Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Shadow of the Avatar 3 - All Shadows Fled

VIP免费

2024-12-23 0 0 407.54KB 145 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

ALL SHADOWS FLED

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of

America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork

contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of TSR,

Inc.

All TSR characters, character names, and the distinct likenesses thereof are

trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.

Random House and its affiliate companies have worldwide distribution rights in

the book trade for English language products of TSR, Inc.

Distributed to the book and hobby trade in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd.

Distributed to the toy and hobby trade by regional distributors. Cover art by

Fred Fields.

FORGOTTEN REALMS is a registered trademark owned by TSR, Inc. The TSR logo is

a trademark owned by TSR, Inc.

First Printing: October 1995

Printed in the United States of America.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-61677

987654321 ISBN: 0-7869-0302-3

TSR, Inc.

201 Sheridan Springs Rd.

Lake Geneva, WI 53147

U.S.A.

TSR Ltd.

120 Church End, Cherry Hinton

Cambridge CB1 3LB

United Kingdom

To Jenny, for literally everything.

cha mhisd'a thig dhuit am boidag

Away, Shadows, away! I grow tired of slaying thee . ..

and presently I shall grow angry. Then you'll be sorry!

The Simbul, Queen of Aglarond

Said in spell-battle before all her court

Year of Shadows

PRologue

Three living heroes and a ghost dared to take an enchanted blade out of the

world, hunting shapeshifters in their ancient Castle of Shadows. . . .

For centuries, the Malaugrym had been dark figures of legend, fey sorcerers

who could take any shape they chose. They came to Faerun to impersonate kings

and reavers and archmages, to entertain themselves with the havoc they could

wreak—and to seize mortal women as breeding slaves, carrying them off across

the planes to the place they called Shadowhome.

When the famous archmage Elminster of Shadow-dale caught Malaugrym in Faerun,

they paid with their lives. Twice he journeyed to the Castle of Shadows to

humble the House of Malaug . . . but no mere mortal had ever made such a foray

and returned to Faerun to tell of it.

Until Lady Sharantyr, Knight of Myth Drannor; Bel-kram and Itharr of the

Harpers; and the ghostly remnant of Sylune, Witch of Shadowdale, went up

against the shapeshifters armed with the Sword of Mystra. And with that sword,

Sharantyr cut her way back from the brink of death and out of the Castle of

Shadows, slaying many of the evil shapeshifters as she went.

Unfortunately, most of them still lived, and vowed revenge on four new foes.

More entered Faerun with the returning heroes and escaped to wander the

En GREENWOOD

Realms at will.

Even worse, Faerun was much as they'd left it: in the throes of the magical

chaos, bloodshed, and lawlessness of the Time of Troubles, when the gods

themselves walked the Realms, no magic could be trusted, and fire and fury

raged across the lands.

It was a time for heroes, and the four who'd escaped the Castle of Shadows

found Elminster, the Old Mage, waiting for them, with orders to undertake

still more perilous tasks in the desperate work of saving civilized Faerun.

And the Malaugrym were waiting for them, too.. . .

If Begins with a Flame

Faerun, Daggerdale, Kythorn 20, Year of Shadows

The wind rose and whistled through the stones of a roofless, ruined manor

house on a grassy hillside in Daggerdale. The trampled slope was strewn with

tenta-cled, jellylike, eye-studded nightmare bodies.

Three weary, wild-eyed rangers and a ghostly lady hastened up the hill from

the monsters they'd slain, running like starving men to a banquet table. They

hurried toward a man who sat in the ruins.

The gaunt, white-bearded old man sat on what was left of a crumbling wall and

serenely smoked a pipe. He looked at them all, smiled, and spat out this smoke

belcher. It rose smoothly upward to float by his ear, spouting wisps of smoke

that curled away to be lost in the quickening breeze. *Te deserve

congratulations for one thing, at least," he announced.

After the silence had begun to stretch, Itharr sighed and asked in tones that

were just respectful, "And what, Lord Elminster, would that be?"

"Keeping thyselves alive," Elminster told him dryly.

"I heard an 'at least' in there," Sylune put in. Her silvery tresses hung

still around her eerily translucent face despite the gusting wind. Beside her,

the blood-spattered lady ranger Shar shot her an amused look

ED GREENWOOD

through her own wind-whipped hair.

