Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [124]
Jatham raised an eyebrow. "May I ask why?"
The two Harpers exchanged a look. Belkram shrugged. The one who set us this duty told us it was the most important task in the Realms. Elminster of Shadowdale must live-or, I fear, even gods will fall."
In the shocked silence that followed, the two young men saluted their fellows-in-arms with raised blades, nodded a special farewell to Gedaern, and without hesitation marched out over the cesspool.
In midstep above the mire, with all eyes on them, they vanished. Itharr and Belkram were tired, hurt, and walking into unknown danger. But they strode ahead without pause, for they were Harpers.
* * * * *
Spellgard was tall and dark and gloomy. Mushrooms and luminescent mosses grew here and there about its empty stone chambers. There was no sign of life. Even the torn, dusty cobwebs seemed to have been spun long ago by spiders now vanished. Yet there was a curious presence about the place, a silent, waiting feel as if something unseen were watching. They went on in silence.
Room after room was empty save for little heaps of collapsed wood, gilt, and stone where furniture had fallen before relentless passing years. Here and there, the arch-mage without magic and the lady Knight found the scars of battle: scorched, blackened areas on the walls and floor, shattered stone panels, and buckled flagstones. This strife had happened long ago. Mold, moss, dust, and rot overlaid all. Elminster shook his head from time to time as they went on through the silent, waiting castle, Silence reigned.
* * * * *
The Zhentarim thieves were trained, experienced men. Gloomy ruins did not begin to test their nerves. They spread out, slim black-bladed swords ready in their hands, and moved slowly forward, watching and listening intently, making no more noise than a faint breeze. Behind them, Zalarth tried not to make too much noise as he followed.
The brightest archway opening out of the high-ceilinged hall led into a smaller chamber. It was thickly grown with gray-green glowing moss, and dark stalks of mushrooms half the height of a man reared up in the corners. The men peered all around the room carefully, paying special attention to the ceiling, before they proceeded through it, avoiding all the growing things, to the archway beyond.
It led into another chamber, smaller still. A large, smooth-carved, unadorned stone table leaned in the center of this room, one leg crumbling. Beyond the table were two arches-and someone standing facing them!
Or something. It was tall and very thin, clad in dark and dusty robes. Its face was skull-like and white, its eyes dark sockets.
A lich! Or perhaps just an illusion, a trap laid by Elminster-or even by Avaerl. The men cast glances back at Zalarth. In calm silence he gestured, making the Brotherhood's hand signs for "advance" and "beware." In cautious unison they approached.
The figure moved. Something tinkled to the stone floor, falling and rolling. An unmistakable sound: coins. Another trap-lure, or just a pocket collapsing in the rotting garment of something that should be in a grave, not on its feet?
They were close enough now to see the figure was-or had been-female. Long gray-white hair framed a withered, dead face. As Zalarth watched, a chill spread icy fingers along his spine. Two points of glittering light, deep in the dark eye sockets, were expanding rapidly.
As the Zhentarim wizard tensed to lash out with a spell, the skeletal figure spoke. "Well met and welcome, adventurers. Put aside your weapons and speak with me in peace, if you would. I mean no harm. I've waited so very long for someone to find me."
More looks. Zalarth gave the "weapons out and ready" sign and asked calmly, "Who-or what-are you, and what place is this?"
"I am Saharel, and this is my home. The years have been no kinder to me than to Netheril itself, but I still abide here. Who are you?" The voice was feminine and dry, as loud as Zalarth's own, and held a trace of