Ed Greenwood - Shadows of Doom

When Kalassyn strode forward and in a footfall returned to the High Dale, it was like stepping into an inferno. The rumble and flash of fire was dying away all around him. Somewhere nearby a man was sobbing, and smoke was so thick in the air that he could see nothing of trees or lights or the men who had preceded him.

Then, without warning, fire came again.

Kalassyn staggered in helpless, sightless pain, struggling to stand amid the roiling winds of the bright, searing blast. Off to the left, a man screamed, and an instant later Kalassyn fell over a huddled, armored form.

He landed hard atop another guard, whose black armor was hot enough to burn. Kalassyn rolled off as hastily as he could, cursing weakly. Crawling pain told him his robes were ablaze. Tears blinded him as he tore away his garb in flaming strips, shrieking at the agony spreading from his frantic, trembling hands.

Somehow he staggered on and sank to his knees at last in grass that was not scorched or ablaze.

He must… now would be the time to…

Kalassyn of Zhentil Keep fought for and found an instant to wonder if he was dying, but it was snatched away again by flames that roared in to fill his mind.

"Lord? Lord, do ye live?"

Kalassyn struggled to reply and discovered he was lying on scorched grass, legs twisted awkwardly under him.

He raised his head and, through a blur of tears, made out a dark, helmed head bent anxiously over him. Behind the first man, another guard stood holding a torch. Kalassyn winced, turning his eyes away from the flickering light.

"Aye," he said at last, struggling to move stiff, blackened lips. They cracked, with little twinges of pain, but the rest of him hurt far worse. "What-what happened?"

"Fire out of the night, Lord. From a tree next to the guard tree. We've surrounded it, but there's been no sound or movement since the second strike felled ye."

Kalassyn struggled. Pain stabbed at him. "Help me up," he snarled.

"Aye, Lord." Hands like heavy stones fell upon his shoulders, and he whimpered despite himself as he was gently hauled to his feet. Reeling, he fell to one knee. The hands steadied him, raised him again, and stayed there. He clung to them without shame and looked around.

After what seemed a very long time, as breath whispered and hissed in and out of his tortured lungs, he could see again.

It was not an inspiring sight. He was naked, covered with matted grass and burned hair. Behind him, smoke still rose from a ring of grass in front of the calmly glowing, unchanged gate. Within the ring lay the blackened bodies of five… six… no, eight Wolves and, facedown at their forefront, Mrinden. Bones showed here and there in the ashy ruin of the wizard. Kalassyn doubted he'd ever hear that nasty voice snapping orders again.

He looked away and saw other men groaning and clutching themselves in agony, their armor blackened and burned, or torn off. Others stood as if dazed or walked with the stiff strides of strong men in pain but determined not to let it diminish them. Of the band that had hurried up from the barracks not so long ago, only a handful still stood.

Kalassyn swallowed, thinking of Stormcloak's face-or the visage of sneering, sarcastic Hcarla Bellwind-and closed his eyes. The scorched smell of overcooked flesh hung sickeningly in the air. Kalassyn knew it would be a very long time before he'd want to eat bacon again.

He opened his eyes and drew himself up. Men were looking at him. There was anger in some faces and anxiousness in others. Something remained to be done. Something they were waiting for.

He stepped forward, free of the helping hands. "Get me my robes," he said hoarsely, without looking at the guards behind him. "The burned ones, all the scraps you can find."

He waited in the cool night breeze until a black form moved in front of him. "Here, Lord."

He angrily waved a torch nearer and with eager fingers probed the sorry scraps held out to him. Ah, there! He plucked out the brass-and-horn purse by its chain. The purse was ruined, twisted and scarred with the heat, but perhaps within all was well. He snatched out a certain ball wrapped in waxed paper, stepped past the guard, and faced the tree.

"Tell those men to stand back," he snarled, fighting down the fit of coughing brought on by raising his voice. Without pause he plunged into the hissed words and quick gestures of a spell.

Men were still scrambling back when his fireball lit the night with fresh flames. With a crackle and roar the entire tree went up, blazing and black from end to end. Then, like a tired warrior who takes an arrow in the throat, it toppled slowly, still blazing, against the tree beside it. The guard tree.

"Oh, gods be cursed!" Kalassyn snarled weakly. He turned hastily back to the guard, fingers clawing through what was left of his components pouch. He found what he needed, and a sudden blast of ice struck the trees, the ground, and the air around with a hissing like the sound of a hundred wounded dragons. Smoke billowed up, tree limbs creaked, and branches broke off and fell to earth.

Kalassyn watched them for a moment and then matched their fall. The ground, when it rose up to hit him, was surprisingly gentle.

The Sword's moustache and beard were smoldering, stubby smudges. The man who spoke to him took care not to let his gaze rest on them for more than an instant.

"What now, sir?"

The Sword bared his teeth in helpless fury and said, "Take the other end of this wizard and help me carry his useless carcass down to the barracks. The others can follow us. I want the four in best shape to sit in benches across the track, facing up this way to guard against anyone mad enough to come through the gate and powerful enough to survive the attempt. Spread the word and we'll flee together."

In the space of four breaths the dell was empty of the living. Smoke curled and drifted for a time, and the burned tree shifted once and lost a few more branches. Through it all, the amber oval of light glowed and pulsed in patient silence.

"Your report is incomplete," Nordryn said coldly. "Foes deadly enough to slay a mage of Mrinden's power, hurl Kalassyn into the very jaws of death, and fell almost all of your command-and you turn tail from the field and flee back here, not bothering to even look for them? Tell me, Sword, however do you expect to live a single night through? If you were that lax in Zhentil Keep, you'd have the bed stolen from under you and wake up as you were falling to the floor, as someone put his blade in your throat to slit it!"

The Sword just looked at him, two eyes of cold, weary death staring hard out of a face blackened and burned beyond easy recognition. "I didn't see you there, spell-hurler," he said deliberately. "Lacking a conscious commander, I followed the last orders I was given, which wisely took me to you. I now submit myself to your orders."

The two men stared at each other in silence for a long breath. The one in fine robes moved first, shifting back a pace.

The Sword drew himself up in his scorched armor, put a hand on the hilt of his sword, and added with the same slow, cold deliberation, "I trust, Lord, that your orders will be wiser than those Mrinden gave. He took us all into death we could not fight or avoid."

Nordryn's hand went to his belt, closing over a wand that was sheathed there. "And if I did the same," he almost whispered, "your task would be to obey me, without question or pause. Remember that." Their eyes met, coldly and steadily, like blades crossed and locked by straining men who sought each other's death.

"Aye, Lord, we will." The Sword's voice was cold and expressionless. "We will."

Nordryn held his eyes a moment longer before turning away and raising his voice. "Hear my will, then. All still able to walk will wear and wield what they can, and assemble without delay in the road. I want each to carry two quarrel quivers and two crossbows, one loaded. We march to the gate. There we form a ring, under cover, and each man is to load his second bow and keep both ready. At my order, fire at any target I name. Expect an attack through the gate."