Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [10]
As he had been changed, the wry thought rose unbidden. He pushed it away and went to find another tankard. He did not take the rings off.
So the night had gone, stealing slowly toward morning. Grieving for his lost magic, Elminster walked alone as morning came. He was drawn, as always, into the welcoming green reaches of the trees that cloaked Shadowdale. He walked among them in soft-shod silence for what seemed a very long time as the dale awoke behind him. Birds called, small things scampered in the underbrush, and rising breezes stirred the leaves.
Elminster smiled, breathed deep, and looked all around. It had been long indeed since he'd taken the time to really see this forest. From ahead on the path, Elminster heard the sudden clear call of a child.
"Well met!" the young treble voice called out.
Giggles answered, followed by another child's voice replying, "Are we so, base villain?"
The children of the dale awoke early for farm chores and were now playing. The Old Mage stepped aside from the path, pulling his cloak around him, and leaned against a tree to listen.
He was startled to hear, very loud and close at hand, a young but confident male voice declaim grandly, "I, Elminster the Great, smite thee with fires and lightnings that none can withstand!"
There was movement on the other side of the tree. Elminster cocked his head to look around the trunk and saw a smooth but rather crooked twig cutting the air, flourished in a young boy's hand.
Its bearer pointed the stick across a little open place at a rather dirty little girl, perhaps six summers old, who was standing on a stone to make herself taller.
She faced the twig-wand without fear and replied triumphantly, "Well, I'm the Simbul, and my power is even greater. Besides, Elminster loves me and does what I want!"
The Old Mage found himself smiling. With the smile, hot tears came unbidden, and his eyes swam.
He waited until he could see the trees clearly again and slipped quietly away.
* * * * *
Sweat glistened on bare, knot-muscled shoulders as Storm Silverhand greeted the morn. A bastard sword with a blade as broad as a man's hand glinted blue and deadly in the rising light as it spun and leapt in her hands.
Storm wore only boots, tattered and patched leather breeches, and huge metal war gauntlets. She grunted from time to time as she twisted, lunged, and danced, fencing with shadows. When she was breathing heavily, Storm paused, leaned on her blade, and called softly, "Vethril! Vethril! To battle, sister!"
In the round-windowed room under the eaves, her two Harper guests awoke as Storm's soft words floated in through the open window. Belkram and Itharr yawned, rubbed their eyes, stretched, and winced. Both were as sore as old saddle horses after being ridden hard. Their eyes met ruefully. Gods, did the woman never rest?
She'd talked late into the night, matching them flagon for flagon. They'd fallen asleep listening to her sing soft, sad sleep-songs of lost Myth Drannor as she swept and washed up. Now she was up and about in the dawn after a day of battle-and that wound-that would leave most men stiff and numb for half a day after.
Perhaps it was this beautiful house and the dale beyond. Harpers, who tend to be folk of the open road, can seldom relax and rarely sleep without a blade to hand. This place was a refuge, a rare opportunity to let go for two men who had a lot of sleep to catch up on.
Nonetheless, they were Harpers. At the first clash of steel they were up, naked but with swords ready in their hands, and rushing to the window. Their jaws dropped together.
Outside, the half-naked Bard of the Blade, silver hair swirling about her, was fighting a ghost. Her translucent, utterly silent opponent swung a very real black-bladed battle-axe. When it met the great bastard sword Storm wielded, sparks flew from the force of the blow.
The two men drank in the sight of Storm's magnificence for a breath and then stared hard at the opponent who hardly seemed to be there. They exchanged glances and whistled soundlessly. The fighting