Shadowdale at-1

by Richard Awlinson

  The disbursement of supplies had started in the early hours of the day, but it was an endless task. Jhaele Silvermane and her workers had delivered rations of meat, sweetbreads, and fresh water to each group of men. They gathered tents and bedrolls, too, but these were distributed sporadically.

  At the other side of the township, Cyric arrived at the Ashaba bridge and discovered the two-fold resentment of "his" men almost immediately. First, not one of the men had volunteered his assignment; each had desired to see the glory of battle at the front lines instead of guarding the bridge on the chance that a second force of soldiers would be sent to take Shadowdale from the west. Second, and most importantly, they resented taking orders from an outsider. It was a well-matched union, as Cyric despised having to give orders to what he considered a group of ill-mannered, loudmouthed cretins.

  But before Cyric could even consider getting his troops organized, he had a large number of refugees to deal with.

  The refugees had gathered by the river. The boats that would take them down to Mistledale had not yet arrived and Cyric ordered a handful of soldiers to see to the well-being of the old people and children as he tried to organize the work details. In time, he walked among the families and was struck by the wellspring of strength he found in their eyes.

  Imbeciles, Cyric thought. Didn't they understand that they would probably be leaving their homes forever? The thief found that he couldn't help but toy with the idea Marek had placed in his head: turning and joining the enemy if there was no other option but death. After all, what did he owe these people? If it were not for Midnight, he would have left long ago.

  The majority of the refugees were children, or those too infirm either by age or by disability to fight. They all stood and stared as the soldiers dug trenches at either end of the bridge. They knew that these men would likely die to defend homes they no longer lived in, but they knew, too, that running away would have killed most of the soldiers quicker than any Zhentish arrow or sword could.

  But as the refugees watched, the men working at the bridge slowed their digging. Most of the men complained loudly, criticizing the dark-haired man who moved among them, barking orders with an ever-shortening temper.

  Then a dozen men suddenly threw down their shovels and rose from the half-formed ditch they had toiled in for hours. The leader of the men, a giant of a man named Forester, called out to Cyric, who was busy digging with the soldiers at the other end of the bridge.

  "Enough!" Forester screamed, the sweat matting his long, stringy hair to his face. "Our brothers stand ready to lay down their lives at the eastern border to protect the dale! I say we join them! How many are with me?"

  The majority of the soldiers on Forester's side of the bridge threw down their shovels at once and rallied behind the wild-haired fighter. Some of the soldiers on Cyric's side of the bridge had yelled out their support for Forester's plan, and threw down their shovels, too.

  Cyric gripped the handle of his shovel and gritted his teeth. "Damn!" he hissed, and when he turned to rise from the ditch, he saw that all of the refugees were staring at him. His gaze locked on that of a young mother, who stood no more than twenty paces from Cyric, her eyes filled with concern not for her children, but for herself.

  Thoughts of his own parents abandoning him as a baby came to Cyric as he averted his gaze and climbed out of the ditch. Forester and his men were already coming across the bridge, weapons drawn, when Cyric barred their way on the other side of the bridge. Although he would have been happy to let these men rush off to their deaths, he would not allow his authority to be questioned.

  "Stand aside!" Forester called. "Else you'll be entering the river without benefit of a ship beneath you!"

  "Go back to work," Cyric said coldly. "We have orders from Lord Mourngrym to secure this bridge."

  Forester laughed. "Secure it against what — the setting sun? The wind at our backs? The battle will be to the east. Move aside."

  Forester was closer now, and still Cyric did not move.

  "You coward," Cyric said.

  Forester stopped suddenly. "Brave words from a corpse," he said as he raised his sword. The blade glinted in the sunlight, but still, Cyric did not move or draw a weapon.

  Cyric's lips drew back. He pointed at the refugees. "Look there."

  The refugees stood huddled on the bank of the Ashaba. Fear glittered in the eyes of every one of them.

