Shadows of Doom asota-1

by Ed Greenwood

  They came to a clattering halt before his fury. Men shifted and would not look at him.

  "L–Lord," one armsman said, fear full in his voice, "there's a woman-a dragon she is, with a sword! I saw her kill ten of us or more, and-"

  "And so you fled, all of you," Stormcloak said with contempt. He looked coldly around at them all, eyeing men now clearing throats and exchanging glances and looking very uneasy indeed. "Are you warriors?"

  Silence answered him. "Are you men?"

  Nods, and more silence.

  Stormcloak took a step forward. "Are you Zhentilar?"

  "Aye, Lord."

  "Yes, Lord."

  Stormcloak nodded wolfishly. "Good," he said with deep sarcasm. "I had begun to wonder about that." Then his voice changed again. "And what do Zhentilar warriors do?"

  "Obey, Lord."

  " 'Obey when told to slay,' isn't that how the song goes?" Stormcloak corrected.

  Nods answered him again. Stormcloak looked around at them all.

  "Obey whom?"

  A man swallowed. "Z-Zhentarim mages, Lord."

  Stormcloak gave him a brittle smile. "And why do you obey mages, all of you?" He looked around at them all again. In the end, to break the heavy silence, he answered his own question. "You obey mages-myself, for instance-because if you don't, we'll unleash magic on you more terrible than any blade, more painful than any wound!"

  He looked at them as the passage rang with those last shouted words, and let the echoes die away before continuing.

  "Warriors who run one way can face one woman-with a sword," he added with a sneer. "Warriors who run the other way will face me," he said, raising his wand with slow menace and a silky smile.

  In silence, the men called Wolves by the folk of the High Dale turned sullenly, raised their swords, and went back down the passage. Slowly.

  Sharantyr stalked forward on silent feet, like a hunting cat. Many had fled down this passage. If she knew Zhents, they'd soon be back this way, a mage in their midst ready to use a spell or a wand to smite her down and impress all the warriors who watched.

  So another way would be better. Were there no side passages in this place? She glanced this way and that as she went, and in the end chose a stair going up. If she could not go around, she must go over. She had only one life to lose and could not afford to fight fairly, or to face large groups of thirsty swords or a mage in a large open space.

  "Well, then, Stormcloak," she said aloud, "let us see if one Knight with a sword can bring you down. It's been done to Zhentarim before."

  "Who's that? Maerelee?" a voice asked from the head of the stair.

  "No," Sharantyr replied truthfully, coming steadily on up the stairs. "It's me."

  Then she was level with the man: a Wolf in armor, frowning warily, sword out. The weapon swept up as he saw her. "Who are you?" he challenged. "I've not seen you before, here or in the dale."

  "I am your bane," she said calmly, walking toward him. Her expressionless face did not change as he tried to bat the sword out of her hand with his own. Nor did it change when, at her sudden lunge, he found himself two fingers away from death. Nor after, as he parried frantically, countered and found himself forced to parry even faster. He turned to run and she sprang after him, landing hard on his running legs.

  He fell heavily, and her blade stabbed down as she landed atop him.

  When she rolled back up to her feet, he lay still on the stones, facedown. Sharantyr looked down at him for a moment, sighed, and went on. Just how many Zhents were crawling about this castle?

  "It only takes one to kill thee," she heard Elminster's long-ago voice tell her, and smiled wryly. Thanks, Old Mage. Well said. On with it, then.

  She found the next one just inside the first room her passage entered, heading east. He was sharpening his sword and reacted with commendable speed, grinning as he whipped his blade at her stomach.

  This Wolf obviously considered himself a matchless swordsman. Sharantyr parried two lightning-fast thrusts, leaned close to spit into his eyes, stamped on his toes, ducked her blade under his parry-he was good at attacking but not so good at holding off attacks-and ran him through.

  She left him twisting in agony and snarling curses at her, waving his blade weakly and ineffectually at her from the floor. Mielikki forgive me for what I've had to become, she prayed silently. I've made myself a worse butcher than any Zhentilar soldier!

