Shadows of Doom Read online

  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 well 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 eyes 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 ha
d 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.”

  Angruin kept his face mildly interested, no more. Manshoon. Longspear’s words could mean only one man: he who dwelt in the Tower High. Lord Manshoon, leader of the Zhentarim. This Heladar Longspear must enjoy more favor than he’d thought.

  Longspear, who’d just launched his greatest bluff so far in his dealings with this haughty wizard, smiled and hoped he’d get away with it. “Well?” he asked again. “The day does draw on, Angruin. I can’t order the men to best effect unless I know how much I can rely on your magic, and that of the lesser mages. What say you?”

  Angruin Myrvult accepted the extended hand of peace somewhat reluctantly. “Our Art—the magic of all men, from what I hear and suspect—has become somewhat … unsettled. Yet we stand with you as always, Lord Longspear. Moreover,” he added, lifting his hands to reveal the wand at his belt that his fingers had been tightening around as they spoke, “we are never without at least one … aid.”

  “Good,” Heladar told him. Before Stormcloak could add the inevitable threat, he spoke it for him. “I’ll remember that.”

  The Lord of the High Dale went down the stairs, feeling cold eyes on his back all the way down. He kept his shoulders broad and square, taking satisfaction in his daring at turning his back on Angruin for so long. No one else in all the dale dared to.

  Jatham Villore looked out of his shop, up at the frowning bulk of the High Castle looming above the trees. “Yet the eating of bad bread may make a haunt of the dreams of even a lord,” he echoed the quotation. No, the word had been “kings,” hadn’t it? No matter.

  Heladar and his bullying mages were upset indeed, for the first time since they’d come here. Perhaps their rule could be weakened or even broken altogether.

  That would please his masters very much.

  Jatham went quietly into his shop and bolted the door. This wouldn’t take long. Just a simple spell or two to confuse and befog magical attempts to locate things and folk such as the mysterious enemies who’d twice been so bold as to strike out at the lord’s Wolves and mages.

  Or even more times, if Longspear and Angruin had not told all. Jatham grinned as he bolted an inner door behind him. These cloaking spells had saved his own skin more than once. Back in Thay, he’d learned their ins and outs very thoroughly, for wise masters had told him that his success as an agent—his very survival—depended on such knowledge. They’d been right, of course.

  Jatham laid hands on what he’d need, closed his eyes briefly to gather his will, and began the whispered chant. At long last, it was time to act.

  They had almost reached the hard-eyed guards when Elminster snapped his fingers and laid a firm hand on the inside of Sharantyr’s elbow, dragging her to a halt.

  “I must be getting old,” he muttered. “I almost forgot.” He gestured toward the bushes. “Go in there to relieve yourself,” he directed.

  Sharantyr raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need to at the moment, thank you very much, Old M—”

  As she spoke, Elminster smoothly produced the two wands he was carrying and slid them up the sleeve of the arm he was clasping.

  “All I need ye to do is slide these under thy—’hem—chest, Shar,” he murmured. “Beneath them, mind, where no searching guard will feel them. Hurry, now.”

  Sharantyr gave him a look and did as she was bid. She came out into the road fumbling with the lacings at her belt and saw two of the guards exchange amused looks. The wands felt cold and hard next to her skin.

  He grinned at her. “I’ll reclaim them as soon as I can, lass,” he promised.

  “I’ll just wager you will,” she replied in warning tones.

  “One more thing,” Elminster added hurriedly. “If I signal you—so—by scratching my ear, think hard of Sembian trade, merchant contacts, and making money there. Keep thinking of those things until I scratch there again.”

  “You mean someone might pry at our thoughts?” Sharantyr asked warily.

  Elminster nodded and added loudly, “I’ve told ye, gel, if ye drink so much before setting out, o’ course the walking’ll see thee in the bushes all too soon!”

  The guards smiled at his words, waving them to one side of the road and staring hard at them both.

  “A copper each for passage into the High Dale,” said the larger one shortly, holding out his hand.

  Elminster meekly took two coppers out of his purse—two coppers he’d picked up in the guard hut at the other end of the dale, not so long ago—and paid them over.

  “Stretch out arms afore ye,” said another guard, blade drawn. “We have orders to search all who enter the dale. Resist us, or reach for any weapon, and you’ll see nothing else in this life but your own blood, all of it leaving you.”

  Haragh Mnistlyn leaned forward in his chair. A warrior woman traveling with an old man was certainly odd. Best give these two the full scrutiny.

