Shadows of Doom asota-1

by Ed Greenwood

  A short scream ahead told him Belkram had opened a way through at least one defender. Itharr ran faster. To think he'd once dreamed of glorious adventures as a Harper, dreams that involved (between parties with beauteous women) charging castles single-handed! Dreams where no arrows ever struck hi-

  Itharr grunted as a crossbow bolt struck him in the shoulder, picking him off his feet and hurling him a pace or two toward the rocks with the force of its flight.

  He landed hard on his good arm, sprang up-spit on the pain; his life depended on getting up! — and ran on, hoping he'd not drop his sword from the hand he could no longer feel.

  "After them!" Nordryn snarled. At the Sword's dubious look he almost shrieked his next words, so great was his fury. "Get them! They can't use any magic. I've cloaked them with a spell of my own! Go on!"

  Around him, Wolves drew blades, but they looked to the Sword for orders, not him. The Sword looked at him again, long and coldly, then nodded his head at the fleeing men.

  With a shout and a breath of creaking leather and flashing steel, the Wolves boiled up out of the trees and were gone.

  Nordryn looked at the Sword, eyes hot. "I'll remember this," he spat.

  The veteran swordsman looked back at him steadily, his eyes the same hue as the raised tip of his drawn sword. "See that you do," he replied softly.

  "Where are we, d'you think?" Itharr panted as they raced along.

  Belkram turned at the sound of his friend's voice. "Are you hurt?" He reached out a hand, swinging his fellow Harper around sharply.

  The bolt protruding from Itharr's shoulder struck a nearby branch; he made a choked sound and stumbled back. Belkram's searching hands caught him, located the bolt, and felt the shoulder it was buried in.

  Itharr tried to cough and whimper at the same time, and failed. He settled for making another little choking noise and fell down.

  Belkram sighed, laid down his blade, and tore out the bolt in one swift, hard jerk. Itharr shook once under his hands and lay still.

  The taller Harper thought for a moment, then rose from his wounded friend and ran lightly back the way they'd come, melting into the cloaking gloom of a tree as a warrior trotted cautiously forward, glancing around in the dim night.

  The woods were full of armed Wolves cautiously advancing in the darkness. The lives of two very outnumbered Harpers now depended on stealth and silence, so Belkram reached out with a long arm, slapped the man across the mouth from behind, and jerked hard. The man's head twisted sharply, and Belkram put all his strength into pulling. There was a brief crunching noise… and the man became limp and very heavy.

  Belkram staggered, lowering the warrior as quietly as possible. A sudden crackling disturbance and a triumphant yell erupted nearby. Steel rang, men cursed, and there was a groan of pain.

  "You fool," someone said weakly. "Can't you tell-?" The words ended in a gasp, followed by the heavy crash of a man falling heavily and helplessly through dead-wood and living tanglethorns.

  Belkram slipped cautiously back toward Itharr, only to hear branches whip and crackle close behind. He spun, blade up, and was almost knocked over by someone blundering past.

  The ranger thrust with his steel and felt it turn aside on armor. His onrushing target gave a surprised yell and turned. Belkram saw a momentary flash of teeth in the darkness, put his sword tip there, and drove his blade in hard. The man crumpled and fell without uttering another sound.

  This time the landing was not quiet, and Belkram hastened away. This game of cat and mouse was all too apt to turn against them swiftly, if these warriors brought torches or mage-conjured light.

  He couldn't answer Itharr's question; he had no idea where they were. Perhaps if he could get safely out from under the trees long enough to get a good look at the stars… Well, they were somewhere not too different in climate from Shadowdale. Somewhere with mountains. Somewhere with at least one Harper-and, he hoped, Elminster-nearby.

  In front of him, he saw the flash of steel rising from the ground. He danced to a halt and hissed, "Itharr?"

  "The same," came the weak reply. "Did you have to be so-agghhh! I'm bleeding all over everything."

  "I've been rather busy," Belkram whispered carefully. "Use your blade as a crutch or put it away and lean on me, and with Tymora's kiss we'll get out of here!"

