'He's come far. Where does he get his orders?'
'Zhentil Keep itself, Lord.' The man's breathing grew labored again, and he coughed weakly. When his voice came again, it was fainter. 'I don't know who he reports to… not my right to know.'
'How many wizards and apprentices are under Angruin?'
'Ahh-I can't think, Lord. Pardon, if you will… There's Hcarla; he's a bad one. I don't think even his mother ever trusted him. Then there's Sabryn, who was with us here. Is he-?'
'I'll deal with him later,' Elminster said coldly. 'Go on. These are the mages of power?'
'Those, and a quiet one called Nordryn.'
'Any others?'
'Four lesser. Two who rode to battle in Daggerdale: Mrinden and Kalassyn. They're all right, and can hurl fire or lightning if called on.'
'The last two?'
'Apprentices, sneaks and noses-in-the-air. Haragh and Ildomyl. They mostly do gate-guard duty on the roads.'
'And how many swords does Longspear command, loyal warriors like yourself?'
'I… know not, Lord. Forty, perhaps. Not many more. With perhaps a dozen hireswords, mainly crossbowmen… from Sembia.' Mulser groaned again.
'Easy, Mulser,' Elminster said, patting his shoulder gently. 'Rest easy. Tell me, what does Longspear, as ruler of the High Dale, have you men do?'
'We… we take passage tolls, Lord. One copper a head, two coppers a horse or mule, and two silver falcons per wagon. No priests or wizards are allowed in. All who carry magic must yield it to us until they leave. All who enter must pay. We've already had to escort envoys from Sem-urrghh-Sembia and Cormyr, complaining about the tolls.'
'Why don't merchants just go around you, using the road through Daerlun?'
'I've been told,' Mulser said, cynical humor dryly audible through the rough pain in his voice, 'that the brigands are particularly bad just now. They're… in the Vast Swamp, Lord, and hired by whoever in the Brotherhood has sponsored Stormcloak. The road is… too dangerous for passage without heavy escorts. No lone wagons get through.'
Elminster chuckled coldly. 'I see how the land rises and falls. How are the dalefolk taking your presence?'
'It's fairly quiet, Lord. They hold no love for us. They call us bladesmen the 'Wolves,' but they're mostly old men. Since Stormcloak made an example of the high constable, they've knuckled under.' He coughed again and added weakly, 'We had to kill the constables and their archers, of course, to take the place.'
'And the wizards?' Elminster's voice was suddenly like a sword blade sheathed in ice.
'I-we found none, Lord, so far as I know. Only a couple of fat old priests. Longspear has them locked up in the High Castle.'
'Your barracks is there?'
'N-no… aghhh… Sorry, Lord, my barracks is up north of the castle, near this gate… the other end of it I mean, Lord…'
'But most of the bladesmen are at the castle?'
'No, less than half. Most are in Eastkeep or Westkeep, and there's another four barracks like mine. All the others are at the castle, yes.'
'Are there any priests of the Brotherhood with you?'
Mulser was silent a long time, frowning. Then he said slowly, 'Now that's curious, Lord. Saragh was saying to me just yesterday that he'd seen none with us in the taking, and we've neither of us seen any since. If there are any Dread Brothers there now, they're keeping well hidden.'
'I see. Is there anything else of importance to the Brotherhood, Mulser, that ye think ye should tell me?'
Mulser coughed again, weakly, and shook his head. 'I… don't think so, Lord. If there's any secrets in the dale, I know them not.'
'Ye've been most helpful, Mulser, a credit to the Brotherhood. It has been many long years since anyone in our ranks has been so honest with me. Ye've done well.'
'Thank you, Lord.' Mulser's breath came in gasps now. 'I… I thought I'd nothing to lose, Lord. I know I'm done for, an'… and I'd rather talk to you, than… go alone.'
'Ye're not alone, good Mulser,' Elminster said gravely. 'Have you any family? A lass? Anyone we should send word to?'
'N-no. I thought… so… once, but-' The laboring, wheezing voice suddenly caught. Mulser made a little bubbling, choking sound and fell silent. Elminster looked into the warrior's eyes until they stopped seeing anything, then got up stiffly and said, 'Go to the gods in peace, Mulser.'
Sharantyr's eyes were tender yet angry. 'You were kind to him,' she said. Elminster shrugged. 'And yet,' she added slowly, 'he is a Zhentilar, one of the Black Blades that have spent years carving up the Dales and the dalefolk that live in them. One of those we must fight every season. Zhentilar chained me as a slave, once. I was running from their cruelties when the drow took me.'
Elminster touched her arm. 'I've seen ye strike down Zhentilar before, right eagerly. Does doing so heal any of those memories?'
Sharantyr's eyes were dark as she said coldly, 'No. Not yet.' She lifted the naked sword that lay across her knees and added, 'But 'tis not for lack of trying.'
The old wizard sighed. ' 'Tis not my place to judge. All of us are driven by things. Even this poor soldier.' He nudged Mulser's body with his foot. 'One of my tasks is to strike down the evil folk who drove him on, those who command the Black Blades. Such foes make the Zhentarim truly dangerous.'
'If you're going to keep on at that task, I'll fight beside you with a right good will,' Sharantyr said fiercely.
They regarded each other in silence for a breath, then the Old Mage turned away.
'Come,' he said shortly. 'We must hide these dead men and go on.' He strode away into the night almost angrily, and Sharantyr looked after him with concern.
Elminster went only a little way, growled, and came back looking fierce. 'My pardon, please, lass,' he said grimly. ' 'Tis a churl's act to make thee do all the carrion heaving alone.'
Sharantyr, puffing under Mulser's dead weight, said only, 'Take his feet, then.'
They spent a few uncomfortable breaths puffing and struggling in the darkness and then were done. The bodies lay in a corner of the ruins where two walls met, buried under all the rubble Sharantyr could shift: stones, old beams, tiles, and a few tangled creepers.
Elminster walked slowly back and looked at the oval of floating, glowing light. Sharantyr rolled her eyes, breast heaving with her efforts, and set the last large rock on the pile before going after him.
'Well,' she panted, as she joined him, 'what now?'
Elminster smiled at her mildly, gestured at the gate flickering silently before him, and then calmly strolled through it.
They were somewhere dark. Out of the night above and ahead of them came a hissing crossbow bolt. Elminster calmly shoved Sharantyr to one side and leapt the other way. The quarrel hissed past.
They were crouching on turf, with mountains rising at their backs and far ahead of them. Just ahead, the ground descended into the High Dale. From the trees there came another bolt, this one close enough to stir Elminster's thinning hair though he was well away from the gate's glow. The shaft must have been fired blind.
Then from the trees came the unmistakable booming sound of an alarm gong, the finest brass-and-drum sort sold in Sembia for a gold piece each.
'Oh, dung,' Elminster said clearly into the night. From somewhere off to his left he heard a snort as Sharantyr stifled a giggle. Elminster rolled his eyes and trotted forward. The sentinel would have to be up a tree, now that the heroic archmage of Shadowdale was getting a bit too old for climbing trees in the dark. Oh, dung and double dung, indeed.