Elminster glared severely at the ghostly Witch of Shadowdale. "There is a

little matter of bringing a trio or more of Malaugrym into Faenin, and

allowing'them to wander off untraced and untrammeled, to work their wanton

wills across the land."

" *Work their wanton wills' ... I like that; 'twould fit nicely into a purple

Harper ballad," Sylune replied serenely. "My choice, Old Mage, was between the

lives of these three heroes—nay, no wincing, now; they've more than earned the

title—and those of a few shapeshifters. / think my decision was the right one

. . . and if you disagree so strongly, why did you not take action yourself?

You must have been here watching us."

"Been here, aye. Watching, no," the Old Mage replied, eyes on the hillside

below them—where, at his magical bidding, the horribly distorted bodies of the

Malaugrym were rising into the air and catching fire. "I was tossing meteor

swarms over the turrets of Telflamm, half a world away."

"By the gods, the bardic phrases keep flowing, like . .." The ghost sorceress

paused meaningfully.

"Nightsoil from a hurled bucket?" Belkram offered helpfully.

Sylune rolled her eyes and continued, "And your reason for this . . . ah,

fiery behavior?"

El grinned. "I was feeding a wild magic area to make it grow into a shield

against Red Wizards ... so I could turn my attention closer to home."

Belkram caught the first whiff of burning flesh and spun around, raising the

gory daggers he held ready in both hands. Seeing the source of the smell, he

relaxed. A certain grim satisfaction grew on his face as he watched the bodies

of their foes burn. Sharantyr gave the midair cremation a single quick glance

and turned her gaze back to the Old Mage.

"I know you well enough, Elminster," she said levelly,

ALL SHADOWS FLED

"to know that such words always lead us to another of your 'little tasks'. . .

and I'd appreciate knowing what this one is without a lot of clever

tongue-fencing. Several Malaugrym—one in particular—have about used up my

patience for today." As she stared challengingly at the Old Mage, Shar flexed

her aching jaw. Her mouth, scorched by a Malaugrym tentacle whose foul taste

she could still remember, was throbbing painfully, and her tongue was a thick,

numb thing.

As her companions looked at the usually merry Shar in surprise, Elminster

inclined his head and said, "Plain speaking is wise in any case, Lady Knight.

Know, then: thy swords and spells—and all of ye, with them—are urgently needed

in the coming defense of Shadowdale. I'm here to send ye where ye're most

needed in that fight."

"The Zhentarim?" Sylune asked shortly. It was more statement than question.

As if her words had been some sort of cue, the world around them was suddenly

a cold place of endlessly streaming white flames, and her companions stood

frozen amid the conflagration. The last thing the Witch of Shadowdale heard

was Elminster's disgusted cry: "Ah, no! Not again!" And then his tattered

words were whirled away from her, and all that was left was the ceaseless

roaring. . . .

After what must have been a very long time, Sylune knew herself again. She was

all that was left of the woman widely known as the Witch of Shadowdale. .. .

She was Sylune. Still a ghost. . . and still in Faerun. Hanging in the heart

of the roaring.

All around her, flames that did not burn streamed endlessly past her

motionless friends and the crumbling stones of the manor. But she could move

and think . . . though the cold white flames made her

ED GREENWOOD

tremble uncontrollably as they roared through her.

Sylune found she could move, if she bent her will hard to the doing. Let us be

doing, then.

With slow determination, she drifted nearer the Old Mage, sitting motionless

on his bit of wall. His hands were uplifted and his lips open, wearing the

disgusted frown of his realization that whatever it was had caught him again.

So they were in some sort of trap. A magical trap, though its flames—which

didn't seem to harm anything—had withstood the wildness of magic stalking

Faerun for some time; it seemed. Some of the wildflowers growing amid the

stones had bloomed and withered since the magic had begun. The companions had

been here for days, then. Sylune wished she could sigh. I've not been a ghost

long enough to learn patience for waits that may well take years.

She looked at the Old Mage's pipe, still floating beside his head where he'd

left it, and saw that the flames bent around it.

They seemed to be avoiding it! Sylune stared at the spell-flames narrowly for

a time; they boiled up out of nowhere on one side of the ruins, arced over her

frozen companions, and then returned in an endless rush to nowhere on the far

side of the broken walls. It was some sort of stasis field that avoided

Elminster's small, curved, ever-smoking pipe.

