Shadows of Doom asota-1

by Ed Greenwood

  Beyond the two struggling men she could see others, more Wolves slashing and hacking at two men she'd never seen before. Where was Father?

  There was no rumbling. The wheels had stopped! Was he dead? Free? Daera swallowed and had to duck aside as a man reeled out of the darkness, cursing, and almost fell over her. He charged on into the fray, clutching at his shoulder, trailing dark drops as he went.

  This was no place for her. Carefully, Ylyndaera peered around a pile of sacks toward the light, just in time to see one of the guards fleeing her way.

  She didn't have time to do anything but crouch in fear. He struck her with a crash, one very hard shin smashing into her side with bruising force. With a fearful curse he pitched over her and crashed to the floorboards, sword bouncing away. Winded, Daera rolled helplessly over against a pile of sacks. She did not even have breath left to moan.

  A dark form strode past, not even seeing her. It savagely swung something long and heavy and metal-chains! — at the scrambling guard. Metal thudded down with a horrible, heavy, wet sound. Daera heard a sob, a groan, cracking noises, and more thudding. Then silence.

  She lay still, struggling for breath. Booted feet rushed past her, and she saw the flash of a sword. It clashed and slid against chain, and Daera saw the black-armored swordsman flung back against a pile of sacks only to regain his balance and charge again.

  The terrible chains swung again, and Daera heard the man's helm crumple. The sword spun from his hand, and he crashed heavily to the floor.

  Father stalked toward her, gathering bloody chains in one hand as he came. Except for long matted hair, he was naked. Ylyndaera could not even speak as he strode past, not seeing her. But-gods be praised! — his eyes weren't the dull, unseeing things that had wandered over her as he howled in the darkness, but the sharp, clear eyes of the ranger of old, the aroused and angry high constable of the High Dale.

  He was gone, out into the sun. The two strangers rushed out after him, swords in their hands, and old Yoster with his axe followed, stumbling in weariness or perhaps because he'd been hurt. On her knees, fighting for breath, she could not tell.

  Daera gasped for air, wishing she was at her father's side this instant to watch him smite down soldier after soldier of the tyrants. To see these black-armored Wolves fall…

  Gods watch over us-their bows! He'll be slain, sure!

  A terrified Daera, still doubled over in pain, staggered out into the light. She saw much blood, and men in black armor lying still in the midst of it, hands raised vainly to clutch at life now fled.

  Dalefolk had gathered, eyes wide and excited. Down the road she saw her father's broad shoulders amid the small knot of hurrying men moving steadily on toward the castle.

  Daera stared at her neighbors as they watched him go and screamed, "Aid me! In the name of the High Dale, aid! He'll be killed!"

  They knew her as she shuddered, whooped breath back into her bruised chest, and staggered upright again. Pity was in some eyes, and rising anger in others. But at her cry, men looked away or shook their heads sadly, and women backed away.

  "They've magic, lass."

  "Aye, strong magic. We dare not…"

  Tears were rolling down her cheeks now, but Daera wiped them away impatiently and ran grimly back to one of the bodies to snatch up a fallen sword and pluck a dagger from a belt.

  She shook hair out of her eyes with a despairing snarl and rose to look around, hefting the sword. It was much too heavy; it was all she could do to hold the tip higher than her hands. She thrust the dagger through the bunched cloth at her hip, not caring what happened to the rags she wore, and used both hands to raise the blade, laying it back on her shoulder.

  When she looked down the road again, her father's striding figure was much smaller. Would she be able to catch up with him in time?

  In time to see him die? Daera shuddered, furiously blinking away fresh tears, and then saw men near her. She looked around wildly.

  Old eyes met her own. She saw pride, and anger that matched hers, and shining hope in them.

  Four-no, five-old men of the dale, graybeards she'd known as long as she could remember, leaning on fences to talk and smoke pipes, and shuffling into the inn for a tankard. Except on their chins, their hair was sparse, and they wore clothes as ragged as her own.

  But in their hands shone old, lovingly cared for weapons, swords worn thin with years of sharpening, gleaming now, and axes with long curving blades. One carried a halberd in spiked gauntlets so old and worn that she could see his bony fingers through rents in the leather.

