All Shadows Fled

by Greenwood, Ed

  Florin made a grab for the falling Rider’s shoulder, caught him, and snapped, “Get the reins, Ostyn!”

  The older Rider did so, deftly, and they guided the mount to an ungainly halt.

  The rearguard Riders caught them up. “One down already?” a fat, cheerful woman asked, looking at the limp form across Florin’s lap. “We’ll have to ask the Zhents to hold a thousand or so swords in reserve.”

  “You’re volunteering to ask them?” Florin chuckled as they righted the young Rider in his saddle and shook him gently back to his senses.

  “Never volunteer,” Ostyn warned her.

  “Actually,” she said, indicating the reviving Rider with her sword, “I was going to nominate him.”

  The young Rider’s eyes snapped open. He stared at her for a moment, face as white as a priest’s vestment—and then, still staring, slid out of his saddle again.

  They let him fall to the ground this time, stared at each other, and sighed.

  4

  Softly Come the Storms

  “Hold up, there!”

  One moment the road ahead was empty, but the next, a stern-looking, ragged crone with the largest, wartiest nose Torm had ever seen was standing calmly in front of his cantering horse, hand raised, bidding him halt.

  Startled, the thief hauled hard on the reins. The war horse under him skidded in the dust as it reared, bugling, and came to a halt, lashing out with steel-shod hooves.

  The woman regarded it calmly. “An excitable animal—and you must be the illustrious Torm that the ladies of Twilight Hall have told me so much about.” She turned away, hands on hips, and then turned back to him and asked curiously, “Did you really get a certain part of your anatomy caught in a closet door in Zhentil Keep, or was that just a fireside tale?”

  Torm sputtered. He’d just noticed that the woman, in her kerchief and ragged dress, was standing in midair, her muddy, ill-fitting boots a good three feet off the ground. A merry gale of laughter came from Sharantyr, Belkram, and Syluné as they reined their mounts in around him. Itharr merely shook his head in smiling silence.

  “Well met, Margrueth,” Syluné said, eyes dancing in welcome. The old woman looked her up and down.

  “Got yerself a new body, have you? Hmmph. No one offers me a new body to replace this old, aching barrel! I could get used to yours, really I could. Silver hair and all.”

  “You wouldn’t want to go through what I have,” Syluné told her softly. “Really, you wouldn’t.”

  “Gods, girl—I know that!” Margrueth told her. “I’m old and ugly, not witless! Just envious, that’s all.”

  “If you’re a sorceress,” Torm asked her curiously, “why don’t you choose any looks you want?”

  Margrueth glared at him sourly. “That would work for snaring a man for a night of pleasure—if, like some folk here, stolen nights of pleasure were what I wanted!”

  She let the rebuke hang in the air between them, but Torm merely shrugged, so the old Harper went on. “Sooner or later, though—with my luck, sooner—the one I was with’d see the real me. I’d not hide it, mind; the real me is the one I’m proud of. Some of us value honesty over deceit.”

  “Some of us must be fools,” Torm returned sharply, causing Rathan to chuckle as he slowed his horse to join the group of riders.

  “Fool I may be,” Margrueth told him, “but I could be in worse straits than this!” She gestured at her nose, and swept her hand down at her fat, shapeless body.

  “How?” Torm asked, falling into the trap.

  “I could have your looks,” she told him sweetly, and turned away. Then she turned back again. “It did get caught in that door, didn’t it?”

  There was a general hoot of laughter, and Torm snarled and urged his mount forward—only to find that the stout old woman flashed through the air to block his way once more.

  “I stopped you for a reason, Lord Torm,” she told him severely. “Beyond this point our traps start, and the road ceases to be safe—even for thieves with clever tongues and more luck than Tymora gives anyone! Yonder is Swords Creek.”

  Torm looked at the little rivulet meandering its muddy way across the fields, and asked curiously, “Why Swords Creek for our stand? Is it just a place easily found among all these fields?”

  “Mistledale tradition,” the captain of the Riders said from behind him. She brought her horse to a halt in a wild thudding of hooves. “On these banks many battles were fought of old.”