So, the pipe yet radiated its own magic—and floated on its own, not frozen by

the flames. She frowned. He'd once been able to teleport with it, hadn't he?

She drifted nearer, noticing faint wisps of smoke curling up out of the pipe

bowl ever so slowly and rising to mingle with the onrushing flames.

She eyed it. This was probably going to hurt.

Mystra, if any part of you is still around to hear, she thought firmly, aid me

now. And with the resolve still strong in her, she surged forward, thinning a

part of her essence into the pipe.

ALL SHADOWS FLED

Magics swirled and tore at her, defenses against tampering that bore

Elminster's trademark spell-upon-spell interlacing. Gods, the pain!

Whirling around in a silent scream, Sylune found that the pipe could teleport

vapor in and away, in an endless cycle—giving her an escape whenever she

wished—and could also transport anyone who touched it and willed it, thus,

from place to place.

Elminster sat frozen, but perhaps she could guide the pipe to him . . . yes!

That very movement was a direction he'd given the pipe several times recently,

so how to do it was displayed right in front of her!

Sylune swirled around the pipe and moved it down toward the Old Mage's mouth.

The flames bent away from her, and grim satisfaction rose within her as she

made the slow, drifting journey. This was going to work!

At last the pipe touched the Old Mage's lips, but he sat open-mouthed,

unmoving, and she could feel no quickening of will within him, only the

endless roaring. The magic was binding his wits, then. Of course it must be,

or he'd have used spellfire to drink it down to nothingness long ago. Sylune

wanted to sigh again.

Perhaps she could force a teleport by—oh, gods, this might well be the last

thing she ever did, the last moment she knew.

Farewell, Faerun, Sylune thought, and flowed back into the pipe. She must will

it to take the Old Mage away from here, to the meadow. The meadow where

Sharantyr had danced about with a glowing sword in the depths of the night—a

lifetime ago, it seemed—in the meadow just over there.

And then white flames roared up between her ears and up her throat and the

world exploded, whirling her away.. . .

ED GREENWOOD

Castle of Shadows, Shadowhome, Flamerule 15 •

"I have seen enough shadow weaving and clearing away of dead kin and rubble to

last me many an eon," the gigantic horned worm declared in a voice that echoed

in the far corners of the cavernous room, "and Shadowhome is rebuilt

sufficiently to set my gorge at ease—for now."

With a rattle of huge chitin plates, he glided into the dim, shadowed chamber,

and there dwindled into a bald, long-tailed, gray-scaled humanoid. Othortyn of

the Malaugrym eyed his minions, a pair of tentacled lesser kin who peered into

the flickering, floating light of a scrying portal at the center of the

chamber. Othortyn shifted his tail and asked irritably, "So how've you two

been wasting your time?"

"Watching what befalls in the world of the humans," Inder said boldly, "as you

commanded." His quiet companion, Hastrim, nodded but said nothing.

"And what have you found?" Othortyn asked, settling himself on a crumbling

stone throne that was almost as old as he.

"The ambitious humans who dwell in Zhentil Keep, bolstered by their god—or one

who claims to be Bane— have gone to war," Inder said in a voice swift and

shrill with excitement. "They've sent four armies into adjacent lands, the

largest by road into Shadowdale . . . where the Great Foe dwells."

"And what befell this force sent against Elminster?" Othortyn asked quietly.

"Some local human mage called down lightnings and cooked many in their armor .

. . and then the Foe turned a few thousand into boulders while they were

camped at a place called Voonlar. No doubt he planned to transform them all,

but—"

Othortyn blanched. "Mass transformation? You dare to tell me that the Great

Foe can turn whole armies into toads? I've not heard that sort of nonsense

since I

ALL SHADOWS FLED

was a youngling and pranksome elders tried to scare me with wild tales of

human wizards!"

Inder met his master's gaze steadily. "Didn't you believe those tales?" he

asked quietly.

Othortyn glowered. "So, just how many spells, oh wise apprentice, do these

wizards hurl around that I don't know about?" he asked, voice heavy with

sarcasm. As he eyed the younger Malaugrym, his tail curled out to open a door

that had been secret for long years. He took out a dusty bottle from the dark

niche beyond.

Inder shrugged. "Several thousand, perhaps."

