminster, who had arisen and was unconcernedly filling his pipe. “Ah—with room enough for two, or with two beds.”

  Elminster turned one twinkling eye to meet hers as he tamped and fumbled, but said nothing.

  “I know such a room,” Ulraea said. “Up high, in Guards’ Tower. A guest chamber. I can take you there.”

  “Please,” Sharantyr said. “Irreph … my thanks. Stay. You belong here, in this hall, with your people around you. Stay, please. Enjoy the castle being yours again. I don’t want to take you away from this.”

  At Irreph’s shoulder, his daughter Ylyndaera smiled and nodded at the lady ranger from within her father’s encircling arm.

  Irreph looked down at his daughter and then at Sharantyr, and said roughly, “My thanks, Lady Sharantyr. You see as keenly as your blade cuts. Until the morrow, then.”

  “Until next,” Sharantyr answered with a smile. Behind her, Elminster bowed silently.

  “Goodnight, Lady Sharantyr,” Ylyndaera said, eyes shining, and Gedaern echoed her words.

  Farther down the table, Itharr and Belkram had their arms around two dark-eyed dale maids. They waved, and Belkram called, “Keep an eye on him, Lady, will you?”

  “This night more than ever,” Itharr added.

  “Oh, I will,” Sharantyr replied in a voice that brought guffaws from all around, and she went out, Ulraea at her side.

  Elminster came back from the fire puffing his pipe to life, gave the two Harpers a severe look, and followed.

  Gedaern looked after him and said thoughtfully, “Now there goes a man that kings and wizards and dragons an’ all have found hard to kill, for more years than I and my old one and grandsire together have seen.”

  Irreph watched the Old Mage walk out of sight and replied, “They don’t stop trying, though.”

  It was a clear night. Above the dark, reaching shoulders of the peaks, stars glittered like tireless torches.

  Elminster looked up at them as he had done on countless nights, from battlements on as many worlds as he had fingers, down too many years to remember, and puffed at his pipe. He’d told the earnest young dalemen on guard that he’d just have a pipe before he retired, and to go and get drunk while there was something left. They’d laughed kindly but sensed he wanted silence and solitude, thank Mystra, and had left him.

  As the feast went on below, he’d heard them drift away, one by one, from watching a closed door. He only hoped Sharantyr wouldn’t really fall asleep. After all she’d done today, waking her would be as cruel as it would be difficult.

  Elminster blew silvery-green winking sparks around himself in a friendly, dancing cloud and sighed. He’d seen so many beautiful, capable, bright women die, down the long years. He hoped Sharantyr would not perish soon, and that he’d not be the cause of her death when it came.

  He turned back to the doorway that let him watch over the guest chamber’s closed door. He was regarding it fondly—gods, but this lass, one of the quieter and younger Knights, apt to be overlooked in all the bustle of their deeds back in Shadowdale, was a sparkling blade, to be sure!—when it opened softly and a cautious face peered out.

  A long puff later, Sharantyr stole barefoot out of the dark room, carrying a bundle in front of her from which her scabbarded sword protruded. Starlight shone briefly on shapely bare legs, and the lady ranger brushed damp hair back over her shoulders, then frowned as she deftly caught a boot on its way toward the flagstones underfoot.

  “Disrobed again, are we?” Elminster’s tone was amused as he took the pipe from his mouth. “I thought so. Young lasses have such predictable notions of adventure.”

  “Hush, Old Mage,” Sharantyr hissed severely, holding her breeches aloft with one hand while the other struggled with a large number of extremely heavy, awkward, and active items that seemed to be continually trying to slip out of her grasp. “You may not mind if you stink like a pig in a wallow, but being sticky and filthy bothers me. I availed myself of Ulraea’s kindness and had a very nice hot bath, if the word ‘bath’ means anything to a certain old, hard-headed, and rather strong-smelling wizard. I think the High Dale owes me that much, at least. Here—hold my sword, will you?”

  Elminster bowed, took the scabbarded blade in skillful silence, reached in to help hold her shirt up at the throat while she struggled with the lacings, turned his back with courteous haste, and then turned around again to hold Sharantyr’s gloves while she did up her belt.

  Then he reached up and took hold of the pipe that had been patiently floating in the air waiting for him all this time, and puffed on it again.

  Sharantyr stared at it, and at him, and sighed and smiled. In answer to his curious look she said, “Never mind, El. The pipe—it’s a close personal friend and a thousand years older than I am, right?”

  Elminster took the pipe out of his mouth and winked at it.

  The pipe opened a rather world-weary eye and winked solemnly back at him before swiveling to do the same to Sharantyr.

