R. A. Salvatore - Cleric Quintet 2 - In Sylvan Shadows

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Cadderly moved his quill out toward the inkwell,

then changed his mind and put the instrument

down on his desk. He looked out the window at

the foliage surrounding the Edificant Library,

and at Percival, the white squirrel, tangling

with acorns along the rain gutter of the lower level. It was

the month of Eleasias, Highsun, the height of summer, and

the season had been unusually bright and warm so high in

the Snowflake Mountains.

Everything was as it always had been for Cadderly—at

least, that's what the young scholar tried to convince him-

self. Percival was at play in the sunshine; the library was

secure and peaceful once more; the lazy remainder of sum-

mer promised leisure and quiet walks.

As it always had been.

Cadderly dropped his chin into his palm, then ran his

hand back through his sandy brown hair. He tried to con-

centrate on the peaceful images before him, on the quiet

summer world of the Snowflake Mountains, but eyes

looked back at him from the depths of his mind: the eyes of

a man he had killed.

Nothing would ever be the same. Cadderly's gray eyes

were no longer so quick to turn up in that boyish, full-faced

smile.

Determinedly this time, the young scholar poked the

quill into the ink and smoothed the parchment before him.

Entry Number Seventeen

by Cadderly of Carradoon

Appointed Scholar, Order of Deneir

Fourth Day of Eleasias, 1361 (Year of the Maidens)

It has been five weeks since Barjin's defeat,

yet I see his dead eyes.

Cadderly stopped and scribbled out the thought, both

from the parchment and from his mind. He looked again out

the window, dropped his quill, and rubbed his hands briskly

over his boyish face. This was important, he reminded

himself. He hadn't made an entry in more than a week, and

if he failed at this year quest, the consequences to all the

region could be devastating. Again the quill went into the

inkwell.

It has been five weeks since we defeated the

curse that befell the Edificant Library. The

most distressing news since then: Ivan and Pi-

kel Bouldershoulder have left the library, in

pursuit of Pikel's aspirations to druidhood. I

wish Pikel well, though I doubt that the wood-

land priests will welcome a dwarf into their or-

der. The dwarves would not say where they

were going (I do not believe they themselves

knew). I miss them terribly, for they, Danica,

and Newander were the true heroes in the

fight against the evil priest named Barjin—if

that was his name.

Cadderly paused for a few moments. Assigning a name

to the man he had killed did not make things easier for the

innocent young scholar. It took him some time before he

could concentrate on the information necessary to his en-

try, the interview he had done with the interrogating

priests.

The clerics who called back the dead man's

spirit warned me to take their findings as prob-

able rather than exact. Witnesses from beyond

the grave are often elusive, they explained,

and Barjin's stubborn spirit proved to be as dif-

ficult an opponent as the priest had been in life.

Little real information was garnered, but the

clerics came away believing that the evil priest

was part of a conspiracy— one of conquest that

still threatens the region, I must assume. That

only increases the importance of my task.

Again, many moments passed before Cadderly was able

to continue. He looked at the sunshine, at the white squir-

rel, and pushed away those staring eyes.

Barjin uttered another name, Talona, and

that bodes ill indeed for the library and the re-

gion. The Lady of Poison, Talona is called, a

vile deity of chaos, restricted by no moral code

whatsoever. I am hard-pressed to explain one

discrepancy: Barjin hardly fit the description of

a Talona disciple; he had not scarred himself in

any visible way, as priests worshiping the Lady

of Poison typically do. The holy symbol he

wore, though, the trident with small vials atop

each point, does resemble the triangular, three

teardrop design of Talona.

But with this, too, we have been led down a

trail that leads only to assumption and reason-

able guesses. More exact information must be

gained, and gained soon, I fear.

This day, my quest has taken a different

turn. Prince Elbereth of Shilmista, a most re-

spected elf lord, has come to the library, bear-

ing gloves taken from a band of marauding

bugbears in the elven wood. The insignia on

these gloves match Barjin's symbol exactly—

there can be little doubt that the bugbears and

the

evil

priest

were

allied.

The headmasters have made no decisions

yet, beyond agreeing that someone should ac-

company Prince Elbereth back to the forest. It

seems only logical that I will be their choice.

My quest can go no further here; already I

have perused every source of information on

Talona in our possession—our knowledge is not

vast on this subject. And, concerning the magi-

cal elixir that Barjin used, I have looked

through every major alchemical and elixir tome

and have consulted extensively with Vicero

Belago, the library's resident alchemist. Fur-

ther study will be required as time permits, but

my inquiries have hit against dead ends. Belago

believes that he would learn more of the elixir if

he had the bottle in his possession, but the

headmasters have flatly refused that request.

The lower catacombs have been sealed—no

one is to be allowed down there, and the bottle

is to remain where I put it, immersed in a font

of blessed water in the room that Barjin used

for his vile altar.

The only clues remaining, then, lead to

Shilmista. Always have I wanted to visit the en-

chanted forest, to witness the elves' dance and

hear their melancholy song. But not like this.

Cadderly set the quill down and blew lightly on the parch-

ment to help dry the ink. His entry seemed terribly short,

considering that he had not recorded anything for many

days and there was so much to catch up on. It would have

to do, though, for Cadderly's thoughts were too jumbled

for him to make sense of them in writing.

Orphaned at a very young age, Cadderly had lived at the

Edificant Library since his earliest recollections. The li-

brary was a fortress, never threatened in modern times

until Barjin had come, and, to Cadderly, orcs and goblins,

undead monsters and evil wizards had been the stuff of

tales in dusty books.

