Shadows of Doom asota-1

by Ed Greenwood

  The slab rose very slowly as Elminster looked at her sourly. Sharantyr shrugged.

  Unseen above them, the floating eye drifted nearer.

  The slab grated sideways. Sharantyr stared into the darkness of the hole that the Old Mage had uncovered. Air was moving upward. Foul air.

  Sharantyr sniffed and wrinkled her nose. "A cesspool. You've found the castle's cesspool."

  Elminster sat unconcernedly on the edge of the hole. A lip ran all around its edge to hold the slab he'd dragged aside. He sat on the edge and felt around in the darkness with his feet for the footholds he knew would be there.

  "Lass, we've no defense against magic anymore," he said, holding up his blackened hand. "With the people roused, and the Harpers and Cormyrean agents I recognized among them, the Zhentarim cannot hope to hold this dale any longer and dare not try to openly seize control of it, not with so many Zhentish coins owed to Sembian merchants right now."

  One foot found what he was seeking. The Old Mage nodded again and went on. "Our work here is done. I'd as soon be gone before some Zhent mageling or other finds us and decides to enhance his reputation by blasting Elminster of Shadowdale into little wisps of smoke."

  Sharantyr raised her eyebrows. "Another gate?"

  Elminster nodded. "Very old, spell-shielded-and just beside the cesspool, where no Zhent or other high-and-mighty mage would ever get dirty enough to look for it. If we find it now, Mulmar can feast as much as he likes, and we'll be long vanished in the night before anyone comes looking for us."

  He climbed down into the hole until only his head and shoulders could be seen and beckoned her. "Ye're young, Shar," he said gently. "I know how it tugs at thy desires to leave this place before we've seen an end to it all. But learn a little wisdom and come now."

  He waited until she moved forward, and added, "Oh, aye. Bring the stone, lass, and pull it down above thee. Ye'll find lines scratched on its underside to mark how it fits."

  Sharantyr rolled her eyes in the gloom as she went to pick up the slab. With a sudden grunt of effort, she lifted it, staggered to the edge of the hole, and carefully set it down. A strong whiff of air from below made her cough.

  "You certainly know how to find troubles to land me in," the lady Knight complained as she started to follow him down the hole.

  "Ah, that's adventure, lass. Adventure," Elminster said cheerfully from somewhere in the darkness beneath her. "Some folk would envy ye."

  Sharantyr rolled her eyes again. They were beginning to water. This gate had better be close by.

  As the stone settled slowly back into place, the floating eye dipped to inspect it carefully. After a moment it soared into the darkness near the ceiling of the passage and sped away like an arrow fired from a strong forester's bow.

  "Lord Most High," Councillor Xanther Srildar said, in the safe confines of a tiny secret room deep under the oldest tower of the High Castle, "Brothers Angruin Myrvult and Heladar Longspear have both perished this day, and Harpers and agents of Cormyr lead the people of the dale in armed rising. This dale is lost to us. Over my head, they're taking the castle as I speak. Almost all of our sword brothers and mages are dead." Xanther's words shook only a little.

  When it issued out of the floating, darkly glowing black spindle in front of him, Manshoon's voice was silken in its easy softness. "Indeed. Have you an explanation for how this came about?"

  Xanther swallowed. His throat was suddenly dry again. The lord's tone was a sudden and cold reminder that his position as Manshoon's spy on the other Zhentarim here, a Brother above and secret from them, would not preserve his life if the lord was sufficiently displeased.

  "Yes, Lord," Xanther said boldly. "Elminster of Shadowdale led the forces that attacked the dale, accompanied by at least one of the Knights of Myth Drannor. I saw Elminster myself and overheard him talking to this Knight, a woman in leathers. He called her 'Shar.' They're presently going down a shaft that leads to the castle cesspool, where there's a hidden gate Elminster hopes to escape by."

  "Escape?" came that smooth voice out of the speaking stone, quick with interest, and Xanther began to breathe more easily. It might be that his news would please the Dread Lord of the Zhentarim enough to save his own life after all.

