by Ed Greenwood
One Wolf contemptuously tried to run him through. The old man slid aside from his lunge, punched his assailant hard in the throat, and trampled the fallen Wolf as he swung his axe at the next. When the Wolves fell back from that old axe, it descended to meet the head of the man on the floor, rising again before they could advance.
Itharr had reached the rear of those Wolves. Steel leapt and bit, men grunted, swung, and screamed… and a little silence befell. Itharr and the old serving man used it to share a ferocious smile across the bloody fallen.
Belkram stalked forward to confront the last few Wolves. "We've important business at the castle," he told them almost sadly, "so we haven't time to take prisoners."
Itharr sighed. "So sad," he murmured, and lunged. A Wolf shrieked and struck the Harper's blade aside at the last instant. His eyes were still on it when the dagger in Itharr's other hand came up into them.
As the man fell, two Wolves charged in desperation, swinging their blades wildly. Itharr ducked under the falling body and rolled aside, lifting a boot to trip one Wolf. Belkram's blade took the rearmost in the neck.
The serving man stood in the door, axe raised. "Who's first?" he rumbled, eyes cold. "Who'll die first?"
The Wolves hesitated for an instant, and that was long enough for Belkram to slay the one who'd fallen and for Itharr to rise again. The last two Wolves plunged forward desperately.
The old man's axe bore the first to one side, and Itharr thrust him through from behind. The second leapt for the door and fell through the opening with Belkram on his back, stabbing with cold ruthlessness.
Silence fell again. Then the two Harpers rose, dusted themselves off, retrieved their weapons, and smiled at the old man. Belkram handed him six gold pieces. "For the furniture… and the floor show."
"Aye," Itharr agreed. "Our thanks. We must be off now."
A light was dancing in the old man's eyes. "Whither, lads? Come you to bring down this Longspear who lords it over us?"
The two Harpers nodded slowly.
"We came to find a friend of ours," Belkram said quietly. "But it seems the High Dale needs more attention than he does just now. If he were here, he'd been doing what we aim to. We're off to the castle, to rouse the dale against these Wolves and their wizards." He frowned then as a thought struck him. "Does the high constable yet live?"
"Aye," the old innkeeper said grimly. "After a fashion. As that carrion said, he's in chains, working the mill as if he were an ox."
Belkram looked at Itharr. "That ends first." His fellow Harper nodded, the grim expression matching his own.
"I'm coming with you," the old man said without another glance at the sprawled bodies in his taproom. The axe lifted a little. "I fought off outlaws aplenty, in my day." He handed back the gold. "And I won't take coins from men who do our work for us. No, take 'em! I haven't felt so good in many a year."
He stepped out to look up and down the street, then squinted thoughtfully at the frowning walls of the castle rising above the rooftops nearby. "Who's this friend you came seeking?"
Belkram saw faces peering at them from nearby doors and windows. "One Elminster, a wizard. Have you heard of him?"
The old man's eyes widened a little. "The Elminster?" he asked. "The Old Mage? That wasn't just talk, what you told the Wolves?"
"No," Itharr said. "We mean to find him. We promised a lady we would. Not to do him ill, either."
The old man nodded. "I saw him beat six wizards once in a battle of spells. East of here, in Sembia it was. They were slavers, going about using spells to make folks follow 'em willingly by chaining their wits. He got proper hot, I tell you."
He shook his head, a slow grin broadening his face at the memories. "It was something to see, that. He smashed 'em with lightning, hurled back the balls of fire they threw at him, opened a hole in the sky to swallow up a-a great tentacled thing they conjured up and sent after him, and crushed one of 'em under a huge rock. Snatched it off a mountain, in the midst of all, and sent it flying like a bird across most of Sembia to drop from above." He shook his head again, smiling. "I don't suppose he's here now, is he?"
Itharr spread his hands. Belkram squinted up into the sky.
"No," he said slowly. "No flying rocks."
The old man sighed. "I guess not. Ah, well. I'd hoped to see just one more good spellfight, to tell folks about, before I die." His eyes suddenly narrowed as he looked at one Harper and then at the other. "You don't know any magic, do you?"
The two Harpers sighed, looked at each other, half grinned, and sighed again.
