All Shadows Fled

7

Fflarast Blackriver peered again at his comrade's remains and then backed away very carefully. The rock-fall hadn't been accidental.

Someone had gone to a lot of trouble with wooden wedges and spars and balanced stones-and even flung dust around afterward to hide their work. The wedges were the bright hue of newly cut wood; this had been done within the last day or so.

"Oh, Bane preserve us," Fflarast whispered, backing out of the chamber. At that moment, a heavy booming off to the right marked the discovery of another trap. It was followed by a faint, raw screaming that went on for a long time before ending suddenly in a gurgle. Fflarast knew those sounds. Someone had put a half-crushed man out of his agony with a quick sword thrust to the throat.

"Ye gods and small creeping things hear my plea," the Zhentilar warrior whispered, invoking the old, old prayer of desperate warriors. He wasn't facing half a hundred orcs alone on a crag, like the legendary Borthin had been when he roared out the invocation, but dead is dead, and Fflarast Blackriver had only one life to lose. Moreover, he valued it just as much as Borthin had his own.

There came another rushing of stone off to the left, and startled cursing. Ah-one trap had missed. Good; that meant they were probably all clever feats, and not magic. Maybe-just maybe-Fflar would see the end of this day.

There came a ringing of steel from behind him. "What's ahead, scout?" a self-important swordcaptain snapped. Pelaeron himself, scourge of lazy soldiers. Oh, joy.

"Traps, sir," Fflarast said, indicating the fallen block and Baeremuth's arm. "I'm deciding how best to safely proceed."

"Well, hurry up about it," the officer snapped, prodding Fflar's mail-covered backside with his sword tip. "We haven't got all night, you know." A file of warriors was crowding into the room behind the swordcaptain. Fflarast looked at them-and at Pelaeron's steely eye-and then swallowed, shrugged, and carefully climbed over the rubble to the left of Baeremuth, on into the darkness.

Darkness where there should have been light. The torch had been with Baeremuth, and no mage lights were near. "Torch," Fflarast rapped out, keeping his voice as laconic as possible, and reached back.

The swordcaptain curtly waved an armsman with a blazing torch forward. The man reached to hand the torch to Fflarast, shuffled amid loose stones, tripped, and measured his length on the rubble. Stones shifted-and Fflar flung himself backward into unknown darkness as hard and fast as he could.

An instant later, armsman, torch, Pelaeron, and all vanished in a roaring and tumbling of stone as two carefully balanced blocks collapsed sideways, and the floor of the chamber above came down.

Fflarast landed hard on his tailbone on rough-edged rocks and lay there groaning. The chamber he'd come through was now a new-sealed tomb in front of him. He was lying in a cross passage-and listening to fresh crashings off to the left as heavy stones dropped and rolled. Tortured metal shrieked briefly as it crumpled, a man screamed for an instant, and then there were only echoes. Echoes that faded slowly into silence.

Fflar shuddered. He snarled wordlessly. Gods take all wizards! Save my bruised behind! Grunting, he rolled slowly and carefully to the left, to his knees, and felt for his sword.

There was another rolling crash in the distance, and shouts. Fflarast found his sword and clutched it, not moving as he fought down fear. He was alone in chill darkness with death waiting all around him. For the greater glory of Zhentil Keep, whose proud lords would not even know that Fflarast Blackriver had died in the service. Or care one whit, if someone told them.

"Hungry beasts take them all," Fflar told the darkness softly, and stayed on his knees, wondering how long it would be until dawn… and if he'd dare try to find his way out of the ruin even then.

Far down the passage, many torches glimmered and danced, and a voice said, "There-that's armor!"

"I serve Zhentil Keep!" Fflar shouted desperately, flinging up his arms in case someone was very eager to fire his crossbow. No quarrels answered. The voice came again. "Who are you, soldier?"

"Fflarast Blackriver, of Pelaeron's Mace." He cleared his throat and added, "I'm alone. Pelaeron and most of his swords lie under stone beside me. We've struck two traps already."