  "You wish glory? You wish to lay down your worthless lives? Alright. But will you seek it at the cost of their lives?"

  Forester's blade wavered. The murmur of voices began to rise.

  "Leave this place and who will protect them? Daggerdale is infested with Bane's Zhentilar! Allow this bridge to fall and you deliver them and Shadowdale into the hands of the enemy!"

  Cyric turned his back on Forester. "Stand with me and you stand with Shadowdale! How say you? How say all of you?"

  Silence. Cyric waited for the blade of the giant to pierce his back.

  "For Shadowdale," a voice called.

  "For Shadowdale!" more voices cried. Then a chorus of loud, angry voices picked up the call. Even the refugees joined in.

  "For Shadowdale!" a voice called directly behind Cyric. He turned, and Forester raised his weapon high overhead as he chanted with the others.

  "Aye," Cyric said at last, and all fell silent. "For Shadowdale. Now get back to work."

  The efforts of the soldiers redoubled, and in the far distance Cyric saw the first of the ships that would carry the refugees to safety.

  "For Shadowdale," a woman said to the thief as she headed for a boat, her eyes positively aflame with Cyric's words, tears streaming down her face. Cyric nodded, although he felt nothing but contempt for these weak-willed sheep who sought to hide behind their belief in their gods or their country to justify their actions rather than confront life head on. He turned from her as he took his place in the ditch, his patience for dreamers and cowards at an end.

  He had convinced the others that staying behind was the correct choice.

  Now all he had to do was convince himself.

  As Cyric got the refugees loaded onto boats and on their way down the Ashaba, and drove his men on as they dug their trench at the bridge, Adon was cloistered in Elminster's tower. After the cleric and the sage had returned from the Temple of Tymora early in the morning, Elminster set Adon to work in the cluttered antechamber that Lhaeo normally occupied.

  "You are to find all references to the following names," Elminster said. "Then study and learn the spells set forth by each of them in their lifetime. They are all contained in these volumes. Make lists that we might access them again."

  "But my spells fail me," Adon said. "I don't know — "

  "Nor do I, but as the Realms depend on us all, I think now's the time to find out, do you not agree?" Then the sage was gone, and the cleric poured over the tomes until Midnight arrived and they left for the temple.

  By the time Adon, Midnight, and Elminster reached the Temple of Lathander, a purple haze was drifting across the evening sky, and it was already time for eveningfeast. The sage, the cleric, and the magic-user passed through a nearly empty town, though they could hear Cyric's men digging to the west and the soldiers building fortifications to the east.

  As they approached the building, Adon and Midnight could see that Lathander's temple had been constructed in the form of a Phoenix, with huge stone wings rising up on either side of its gate. The wings curved and became turrets. In the center of the building there were huge double doors that had been left unattended, and Elminster rapped at them impatiently. A window opened three stories up, and a handsome, square-jawed man with wavy hair looked out.

  "Elminster!" the cleric said in awe.

  "I might still be by the time ye get thyself down here and open this door!"

  The window snapped shut, and Elminster wandered away from the heavy doors. Midnight continued to harangue him about the temple, and the role she and Adon were to play in the battle.<
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  "Simply remember what I taught ye and do as I've said!" Elminster said wearily.

  "You're treating us like children!" Midnight snapped. "After all we've been through, a simple explanation should not be out the question."

  Elminster sighed. "Ye wouldn't mind if an old man rests his sorry frame while ye pound at him, would ye?"

  Elminster sat down. It wasn't until Midnight was halfway through her argument about the Tablets of Fate that she noticed he was sitting in midair and the air about him crackled with mystical energies.

  Midnight stopped.

  "A Celestial Stairway," she said.

  "Aye, like the one your lady Mystra used in her bid to regain the Planes."

  Midnight backed away in horror. "Then Bane…"

  "He doesn't want the dale," Elminster said. "He wants the Planes."

  "But Helm will stop him, possibly slay him — "

  "And Shadowdale will be reduced to a smoking pit, a black mark on the maps of travelers for all time."

