Shadows of Doom asota-1

by Ed Greenwood

  Itharr struck first. His blade met that of one Wolf and thrust it sideways toward another. That man moved to avoid catching two battling blades in the face, and the Wolf on the other side of Itharr moved to take advantage of a chance to strike at the Harper's unprotected side. This opened a gap in the line, and Sharantyr leapt through it to lunge at the Right Axe himself.

  The tall man smiled coldly, parrying with such force that her numbed fingers tingled. Somehow she held on to her sword, but now the men on either side of Blackshoulder were striking at her. She dodged, letting the blade of one man slip past her ear, and ran in under it to open his throat. Behind her, Belkram felled a man and came up against the Right Axe in his turn.

  Sunthrun Blackshoulder attacked with dazzling speed, striking at Belkram's face and throat. Only frantic parries saved the Harper's life. Sharantyr turned, punched the back of a Wolf's neck she found within reach, and lashed out with her blade to cut the Right Axe on the elbow above his free hand.

  Blackshoulder roared and turned on her. Sharantyr leapt to one side, got her arm around the neck of another Wolf, and swung him in front of her as a shield, just in time to take the Right Axe's vicious thrust. She fell back as the tip of his black blade came out of the Wolf's back, parting the plates of his armor as if it were rotten leather.

  Sharantyr rolled on the floor and contrived as she came up to trip another Wolf's feet out from under him. Itharr killed that one, tossing her a smile as he attacked the next. One of the dalesmen gurgled horribly and went down as a blade found his throat.

  They were still killing old men, these Wolves. Angrily Sharantyr ran at the Right Axe again as he shook the corpse from his blade. Belkram hacked down a Wolf to reach Blackshoulder from one side just as the Right Axe's blade came free, and the lady Knight came at him from the other.

  Blackshoulder tried to duck and parry, to force them into each other. It would have been a good move against the inexperienced warriors he obviously thought them to be.

  Both the Harper and the Knight followed the Right Axe's move. As Belkram's blade bound and lifted the Zhentilar's weapon, Sharantyr's sword found the armpit of his raised sword arm. She moved with him, driving it in deep. After a moment's resistance, her blade slid in easily. Right Axe Sunthrun stiffened, spat blood, and collapsed silently to the floor. Gedaern of the dale, intent on a battle of his own, stepped on the Axe's head a moment later and almost apologized before he saw whom he'd trampled.

  "Are there more?" Itharr asked as the Wolf he'd been fighting fell heavily against the wall and slid down it, gauntleted fingers clawing feebly for a hold.

  They looked around. Not a Wolf was left, but Gedaern and the oldest graybeard were the only dalesmen still standing. The two Harpers looked at Sharantyr, and she looked back at them.

  "Shall I?" Itharr asked, waving at the door. Sharantyr smiled.

  Belkram sighed. "Itharr, one always opens doors for a lady," he said in mock despair.

  Itharr bowed and opened the door silently. They went in.

  19

  How High Dale Changed Hands

  The great hall seemed full of councillors, all of them frightened and trying not to show it. They fumbled nervously for swords as the guard of Wolves seated just inside the door stopped looking bored and leapt up to bar the way with bared blades.

  Sharantyr did not slow down. With a set, grim face she struck aside the blade of the first Wolf and leaned past him to put her blade into the face of the Wolf behind, who was still rising. His gurgle as he slumped down again died away unheard amid the sudden babble of fearful voices.

  "Gods! They've reached us-here!"

  "A woman! Who-?"

  "Zarduil's down! She's killed Zarduil! Wasn't he Heladar's best?"

  "The men-those two! They're the ones who slew Longspear!"

  "Steady! The guards can handle them!" Stormcloak snapped. He turned eyes of cold iron on Sharantyr, who looked icy death back at him, then deliberately turned his back on the intruders and waved the councillors back down into their seats.

  "Ignore them," the wizard said coldly. "They will be dead in a moment."

  Several of the councillors shot frightened looks past him, their expressions telling all who had eyes to see that they were not so confident. Another looked on with silent interest.

