At the heart of the radiance, young Issaran stood tall, holding up his trophy for all to see. “Elminster of Shadowdale,” he proclaimed loudly, “slain by my hand!”
“Oh?” Dhalgrave asked coldly, melting suddenly out of invisibility to hang in the air just above the proud young scion of Malaug. “So how do you explain that?” One of his powerful hands lifted to indicate the pale glow of the scrying portal, behind the dwindling disturbance that a moment ago had been Issaran’s gate.
Something in that acid tone made Issaran pale as he spun, to stare openmouthed at the scene in the portal. Dhalgrave obligingly made the view expand to fill a wide arc of the hall’s upper air, and made the young Malaugrym’s humiliation complete.
The night sky over what must be ruined Dragonspear Castle, in the Sword Coast lands, was lit as bright as day by spell-glows. There, shuffling around in the air, wearing what could only be described as a satisfied expression, was a lone, lean figure. Elminster of Shadowdale, pipe trailing along behind him as he went, was treading empty night air as if he were walking the floor of his own kitchen.
The Old Mage was peering down into the darkness below, ignoring black arrows and hurled stones alike—as Issaran watched, some of these missiles came close to the human wizard and promptly perished in gouts of flame—and from time to time hurling spells down into the night.
Dhalgrave obligingly made the portal’s view drift down to where Elminster’s spells were going, just in time to show the watchers in the hall a spinning wheel of lightning plunge into the depths of a great host, an army of orcs clad in spired and fluted armor of ancient style—Netherese? Nimbralese, from the Dawn Days of that realm? No matter. That ornate armor did nothing to stop the wheel from bursting in an explosion that sent bolts of lightning sizzling off in all directions, hurling orc bodies for hundreds of feet and searing great swathes of ash-choked air, where all solid things had been burned away in an instant, through the massed army.
More than one of the watching Shadowmasters gasped or swore, and someone in the depths of the dark hall whimpered. There were more startled oaths a moment later, when Elminster’s next spell scooped a thousand or more orcs skyward, whisked them some distance away to hang for a breath above another orc horde, and then dropped them all as helpless, wriggling missiles from the sky.
The portal moved again to show the small human band Elminster was protecting: an unarmed caravan fearfully struggling to pass the castle as fast as possible. Something that looked like a hemispherical shell of flying swords whirled endlessly around this small train of merchants, carving up any orcs bold—or crazed—enough to try to reach them. A scarlet mist of gore marked the edges of that deadly barrier, and the massed ranks of the orcs were starting to give way before its advance. The mutterings in the Great Hall grew louder and held a distinct note of awe, and of fear.
“Could … that be someone else?” Issaran asked, almost whining in his desperation.
“It could be,” Dhalgrave said gravely, his eyes like two hard points, “but it’s not. I’ve checked on the whereabouts of all the powerful sorcerers of Faerûn … unlike certain overconfident younglings.”
There were chuckles and smirks from around the chamber as a crestfallen Issaran looked at the head he held and said unwillingly, “So this … isn’t Elminster at all?”
The head’s eyes swiveled up to meet his and winked, its mouth pursed into a kiss.
The watching Shadowmasters drew back in a wary hush, fearful that Elminster might have worked a slaying spell on the head. But the disembodied visage merely blew Issaran three kisses and then began to melt away like wax in a hot flame, dripping down into nothingness.
Fearfully Issaran flung the thing away from him. The head faded away before it could reach the floor, with one last mocking wink and a chuckle of its own that made certain elder Shadowmasters stiffen—notably the serpent-man who was Yabrant, and the wyvern who was Kostil.
“Try again,” Dhalgrave said, almost wearily, and waved a hand. The portal sprang back to its original size and location and the bloodfire winked out, leaving Issaran in darkness.
Slowly he walked away across the black marble floor, never seeing the Shadowmaster who stood alone on a high balcony, cloaked in deep shadows. Milhvar watched the young Malaugrym go, and there was a tight smile on his face as he shook his head.
