All Shadows Fled

by Greenwood, Ed

  “Oburglan,” Storm said softly, catching his angry gaze, “please stay. You are right to be angry … ‘tis a maddening tactic we old wielders of sorcery use, to tell half a story and then fall silent when you want to know all. I would say more if I could, and I apologize for mentioning the Netherese at all.”

  Oburglan stared at her for a moment. He fumbled for his goblet. “How old are you, then?” he mumbled, eyes surveying Storm’s curves. “I mean …” he looked away and scratched at the lip of his goblet in some confusion, “I don’t see any wrinkles.”

  Down the table, someone sighed, someone else loudly stifled laughter, and Lord Thael covered his eyes.

  “I apologize for this wild-tongued kin of mine,” he rumbled. “Pray, forgiveness, Lady Storm!”

  He turned blazing eyes to Oburglan. “Lad, lad, one never asks a lady her age, unless perhaps you’re her suitor and must needs know what ground you walk upon! And even then, ‘tis best to ask her brother, or father, or anyone else!”

  “Your advice is good, Lord, and should be followed by all men of breeding,” Storm agreed cheerfully, “and yet there are exceptions to every rule … and I am one of them.”

  She caught Oburglan’s eyes again, and gave him the easy grin of a sister. “Never trust a minstrel or bard who speaks of times and ages, for they’re always stretching a year here and a year there, speaking of long-ago battles or fair ladies as if they’d witnessed them themselves. But this once, and before all this table, I’ll tell you truth: I am half a dozen years shy of my six hundredth summer.”

  Oburglan gulped, stared at her, started to sneer … then gaped. “You’re serious,” he whispered.

  Storm nodded. With one slim hand she indicated the shoulder that her gown left bare. “Not bad, eh?” she said in perfect mimicry of Lord Thael’s gruff tones.

  The table erupted again, and this time Oburglan joined in the general mirth. Lord Thael was practically weeping with laughter, his head nodding almost into his platter.

  At the other end of the table, Hawklan saluted her with his goblet and said, “Remind me never to say anything before you, Lady, that I would not want to hear parodied!”

  “A good rule for every man, Sir Hawklan, when dealing with any man or maid,” she returned, raising her own glass. Did his eyes rest on it just a trifle too long?

  Ah—no. They were fixed a little lower down. This gown hadn’t been such a bright idea after all. But then, sophistication has its price. Moreover, if all of us change what we are and what we do because of the threat of Malaugrym attack, shapeshifters have won the victory without ever having to fight the battle!

  “In that time, I have seen Hillsfar governed in many ways,” Storm said, turning to the envoy as the laughter started to die. “I’d be interested to hear what you can tell us of Lord Maalthiir’s publicly stated aims and intentions.”

  Thorlor Drynn inclined his head. “I thank you for your diplomacy and understanding, Lady Storm, in the wording you just employed. In reply, I can say only: very little. Lord Maalthiir has often promised to make Hillsfar great and to cleanse it of all hardship, suffering, and corruption. Laudable goals that none, I daresay, could seriously contest. By his actions, I think you can safely add to those general aims his intent not to let Zhentil Keep have possession of Yûlash, nor to suffer Mulmaster or Zhentil Keep to have control of the river Lis, or Moonsea shipping in general. For what it is worth—my words as a mouthpiece of Hillsfar being, of course, suspect by definition—I see no great preparations for armies to march, nor intentions on my lord’s part to seize any other city or territory of Faerûn.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” Loth Shentle said dryly, “as should be all neighbors of Hillsfar. Two cities of rampaging warlords are more than enough hereabouts.”

  “You speak overcautiously, Sir!” the priest of Tymora told him, refilling his own goblet for perhaps the fortieth time, his face flushed with its effects. “Strife brings change, and change is the natural order of things. It makes men and maids able, and quick, and alert! Bold, and—”

  “Forced to rely on Lady Luck,” the seneschal put in from the end of the table. “I’ve heard the litany a time or two before you were born, good Dathtor!”

  The priest turned his red face around slowly to fix Hawklan with a bright-eyed gaze. “Then you should know e’en better than I that ‘tis true!”