"So, with all this magic to hurl about, reshaping worlds," Othortyn snarled,

the end of his tail rearing back and lengthening into a hollow stinger, "why

did oh-so-mighty Elminster stop making his rocks before the whole host was

done?"

Inder frowned as his master pierced the cork of the bottle and drank deeply.

The apprentice said, "His spell—as would any mighty magic, we believe—created

an area of wild magic . . . which is still spreading. A wizard would see such

a thing as the greatest danger of all, and would do nothing to aid its

spread—nor dare to risk himself in its vicinity."

"So the Great Foe did not confront his own foes directly," Hastrim added,

"fearing for his skin."

"He turned instead to the other armies, where only lesser mages stood against

him," Inder continued, "and—"

"Speak no more of the Foe," the old Shadowmaster said sharply. "What has

become of our kin who reached Faerun?"

"Atari, Yinthrim, and Revered Elder Ahorga survived the battle with the three

accursed humans who came here," Inder said in more sober tones, "and seem to

be roaming Faerun in many shapes, learning its ways and uses."

"Others of our house have found their own, separate ways into Faerun," Hastrim

added. "We have scryed

ED GREENWOOD

Bralatar and Lorgyn, and seen one other, whom we believe to be Lunquar, get of

Byatra. . . ." His voice trailed away, and there was a little silence.

"Is that all?" Othortyn growled. "I thought Jaster had gathered a dozen or

more eager younglings around him!"

"He did," Inder said quickly, "but when Starner came to you with word that the

Great Foe was caught in the loop trap you cast at their gate, you told him to

gather all kin with spells to spare and make haste to—"

"Blast all who defy me!" Othortyn roared, and lightning leapt from his eyes

like two darting white flames, roaring across the chamber to swallow up Inder

and the scrying portal with him.

Hastrim staggered back with a startled sob as his companion and their spell

vanished into wisps of curling smoke.

"I did tell you, Inder, not to mention the Great Foe again," Othortyn said

chidingly. Then he turned his head from the drifting smoke and said politely

to Hastrim, "Please continue with the exposition of events that Inder so

abruptly abandoned . . ."

Hastrim stared at him in stunned silence, face pale. Muscles rippled around

his mouth as he fought for calm.

"Feel free to be as clever as you feel necessary," the old Shadowmaster said

soothingly.

Hastrim looked at Othortyn, and then his gaze fell again to regard the greasy

curls of smoke that had been Inder. He swallowed.

"Well," he said unhappily, "perhaps it would be best to begin when it was

first noticed that three humans— bearing a magic sword—had somehow stepped

from Faerun into the heart of Shadowhome . . . undetected."

"Good, good," the old, bald Shadowmaster said encouragingly, opening another

bottle. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Er—" Hastrim began, and then added with sudden

ALL SHADOWS FLED

firmness, "Yes," and a long, snakelike tentacle put a dusty bottle in his

hand.

*****

Faerun, Dagger-dale, Flamerule 15

"Easy, lass," a familiar voice rumbled as Sylune" of Shadowdale slowly blinked

her way back into awareness. " Twas well done, to be sure. Ye shattered a

spell loop, a very nasty Malaugrym magic—and there were a dozen of them

waiting with all the spells they could think of, for us to break out. It's

probably best that Shar and the lads were stunned when ye hurled me elsewhere.

It saved them from about forty mind-rending attacks, and left me free to use

the sort of Art that was really necessary."

Elminster gestured down the hillside, and Sylune saw rainbow swirlings there,

above torn earth and blasted stumps. The trees around the stream and the

leaning bridge were no more . . . and no doubt the gate to the Shadowmasters'

home plane was gone too.

"A wild magic area?" she whispered.

"I fear so," Elminster replied grimly, "but the gate is gone forever, and a

score or so more Malaugrym with it."

Sylune shuddered and drifted up out of his hands. Except for the few stones

where the Old Mage was sitting—well west of where he had been—the ruined manor

was now a crater of mud and gravel.

She swirled back to face him. "How long has it been since we came back from

the Castle of Shadows?"

"Nigh on a month," Elminster said quietly.

Sylune" nodded grimly. "I thought so. Has Shadow-dale fallen?"

Elminster gave her a twisted grin. "Not yet." He got up and trudged west, into

the trees. "Come to the meadow."

ED GREENWOOD

Sylune drifted along beside him, suddenly reluctant to be alone. The old

wizard had taken only a few paces before they emerged into a field of trodden

grass where Belkram, Itharr, and Sharantyr sat, looking up with welcoming

smiles.

