Shadowdale (41 page)

Only one hundred yards away, the young Zhentish officer mounted his horse and led his troops onto the barricade. A thick rain of arrows fell from the trees on the north side of the road, killing most of the soldiers before they’d even taken three steps on the wall. The officer made it across with only an arrow shot through his leg and into his horse’s flank.

As soon as his horse jumped to the ground on the side of the wall closest to Shadowdale, however, a squad of dalesmen dispatched the Zhentish officer with little trouble. The young man died cursing Lord Bane for his stupidity and arrogance.

The battle at the barricade raged for almost an hour before the Zhentilar got enough troops to the western side of the wall to drive the dalesmen back down the road. Kelemvor ordered a retreat, and the archers and soldiers ran through the forest to their final positions in the woods, just west of the clearing next to Krag Pool.

By this time, Bane was himself at the barricade. As he looked out on the retreating dalesmen and the hundreds of corpses that littered the wall, he smiled. Victory was his; he could feel the stolen power writhing within the frail form of his avatar.

The Black Lord turned and addressed his troops. “We have passed through the gauntlet our enemies prepared for us and faced the worst they have to offer. I must leave you for a time, to go to the other front. The wizard Sememmon will lead you on to Shadowdale. Your god has spoken.”

A shimmering vortex of light enveloped the Black Lord, then the God of Strife vanished.

Safely hidden in the woods to the west of the clearing, Kelemvor could hardly believe his eyes. He watched as Bane’s army moved right into their trap. As the soldiers massed before the clearing, the fighter gave the signal and Mawser set off the trap.

Almost fifty trees suddenly appeared in the clearing next to Krag Pool. Then all of them started to fall toward the road and the Zhentish army.

The city planners had pointed out that the best kind of trap was one you couldn’t see, at least until it was too late, so Mourngrym had a work detail cut the trees west of Krag Pool so that they could easily be toppled on troops using the road. Then the trees were linked by strong ropes so that, once a single tree was knocked over, the entire road would be covered by falling timber.

The most difficult task was convincing Elminster to complete the plan. The dalelord pleaded with Elminster to throw one spell, a powerful mass invisibility spell on the trees, so they would be hidden from Bane’s troops. The old sage was not happy about being dragged away from his experiments, but he agreed to help after the plan had been explained to him.

“I just hope one of the oaks knocks Bane’s avatar on the skull,” Elminster said. Then he threw the spell and headed back to his work.

But after the trap was set, someone had to be found that was brave enough — or foolish enough, depending upon one’s philosophy — to set that first tree in motion without giving away the trap’s location. Even though it was a suicide mission, someone volunteered.

Mawser.

When Kelemvor gave the signal, the worshiper of the Goddess of Luck jumped from the tree nearest to the road. Mawser had been hidden by the invisibility spell as he sat at the top of the tree, tied to it by a short rope. And when he jumped, his weight set the first tree in motion. But he also appeared in midair, as the invisibility spell was negated by the fact the trees were now weapons on the attack.

As Mawser plummetted toward the Zhentilar, fifty huge trees falling behind him, he said a prayer to the Goddess of Luck to protect him, to somehow let him survive the fail and the crush of the trap.

Kelemvor didn’t see the Zhentish arrow pierce Mawser’s throat. The thin man was dead before he hit the ground.

But the trap worked. The trees crashed down on the Zhentish soldiers, killing or injuring at least a third of them. Kelemvor let out a yell, and the dalesmen followed his lead. Though the plan had been carefully orchestrated, no one was ever really positive that it would work. But, now, as the fighters and archers from the Dales watched Bane’s men scramble to save themselves from the incredible network of falling trees, they had no other option but to believe their senses.

Luck is with us this morning, Kelemvor thought, as he broke from his blind and signaled for the next phase of the attack to begin.

Hawksguard had stationed a group of archers in the forest behind the falling trees, and any of the bowmen who had retreated from positions farther east on the road to Voonlar also knew to fall back to the trees behind the trap. Now that the trap was sprung, the archers fired down into the tangled maze of fallen trees that lined the road. They loosed their arrows at any hint of movement in the trap, and hundreds of Zhentish soldiers who had escaped being crushed were killed or wounded by the archers. Despite the efforts of the archers, despite the fall of the gargantuan trees, Bane’s troop still pressed on.

