Shadows of Doom

3

Death came for them with cold fury. The four brigands, intent on robbing an old man in fine robes, the sort of person who might well have a gold coin or two stitched into belt or boot top, did not hear their doom coming down on them.

One looked up too late. Long brown hair swirled as a leather-clad figure raced through the trees, sword held high. The staring brigand raised his dagger too slowly. He spun to a blood-spattered fall, throat cut open, as the swordswoman stormed into their midst.

Then her silvery blade was leaping everywhere, like a many-headed striking snake. Storm Silverhand had taught her things with a sword, and she was almost as fast as the famous Bard of the Blade.

Balrik Daershun was also counted fast and able with a blade. He'd ridden in the forefront of Lashan's troops, not so long ago, when they'd cut down full-armored Sembian lancers on the road south of Essembra. He'd killed four that day, leaping from his mount to carry the last lancer out of his saddle, his dagger finding the visor-slit even before the antagonists struck the ground together. Men had spoken of Balrik's fighting with awe and praise, and he'd been toasted with much wine.

Toasts had been fewer since, but Balrik's blade still served him. In the final rout of Lashan's leaderless host, Balrik and a dozen comrades had carved their way through a well-armed Cormyrean horse patrol to escape.

Outlaws led a hard life. Since that battle, Balrik had learned to fear arrows and quarrels from afar. He had only three companions left now, but two of them were nearly as good with a blade as he was, and he feared no man who came at him with a sword.

After that first whirl and flurry of steel, Balrik began to think he'd not be given time enough to learn to fear women who swung swords.

Elminster twisted free of the tall, hook-nosed man who held him, and dove for the ground to avoid the sword slash he knew would come. The expected blade flashed past overhead, then the man was turning at the leader's shout to face the new threat.

Elminster's rings and the wand he wore at his belt had saved his life. The brigands been so intent on grabbing and breaking fingers and snatching away the smooth stick of wood to stay any magic he might hurl, that they'd not put a dagger in his throat.

He began crawling away from the trampled ground where they'd struggled, looking back all the while to avoid being taken from the rear. If he could get away-

Then he saw the newcomer and struggled to his feet. This was no rival brigand come to settle scores or win a share of the loot. This was Sharantyr of the Knights. As he straightened, she spared time to flash a smile at him through her dance of striking steel. The three brigands were all around her now, tripping and stumbling over the body of the fourth. Her blade slid in and out, not daring to lunge full out in a killing thrust and thereby give another foe an opening to buy her death.

These were experienced warriors, not mere hungry hackers and stabbers. They would not fall easily, for all that they still gaped at her in wonder.

A woman-and so pretty, too, though her eyes held cold death for them, and her blade hissed like a striking serpent in her hand. She wore good leathers, but save for a gorget, she bore no metal plate to turn sword tip aside. And already she was panting, winded. Aye, for all her blade flashed so, they could take this one.

Abruptly she gasped and bent double. Grinning, Gaerth Wolfarm stepped in, drawing back his blade for a killing thrust.

"No!" Balrik roared from behind him. " 'Tis a trick, Gaer-"

His words died in his throat, too late by far, as Sharantyr straightened with a smile that chilled his blood, slashed open Gaerth's throat with a sweep of her sword, and shoved his body backward into Balrik's.

Cursing, Balrik stumbled aside, blade flailing in a desperate defense. But she was not coming for him. She'd turned, that beautiful long hair swirling, to slay Albeir.

Albeir o' the Axe. Albeir the veteran of half a hundred mercenary skirmishes on the Westgate caravan roads and in the Vilhon. Albeir the steadfast, who abruptly turned, white-faced, and sprinted away. Sharantyr took two running steps in pursuit, saw how he held his sword and that he was running toward Elminster, and snatched a dagger from her hip.

Balrik saw the blade spin to catch Albeir's ear in a gout of blood. He saw Albeir stagger, catch himself, and bear down on the wizard. The brigand grabbed the old man by the throat, swinging him around with brutal haste to serve as a shield.

Sharantyr halted and cast a look back at Balrik. He came on toward her, beginning to grin. Then he saw Albeir's grim face suddenly twist in pain. The old warrior's eyes went wide and he took a half step toward something unseen. Still staring, he crashed to the ground. Elminster looked down with evident sadness at the bloody dagger he held.

Balrik knew cold fear. The lady in leathers was turning back to him, blade low and deadly. It had seemed so easy, four on one, and an old man, too. Tymora spits on us from time to time, that minstrel had said back in Scardale. And look, 'twas the cold truth.

