by Ed Greenwood
“Oh, let’s disturb him anyway,” the boggan snarled. His hand whipped around the guard’s throat. Without missing a step, the boggan strode into the spacious gold tent, carrying the soldier by the neck.
Teza saw the Telflamm’s eyes bulge and heard the cracking of bones, then the man went limp. The boggan threw the corpse carelessly into a dark corner. Exasperated, Teza said, “Now how are you going to explain that?”
The boggan’s lips pulled back in a vile expression of pleasure and anticipation. “I won’t have to. I’ll eat him.”
Teza rolled her eyes in disgust. Just then, a man in long robes walked in from the sleeping quarters in the rear of the tent. “What is this? Who are you?” he demanded.
Teza turned and faced the real grand prince of Telflamm. Before he could call for his guards, Teza handed him a small scroll “Everything is in there, Your Highness”
When he unrolled the scroll a silver rune at the top of the parchment began to glow with a soft starry light. “Ah!” he sighed, and a gleam of anticipation lit his face. He read the scroll, then tucked it into the pocket of his robe. “1 shall be ready in a moment,” he said eagerly to Teza and rushed into his quarters.
The woman cocked an eyebrow No hesitation? No questions? No doubts about leaving his retinue and business in the hands of an identical stranger? What kind of besotted idiot was this prince? He certainly put a great deal of trust in a witch whom Teza wouldn’t trust as far as she could throw the huhrong’s palace. The woman shook her head No matter. She would deliver the prince, fulfill her duty, and get out with whatever she could take. The prince could handle his own problems.
While the boggan finished his firewine, Teza stepped behind a screen to change her disguise again. The guards had seen the prince go into his tent with a woman. They had to believe both of them were still in there so the prince would be left alone until daylight. That should give her enough time to slip the real prince out of camp and be well on her way to the witch.
Hurriedly she peeled off her skirt, put her undervest and tunic back on, and refastened her hair on top of her head. The dead guard had an embroidered surcoat, a fine pair of boots that just fit, a felt tricornered hat, and several jeweled rings to add to her costume. Last of all, she buckled his short sword to her waist.
“I’m ready, let’s-” The prince broke off speaking as he walked in. “Where is the woman?”
Teza made a flourishing bow. “Here, Your Highness.”
The prince started, then lifted his lip in distaste. “Of course. A big woman-blue eyes, dark hair, dresses like a man. You must be that Teza woman. I have heard much about you. There is a reward posted for you, my dear.”
A reward? That was a nasty surprise. But Teza’s grin only grew wider. “So what do you want to do? Collect the reward or visit your lady love?”
He gestured to his clothes: dark pants, shirt, and a hooded cloak fit for traveling. “I will follow you, horse thief, at my lady’s bidding. But don’t ever let me catch you in my camp again.”
“Oh, you won’t,” the boggan hissed softly.
Teza did not bother to respond to either of them. Turning her back on the boggan, she led the prince to the rear of the tent and slipped out of a smaller back entrance. From there it was easy to amble through the camp, pretending to be deep in conversation with her companion. The Fang guards gave them only a glance when they sauntered by.
As soon as Teza and her companion were out of sight of the guards, she turned south and took the prince by a roundabout path back to the high ridge overlooking the camp. The aughisky was there waiting beside the brown gelding, but Teza noticed immediately he had been up to something. His coat was drenched, and his muzzle dripped with blood.
She stifled a shudder, knowing that her blood might have stained his dark nose. To hide her discomfort, she wiped his nostrils clean with the guard’s surcoat and tossed it in the bushes. “You could have cleaned off when you were finished,” she said, patting his satin cheek. She felt for her bag and was reassured by the hard lump of the vial and its contents. With a quick grin she hopped on the horse’s back.
Teza and the prince rode rapidly through the night back to the high bluffs between the Lake of Tears and the Ashanwoods. Shortly after sunrise they came to the faint trail leading up to the ledge overlooking the lake.
