by Ed Greenwood
No man could have that much blood in him; most of it must have belonged to the missing mages.
There were no bloody talon or claw prints, no fallen mage knives or signs of any struggle—and no runes chalked anywhere. No smells of spellwork, those odd scorched scents all Dragons who worked with war wizards got used to. The only reek was from the blood … and the bowels of the corpse.
Nevertheless, Lord Constable Farland gripped his sword tightly, and glared all around constantly, as he made his way back out into the passage.
Avathnar had been bad. This was worse.
And he knew—knew as surely as his name was Gelnur Farland, and all of this mess was on his platter, his to clear up—that it wasn’t over yet, not by a long bowshot.
“Tluin,” he whispered, into the gloom around him. “Naed, hrast, and farruking tluin.”
Curses weren’t going to help in the slightest, so he repeated them all several times, as defiantly as if he’d been a young boy.
Sometimes, when the world was falling apart all around you, until you thought of something better, cursing was all you could really do.
“The mountains,” Amarune said softly, “are a lot higher than I’d thought they’d be.”
Arclath nodded, but before he could say anything the nearest Dragon told her, “Most folk we bring along this road say that. If yon peaks weren’t so tall, they’d not be the wall that keeps out Sembia.”
“Save, of course, for its gold,” Arclath murmured, causing two Dragons to lean in sharply, to try to hear.
They’d been riding the Orondstars Road, winding along the western flanks of the Thunder Peaks, for much of a day. Irlingstar couldn’t be far off now.
Rune and Arclath rode in manacles, under a heavy guard of veteran Purple Dragons riding in a tight group around them. The plate-armored, heavily armed Dragons obviously had orders to try to overhear everything a prisoner said.
To better fool everyone in the prison castle, none of their escort knew the young lord and untitled lass in chains were secret Crown agents rather than real prisoners. Officially, they were both “under the displeasure of the Crown,” which was polite court speech for “imprisoned thanks to being caught at something not quite bad enough for death or exile—or not proven well enough, yet, for you to receive the death or exile you’ve earned.”
Their escorts had been told that Lord Arclath Delcastle had spoken and plotted treason against the Crown with the commoner Amarune Whitewave. Who had now been revealed to the guards and shortly to the inhabitants of Irlingstar as both an agent of an “outland power” plotting against the realm, and the bastard offspring of no less than four noble families—and so, for the security of Cormyr, best locked up. The identities of those four high houses and of the outland power were officially “mysterious,” and Rune had been warned to keep them so.
She recalled that warning, now, as Arclath gave her a glance that concealed a reassuring grin very well. All that held his mirth was a wayward twinkle in one of his eyes. Meeting it, she widened her own eyes rather than winking, by way of reply, well aware of the steady stares of the surrounding Purple Dragons. And recalled the last time she’d received that hidden grin from him …
Amarune had been more excited than she could ever remember being.
She’d been beaming at everyone. After the king and the two wizards of war had departed the feasting room in Delcastle Manor, and Lady Marantine serenely began fetching out the sugar tarts that she’d somehow neglected to offer her unexpected court guests. Rune almost starting singing. Her heart was that high and soaring.
Even with the money belts hard and heavy in her hands, she could scarcely believe what had just happened.
“The king wanted my service—the king!”
As Lady Delcastle served Rune a dainty little plate of tarts, her little frown gave way to a rather grandmotherly smile.
“I don’t mean to be unkind, dear,” the noblewoman had said gently, “but the ranks of the loyal are rather thin, just now. When a ship is foundering, any bailing bucket will do.”
“Fornrar? Dagnan? Leave those quivers here. All but the prisoners will be in heavy armor, and I don’t want you wasting dread arrows. That poison’s expensive.”
“We heard your orders, Broadshield,” Dagnan replied sullenly. He was lowering the quiver from his shoulder very slowly.
“I know you did. I also know you,” their leader replied. “Put ’em down.”
