Shadows of Doom asota-1 Read online

  Rundeth Hobyltar was another one. The local tailor and dyer was brighter than Gulkin, almost as much the snake as Xanther. Laconic and cynical, he took pains to appear easygoing. Heladar's informants said that, in the days before Zhentarim mages had first come to the High Dale, Rundeth had been a shrewd warrior, often hired by Sembian interests to ferret out and destroy outlaws in the mountains, and even thieves in the big port cities of the Land of Silver. Perhaps he was in the pay of someone in Sembia even now.

  And last, Thammar. The wine merchant was the only witty, friendly, serenely apolitical councillor, interested only in getting good wine into the dale for all and in lining his pockets liberally along the way. Hmmm… retired from Sembia. Gods spit! Saddusk could be a Sembian spy, or worse. With his contacts, he could be an agent for fabled Kara-Tur or someplace even farther afield. Often it's the friendliest one, the one you least suspect, who has the dagger waiting… and Thammar did wear a sword rather too casually for a soft, nearly retired Sembian merchant.

  Oh, to the grave with all this pondering! Any one of them, or all of them, could well be behind this. Or it might be simply the work of a wizard gone off his head, with his daughter, apprentice, or pleasure-maid keeping him company.

  Heladar realized with a sudden chill that, in the end, it didn't really matter. If Longspear was to rule in the High Dale more than a winter longer, he must assume all of them were in league against him and waiting for a chance to bring him down. If he didn't-well, one of them at least would try.

  And if he was able or lucky enough to survive that attempt, the idea would be in their heads. One of the others would decide that the title of Lord of the High Dale sounded grand enough and-situated on the trade road between Cormyr and Sembia, while Zhent-backed brigands kept the Daerlun road dangerous and expensive-profitable enough to make a grab for it.

  Even the best blade can grow dull, if it has to lop off too many reaching fingers.

  Heladar's continuing silence had led Stormcloak on to bolder speech. Warmed by the heat of his own wagging tongue, the wizard had even begun to speak as if the High Dale's men-at-arms obeyed him and-the traditional failing of mages-as if the council would agree to his every whim because no intelligent being could help but see things as he did. Heladar just smiled and went on being silent.

  Angruin was in the midst of exhorting his fellow councillors to stir their children, their neighbors, their neighbor's children, and any cats and dogs within reach to take up arms and scour every inch of the dale for these intruders, to slay them, capture them, or drive them out. The dale must be cleansed!

  Ye gods, he sounds like one of the priests. Heladar turned his gaze again around the table. Of course the mages want every blade out and every child alert. The more who fight, the more they can hide behind, hurling spells from a safe distance.

  This could be a real challenge, to the Zhentarim as well as to the lordship of Heladar Longspear. Cormyr could be lurking behind the attacks, or Sembia, or even powerful loners like the fabled Gondegal, Elminster of Shadowdale, or the willful, wandering Witch-Queen of Aglarond who flew endlessly about Faerun in the shape of a black falcon, meddling. The only thing to do was to muster the entire armed might of the dale to track down the intruders, backed by all the magic the wizards could mount. Manshoon would order that if Heladar didn't.

  There was something else, though. Even before these attacks, the wizards had been tense and troubled. Had this entire episode been prearranged by someone in Zhentil Keep, part of some deep plan to cast aside Longspear and change the rule of the High Dale again?

  Nay. That would not worry the mages so collectively and deeply. They'd looked like lost men, especially the lesser ones. At the time, he'd assumed that Zhentil Keep had given them harsh and unsettling orders not for his ears. Now, though… Nordryn had been upset by the news about his friend, but now his face showed not so much shock and grief as it did fear for his own skin, and a sort of helplessness. He stared down at his open hands for a moment as if not believing that they could ever cast a spell again.

  Heladar's eyes narrowed. Was that it? Ildomyl had seized a goodly amount of magic, by all accounts, and certainly the man had a wand or two. He shouldn't have fallen so easily. Had his magic failed him?

  He smiled. Watching the mages would take long-perhaps too long. Better to charge in, swinging a blade, and force things his way. He smiled and said quietly, "Angruin is right, of course. We must rouse the dale."