  He stood up, making a certain sign. The guard who was watching for it drew his blade and motioned to another of his fellows. They took up positions near the two who were being searched, near enough to disrupt the casting of a spell with a quick lunge.

  Haragh stood under his awning, watching the faces of the two narrowly, as hard-eyed as the guards, and began the casting of a spell to read minds.

  Elminster scratched one ear and Sharantyr frowned slightly. Hard, probing hands wandered over them both. They waited, unmoving.

  Until they heard a gasp.

  Everyone turned. The mage who’d sat in the chair under the canopy, back from the road, was standing horrified in the midst of well-trodden grass. In front of him, as they watched, little white flowers were appearing, first singly, then in clusters of three and more. Swiftly, silently, the flowers appeared out of nothingness, without any fuss or spell-smoke.

  The mage stared down at them, stunned.

  Sharantyr glanced quickly at Elminster. His eyes had widened just a trifle, but now he was nodding, slowly, as if he understood.

  He stepped forward, ignoring the blades held ready near him, and clapped his hands. “Beautiful!” he said enthusiastically. “I’ve seen no better in the tavern spell-contests of Waterdeep itself! My thanks, mage. Has the High Dale become a place where magic is embraced and its beauty appreciated?”

  Haragh’s mouth opened and shut, but no words came out. He stared down at his hands, then sat down suddenly in his chair, shaking his head.

  Elminster’s face fell. “Oh, dear,” he said to the nearest guard. “Did he intend to cast something else? My apologies, if I’ve offended …”

  The guard looked at him. “You a wizard?”

  “Nay, nay,” Elminster said with a regretful sigh. “Fascinated by the stuff. See as much of it as I can, and trade in it when Lady Luck has it so, but I can’t call up even a spark, even when lowly apprentices take too many gold pieces from me for showing me how to. It’s just not something the gods meant for me, it seems.”

  The warrior chuckled. “Aye, you and me both, old man.” He jerked his head. “Go on, then,” he told them. “We’d better see to Lord High-and-Mighty.” He stared over at the chair with long-suffering good humor, and Elminster chuckled in the easy fellowship of one downtrodden jack to another.

  “My thanks, goodsir,” the Old Mage told him and trudged eastward into the High Dale, with Sharantyr in tow.

  Elminster waited until they were safely screened from any curious eyes on Westkeep’s battlements, then stopped and extended a hand.

  Sharantyr calmly loosened the lacings of her leathers, looked swiftly about, and slid his wands out and returned them to him, somewhat warmer.

  Elminster stowed them away as smoothly and said, “My thanks
, Shar. We do work well together.”

  Sharantyr smiled at him. “Well, Mysterious One? What happened back there?”

  The Old Mage shrugged. “Magic is going awry all over the Realms. We’ve just been treated to more evidence of that.” He looked at her rather sadly.

  “I must warn ye: Rely not overmuch on the magic we’re carrying, either.”

  Sharantyr nodded slowly and took his arm. They walked on.

  “Tell me,” she said in low tones as they went over a little rise and houses began to appear before them, “why you had no fear of being found out, if that mage could read minds? Did you know his spell would fail?”

  Elminster shook his head. “If I could predict its working, ’twouldn’t be ‘wild magic,’ now, would it?”

  Sharantyr nodded. “Mystra’s burden, again?” she asked softly.

  “Aye,” Elminster said briefly, his gaze leaping here and there ahead of them as alertly as any battle scout.

  “That sounds very useful to a Harper—or a courtier, I suppose,” Sharantyr said almost wistfully. “No enemy can read your thoughts or twist your will. Why do they call it Mystra’s burden?”

  “Think, if ye will,” he replied, “of the loneliness ye would feel were ye to outlive all thy friends except fellow bearers of the burden. Ye’d see kingdoms fall, not once but again and again, and favorite places changed or swept away in the passing years. Think on this and ask me again why we call it Mystra’s burden.”

  Sharantyr was silent beside him as they walked a long way. Then she asked almost timidly, “What, then, will we do now, Old Mage?”

  Elminster looked at her in surprise. “Why, go and defeat this Longspear, of course.”

  Jatham almost fled out of his dark room, breathing heavily. The spells had worked, aye, but he’d never before had Art curl away from his control with almost contemptuous ease. Ye gods, what was happening to him?

  He paused out in the shop to wipe cold sweat from his brow and restore his usual lazy smile before he threw back the bolt. The smile took a lot more effort than usual.