Ed Greenwood - All Shadows Fled

Illistyl's eyes narrowed as flames gouted from the beast. She dug a hand into her purse, snatched a silver coin, and snapped out a cantrip that crumbled the metal to powder in her hands. Flinging the powdered silver into the flames, she leapt back.

The explosion that followed was spectacular. The coils around Sylune spasmed, flinging her free-and then smashed into her body with the force of a charging war horse, hurling her like a rag doll against the side of the tent. She struck, tumbled, and came to rest atop Torm, who madly stabbed the Malaugrym and sobbed with rage.

"It's dead, Torm," Sylune told him gently, putting a hand on his shoulder as she looked over him at the gory lumps that had been the other Malaugrym. "And so's the other one."

"Gods," the thief hissed, eyes blazing, "they could have killed you!"

"Yes," Sylune agreed, "but they did not, thanks in part to you." She put up her hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, then leaned forward and kissed him. He stared at her for a moment, and threw his arms around her, weeping uncontrollably.

"It's been rather a long time since any man got this angry for my sake," she murmured into his shoulder, "but try not to get yourself killed defending me, Torm!"

"Why not?" the thief said when he found enough control to speak. "Have you seen what they did to your hair?"

Mistledale, Flamerule 17

Sharantyr shades her eyes again and is sure of it. Another flash, there… and another. And then Zhents are pouring out of the woods in a hundred places, the bright morning sun glinting on ebon armor.

There is a stir along the banks of Swords Creek, and the short bark of Kuthe's order off to the right. The Riders of Mistledale move amid a growing thunder of hooves, hurrying along the southern edge of the dale to meet the invaders. Lance tips glitter as they sweep down.

Restless, the lady ranger hefts her own gleaming blade, licks her lips, and watches Kuthe's lance lowered with menacing force. He flicks it expertly, taking out the throat of a Zhentilar as he passes, and with bright blood still trailing from the tip, buries it deep in the face of the first Zhent horseman to appear out of the woods.

The man crumples as he's flung back out of his saddle. A score of crashes follow up and down the edge of the trees as Zhent maces and spears find shields or the Riders behind them and a horn sounds from just behind Shar, calling the retreat.

Horses wheel and rear. Zhentilar soldiers race in to gut the retreating warriors as they turn away. One Rider tarries too long, and Shar sees him go down, hacking frantically with his blade at a dozen foes as they drag him to ground and stab him. The riderless mount in fear lashes out with its hooves, leaps wildly into the air, shedding broken Zhent armsmen like rag dolls, and lands running west down the dale to where Kuthe is rallying the Riders.

Arrows hiss past Shar's shoulder as the farmers of Mistledale, faces set in fear and determination, strike their own first blows against the foe. Only a few black-armored figures fall, and now they're streaming out of the trees by the hundreds, a glittering black carpet of death that advances west with casual confidence. More than one of the watchers along Swords Creek gasps or retches in fear; there are thousands of Zhents!

"Gods," a man nearby mutters in despair and disbelief, "have they been breeding armsmen like rabbits? Look at them!"

Certain death was coming for them, and they all knew it. Shar traded tight grins with Belkram and Itharr as they heard Torm's voice lifted in jaunty song:

"Come, oh, come play with me! Bring, oh, bring your sword, and We'll be three!"

The Riders had succeeded in keeping the foe east of the creek. Secure in their numbers, none of the Zhentilar had moved to outflank the paltry line of waiting warriors… yet. Nor were they bothering with any sort of tight formation, merely gathering in mobs around a dozen steadily advancing standards.

Shar's lip curled in derision, and then she shrugged. Outnumbering us hundreds to one, what do they need of discipline or battlecraft?

The Sword of the South came on without pause or parley. Shar looked again at the Riders, wondering if they'd mount another charge to disrupt the steady Zhent advance. Kuthe's helm turned; the white-horse blazon caught the sun as he looked back at her. And then his helm jerked sharply back east again.

There was a murmur from the defenders of Mistledale as they all saw what Kuthe had espied the casting of, from his high saddle: eight tiny balls of fire spun up into view and roared across Swords Creek, howling through the air and growing in size and fury as they came.

The line of defenders raised their shields and shifted uneasily as the roaring conflagration spun nearer-but then the spinning flames and sparks rippled, pulsed… and were gone. Swarms of birds and smoke spread harmlessly across the sky. The unseen wild magic shields in front of the defenders had worked.

A shout of satisfaction arose from the defenders-but it was answered by a ragged cry of excitement, rising from the Zhent ranks. A trumpet blared, and the Sword of the South charged forward. They lowered their spears and trotted into the creek, a sea of soldiers flanked by two bands of mounted armsmen. The horsemen to the north splashed slowly down through the creek, avoiding the road-no doubt fearing traps. Their comrades to the south spurred across the creek in a spray of waters, and gathered speed as they hurtled up the west bank toward the Riders.

Shar looked from one forest of black helms to the other… and back again. Was it going to be all over in the first few breaths? There aren't enough of us to stand for more than one charge… and that only with luck.

The screams began. The Zhent horsemen to the right were raising frantic shields or toppling from their saddles as a storm of blades twinkled and flashed around them at faces and throats.

"First blow to Chauntea," Itharr murmured, watching them plunge on into oblivion. None of the Zhentilar horsemen reached the leveled lances of the waiting Riders, and few managed to pull out of that storm of steel to flee.

Lighting cracked and flashed low over the Zhent ranks, stabbing at the defenders of Mistledale… but became a stream of red rose petals, and drifted away on the quickening breeze. There were chuckles up and down the line of defenders. The sweat of quickening fear was making Shar's blade sticky; she shifted her grip on it and snatched a last glance to the north before the first Zhents reached her.

The northern Zhent cavalry had crossed the creek and were lowering their lances to meet a single line of Riders that had come out of nowhere to bar their path. With an exultant roar they swept down through the phantom forms of the waiting Riders… and plunged into the spike-lined disemboweling pits. At about the same time, the arrows of the best archers of Mistledale found them.

A spear cast out of the Zhent lines clipped the edge of Sharantyr's shield, and she found herself in the midst of what all battles become: a crowded, confused whirlwind of hard-plied steel crashing down on shields and armor, skirling off opposing blades-and sinking into screaming men.

A Zhentilar armsman swung a huge morningstar at her. Shar threw herself to her knees. As the weapon rattled past overhead, she struck upward with her shield, hurling her foe off-balance. She swept her sword up into the throat of the next charging armsman, who staggered on, dead already, and ran his blade into the armpit of the man with the morningstar. They crashed down together, and Shar shook their blood out of her eyes and took a hasty step aside to put her blade into the neck of a tall armsman who'd engaged Belkram, and was straining to overwhelm the snarling Harper. The man reeled and went down, spraying her with more blood. Belkram gave her a fierce grin of thanks as they faced the next Zhents shoulder to shoulder.