Shadows of Doom

by Ed Greenwood

  “We can use this,” Elminster said in satisfaction. “Rouse the two snoring beauties, will ye?”

  Sharantyr chuckled, shook her head, and went over to the still forms of the Harpers.

  Storm drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and smiled.

  “Well?” Jhessail and Lhaeo asked together, across the table. “What happened?”

  The bard closed her eyes, still smiling, and said, “Manshoon died. Elminster lives.”

  “Manshoon destroyed? Elminster’s work?”

  Storm shook her head. “He died, but he has worked at dark Art hidden since Netheril fell, and has other bodies to flee to. The Old Mage was there, but the magic that slew Manshoon was not his.”

  The bard trembled with weariness, and Jhessail laid a warning hand on Lhaeo’s shoulder. They exchanged glances, saw Storm hide a yawn, and fell silent.

  In the kitchen of that farmhouse in Shadowdale, time passed in slow silence. Storm’s eyes fluttered and then closed, and her head sank lower. Careful, quiet hands moved her mug out of harm’s way. The bard did not notice.

  Jhessail and Lhaeo put their arms around each other and sat in companionable silence. Slowly, before their eyes, it happened. Still smiling, Storm Silverhand laid her head on her hands and slept.

  “Draw thy daggers,” Elminster said gruffly. “Ye seem to feel better when ye have some piece of sharp steel in hand. And my first thoughts, as always,” he added, irony heavy in his tone, “are for thy comfort, ye three.”

  The Old Mage watched steel flash out in answer, then nodded, turned, and said, “Follow.”

  He stepped onto the rune and was gone.

  Sharantyr sighed, hefted the knife—what good would this little fang do?—in her hand, and followed.

  Abruptly she was elsewhere. Behind her, she heard Itharr exclaim in surprise.

  All around them was darkness—a deep, chiming void of blackness lit only by faintly glowing purple mists and by drifting, winking lights. The mist curled lazily about, and there was no horizon or boundary or anything solid to be seen, only endless darkness. They stood on nothing, hanging in emptiness.

  “Old Mage,” Sharantyr asked fearfully, “what is this place?”

  A little way distant stood Elminster. He had grown somehow taller and stood outlined with a blue-white aura.

  He turned and smiled at them reassuringly. “This is called by some the Flame Void. It is a strange place, not quite out of the Realms yet not in Faerûn—at least, not in the Faerûn that most folk can see and reach. Take a good look about at all this nothing. ’Tis probably the only time ye’ll ever see it.” He looked past her at the two Harpers, nodded reassurance to them, and said to them all, “Come.”

  Then he turned and walked confidently away, treading on nothing.

  “Where are we going?” the lady ranger said, hurrying to catch up with the Old Mage. Though she still felt nothing under her boots, and a sharp, falling feeling seemed alive in her stomach, she could move merely by thinking of moving in a direction.

  “To a place I know,” Elminster said, “where Lady Mystra often leaves messages, or things, for me. It is my hope that she can feel my arrival and respond.”

  “Oh,” Sharantyr replied, not much enlightened and showing it in her tone. Elminster said no more, and she fell into step beside him. The two Harpers caught up to flank them, and all four went on together.

  They walked for a long time, and Sharantyr began to notice things around them that had escaped her before. Flitting shadows swirled half-seen in the mists, like living things—they probably were alive, she realized with a faint, crawling fear—and weird lights danced and glimmered in the distance.

  She exchanged glances with the two young men who strode with them, and saw in their eyes the same fear and wonder that she knew shone in her own.

  “Elminster,” Belkram asked after a while, “is your magic back?”

  The Old Mage simply looked at him in reply.

  Belkram frowned. “Then how is it you brought us all here?”

  Elminster shrugged. “The rune held the power; it is a gate. I merely selected its destination by bending my will to the choice.” He looked around at them all. “An exercise all of ye would benefit greatly from: thinking hard about what ye’re doing, from time to time. A novel idea, I’ll admit.”

  The Harpers sighed almost as loudly as Sharantyr did.

  Then Itharr asked, “How does one find anything here? You seem to know where you’re going, but I can’t see any trace of our passage, or landmarks to guide you.”

  Elminster nodded and grinned. “No, ye can’t, can ye?” was all he said.

  They walked on until a glowing yellow light could be seen in the distance ahead. It seemed brighter than the other lights and gradually grew larger.

  They approached it at a steady pace until they could see that it was a translucent sphere of soft, golden light with something inside it. The mists seemed to avoid it; the light hung alone in a clear space of velvet darkness.

  The two Harpers peered ahead, frowns on their faces.

  “Is that—a tower?” Belkram asked hesitantly, moving his head from side to side to get a better look at whatever it was.

  Elminster nodded. “A simple stone tower, a hollow cylinder with a spiral stair climbing around its inside to the top. If there’s no creature hiding there, leave your daggers—and anything else metal ye may be carrying, no matter how small; don’t forget buckles and hairpins and any other jewelry ye may have—at the bottom and get to the top, all of ye.”

  “Why?” Itharr asked.

  Elminster sighed. “Ye have no idea just how tired of that particular word one can get, after even a few hundred years. Just do it. After all ye’ve gone through to keep me alive, I’d like to see ye survive this. It’s thy turn.”

  There was no lurking monster; the tower was empty. The three left all their metal at the base of the tower, as Elminster had ordered—and, necessarily, most of their clothing with it.

  Feeling more vulnerable than ever, they hurried up old, worn stairs of some smooth black stone none of them had ever seen before and soon came out on a bare circular battlement.

  “What is this place?” Belkram asked, looking down.

  Below them, Elminster had also discarded all the metal about his person—dagger after dagger, hidden item after hidden item, from various pockets of his robes—and now stood quite alone in the middle of golden nothingness.

