Shadows of Doom asota-1

by Ed Greenwood

  Angruin kept his face mildly interested, no more. Manshoon. Longspear's words could mean only one man: he who dwelt in the Tower High. Lord Manshoon, leader of the Zhentarim. This Heladar Longspear must enjoy more favor than he'd thought.

  Longspear, who'd just launched his greatest bluff so far in his dealings with this haughty wizard, smiled and hoped he'd get away with it. "Well?" he asked again. "The day does draw on, Angruin. I can't order the men to best effect unless I know how much I can rely on your magic, and that of the lesser mages. What say you?"

  Angruin Myrvult accepted the extended hand of peace somewhat reluctantly. "Our Art-the magic of all men, from what I hear and suspect-has become somewhat… unsettled. Yet we stand with you as always, Lord Longspear. Moreover," he added, lifting his hands to reveal the wand at his belt that his fingers had been tightening around as they spoke, "we are never without at least one… aid."

  "Good," Heladar told him. Before Stormcloak could add the inevitable threat, he spoke it for him. "I'll remember that."

  The Lord of the High Dale went down the stairs, feeling cold eyes on his back all the way down. He kept his shoulders broad and square, taking satisfaction in his daring at turning his back on Angruin for so long. No one else in all the dale dared to.

  Jatham Villore looked out of his shop, up at the frowning bulk of the High Castle looming above the trees. "Yet the eating of bad bread may make a haunt of the dreams of even a lord," he echoed the quotation. No, the word had been "kings," hadn't it? No matter.

  Heladar and his bullying mages were upset indeed, for the first time since they'd come here. Perhaps their rule could be weakened or even broken altogether.

  That would please his masters very much.

  Jatham went quietly into his shop and bolted the door. This wouldn't take long. Just a simple spell or two to confuse and befog magical attempts to locate things and folk such as the mysterious enemies who'd twice been so bold as to strike out at the lord's Wolves and mages.

  Or even more times, if Longspear and Angruin had not told all. Jatham grinned as he bolted an inner door behind him. These cloaking spells had saved his own skin more than once. Back in Thay, he'd learned their ins and outs very thoroughly, for wise masters had told him that his success as an agent-his very survival-depended on such knowledge. They'd been right, of course.

  Jatham laid hands on what he'd need, closed his eyes briefly to gather his will, and began the whispered chant. At long last, it was time to act.

  They had almost reached the hard-eyed guards when Elminster snapped his fingers and laid a firm hand on the inside of Sharantyr's elbow, dragging her to a halt.

  "I must be getting old," he muttered. "I almost forgot." He gestured toward the bushes. "Go in there to relieve yourself," he directed.

  Sharantyr raised an eyebrow. "I don't need to at the moment, thank you very much, Old M-"

  As she spoke, Elminster smoothly produced the two wands he was carrying and slid them up the sleeve of the arm he was clasping.

  "All I need ye to do is slide these under thy-'hem-chest, Shar," he murmured. "Beneath them, mind, where no searching guard will feel them. Hurry, now."

  Sharantyr gave him a look and did as she was bid. She came out into the road fumbling with the lacings at her belt and saw two of the guards exchange amused looks. The wands felt cold and hard next to her skin.

  He grinned at her. "I'll reclaim them as soon as I can, lass," he promised.

  "I'll just wager you will," she replied in warning tones.

  "One more thing," Elminster added hurriedly. "If I signal you-so-by scratching my ear, think hard of Sembian trade, merchant contacts, and making money there. Keep thinking of those things until I scratch there again."

  "You mean someone might pry at our thoughts?" Sharantyr asked warily.

  Elminster nodded and added loudly, "I've told ye, gel, if ye drink so much before setting out, o' course the walking'll see thee in the bushes all too soon!"

  The guards smiled at his words, waving them to one side of the road and staring hard at them both.

  "A copper each for passage into the High Dale," said the larger one shortly, holding out his hand.

  Elminster meekly took two coppers out of his purse-two coppers he'd picked up in the guard hut at the other end of the dale, not so long ago-and paid them over.

