Shadows of Doom

16

Elminster coughed. "If ye feel up to standing," he said, "I'd best be putting my robe back on now. Thy reputation, ye know. Besides, 'tis cold when one is old and thin and not used to drafty battlements."

Sharantyr chuckled and rolled to her feet. She felt a little weak at the knees and caught hold of the rampart for support, but when she moved there was no great pain, and everything turned and flexed as it should. She found her sword and took it up. Its familiar weight made her feel all was well again.

Elminster held up his robe and ostentatiously brushed it clean. After an undignified moment of struggling as he put it on over his head, he smoothed his beard and hefted his much-used wand. "I fear more bloodshed awaits us," he said, almost eagerly. "Now, if someone will show us where the battle's gotten to…"

As if in reply, someone not far away laughed exultantly. They tensed, staring in the direction the sound had come from, and seeing only empty walks and stairs, lifeless turrets. The sound came again, from the far side of one of the turrets. A door or a window must be hidden from their view. In unspoken accord they hurried along the battlements as silently as they could.

"Fools," a voice that matched the laughter called, "you have come here, your hard and desperate way, only to find your own deaths!"

The taunt was not directed at them; it was hurled down into the inner courtyard, where men with weapons-pitchforks, old felling axes, and a few swords and daggers-stood warily in a corner, livestock milling all around them.

Elminster and Sharantyr exchanged glances and hurried on. They still could not see the speaker. In front of them was the turret the Wolves with the rope had emerged from. The voice must be coming from its other side.

"Rush in by that door," Elminster whispered to the lady ranger, "only after ye hear me shout. Move as fast as ye can. Only a Zhent wizard would be foolish and arrogant enough to gloat over foes instead of striking, but he won't go on forever. Don't give him a chance to use magic on thee." He clapped her shoulder affectionately and darted around the curving side of the turret. Sharantyr held her blade high as she came up to the door.

The storm shutters had been thrown wide on an arched window that commanded a view of the courtyard and the parapet walk most of the way around the inside of the castle. Leaning out of the window, resplendent in rich robes, a cruel-looking man wearing earrings and a triumphant sneer was fairly spitting his words down at the trapped men below.

"Thought yourselves victorious, did you? Country idiots! Longspear ruled only as far as we let him. Now that you've swept him away and most of his stupid sword-swingers with him, what have you accomplished?"

The man raised his hand. Elminster saw that he held a handful of winking, glowing glass spheres that spun lazily around each other, and his heart sank. Zhent blast-globes!

"All you've done, worms, is thrown away your lives-and those of your wives and daughters and mothers-by hewing down all among us who might have shown you any mercy. Now you face wizards of power, dullards, and you'll discover just how we deal with defiance!"

The globes swept up, pulsing with sudden fire as he drew back his hand to throw them. "Know, worms, that it is I, Haragh Mnistlyn, who destroys you!"

Elminster leaned close then and conversationally said, "Boo."

The Zhentarim turned a startled face to the Old Mage, who smiled sweetly at him and bellowed, "Now, Shar!"

Elminster raised his wand with a confident smile and tensed to fling himself back around the curve of the wall.

The Zhent wizard didn't disappoint him. Snarling in surprised fury, he flung the blast-globes straight at Elminster.

If they struck anything, they would explode.

The Old Mage hurled himself back as energetically as he'd ever done anything in his long, long life.

There was a frozen moment when the only thing he heard was his own heartbeat booming between his ears like the muffled, deep call of a far-off marching drum. His shoulder struck stone with bruising force, and he skidded on. Lights winked and flashed past his nose.

It seemed his life might stretch a little longer, after all. A loud crash came from within the turret, accompanied by a startled curse, as the blazing globes spun past Elminster, whirled over the inner parapet wall with a handwidth or so to spare, and plunged down into the forecourt. Safely around the curve of the turret wall, the Old Mage craned to watch the end of their flight and saw folk coming toward the gate from outside the castle.

Folk without armor. Folk of the dale-Women! He had no time even for a prayer to Mystra but brought up his wand and hissed desperately, "Alag!"

The wand gave forth-ah, praise be! — a glowing teardrop of force, firing it out over empty air with a soft phut. It curved gracefully down and then seemed to leap through the air to meet the descending globes just before they could reach the open gate.

Elminster stared hard at the gate-had he been in time? — and barely heard the thin scream, abruptly cut off, from behind him. On its heels came the fury of the blast, smiting his ears like spell-thunder.

Below, a door had just opened in a tower wall. Armored Wolves were hurrying out into the forecourt, halberds and blades ready. Well, he couldn't stop the luck of Tempus falling on them.