  He faced away from them and spoke a Name.

  He whispered it, so that they never heard what it was, but its echoes burst back at them with a sound like thunder, shaking the tower and causing the golden light to pulse with sudden brightness.

  There came a burst of blue-white radiance beside Elminster. It was so bright that they had to look away, but it faded quickly.

  When they could see again, a young girl stood beside the old wizard. They faced each other, and a shimmering blue-white light pulsed about the girl’s bare back.

  She seemed nude, and yet light played about her so one could not be sure. She spoke with Elminster for a few breaths, then they stepped forward into an almost fierce embrace.

  “Ye gods,” Itharr muttered. “I’ve seen this old man kiss more maids, since first I laid eyes on him.”

  “It’s a wonder he has any lips left, after six or seven hundred years, or whatever his count really is,” Belkram replied.

  “Hush,” Sharantyr hissed. “Look!”

  Below them, vivid light pulsed, more blue than white and coming from the joined lips of the wizard and the girl. Blue-white flames suddenly burst from that joining of their faces and enshrouded them both.

  Itharr stirred. “What if that’s killing him, after all w—”

  Belkram laid an iron hand on his arm. “Stay. I think not. And even if it does, I fear there’s not a gods-blessed thing we can do.”

  The flames died, and the two figures below parted, patting each other like fond old friends saying farewell. The flames seemed to
have harmed neither.

  Then the girl was rising toward where they stood watching atop the tower. Sharantyr swallowed.

  “You know who she is, don’t you?” she said. Two slow, fearful nods were the only reply.

  The girl—no, the lady—had risen smoothly up to meet them. She floated in over the battlements, and they drew back to make room for her.

  She was thin, and clad only in shifting motes of blue-white light. Her beauty was awesome, matchless. Sharantyr felt suddenly coarse and clumsy in her presence.

  She did look like a young, thin maiden, but taller than any human girl would be. Long, dark hair moved about her shoulders as if with a life of its own. She was sleekly graceful, and as she moved, her body shimmered with those tiny winks and sparkles of ever-shifting light, motes that seemed to curl out of her skin. Her eyes glowed with the same eerie blue-white light. She made no sound as she came, and her feet did not touch the stone but floated just above it.

  She smiled, and her eyes glowed bright blue.

  “You have my thanks,” she said in a voice that held soft thunder, “and that is no small thing. You have guarded my champion and have my deep gratitude. While I hold any power in the Realms, you cannot be harmed by magic.”

  And then Mystra reached out a hand that glowed with power and touched each of them fleetingly.

  The touch was like a leaping spark that left a tingling and an exhilarating feeling of lightness, strength, and alertness. Wonderingly, the three looked at each other and saw that their eyes glowed faintly, blue-white.

  A head came up out of the hole by their feet—a familiar, bearded head. It was followed by the rest of the Old Mage’s body, as the wizard climbed the last steps of the stair to join them.

  Mystra smiled fondly at him, reached out a slim hand to caress his cheek, and whispered, “As usual, my thanks, Elminster. We’ll meet again … soon. Beware wild magic. I go now, to face Bane.”

  In a flare of blue-white flames, she was gone.

  The silence that followed was broken by Sharantyr, who drew a shuddering breath and said faintly, “What now, El?”

  Elminster threw his arms around her and hugged her tightly. “Ah, Shar, ever that question, eh? I cannot see. Mystra remains a prisoner of another god—Manshoon’s god, Bane—and is not free to use the power I returned to her. There’s another who must free her … I cannot safely act, for if I fall to Bane and he learns, through the power and knowledge that are still mine, who and where the rest of the Chosen are, he could still wrest Mystra’s power from her and have governance over all Art—or lose such order, for all of us, in his destruction of Mystra.”

  The Old Mage looked at the two Harpers and asked almost challengingly, “Excitement enough for ye, lads? Adventure enough?”

  Itharr and Belkram shook their heads and chuckled rather faintly.

  Elminster stood still, his face buried in Sharantyr’s hair, and said roughly, “Ah, Shar—I have grown to care for thee very much in these few days since ye took out thy sword to guard me. Whatever befalls now, when we find our way back to the Realms ye know—stay with me, will ye?”

  Sharantyr kissed him and said softly, “Of course. I can’t guard you if I don’t, now can I?”

  Belkram tapped her shoulder. “Ah, if you’re in a kissing mood …”

  Sharantyr wrinkled her nose and thrust a strong arm around Elminster, straight into the Harper’s midriff.

  He doubled over with a comical roll of his still-glowing blue eyes and staggered back, colliding with the low battlement. He overbalanced with a startled cry and fell backward off the tower.

  Sharantyr screamed.

  Elminster turned in her grasp and made a lazy gesture.

  In the air below them, a huge phantom hand appeared beneath the falling Harper.

  He fell into it as softly as a feather kisses the ground it falls onto and was borne gently upward, cradled in the giant hand, to rejoin them. Belkram stood up on the palm of the hand as it came, tottering about uncertainly like a man on stilts hopping about in a cesspool and likely at any moment to come to a far closer acquaintance with it. His efforts and expression made Itharr bellow with laughter.

  Sharantyr turned to embrace Elminster again. She was ecstatic. “Your Art—it’s back! You can work magic again!”

  “Aye,” the Old Mage said with a sigh that could not quite conceal his grin. “That, d’ye see, is old Elminster’s doom.”

  About the Author

  Ed Greenwood created the FORGOTTEN REALMS® world in the midseventies as the setting for his home AD&D® campaign. After numerous articles in DRAGON® magazine, his world had attracted enough of a following to justify TSR’s purchase of it. From his home in Canada, Ed has been fleshing out the Realms ever since.

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