  Itharr opted for the latter, and they hurried on together as quietly as possible. Steel still rang around them from time to time. Here and there in the night-cloaked woods, men crashed through brush and fell into unseen holes and over the trunks of fallen trees.

  "A fine night out they're having," Itharr gasped, after awhile. "Could we stop for a breath or two?"

  "Aye," Belkram murmured into his ear. "How d'you feel?"

  "Fresh and fine," Itharr said sarcastically. "The night is young, brave sir, and all that." He sat down heavily on a tree stump, which promptly collapsed in a damp ruin of fungus and punky wood, dumping him onto the ground. He sighed.

  That mournful sound made a few sputters of mirth escape Belkram. The taller Harper shook for a few moments and then leaned near, still chuckling. "I'd like to try to get back to that clearing. We should be able to see the gate's light. We could go around it, staying in the trees, and look for paths and such. These guards must have a barracks somewhere, where we can get food and mayhap even healing quaffs, for your shoulder. I was in Luskan, once. The idiots there had a barracks with a flat, unguarded roof. We rested above them, all the while they turned the city inside out for us, and hid most of their gear while they were out tramping around."

  "Very nice," Itharr said. "Now help me up."

  They went into the night together. Belkram had to use his sword only twice before they saw the amber light again.

  "Now what, sir?" The Sword might have been a chamber servant back in Zhentil Keep.

  Nordryn shrugged. "Wait here. Our duty is still to guard the gate while the others seek out these intruders."

  The Sword nodded. "As you command," he said expressionlessly. Nordryn looked at him and then all around and found, with sinking fear, that the two of them stood alone by the gate. Their men were all blundering about in the woods. A sudden outbreak of shouting came from the trees, followed by a scream that ended in a dying wail.

  "Ah," Nordryn said with satisfaction. "They've got one, at least."

  The Sword raised an eyebrow. "Someone died, aye. In the trees, Lord, it could be one of us killing another just as easily as those we're after. You can't tell… until it's too late."

  Nordryn looked at him. "Oh, no?" he scoffed. "Are you telling me Zhentilar soldiers can fight only in the full light of day?"

  The Sword looked back at him, and shrugged. "No," he said briefly. "At night, though, we seldom know whom we're killing."

  Nordryn stepped back hastily, eyeing the gleaming sword between them.

  "What happens if you slay one of… of our men?"

  The Sword shrugged again. "As I said," he drawled mildly, "by then, it's too late."

  Nordryn backed two paces farther from the blade.

  "A wizard?" Itharr breathed, staring into the night.

  Belkram nodded. "No doubt. We go wide to the left now, down slope a bit. I see lights, so there'll be a track we can follow."

  Itharr grunted. "Good. I've lost more blood than I thought I had in me."

  Belkram sighed. "Hold up a breath or two longer," he said. "It would have to be your sword arm."

  Itharr growled agreement deep in his throat. "Thanks to Storm," he said, "I can at least use a blade properly with my left hand. Next time, run to the right, will you?"

  Belkram made a little bow. "As you wish, Lord."

  Itharr decided it was his turn to sigh. Again.

  Thalmond shifted his weight off the stool experimentally and winced. The burned leg shrieked at him. He unbuckled his sword and leaned on it, scabbard and all, hopping awkwardly across the guardroom. Aye, it would serve.

  Someone groaned from one of the beds. Thalmond
hesitated, then turned and went out. None of the others could walk unaided. If he hurried, he would not be seen.

  He'd fought for Black Master Manshoon more years than most of these lads had been alive, and knew a thing or two about standing orders. What he sought had to be somewhere in the meeting room.

  He hopped along as fast as he could and saw no one on the way. Shouldering the door open, he leaned against the wall for support and waved a seeking arm along it. Metal dangles clinked; he'd found the cord that ran up to the lamp. He lowered the lamp and felt at his belt for his flint.

  With the skill of long practice, he struck the stone a glancing dagger blow that showered sparks where he needed them. Six careful breaths later he was easing the door closed and turning back to a room lit by the warm glow of the hanging oil lamp. The object he sought would be somewhere within reach of this lamp, where it could readily be found in the darkness by feel. Not under the chairs or tables, for every blade who grew bored was apt to run his fingers along the edges of his seat or rub itching hands or forearms on the underside of the table edge, and might discover what Thalmond now sought.