The women had seen the Wolves and hesitated. Yes, that would save them! Elminster laughed aloud.

Gods, if he only had his magic, none of this would be necessary. But still, they'd done well this day. He turned.

"Shar?"

A grim, blood-streaked face looked out of the door at him. "I live. That's more than can be said for this spell-hurler. He was quick, I'll give him that."

The lady ranger came out into the light again. Her face was white, and she was shaking with rage.

"What, lass?" Elminster asked, reaching out to her. Sharantyr turned blazing eyes on him.

"Those snakes are laying wagers on who will kill the most with their magic," she said, seething. "He screamed just after that blast, and someone called up the stairs to see if anything had gone wrong, shouting to ask if he still expected to outdo Stormcloak's body count and claim the victor's share."

Elminster looked at her. "So what will ye do?" he asked quietly.

Sharantyr brushed errant hair out of her eyes and raised the bloody tip of her blade. "I'm going down those stairs," she said fiercely. "Guard my back, Old Mage."

Elminster nodded. "I will, as best I can."

They gazed around the battlements-long years of experience made Elminster search the sky for dragons, but he found none-and slipped into the turret, pulling the door nearly closed.

The turret room was awash with blood. The arrogant Zhentarim was draped over the back of a chair, arms flung wide, staring forever at something unseen near the ceiling.

Elminster's stomach turned over. Sharantyr set her teeth and hurried to the steps.

A light glimmered below. They descended quietly, drifting to a stop when they saw men moving in the room at the foot of the stair. It was some sort of meeting room, where men were draining and refilling ornate goblets steadily as they sat at the table or strode restlessly around it.

"Oh, we're safe enough," one cold voice was saying as Sharantyr came within hearing range. "Stormcloak sent an extra guard patrol to the roof. Ten men, I believe, and the strutting 'prentice. What's his name? Ragh, or something of the sort? The dandy who always wears court robes. It'd take old Elminster himself to break in on us here."

In the darkness on the stairs, two sets of teeth flashed in mirthless smiles.

The voice that spoke next was deeper and shorter. "The question is: Now that we don't have Longspear to hold on to his reins, what will Stormcloak do? We need forty bowmen at least to hold the dale. They're all roused out there now. Even if we slay every man who's raised sword against us today, we'll have to take the dale all over again."

"A harder thing to do now, with Cormyr and Sembia both looking our way and beginning to suspect who our mages are."

"Aye," came the deep voice again, "but will Stormcloak call for the aid we need, or will his first concern be impressing Lord Manshoon and other Zhentarim of power with his own strength and battle cunning? He may well try to win the day alone for greater glory. He cares nothing for this place. All can see that much."

"Hush, will you. Hear? He comes. That must be his guard, for there's not another large band of sword brothers left."

Elminster laid a silent hand on Sharantyr's sword arm to check her. Silently she laid her own free hand over his and patted it reassuringly. No. The time was not now.

There came the sound of many booted feet, a door opening, and a single, measured tread approaching the table.

"Councillors," came a cold, confident voice, "we hold the castle. Only a few of those who attacked us yet live. I'm told that women and young girls are all who remain to storm our gates. We've not found the mage or the two warriors who led the rabble. I suspect Cormyr is backing them, but I'll find out soon enough. As you know, the real tragedy today is the loss of our lord, slain by those two warriors." He paused, but no voice broke the silence.

"With his fall, rule over this dale passes into my hands," the voice continued flatly, challengingly. The words fell into another silence.

Then a deep voice said, "By what right do you claim lordship here, Stormcloak? Your magic, aye, but have you any less… ah, brutish claim? It is customary for the council to choose who shall rule over the High Dale." A general stirring accompanied these words, a shifting, rising tension that died into heavy, anticipatory silence.

Stormcloak's reply was as cold as a glacier wind. "You must know, Councillor, where Lord Longspear came from and what men he led in battle. That place is where I and my fellow mages came from. You are not a fool; you tell me."

"Zhentil Keep," the deep voice replied slowly, waiting.

"Aye," Stormcloak agreed dryly. "Whose orders I have followed, and passed on to Longspear and others, since the day we came here. I held authority over Longspear from the first, whether he acknowledged it or not. As to the vote of this council, consider a simple sum. To be lord I need only a majority of votes, and all the Zhentarim will vote with me."

"There are fewer of you," the deep voice reminded him, just as dryly, "than there once were."

