All Shadows Fled - Ed Greenwood [24]
Bane aid me… Bane aid me… Bane…
"Right, Baedelkar," the cultured voice beyond the door snarled, suddenly losing its drawling grace. "You've defied me long enough! I hope you'll still think she was worth it, after I do-thisF
The wizard's body began to shake violently, and pulse with light. The tentacled thing hurriedly flung it back onto the bed and flowed away across the room, to where the wizard's robe lay across a discarded body harness: a thing of leather straps that held a slim satchel of potion vials, several bulging pouches of sundries to spin spells, and… a small, well-worn spellbook with battered metal corners.
The creeping thing flowed up and over this heap of magic and, without slowing, turned and slithered along the wall. In its wake, the wizard's belongings were gone, the side chest bare. Meanwhile, the body on the bed jerked and thrashed in spell thrall, and then leapt up into the air once and crashed down in limp silence.
As tentacles hurriedly tore open the casements and let the chill air of morning into the room, there was a snarl of fury from beyond the door-and then a muttered incantation. It rose to a singing final word, and then came ominous silence.
The monstrous, shapeshifting mass flowed out the window and up the wall outside, disappearing from the room seconds before the gilded door of the Red Sash Room burst apart in a rain of dust and splinters.
Nentor Thuldoum of the Zhentarim stood in the doorway, blinking in incredulous rage.
"You worm! You disobedient ti-" Nentor's fury fled as he saw what lay on the bed. His jaw dropped, and he stared down in horror at the riven remains. His spell had scorched Baedelkar with a lashing lightning, but should not have eaten away body and brains from within, leaving behind a shriveled husk… and empty eye sockets.
Swords Creek, Mistledale, Flamerule
16
Thuds and splinterings resounded across Swords Creek as the defenders of Mistledale drove tree trunks into the ground in an outward curve west of the stream. A steady stream of wagons was creaking east along the road from Ashabenford as Riders watched the land to the east for any sign of the approaching foe.
"Leave openings there and there" Kuthe directed as Riders swarmed past him in pairs, carrying logs. Beyond them, more of the black-armored men were hewing the ends of the sloped stakes into sharp points. "I hope well need room to ride out into the fray in force."
"/ hope the Zhents fall dead of the blistering plague and we don't have a fray at all," a farmer muttered, snapping his reins to begin the run back to town for more supplies. He stood up as the empty wagon rattled away, looking around the busy camp, and shaking his head. Not a hundred swords to defend Mistledale against-how many? Two, three thousand, or more? The word from Essembra was that they'd outgrown all the beds in the place a tenday ago, with not a third of the force mustered. The Sword of the South, indeed- and they'd have a Zhentarim wizard or three with them, too.
He looked back at the camp once more and spat thoughtfully into the rising road dust. An army this small wouldn't delay the Zhent host more than an hour or two on its march to Mistledale. Death might well come for him before dusk today-but where was there to run? He couldn't pluck up his steading and stow it in a pack to take with him. Stand or fall, it'd be here, in Mistledale, where he'd lived his life. The fanner slowed the wagon to make his trip back down the dale as long as he could-it might be his last look around at the finest place to dwell in all Faerun. He tried not to think about the likelihood that by sundown tomorrow it might also be the finest graveyard in Faerun.
A steel-gray falcon circled high in the cloudless sky overhead, for all the world as if it was taking interest