  Stormcloak's head turned in surprise. He had almost forgotten Heladar was there at all. Longspear met his eyes and added softly, "Yet there is something I must speak to him about in private. Something about… spells." He raised his eyebrows, awaiting Angruin's agreement.

  That was it! There was something amiss with their magic. The mages were all looking at him as though he'd grown six hissing serpent heads, and all of them breathing fire, too!

  Heladar smiled evenly at them all, looking mysterious and enjoying it. Let them think he had his own sources rather than dismissing him as a stone-headed, sword-swinging puppet who'd dance eagerly to whatever tune they told him Zhentil Keep played. This was more the way things should be. He drummed his fingertips in satisfaction on the hilt of his sword, below the edge of the table, and leaned forward.

  The other councillors were agreeing, of course. They could hardly appear loyal, or even prudent in matters touching the safety of their homes, if they did not. If they were all spies, though, the coming turmoil could only give them chances to kill off Zhent mages and warriors, weakening the invisible but heavy hand in which Zhentil Keep held the High Dale.

  "Have we agreement, then?" he asked softly, surprising them all this time. He gathered them in with his eyes, one by one around the table. All met his gaze. All, even the wizards, nodded to his authority.

  Heladar Longspear rose to his feet and looked down that long table. "As we are all agreed," he began formally, "I have no hesitation in giving the orders: We loose all our hounds and go to war."

  It was cold, churning along up to their knees in the swampy backwaters, and the smell was incredible. "See the far reaches of the Realms," Sharantyr muttered.

  "Walk where no mortal has trod… Is this what those mercenaries mean when they go spinning tales in the taverns?"

  "To lure idle young bravos? Aye." Elminster chuckled. "This is exactly what they mean, though they sing a different song." He strode along in the muddy water unconcerned, his long robes drawn up through his belt into a ridiculous bundle. Seeing her look, he laid a hand suggestively on his hip, batted his eyelashes at her, and winked. Sharantyr saw that he'd tied the long end of his white beard into a club knot.

  It was too much. She shouted with laughter, doubled up over the fetid water, then stopped suddenly, clapping a dripping hand over her mouth.

  "Tymora bless me!" she hissed. "I'm sorry, Old Mage! The guards-"

  Elminster chuckled. "Don't worry," he assured her. "That last cliff back there, the one like the ship's prow, marks the western end of the dale, or used to. We've slipped clean past Westkeep and into what they call the Hullack Stairs-or used to."

  Sharantyr chuckled at that. "I'll be hearing you say 'or used to' in my sleep."

  Elminster's eyebrows rose. "Oh?" he asked with dignity. "I was aware that I'd given thee leave to accompany me, young lady, and that ye'd behaved thyself-more or less-impeccably, given our physical proximity and, ah, dire straits. But I assure thee I do not recall giving thee any intimation that ye'd be welcome to listen to me while ye pretend to slumber!"

  Sharantyr sighed, and shook her head. "All right, Old Mage, all right," she shushed him. "What now?"

  "Now we look for the marker stone that should be right about… here." Elminster trotted around a clump of shrubs, over a fallen tree, and paused dramatically, pointing at a weathered pillar of stone.

  "You knew where to find this?"

  Elminster shrugged. "Unless someone took it into his head to move it since I placed it here, some three hundred winters ag
o."

  Sharantyr rolled her eyes. "And having found your marker?" she asked the sky.

  The Old Mage did not reply. He was leaning forward, staring at the stone. On the side closest to the High Dale, someone had written with the ashen end of a burned stick: "Death To The Tyranny Of All Mages." Elminster frowned at it for a long breath or two, then slowly grinned.

  He turned. "Eh? Oh, aye. We sleep hereabouts, then turn back and enter the dale openly on the morrow. That's when our fun begins."

  "You mean we attack these Zhents openly? But, your magic-"

  Elminster spread open hands. "I have my baubles, and thee, to keep me safe."

  Sharantyr sighed, then smiled and said formally, "We ride well together, Old Mage." Her eyes flashed.

  Elminster bowed, gave her a sad, slow smile in return, and answered, "Ye're not the first lass that's said that to me, but I thank thee for saying it." And he leaned over and kissed her cheek tenderly.