  No, it was somewhere-here? He stared at the map on the wall and carefully pulled at its edge. Nothing. He pushed. No. He slid the map carefully to the right and it moved-three finger-widths, no more.

  There! In the revealed niche, two metal vials hung one above the other by leather thongs. Thank Tymora for her good favor. Even priests of Bane used the warrior symbols for healing! He'd just have a little, enough to stop this Bane-blasted burning in his leg.

  Thalmond plucked the sword-rag from his belt-if he never actually touched the vial, no clever magic could tell he'd been here-wrapped the cloth around his hand, and reached out.

  A gentle voice, very close by his ear, said, "My thanks, and farewell. Greet Tempus for me, old warrior." The steel at his throat was very cold. Thalmond had only a little time to feel surprised, time to tell himself that at last he knew what death would feel like, time to grow just a little angry that he'd heard no one behind him… and then, no time at all.

  "Did you have to set the place alight with them all inside?" Itharr whispered, face white in the darkness.

  Men rushed past them, shouting. Belkram raised the loaded crossbow carefully on his knee and whispered back grimly, "I had to kill one old warrior to get these. He flung up his hand as he fell, and by Tymora's favor broke the lamp that hung just above. Flaming oil everywhere! I scarce got out in time. Have you finished that yet?"

  "Aye," Itharr said in the sleepy voice of one who has fought pain for a long time, or pushed too far and done too much and now finds ease.

  "Stay awake!" Belkram said sharply. "Is one going to be enough?"

  But he'd spoken too sharply. One of the running figures turned its head and took two steps toward them, sword raised. The Harpers lay still.

  The man came on, peering into the shadows. "Who's-? Hold!"

  The crossbow kicked and death hissed into the Wolf's throat. He fell on his side, convulsed, and lay still, one hand raised in a claw that would never close.

  "I'm getting a little weary of all this bloodshed," Itharr said quietly. His voice was stronger.

  Belkram nodded. "I'm not overfond of it, either, but a guard down is one less sword to hunt us. You sound better."

  "I feel better," Itharr said, putting the second vial carefully into his belt pouch. "We're too close," he added, watching the flames leap higher. "We'll be well lit, soon."

  "Aye," Belkram agreed, and they scrambled back into the trees. The dell, with its gate, was just a little way beyond.

  Itharr looked toward it and then back at Belkram questioningly.

  His friend shrugged. "We've not found Elminster, and I know he came here. I can feel it."

  Itharr nodded. "Aye," he agreed, "and these look like Zhent Blackhelms to me, from what little we've seen."

  Belkram nodded. "Any work we can do against them is well done, whenever we get a chance."

  "Whither, then?"

  Belkram tossed the crossbow away and stared into the night for a moment. "Do you see mountains beyond?" he asked.

  Itharr held up a hand to shield against the light of the leaping flames and said, "Aye. Not too far off, either."

  Belkram nodded. "Come day, they'll be searching these woods for our our trail. The rocks this side are the natural place to hide, and for them to look. Why not take ourselves across to those, over there?"

  "And spare ourselves much of the hunters' attention?" Itharr asked. "I like it. Let's use the road, and look for a stream to turn aside from it. Now, before the flames bring everyone out to watch."

  Belkram nodded, and they hurried around the back of the blazing building, flitting like shadows from tree to tree. Below them, houses and shops-and beyond, a smallish stone castle-rose out of the night.

  "Where are we, then?"

  "A mountain pass?"

  "Aye." Itharr nodded slowly. "If there's a cart road through the lowest part, there, I'd say yes."

  "But where?" Belkram obviously did not recognize their surroundings.

  Itharr yawned. "I'll think about it," he promised, "when we're safely hidden."

  The two Harpers drifted into the night, seeking their stream.

  "Bane curse us all," Nordryn gasped, too astonished for anger. "The barracks!"

  "Now do you see," the Sword said in a voice of cold steel, "why I ordered the men to fall back there to make their stand? This is your doing, softskull!"