* * * * *
Deep in an inner room of the Castle of Shadows hung a gem, a sapphire as large as a man’s head. Its rich blue depths glowed with captured fire as it floated above a pool whose thick black waters had yielded many potions. A spell library of ancient Netherese make, the gem held spells of great power ready to be used by anyone who dared to touch it. All Malaugrym knew the Shadowmaster High could instruct the gem to visit death on the deliverer of any touch but his own.
There was one small way, however, in which any learned Shadowmaster could call on the power of the gem. One did so now, causing the massive stone to chime softly in its private chamber.
A questing shadow shifted through a doorway and rose up to regard the gem, which chimed again and began to spin slowly, a pulsing light awakening in its lower depths. The watching shadow thickened swiftly as others joined it, and then sharpened suddenly into the large but human face of Dhalgrave. Staring calmly at the gem that no one should have awakened, he asked, “Who is it?”
And from out of the heart of the winking gem, a voice he knew said, “Milhvar of the blood of Malaug, Shadowmaster High. There is a plan I must lay before you.”
“Say on,” Dhalgrave replied, his face and tone unreadable.
“There are other gems like this one in Faerûn, hidden away in vaults that have survived since the fall of Netheril. Many more spells sit in grimoires and items all over Toril, and we have seldom dared to seek them out. The deaths that the Simbul caused underscore the prudence of this caution, but our younger blood grows ever more restive, and you rightly chose this opportunity of the godstrife to send them after the Great Foe. Yet I fear not just he, but all of Mystra’s Chosen are our foes—as the Simbul is. We stand little chance of survival unless we can find some means of warding off their seeking magic, and the spells they send to slay us. The time is right for us to devote all of our skills—together, not as warring individuals—into crafting a cloak of concealing spells.”
The voice paused, and then went on more strongly, “If such a thing can be woven, we could make forays into Faerûn and seize the magic long denied to us. If the Chosen confronted us there, we could fight them as equals—and better—and no harm would come to this castle around us. I have heard many kin speculating aloud as to how they’d lure Elminster here, and overwhelm him with our massed might and the power of shadows we can call on. I’d rather not see such a battle, with all its unavoidable damage, occur in our very home.” Milhvar’s voice fell silent.
“You have my permission and support for all you’ve said thus far,” Dhalgrave said without hesitation, “but I sense you’ve more to propose. Say on.”
“There is a grave danger in this proposal, a danger to one being. You.”
“I know this,” Dhalgrave replied patiently. “Go on.”
“Our trust in each other must soon be absolute,” Milhvar said, as casually if he were discussing the weather in Faerûn, “and I am prepared to submit to all of the scrying magic you care to use. When the concealing cloak of spells is shown to work against the wrath of one of the Chosen, it must also be demonstrated to all that the Shadowmaster High has the means to remove the cloak without warning, leaving the being who was using it vulnerable. I fear this demonstration will cost us one of our more ambitious—not to say rebellious—younglings. By this action you will reaffirm your power and quell the inevitable moves by the younger blood to go their own ways in the planes, armed with cloaks of our devising.”
“Your words please me,” Dhalgrave responded. “Will you submit to my probing immediately?”
“Of course,” the voice replied. “Bring me through.”
&
nbsp; The Shadowmaster’s head didn’t appear to do anything, but the floating gem flashed brightly, and the slim man-form of Milhvar stood beside the pool in the chamber. He opened his mouth to speak, but sudden lightnings raged around him, stiffening him into immobility, and a singing, droning sound awakened in the gem, rising in pitch and volume until it abruptly ceased.
Dhalgrave nodded. “You spoke truth to me. I confess I am surprised and pleased. Your loyalty is rare indeed. Know that I have established scrying links to you that govern your very life. Go now and do as you have proposed. If you need my authority to call your team of spell-crafters together, use it.”
“My thanks, Shadowmaster High. You shall not regret this.”
Dhalgrave nodded curtly, the gem flashed again, and his visitor was gone. Silence returned to that hidden chamber as the floating head frowned at the space where Milhvar had stood. There had been just a shade too much triumph in that parting smile.
