by Ed Greenwood
“I’ve not seen arrows that could rend a target in an explosion before. Those blasts sprayed acid, yes, but it wasn’t … black dragon spew, was it?”
“It was. Broadshield’s ‘dread arrows’ burst inside the bodies they strike, as their attached acid bladders react with a certain substance smeared on the arrows. The blasts emit the flesh-melting acid, of course. They’re meant to make targets die horribly-and usually succeed.”
“How do these Beasts get black dragon acid?”
“They work with-or more properly for, though they haven’t quite realized that yet-a black dragon that lairs near the isolated border region they roam in, one Alorglauvenemaus by name.”
“And the ‘certain substance’ you’ve not named, that reacts with the bladders-how do you know about it?”
The taller watcher smiled. “Who do you think gives it to Broadshield? Manshoon is far from my only toy in the Forest Kingdom.”
“I … see.”
At that moment, the distant Manshoon banished the scene he’d been watching and mused aloud. Both watchers listened with interest-and one of them with amusement, too.
“So what makes lawless plunderswords bold enough to openly attack-to chase-war wizards?” the distant would-be emperor of Cormyr asked his cowering assistant. “Or scares or coerces them so well that they prefer facing battle spells to turning on the one that sent them?”
The two watchers exchanged smiles. Then the taller one looked at the image of Manshoon and drawled, “What, indeed?”
“You just ran from battle, leaving your wounded fellows and the wizards of war who came to your aid to die?”
Arclath’s question was loud and incredulous, so all the Dragons crowded around could hear. They’d ridden hard, until the horses were exhausted and stumbling, and a halt and rest had become a forced necessity.
“We have our orders to fulfill,” the ranking Purple Dragon officer-the sandy-haired lionar, who had thrice refused to give his name-snapped. “They do not include tarrying to fight pitched battles with brigands on ground of our foe’s choosing. We are charged to deliver the two of you-without delay-into lawful custody in Castle Irlingstar. Rest assured we’ll seek Broadshield’s Beasts during our travel home. Which must be along this road, seeing as there’s no other.” He turned his head and ordered savagely, “Mount up!”
“But sir, the horses-”
“Hrast the horses! If I’ve had enough rest, they’ve had enough rest!”
“Oh, well then,” Arclath said brightly, “I’ll ride you. Because my poor mount is still weary. That’ll give your poor beast a bit more rest, too!”
“Lord Delcastle,” the Dragon officer said icily, “pray belt up. The law against ‘incitement’ gives me all the justification I need to gag you securely, so none of us will have to hear one more word out of you, if I so desire-and right now, my desire to do so is mighty strong and growing stronger, believe you me!”
“Easy,” Rune murmured to Arclath, out of the side of her mouth. “There’s such a thing as carrying the ‘irritating idiot noble’ act too far.”
Arclath gave her an ‘I know that well’ wink and bowed deeply-and silently-to the lionar. The Dragon officer let out a sigh of exasperation that was almost a roar, turned on one spur-booted heel, and strode to his horse.
This time, Arclath was carefully assisted in mounting by no less than seven Dragons. Their handling was precise and gentle, and included gentle pats of encouragement and support. What he’d said to the lionar was obviously popular.
The ride was short. As it happened, they had halted only a dozen or so dips and bends before the gates of their destination.
“Castle Irlingstar,” the lionar announced tersely and unnecessarily, as their road ascended the ridge to the stark and towering walls of a smallish keep that seemed to grow up out of the rocks rather than perch atop them. No moat, of course, nor fields, walled or otherwise-and not another building or steading or other sign of human habitation to be seen. Just the fortress, all alone in the cold wind, amid uncounted rising rocks. The road ended at its gates.
Without war horn flourish or signal, the portcullis clattered up to admit them … into a gloomy roofed-over forehall that smelled strongly of horses, thanks to the open stalls that lined one wall. A dozen-some fully armored Purple Dragons were waiting for them.