  “And we Harpers’ve been here since yestereve, preparing it for one more,” Margrueth added. “Water spells to make the ground sodden and turn wet spots into bogs to break Zhent cavalry charges, wild magic areas there and there—no, Torm, you can’t see them—for the foe to halt in, and suchlike.”

  “ ‘We Harpers’?” Torm asked. “Aside from you, I can see only two men.”

  “Ah, that’s because they’re not done yet,” the old woman told him. “The others’re in hiding already.”

  “Hiding? Where?” Torm asked, looking around at apparently empty fields. “Are they all mages using invisibility?”

  “No. Not one,” she replied with a smile.

  Torm shook his head. “There’s not a man alive who could hide under my nose between here and that creek.”

  As the words left his lips, the thief felt a solid tap on his left boot—and his war horse reared again. Cursing, Torm wrestled to keep it from leaping forward; he was struggling to head the snorting beast around, away from the creek, when Captain Nelyssa’s strong arm caught hold of the bridle. The paladin pulled and whistled, and Torm’s mount quieted immediately—allowing the thief to cleverly fall off.

  As he bounced on his belly in the dust, Torm found himself staring eyeball to eyeball with the grinning cause of his upset: a dust-covered man buried neck-deep in the earth, who held a sword, hilt uppermost, in one hand. It must have been what had tapped his boot. In his other gauntleted hand, the man held a shield that had been so thickly covered with turf and grass that it had served to entirely conceal the hole he was crouching in.

  “Ye gods!” Torm gasped.

  “No, even being one god’d be a promotion, I think,” the Harper replied cheerfully. “Fine morning to be out on the grass, ‘taint it, Lord?”

  The riders all around them roared with laughter at Torm’s expression—until the thief buried his nose in the grass and laughed along with them. He nodded to the Harper, rolled to a sitting position, and squinted up at Margrueth. “Right, then, I’ll grant you the victory. So tell me how many more of these little holes have you scattered around Mistledale?”

  Margrueth shook her head soberly. “That, I’ll tell no one. Spying spells that listen to speech from afar aren’t easily blocked out in the open.”

  Her words made them all look around—but aside from the two Harpers in the distance and Florin arriving with the Rider rearguard (one of them looking decidedly green), they could see no man or beast.

  “But there’s no one!” Torm said, waving a hand.

  Margrueth shrugged. “There could be a small army of those mages using invisibility, young man. Think before you speak, and you’ll not feel so often chastened.”

  Torm gave her a dark look, and then shook his head and grinned. “I begin to wish I’d had you as my mother.”

  “So do I, lad,” Margrueth replied, “So do I. Your backside would’ve seen a lot more heat, and valuables belonging to others and good-looking ladies a lot less, in the years since.”

  “Hmmm,” Torm replied with rueful eloquence, and there was more laughter.

  * * * * *

  “Oh, bloody bats! It’s gone wrong again—and they’re all laughing!”

  “Not at ye,” the older man said, watching the young man fling down the tangled trip wire in fury, his fingers trembling in agitated excitement. “Easy, lad,” the gray-haired Harper ranger added. “Time for all that falling and dancing about an’ all later—when ye’ve a sword in yer hand an’ several hundred Zhents taking their turn at ye
.”

  “How can you be so calm about it?” his younger companion protested. “We’re going to die!”

  Level brown eyes stared into his. “Aye, so? We all have to, lad, but there’s nothing as says we have to behave like craven cattle first.” The old man deftly disentangled the thread and held it out. “An’ another thing,” he continued, “I’ve been in about forty o’ these little affrays before, an’ them as came to kill me haven’t quite managed the job yet. It might well take ‘em as many tries afore they get ye, too! I’ve seen it all before, lad … take heart, and be easy, I say.”

  The young man stared into those level brown eyes, took a deep breath, and then bent and tied the trip wire—quickly and surely. Then he stepped back with a flourish, smiled tightly at the gray-haired Harper, and said, “Done. I hope you remember where our hide is.”

  “Here, under my boot,” the older man said with a smile. “Another trick you’d do well to remember.”

  “Bloody bats to you, too,” the younger Harper said almost affectionately, scrambling down into the pit they’d dug. The old man followed, waving to Margrueth as he reached for the turf-covered shield that would hide them from the world.

