by Ed Greenwood
"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. Faerun, Shadowdale, Flamerule 18
The serene radiance of Selune fell upon ravaged Shadowdale as it did on all the rest of Faerun 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 Sylune 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," Sylune 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," Sylune 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"
Sylune 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 Faerun 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 Faerun, 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."
Sylune 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, Sylune, 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 Sylune 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?" Sylune 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," Sylune 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."
Sylune 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."
She was silent for a long time before she added in a whisper, "I am glad of that, because I don't feel like holding trials at all… I want to go out and kill things."
"Your sword arm?" Sharantyr asked, watching Itharr wince and reach for his shoulder.
He nodded. "I've worn it out these last two days."
"And seen enough death to last several lifetimes," Belkram added quietly, handing him a goblet. Itharr took it in his good hand and hastily sipped at it to prevent a spill.
Sharantyr dug her fingers into the muscles of his shoulder, and he shuddered uncontrollably. He handed the goblet back to Belkram hastily.
"Thanks… I'll want the rest of it when this long-taloned beast here stops tearing my shoulder apart!"
Sharantyr managed a playful snarl, but then fell silent again, her face sad. She shook her head when Belkram offered the decanter to her, and asked him, "When will you get Sylune back?"
"In the morning, Storm said." Belkram poured himself a goblet and drained most of it at one gulp. "I imagine they're meeting to talk about what they must do to defend the dale now that Elminster's gone."
"That's a meeting we must have, too," Itharr said, looking up. "Whither now, for the three of us?"
"What have we to jaw about," Sharantyr asked with sudden fierceness as her fingers worked on his stiff shoulders with iron tenderness, "until we've dealt with the Malaugrym? Elminster gave us a task, and it's unfinished. Harpe
rs-and Knights of Myth Drannor-don't walk away from their duty. Not now, not ever!"
When she caught Belkram's look of wonder, she blushed, turning her head away. "I'm sorry," Shar mumbled, her voice quavering for an instant. "I… his dying… I'm too upset to make sense."
"No, Lady," Belkram said, advancing to take one of her hands in his own. He knelt and kissed it in one smooth movement. "You make perfect sense-now, and always."
Sharantyr turned her head away again from the rising fire she saw in his eyes, and tried to blink away her sudden tears, tears that would not stop falling.
Uncaring crickets were chirping as the Bard of Shadowdale turned in at her arched gate. She brushed past its roses and stumbled in her weariness. Sylune drifted with silent grace at her shoulder.
The door ahead of them was open, and the lamps were lit. Storm sighed and reached for her blade again, wondering if she really felt up to another fight against some sinister Zhent intruder… then relaxed with a heavy sigh of relief when she saw the short and familiar figure of Lhaeo come out to greet them.
"Tea is made, Ladies," Elminster's scribe said in a small, forlorn voice.
"Oh, Lhaeo," Storm said, touched, and held out her arms to him.
A moment later, the last prince of Tethyr was weeping into her breast, clutching her as if she were his last anchor in a storm-racked sea. "El told me I'd know if he died," he gasped when he could speak again, "and yet I don't know! The touch of his mind is gone!" He burst into fresh tears, weeping uncontrollably.
Storm stood in the moonlight, holding him in silence. There was nothing she could say. Her silver hair bent over him as her own tears began to fall. They wept together, and the ghostly form of Sylune hovered over them both, her spectral hands reaching out to console… in vain.
There was nothing at all she could do.
11
There's Always Revenge
It was a bright morning in fair Shadowdale. The tower, the inn, and the streets were still buzzing with talk of the disappearance, a day and a night ago, of Adon and Midnight, the two prisoners convicted of the murder of Elminster of Shadowdale. Some said they'd been spirited away by agents of Zhentil Keep, lurking in the dale even now; others that they were archmages, foul fiends, or Bane and Manshoon themselves, who wore false shapes and escaped by magic as soon as they were bound in the dungeons. Shadowdale had lost its greatest protector, a wise old uncle-albeit a cantankerous and mischievous uncle-to just about everyone who'd lived in Shadowdale.
Nor was he the only man mourned in the dale. Many a family wept over sons or fathers who would come back only on a shield, to be buried by an honor guard led by the grim-faced lord of Shadowdale. No one could spare the time for full mourning rites or long nights of grieving, however; there was too much that had to be done.
Magic still spun wild in Faerun, and news of strife and god-caused devastation came to Shadowdale with every new, heavily armed caravan. The Zhentarim could strike again at any time, and Daggerdale was an open battlefield roamed by hungry wolves, orcs, and worse. To keep such perils at bay, the few warriors still able to fight were standing guard on all four roads out of the dale, fervently hoping not to see blackhelms in the distance.
In the dale, dead Zhents and horses lay everywhere, some half devoured by bold night scavengers. The returned priests of Lathander were busily blessing the dead to ensure that they would not rise undead to stalk Shadowdale in the years to come. The old women of the dale were stripping the bodies of anything that could be used again, and the foresters surveyed the burnt woods with an eye to replanting.
Yestereve, six full carts piled high with weapons and helms had groaned up the road to the tower. The clangor of their being stockpiled had gone on all night, wherefore this morning Lord Mourngrym had a headache that felt as if someone were repeatedly stabbing a dagger through the top of his head.
"Why must I get up?" he asked Shaerl. "I'm lord of this dale. Can't I lie abed just once in a year?"