  Shuddering, she opened the door at the end of the short passage she was traversing, found herself in a bunk room with four startled Zhents, sighed, and started slaying again. Just how long had she been killing? There were some days of her life that she'd very much like to forget forever, and couldn't in her darkest dreams. This was definitely turning into one of those days.

  "This is fast becoming one of those days," Itharr said wearily as the Harpers battered their way through another door, stolen shields held high to ward off crossbow bolts or thrown spears from the Wolves waiting beyond. None came, so they flung the shields down and charged.

  "You're not getting bored, are you?" Belkram asked in mock concern.

  At his shoulder, Gedaern grinned and cocked his head to survey both the Harpers.

  "Are the two of ye always like this?"

  "Worse," Belkram replied mildly as three Wolves in full plate armor shouldered aside an anxious servant with a halberd and lumbered forward to meet them. " 'Ware, brothers!"

  The two Harpers stepped forward to meet the charge. The Wolves came at them swinging heavy battle-axes in great roundhouse swings the lightly armored men could not hope to stop except with their bodies.

  "Back!" Belkram called, waving a hand at the older dalesmen. He ran back to where they'd thrown down the shields, snatched one, and threw it to Itharr. Itharr ducked under a swing, dropped the shield, and had to scramble away to avoid being beheaded. The Wolves came on, grinning through the bars of their full helms.

  "Itharr, you do the sticking!" Belkram called, and laid hands on the body of a Wolf he'd killed breaths before.

  One Wolf charged him. Belkram heaved the corpse up into a cradled position across his own chest, puffing under the weight, and dumped it into the Wolf's swing, dragging axe and arm to the floor. The corpse's arms flopped loosely. Belkram sprang over them to land with both feet on the man's axe-wielding arm. The man roared hollowly inside his helm as Itharr arrived, daggers in both hands, to drive them into the sallet's eye slits. The roaring stopped abruptly.

  The two Harpers sprang away just in time, leaping and rolling to avoid the wild, chopping blows of the other two axes.

  There came a shuffling sound from behind them, and the dalesmen trotted past, carrying a heavy wooden table like a ram. They flung it into one of the Wolves, knocking him over, then snatched out their blades to attack the other Wolf together.

  The Wolf drove one to the floor with his first blow. His second hacking swing struck sparks from their weapons with its fury. A dalesman screamed as his wrist snapped under the impact and his old sword flew from it to clang along the flagstones. Then Belkram leapt in from one side, tackling the Wolf waist-high.

  They went to the floor together, but frantic axe work forced the Harper to break free and roll away without delivering any real blow.

  Itharr was getting up off the table, daggers dripping. The Wolf under it would never rise again.

  There was a shout from the room beyond, and more Wolves rushed into the room. They were lightly armored, but there were six of them.

  Itharr rushed to meet them, trying to keep them entangled in the doorway. "To me, men of the dale!" he called over his shoulder as he sheathed one dagger in his boot and drew his sword again. "To me!"

  His blades met those of the foremost Wolves, hurling them back for an instant. Then he ducked low and lunged in a move Storm had used on him-ages ago, it seemed. A Wolf made a strangling sound as the blade burst up between his arms to slip into his throat.

  Itharr let go of the blade in an instant, spinning to one side, an
d avoided the angry counterstrikes of the other Wolves. Then Gedaern of the dale was there, his old broadsword in hand, taking one Wolf's blade on his and darting out an old, hairy hand to clasp the man's other wrist and arrest the streaking dagger it held.

  Itharr spun two Wolves around with a series of lashing blows, forcing them to parry, and then lunged at one. That Wolf crashed backward into the one Gedaern was facing. Both staggered, giving Gedaern an instant to slide his blade free of the Wolf's steel and slash the man across the face. The armsman screamed as blood began to flow, and dropped his sword to clutch at his head.

  Itharr drove another Zhent back with a flurry of lunges, using weight and fury to drive the Wolf who'd run into Gedaern's foe back into him again. This time Itharr's Wolf fell. A breath later, Gedaern took down the man he'd blinded.