  Adon ran his hands over his face. "Just like Castle Kilgrave. But what can we do?"

  Elminster tapped at the air beside him. "Destroy the Celestial Stairway, of course!" He reached out to Midnight. "Help me up!"

  Midnight assisted the sage to his feet. "How can we destroy that which the gods created?"

  "Perhaps ye will tell me," Elminster said. The door to the temple opened and the blond-haired man appeared. He was dressed in bright red robes with thick bands of gold trim.

  "Elminster!" the man said. "I had not realized the time. You are expected, of course."

  Rhaymon gestured for the old sage to come inside. "Would you like me to give your assistants a tour before I go?"

  "That will not be necessary," Elminster said.

  Rhaymon was halfway to the door when Adon stopped the priest.

  "I don't understand," Adon said. "Where are you going?"

  "To join my fellow priests and the faithful who worshiped here," Rhaymon said. "To the last man they will be joining forces with the army of Shadowdale, preparing to lay down their lives in defense of the Dales."

  Adon took the man's hand. "Make them pay for what they did to the worshipers of Tymora."

  Rhaymon nodded and was gone.

  "Let's get inside," Midnight said as she gently touched Adon's arm and guided him from the doorway, then closed and locked the doors to the temple behind her.

  *****

  It was night, and memories plagued Ronglath Knightsbridge. The soldier had not learned of the death of Tempus Blackthorne until after his arrival at Voonlar. The wizard Sememmon had laughed as he informed Knightsbridge of the emissary's fate.

  "Have no worries," Sememmon said. "You will be joining him soon enough. You will lead the first battalion against the dalesmen."

  Knightsbridge had said nothing.

  The journey from the Citadel of the Raven to Teshwave had been trying. The soldiers he had commanded were openly hostile and rebellious. The mercenaries who had joined them in the ruins of Teshwave knew nothing of the failure of Knightsbridge in Arabel, and cared only about the gold they had been given to report on time and prepared for the march. Knightsbridge had not been in Voonlar for more than a few days before the order came from Lord Bane to gather the men and ride out.

  There had been no attacks on their supply wagons on either the first or second day of their journey, and this made Knightsbridge particularly suspicious. Either the defenders of Shadowdale had not perceived the greatest weakness of Bane's five-thousand-man army, or they did not have the manpower to spare to even make the attempt on the food supply. For every ten miles of road they conquered, almost fifty men had been left behind to protect the road against attackers. Though Bane might not approve, Knightsbridge would not leave their rear unguarded, even if it used up a quarter of his troops to do so.

  Knightsbridge was surprised again when the army reached the forest northeast of the dale. He expected the woods to have been set ablaze. It seemed the people of Shadowdale would not die quietly after all. They wanted to fight.

  As night fell, Knightsbridge expected to camp at the outskirts of the forest, but Lord Bane sent up orders to the contrary. They would march into the forest under the cover of night, where presumably they would have the advantage of surprise if they were to meet any resistance.

  They would not be allowed torches.

  Bane's magic-users had been given strict orders not to use magic under any circumstances, as the art had become unstable and could easily backfire upon them. That meant there would be no spells cast to enhance the night vision of the soldiers as they stomped noisily through the woods.

  As Knightsbridge led his frightened men into the forest, it became clear that at least a few shared his opinion of Bane's strategy. The oldest and most experienced, Mordant DeCruew, rode beside Knightsbridge. Leetym and Rusch rode beside him.

  "This is suicide," Leetym said.

  Much to the shock of the other officers, Knightsbridge nodded.

  Rusch raised his sword. "Our lord and god has given us a commandment."

  "Which he has made impossible for us to keep!" Leetym protested. "He has driven us like livestock before the slaughter house. I am among those who has seen our 'god' eat and drink like a human. As a temple guardian, I have seen him cry like a simpering child. He has lied to us from the beginning!"

  "We shall win this day," Rusch said, gesturing with his weapon.