  "We're with ye," one said simply.

  "Aye," another spoke through a moustache that almost hid his missing teeth. "Like in the old days. We'll follow a Mulmar to the death, for the High Dale."

  "My thanks," Ylyndaera said thickly, fresh tears streaming. Then she added hurriedly, almost sobbing, "Come, then, before it's too late!"

  She hurried down the road. The graybeards trotted and shuffled and kept up with her. Some even had the breath to call out as they passed cottages.

  "To arms!"

  "For the dale!"

  "Out, lads! To arms!"

  One man looked out his door, amazed, and yelled, "Ho, Baerus! Where be ye off to?"

  The old man just behind Daera grinned ferociously and waved his sword. "The high constable's free! An' we're following the maid, here-Irreph's lass-to the castle, to see to the running of these Wolves!"

  There were roars of approval, and Daera saw men with pitchforks and axes running to catch up.

  "For the dale!" another of the graybeards bellowed. The answering roar drowned out the fit of coughing that shook him a moment later.

  "For the running of the Wolves!" a younger voice roared. Daera looked around. She was leading a band now.

  "Death," she cried, "to all Wolves!"

  "Death!" they roared back at her in excitement and anger, and swept down toward the castle.

  12

  Blood in the Marketplace

  The sun shone down brightly. Eyes drawn into slits against its unaccustomed brightness, Irreph looked around his dale like a hungry hawk seeking dinner. In quick, sharp glances he noted changes without slowing. The chain grew warmer in his hands. Out in the sun, away from the damp, he stretched and stood taller, and felt better than he had in a long, long time.

  Which was just too bad for the two Wolves who happened to cross his path.

  The first drew steel and tried to charge in and gut him. Irreph swung his chains, danced aside, and swung them again. The man grunted, dropped his blade from numbed, broken fingers, and never had time to pick it up again.

  The second drew sword, too, then turned and ran, crying the alarm. He got about three houses away before a goodwife hobbled hurriedly down her steps, fell in front of him, and reached out carefully to trip him with her cane as he ran past. Irreph did not give him time to get up.

  "Irreph," she said eagerly, as he helped her to her feet. "Lord, are you come to lead us to war?"

  Mulmar looked down and smiled through his mask of dust, sweat, and blood. "My thanks, Ireavyn. I am. Tell all, if you will, to bring arms as soon as they are able. I march on the castle."

  "Alone?"

  "Aye," he said grimly. Her face fell.

  "And, Ireavyn, I'm your high constable, not your lord. No lord rules in the High Dale."

  She nodded almost sadly and looked around. No Wolf was watching, but over Mulmar's shoulder her face lit.

  "Look! Folk have risen, Irreph! They come! They come!"

  She stared harder and her jaw dropped open. "Is that your Daera with them?"

  Irreph whirled, almost felling the goodwife with an errant swinging shackle.

  "Gods!" he cursed as he saw Ylyndaera's white face amid all the old men. Their eyes met, and the high constable suddenly discovered something wet was blurring his eyes.

  The sun. Aye, the sun. He ran to meet his daughter, love and pride rising almost to choke him as he went.

 
The high constable of the High Dale walked slowly toward the castle, his chains in his hand. A crowd gathered in his wake, and those who bore weapons grew steadily in numbers. Beside him was his daughter, Ylyndaera, and behind them walked many old men of the dale, gray of beard and snow-white or thin of hair, with wrinkled old faces and stiff old limbs. They clutched weapons green or rust-red or worn thin with age, but carried themselves like old lions looking for a fight. Pride, joy, and a certain reckless defiance showed in their faces, and their eyes glinted when they looked ahead to where death awaited. At long last they were going to strike back.

  A tyrant's banner still floated from the battlements ahead. An outlander still called himself lord of their dale, took tax coins from deep in their pockets, slew them at his pleasure, and told them what to do. Enough-as some forgotten warrior had said ages ago and half the Realms away-was enough. At long last they were going to war.

  The road under their marching feet grew wider and cobbled. For this time of day, the way was strangely empty.

