“Just look for Florin,” Belkram instructed, pointing at the open inn door. “He must be in th—”
The ground heaved. A deafening howl of rage and grief smashed into the ears of everyone in Shadowdale. Thrown to their knees, the three rangers looked back east, from whence the sound had come.
A sphere of raging flames hung high in the air over the burning trees, spinning. The flames from the woods below were being drawn up into it. It pulsed, becoming almost blinding in its fury—but against the bright whirling flames a figure could be seen standing in its fiery heart; a wildly leaping figure clad in the black tatters of a gown.
“Oh, sweet gods spare us!” someone gasped.
The woods were dark and hissing now as the last fire soared up out of them. The sphere spun once more before it hurled its fire down in a ravening beam of utter destruction, into the Zhent soldiers crowded along the Voonlar road. They did not even have time to scream before they were tumbling ashes. The scouring flames lashed the very stones into ruin.
The Central Blade of Bane’s Black Gauntlet was no more.
“Who—?” one of the Riders asked in awe, staring up at the figure who stood on empty air above the trees, all her flames spent now.
“The Simbul,” Shaerl whispered. She turned, swept a tankard off a table, and drained it at a single gulp.
“The Witch-Queen?” the man gasped. “The Shield Against Thay?”
“The same,” Shaerl replied bitterly, and turned into Mourngrym’s arms with a sob.
“This can only mean one thing,” the lord of Shadowdale said grimly, holding his shaking, weeping lady. “Elminster is dead.”
10
Time to be Truly Heroes
The Castle of Shadows, Shadowhome, Flamerule 18
In a deepness that very few Malaugrym know, in the ever-shifting cellars of the Castle of Shadows, there was a place where thinking shadows glided endlessly through the gloom, vast and slow. These ponderous phantoms circled a grotto where shapeshifters who bore the title Shadowmaster High had been wont to hide the bones of rivals and others they’d deemed expedient to make ‘vanish.’
The grotto was a cold cavern of rough rock where waters dripped endlessly among the pale, chill glows of fungi, but at its heart two seats faced each other—seats carved out of the flanks of massive, ancient stalagmites … and these seats each bore a curious graven symbol believed to be the sign of Malaug himself. It was a rune found in few places in the Castle of Shadows, and all of its occurrences were well known in the lore of the House of Malaug—save these two.
There was not much else to see in the bone-white glow but tumbled rock and bones … but there was much to feel, hanging heavy and watchful on all sides.
Even the youngest Shadowmasters had heard tales of locales in Shadowhome where mighty magics slumbered, which only the Shadowmaster High could perceive and wield. This was one of those places.
The young and ambitious Malaugrym Argast and Amdramnar had recently discovered the grotto in separate, private explorations. Both had been guided in their wanderings among the shifting shadows by the writings of Shadowmaster High Melvydur. Dead these thousand years and more, Melvydur mentioned the grotto as the place where the dynasty he founded was conceived—and where he laid to rest the bodies of all his sons who rebelled against him. His writings end when the last son succeeded in destroying Melvydur.
This secret grotto of silent bones and uncaring rock was a gloomy place … but it was a place of power. Ancient magic lay heavy in the air, awaiting the right word or gesture to awaken it. And more than anything else, those of the blood of Malaug hungered after power.
Argast and Amdramnar were rivals, and perhaps the best of the younger generation of Shadowmasters. Certainly they were the most subtle, patient, and polite in their dealings—and so commanded the most respect, not to mention fear, among their elders. Those elders would have been most surprised to see them sharing any place in relative peace.
Indeed, as they sat facing each other, their faces were grim and wary, their fingers very close to hurling slaying spells and wielding powerful and deadly items. Yet they sat, and did not move to rend and slay. Their elders were right to fear them.
“Have we agreement?” Argast asked.
“By my name, we do,” Amdramnar replied. “Have we agreement?”
“By my name, we do,” Argast responded as they watched the drops of their blood slowly flow together into the vial.
