Cloak of Shadows Read online

  “The second ring Sharantyr took from the body—from the left little toe—should hold the means to free them,” Syluné’s voice said, a little wearily. As Belkram turned to walk back to where Shar had been working, Syluné added, “They can help build a pyre. The body must be burned before someone gets a good look at it. Waste no time about this, mind.”

  “Of course not, great lady,” Belkram said, sarcasm only the faintest of ripples in his tone.

  The deep tinkling sound made in reply by the stone in his palm was quite the loveliest chuckle he’d ever heard.

  * * * * *

  The Castle of Shadows, Kythorn 16

  Blue-tinged mists swirled hastily out of the way as Kostil of the Malaugrym stalked angrily through the Castle of Shadows. “Summoning us all to a council is a wise—if time-devouring—action at such a time, but how long must we wait for the Shadowmaster High to appear? I have plans—I daresay we all do—and now, with magic raging wild in Faerûn and godlings bounding all over the place, is not the time to tarry in bureaucratic power games!”

  “I am of like mind,” Yabrant said quietly. “What could he be about, to be so important tha—”

  Under their feet, the shadows shook with the sudden boom of the great bell. They stopped, turned as one, and grew wings to speed back to the Great Hall as the rolling echoes died away.

  Then the bell rang again, a single strike in measured time with the previous ring. Their eyes met. The bell tolling? This could mean only one thing—and Dhalgrave had been forceful, strong, and in full command of his powers not long ago at all.

  Unlike Dhalgrave, neither of them—senior Shadowmasters both—had the strength of magic to levitate around a chamber, move the seeking eye of the portal around Faerûn, speak to an errant Malaugrym, bring one’s own shape out of invisibility, and alter the portal’s size and location in the Great Hall, overriding its spell defenses constantly and smoothly to do so … all at once.

  Moreover, all the things that laid humans low—heart attacks, diseases, poisons, the failure of veins and lesser organs—were minor annoyances to Malaugrym able to change their bodies. Those of the blood of Malaug declined slowly, losing their shapeshifting abilities fitfully, usually along with their memories. Unless they were slain.

  Kostil and Yabrant exchanged another grim glance and redoubled their efforts to get back to the throne chamber. The great bell tolled once more as the speed of their passage made the shadows they tore through rise in a continuous moan.

  * * * * *

  Daggerdale, Kythorn 16

  “It has been a pleasure to aid you,” Randal Morn said quietly, shaking their hands. Brammur smiled broadly and nodded his head in emphatic agreement, moustaches bobbing, but Thaern stood watchfully a little way to the side, an arrow fitted and ready in his bow. In these dark days, Daggerdale was hard pressed to keep its rightful lord alive.

  The three rangers in worn leathers bowed in response. Straightening up, Sharantyr kept her features straight in the face of Brammur’s longing gaze. The old warrior was obviously smitten with her. The eyes of the other loyal men of Daggerdale said plainly that they’d not forgotten their glimpses of her, either. She gave them all a cheery smile and said, “When the smoke begins to rise, I take it these ruins will become a very dangerous place to tarry?”

  The Lord of Daggerdale nodded. “We are always watched,” he said quietly, “by the cruel creatures of Zhentil Keep and by predators hungry for man-meals. Not that there’s much difference between them as far as the few surviving good folk of Daggerdale are concerned.”

  “Then we are forcing you into flight once more,” Belkram said, in tones so sensitive that no warrior of Daggerdale thought to take offense at his words.

  “ ’Tis what we’re best at, these days,” Brammur rumbled, and there were rueful chuckles from his fellows.

  “Then let us part as trusted friends,” Itharr said gravely. Then his voice changed. “Anyone have flints handy?”

  More chuckles gave him reply, and several hands crowded forward to strike sparks onto the handful of kindling that all wayfaring Harpers carried in their bedding, and coax it into a flame for the torch-rag.

  As the kindling flared, Randal Morn said, “We’d best be on our way and leave you to bid farewell to your fallen comrade in privacy. Know that Those Who Harp are always welcome in Daggerdale.”

  “If you need refuge, doors are always open to you in Shadowdale,” Sharantyr replied.