  "Yes, Lord," Xanther confirmed. "I heard him tell the Knight that they had no defense against magic anymore. His hand was burned where Stormcloak's magic missiles destroyed a ring of spell-turning he was wearing-I didn't know such rings could be affected that way, but I saw it fly apart. He said it as if the ring had been his only defense against magic. Then he said their work was done and he'd prefer to be gone before some 'Zhent mageling or other finds us and decides to enhance his reputation by blasting Elminster of Shadowdale into little wisps of smoke.' Those were the words he used."

  The speaking stone floated before him, silent for the space of two long breaths. Then the silken voice came again. Its words made Xanther glad that the stone's magic carried only voices, and that he could neither see nor be seen by the leader of the Zhentarim.

  "Tell me, Xanther Srildar," Manshoon's voice asked him, "why-hearing that as you did-you did not attack them both at once?"

  "I-was far away, Lord," Xanther said, swallowing, "using the wand you gave me. By one of its eyes I followed them across half the castle full of men fighting."

  The spindle floating at the height of his head hung silently.

  Emboldened, Xanther added, "Had I been there, Lord, I doubt Elminster would have spoken so plainly."

  "You've done well, Xanther," the smooth voice came again. "The Brotherhood is pleased with you, despite the disaster in the High Dale. Hear now my orders. Do whatever you can, and enlist whomever you feel necessary, to destroy Elminster of Shadowdale. Bring evidence of his death to me if you can-but whatever befalls and by any means, you must bring about his death. Your reward will be very great."

  The silently listening figure that neither Manshoon nor Xanther knew was there decided it was time to withdraw before being discovered, with a chance to earn a reward instead of the cold, deadly weight of Manshoon's disfavor.

  Hcarla Bellwind drew his robe more tightly about himself and hastened to a dark and winding stair he knew of. It descended directly to the part of the cellars where a certain noisome cavern held the cesspool.

  Bellwind was in too much of a hurry to close the secret door to Xanther's little room, once a private treasury vault, no doubt, and discovered by the Brotherhood long ago. The councillor, hurrying along soon after, felt cold fingers of fear touch his spine as he stared at the open door. Who had found his secret place and listened?

  Who knew Manshoon's orders and the truth about Elminster of Shadowdale; who was lurking somewhere near in the castle right now?

  Xanther tried to look about in all directions and discovered, as others have before him, that it's not easy… and that finding no immediate danger brings no comfort.

  The hurrying Hcarla had no time for fear as his hastening feet descended stairs cold, dark, and worn smooth with age. Others might sneer, as Stormcloak had, at the Old Mage's feeble powers and strange behavior, but Elminster had caused Manshoon himself to flee a fight at least twice. No, Hcarla Bellwind would not begrudge the power he could gain from Elminster.

  Not begrudge, but not fear either. If he could take the Old Mage unawares, he could cast his most precious magic: a stealspell. It would draw the most powerful spell out of the Old Mage's mind into his own, for Hcarla to wield. If that mind was empty of magic, the Old Mage's magic was truly gone and he could never hope to stand against the other spells Hcarla carried.

  On the way through the cellars, a thought struck Hcarla. He paused in a room where glowing mold had been left to grow undisturbed to cast its eerie light over a workbench. He took down a hatchet from where it hung over the bench and caught up a moldering old sack from a pile nearby.

  With the Old Mage's head in a sack, Hcarla could steal away to ask questions of it at leisure, using his own adaptation of the spell that
Brotherhood priests used to speak with the dead. With Elminster's lore-directions to his spellbooks and hidden magical items would be enough-Hcarla Bellwind could forget about Manshoon's favor or disfavor and think instead about replacing him to command the Brotherhood himself. Aye, now there was a thought.

  As he hurried on through the familiar darkness, Hcarla wondered briefly why Elminster had never tried to take control of the Brotherhood himself

  "Enough!" Itharr gasped. "I'm worn out… or at least my sword arm is. There can't be more than a hand's worth of Wolves left alive in all this castle."

  Belkram came to a reluctant halt, nodding. "You must be right," he said. "Even the Zhentarim can't make men out of nothing, and nothing is all we've found for six-seven? — rooms now."

  Itharr nodded. "That reminds me," he panted. "One of the men… yelled after us. After Elminster… left the hall, someone… created… magical darkness, and some councillors… got away."