  Sharantyr looked at him, somewhat surprised. The Old Mage smiled back at her for a moment. Then he suddenly stiffened, turned white, and abruptly sat down on some ferns.

  "Elminster!" She sprang forward and bent over him anxiously. "What befalls?"

  The wizard shook his head and waved a hand at her before reaching up to unknot his beard. "Much power was suddenly drawn out of me. It was-upsetting."

  He brightened, then frowned. "Perhaps Lady Mystra is with us again and had need of it. Or-perhaps another being has found a way to steal what I carry, and the Realms are doomed." He shrugged, and brushed aside a few branches to stretch out more comfortably.

  "Ah, well," he said. "Stretch out here beside me, las-Shar, sorry. No doubt we'll find out which has befallen tomorrow."

  10

  Wizards' Woe

  The sun rose and awakened them.

  Sharantyr felt it warm her face. She came awake, alert in an instant. The ranger lay still, feeling the hard ground beneath her, the reassuring hardness of her sword hilt under her fingers, and a familiar warmth-and sound-beside her: the unconcernedly snoring form of Elminster of Shadowdale.

  She smiled, shook her head, and eased away from him to stretch her stiff legs and aching back. The sounds promptly ceased, and a familiar, irascible voice said, "Ready to save the High Dale, then? I was wondering when you'd bother to stir your shanks."

  Sharantyr paused. "You snore loudly when you're wondering about things," she told him, amused.

  Elminster regarded her with dignity. "Simply giving the insides of my skull some fresh air," he replied. "As ye seem to do often, yawning the way ye do whenever we talk about anything."

  Sharantyr waved a dismissive hand. "Simply straining not to miss a single inference or nuance of your fair speech," she told him serenely and walked away.

  The lady ranger turned after a few steps. "I shall return in a breath or two," she announced. "While I'm gone, see what you can do about dawnfry. I'm starving, and my belly seems ever hungrier than that."

  Elminster sighed. "I can certainly take thy mind off it, lass," he said gruffly, "and have thee running about in such a whirlwind of seeking spells and eager blades and shouting Black Helms that thy stomach'll soon have the heaves. But if it's real food ye want to feel sliding down thy gullet and warming thy insides, we'll have to buy that in the High Dale, as any wayfarers would. So the sooner we set off, the sooner we both eat."

  "Fair fortune to that," Sharantyr agreed from behind a tree. "Can we leave off conquering the dale until after I eat?"

  "Ready to save the dale, then?" Belkram asked cheerfully.

  Itharr just looked at him. "Is there anything to eat?" A rolling growl from his stomach echoed the query.

  "No," Belkram said just as cheerfully. "I saw a few berries yestereve, two ridges back, but there weren't more than a handful."

  "Ummm." Itharr looked glum. "All this running about, hacking mages and Zhentilar strongnecks, seems a lot more enticing on a full stomach."

  "One stride before the next," Belkram said reassuringly. "If we knock over enough mages, we're sure to find one with some food. If we have to take the lord's throne of this place to do it, we can throw a victory feast, and you can stuff yourself for free."

  "Ummm," Itharr said again, stretching-and wincing at the stiff tenderness of his wound. "After we defeat all the evil ones? I'm not even certain this is the High Dale. What if we're somewhere east of Impiltur or in the fabled Far Isles?"

  "Then we'll have a long walk back," Belkram said, not unkindly. "Let's look for an inn, or at least a tavern. There must be one. We've seen a castle and a lot of homes outside its walls. We'll ask folk there if anyone's seen Elminster of Shadowdale wandering about."

  "Aye," Itharr grunted, reaching out of long habit for his blade. "And then we'll leap to our feet and try to carve a way out of the place, through seven handcounts or so of black-armored hireswords all howling for our blood."

  Belkram shrugged. "Right, so we'll buy some dawnfry first and ask questions later."

  Itharr nodded. "If I'm to be fighting for my life," he said, hefting his blade experimentally, "I'd prefer to do it knowing that I've at least had one last good meal."

  Belkram looked at him and scratched the stubble on his chin. "A real brightheart, aren't you?"

