Shadows of Doom asota-1

by Ed Greenwood

  The Old Mage stood quite still. The bands flared wide to go around him, pulsed with a brief flash of light, and then shrank with horrible speed, drawing down around the old man.

  The two Harpers battled the councillors with frantic haste. One of the councillors fell with a ragged cry, but there were still many blades between them and the wizard atop the table.

  Stormcloak crouched and drained a flask from his belt-a healing potion, Sharantyr had no doubt-and straightened, wiping his lips. As she struggled to find strength, biting her lip and whimpering against stabbing pain, the Zhentarim wizard calmly drew forth a glass bead from his robes, smiled a brittle smile down on her, and cast a spell that brought a shimmering sphere into being about him.

  She'd seen one before: a globe of invulnerability or one of its variants. No ball of fire or bolt of lightning could touch Angruin now. The Lord of the High Dale drew himself up and sneered down at Elminster, who stood wrapped in tightening bands of iron.

  "Toothless old men seem to have haunted me of late, hurling proud, empty memories of power against me-until I destroy them. If you had any wits left, graybeard, you'd stay at home, dreaming and grumbling by the fire, and leave mages of real power well alone."

  Elminster whispered something, and the iron bands shuddered and fell away from him, clattering about his feet like so many hoops stripped from a barrel.

  Stormcloak stared at him in astonishment. Elminster strolled forward, wand in hand, as if he were in a hurry to get to the other side of a peaceful garden, and observed mildly, "Talk grows no more expensive as the years pass, does it?"

  The wand in his hand pulsed, and spat two magic missiles. Two councillors stiffened, and one hadn't even time to groan before Gedaern of the dale hewed him to the floor.

  Councillor Xanther watched from the darkness under a table. So this was the Old Mage of Shadowdale, one old man who'd done nothing so far beyond the powers of the wand he held and a ring he wore. His magic must be gone, or failing. The Brotherhood could yet win this day.

  How, though, with Stormcloak hurling death in all directions? Stormcloak must prevail, if Elminster was to be defeated at all. Could the Old Mage be compelled to surrender the knowledge of where some hoard lay hidden, how a particular spellbook was guarded, and what words governed a certain staff or rod or wand? That old man's head must be stuffed with a vast wealth of such thoughts, treasure beyond the grasping of most mages, but how could he be kept alive to reveal it?

  From outside the great hall came the thunder of running, booted feet pounding on stone, followed by the sound of a young woman laughing, her voice high and gleeful. "For the dale!" she called. "For the High Dale, free again!" The door of the hall burst open, and a group of wild-eyed women burst in, blades flashing in their hands.

  The councillors exchanged fearful glances. The castle was lost. They were doomed. The people would probably tear them apart bare-handed!

  Elminster's unhurried walk took him to the woman in tattered leathers, still groaning on the floor. He took a ring from his finger-not the ring that had warded off the lightning, but one from his other hand-and slipped it onto her finger. Then he scuttled away from her, facing Stormcloak, a hand darting beneath his robes.

  "Still so haughty, Zhentarim?" he asked, raising mocking eyebrows.

  Angruin Stormcloak snarled at him and moved his hands angrily in the motions of a spell.

  Irreph Mulmar tried not to gasp too loudly. Pain still throbbed deep inside with every move he made. He crawled slowly across the stone floor-one he'd strode across often enough in years before this one, covering the distance that now seemed so agonizingly long in a few swift strides. He watched the old wizard skillfully take the Zhent usurper's attention onto himself, and managed a smile. Gods, he hurt. He'd not worn that healing ring nearly long enough.

  He crawled and crawled, the heavy layers of leather weighing on his shoulders. Elminster had found the hide in a room near the stables, and they'd wrapped his chains in it to silence them. The chains were heavier by far, now.

  Trying to ignore their cold weight, he crawled past the still-writhing lady ranger. She wore the ring now, and needed it worse than he did by the look of her face. Gods, but she must have cut her way through most of the Wolves in the castle to get here! Irreph took a good look at her and managed a smile. The tearing agony of his movement turned it into a grimace as he went on. The high constable looked up at the table through a growing mist of red pain and wondered if he'd get there in time.