"Thankee, and all that," Itharr said, his broad shoulders shifting as he

smiled.

"All part of my orders," Sylune told him briskly, giving Elminster a

meaningful look, "as enunciated by the tyrant mage here."

"Ah, yes," Belkram said. "I believe I know just how you feel."

"Yes," Sharantyr agreed crisply. "I think it's about time, Old Mage, that you

told us what befell Faerun while we were all caught in this magic."

"You might have revived us sooner," Itharr added darkly.

Elminster looked at the burly ranger. "It took me days to repair and rebuild

thy bodies, all three of ye. I had to use necromantic spells I haven't looked

at in ages . . . and I do mean ages." He lifted an eyebrow. "Perhaps I didn't

get thy head screwed on quite right."

"I—" Itharr began, but Belkram interrupted him.

"If that's so, sir—why do I feel weary, and in pain?"

"Aye!" Itharr agreed.

"The only way I could save ye at all," Elminster muttered, "was to restore ye

to exactly as ye were before the trap took us. As it was, I nearly lost ye

more than once—ye in particular, Belkram, five times! The gods know I've grown

used to never receiving the slightest thanks when I help folk, but betimes I

think certain beneficiaries of my arts close enough to me—and perceptive

enough, to—ah, ne'er mind ..." He glared at the handsome Harper.

Belkram returned his look of anger.

"All right," Sharantyr said, looking from one to the other. "Enough. Tell us

about the Realms, El."

Elminster's face grew calm as he nodded and said

ALL SHADOWS FLED

briskly, "Zhentilar armies march on Shadowdale from all sides—and the avatar

of the god Bane rides with them, leading the main body himself."

"Faerun's flying dung," Sylune said crisply. The unaccustomed oath drew

startled gazes her way. "Even if the dale can withstand such an assault," she

said bitterly, "it'll be torn into smoking ruins in the doing." She turned to

look south. "And after all these years, I'll see it destroyed after all."

"Be not so quick to surrender our home to the Black Gauntlet," Elminster said

firmly. "/ shall be there, fighting to the last. . . and I've sent Zhentilar

troops running bootless away from Shadowdale more times than I care to

recall."

"If three swords can make a difference in this, sir," Belkram said heavily,

"things must be bad. Tell us in truth what's befallen thus far ... where are

the Zhents now?"

Elminster nodded. "Four armies are on the march," he said, all trace of

testiness gone. "The one coming down through Voonlar is the largest, though my

friend Perendra took care of a goodly number of the fools by calling up a

lightning storm. Fancy marching through a downpour in full armor; some of

these warriors must have cold iron between their ears, not just over them!

Meanwhile, I dealt with a few thousand more."

"Oh? How do you 'deal with' a few thousand Zhent troops?" Belkram asked,

shifting into a more comfortable slouch in the grass. The more he dealt with

arch-mages, the more it was becoming obvious that their shared concept of

'haste' allowed time for thorough discussions of everything.

"Carefully, lad," Elminster told him predictably. "Carefully."

The two Harpers sighed together . . . and had many other opportunities to sigh

as the wizard rambled on. At one point Belkram muttered despairingly, "Get on

with it!" under his breath.

ED GREENWOOD

He'd spoken a trifle too loudly. The Old Mage's eyebrows rose, and Belkram

gulped,

"Patience certainly seems to be the provision ye used up most in the shadows,"

El observed mildly as his pipe glided in to find its way to his lips. He blew

a slow, spreading smoke ring and then banished his pipe again. Teleportation

is one thing that still seems reliable among all this chaos of Art, so I spent

the better part of the highsun hours yesterday transporting a dozen

monsters—hydras, firedrakes, wyverns, behirs, death kisses, and the like—into

the camp of the second, central force, north of the Flaming Tower."

Belkram chuckled, but Shar looked troubled. "What's to stop their using spells

to drive those beasts before them, south into the heart of Shadowdale?"

"Me," the Old Mage told her impishly. "I took care of their mages first." He

watched another smoke ring drift away on the wind and added, "Some of the

beasts I sent into their midst were rather hungry, too."

"Can't Bane teleport just as easily as you can?" Itharr asked quietly.

