by Ed Greenwood
She shoved him away and ducked aside from his last desperate slash. Balrik’s fingers found the dagger—gods, hilt deep!—and his lips found time for what he had to say before blood welled up to choke him. “I am … a dead man. Lady, I am Balrik Daershun. Who are you?”
“I am Sharantyr of the Knights of Myth Drannor,” she answered as the man fell heavily to his knees. His eyes had gone dark before her words were all out, and she never knew if he’d heard them. The brigand toppled from his knees, falling on his side with a rattling groan, and lay silent.
Sharantyr looked down at the flapping tatters of her forearm leathers, watched the bright blood dripping from her elbow, and shook her head. She must be getting old.
Elminster stood up slowly and brushed leaves from the chest of his robes with hands that shook only a little. Then he looked at the lady in leathers, the beginning of a smile at the corners of his lips. In his hand was his purse, plucked up from where it had fallen when the brigands had cut it away. From it he’d taken a vial of clear liquid that he held out to her, nodding at her arm.
“I wondered, for a time, if life was still worth the living. It is, and I thank you for saving mine to run awhile longer.” Elminster looked around at the trees and added quietly, “How much longer, I wonder?” He shrugged.
“Old Mage,” Sharantyr asked, as he knew she would, “why did you not use your magic? I’ve seen you lay low Zhent soldiers by the armful. Zhentarim who hurled spells against you, even! What befell?”
Elminster looked away for a long moment. Then his eyes met hers calmly and he said levelly, “My magic is lost to me. All of it—gone.”
Silence hung between them for a moment as they stood in the leaves looking at each other. Without taking her eyes off his, Sharantyr uncorked and drained the vial. Then she asked, “If you will tell me, what will you do now?”
Elminster looked far off for a moment. Then he sighed and said softly, “I’ve a lot of neglected reading to be about. Perhaps in the palace library in Silverymoon, and in the Heralds’ Holdfast, to start with. And then … I used to harp, once.”
“Long ago?” Sharantyr asked lightly, using the toe of her boot to roll over the body of one she’d slain and bending smoothly to salvage a dagger.
“Aye, under the skilled teaching of a fair lady,” the Old Mage replied.
“Fairer than me?” Sharantyr teased, holding out the dagger to him.
It hung in the air between them for a long, silent breath as their eyes met. Elminster’s hand slowly reached out. The Old Mage took the dagger as gingerly as one handles a bloody corpse when dressed in finery, and said slowly, “My memory says yes, but what are mind images beside living beauty? She’s long dust, now.”
Sharantyr took his elbow and led him firmly to where the brigands had tethered their horses. “Long ago? How long ago was this?”
“In Myth Drannor before it fell,” Elminster replied in a voice that was almost a whisper, his eyes on something far away and long ago.
He felt Sharantyr’s arms move gently around him, the warmth of her leather-clad body against his shoulders. “Oh, Old Mage,” she said tenderly into his neck, “I wish you well. You deserve fairer than this.”
“I’ll be all right,” Elminster said firmly. “Stop soaking my robes with tears, look ye! They cost me three silver pieces, they did, in—” He fell silent and then added, “Well, in a place gone now.”
Then he snorted. “Which is where well be, if we stand about sobbing until winter finds us here.” He grinned suddenly. “Aye, lass, I’ll be all right.”
There came a knock on the door—not the first time that had happened, nor yet the last. Lhaeo opened it without delay, his eyes anxious.
Storm stood on the doorstep with two men he’d not seen before, so Lhaeo spoke to her in simpering tones. “Well met, Lady Storm. How does this fair morn find thee?”
“Restless to speak with the Lord Elminster,” Storm replied crisply, with a wink. “Is he within?”
Lhaeo’s eyes warned her. “Nay, Lady,” he said softly. “He is gone, alone, this dawn, walking and troubled. You know why. Look to the trees. I have no doubt you’ll find him therein.”
With a look, Storm collected the two silent men at her side and bowed. “Our thanks, Lhaeo. We go. Those who harp will look out for the Old Mage.”
Lhaeo bowed in his turn and said, “My thanks for that, and farewell. I hope to see you all again, in happier meetings.”