Then that blade came leaping at him again, and Balrik had no time for thought. Steel rang on steel inches from his nose as he parried desperately in the last instant before death would have found him. Then he had to do it again, gasping for air. Gods, this woman was not human! Where in the name of Tempus had she learned to wield a bla-there! Balrik saw an opening. His thrust, delivered with all he could put behind it, ran down her arm and laid open the leathers in a smooth, sliding strike. Her sword arm.

The silvery blade flew free, as he'd known it would, but she did not scream or fall back. She stepped into him, hard, and smiled into his face. "Good fight, carrion," she said calmly, eyes not a hand length from his own, and Balrik felt a sudden cold wetness in his gut.

She shoved him away and ducked aside from his last desperate slash. Balrik's fingers found the dagger-gods, hilt deep! — and his lips found time for what he had to say before blood welled up to choke him. "I am… a dead man. Lady, I am Balrik Daershun. Who are you?"

"I am Sharantyr of the Knights of Myth Drannor," she answered as the man fell heavily to his knees. His eyes had gone dark before her words were all out, and she never knew if he'd heard them. The brigand toppled from his knees, falling on his side with a rattling groan, and lay silent.

Sharantyr looked down at the flapping tatters of her forearm leathers, watched the bright blood dripping from her elbow, and shook her head. She must be getting old.

Elminster stood up slowly and brushed leaves from the chest of his robes with hands that shook only a little. Then he looked at the lady in leathers, the beginning of a smile at the corners of his lips. In his hand was his purse, plucked up from where it had fallen when the brigands had cut it away. From it he'd taken a vial of clear liquid that he held out to her, nodding at her arm.

"I wondered, for a time, if life was still worth the living. It is, and I thank you for saving mine to run awhile longer." Elminster looked around at the trees and added quietly, "How much longer, I wonder?" He shrugged.

"Old Mage," Sharantyr asked, as he knew she would, "why did you not use your magic? I've seen you lay low Zhent soldiers by the armful. Zhentarim who hurled spells against you, even! What befell?"

Elminster looked away for a long moment. Then his eyes met hers calmly and he said levelly, "My magic is lost to me. All of it-gone."

Silence hung between them for a moment as they stood in the leaves looking at each other. Without taking her eyes off his, Sharantyr uncorked and drained the vial. Then she asked, "If you will tell me, what will you do now?"

Elminster looked far off for a moment. Then he sighed and said softly, "I've a lot of neglected reading to be about. Perhaps in the palace library in Silverymoon, and in the Heralds' Holdfast, to start with. And then… I used to harp, once."

"Long ago?" Sharantyr asked lightly, using the toe of her boot to roll over the body of one she'd slain and bending smoothly to salvage a dagger.

"Aye, under the skilled teaching of a fair lady," the Old Mage replied.

"Fairer than me?" Sharantyr teased, holding out the dagger to him.

It hung in the air between them for a long, silent breath as their eyes met. Elminster's hand slowly reached out. The Old Mage took the dagger as gingerly as one handles a bloody corpse when dressed in finery, and said slowly, "My memory says yes, but what are mind images beside living beauty? She's long dust, now."

Sharantyr took his elbow and led him firmly to where the brigands had tethered their horses. "Long ago? How long ago was this?"

"In Myth Drannor before it fell," Elminster replied in a voice that was almost a whisper, his eyes on something far away and long ago.

He felt Sharantyr's arms move gently around him, the warmth of her leather-clad body against his shoulders. "Oh, Old Mage," she said tenderly into his neck, "I wish you well. You deserve fairer than this."

"I'll be all right," Elminster said firmly. "Stop soaking my robes with tears, look ye! They cost me three silver pieces, they did, in-" He fell silent and then added, "Well, in a place gone now."

Then he snorted. "Which is where we'll be, if we stand about sobbing until winter finds us here." He grinned suddenly. "Aye, lass, I'll be all right."

There came a knock on the door-not the first time that had happened, nor yet the last. Lhaeo opened it without delay, his eyes anxious.

Storm stood on the doorstep with two men he'd not seen before, so Lhaeo spoke to her in simpering tones. "Well met, Lady Storm. How does this fair morn find thee?"

"Restless to speak with the Lord Elminster," Storm replied crisply, with a wink. "Is he within?"

Lhaeo's eyes warned her. "Nay, Lady," he said softly. "He is gone, alone, this dawn, walking and troubled. You know why. Look to the trees. I have no doubt you'll find him therein."