Elminster nodded his approval at such tactical thought. "Of course. Hell have

to come to the aid of his Central Blade or lose the lot of them . . . but the

doing will keep him occupied for a time, too busy to work other mischief." He

ran fingers through his beard. "The same consideration governed my treatment

of the smallest force. Fzoul's leading four hundred or so mounted men-at-arms

past us right now, through Daggerdale."

"Four hundred Zhentilar?" Belkram asked, holding up his daggers. "You want us

to take down four hundred warriors? Shouldn't we get horses to ride on, just

to make it a little fairer?"

Shar and Itharr snorted together. Sylune reclined gracefully on thin air, as

if sprawled on a couch, and awaited Elminster's answer.

The Old Mage shook his head and asked softly, "Bold

Aii SHADOWS FLED

today, aren't we, friend Harper?"

Lesser men might have quailed before that tone, but Belkram merely shrugged,

smiled, and waved at Elminster to continue.

Inclining his head in a mock bow of thanks, Elminster said, "That task is not

yours." He lifted his lips in a mirthless grin. "I suspect a few ores can do

it better."

"A few ores?" Sharantyr roared, her voice rising from deep and ragged tones,

for all the world as if she were a burly male and not a lithe lady.

"Elminster!" That last squeaked word of reproach sounded more like a lady's

pique, and goaded Sylune into peals of tinkling laughter.

"Yestereve," Elminster told them in tones of injured innocence, "I approached

several ore bands foraging in Daggerdale, and undertook to alert them that a

well-provisioned Zhent force was entering the territory. That should make

things a little warmer for Fzoul than he anticipated, and rob him of most

opportunities to reach Shadowdale ahead of the other Zhent forces, hole up in

the woods around Grimstead, and amuse himself by using his spells to harass

the good folk of the dale."

"All right, El. You've been both clever and busy," Sylun6 reassured him, her

voice soothing. Her next words, however, came out as sharp as the crack of a

whip: "But so have we. My friends here grow stiff and tired and hungry. Armies

march on Shadowdale from all sides, you said, and have told us of three, so

what attack is coming from the south—and what is our duty in dealing with it?"

Elminster bowed his head again to hide a grin, cleared his throat in apparent

embarrassment, and said, "I need ye four to deal with the fourth Zhent attack:

the Sword of the South. It's a band of Sembian mercenaries and the covert

Zhentarim agents who hired them. They've been assembling in Battledale for a

month and more, drawn from all over Sembia and the eastern dales."

"They're going to try to march through the Elven

ED GREENWOOD

ALL SHADOWS FLED

Court woods?" Shar asked, one shapely eyebrow raised. That's not a wise tactic

for any armed band."

The Old Mage shook his head. "Their orders are to take and subdue Mistledale,

and without pause press on up the Mistle Trail, to drive into Shadowdale from

the south." He smiled gently. "You will stop them."

"I thought we were going to defend Shadowdale," Bel-kram said. "You may be

able to dance around the Realms with a thought and a wiggle of your hips, but

we have to walk . . . and I don't feel like running back and forth between two

dales, sword in hand, through gods know how many Zhent blackhelms!"

Elminster held up a quelling hand. "I said I'd come to send ye where ye are

most needed. Right now Shadow-dale is crowded with frightened troops bustling

about. I don't want them to relax because the heroes have come to town, and I

don't want them in thy way, or ye in theirs. Mistledale is thy battlefield.

The defense of Mistledale will be the southern defense of Shadowdale."

"How strong is this fourth host?" Belkram asked suspiciously.

Elminster shrugged. "About seven thousand, when last I counted."

"Seven thousand!" Itharr burst out as jaws dropped all round.

Shar shook her head. "You love us, don't you?" she murmured.

El chuckled. "Oh, yell have help. All of Shar's battle companions, the Knights

of Myth Drannor, are in Mistledale already, mustering the Riders."

"There are only thirty Riders, perhaps six more if the graybeards who can

still walk and breathe at the same time come out of retirement, and another

dozen if their sword apprentices ride with them, too," Sylune said softly,

"and barely a dozen Knights, even if all who've retired or strayed off come

running to Mistledale."

El frowned. "And ye, of course . . . isn't that battle might enough?"

"Ah, Old Mage," Sylune said gently, "you may not have noticed, being old and

terribly important and even busier than usual . . . but I'm not . . . er, the

woman I used to be."

