Shadows of Doom

by Ed Greenwood

  Gedaern stared at her, openmouthed. It was several long breaths later that he visibly remembered to swallow. “Ulla?” he said at last, voice cracking. “Y-you … love him? You’ll go with him?”

  Ulraea nodded, eyes on his. “If you’ll let me.” She looked around at them all. “If you’re so fearful of what my Jath will do with his magic, guard me—and take my life if he works ill.”

  Jatham reached for her involuntarily. “No!” he cried, in an anguished voice.

  “No,” Gedaern’s voice overrode his, loud and flat. “It won’t be necessary. Go back to your beds, both of you, after you show us this gate and tell us where it leads. If you’ll do that, we have a deal.”

  He sheathed the notched, scarred sword he bore and walked slowly to where the weaver stood. He raised his hand, palm out, standing nose to nose with the Thayan agent.

  Jatham did the same, and slowly they both brought their hands down to touch each other’s chest in the old dale custom. A bargain was made. Both men nodded solemnly.

  Then Jatham said briskly, “The gate can only be entered by stepping out over the cesspool from a certain place, the spot between the two little humps of stone, on this side—see, here? It will take you across half Faerûn to the far edge of Anauroch, the Great Desert. Those who go through reach a central hall in an old, ruined castle, a place they call Spellgard today. It’s a one-way journey, and the castle has a fell reputation. I recommend that those who love the High Dale not take the gate. The way between there and here is long, and not safe.”

  “That’s our road, then,” Itharr said quietly.

  Belkram nodded and said, “Our thanks, Jatham … and Gedaern, and all of you, for risking your necks again this night. May the High Dale know peace for a good long time now. We must leave you in haste, for we’re charged to follow Elminster and keep him safe.”

  Jatham raised an eyebrow. “May I ask why?”

  The two Harpers exchanged a look. Belkram shrugged. “The one who set us this duty told us it was the most important task in the Realms. Elminster of Shadowdale must live—or, I fear, even gods will fall.”

  In the shocked silence that followed, the two young men saluted their fellows-in-arms with raised blades, nodded a special farewell to Gedaern, and without hesitation marched out over the cesspool.

  In midstep above the mire, with all eyes on them, they vanished. Itharr and Belkram were tired, hurt, and walking into unknown danger. But they strode ahead without pause, for they were Harpers.

  Spellgard was tall and dark and gloomy. Mushrooms and luminescent mosses grew here and there about its empty stone chambers. There was no sign of life. Even the torn, dusty cobwebs seemed to have been spun long ago by spiders now vanished. Yet there was a curious presence about the place, a silent, waiting feel as if something unseen were watching. They went on in silence.

  Room after room was empty save for little heaps of collapsed wood, gilt, and stone where furniture had fallen before relentless passing years. Here and there, the archmage without magic and the lady Knight found the scars of battle: scorched, blackened areas on the walls and floor, shattered stone panels, and buckled flagstones. This strife had happened long ago. Mold, moss, dust, and rot overlaid all. Elminster shook his head from time to time as they went on through the silent, waiting castle. Silence reigned.

  The Zhentarim thieves were trained, experienced men. Gloomy ruins did not begin to test their nerves. They spread out, slim black-bladed swords ready in their hands, and moved slowly forward, watching and listening intently, making no more noise than a faint breeze. Behind them, Zalarth tried not to make too much noise as he followed.

  The brightest archway opening out of the high-ceilinged hall led into a smaller chamber. It was thickly grown with gray-green glowing moss, and dark stalks of mushrooms half the height of a man reared up in the corners. The men peered all around the room carefully, paying special attention to the ceiling, before they proceeded through it, avoiding all the growing things, to the archway beyond.

  It led into another chamber, smaller still. A large, smooth-carved, unadorned stone table leaned in the center of this room, one leg crumbling. Beyond the table were two arches—and someone standing facing them!

  Or something. It was tall and very thin, clad in dark and dusty robes. Its face was skull-like and white, its eyes dark sockets.