From his position in the trees west of the trap, Kelemvor caught a glimpse of the remainder of the Zhentilar. Already they were attempting to advance, even though they could do little more than crawl beneath the fallen trees or climb over them. The Zhentish cavalry that was not crushed in the attack had been rendered useless. Kelemvor’s ground forces waited near the edge of the forest. He had hoped that even if the traps didn’t rout the Zhentilar, the dalesmen’s layered defense would at least slow the God of Strife’s troops down.

If Bane’s troops pushed past the tree trap, Kelemvor’s men would rush out and attack. Then, if things went badly, they would pull back and the archers would provide covering fire for them. If things went well, the Zhentilar might be forced back to the wall made by the fallen trees, where the archers from the dale could continue to cut them down with little fear of return fire. If Bane’s men were foolish enough to enter the forest to get at the archers, they’d be wiped out by Kelemvor’s troops, who knew how to fight in the forest far more effectively than the Zhentish.

Kelemvor had not planned for the power of the wizard Sememmon, however. The information Mourngrym had received from Thurbal indicated that Bane had placed a prohibition on the use of magic, as magic was unstable and thus unreliable in so important a conflict. Few magic-users would even be allowed to march against the Dales, and those powerful mages that were allowed to fight, like Sememmon, were made officers.

Now, Sememmon stood in the easternmost section of the road hit by the tree trap. One of the trees hung just over his head, as if it had been stopped by a wall of force. The top section of the tree, past the magic-user’s defenses, had fallen to the ground, its trunk shattered. Then the wizard walked out from under the tree and released his spell. The oak crashed to the ground, and Sememmon turned and called out to his men.

“We must use magic to push through this trap or we’ll be slaughtered,” he cried. “Bane be damned!” Then the mage quickly spoke an incantation and threw another spell.

Ten massive fireballs blasted a path through the tangle of trees before Sememmon, killing the Zhentish soldiers trapped beneath them and setting the tangle of trees ablaze. “No!” the wizard screeched. “That isn’t the spell I called!” He attempted another spell. The ground seemed to shake, as if an earthquake had been called into existence. A symphony of cries erupted from the frightened soldiers surrounding the magic-user.

“You’ll kill us all, you fool!” someone shouted.

Sememmon recognized the voice, despite the cacophony of sound from the road. “Knightsbridge,” he said in hoarse wonder. “You survived —”

Before the shocked wizard could finish his sentence, Knightsbridge struck him with the flat of his sword. The tremors stopped as Sememmon fell.

“Onward for Bane!” Knightsbridge yelled. “Onward for glory!”

A cadre of archers from Bane’s army fired flaming arrows into the trees where the archers of Shadowdale had been stationed. Some of the dalesmen fell, others managed to make their pre-arranged retreats. Waiting with his men, Kelemvor felt a moment of panic as he watched the fire the Zhentish had created. If the flames spread in the forest, a blaze of unimaginable proportions could begin. If the woods burned, it would only be a matter of time before the fields of the dale were caught in the inferno, and all of Shadowdale would be destroyed.

A young lieutenant named Drizhal, a boy less than twenty winters old, stood at Kelemvor’s side, sharing the fighter’s concerns. The gangly youth was running a hand nervously through his bright yellow hair as he listened to the veteran warrior.

“If only there was a magic-user at our side,” Kelemvor said. “I finally understand Mourngrym’s frustration at Elminster’s decision not to join the battle at the front. We’re faced with this blaze while that old relic is off preparing some ‘arcane defense’ of his own.”

“It isn’t fair,” Drizhal said, his voice cracking.

Kelemvor looked to the younger man. “Are you afraid?”

Drizhal said nothing, his expression telling all.

“Good!” Kelemvor said. “Fear keeps you sharp. Just don’t let it get in the way.”

The youth nodded, his terror seeming to lessen.

On the besieged road, Knightsbridge led the Zhentilar through the smoldering gauntlet of fallen trees. As the troops passed him, the wizard Sememmon rose on uncertain legs and attempted yet another spell. The men on every side of the wizard scattered as best they could, fearful of the unpredictable effects of magic.

