Ed Greenwood - All Shadows Fled

"But I haven't fin-" Mourngrym began. He snatched his platter to his chest just before Storm plucked it away. He brandished his fork at her. "Keep back, woman!"

There was laughter from the doorway. Belkram and Itharr of the Harpers stood there, staring delightedly into the room. "Now that's a sight worth walking here from Berdusk to see! We battle the Bard of Shadowdale with blades… but great lords use sausage forks on her!"

Mourngrym sighed, backed away to the sideboard, and set his plate down. Picking up a sausage, he pointed at the chairs ranged around the table and said, "Pray enter, Lords, Ladies, and Gentles, and be seated. There, there, and there… ah, and I believe that seat's available too… very good." He glanced at the gathering: Knights, Storm, a swirling radiance by her shoulder that must be Sylune, the two Harper rangers, Shaerl, and-who was missing?

Elminster, of course, and Lhaeo… not surprising. He bit into the sausage thoughtfully. Ah!

"This room's too quiet by far," he announced grandly. "Where's Torm?"

"I thought you'd never ask," the smooth voice of the thief replied from the doorway. "While you've been snoring, I've been working. Pretty soft being lord of a dale, isn't it?"

"You?" Mourngrym snorted, making a rude gesture with what was left of his sausage. "Working?"

"Indeed," Torm replied with dignity, "I have just returned from a dawn foray-a bold and brazen foray, let me say, fraught with peril and shining bravery-into the road camp just south of Voonlar, looking for certain things our departed Zhentish friends may have left behind!"

"More women?" Merith asked slyly. "Torm, how many can one man have?"

"The answer, Sir Elf, would surprise you," Torm said loftily, "but that is a matter for converse at some more relaxed time. I speak of the Central Blade's pack train… sixteen wagons of it, at any rate."

"Thieving still?" Shaerl sighed. "Torm, in case you haven't noticed, there's a war on! Must you indulge in petty thievery?"

Term's eyebrows rose. " 'Petty thievery,' Lady? You wound me to the quick! What did you think your surviving troops would eat? And be paid with? Starving men"-a dagger spun from his hand to transfix one of Mourngrym's sausages, and the thief jerked on the silken cord affixed to the hilt and snatched the food away from Mourngrym's hasty grab-"who feel they've been cheated tend to make unsafe guardians, particularly when they're also well-trained warriors."

"Belt up, well-trained warrior," Florin suggested kindly as Torm reeled in a dusty sausage and bit into it with satisfaction. The ranger looked around the table to address them. "We're here to talk some things out and decide how best to proceed, given the perils abroad in the land and… our lack of Elminster." In the silence that followed, he added, "In the absence of the Old Mage, Sylune is the eldest here, and should speak first."

"My thanks, Florin-I think," the ghostly Witch of Shadowdale said dryly. "For my part, I have unfinished business Elminster set me to. Sister, will you hand my stone to Itharr of the Harpers? He is the only one of our Rangers Three who hasn't borne me yet."

"I will," Storm said gravely, drawing the chain from her neck and rising to carry the stone around the table.

"The Rangers Three? Sounds like a chartered adventuring band," Torm commented. Itharr took the stone carefully, a little awed. The thief added, "Or a traveling minstrel show."

"Torm, dearest," Sharantyr said sweetly, "Tell me: do these idiocies just tumble out whenever you open your mouth-or do you actually sit there and think them up?"

"Thinking?" Torm frowned at her. "Who said anything about thinking? Kill first, then loot… and the thinking part is that unpleasant shouting business at the end when it all has to be divided. It makes brains hurt."

"Mine certainly does," Mourngrym said with feeling, "but I believe Sylune still has the high tongue in this round of converse."

"For my part," Sylune responded, "there is no more to say. I am a thing of ghosts and shadows. My will is bound to duty."

"Yes, but what would you like to do?"

"Find my sister the Simbul and beseech her to do as Elminster did," the Witch of Shadowdale said very quietly. "That is, make me a new body."

There was an embarrassed silence at the raw longing in her voice. Florin stepped into it by saying, "Next senior among us is my lady, Dove. What say you?"

Dove smiled at him and looked around the table. "My first duty-our first duty-must be to defend the folk of the Dales against brigands, Zhents, roving monsters, and the like. Otherwise, there'll be no crops, and starvation come winter. Time of Troubles or no, the work of daily life must go on. We have to find all the Zhents scrambling around the woods and deal with them, discover who or what else is lurking about to prey on our people, find and tend all the wounded, and rebuild what was ruined in the fighting."

"Well, that takes care of the council," Torm said lightly. "Let's be getting on with it. Mourngrym can make us all more sausages-I'm certainly hungry enough-and we can meet again when the snows fall."

"Rathan? Gag him, will you?" Illistyl snapped scornfully. "To think that I once bedded that!"

"Once? From what I recall, twi-"

"Enough, Torm," Dove said firmly, "or have you forgotten the fish bucket?"

"The fish bucket?" Mourngrym asked, leaning forward with interest. "Is this some sort of torture device fine upstanding noble lords can use on annoying thieves?"

"After he made a particularly crude remark," Jhessail explained, "Dove held Torm's head under water in the bucket of live fish she was bringing to the tower for evenfeast… until he ran out of bubbles."

"Ah, that explains what happened to his wits," Merith said delightedly. "They got soaked through and grew mildew…"

"Gods in their palaces," Belkram said to Itharr in low tones, "are all their council meetings like this?"

"Oh, no, no," Storm assured him cheerfully. "Best manners this morn… because of you. Usually we just shout Torm down and get on, and no one speaks in turn."

"Strange you should mention that," Florin said with a smile, "as seniority brings us now to you."

"Aye, indeed," Storm said with a smile. "I concur with my sister Dove, but be aware that aside from Shar, Sylune, and my two Harpers here"-Belkram and Itharr smiled around the table and swept mock bows-"this assembly is just going to have to abandon chasing Malaugrym for the time being."

"Malaugrym?"

"The shapeshifters who attacked us in the tent, the night before the battle in Mistledale," Sharantyr explained.

"Those weren't doppelgangers?"

"No, something far worse."

"Oh… one of Mourngrym's speeches?"

"Stow it," Florin ordered with a grin and a sigh.

"Because some among us can't resist the urges to be clever, these little get-togethers are always so much fun."

"Hold hard," Shaerl said, leaning over the table with a frown. "Do I hear you rightly? Chasing Malaugrym? Are there a band of them?"

"A family, actually," Storm explained softly. "An ancient clan who kill those who know about them-so guard your lips. For centuries Elminster has slain any of them who dared to enter the Realms."

"So with him gone…"

"Chasing may no longer be necessary. They'll probably find us soon enough," Sharantyr observed.

"Is there any way-short of magic that may go wild, and blow this tower apart, or cover us all in cow dung-of knowing they're not here in this room, right now, taking the shape of one of us?" Torm asked sharply.

"No," Storm and Dove said in quiet unison.

"Well," Rathan joked, "You did come in late, Torm…"

"Oh, no, you don't," Torm said warningly. "No one's opening me up to see if I'm really a scaly monster!" There was suddenly a dagger in his fingertips, and he waved it meaningfully.