* * * * *
Daggerdale, Kythorn 16
The milky mists of approaching dawn had come again to Daggerdale, and Sharantyr shivered once as she stripped away the last of her clothing and stared down at the headless body, contemplating the grisly task ahead. Belkram deftly took the well-worn cotton halter and clout she handed him, as he’d taken her leathers before.
“Don’t look,” she commanded both Harpers with mock severity.
“Of course not,” they replied with identical grins, keeping their eyes carefully on hers. Then they turned around together, walking well away around one soot-blackened wall.
Sharantyr watched them go, took a deep breath, and reluctantly let her eyes fall to the cold form at her feet. She swallowed and then knelt beside it, taking up her newly sharpened knife. This was not going to be easy.
“Be easy, sister-in-arms,” nothing spoke, close by her ear. Shar nodded and smiled wanly as the voice of Syluné went on. “Place your longest fìnger on the ribs, on the right side. Feel them? Move up one … and another. There. Take the knife and make a mark large enough to see clearly.”
Shar swallowed. Then, deliberately, she did as she had been told, feeling her gorge rise alarmingly within her, a sudden hotness in her throat.
“If you spew on the body,” Syluné said in dry but somehow sympathetic tones, “you’ll make the job a lot more distasteful.”
Shar nodded irritably, wiping sudden sweat from her brow with one swipe of her forearm. Cutting a foe in the heat and swiftness of battle was one thing, but …
How did chirurgeons—and butchers, for that matter—do it?
“The stone is deep,” Syluné said calmly, steadying her. Shar thanked her with another smile, ran the knife point down Old Elminster’s side almost to the ground, and then drove it in.
Blood flowed, more and faster than she’d have thought, bathing her fingers in warm stickiness. Sharantyr’s stomach lurched.
Involuntarily her eyes traveled to where Elminster’s head should be and was not, and a moment later she flung herself to one side and emptied her gut onto the turf, her own ribs aching as she shuddered and heaved uncontrollably.
“It’ll be harder if you wait,” Syluné said soothingly, but Sharantyr sung back to the bleeding body with an angry snarl, face white, and dug her blade in as if striking a blow in battle.
Her arms and breast were soon dripping, and she nearly squirted herself in the eye twice. One glimpse of her matted, dangling hair made her wish she’d tied it back before starting this, but she couldn’t think of everything, by all the gods, and …
There. It slipped out easily into her fingers: a gray, unremarkable stone from Syluné’s hut, the focus that allowed the undead Sister to speak, to be, this far from the place of her death. The means by which she’d been able to make this spell-crafted body move and speak and perceive—and ape Elminster so well.
The impersonation had been masterful, Shar reminded herself as she took another deep breath, her stomach a loose and floating thing, and got up grimly from her knees, the stone tightly clutched in her fist. Blood ran down her arms and dripped off her elbows as she headed for where the two Harpers stood talking. Modesty was just going to have to be abandoned for the nonce; she had to get clean!
“Goodsirs,” she said tightly, “I must …
“Close your eyes and trust in us,” Itharr said gently. “We won’t lose the stone; just hold it out.”
Sharantyr did as she was bid and felt the stone taken from her fingers, followed by a warm stinging on them and on her eyelids, face, and body as someone washed her carefully with … zzar!
She wrinkled her nose at the unmistakable almond scent, and someone chuckled. Before she could draw breath to speak, Belkram said, “Sorry, Shar. ’Tis all we could think of in haste.” After a moment, he offered slyly, “We could lick you clean, after.”
“You could run to Zhentil Keep and back before nightfall, first,” she replied briskly, and all three of them chuckled. A moment later, she relaxed gratefully into the warmth of an energetic toweling.
“You won’t be the only one smelling like a tavern, though,” Itharr said. Shar opened her eyes to look a question at him and saw that both men had stripped to the waist—hairy beasts, the pair of them—and were drying her with their undershirts. She wrinkled her nose again at the thought of smelling like an unwashed, sweaty man, then smiled at their hurt expressions and said hastily, “You are sweet, both of you.”