Two galleries overlooked the forehall, and folk lined both. Guards with ready crossbows-who looked almost eager to use them-to the right, and grim, glowering men in rather dirty fine clothing lined the larger gallery to the left, flanked by guards; prisoners, gathered to measure the new additions to their ranks.
By their leers and murmurs, they hadn’t failed to notice that Rune was not only a woman, but a female who looked both younger and prettier than an old boot or a chamber pot bucket. When she looked up and gave them a wink and a smile of flirtatious anticipation, the murmurs leaped in both hope and volume.
“Dalliance later,” the head of the gathered fortress guards said crisply. “For now, come with me. Lionar, I thank you for the safe delivery of these prisoners. A meal is ready for you in the lower hall. It may not be up to the usual standards, but you’ll soon hear the ‘why’ of that. Prisoners, you are to accompany me into the presence of the lord constable of Irlingstar.”
“Delighted,” Arclath replied heartily, as if being ushered into a meeting with a duchess he very much wanted to seduce.
“Why, it will give me the greatest of pleasure …,” one of the fortress guards murmured mockingly. Evidently earlier prisoners had adopted a manner similar to Arclath’s upon their arrival.
Wisely, Arclath took the hint, saying no more during their brief journey up several flights of stairs within a watchful ring of guards who had maces and daggers ready, other than to remark once, “These chains are heavy, you know!” and later, “Do we get to see the seneschal after the lord constable? My father gave me a message for the seneschal.”
“The seneschal,” the guard right behind him said grimly, “is dead.”
“Oh, my,” Rune piped up, before Arclath could say more and get himself into real trouble. “An accident or ailment, or something darker?”
“The lord constable will tell you all you need to know,” was the firm reply she got, plus the firmer order, “No more talking!”
There wasn’t time to ask anything else and get a reply, even if Amarune had wanted to defy the guards. They were on their last, short stretch of gloomy passage on their way to a closed door, the few wall torches low and waveringly dim in their blackened brackets.
At their approach the door swung open, guards saluted, and a grim-looking man behind a desk eyed his two newest prisoners rather wearily.
He made a swift hand-signal, and Arclath and Rune were settled into chairs fitted with hooks for their their chains to clip into, to keep them seated. Then all but two of the guards withdrew, closing the door behind them.
“Well met,” the man on the other side of the desk said dryly, stroking his mustache. “I am Lord Constable Gelnur Farland, and you will be Lord Arclath Delcastle and, ah, Goodwoman Amarune Whitewave.”
“We are indeed,” Arclath agreed eagerly, with a wink.
Farland eyed him coldly. “You have something in your eye, lord?”
“Ah, no, no,” Arclath replied, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial croon.
“You have a nervous tic?”
“No.” Arclath winked again, firmly.
“You fancy me?”
“Ah, well, no, as it happens.”
“Then why are you winking at me?”
Arclath hesitated. “I was, ah, attempting a nonverbal signal, saer.”
“I rather thought as much. Why?”
“In order to communicate with you.”
“Yet your tongue seems in fine working order, your vocabulary adequate …”
“What is said can be overheard, saer, and we are not alone.”
“Nor are any of us here in Irlingstar, ever, except when locked
in cells for slumber. This is a prison, lord, not a club or a rest retreat for idlers. Anything you want to say to me can be said before these two loyal Purple Dragons, who are present to witness all that befalls between us. And the very thorough body search I’m afraid each of you will undergo, before you depart this room. These are long-established rules, and only the Royal Magician and the king himself can break them.” Farland leaned forward across his desk and added more coldly, “You will discover we have a lot of rules, Lord Delcastle, and none of them are for breaking. Unless you yourself desire to be broken, in your attempts.”
Arclath glanced at Rune, who gave him a helpless shrug. The lord constable watched this exchange, and asked politely, “Is there anything you wish to say to your fellow prisoner, Lord Delcastle?”
“Much,” Arclath said happily. “She is my partner.”
