by Troy Denning
“Magic will not save you, old fool,” Xanthon said, allowing a stream of excess fire to spill down his chin. “Come down here, and we will settle this like men.”
“One of us is no longer a man. One of us is a traitor… and not only to his country.”
Xanthon shrugged. “I am what the king made me.”
The ghazneth started forward. Vangerdahast raised his iron dagger and, blood boiling in anger, began the enchantment that would send it streaking into the traitor’s eye.
This time, Xanthon was ready for him. The ghazneth dived into one of the little tunnels opening off the plaza and disappeared, leaving the wizard with no target. The royal magician let the incantation trail off half-finished, then cursed profanely. He could use this spell only three times a day, and he had just wasted a casting.
Vangerdahast pulled the mace from his belt and spent the next quarter hour circling the plaza, waiting for Xanthon to return. Finally, he realized the ghazneth’s earlier challenge had been an empty taunt and grew more confident about his chances of success. The traitor was frightened, or he would have returned to finish the battle. The wizard spent another quarter hour finding the sliver he had been using to track his prey, then floated down and followed it into the same cockeyed passage through which the phantom had fled.
The portal led into the confines of a goblin street-a crooked little tunnel not much wider than Vangerdahast’s shoulders and barely half his height. He had to float through the passage headfirst, ribbons of yellow fume streaming past so thick he could see only a few paces ahead. The floor stank of mildew and mud, and the walls resonated with scurrying insects. The wizard tried not to think about the red stuff that dangled down from the ceiling and brushed over his back.
Vangerdahast pursued his quarry around a dozen corners and past a hundred cockeyed doorways, then came to another plaza and realized he did not need to watch his sliver quite so carefully. Unable to fly, Xanthon was leaving a clear trail in the mud. Moreover, some unfelt breeze was drawing the yellow fume through a particular set of tunnels, and the ghazneth seemed to be following the fume. The wizard put the sliver away and crossed the circle into the next passage, holding a wand of repulsion in one hand and his iron dagger in the other.
Xanthon tried to ambush him three plazas later, dropping off a wall to land on Vangerdahast’s back as he exited a tunnel. The wizard simply touched the tip of his wand to the ghazneth’s flank and sent him flying, then followed behind. The second time, he landed a bone-crushing blow with his borrowed mace.
Xanthon barely managed to scuttle into the next tunnel. After that, Vangerdahast was able to remain within earshot of his quarry, following the ghazneth by the slurping sounds he made crawling through the muddy passages. As the chase continued, the sound grew slower and less steady. Finally, it ceased altogether, and when the wizard stopped to consult his magic sliver, the ghazneth’s arm came snaking out of a nearby door and snatched the wand of repulsion from his hand.
Vangerdahast was so startled that he flew backward half a dozen paces. By the time he finally comprehended that the ghazneth was not attacking, Xanthon was slurping down the tunnel again, now moving faster. The wizard found his wand a few hundred paces later, lying dull and brittle in the mud. All the magic was gone, and the phantom was no longer close enough to hear.
After that, the wizard left his magic tucked safely inside his cloak, and the chase continued. Eventually, Vangerdahast had to renew his flying spell, then his protection enchantments, and he realized the hunt was turning into a trek. He almost decided to give up and teleport back to the mud keep, but he could not allow Xanthon to go unpunished for such a vile betrayal.
The pursuit continued until Xanthon began to tire again and Vangerdahast began to hear slurping steps once more. Determined not to make the same mistake twice, the wizard took the initiative and streaked up the passage behind the crawling phantom. He slammed down on its back and reached around to draw his iron dagger across its throat.
As weary as Xanthon was, he was still far faster than the royal magician. He clamped down on Vangerdahast’s arm and dropped face first into the mud, driving the dagger deep into his own collar, but sparing himself the fatal slash across the throat.
A strange tingling came over Vangerdahast as the magic began to leave his protective enchantments. He grabbed Xanthon’s hair and tried to pull the traitor’s head up to free his arm, but his strength was no match for a ghazneth’s. A pair of jaws closed around his forearm, then clamped down. The phantom’s teeth could not penetrate his protective spells, but the wizard knew that would change once his spells were drained.
