by Ed Greenwood
They traded glances again. Belkram laid a hand on Itharr’s arm and murmured, “Let’s stay low and just watch. I’d wager a large amount that Elminster is involved in this, but I don’t see him anywhere.”
Itharr had been watching the men intently. “Aye. They seem to be looking for him, or us, or anyone about.”
They sank down to their elbows, looked behind them, and shifted apart to lie under the shelter of shrubs, blades ready beside them. Itharr scratched his nose. “Those are Zhents, or I’m a Calishite.”
Belkram peered at him through the darkness. “No,” he said, “you haven’t turned into a Calishite, and I can’t say I’ve noticed you oiling your hide and perfuming your gold coins these last few summers.”
Itharr sighed theatrically. “No? I try to be so subtle.”
Belkram snorted and they fell silent, watching the Zhentarim searching the woods, closer and closer. The two Harpers waited intently, as still as stone, like two hawks on a perch watching for prey.
“Nothing,” Mrinden said angrily.
“Nothing save this,” Kalassyn pointed out, nudging the sentinel’s body with his foot. Mrinden made a rude noise and waved his hands in exasperation.
“Either we’ve been raided and the raiders have got clean away—we’ll never find anyone in these woods, in the dark, unless by pure chance we fall right over them—or they’re in the dale right now, whoe’er they are, and past us. In either case we must return. Call the men back.”
Kalassyn gave curt orders to the Sword, who nodded and hastened away.
Mrinden stared angrily at the stars above and the trees around until the Sword returned and spoke at his elbow. “Lord, we are here and await your orders.”
Mrinden tossed his head like an angry stallion and glared at the man. “Choose seven of your best to remain behind. They are to let no one through the gate but a ranking mage of the Zhentarim and those with him. Their orders are to slay all others; let no one see this gate and live to tell of it. When light comes, they must search the area carefully. No intelligent creature must elude their search, or it will go ill with all of you later. Understood?”
“Aye, Lord.” A cool night breeze slid past them. Mrinden shivered and turned abruptly toward the light.
“The rest of you follow me.” He strode back into the radiance. The Sword was already waving a gauntleted hand; the main body of warriors hastened to follow. Kalassyn joined their line near the back, looking around one last time at the dark trees and the stars overhead.
As he glanced up, a star fell, trailing a silent path across the cloak of night. Kalassyn looked down, quickly, and said nothing. He wanted no soldiers reading ill omens into signs none in Faerûn were wise enough to interpret. Even as he told himself that, his own heart sank, and it was with fear that Kalassyn returned to the High Dale.
Perhaps the star brought good fortune. Kalassyn was safely through the gate, and the last of the returning Wolves with him, when two Harpers rose out of the night behind the seven-man guard like two death-dealing temple pillars. The guards had not yet turned from watching the last black boot heel vanish into the silent light when steel took the throats of the first.
The third man to fall managed a strangled roar as he went down, and the remaining Zhentilar wheeled around in frantic haste. An instant later, blades flashed in the amber glow, steel rang, and men twisted, lunged, and scrambled. Overhead another star fell, but each man there was too busy to notice it.
When Kalassyn strode forward and in a footfall returned to the High Dale, it was like stepping into an inferno. The rumble and flash of fire was dying away all around him. Somewhere nearby a man was sobbing, and smoke was so thick in the air that he could see nothing of trees or lights or the men who had preceded him.
Then, without warning, fire came again.
Kalassyn staggered in helpless, sightless pain, struggling to stand amid the roiling winds of the bright, searing blast. Off to the left, a man screamed, and an instant later Kalassyn fell over a huddled, armored form.
He landed hard atop another guard, whose black armor was hot enough to burn. Kalassyn rolled off as hastily as he could, cursing weakly. Crawling pain told him his robes were ablaze. Tears blinded him as he tore away his garb in flaming strips, shrieking at the agony spreading from his frantic, trembling hands.
Somehow he staggered on and sank to his knees at last in grass that was not scorched or ablaze.