  Belkram groaned. "Well, you've just proclaimed the task left to us: rounding up a lot of scheming councillors in their various hidey-holes all over this dale."

  Itharr waved a hand. "Time for that on the morrow," he said. "I'm more worried about archmages of Shadowdale wandering about the place."

  Belkram rolled his eyes as he opened his mouth to reply, but another, familiar voice rang out instead.

  "Hail, Harpers!"

  They turned. The clangor of arms had faded away in the bloodstained passages of the High Castle, and a man they knew was coming slowly toward them.

  Gedaern was stumbling on a leg that was no longer sound. Blood soaked his clothes and ran down his face from a cut where hair was tangled and caught fast in gore. The blade in his hand was broken, its tip shattered by the same fierce blows that had marked its length with deep notches. His breath was a wet, whistling sighing that spoke of blood spilling inside him.

  But Gedaern of the High Dale came on, eyes bright and fierce, and through the blood he was smiling. A proud, dangerous smile. A smile that Belkram would never forget, to the end of his days.

  "Fair fighting, Harpers," Gedaern said. "I thank you for this chance to hit back, at last." And he smiled that terrible smile again.

  "Gods, Old Mage," Sharantyr choked as they felt around in the thick, foul air. "You sure know some romantic places to take a lady!"

  Elminster made a harrumphing, throat-clearing noise from somewhere in the darkness nearby. "When ye've lived as many years as I have, Shar, ye know all the places!"

  Sharantyr turned toward him. "So why come here instead?" A whiff of putrefaction set her to coughing again. "Can't we even go for a torch?"

  "In this bad air, ye'd probably set off a blast that'd bring the stone above down atop us, after separating thy limbs from thy body and spreading ye all over the nearest wall."

  The ranger Knight sniffed. "Without light, Old Mage, the alternative bids fair to be finding the cesspool before finding this gate, by the simple means of falling into it!"

  Keep talking, idiots, Hcarla Bellwind thought with savage glee, coming cautiously nearer in the deep, velvety darkness. Their voices would lead him close enough. Cautiously he probed ahead of him with his foot, testing for firm footing before he committed his weight.

  His foot came down on something yielding, something that squeaked and moved hastily out from under his toes. He felt the harmless pressure of teeth on his boot before whatever it was scurried away.

  "Old Mage!" Sharantyr hissed, ahead. "Did you hear?"

  "Aye," Elminster replied. "Someone stepped on a rat."

  Silence fell, deep and waiting. Hcarla snarled a silent curse. Then he shrugged. No need to come within reach of the woman's sword while he had the stealspell.

  Setting down the axe and sack with slow, stealthy care, he moved his hands in the gestures he'd learned from an old Myth Drannan tome, its ever-bright metal pages still clear in his mind's eye, and softly spoke the words that tied the magic together and hurled it on its way.

  "No!" Elminster gasped roughly, a moment later. "Oh, no."

  Like someone uncorking a wineskin and squeezing it, the power pent up within him started to flow, being drawn off into the darkness. "Lass," he snapped urgently, "close thy eyes!"

  An instant later there was a blinding flash and a shattering roar that left their faces wet.

  Hcarla Bellwind, with all his dreams, had been consumed in a white-hot fireball by the titanic power of Art surging into him.

  In a chamber dark and warm, where soft limbs caressed his own in the flickering torchlight, Manshoon watched his favorite scrying crystal burst apart in the blue-white flame of Hcarla Bellwind's destruction. As the ladies in the wide bed around him shrieked and scrambled away, he sat up and hissed, "I'll have your head at last, Elminster!" His hand moved to the silken tassel of the bell cord to summon mages. Many mages.

  "Dread Lord?" the best of his companions asked, standing uncertainly beside the bed. "Shall I summon the"- her voice faltered and dropped almost to a whisper- "beholders?"

  Manshoon turned eyes that were very cold and dark on her. "You share my opinion of our current magelings, then? You expect them all to fail?"

  Anaithe looked back at him with the eyes of a trapped animal, licked her lips, and managed to say, "Yes."

  "Perhaps they'd do better," the High Lord of Zhentil Keep said in silken tones, "if you accompanied them in their search for Elminster. One who's seen so much she's not supposed to must have keen eyes indeed."