  A lich! Or perhaps just an illusion, a trap laid by Elminster—or even by Avaerl. The men cast glances back at Zalarth. In calm silence he gestured, making the Brotherhood’s hand signs for “advance” and “beware.” In cautious unison they approached.

  The figure moved. Something tinkled to the stone floor, falling and rolling. An unmistakable sound: coins. Another trap-lure, or just a pocket collapsing in the rotting garment of something that should be in a grave, not on its feet?

  They were close enough now to see the figure was—or had been—female. Long gray-white hair framed a withered, dead face. As Zalarth watched, a chill spread icy fingers along his spine. Two points of glittering light, deep in the dark eye sockets, were expanding rapidly.

  As the Zhentarim wizard tensed to lash out with a spell, the skeletal figure spoke. “Well met and welcome, adventurers. Put aside your weapons and speak with me in peace, if you would. I mean no harm. I’ve waited so very long for someone to find me.”

  More looks. Zalarth gave the “weapons out and ready” sign and asked calmly, “Who—or what—are you, and what place is this?”

  “I am Saharel, and this is my home. The years have been no kinder to me than to Netheril itself, but I still abide here. Who are you?” The voice was feminine and dry, as loud as Zalarth’s own, and held a trace of pride.

  Once-beautiful long hair, now a mold-covered, wild mane of gray and white, clung to the shriveled, half-skeletal travesty of a face as the figure bent forward.

  In answer, Zalarth began the ugly syllables of a spell to control undead.

  The figure scowled and said sharply, “Now is that friendly? What do you here? Are you come merely to plunder?”

  She waved a skeletal hand, and a thief more frightened than the rest hurled his knife.

  The figure watched the blade whirl through the air at her, and raised a hand with sudden speed to protect her face. The knife tore through the wasted flesh to lodge between two bones in the forearm. The figure raised her arm to study it.

  “So you would bring death to me, where the gods failed? Die, fools, and despoil my home no longer!”

  The figure gestured. Purple and black bolts of magic spat from each bony finger, streaking unerringly across the chamber to smite the thieves.

  His spell done, Zalarth watched aghast as his men shrieked, stiffened, and died. The lich—if it was a lich—was ignoring his magic, and he could feel no ties of Art to give him power over it.

  “What are you, that you defy my Art?” he asked, one hand darting to the other.

  The undead lights of her eyes regarded him coldly. “An archlich. Apologize, if you would live.”

  “I’m sorry indeed to have met with you,” Zalarth said from the depths of his heart, and turned the ring he wore.

  Abruptly he was elsewhere, back in the great hall he’d first entered when coming through the gate. He ran, then, ran as he had not done for years, feet pounding on the stones. Headlong down a dark passage, up a stair, through a weirdly lit, moss-choked gallery, and up another stair.

  It opened onto a landing that led to another ascending stair on one hand and an archway on the other—an archway that opened onto a balcony overlooking another large hall. What ruin was this? It was huge, and—He glanced over the edge of the balcony, stopped, and stood very still.

  In the room below stood Elminster of Shadowdale, the ranger Knight at his side. Her sword was drawn, and he held a wand. Both were facing that young fool Avaerl.

  “Die, old fool,” Avaerl taunted the bearded, battered old man, a wand glowing in the young mage’s hand. “Die by the order of Manshoon, Lord Most High of the Zhentar
im! Die at the hand of Avaerl of Sembresh!”

  Sharantyr drew and hurled a dagger in one smooth, flashing movement and charged after it, leaping over small piles of rubble. “I think he’s trying to talk us to death, Old Mage!” she cried, raising her blade.

  Avaerl howled and clutched at his slashed fingers, the wand falling as the dagger spun away into the gloom. Sharantyr raced toward him, hair streaming behind her.

  Lightning flashed and cracked from a balcony above, outlining her in blue-white dancing death. She staggered, groaned loudly, and fell to her knees.

  Zalarth stared across at the balcony whence the bolt had come, then swiftly ducked low and moved far aside from where he had been standing.

  Cold laughter came from the dimness that had spawned the lightning. “Not so threatening now, are you, Sharantyr?”

  The speaker moved to the low, broad stone balcony rail and stared down triumphantly. “And so it is by the hand of Xanther that the famous Elminster shall perish!”