Vangerdahast rolled to the side, relieving some of the strain on his trapped arm and giving himself room to maneuver. He slipped his hand into his cloak and grabbed a small rod from a pocket, then pressed the tip to the ghazneth’s head and spoke a single mystic word.
A silent flash of golden magic filled the air, momentarily blinding Vangerdahast and hurling him against the tunnel wall. He felt the ghazneth go slack and jerked his arm loose, opening a long gash along Xanthon’s collarbone as he ripped the iron dagger free. Praying that his flying spell had enough magic to hold one more instant, he pushed himself up to the ceiling.
Still trying to shake the magic from his vision, Xanthon rolled onto his back, his arms weaving a black blur as he lashed out blindly mere inches under Vangerdahast’s nose. The phantom’s new wounds were already beginning to heal-thanks, no doubt, to the glut of magic he had just absorbed. Vangerdahast’s protective enchantments were fading fast and his flying spell would soon follow, and he would not be able to renew those particular spells until he had rested and studied his spellbook. Realizing he had lost all hope of defeating the phantom in physical combat Vangerdahast decided the time had come to declare wisdom the better part of valor.
He closed his eyes and brought to mind an image of the courtyard in the Arabellan Palace. Tomorrow he would return for Alaphondar and Owden, then resume his hunt with a fresh company of Purple Dragons. It was sometimes possible to delay the King’s Justice, but never to escape it-not when the royal magician had decided it was his business to dispense it. A little growl of astonishment suggested that Xanthon’s vision had finally cleared, and Vangerdahast cast his teleport spell.
He experienced that familiar sensation of timeless falling, then felt something soft and squishy around his boot soles. The air seemed remarkably stale and musty, and he had a terrible suspicion that he knew the source of that irritating drone in his ears. The wizard shook his head clear and found himself standing in a muddy depression, looking across a dark, stagnant pool of water toward the shadowy facade of a ramshackle goblin building. He thought for a moment he had returned to the same plaza through which he had entered the abandoned city, but a quick circuit of the area revealed no sign of the wall through which he had blasted Xanthon. The royal magician was lost.
“Many ways to enter, but only one to leave.” The ghazneth’s voice rasped out from all the tunnels ringing the plaza, as soft and sibilant as a snake’s hiss. “It is you or me, old fool… and now I am the hunter.”
From somewhere inside the marble keep came a muted thud, then the iron-clad gate swirled open, spinning little whirlpools into the fetid water and sweeping aside the bloated corpses of half a dozen Purple Dragons. The smell of mildew and stale stone filled Tanalasta’s nostrils, giving rise to an unexpected urge to vomit. The need had been coming over her at the oddest times for the last two days-when they found Alaphondar’s horse tethered behind the hill, for instance, but not when they waded into a marsh full of stinking corpses. The princess was beginning to think that lying to Alusair had affected her nerves more than she realized. Despite the return of the fever, no one else in the company seemed to be experiencing such odd bouts of queasiness.
Alusair appeared in the gateway, standing atop a short flight of black stairs and silhouetted in gleaming silver against the tower’s murky interior. “Nothing they’re not in here.”
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br /> “Empty?” Tanalasta slapped Alaphondar’s broken spyglass against the surface of the marsh, then said, “None of this makes any sense.”
They had found the spyglass on a boulder not far from Alaphondar’s hungry horse, the broken halves lying neatly side-by-side. It appeared the sage had been watching the keep, which stood not quite a mile from shore, half sunken in the marsh and surrounded by the floating corpses of Vangerdahast’s rescue company. A lengthy examination of the surrounding area had produced no hint of what killed them. Almost as puzzling, the search had failed to produce the bodies of either Vangerdahast, Alaphondar, or Owden. It was as if the trio had simply vanished.
Tanalasta climbed the stairs into the keep and found the mossy, dank place she had expected, with a cramped staircase ascending to the left and a narrow corridor turning a corner to the right. There were plenty of insects and more than a few snakes, but no more than normal in such a place, and none that appeared particularly dangerous.