  The leather worker, Blakkal Mord, had once been a fighting man. The scars on his face and arms betrayed his past to all. None in the High Dale, he was sure, knew that he was still a warrior, in the service of the Cult of the Dragon. If they had known, he would not be here still. This Stormcloak, or one of the lesser Zhentarim magelings, would have seen to that.

  His place here was not to act openly, which was no doubt the reason he'd not been probed beyond the shielding strength of the little ring that he never took off, the one that masked his thoughts. He would save himself, and otherwise be as loudly ineffectual as these other councillors.

  Nonetheless, he was a man of the sword. He knew battle skill, and he agreed with what the excitable Moonviper had said. Zarduil had been one of Heladar's best.

  Zarduil should not have fallen. Blakkal leaned forward to see better. The door guard that Stormcloak had set for this meeting was more than the usual three thickheads, and their relief man had been added to make up a foursome of competent bladesmen. Heladar's former bodyguards had orders-Zhentil Keep's orders, Blakkal had no doubt-to diligently protect and serve the lord of the dale, whoever that lord was. Wherefore they, too, had been at the doors: Zarduil, Mashann, and Raeve.

  None of those three were men Blakkal cared to face, even in an unfair fight. They were Zhentilar veterans-men of steel nerves, steel wrists, and the swiftness of serpents.

  And they were being beaten. Blakkal watched one of the two men-Harpers? Thief-adventurers from Cormyr? — dart through Mashann's guard and run his sword tip in under the shoulder plate of the big man's armor. Something even more surprising happened next. The man in leathers ducked and wrenched and got his blade back out again to parry before Mashann's own fast sword touched him.

  Blakkal did not even try to look like he was listening to Stormcloak. The self-styled Lord of the High Dale was blathering something about treachery from neighboring realms, as if only Zhentarim were allowed to usurp the thrones of strategically located farming dales.

  Other councillors watched the fight just as intently. There were no other guards in the room. The rest had been outside the doors. The rebels should never have reached this hall.

  On at least two of the watching faces, naked hope and glee were written. The tailor, Rundeth-what was his last name? Hobble? Hobyltar! — normally laconic and stone faced, had eyes as bright as new coins and was struggling not to smile. Down the table, stout Gulkin was grinning openly.

  Stormcloak shot them a look that had a cutting edge to it. Blakkal smiled; the lord was beginning to learn how Heladar had felt, sitting in that chair with a table of men who were openly trying to bring about his fall. Boots may fit just as well on other feet, as the Sembians put it.

  There was a crash as a Wolf and one of the men in leathers went through some of the chairs together, ending up on the floor wriggling like eels as they tried to get their blades into each other.

  Then Mashann staggered back on his heels, raised a failing hand to his throat, and crashed backward to the floor. The man who leapt over him was only six running steps from the table where they sat. Timid Jatham scrabbled for his dagger. Stormcloak scowled but couldn't help but to break off and watch.

  The last Zhentilar veteran reached sideways with his blade, and the charging man in leathers had to hastily dance back to ward off seeking steel. Raeve held the man for a moment, but the only other Wolf still standing was dropping his blade and sagging slowly to the floor after it, that wild-haired woman standing grim over him.

  Raeve cast one look back at them all, shook his head, and as the tattered intruders advanced, suddenly ducked and bolted through them, making for the door. Steel rang on his warding blade, and then he w
as through.

  Stormcloak roared at him. "Raeve! As you are loyal to Zhentil Keep, hold! Stand and fight for your lord, or by all the dark gods, I'll turn you into a dung worm!"

  Raeve turned his head as he reached the doorway, sword rising to guard his exit. He looked at Sharantyr. Silent and blood-spattered, she glided toward him.

  Raeve turned his eyes to meet Stormcloak's hot gaze, shook his head silently, and was gone.

  The lord wizard's furious magic missile twisted in the air to become a beam of shining glass shards, but they shivered and crashed against unyielding stone beside the door. A head too far to the left, and a breath too late to impress Raeve.

  Sharantyr turned smoothly to join the silent advance across the great hall. Councillors screamed, cursed, and toppled chairs in their haste to flee, as the High Dale they had ruled so cruelly and casually reached bloody weapons for them.