“I was wondering when you were going to say that,” Syluné’s voice said in her ear, in a faint, private whisper. Belkram proudly held out Shar’s leathers for her to see the hasty but neat stitching where they’d sewn her rent shoulder panel more or less back together.
She took their work in her fingers and shook her head in delighted wonder. “How did you do this in such a short time?” She clutched the leathers to her breast and looked from one beaming Harper to the other. “You’ll make wonderful mates, you two!”
“Oh, no,” Itharr said firmly, backing away.
“No, indeed,” Belkram agreed, eyes wary. “We’re kind folk, not crazy men.”
Sharantyr stared at them and then around at the gory body behind her, the soot-blackened rocks, the mushroom pulp strewn everywhere … and started to laugh. Not crazy. Indeed.
The snorting sound from the empty air at her elbow told her Syluné shared her amusement.
Shar shook her head again, her broad smile refusing to fade, and then a gentle breeze touched her with cool fingers, reminding her that she was—She looked down, then up at the carefully raised eyes of the two men, and said crisply, “You have my thanks, and my clothes. I’d like them back now, if you don’t mind.”
They bent and gathered her garments promptly. “There’s a worn spot here on your halter,” Belkram said helpfully, pointing, “where it’s starting to pull apa—”
“I’ll live with it, thanks,” Shar told him firmly, taking everything in an armload and retreating hastily. “A worn part of my body customarily lives beneath it.”
“Don’t,” Itharr said quickly, holding up a warning hand. “The body …”
Syluné added quietly, “To the right three paces, and there’ll be no chance of slipping on gore or tripping over the … remains.”
Shar sighed, breathed deeply for a few moments, and then turned her back on her two companions and marched around the body in a wide circle, heading for the other side of the ruins.
Belkram and Itharr exchanged glances, smiles, and shrugs. “Worth seeing, and that’s all I’d best say,” Itharr said quietly, reaching for the zzar bottle and its cork.
“I agree,” Syluné’s voice said sharply from the stone Belkram’s fingers had just closed on. “Let’s leave the comments at that fair observation, shall we?”
“Of course, great lady,” the Harpers replied in swift unison, and were treated to the sight of a stone chuckling.
Belkram nearly flung it down a moment later when a startled scream rent the air from the far side of the ruin. The two men snatched out blades an
d sprinted to the rescue, running too fast to spare breath to growl, “What now?”—so Syluné voiced it for them.
They came around a rubble-strewn corner at a dead run, to see no nude ranger. “Shar?” Belkram called urgently.
“Here,” their companion replied curtly, and they turned toward her voice. To find her, they had to pass through an arch and around the tumbled remnants of a wall, into a little sheltered corner. “Did you bring my blade?” demanded the woman huddled in the corner, shielding herself with her hands.
“N-no,” Itharr said. “What befalls?”
“Turn around while I dress,” Shar ordered, “but keep your blades ready. You may need them.”
A few breaths later she joined them, breathing heavily in her haste. “What made you scream?” Itharr asked, feeling her hand on his shoulder. “You never scream.”
“Well, thank you,” Shar replied evenly, “but I do. And so would you, if you were a woman wearing nothing but a smile and walked almost right into them!”
“Who’re ‘them’?” Belkram asked her, puzzled.
Shar pointed in exasperation. “There! In the trees!”
The Harpers looked, and frowned—and then stiffened. Just inside the edge of the concealing trees, a dozen warriors stood frozen, weapons raised, faces tense, and eyes alight with frustration and appreciation. Belkram peered narrowly at the silent, absolutely motionless band. Only their eyes moved as he swung his sword idly in the air and stepped forward.
“Randal Morn, Lord of Daggerdale, if I’m not mistaken … and his court,” he said, and bowed to one of the statuelike figures. “A moment, sir,” he said, and then looked down to the stone in his hand. “Lady?”
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