Alusair’s men were everywhere, banging on walls and inspecting floors for secret passages.
Tanalasta started down the hallway to the right.
Alusair followed close behind, her armor clanking as she brushed against the stone walls. “There’s a common chamber and seven sleeping cells upstairs, and half a dozen storage rooms on this floor. We haven’t been able to find a dungeon entrance-but it would probably be flooded anyway.”
Tanalasta rounded the corner and peered into the first room. Warm afternoon light poured through a large, windowlike breach in the opposite wall. The edges were smooth with age and draped with moss. Not looking at her sister, and trying to keep her voice casual, Tanalasta asked, “Any sign of Rowen?”
“Rowen can take care of himself.” Though Alusair’s tone was neutral, she clapped Tanalasta’s shoulder briefly and said, “He’s probably waiting for us at Goblin Mountain with Vangerdahast and Alaphondar.”
“If Vangerdahast is there, I doubt Rowen still is,” Tanalasta remarked wryly.
As the princess turned away from the room, a sharp hiss sounded behind her.
“Tanalasta?” called a familiar voice.
Tanalasta spun back toward the room only to find her sister already charging through the door, sword in hand.
“Name yourself,” demanded Alusair.
Tanalasta rounded the corner to find her sister standing in the center of the room, reaching up to press the tip of her blade to a disembodied head protruding from a tiny circle of darkness near the ceiling. It was such an odd sight that it took a moment for Tanalasta to recognize the face as that of Owden Foley.
Owden’s eyes remained fixed on the tip of Alusair’s sword. “H-harvestmaster Owden F-foley, at your s-service.”
Tanalasta grabbed Alusair’s arm. “He’s a friend!”
Alusair lowered her sword, but continued to eye the priest suspiciously. Tanalasta stepped forward, placing herself between the two, and Owden finally exhaled in relief.
“Thank you, my dear.” He smiled at Tanalasta, then tipped his chin to Alusair. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Princess Alusair. Please consider me at your service.”
Owden pushed an arm out of the floating circle and turned his palm up. Alusair eyed the disembodied limb coldly and did not offer her hand.
“What, exactly, are you?” she demanded.
Owden flushed and looked down, then finally seemed to realize what he must look like. “Forgive me! Vangerdahast told us to wait inside until he returned.”
The black circle behind Owden’s head suddenly grew larger, revealing itself to be the interior of a large pocket floating in midair. The priest withdrew into the interior, then reappeared feet-first and dropped to the floor. He bowed again and turned to Tanalasta.
“By the seed, it is good to see you again!” He embraced her warmly, then looked past her into the hallway. “Where is the old grouch?”
“We were hoping you could tell us.”
Owden’s expression fell. “He went after Xanthon Cormaeril, to stop him from opening Alaundo’s door.”
“How long ago?” Alusair demanded.
Owden shrugged, gesturing vaguely at the dark pouch hanging above his head. “A few minutes after Alaphondar contacted Tanalasta.”
The two sisters exchanged worried glances, then Tanalasta said, “Two days ago.”
“What now?” asked Alusair.
“Assume he is lost, and hope that we are wrong,” said a familiar voice. A moment later, Alaphondar’s old head appeared in the mouth of the floating pouch. His eyes were sunken and weary, his skin as pale as alabaster.
“What other choice is there? You have read my note.”
“Note?” Tanalasta asked.
“In the tube.” He gestured at the spyglass. “Telling whoever found it to awaken the Sleeping Sword.”
“There was no note.” Tanalasta pulled the two pieces of the spyglass apart. “This was how we found it.”
Alusair took the two halves of the tube from Tanalasta and inspected them. “At least we know what happened to Rowen. This was hacked open with a sword.”
“And this Rowen knows where to find the Sleeping Sword?” asked Alaphondar.
Alusair cocked an eyebrow at Tanalasta, who shook her head. “I had no reason to mention it.”
