by Ed Greenwood
“Lord Goldsword!” Tanalasta snapped.
Emlar stopped, but did not turn around. “What now, Princess?”
“Now that you have answered my question, you are free to go.”
Emlar paused, then started toward the door at a brisk, overly dignified march. As he passed, the other nobles looked away and said nothing.
Tanalasta waited until his steps had grown distant enough not to compete with her voice, then said quietly, “Anyone else who would rather trade our land than fight for it may join him.”
She paused a moment to see if anyone would accept the offer, and Ambassador Hovanay started to leave as well.
“Not yet, Ambassador. There’s something I want you to understand.”
Hovanay turned. “I think you have made your point clearly enough.”
“Humor me,” Tanalasta said. She looked to Giogi Wyvernspur, who, having heard the audience was to be a council of war, had come to the audience dressed in a gleaming suit of steel plate. “Lord Wyvernspur, may I take it that you and yours stand at the crown’s service?”
Giogi raised his sword in salute. “You may.”
“Then you are to prepare an army and hide it well in your Hullack Woods,” said Tanalasta. “Should even one of those sellswords cross the Swamprun, you are to visit upon Sembia all that the ghazneths are visiting upon Cormyr.”
This time, Ambassador Hovanay’s eyes grew genuinely wide. He glanced toward Queen Filfaeril and, finding no support there, looked back to Tanalasta. “I assure you, Princess, that won’t be necessary.”
“Good,” Tanalasta said. “Because it angers me that I must even consider the possibility during our current troubles. You are dismissed.”
Hovanay bowed rather more shallowly than he had before, then left. Tanalasta watched him depart with a growing heaviness in her heart, and not because she feared any trouble Sembia might cause. Whatever their aspirations in Cormyr, Giogi would see to it that they found the price too dear to pay.
Once the ambassador was gone, Tanalasta looked back to the nobles below. “Giogi Wyvernspur has declared himself ready to serve the crown. Who will stand with him?”
Ildamoar Hardcastle, Korvarr Rallyhorn’s father Urthrin, and a handful of others stepped forward to declare their readiness to sacrifice life and fortune on behalf of Cormyr. Most of the other nobles, however, remained ominously silent. Tanalasta surveyed them silently, pausing on each lord just long enough to be sure they knew she had noted their reluctance, then came to the one true surprise, Beldamyr Axehand.
“Lord Beldamyr?” she asked. “The Axehands are not ready to defend Cormyr?”
Beldamyr’s face reddened, but he did not look away. “We are ready,” he said. “When the king calls.”
Though the refusal struck Tanalasta like a blow, she tried not to show how much it disheartened her. Even had she been given to self delusion-and she was not-Beldamyr’s refusal could not be attributed to cowardice. His family was one of the few that had remained steadfastly loyal to her father during the previous year’s attempt on the throne, and Beldamyr’s reluctance to commit now could only be attributed to his lack of confidence in her.
Tanalasta held Beldamyr’s gaze and simply nodded. “Then I will try to keep the realm together until he is able. Be ready.”
She ascended the dais again, then turned to face the nobles. “Between most of us, there is little more to say. I respect your decisions, even if I am disappointed in them, and stand ready to accept your help when you are ready to fulfill your liege duties. Until then, honor me in this much: The crown hereby forbids all non-royal use of magic south of the High Road, on pain of confiscation, imprisonment, or death-depending on whether it is we who find you or the ghazneths.”
There were a few grumbles, but most of the lords understood either the sense of the edict or the wisdom of keeping their objections to themselves. Tanalasta waited until the chamber fell silent again, then dismissed the assembly with a wave.
“I will hold a war council in one hour,” she said. “The royal chamberlain will make messengers available for dispatches for those who attend. Korvarr, you will prepare your men for a noon departure.”
The lionar bowed his acknowledgement and turned to issue the orders, and it was Queen Filfaeril who asked the obvious question.
“Departure? Where are we going?”
“Not we, Mother-me,” replied Tanalasta. “I’d like you to stay with Alaphondar and continue the research in the royal archives.”