  Elminster was chuckling as he tapped the pipe—which instantly went out, leaving no smoke or odor behind—and put it in a hidden pocket inside his robes. The lady ranger never was sure if the pipe was alive or if she’d just been the victim of one of his pranksome little illusions.

  Xanther sneered silently at the two dale youths who stood guard. They were barely old enough to hold their spears properly and did not see him where he stood in the dimness of the passage. The Zhentarim slipped behind the concealment of a shadow cast by a bulge in the rough stone wall, and did something.

  The two young guards heard the slight noise that the secret door made as it swung open and then instantly shut again, but by the time they reached the shadow, there was nothing to be seen but an empty stone passage. They hunted around for a bit—there had been a noise, both agreed—and looked warily upward. When they thankfully saw nothing waiting to fall on them, they shrugged and went away.

  By then, Xanther had slain Stormcloak’s old, stupid watchspider with the heavy stone block he’d thoughtfully procured earlier, and taken the scrolls he knew it guarded. Their capped tubes rattled, and he shook a large gem out of one with great satisfaction. The other yielded a fine chain linking three plain brass finger rings, and a dagger whose quillons were a pair of batlike, furry folded wings, dusty gray and looking very much alive. He was careful not to touch it bare-handed and so activate it.

  Xanther packed all this revealed magical treasure back into the tubes that had held it. Then he hurried on, descending through dark, secret passages scarcely wider than his own hips, heading for the cellars. Heading toward the dark, waiting cesspool where he knew Elminster of Shadowdale and the wench Sharantyr would come … to meet their deaths.

  For the greater glory of the Brotherhood. Xanther smiled a smile that held no humor and slipped on through the darkness.

  “The gate lies just here,” Elminster said, pointing in the fetid darkness.

  “Without light, I can’t see a thing,” Sharantyr said crossly, “but from the smell, I can tell that we’re very near the edge of the pool. Watch where you step.”

  Elminster felt for her hand, seized it in his own, and squeezed reassuringly. “That’s the beauty of it, d’ye see? Kneel down here, beside me, and feel.”

  His hand led hers to trace cold stone. The stink around them was indescribable. Elminster continued an unconcerned lecture. “One enters the gate by stepping out over the pool, off the edge as if one were stepping right into it. One has to start here, though, just between these two raised stones, or the step forward is into empty air and ends as a fast plunge into the muck.”

  Sharantyr let him guide her hand to two stony knobs. “Do you mean we’re kneeling right on the edge of it now?”

  “Aye. An exposed position, indeed,” Elminster replied. “Let us up and proceed, without further delay. Hold tig
ht to my hand.”

  “Old Mage,” Sharantyr said calmly, “I’m doing so. I’ve got a very good grip on you, in fact, and I’ll yank you beard-over-ankles into this cesspool right now if you don’t tell me just where this gate you’re so eager to use will take us, before we step so boldly through it!”

  Elminster sighed. “Ye want all the Zhentarim in this place—and those who serve Sembia, Cormyr, the Red Wizards of Thay, and the Cult of the Dragon, besides—to find us here, don’t ye? I may know a few tricks and carry a few magic trinkets, but if ye’d see my skin stay whole and my thousand-odd years stretch to a few more, ye’d not force me to fight off every eager hedge-wizard and sharpknife in this dale!” He turned and glared at her as he spoke. The lady ranger felt the burning weight of his unseen eyes on her in the darkness.

  “Old Mage,” Sharantyr said firmly, “just tell and we can be on our way, provided it’s not to a certain plane of fire and evil, or the center of the Grand Hall in Darkhold, or another such lunatic destination. I’d like to know what I’ll have to fight before I get wherever we’re going.”

  Elminster tried to pull away. Her grip shook with weariness but held him like iron as she added, “And since you threatened me with all those names, suppose you also tell me just who, in this mountain dale so crammed with Zhentarim wizards, serves Thay, the Cult, Sembia, and Cormyr.”

  The Old Mage sighed. “The councillors, Shar. Among them are men still loyal to the dale, a handful who bow to Manshoon—all the newer members, no doubt—and those who were there before Longspear’s takeover, seeing to the interests of those others in secret. Trust me. When my Art served me, I spied on many a secret meeting and took note of many, many faces. Most of the High Dale’s councillors are more than they seem to be.”

  “And we’re slipping away and leaving Irreph to that?” Sharantyr blazed at him. “All of them tired and hurt—Ylyndaera, Ulraea, Gedaern, and all the rest? Is your heart a stone, Old Mage? A gravestone for them all, perhaps?”