Ed Greenwood - Shadows of Doom

He walked two paces and turned back to the room of silent men. "I've sent one of the message boys to the castle. If Lord Longspear pleases, he'll send healing. I'm coming with you."

He turned away again and walked on.

Behind him, one of the men muttered, "Tymora willing, let him be more bloody use than the last mages we had with us."

"He could hardly be less," another voice agreed.

"It's as well," a third voice cut in from afar. "His life may depend on it."

"Enough," the Sword boomed, silently indicating the mage's back, reminding them that he could hear every word. Grim smiles answered him; they'd meant him to.

Unseen, Nordryn smiled at the wall ahead and went on his way. Warriors were like cattle. They died in head-high piles when you needed them to. They ate and drank too much but could be useful the rest of the time, if you knew how to treat them. Like dogs, they needed proper handling. He showed his teeth to the wall again and continued on into the darkness.

"Mages who walk in darkness," went the old saying, "cloak themselves in it and think themselves strong-until the day it swallows them, and they come not out again." Nordryn remembered the saying wryly until memory told him who'd first said it: the Great Enemy, Elminster of Shadowdale.

Shaking his head and feeling anger building inside him again-a warmth in his chest rising into his throat-Nordryn went in search of a door that locked and a chamber pot beyond it. All goals in life should be so simple.

"The gods alone know where they are by now," Storm said quietly. "I think Elminster went west, but he could have a dozen or more gates nearby he's never told anyone about."

"A cheery thought," Jhessail observed sardonically. "Shall I tell Mourngrym to revise our plans for defending the dale to include a dozen or more unknown, invisible backsides that invading armies may rush through?"

"Easy, wench," Lhaeo told her gruffly. "Have some more firequench." He pushed one of the pair of decanters of ruby-red liqueur across the table. Storm made a silent grab for the bottle as it moved away from her, and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow from Jhessail. She returned it, with interest.

"Ladies, ladies," Lhaeo sighed, shifting his feet down from atop the table. "Must you spit and snarl like rival kittens?"

Jhessail shrugged. "It's what we've always done before," she observed with impish serenity.

Storm chuckled. A breath later, the others joined her, but the mirth in Storm's kitchen broke off abruptly as a bat as large and black as a small night-cloak flapped heavily in through the open doorway. It circled low over the table and seemed to twist and writhe in the air in front of the fireplace.

An instant later, the bat had become a tall, gaunt woman in a tattered black gown. Her hair and eyes danced wildly, and a fierce pride leapt in her face as she glided toward them.

"Sister," Storm greeted her with a welcoming smile. "Will you take some firequench with us?"

The Simbul nodded, sighed, and shivered all over like a cat after a fright. "Perhaps later," she said, taking a seat at the table, "after I try to learn what we both want to know."

"What all of us want to know," Storm replied quietly. "I've sent two good men out after them. Two who harp." Across the room, the strings of her harp quivered by themselves for a moment, singing faintly.

The Simbul looked around, not smiling. She nodded to Jhessail and Lhaeo, then bent her head and began whispering words of Art.

A heavy tension grew in the room like dark green smoke, and all the candle flames shrank to steady, watching pinpoints. The Simbul sat at the center of her gathered power, dark and unmoving, and the tension rose to an almost audible roar.

Her shoulders shook, she gasped, and the candle flames leapt and flickered again. The room was somehow brighter. And yet, Lhaeo thought, looking at the Simbul's forlorn and ravaged face, it seemed no safer or warmer.

The Witch-Queen of Aglarond said simply, "I'll need your help, all of you. Join hands with me and I'll try again."

Without hesitation they leaned forward around the table, the decanters standing like frozen red flames between them. The Simbul closed her eyes, shuddered again, and began to gather her will. As before, the room seemed to grow dim. "Think," she muttered, "of Sharantyr. Picture her face, her voice, what she looks like when she moves. We must focus on her, for Elminster is cloaked to all seeking magic."

Obediently they thought of the lady Knight. Storm's eyes were closed, her face calm. Lhaeo and Jhessail both frowned, their faces creased in concentration. This time, linked to the Simbul, they could feel her drawing in her power, feeding on their thoughts, emotions, and yearnings.

Power swirled around the kitchen. Then the Simbul hurled her questing, searching thought out a long way. She fell, like a fisher's hook plunging into dark waters, somewhere into a void of seeking where those linked to her could not follow.

After a long, tense silence of tight breathing and gathering weariness, the Simbul suddenly shook herself like a dog coming up out of water and said brusquely, "We need more. The Art twisted wild. Sylune… please?"

Two pairs of wondering eyes saw Storm's fingers and the Simbul's separate where they had been linked. Out of empty, smoky air between them, two slim, faintly glowing hands seemed to grow, gaining substance in ghostly silence. Each of these hands clasped a living one. A gentle whisper said, "I am here. Try now, sister."

Lhaeo and Jhessail stared at the half-seen, ghostly figure between Storm and the Simbul. Then they exchanged one quick glance and, as one, closed their eyes and threw themselves again into seeking Sharantyr.

An eternity passed. The candles burned lower. They breathed as one, low and deep. Toril, with awesome slowness, rolled steadily beneath them.

Then someone whimpered, and the circle was broken.

Storm held only empty air, and the Simbul fell heavily facedown on the table, upsetting one of the decanters.

"Storm?" Lhaeo asked anxiously, half rising. "Is she-?"

"Exhausted," the Bard of Shadowdale said faintly, leaning back in her chair. "As am I. It's a magic few know-thankfully, or there'd be mindless mages across half of Faerun in short order."

Jhessail rescued the fallen decanter and silently held it out to Storm. The bard stared at it dully for a breath or two, then deliberately grasped it, unstoppered it, and took a long pull. When she replaced the stopper and handed the bottle back, it was almost empty.

"Storm," Lhaeo asked quietly, his voice almost steady, "was that-?"

"Our sister Sylune," Storm answered as quietly. "Yes, and what we tried did more harm to her than to either of us." She turned dark eyes up to theirs and added, "So now you know. Take up the weight of another secret, for the good of the dale."

Two intent faces nodded silently.

Then the Simbul stirred and said into the table, "Is any of that firequench swill left?"

After the laughter had died away, Lhaeo dared to lay tender hands on perhaps the most powerful sorceress alive in Faerun, raising her and wiping her sweat-soaked brow. The Simbul smiled silent thanks up at him and said, "Well, you know we failed. Know more; there's worse news."

Lhaeo and Jhessail both looked at her sharply. "Tell," Elminster's scribe bade her simply.

"All Art in the Realms is going rogue," the Simbul answered, "for all who wield it, everywhere. We can unleash it, but our control slips and fades, and most of the time is lacking entirely. Magic has gone wild, and we can do nothing, it seems, to stop that. El and Shar are truly beyond our reach and aid."

Dread came and went on her white face, and she reached thoughtfully for the decanter again. "Across Faerun," she added softly but firmly, "not a single mage, archmage, or hedge-wizard can rely on spells anymore."