"It seems a contagious habit," the voice responded dryly. "Stay where you are. I'm going to throw you a torch."

A moment later, fire whup-whup-whupped end over end through the darkness, trailing sparks, and fell amid rubble, showing Fflar a row of archways on one side of the passage, and doors or fallen walls on the side he'd come in by. A boot-still twitching feebly-could be seen in the fall of rubble beside him. Fflarast swallowed and turned his back on it, looking through the nearest arch.

"What can you see, soldier?" the voice asked.

"A huge chamber-probably a great hall," Fflarast answered. "It has balconies around its inside walls, and the roof's gone somewhere. There's moonlight at one end."

"Off to your left-my right?"

"Aye," Fflarast called. "It looks open-big empty stretches."

Voices murmured down the corridor. The officer called, "Can you get to the torch?"

Fflarast struggled over rubble for a few sweating moments, half-expecting the ceiling to fall on him, but reached the guttering torch safely. "I have it," he called, and swung it nigh.

"Good. We're going to throw you another. Pitch it out into this large hall of yours and tell us what you see."

Fflarast did so. The chamber rivalled the main hall of the Black Altar back in Zhentil Keep. He'd stood honor guard in that dark temple more than once, and knew this hall was fully as large. He told them so.

"Can you say anything of interest?"

"No… broken tiles… heaved and stained flooring, but open. The torchlight doesn't show it all. Nothing moving or alive that I can see."

"Good man. Stay where you are. We're coming to join you."

Fflarast sighed heavily and stood as still as he could, watching the slow and cautious advance of a long file of black-armored men.

It seemed half the Sword of the South was in the passage. Someone had cut a long, bent sapling and lashed a torch to it, and was lighting the high ceiling as they came, finding holes and old rockfalls. There were also two shafts that presumably let light and air down into the keep, but as the soldiers of Zhentil Keep cautiously passed beneath them, nothing swooped down or fell from above. Soon the Zhentilar reached Fflarast, and a swordcaptain-another officious one-curtly ordered him to stand aside.

A torch was tossed on down the passage. Its flickering light revealed that the corridor was blocked completely not far beyond where Fflarast had entered it. An entire room seemed to have fallen from the floor above, pouring a high mound of broken stone across the passage from wall to wall, and almost to the ceiling. Fflar looked at it and shuddered.

"This great hall it is, then," the swordcaptain ordered, turning away. The man at his elbow-the swordcaptain who'd thrown the torch to Fflarast-peered into the vast chamber and murmured, "I have a bad feeling about this room."

"I think we all do!" the other officer snarled, fear lacing his blustering voice. "So let's just get on with it! Men-out swords and advance, the first dozen of you! Stop and report if you see anything of import-especially moving bones! I want to get that mage in here fast… and then maybe we'll all get some sleep!"

Men moved reluctantly into the chamber. Fflarast stood silent, glad he wasn't among them, expecting to hear another heavy crash at any moment.

Minutes passed, and the men standing still and tense in the passage could hear each other breathing, hoarse and fast. But no cries or falls of stone came, and soon a man whose armor bore the red shoulder emblem of a sword came back to the archway and reported crisply, "No danger, sir. Molds and rubbish down one end, where a lot of water's come in, but there's nothing else in the place except two stairs up to the floor above and a high seat-of bare stone, nothing in it-on a raised bit at the far end. The place is huge; there's room for a good two thousand blades to bunk down, though I'd not want to be close in under some of the balconies; they look none too safe."

"Well done, sword. Set men to guard all doors and archways into the place; we'll move in. Swordcaptain Aezel, go out and tell the swordlord. Request that the spellmaster be brought in, forthwith-and if the wizard objects, request it again."

There were a few dry chuckles in the safe anonymity of the gloom, and then men were on the move. Fflarast Blackriver came to a sudden decision. He handed his torch to a passing armsman and took up the straight, back-to-the-wall stance of a man on guard duty. He wasn't going into that great hall unless directly ordered to.