  The old man had moved forward involuntarily as the lady ranger was struck. He stopped now, amid the rubble, and sighed. “If ye knew just how many times I’ve heard that line down the years—and mind, mageling, Manshoon himself has said it, twice, and I’m still standing for all his empty boasting!”

  Xanther snarled and aimed his wand. Elminster calmly took out his pipe and sucked on it.

  Lighting flashed, but Elminster was suddenly elsewhere. He appeared out of empty air on the balcony just behind Xanther, pipe glowing in his hand, and calmly tipped the councillor forward over the rail.

  Xanther had time for the raw beginnings of a scream as he plunged—just before he struck the raised edge of a shattered stone table that rose out of the rubble like the edge of a giant’s shield.

  It was old and gray and very, very hard. The sharp sounds of Xanther’s bones shattering echoed loudly in the hall. His body bounced limply and then hung motionless atop the table. Rivers of dark blood ran swiftly down the stone.

  “Shar! Shar, do ye live?” Elminster called, his voice trembling.

  The lady ranger lay still in the dust, but the Zhentarim she’d not managed to reach snarled a word and pointed an angry hand at Elminster.

  Magic missiles flashed through the air. The Old Mage sighed, cursed, and sat down on the balcony floor to await them. Their strike shook his body, and he grunted in pain.

  Zalarth Bloodbrow smiled savagely and cast a fireball, grandly but carefully, onto that balcony.

  Its flash and roar shook the hall, and Zalarth reached for the teleport ring he wore. The she-lich could hardly fail to hear that. He had to snatch some proof of Elminster’s demise—whatever was left, he supposed—and hie himself back to Manshoon before she came.

  Under his boots, the stones were still hot. Roiling dust and smoke curled in the air. Zalarth searched all about, coughing and waving smoke away, but look as he might, he could find no sign of Elminster.

  He heard a thud below and struggled to the rail to see Elminster standing over the fallen Avaerl, pipe in one hand and a bloodied chunk of stone in the other. “That’s for what ye did to the lass,” the old man told the slumped mageling severely before he scurried to the fallen ranger, did something, and was gone again.

  Zalarth frowned and reached for his own ring. Two could play this game.

  He chose another balcony, stared at it until he’d seen it clearly, and turned the ring on his finger.

  From this height, the broken body of the councillor looked like a sprawled toy. Zalarth looked around hastily. Except for some mushrooms, he was alone. Behind him, dark archways led off to unknown chambers. The wizard crouched, drawing a wand from its sheath on his thigh, and peered over the balcony rail.

  There! On another balcony, below and across the hall, stood Elminster. The Old Mage of Shadowdale was puffing his pipe into life and looking down into the hall.

  He’d manage no last-breath escape this time. Zalarth held the wand up and ready as he turned the ring again.

  Abruptly his view of the hall changed to include Elminster, two steps away, raising sardonic eyebrows above his pipe. An instant later, the old man was gone, and Zalarth’s wand spat death at empty air.

  Zalarth choked off his snarl of anger as he saw the she-lich through an archway, striding up a broad stair toward him. His wand spoke again, but she only smiled and shook her head as the wand’s magic was turned away by an unseen shield in front of her. She raised a clawlike hand, and Zalarth desperately twisted his ring as he looked over the balcony rail.

  The ring took him there, to the floor of the hall, in the shifting rubble. In a breath or two she’d be hurling spells down at him, to say nothing of what Elminster might do. He had only an instant to choose a new destination.

  Unfortunately, the mageling was rising up in front of him like an awakened zombie, face streaming blood. Wild eyes met Zalarth’s, and bloody lips parted in surprise.

  “Master Zalarth! How come you h—?”

  Zalarth snarled in frustration. The wand crackled, and Avaerl of Sembresh stiffened, sobbed, and buckled at the knees.

  “Gulkuth,” he whispered hoarsely, with his last breath, raising a faltering hand. “Gulkuth!” And then he crashed on his face and lay still. Dust curled up around him.

  Zalarth shrugged. Gulkuth? A spell? He looked through the nearest archway, reaching for his ring. At any moment rending magic could rain down on him from above.