El chuckled. "I've been spreading stories of the Ghost Witch of Shadowdale

these last few months ... I think ye'll find, on a battlefield, that ye're

rather more than ye used to be."

Sylune glared at him, her eyes two white flames dancing in the air. "And just

what does that mean?"

"I've had half Twilight Hall modifying their best battle spells since the

seasons turned," the old wizard told her. "If it all works, they can cast them

simultaneously through ye, so a dozen or more battle magics—which ye can

aim—lash out from ye at once."

"And the catch?"

"The power involved will burn ye out from within, leaving thy body only ashes

. . . killing ye."

"El, I don't have—oh. I see. As I'm dead already, I should survive the

destruction of whatever body you're going to give me."

El nodded. "It's waiting for ye in Mistledale," he said quietly. "Not the last

one 111 give ye if—gods willing—I survive this Time of Troubles."

Tears welled up in her phantom eyes, and he added quickly, "Ye'd best get down

there speedily. Torm's been dressing the body—ye—in all sorts of black

leather, red evening lace, and fishnet gauze apparel, most evenings, and

seating ye in the porch window of the Six Shields to entertain the locals."

"Oh he has, has he?" Ghostly eyes flashed. "I think 111 just slip into this

body of mine at an opportune moment and give him the fright of his life!"

Shar grinned broadly. "May I watch?"

"No, that's 'may we watch?'" Belkram corrected her.

"Of course," Sylune told them grandly. "This Six Shields place is unfamiliar

to me, though ..."

"A cheap rooming house east of Lhuin's tannery," El

+ 1(5

ALL SHADOWS FLED

told her in the manner of a pompous guide, "opened recently to house field

workers, drovers, and others too cheap to stay at the Hart or the Arms."

Shar and the Witch of Shadowdale sniffed in unison. "It sounds like the sort

of place where Torm would stay, tight-pockets that he is,"

"Much as I'd like to watch ye roast Torm on a spit, just to see him wriggle

for once, there is some haste," the Old Mage added. "By sundown, the scouts of

the Sword of the South may well reach Galath's Roost."

"How can we possibly reach Mistledale in time, then?" Itharr asked—unwisely,

as it turned out.

Sharantyr gave him a weary look. "He's going to mass teleport us," she said

grimly. "It always makes me feel sick for hours afterward." She sighed and put

one arm across her bosom and the other over her stomach, bracing herself. "Get

on with it, then."

"Wait," Belkram said, brow wrinkling. "We haven't even—"

The last, fading thing the Harper saw as he struggled to finish his sentence

was Elminster's cheery grin. Around him the world flashed and changed—into

blue, swirling misty emptiness. Next came a sense of falling, for just one

wrenching moment, and then they were standing on a bare board floor in a loft

lit by two barrel-sized lamps that hung down on dusty chains from the roof

beam. Frowning men in armor stood staring down at large maps whose corners

were held down by daggers and gauntlets—or looking up at the newcomers in

startled consternation, hands going to hilts.

Belkram and Itharr stood a little behind Sharantyr. Right in front of her was

a tall, broad-shouldered and hard-faced man whose steely eyes raked both

Harpers for a moment before he took a catlike step forward and crushed her

into an embrace.

"Shar, by the grace of all the gods!"

The lady ranger's shoulders shook for a moment as she clung to him, her drawn

sword forgotten, and she

knew tears would be bright on her face when she turned to introduce them.

Florin Falconhand did not give her the chance.

"I've missed you, little one," he growled, and as Shar reached up to tousle

his unruly hair, he added, "but you've found companions on the trail, I see.

Who are these two gentlemen you've brought?"

Eyeing the drawn blades crowding in around them, Belkram deemed the moment

right. He bent his knee, parted the leathers at his throat to show his silver

harp pin, and said, "Belkram and Itharr of the Harpers to fight alongside you,

Lord Florin. Elminster sent us."

A good-natured grin split the famous ranger's face, and he reached one long

arm around Sharantyr to clasp their forearms. "Be welcome! We have need of

swords, good men to wield them . . . and adventurers brave enough to stand up

to Elminster, too!"

"Pardon, Lord," Itharr said smoothly, "but shouldn't that be 'foolish

enough*?"

There were chuckles from all around the room, and other men thrust forward

their hands in welcome. They were accepted.