  But Margrueth wasn’t looking at him. She was looking up, frowning at a raven circling in the bright morning sky high above. She said something to Syluné, who lifted one shapely arm to hurl magic up into the sky—a spell that was never cast.

  The raven came out of its lazy circle like an arrow, streaking south and east. But from the blue emptiness high above came another bird, a steel-gray falcon with talons outstretched. It struck like a hammer, and then flapped up and away in triumph amid a cloud of black feathers. For just a moment, the watchers below caught a glimpse of silver hair and tattered black robes, and then the slayer was a falcon once more.

  Even as Torm gasped, “The Simbul!” the falcon’s kill fell to earth, twisting and growing as it plummeted.

  It was the broken body of a black-robed human wizard that crashed into one muddy bank of Swords Creek. The mage flopped bonelessly once, and then lay sprawled and still. One Zhentarim would never spy on Mistledale again.

  The old Harper looked back up at the sky. “Well, I lied to ye,” he said to the stunned young Harper beside him. “I hadn’t seen it all before. I’ve seen gales and fog and lances of lightning leaping across the sky—but I’ve never seen it rain wizards before!”

  * * * * *

  Ordulin, Sembia, Flamerule 16

  The morning sun sent bright rays through the casement of tinted glass, casting a many-hued image of light upon the floor furs. That meant it was past time for clients of the Winking Will-o’-the-Wisp Pleasure Palace to be gone so linen could be washed, ladies could bathe and sleep, and coins could be safely exchanged at the nearest bank for soft metal trade tokens stamped with the sunburst symbol of the house.

  The occupants of the Red Sash Room on the third floor, however, could not have cared less about the hour—for very different reasons. One of those occupants was Baedelkar the Thaumaturge, rising hope of the Zhentarim, who held the Lady of the Red Sash in his arms as if he never intended to let her go.

  Her milk-white skin was soft and smooth against him, and her kisses warm and sweet, with the faintest hint of exotic spices … nutmeg? Dunbark? Cinnamon? Ah, but it mattered not.

  At that ardent moment, a fist fell upon the other side of the bolted door. It was an imperious fist, but the door was thick and carpeted to steal away sound, and the couple within, seated together on the edge of the large circular bed, did not want to hear it. Their lips met again, and clung.

  The fist, however, was persistent. Another blow fell upon the door, and then another, and so on, until they were joined by a softly menacing, magically sent voice: “I know you’re within, Baedelkar. The Inner Circle has need of us both, immediately. We’ve been ordered to join the Sword, somewhere north of Essembra, right now.”

  After a momentary, answering silence (during which the Lady of the Red Sash murmured and moved in Baedelkar’s arms) the voice went on: “Neither High Lord Manshoon nor I am used to waiting … for an apprentice. Presently one or both of us shall grow weary of it, Baedelkar—and then it will be too late for you to continue as a Zhentarim … or anything else.”

  Baedelkar the Thaumaturge cursed in a soft whisper with feeling, and made as if to pull free … but the large, sapphire eyes staring into his pleaded with him, and sweet lips begged, “Just one more kiss, proud lord … a brief parting, until we meet again.” Those lips lifted longingly toward his.

  Baedelkar hesitated for only a moment before he bent his head hungrily forward. It was the last mistake he ever made.

  The arms caressing his back seemed stronger and broader, the tongue in his mouth thicker. Starting to choke, the Zhentarim tried to pull away, but found that he was locked in an embrace as unyielding as steel, and tentacles were sliding around him. The eyes so close to his held a horrible flame of triumph as the flesh of her exquisite face bulged and moved, flowing up and over his own visage, covering his nose even as the cold and questing tentacle that had been a velvet-smooth tongue flowed down his throat, choking him. And preventing him from uttering even the simplest spell.

  Baedelkar the Thaumaturge struggled in earnest, then, fighting with sudden desperation against the death embracing him. A red roaring rose up in his head, and creeping flesh rolled over his eyes, blotting out his last glimpse of Faerûn—a sun-splashed room and those malevolent, glittering eyes in a face that had become a nightmare of flowing flesh.…

  Bane aid me … Bane aid me … Bane …

  “Right, Baedelkar,” the cultured voice beyond the door snarled, suddenly losing its drawling grace. “You’ve defied me long enough! I hope you’ll still think she was worth it, after I do—this!”

