Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [61]
Daera finished a line of running stitch and bit off the thread. She was too young and weak to fight the Wolves herself. A maid had called her "a young colt-all long, gangly limbs and knobbly wrists and ankles." She must think of some way of getting aid, of calling on King Azoun or someone to rescue her father.
Most of all, Ylyndaera dreamed of the day when Irreph Mulmar would be himself again and rise to drive "Lord" Longspear and his Wolves from the dale, to reclaim his title of high constable. She was seeing that day now in her mind as she settled herself with another sack. Then the crashing and screaming began below.
She was cautious at first, fearing a beating if she wandered. Then she saw shrieking mill maids scurrying along the hall below her loft. She had to see whatever could make them run so frantically. There'd been no war trumpets or clash of arms-her first leaping hope, that the dale was under attack from Cormyr or Sembia, had died already-but something was amiss down below.
Where Father was.
* * * * *
"This is the place?" Itharr asked, squinting up at the mill. The old man nodded.
"Our thanks," Belkram said. As he turned, the tip of his sword lifted a little as if it were eager for battle. "Wait here," he added over his shoulder and stepped toward the stout, closed wooden doors before them. Itharr moved with him.
"Oh, no," the old man said emphatically. "I'm done with waiting and doing nothing. I'm going with you."
Itharr turned and flashed him a smile. "Be welcome, then," he said, "but follow our lead." He nodded at Belkram, who was courteously knocking on the door.
It opened, and a man with a ratlike face looked out, squinting in the bright light of day. "Yes?" he asked, though it was more of a challenge than a question.
Belkram flashed his brightest smile. "Good day, sirrah! We're with the Zhentil Keep Grain Inspectors Guild and have come at the express request of High Lord Manshoon to see what a fine establishment you're running here." He'd been pressing forward as he spoke. His audience stepped back, gulped, and taking the word "running" as a cue, sprinted off into the dimness as if a band of horse lancers were galloping after him.
"Thank you," Belkram told his retreating back. He turned to his companions, indicating the mill interior. "Shall we?"
"Indubitably," Itharr agreed, stepping past him with a half bow, blade raised.
The old man gave them both looks and snorted. "Young jack-fools," he growled, stumping after them.
Inside, the mill was a dim forest of stout pillars, stacked crates, spilled flour, sturdy barrels, and piles of sacks. The two Harpers strolled unconcernedly down a cluttered aisle that opened into a large threshing floor. There, darkness awaited them.
Four pillars of darkness, in fact, with the man they'd spoken to at the door busy beyond, struggling to get a crossbow ready.
"We're here," Belkram said briskly, "to see the former high constable." As he strode forward, he made a gesture only Itharr saw. The shorter Harper obeyed it, moving to one side.
The pillars of darkness were already advancing. Itharr casually tossed a dagger at the nearest. It struck something within the magical gloom and clattered to the floor. There was no play of lightnings, and the pillar shifted slightly; men walked within the darkness. The two Harpers sprang forward, converging on one dark column.
It stepped aside, drawing close to another darkness-shrouded guard so as not to be outflanked. Behind the two Harpers, the old man sighed and flung his axe. It flashed end over end across the room and caught the doorman in the shoulder. He shrieked, dropped his half-wound bow and windlass, and collapsed to the floor, moaning. Then the old innkeeper grabbed at the nearest barrel, toppled it, and with a few practiced heaves sent it rolling at the gathered columns of darkness. They scrambled to get clear and the Harpers darted in, blades flashing. There were grunts, curses,