"If we did," Belkram said ruefully, raising his still-bloody blade, "we wouldn't have to get this close to those who would kill us."
The old man looked at them both for a while, shaking his head slowly. "Well," he said at last, "without magic, how in the name of all the gods do you expect to stay alive long enough to reach the castle, let alone muster the dale against Longspear? He's got six wizards or more to back him up, Zhent Blackcloaks if I can still tell anything at all about folk I meet!"
"Well," Belkram said slowly. "We usually try to set things going-like we did here-then just get our swords out and run with what befalls."
"You wouldn't be Harpers, would you?" the old man asked quietly. He watched them exchange glances and said, "I thought so. That explains it, then. Some like to roll dice for coins, or trade goods, or even horses. Harpers and adventurers are the only folk who like to do it with their own lives."
Belkram chuckled as he wiped his steel on the sleeve of a fallen Wolf. The sound was meant to sound unconcerned and casual, but came out a trifle rueful.
Daera sighed and sucked her bleeding finger for perhaps the three hundredth time. Sewing flour sacks was something the gods just hadn't meant her to do.
She looked out the gap between two old, silvery wooden boards at the frowning mountain wall not so far away. It was probably about the three hundredth time she'd done that, too. Bright sunlight dazzled her; it was always dark in the mill.
Somewhere far below, Father was pushing a lever endlessly around and around, driving the grindstones. It was sheer cruelty. There was water enough-and mules or oxen, too-to do the task. No, Father was there as a reminder to the folk of the dale, as she was, set to work here as a drudge, cooking, cleaning, and sewing these bloody sacks.
Literally bloody, she thought grimly, pinching her smarting hands between her knees as she knelt on the coarse sacking. The dark spots of her spilled blood had traveled out of the dale on many a sack already. They'd seen a lot more of the Realms than ever she had, or was likely to.
Every morning, the jailers in their magical mantles of darkness came for her. They tied her hands behind her and crammed dirty cloth into her mouth, binding it there to keep her silent. Then they led her, helpless in their cloaking darkness, down the creaking stairs and uneven floors of the mill, down to the wheel where her father howled or gibbered in his chains.
That was her reminder. They untied her hands and led her outside in her soiled rags to load heavy flour sacks onto waiting carts, gasping and panting through her gag as hard-faced men in black armor stood guard around a group of silent folk of the dale-folk who had obviously been dragged from their doings and brought here to watch. If any tried to help or comfort her, they were clubbed senseless. It had been a long time since any of them had tried.
She was their reminder.
"Ylyndaera Mulmar," she told herself formally, "stop feeling sorry for yourself and get to work." On days when she didn't do what the jailers or mill maids thought was enough, her meal-leftovers from the evenfeast platters of the others at the mill, always cold-was smaller. Once, when she'd been too weak from sickness to work, she'd been given nothing at all to eat.
Daera sighed and picked up the needle again. She was alone here in the drafty mill loft-and cold, and bleeding all over her work again-but her father had it much worse, chained like a bull in the cellar below.
Time and again she'd prayed to the unheeding gods t
o deliver him, if not from his chains and the backbreaking work then at least from whatever magic they'd laid on his mind. His eyes were always cloudy. Even when she'd been able to make some noise-she always paid for that with brief but savage blows and whippings-and he'd looked up, he never saw her… or anything else. His moods swung between stupid placidity and snarling rages. They'd turned him into a lame-witted, crazed beast.
Daera finished a line of running stitch and bit off the thread. She was too young and weak to fight the Wolves herself. A maid had called her "a young colt-all long, gangly limbs and knobbly wrists and ankles." She must think of some way of getting aid, of calling on King Azoun or someone to rescue her father.
Most of all, Ylyndaera dreamed of the day when Irreph Mulmar would be himself again and rise to drive "Lord" Longspear and his Wolves from the dale, to reclaim his title of high constable. She was seeing that day now in her mind as she settled herself with another sack. Then the crashing and screaming began below.
She was cautious at first, fearing a beating if she wandered. Then she saw shrieking mill maids scurrying along the hall below her loft. She had to see whatever could make them run so frantically. There'd been no war trumpets or clash of arms-her first leaping hope, that the dale was under attack from Cormyr or Sembia, had died already-but something was amiss down below.