  Word had spread, and the dalefolk hid and watched, or found what arms they could and came out to join Irreph. The Wolves must have gone to the castle for orders-the marchers could see the glint and gleam of helmed heads on the walls, looking down-for none showed themselves as the ragged but growing band of dalefolk approached the dark bulk of the High Castle.

  The castle rose like a tall stone ship out of the houses in the center of the dale. A steep-sided earthen ditch surrounded the rocky ridge on which the fortress stood. A cobbled road descended steeply from its forekeep gate down to a large open space, the dale's marketplace. Since the arrival of Longspear, a dark, gaunt double gibbet had arisen in the center of this space. The great open well, once freely used by all, had been covered, its locked pumps used for the Wolves and their horses only.

  Angry murmurs rose from the crowd as the dalefolk came out into the marketplace and saw these hated reminders of unwanted rule. The murmurs became a roar as they saw what awaited beyond.

  Where the cobbled road to the castle rose out of the beaten earth, a line of Wolves stood in full coat-of-plate battle armor gleaming silver and deep blue in the sun. Swords and daggers were at their sides, and in their hands they held the long black-shafted lances they were wont to use from horseback. They barred the way grimly, the lances coming down like a forest of leveled, waiting teeth as Irreph strode steadily toward them.

  Cold eyes met angry ones. The crowd came to a slow, milling halt just beyond the sharp, steady-held lance points. The sun beat down on them all.

  The leader of the Wolves with the lances was Kalam Bloodsword, a veteran of Zhentil Keep's armies. He looked coldly at the angry dalefolk and kept all fear from his flat, commanding voice.

  "Mulmar, go back to your work at the mill or perish, in the name of Longspear, lord in this place. Go back now, and take these old men with you, or we shall slay you all before highsun."

  Silence was his answer. No one moved.

  Kalam glared at them all, looking slowly from left to right, at old men with fire in their eyes, a young maid-Mulmar's brat? — and the man in chains, who looked back at the Wolf with death in his eyes.

  Kalam cleared his throat. "You'll all miss your meals, and your loved ones will wait for you in vain-forever. Think on this and go back to your homes."

  Still, no one moved. Kalam blazed a silent curse at this Mulmar for somehow getting free of the wizards' spells, and added another at the mages. For all their arrogance, wizards were flighty, careless fools one could never rely on save to send one speedily to the grave.

  "Go now, all of you," he said, keeping his voice level. "Or we shall put Irreph Mulmar to the death, here and now. The stain of his blood will be on all of your hearts."

  "Stand with me," Irreph said almost gently. "Stand fast, folk of the dale."

  They stood. Long moments dragged past. Kalam made another silent curse, added a prayer to Tempus, and motioned his line of men forward.

  They pushed forward to take Mulmar. Practiced old hands struck aside lance points and ducked under the long shafts. Mulmar raised his chains to his shoulder, ready to flail. The Wolves, trained not to let foes who might have knives get in under wielded polearms, halted and stepped back.

  "Stand back!" Kalam roared. "Any who bar our way will hang as outlaws! Back!"

  He drew his sword and strode forward. Old men with eyes and faces like cold stone stepped into his path, weapons raised. Kalam whipped his blade back and forth like a man threshing grain. It clanged against old axes and short swords and pitchforks until sparks flew and the numbed hands of their wielders wavered. Some fell back.

  Kalam, too, stepped back and glared across the small open space he'd created. "Get back, and go to your homes!" he ordered sternly. "I want no blood shed this day. What gain will you see, if you lie dead here in the marketplace before highsun?" He looked around at cold and silent faces. "Go back!"

  No one moved. Deliberately Kalam sheathed his sword, stepped back into the line, and took up a lance.

  "Lances down!" he ordered, and the line of sharp points was leveled again. Glittering death took a step forward. And then another.

  A stone fell by Kalam's feet as if from the empty sky. The leader of the Wolves glared at the mob angrily. "Who threw that?"

  Another stone sprang past his eyes and rattled down a shield behind him. Kalam Bloodsword aimed his lance in the direction from which the stone had come and charged forward with a yell. The line of Wolves followed.