Teza slipped off the aughisky and tied the two horses in the shade of the copse of trees while the prince hurried lustily up the trail to find his love. She hesitated to follow. This was an excellent time to disappear before the witch thought of something else for her to do. Then her curiosity got the better of her. Teza could not resist the temptation to witness the witch’s meeting with the prince. Maybe she could find out if there was more to this tryst than love.
She walked quietly up the rocky trail, between the stone walls, and out onto the ledge overlooking the lake. The witch, her back to Teza, was standing perilously close to the edge of the dropoff, Prince Laric held tightly in her arms. The prince had his hands on both sides of her face and was kissing her passionately. The gray mask dangled in the witch’s left hand.
Teza caught a brief glimpse of an exquisitely beautiful face when all at once the witch broke the embrace. She stepped away from Laric, raised her right hand, and pointed a finger directly at his chest.
Laric’s expression of desire faltered. He moved toward the witch, but she laughed a hard, cold sound of ridicule that chilled Teza and stopped the prince in dismay.
An emerald green ball of energy burst from the witch’s finger. The power slammed into Laric’s stomach and sent him reeling backward.
“No!” Teza shouted before she could stop herself.
The prince teetered on the edge and cried in terror, but it was too late. His feet slipped, and he fell over the cliff. His agonized wail echoed off the stone walls before the cry was suddenly cut off. Teza stared openmouthed at the blackrobed figure standing so calmly on the brink of the rock.
The morning was very still-no wind or cry of birds to hear. The heat was already wilting the last cool shadows of dawn, and the sun poured its light onto the cold, dark waters of the lake. The quiet around the cliff ledge intensified until it became almost palpable. A thousand questions tumbled in Teza’s mind until she could no longer bear to be still. “Did you love him at all?” she demanded angrily.
The witch had already readjusted her mask; when she turned, the beautiful face was hidden behind the featureless gray cloth. “Yes,” she replied, “and I will bear his child.”
Teza was stunned. “Then why?” she yelled. “Why send me on this ridiculous fool’s hunt? Why put a boggan in Laric’s place?”
The witch regarded her, still as cold and motionless as the rock around her. Then she threw back her head and laughed a warm, rich sound of delight. “Poor Teza. I have played a terrible trick on you. First dragging you here on an aughisky’s back, then involving you in kidnapping and murder. I suppose I could give you an explanation.”
Teza might have laughed, too, if she hadn’t been chilled by the words, kidnapping and murder. Thievery was one thing, but those crimes were punishable in Rashemen by several revolting kinds of death. Even if anyone believed her tale about a boggan playing a prince and a witch who threw royalty over cliffs, no one would consider her side of the story-she was only a common thief. Teza swallowed hard and tried to listen.
“Prince Laric was an idiot. A handsome, virile male who ruled a port city that controlled the Golden Way, one of the richest trade routes in Faerun-but an idiot nonetheless.” She gestured to the lake waters where Laric’s body now floated. “He and his father before him let Telflamm’s power and authority slip away into the hands of the merchant council and guilds, who spend their time dipping into each other’s profits and squabbling with the cities of Thesk. As a result of their incompetence and the past invasion of the Tuigan Horde, the whole eastern coast of the Inner Sea is a shambles. The area needed someone to take a firm hand and bring city-states like Telflamm back under
control.”
“Someone who could also be trusted to further the interests of Rashemen and the witches,” Teza observed caustically. Her eyes narrowed. This plan did not sound like the usual methods of the masked sisterhood. The witches had some morals and a sense of honor. This young witch behaved more like an unprincipled rogue.
“Naturally,” the witch replied, “the boggan is cunning, merciless, and under my complete control. Before long he will bring Telflamm’s merchants to heel and Rashemen will expand its influence along the Golden Way and the Inner Sea.”
“And I suppose you even had the iron lord invite Laric to Immilmar just so you had an excuse to get close to him.”
The witch nodded once. “The huhrong had no more respect for Prince Laric than I did.”
“Nice.” Teza paused. “Where does that leave me?”
“Free to go. Your help has been greatly appreciated.”