  Itharr grinned. "Let's put on our best Harper smiles as we rush to certain death, hewing and slaying with the best of them!" he chirped brightly and mockingly, and skipped down out of the rocky hollow where they'd slept, whistling a merry tune.

  Belkram sighed. "Why is it always my lot to share trail with the lunatics?" he asked the gods above as he followed. As usual, the gods did not bother to answer.

  Heladar Longspear stood on the castle walls and looked around at his dale. He strode slowly, gazing for a long time east down the tunnel-like valley and looking almost as long into the west. The sentinels on the walls saluted him in respectful silence and kept out of his way. Heladar was silently grateful for that.

  He'd grown to love this harsh, stone-locked, backward place-a dale of history and importance balanced on a sword's edge between proud Cormyr and rich Sembia, a place that had bowed to him, however unwillingly, for over a moon now. A place he'd felt was strong and secure in his grip despite the ongoing schemes of the mages, and the rest of the council for that matter. Secure for long enough to relax and enjoy the place.

  His High Dale. His until the night before last, at least. Now some unknown foe was lurking out there, perhaps even under his gaze right now, looking back at him from hiding, waiting to bring about his fall.

  He wheeled, cloak swirling, to stride toward the stairs leading down. He'd ordered his best armor freshly oiled and laid ready this morn, and he'd feel better once he was in it.

  He'd learned a thing or two in enough years of battle and guardianship, waiting and scouting, standing guard and snatching sleep whenever possible. He'd learned the ways of war, to trust his hunches, to smell danger, and to feel when something was wrong or when violence was coming.

  Today, for instance. Strife would come here, to the heart of the High Dale, this day. Heladar could feel it, and an old soldier's bones never lied.

  Who, he wondered for the twentieth time since dawn, was at large, swords out, in his dale? Who sought the downfall of Lord Longspear?

  He was just swinging his boot forward to descend the first step when up out of the darkness came two dark eyes he knew and disliked. The eyes looked back at him, cold and knowing, not bothering to hide their own feelings.

  Angruin. The mage who called himself Stormcloak and thought himself the true ruler of the High Dale.

  Longspear came to a silent halt on the top step, hand on hip where it could rest by his weapons, and waited.

  This whole affair could just be a clash of private plots and feuds among these mages. There need be no outside, lurking enemy, merely the creatures and servants of this ambitious, strutting Zhentarim or any of the lesser wizards beneath him.

  Longspear did not allow himself to sigh. He kept his e
yes bleak as Stormcloak swept up the last steps.

  "Fair morn, Lord," the mage greeted him coldly and smoothly. "Are you well? Is there something dark on your mind?"

  Longspear eyed him back just as coldly. "The safety of my dale," he said shortly. "As usual. Will you be ready, mage, to see to the safety of the High Dale, should we be attacked?"

  "Attacked?" Stormcloak crooked one long, arched eyebrow. "Do you expect something as swiftly as all that?"

  "Sooner," Longspear growled. "Sooner." He looked out again at the peaceful trees and fields of the dale below, then up to the frowning gray walls of the mountains beyond on both sides.

  Then he brought his gaze down, hawklike, directly to meet the wizard's.

  Stormcloak's eyes were steady upon him. He waited.

  Silence. Heladar sighed inwardly and asked, "Well?"

  "My lord?" The mage added the slightest mocking twist to the title.

  "I asked you a question, mage." Heladar kept his voice cold, level, and patient. "Have you an answer for me?"

  Stormcloak was silent. Heladar propped an elbow on the nearest stone crenellation as if he had all the time in the Realms, leaned against it, and waited.

  The mage waited a moment more, testing Longspear's gaze, then said softly, "My spells are ready to defend the High Dale, for the greater glory of the Zhentarim."

  For the Zhentarim-not for Heladar Longspear.

  The Lord of the High Dale gave him a wintry smile to show that his verbal jab had not been missed and said, "What is it I hear from Zhentil Keep, then, of magic going wild and mages falling mad?"

  Angruin took a step closer, frowning. "Wild magic? Who has told you of this?"

  Longspear smiled a long, slow smile. "One," he said carefully, "whom it is better not to name. I assure you that you know him. He inhabits a lofty tower."