Where Father was.
"This is the place?" Itharr asked, squinting up at the mill. The old man nodded.
"Our thanks," Belkram said. As he turned, the tip of his sword lifted a little as if it were eager for battle. "Wait here," he added over his shoulder and stepped toward the stout, closed wooden doors before them. Itharr moved with him.
"Oh, no," the old man said emphatically. "I'm done with waiting and doing nothing. I'm going with you."
Itharr turned and flashed him a smile. "Be welcome, then," he said, "but follow our lead." He nodded at Belkram, who was courteously knocking on the door.
It opened, and a man with a ratlike face looked out, squinting in the bright light of day. "Yes?" he asked, though it was more of a challenge than a question.
Belkram flashed his brightest smile. "Good day, sirrah! We're with the Zhentil Keep Grain Inspectors Guild and have come at the express request of High Lord Manshoon to see what a fine establishment you're running here." He'd been pressing forward as he spoke. His audience stepped back, gulped, and taking the word "running" as a cue, sprinted off into the dimness as if a band of horse lancers were galloping after him.
"Thank you," Belkram told his retreating back. He turned to his companions, indicating the mill interior. "Shall we?"
"Indubitably," Itharr agreed, stepping past him with a half bow, blade raised.
The old man gave them both looks and snorted. "Young jack-fools," he growled, stumping after them.
Inside, the mill was a dim forest of stout pillars, stacked crates, spilled flour, sturdy barrels, and piles of sacks. The two Harpers strolled unconcernedly down a cluttered aisle that opened into a large threshing floor. There, darkness awaited them.
Four pillars of darkness, in fact, with the man they'd spoken to at the door busy beyond, struggling to get a crossbow ready.
"We're here," Belkram said briskly, "to see the former high constable." As he strode forward, he made a gesture only Itharr saw. The shorter Harper obeyed it, moving to one side.
The pillars of darkness were already advancing. Itharr casually tossed a dagger at the nearest. It struck something within the magical gloom and clattered to the floor. There was no play of lightnings, and the pillar shifted slightly; men walked within the darkness. The two Harpers sprang forward, converging on one dark column.
It stepped aside, drawing close to another darkness-shrouded guard so as not to be outflanked. Behind the two Harpers, the old man sighed and flung his axe. It flashed end over end across the room and caught the doorman in the shoulder. He shrieked, dropped his half-wound bow and windlass, and collapsed to the floor, moaning. Then the old innkeeper grabbed at the nearest barrel, toppled it, and with a few practiced heaves sent it rolling at the gathered columns of darkness. They scrambled to get clear and the Harpers darted in, blades flashing. There were grunts, curses, and heavy thuds as bodies bounced on the floorboards, followed by another deep rumbling as the innkeeper sent a second barrel into the fray. "Well done!" Belkram called back as the barrel crashed into a pillar, pinning a column of flickering darkness there for a dazed moment. Belkram's blade slashed into it, thrice, and it toppled, leaving only one column of darkness, which promptly fled, racing down a back passage.
"After him!" Itharr yelled excitedly. The old man shook his head as the two Harpers rushed off, muttering, "I'm young enough to fight but too old for a lot of charging about," as he retrieved his axe. Going from one darkness-shrouded form to another, he let his axe fall where their heads must be. Then he walked up to the writhing man with the crossbow, shook him, and growled, "How many guards are there here?"
"I–I daren't tell-" the wounded man began. The innkeeper punched his injured shoulder firmly, and when he repeated the question, the shrieking Zhentilar found sudden courage to dare an answer.
"Ondarr! Ondarr! We're being attacked!" the fleeing jailer shouted as he pounded down the passage. Belkram and Itharr sprinted after him in the dimness, bouncing painfully off the corners of stacked crates and the projecting ends of barrow handles. "Ondarr!"
They were running into the heart of the mill, where rumbling wheels ground endlessly. Passing through a succession of crowded chambers, they abruptly came out into a lamplit room where a sleepy-looking Wolf in chain mail was rising from a couch as darkness frantically tugged at his arm.