  "Stay your sword," Mordant said. "Our enemies will not expect us to move against the forest until the morning. They will not expect us in Shadowdale until late the following day. We will take them by surprise."

  "Mordant is correct," Knightsbridge said. "Our fight is not with each other. The true battle lies ahead. If death is our destiny we will meet it like men, not like cowering animals. If the pair of you cannot accept that, I'll gut you right now."

  The troops were silent as they rode deeper into the woods.

  Connel Greylore, the first of Shadowdale's archers to hear the approach of the soldiers, took a moment to question his senses. He had climbed into position in the trees to take the watch for his fellows. Five hundred yards behind him, another archer had done the same. The pattern continued all the way back to Krag Pool. Each of the sentry archers had chosen a position where a clear beam from their signal lanterns could be seen by the next sentry, closer to the town. This way, they could signal the sentry behind them without revealing their position to the approaching enemy.

  The noises came again. This time it was accompanied by an unmistakable cry of pain.

  Connel raised his lantern so quickly that it slipped from his sweaty hands. He nearly fell from the heavy branch that supported him as he grabbed at the lantern. His heart was thundering as he felt the surface of the cold metal and forced his hand to relax.

  The archer looked ahead. He could see the Zhentilar now as they struggled in the net of twisted branches that covered the width of the road. The trees had been made to fall in three directions, allowing the aggressors to walk or ride into the trap. Yet even if they tried to go through the forest, around the tangle of branches, the Zhentilar would find the flanking woods similarly set.

  Connel gave the signal. A single flash from the other direction told him that it had been received. He climbed down from the tree and quickly woke three other archers who stealthily assumed their positions in the trees somewhat closer to the road. The sound of men hacking away and attempting to crawl under or push through the branches filled the night, covering any sounds the archers might have made as they readied themselves, moving to their blinds and readying the quivers of arrows that had been left at each position.

  Someone sent these men like cattle to the slaughter, Connel thought. Then the leader of the four archers gave the order to fire on the Zhentilar.

  Suddenly the shouts of annoyance and fury became the screams of the dying as a hail of arrows erupted from the trees, skewering Bane's troops. More archers arrived from the contingents behind the first gr
oup, taking up temporary positions in the trees beside the road.

  A few of the Zhentilar pressed through the barriers, some using the corpses of their fellow soldiers as shields from the rain of arrows from above. They yelled curses as they rushed forward and did not see the huge wooden stakes that had been planted in the road, aimed chest high, until they impaled themselves.

  Connel and the first group of Shadowdale archers began to fall back, climbing from their positions to the safe route through the woods that would put them behind the next line of defense, a series of pits in the road that had been carefully camouflaged. The pits were three feet deep, with a single stake rising up from their center.

  The second group of archers was climbing down behind the first, preparing to follow them back toward town, when Connel Greylore thanked the gods that none of the Shadowdale archers had yet been killed by the Zhentilar. He didn't hear the notching of arrows from behind on the road as the Zhentish archers loosed a volley of arrows over the wall of branches. Suddenly there were hundreds of arrows sailing through the air. Almost all of them struck trees or became imbedded in branches or fell harmlessly to the road.

  Connel Greylore didn't even feel the arrow that pierced his back and split his heart, killing him instantly.

  Bane's men fought for hours in the darkness as they hacked through the myriad defenses of the road. Each time they found a stretch that seemed to have been left defenseless, Bane insisted on his troops reforming their line. The foot soldiers would march out in front, and inevitably be the first to fall back and break the line as they discovered new traps hidden in the road. The soldiers died as they fell into the pits or were pressed into caltrops by the press of the troops behind them.

  Bane was ecstatic. With each death his power grew, just as Myrkul had promised. The body of the Black Lord glowed with a red aura, a visible result of the soul energies he absorbed. The intensity of the aura increased as more men — both Zhentilar and dalesmen — died, and the Black Lord had difficulty suppressing his delight.