  “I know no such thing,” Hawklan said firmly. “I am a simple soldier; I swing my sword, obey orders to the letter, and let others worry about causes and outcomes and grand strategies.”

  “And on your off days, you drink too much and wench too much—beg pardon, Lady—and let life carry you on, on to the grave without disruption or excitement,” Loth Shentle said.

  “A summation that sounds familiar, Nephew?” Lord Thael said meaningfully. Oburglan flushed.

  “No, Uncle! I mean—” his eyes darted to Storm, then back to Thael with an almost pleading look.

  “Don’t embarrass me in front of the lady, Uncle?” Storm asked the youth. “Is that what you want to say, but dare not find the words?”

  Oburglan stared at her, opened his mouth, and shut it again, turning ruby to the tips of his ears.

  “Oburglan,” Storm said, setting down her goblet to lean forward, “never be embarrassed to admit truth, or think and talk about life, in front of anyone. I’d be more embarrassed to lie about my life or refuse to admit that things are as they are. I’m not upset to learn that you’re drifting the days away here—it’s not my life wasting away. If you’re upset talking about it, that shows you’re not satisfied in doing so, and that’s gods-be-damned good.”

  Heads turned along the table at her language, but Storm kept her eyes locked on Oburglan’s. “What you’d best do, when we’re all gone, is take a walk in that beautiful garden out there with your uncle, and talk about what you want to do in life. Not to do what he says, but to decide for yourself. We all have to, sooner or later. If it makes you feel better to hear it, I’d passed away almost seventy years before I stopped my wild, witless pursuit of fun and started wondering what I wanted to do for myself.”

  Oburglan gulped. “Seventy years?” he said faintly. “I didn’t know there was that much fun.”

  The table roared with laughter once more. When Lord Thael could speak again, he slapped Oburglan’s arm. “Well said!” He turned to Storm and added quietly, “And very well said, Lady. I don’t think I’ve a tongue nimble enough to thank you rightly for saying those words. I’ve never heard it said better, in all my … er, sixty-eight years.”

  Storm smiled at him. “Shall I come back in two years to ask you what you’ve decided to do with your life?”

  There were uneasy chuckles around the table, and Thael shook his head with a rueful smile. “I’d forgotten that the tongue can be sharper than a sword.”

  “I think you have the quotation wrong, Lord,” the priest offered jestingly, but Storm turned on him with a smile.

  “What, Hand of Tymora? You stand in service to a goddess and don’t know for yourself the truth of that maxim? Truly, you must be a very good priest! All the clergy I know would much rather face the swords of foes than the lashing tongues of their superiors!”

  Dathtor Vaeldeir winced. “I begin to see the truth of another maxim, Lords and Lady: ‘If thou art captured, do and say anything to keep yourself from the hands of your foe’s womenfolk.’ ”

  Deep laughter rolled out around the table, and more than one eyebrow in the room rose to see Storm laughing as heartily as the others.

  She raised her glass of newly filled, still-poisoned wine, her heart light, and bid the night continue long.

  When the table did rise, her wish had been fulfilled; they’d talked away most of the time until dawn, and the first shift of servants had been replaced at table by a second. Most of the men were stumbling with drunken weariness as they sought out the jakes; Dathtor the priest was roaring drunk, and Oburglan had been emboldened enough by his imbibing to ask her how one bes
t chose a wife. Storm was still smiling and shaking her head over that as she went to the women’s garderobe—which, of course, she had all to herself.

  No one attacked her there. Afterward, she went for a walk in the gardens in the last faint moonlight, avoiding the torchlit areas. Someone at that friendly table was a shapeshifter … and a Malaugrym dare not leave her alive, when she could call down the Simbul upon him or point him out to half a hundred wizards. The poison raging through her veins was proof enough of that.

  No, an attack would come. She kept to the shadows as Loth Shentle strolled past, a little unsteadily, singing an old familiar ballad about ladies fair and fey. He startled her a few steps farther on when he paused on one of the bridges, announced, “Gods, but she’s beautiful!” and proceeded to vomit his evenfeast helplessly into the pond.

  Someone else was walking among the far fern beds, impossible to identify in the gloom. Storm sat down on a bench in the lee of a spiky bush, only then discerning the seneschal, Burldon Hawklan, who strode softly past, hand on sword, eyes sober and alert, taking care to make little sound.