Filfaeril folded her arms. “And what are you doing? Leading the ghazneth hunt?”
“Someone must,” said Tanalasta, “and I am the one who knows them best.”
13
Gods, but he’d missed the wild, rolling northern marches of the realm.
Azoun looked out over miles of sheep-studded hills with stone-rabble and tanglestump fences, broken here and there with dense stands of trees. A lone hawk circled high in the cloudless blue sky.
Turning his head slowly, the King of Cormyr could see the rising purple and gray bulk of the Stonelands on one hand and the distant green and gold of the tilled fields nigh Immersea on the other. It had been years since he’d ridden these backlands with no more cares cloaking his shoulders than keeping word of his worst exploits from his father’s ears.
A sudden thought made him turn his head to look at his younger daughter. Alusair’s gaze was fixed on his face, a curiously gentle expression in her often stormy eyes. Over the last few years, the cares of the Steel Princess had been just the same as those of her young and carefree father. Azoun wondered just how much the war wizards who watched over her omitted from the reports they sent back to the king. A lot, if he knew anything about wizards.
“Gods,” he murmured to Alusair, leaning his head toward her to make his lowered voice carry, “but I begin to remember, from my younger days, the real reasons you spend so much of every year out here, riding with your sword drawn and your men around you.”
“Prettier perils than at court, eh?” the Steel Princess murmured back. “Though truth be told, my nobles treat me to a petty, bickering little traveling court that’s all their own.”
“I suppose so,” Azoun agreed, eyes still on the rolling beauty of this corner of his realm. “And with all of that riding with you, why ever seek the dust of Suzail for pomp, feuding, and intrigue?”
“Why indeed?” Alusair echoed, as they shared a smile.
Azoun shook his head. Gods, but Alusair reminded him of himself-the younger, more rebellious self who’d chafed over formalities and ceremony and preferred flirtations to feasts. Why, for half the coins in his
“My King!” a lancelord he did not know called out.
“There’s a man come to us who demands audience with you. He gives his name as Randaeron Farlokkeir and says he brings urgent word from court.”
Azoun frowned and exchanged glances with the Steel Princess. Alusair gave him a half-smile and a gesture that said clearly: “Your trials, and you’re welcome to them.”
“Consider yourself in command for the next few breaths, ere I return,” he told her with a wry smile.
“Urgent word from court” always meant “trouble.” Moreover, the lancelord was obviously suspicious of the messenger. When armies go to war, many men ride with their suspicions held ready before them like a drawn sword.
“I will speak with him,” Azoun told the officer. “Conduct me to him without delay.”
It seemed like only a passing breath or two before Azoun found himself looking down at a travel-stained man in plain leather armor who lay gasping on his back on an untidy heap of blankets. His weapons had been taken from him, and he was ringed by the glittering points of many drawn swords.
“My King,” he panted, trembling with weariness. “I am come from the Wyvernspurs with pressing news intended for your majesty’s ears alone.”
“Withdraw,” Azoun murmured, lifting a hand without bothering to look up. “I know this man.”
In truth
, he’d laid eyes on the ranger only once or twice before, and had never known his name, but if Cat Wyvernspur trusted a man, that was good enough for the King of Cormyr.
Shuddering with exhaustion, Randaeron was now trying to roll to a kneeling position. Azoun put a hand on his shoulder to stop him-and to induce the more suspicious Purple Dragons to put away their blades and step out of hearing.
“How came you here?” the king murmured.
“R-ran, my liege. The Lady Wyvernspur… used her magic… to teleport me to a watchtower, well south of here. A ghazneth came and circled it before diving at me. I… I fought it off and ducked into ditches and ran until it flew away. Then I met with goblins… and fought and ran more.”
“Goblins,” Azoun nodded. Thus far they’d encountered only orcs. The king took note of this, then asked, “What news?”
“The Crown Princess faces troubles at court. Though her words are firm and fair, some nobles openly refuse to obey her, vowing to follow only you, sire. The Dragon Queen is similarly ignored by those who choose to do so… and they are many.”