He must … now would be the time to …
Kalassyn of Zhentil Keep fought for and found an instant to wonder if he was dying, but it was snatched away again by flames that roared in to fill his mind.
6
Fire in the Night
“Lord? Lord, do ye live?”
Kalassyn struggled to reply and discovered he was lying on scorched grass, legs twisted awkwardly under him.
He raised his head and, through a blur of tears, made out a dark, helmed head bent anxiously over him. Behind the first man, another guard stood holding a torch. Kalassyn winced, turning his eyes away from the flickering light.
“Aye,” he said at last, struggling to move stiff, blackened lips. They cracked, with little twinges of pain, but the rest of him hurt far worse. “What—what happened?”
“Fire out of the night, Lord. From a tree next to the guard tree. We’ve surrounded it, but there’s been no sound or movement since the second strike felled ye.”
Kalassyn struggled. Pain stabbed at him. “Help me up,” he snarled.
“Aye, Lord.” Hands like heavy stones fell upon his shoulders, and he whimpered despite himself as he was gently hauled to his feet. Reeling, he fell to one knee. The hands steadied him, raised him again, and stayed there. He clung to them without shame and looked around.
After what seemed a very long time, as breath whispered and hissed in and out of his tortured lungs, he could see again.
It was not an inspiring sight. He was naked, covered with matted grass and burned hair. Behind him, smoke still rose from a ring of grass in front of the calmly glowing, unchanged gate. Within the ring lay the blackened bodies of five … six … no, eight Wolves and, facedown at their forefront, Mrinden. Bones showed here and there in the ashy ruin of the wizard. Kalassyn doubted he’d ever hear that nasty voice snapping orders again.
He looked away and saw other men groaning and clutching themselves in agony, their armor blackened and burned, or torn off. Others stood as if dazed or walked with the stiff strides of strong men in pain but determined not to let it diminish them. Of the band that had hurried up from the barracks not so long ago, only a handful still stood.
Kalassyn swallowed, thinking of Stormcloak’s face—or the visage of sneering, sarcastic Hcarla Bellwind—and closed his eyes. The scorched smell of overcooked flesh hung sickeningly in the air. Kalassyn knew it would be a very long time before he’d want to eat bacon again.
He opened his eyes and drew himself up. Men were looking at him. There was anger in some faces and anxiousness in others. Something remained to be done. Something they were waiting for.
He stepped forward, free of the helping hands. “Get me my robes,” he said hoarsely, without looking at the guards behind him. “The burned ones, all the scraps you can find.”
He waited in the cool night breeze until a black form moved in front of him. “Here, Lord.”
He angrily waved a torch nearer and with eager fingers probed the sorry scraps held out to him. Ah, there! He plucked out the brass-and-horn purse by its chain. The purse was ruined, twisted and scarred with the heat, but perhaps within all was well. He snatched out a certain ball wrapped in waxed paper, stepped past the guard, and faced the tree.
“Tell those men to stand back,” he snarled, fighting down the fit of coughing brought on by raising his voice. Without pause he plunged into the hissed words and quick gestures of a spell.
Men were still scrambling back when his fireball lit the night with fresh flames. With a crackle and roar the entire tree went up, blazing and black from
end to end. Then, like a tired warrior who takes an arrow in the throat, it toppled slowly, still blazing, against the tree beside it. The guard tree.
“Oh, gods be cursed!” Kalassyn snarled weakly. He turned hastily back to the guard, fingers clawing through what was left of his components pouch. He found what he needed, and a sudden blast of ice struck the trees, the ground, and the air around with a hissing like the sound of a hundred wounded dragons. Smoke billowed up, tree limbs creaked, and branches broke off and fell to earth.
Kalassyn watched them for a moment and then matched their fall. The ground, when it rose up to hit him, was surprisingly gentle.
The Sword’s moustache and beard were smoldering, stubby smudges. The man who spoke to him took care not to let his gaze rest on them for more than an instant.
“What now, sir?”