  Stormcloak hurled lightning again. Councillors fled or cowered behind chairs all around the room as the white light flashed across to Elminster, was turned aside by his ring, and crackled back at the Zhentarim mage.

  The shimmering globe around the mage absorbed the lightning. It was still sputtering and fading when the angry mage cast his next spell. Nothing happened.

  Outside the castle walls, a tree tore up out of the earth with a noise like tearing canvas, shot up into the air past an astonished farmer, and headed west.

  Stormcloak snarled his bafflement. His hands were already moving again. His only power lay in his magic, and nothing he'd seen yet could withstand it forever. This old man must fall.

  Magic missiles streamed from Stormcloak's fingers in a glowing swarm that leapt and darted restlessly as they sped toward the Old Mage. Around and around him they swooped and ducked, only to turn back on Stormcloak and fade away as the ring on Elminster's hand glowed more brightly.

  That glow was brighter and stronger than it had been. Stormcloak's eyes widened, then narrowed. Could the old fool be wearing a Myth Drannan ring?

  Primitive things, made long ago, they had limits and could be overloaded by the sheer amount of Art hurled against them in a short time. Stormcloak grinned. Well, then…

  Missiles streamed again from the Zhentarim's fingers, and the ring grew brighter as it hurled them back at him.

  Angruin Myrvult Stormcloak laughed aloud. His hands moved again in the same smooth, rapid gestures as before.

  The two Harpers hacked at those councillors who stood against them in the service of Zhentil Keep, or perhaps out of fear for the magic of the man who stood on the table behind them. The councillors knew how swiftly and harshly he would reward treachery, and so fought with the agility and recklessness of desperation. Their line held.

  Magic missiles swooped and swarmed around the battling swordsmen and streaked at the old man with the white beard again.

  Elminster stood watching them come. His face did not change, but the ring on his finger was fast becoming too bright to look upon. Glowing missiles circled it like sparks flying about a smith's grinding wheel and swept away again.

  The Zhentarim smiled like a cat playing with cornered prey, and his hands moved again. Sharantyr stared up at him from the floor, sudden tears blurring her sight. Blazing missiles burst forth from his fingers again and flew over her.

  Throat suddenly dry, Sharantyr turned to look. There was a sudden flash and a roar, and a puff of smoke hid the Old Mage from her.

  As she choked for breath, frantically trying to scream, Sharantyr heard the Lord of the High Dale's low, coldly satisfied laughter.

  20

  Feast, Fire, and Fury

  Even though Elminster was braced, waiting for the magic to strike, his body still shook-and it still hurt. The ring of spell-turning, old when this Stormcloak's great-great-grandsire was a babe, shattered under the onslaught of Art.

  As Elminster had known it would. He closed his eyes against the flash and spread his fingers wide to keep them from being torn apart.

  The ring burst, its shards leaping from him, and much of his nearby flesh went with it.

  The Old Mage clutched the wrist of his torn, smoking hand and roared in pain. Well, he thought with surprising calm, staring at what was left of that appendage, those who spend centuries hurling spells must bear their share of spells coming back at them. But holy Mystra, it hurt!

  Belkram laid open a councillor's face and litera
lly ran up the man as he fell, leaping for the table. Too late. Too cursed often, he thought grimly, Harper blades came too late!

  Stormcloak's triumphant laughter broke off long enough for him to hiss a word, and he abruptly vanished from in front of the astonished Harper.

  Belkram slashed empty air in case the wizard had merely cloaked himself with invisibility, then looked wildly around, sword held high.

  Sharantyr's raw-throated scream warned him. The Zhentarim mage stood beside Elminster, wearing a sneering smile. His hand was coming up from his robes quite slowly, and a long dagger gleamed in it.

  A dagger with a tapering, up-curving blade, a blade of black glass that winked and sparkled with many tiny, moving lights.

  "A death dagger!" Itharr gasped, turning from the councillor he'd been about to kill. "He is a Zhentarim!"

  Stormcloak gave him that cruel smile and waved a hand. Magic missiles burst from his fingers and streaked across the hall.

  Itharr stiffened as they struck him, light flaring for an instant. Then he collapsed with a groan.

  The Zhentarim laughed again in triumph and raised the dagger above his head. He met Sharantyr's horrified eyes, and she cried weakly, "No! No!" as she crawled toward him. A sudden spasm of agony made her clench her teeth, swallowing her cry. She shook her head, helpless in pain.

  Angruin Myrvult Stormcloak looked down at Elminster, dagger winking in his hand as he slowly raised it, and savored the moment.

  And then the forgotten Irreph Mulmar rose up behind the Zhent wizard like a vengeful ghost.

  The rattle of chains warned the Zhentarim. Stormcloak spun around, hands rising to ward off a heavy length of chain that swept into him like the mighty slap of a breaking wave. The first blow shattered the dagger and the arm that held it, and left Angruin gasping in pain. Tiny lightnings fizzed and crackled to the floor as the death dagger's magic fled.

  "It's too late for you to learn, wizard," Irreph rumbled, pain making his words sharp and hissing, "to beware toothless old men." His shoulders rolled like the aroused leap of an angry old lion, and the chain swung again.

  The second terrible blow split Angruin's skull like the shattering of a hurled egg striking a stone wall, and nearly tore his jaw off. The corpse clawed at the air convulsively and vainly-and fell.

  Irreph stood looking down at the body for a long time, chain clenched in his hand for another blow, but the mage called Stormcloak did not move again.

  Silence fell as dalefolk and councillors left off trying to kill each other. The high constable finally lifted his head and looked slowly around the room as if seeing it for the first time. His gaze fell on the Old Mage, who knelt clutching the wrist of a blackened, broken hand.

  "My thanks, Elminster," Irreph said thickly, "for giving me my home back again. We must feast together, later." And with a rattle of chains, he collapsed atop the body of the wizard who had dared to usurp his post.

  Elminster shook his head to clear the pain and started the long crawl to where Sharantyr lay. Her eyes had opened again, and the smile creeping onto her face was glorious to see.

  "Hurry up and heal, lass," Elminster growled as he drew near. "I'm in fair need of that ring meself."

  From atop the table Belkram said, "Drop your weapons, councillors, if you would live. All who fight on will be declaring themselves Zhentarim… and will know their fate soon, and painfully."

  As he looked coldly down at the councillors, dalefolk encircled them with weapons ready, and Itharr struggled to his feet.

  The trapped men looked around the room, and steel clattered to the stones as councillor after councillor held up empty hands.

  Belkram waved his sword at the chairs around the table. "Sit," he suggested. "I'm sure the high constable will have some words for you before long."

  Through the open doors there came the ring of steel on steel, running feet, and a short, cut-off scream.

  Gedaern looked up at Belkram and said, "We can guard these-and Irreph, the gods bless him. Go hunting Wolves, Harper." He grinned and looked over many sprawled bodies. "The pair of you certainly seem to have the hang of it."

  Belkram looked back at him and smiled rather sadly. "It seems that way, doesn't it?" he replied softly, and looked to his comrade-at-arms. "Itharr?"

  "Here," Itharr said grimly, rubbing at parts of him that hurt. "I–I'll be with you, ready to end this slaughter… if you get down off that table slowly and give me time to catch my breath."

  From somewhere nearby in the castle came a wild yell, a clash of weapons, and another scream-this one long and lingering.

  The two Harpers exchanged glances as Belkram's feet found the floor, "By the sounds of it," he replied, shouldering his way warily through the councillors, "there may be no Zhent Wolves left to see to."

  Itharr only grunted. He limped as they started back across the great hall, but they were both trotting, blades in hand, as they went out into the passage.

  Ulraea stared after them. "They seem more like things of iron and untiring magic than men."

  "They're men," Gedaern told her with a light in his eyes. He hefted the weapon in his hands and stared at the doors the two had left by. "More than that-they're Harpers."

  "Better, lass?"

  "It's 'Shar,' remember?" Sharantyr reminded him with a mock severe look.

  Elminster spread innocent hands. "I'm an old man, lass-Shar. I forget things, like all old men." He looked her slowly up and down as if seeing her for the first time. By the time his gaze rose again to meet her own, Sharantyr found herself blushing.

  "Ye look whole now," he added. "What say ye?"

  Sharantyr smiled ruefully and handed him the ring. "Well enough, Old Mage. Your turn."

  Elminster put the ring on his finger and said briskly, "Good. I prefer to heal while I'm up and doing. Come." He plucked at her arm and set off for the doors at a steady stride.

  Sharantyr followed. Behind them, Gedaern shouted, "Hey!"

  Elminster did not pause. Sharantyr looked back.

  "Both of you," Gedaern said. "You heard the Harper! Hold!"

  Elminster turned at the door, and said, "Guard those councillors well, as he bid ye, young man. I've other business to see to yet." And he was gone.

  " 'Young man'?" Gedaern sputtered angrily. Sharantyr spread apologetic hands and followed the Old Mage.

  One of the councillors watching them go frowned thoughtfully and reached inside his tunic.

  Something shattered loudly on the stone floor. When Gedaern whirled around, darkness was already spreading smoky tendrils toward him.

  Elminster moved slowly and kept his injured hand hidden in the sleeve of his robe. Sharantyr caught up to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  "Elminster," she said, earnestly, "I'm well enough to get about, and fight if need be, but you! Are you in any shape to be strolling around in the midst of a battle?"

  The Old Mage gave her a tired look. "The answer to that one, lass, is the same one it's always been: I have to be."

  He looked down a side passage and added, "So rest ye assured, I am. We go this way."

  Sharantyr rolled her eyes and followed him. "Just answer me this, then. Where are we going, and why?"

  "Ah, lass," the answer floated back to her down the dim passage. "Sages and drunkards alike have been arguing over answers to that double-bladed question for longer than I've been alive."

  "Elminster!" Sharantyr wailed despairingly.

  Behind them a councillor slipped out of the great hall in the concealing smoke born of the magical globe he'd shattered. He trotted to where he could watch the lady ranger and the old man in robes turn into the side passage.

  Shouts echoed not far off, followed by the sound of running feet drawing nearer. The councillor frowned and looked hurriedly around. Selecting a certain door, he slipped into the room behind it, closed the door in silent haste, and in the darkness felt his way past the table he knew would be there to the floor beyond.

  On his knees, he drew a sl
im, smooth wand out of a concealed sheath on his forearm and muttered a word. The wand pulsed with a faint purplish-white radiance, and from its tip a ghostly white glow spun away to form… an eyeball.

  The orb stared back at him, looking very much like his own eye for a silent, floating instant, then faded slowly from view.

  The councillor slid the wand back into its place, took a hidden dagger out of its sheath inside his boot, and lay down on his face, hiding the hand that grasped the dagger under him, his other hand sprawled as if lifeless.

  He blew dust away to ward off sneezing and lay still in the chill darkness. The invisible eye, driven by his will, slipped under the door and sped down the passage in pursuit of Elminster of Shadowdale.

  Elminster rubbed his chin. "It's been many a winter," he said slowly, "and they've made some changes… but what I'm looking for should be about-here."

  His slowing stride brought him to a halt between two closed doors. He retraced his steps to the first door and paced carefully along the passage from it. At a certain spot he took off one boot, leaving it as a marker, and padded unevenly on to the second door.

  Pacing back carefully from that door, the Old Mage found himself at his boot again, nodded, and put it back on. He looked up at Sharantyr almost challengingly.

  She merely shook her head. Elminster knelt down, touched with a questing finger the stone he'd marked, and nodded again emphatically.

  Sharantyr cast a quick look behind her, sword in hand. The passage was dark and empty. Then she bent forward to watch as Elminster dug the fingers of his undamaged hand into a dark crack that looked no different from a hundred others in the flagstone floor, and heaved.

  The stone shifted a little. Dust puffed up and swirled as it sank comfortably back into its place again.

  Elminster grunted, dug his fingers in again, shifting for a better grip, and heaved. His shoulders shook.

  Sharantyr leaned closer. "Want any help?"