There came a stirring among the men standing around, a muttering without words, but Azoun never looked up from the laboring lips. The ranger coughed weakly and went on. “The situation is… not good. Sembian interests seek a breach in our armor, many factions at court rise like restless lions to renew old plots, dismissing the war in the north as a ploy of the crown to empty their coffers and keep their sons as royal hostages… and the old whispers of rebellion-Arabel and Marsember, hidden royal blood heirs, and all-are heard again in the passages of the palace and the back rooms of the taverns. The Wyvernspurs fear the Obarskyr hold on the Dragon Throne will be lost-and Cormyr itself split over warring noble ambitions-despite the real foes that threaten the realm here. All it will take, Cat says, if I may be so bold, sire, is one blade through the wrong hotheaded noble’s guts, and the bloodshed will begin. You are needed, Majesty, and better you come surrounded by loyal and ready knights, in strength, to slay any thoughts of daggers in royal backs or ceilings spellsent down onto crowned heads.”
The king nodded, allowing the wry ghost of a smile to touch his lips. “I can tell there’s more, yet. Speak.”
The ranger let out a deep and unhappy sigh, then said in a rush, “Princess Tanalasta looks unwell and-not content, yet she seems determined to personally destroy the ghazneths. The more they’re seen, the more she rushes to cross blades with them.”
He and Azoun stared into each other’s eyes for a long, shared breath, both of them keeping their faces carefully expressionless, before the ranger added quietly, “I, too, have a daughter left alone in this, sire. The Wyvernspurs are not the only ones who fear that Cormyr may soon lose its heir.”
“So it would be best,” Azoun murmured, “if I reached the ghazneths before the princess does.” Another smile twisted his lips before he added, “And even better if I had some sort of plan in mind for defeating them when we do meet.”
“Majesty,” Randaeron agreed carefully, “it would.”
Azoun nodded. “You’ve done well. Stay in the field with the Princess Alusair, I charge you, as I take the men we can best spare here and head south in haste to hold my kingdom.” He strode away, murmuring, “And if the gods really smile upon me, perhaps I’ll even win myself a little rest. Old lions, however stupid, deserve to lie down once in awhile.”
Randaeron knew he wasn’t supposed to officially hear that last royal remark, so he let his eyes close and kept silent. Silence is often the best court policy.
14
The echo of a distant splash rolled down the river behind Vangerdahast and faded into nothingness. The wizard turned and looked toward the sound. The water was as black as the foul air, and the air was as black as the contorted walls, and the walls were as black as a chimney flue-save that instead of soot, they were covered in some black scum that seemed half moss and half stone. Circles of the stuff floated on the water just a few inches beneath Vangerdahast’s chin, stinking of must and mildew and some ancient filth he did not dare consider, given that he was in a tunnel just one level beneath the city of the Grodd.
The cavern remained ominously quiet, but at the last bend behind Vangerdahast, the scum circles were rising and falling ever so slightly on the river surface. The wizard looked at the tiny crow leg hovering above his palm, which he was holding above the water more or less at eye level, and saw that it was still pointing forward. The ghazneth remained somewhere ahead-so what was behind?
Visions of albino sharks and cave-dwelling anacondas began to fill his head, but Vangerdahast dismissed these fears as unfounded nonsense. Such creatures needed a steady diet, and the goblins-the only substantial food source he had found in these caverns-had repopulated their city only recently. It seemed more likely that a patch of scum had simply fallen off the ceiling and made the sound as it landed. Much more likely.
Vangerdahast continued down the passage, following his makeshift compass down one fork of a three-way intersection. If he was right about the ghazneth’s identity-and he sincerely hoped he was not-the thing was Rowen Cormaeril, the handsome young ranger whom Princess Tanalasta had found so unfortunately infatuating. The wizard had last seen them together in the foothills of the Storm Horn Mountains, when the pair had pulled free of his grasp to avoid being teleported back to Arabel. At the time, Vangerdahast had been furious with the pair, but now he was-well, now he was scared to death. If Rowen had become a ghazneth, he could not bear to think what had happened to Tanalasta.
