Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [87]
Elminster looked at her. "So what will ye do?" he asked quietly.
Sharantyr brushed errant hair out of her eyes and raised the bloody tip of her blade. "I'm going down those stairs," she said fiercely. "Guard my back, Old Mage."
Elminster nodded. "I will, as best I can."
They gazed around the battlements-long years of experience made Elminster search the sky for dragons, but he found none-and slipped into the turret, pulling the door nearly closed.
The turret room was awash with blood. The arrogant Zhentarim was draped over the back of a chair, arms flung wide, staring forever at something unseen near the ceiling.
Elminster's stomach turned over. Sharantyr set her teeth and hurried to the steps.
A light glimmered below. They descended quietly, drifting to a stop when they saw men moving in the room at the foot of the stair. It was some sort of meeting room, where men were draining and refilling ornate goblets steadily as they sat at the table or strode restlessly around it.
"Oh, we're safe enough," one cold voice was saying as Sharantyr came within hearing range. "Stormcloak sent an extra guard patrol to the roof. Ten men, I believe, and the strutting 'prentice. What's his name? Ragh, or something of the sort? The dandy who always wears court robes. It'd take old Elminster himself to break in on us here."
In the darkness on the stairs, two sets of teeth flashed in mirthless smiles.
The voice that spoke next was deeper and shorter. "The question is: Now that we don't have Longspear to hold on to his reins, what will Stormcloak do? We need forty bowmen at least to hold the dale. They're all roused out there now. Even if we slay every man who's raised sword against us today, we'll have to take the dale all over again."
"A harder thing to do now, with Cormyr and Sembia both looking our way and beginning to suspect who our mages are."
"Aye," came the deep voice again, "but will Stormcloak call for the aid we need, or will his first concern be impressing Lord Manshoon and other Zhentarim of power with his own strength and battle cunning? He may well try to win the day alone for greater glory. He cares nothing for this place. All can see that much."
"Hush, will you. Hear? He comes. That must be his guard, for there's not another large band of sword brothers left."
Elminster laid a silent hand on Sharantyr's sword arm to check her. Silently she laid her own free hand over his and patted it reassuringly. No. The time was not now.
There came the sound of many booted feet, a door opening, and a single, measured tread approaching the table.
"Councillors," came a cold, confident voice, "we hold the castle. Only a few of those who attacked us yet live. I'm told that women and young girls are all who remain to storm our gates. We've not found the mage or the two warriors who led the rabble. I suspect Cormyr is backing them, but I'll find out soon enough. As you know, the real tragedy today is the loss of our lord, slain by those two warriors." He paused, but no voice broke the silence.
"With his fall, rule over this dale passes into my hands," the voice continued flatly, challengingly. The words fell into another silence.
Then a deep voice said, "By what right do you claim lordship here, Stormcloak? Your magic, aye, but have you any less… ah, brutish claim? It is customary for the council to choose who shall rule over the High Dale." A general stirring accompanied these words, a shifting, rising tension that died into heavy, anticipatory silence.
Stormcloak's reply was as cold as a glacier wind. "You must know, Councillor, where Lord Longspear came from and what men he led in battle. That place is where I and my fellow mages came from. You are not a fool; you tell me."
"Zhentil Keep," the deep voice replied slowly, waiting,
"Aye," Stormcloak agreed dryly. "Whose orders I have followed, and passed on to Longspear and others, since the day we came here. I held authority over Longspear