With a look, Storm collected the two silent men at her side and bowed. "Our thanks, Lhaeo. We go. Those who harp will look out for the Old Mage."

Lhaeo bowed in his turn and said, "My thanks for that, and farewell. I hope to see you all again, in happier meetings."

He went in and the door closed. Itharr and Belkram looked at Storm, than at each other, and spoke at once.

"Is that Elminster's scribe?"

"What now, Lady?"

Storm looked at them both. "Be not hasty in judgment of Elminster's true friend," she said calmly. "He is not as he appears, for good reasons, and he is very worried for the safety of Elminster. The task I set you both now, friends, is the guarding of the Old Mage wherever you find him. Go now and seek him out."

Itharr looked at her. "You will not be with us, Lady?"

A shadow passed across Storm's face for just a moment. She looked at them both, and suddenly it seemed as if she were about to cry. Then she shrugged. Her hand dropped to the hilt of her blade and clenched about it like a thing of iron.

"I cannot. I want to, very much, but this thing I must not do. Itharr, Belkram, please believe me. There is a good reason that I cannot be with you in this."

"The burden of Mystra?" Belkram asked, very quietly. The taller of the two Harpers, he had frozen into treelike immobility but for the flashing of his keen eyes.

Storm looked at him in silence, her face going slowly white.

"I read a lot," Belkram added, almost defiantly. "Always old books, the sort others have forgotten. You learn more that way."

Storm nodded very slowly. "Be very, very careful," she said to him in a voice that trembled a little, "Belkram of Everlund. The things you know could kill you very quickly if the wrong folk hear."

"Such as myself?" Itharr asked half in jest. The shorter, burly Harper spread his hands in a wry "gods, why me?" gesture.

Storm looked from one man to the other and then threw strong arms around them both and swept them into an embrace. Three chins touched. She bestowed two swift kisses, looked deep into both sets of eyes so close to hers-at least one owner blushed-and said briskly, "Go now. Take much care, and come back alive to tell me what has befallen. Hurry! For all his years, Elminster walks fast and can find trouble as well as men half his age. Or less," she added meaningfully. "Tymora smile upon thee. Which reminds me: Trust in no magic nor any god or goddess, for strangeness is afoot."

"As usual," Itharr answered solemnly as they drew blades and saluted her in a flash of steel. "Our thanks, Lady. I shall never forget crossing blades with thee."

"Nor I," Belkram added simply. "If you grow lonely, mind, and want a man about the place…"

Storm laughed and shooed them on their way. "Get you gone! Elminster waits for no man, nor woman!"

Sharantyr looked about. They had come to a land of wild ridges, trees, and winding, steep cart tracks linking overgrown farms. "Where are we? Northwest of Shadowdale, I know, but-"

"Dagger Wood," Elminster said briefly. "Daggerdale begins over that way." He waved to the northwest. "Not a place to be caught out in by night."

"Shall I find us a place to sleep?" The lady ranger looked about. "Or go hunting? I had no time to find food, and it looks as if you brought none."

"I never do," Elminster replied. "It's the work of but a thought and-" He fell silent, then whispered, "And a little magic."

Sharantyr's only reply was a firm, wordless clasp of his shoulder. Then she was gone, with the whispered words "Wait here" floating back to him. Elminster snorted, took a long stride after her, then stopped, shrugged, and felt for his pipe. Trust the lass to choose a place with no stump to sit on.

It was nearly dark before she returned. Two plump rabbits hung in one hand; the other held berries, mushrooms, and other things Elminster couldn't remember the names of. "My apologies for the length of our parting," Sharantyr said. "This land is wild indeed. Twice I've had to dodge orc arrows, and-But ne'er mind. Come, Old Mage. I've found us a camp."

Elminster rose, smiled at her, and extended a hand for the rabbits. "You may need a free arm to swing a sword," he said impatiently. Dangling the rabbits before his eyes, he asked, "Dare we have fire?"

Sharantyr shrugged. "There'll be others about, no doubt."

"The orcs ye met?"

"They'll bother no folk again," was the calm reply. Elminster looked at her slim, strong shoulders expressionlessly and followed her down into a wooded gully.

"Magic gone for a day, and already I'm being ordered about by women," he said gruffly. Sharantyr cast a look back over her shoulder, and he winked. Shaking her head, she hastened on through a thicket of small trees whose branches caught at them both.

Elminster grumbled and flailed along in her wake. Sharantyr's blade reached back from time to time to hold aside the worst of the barbed branches.