He stayed to watch until the heavy quivers—twenty-one long-feather shafts weigh far more than most folk suspect—were down and hidden, wrapped in cloaks and with a goodly covering of the dead leaves that carpet every forest floor raked over them. Fornrar peered up to get a good look at the surrounding trees so as to be able to find the cached shafts later, then set off without a word, up and over the brow of the wooded hill, past the cluster of boulders where they’d hidden the axes.
That had been done under Broadshield’s orders, too. Otherwise, too many of the lads were apt to get overenthusiastic and start swinging axes at horses—and the dragon, who liked its prey whole and able to flee, to give it sport, wouldn’t like that.
Broadshield took care to keep his Beasts afraid of the great black wyrm. It reminded them of the perils of disloyalty toward their leader, the notorious Broadshield—the only one of them who’d befriended Alorglauvenemaus.
After all, some of these lads hadn’t been part of his band the last time the dragon had swooped down and devoured the three Beasts who’d been bold enough to disagree with their leader about anything.
“Remember,” Broadshield told Dagnan, as they followed after Fornrar. “We want the prisoners unharmed, not wearing arrows. The Delcastles will have our hides if we harm their heir.”
Dagnan grunted reluctant assent, spat on a long-fallen log, and asked sidelong, “They know about this, then?”
“No. Nor will they, until both prisoners are safe in the lodge in Sembia. They’re always happier to pay the ransom when they know their loved ones are out of Cormyr, and no appeal to Foril is going to result in any daring rescue.”
Dagnan nodded. “I wonder,” he said slowly, “if King Foril regards us as … useful.”
Beside him, Broadshield smiled in satisfaction. “Ah,” he said. “You begin to see.”
Rune found it hard to keep from laughing aloud. The expressions adorning the faces of every Dragon she glanced at were hilarious to behold.
“The Orondstars Road,” Arclath told her airily, playing the proud and effete dandy to the hilt, “began as a mining and settlement road in the latter days of the reign of King Duar Obarskyr. It departs the Thunder Way—forgive the repetition in the local nomenclature, but imagination is always in short supply among officialdom, and once they seize upon a halfway grand or decent name, in this case ‘Thunder,’ they simply cannot resist doing it to death—in Thunderstone, hard by the bridge over the Thunderflow, and winds its way north, clinging as closely to the westernmost Thunder Peaks as it can. The Orondstars themselves—just “Oronds” to most locals—are a stand of smallish mountains that resemble nothing so much as a handful of knife-edged serving platters, sunk half-deep in the ground, still more or less in the stack they started out in. Which is to say, they all stand parallel to each other, and are much thinner and sharper than your average mountain. The rest of the Thunder Peaks, for example.”
“Ohhh,” Rune answered him, playing an impressed and empty-headed young lass to the hilt. If the faces of their escort were anything to go by, the Dragons had swallowed this unsubtle act of hers almost a day ago.
The road ahead was rising, a thin wild forest cloaking the mountainsides on their right—the Thunder Peaks—and a thick, tangled wood looming on their left, on land Rune could see became several higher knife-edged ridges, ahead. Winding this way and that like a snake, the road climbed on, out of sight, into the trees.
“The Oronds, now …,” Arclath continued brightly, seeming not to see several Dragons rolling their eyes. “We’ve not
quite reached them yet, and we’re headed for the next to last Orond, the northwestern-most one. It’s called Irlingmount, and Castle Irlingstar—the ‘star’ bit derives from archaic local dialect, and means ‘of’ or ‘pertaining to’ or something of the sort—perches atop a western arm of Irlingmount. The Orondstars—there’s that ‘star,’ again, you’ll note—stand just a tad northwest of halfway between the Realm of Wailing Fog and the flourishing settlement of Thunderholme. I’m sure they’ll have maps we can consult in the castle, but until we get there—”
The Dragon riding at Arclath’s shoulder looked like he was going to explode, and he was clutching a mace that looked quite capable of dashing out any Delcastle brains that came within reach, so Rune interrupted hastily, “What’s this ‘Realm of Wailing Fog,’ anyhail? I keep hearing it mentioned, but no one ever says anything about it! It sounds as if it’s—”
“Something that’s not to be talked about, by any of us or either of you,” the oldest Dragon said gruffly, in a voice so firm and raw that it was almost a roar. “Now keep talk to a minimum, prisoners! This is none too safe a road, what with brigands lurking along it—this is where the notorious Broadshield’s Beasts roam, mind—and dragons lairing hereabouts. We’d rather not have a pitched battle on our hands, if it’s all the same to you!”