  Behind them, Belkram was still circling the armored Wolf with the axe. The man's swings were slower and shrewder now. He was tiring and knew the speed of the man he faced. The Harper wore an eager half-smile as they danced and spun, remembering Storm, sweat glistening on her bare shoulders, as she'd fought her way coolly through Itharr's best blade work, and his own. There was a trick she'd used…

  Belkram feinted a lunge. The great axe swept up to block it, then drew back a little for a return blow. Belkram flung himself forward in a jump, turned his blade sideways, and thrust it into the back of the man's arms, driving them and the axe upward.

  Then the Harper dropped to the floor, kicking against the flagstones and surging forward into a roll against the Wolf's booted ankles.

  The man toppled, hitting the floor with a metallic crash. An old dalesman sprang forward, almost weeping in rage, and chopped at the man's helm until it rang like a bell.

  The blade glanced off again and again as Belkram found his feet and was forced to deal with a Wolf charging down almost on top of him.

  When he could turn back again, the Harper saw the old dalesman clutching a broken sword-it had snapped against the helm-and cautiously lifting the Wolf's head. It lolled loosely; the helm had held, but the neck must have given way. The old man knelt beside the man he'd killed and started to cry, gnarled old hands trembling.

  Belkram wheeled and charged back into the fray. From the room beyond, someone called, "Aid! They're in the castle! They've broken in!"

  Another voice called back, "Keep them from the great hall, or the lord'll have our soft bits!"

  "What lord?" the first voice roared back.

  "Stormcloak," was the terse reply.

  The first voice snorted. "If it's him," it said, "let him use his magic to deal with these. Our swords don't seem enough."

  "He'll find you, after, if you shirk your duty."

  "Let him," the first voice responded bitterly, "if he lives. You haven't seen these idiots fight!"

  Belkram grinned savagely, stepped around a dalesman who was falling with a groan, two swords through his body, and drove his sword point into the mouth of another Wolf. "Friend," he called out, "which way is this great hall?"

  After a startled moment, the first voice said laconically, " 'Twould be the most foolish treason to tell you that it's through here, turn right, and behind the double doors at the end of the straight passage-so I won't tell you that."

  The voice started to say something more but suddenly rose into a scream and abruptly fell silent.

  "So die all traitors," rumbled a new voice.

  "Hey!" Belkram called, hewing down another Wolf. "I liked that man!"

  "Who speaks?"

  "I do," Belkram yelled. "Who are you to ask?" The last Wolf fell, and he hurried to join Itharr's rush forward to the room beyond.

  There stood a hulking armored form as wide as them both but of their own height. It lowered its war helm, and they had a brief glimpse of blond hair, scarred cheeks, and cold, calculating eyes. "I am Gathen Srund," the rumbling voice came hollowly to them. "I was Left Axe to Lord Longspear. I will avenge him, rebel traitors."

  The armored man lumbered forward, hefting a huge warhammer. There were other Wolves behind him, but they stayed well back to watch.

  The two Harpers looked at each other and darted a glance behind. All the Wolves were down, and three dalesmen were with them. A fourth dalesman sat against a wall, clutching his broken wrist and cursing softly.

  "Have you noticed," Itharr remarked, "how pompous these Zhent bully blades always are? They occupy some place, usurping rightful rule and law, and then squeak of 'rebels' and 'traitors.' It's odd…"

  "I have noticed that, yes," Belkram replied as the warhammer swung, and they ducked and hastily sprang apart. "Scatter, men!" he added urgently over his shoulder to the dalesmen.

  They needed no urging. Belkram heard the clatter of hasty booted feet receding, then the helm of their foe rang with hollow laughter. "Hah! See them run, large-mouths! What say you now?"

  The two old men threw down their swords, halted by the overturned table, panted for an instant, and then heaved it up to their shoulders and came back to the fray in a stumbling rush.

  Itharr attacked, slashing repeatedly and jabbing at the helm's eye slits, forcing Srund to use his hammer to parry, and pulling it to one side. The table was driven in through the gap Itharr had created, crashing into the Wolf and sending him staggering back.

  "Well met," Belkram replied mildly in answer to Gathen Srund's taunt, as he sprang forward to get the war-hammer. He got a good grasp on it and was promptly dragged and battered about the floor as the awesomely strong Left Axe tried to wrench his weapon free.