  Storm rose thoughtfully and watched him vanish into the night. In one hand, she hid the small thing she’d taken out in the garderobe.

  “Out takin’—takeeng—air, pretty lady?” said a loud voice by her elbow. The drunken priest of Tymora tried to lean against the tree, missed, and went for a short stagger before finding his balance again. Storm brought her hand to her mouth to cover her smile as he grinned loosely at her, sketched a shaky salute, and said, “Doan—doant—don’t you worship the Lady Tymora, e’en as I do? C’mere!”

  He was upon her, and the smell of wine was strong, and triumph blazed up in his eyes as he embraced her. His arms tightened … and seemed to be changing shape.

  This was it. Their lips brushed together, and Storm worked her small magic in careful haste.

  An instant later cruel claws raked her back, tearing away her gown and the flesh beneath in ribbons. Storm gasped and stiffened at the raw pain—but instead of trying to pull away from the Malaugrym, she leaned into his embrace, deepening their kiss. His savaging of her back slowed in astonishment, but Storm clung to him with all her own great strength, holding him firmly as her tongue thrust her saliva into his mouth. With it went the powdered silver from the coin she’d dissolved with her spell.

  The shapeshifter spasmed in sudden agony, fear, and desperation. The silver was as poisonous to him as the liquid he’d been feeding Storm all night. Had she not been one of Mystra’s Chosen, she’d have died hours ago, after the first sip Lord Thael offered her. She kept that in mind as she drew her mouth away from his and watched him closely. The creature who was not Dathtor Vaeldeir shuddered in her arms, convulsed, and died.

  When she was sure he was dead, Storm swung his body over one shoulder, letting the claws that still dripped her blood dangle, and carried it grimly toward Lord Thael’s kitchen wing, where there should be firewood enough to burn it.

  She was most of the way there, crossing the great flagstone terrace, when many doors opened in the manor walls and a score of servants rushed out with lit torches, enclosing her in a wide ring.

  Lord Thael stepped out last and faced her, sword in his hand. “What have you done, witch?” he bellowed, monocle dangling. He peered at her, and asked, “Or … is that you, Lunquar?”

  Storm met his eyes coldly “You know what I’ve done, Malaugrym. And what I must do.” She lifted one side of her mouth in a mirthless smile, and asked, “Just to save time, tell me—how many more are there of you in this house?”

  “I need no aid to deal with the likes of you, mortal woman,” was the cold response. “With your precious Elminster dead, there’s no one to watch us … and no one to stop us!” His teeth glinted in the torchlight as they lengthened into fangs, and he added with soft smile, “Faerûn will be ours!”

  One of the servants screamed. Lord Thael was turning slowly into a thing with a tail and hunched shoulders of corded muscle. He came forward in a slow, careful crouch, eyes gleaming.

  Storm let the body fall from her shoulder, kicked off her high sandals, and walked barefoot to meet him in the bloody tatters of her gown.

  When she was only two paces away, the Malaugrym sprang and brought his blade around in a vicious arc. Storm strode right at him. His blade whistled through her as if she were smoke, and she grappled with him.

  The Malaugrym ducked away and hacked at her again, saw that the blade really could not touch her, and flung it away with a snarl. It was still clanging across the flagstones amid sparks when he flung himself on her.

  They strained together in the torchlight, two sets of rippling muscles gleaming. The shapeshifter seized her shoulder and wrist and pulled, roaring triumphantly.

  He’d intended to tear her limb from limb, slapping her awake and making her scream for mercy—but he strained and pulled with all his might … and she resisted him easily, smiling all the while, and whispered the words of an enchantment.

  The Malaugrym grunted in amazement at her strength, then felt his mouth and tongue moving of their own accord—no, her will!—to utter the single word “Ahorga.”

  Her magic had forced him to name himself. Enraged, Ahorga grew his neck to eel-like length and his fangs into snapping jaws, and he bit savagely at the smiling face of his foe. She turned her head away and forced his own arm up into the way of his jaws—such strength! He darted his head down and sank his fangs deep into her left shoulder and breast.