  The wizard’s body began to shake violently, and pulse with light. The tentacled thing hurriedly flung it back onto the bed and flowed away across the room, to where the wizard’s robe lay across a discarded body harness: a thing of leather straps that held a slim satchel of potion vials, several bulging pouches of sundries to spin spells, and … a small, well-worn spellbook with battered metal corners.

  The creeping thing flowed up and over this heap of magic and, without slowing, turned and slithered along the wall. In its wake, the wizard’s belongings were gone, the side chest bare. Meanwhile, the body on the bed jerked and thrashed in spell thrall, and then leapt up into the air once and crashed down in limp silence.

  As tentacles hurriedly tore open the casements and let the chill air of morning into the room, there was a snarl of fury from beyond the door—and then a muttered incantation. It rose to a singing final word, and then came ominous silence.

  The monstrous, shapeshifting mass flowed out the window and up the wall outside, disappearing from the room seconds before the gilded door of the Red Sash Room burst apart in a rain of dust and splinters. Nentor Thuldoum of the Zhentarim stood in the doorway, blinking in incredulous rage.

  “You worm! You disobedient ti—” Nentor’s fury fled as he saw what lay on the bed. His jaw dropped, and he stared down in horror at the riven remains. His spell had scorched Baedelkar with a lashing lightning, but should not have eaten away body and brains from within, leaving behind a shriveled husk … and empty eye sockets.

  * * * * *

  Swords Creek, Mistledale, Flamerule 16

  Thuds and splinterings resounded across Swords Creek as the defenders of Mistledale drove tree trunks into the ground in an outward curve west of the stream. A steady stream of wagons was creaking east along the road from Ashabenford as Riders watched the land to the east for any sign of the approaching foe.

  “Leave openings there and there,” Kuthe directed as Riders swarmed past him in pairs, carrying logs. Beyond them, more of the black-armored men were hewing the ends of the sloped stakes into sharp points. “I hope we’ll need room to ride out into the fray in force.”

  “I hope the Zhents fall dead of the blistering plague and we
don’t have a fray at all,” a farmer muttered, snapping his reins to begin the run back to town for more supplies. He stood up as the empty wagon rattled away, looking around the busy camp, and shaking his head. Not a hundred swords to defend Mistledale against—how many? Two, three thousand, or more? The word from Essembra was that they’d outgrown all the beds in the place a tenday ago, with not a third of the force mustered. The Sword of the South, indeed—and they’d have a Zhentarim wizard or three with them, too.

  He looked back at the camp once more and spat thoughtfully into the rising road dust. An army this small wouldn’t delay the Zhent host more than an hour or two on its march to Mistledale. Death might well come for him before dusk today—but where was there to run? He couldn’t pluck up his steading and stow it in a pack to take with him. Stand or fall, it’d be here, in Mistledale, where he’d lived his life. The farmer slowed the wagon to make his trip back down the dale as long as he could—it might be his last look around at the finest place to dwell in all Faerûn. He tried not to think about the likelihood that by sundown tomorrow it might also be the finest graveyard in Faerûn.

  A steel-gray falcon circled high in the cloudless sky overhead, for all the world as if it was taking interest in the encampment taking shape by the creek. The farmer squinted up at it, spat again, and went down the dale toward Ashabenford, where the high councilor would be waving his black scepter and barking orders. Heedless of him, wagoners would load in haste and head east, and fleeing townsfolk would drive overloaded carts west.

  The breezes died away to the softest of stirrings, what the folk of the dale called a ghost’s kiss. By the banks of the creek, a tall, broad-shouldered man in gleaming plate armor looked around the palisade of wooden fangs and saw that it was now almost a full circle. He nodded in satisfaction and turned to where a farmer stood by his laden wagon.

  “Bring the tents,” Florin Falconhand said to the man. “We’d best get started.”

  Kuthe frowned at the tall ranger. “This soon?”

  “I doubt they’ll attack before dark,” the Knight of Myth Drannor replied. “Before they could get here, it’ll be sundown; they’d have to charge with the setting sun in their eyes.”