The Sword bared his teeth in helpless fury and said, “Take the other end of this wizard and help me carry his useless carcass down to the barracks. The others can follow us. I want the four in best shape to sit in benches across the track, facing up this way to guard against anyone mad enough to come through the gate and powerful enough to survive the attempt. Spread the word and we’ll flee together.”
In the space of four breaths the dell was empty of the living. Smoke curled and drifted for a time, and the burned tree shifted once and lost a few more branches. Through it all, the amber oval of light glowed and pulsed in patient silence.
“Your report is incomplete,” Nordryn said coldly. “Foes deadly enough to slay a mage of Mrinden’s power, hurl Kalassyn into the very jaws of death, and fell almost all of your command—and you turn tail from the field and flee back here, not bothering to even look for them? Tell me, Sword, however do you expect to live a single night through? If you were that lax in Zhentil Keep, you’d have the bed stolen from under you and wake up as you were falling to the floor, as someone put his blade in your throat to slit it!”
The Sword just looked at him, two eyes of cold, weary death staring hard out of a face blackened and burned beyond easy recognition. “I didn’t see you there, spell-hurler,” he said deliberately. “Lacking a conscious commander, I followed the last orders I was given, which wisely took me to you. I now submit myself to your orders.”
The two men stared at each other in silence for a long breath. The one in fine robes moved first, shifting back a pace.
The Sword drew himself up in his scorched armor, put a hand on the hilt of his sword, and added with the same slow, cold deliberation, “I trust, Lord, that your orders will be wiser than those Mrinden gave. He took us all into death we could not fight or avoid.”
Nordryn’s hand went to his belt, closing over a wand that was sheathed there. “And if I did the same,” he almost whispered, “your task would be to obey me, without question or pause. Remember that.” Their eyes met, coldly and steadily, like blades crossed and locked by straining men who sought each other’s death.
“Aye, Lord, we will.” The Sword’s voice was cold and expressionless. “We will.”
Nordryn held his eyes a moment longer before turning away and raising his voice. “Hear my will, then. All still able to walk will wear and wield what they can, and assemble without delay in the road. I want each to carry two quarrel quivers and two crossbows, one loaded. We march to the gate. There we form a ring, under cover, and each man is to load his second bow and keep both ready. At my order, fire at any target I name. Expect an attack through the gate.”
He walked two paces and turned back to the room of silent men. “I’ve sent one of the message boys to the castle. If Lord Longspear pleases, hell send healing. I’m coming with you.”
He turned away again and walked on.
Behind him, one of the men muttered, “Tymora willing, let him be more bloody use than the last mages we had with us.”
“He could hardly be less,” another voice agreed.
“It’s as well,” a third voice cut in from afar. “His life may depend on it.”
“Enough,” the Sword boomed, silently indicating the mage’s back, reminding them that he could hear every word. Grim smiles answered him; they’d meant him to.
Unseen, Nordryn smiled at the wall ahead and went on his way. Warriors were like cattle. They died in head-high piles when you needed them to. They ate and drank too much but could be useful the rest of the time, if you knew how to treat them. Like dogs, they needed proper handling. He showed his teeth to the wall again and continued on into the darkness.
“Mages who walk in darkness,” went the old saying, “cloak themselves in it and think themselves strong—until the day it swallows them, and they come not out again.” Nordryn remembered the saying wryly until memory told him who’d first said it: the Great Enemy, Elminster of Shadowdale.
Shaking his head and feeling anger building inside him again—a warmth in his chest rising into his throat—Nordryn went in search of a door that locked and a chamber pot beyond it. All goals in life should be so simple.
“The gods alone know where they are by now,” Storm said quietly. “I think Elminster went west, but he could have a dozen or more gates nearby he’s never told anyone about.”
“A cheery thought,” Jhessail observed sardonically. “Shall I tell Mourngrym to revise our plans for defending the dale to include a dozen or more unknown, invisible backsides that invading armies may rush through?”
“Easy, wench,” Lhaeo told her gruffly. “Have some more firequench.” He pushed one of the pair of decanters of ruby-red liqueur across the table. Storm made a silent grab for the bottle as it moved away from her, and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow from Jhessail. She returned it, with interest.