They came out into a little open space that faced the setting sun. Below them the land fell away into a smooth-sloped hollow. It had once been a farm-Elminster could see the line of a ruined fence-but youngish trees now grew in its fields. The gaping, vine-cloaked ruins of a timber-and-stone house and barn rose on a far slope. Sharantyr nodded at them with her chin and said, "Come on. Let's get off this height. We can be seen for miles."

"Can't an old man even enjoy the sunset?" Elminster grumbled, trotting obediently after her.

"That depends on whether or not you want to live to see another sunset after this one," Sharantyr replied in low, wry tones. Elminster remembered a gesture from very long ago and made it in her general direction.

Sharantyr only grinned and said fondly, "Now, you know I'm too young to know what that means," and led him down a twisting, overgrown trail that took them by stones across a little brook, and up again to the waiting, gloomy ruins ahead.

Sharantyr looked at him in the gathering darkness. "Best move and speak quietly from now on. Can you cook?"

"If ye light the fire," Elminster replied, glancing at the rabbits again.

Sharantyr said only, "Wood," in reply and was gone again.

In the twilight, two Harpers stood over four dead men. "Not long gone," Itharr said, "and this one died by a dagger."

"Lawless men," Belkram agreed, on his knees beside another body. "And not robbed of the few coins they carried, either." He frowned. "We've found no other trace of him, and Storm did say he collected trouble as roaming cats find fleas."

Itharr grunted. "By the looks of this-if it was him-we're being sent to guard a marauding tiger, not a feeble old man."

"What think you? Is this a false trail?"

Itharr shrugged. "It's all we've found. It must be his doing, or he and another. There was a lot of running about here, and he may have someone else with him."

Belkram shrugged. "In these woods, we'll lose any trail in the dark, unless he plans to mark his passage with brigands' bodies every hundred paces or so."

They chuckled together. "That'd take a lot of brigands," Itharr replied. "We'd best drag these a good way off, to keep wolves and such from the tracks we'll want to find tomorrow."

Belkram nodded, and they worked swiftly, dragging the bodies all in the same direction, toward and then around thick stands of trees, to a spot where it was unlikely any survivors of the fray had headed. When the bodies had been removed, the two Harpers retired to the dale again, camping near ruined Castle Grimstead, behind the new temples that had been raised west of the river.

"We could be under Storm's roof this night," Belkram said softly after a time. Itharr looked at him and said nothing but grinned very slowly. After a moment, Belkram matched the expression.

A good walk away, in the dark woods, wolves wore similar grins as they came warily to four sprawled bodies and began to feed.

The fire was long out. Sharantyr and Elminster lay shoulder to shoulder in the darkness, wrapped in their cloaks, awake but unspeaking. Around them, the small night noises of hunting animals rustled, hooted, and from time to time squeaked or snarled. They lay still, like two breathing stones, and hoped the night would pass them by.

Suddenly, close by to the north, there came into being a glowing radiance in the trees. One moment it was not there, and the next it was. Magic.

Wordlessly they struggled up and pulled on their boots. Sharantyr drew her sword but held her cloak up in front of it to ward off any flashing reflections. Elminster stepped to one side and melted into the dark shadow of what was left of a wall.

The glowing had begun as pale amber in hue. It brightened now and swirled, at times more ruddy, at times almost green. Perhaps forty paces away, across rising ground, the glow hung in a little clearing amid the trees, forming an upright oval in the air.

A mage-gate, without doubt. A moment later, a hard-eyed, wary man in the black armor of Zhentil Keep stepped out of the gate, a loaded crossbow ready in his hands. Behind him, a black-bladed saber appeared in the light, followed by the one who held it: another Zhentilar soldier.

The two warriors stepped forward, twisting to look all around, weapons held ready. A moment later, another man emerged from the flickering oval. This one wore robes of rich purple, a cruel expression, and a short, pointed black beard. He carried a wand in one hand and was followed by a third armored soldier.

The mage and his bodyguard stepped forward together. In the center of a protective ring of bodies, the bearded mage held the wand loosely in his hands. It shifted almost lazily back and forth, then seemed to quiver in his hands and point directly at where Sharantyr stood, unmoving, cloaked in darkness. A moment later the wand turned a bit to indicate where Elminster hid.

The mage hissed something, and the guards closed ranks in front of him, weapons coming up, facing the ruined farmhouse. There was a half-seen gesture from behind them, and suddenly the night was lit as bright as day, and Elminster and Sharantyr were staring right into the eyes of the four men.

The looks directed back at them were not pleasant. In the sudden silence they all heard one of the guards ask, "Lord?"

The man in purple replied clearly, "Kill them, of course."