Ed Greenwood - Shadows of Doom

Lhaeo and Jhessail exchanged looks and then spoke together, framing the same question as one. "In the name of all the gods, why?"

Storm answered softly, eyes on the flame of the nearest candle. "That's just why. All the gods have been cast down into the Realms to contend among us, struggling and striving as we do. With Mystra gone, there's none to control magic. It's why Elminster's gone away."

"Cast down?" Lhaeo almost whispered. "By whom? Who has such power?"

Storm spread her hands. "In the oldest writings he was called the Overgod. Nowadays, to those who know of him at all, he is the 'One Who Is Hidden.'" She smiled. "If you meet him, you might ask his truename and aims. There are a lot of souls, mortal and divine alike, who'd like to know."

Jhessail drew a deep, ragged breath and smiled. "I'll get straight to work on it," she jested, and shook her head in rueful disbelief. Her hands trembled as they reached for the second decanter. When she put it down, it held far less than when she had taken it up.

Storm shook her head. "Easy, lass," she murmured, "or we'll have to carry you back to the tower."

Jhessail crooked an eyebrow. "Who, wench," she said readily, "will be carrying whom?"

Lhaeo sighed and rose. "Come, Jhess," he said. "Elminster and Sharantyr are on their own, and we've done enough harm this night. Storm needs her sleep, even if we do not."

Storm thanked the scribe with her eyes. Jhessail read that look and blew them all a kiss before taking Lhaeo's arm and slipping swiftly out into the night.

A long time passed. As the candles died, one by one, the two sisters sat at the table unmoving, eyes far away.

At last Storm moved unwilling lips. "Did you see or feel anything when you reached for Shar? Anything at all?"

"No," the Simbul said shortly, staring down at her empty hands. "Nothing. I was like the worst apprentice I've ever had-alone, wavering, helpless in the dark."

"I saw three things, sister," came the eerie voice they had feared not to hear again. "Fire and tears and stars, overhead it seemed, though they were all mixed together. Our stars."

Storm raised her head, and there were tears in her eyes. "Sylune," she said softly, "my thanks. They're not dead, then."

"Yet," came the voice of Sylune's ghost dryly. "Yet."

It was dark in Dagger Wood, save for an upright oval of amber light, an unsleeping eye staring into the night. Overhead, glittering stars watched what the eye's glow illuminated: two blades that glimmered, leapt, and sang as they dealt death.

The two men who held the blades said nothing as they danced and ducked. Both knew they must keep the seven black-armored guards-well, only three guards now-from fleeing through the oval radiance to raise the alarm.

The men in full armor were strong, hardened veterans, efficient experts at dealing death with cold steel by night or day, in alleys or high streets, in open battle or in crowds.

The two men in dusty leathers, however, were Harpers and men who'd just spent some goodly time crossing blades with Storm Silverhand. They knew who'd win this battle.

As frantic moments passed, their opponents came to know it too, with the cold, sinking certainty of death. The Harpers caught each other's eyes once, in the skirling dance of steel, and laughed together. A few panting breaths later it was over.

Belkram and Itharr faced each other across the black-clad fallen, looked all about with trained wariness, and nodded to each other, signaling that they were both unharmed. Then they turned together in silence to look at the flickering, man-high oval of light. It glowed silently back at them, waiting.

Belkram's eyes descended to a corpse that lay in front of the gate. He bent forward. "What's this?"

"Harper signs?"

"Aye." He leaned closer get a better look at the slashes on the corpse's leather tunic. " 'Trap ahead,' it says. 'Keep low.' " Belkram hefted his bloodstained blade. "Well? Ready?"

Itharr chuckled, and stroked the wispy beginnings of a moustache in a gesture Belkram had seen before. "Remember, adventure is where you find it," he replied, waving with his own blade at the light to indicate that Belkram should go first.

"Why, thank you," Belkram replied in exaggerated, courtly tones, and stepped through, keeping low.

Beyond the gate, all was dark and silent. Grass whispered underfoot, and there were trees ahead-and a strong smell of recent wood smoke. Belkram took a pace forward, then crouched and leapt warily aside, out of the light. Itharr came through, saw Belkram's move, and turned toward the other side of the gate to do the same.

Then both Harpers heard the unmistakable deep tung of a crossbow firing. Itharr whipped around to follow Belkram and dived frantically to the ground. The first bolt whistled past his head as he fell. Then the night was full of hissing death, biting at them as they rolled, leapt, and ran to the left toward the trees.

A bolt from right in front of them came leaping out of the night. Itharr twisted desperately aside. The missile drew a line of red fire across his chest and shoulder, and was gone. Itharr snarled out his pain as he raced on. More quarrels sought his life, whirring past like angry wasps. He heard them clattering on rocks off to his left, and shot a glance that way. A mountain rose up beside them, and then he was following Belkram along its base, sprinting into the concealing trees.

A short scream ahead told him Belkram had opened a way through at least one defender. Itharr ran faster. To think he'd once dreamed of glorious adventures as a Harper, dreams that involved (between parties with beauteous women) charging castles single-handed! Dreams where no arrows ever struck hi-

Itharr grunted as a crossbow bolt struck him in the shoulder, picking him off his feet and hurling him a pace or two toward the rocks with the force of its flight.

He landed hard on his good arm, sprang up-spit on the pain; his life depended on getting up! — and ran on, hoping he'd not drop his sword from the hand he could no longer feel.

"After them!" Nordryn snarled. At the Sword's dubious look he almost shrieked his next words, so great was his fury. "Get them! They can't use any magic. I've cloaked them with a spell of my own! Go on!"

Around him, Wolves drew blades, but they looked to the Sword for orders, not him. The Sword looked at him again, long and coldly, then nodded his head at the fleeing men.

With a shout and a breath of creaking leather and flashing steel, the Wolves boiled up out of the trees and were gone.

Nordryn looked at the Sword, eyes hot. "I'll remember this," he spat.

The veteran swordsman looked back at him steadily, his eyes the same hue as the raised tip of his drawn sword. "See that you do," he replied softly.

"Where are we, d'you think?" Itharr panted as they raced along.

Belkram turned at the sound of his friend's voice. "Are you hurt?" He reached out a hand, swinging his fellow Harper around sharply.

The bolt protruding from Itharr's shoulder struck a nearby branch; he made a choked sound and stumbled back. Belkram's searching hands caught him, located the bolt, and felt the shoulder it was buried in.

Itharr tried to cough and whimper at the same time, and failed. He settled for making another little choking noise and fell down.

Belkram sighed, laid down his blade, and tore out the bolt in one swift, hard jerk. Itharr shook once under his hands and lay still.

The taller Harper thought for a moment, then rose from his wounded friend and ran lightly back the way they'd come, melting into the cloaking gloom of a tree as a warrior trotted cautiously forward, glancing around in the dim night.

The woods were full of armed Wolves cautiously advancing in the darkness. The lives of two very outnumbered Harpers now depended on stealth and silence, so Belkram reached out with a long arm, slapped the man across the mouth from behind, and jerked hard. The man's head twisted sharply, and Belkram put all his strength into pulling. There was a brief crunching noise… and the man became limp and very heavy.