“Ladies, ladies,” Lhaeo sighed, shifting his feet down from atop the table. “Must you spit and snarl like rival kittens?”
Jhessail shrugged. “It’s what we’ve always done before,” she observed with impish serenity.
Storm chuckled. A breath later, the others joined her, but the mirth in Storm’s kitchen broke off abruptly as a bat as large and black as a small night-cloak flapped heavily in through the open doorway. It circled low over the table and seemed to twist and writhe in the air in front of the fireplace.
An instant later, the bat had become a tall, gaunt woman in a tattered black gown. Her hair and eyes danced wildly, and a fierce pride leapt in her face as she glided toward them.
“Sister,” Storm greeted her with a welcoming smile. “Will you take some firequench with us?”
The Simbul nodded, sighed, and shivered all over like a cat after a fright. “Perhaps later,” she said, taking a seat at the table, “after I try to learn what we both want to know.”
“What all of us want to know,” Storm replied quietly. “I’ve sent two good men out after them. Two who harp.” Across the room, the strings of her harp quivered by themselves for a moment, singing faintly.
The Simbul looked around, not smiling. She nodded to Jhessail and Lhaeo, then bent her head and began whispering words of Art.
A heavy tension grew in the room like dark green smoke, and all the candle flames shrank to steady, watching pinpoints. The Simbul sat at the center of her gathered power, dark and unmoving, and the tension rose to an almost audible roar.
Her shoulders shook, she gasped, and the candle flames leapt and flickered again. The room was somehow brighter. And yet, Lhaeo thought, looking at the Simbul’s forlorn and ravaged face, it seemed no safer or warmer.
The Witch-Queen of Aglarond said simply, “I’ll need your help, all of you. Join hands with me and I’ll try again.”
Without hesitation they leaned forward around the table, the decanters standing like frozen red flames between them. The Simbul closed her eyes, shuddered again, and began to gather her will. As before, the room seemed to grow dim. “Think,” she muttered, “of Sharantyr. Picture her face, her voice, what she looks like when she moves. We must focus on her, for Elminster is cloaked to all seeking magic.”
Obediently they thought of the lady
Knight. Storm’s eyes were closed, her face calm. Lhaeo and Jhessail both frowned, their faces creased in concentration. This time, linked to the Simbul, they could feel her drawing in her power, feeding on their thoughts, emotions, and yearnings.
Power swirled around the kitchen. Then the Simbul hurled her questing, searching thought out a long way. She fell, like a fisher’s hook plunging into dark waters, somewhere into a void of seeking where those linked to her could not follow.
After a long, tense silence of tight breathing and gathering weariness, the Simbul suddenly shook herself like a dog coming up out of water and said brusquely, “We need more. The Art twisted wild. Syluné … please?”
Two pairs of wondering eyes saw Storm’s fingers and the Simbul’s separate where they had been linked. Out of empty, smoky air between them, two slim, faintly glowing hands seemed to grow, gaining substance in ghostly silence. Each of these hands clasped a living one. A gentle whisper said, “I am here. Try now, sister.”
Lhaeo and Jhessail stared at the half-seen, ghostly figure between Storm and the Simbul. Then they exchanged one quick glance and, as one, closed their eyes and threw themselves again into seeking Sharantyr.
An eternity passed. The candles burned lower. They breathed as one, low and deep. Toril, with awesome slowness, rolled steadily beneath them.
Then someone whimpered, and the circle was broken.
Storm held only empty air, and the Simbul fell heavily facedown on the table, upsetting one of the decanters.
“Storm?” Lhaeo asked anxiously, half rising. “Is she—?”
“Exhausted,” the Bard of Shadowdale said faintly, leaning back in her chair. “As am I. It’s a magic few know—thankfully, or there’d be mindless mages across half of Faerûn in short order.”
Jhessail rescued the fallen decanter and silently held it out to Storm. The bard stared at it dully for a breath or two, then deliberately grasped it, unstoppered it, and took a long pull. When she replaced the stopper and handed the bottle back, it was almost empty.