It had suddenly become all too real and Cadderly had

been thrust into the midst of it. The other priests, even

Headmaster Avery, called him "hero" for his actions in de-

feating Barjin. Cadderly saw things differently, though.

Confusion and chaos and blind fate had facilitated his every

move. Even killing Barjin had been an accident—a fortu-

nate accident?

Cadderly honestly didn't know, didn't understand what

Deneir wanted or expected of him. Accident or not, the act

of killing Barjin haunted the young scholar. He saw Barjin's

dead eyes in his thoughts and in his dreams, staring at him,

accusing him.

The scholar-priest had to wear the mantle of hero, be-

cause others had placed it there, but he felt certain the

mantle's weight would bow his shoulders until he broke.

Outside the window, Percival danced and played along

the rain gutter as warm sunshine filtered through the thick

leaves of the huge oaks and maples common to the moun-

tainside. Far, far below, Impresk Lake glittered, quiet and

serene, in the gentle rays of the summer light.

To Cadderly, the "hero," it all seemed a horrible facade.

By Surprise

Twilight.

Fifty elven archers lay concealed across the

first ridge; fifty more waited behind them, atop

the second in this rolling, up-and-down region of

Shilmista known as the Dells.

The flicker of torches came into view far away through

the trees.

"That is not the leading edge," the elf maiden Shayleigh

warned, and indeed, lines of goblins were soon spotted

much closer than the torches, traveling swiftly and silently

through the darkness. Shayleigh's violet eyes glittered ea-

gerly in the starlight; she kept the cowl of her cloak up

high, fearing that the luster of her golden hair, undimin-

ished by the quiet colors of night, would betray her posi-

tion.

The advancing goblins came on. Great long bows bent

back; long arrows poised to strike.

The skilled elves held their bows steady, not one of them

trembling under the great pull of their powerful weapons.

They looked around somewhat nervously, though, awaiting

Shayleigh's command, their discipline severely tested as

orcs and goblins and larger, more ominous forms came al-

most to the base of the ridge.

Shayleigh moved down the line quickly. "Two arrows

away and retreat," she instructed, using a silent code of

hand signals and hushed whispers. "On my call."

Orcs were on the hillock, climbing steadily toward the

ridge. Still Shayleigh held the elven volley, trusting in the

erupting chaos to keep her enemies at bay.

A large orc, just ten paces from the ridge, stopped sud-

denly and sniffed the air. Those in line behind the beast

similarly stopped, glancing about in an effort to discern

what their companion had sensed. The pig-faced creature

tilted

its

head back, trying

bring some

focus

to the

unu-

sual form tying just a few feet ahead of it.

"Now!" came Shayleigh's cry.

The lead orc never managed to squeal a warning before

the arrow dove into its face, the force of the blow lifting the

creature from the ground and sending it tumbling back

down the slope. All across the northern face of the hillock,

the invading monsters screamed out and fell, some hit by

two or three arrows in just a split second.

Then the ground shook under the monstrous charge as

the invading army's second rank learned of the enemy con-

cealed atop the ridge. Almost every arrow of the elves'

ensuing volley hit the mark, but it hardly slowed the sud-

den press of drooling, monstrous forms.

According to plan, Shayleigh and her troops took flight,

with goblins, orcs, and many ogres on their heels.

Galladel, the elf king of Shilmista, commanding the sec-

ond line, turned his archers loose as soon as the monsters

appeared over the lip of the first ridge. Arrow after arrow

hit home; four elves together concentrated their fire on

single targets—huge ogres—and the great monsters were

brought crashing down.

Shayleigh's group crossed the second ridge and fell into

place beside their elven companions, then turned their long

bows and joined in the massacre. With horrifying speed,

the valley between the ridges filled with corpses and blood.

One ogre slipped through the throng and nearly got to

the elven line—even had its club raised high for a strike—-

but a dozen arrows burrowed into its chest, staggering it.

Shayleigh, fearless and grim, leaped over the closest

archer and drove her fine sword into the stunned mon-

ster's heart.

*****

As soon as he heard the fighting in the Dells, the wizard

Tintagel knew that he and his three magic-using associates

would soon be hard-pressed by monstrous invaders. Only

a dozen archers had been spared to go with the wizards,

and these, Tintagel knew, would spend more time scouting

to the east and keeping communication open with the main

host in the west than in fighting. The four elven magic-

users had mapped out their defenses carefully, and they

trusted in their craft. If the ambush at the Dells was to suc-

ceed, then Tintagel and his companions would have to hold

the line in the east. They could not fail.

A scout rushed by Tintagel, and the wizard brushed

aside his thick, dark locks and squinted with blue eyes to-

ward the north.

"Mixed group," the young elf explained, looking back.

"Goblins, mostly, but with a fair number of orcs beside

them."

Tintagel rubbed his hands together and motioned to his

three wizard comrades. All four began their spells at about

the same time and soon the air north of their position be-

came filled with sticky filaments, drifting down to form

thick webs between the trees. The scout's warning had

come at the last moment, for even as the webs began to

take shape, several goblins rushed into them, becoming

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摘要：

Cadderlymovedhisquillouttowardtheinkwell,thenchangedhismindandputtheinstrumentdownonhisdesk.HelookedoutthewindowatthefoliagesurroundingtheEdificantLibrary,andatPercival,thewhitesquirrel,tanglingwithacornsalongtheraingutterofthelowerlevel.ItwasthemonthofEleasias,Highsun,theheightofsummer,andtheseason...

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R. A. Salvatore - Cleric Quintet 2 - In Sylvan Shadows

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