Ed Greenwood - All Shadows Fled

"Will you write that on their tombs?" Shaerl asked quietly.

Elminster shrugged but said nothing. After a long silence, the lady of Shadowdale whispered, "What will you write on ours?"

The ghost of a smile stole across the Old Mage's face. "Perhaps: I should have been laid to rest here long ago, but I'm still busy defending Shadowdale."

"Oh, no," she said quietly, shaking her head as the bedchamber door opened and a weary Mourngrym strode in, tossing down cloak, helm, and sword. "That's what your tomb should say."

"It already does, lass. Ask Lhaeo to show ye some time-on the morrow. It's a good place to hide with thy heir, if the dale's overrun. Oh, in case he forgets to tell ye-don't mind all the floating eyeballs that'll drift around after ye. They do no harm… and if the food runs out, they're good eating."

"Is he teasing you about fried eyeballs again?" Mourngrym asked as he strode into the room. Without slowing to hear Shaerl's reply, he bent over the chair to kiss the top of her head, and then looked up at Elminster as the soft fingers of his wife stole up to stroke his cheek. "And what's this about 'hide'? And 'overrun'? With you here holding the dale against all invaders?"

"We must all fall sometime," Elminster replied very quietly. "That's why I've been grooming every hero I could find these last ten years or so. Someday, defending Shadowdale without me will be your task. Perhaps someday soon." The Standing Stone, the Dales, Flamerule 17

The spellmaster's screams broke off suddenly, and he slumped forward in his seat. Hesitantly one of the swordcaptains took a few paces toward the wizard, sword drawn, and then looked back to the swordlord for instructions. Other officers with ready weapons were also gathering cautiously around the seated wizard.

"Is he dead?" Amglar asked bluntly. The swordcaptain turned to see, taking a few paces closer-and then shrank back in horror as sudden radiances flashed and spun around the body, jerking it convulsively.

Amglar's eyes narrowed. Contingencies, perhaps… not attacks visited from afar, no.

His judgment was confirmed an instant later as the Zhentarim shook himself and stood, looking around irritably at all the grim faces and raised swords. "Put away all this steel," he snapped, "and find something useful to do-such as getting me a hot meal. Spellhurling's hungry work."

The swordcaptain Amglar had just given orders to turned back to the swordlord and spread his hands in a silent question. Amglar waved at him to 'hold hard' for the nonce, got up, and strode over to Thuldoum.

"How are you, mage?" he asked, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"I'll live," Thuldoum said coldly, "and my wits are my own; you need not hack me down for fear I'll turn on you all."

"The Roost's defended, then?"

"No," the spellmaster said. "It's deserted. A little overgrown and tumbledown to be an ideal camp, but safe enough."

"Safe? Why the screaming then?"

"My creation encountered two beings who can shift shape. They were camped in one of the rooms."

"Doppelgangers? If they impersonate our swordcaptains, they can play merry death and chaos with this Sword!"

"These weren't doppelgangers," Nentor Thuldoum said grimly. "One of them tried to merge with my monster, destroying it. I was held in thrall, and saw into its mind. It was old, very old, and it hates Elminster of Shadowdale more than you or I do; possibly more than High Lord Manshoon does. They've been feuding for centuries."

"And so?"

"It also hates three other humans I don't know; they looked like rangers. It thinks all of them are in Mistledale right now… and was headed there to feed on them, the moment it was satisfied the human shape I saw it in-a pilgrim of Tyr-was good enough to fool them."

"You think these two shapechangers are on the way to Mistledale by now?"

"Yes," the Zhentarim said flatly. "I couldn't break free until it ate the monster's mind, but the last thought I overheard was that it was eager to get to its prey."

"Then we'll be just as urgent in our advance on the Roost, once you set us a directional spell so we can get there through the woods, and not have to use the road and the open dale."

"The moment I've eaten," the spellmaster told him coldly, "you'll have that spell. The drink, I think, is even more important right now."

Wordlessly Amglar undipped a chased metal flask from his belt and held it out. The Zhentarim regarded it and then him suspiciously, then in sudden resolve undid the stopper and took a sip-then a long pull.

When he could stop gasping, the spellmaster wiped at his numbed lips and asked, "B-By all the gods, what is that stuff?"

"Firewine," Amglar told him, surprised. "You don't get out much, do you, wizard?"

"Enough," Thuldoum told him darkly. "More than enough."

"Spellmaster?" A swordcaptain was hurrying up with a covered platter that trailed wisps of steam. "Your evenfeast!"

"Ah, that's better," Thuldoum said, and turned to Amglar. "You see, Swordlord? Properly treated, I will deal with you properly in return… just like any man. You might remember that."

"Aye," the swordlord said, remembering Myarvuk's still, staring face as they buried him. "I will keep it in mind-always." Mistledale, Flamerule 17

The larger of the two owls fluttered down to a branch on the edge of the dale, and grew a human mouth. "Best be wary," it said to the owl alighting beside it. "They may have spying spells set-and a single arrow could slay us in these shapes."

"Take on something larger, Yinthrim?"

"No," the larger Malaugrym said firmly. "That'd just invite discovery and attack… and they'll have mages about. No, Atari, just take care. After we avenge the despoiled honor of the House of Malaug, let us return here and await the dawn. On a battlefield, amusements will be many." Swords Creek, Mistledale, Flamerule 17

"Yes?" Sylune inquired, turning from her lamp and mirror and raising an imperious eyebrow. On either side of the tent door, Belkram and Itharr stared out and raised their blades warily, waiting.

"Your servant, Lady," said the voice outside. A man's voice. A familiar man's voice.

"Yes, Torm?" Sylune asked, a trifle wearily. The two Harpers relaxed, trading grins across the dim tent mouth. "Come to undress me? Or just to collect all your Lingerie?"

"No," the thief said in a low voice. "May I come in?"

Sylune turned to Sharantyr, who nodded. The three Harpers were sleeping in all but their boots, drawn swords to hand, and had already lain down. The Witch of Shadowdale was sitting up before a mirror, looking at the body she might well lose again on the morrow. "Yes-but leave your pranks outside the door. I'm not in the mood."

"Your command is my wish, as I believe Elminster once said," Torm said with just a hint of his usual impishness, looking warily into the tent. Belkram and Itharr saluted him silently with their blades; he answered them with a sardonic lift of his brows, and stepped into the tent. He was holding something behind his back.

Sylune turned on her stool to face him. With the candlelight behind her, lighting her silver hair into flame, she looked unearthly as well as beautiful. "Well, Torm?"

"I… ah, I came to do your hair," Torm said, bringing a fistful of combs and a tiny scent bottle into view. All four folk in the tent stared at him, and his face grew pinker. Looking down at his hands, he said, "I seem to have grown used to it." He looked up at Sylune. "If you don't mind?"

The smile that the Witch of Shadowdale gave him then took his heart away. Torm swallowed as she stretched forth her hands to him. "Mind? I am honored. Please!"

As Torm stepped forward, eyes shining, Belkram said kindly, "Haul your tongue in, there's a good boy. We've done the tent floor already, and you'll look more sensible with it safely stowed away."