Ed Greenwood - All Shadows Fled

Shaerl turned on him. "And you! Laughing at my discomfort, like a boy playing in the street! You ought to be-"

"Somewhere quieter," Mourngrym said sarcastically, striding past her, "like the heart of a battle with the entire Zhent army!"

Shaerl made a gesture in his direction. Mourngrym waggled one steel-clad finger at her in mock admonishment, and went out.

The lady of Shadowdale sighed away her exasperation and turned back to Elminster. "Be welcome, Old Mage," she said softly. "I'd appreciate a chance to talk about what lies ahead for us, if you've the time."

"'Tis why I came," Elminster rumbled, "now that my work at the Standing Stone is done: three arrow swarms, and a little something extra." He went straight to Mourngrym's most comfortable chair and sat down with a grunt of pleasure, swinging his feet up over one of its massive arms.

Shaerl smiled at that and started toward the sideboard where the decanters of wine awaited-but she'd taken only a few steps before a full goblet of her favorite vintage came gliding up to hang in the air in front of her. She took it, turned, and saw Elminster raising an identical drink in salute. "To a lady who does not take serious contributions from idiots," he announced.

Shaerl grinned, shook her head slightly, and returned his toast. "To a wizard who takes more delight in misbehaving than does a small child-and is all the more welcome here for it."

They both drank. Shaerl discovered the bottom of her glass, shrugged, and continued to the sideboard to take up the decanter. She had a feeling she was going to want a lot more of this before they were done… The Standing Stone, the Dales, Flamerule 16

"Dusk comes swiftly," Swordlord Amglar told the two wizards, pointing at the red sun glimmering low in the west.

"We press on," Nentor Thuldoum told him coldly. "If we try to camp at the Standing Stone, we'll be in the trees or strung out along three roads-and we can be attacked along each one."

"So much is common knowledge," Amglar agreed calmly. "I merely wish to point out that if we press on to Mistledale, it'll be dark by the time we ride out of the trees-ideal conditions for our foes to ambush us."

The spellmaster turned on him with menacing slowness. "Are you trying to tell me what to do?"

"Yes," Amglar said evenly, locking eyes with him. "That's exactly what I'm trying to do. Manshoon does expect you to take orders from me; his description of you, as I recall, was 'a fool, but a biddable fool.' Shall I report to him that he was wrong?"

Thuldoum held his eyes for a long, cold moment as their saddles creaked under them. Myarvuk, riding just ahead, hummed a tune, trying to pretend he could hear nothing of this. Thuldoum said softly, "I'm watching you, Swordlord. Watching and waiting for the slightest slip, the smallest excuse… be careful. Be very, very careful."

Amglar raised his eyebrows, but his face remained expressionless. "I always am," he said, and the spellmaster could have sworn that the warrior's eyes held a glint of mocking laughter.

Then they were slowing to round the turn onto the Moonsea Ride under the watchful bulk of the ancient Standing Stone. There was a brief confusion as mounted Zhentilar armsmen looked back expecting orders to halt, heard nothing, and rather tentatively continued, heading west toward Mistledale.

The rings on the spellmaster's hands winked with sudden radiance, and the air all around was filled with humming arrows. Shafts leapt from the trees on their left, hissing into startled men and their mounts alike, easily piercing black Zhentilar armor.

"We're under attack!" someone bellowed.

"Dismount! Into the trees there-charge!" Amglar shouted, pointing with his sword. "In at them!"

His orders made Spellmaster Thuldoum turn to him, and Amglar saw that the wizard was staring down at his rings in astonishment. As they looked at each other, the rings flashed again-and another volley of arrows came hissing out of the trees on the other side of the road.

Amglar's eyes narrowed as he ducked low on his horse's neck, but it was too late to stop the rush of furious armsmen into the trees, charging in as he'd ordered. Horses screamed and reared, and men toppled from saddles everywhere in the tangled intersection. The swordlord fought to stay in his saddle.

"Back, mages!" he bellowed, waving with his sword toward the Standing Stone itself. "Back!"

By some favor of the gods, neither Zhentarim had been hit; they spurred their horses after him, ruthlessly riding down armsmen in their haste. "Swordcaptains, to me!" Amglar roared as he reached the trees to the east, his eyes on the woods to the north. If his hunch was right, there'd be no more arrows from there-nor any other attack.

"Is this your doing, mage?" he snarled when a frightened-looking spellmaster rode up to him.

"No!" Thuldoum barked. "If these arrows are spell-borne, it's not a magic I know! I-"

His rings flashed once more. He was staring down at them in horror when the trees on the eastern side of the road erupted in clothyard shafts! An arrow took Amglar through the shoulder, and another three thudded into his charger. Yelling in pain and fury, he flung himself free as it bucked and went down, crashing over backward atop an unfortunate armsman.

He hit the road hard and bounced in the dust, winded. Myarvuk slid from his saddle, half a dozen shafts standing out from his body and a glazed, lifeless stare in his eyes. Gods spit on it-the truly biddable mage down already!

As Amglar fought for his breath, arrows flared into flames and then nothingness around the spellmaster, who must have some sort of magical shield against them-of course, Amglar thought sourly. But the volley tore into the officers turning in answer to his call. The intersection was full of rolling, maddened horses and sprawled, trampled bodies… in just a few breaths half an army had been reduced to bloody chaos.

"Halt!" Amglar roared, struggling to his feet, arm and shoulder burning. He ran into the path of the second 'lance,' just as they came thundering up the road to see what had occurred. "Halt!"

He staggered hastily back-a thousand cantering horses can't stop immediately-tripped on a body, and with a roar of pain fetched up against a tree.

"Sir?" A swordcaptain asked, beside him. Through red mists of pain, Amglar set his teeth and looked up. Blood was coursing down his arm, bright red on the black armor; he clutched at his arm and snarled, "Get a horn and call the rally and retreat to those I sent into the woods. They'll not find a foe unless they run on all the way to the dale! Then relay the order to halt! On your way, send three or four more captains to me!"

The man nodded and hurried away, wasting no time on salutes or words. Amglar glared after him. Good. At least one Zhentilar knew how to be an officer; he'd have to remember that man's face.

Feeling the spellmaster's eyes on him but paying no attention, Amglar strode to meet the officers who were hurrying toward him. "Clear this place," he ordered.

"Drag everything up the north road, and set torches; we'll strip the bodies later. Slay any horse that can't stand on four good legs. Let no man touch the fallen mage-that task is for the spellmaster alone." Without turning his head, he snapped, "Thuldoum! Be about it."

The Zhentarim said nothing, but Amglar heard the creaking of leather as the wizard dismounted, and a snort of irritation from the man's horse as someone else took the reins.

"I want you to know," the spellmaster said in a low, fast voice, "that I had no part in this attack. It was not my doing-and nothing I carry has any power to hurl arrows anywhere!"

"I know, mage," Amglar said shortly. "It was some sort of arrow spell-three spells, belike-set to go off when something enchanted passed by: your rings. They're probably rolling around laughing in Mistledale right now. See to your dead comrade."