  Anaithe trembled, bit her lip, and brought her hands deliberately down to her sides, recovering her poise with an effort. "I shall do whatever my lord desires… though I cannot see how I, without any magic, can be of any help in destroying an archmage."

  Manshoon smiled suddenly. "As always, your spirit pleases me. You may live."

  Anaithe's skin paled to the hue of old bone, all over. "My thanks, Great Lord," she said softly, and bowed. Manshoon heard the thread of sarcasm she couldn't quite keep from her voice, and his smile broadened. Perhaps he should teach this one magic-after she'd been humbled by a whipping.

  Sharantyr spoke first, while their ears were still ringing. "What's this all over me?" she asked grimly.

  "Droplets of ambitious Zhentarim mage, no doubt," Elminster replied wryly. "Are ye all right?"

  "I-think so. I can't tell, in the dark." The lady ranger sounded angry. "Look… that was a blast, Old Mage, and the air around us didn't flame up to join it. So let us have light."

  Elminster nodded, and an instant later remembered to speak. "Aye, lass, but one problem occurs to me."

  "And it is-?"

  "In this darkness, we'll be hard put to it to find a torch."

  Sharantyr said something very rude and unladylike that made Elminster sigh and shake his head. And then, down the passage from which the attack had come, they saw the bobbing light of many torches.

  "Say nothing of the gate," Elminster muttered hastily. "We'll seek it later."

  The sputtering torches were coming fast. A few breaths later, the two men in leathers who'd slain Longspear in the marketplace burst into the room, blades drawn and trailing a handful of armed, bloody men. "Elminster?" one of them asked, holding his torch high.

  "Aye, ye've found him." Elminster moved to stand beside Sharantyr's drawn, ready blade. "Who be ye?"

  "Itharr," said Itharr simply.

  "Belkram," Belkram added. "Storm sent us."

  "So I need nursemaids now, do I?" Elminster grunted, and waved a hand. "Well met, and thanks for thy blade work outside the walls. Ye have my favor. Go and see if Mulmar needs ye for something."

  Itharr and Belkram looked at each other, shrugged, and grinned. They were four strides back up the passage they'd come from when they heard Elminster chuckle.

  They halted and turned. "We were asked to bring you with us," Itharr said rather hesitantly.

  "By whom?" Elminster asked with an air of offended dignity.

  "Irreph Mulmar, high constable of the High Dale."

&nb
sp; "Oh." Elminster smoothed his beard with long fingers. "Well… let's go, then."

  They went, climbing a long and winding way through empty passages, hearing excited voices echoing from here and there as they ascended through the castle, until they reached the great hall.

  Irreph Mulmar sat on the high seat there, in fine clothes and with the chains struck off his limbs. Men and women of the dale stood around him with weapons in their hands. Elminster stepped through the door and nodded casually to him, and sudden silence fell across the chamber.

  "Ah, Old Mage?" the high constable asked awkwardly. "We're grateful for your help an' all, but we've had a bellyful of wizards ruling things."

  Folk of the dale stood watchfully by, weapons ready.

  Elminster blinked at him. "By the good gods, man, what would I want to rule anyplace for?"

  There was another moment of silence, until Gedaern started to laugh. His guffaws set others off. In a moment the hall rang with laughter, the first light and general merriment that had been heard there for many a day.

  Another platter of steaming fowl banged down on the table between them, and Itharr plucked a drumstick from it without looking, his eyes on Belkram and Sharantyr.

  The two leaned toward each other over the table, chins almost in their wine goblets, as they strained to hear each other over the general din in the hall. All around them, dalefolk who should have been too exhausted to do more than snore were laughing, dancing, devouring with the speed of starving wolves everything that was brought in from the kitchens… and drinking as if they sat in parched desert sands instead of a mountain pass.

  "Baldur's Gate?" Shar said in pleased surprise. "Really? I was born there, too!" She grinned across the table at the tall Harper, then turned to Itharr. "So where do you hail from?"

  Itharr rolled his eyes. "All the same places as him. We've walked together for some years now, in the service of the Harp. But as to my upbringing, well… I have the misfortune-in the eyes of Baldurians, at least-to have been born in Athkatla."