He went in and the door closed. Itharr and Belkram looked at Storm, than at each other, and spoke at once.
“Is that Elminster’s scribe?”
“What now, Lady?”
Storm looked at them both. “Be not hasty in judgment of Elminster’s true friend,” she said calmly. “He is not as he appears, for good reasons, and he is very worried for the safety of Elminster. The task I set you both now, friends, is the guarding of the Old Mage wherever you find him. Go now and seek him out.”
Itharr looked at her. “You will not be with us, Lady?”
A shadow passed across Storm’s face for just a moment. She looked at them both, and suddenly it seemed as if she were about to cry. Then she shrugged. Her hand dropped to the hilt of her blade and clenched about it like a thing of iron.
“I cannot. I want to, very much, but this thing I must not do. Itharr, Belkram, please believe me. There is a good reason that I cannot be with you in this.”
“The burden of Mystra?” Belkram asked, very quietly. The taller of the two Harpers, he had frozen into treelike immobility but for the flashing of his keen eyes.
Storm looked at him in silence, her face going slowly white.
“I read a lot,” Belkram added, almost defiantly. “Always old books, the sort others have forgotten. You learn more that way.”
Storm nodded very slowly. “Be very, very careful,” she said to him in a voice that trembled a little, “Belkram of Everlund. The things you know could kill you very quickly if the wrong folk hear.”
“Such as myself?” Itharr asked half in jest. The shorter, burly Harper spread his hands in a wry “gods, why me?” gesture.
Storm looked from one man to the other and then threw strong arms around them both and swept them into an embrace. Three chins touched. She bestowed two swift kisses, looked deep into both sets of eyes so close to hers—at least one owner blushed—and said briskly, “Go now. Take much care, and come back alive to tell me what has befallen. Hurry! For all his years, Elminster walks fast and can find trouble as well as men half his age. Or less,” she added meaningfully. “Tymora smile upon thee. Which reminds me: Trust in no magic nor any god or goddess, for strangeness is afoot.”
“As usual,” Itharr answered solemnly as they drew blades and saluted her in a flash of steel. “Our thanks, Lady. I shall never forget crossing blades with thee.”
“Nor I,” Belkram added simply. “If you grow lonely, mind, and want a man about the place …”
Storm laughed and shooed them on their way. “Get you gone! Elminster waits for no man, nor woman!”
Sharantyr looked about. They had come to a land of wild ridges, trees, and winding, steep cart tracks linking overgrown farms. “Where are we? Northwest of Shadowdale, I know, but—”
“Dagger Wood,” Elminster said briefly. “Daggerdale begins over that way.” He waved to the northwest. “Not a place to be caught out in by night.”
“Shall I find us a place to sleep?” The lady ranger looked about. “Or go hunting? I had no time to find food, and it looks as if you brought none.”
“I never do,” Elminster replied. “It’s the work of but a thought and—” He fell silent, then whispered, “And a little magic.”
Sharantyr’s only reply was a firm, wordless clasp of his shoulder. Then she was gone, with the whispered words “Wait here” floating back to him. Elminster snorted, took a long stride after her, then stopped, shrugged, and felt for his pipe. Trust the lass to choose a place with no stump to sit on.
It was nearly d
ark before she returned. Two plump rabbits hung in one hand; the other held berries, mushrooms, and other things Elminster couldn’t remember the names of. “My apologies for the length of our parting,” Sharantyr said. “This land is wild indeed. Twice I’ve had to dodge orc arrows, and—But ne’er mind. Come, Old Mage. I’ve found us a camp.”
Elminster rose, smiled at her, and extended a hand for the rabbits. “You may need a free arm to swing a sword,” he said impatiently. Dangling the rabbits before his eyes, he asked, “Dare we have fire?”
Sharantyr shrugged. “There’ll be others about, no doubt.”
“The orcs ye met?”
“They’ll bother no folk again,” was the calm reply. Elminster looked at her slim, strong shoulders expressionlessly and followed her down into a wooded gully.
