Ed Greenwood - All Shadows Fled

Jhessail smiled her thanks, and said, "Draw in close, everyone-to touch at least one other person or their mount. Remain that way, and don't pull free until we're elsewhere."

She drew a deep breath and put the stone into her mouth. Closing her eyes in concentration, Jhessail followed Sylune's guidance in the casting. The loop of chain dangling from her chin rattled as she moved. After a brief series of gestures, she threw both hands high into the air and froze.

A blue mist raced out from her body to swirl around them all. It rose, growing thicker and winking with small flashes of blue light… light that was suddenly blinding, blotting the world out in an shifting, drifting swirl… that faded away to show Faerun again.

They were in a different clearing-a larger space littered with felled trees and stacked firewood. To the north was daylight, where the woods gave way to the first fields of Shadowdale. Through the cloaking trees, they saw the stone bridge over the Ashaba, where a watchful guard always stood.

A guard of three frightened old men, whose spears trembled in their hands as they shouted in alarm at the sudden appearance of so many horsemen. Florin took his hand from Merith's horse to raise it in a reassuring salute.

Jhessail shuddered and collapsed silently onto her husband, the stone falling from her mouth.

"Is she-?" Belkram and Itharr said together, leaning anxiously down. Merith cradled her as he reached out, plucked up the stone that was Sylune, and held it up to Belkram.

"Drained, not dead," the elf said softly. "A mass teleport is something far beyond her Art. Though Sylune gave direction, my Jhess worked the spell."

"We must still make haste," Nelyssa reminded.

Illistyl frowned. "Florin! Come back here!"

The ranger, who was halfway to the bridge, acknowledged the relieved greetings of the dalesmen before he turned questioningly.

"I haven't Art to equal Jhess's," the younger sorceress said, "but I can manage something you should use now."

Florin was already hurrying his war horse back to her. Firefoam had paced restlessly back and forth behind the lines of the battle yesterday, and was eager to get into a proper fray; he snorted and tossed his head as they approached Illistyl, fearing he would be relegated to stand and watch, again. The diminutive sorceress stood looking up at him as his great muzzle lowered to her nose.

"How would you like to fly?" she asked softly.

Firefoam's bugle awoke echoes from the trees around and made many of the other horses stamp and whinny.

"Fly ahead," Illistyl said, looking up at Florin, "and see where we're needed. Rally folk, and return if you need us anywhere in particular-otherwise, we'll just charge on up the road and kill Zhents!"

"A shrewd grasp of tactics," Captain Nelyssa said dryly.

Illistyl cast her spell with deft speed.

Florin scooped the limp form of Jhessail from Merith's arms and settled her against his own chest.

"Done! Get you gone!" Illistyl cried, waving her hands; Florin smiled his thanks and saluted as Firefoam bounded aloft-and was gone across the sky, heading for the distant Tower of Ashaba.

As they hurried across, Jhessail asked the first old farmer on the bridge, "How goes the battle?"

"Not well," he rasped. "Too many Zhents!"

"A problem we're familiar with," Torm agreed grandly, urging his horse off the bridge.

An instant later, the ground rocked and thundered. Riders fought to control snorting mounts and stay in their saddles as they gaped at a huge ball of flame that rose up, up into the sky over Shadowdale.

"The tower?" Illistyl gasped, white to the lips. "Florin?"

"Not the tower," Jhessail said, shaking her head. "But close by, west and south."

"The temple of Lathander," Rathan grunted, "or I'm an idiot."

"You are an idiot," Torm pointed out.

Rathan's reply was a certain wordless gesture with his mace as he hauled on the reins, taking his horse to one side of the cart road and gaining room to gallop. Torm cast a quick look back to see all the Riders doing so, and pulled his mount to the left, catching a glare from Kuthe for his tardiness.

"Ready, all?" Captain Nelyssa asked crisply. "Forward!"

At her yell, they nudged their mounts into a gallop and swept north into the heart of Shadowdale.

The smoke lay like a haze in the air here, drifting out of the trees to the east, and the fields around them were green and deserted. Up ahead, they could hear the swelling sound of shouts and screams and the clangor of steel on steel. Here and there a blade flashed as it caught the sunlight through the smoke and swirling dust.

The crossroads in front of the Old Skull Inn was heaped with dead. The twisted mounds were so high the Zhentilar, advancing in a great horde from the east, had to scramble and climb. The grisly, slippery wall was being held against them by desperate dalesmen wielding axes and blades.

Among the dusty defenders were Storm Silverhand and her sister, Dove, both clad in battered and scorched plate armor but bareheaded, their silver tresses swirling as they fought. Storm leapt into the air and smashed aside a foe's blade, her other hand snaking in to take him by the throat. Muscles rippled in her arm as they crashed back down to earth together. The Zhent blackhelm struggled for a moment in her iron grip-then fell limp, his neck broken. Two of his fellows scrambled up the mound of dead, waving blades to get their chance at the Bard of Shadowdale.

Dove Falconhand took that chance away, rushing along the line of defenders to thrust one Zhent desperately aside into the other armsman. Off-balance, the blackhelms stumbled among the corpses. Storm dumped the man she'd just slain atop one, and kicked the other in the face with her boot. He fell down the heap, head rolling limply, and was smashed aside by more Zhentilar rushing up to challenge Storm in their turn.

"That's the problem with Zhents," Rathan growled as they turned their horses toward the black-armored host crowded up against the wall of dead. "There're always too many of them."

"Lances down!" Nelyssa cried, and led the charge.

Through the thunder of pounding hooves they heard someone of Shadowdale cry, "The Riders! The Riders of Mistledale!"

"And the mighty Torm, too!" the thief shouted back, just before they crashed into the Zhent lines.

Men reeled like broken dolls under the impact of hooves and lances and thundering war horses, and when the press of bodies slowed their progress, the Riders let go their lances and laid about themselves with swords and maces.

"Shadowdale!" Dove Falconhand snarled, leading a charge from the ridge of slain.

There were screams of agony and frustration from the Zhents, packed too tightly together to raise weapons or move from the blades.

A desperately wielded spear sought Torm's thigh; he sprang from his saddle and vaulted into the fray, drawn sword extended between his boots. He came down atop a Zhentilar and rode the man to the ground, stabbing viciously with the dagger in his free hand. The man convulsed and lay still; by then Torm was two kills away, his slim blade and dagger sliding in and out before the close-packed Zhents could react.

With a wall of corpses around him like a shield, he struck out from between their bodies, swift and sure, thrusting, dancing away from blades… until the crash of a felled Rider and his horse cleared some space, and the dead began to topple and slump all around.

Into the opened space leapt Storm, clapping a gasping Torm on his shoulder. "Bravely done!"

"Ah-all for… you… Lady," Torm huffed, trying to essay a courtly bow-and slipping in gore so that he lurched to one knee. The fall saved his life; a whirling axe meant for his head flashed harmlessly through empty air.

Storm hauled him upright. "The battle's this way," she said helpfully, pointing with a sword that was red to the hilt.