Shar tossed her silver blade under the table and put her freed hand on

Florin's cheek to guide him down into a kiss. As their lips touched, she was

overheard to be murmuring, "Well, here we go again.. . ."

Bodies, Frzesh and OfheRtoise

Misttedale, Fiamerule 15

It was horribly dark and somehow dusty, followed by a whirling moment of

wrenching pain that became a red agony in her chest, rising up to choke her.

Threads of pain rolled down limbs stiff from disuse to an aching _ forest of

fingertips . . . and then light and sound suddenly burst and swam all around

her. The Witch of Shadowdale found herself blinking back tears.

She had a body again!

Fighting an urge to shriek in triumph, Sylune clung to that thought: she had a

body again! A body Torm had obviously just finished dressing in a black lace

cutaway gown that left her bare there and there and there. . . . He stood with

his back to her, humming a contented ditty as he held up a red silk garter

before the lamp and surveyed it critically.

It did look rather splendid, but Sylune bent all her attention to making the

still unfamiliar body move—pushing against the bed with utmost care to sit up

silently, and then leaning forward into a quick barefoot step, slipping her

arms around him. Her lips went straight to his ear, and before she kissed its

hairy lobe, she murmured

ALL SHADOWS FUCD

into it, "Torm ... I've come for you! Torm..."

With a gratifying shriek, Torm leapt into the air, red silk flying. Sylune

clung to his trembling limbs and made the leap with him, but the Knight

twisted in the air to fling her free and grabbed at his belt dagger. The Witch

of Shadowdale put one leg behind her, bounced on it, and lifted her other knee

smartly between his, ere she bounded backward onto the bed.

Lord Torm of Shadowdale, Knight of Myth Drannor and thief of some skill, rose

into the air once more, sobbing. His darkening eyes met hers for just a

moment— with a look of mingled pain, terror, and disbelief—before he crashed

face first to the floor.

Some minutes later, the figure sprawled on the furs beside the bed stopped

moaning and writhing, and asked hesitantly, "Sylune? Is it you, truly?"

She stood up and walked slowly around the room, kicking experimentally to

limber up stiff legs and toes. "It is, Torm . . . which is why you still live,

I suppose."

Weakly, the thief on the floor began to chuckle. "Bits of me do. Others I'm

not so sure about. I'm sorry, Lady."

"Apology accepted, lecherous scum."

He laughed openly this time, his whooping breaking off with a catch as the

shaking brought him fresh pain. "Ohhh, gods," he said at last, rolling over.

"I've not felt this much pain since . .. well, never mind."

"I hope she was worth it," Sylune said teasingly, and then asked curiously,

"Why weren't you wearing one of your usual flamboyant codpieces?"

Torm looked hurt. "I wasn't dressed yet! Can you see me going downstairs in

this?" He held his arms wide to fully display the patched and stained cotton

undersuit that went under his fighting leathers. "Ladies first," he added,

gesturing at her.

Sylune put her hands on her hips and gave him a level stare as she gestured,

up and down, at herself. "This is your idea of 'dressed,' I take it?"

Torm gave her a sly look from the floor, and rolled up

ED GREENWOOD

to a sitting position, wincing once. "Well, you hadn't complained before

tonight," he said, feigning innocence.

"Yet—as you may just have noticed—I'm doing so now," Sylune told him calmly.

Then she snapped, "Take this frippery off me—at once!"

Torm bounded to his feet with an alacrity that belied the severity of his

injury. "My pleasure, Lady Sylune!"

"I'll bet," she said dryly. Try to keep your hands on the buckles and thongs,

now, and when you're done, 111 need a neck rub. Hmm—my calves, too. This body

is as stiff as old wood!" She struck a pose, pirouetted experimentally,

admired herself in the burnished metal looking glass, and rubbed her nose.

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

ALLSHADOWSFLED©1995TSR,Inc.AllRightsReserved.Allcharactersinthisbookarefictitious.Anyresemblancetoactualpersons,livingordead,ispurelycoincidental.ThisbookisprotectedunderthecopyrightlawsoftheUnitedStatesofAmerica.Anyreproductionorotherunauthorizeduseofthematerialorartworkcontainedhereinisprohibitedw...

展开>> 收起<<

Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Shadow of the Avatar 3 - All Shadows Fled.pdf

共145页,预览29页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Ed Greenwood - Forgotten Realms - Shadow of the Avatar 3 - All Shadows Fled

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: