All Shadows Fled

by Greenwood, Ed

  He turned again to the light, watching the wounded Storm walk through a merchant camp and wave away someone who rose to offer aid. Studying her kind, weary smile, he sighed again and passed his hand across the portal.

  It rippled, then lit with tongues of leaping fire: a bonfire, this time. Steel flashed back its light as three figures in leather armor battled with twice as many men in black. They fought in a clearing—the camp of the black-armored ones—and the three in leather were winning. As he watched, a black-armored figure took a blade in the face and fell back into the fire, throwing out a shower of sparks. Small wonder; if those three could fight their way alive out of the Castle of Shadows and leave more than a score of the blood of Malaug dead behind them, a few Zhentilar armsmen should prove no trouble for them at all.

  Wearing a smile that did not mean he was amused, the figure let his scrying portal fade away, stood up, and melted into the shadows. It was time to do what had to be done.

  * * * * *

  Faerûn, northwest Elven Court woods, Flamerule 26

  “How many?”

  “Seven Zhentilar and one orc,” Belkram said, counting on his fingers. “Oh, and that snake.”

  “Oh, yes—mustn’t forget the snake!” Syluné said merrily. She turned to grin at Sharantyr. They rolled their eyes in unison.

  “I,” Itharr said triumphantly, “stand ahead of you. My valiant blade has accounted for eleven Zhent deserters, one brigand, and three fingers off the left hand of another brigand!”

  “Men will be boys,” Sharantyr murmured. A ghostly giggle answered her from just ahead of her left cheek. She winced; Syluné had become invisible again.

  They were tired, filthy, footsore—gods, how did anyone stay in armor more than a day? The itching, to say nothing of the small things crawling in their matted hair. They hadn’t expected the last four Zhents, and had wasted a day chasing them—a day more than their rations. Empty bellies were groaning now, too.

  All in all, it had been a successful patrol.

  They trudged thankfully past the familiar beauty of Harpers’ Hill. Passing it meant warm baths and familiar beds were only paces away.

  “Daylight!” Itharr broke into a trot.

  Sharantyr gritted her teeth and managed a sprint, her raw joints and blistered feet shrieking in protest. Catching up to Itharr a bare three paces from Treesedge, she snarled, “Walk across someone’s crops, and they’ll kill you! We go that way until we strike the road!”

  She pointed, and Itharr gave her a dirty look. He sighed and began to trudge in the indicated direction. “You never spared two breaths about turnips before!”

  “I was never hungry enough to eat raw turnips before!” Sharantyr snarled back at him.

  Behind them, Belkram chuckled wearily and waved a hand. “Lead on, the pair of you … and talk to me of roast goose, and gravy and old ale … ham and dressed pheasant and stuffed snake—not gods-be-kissed turnips!”

  “Ye gods!” Itharr cried, slapping his forehead. “The snake! You forgot to bring the snake!” He turned reproachful eyes on Belkram. “We could’ve eaten that snake!”

  “No,” Belkram corrected, “You could’ve eaten that snake. I saw all the human skulls in its lair.”

  “Death, death, death,” Sharantyr muttered. “Is that all adventurers talk about?”

  Belkram gave her a look. “Well, let’s see—there are other topics: butchering monsters for the stew pot, burning helpless villages, pillage, ra—”

  “Death it is,” Sharantyr said firmly. “Only a few hundred more paces now. Talk to me of death.”

  “Only a few hundred more paces?” Itharr gasped. “Good! Go and make them for me, so I can fall asleep right … here.…”

  “Oh no, you don’t,” Sharantyr said, pulling hard on his hair as he sagged. “Come on—I’m sure that tree wants to grow to reach the light, and it can’t if you’re draped all over it, snoring like a flatulent bull! Move!”

  “Yes, sir!” Itharr responded sarcastically, moving smartly forward for all of three paces before sinking into a weary walk once more.

  “Gods above preserve me,” Sharantyr said through clenched teeth. “Men!”

  “Oh, dear,” Belkram said to Itharr. “She’s noticed! I guess that means we have to go way off into the bushes, now, whenever we have to …”

  “What she hasn’t noticed,” Itharr retorted, stumbling in the weariness of utter exhaustion, “is that the gods aren’t above anymore—that’s what this whole trouble’s about … as Elminster said.”

  “Good old Elminster,” Belkram said sadly, putting one foot in front of the other and almost falling out into the road.

  “Well, granted I look bad this morning,” growled the wispy-bearded guard who caught hold of his shoulder to steady him, “but I’m sure I don’t look that bad. No, Elminster’s dead, friend … and so will ye be if ye don’t convince me of thy rightful loyalty—and fast.”

  He gulped as the ghostly head of the Witch of Shadowdale came floating out of the trees to hang in front of him. “Well met, Guthtar,” she said softly. “You remember me, do you not?”

  “A-Aye, Lady,” the guard stammered as Itharr and Sharantyr came out of the trees. “And her, too!” The six guards behind him fell back to get weapon room, eyeing all these sudden arrivals warily.

  “Aye,” Syluné said dryly. “I’ve noticed you never forget a fair-looking female. You are going to let Lord Mourngrym’s patrol pass, aren’t you?”

  “Of course, Lady! Uh, begging thy pardons, sirs and Lady—uh, Lady and Lady … ah—oh, dung!”

  “And a pleasant good morning to you, too, Guthtar,” Syluné said with a smile, floating serenely past the sputtering guard. Belkram met Guthtar’s eyes, spread his hands in silent commiseration, and followed. Itharr and Sharantyr trudged along in Belkram’s wake, leaning on each other.

  “Oh, gods,” the lady ranger yawned. At a weary stagger, she neared the crossroads. “We must never let ourselves get this tired again!”

  “I tried to tell those last four Zhents that,” Belkram told her, “I really did! But they just kept on snarling and waving swords at us, and, well.…”

  “Back from patrol, I see,” Hammerhand Bucko called cheerfully from his doorway. They waved at him—the gesture almost made Itharr fall over—and went on, not daring to stop now for fear of collapse.

  “Lhaeo? Lhaeo!” Syluné called, her head dancing up and down in the air to snare the scribe’s attention. “Lhaeo!”

  Elminster’s scribe was a morose figure, trudging along every bit as wearily as they were walking. He looked up at Syluné’s call, brightening visibly. “Well met, friends!”

  “Itharr, give my stone to Lhaeo, will you?” Syluné floated close to the scribe’s head and asked him, “Could you take me to Storm, please, good scribe? We have much to talk about.”

  Lhaeo blinked at her as Itharr handed him the stone. “Of course, Lady—’tis where I’m headed.” He turned his head to look at the unshaven ranger, and said, “You folks look tired.”

  “No, really? And I spent all morning doing my hair!” Itharr told him with weary sarcasm. He set off grimly toward the tower.

  “Fare you well, Lhaeo,” Sharantyr added.

  The scribe smiled wanly and waved. The three rangers nodded wearily to him and walked the last stretch of road to the Twisted Tower.

  “Ohh, I’m so tired!” Sharantyr wailed. “And my feet hurt so much!”

  “At least you’ve still got feet,” Belkram said darkly. “Mine wore off about ten hours back.”

  “Try scratching all your itches,” Itharr said without turning. “It helps to keep you awake.”

  “Could we ride on patrol next time?” Shar asked as they turned up the tower path.

  “Through all those trees? We’d be wanting some eel-horses, I’d guess,” said Belkram.

  “Just a few more steps, friends,” Itharr mumbled. “Just a few more steps …”

  Then he noticed the row of gleaming breastplates
and crossed forearms blocking their way. His eyes traveled up to the hard faces above them, but he recognized no one. Seven guards he’d never seen before were ranged across the open doorway of the Tower of Ashaba. They wore splendid chased armor and light helms in the hot summer sun, and their hairy forearms and corded thighs glistened with sweat. They were not moving aside.

  “Stand aside, friends,” Itharr said wearily, “before we fall over.”

  “And who are you three?” the centermost guard asked coolly. “Travelers generally stay at the Old Skull Inn—at the crossroads, down there. Beggars had best go to the temples … there’s a house of Tymora just across the river, there.”

  As he’d spoken, Belkram and Sharantyr had straggled up to face the guards. Shar sighed and let her head sink into her hands. No. No, not now. Her knees sagged, and Belkram put his arms around her to hold her up, swaying himself.

  “We have chambers awaiting us in the tower behind you,” Itharr said quietly, taking two steps to the right so he could lean on the nearest hitching post.

  “Oh? How so? Are you, then, lords and ladies of Shadowdale?”

  “She is,” Itharr said, waving a hand. “The Lady Sharantyr.”

  “Sharantyr? It’s not a name known to me,” the guardcaptain said jovially. “Any of you heard of a Sharantyr, lads? Eh?”

  There was a general chorus of chuckled nays. Itharr regarded them with dull eyes. “You’re all new hires, aren’t you?”

  “Thurbal engaged us some days ago,” the guardcaptain said a trifle stiffly. “We hail from Westgate.”

  “Belgard’s boys?” Belgard was a retired mercenary whose school turned out guards known for their efficient cruelty and alertness; his graduates had gained swift popularity among the merchants of Sembia, and generally cost a client food, accommodation, armor, and over five silver pieces a day.

  “Yes,” the guardcaptain said shortly, “and we’ve been hired to keep brigands and Zhentilar out of this tower, see? So clear off, all of you—now!”

  The three bedraggled figures in leather made no move. A light, rhythmic sound came from the female among them—the sound of snoring.

  One of the guards snorted in amusement, and stepped forward. He bore a long baton in his hand, and used it to rap Sharantyr none too gently on the shoulder. “Hey! Wake up and clear off! You’ve heard the order. Now go!”

  “Stand back, friend,” Belkram suggested gently, “or I’ll awaken enough to grow annoyed.”

  The guard cocked his head to one side, hands on hips. “Oh you will, will you?” he said sarcastically. “I quaver at the prospect!”

  “Are you lot going to stand aside?” Itharr said. “We’d very much like to report in to Mourngrym.”

  “Lord Mourngrym’s out riding the northern reaches,” the guardcaptain told him silkily, “as all in Shadowdale know. I don’t think you’re anything more than brigands looking for a chance to slip inside. If you don’t move on, it’s brigands’ chains you’ll be feeling.”

  “In one of the cells where we can lie down?” Sharantyr asked sleepily.

  “No,” the guardcaptain said with a cruel grin, “our orders are to hang brigands from the dangle-bars.”

  “We’re not brigands,” Belkram said sourly, dragging Sharantyr to the hitching post on the other side of the path and draping her over it, “and you’d do well to let us into the tower!”

  “We’re not hired to do well,” the guardcaptain said. “We’re hired to follow orders. You’re not getting past, and you’ve spent enough of our time. We’re supposed to watch who passes on the road, not waste words with ruffians on our doorstep. So get you gone, now, or there’ll be trouble.”

  “There will indeed,” Itharr said, from his post.

  The guardcaptain looked at him coldly, then turned his head back to catch the eyes of the guard with the baton, who stood menacingly close to Belkram, and said pleasantly, “Aldus, pray dispose of these petty annoyances.”

  “Gladly, Captain,” Aldus replied, raising his baton and reaching forward to take Belkram by the throat.

  “Have a care, Aldus,” Belkram said softly to him, “that’s my Harper pin you’re hauling on.”

  “So?”

  “A Harper pin should mean something to you, Aldus.”

  “Oh, aye.” The guard stepped back and turned to the guardcaptain. “This one’s stolen a Harper pin, Captain!”

  “Hit him and take it, then!”

  “Gladly, Captain!” Aldus spun around and brought his baton around in a wicked arc. Belkram stumbled back with inches to spare, and the guard rushed forward, pulling his baton back for another blow.

  It never landed. As he charged forward, a slim hand rose from the post, caught hold of his arm, and pulled. Aldus’s head rammed the post with all the strength of his charge, and Sharantyr stepped back, turned to survey the line of guards witheringly, and asked, “Who’s next, dolts?”

  There came a roar of anger, and five men started forward. “Hold hard!” their captain roared out, but none of them paid him heed.

  Two reached the Lady of Shadowdale first, batons out—and she dropped to the path and flung herself at their boots. They went over her with a crash.

  The third man in snarled a curse and kicked at her; Shar grabbed the boot flashing past her and hauled sharply upward. With a ground-shaking crash, the man fell on his rear. Then the batons of the fourth and fifth were raining down on her—for a few instants, before Belkram hit them from one side and Itharr from the other, and two helmed heads rang together.

  Itharr fell on his knees atop the groaning third guard. The man emitted a sort of strangled whistle and thrashed around, struggling for breath enough to shout out his pain. Itharr rolled away, letting the senseless fourth and fifth guards fall on him.

  The guardcaptain started forward hesitantly, seeing only two of his men left. They were rising with murder on their faces and swords in their hands.

  Shar got to her own feet in time to face them, her hands empty—but by then Belkram had smashed aside the captain’s hastily drawn blade and run the man up against the lintel, hands on his throat.

  “Call your men off attacking the Lady of Shadowdale,” the Harper snarled at him as they strained eyeball to eyeball, “or so help me I’ll tear your throat out!” Iron fingers dug deep into the man’s flesh to back up those words, then loosened enough to let the man whimper.

  “Aid!” he called out in a raw voice. “An attack!”

  Disgusted, Belkram bounced the man’s head forcefully off the stones. The captain’s eyes rolled up for a brief instant before he slid to the ground, but the Harper was already snatching the captain’s blade out of his hands and whirling around.

  The retreating Shar had fallen back over the tangled trio of unconscious guards, and Itharr was crouched over her, trying to ward off two jabbing blades with a pair of batons he’d snatched up.

  Belkram snarled an oath and charged around the pile of bodies. He lunged at the two guards, waving his captured blade. They turned to meet him and fell back to force him to come between them. Belkram obliged, swerving at the last instant to bind the blade of one with his own. He grabbed the man by the armpit, swung him around into the path of the other guard’s blade, and with his free hand smashed the man across the throat.

  Gagging, the man fell. Belkram clubbed the back of his helm and sprang back.

  The last guard’s blade flashed through the leathers at Belkram’s wrist, and the stolen sword spun away from the Harper’s numbed fingers. The guard’s face widened into an unpleasant grin. He sidled a foot or so, still smiling, as a stool Itharr had snatched up from inside the door struck the side of his head and carried him a pace to the south … into the realm of dreams.

  The two Harpers looked wearily at each other, went to pick up Shar from the tangle of sprawled bodies, and trudged into the tower.

  They’d almost reached the end of the long central passage when Shaerl and Thurbal, captain-of-arms of the Twisted Tower, strode briskly across
it. The Lady of Shadowdale was speaking. “Well, I don’t think those new men are trained eno—”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Belkram snarled, cradling Sharantyr’s head against his shoulder.

  “Aye,” Itharr agreed, casting a guard’s sword to the tiles at Thurbal’s feet. “Next time you hire seven dolts from Belgard, be sure he remembers to send their brains along with them!”

  Thurbal gaped at the three of them, but Shaerl turned to her captain-of-arms and snapped, “Get fresh guards for the doors—and send all the servants you can find here, as fast as they can move!”

  She guided the three rangers to a bench and rang the nearest gong furiously. To the first servant who appeared, she snapped, “Send everyone here at once! Then fill my lord’s bath—the new big one, and mind the water’s hot! Get help, but do it fast!”

  To the second she snarled, “Three carry-chairs, and men to bear them, back here as fast as you’re able!”

  Then she turned her head as the kitchen door opened. “Purk? Bring whatever you have roasting—and all the breads and cheeses you can lay hands on, and the best wine you can get—to my lord’s chamber at once!”

  “Impressive,” Belkram murmured to her just before he fell asleep.

  “Indeed,” Shaerl told him gently. She looked down the hall to the doors, where armsmen were carrying in seven limp armored forms under Thurbal’s coldly furious eye.

  Itharr woke once on the stairs, swaying in his chair to murmur, “Killed a lot of Zhents for you …”

  “Eat first,” Shaerl told him, guiding the chair across the parlor. “We’ll talk later.”

  “Bathe first,” Sharantyr announced firmly.

  “Nay, Lady,” one of the armsmen said gently as he set her chair down. “For ye, it’s sleep first.” The lady ranger’s head lolled to one side as she began to gently snore; she heard him only in her dreams.

  “Get this armor off them,” Shaerl told the armsman, unbuckling and tugging at Sharantyr’s body for all she was worth.

  “Haste or care, Lady?”

  “Care for them … haste otherwise,” she replied briskly, hurling a vambrace across the room. It struck the far wall with a crash that made a serving girl wince—and when the armsmen enthusiastically followed Shaerl’s example, the maid covered her ears and fled. The air quickly filled with flying pieces of armor.