  "Stretch out arms afore ye," said another guard, blade drawn. "We have orders to search all who enter the dale. Resist us, or reach for any weapon, and you'll see nothing else in this life but your own blood, all of it leaving you."

  Haragh Mnistlyn leaned forward in his chair. A warrior woman traveling with an old man was certainly odd. Best give these two the full scrutiny.

  He stood up, making a certain sign. The guard who was watching for it drew his blade and motioned to another of his fellows. They took up positions near the two who were being searched, near enough to disrupt the casting of a spell with a quick lunge.

  Haragh stood under his awning, watching the faces of the two narrowly, as hard-eyed as the guards, and began the casting of a spell to read minds.

  Elminster scratched one ear and Sharantyr frowned slightly. Hard, probing hands wandered over them both. They waited, unmoving.

  Until they heard a gasp.

  Everyone turned. The mage who'd sat in the chair under the canopy, back from the road, was standing horrified in the midst of well-trodden grass. In front of him, as they watched, little white flowers were appearing, first singly, then in clusters of three and more. Swiftly, silently, the flowers appeared out of nothingness, without any fuss or spell-smoke.

  The mage stared down at them, stunned.

  Sharantyr glanced quickly at Elminster. His eyes had widened just a trifle, but now he was nodding, slowly, as if he understood.

  He stepped forward, ignoring the blades held ready near him, and clapped his hands. "Beautiful!" he said enthusiastically. "I've seen no better in the tavern spell-contests of Waterdeep itself! My thanks, mage. Has the High Dale become a place where magic is embraced and its beauty appreciated?"

  Haragh's mouth opened and shut, but no words came out. He stared down at his hands, then sat down suddenly in his chair, shaking his head.

  Elminster's face fell. "Oh, dear," he said to the nearest guard. "Did he intend to cast something else? My apologies, if I've offended…"

  The guard looked at him. "You a wizard?"

  "Nay, nay," Elminster said with a regretful sigh. "Fascinated by the stuff. See as much of it as I can, and trade in it when Lady Luck has it so, but I can't call up even a spark, even when lowly apprentices take too many gold pieces from me for showing me how to. It's just not something the gods meant for me, it seems."

  The warrior chuckled. "Aye, you and me both, old man." He jerked his head. "Go on, then," he told them. "We'd better see to Lord High-and-Mighty." He stared over at the chair with long-suffering good humor, and Elminster chuckled in the easy fellowship of one downtrodden jack to another.

  "My thanks, goodsir," the Old Mage told him and trudged eastward into the High Dale, with Sharantyr in tow.

  Elminster waited until they were safely screened from any curious eyes on Westkeep's battlements, then stopped and extended a hand.

  Sharantyr calmly loosened the lacings of her leathers, looked swiftly about, and slid his wands out and returned them to him, somewhat warmer.

  Elminster stowed them away as smoothly and said, "My thanks, Shar. We do work well together."

  Sharantyr smiled at him. "Well, Mysterious One? What happened back there?"

  The Old Mage shrugged. "Magic is going awry all over the Realms. We've just been treated to more evidence of that." He looked at her rather sadly.

  "I must warn ye: Rely not overmuch on the magic we're carrying, either."

  Sharantyr nodded slowly and took his arm. They walked on.

  "Tell me," she said in low tones as they went over a little rise and houses began to appear before them, "why you had no fear of being found out, if
that mage could read minds? Did you know his spell would fail?"

  Elminster shook his head. "If I could predict its working, 'twouldn't be 'wild magic,' now, would it?"

  Sharantyr nodded. "Mystra's burden, again?" she asked softly.

  "Aye," Elminster said briefly, his gaze leaping here and there ahead of them as alertly as any battle scout.

  "That sounds very useful to a Harper-or a courtier, I suppose," Sharantyr said almost wistfully. "No enemy can read your thoughts or twist your will. Why do they call it Mystra's burden?"

  "Think, if ye will," he replied, "of the loneliness ye would feel were ye to outlive all thy friends except fellow bearers of the burden. Ye'd see kingdoms fall, not once but again and again, and favorite places changed or swept away in the passing years. Think on this and ask me again why we call it Mystra's burden."

  Sharantyr was silent beside him as they walked a long way. Then she asked almost timidly, "What, then, will we do now, Old Mage?"