They rose as one, and Argast took the vial and stoppered it, handing it to Amdramnar to place on the seat he’d vacated. What befell one Shadowmaster would now also afflict the other—until the vial was broken by someone using the right spells to prevent grave damage to them both.
“If this agreement is to end, we must both meet here to quench it,” Argast intoned, continuing the old ritual both of them had read about, but never witnessed.
“Agreed. When we meet, each of us may bring with him one other of the house—no more, and no other beings,” Amdramnar responded.
“Agreed,” they affirmed together, and walked away from the heart of the grotto, to where the cloaking shadows slid endlessly by.
“Were it not for so many destroyed,” Argast said as their eyes met again, “I should never have agreed to work with you in anything. And yet now I welcome the prospect.”
Amdramnar inclined his head. “I, too, hope that trust, even friendship, can grow out of this. Whatever befalls, we must work together to destroy the three beings who dared to strike down so many of our blood. They have done it once, and could well come again … and what if they brought the Great Foe with them this time, or an army of lesser mages?”
“You befriended them,” Argast said, “seeking to learn their ways and secrets. Do you think they will seek to return?”
Amdramnar opened his mouth to reply, then sighed, shrugged, and shook his head. “I know not. Their deeds and words did not always strike a good match together—and they were accompanied by some sort of vigilant sentience of greater sorcery than I command.”
“Elminster, of course.”
“No, I think not. A gentler, more neutral regard … less knowing, less … afire with humor, let us say. I touched this intelligence only fleetingly.”
Argast lifted his own shoulders and let them fall. “As you say, you have had contact with this mysterious other, and I have not. It is not Elminster, then.” He hesitated as they stepped together onto the back of the flapping shadow they’d been waiting for. It bore them away into roiling dimness, and Argast added, “Please do not take my next query as anything more unfriendly than a desire to know if some future use can be made of it. You fancied the woman as a mate?”
Amdramnar regarded him expressionlessly. “I did, and do.”
“Have you any knowledge of her feelings toward you?”
“She did not know what to make of me. I was not the menacing scaly thing she expected—but she never relaxed, though she did trust me so far as to open herself to attack on several occasions … at least once to see what I’d do, I am certain.”
“And what would you do if you met her again?”
“I do not know. I must learn more of her true powers, aims, and loyalties. At present I still desire her as a mate and as part of our house. Although the damage done by her weapon was … unprecedented, she was acting at first to defend herself even as you or I would against treachery from a fellow Malaugrym. That she and her companions came here to do us harm is, I think, likely. That they did not know us is certain, and so I must conclude that they came here on principle, or following the orders of another.”
“Elminster? If not the Great Foe, then who?”
“That is one of the things we must learn.”
The shadow bore them into brighter and more tranquil surroundings, a placid blue pool wreathed in mists, and Amdramnar added, “Yet if the need arises, I would strike to slay her and her two companions without hesitation. The men must die in any case, for the honor of our house. If the woman pr
oves less than I believe her to be, death can come to her whenever her usefulness in breeding the next generation of Shadowmasters is done.”
He turned his head to regard Argast. “On the other hand, she is but one of many countless maids who walk Faerûn right now … and many of those, I’m given to understand, have a strong talent for sorcery.”
“More suitable mates may await both of us?”
“And many of our fellows, perhaps. We shall see. Faerûn awaits.”
“So many riches … denied to us for so long.”
“At the command of the Great Foe, remember—bolstered by craven Shadowmasters High who feared both his magic and the access all of us would have to things not under the control of the Shadow Throne.”
“This is truth,” Argast said softly. “Even I’ve seen more in the great scrying portal over the years than Dhalgrave intended, and I am one of those who pays little attention to intrigues and watching over other planes. It is no wonder some of our elders—Milhvar comes to mind—spent much time and effort on covert expeditions into the realms of Faerûn, seeking magic.”
“And mates,” Amdramnar said with the ghost of a smile, “if the rumors are true.”
“He has offspring in Faerûn?”
“Ignorant of their heritage, and perhaps weak in their shapeshifting, no doubt,” Amdramnar replied, “but yes—several, I believe.”