“Ho-ho!” Arclath exclaimed in delight, “a pitched battle! Did you hear that, Rune? They’re going to lay on a pitched battle for us! I’ve waited years to see a—”
Something—no, a lot of somethings—suddenly hummed out of the air in front of them, bringing the air all around to a brief thrumming everyone could feel as well as hear.
Then the cause of the thrumming reached them, and Dragons started to reel in their saddles or be smashed right out of them, as arrow after arrow crashed onto them, shivered into splinters against the soldier’s heavy armor, or speeding on past.
Arclath swung his horse in front of Rune’s to try to shield her, at the same time as the Dragon riding beside her caught hold of her mount’s bridle, to try to drag it toward the side of the road. The result was a confusing tangle of plunging, bucking horses, neighing amid all the arrows.
“A hail of arrows!” Arclath shouted in delighted tones. “A veritable hail of arrows! Is this part of the usual castle defenses, or are you trying to make us feel especially welcome by laying on a special salute? Or—”
The Dragon beside him finally lost patience and swung his mace, but Rune had already kicked Arclath’s mount in the ribs, and it bolted forward just in time. The mace struck nothing, and the force of its untrammeled swing sent its wielder toppling from his saddle.
“Ride!” a Dragon bellowed, behind them. “Ride hard! On, past this!”
All around, the warriors of the king spurred their horses and ducked low in their saddles. Rune did the same, Arclath reached over to try to shield her, and their horses galloped with the rest. They went hard around a bend, to fully face the wooded hillock all the arrows had come from, a little hill that the road curved right around. Then their racing horses reared and shied back.
Someone had freshly felled half a dozen trees across the road, great pines and shadowtops. These forest giants lay with their great boughs more or less intact, forming a barrier of tangled branches and leaves as high as a big cottage and as long as the palace stables back in Suzail. The uppermost branches of the felled trees had crashed down amid the standing trees on the far side of the road. No horse that couldn’t fly would be getting past the wall of fallen wood.
Another arrow whipped out of the trees and took a Purple Dragon out of his saddle by the throat, his head lolling at a sickening angle even before he crashed down into the road.
Then came another arrow, slicing past a Crown soldier’s shoulder close enough to make armor shriek.
“Back!” a Dragon shouted. “Back, back around the bend—and ride hard!”
In the neighing, kicking confusion, Amarune flung both her arms around her horse’s neck just to stay mounted, her saddle bouncing bruisingly beneath her. All around her, Dragons tried to wrestle their horses around, draw swords, and clap their visors down or their helms on their heads, all at once. A few of them managed it. She saw others take arrows through their bare heads or through the open fronts of their helms—and then with plunging hooves everywhere she was slipping, slipping …
Arclath’s strong arm caught Rune and hauled back upright, then slammed her low onto the shoulders of her surging mount. They were headed back the way they’d come at a hard gallop. Ahead she could see men leaping out of the forest, some of them sprinting across the road trailing ropes that were soon pulled taut, a flimsy barrier she was bearing down on.
Around her, Dragons were cursing in bitter, snarling earnest; “Farruking Broadshield’s Beasts!” seemed to be a popular phrase.
Their attackers—foresters who’d stolen bits and pieces of armor to wear, by the looks of them—were out in the road now, running everywhere, many in pairs carrying felled trees that they moved to bar the ways of the hard-galloping horses. There was rearing and screaming from the horses as riders spilled from saddles—and the ring and clang of swords hacking and being parried rose all around. Rune’s own mount reared, and she sprang clear when it seemed it might go right over on its back. A moment later Arclath was beside her, down off his own horse and standing guard over her with a loop of his chains gathered in his hand.