“In crime? Worry not, you’ll be kept far apart. For her own safety, Goodwoman Whitewave will be confined far from the other prisoners, for at the present time she is Irlingstar’s only female guest.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Lady Raelith succeeded in starving herself to death a tenday ago.”
“Excuse me, Lord Constable,” Rune said firmly, “but the king told us we would remain together in Irlingstar, Arclath and I, when he sent us here.”
The man behind the desk stared at her incredulously, then threw back his head and roared with laughter. The guards standing behind the prisoners’ chairs joined in.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE LORD CONSTABLE IS LESS THAN WISE
Lord Constable?” Rune asked politely, when all the laughter had died down. “Just what is so amusing?”
Farland regarded her almost fondly. Grinning from ear to ear, he asked her, “You expect me to believe you?”
“I have no expectations whatsoever regarding you, saer,” she replied calmly, “yet I have spoken the truth. Ask Lord Delcastle.”
This produced a fresh explosion of laughter. It died down into Farland asking her, “D’you really expect me to take the word of a prisoner for anything?”
“Why not? He is a lord of the realm.”
“As is every prisoner here except you, Goodwoman Whitewave. Yet I’ve somehow failed to acquire the habit of believing any of them.”
Rune sighed and looked at Arclath. “What do you think the king will do to this man upon learning he refused to cooperate with us?”
“Hand him over to Vangerdahast,” Arclath replied. “Or Glathra.”
Farland’s face changed. “Glathra?” he snapped.
“Wizard of War Glathra Barcantle. You know her?”
Farland’s hand strayed toward his throat then fell back.
“Leave us,” he ordered the two guards curtly.
“But lord-”
“They’re both chained,” Farland said testily. “If you hear furniture crashing, rush in again. In the meantime, stand well away from the door and don’t try to overhear.”
He waited stonily until the guards had gone out and closed the door behind them, then said, “Vangerdahast is dead and gone, or turned into a dragon if you believe the legends. So that much I know is no more than a false threat … but how did you know of my connection to G-Lady Glathra?”
“We did not,” Arclath assured him. “But we were sent here after a discussion with King Foril, Royal Magician Ganrahast, and Lady Glathra.”
“Oh, just the five of you?”
“No. My mother-Lady Marantine Delcastle-was also present.”
“To plead for royal clemency?”
Arclath sighed. “I don’t think you quite understand, Lord Constable. Rune and I are merely posing as prisoners. We’re here as agents of the Crown, under orders to promptly report back to the king himself.”
Farland sat back, smirking. “Of course you are.”
“Your disbelief is obvious,” Arclath said politely, “but we were given watch phrases to prove our claims. I was told to say my father gave me a message for the seneschal.”
“And I was told to say: Glathra remembers,” Rune added.
That name brought a glint of anger into Farland’s eyes again. “I know nothing of these phrases,” he said shortly. “Perhaps Seneschal Avathnar did, but he’s dead-murdered. So as far as I’m concerned, you are prisoners and will be treated as such.” Before either Arclath or Amarune could reply, he raised his voice. “Guards!”
The door banged open and the two guards hastened in, swords drawn.
“Put those away,” the lord constable told them sourly. “These two are liars, not bloodthirsty constable-slayers. Take them to the cells assigned to them.”
Arclath frowned. “So you’ll not even take the sensible step of sending a message to the Royal Magician, or King Foril, or Lady Glathra to check on what we’ve said?”
“No,” Farland said bluntly, as the guards began unhooking the prisoners’ chains from their chairs. “Nor will I sit here sharing any confidences with you.”
“Lord Constable,” Arclath said sternly, “this is less than wise.”
The man behind the desk chuckled. “D’you know how many of my prisoners-high-and-mighty nobles, every last one of them-claim to be sent here by Ganrahast or Vainrence or the king himself as undercloak inspectors, to see what we’re up to? Almost all of them, that’s how many! You’re more subtle than most, I must say, who demand command of the castle almost before they’re done saying their names! I-”
A door boomed open somewhere in the castle below, and an imperious voice gave angry orders just too distant for anyone in the lord constable’s office to make out the words. Other voices disagreed, sternly, and the imperious voice spoke again, more sharply. Booted feet hurried up stairs, coming nearer.