  “And more,” Belkram said. “That Harper pin you have will allow you safely into a cache of healing potions and the like, in a cave big enough to shelter six, under a tree. Dig under leaves between the two largest exposed roots of the third shadowtop tree south of Dagger Rock, on the east side of the road. Don’t stop if you uncover orc bones.”

  The men of Daggerdale exchanged glances and nodded to each other as they fixed the Harper’s words in mind.

  “That is princely payment,” Randal said quietly, “for cutting a few tree boughs.”

  “You deserve all that the Harpers can give you, and more,” Itharr replied as flame flared under his hands. “Most folk would have fled or thrown their lives away in stiff-necked glory-seeking long ago. Your struggle protects all in the Dalelands.”

  “It is good,” Brammur said gruffly, “to hear someone say that, now and then. Thank you.” He turned away quickly, eyes very bright, but spun about again to raise his hand in salute.

  Randal Morn and the rest of his men joined in the gesture and then began to back away together, the watchful archer covering their withdrawal.

  In two breaths they’d all melted away into the trees, and the three rangers in the ruins could see no sign of them.

  “Shar?” Itharr asked, holding out the torch.

  “You do it,” Sharantyr said shortly, heart suddenly full and catching at her throat. She stepped back, fighting down the urge to burst into tears.

  The Dales should not be lands where men’s lives were torn away from them daily by fey shapeshifters and prowling beasts. Where brigands reigned and rightful lords lived like outlaws while arrogant Zhentarim plotted the overthrow of the next dale … and the next.

  Belkram touched her arm. “Mount up,” he said quietly, “and then you can cry at will.”

  Shar stiffened, turning blazing eyes on him, but he merely smiled and clapped her on the shoulder—the shoulder covered by leathers he’d mended. She gulped, threw her arms around him, and said tremulously, jaw hard on his shoulder, “I’m … not … going … to … weep now. It was only a false seeming of a mage, anyway, not our old friend.”

  The pyre crackled and then caught, damp wood hissing loudly as smoke rose from many places in the woodpile. Itharr tossed the torch onto it and sought his mount.

  Flames began to show themselves, dancing here and there in the pyre.

  The horses danced under their riders, the flames making them restive, so the three rangers pulled back a little way to watch.

  “We should be leaving,” Belkram said, “before eyes we won’t welcome turn hither.”

  “Let us have a real pyre,” Syluné’s voice said, from the pouch in the Harper’s breast pocket where he carried her stone.

  An instant later, the growing crackle of flames leapt into a bright white roar, and a pillar of fire clawed at the sky.

  The horses snorted and stamped. After a moment of awed watching, the three riders turned their mounts away and settled into a gallop, heading northwest. No one felt like talking.

  9

  Another Day Spent Saving the Realms

  The Castle of Shadows, Kythorn 17

  Shadows danced and shivered around the edges of the scene in the portal. Six sweating elder Shadowmasters, under the gasped directions of Bheloris who stood among them, trembling with effort, fought to hold its view so large and clear.

  Most of the kin—sixty or more—were in the Great Hall of the Throne now, but the bell tolled on. Everyone but the struggling elders was talking excitedly, eyes glued to the
portal, which showed Dhalgrave sprawled on the gleaming tiles of his private audience chamber. His eyes were two smoldering, empty holes. A long forked tongue trailed from his mouth, and his brow and wrists were bare. The Shadowcrown and the Doomstars were gone.

  There was more. A word had been written on the tiles beside the head of the Shadowmaster High … written in his own blood. That word was “UNWORTHY.”

  The talk was growing excited, as hope to seize the Shadow Throne grew in the hearts of two dozen Malaugrym, tempered only by fear of what might befall anyone who tried to hold that throne without the Shadowcrown and the threat of the Doomstars. Even if the ambushes and treacheries of open rivals were quelled, whoever had the missing items could appear without warning and slay any new Shadowmaster High, to take the throne in turn.

  “Who could have done this?” Taernil asked for the sixth time, his voice as awed and outraged as it had been at first. Beside him, Huerbara sighed.

  “Someone has,” she said simply. “Accept that and go on. What now, for the two of us?”