“This way,” he panted, jerking his head, and Rune ran with him, for the trees. Almost immediately, a Dragon somewhere behind them shouted, “The prisoners! The prisoners are escaping!”
Grinning foresters—the notorious outlaws known as Broadshield’s Beasts, Rune supposed—ran toward them, too, swords and daggers drawn. They were everywhere, some waiting in the trees they were sprinting for … there was no escape, nowhere to run …
A grinning bearded face loomed up in front of her, telling her gleefully, “You’re mine now, little maid!” Dirty hands reached out—
Air erupted behind the Beasts with a roar and a puff of smoke, and out of it raced bright and snarling bolts of lightning, dozens of them. One stabbed the man reaching for Rune, and he fell on his face without another word.
All around, outlaws staggered, screamed—and fell. Lightning leaped to race and crackle around an armored Dragon, fighting in the midst of three Beasts—and he shuddered, danced a few agonized and spasming steps, then crashed to the ground, smoldering.
Then, just as swiftly as they’d come, the lightning was gone, leaving nothing but the drifting smoke that had birthed it.
Off to Amarune’s right, sudden vivid emerald flame blossomed around a running outlaw—and consumed him.
“Magic!” one of the Beasts roared. “Men, the wizards are come!”
A ragged cheer arose. Rune was astonished to see that it was coming from both the Purple Dragons and their foes.
“Come on!” Arclath hissed, pulling at her and starting to run.
Right in front of them, the world erupted in emerald flames.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
THE UNSEEN FOE
S-sune’s … brazen … charms!” Arclath cursed, hurling himself back in a twisting leap that brought him around Amarune in a curling embrace. The blast flung them both away together, in a hurtling ball that bounced bruisingly, twice, before they skidded to a stop against the body of a fallen outlaw whose leather-clad bulk was solid but … soft.
Grimacing at the smell of death and blood, Rune rolled away from the dead man, clawing her way up and out of Arclath’s arms in a rattle of chains.
“I’ve—” she panted angrily, “some strength and … agility of my own, you know! You don’t have to shield me like some child!”
“Rune,” the heir of House Delcastle panted, looking hurt, “you’re my lady! I’m sworn to defend you! ’Tis only right! The decent thing to do!”
Their ears were ringing from the blast, ribbons of smoke drifted everywhere across the road, and fresh bursts of emerald flame whoosh
ed into being, here and there, usually hurling blazing-limbed outlaws aside in doing so.
A short, burly outlaw came striding through that wrack of smoke, dead and dying men, and fleeing, frightened horses. He peered into the trees, then turned and bellowed in the loudest voice Rune had ever heard bar heralds’ proclamations amplified by magic: “Hah! At last! Use the dread arrows! Dread arrows, all!”
By the ragged shouts of reply, those words seemed to have been a command, which could only mean—if these were the Beasts—that this short, stout, loud-voiced man must be the outlaw Broadshield himself.
With a frown, Arclath shook his chains out into a loop he could use to strangle a man, and strode toward the man. Who turned, saw him, gave the young lord an unlovely grin, and dashed away into the trees, running like a storm wind.
Rune watched open-mouthed. Gods, the man was fast!
Arclath started to sprint after the outlaw leader, but after a few strides gave up with a shrug and turned back. The spell hurling men were out onto the road, still striking down outlaws with emerald flame.
“War wizards,” Arclath identified them. “Down, Rune!”
Amarune ignored him. A blasting spell could kill her if she was cowering on the road just as easily as if she was standing up, after all. She watched the mages come, trotting forward with wands in their hands. She could see Purple Dragon badges on the shoulders and breasts of their leather jerkins. Jerkins, yes, over breeches, with leather belts and baldrics hung thickly with rows of pouches—not a pointed hat or a robe to be seen. Yet they were wizards, all right; two had just turned and caused walls of fire to erupt on the road, immolating the barrier of felled trees.
Others fanned out among the Dragons, peering alertly here and there. “Who’s in charge here? Who’s the ranking officer?” one called, in the stern tones of someone used to giving commands.
Before anyone could reply, an oddly lumpy black arrow sped out of the trees and struck him in the side.