Argast frowned. “Unknown offspring aside, how many of our kin walk Faerûn right now?”
“Whoever survived battle with Sharantyr and her companions, when the sword took her back to Faerûn. Ahorga, I have seen … and two others who took many shapes, but are possibly Atari and Yinthrim. There are others: two working together, and at least one more. I cannot believe all of these fled the battle; some of the kin must have seized upon the emptiness of the Shadow Throne to defy the standing decrees and make their own ways into Faerûn.”
“Bralatar and Lorgyn have both vanished from their chambers,” Argast said quietly, “and have been absent for more than a dozen feastings.”
“So,” Amdramnar replied, one side of his face lifting into a smile, “let us do likewise, you and I. To Faerûn, to take the shapes of others, and watch patiently, and learn before we move against these mortals. In the chaos ruling Faerûn right now, we dare not rely on magic. Any foray there now will be very dangerous—but what opportunities for hunting!”
“I feel its attraction more strongly as the years pass and we visit it not,” Argast replied. “I begin to understand why so many of our elders defied the Great Foe even when they knew death awaited them.”
“Shadowhome and the planes we can readily reach never felt limiting in any way before,” Amdramnar said quietly. “Faerûn seemed to be no more than some sort of fanciful land of beasts where the restless of our house went to play, and when careless got hurt there. But now …”
“Let us prepare,” Argast said, eyes shining. “I want to be in Faerûn without delay!”
The shadow glided to the place it always did, and they stepped off it and went on up a dusty stair choked with the skeletal remains of dead and forgotten servants, into an undercrypt several stairs beneath the Hall of Griffons. There they parted, ascending into the castle proper by different ways so as not to be seen together by interested eyes.
The gigantic shadow that had been their steed drifted on to a place the two Malaugrym did not know. There it rose into a different form and called forth four spherical stones of winking blue fire to orbit one of its wrists endlessly.
“And so two more of the restless of our house go to play,” it said in amused tones, “one at least formally welcoming the prospect! Interesting times in old Shadowhome, indeed!”
And as it chuckled, it did something else in the darkness, and vanished to other, deeper places. There were many locales in Shadowhome that neither Argast nor Amdramnar had ever visited, or known about. That lack of knowledge, though, didn’t seem likely to prove fatal to either of them. Yet.
* * * * *
Faerûn, Shadowdale, Flamerule 18
The serene radiance of Selune fell upon ravaged Shadowdale as it did on all the rest of Faerûn this night. Bright moonlight gleamed on both the armor of weary dale sentries and the bloodied gear of the dead. There was no sound but the howling of wolves and the bawling of cattle whose dead masters would never return to milk them. The two women who stood in a lonely place of scorched stones were as silent as the night breezes.
One was the Bard of Shadowdale, Storm Silverhand, her face grim and smudged with dirt and old, dried blood that was not her own. She still wore her armor, and leaned on a sword that had seen much use this day. Had she not recently drunk of a certain well-hidden decanter in her kitchen, she would be trembling with weariness now.
The other woman had no body left to tire—she was a thing of ghostly radiance, a softly curved bright shadow in the night. She floated upright above the stones of her long-burned hut, face lifted to the stars, and began an invocation to Mystra more ancient than she was … and that was old indeed. No one disturbed them, or came near; such doings at the ruined hut were why the folk of the dale still called her the Witch of Shadowdale, and shunned this place.
“Great Lady of Mysteries, hear me,” the ghostly lady said into the night, picturing the dark, star-filled eyes of the goddess. “Your servant Syluné entreats.”
She and Storm both knew well that Mystra was no more, but perhaps the one who had taken her place would hear … or steadfast Azuth, the Hand of Sorcery.
Her call fell into silence, and she stood there in the moonlight feeling more lonely than she had for years. “Mystra, hear me,” she said at last. “Azuth, hear me.”
From out of the darkness of vast distances, a voice echoed. A voice she knew. “Azuth hears, little sister.”
“Lord of Spellcraft,” Syluné breathed, almost shuddering in relief, “does Elminster live?”