  “Accept that someone—” The rising rage in Taernil’s voice broke off abruptly, and he fell silent and looked at her. “You’re right. We must decide what to do, and not rage or dither.” Then his sharp features changed, and he added softly, almost wonderingly, “The two of us, you said …”

  Huerbara blushed, eyes glittering into his, and then abruptly turned her head away.

  “Young idiots,” Kostil said under his breath, flapping his wings down to reabsorb them into his body, eyes on the quivering scene of Dhalgrave dead in his chambers.

  Yabrant shrugged beside him. “We all were, once.” He seemed about to say more, but at that moment Bheloris shuddered, cried out, and pitched forward on his face—and the scene of death flew apart into shards and streamers of radiance, fading swiftly into the mists.

  “He managed to force the portal’s eye through Dhalgrave’s defenses?” Kostil muttered. “I’m surprised he held it together so long.”

  “Dhalgrave wasn’t resisting him or directing the shield spells,” Yabrant said thoughtfully. “The feat is not that impressive. Doing it with such swiftness is.”

  “The young she-kin’s question remains a good one,” Kostil said. “What to we do now, the two of us?”

  “Rescue Bheloris, before one of his old rivals decides to take advantage of his condition. We’ll need him,” Yabrant said, shouldering his way forward. “I believe the killing’s about to start.”

  As he spoke, shouts arose across the Great Hall, and there was frenzied movement. The flaring radiance of a spell followed, accompanied by a scream, as the unleashed magics returned to their caster.

  “Didn’t that idiot pay any attention to Dhalgrave’s words about the defenses he’d added to this hall? He made enough noise about ‘a truly safe meeting-ground for all of the blood of Malaug’ and such!” Kostil’s voice was disgusted. “Do we really share kinship with total idiots?”

  “It’s a common fate in the multiverse, I’m told,” Yabrant replied wryly as they forced their way to Bheloris. They found Neleyd there before them, his body shifted into a shield of many curling tentacles. “Well done, boy.”

  Neleyd flushed at the words, then sighed and asked, “Am I to be ‘boy’ forever?”

  “No,” Kostil told him kindly. “You get to alternate between that, ‘young fool,’ and ‘brainless youngling’ for a few hundred years yet.”

  “I’ll enjoy that,” Neleyd told him dryly, as the chamber rocked under the impact of two warring explosions, and kin all around them grew weapons out of their limbs and began shouting and hacking. “Let’s be gone!”

  “Wisely said, young fool,” Yabrant told him with a many-fanged smile.

  His expression was matched by a figure none of them saw, who stood watching the tumult from a high, shadow-cloaked balcony. Milhvar smiled only that once, then turned silently away. There was much to do.

  * * * * *

  Somewhere in Faerûn, Kythorn 17

  Elminster paused for a moment on a hilltop, his eyes full of swirling stars. The sight that showed him the flows of Art—that is, where magic could be expected to twist wild—was an exhausting thing to use for long, but he had to be sure of his next move. He had a long, hard day ahead, what with avatars stalking around Faerûn, egos first, trying to destroy anything and everything that so much as looked askance at them.

  A thought brought his pipe whizzing around his head to his lips, and he puffed on it thoughtfully. Over there was the next battle to be fought, aye, but first …

  He leaned forward, banished the mage-sight, and called on farseeing for a moment. A gnarled tree, bark crumbling off a dead limb that curved just so … and the ground beneath … a-hum. Enough. Do it!

  Abruptly the hilltop was empty except for a silently circling pipe. An instant later, the pipe vanished too.

  Faerûn: a camp on the High Road south of Tunland, then Hawkgauntlet, Kythorn 18

  “I told ye to strike at the goblins, an’ leave the ore to me! Tempus take thee for a softskull, lad! Now we’ll have to … leave him lie.”

  “To die.” It was not a question.

  “Get out of my sight!” the old warrior roared, rounding on the younger with his eyes blazing almost-visible flames. The younger man fell back, fumbling for his blade in fearful habit. “If ye knew how to rotting take orders as well as ye know how to rotting well ignore ’em, we’d not have to be leaving anyone! Go now, afore I really lose my temper!”

