Ed Greenwood - All Shadows Fled

The spell was complete. Baergil's body blazed with sudden blue fire. His slayer fell back in awe. The dead priest hung upright in the streaming flames, hands uplifted to the sky, and men murmured at the sight.

Cries of awe and fear came as the trampled turf under the Zhents erupted. Staring things of mottled green and brown bones burst up out of the soil… rising through the horrified armsmen to form into a silent, floating ring of skulls just overhead. Many battles had been fought by the banks of Swords Creek, and countless warriors had fallen here, to lie under the earth until called up by so mighty a magic.

The eyes of the skulls flared into sudden fire, the same cold, eerie blue flame that blazed around Baergil. Zhentilar cried out in alarm and began to run-but nothing could flee fast enough to escape the rays of chill light that lanced from the skulls through the Zhent host.

Where those blue rays touched the running or striding armsmen of the Sword of the South, flesh melted away, leaving only bones. Skeletal warriors rushed on for a pace or two, and then collapsed.

The Zhents on the far side of the creek and the defenders of Mistledaie alike stared in horror as thousands of armsmen died.

When no man was left standing between Baergil's corpse and the creek, the skulls turned until the rays that streamed from their glowing sockets met in the heart of the field of bones. Blue light pulsed and built to almost blinding fury, and gauntlets were raised to shield eyes all over the battlefield. An armored form strode along in the heart of the radiance.

It had been striding forever, it seemed, fearless and patient, a figure twelve feet tall and clad in a full suit of gleaming plate armor, visor down. As the rays began to fade and the skulls sank back to the earth in silent unison, the armored figure was suddenly among them, treading on Zhentilar bones without a sound, walking toward Baergil.

"The War God," someone whispered. The defenders of Mistledale fell back at the armored giant's approach.

In eerie silence, two flaming blue gauntlets reached out and took up the priest's body, cradling it against the massive chest. The Knights of Myth Drannor parted in respectful silence. The helm turned slowly from side to side to survey them, and for just a moment Shar felt the scorching weight of eyes that blazed like two red flames.

In silence, Tempus strode on, west toward distant Ashabenford, bearing Baergil's body in his arms. To those who watched, it seemed the body began to burn, blazing its own miniature pyre.

The implacable avatar vanished over the hill… and left the handful of weary men and women to defend Mistledale against several thousand shaken Zhentilar soldiers.

What was left of the Sword of the South stood along the east bank of Swords Creek, still more than enough armsmen to crush the few who resisted them. Their hireswords and booty brothers were among the fallen; those who remained were veteran Zhent blackhelms. In fearful, sullen silence, they eyed the field of death before them, but orders were shouted, and officers ran about brandishing maces… and reluctantly, the soldiers of Zhentit Keep began to advance.

"It must be now," Sharantyr heard Sylune say quietly.

In the distance, there came a sudden burst of radiance as the Witch of Shadowdale appeared in the heart of the Zhents… in the small space between Swordlord Amglar and Spellmaster Nentor Thuldoum. The men broke off their arguing to gape in unison at the beautiful woman who stood between them, the glow of her magic fading around her.

"Well met indeed, gentlesirs," Sylune told them softly, raising her lithe arms in glee.

The magic missiles that streamed out of her riddled both men, even before the fireballs and bolts of lightning leapt forth in their wake.

Amglar and Nentor of the Zhentarim died screaming.

Sylune sang a terrible, wordless song of rage and sorrow for the body she was losing, and her slim-hipped form blazed white with the fury of the magic coursing through her.

Zhentilar stared at the dancing, burning figure in their midst, and then perished in the whirlwind of unleashed spells that sprayed death in all directions from the woman.

Florin swallowed what might have been a sob as he watched bright flames gout from Sylune's eyes and mouth, streaming across scorched turf to immolate shouting Zhentilar, whose vainly hurled spears vanished in that inferno.

There came a quickening of the spell fury, and Sylune's head was gone, blown away with the awesome energies pouring from her. The headless body turned as if it could see, and raised its hands to burn fleeing Zhent horsemen from their distant saddles. Flames streamed from her neck and hands… and before she turned away, her hands were gone, and spells were now leaping from the stumps of her arms.

Someone was rallying the Zhentilar as the stream of spells flickered, and then ceased… and men in ebon armor charged across the smoking ground, blades raised to slay the swaying, disintegrating Witch of Shadowdale.

"No!" Belkram roared, waving his own blade in sudden fury. "For Mistledale! For Sylune!" He rushed across the strewn bones, his sword held high. Itharr and Florin raced to catch up to him. Sharantyr was moving before she thought about it, following her companions into a band of scattered, dazed-looking Zhent blackhelms still several hundred strong.

Beside her, Shar saw flashing legs and a bouncing bosom, and turned to see Jhessail sprinting along, weaponless, with Illistyl running at her heels and Merith moving with fluid grace and drawn sword.

"Wait!" Rathan puffed, behind them. "Save some Zhents for me!"

They were almost at the stream and the grim-faced foremost Zhents who stood there when what was left of the Witch of Shadowdale vanished in a burst of snarling flames that threw men headlong or sent them fleeing wildly back toward the trees.

Then Belkram, Itharr, and Florin splashed across the stream, roaring out their grief together. They fell upon the Zhents like three maddened reapers mowing wheat. It was the last such harvest that their foes needed to see: the shattered Sword of the South broke and fled, an army no more.

Belkram ran on toward the dying flames that had been Sylune, and Itharr and Florin paced him, swording the few blackhelms foolish enough to get in their way. Sharantyr tried to catch up, but her lungs were burning; she'd never seen men run so fast before.

By the time she reached the spot where Belkram knelt, the Harper was on his knees amid the smoldering ashes, weeping.

The stone cradled so gently in his gauntlets had cracked in the heat. "Lady," Belkram sobbed despairingly, "leave us not!"

But there came no reply but the creak of cooling stone. The Harper raised a face that streamed tears and cried to Florin, "Do something!"

The Knight smiled down at him and undid the last buckle of his chest armor. As it fell open, he drew forth something he wore on a chain. A lump of stone. All of the gathered adventurers saw a streak of ghostly radiance arc from the shattered stone to the good one.

The stone winked once with its stored fire, reassuringly. Florin took off the chain and handed it to Belkram. "Yours, I think," the Shield of Shadowdale said quietly. "I think she's grown tired of Torm's tricks."

Belkram's eyes shone. He was still struggling to speak when the Riders of Mistledale swept past with lowered lances, ruthlessly riding down fleeing Zhents. "For Baergil!" they bellowed as they went. "For Baergil!"

Kuthe was in the foremost saddle, swaying and pale, blood all down his front from a deep wound in his shoulder. "Kuthe!" Jhessail called as he spurred his mount past. "Have done! They're beaten!"

He rode in a wide circle back to her, face set, and said, "The field may be ours, Lady, but Mistledale is my home. Every Zhent who can still walk by sunset is a sword that can strike from darkness when we sleep! I'll not rest until they're all dead and done!"