There came a twinkling of lights in the air above her, soft green and blue radiances that sparkled as they spun slowly about each other. From out of the heart of this occurrence came the deep, confident voice of the god Azuth. “I did not feel him pass … but I cannot feel his mind now, either. Much is in chaos; I cannot be sure of his fate.”
“I stand in Shadowdale,” Syluné told him. “We have resisted the work of Bane here thus far, at great cost.”
“Aye, great cost, indeed. Mystra returned to us, and was lost again forever. She and Elminster fought Bane for possession of a Celestial Stair.”
Syluné closed her eyes in despair, but forced herself to say on. “I need your guidance, High One. We face another peril: shapeshifters who call themselves Malaugrym, who came into Faerûn when the Sword of Mystra brought three heroes back to us, three who went to the shadow realm of the shapeshifters to do Our Lady’s work. They are loose in the land, working mischief.”
The great voice seemed to hold a tone of bitter amusement. “These days, it seems half the multiverse is loose in Faerûn, working mischief … one Azuth among them. My powers are twisted and lessened. Tis all I can do to hold the Realms together, with all the irresponsible spell-hurlers active. Red Wizards, Calishite lords, Zhentarim, and near a thousand ambitious lone wizards whose magic is mighty. Gods and mortals alike are trying to take advantage of the widespread chaos. And without Mystra, magic is truly unreliable. I work constantly to keep the fabric of all from being torn utterly by these ignorant wielders of Art so that Toril will not be dashed apart in utter destruction. You have my sympathy, Sister, and my regrets … but you must contend with the House of Malaug on your own; I dare not intervene. Gather your allies, and work as you have never worked before. ‘Tis time to truly be heroes.”
Syluné stood motionless. “May you succeed in your task,” she said softly.
“And may you find the good fortune Our Lady Mystra could not,” the god replied, “and prevail. Know that I love you, Syluné, and would aid if I could. Look not to seek divine aid again until this Time of Troubles is past.” And the small
storm of twinkling lights melted silently away, leaving the night sky above the stones empty.
The ghostly figure of the Witch of Shadowdale stared up at the empty air where Azuth had manifested, then turned toward her sister Storm and reached out.
“Take me away from here,” she pleaded, her voice on the edge of tears. “Take me back to your kitchen, and the fire, and your arms.”
“Of course,” Storm said quietly. She bent to take up the stone Belkram had surrendered, and Syluné saw that her face was wet with tears.
They walked south and then east together, taking a long route around the heart of the moonlit dale to avoid challenges and the worst of the dead.
“You heard all?” Syluné asked grimly.
Storm sighed. “Aye, this dale is going to be very different if Elminster is no more.”
“He was a father—and a friend—to you more than any of us,” Syluné said softly. “ ‘Tis I should be comforting you.”
Storm shook her head wearily, as if to clear it. “I did not feel him die. I can’t be sure … he may still live.”
“And if he does not?”
“Then it is as Azuth told us: time for us—all of us Seven—to truly be heroes, without his comforting aid and guidance … and vigilance for our safety.”
Syluné sighed. “I never thought I’d be alive without him to turn to. He seems as permanent a feature of the Realms as Mount Waterdeep, or Anauroch, or the Shaar.” They climbed a stile and descended into a field of parsnips. Halfway down one of its long rows, she added, “Sharantyr is beside herself! I thought she’d tear the two prisoners apart with her bare hands.”
“She gave her blade to Mourngrym because she feared she’d want to use it,” Storm said softly. “My own fury is past. El told me how tired of life he’d become more than once this last season.”
“Should we let those two go?”
“Mercy has ever been our watchword here, and yet …”
Storm’s voice trailed away, and with slow deliberation she sheathed the blade she held. “I may come to feel the rage Sharantyr holds again, tomorrow. Since Doust became lord, we have always shown the people that justice by fair trial holds sway in Shadowdale. So we will have a trial and justice, and Mourngrym will have the hard task of sentencing.”
All Shadows Fled Page 15
