Ed Greenwood - All Shadows Fled

A steel-gray falcon circled high in the cloudless sky overhead, for all the world as if it was taking interest in the encampment taking shape by the creek. The farmer squinted up at it, spat again, and went down the dale toward Ashabenford, where the high councilor would be waving his black scepter and barking orders. Heedless of him, wagoners would load in haste and head east, and fleeing townsfolk would drive overloaded carts west.

The breezes died away to the softest of stirrings, what the folk of the dale called a ghost's kiss. By the banks of the creek, a tall, broad-shouldered man in gleaming plate armor looked around the palisade of wooden fangs and saw that it was now almost a full circle. He nodded in satisfaction and turned to where a farmer stood by his laden wagon.

"Bring the tents," Florin Falconhand said to the man. "We'd best get started."

Kuthe frowned at the tall ranger. "This soon?"

"I doubt they'll attack before dark," the Knight of Myth Drannor replied. "Before they could get here, it'll be sundown; they'd have to charge with the setting sun in their eyes."

Kuthe grunted his agreement and turned away. "No cooking fires until the tents are up!" he bellowed, "and don't drop those barrels of beer or I'll leave you to face the men who have to go thirsty!"

"Noisy, isn't he?" Torm muttered, critically inspecting the wicked-looking point he'd whittled on the end of one stake.

"A paragon of authority," Rathan grunted, taking a swig from his belt flask. "I've no quarrel if he's as much in evidence when we start hacking at each other in the mud and the blood." He took another pull at the flask, which gurgled.

Torm looked up at the sound. "Hey! Give that here," he suggested, extending a hand.

"What's this?" Kuthe growled, striding past. "Drinking?" His eyes flashed.

"He sees the flask and instantly knows what we're doing!" Torm gasped in mock fear. "Can no man stand against this tower of perception?"

"I fear not," Rathan growled. "He makes my boots quake, and me in them. Wits as keen as a sword blade-and tongue sharper, too!" Both Knights threw up their hands as if in awe and cowered, wailing.

"Bah!" the Rider officer snarled, and turned away. "Adventurers!"

"Bah!" Torm called after him, his mimicry perfect. "Stiff-necked local constabulary!"

Kuthe stiffened as more than one of the Riders around them chuckled, but did not turn around. After a moment, he strode on.

"Hind end of a blind boar," Torm muttered conversationally as they moved to the next stake.

"Torm's entertaining himself as usual, I see," Sharantyr observed to Sylune as they worked on their own stakes not far away.

The Witch of Shadowdale grinned. "He doesn't know it yet, but I volunteered him for digging the privies."

Sharantyr sighed. "You use the ladies' first, then. I've no wish to be the one who tries out his latest collection of 'humorous' traps."

"Does he do that to the pit for the men, too?" Itharr asked, looking up from the fire pit he and Belkram were digging. Sharantyr looked over at him and nodded. "Ah, thanks for the warning," the Harper grunted, and knelt to begin lining the pit with stones.

A pair of men in black armor emblazoned with the white horse of Mistledale approached with two large, rope-wrapped canvas bundles. "Your tent," the Riders told Itharr, "and one for the ladies."

"One is all we'll need," Sharantyr said serenely, moving to the last unsharpened stake. "I'm used to the snores of these two by now."

The Rider raised his eyebrows and looked her up and down. Sharantyr raised her own eyebrows in reply, and said coolly, "I'm an adventurer, remember?"

The man rolled his eyes and turned away, face expressionless behind his bristling mustache. His companion growled "Lucky dogs" quite distinctly as they went on down the line of stakes.

"If you knew," Belkram said to the Riders' backs. "If you only knew."

"I heard that," Sylune said warningly, and both Harpers looked up at her with such looks of bewildered innocence that she giggled.

Sharantyr puzzled out how the ropes were tangled, and got the tent unrolled. She hummed a merry tune as she laid it out, shaking her head to clear her nostrils of the strong-and expected-reek of mildew. Such things were always put away damp. She critically surveyed the forest-green tent and its white horse blazon. "Does someone in the dale run a camp for bored Sembian nobles?"

"Aye," Belkram told her as the two Harpers came to join her, expertly plucking the poles out of the heart of the rumpled canvas. "But they're under the misapprehension that they're just housing the short-coin laborers who arrive each harvest to help get the crop off the fields… it's not until they see their hired help at work in the fields that they realize how many bored Sembian nobles they're carrying."

Sharantyr chuckled at that as Belkram held the tent up with one pole, and Itharr crawled inside to raise it from within. "I could get used to having both of you gallant blades around," she said affectionately, fielding the tangle of tent rope that Sylune tossed to her.

"Just two of us? Is that enough to keep up with you?" Belkram asked with a grin.

"On some mornings," Sharantyr said, thrusting over his head the emptied sack that had held the tent pegs. "On some mornings."

"Mmpnffh," he replied firmly.

"Exactly what I was going to say," Itharr agreed, head emerging from the half-raised tent. "Mmphffh."

Sharantyr and Sylune sighed, smiled, and shook their heads in unison.

"Get him a bag, too," Torm suggested, pointing at Itharr as he walked past. "Me, too, and Rathan. After all, you know what they say-all men're the same with a bag over-"

"Enough, Torm!" Sylune said, and snapped her fingers. The thief vanished in midstep, and they heard his surprised "Hoy!" of protest from the far end of the camp as he reappeared, looked around, and started back toward them.

"Poor Torm," Sharantyr said, watching him. "I wonder if he'll ever grow into dignity and polite manners? I suppose he must grow up someday."

"For some of us," Sylune observed serenely, "it's a long walk." Battledale, Flamerule 16

There was a sudden flash of emerald radiance from the empty saddle ahead, and Swordlord Amglar stiffened, hand going to the hilt of his sword-just in case.

Spellmaster Myarvuk rode ahead of the hitherto unladen horse, the mount under him linked to it by a long lead. Now he was twisting around to see what had befallen, clinging to his saddle in an ungainly attempt not to fall off. Amglar watched him in grim amusement. These wizards all rode with the grace and balance of lumpy sacks of feed-and if the expression on Myarvuk's face was any guide, about as much comfort.

As both men stared at the green light pulsing and growing stronger in the saddle, Amglar watched the Zhentarim mage's tense face… until, suddenly, he knew the new thing he was seeing there: fear.

A second empty-saddled horse pulled its lead free and galloped off to the right. The swordlord's gaze darted to it, but no radiance or other sign of magic appeared. If the gods smiled, perhaps there'd only be one high Zhentarim joining them.

Of course, given what utter ice-hearted bastards all powerful mages of the Black Network were, one was more than enough.

The emerald light had built into the shape of a seated man now, and the swordlord sighed amid the endless thunder of hooves. The rest of his time with the Sword of the South was not going to be enjoyable-and might well encompass the rest of his life, given the ruthless and sensitive nature of senior Zhentarim.

The green radiance flashed and faded, revealing a richly cloaked man who sat his saddle as if he'd always been there-and was already looking grimly about, his face as black as old night.

At least this one could ride. Amglar forced a grim half smile onto his own face as the Zhent wizard turned to look behind him.