"Well then, good Councillor Gulkin, perhaps it is time that the real strength of the Brotherhood was made known to you-to all of you. Call it a necessity of war, if you will, and if any tongues here today should slip about it later, be warned that their silencing will also be… a necessity of war."

A wine goblet was set down deliberately. Men stirred and shifted again.

Stormcloak's voice came again. "Kromm Kadar is the most recent addition to this table. Our blacksmith serves Zhentil Keep. His predecessor was a Sembian spy, whom we killed. Kromm serves the same master I do; his vote will be with mine."

Tense silence was the only reply. Stormcloak's triumphant, almost taunting voice came again. "There is also Alazs. Am I not right?"

"Yes, Lord," came a new, thin voice.

"Alazs breeds good horses and has sold many to Lord Longspear. I'm sure he'll continue to put good mounts under our men. He has orders to, from the same source as I get my directives. Alazs has swung a sword for the Brotherhood in the Moonsea North for many a year. Perhaps you've heard of Alazs Ironwood, the Sword of Melvaunt?"

Silence was the only reply. Stormcloak was moving about the room; his voice receded slightly. "Are you counting, Gulkin? Have I the votes yet? Not quite. Ah, but there's another. Our physic, Cheth, is more than a man of potions, drugs, and herbs. He, too, serves the Brotherhood-and his healing seems most successful when applied to those we want healed."

"Is this wise," a rasping voice came, "revealing us all, when you could have just voted this stump-head down?"

"I believe so, Master Moonviper," Stormcloak replied. "I think it's important that we drop the pretenses with which Longspear wasted so much of our time."

The listeners on the stairs heard the glass stopper of a heavy decanter set down, liquid gurgling, and the thud of the decanter returning to the tabletop.

"Sword, would you-?" The stopper was replaced and the decanter shifted again.

"Thank you." Stormcloak sipped, swallowed, and came closer. His voice was loud, very close under them, when he continued. "I have long had my suspicions, Councillor Gulkin, that some among us may well serve other masters, unknown to me. Perhaps you know something of this and can enlighten me? No? Well, feel free to unburden yourselves, any of you, should you learn of such misplaced loyalties among us. There have always been those who meddle-worshipers of dead dragons, the Harpers, and the Red Wizards, to name just three. I'll be very surprised if at least one man here doesn't know more of one such concern than he wants us to realize. Of course, we must always look to Cormyr on the one hand and Sembia on the other to take an interest in us, lying between them, the lightly patrolled backlands of both within our reach."

They heard him walking about almost lazily in the deep silence that followed.

"That, Cheth," Stormcloak added lightly, "is why I'd like everyone here to know just how matters stand. Besides, this will give traitors among us something to do-trying to report back to those who hold their secret loyalty, and not be discovered by us while doing so."

"Yes, Lord Stormcloak," Cheth agreed.

"Ah, but let us have the vote," Stormcloak's voice came again, almost purring now. "Or rather, to save time and thirsty throats, councillors, let us hear who would vote against me. Simply speak out and name the one you would have rule the dale in my stead." He chuckled and added, "In view of the situation at present, please ensure that you choose someone you know to be still alive."

Elminster leaned over and murmured, his lips against Sharantyr's ear, "I'd not seen this humor in the man before. It's much worse than his cold, snarling side."

Sharantyr turned her head until her soft lips were at the Old Mage's ear. "I take it, then, that you're voting against him?"

Elminster chuckled silently. It made his beard dance against her cheek.

"I believe you're right, Cheth," Stormcloak's voice came up to them. "It seems I am lord in the High Dale, after all. We'll have to set a feast over this. Tonight, in the Great Hall. Give the orders, won't you, Councillor Gulkin?"

"Aye, Lord," the deep voice muttered. "Is this meeting at an end?"

"If the council agrees," Stormcloak said silkily. There was a gruff, uneven answering chorus of assent, the sound of chairs scraping back, and the noise of booted feet moving about. The sounds receded until they died away entirely.

"Follow the wine merchant," Stormcloak's voice came again. "He's been entirely too quiet and agreeable these six rides past."

"Aye, Lord," someone replied, and left.

Stormcloak's tread came closer until it was right beneath them. His hard, carefree voice said, "All right, Haragh, you can come down now. You've been crouching up there listening to all of it, haven't you?"

Sharantyr twisted out from under Elminster's hand and launched herself down the stairs like a vengeful arrow. Her sword flashed as she came out into the light in a leap that brought her down on top of the startled wizard.

Only the goblet in the Zhentarim's hand saved him. Her landing drove his outstretched arms up, and the goblet with them in front of his throat. Her sword cut it to twisted ruin, but Stormcloak's flesh beneath escaped, leaving him alive and able to shriek.