  The young warrior gulped, spun about, and ran.

  The older armsman spat after him and then turned back to the injured priest of the Wargod, who lay clutching at a lapful of his own steaming innards where an orc scimitar had bitten deep. “Roarald?” he asked roughly. “Are ye with us yet, man?”

  “I … I suppose,” the reply came dully, the priest’s eyes not seeing him. “Beware, Symon. I may be the luckier of us two. The days ahead will be dark. I have seen gods walking Faerûn, and whole cities laid waste, and the land much changed. Titans clash with their heads among clouds and their feet trampling us poor folk beneath, and rivers run black with poison … and more death than any war has brought to this world. No good. No good I’ve seen … no end that Tempus would show me.” He caught his breath for a moment, and then gasped, “Symon! I am much afraid. Speak gently to the boy, for my sake. He was only … a helpful fool, and we’ve all been that a time or two.”

  The old warrior took him by the shoulders. “Don’t leave us, Roarald! Call on Tempus, man! Surely he owes ye something, after all these years! Surely he’ll—”

  “Speak not of the god that way!” Roarald was protesting feebly under his hands. “The way of Temp—”

  “Surely he does,” a powerful, melodious voice thundered around them.

  The two men gaped, dumbfounded, at the man-high, glowing battlesword—of one piece of deadly blue-black metal, standing vertically with its point not quite touching the ground—that stood beside them. A sword that had certainly not been there before. That thunderous voice issued from it again.

  “Stand clear, good Symon. Thy loyalty to a comrade pleases me.”

  White to the lips, the old warrior hastily scrambled back, going to his knees in the mud. “M-my pardon, Great Lord! I meant no presumpt—”

  “I know this. Be still now.” The sword began to move, and the old warrior gulped once and was silent.

  The black blade drifted silently through the air to hang with its point above Roarald’s hands, where they clutched at his bloody vitals.

  “I need ye, faithful servant. I need thy obedience and strong arms to keep order in this Time of Troubles. I need thy continued service, Roarald of Tempus. Will ye obey me still?”

  “L-lord,” the priest gasped, “I will … if I can.”

  “Then go to Luskan, and put down a rising of dark wizards who seek to plunge all the North into bloody slaughter not sanctioned by me. They seek to whelm all the Uthgardt tribes, rule their minds with potions and spell
s, and hurl them upon the cities of the North, Neverwinter first. Ye will gather my faithful against them, and Symon here will aid ye. The strife will be hard, and there may well be death in it for ye both. Knowing that, will ye do this?”

  “I will!” Roarald gasped, a pink froth rising to his lips. “But, Lord, I—”

  “Be still! Symon, will ye do this?”

  “Lord of Battles,” the old warrior said, face to the ground and teeth chattering, “I will!”

  “It is good. Roarald, draw thy hands away from thy belly.”

  Hastily the priest did so, and the sword plunged down.

  A blaze of white fire shrouded the priest’s agonized scream.

  When he could see again, Symon struggled to his feet.

  “Roarald? Roarald, do ye live, man?”

  The priest was rising whole and strong, the stains of blood and dirt gone from his body. “I do,” he said, wonder in his voice. “I live!”

  “Praise be to Tempus!”

  “Praise be!” the priest agreed, and clapped his comrade on the shoulder. “Speedily, now—find the boy and our horses. We ride on Luskan without delay!”

  As Symon hurried off, the priest went to one knee and whispered, “Thank you, Tempus. I shall not forget.”

  “See that ye don’t,” a quiet voice came from the empty air, startling the man. He gulped, got up hastily, and ran after Symon.

  And behind him a black sword melted out of the air, wavered, and became a thoughtful-looking old man, worn and much-patched robes draped about his thin frame. The morning sun gleamed on the man’s long white beard and whiskers as a pipe floated into view from somewhere in the trees nearby and drifted gently up to the old man’s mouth.

  “That’s done,” Elminster muttered. “Too good a man to lose, Roarald, even if he is as stubborn as an old post. Hmmph! A certain Queen of Aglarond has used those same words to describe me a time or two, hasn’t she?”