“I’ll bet,” Teza muttered to herself. She knew an obvious dismissal when she heard one, and she also knew there was little she could do about it. She had been used, abused, and tossed aside, and for her own safety, she could never tell anyone. If this witch was a renegade, she would not hesitate to hunt Teza down and destroy her.
Her hand on her small bag and the vial within, Teza stalked away down the trail toward the copse of trees. The witch’s laughter followed her out of sight.
The witch took one last long look at the lake far below, at the body still bobbing in the water. She would have to have the aughisky dispose of that. No use leaving obvious clues to murder. She whistled for the water horse.
There was no response.
She whistled again, louder and sharper, with irritation. The path remained empty; there was no sign of the beast.
The witch finally picked up the hem of her robes and strode angrily down the trail to the copse of trees. Only one horse stood tied to a branch: the brown gelding the boggan had ridden to Laric’s camp.
Something small glittered in the thin grass near the witch’s foot. She bent over, picked it up, and stared in surprise at the empty crystal vial in her hand. A faint yet distinctive odor rose to her nostrils. Hippomane.
Her eyes widened behind her mask, then her voice broke into an amused chuckle.
Teza had stolen her aughisky.
“Let her go,” the witch said to herself, and she flung the vial away. The thief of Immilmar had earned her reward.
Laughter In The Flames
James Lowder
Ask any member of the Society of Stalwart Adventurers about his home-not the place where he hangs his helmet between expeditions, but the address at which he feels most relaxed-and his answer will always be the same, the library at the society’s headquarters in Suzail.
In that cavernous room, one thousand years of Stalwart history stood on display, reminding the trailblazers who belonged to the club of their heady contributions to civilization. Bookshelves towered high overhead Their dark wood cradled journals bound in every type of leather imaginable, tomes scribed in every language spoken across the wide world-and more than a few lost to men and elves and dwarves Winged monkeys retrieved these books for readers not inclined to scale the tall, narrow ladders. As they went about their aerial portage, these rare apes set the library’s massive chandelier to swaying with the soft flutter of their wings. At their passing, the chandelier’s magical, ever-burning Halruaan candles winked like so many mirth-brightened eyes.
Trophies filled the remaining wall space. Riven shields and bloodstained swords recovered from distant battlefields hung beside the regimental colors of a dozen victorious armies. Medals and plaques shone gold or silver from glass-fronted teak cases; the awards bore the mark of each monarch to hold Cormyr’s throne and more than two dozen foreign potentates. In a corner not too distant from the largest hoard of medals, a stuffed yeti snarled menacingly. Around the shaggy white beast hung the horns of perytons and minotaurs, gorgons and quasits. The Stalwarts’ most spectacular trophy-the head of an ancient red dragon-stared from its place of honor over the library’s entrance. Even death could not dim the malevolence in the wyrm’s eyes.
What the dragon glared down upon was an ever-changing collection of men and women ardently pursuing relaxation. Barons and generals, explorers and high-born patrons of adventure made up the club’s majority, but a few erudite souls could also be found in the library’s confines. These avid scholars huddled over ancient histories in hopes of gleaning some bit of trivia that would lead them to whatever long-lost relic or magical blade served as their grail. Their solemn study habits sometimes darkened the club’s air of cultured quiescence. “Bookwarts” was the name Sir Hamnet Hawklin gave to such fellows, though he himself had authored many of the journals over which the eager young savants pored.
“They should be out creating their own maps,” that same revered adventurer now muttered, lifting his port glass with one age-spotted but steady hand. As a cartographer and explorer, he had captured huge parts of the world on paper. The books he’d penned and maps he’d created filled two entire shelves in the library. “That’s the trouble with the snot-nosed blighters,” Sir Hamnet continued. “Too much time spent looking through books for short cuts when they should be plunging into the thick of it and finding their own way.”
The distinguished young soldier occupying the adjoining, overstuffed armchair sounded his agreement. “Just so,” said Captain Gareth Truesilver, the words balanced expertly between enthusiasm and cultured restraint. “They’re no more likely to discover something new than they are to catch a weasel asleep.”