  Something stirred under his feet, and the Zhentarim staggered and almost fell. He looked back.

  Sharantyr was struggling to her knees, feeling for her sword. Dust caked her wild-tangled hair and the side of her face, and her eyes were bright with pain—but a ring gleamed brightly on her finger, and she was rising, steel in hand.

  She meant his death. Zalarth’s wand came up and he said coldly, “It is always a pleasure to destroy a Knight of Myth Drannor. Die, bitch!”

  “Excuse me,” said a calm new voice from very close by, and Zalarth felt his elbow struck sharply. His aim was driven wide; the wand’s power smote a stone wall harmlessly.

  “Met are we, mage of the Zhentarim,” another voice said formally, “and the pleasure, I assure you, is all ours.”

  “Aye. Farewell, tyrant mage,” the first voice said, and Zalarth Bloodbrow scarce had time to look from one grimly smiling speaker to another before two long swords passed each other in his chest, sliding in with silken ease and leaving a sudden rising burning in their wake, a burning worse than anything he’d ever felt.

  Zalarth felt himself falling, falling with mouth open but no breath left to speak, hands open but with nothing to grab. He stared hard into the rising white mists that had not been there an instant ago, and sank forever into the nothingness beyond them.

  “Best chop off that finger, there. There’s no telling what Zhent rings will do, and I’d hate to have to kill this one four or five times,” Belkram said briskly. Itharr nodded, looking all around.

  “Where’s Elminster gotten t—ah, there!” He pointed.

  Belkram looked up to the balcony where the Old Mage was unconcernedly puffing on his pipe. Elminster waved to them lazily.

  The two Harpers shouted in horror. Behind Elminster, a bone-white face had appeared, a gleam in its dark eye sockets and a widening grin stretching its ghastly jaw. Long, skeletal arms reached for the Old Mage, and there was nothing—utterly nothing—that Itharr or Belkram, or Sharantyr coming unsteadily to her feet beside them, could do.

  Sharantyr threw back her head in despair, and screamed. “Mystra, aid us all!”

  23

  Until Magic Do Us Part

  “And so it ends,” Manshoon said in disgust, turning away from the glowing scrying bowl. “As always … mages of the Brotherhood cut down by sword-swinging louts because they’re too foolish, or arrogant, or set on their course with no wits to spare for looking around them. This bodes ill for us all. Time and time again we suffer these embarrassments. If the Brotherhood does not triumph in such little things, w
e will surely fail and be swept away and forgotten.”

  Silent faces looked back at him, Anaithe’s among them. Fear was written plainly on all—in dark eyes, sweat upon temples, and lips that trembled in their hard set. The Lord Most High looked around at them all in long, sour silence. In sudden rage he turned, robes swirling, to snatch down a staff from where it floated in the air above.

  “This is too important to ignore,” he snapped. “Elminster’s carrying greater power in him now than I’ve ever felt in any being. Left alone, he is a great danger to us, and if we can seize what he holds, none will be able to stand against us. Guard this place well in my absence, Belaghar, or you will pay the price.”

  “But, my lord,” the wizard called Belaghar protested, waving a hand toward the bowl. “Is this wise? The Brotherhood needs your leadership now more than … ever … and, if … you … sh …” His words slowed and finally died to silence under the cold weight of Manshoon’s venomous gaze.

  “Think you I am a fool?” the lord of the Brotherhood asked coldly. “Do I seem likely to be thrown down by any of those”—he stretched a long finger toward the glowing waters of the bowl—“as two minor magelings were? If it so seems to you, then it is you, Belaghar, who are the fool.”

  He strode to a certain archway in the shadowed gloom, then slowed, turned, and added with dark humor, “Gain wisdom, Brother, while I am gone, if you would hold your place among us.”

  He looked around slowly at the other mages in the room and added softly, “All of you know, I think, what sort of torment will befall you if any treachery or misjudgments occur in my absence. It would be prudent to see that no such unfortunate supervenities greet me upon my return.” He stared at them for two long, silent breaths and added, almost in a whisper, “And I shall return.”