Ed Greenwood - All Shadows Fled

By unspoken, common accord the men in the passage all moved to stand where they could look through archways, and watch what befell in the great hall. Wizards of the Black Network were not loved-but they were always a source of entertainment, if one could keep safely out of the way.

Spellmaster Thuldoum strode grandly across the vast chamber, head high, looking slowly from left to right and back again. When he caught sight of the throne, he bent forward in eagerness, and his pace quickened.

"Gods spit down on 'im," one of the soldiers muttered. "He's going to sit on the throne!"

For a moment it appeared that the wizard was going to do just that-but prudence came to him at the last moment, and they saw him ordering a reluctant armsman into the seat instead.

Gingerly the soldier sat down-and from the ceiling above, a ring of boulders on chains crashed down, smashing the vainly leaping man to bloody ruin on the stones. One stone, rebounding from the impact on its chain, nearly beheaded the startled wizard, who staggered backward, arms flailing, as armsmen watched in horror. The soldier who'd been a shade too slow in vacating the throne lay where he had fallen, a broken figure in a pool of blood.

"What did I tell ye?" a soldier said, who hadn't in fact spoken before, all that long night. "Stupid buttocks-brain."

It seemed the wizard wasn't done. He'd caught sight of something behind or beyond the throne that only he could see, and was casting a spell. With all eyes upon him, he made a show of it, gesturing dramatically as he brought the invocation to a ringing climax-and a door slowly appeared in the blank wall behind the high seat. Magical radiance shone blue and silver, brightening to a soft white glow, and spread slowly along an arched frame to outline a large door.

As Zhentilar stared at it and Spellmaster Thuldoum grinned in triumph, Fflarast felt the tense prickling of hairs rising on the back of his neck. Oh, no…

The Zhentarim brought his hands down with a flourish, pointing at the door, and shouted the last word of the spell that would open it.

The door winked out. Blue-white flashes ran all over the ceiling of the chamber as a web of magic discharged, and Galath's Roost fell in on itself with a roar.

Fflarast saw the ceiling begin to fall and the wizard stare up and then vanish. He did not wait to see a thousand of his fellow warriors crushed, but turned and flung himself headlong down the passage, running as he had never run before.

There was an earth-splitting crash of stone upon stone, and Fflar was flung off his feet. He landed rolling amid dust and falling stones as the castle shook around him. The entire armor gallery had fallen into the great hall.

"Gods!" one of the old soldiers in the passage gasped. "The floor, too!" And with a slow, gathering thunder, the overloaded floor gave way, dropping in huge pieces down into dark cellars beneath.

By then, Fflar was sprinting toward the moonlight, sweat almost blinding him. A last leap over rubble-and he was out, tumbling in the ferns and coming up running, to get well away from the walls.

"Easy, soldier," said a swordcaptain, putting out a hand to stop Fflarast's frantic flight. "What befell?"

Fflar clung to the man, panting, unable to catch his breath-and from the ruined keep behind him came a slow series of smaller crashes.

They listened together, and then the officer shook Fflar by the shoulders. "Well?"

An old soldier came into view out of the same rent in the wall Fflar had used. It was one of the veterans who'd stayed in the passage. He was walking slowly and stiffly, ignoring the occasional falls of small stones from above, and the officer strode toward him with a snarl, dragging Fflar along.

"What befell?" he snapped, eyeing the old man's gray whiskers.

The old warrior looked up at him and said, "Don't bluster, lad… ye're an officer, remember?"

The swordcaptain roared out his anger and snatched at his sword-and Fflar hit him in the side of his neck with one mailed fist, as hard as he'd ever hit anyone in his life. He got in two more good blows before the body reached the ground-and stayed there.

"Easy, lad… ye've broken his neck, there's no need to dance on his bones," the veteran muttered, bending over Fflar. "Now ye'd best get away from him and practice looking innocent, afore the next officer happens along."

"Too late," a deep, grave voice said above them both. Fflar and the veteran looked up into the cold, tired eyes of Swordlord Amglar. "But by the sounds of things, I've just lost too many blades to waste two more because cruel, spoiled nobles' sons make bad officers. Consider this-accident-forgotten, and so long as you have no more, scout, I'll continue to forget it. Now tell me in truth what's befallen in there."

Fflarast and the veteran looked at each other, and then Fflar spoke. "The spellmaster cast a spell to open a door behind the throne, and-I think-set off some sort of magical trap. The whole ceiling came down at once… but I think I saw him vanish before the stones hit. I ran, then… that's all I saw. Before that, though, my unit-Pelaeron's Mace-and a lot of others I heard die, but didn't see, were crushed in rockfall traps… the keep's bulging with them."

The swordlord nodded soberly. "The spellmaster's magic brought him safely out to us here," he said, his lips twisting bitterly, "and dearly though I'd love to put him to death for this blunder, we need him in the battle tomorrow." He leaned in close to them, and his next words came in a whisper.

"Don't raise a hand to him this night, whatever the provocation… but if either of you survives the coming battle, and he's still breathing at the end of it, I want either or both of you to slay him. He may have contingencies, mind-try to dismember the body and then burn it." He looked from Fflar to the veteran, and then back to Fflar. "Understood?"

"I understand and will obey," the old soldier whispered, and Fflar echoed his words. The swordlord nodded. "Good." He looked at the veteran. "So the ceiling fell… what did you see after that?"

"The floor an' all went down into-cellars, I'd guess-below, breaking off and sliding slowly; in bits, ye know. Then the balconies broke off and fell in on top of it all, one by one. I saw spell flashes before each fall… the whole thing's one huge trap, sir, if ye ask me. I'd sooner sleep in the hot heart of an enemy campfire tonight than go back in there, sir." He jerked his head to indicate the ruined castle behind him.

The swordlord nodded grimly. "We've been duped by a clever foe-and an arrogant, careless wizard." He sighed and added, "Gods curse all wizards. If things in Faerun were all decided by the strength of a sword arm and not sneaking spells, we'd all be a lot better off!"

Rising with another sigh, their commander pointed toward a campfire. "Go and report to Shieldmaster Tesker; you're part of my own mace now, both of you." He turned away, and as they stammered their thanks, he turned back and added, "Oh, and tell him from me that you're both swords now. If we've any armor so blazoned that fits, you're to wear it tomorrow."

"May the gods thank you more than we can, sir!" the old veteran gasped.

Amglar smiled thinly. "You'll probably be cursing me on the morrow. Save your delight for when all of this is over, and we're standing proudly on the battlements of Zhentil Keep again. Then I'll thank the gods too… just how fervently I do it then, mind you, will depend on what they've done to us since."

All three of them laughed together, the grim laughter of fighting men who shared the same peril-and the same jaundiced view of the world that had put them there. Then they clasped forearms and parted.

On his way to the fires, Fflar stopped for a moment as he realized something the other two had already known-most soldiers keep warm with the memories of such moments. Swords Creek, Mistledale, Flamerule 17