  Elminster looked at her in surprise. "Why, go and defeat this Longspear, of course."

  Jatham almost fled out of his dark room, breathing heavily. The spells had worked, aye, but he'd never before had Art curl away from his control with almost contemptuous ease. Ye gods, what was happening to him?

  He paused out in the shop to wipe cold sweat from his brow and restore his usual lazy smile before he threw back the bolt. The smile took a lot more effort than usual.

  Rogue magic! What could have caused it? Was Stormcloak an even greater danger than he'd thought?

  Or was it the mysterious enemies? What Art did they wield?

  What dark creatures were they?

  Belkram looked around at rolling fields, trees clustered along little streams that babbled down from the ever-present watching gray walls of stone above, and drew a deep breath.

  "Ready?" he asked, loosening his blade in its sheath.

  Itharr nodded. "As ever," he replied, adding a wry smile. "Harpers rush in"-he quoted an odd saying Elminster of Shadowdale had uttered just last summer, but which was already well known across the North-"where even fools fear to tread."

  "Aye," Belkram agreed dryly. "So let it begin." He pushed open the door and they went in. Above their heads, the worn signboard told all passersby that they were looking at "A Good Inn: The Shepherds' Rest." The sign creaked slightly in a gathering breeze, but there wasn't anyone looking at it any longer, so it soon fell quiet again.

  At about the same time, tumult wild and royal broke out with a roar inside the inn.

  11

  The Running of the Wolves

  " 'A Good Inn,' eh?" Itharr murmured as they shouldered their way through dark, heavy windcurtains-old hides, by the look of them-into smoky, lamplit dimness beyond. "Well, mayhap it was, once."

  "Long ago," Belkram agreed and made for a small table against a wall. The sizzling of bacon and the smell of buttered frybread was strong in the crowded, low-beamed common room.

  A few old men and withered goodwives were huddled in silence at the smaller tables. Most of the room held hard-eyed, arrogant fighting men in a variety of ragged leathers. All sported black armbands, some edged in purple. Off-duty Wolves, no doubt.

  The serving man was old, grizzled, and weary. He shuffled over to the two Harpers with a simple, "Dawnfry? Drink? Right, what'll it be?"

  "Reddarn wine" Itharr replied with an eager smile. The hot spiced drink was brought quickly. It was saltier and thicker than in better houses but went well down their thirsty throats. Dawnfry was even better, and the two Harpers fell on platter after platter like starving men.

  Or, one might say, like Wolves. One of the armsmen strode to their table. His armband had a purple border denoting rank; he was probably a Sword. Belkram looked unconcernedly up at him over a handful of hot, crumbling frybread.

  The burly man's thumbs were hooked under the guards of a dagger at his belt. He met Belkram's eyes with a gaze as cold and as hard as a stone wall, and stood over them silently, waiting for Itharr to notice him.

  Itharr finished his reddarn and said, "More, please," without looking up. Belkram kept his face straight.

  Itharr winked with the eye nearest the wall, so only Belkram could see, as he waved his flagon. "More reddarn," he explained, "when you can. I'm enjoying this excellent bacon."

  "I'm not," the man said flatly, "a servant."

  Itharr turned his head, raised his eyes lazily from the man's belt to his face, and said, "Aye, I can see that. You a hiresword?"

  The man frowned. "I'll ask questions and you'll answer, see?"

  Belkram emptied his own flagon. "Get us more reddarn while you're asking, will you?"

  A few chuckles came from the nearest tables of Wolves as the man turned cold eyes on him. "I serve the Lord of the High Dale," he said heavily, "and I don't recall any armed adventurers being allowed into the dale this last seven days or so. How long've you two been here?"

  "Not long," Belkram told him. "We're wandering minstrels, come to pay a call on friends."

  "You have friends in the dale?"

  "Many-or at least, on our last visit there were many folk here we count our friends," Itharr said smoothly. "We haven't seen them this time around. Could something have happened in the High Dale these last two winters?"

  Silence fell. The armsman scowled at Itharr, leaned a little closer, and asked loudly, "What brings you here this time?"