“Then he will be on his way to inform your father,” sighed Alaphondar. “And with Vangerdahast lost, the delay could well mean Cormyr’s doom. We must inform the king.”
The sage’s withered hand appeared briefly, then reached for his throat clasp.
“Alaphondar, wait!” Tanalasta said, realizing her deception would be revealed if the sage conversed with the king. “I reported your fears to His Majesty two days ago.”
“And did he say he would awaken the Sleeping Sword?” asked Alaphondar.
Tanalasta’s stomach sank, for she knew what the sage would say when she answered-and also that there was too much at stake to try to talk him out of it. “No, not exactly.”
“Then we must make certain.”
Alusair barked a handful of commands out the door, ordering to company to prepare itself in case the sending drew a ghazneth, then looked back to Alaphondar.
“Contact the queen instead of the king,” Alusair said. “She’ll know his plans, and we don’t want to draw ghazneths to him if he’s already in the Stonelands. If he hasn’t left already, tell her I can take your horse and be there in a day.”
Tanalasta watched Alaphondar’s eyes close, then, cringing inwardly, turned to her sister. “Alusair, there is something I should tell you.”
Alusair waved her off. “Not now, Tanalasta. This is important.”
“So is this.” Tanalasta steeled herself for the coming storm. “I may have given you the wrong impression-“
“Later!”
Alusair stepped away, precluding any further attempts to admit the truth, and Alaphondar opened his eyes a moment later.
“The queen assures us that King Azoun will reach the Sleeping Sword first.” The sage turned to Alusair looking rather confused. “She was quite upset. She seemed to think you should be somewhere near Goblin Mountain by now.”
“Goblin Mountain? Why would she think that? The king himself told us to investigate…” Alusair let the sentence trail off and whirled on Tanalasta, her face turning white with anger. “I’ll cut out your tongue, you lying harlot!”
Vangerdahast snapped awake without the pleasure of even a moment’s confusion about his whereabouts. He knew the awful truth as soon as he heard the humming swarms and smelled the dank air. His emergency spellbook lay opened to the last spell he had been studying, a powerful wind enchantment he had been hoping to use to clear the insects away so he could sleep in peace. Apparently, it had been unnecessary.
The wizard had no way to tell how long he had slept, but judging by his stiff joints and the cold ache in his bones, it had been a good while. His stomach was growling with hunger and he was almost thirsty enough to drink the stagnant swill in the center o
f the plaza, but at least the sleep had rejuvenated him mentally. No longer did he feel as dispirited or confused as he had after attempting to return to Arabel, and he had even begun to develop a few theories about how to find his way home. He had either followed Xanthon into a separate plane or through some sort of magic-dampening barrier that prevented his teleport spell from folding space. All he had to do was figure out which, then he could start work on the problem of determining either where he was, or how to bypass the barrier.
And failing that, he always had his ring of wishes to call upon-but wishes were tricky spells to use, and he had learned through bitter experience that it was wiser to avoid them in all but the most controlled of circumstances. If a simple teleport spell would not work down here, he could only imagine what might happen if he attempted to use a wish.
Vangerdahast closed his spellbook and returned it to his weathercloak, then checked his iron weapons and hoisted his stiff body to its feet. As he rose, an unexpected clatter sounded from the other side of the wall against which he had been leaning. He jumped in fright and spun around to see a pair of red eyes peering out through a cockeyed goblin window.
“All rested?” hissed Xanthon.
Vangerdahast forgot about his aching bones and dashed across the plaza, hurling himself headlong into the nearest tunnel. He landed flat on his belly and slid a good five paces on the muddy floor, then spun instantly onto his back. The wizard continued to squirm down the passage as fast as his old legs could propel his ample weight, at the same time hurling a magic blast high and well behind him.
The ceiling collapsed with a deafening crash, filling the tunnel with a black cloud of billowing dust. Vangerdahast started to cough, then caught himself and managed to cast a flying spell before he broke into a fit of hacking. He pushed himself off the ground and flew down the narrow corridor as fast as he dared without his shielding spells. It did not even occur to him until the next plaza that had there been any real danger, he would already have been dead.