“Yes,” Sir Hamnet muttered. “Wretched little beggars.”
The epithet was meant to rain shame upon both Bookwarts and weasels alike. Sir Hamnet had despised the latter ever since his expedition to the Hill of Lost Souls. The weasel that had brought about this undying hatred was a particularly huge and mean-spirited example of its kind. According to Sir Hamnet’s twenty-third journal, the beast devoured the camp’s rations and the exquisitely detailed maps the nobleman had made of the hill and its environs. And in trying to skewer the monster, Hawklin’s companions created enough of a racket to alert the local goblin tribe to their presence. Only Sir Hamnet survived the battle that followed. It was neither the first, nor the last time he would report how his expert swordsmanship had preserved his life.
Captain Truesilver knew this tale, being quite familiar with all his mentor’s writings. His mention of the most-hated of animals had been intentional, a kindhearted ploy to fire the nobleman’s spirits. A funk had settled over Sir Hamnet in the past tenday. More and more frequently, the accounts written by younger adventurers eclipsed his works. Sometimes, as with Artus Cimber’s recent collected writings on Chult, the upstart tomes even usurped his books as primary reference.
“Even if the whole pack of them ran out of the library this instant, their explorations would still depend upon your maps, Sir Hamnet,” Captain Truesilver offered generously. He struck a noble pose-an easy thing with his athletic good looks-and gazed with open admiration upon the aged nobleman.
Hawklin gulped the remainder of his wine. “The real romance lies in mapping lands untrodden by civilized men,” he said, cheeks flushed from both the topic and the port. “Only rabble follow maps.”
“Or tourists,” the soldier added. The word was a curse on his lips.
“Exploration brings glory, not cataloguing street names in Calimshan or counting the number of words the Bedine have to describe sand.” The nobleman paused and held his empty glass out at his side. “Uther!”
The butler appeared at Sir Hamnet’s side before his name was free of the explorer’s tongue. Befitting his service in this unusual adventurers’ club, Uther himself was arrest-ingly exotic. A misfired spell during the Time of Troubles had cursed him with a remarkable resemblance to a denizen of Hades-tall and brutishly muscled, with skin a sooty, corrupt shade of crimson seen only in a burning church. The magnificent set of twisted horns atop his head rivaled any trophy hung
upon the library’s walls.
“Yes, Sir Hamnet?” Uther said smoothly. He raised the cut crystal decanter with gnarled, black-clawed fingers. “Would you care for another glass of port?”
“No, I’m holding my glass this way to catch the drool when a doddering peer shuffles by,” Sir Hamnet said coldly.
Uther bowed his horned head. “My question was needless,” he noted, his fiendish face impassive. “I had forgotten how Your Lordship prefers not to waste words upon the staff.” Deferentially he filled the nobleman’s glass.
“Where was I?” Sir Hamnet drummed his fingers on the chair’s padded arm. “Ah, yes. The Bedine. The sun makes them wild, unreliable. Not surprising, the way they wander for days on end across the Anauroch.”
Sir Hamnet paused to sip his port, as if uttering the name of the great desert had parched his throat. But a pained look twisted his features before he’d even lowered the glass. With a groan of disgust, Hawklin spat out the wine. “Uther, you subhuman! What is this swill?”
All heads turned at Sir Hamnet’s outburst, and a susurrus of murmured speculation slithered through the room. Uther bristled at the undesired attention, but kept his thoughts hidden behind a mask of unearthly calm. “I refilled your glass with the same Tethyrian vintage you’ve been drinking all afternoon, milord,” the butler replied truthfully. “If you wish something else-”
“Dolt,” snarled the nobleman. “I know good Tethyrian port from chamber pot lees like this.” He spat a blob of crimson spittle onto the Shou carpet at his feet. “You’ve switched the good port with the servants’ dregs, haven’t you?”
Uther scowled, the tip of one fang protruding over his lower lip. “That is a grave accusation, milord. I assure you I would never do such a thing. I value my position here too highly to even consider it.”