“What now?” Lord Constable Farland snapped. “The next prisoners aren’t due ’til the month’s end! Who-”
“Pray pardon the interruption, lord,” a guard puffed, shouldering his way into the room, “but there’re three men at the gates who won’t heed commands from any of us. They say they’re war wizards sent from Immerford, though they look more like traveling tinkers to me, an’ the one who leads them just told us all grandly he was now in command of the castle, jailers an’ prisoners an’ all-an’ he’s frozen Imgrus like a statue for drawing steel on him! Used a wand to do it! I-”
With a wordless snarl Farland was on his feet and out from behind the desk, striding hard.
He didn’t reach the door before a cold voice said from the passage, “There you are! The next time I give you an order, sirrah, you will obey it or spend time as a frog! Running away is not the conduct I expect from-”
“And just who by the Dragon Who Rules Us All are you?” Farland’s roar was loud enough to leave ears ringing, but the cold-voiced new arrival was unperturbed.
“Another lout of a soldier! Salute and then belt up, man! I’ll give the orders here!”
“My, my,” Arclath told Amarune, “this is better than a play!”
“Belt up!” Farland and the new arrival both shot at Arclath in unison, ere returning to the evidently more pleasurable activity of glaring at each other, nose to nose.
“I’m the lord constable of Irlingstar,” Farland growled, “and in the name of the king-”
“In the name of the king, you will obey me,” the new arrival said icily. “For I am Wizard of War Nostyn Vandur, leader of an elite investigative force of war wizards sent here by the Crown to investigate the murder of seneschal of Irlingstar Marthin Avathnar. Accordingly, I am now in command of this castle and everyone in it.”
He stabbed a finger at Farland’s chest. “You are a suspect, and as such unfit to remain in command of anything, until my investigation is complete. I-”
“Until I receive orders from the king himself relieving me,” Farland snarled, “I am in command here in Irlingstar. You could be any raving fool-or an outlaw, or some charlatan mage out of Sembia hired by any of the prisoners-claiming to be a wizard of war. Continue like this, and I’ll have you in chains in a cell
right soonish, where you can order the walls around until you’re out of breath!”
“Careful,” Arclath murmured. “If he’s a puissant mage, he’ll be quite able to order the walls around. Ask him if he knows Glathra.”
Farland shot his newest male prisoner a murderous look, then turned back to confront Vandur-only to discover that the wizard of war, or the man claiming to be a wizard of war, had stepped around him and was sitting down behind Farland’s own desk.
The lord constable drew his sword.
Nostyn Vandur regarded him scornfully. “Surrender that,” he ordered. “Now.”
He pointed at the gleaming top of the desk, and when Farland made no move to relinquish his blade, he tapped it in a clear signal.
“Put it down,” Vandur snapped, as one might to a mischievous puppy.
“No,” Farland snarled. “Get up from that desk or I’ll carve you.”
Vandur ignored him, calling out to the passage, “Gulkanun! Longclaws! In here!”
Farland lashed out with his sword. It flashed right through the man behind the desk as if he weren’t there.
“I’m protected by an ironguard, of course,” Vandur said witheringly. “Seeking to slay a wizard of war who’s lawfully pursuing his duties is punishable by death, man, but I’ll overlook that if you apologize-here and now, and on your knees-and surrender both your weapon and your objections to my-”
“Punishable by death upon due judgment of a duly constituted trial court,” Farland snarled, thrusting his blade through Vandur and holding it there while he reached for the man’s throat with his free hand, “which there isn’t one of within a day’s ride of here. And it’s only such an offense if you’re a wizard of war.”
His hand easily thrust through Vandur’s two-handed attempts to strike it aside and closed around the intruder’s throat.
“Even if you are, I utterly refuse to recognize your authority-and will continue to do so, until informed otherwise by someone whose authority I do recognize. No true war wizard would be so … so …”