Ed Greenwood - All Shadows Fled

"Faerun certainly affords more entertainment than Shadowhome," Bralatar said, remembering the battle as he looked out over the ravaged field.

"And because the peril to and consequences for us are the less, one can really enjoy it," Lorgyn replied, watching Merith and Jhessail embrace, and Illistyl, after a moment, turn and look around the battlefield for Torm.

"I cannot understand the thinking of Yinthrim, to throw life and all the unfolding chances of this world away just to try to avenge kin who may well have plotted his own death, had they lived."

"Atari, yes," Lorgyn agreed, "would always plunge into battle, given the slightest of excuses, but such folly is unusual for Yinthrim." He looked at the site of the tent where the two Malaugrym had perished the night before-now a trampled sward strewn with sprawled bodies. He shrugged. "I guess battle hunger overtook them."

"Battle hunger? Attacking three sleeping humans is something done out of 'battle hunger'?" Bralatar had a fine, showy grasp of sarcastic incredulity when something aroused him to it. He shifted on the branch, fluttering his feathers in irritation. "Admit they liked to slay folk, and fatally misjudged the fervor of these mortals, and have done with it. Two fewer fools to breed will make our house that much the stronger."

"A phrase fit for a speech of any Shadowmaster High," Lorgyn acknowledged, bowing his head. "So when, in your judgment, would it be best that we make our strike against the three who dared to intrude into Shadowhome, and slay so many Malaugrym?''

"When those three rangers are much older, and we've seen far more of this world-or at least, not now," Bralatar replied with his usual sharp humor. "Those two maids over there-Jhessail and Illistyl, if I heard aright-still have spells left. And who knows how many of those Harpers are mages? I'm not descending into the midst of a battlefield where one old man called down a god not long ago!"

"And the Lord of Battles at that," Lorgyn agreed. "Now is not a good time."

"'Now' is never a good time," Bralatar said dryly.

"At first light," Florin ordered, looking around the map-strewn room, "we ride north to Shadowdale, where our swords are sorely needed."

Kuthe nodded grimly. "Haste must be our course, yes." He looked at the cot where Nelyssa lay, nodding weakly.

"I shall ride to Shadowdale on the morrow," she said firmly, "and any man who shouts at me not to go will serve me as a replacement mount!"

Kuthe closed his open mouth stiffly, and turned his head away, then swung it around again, opened his mouth to speak, caught her eye-and closed his jaws once more.

Torm and Rathan, scratching at their rough, stiff bandages, sputtered with mirth and went out hastily.

"Ah,'twas worth all that jabber to see Lord High-and-Mighty's face!" Torm chuckled. "Now, let's be finding that drink I was talking of…"

"I'll go with ye," Rathan said grimly. "Too many friends fell this day. I want to feel a small fire in my belly this night."

Torm raised his eyebrows. "And why not? You do that every other night; why change things now?"

Rathan favored him with both a weary look and an unpriestly gesture.

Just after the two Knights had wearily passed around a corner of the street, a door swung open, and Illistyl hurried, white-faced, out into the waiting night. Her mind yet burned with the sight of a Rider's crushed leg being amputated, the grim faces of sawing surgeon and patient, the Rider's rolling eyes. Illistyl shook her head as she stumbled along in the darkness, but could not shake the images away…

Suddenly something was rising within her. She fell heavily to her knees and vomited into the dark grass.

A weary Rider turned his head at the sound, watched her sobbing out the contents of her stomach, and turned back to sewing up a comrade's slashed arm.

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully, "it seems great adventurers are human after all."

His older companion winced as the needle went in again. "Oh, they're human, lad… all too human. That's where most of the trouble begins."

The Castle of Shadows, Shadowhome, Flamerule 15

The mists of morning were still drifting off the river as the Knights of Myth Drannor and the Riders of Mistledale rode north together, leather creaking loudly among the riverbank trees. They pressed on, stiff and sore from yesterday's fighting, but more than one Rider wore a wondering smile as he looked around at the awakening forest on this bright morning he'd not expected to see.

"Such a victory," one man muttered to his companion. "Thousands we sent to their graves. 'Twas the favor of the gods, to be sure, that we weren't all sent to the Deathrealms in their first charge, and Mistledale laid waste before highsun!"

"Aye, we place much store in the favor of the gods," his comrade replied, "or we'd not be riding straight into another battle!" He pointed ahead. Plumes of smoke rose into the sky to the north.

Shadowdale was burning.

The Knights and Riders pressed on up the Mistle Trail, urging their mounts to greater haste.

Torm waved a hand at the smoke and said loudly and bitterly, "Look! We'll get there in time to join the Zhents at their fires, with the dale pillaged and burned and not a man or maid left to fight for!"

"Say not so!" Merith told him, but Kuthe and Nelyssa nodded slowly.

"We've taken this way in haste before," the captain of the Riders said, her eyes very dark, "and spent more than a day in the forest… and that was a few riders on fresh, swift mounts-not a force this large that fought yesterday."

Belkram was frowning and holding his head to one side, as if listening to something. He straightened in his saddle and said, "There is a way to take us there more swiftly."

Florin Falconhand, who rode at the head of the column, turned his head. "You mean magic," he said grimly. "Is that wise, given the chaos ruling sorcery?"

Belkram listened for a breath longer, and then shrugged. "Sylune says teleportation seems unaffected-it served her even on the battlefield yester-morn, passing wild magic shields to do so."

"Without a body, she can't cast any spells," Kuthe pointed out. "What good is it if the Lady Jhessail here hurls one of us on ahead? A lone rider makes a better target than a relief force!"

"There is a way to take us all," Belkram replied slowly, passing on the words from the stone that held the Witch of Shadowdale. "Elminster taught it to m-her."

The ranger nodded. "There is a risk," Florin said; it was a statement, not a query. He looked around at the others, holding up his hand for a halt. "Are you willing to take on that danger? All of you?"

The Knights nodded without hesitation. Among the Riders were some swift glances back and forth, and shrugs. One leaned forward and asked Florin, "Are you?"

The Shield of Shadowdale shrugged. "Of course."

"He's a Knight of Myth Drannor," Rathan explained as if to a child.

"Which is to say, he's a reckless idiot," Torm elaborated in a stage whisper.

The men of Mistledale were still chuckling when Captain Nelyssa said crisply, "I will undergo this magic. Let us be about it."

"We'll need some space," Belkram said, and pointed into the trees. "That glade there."

Nelyssa nodded. "Let all who are unwilling to chance this spell stay here on the trail." She turned her horse's head and guided it into the trees.

As they followed, Belkram looked at Jhessail. "You must do the casting."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "So I'd gathered."

No one stayed on the road. When everyone was arrayed around Belkram, he took off the chain and gave it to Jhessail. She held up the stone, and grew still for a moment as she listened. Merith, who'd been in such castings before, slid deftly from his saddle and lay on the ground, taking hold of one hoof of his horse and one of his lady's ankles. Florin edged his mount over to take a firm hold on Merith's horse, and Sharantyr, Itharr, Belkram, Captain Nelyssa, and Kuthe followed, creating a human chain.