  Nordryn stared at him, eyes glittering. "You would speak to me so?"

  "Aye. Be glad I do not cut you down where you stand, mage. I'd be doing High Lord Manshoon a favor, if this is any example of the glorious bungling you'll inflict on his plans in times to come." He barked short, mirthless laughter. "I'd be doing you a favor, come to that, saving you from Manshoon!"

  Nordryn stepped back a pace, raising his hand. The officer's sword slid out to float menacingly just above it, preventing the wizard from gesturing to unleash a spell.

  "Don't," the Sword suggested in soft, heavy tones of menace.

  Nordryn stepped away again, a brittle smile visible on his face where the leaping flames lit it. "What if I told Stormcloak that the foray into the woods was your plan?"

  The Sword's eyes were bleak. "You'd be digging your own grave, wizard. Even if all the men who heard you giving orders were dead, and their bodies ruined past what dark magic can recall or speak to, there's this." He shook the gauntlet off his free hand and raised his fingers until Nordryn could see the heavy ring that glinted upon the middle one. "Look well," the soldier suggested.

  The wizard felt cold fear creeping down his spine. He knew all too well what that sigil meant: Manshoon. This cold-eyed soldier was one of the High Lord's personal agents. He swallowed and turned abruptly away to hide the fear he knew was showing on his face-fear, and something else. The man had to die before Manshoon heard of this or Nordryn Spellbinder's career would be short and painful… or long, cold, and frustrating, posted to all the worst places, with new magic forever denied to him, and under the constant, cruel eye of some watcher appointed by the High Lord.

  "Don't think of arranging my death," came the Sword's cold voice from behind him. "Lord Manshoon always probes such things very carefully-by speaking to the deceased, if necessary. He knows my worth; you'd probably have to face me again. If Manshoon got tired of raising me, you'd pay the price, never doubt it. You'd make an adequate walking dead man, I suppose."

  Nordryn turned and walked toward the flames, wondering which of the careers he'd just seen so bleakly would be worse. The flames roared and crackled, warming his face even from this distance, and he just couldn't decide.

  Sharantyr came awake slowly, enfolded in unexpected warmth. She opened her eyes and looked around hurriedly, coming up to one elbow and feeling for her sword.

  During the night, the Old Mage had somehow wrapped his bony arms around her without wakening her. That simply shouldn't have happened, but Sharant
yr did not move away when that familiar, wild-bearded visage smiled at her, only inches away.

  "Fair morn, Lady," Elminster said with courtly formality and leaned forward with smooth speed to kiss the end of her nose.

  Sharantyr blinked. Some sorceresses would die, or kill, or whatever, to trade places with her, no doubt. His beard tickled like something between a scurrying centipede or an amorous cat. After a few breaths, she remembered to smile in reply.

  Elminster chuckled. "Up, lass," he said. The mists were rolling away down through the trees as they rose and stretched to ease the stiffness that comes from sleeping in the open on rocky ground. "I fear I neglected to provide us breakfast, but I remain both open to suggestions and thy humble servant."

  Sharantyr shook her head incredulously and pecked him on the cheek, more to shut him up than anything else. Ye gods, what had she gotten herself into now?

  The day grew both warm and splendidly clear. The ranger and the wizard spent the morning sitting in the shrubbery at the trees' edge, watching black-armored gate guards working the road into the High Dale. Eastkeep rose small but grim at the warriors' backs, and they were most efficient.

  Sharantyr didn't know the place and said so, but Elminster told her grandly that he knew it and would recognize it for her. Sharantyr rolled her eyes, not for the first time. Their stomachs chose that romantic moment to growl together.

  The gate guards went steadily about their work, extracting passage tolls from all travelers coming into the dale from the east, inspecting their goods and gear, and turning back all wizards. Traffic leaving the dale from the west was given only a cursory search. These well-armed guards expected no trouble from that front.

  There was a stir, once, as the guards suddenly swarmed over the wagon of a fat merchant. A shout brought six more guards with drawn swords out of the little shanty that served them as a duty shelter. The newcomers surrounded the merchant with a ring of sword tips at his throat while the search went on.