Ed Greenwood - All Shadows Fled

She parried the Zhentilar blade and spun away to run after Storm's racing dapple gray, heedless of the heaped dead.

Uncertainly, Belkram turned to follow, but Itharr shouted in alarm.

"Look you!" He pointed the other way, east beyond Krag Pool, where new plumes of smoke were rising through the green leaves of the trees.

"Gods," Shaerl gasped, her face white, as she stared east into the blazing forest. "The Zhents have fired the wood! The dale may become our pyre yet!"

The defenders of Shadowdale, too few and too weary to fight a blaze, stared at the quickening flames in horror.

"Now," Dove said firmly, " 'tis time!" She held up the blade she bore and called, "Eanamorrath!"

Lighting leapt from its suddenly blazing length, crackling along the line of blackhelms to strike the blade Lord Florin wielded. His sword flashed. Florin hissed at the shock of the bolt surging through the weapon, and then the lightning leapt back, sinking back into Dove's blade as if it were an errant phantom returning home.

In its wake lay a blackened path of dead Zhentilar, sprawled wherever the bolt had danced, and the air was sharp with the smell of the strike that had felled them. The surviving Zhent warriors drew back in disarray, leaving the defenders alone with the dead.

"Florin!" Itharr shouted. "Lord Florin!"

The Shield of Shadowdale turned his head.

Itharr called, "We must pray to Mielikki for a downpour!"

"But if all the gods are cast down and powerless…" a Rider leaning on his sword nearby said.

"No! He's right!" Illistyl snapped. "Mielikki and Eldath dwell in Faerun; their power is sourced here. Shaerl! Is your maid, Jenna, anywhere about?"

"I–I sent her to help Jhaele tend the wounded at the Old Skull," Shaerl said doubtfully, wiping sweat and tangled hair out of her eyes. "Why?"

"She worships Eldath," Illistyl snarled. "Come!"

"And what of the Zhents?" Mourngrym bellowed. He waved an arm to indicate the hundreds of Zhentilar still facing them, though the blackhelms seemed to be retreating to the trees at the edge of the dale.

"Fall back," Illistyl told him. "Back to this ridge of bodies. You can see the inn from there, and Florin and the Rangers Three can join Jenna in prayer. If the woods burn, we are all lost, whether we fight for Shadowdale or Zhentil Keep!"

They all stared at her a moment, then scrambled to take up new positions among the mounds of fallen. Belkram, Itharr, and Sharantyr found themselves trotting toward the inn, panting, while Florin ran on ahead, feet racing as if he were rested and fresh. Shaerl and Mourngrym ran along behind them as rearguard, and the stout priest Rathan puffed after the hurrying band.

"Gods," Belkram said, stumbling as his throbbing feet sent fresh lances of pain upward. "I don't think the gods meant me to be a hero! Being one of those sleeping temple guards seems more within my grasp!"

"Here, now!" Rathan Thentraver said in offended tones. "Dost thou slander the holy?"

"All too often," Itharr told him as they picked their way among the wounded laid on blankets, restless in their pain. Someone was wailing in grief, and blood-soaked bandages-and flies-were everywhere. "What does this Jenna look like?"

"Just look for Florin," Belkram instructed, pointing at the open inn door, "He must be in th-"

The ground heaved. A deafening howl of rage and grief smashed into the ears of everyone in Shadowdale. Thrown to their knees, the three rangers looked back east, from whence the sound had come.

A sphere of raging flames hung high in the air over the burning trees, spinning. The flames from the woods below were being drawn up into it. It pulsed, becoming almost blinding in its fury-but against the bright whirling flames a figure could be seen standing in its fiery heart; a wildly leaping figure clad in the black tatters of a gown.

"Oh, sweet gods spare us!" someone gasped.

The woods were dark and hissing now as the last fire soared up out of them. The sphere spun once more before it hurled its fire down in a ravening beam of utter destruction, into the Zhent soldiers crowded along the Voonlar road. They did not even have time to scream before they were tumbling ashes. The scouring flames lashed the very stones into ruin.

The Central Blade of Bane's Black Gauntlet was no more.

"Who-?" one of the Riders asked in awe, staring up at the figure who stood on empty air above the trees, all her flames spent now.

"The Simbul," Shaerl whispered. She turned, swept a tankard off a table, and drained it at a single gulp.

"The Witch-Queen?" the man gasped. "The Shield Against Thay?"

"The same," Shaerl replied bitterly, and turned into Mourngrym's arms with a sob.

"This can only mean one thing," the lord of Shadowdale said grimly, holding his shaking, weeping lady. "Elminster is dead."

The Castle of Shadows, Shadowhome, Flamerule 18

In a deepness that very few Malaugrym know, in the ever-shifting cellars of the Castle of Shadows, there was a place where thinking shadows glided endlessly through the gloom, vast and slow. These ponderous phantoms circled a grotto where shapeshifters who bore the title Shadowmaster High had been wont to hide the bones of rivals and others they'd deemed expedient to make 'vanish.'

The grotto was a cold cavern of rough rock where waters dripped endlessly among the pale, chill glows of fungi, but at its heart two seats faced each other-seats carved out of the flanks of massive, ancient stalagmites… and these seats each bore a curious graven symbol believed to be the sign of Malaug himself. It was a rune found in few places in the Castle of Shadows, and all of its occurrences were well known in the lore of the House of Malaug-save these two.

There was not much else to see in the bone-white glow but tumbled rock and bones… but there was much to feel, hanging heavy and watchful on all sides.

Even the youngest Shadowmasters had heard tales of locales in Shadowhome where mighty magics slumbered, which only the Shadowmaster High could perceive and wield. This was one of those places.

The young and ambitious Malaugrym Argast and Amdramnar had recently discovered the grotto in separate, private explorations. Both had been guided in their wanderings among the shifting shadows by the writings of Shadowmaster High Melvydur. Dead these thousand years and more, Melvydur mentioned the grotto as the place where the dynasty he founded was conceived-and where he laid to rest the bodies of all his sons who rebelled against him. His writings end when the last son succeeded in destroying Melvydur.

This secret grotto of silent bones and uncaring rock was a gloomy place… but it was a place of power. Ancient magic lay heavy in the air, awaiting the right word or gesture to awaken it. And more than anything else, those of the blood of Malaug hungered after power.

Argast and Amdramnar were rivals, and perhaps the best of the younger generation of Shadowmasters. Certainly they were the most subtle, patient, and polite in their dealings-and so commanded the most respect, not to mention fear, among their elders. Those elders would have been most surprised to see them sharing any place in relative peace.

Indeed, as they sat facing each other, their faces were grim and wary, their fingers very close to hurling slaying spells and wielding powerful and deadly items. Yet they sat, and did not move to rend and slay. Their elders were right to fear them.

"Have we agreement?" Argast asked.

"By my name, we do," Amdramnar replied. "Have we agreement?"

"By my name, we do," Argast responded as they watched the drops of their blood slowly flow together into the vial.

They rose as one, and Argast took the vial and stoppered it, handing it to Amdramnar to place on the seat he'd vacated. What befell one Shadowmaster would now also afflict the other-until the vial was broken by someone using the right spells to prevent grave damage to them both.