Sharantyr's training made her look up as they struck the floor together. Three fully armored, capable warriors were moving toward her, weapons grating out.

Veterans, and not alone. Two swordsmen had been going out the door after the departing councillors. They were already turning startled faces to her.

If she carved up this Zhent wizard, she'd have no time to hold back all the swords coming for her. And who would protect Elminster then?

Sharantyr sprang up, too busy to curse, and leapt to meet the first warrior. From behind her, a magic missile streaked into one of the faces at the door, quelling the shout it was widening to utter. The other missile must have struck the new lord of the dale. Behind her she heard him gasp, curse, and roll frantically away.

Then she was fighting for her life and had no time to watch Angruin Stormcloak frantically teleport away.

Harpies curse the woman, whoever she was, were his parting thoughts. He'd snatched the time to take that spell back into his mind as battle raged at the very gates of the castle. Now it was used and gone, with dangerous fools still lurking about.

Red butterflies suddenly swirled all around Sharantyr, and with them came a drift of snow.

She heard Elminster sigh and murmur, "Wands!" in exasperation. Then the first warrior slipped on something and fell heavily at her feet, nearly taking her with him. She caught the second blade reaching for her life at the last possible instant.

The first man was struggling and heaving beneath her, reaching for a dagger or trying for room enough to get his sword into her, no doubt. The second man was snarling and using all his strength to force into her face the broadsword she'd parried a finger or so in front of her nose. Sharantyr set her teeth and resisted, knowing he was stronger and that the struggles beneath her were forcing her up into the waiting blade.

"Lady, aid me," Sharantyr cried, calling on Mielikki, the goddess of the forest. "Tymora and Tempus, attend," she added for good measure, seeing death very close to her and reaching dark fingers her way.

Then the man above her grunted and was spitting blood and teeth as a tattered, dirty, and familiar boot took him in the face. Elminster had joined the fight. He stepped on her with a muttered, "Sorry, lass," as he bent to drive his dagger into the neck of the man beneath her. Then he sprang up, robes swirling, to stamp on the sword hand of the man he'd kicked. There was a cracking sound and a roar of pain, and Elminster had the sword in his own hands and was bringing it up to parry the rushing attack of the third man.

"Shar," the Old Mage suggested calmly as a flurry of ringing blows drove him back across her toward the stair, "cut the legs out from under this fellow for me, will ye?"

Sharantyr grinned savagely. "I'll do better," she replied, and snaked an arm out from under the tangle of limbs to drive her sword up into the breeches under his armor skirt.

The man screamed, gave an awkward hop, and fell to the floor, writhing in agony. Elminster dropped the sword and went to the table.

Men were thundering back up into the room, hastily donning helms and drawing swords. Elminster picked up the heaviest chair he could find, and with a sudden rippling of muscles threw it across the room to crash into the foremost man.

The startled Wolf went down, and the man behind him tripped and went sprawling. Elminster hurled the iron sphere he was carrying at the next man and charged forward, snatching out his dagger again.

He used it twice with brutal haste before he reached the pinioned man. With a bleak smile he struck the sword out of the man's hand and shoved the man hard with his shoulder.

The man was wrapped in metal bands, like a cage that has tightened around its prisoner until the bars press into the skin all around and movement is impossible. Elminster drove the helpless man backward into the door frame, where he lodged amid cracking noises of wood and bone, and a scream of pain.

"Noisy, these Zhents," he commented as the man screamed again. Men behind him in the corridor outside the room began to curse, trying and failing to push the pinioned Wolf out of their way. "How do ye, Shar?"

Sharantyr came to join him, blade wiped clean. "I'm still alive," she replied grimly, eyeing the man, "but I like little the thought of hacking my way through that lot. What say we go back up again and seek another way down?"

Elminster frowned for a breath or two as unseen men shoved and cursed, doing something that made the caged man scream again. Then he nodded. "I don't like to leave magic behind, with things as they are," he said, eyeing the iron bands, "but there's no easy way to get that back without fighting all of them. I suppose I should thank Mystra and Tymora both for it merely working when I needed it."

Sharantyr nodded and took his arm. "Come, El. Let's be out of here before someone else finds magic that works and fills this room with fire-or worse."

Elminster looked again at the now-unconscious man, head bouncing and lolling from the force of blows he was taking from behind as impatient warriors tried to force their way into the room. He sighed, drew up his robes in both hands for faster climbing, and made for the stairs. Sharantyr glided just behind him, sword ready, watching their rear as they ascended. It was turning into a very long day.