  "I wonder what the Right Axe is like?" Itharr asked him, stretching over the struggle to bury his blade in one of the eye slits of the Zhentilar's helm. Gathen stiffened, dropped the hammer, fumbled for it with failing fingers, and fell over on his side with a room-shaking crash.

  The dalesmen rushed forward, but the room was emptying of Zhents as fast as they could flee. The warriors all ran down a passage to the right.

  Belkram got up, breathing heavily, and watched them go. "I wager," he said slowly as he fought for breath, "that we'll… soon find out… once they get where they're going… and tell their tale."

  Itharr nodded. "You're right," he said simply.

  Then the two Harpers embraced each other and roared their delight. "What a fight this is!" Itharr shouted happily. "What a fight!"

  The oldest dalesman looked at him, unsmiling, and shook his head. "They're still young, indeed," he said to another white-haired veteran, who only nodded.

  Then they heard men begin to scream, down the passage.

  Sharantyr came down the dark stairs like a vengeful wind. The lighted passage below was full of worried, running men with weapons. Armored men. Wolves. More to be slain.

  In grim silence she leapt down among them, and started to slay. One fell, and then another. A third slipped, and she was past him to run her blade through a foolish one without armor. He clutched himself and collapsed with a horrible groan, and she was on to the next one. Was she killing with her eyes? Men fell wherever she looked, and the passage was warm with the smell of their blood and fear.

  A fresh group of Wolves came running up the passage. She turned to them with a savage smile. The shortest warrior started the screaming as he tried to turn around and found his fellows in the way.

  Then they were all screaming. Sharantyr had never thought she'd enjoy such a sound.

  The men were fleeing from her. Behind them, bloody and bedraggled men were coming out into the passage, well-used weapons in their hands. Dalesmen!

  She snatched a glance back over her shoulder. Wolves were fleeing in that direction too, falling back to join a guard of armored men in front of a set of closed double doors. In their midst was a dark-haired man in full armor who stood a head taller than the rest. "Hold fast," he said with cold authority. "They cannot pass us."

  Sharantyr gave him a sneer and turned to join the dalesmen in their slaughter. She snuck a glance back, but the man had refused to be drawn out of the guard. He stood coldly waiti
ng as they butchered the few milling Wolves in the passage.

  The lady ranger embraced the two men in leathers she'd seen fight so well in the marketplace and said, "Sharantyr. Knight of Myth Drannor."

  They bowed. "Itharr and Belkram of the Harpers, with true men of the dale."

  They exchanged grins, and one of the old men lumbered forward. "Give us a hug, lass. Then, live or die, I'll do it happily."

  Sharantyr shed a few tears as she put blood-spattered arms around him.

  Then they all turned, in sudden silence, to face the Wolves at the door.

  "Lay down your arms," the tall man said flatly, "or we'll kill you, as painfully as we know how." He looked at them with cold confidence and added, "Consider this: We are warriors of Zhentil Keep. We know much of killing."

  "You certainly know much about dying, after this day," Itharr told him, "if this is all of you there are left."

  "Save your brave words for pleading," the tall man told him contemptuously, "and we may let you live."

  "My thanks to you," Sharantyr told him with biting sarcasm. "Your generous pacifism overwhelms me. 'Tis so sudden and heartfelt."

  The tall man lifted his head, pointing his chin at her. "Bring me that one alive," he told the Wolves around him. "I have… plans for her."

  "Aye, Right Axe," several voices murmured in reply.

  Beside Belkram, Gedaern nodded suddenly. "Ah. This one's Heladar's Right Axe-his trusty, like, and probably their commander, now. A merchant told me, a few months back, that he's known for cruelty and butchering women and younglings when he gets a chance. Sunthrun Blackshoulder's his name."

  The tall man laughed shortly. "Your merchant friend was right."

  Belkram saluted him with raised sword. "Then it will be a pleasure killing you, Sunthrun Blackshoulder."

  The tall man sneered. "A pleasure you'll never live to see." He drew a blade as long as the shortest dalesman there was tall. Its blade was dull black and menacingly evil.

  Belkram smiled tightly and looked around at Itharr, the dalesmen, and Sharantyr. He collected nods from them all and jerked his head forward. Calmly, unhurrying, they strode down the passage to where the Wolves waited.