Ed Greenwood - Shadows of Doom

"Aye," Itharr said in the sleepy voice of one who has fought pain for a long time, or pushed too far and done too much and now finds ease.

"Stay awake!" Belkram said sharply. "Is one going to be enough?"

But he'd spoken too sharply. One of the running figures turned its head and took two steps toward them, sword raised. The Harpers lay still.

The man came on, peering into the shadows. "Who's-? Hold!"

The crossbow kicked and death hissed into the Wolf's throat. He fell on his side, convulsed, and lay still, one hand raised in a claw that would never close.

"I'm getting a little weary of all this bloodshed," Itharr said quietly. His voice was stronger.

Belkram nodded. "I'm not overfond of it, either, but a guard down is one less sword to hunt us. You sound better."

"I feel better," Itharr said, putting the second vial carefully into his belt pouch. "We're too close," he added, watching the flames leap higher. "We'll be well lit, soon."

"Aye," Belkram agreed, and they scrambled back into the trees. The dell, with its gate, was just a little way beyond.

Itharr looked toward it and then back at Belkram questioningly.

His friend shrugged. "We've not found Elminster, and I know he came here. I can feel it."

Itharr nodded. "Aye," he agreed, "and these look like Zhent Blackhelms to me, from what little we've seen."

Belkram nodded. "Any work we can do against them is well done, whenever we get a chance."

"Whither, then?"

Belkram tossed the crossbow away and stared into the night for a moment. "Do you see mountains beyond?" he asked.

Itharr held up a hand to shield against the light of the leaping flames and said, "Aye. Not too far off, either."

Belkram nodded. "Come day, they'll be searching these woods for our our trail. The rocks this side are the natural place to hide, and for them to look. Why not take ourselves across to those, over there?"

"And spare ourselves much of the hunters' attention?" Itharr asked. "I like it. Let's use the road, and look for a stream to turn aside from it. Now, before the flames bring everyone out to watch."

Belkram nodded, and they hurried around the back of the blazing building, flitting like shadows from tree to tree. Below them, houses and shops-and beyond, a smallish stone castle-rose out of the night.

"Where are we, then?"

"A mountain pass?"

"Aye." Itharr nodded slowly. "If there's a cart road through the lowest part, there, I'd say yes."

"But where?" Belkram obviously did not recognize their surroundings.

Itharr yawned. "I'll think about it," he promised, "when we're safely hidden."

The two Harpers drifted into the night, seeking their stream.

"Bane curse us all," Nordryn gasped, too astonished for anger. "The barracks!"

"Now do you see," the Sword said in a voice of cold steel, "why I ordered the men to fall back there to make their stand? This is your doing, softskull!"

Nordryn stared at him, eyes glittering. "You would speak to me so?"

"Aye. Be glad I do not cut you down where you stand, mage. I'd be doing High Lord Manshoon a favor, if this is any example of the glorious bungling you'll inflict on his plans in times to come." He barked short, mirthless laughter. "I'd be doing you a favor, come to that, saving you from Manshoon!"

Nordryn stepped back a pace, raising his hand. The officer's sword slid out to float menacingly just above it, preventing the wizard from gesturing to unleash a spell.

"Don't," the Sword suggested in soft, heavy tones of menace.

Nordryn stepped away again, a brittle smile visible on his face where the leaping flames lit it. "What if I told Stormcloak that the foray into the woods was your plan?"

The Sword's eyes were bleak. "You'd be digging your own grave, wizard. Even if all the men who heard you giving orders were dead, and their bodies ruined past what dark magic can recall or speak to, there's this." He shook the gauntlet off his free hand and raised his fingers until Nordryn could see the heavy ring that glinted upon the middle one. "Look well," the soldier suggested.

The wizard felt cold fear creeping down his spine. He knew all too well what that sigil meant: Manshoon. This cold-eyed soldier was one of the High Lord's personal agents. He swallowed and turned abruptly away to hide the fear he knew was showing on his face-fear, and something else. The man had to die before Manshoon heard of this or Nordryn Spellbinder's career would be short and painful… or long, cold, and frustrating, posted to all the worst places, with new magic forever denied to him, and under the constant, cruel eye of some watcher appointed by the High Lord.

"Don't think of arranging my death," came the Sword's cold voice from behind him. "Lord Manshoon always probes such things very carefully-by speaking to the deceased, if necessary. He knows my worth; you'd probably have to face me again. If Manshoon got tired of raising me, you'd pay the price, never doubt it. You'd make an adequate walking dead man, I suppose."

Nordryn turned and walked toward the flames, wondering which of the careers he'd just seen so bleakly would be worse. The flames roared and crackled, warming his face even from this distance, and he just couldn't decide.

Sharantyr came awake slowly, enfolded in unexpected warmth. She opened her eyes and looked around hurriedly, coming up to one elbow and feeling for her sword.

During the night, the Old Mage had somehow wrapped his bony arms around her without wakening her. That simply shouldn't have happened, but Sharantyr did not move away when that familiar, wild-bearded visage smiled at her, only inches away.

"Fair morn, Lady," Elminster said with courtly formality and leaned forward with smooth speed to kiss the end of her nose.

Sharantyr blinked. Some sorceresses would die, or kill, or whatever, to trade places with her, no doubt. His beard tickled like something between a scurrying centipede or an amorous cat. After a few breaths, she remembered to smile in reply.

Elminster chuckled. "Up, lass," he said. The mists were rolling away down through the trees as they rose and stretched to ease the stiffness that comes from sleeping in the open on rocky ground. "I fear I neglected to provide us breakfast, but I remain both open to suggestions and thy humble servant."

Sharantyr shook her head incredulously and pecked him on the cheek, more to shut him up than anything else. Ye gods, what had she gotten herself into now?

The day grew both warm and splendidly clear. The ranger and the wizard spent the morning sitting in the shrubbery at the trees' edge, watching black-armored gate guards working the road into the High Dale. Eastkeep rose small but grim at the warriors' backs, and they were most efficient.

Sharantyr didn't know the place and said so, but Elminster told her grandly that he knew it and would recognize it for her. Sharantyr rolled her eyes, not for the first time. Their stomachs chose that romantic moment to growl together.

The gate guards went steadily about their work, extracting passage tolls from all travelers coming into the dale from the east, inspecting their goods and gear, and turning back all wizards. Traffic leaving the dale from the west was given only a cursory search. These well-armed guards expected no trouble from that front.

There was a stir, once, as the guards suddenly swarmed over the wagon of a fat merchant. A shout brought six more guards with drawn swords out of the little shanty that served them as a duty shelter. The newcomers surrounded the merchant with a ring of sword tips at his throat while the search went on.

Shortly, two stout guards clambered triumphantly down from the wagon, each showing something to the officer in charge. He nodded and waved his head; the two men trotted away to the guard hut.