  The lance tore through a shoulder, forced a second man to leap aside, and stuck solidly into a wooden shield that was as gray with age as the bearded man who held it. The old man staggered under the impact but gathered his feet under him defiantly and set himself against Kalam's shoving.

  Kalam snarled and gained a step. Then another. A man with red hair joined the graybeard, then, and the lance went no farther.

  "Make way!" Kalam spat. The red-haired man met his eyes steadily and shoved… and it was the leader of the Wolves who was forced back. A low, murmuring roar of approval rose around him. For the first time since he'd come to this place between the mountains, Kalam was truly afraid.

  Another stone came winging right toward him. He lowered his head hastily and the rock struck his helm a solid, ringing blow. Kalam snarled and jerked the lance up and down roughly, trying to tear it free.

  Folk were moving now, looking over their shoulders and scattering to the right and left. Good! Reinforcements had arrived, no doubt, and not a moment too soon.

  Pushing forward into view from the rear of the crowd were two men in worn, nondescript, bloodstained leathers whom he'd never seen before, with naked swords in their hands. An old man with an older war axe in his hands followed them, grinning from ear to ear. The first two men fixed eyes on the leader of the Wolves. As he met their gazes, Kalam's blood ran cold. They meant his death.

  The leader of the Wolves let go the lance and snatched at his sword. He got it out in time to strike aside the first reaching blade, but the man danced past, moving with Kalam's parry, and struck at him from behind.

  Kalam ducked and dodged, and grunted with the sudden pain brought by the second blade, running up under the edge of his breastplate. He reeled away, doubled up against the burning, stabbing pain, and found himself face-to-face with the graybearded veteran who'd stopped his lance. His blade swept up as he snarled, "Death!"

  "Aye," came the calm reply. "Yours."

  The short sword that stopped his own blade as if it had been driven against a stone wall leapt suddenly into his face, and Kalam of the Wolves had time for only a gurgle or two before he fell and was trampled in the general surge forward. The last, fading thing he heard was a voice far behind him yelling, "Freedom for the dale! Death to the Zhent Wolves!"

  Shoulder to shoulder, Heladar Longspear and Angruin Myrvult Stormcloak stood on the battlements, looking down as the mob below surged forward and the lancers were overwhelmed.

  As their roar of victory rose
and the ragged band surged triumphantly up the cobbled road, Longspear ordered curtly, "Now. Break their charge."

  Guards around him hastened to the wall, loaded heavy crossbows in their hands. Their bolts fell like rain on the road below, and villagers fell back-or fell transfixed, to lie crumpled on the ground like crows slain around a guarded granary.

  "And now?" Lord Longspear said, looking old. "Those are my people we're killing."

  The mage who called himself Stormcloak turned cold eyes on Heladar. "What of it?"

  "I'd rather not rule an open graveyard," Longspear replied coldly. "Who knows where it'll end, now that the bloodletting's begun? There's not a one left we can trust, and if we slay them all, what do I rule then?"

  "A strategic pass that we can hold with twice our strength in two days, by means of the gate," Stormcloak told him. "If it's rabble you want to rule over, are there no prisons in Zhentil Keep? Are there no outlaws in these mountains? Manshoon's orders will bring all he wants to let out or be rid of, and if we spread the word in Cormyr and Sembia that there are hill farms for the taking, we'll soon have the dale as crowded as you like, Lord Longspear."

  He turned away from Longspear and gave an order to the Overswords who stood behind them. "I want twenty full-armored men-lances and blades, all of them-mounted and ready in the courtyard as fast you can get them there."

  The Overswords looked at him, and at the magnificently armored back of Lord Longspear. The back did not turn, and Stormcloak snarled, "Move at my orders, you thickheaded orc-sons! When I signal, send them out. They're to ride down the mob at full gallop, slaying any who resist. Longspear, you lead them."

  The lord of the dale did not move or reply. The mage snarled and advanced on the Overswords, cursing them and raising threatening hands in gestures of spellcasting, until they wheeled and ran down the stairs. Men on the walls around them reloaded their crossbows and carefully looked away. Stormcloak gestured at Heladar's back.