“Magic gone for a day, and already I’m being ordered about by women,” he said gruffly. Sharantyr cast a look back over her shoulder, and he winked. Shaking her head, she hastened on through a thicket of small trees whose branches caught at them both.
Elminster grumbled and flailed along in her wake. Sharantyr’s blade reached back from time to time to hold aside the worst of the barbed branches.
They came out into a little open space that faced the setting sun. Below them the land fell away into a smooth-sloped hollow. It had once been a farm—Elminster could see the line of a ruined fence—but youngish trees now grew in its fields. The gaping, vine-cloaked ruins of a timber-and-stone house and barn rose on a far slope. Sharantyr nodded at them with her chin and said, “Come on. Let’s get off this height. We can be seen for miles.”
“Can’t an old man even enjoy the sunset?” Elminster grumbled, trotting obediently after her.
“That depends on whether or not you want to live to see another sunset after this one,” Sharantyr replied in low, wry tones. Elminster remembered a gesture from very long ago and made it in her general direction.
Sharantyr only grinned and said fondly, “Now, you know I’m too young to know what that means,” and led him down a twisting, overgrown trail that took them by stones across a little brook, and up again to the waiting, gloomy ruins ahead.
Sharantyr looked at him in the gathering darkness. “Best move and speak quietly from now on. Can you cook?”
“If ye light the fire,” Elminster replied, glancing at the rabbits again.
Sharantyr said only, “Wood,” in reply and was gone again.
In the twilight, two Harpers stood over four dead men. “Not long gone,” Itharr said, “and this one died by a dagger.”
“Lawless men,” Belkram agreed, on his knees beside another body. “And not robbed of the few coins they carried, either.” He frowned. “We’ve found no other trace of him, and Storm did say he collected trouble as roaming cats find fleas.”
Itharr grunted. “By the looks of this—if it was him—we’re being sent to guard a marauding tiger, not a feeble old man.”
“What think you? Is this a false trail?”
Itharr shrugged. “It’s all we’ve found. It must be his doing, or he and another. There was a lot of running about here, and he may have someone else with him.”
Belkram shrugged. “In these woods, we’ll lose any trail in the dark, unless he plans to mark his passage with brigands’ bodies every hundred paces or so.”
They chuckled together. “That’d take a lot of brigands,” Itharr replied. “We’d best drag these a good way off, to keep wolves and such from the tracks we’ll want to find tomorrow.”
Belkram nodded, and they worked swiftly, dragging the bodies all in the same direction, toward and then around thick stands of trees, to a spot where it was unlikely any survivors of the fray had headed. When the bodies had been removed, the two Harpers retired to the dale again, camping near ruined Castle Grimstead, behind the new temples that had been raised west of the river.
“We could be under Storm’s roof this night,” Belkram said softly after a time. Itharr looked at him and said nothing but grinned very slowly. After a moment, Belkram matched the expression.
A good walk away, in the dark woods, wolves wore similar grins as they came warily to four sprawled bodies and began to feed.
The fire was long out. Sharantyr and Elminster lay shoulder to shoulder in the darkness, wrapped in their cloaks, awake but unspeaking. Around them, the small night noises of hunting animals rustled, hooted, and from time to time squeaked or snarled. They lay still, like two breathing stones, and hoped the night would pass them by.
Suddenly, close by to the north, there came into being a glowing radiance in the trees. One moment it was not there, and the next it was. Magic.
Wordlessly they struggled up and pulled on their boots. Sharantyr drew her sword but held her cloak up in front of it to ward off any flashing reflections. Elminster stepped to one side and melted into the dark shadow of what was left of a wall.
The glowing had begun as pale amber in hue. It brightened now and swirled, at times more ruddy, at times almost green. Perhaps forty paces away, across rising ground, the glow hung in a little clearing amid the trees, forming an upright oval in the air.
A mage-gate, without doubt. A moment later, a hard-eyed, wary man in the black armor of Zhentil Keep stepped out of the gate, a loaded crossbow ready in his hands. Behind him, a black-bladed saber appeared in the light, followed by the one who held it: another Zhentilar soldier.