  Lord Angruin Stormcloak trembled with rage and dawning fear. Where had these… these vagabonds come from? These three in leather, they were no dalefolk! They were Harpers, or worse, sent to bring him down.

  Sharantyr had come for him that day, through guard after guard. Her sword arm was so weary that she could barely hold her blade, and stinging sweat and blood were running into her eyes. Only a few steps more and she would have this wizard.

  Only a few steps more, but she suddenly could not find the strength to run.

  The snarling wizard drew back his hand and pointed directly at her as he shouted words that echoed and hissed, and crushed something small in his other hand. Black blood ran out between his fingers, and he cast a wrinkled thing away-a leech.

  Sharantyr could only go on, blade raised, face like stone. She was only three paces away… two, now-

  The still-pointing finger erupted in writhing black light, boiling upward. A moment later, a rain of black daggers was falling toward her.

  The lady ranger tried to struggle on, waving her blade to ward off the dark points. Her weapon swept through the daggers as though they were so much smoke, but when the blades struck an instant later, they were cold and very hard-and they went in deep.

  Sharantyr screamed in pain and fell. Writhing on the cold, hard stone floor, clutching at her arms and gut in shuddering agony, she heard Stormcloak laugh.

  The wizard put a foot on his chair and gained the top of the table, still laughing. He spun about to stand facing the attackers, as frantic councillors raised their weapons in a protective line in front of him, yelling for him to use his spells to slay. The two Harpers slashed at the waiting blades, but it was quickly apparent that some of the councillors were not the frightened tremble-wits they'd have others believe. Steel rang on steel, and the two Harpers were fighting for their lives, two weary dalesmen at their sides. One of the men threw a dagger at the wizard, trying to ruin whatever magic he was working, but as it left his fingers he knew he was too late.

  Stormcloak's rolling laughter came again. Lightning leapt from his spread hands in crackling, spitting arcs, a bolt from each finger. He flicked his hands to lash all the rebels with the reaching lightning.

  As the bolts leapt, however, they were changing, and Stormcloak's laughter faltered. One of his spells had twisted again. Where lightning had crackled with fury, feeble blue sparks were fading away around a cluster of ceramic vessels and earthenware pottery that had not been there an eye-blink earlier.

  As Sharantyr gasped and groaned on the stones, crockery rained down out of thin air to shatter around her. A jagged shard laid open her cheek in one long gash as it spun past, and she ducked her head, hoping nothing would find her eyes or throat. Then the crashing sounds were gone and sudden silence fell upon the hall.

  "Very impressive," a new, rather acerbic voice said into the thick of the hush, commenting calmly from the doorway. "But if ye hope to challenge Manshoon for control of the Zhentarim someday, ye'll have to do better than a few teacups."

  An old man stood there, a gaunt but wiry old man in tattered robes, with long, flowing white hair and a longer beard. He stood taller than most men but was as thin as a sharp-tongued noblewoman. It hardly seemed possible that he had the strength to hold up the naked high constable, who dripped blood from many half-healed wounds and still trailed the long, heavy chains of his enslavement from arms that were gnarled and knotted with muscle.

  Yet the old man not only held up the wounded giant, he half-carried him forward into the room and leaned him carefully against the wall. When he straightened up, his eyes were like two blue-white flames as they met those of Angruin Stormcloak.

  "Ill met," he said, and every soft word cut like a leaping knife as it left his lips. His gaze bored deep into Stormcloak's eyes, and it was the Zhentarim who looked away first.

  "Elminster of Shadowdale!" gasped Cheth Moonviper of the councillors, and ducked under the table.

  Angruin Mvyrvult Stormcloak paled and snatched at the wand in his belt. He half expected the world to explode before he ever got it out, but exultantly he got it free, aimed, and hissed a word only he knew.

  Lightning leapt and crackled across the suddenly darker great hall toward the old man in tattered robes who stood empty-handed, hair wild-tangled and blood running down his face from a cut on his forehead.

  And Elminster stood there and waited for the lightning to come to him, watching calmly.