  "We're trying to find a friend who might have come here," Belkram told him truthfully.

  "Elminster of Shadowdale," Itharr added helpfully. "Have you seen him?"

  The Sword stiffened and swiftly drew back. The room fell so silent that faint sizzlings could be heard from the adjoining kitchen. The two Harpers looked calmly around to see hands on sword hilts all over the room. These men seemed to know Elminster's name.

  "And what are your names?" their interrogator asked from a safe distance away. He stood now beside his seat, and his sheathed sword lay on it near his hand.

  "Gondegal. The Older," Belkram replied merrily, using the name of the legendary Lost King of Cormyr, a vanished usurper. Itharr added brightly, "Gondegal the Younger."

  The man showed his teeth. "Smart tongues and ragged clothes usually mean Harpers," he said, and turned to address the tables of armed men. "Take them!"

  There was a general rush. Itharr snatched up the last of the frybread and Belkram snatched up the table. He flung it easily, as a child lobs a stone, and took down one Wolf. His chair took down another.

  Amid the general tumult, Itharr swept up his own chair and held it as a shield. "Brawling in an inn? What knavery's this?" he cried loudly. "Does justice rule no longer in the High Dale?"

  Belkram nodded. "Aye! We demand to speak to Irreph Mulmar. A man should not have to fight to have a little dawnfry in this dale!"

  One of the men chuckled, advancing. "Mulmar rules here no longer."

  "What have you done with Irreph?" Belkram asked, his voice slow and quiet. "I knew him, long ago."

  Itharr, who knew Belkram well, shivered a little despite himself when he heard his friend's voice.

  The Sword laughed, not pleasantly. "He works full days at the mill now," he said, "docile as a well-whipped ox since Lord Angruin's magic bent his will."

  "What?" said Itharr and Belkram together as their blades hissed out.

  "Take them!" the order rang out again, and the room erupted into steely war.

  The crack of the whip and the cold shock of the slop that was his morning meal being dumped on his sleeping body always awakened him. In the cold, misty grayness before full dawn, the dull-eyed thing that had once been a man always licked the slop from his flesh and the smooth stone he walked on.

  They watched him. The moment he was done, the stinging crack of the whip came again, and his chains pulled him forward. It happened again about the middle of each day.

  He was shackled to a massive wooden lever that ran to a central spindle. He walked on a great circle of stone in the darkness, around and arou
nd that spindle all day, pushing the lever. Above him, grinding stones rumbled and grain spilled endlessly down with a dry rushing sound. Thick dust rose and water always dripped somewhere, unseen in the echoing dark.

  His hands had stopped bleeding an age ago. Shackles of stout metal encircled his throat and wrists. From each shackle, a chain as long as he was tall led to rings on the great lever.

  When his body grew too foul for the overseers-he never saw them, just whips lashing down out of darkness-pipes were opened above and icy-cold water washed away the filth. The whips and water had taken his clothes long ago; he wore only a few tattered wisps of cloth around one ankle. His arms, shoulders, and thighs had grown huge and hard, covered with a latticework of white whip scars. His hair had grown long, jaw and chest covered with matted, furlike tangles. His eyes were always dull, no fire alight behind them.

  Until this morn. The millstones rumbled overhead as usual, dust swirled, and the lever, as always, was smooth and very, very heavy. He pushed against it, driving forward a weight that seemed more than three or four dead horses. Endlessly forward. He had to shove and heave and snarl until he got it rolling, then he bent into a smooth, steady push that ate up the endless breaths of the day, around and around and around.

  A thought came to him then, as he trudged, the first unbidden thought in a great while. His working day was really not so different from that of a lot of free men.

  He chuckled at that as he pushed. It was a sound he had not made in a long, long time.

  Belkram chuckled coldly as his steel found the throat of another Wolf. The Shepherds' Rest was awash with blood and smashed furniture draped with bodies. The warriors who'd been so loudly arrogant when the fray began were now silent forever or backed into a corner, fear in their white faces.

  A few deaths back, several of the Wolves had tried to break past the two Harpers and escape. Out of a side passage to bar their way came the grizzled old serving man, smiling grimly, an ancient and rusting battle-axe in his hands.