by Ed Greenwood
“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.
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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 whooshed 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.
A moment later, he burst, drenching a fellow wizard beside him with glowing green wetness.
It was acid, by the way that second mage’s flesh started to melt away from his bones as he screamed. Two vainly running steps later he collapsed, and his shrieks abruptly faded. His arms, flung up too late to shield his face, were down to bare bone, and abruptly fell off, revealing a toppling-from-bony shoulders skull. Rune stared at the small heap of tangled bones and sticky, slumping mess-and was suddenly and violently sick, all over the road in front of her.
Another arrow found another wizard, with the same grisly result. And another.
Then the outlaws came charging down out of the trees, bows in their hands, loosing more black arrows as they came. Rune could see the bladders bound to the arrows as Beasts ran right past her.
The outlaws ignored her and Arclath and even the armored Purple Dragons, spending all of their attention-and arrows-on the Crown wizards.
Who suddenly broke and fled back into the forest from whence they’d come. The outlaws raced after them.
“Let not a one of them live!” they heard Broadshield bellow. “Kill them all!”
The walls of fire suddenly moved to try to block the pursuing outlaws, but they merely turned and outran them, crashing out of sight amid the trees.
Arclath shook his head. “I thought I knew the realm,” he muttered, “but this … this is beyond belief. Outlaws hunting wizards of war like game birds-or vermin-in the forest!”
“Catch those horses!” a Purple Dragon ordered other Dragons, pointing. Then he trotted over to Arclath and Amarune, his sword drawn. It was the lionar who’d earlier given the orders to “ride hard” from the first volley of outlaw arrows, and later to retreat from the barrier.
“Prisoners!” he snapped. “Come with me.”
Arclath hefted his loop of chain meaningfully, but the lionar gave him a look of disgust and said, “Don’t be a fool, lord. We’d all welcome the excuse to kill you-defending ourselves in the thick of your hired outlaw attack, mind-and be able to turn back rather than riding on to Irlingstar. There are dangerous outlaws in these woods!”
Arclath let go the loop and spread his hands.
“That’s better,” the sandy-haired officer told him. “Now mount up-we’ll help, if you need it. Our way on now stands clear.”
There was nothing left of the barrier but ashes and a few laggard wisps of smoke. The walls of fire still raged off to one side of the road, but there was ample room to lead the snorting, balking horses past the flames and over the hot ashes, and on.
Rune didn’t disdain Arclath’s help in mounting, as the few surviving Dragons handled them both with more speed than gentleness, as they hurried to get them past the battlefield. The fallen, both outlaw and soldier, and the surplus riderless, wandering horses were abandoned without a backward glance.
“We must hurry,” the same Dragon, who seemed to be in command, told them curtly. “Make no unnecessary noise.”
No sooner was his back turned and the horses were on the move, then Rune leaned close to Arclath. “Those arrows-what were they?”
“Black-painted shafts with bladders of acid attached to them. Black dragon acid,” he replied grimly. “How they work, exploding inside a body like that, I’m not quite sure. How they got that much black dragon acid in the first place, and what they make the bladders from, that the acid doesn’t eat through them in the space of a swift breath-now that I’d dearly love to know!”
“Silence!” the nearest Dragon snapped.
Arclath rolled his eyes and gave the surrounding Realms silence. Just as mute, Rune rode thoughtfully at his side, more than a little shaken.
The alchemist’s cellar was crowded-and stank. Death tyrants rotted; it was one of the things death tyrants did. Thrust together along one wall, their eyestalks interlaced, they still took up more room than most men would find comfortable.
Yet Manshoon, currently inhabiting Immaero Sraunter’s body, was certainly not like most men.
He was calmly reclining on what was left of the undead beholder that was in the worst shape of all in his slave stable, a half-collapsed mass of festering putrefaction, thoughtfully studying a lone glowing white sphere that floated in midair above him.
In its depths could be seen a fast-moving but silent scene of a battle on a forest road where gouts of green flame were erupting, Purple Dragons were dying, and outlaws were loosing arrows everywhere.
Beside him, perched gingerly on a stool and staring up at the same unfolding entertainment, was a middle-aged woman of nondescript looks who was obviously terrified and on the verge of being violently sick thanks to the reek of the death tyrants. Thus far, terror was overriding nausea.
Aside from the cowed woman herself, only Manshoon knew who this woman really was-though a great many courtiers in the nearby palace would have recognized the trembling man she’d been before Manshoon’s spells had altered her. Manshoon had compelled the disgraced suspected traitor Palace Understeward Corleth Fentable to flee the palace. Now Fentable was with him in the cellar, ready to be a replacement body-someone unfamiliar in Suzail-if Manshoon needed to depart Sraunter for any reason, and in the meantime to be a “pair of hands, plus audience” assistant.
More than once, as the fighting on the distant Orondstars Road unfolded, Manshoon chuckled at what he saw. That did not make the cowering Fentable relax much.
When it was done, the much-diminished prisoner es
cort hastening on along the road, Manshoon waved a hand to dismiss the scene, rose, and stretched.
“No sign of Elminster,” he murmured to Fentable, “so I have destroyed him! I have! Hmm … unless he sent these wizards of war. And they are clearly the outlaws’ intended quarry, not the prisoners nor their escort. The outlaws were hoping the Crown mages would appear, were ready for them, are eager to hunt them now; their attack on the escort was purely a lure for the mages. So what makes lawless plunderswords bold enough to openly attack-to chase-war wizards? Or what scares or coerces them so well that they prefer facing battle spells to turning on the one that sent them?”
Somewhere else-somewhere furnished with gibbering mouthers as seating, not rotting death tyrants-two watchers beheld the same battle. They saw it in the depths of Manshoon’s scrying sphere, too, because they were watching Manshoon.
Unlike the vampire’s magic, theirs conveyed not just the image of the alchemist’s cellar, but all the sounds from it. The taller watcher had mastered stronger scryings than Manshoon commanded more than two thousand years ago, as well as the habit of often watching what certain others were up to. Which was one of the reasons he was still around to watch anything.
“Broadshield’s men initially employed ordinary stag arrows because they didn’t want to waste their most valuable shafts on heavily armored Purple Dragons. Or kill the prisoners, who are the prizes they daily seek,” he explained to his fellow watcher.
“Prizes … for ransoms?”
“Indeed. They convey their catches-all nobility of Cormyr-to upcountry hunting lodges in Sembia and there deliver them to freedom. After wealthy noble relatives of the prisoners yield up stiff ransom fees.”
“And the poisoned arrows?”
“They saved those for the foes they know they must eliminate: the wizards of war. Every attack on prisoner escorts is made not just to gain prisoners for ransom income, but in hopes of bringing Crown wizards within reach, so Broadshield’s Beasts can slay them.”