like the muffled, deep call of a far-off marching drum. His shoulder struck stone with bruising force, and he skidded on. Lights winked and flashed past his nose.
It seemed his life might stretch a little longer, after all. A loud crash came from within the turret, accompanied by a startled curse, as the blazing globes spun past Elminster, whirled over the inner parapet wall with a handwidth or so to spare, and plunged down into the forecourt. Safely around the curve of the turret wall, the Old Mage craned to watch the end of their flight and saw folk coming toward the gate from outside the castle.
Folk without armor. Folk of the dale-Women! He had no time even for a prayer to Mystra but brought up his wand and hissed desperately, 'Alag!'
The wand gave forth-ah, praise be! — a glowing teardrop of force, firing it out over empty air with a soft phut. It curved gracefully down and then seemed to leap through the air to meet the descending globes just before they could reach the open gate.
Elminster stared hard at the gate-had he been in time? — and barely heard the thin scream, abruptly cut off, from behind him. On its heels came the fury of the blast, smiting his ears like spell-thunder.
Below, a door had just opened in a tower wall. Armored Wolves were hurrying out into the forecourt, halberds and blades ready. Well, he couldn't stop the luck of Tempus falling on them.
The women had seen the Wolves and hesitated. Yes, that would save them! Elminster laughed aloud.
Gods, if he only had his magic, none of this would be necessary. But still, they'd done well this day. He turned.
'Shar?'
A grim, blood-streaked face looked out of the door at him. 'I live. That's more than can be said for this spell-hurler. He was quick, I'll give him that.'
The lady ranger came out into the light again. Her face was white, and she was shaking with rage.
'What, lass?' Elminster asked, reaching out to her. Sharantyr turned blazing eyes on him.
'Those snakes are laying wagers on who will kill the most with their magic,' she said, seething. 'He screamed just after that blast, and someone called up the stairs to see if anything had gone wrong, shouting to ask if he still expected to outdo Stormcloak's body count and claim the victor's share.'
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 from the first, whether he acknowledged it or not. As to the vote of this council, consider a simple sum. To be lord I need only a majority of votes, and all the Zhentarim will vote with me.'
'There are fewer of you,' the deep voice reminded him, just as dryly, 'than there once were.'
'Well then, good Councillor Gulkin, perhaps it is time that the real strength of the Brotherhood was made known to you-to all of you. Call it a necessity of war, if you will, and if any tongues here today should slip about it later, be warned that their silencing will also be… a necessity of war.'
A wine goblet was set down deliberately. Men stirred and shifted again.
Stormcloak's voice came again. 'Kromm Kadar is the most recent addition to this table. Our blacksmith serves Zhentil Keep. His predecessor was a Sembian spy, whom we killed. Kromm serves the same master I do; his vote will be with mine.'
Tense silence was the only reply. Stormcloak's triumphant, almost taunting voice came again. 'There is also Alazs. Am I not right?'
'Yes, Lord,' came a new, thin voice.
'Alazs breeds good horses and has sold many to Lord Longspear. I'm sure he'll continue to put good mounts under our men. He has orders to, from the same source as I get my directives. Alazs has swung a sword for the Brotherhood in the Moonsea North for many a year. Perhaps you've heard of Alazs Ironwood, the Sword of Melvaunt?'
Silence was the only reply. Stormcloak was moving about the room; his voice receded slightly. 'Are you counting, Gulkin? Have I the votes yet? Not quite. Ah, but there's another. Our physic, Cheth, is more than a man of potions, drugs, and herbs. He, too, serves the Brotherhood-and his healing seems most successful when applied to those we want healed.'
'Is this wise,' a rasping voice came, 'revealing us all, when you could have just voted this stump-head down?'
'I believe so, Master Moonviper,' Stormcloak replied. 'I think it's important that we drop the pretenses with which Longspear wasted so much of our time.'