"You did," she replied sweetly, "three months back. We were trying for a daughter, remember?"
Mourngrym growled something wordless about her cheerfulness and rolled up to a sitting position on the edge of their bed. His arms and ribs were gold and purple with bruises, and two raw scars marked his forearm where Zhent blades had split through his best armor.
Shaerl hissed in sympathy as she traced one of those scars with a slim finger. She handed her lord a tankard of steaming bitterroot tea.
Mourngrym sipped it, made the same disgusted face he always did, and rose, handing the tankard back to her. "Here-you drink the stuff. It should cure your confounded cheerfulness!"
He took from its peg the silken robe she'd made for him. As always, he admired the blazons she'd sewn so carefully. The arms of the dale shone on one breast, his own arms on the other, and a target prominently on the back-their private joke: he'd been her target when Cormyr sent her to Shadowdale to gain influence here.
Mourngrym smiled at the robe in his arms, leaned against the smooth-carved corner post of the bed, and mouthed a silent prayer to Tymora. Swinging the robe around his shoulders, he made his way across the bedchamber.
He winced as each step made his head pound-he hadn't had that much to drink last night, surely-but doggedly pursued his goal: the curtained archway that led into the morning room. There he would break his fast on the great table whose glass top covered gloriously hued maps of the dales. He loved those maps, a wedding gift from the Rowanmantles, and peering at their exquisite details never failed to cheer him.
He shouldered through the curtains, sniffing the welcome aroma of sausages and melted cheese and eggs on bread, and froze midstride.
"Storm! Well met and welcome, but what are you doing sitting in the middle of the table? — Oh, war council time again, is it?"
The Bard of Shadowdale smiled at him and tossed her head in greeting; her silver hair cascaded down one shoulder, and Mourngrym swallowed at her beauty, remembering the last time she'd sat on the table, wearing rather less, and the wild war council that had followed then. It was too early in the morning for all this…
Eyeing the sausages on the platter beside Storm's boots, the lord of Shadowdale went to the long sideboard, took up a flask of firewine, and drained it at a single gulp.
When his eyes came back into focus, Storm was shaking her head. "You'll regret that, you know."
"My head already feels like a blacksmith's anvil," Mourngrym told her. "Is there any more of this stuff about, do you know?"
"End drawer down the window end," Storm and Shaerl said together, then broke into chuckles (Storm) and giggles (Shaerl) of mirth. Mourngrym gave them both a look of long-suffering disgust and went to the drawer indicated.
"It's too much," he told the Realms at large. "No man should have to deal with such cheery females. Haven't either of you heard of respectful silence?"
There was no reply. Mourngrym had taken the decanter back to the table, sipped from it without bothering with a flagon, and lifted his fork to deal with the sausages before the silence registered. He looked up-into Storm's impish eyes, dancing with mirth as she regarded him, lips pressed tightly together. He shot a look along the table to Shaerl, who had seated herself with dignity and was regarding him, chin on hand, in equally amused silence.
Mourngrym opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again and shrugged. "That's certainly more peaceful," he told the first sausage as he raised it.
"Unhand that sausage!" a voice bellowed from somewhere very near.
Mourngrym choked, tried to spring up, arms flailing, and toppled sideways, gabbling for breath.
He and the chair met the flagstone floor with a solid, head-ringing crash amid an explosion of laughter. Mourngrym found himself then face to face with Rathan Thentraver.
The stout priest was crawling out from under the table. He winked, deftly plucked the sausage off Mourngrym's fork, bit into it, and said, "Umm. Very good! Thank you for offering me this excellent viand!"
&n
bsp; "I am going to kill someone," Mourngrym announced calmly to the ceiling, "and probably soon. How long have you been under here?"
"Not long," Rathan rumbled cheerfully. He emerged. "How long do you plan to sleep in every morning? Not turning into a vampire, are you?"
"No," Mourngrym told him shortly, and rolled to his feet. "No fangs to you."
"Ah," Storm said, "that's better. I was afraid you were going to play the grim stone-headed tyrant all day." As she spoke, the wall gong chimed.
Mourngrym looked at it sourly and sat down again. "And what does that signify?"
" 'Tis the signal that you've finished your morning feast, my lord," Shaerl said sweetly, "and that yet another Realms-shaking war council is about to begin."
"But I haven't fin-" Mourngrym began. He snatched his platter to his chest just before Storm plucked it away. He brandished his fork at her. "Keep back, woman!"
There was laughter from the doorway. Belkram and Itharr of the Harpers stood there, staring delightedly into the room. "Now that's a sight worth walking here from Berdusk to see! We battle the Bard of Shadowdale with blades… but great lords use sausage forks on her!"
Mourngrym sighed, backed away to the sideboard, and set his plate down. Picking up a sausage, he pointed at the chairs ranged around the table and said, "Pray enter, Lords, Ladies, and Gentles, and be seated. There, there, and there… ah, and I believe that seat's available too… very good." He glanced at the gathering: Knights, Storm, a swirling radiance by her shoulder that must be Sylune, the two Harper rangers, Shaerl, and-who was missing?
Elminster, of course, and Lhaeo… not surprising. He bit into the sausage thoughtfully. Ah!
"This room's too quiet by far," he announced grandly. "Where's Torm?"
"I thought you'd never ask," the smooth voice of the thief replied from the doorway. "While you've been snoring, I've been working. Pretty soft being lord of a dale, isn't it?"