The Wolf's eyes widened as he saw the two Harpers bearing down on him. "Ondarr, I presume?" Belkram asked pleasantly. The Wolf got his blade out just in time to parry Belkram's thrust, leaving his left arm raised and underarm exposed to Itharr's blade.
Itharr of Athkatla ended his charge in a leap that brought him onto the bed, feet up. His blade burst through the Wolf's shoulder an instant before his feet slammed the man against the back of the couch, which broke off with a splintering crash, twisting the unfortunate Zhentilar onto the floor with Itharr atop him. The Harper's dagger made short work of the guard, and Itharr looked up to see Belkram slamming the last darkness-shrouded jailer against a pillar. The man collapsed, and Belkram thrust his hands into the blackness, groping.
"Lost something?" Itharr asked lightly. "Or is this some new thrill?"
Belkram made a face at him. "I'm looking for keys, Great One. If the high constable's here, he must be in some sort of cell-"
"Or right there," Itharr said, pointing. Belkram looked up and stared. The great wheels had ground to a halt because the man chained to the lever that drove them had stopped walking and was standing glaring at them with eyes that shone in the dimness like two flames.
"Irreph Mulmar?" Itharr asked.
"Aye," the man snarled, bunching his chains with a menacing rattle. "Who are you?"
"Harpers," Itharr said simply. "Itharr, once of Athkatla, and this is my blade-brother Belkram, from Baldur's Gate. We mean to drive the Zhents from your dale."
"But first," Belkram said, rising from the unseen body, "we have to find the keys to your shackles."
"Don't bother," the naked man in the chains said in a deep voice. "Just thrust yon spike into the spindle stop over there."
Itharr did as the man directed, and with a rattle of chains the man shoved at the lever. It shuddered but did not move. The man nodded in satisfaction, ducked under the lever-a wooden bar as thick as his arm, worn smooth by the hours his hands had grasped it-and braced himself against it, shoving in the opposite direction from the way he'd been pushing it for so long.
The lever groaned, and the man pitted against it snarled, veins standing out like ropes on his neck. His body quivering like a bent bow, he took a slow, deliberate step forward-and the great lever groaned and shivered and… broke.
And Irreph Mulmar, form
er high constable of the High Dale, stood tall amid the wreckage, tearing his shackles loose from the splintered wood, and said in a voice of iron, "No more."
"Well met," Belkram said calmly. Irreph gave him a terrible smile and gathered his chains into a bunch in his right hand. "My thanks, both of you. I've a mage to slay-and I must learn what has befallen my daughter-as soon as I'm free of this stinking mill cellar."
Suddenly, out of the darkness above, the pointed, rusting fang of a halberd stabbed down at him. Irreph twisted aside, flung a loop of chain over the weapon as it bobbed and reached again, and hauled hard.
Cursing darkness came helplessly down atop him. Irreph lashed it with his chains until its groans and shrieks had died into silence. Then he swarmed up the spindle in angry haste. Belkram and Itharr exchanged looks and followed.
Darkness fled from him along a gallery. Irreph followed, bounding along on legs stiff from not stretching for so long. Chained to the wood, there'd been nowhere to run. He laughed exultantly as he caught up with the darkness-just another man wearing a ring that cloaked him in concealing magic-and flung a loop of chain around the unseen throat from behind. A dagger clattered to the floor. Limbs flailed against him frantically and gasping sounds began… and then died away in slow agony.
Irreph strode on to the stairs. Somewhere ahead was the sun, and the men who'd stolen his wits and dale from him. They must die, all of them. Soon.
Ylyndaera hurried down the stairs like a ragged wraith, clinging to railings from time to time to peer ahead. Doors slammed here and there, men shouted and ran, their booted feet thundering on the old, uneven wooden boards, and from below came dull crashings, thumps, and an occasional short scream. What was happening?
Daera reached the ground floor of the mill, a huge room always piled high with full sacks-or, in winter, drifting snow-where stairs went up and down in all directions. Sunlight spilled in through the open door, and there were men running and fighting everywhere. She saw Yoster, the old innkeeper, hacking with a huge old axe at a Wolf as if he were chopping at a tree that wouldn't fall. There was blood all over the axe.
