The Lord of the High Dale straightened rather stiffly and turned about. His eyes were clouded and distant, his expression set. Stormcloak looked at him in satisfaction and said, 'Go down and lead your men, Lord. Ride to victory.'
The charmed lord tramped across to the stair in his gleaming armor. As he passed, Stormcloak considerately thrust the visor of his helm down, covering his set face.
Then the mage glared at the men all around him and ordered, 'Loose your bolts, then leave your bows here and go down to the courtyard to await my orders.'
The Sword who commanded those on the battlements said hesitantly, 'Leave our bows? What-'
The mage wheeled on him. 'Address me as Lord Angruin, if you would live!'
All around them, bows were grounded, and silent Wolves hastened to the stairs.
'Back!' Belkram and Itharr shouted together, waving their swords. 'Back! What good do you for the dale, by going forward and dying?'
Crossbow bolts, fired straight out from the castle walls to carry as far as possible, hissed down around the shouting Harpers. Dalefolk groaned and staggered as they were struck. Here and there men fell, pitching onto their faces to lie still or writhing weakly in the mud.
Men were running, now, back across the marketplace, leaving the dead behind, revealing the bloody, trampled bodies of Wolves as they receded.
'No!' Irreph roared as the two Harpers came up to him. 'What have you done, you fools? Once we've scattered, they'll ride us down one by one!'
'High Constable,' Belkram said, meeting Ylyndaera's frightened gaze, 'we must fall back now and rally the people in the shops and alleys around the edge of this open space, or we'll all go down under whatever magic those wizards can hurl!'
Even as he spoke, there was a flash of amber light, and smoke curled up from the foot of the castle road. In a spot that had been empty a moment before, Angruin Stormcloak stood grandly in his dark robes. He laughed, his cold mirth ringing out loudly across the corpse-littered marketplace, and raised his hands.
Stones flung at him fell short. Mulmar cursed and swung around to shield his daughter, picking her up at a lumbering run with the two Harpers, back into an alley mouth. 'We haven't a bow among us,' the high constable said bitterly. 'They took them all, and most who could wield them were maimed, cut down, or hanged here in the square.'
'You had a lot of bowmen?' Itharr asked as they crouched together against a wall.
Irreph looked at him. 'All my armsmen,' he said quietly, cold death in his eyes again. He looked across the square at the wizard and whispered harshly, 'All of them.'
The air crackled lightning then, and men screamed as the blue-white bolt spat and snapped down the street they stood in, dancing them with its fury until it passed and they fell burned and lifeless to the ground. As the lightning faded, men of the dale showed themselves at doors and alley mouths, waving weapons angrily.
Stormcloak laughed again and raised his hands with nonchalant, almost clinical grace. This time a ball of fire roared down another street. As the screams died away, the strong smell of cooked flesh was borne across the marketplace by a rising breeze.
Men began to flee, running down the streets and alleys in blind flight. The two Harpers looked at each other helplessly, then at Mulmar.
'I will not retreat,' Irreph said slowly. 'They will not take me this time.'
'We'll stand with you,' Belkram told him.
'No, you will not,' Irreph Mulmar said in a voice of steel. 'As I am high constable, hear and obey me. You will take my daughter, both of you. Guard and keep her safe, and get her away to safety-to Azoun's court or to a lady called Mineira, a healer, in Saerb. She can get word, via the Harpers, to the mage Elminster of Shadowdale. Ylyndaera must live to rule the dale in years to come, when these serpents have fallen and been swept away.'
'We are Harpers, sir,' Itharr said, 'and we came here seeking Elminster, who has left Shadowdale. We think he has come here.'
'Here?' Mulmar said, rising. 'Then we may be saved yet.'
As he spoke, two bolts of force, white teardrops with wavering trails of light, raced across the marketplace like tiny falling stars to strike Stormcloak. The mage roared in surprise and pain, and staggered back.
Another pair of missiles sought him. This time the watching Mulmars and Harpers saw their source: an old man in tattered, dirty robes, crouching amid the brine barrels in front of the fishmonger's stall. Beside him was a woman in leathers, a sword in her hand.
'That's one of the Knights of Myth Drannor,' Itharr said excitedly. 'Sharantyr!'
'Then that,' Belkram said slowly, indicating the man with the wand, 'must be Elminster.'
Ylyndaera burst into sudden tears. 'I knew there were gods,' she said. 'I knew they'd hear me!'
13
Angruin Stormcloak snarled in anger. They had a mage! So this was no simple uprising, but the work of a powerful enemy-perhaps meddling mages from Sembia or Cormyr, but more likely from within the Brotherhood. This fool attacking him would doubtless be some apprentice given a wand and told to prove himself, but still…
Stormcloak cast fire again. This time, the air in front of him turned golden, there came a melodious chiming as of many bells, and the scent of fresh-baked bread wafted past-but no flaming death blasted those who stood against him. His magic had gone wild. Again.
He stood alone, facing enemies across an open place, armed only with spells he could not rely on. Not a prudent situation.
Angruin turned and beckoned to those waiting in the castle with both his arm and his will. The thread of magic held. He reached silently down it and forced Lord Longspear, mounted at their head, to roar the charge and urge his mount forward. Then the Zhentarim wizard scrambled down off the road, to the side of the marketplace where the fewest dalefolk waited to storm back at him.
A moment later, he heard the angry thunder of many plunging hooves, and the Wolves swept down from the castle into the marketplace, scattering to level their lances and spur into the mouths of streets and alleys. For a breath or two the world was all snorting horses, creaking leather, and jangling harnesses. Then the black-armored Wolves were in among the buildings, and the ringing of steel-and the shrieking-began. Satisfied, Stormcloak stood watching as screaming men fled and fell. The folk of the dale would pay in blood for their defiance.
War came to a certain lane on charging hooves. The lances of two Wolves flashed down as they made for the mouth of the street, bellowing laughter and claiming specific targets as their kills.
The two Harpers there, crouched against a wall in front of Irreph and Ylyndaera Mulmar, rose smoothly, blades flashing. Belkram set his teeth and struck the lance of the first Wolf skyward.
As the lance flew up, Itharr leapt under it to tumble the Wolf off his horse with a kick. The second Wolf rode over him without slowing, leaning out to drive his lance through the naked high constable. As the glittering point swept down, Irreph put Daera behind him with one strong hand and raised his chains with the other.
Belkram's blade came down hard on the butt of that lance. The lance's tip leapt up and over Irreph's shoulder to skirl along the stone wall behind him in a shower of sparks.
Then the Wolf was past, hooves thundering down the lane, and Itharr was rising out of the dust with his dagger dark with blood, letting fall the visor of the first Wolf. 'Now!' Belkram bellowed, stepping out into the marketplace and waving his blade. 'Strike them down in the narrow places! For Mulmar, and freedom!' Roars and waved weapons answered him; dalefolk were still up and fighting.
Across the open space, the Zhentarim wizard snarled and raised his hand. Belkram ducked hastily back into the lane.
An instant later, the old man on his knees among the barrels smote Stormcloak again with a pair of magic missiles, spoiling his spellcasting. The wizard's scream of rage could be heard clearly over the shouting and the
