Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [53]
"Ummm," Itharr said again, stretching-and wincing at the stiff tenderness of his wound. "After we defeat all the evil ones? I'm not even certain this is the High Dale. What if we're somewhere east of Impiltur or in the fabled Far Isles?"
"Then we'll have a long walk back," Belkram said, not unkindly. "Let's look for an inn, or at least a tavern. There must be one. We've seen a castle and a lot of homes outside its walls. We'll ask folk there if anyone's seen Elminster of Shadowdale wandering about."
"Aye," Itharr grunted, reaching out of long habit for his blade. "And then we'll leap to our feet and try to carve a way out of the place, through seven handcounts or so of black-armored hireswords all howling for our blood."
Belkram shrugged. "Right, so we'll buy some dawnfry first and ask questions later."
Itharr nodded. "If I'm to be fighting for my life," he said, hefting his blade experimentally, "I'd prefer to do it knowing that I've at least had one last good meal."
Belkram looked at him and scratched the stubble on his chin. "A real brightheart, aren't you?"
Itharr grinned. "Let's put on our best Harper smiles as we rush to certain death, hewing and slaying with the best of them!" he chirped brightly and mockingly, and skipped down out of the rocky hollow where they'd slept, whistling a merry tune.
Belkram sighed. "Why is it always my lot to share trail with the lunatics?" he asked the gods above as he followed. As usual, the gods did not bother to answer.
* * * * *
Heladar Longspear stood on the castle walls and looked around at his dale. He strode slowly, gazing for a long time east down the tunnel-like valley and looking almost as long into the west. The sentinels on the walls saluted him in respectful silence and kept out of his way. Heladar was silently grateful for that.
He'd grown to love this harsh, stone-locked, backward place-a dale of history and importance balanced on a sword's edge between proud Cormyr and rich Sembia, a place that had bowed to him, however unwillingly, for over a moon now. A place he'd felt was strong and secure in his grip despite the ongoing schemes of the mages, and the rest of the council for that matter. Secure for long enough to relax and enjoy the place.
His High Dale. His until the night before last, at least. Now some unknown foe was lurking out there, perhaps even under his gaze right now, looking back at him from hiding, waiting to bring about his fall.
He wheeled, cloak swirling, to stride toward the stairs leading down. He'd ordered his best armor freshly oiled and laid ready this morn, and he'd feel better once he was in it.
He'd learned a thing or two in enough years of battle and guardianship, waiting and scouting, standing guard and snatching sleep whenever possible. He'd learned the ways of war, to trust his hunches, to smell danger, and to feel when something was wrong or when violence was coming.
Today, for instance. Strife would come here, to the heart of the High Dale, this day. Heladar could feel it, and an old soldier's bones never lied.
Who, he wondered for the twentieth time since dawn, was at large, swords out, in his dale? Who sought the downfall of Lord Longspear?
He was just swinging his boot forward to descend the first step when up out of the darkness came two dark eyes he knew and disliked. The eyes looked back at him, cold and knowing, not bothering to hide their own feelings.
Angruin. The mage who called himself Stormcloak and thought himself the true ruler of the High Dale.
Longspear came to a silent halt on the top step, hand on hip where it could rest by his weapons, and waited.
This whole affair could just be a clash of private plots and feuds among these mages. There need be no outside, lurking enemy, merely the creatures and servants of this ambitious, strutting Zhentarim or any of the lesser wizards beneath him.
Longspear did not allow himself to sigh. He kept his eyes bleak as Stormcloak swept