  Ylyndaera Mulmar smiled a mirthless smile as a Wolf came out of a door ahead, saw them, and with a startled oath whipped out his sword. She advanced steadily, Ulraea trembling at her side.

  They were both startled when Tanshlee suddenly burst past them, shrieking, "You! You're the one! You!"

  She hurled herself on the Wolf, knocking his blade aside more by luck than skill, and took him to the floor, sobbing and raking with her nails.

  The women broke into a run. In an instant the Wolf would find room and strength to get his blade out from under her, and then it would all be over.

  It was Jharina who threw the mace she'd plucked up several rooms back, while they were still marveling at being inside the castle and unseen for so long. It wobbled through the air drunkenly and just touched the Wolf's shoulder as it went on its way past him.

  He jerked, dropped his sword from numb, burning fingers, and snarled in startled pain. Tanshlee's hands found his throat.

  She held on, white-faced, eyes blazing, as he gasped and struck at her and thrashed about, trying to break free of the deep-sunk fingers squeezing out his life. But he was too young to think of breaking those fingers, or gouging at the reproachful, staring eyes of his nemesis, or even breaking her hold by shattering her jaw with a punch-and so his face went dark and then gray, and he sagged back and died.

  Daera and Ulraea stood over him, but the Wolf did not escape. They let Tanshlee have her revenge on the one who'd wronged her-months ago, now-and stood silently by as she sobbed atop the body of the unknown man who'd fathered the child within her.

  Ulraea looked at Ylyndaera, standing there with her sword ready, and saw a much older woman than the girl who'd been hidden away in the mill. Daera raised eyes dark with fury to meet hers and said quietly, "Let's go kill us some Wolves."

  They put. a sword ready beside Tanshlee in case she needed it and wouldn't pick up the one the Wolf had wielded, left her in her own dark world of tears, and went on down the passage.

  Ahead was the din of battle-the clash of sword upon sword, shouts, and cracklings-but muffled as if from behind a door. The three women exchanged glances. "The great hall," Ulraea said. "Of course."

  Daera swept hair out of her eyes impatiently, swung her sword at nothing to loosen her arm, which was beginning to ache-how did men swing these things all day? — took a deep breath, and said, "Come on."

  They'd rushed a dozen steps before four-no, six-Wolves came out of a side passage. The warriors halted, half-lowered their weapons, and smiled slow, cruel smiles as they began to advance slowly.

  "Oh, gods," Ulraea said in her throat.

  Daera laughed. "There are only six
of them," she said loudly, "and Tanshlee showed us just how easily they die. Are you with me?"

  Without waiting for an answer, she charged. Ulraea and Jharina exchanged despairing glances and followed.

  Jharina's mace, lying unnoticed on the floor, tripped the first Wolf. He fell heavily, and Ylyndaera's blade slid into and out of his throat before he could even draw back the breath that the fall had driven out of him.

  The Wolves saw a young maid rising to meet them, bloody blade in hand. One of them cursed, spun about, and ran. The others watched him go and then followed, breaking into frantic flight, as Ylyndaera's astonished laughter rang out down the passage.

  "For the dale!" she called after them. "For the High Dale, free again!"

  Beside her, Ulraea burst into tears.

  Not far away, lightning reached the old man.

  Sharantyr, struggling to her knees in pain, found the breath to scream, "No!" but as is the way with most despairing screams, the gods did not hear her.

  Or perhaps they did. The blue-white bolt of death did not strike, but coiled in the air around Elminster's hand where a ring glowed suddenly blue-white in answer. The lightning coiled, gathering speed like an aroused serpent, then lashed back out, arrow-straight, across the great hall.

  The wizard on the table stiffened as the lightning found a home.

  The Lord of the High Dale shrieked, dancing involuntarily. Smoke curled out from his robes. Then the lightning was gone, leaving him staggering in the midst of a faint haze of smoke.

  He turned a face of clenched hatred and pain to Elminster and gasped only one word as his hand darted into his robes, came out with something dark and round and metal, and hurled it.

  "Die!"

  The sphere flew through the air, expanding into an opening latticework of metal bands as it approached the Old Mage. In the instant before the sphere struck, Sharantyr recognized it as another set of iron bands of Bilarro.