Ed Greenwood - All Shadows Fled

"For the glory of Zhentil Keep," the swordlord said in formal welcome. The wizard merely nodded curtly and turned his head away. Oh, joy. Getting this one to take the slightest notice of orders was going to be nigh impossible. Best start wading into the blood now, then. Amglar reined his horse in beside the galloping wizard. "Lord Manshoon sends his greetings, Spellmaster Thuldoum," Amglar said loudly, keeping his voice calm and unhurried. Young Myarvuk had lost his title, of course, the moment his superior here had arrived.

"Give me his message," Thuldoum said in bored tones, extending a gloved hand. "I do hope to find it still sealed."

"No message," Amglar returned calmly as they thundered on up the road toward the Standing Stone. "Manshoon farspoke me, and bade me pass on his feelings." If this warning had no effect, things were going to be a royal muddle from now on.

"I see," the senior Zhentarim replied in tones of clear disbelief. Amglar shrugged, letting the man see his gesture. Of course, most Zhentarim would see such nonchalance as the bravado of a fool, not the confidence of a man secure in his power. He was just going to have to educate this one differently.

"Myarvuk," the new arrival snapped grimly, obviously short on patience, "Baedelkar will not be joining us. Your duties will now include his."

The younger Zhentarim nodded in expressionless silence; Amglar knew he was wondering if this cheerful newcomer had been the cause of Baedelkar's disappearance-and if one Myarvuk would be the next wizard to drop out of sight forever when Nentor Thuldoum grew displeased.

He'd never worked with the man before, but knew that Thuldoum had been deadly in battle while riding out of the Citadel of the Raven against brigands, Thentian freebands, and all manner of goblinkin and monsters of Thar. Later the senior Zhentarim had come to Zhentil Keep to train battle mages for the Network; "Dull Doom" he'd been to his apprentices, due to his dry, studious manner and the short, ruthless temper it concealed. Not a man to cross. Nonetheless, Myarvuk, son of Thaelon, was going to do just that. Starting, in a small way, now.

"What was Baedelkar's fate?" Myarvuk asked, with the most casual 'I'd better know' tone he could muster.

"Dead," Nentor said shortly, "slain in his bed by"-he shrugged to indicate that his next words were a guess-"something he must have tried to summon." His mouth shut like a falling portcullis, making it plain that no more would be forthcoming about his absent apprentice. Then he turned his head to glare at Amglar again.

"Swordlord," he snapped, making it sound as if he'd been asking for it repeatedly and was growing impatient, "I await your report of the doings of the Sword thus far. Come up here where I can see you."

Amglar inclined his head in slow, silent acquiescence, and spurred his mount forward. Yes, it was going to be a long road to Shadowdale…

Tower of Ashaba, Shadowdale, Flamerule 16

"Snug, my lord?" Shaerl asked, tightening the straps that held the plates around Mourngrym's upper thighs.

"Keep your fingers on the buckles," the lord of Shadowdale told his wife with an affectionate grin, reaching down to tousle her hair. They were alone in their bedchamber in the Tower of Ashaba, hiding Mourngrym's wounds from the wagging tongues of rumor. He didn't want half of Shadowdale fleeing because they'd heard he was dead.

It had been a very near thing. Without Elminster, Storm, or Sylune to hand, with the temples already crammed to the rafters with wounded, and with Lhaeo busy ransacking the heavily trapped cellars of Elminster's Tower in search of healing potions and weapons, there were few people left in the dale who could deal with wounds caused by poisoned blades. A white-faced Shaerl had spent a long evening cutting open her lord, tears and his blood mingling together on her face as she brushed errant locks of hair out of her eyes and bent repeatedly to her grisly task.

Mourngrym winced as she forced a sideplate over the quilted undertunic on his ribs, which bulged where they shouldn't because of the bandages beneath. "Sorry, Mourn," she muttered, feeling his muscles tighten under her hands.

The lord of Shadowdale let out a sigh. "Don't be. Without you I'd be dead right now, and the dale fallen."

Shaerl made a rude noise. "Such dramatics! Do you think I'd flee or put a dagger in my heart if you died, when your killers and those who sent them will come marching into my reach in a few days?"

Mourngrym smiled and put out a hand-the one without the gauntlet-to the side of her face, tilting her jaw up so that he could kiss her.

His wife, the fiery temper of her noble Rowanmantle upbringing lurking not far behind her eyes, kissed him with ardent passion, locking her fingers in his hair to ensure that this wouldn't be a brief brush of lips.

"Try not to get carved up this time," she chided him when she released him at last. "I don't want to spend another night like yestereve."

"As the dancer said to the high priest," Mourngrym murmured. Shaerl sighed at this, her lord's habit of lame Waterdhavian humor, and handed him his helm, sword, and remaining gauntlet.

Nodding in acknowledgment, the lord of Shadowdale said, "Now I really must get to horse." He strode away-but before he'd taken three paces, she'd slipped around to bar his path, a slim but imperious hand slapped hard against the Amcathra arms emblazoned on his breastplate.

"Sword and gauntlet on and in place before you go out that door-and the helm before you set foot outside the tower. I don't want to be married to a headless man. They're not quite talkative enough."

Mourngrym sighed, smiled, and did as he was bid. It was easiest to comply, as always, and his sharp-tongued mate was right-as always. Who was to say a Zhent agent, or merely someone in need of the coins they'd pay, wasn't lurking a bowshot away from the tower, or in a balcony above the courtyard, awaiting his chance?

These past two rides Zhent raiders had kept Shadowdale's defenders busy fighting off several attempts to burn the dale's smithy and granaries. There had also been the setting of several fires along the roads into the dale, no doubt to widen them and rob defenders of any cover; the attempt to taint the River Ashaba upstream by dumping carrion into it; and the poison dumped into the well of the Old Skull Inn-which had forced Lhaeo to call on the Simbul and endure her acidic lecture on placing a guard over basic necessities. The problem was that Mourngrym had too few competent guards to do that, let alone hold Shadowdale against thousands of well-equipped Zhentilar troops led by gods-knew-how-many Zhent priests and mages.

"Wouldn't it be nice," he asked Shaerl as he settled the sword on his hip and she surveyed the result critically, "if some mad god or other would just crush Zhentil Keep to rubble for us?"

"I'll see to it," she told him briskly, "but I'd take it more kindly if they'd settle for simply crushing the hosts on their way here to slaughter us… and if I knew where Elminster was just now."

"Boo!" breathed an all-too-familiar voice on the back of her neck.

Shaerl shrieked as she leapt forward into Mourngrym's arms. The lord of Shadowdale began to laugh helplessly, shaking his lady-and she broke free and spun like a dancer on one small bare foot to confront the Old Mage, her eyes snapping with anger.

"Must you always creep up on folks invisibly and then try to startle them with grand entrances?"

"Everyone needs a hobby, look ye," Elminster said, regarding her with eyes that sparkled in amusement, "and that's one of mine."

"Well, find another! Gods! My heart's still-feel it! It's-"

"No, love," Mourngrym said hastily as the gleam in Elminster's eye grew brighter, "you don't want to make that sort of offer! Not with Elminster!"