Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [29]
Mrinden frowned. "That trail is just a mite obvious, isn't it?"
"A trap?"
Mrinden nodded.
Kalassyn shrugged. "We've no choice but to go through, unless you want to explain to Stormcloak or Bellwind why we did not. Sabryn went through earlier this evening, on some secret affair I'm not supposed to know the slightest thing about. Perhaps he needs help and tried to get to us."
"And the attempt ended in slaughter? That means we'll be walking into alert and waiting death!"
Kalassyn shrugged again. "You sound like one of the younger priests. What mage doesn't walk toward death, where'er he goes? Eh?"
Mrinden jerked his head about angrily to glare at the silently waiting men-at-arms. "We're going through the gate!" he snarled at them. "Form up in an arrow. I want twelve to remain behind and watch for any strangers in the trees. If you cross blades with anyone, send a band down to rouse the rest of the barracks. The rest of you, load crossbows and point them at the sky. Move!"
In weary silence the black-armored Wolves formed up, the senior Sword choosing the dozen who would stand rear guard. The two Zhentarim walked into the midst of the wedge of armed men, almost invisible in their black robes, and gestured curtly for the arrow to close around them, protecting their backs.
Mrinden addressed the men. "This gate is perfectly safe. Simply walk into it as if it weren't there. You'll set foot next in a wooded area where armed and ready foes may be waiting. Don't stop to gawk. If something moves, shoot it and move on in haste to let the rest of us through." He looked around. Expressionless black helms looked back at him. He drew in a deep breath. "Right, then move!"
Without an answering word, the black-armored dealers of death marched forward into the oval of waiting light.
* * * * *
"They've come this way," Itharr said, examining a faint heel mark of damp earth on a rock. "I'm sure of it."
"Elminster, aye, but who's the other?" Belkram asked, blade out, peering into the night-shrouded trees around them.
Itharr shrugged. "We'll find out, no doubt," he said dryly. "Come on." Silently they stalked on, alert and dangerous.
The two Harpers had been restless, unable to settle down for the night after they'd found Elminster's trail.
They'd been lying on the turf, heads pillowed on their boots, discussing where the Old Mage was most likely heading – northwest, it seemed, straight into the heart of lawless Daggerdale – when they'd both felt a peculiar creeping, prickling sensation. There was a sudden tension in their heads, a rising surge of power that slowly died away. This was followed by another flicker of force, then nothing.
"What was that?" Itharr asked, eyes wide. "Strong magic unleashed," Belkram said. "I've felt it that strongly only once before, in a battle near the Grey-cloak Hills against Zhents out of Darkhold, when the spellsinger Andarra was dying. She spent her life-force in a song that made all magic go wild, so Zhent wizards would have to fight, dagger and sword, like all others. We all felt the effect of her sacrifice."
"Strong magic," Itharr said slowly, eyes narrowing. "Elminster!" He rolled to his feet, wincing at the cold, and reached for his boots. "Let's hence!"
Belkram grunted himself upright, breath curling around him like smoke in the night chill, and pulled on one boot. "Hence away," he agreed, feeling for his blade. So they did.
They were now entering the broken, wooded country of ridges and ravines that marked Dagger Wood, the southeast edge of Daggerdale. It would be easy to lose the trail, so the two Harpers slowed. Since Zhentil Keep's forces had hounded Randal Morn and his folk into hiding, the dale ahead had become lawless country, roamed by horrific beasts, brigands, and marauding Zhent-hired mercenary bands, mainly orcs. Not country