Ed Greenwood - All Shadows Fled

Arrows were still hissing past; there were so many Zhents that the dale farmers could fire over the heads of those in the fray and yet find targets in plenty. A horn rang out, calling the defenders of the dale to retreat to the second line of standards.

In answer to its call, Shar smashed her way free of a tightening knot of Zhentilar and backed hastily from the creek. One of the orange standards that marked a gap in the wild magic shields fluttered off to her left, and she saw Jhessail and Illistyl crouching by it, behind Merith's raised sword and shield. Their hands wove in spellcasting gestures.

Shar slashed an overly enthusiastic Zhent across the face, and as he went down, watched the spell of her fellow Knights take effect.

Upended helms full of metal shards and salvaged arrowheads were rising from the ground with slow, menacing force-one, three… six in all. Zhents were backing uncertainly away from them, but one man hacked at a helm with his blade.

He was the first to fall, ripped apart as the magic erupted, transforming the helms and their contents into pinwheel sprays of arrows that tore into the Zhent host on all sides.

Zhentilar blackhelms screamed in chorus and fell in great swathes, as if harvested by a gigantic, invisible scythe. Shar felt her gorge rise. She turned away from the sight and hastened back to the rallying standards, Belkram and Itharr at her side. There were still thousands of Zhents left; the Sword of the South was surging on across the creek, heedless of the cost. As the defenders gathered at the standards another horn call rang out from their midst.

This one was meant for the hidden Harpers. Trip wires hidden among the trampled grass were tightened now, and…

As it happened, Shar watched the first shield rise, spilling a startled Zhent forward-and revealing a Harper with a loaded crossbow. He discharged his quarrel into the face of the nearest Zhent officer, dropped the bow, and snatched up his spear to ward away a charging armsman. That gave the other two Harpers in the hole time to scramble out, gain their feet, and begin their race through the Zhent rear, hacking and slashing at the full run.

Men and women in leather boiled up out of the ground in two dozen places or more, and there was much shouting and chaos. Shar had a brief glimpse of a furious-looking man in robes-a Zhent wizard, she realized-stumbling hastily away from a seeking blade. Then she was much too busy to look at anything but the foes all around, their blades falling on her own with the force of hammers.

The Sword of the South rolled into the defenders again, a wall of grim men wielding blades and maces. They pushed the outnumbered dalefolk slowly back to higher ground. Another horn cried out from just behind her, and Shar flung herself flat.

An instant later, arrows hissed over her in a deadly stream, and the front rank of Zhents melted away, hurled to the ground like torn thorn bushes. A brief blip of the horn indicated it was safe to rise.

Sharantyr found her feet and stared across blood-soaked ground at the Zhents… over the frightened faces of the Zhentilar rearguard, back across the creek. There, Harper swords flashed, message runners fell, and Zhent officers shouted and flailed in disarray. A rolling ball of flame told her at least one Harper spell had worked-a lone Harper paused, tossed sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes, and lashed half a dozen pursuers with a bright net of fire.

The Harpers were pitifully few. Most of those fighting south to a rallying point were going down, attacked from all sides by enraged and fearful Zhents. Shar saw one armsman catch his foot on the edge of an open Harper hole and fall helplessly away from the ranger he was attacking. The man leapt across the hole, breaking free of a ring of Zhents, and raced toward a banner that had been set alight as a rallying point.

Not far behind Shar, Margrueth muttered an incantation. A flying Zhent spear headed past her, and she dived sideways to smash it down with her shield, for fear it would reach the sorceress.

It skidded into the dirt, and an instant later came Margrueth's short bark of satisfaction. A wall of twinkling swords blinked into solidity in the air around the surviving Harpers, chopping down pursuing Zhents. Men jerked and fell in that deadly whirlwind.

A black-robed Zhentarim wizard strode toward the wall of swords, careful to keep in the lee of a trio of large shields held high by armsmen. He raised his hands and gestured grandly-but was answered by fearful shouts as his magic went wild. Instead of fading away, the blades flew in all directions, butchering Harpers and Zhents alike.

A strident horn call began another Zhent cavalry charge, striking at the Riders again along the southern edge of the dale. The ground shook as sixty or more horsemen gathered speed, heading west. The Zhentilar foot soldiers advanced, too, striding purposefully to overwhelm the few defenders.

Shar caught a seeking sword on her dagger, warded it away, and drove her own blade into the man's throat. As he spun away, clutching the spraying gore, she sprang to meet the next man, leaping high to put all her weight behind the downstroke. Her steel glanced off the guards of a slow parrying blade and sheared through its wielder's jaw. He fell back, choking, and was trampled by his fellow soldiers in their hunger to get at her.

"Hold the line!" she heard Rath an Thentraver roar, somewhere to the left.

A Harper fell against her leg and went down, a sword in his face. Only Belkram's swift blade saved Shar, and they retreated together, Itharr striking aside Zhent blades from one side.

"Kiss my steel!" Torm shouted defiantly nearby, and was answered by a short scream.

Shar reeled, found her footing again, and glared wildly around. The defenders of Mistledale were reduced to a few knots of struggling swords-themselves and the Knights of Myth Drannor. The gaps in the line were so large now that the farmers, back behind the fray, could loose shafts freely through them-and only that paltry but deadly fire was keeping the Zhents from sweeping forward to surround and rout them.

The horns called anew. The defenders fell back again, seeking another line of standards as lightnings danced briefly among the Zhents. The creek was far off now, across a sea of bobbing black helms, and the iron taste of grim despair rose in Sharantyr's mouth.

They were all going to die here, today, swept away by a thousand Zhent blades, sent to their deaths by Elminster in this dark time on Faerun…

With a crash that shook the battlefield, the Zhent cavalry and the Riders of Mistledale rushed together. A breath later, something flashed across the sky. The Zhentarim spellmaster tried another futile spell-and was answered by Jhessail and Illistyl, who sent a dancing serpent of flame through the ranks of the advancing armsmen.

Shar heard Sylune's voice rise in sudden passion. An instant later, a knot of Zhentilar armsmen levitated into the air, waving weapons in futile horror, lofting high above the battlefield.

Some of their fellows were too slow witted to avoid walking beneath the shouting spell victims and were gawking up at their fellows aloft when the Zhentilar plunged back to earth. They crashed down like so much spilled kindling to smash into bloody ruin on the earth and raised blades below.

The Zhent advance faltered. In the sudden lull, a man in old and shiny black Rider armor pushed past Shar and strode into the Zhent ranks, a shimmering arrowhead of force preceding him, cleaving men who stood in his way.

"Here me, Tempus, Lord of Battles!" the man roared as he went, hands raised and empty. "Let the old warriors rise, if it pleases ye! Raise a ring of skulls, I entreat ye! Oh, Tempus!"

It was the old Rider, Baergil. A Zhent, drawn sword in hand, ducked around behind the old priest's magic and raced in. As he jerked back the white-horse helm and drew his sword viciously across the exposed throat, there came one last, bubbling cry of "Tempusss!"