  Now the screaming would start, and she’d plead for mercy … but no. This Storm woman hissed in pain but did not shriek or collapse. He bit deeply again, and twisted his head to tear a great gobbet of flesh free. Her blood fountained over them both, running freely to the flagstones, and he raised his head to roar exultantly at the high, glittering stars.

  Then he felt pain such as he’d never felt before, greater than the fire spells that had scarred him in his youth. He writhed helplessly in his torment. Silver flames licked along her spilled blood, fire the same hue as her silvery hair, blazing up into a pillar now—and he was burning with it!

  It was in pain and despair that Ahorga of the Malaugrym roared, struggling to break free of her grip, and failing. He stared once into her face, and saw that her eyes were two silver flames, too.

  “Nooo!” he screamed. “Mercy!”

  “I shall give you, Ahorga, the same mercy you gave to Lord Thael Sembergelt,” was the calm response. “The same mercy Malaugrym always afford mere mortals … none. This is a cleaner death than you deserve.” The silver flames roared up to claim him.

  When the body was a burnt husk, Storm cast it down atop the body of the Malaugrym Lunquar, and watched them both blaze. The flagstones beneath them cracked and shivered with the heat, and more than one of the servants fainted away, torches toppling to the terrace to gutter out. Storm stood motionless above the pyre until ashes were all that remained of the two shapeshifters.

  She looked up, half-naked, front and back in bleeding ruin. Oburglan and the seneschal, Hawklan, gazed white-faced at her, swords in their hands.

  “Lady,” Hawklan asked, “what are you?”

  “One of Mystra’s Chosen,” Storm answered him wearily. “These were two fell shapeshifters; the real Thael Sembergelt and Dathtor Vaeldeir are dead.”

  The seneschal licked his lips and asked, “Was that, then, Mystra’s silver fire?”

  Storm smiled wanly. “It was … pray that you never see its like again.”

  “Lady,” Oburglan asked, his voice husky with fear, “are you … will you be all right?”

  “I will be fine soon enough, Lord Sembergelt,” Storm said to him. “I grieve for your uncle. I would have liked to come to know him well.”

  Tears spilled from both their eyes, then, but Oburglan’s trembling lips shaped the wondering words, “Lord Sembergelt? You called me …”

  One bloody hand came up to trace his chin. He did not raise his blade or flinch away. “You are Lord Sembergelt now,”
Storm said to him, “and if ever you need comfort or guidance or the aid of Those Who Harp, come to me—or tell any Harper.” A trace of a smile came to her lips. “We even help spoiled Sembian lords.” She stepped forward and kissed him.

  His face was covered with her blood as she drew back, but his eyes shone with a new light through the tears.

  “Lady,” the seneschal said haltingly, stepping forward, “if there is anything we can do … any aid we can render …” His eyes fell to her wounds, then rose again to her face.

  Storm shook her head. “My thanks for your offer, noble Hawklan, but no. I’ll be fine. I’ll be even better if I know your new lord enjoys the same loving guidance you gave his uncle.”

  “Lady,” Hawklan said quietly, “it shall be so. If you’ll permit me?”

  And he took her hand, went to his knee, and kissed her bloody fingertips.

  Storm smiled at him. “As I bid Oburglan, so also I ask you: Call on me if there is need.”

  She stepped back from them, looked around at Low Rythryn Towers and the ragged circle of torches, and shook her head.

  “One good thing has come of this, at least,” she told the two weeping men. “Lord Thael lies where he would have wished: buried in his garden.” She smiled at them again, then turned away. It was a long walk back to Shadowdale—and she’d need all that time to heal herself.

  15

  Travel Far, See Much—and Try To Survive

  In a place of shifting shadows, behind hidden doors, in the heart of the ancient castle of the Malaugrym, was a light. The bright, glowing eye of a scrying portal floated in the murk, reflected from the tentacled face of a watchful figure bent over it … a figure whose skin was as dark and ever-shifting as the sliding shadows themselves.

  His eyes, however, were two bright flames, and the doomstars winked brightly as they spun endlessly about his wrist. He stretched, watched them dim momentarily as they passed through a dark drift of shadow, sighed, and murmured, “Fools … this house is breeding fools by the score. Lunquar and Ahorga both gone—and they deserved it.”