Silver Shadows - Elaine Cunningham [1]
When all was silent, several shadowy figures broke free of the forest and crept onto the path. They fell upon the ruined wagons, cursing and bickering as they pawed through the spoils. One of them, taller and broader than most and clad in a dark, flowing cape, strode from the forest with a slight, limp figure slung over one shoulder. This he tossed onto the path to lie among the bodies of several of the slain merchants.
"A torch!" he commanded in a deep voice. "Get some light on this mess!"
One of the forest fighters hastened to obey, fumbling with flint and steel until a spark took hold. The sudden flare of torchlight fell upon the faces of the dead, one of which was an angular, elven face painted in elaborate patterns of greens and browns. A gaping wound slashed across the dead elf's throat and chest, tracing a deep, diagonal line that started behind one ear and angled down across his ribs. It had long since bled dry. The dark-cloaked leader frowned and glanced at the fallen men that surrounded the elf.
His eyes settled on a young man whose hand had been pinned to his side by an arrow, apparently while he was in the act of reaching for his sword. Tangled among the ruined fingers was a leather thong from which hung the symbol of Tymora. Oddly enough, the arrow had struck the metal disk, skidding along its length and leaving a deep score before sinking into softer flesh. A silent sermon, the killer observed with a bit of dark humor, on the capricious nature of Lady Luck.
"That one," he said with a wolfish smile as he pointed to the youth whose luck had run out. Take his sword and reopen the elf's wound-make it look as if he killed the elf in hand-to-hand combat. If necessary, splash a bit of the lad's blood around to make the kill look reasonably fresh. There's a caravan due to pass through tomorrow."
But as his assistant reached for the sword, the wounded fighter's eyes flickered open, and his good hand closed around the grip of a wicked hunting knife. Startled, the attacker fell back a step and reached for the bow on his shoulder.
Smoothly, swiftly, he sent an arrow hurtling into the young man's chest. This time no lucky medallion deflected the arrow. The youth fell back, instantly dead.
The leader, however, did not look at all pleased by this quick response. He tore the arrow free and brandished it under the archer's nose.
"And what in the Nine bloody Hells do you call this?"
The man shrugged, his face apprehensive as he noted the branded shaft and elaborate blue-and-white fletch-ing that marked it as an arrow of his own making. "Musta run out of elf arrows," he muttered.
"Damn you for a stinking ghast," the leader swore in a low, ominous voice. "If you weren't the best archer this side of Zhentil Keep, I'd push this arrow into your left ear and pull it out your right! Search them," he ordered in louder tones, whirling toward the looters and holding the bloody arrow aloft so that all could see the error. "Make sure there are no more mistakes like this one. All of these men died at the hands of wild elves. See to it!"
One
To the casual observer, Blackstaff Tower appeared to be little more than an enormous, tapering cylinder of black granite, a tower some fifty feet tall and surrounded by a curtain wall nearly half that height. Stark and simple, the keep lacked the displays of magic-either fearsome or fanciful- that were so beloved by the wealthy and powerful citizens of Waterdeep. No watchful gargoyles peered down from the tower's flat roof; no animated statues stood guard; no cryptic runes marred the smooth black surface of wall or tower. Yet everyone who knew of the archmage Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun-and in Waterdeep, indeed, in all the Northlands, there were few who did not-regarded the simple keep with a mixture of pride and awe. Here, rumor suggested, lay the true power behind the City of Splendors. Here was a gateway to magical wonders beyond the imagination of most mortals.
It is a rare thing when