"She worships Eldath," Illistyl snarled. "Come!"
"And what of the Zhents?" Mourngrym bellowed. He waved an arm to indicate the hundreds of Zhentilar still facing them, though the blackhelms seemed to be retreating to the trees at the edge of the dale.
"Fall back," Illistyl told him. "Back to this ridge of bodies. You can see the inn from there, and Florin and the Rangers Three can join Jenna in prayer. If the woods burn, we are all lost, whether we fight for Shadowdale or Zhentil Keep!"
They all stared at her a moment, then scrambled to take up new positions among the mounds of fallen. Belkram, Itharr, and Sharantyr found themselves trotting toward the inn, panting, while Florin ran on ahead, feet racing as if he were rested and fresh. Shaerl and Mourngrym ran along behind them as rearguard, and the stout priest Rathan puffed after the hurrying band.
"Gods," Belkram said, stumbling as his throbbing feet sent fresh lances of pain upward. "I don't think the gods meant me to be a hero! Being one of those sleeping temple guards seems more within my grasp!"
"Here, now!" Rathan Thentraver said in offended tones. "Dost thou slander the holy?"
"All too often," Itharr told him as they picked their way among the wounded laid on blankets, restless in their pain. Someone was wailing in grief, and blood-soaked bandages-and flies-were everywhere. "What does this Jenna look like?"
"Just look for Florin," Belkram instructed, pointing at the open inn door, "He must be in th-"
The ground heaved. A deafening howl of rage and grief smashed into the ears of everyone in Shadowdale. Thrown to their knees, the three rangers looked back east, from whence the sound had come.
A sphere of raging flames hung high in the air over the burning trees, spinning. The flames from the woods below were being drawn up into it. It pulsed, becoming almost blinding in its fury-but against the bright whirling flames a figure could be seen standing in its fiery heart; a wildly leaping figure clad in the black tatters of a gown.
"Oh, sweet gods spare us!" someone gasped.
The woods were dark and hissing now as the last fire soared up out of them. The sphere spun once more before it hurled its fire down in a ravening beam of utter destruction, into the Zhent soldiers crowded along the Voonlar road. They did not even have time to scream before they were tumbling ashes. The scouring flames lashed the very stones into ruin.
The Central Blade of Bane's Black Gauntlet was no more.
"Who-?" one of the Riders asked in awe, staring up at the figure who stood on empty air above the trees, all her flames spent now.
"The Simbul," Shaerl whispered. She turned, swept a tankard off a table, and drained it at a single gulp.
"The Witch-Queen?" the man gasped. "The Shield Against Thay?"
"The same," Shaerl replied bitterly, and turned into Mourngrym's arms with a sob.
"This can only mean one thing," the lord of Shadowdale said grimly, holding his shaking, weeping lady. "Elminster is dead."
10
The Castle of Shadows, Shadowhome, Flamerule 18
In a deepness that very few Malaugrym know, in the ever-shifting cellars of the Castle of Shadows, there was a place where thinking shadows glided endlessly through the gloom, vast and slow. These ponderous phantoms circled a grotto where shapeshifters who bore the title Shadowmaster High had been wont to hide the bones of rivals and others they'd deemed expedient to make 'vanish.'
The grotto was a cold cavern of rough rock where waters dripped endlessly among the pale, chill glows of fungi, but at its heart two seats faced each other-seats carved out of the flanks of massive, ancient stalagmites… and these seats each bore a curious graven symbol believed to be the sign of Malaug himself. It was a rune found in few places in the Castle of Shadows, and all of its occurrences were well known in the lore of the House of Malaug-save these two.
There was not much else to see in the bone-white glow but tumbled rock and bones… but there was much to feel, hanging heavy and watchful on all sides.
Even the youngest Shadowmasters had heard tales of locales in Shadowhome where mighty magics slumbered, which only the Shadowmaster High could perceive and wield. This was one of those places.
The young and ambitious Malaugrym Argast and Amdramnar had recently discovered the grotto in separate, private explorations. Both had been guided in their wanderings among the shifting shadows by the writings of Shadowmaster High Melvydur. Dead these thousand years and more, Melvydur mentioned the grotto as the place where the dynasty he founded was conceived-and where he laid to rest the bodies of all his sons who rebelled against him. His writings end when the last son succeeded in destroying Melvydur.
This secret grotto of silent bones and uncaring rock was a gloomy place… but it was a place of power. Ancient magic lay heavy in the air, awaiting the right word or gesture to awaken it. And more than anything else, those of the blood of Malaug hungered after power.
Argast and Amdramnar were rivals, and perhaps the best of the younger generation of Shadowmasters. Certainly they were the most subtle, patient, and polite in their dealings-and so commanded the most respect, not to mention fear, among their elders. Those elders would have been most surprised to see them sharing any place in relative peace.
Indeed, as they sat facing each other, their faces were grim and wary, their fingers very close to hurling slaying spells and wielding powerful and deadly items. Yet they sat, and did not move to rend and slay. Their elders were right to fear them.
"Have we agreement?" Argast asked.
"By my name, we do," Amdramnar replied. "Have we agreement?"
"By my name, we do," Argast responded as they watched the drops of their blood slowly flow together into the vial.
They rose as one, and Argast took the vial and stoppered it, handing it to Amdramnar to place on the seat he'd vacated. What befell one Shadowmaster would now also afflict the other-until the vial was broken by someone using the right spells to prevent grave damage to them both.
"If this agreement is to end, we must both meet here to quench it," Argast intoned, continuing the old ritual both of them had read about, but never witnessed.
"Agreed. When we meet, each of us may bring with him one other of the house-no more, and no other beings," Amdramnar responded.
"Agreed," they affirmed together, and walked away from the heart of the grotto, to where the cloaking shadows slid endlessly by.
"Were it not for so many destroyed," Argast said as their eyes met again, "I should never have agreed to work with you in anything. And yet now I welcome the prospect."
Amdramnar inclined his head. "I, too, hope that trust, even friendship, can grow out of this. Whatever befalls, we must work together to destroy the three beings who dared to strike down so many of our blood. They have done it once, and could well come again… and what if they brought the Great Foe with them this time, or an army of lesser mages?"
"You befriended them," Argast said, "seeking to learn their ways and secrets. Do you think they will seek to return?"
Amdramnar opened his mouth to reply, then sighed, shrugged, and shook his head. "I know not. Their deeds and words did not always strike a good match together-and they were accompanied by some sort of vigilant sentience of greater sorcery than I command."
"Elminster, of course."
"No, I think not. A gentler, more neutral regard… less knowing, less… afire with humor, let us say. I touched this intelligence only fleetingly."
Argast lifted his own shoulders and let them fall. "As you say, you have had contact with this mysterious other, and I have not. It is not Elminster, then." He hesitated as they stepped together onto the back of the flapping shadow they'd been waiting for. It bore them away into roiling dimness, and Argast added, "Please do not take my next query as anything more unfriendly than a desire to know if some future use can be made of it. You fancied the woman as a mate?"