Bolts of flaming red energy left the wizard’s hands, then went wild as an arrow from one of the archers of Shadowdale pierced the mage’s shoulder. Sememmon fell, and the bolts of energy flew over Knightsbridge’s head and carved a path into the trees near Kelemvor. The wizard screamed in pain as a pair of soldiers dragged him to safety.

Knightsbridge saw the dalesmen scattering from where Sememmon’s bolt had cut through the trees and ordered the Zhentilar to attack while the enemy was still in confusion. If Bane’s army was fatigued from the night of marching through enemy territory, facing death with every step, it didn’t show as they charged toward Kelemvor’s men. The Zhentish seemed renewed, hungry to finally pay back some of the agonies that had been inflicted upon them during the trek from Voonlar.

Near the western edge of the forest, Kelemvor quickly gathered the leaders of his assault teams. Drizhal remained at the fighter’s side.

“There’s no chance of dragging them into the woods,” Kelemvor said. “All we can do is face the enemy directly and try to keep them from breaking through to Shadowdale too quickly. We’ll implement a layered defense right here and try to slow them down.”

The leaders hurried to their men and informed them of the plans as Kelemvor watched Bane’s army emerge from the opening the wizard had created in the fallen trees.

The last of the refugees had left down the Ashaba, and none of the soldiers had left their posts at the bridge to join their brothers at the eastern front. Nevertheless, Cyric skirted the length of the bridge every hour, checking and rechecking its defenses and keeping the men alert.

The thief was on Forester’s side of the bridge, opposite from Shadowdale, when the sounds of the battle in the west reached him. The men on the other shore started talking loudly. Cyric turned to Forester.

“Keep to your position,” the thief said. “I’d better go warn the others to settle down.”

Cyric climbed up onto the bridge. He was almost to the gateposts when he heard the sound from the road to the west — riders approaching at a gallop. The thief scrambled back to the ditch and signaled the fighters at the other bank. Then he readied his long bow.

“You wished for death and glory, you might get it yet!” Cyric whispered, and Forester smiled as he drew his sword. Then the thief turned to the other men near him. “Follow the plan. Wait until the last of them is upon the bridge, then move on my signal.”

It seemed an eternity before the Zhentilar arrived. But at last the sounds of the riders crossing the bridge filled the dalesmen’s ears, and Cyric watched as two dozen armored warriors passed overhead, nervously looking over their shoulders. No other troops were in sight on the road, so Cyric signaled the attack.

The Zhentilar had no chance. Cyric’s bow laid out two of the soldiers, and a squad of men surged up from the trenches on either side of the river and attacked. Forester backed away at the Zhentilar with glee, and as the last of the enemy fell, Cyric heard his men shout “For Shadowdale! For Shadowdale!”

There were sounds from the road to the west, and Cyric turned in time to see horsemen breaking from the trees in the distance. An army of riders led by a red-haired man on a beautiful warhorse was charging toward the bridge. Cyric saw that there were at least two hundred men heading their way.

“Ride on!” Fzoul shouted, and the wall of attackers closed on the bridge.

As Cyric ran, the eastern end of the Ashaba Bridge seemed to be moving away from him, not getting closer. The bridge was a little more than a thousand feet long, but it seemed like miles to the thief as he ran across it, an army closing in from behind. Forester and a handful of men were at Cyric’s side as he ran.

The eastern bank was ahead of them when they heard the sound of Bane’s army moving onto the other end of the bridge. Cyric saw that none of the Zhentilar were stopping on the western bank of the river, so the men that were hidden at the base of the bridge, right beneath the Zhentish troops, were safe. Everything was going according to their plan. That frightened Cyric. Nothing ever went exactly according to plan.

“Do you think it will work?” Forester said as they reached the eastern bank.

How should I know? Cyric wanted to say. Instead, he said, “Of course,” and jumped for the bank.

Fully expecting an arrow to pierce his back just as he left the stone bridge, Cyric suddenly felt moist earth beneath his feet and realized he had made it across. Forester and the others were still beside him.

“Now for the hard part,” Cyric said, almost out of breath. The thief turned and faced the oncoming horde and heard the telltale sounds of metal pulleys creaking beneath the bridge.