Thankfully, the officious swordcaptain passed on into the great hall, and the bulk of the soldiery followed, leaving a few wary veterans standing in the passage with Fflarast. "Neatly done, lad," one of them hissed, and grinned. Fflarast gave him a grin back, and they waited in the darkness together until a bright blaze of torches and the shuffling of many booted feet told them the main body of the Sword had arrived.

Men in black armor seemed to file past forever, until at last the black battle robes of the spellmaster could be seen sweeping majestically down the passage. He was escorted by two swordcaptains and the swordlord himself.

The supreme commander of the Sword of the South halted close enough to Fflarast to touch him, and said to the wizard, "The men want you to look around and set them at their ease that there's no magic or hidden, lurking things about. Do that, but we haven't time for you to send them haring down every passage in the place in hopes of finding magic treasure that was likely taken away long ago. I'll be outside, supervising the perimeter watch; send Swordcaptain Tschender here out to me if you want anything."

The spellmaster nodded impatiently, seeming eager to get into the room, and the swordlord stepped back, rolled his eyes behind the wizard's back, and strode off back down the corridor, leaving behind at least six veterans struggling not to chuckle as the Zhentarim stepped grandly through the nearest arch.

By unspoken, common accord the men in the passage all moved to stand where they could look through archways, and watch what befell in the great hall. Wizards of the Black Network were not loved-but they were always a source of entertainment, if one could keep safely out of the way.

Spellmaster Thuldoum strode grandly across the vast chamber, head high, looking slowly from left to right and back again. When he caught sight of the throne, he bent forward in eagerness, and his pace quickened.

"Gods spit down on 'im," one of the soldiers muttered. "He's going to sit on the throne!"

For a moment it appeared that the wizard was going to do just that-but prudence came to him at the last moment, and they saw him ordering a reluctant armsman into the seat instead.

Gingerly the soldier sat down-and from the ceiling above, a ring of boulders on chains crashed down, smashing the vainly leaping man to bloody ruin on the stones. One stone, rebounding from the impact on its chain, nearly beheaded the startled wizard, who staggered backward, arms flailing, as armsmen watched in horror. The soldier who'd been a shade too slow in vacating the throne lay where he had fallen, a broken figure in a pool of blood.

"What did I tell ye?" a soldier said, who hadn't in fact spoken before, all that long night. "Stupid buttocks-brain."

It seemed the wizard wasn't done. He'd caught sight of something behind or beyond the throne that only he could see, and was casting a spell. With all eyes upon him, he made a show of it, gesturing dramatically as he brought the invocation to a ringing climax-and a door slowly appeared in the blank wall behind the high seat. Magical radiance shone blue and silver, brightening to a soft white glow, and spread slowly along an arched frame to outline a large door.

As Zhentilar stared at it and Spellmaster Thuldoum grinned in triumph, Fflarast felt the tense prickling of hairs rising on the back of his neck. Oh, no…

The Zhentarim brought his hands down with a flourish, pointing at the door, and shouted the last word of the spell that would open it.

The door winked out. Blue-white flashes ran all over the ceiling of the chamber as a web of magic discharged, and Galath's Roost fell in on itself with a roar.

Fflarast saw the ceiling begin to fall and the wizard stare up and then vanish. He did not wait to see a thousand of his fellow warriors crushed, but turned and flung himself headlong down the passage, running as he had never run before.

There was an earth-splitting crash of stone upon stone, and Fflar was flung off his feet. He landed rolling amid dust and falling stones as the castle shook around him. The entire armor gallery had fallen into the great hall.

"Gods!" one of the old soldiers in the passage gasped. "The floor, too!" And with a slow, gathering thunder, the overloaded floor gave way, dropping in huge pieces down into dark cellars beneath.

By then, Fflar was sprinting toward the moonlight, sweat almost blinding him. A last leap over rubble-and he was out, tumbling in the ferns and coming up running, to get well away from the walls.

"Easy, soldier," said a swordcaptain, putting out a hand to stop Fflarast's frantic flight. "What befell?"

Fflar clung to the man, panting, unable to catch his breath-and from the ruined keep behind him came a slow series of smaller crashes.

They listened together, and then the officer shook Fflar by the shoulders. "Well?"

An old soldier came into view out of the same rent in the wall Fflar had used. It was one of the veterans who'd stayed in the passage. He was walking slowly and stiffly, ignoring the occasional falls of small stones from above, and the officer strode toward him with a snarl, dragging Fflar along.

"What befell?" he snapped, eyeing the old man's gray whiskers.

The old warrior looked up at him and said, "Don't bluster, lad… ye're an officer, remember?"

The swordcaptain roared out his anger and snatched at his sword-and Fflar hit him in the side of his neck with one mailed fist, as hard as he'd ever hit anyone in his life. He got in two more good blows before the body reached the ground-and stayed there.

"Easy, lad… ye've broken his neck, there's no need to dance on his bones," the veteran muttered, bending over Fflar. "Now ye'd best get away from him and practice looking innocent, afore the next officer happens along."

"Too late," a deep, grave voice said above them both. Fflar and the veteran looked up into the cold, tired eyes of Swordlord Amglar. "But by the sounds of things, I've just lost too many blades to waste two more because cruel, spoiled nobles' sons make bad officers. Consider this-accident-forgotten, and so long as you have no more, scout, I'll continue to forget it. Now tell me in truth what's befallen in there."

Fflarast and the veteran looked at each other, and then Fflar spoke. "The spellmaster cast a spell to open a door behind the throne, and-I think-set off some sort of magical trap. The whole ceiling came down at once… but I think I saw him vanish before the stones hit. I ran, then… that's all I saw. Before that, though, my unit-Pelaeron's Mace-and a lot of others I heard die, but didn't see, were crushed in rockfall traps… the keep's bulging with them."

The swordlord nodded soberly. "The spellmaster's magic brought him safely out to us here," he said, his lips twisting bitterly, "and dearly though I'd love to put him to death for this blunder, we need him in the battle tomorrow." He leaned in close to them, and his next words came in a whisper.

"Don't raise a hand to him this night, whatever the provocation… but if either of you survives the coming battle, and he's still breathing at the end of it, I want either or both of you to slay him. He may have contingencies, mind-try to dismember the body and then burn it." He looked from Fflar to the veteran, and then back to Fflar. "Understood?"

"I understand and will obey," the old soldier whispered, and Fflar echoed his words. The swordlord nodded. "Good." He looked at the veteran. "So the ceiling fell… what did you see after that?"

"The floor an' all went down into-cellars, I'd guess-below, breaking off and sliding slowly; in bits, ye know. Then the balconies broke off and fell in on top of it all, one by one. I saw spell flashes before each fall… the whole thing's one huge trap, sir, if ye ask me. I'd sooner sleep in the hot heart of an enemy campfire tonight than go back in there, sir." He jerked his head to indicate the ruined castle behind him.

The swordlord nodded grimly. "We've been duped by a clever foe-and an arrogant, careless wizard." He sighed and added, "Gods curse all wizards. If things in Faerun were all decided by the strength of a sword arm and not sneaking spells, we'd all be a lot better off!"

Rising with another sigh, their commander pointed toward a campfire. "Go and report to Shieldmaster Tesker; you're part of my own mace now, both of you." He turned away, and as they stammered their thanks, he turned back and added, "Oh, and tell him from me that you're both swords now. If we've any armor so blazoned that fits, you're to wear it tomorrow."

"May the gods thank you more than we can, sir!" the old veteran gasped.

Amglar smiled thinly. "You'll probably be cursing me on the morrow. Save your delight for when all of this is over, and we're standing proudly on the battlements of Zhentil Keep again. Then I'll thank the gods too… just how fervently I do it then, mind you, will depend on what they've done to us since."

All three of them laughed together, the grim laughter of fighting men who shared the same peril-and the same jaundiced view of the world that had put them there. Then they clasped forearms and parted.

On his way to the fires, Fflar stopped for a moment as he realized something the other two had already known-most soldiers keep warm with the memories of such moments. Swords Creek, Mistledale, Flamerule 17

Sylune of Shadowdale lay awake in the darkness, as she did every night. When one no longer needs to sleep and one's friends are in danger, there is no better way to guard them than to lie among them, feigning slumber, with a watch spell set.

Through its invisible web she felt Itharr stir, plagued by dark thoughts, building his killing rage for the battle tomorrow. Later, Sylune sent soothing visions to Belkram when a dream made him start in terror and almost awaken. Sharantyr needed no such kindnesses; she lay in peace, her dreams deep.

They were fine battle companions and good friends, Sylune smiled up at the dark roof of the tent overhead. She closed her eyes again and turned her thoughts to the many folk and places and things she must check on and watch over during this Time of Troubles, if the Realms she loved were to survive, and not some shattered, twisted remnant of Toril. At least the hours when others slept gave her time enough for reflection, to consider and anticipate all the consequences and probable unintended effects of her every action. It could truly be said of the Chosen that, more than any other thinking creatures of Faerun, they knew exactly what they were doing at all times.

Right now, Sylune was thinking over the battle tomorrow… the battle that would probably cost her this body. Jhessail and Rathan both carried fragments of stone from her hut should anything befall the one within her now, and-something was amiss!

A scrying spell swept over the tent, seeing who lay within. Its primary dweomer paused above each sleeping face as Sylune pretended to slumber, but it did not seem to sense the spell web, and withdrew without any disturbance. Yet, that is. Now someone, probably a Zhentarim mage, knew who was in this tent. While most folk still believed that the Witch of Shadowdale was long dead, only a Malaugrym had any reason to view these four sleepers as greater foes than the mightier Knights of Myth Drannor sleeping in other tents.

Sylune let out her breath in a long gasp and rose from her physical body as a ghostly, shadowy image, questing out into the camp around for any signs of fell magic. She could feel the frozen fire of magic items lying immobile in the tent Jhessail and Merith shared with Illistyl and a lady Rider, and a few faint dweomers from enspelled glow daggers riding on the hips of watchful sentries around the edge of the camp… but as long moments passed, no hostile spells came out of the night. Far away to the northeast, near ruined Myth Drannor, a wolf howled, but nothing nearby answered.

Yet a single fireball could do a lot of damage to a force this small. Perhaps she should raise a spell shield. Sylune glanced out of the tent into the still moonlight. To do so over the entire camp would be a punishing drain on the little life essence she had left; she really needed a living being to power such a magic-and to do it for long would leave the creature weak and quivering. Not a sword arm could be spared from the battle, though, so…

Something was disturbing the spell web! Sylune whirled back to face into the tent in time to see two dark, serpentine bodies rise up through the floor, making the softest of tearing sounds. Their heads, which had parted the canvas so swiftly, were deadly steel blades atop undulating, scaled coils, but they rose up in the darkness, growing swiftly larger.

Malaugrym!

The Witch of Shadowdale sent a shrieking warning through the spell web to awaken her companions as she hurled her ghostly form back across the tent. She had to reach her body! Very few of her spells were available to her in this ghostly form, when she could hold nothing solid.

One serpent-blade was arching over her own body, and the other was rearing above Sharantyr, whence it could plunge itself down into her sleeping breast, Sylune cast a curving shield of force over the lady ranger as she swept past.

Just in time! The blade came down at Sharantyr's face and was struck aside by the invisible barrier, trailing a line of white sparks.

The other serpent-thing struck at Sylune's body before she could slip into it, throwing its coils around her throat and wrists. The rest of its body extended toward Belkram, blade rearing back to strike.

She'd warned all three rangers to keep silence and find their blades as they awakened, and as the serpent-thing stretched over toward him, Belkram came boiling up out of his furs, hacking at the thing savagely.

Its hammer strike burst through his frantic parry and almost pinned to him to the tent floor, laying open his shoulder as he twisted desperately aside. He roared in pain. Sharantyr tried to scramble to his aid, and found herself a prisoner under the shield, but Itharr came leaping across the tent with his blade gleaming, bellowing, "Aid! An attack! Knights of Myth Drannor, to us!"

Sylune slid into her body, heedless of the strangling coil about her throat. She did not need to breathe, and so could take no harm from the crushing constriction of the Malaugrym-whose constraint prevented her from hurling spells. She gathered her will as ironlike coils tightened about her, and hauled her shield of force away from Sharantyr. She angled it up to wall herself away from the rest of the tent and shoved the Malaugrym's blade away from Belkram in the process.

The shapeshifter simply extended its body farther to strike at the Harper once more, but Itharr slashed it aside-and with her companions safe behind the shield, Sylune unleashed a spell that made steel shards burst from her body.

The Malaugrym took them all, convulsing in agony and flailing about the tent, sweeping her body off its bed and hurling Itharr to sprawl atop Sharantyr and the other serpentine Shadowmaster. Belkram sprang upon it and drove his blade home, but it writhed under him, not mortally harmed by his steel, and tried to shake him off. He sat on it, stabbing it repeatedly, so it grew fangs and bit his thigh.

Sharantyr and Itharr rolled around among the furs with the other Malaugrym, hacking and stabbing at it in a frenzy-and then the tent flap burst open and the Knights of Myth Drannor charged in.

Florin had doffed his armor for the night and wore only breeches, but his stout sword was in his hand. He dived without pause onto the serpent-thing on the beds, hacking at its blade-head with a flurry of blows, trying to sever the serpent's dark steel. Torm took one look at Sylune, who struggled upright with coils thick around her throat, and howled in fury, leaping across the tent with his dagger flashing.

Sylune kicked out one foot, trying to touch him, and Rathan saw what she was doing. He pushed past the thief and grasped Sylune's ankle firmly. What she said to him mind-to-mind he shouted aloud: "Malaugrym! Use silver on them to slay! They're shapeshifters! Use silver!"

At the door of the tent, Jhessail and Illistyl both nodded grimly. As Merith dived past them and buried his silver-bladed dagger in the Malaugrym that was battering Belkram all around the tent, they ran to where Itharr and Sharantyr were stabbing the other, and murmured spells as they slapped their hands at the blades, heedless of sharp, flashing edges.

The weapons glowed blue-white as Jhessail snatched her hand back, shaking drops of blood from it. When the glow faded, they shone silver… and the wounds they made did not close. Sharantyr and Itharr set to work chopping with frenzied speed, gasping their thanks.

Florin severed the blade-head of the other Malaugrym with a last blow and grabbed at the gory serpent-form, trying to hurl it away from a groaning Belkram. It grew many fanged mouths as he pounced on it, and one of them shot forth on a long stalk to snap at Torm, who ducked his head aside. Rathan raised his hand to cast a spell-and the jaws expanded with lightning speed to envelop it, biting down with cruel force.

The fat cleric doggedly intoned his spell, sweat running down his face-and fire from his hand burst forth within the Malaugrym, causing it to recoil with a roar of mingled fury and pain.

Illistyl's eyes narrowed as flames gouted from the beast. She dug a hand into her purse, snatched a silver coin, and snapped out a cantrip that crumbled the metal to powder in her hands. Flinging the powdered silver into the flames, she leapt back.

The explosion that followed was spectacular. The coils around Sylune spasmed, flinging her free-and then smashed into her body with the force of a charging war horse, hurling her like a rag doll against the side of the tent. She struck, tumbled, and came to rest atop Torm, who madly stabbed the Malaugrym and sobbed with rage.

"It's dead, Torm," Sylune told him gently, putting a hand on his shoulder as she looked over him at the gory lumps that had been the other Malaugrym. "And so's the other one."

"Gods," the thief hissed, eyes blazing, "they could have killed you!"

"Yes," Sylune agreed, "but they did not, thanks in part to you." She put up her hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, then leaned forward and kissed him. He stared at her for a moment, and threw his arms around her, weeping uncontrollably.

"It's been rather a long time since any man got this angry for my sake," she murmured into his shoulder, "but try not to get yourself killed defending me, Torm!"

"Why not?" the thief said when he found enough control to speak. "Have you seen what they did to your hair?"