The water grew a few inches deeper, and the wizard tipped his chin back and slipped his feet carefully along the bottom. Holding the torch so high tired his arm, and he wondered whether it might be wiser to cast a spell of light on the crow’s foot. With both hands full, he would have a difficult time defending himself if there was something behind him, and there was a very real possibility of stepping into a hole and dousing the flame anyway.
But casting a light spell would mean feeding Nalavara more magic, and he was worried about how close he had come to freeing her already. A few hours after his near capture at the goblin tower, Vangerdahast had taken advantage of his pursuers’ lingering confusion to return to the great plaza and sneak a peek at Nalavara. To his horror, he had found a dragon fully six hundred feet long, with the remains of his weathercloak, wands, rings, and other magic items lying dull and drained of mystic energy around her head. Though she was still attached to the ground along one flank, writhing in the air were four tree-sized legs, a wing large enough to shade the Suzail Palace, and a spiked tail half the length of the Royal Parade Ground. The sight had frightened Vangerdahast so greatly that when the inevitable cohort of goblins found him out he very nearly allowed himself to be captured rather than cast another spell. Only his determination to track down the ghazneth and find out what had happened to Tanalasta had convinced him to flee.
Another splash sounded in the cavern behind Vangerdahast, louder and more certain than the last. The noise was followed by a hissed chitter, and for a moment the wizard could not grasp what he was hearing. It could not be goblins-not when the water was so deep it soaked his beard to the chin. He listened and heard a soft, rhythmic purling, and his disbelief changed to dismay. They had followed him-and his own nose told him how. Though he had grown accustomed to the acrid stench of his torch, the smoke it produced was heavy and rancid and must have seemed like a beacon to the goblins.
Vangerdahast glanced one more time at the crow’s leg in his palm, then thrust the butt of his torch into a small wall crevice. The flames began to lick a loose sheet of black crust, and almost instantly the edge began to smolder, sending plumes of ghastly smelling smoke rolling along the ceiling. Chuckling quietly at the thought of what the bitter stench would do to the goblins’ sensitive noses, the wizard set off into the darkness.
A few minutes later, the goblins seemed to realize what was happening and filled the tunnel with angry chittering. Though Vangerdahast was already feeling his way around the ne
xt bend, he paused long enough to look back down the passage into what had become a flickering ring of fire. The goblins were paddling into view on rough-hewn logs, sitting three and four to a raft with their legs dangling in the water and using crudely shaped paddles to propel their craft forward. As they approached the burning wall, they squealed and pressed their faces into their elbows, trying to shield their heat-seeing eyes from the flames.
The first log hit the wall and spilled its passengers into the water, and it became apparent that goblins could not swim-at least not in bronze armor. The second log seemed to be staying on course, so Vangerdahast backed around the corner and turned into the darkness-then let out a cry when he saw a pair of pearly eyes shining down on him from above.
The cry elicited a cacophony of chortled commands and sloshing paddles from the goblins, but Vangerdahast had no time to react before a hand grabbed him by the beard and hauled him onto a small rock ledge.
“I am growing tired of saving you, Old Snoop,” said the same husky voice he had heard earlier. A powerful hand caught Vangerdahast’s wrist and plucked the enchanted crow’s leg from his palm. “Were I you, I would not rely on my good graces again.”
Vangerdahast’s heart sank, for there were only a handful of individuals who knew him by Tanalasta’s favorite nickname-and Rowen Cormaeril was one of them.
“Stay here, old fool.” Rowen dropped off the ledge and slipped into the water as silently as an owl slips into the air.
“Rowen, wait!” Vangerdahast rolled to his belly in the darkness and began to feel for the edge.
The goblins’ voices rose in a sudden panic, then a tremendous wind roared through the passage, stirring the water into a splashing frenzy and threatening to tear the wizard from his perch. Vangerdahast pressed his face to the ledge and dug his fingers into the dirt, working his hand cautiously forward until he came to a loose rock.