The two warriors stepped forward, twisting to look all around, weapons held ready. A moment later, another man emerged from the flickering oval. This one wore robes of rich purple, a cruel expression, and a short, pointed black beard. He carried a wand in one hand and was followed by a third armored soldier.
The mage and his bodyguard stepped forward together. In the center of a protective ring of bodies, the bearded mage held the wand loosely in his hands. It shifted almost lazily back and forth, then seemed to quiver in his hands and point directly at where Sharantyr stood, unmoving, cloaked in darkness. A moment later the wand turned a bit to indicate where Elminster hid.
The mage hissed something, and the guards closed ranks in front of him, weapons coming up, facing the ruined farmhouse. There was a half-seen gesture from behind them, and suddenly the night was lit as bright as day, and Elminster and Sharantyr were staring right into the eyes of the four men.
The looks directed back at them were not pleasant. In the sudden silence they all heard one of the guards ask, “Lord?”
The man in purple replied clearly, “Kill them, of course.”
4
Doom Strolls In
There was an instant of tense silence as everyone drew breath together. Then battle began, a race toward death that rent the night with the clangor of drawn arms and the roaring of unleashed magic.
The bearded mage obviously thought he faced only two travelers who’d been unfortunate enough to choose a sleeping place where they could not help but witness the gate, and must therefore be eliminated. He was not expecting another wizard and did not care to expend any more magic than he’d used this night already.
So he did nothing but watch as two of the black-armored guards lumbered forward warily, the one with the crossbow a little in the lead, and the other, blade out, keeping watchfully to one side. They came for Sharantyr first, no doubt judging her older companion to be in hiding out of weakness or fear.
Drawn steel they knew the strength of, and they were two against one and larger. Besides, this woman seemed atremble with fear and barely knew how to hold her blade, much less use it. She bit her lip as they advanced, and took a slow, unwilling step back.
The guard with the crossbow grinned and stepped to one side, Elminster’s side, to a spot where he could fell either one of them. His companion came on toward Sharantyr to greet her with his drawn sword and a cold grin. She was pretty. Perhaps she need not die quickly.
He caught his friend’s eye and jerked his head toward the old man, indicating that a quarrel would make short work of him now, leaving just the wench. The old m
an shuffled sideways a little, looking helpless.
The guard with the crossbow nodded and raised his weapon to take aim. It was then he saw that the old man was smiling.
The sleeve fell away from Elminster’s hand, and lightning cut the world in two.
In the flash and sharp crack of the striking bolt, the crossbow jerked. Its bolt shot high into the night and away. The man in black armor danced briefly as crackling death played over him, then slumped to his knees and from there toppled to one side, lifeless. Smoke rose from his blackened helm.
Sharantyr waited calmly for the other man to reach her. Her eyes flicked only briefly to the mage beyond, for she knew why Elminster had waited. His bolt had traveled on from the guard with the crossbow to crackle its deadly way around both the third guard and the bearded man in purple. No one was standing by the flickering gate now. Black armor twitched feebly on the ground.
Elminster walked toward the gate, ignoring the last guard. That man had stopped, looking all around. His gaze swung back to Sharantyr. She was moving steadily forward now, a faint smile on her lips, all trace of nervousness gone. His comrades lay fallen where they had stood. The old man was strolling past as though nothing had occurred, too close to avoid his blade.
The guard cast a last look at Sharantyr, judged he could slay the old man and have time to turn back and meet the wildest charge she might make. He spun about, and in two swift strides his blade was reaching for the old man.
The wand, firing crosswise under Elminster’s arm, spoke again. Lightning struck the Zhentilar full in the chest, plucking him from his feet and hurling him backward. He fell heavily, arms and legs flopping. Smoke rose from where he lay.
Sharantyr shook her head. “There’s nothing like giving the wolves a cooked feast,” she observed.
Elminster turned his head. “Both of these two yet live. Slay the mage, lest he work the same tricks I did, and we’ll discourse pleasantly together with the last one awhile.”
Sharantyr did as she was bid. Her eyes were hard but her voice trembled a little as she said, “Well, that was easy work. Too easy, perhaps. Should we not move a pace or two away from this magic?”
