by Ed Greenwood
When the wind finally slackened to a mere tempest, he sat up and rubbed his fingers over the stone’s slickness, casting a spell of continual light upon it. He would have preferred to give himself the ability to see in darkness, but that particular enchantment required either an agate or a pinch of dried carrot to activate it, and he had lost most of his spell components when Rowen pulled him out of his weathercloak at the goblin tower.
A deep glow arose within the rock, flooding the passage with magical light and illuminating the ghazneth at the bend of the passage. Though the wind was roaring past his head and the water crashing against him in waves, Rowen stood upright without any hint of effort, his long hair hanging to his collar motionless, straight, and utterly undisturbed.
Finally, no more sounds were heard from the goblins, and the wind slackened to a mere bluster. Rowen glanced back once, then looked away and started around the corner without causing the water to ripple or purl even slightly.
“No you don’t, Rowen Cormaeril!” Vangerdahast swung his legs over the lip of the ledge and dropped into the water, then splashed down the passage after the ghazneth. “Come back here, coward! Stand and present yourself!”
Much to Vangerdahast’s surprise, he rounded the corner and found himself looking up into Rowen Cormaeril’s murky face. With a sturdy brow, prominent cheeks, and cleft chin, the scout’s features were still chiseled and handsome. They were also more gaunt and pronounced than Vangerdahast remembered, so that the overall effect was one of power and domination.
“Do I look like a royal scout to you?” Rowen’s hand seemed to twitch. Vangerdahast found his wrist locked in the ghazneth’s grasp. “The time when I must take orders from you is long past.”
“No one has released…” Vangerdahast had to swallow to wet his dry throat. “No one has released you from your oath. I am the king’s Royal Magician and superior to every soldier in the land. You will do as I as command… unless the blood of all Cormaerils runs treasonous.”
Rowen’s eyes grew white with anger. His grasp began to tighten, and Vangerdahast’s fingers came open of their own accord. The ghazneth glared at him for a long moment, perhaps debating whether to continue squeezing, then plucked the glowing stone from Vangerdahast’s hand and began to absorb its magic.
“For someone reputed to be the most cunning man in Cormyr, you are certainly the fool,” said Rowen. “I would think you would know the consequences of using magic by now.”
Vangerdahast began to breathe easier. “I do, but you have made yourself difficult to reach. It was the only way to find you.”
“You have found me now.” Rowen absorbed the last of the light from Vangerdahast’s rock, then dropped it into the water. “And I pray you are done mocking me. Do not be so bold again.”
Ignoring the menace in the ghazneth’s words, Vangerdahast reached out blindly and caught his arm. The flesh was firm and cold and as slimy to the touch as that of an eel.
“I did not come to mock you,” the wizard said. “To kill you, perhaps-or to ask your aid, depending.”
Rowen’s eyes continued to glow white. “Depending on what?”
“On what became of Tanalasta,” Vangerdahast said.
The anger faded from Rowen’s gaze. He turned away, plunging the cavern into total darkness.
Thinking his quarry was slipping silently away, Vangerdahast sloshed forward-and ran headlong into the ghazneth’s back.
“I left her with Alusair,” said Rowen. “I was leaving the company to find you, and they were on their way to Goblin Mountain. That was the last time I saw her and knew it to be certain.”
“And knew it to be certain?’” Vangerdahast echoed.
Rowen grabbed the wizard by the shoulder and led him up the passage, guiding him onto a slick incline that climbed up onto the ledge where he had been earlier.
“It was perhaps a day after the battle at the Farsea Marsh,” Rowen began. “Your company lay floating and bloated in the water, and the orcs were still looting the bodies. I discovered a note in Alaphondar’s spyglass charging whoever found it to report to the king that the scourges of Alaundo’s prophecy were awakened. I took the note and was about to start for Goblin Mountain when your horse, Cadimus, broke out of hiding in some willows at the edge of the marsh.
“As Cadimus crested the hill, the ghazneths noticed him and left their keep. It was all I could do to get mounted and into the woods before they were on us. They hunted me the rest of the day. One even ambushed me as I crossed a clearing and latched its talons into my shoulder before I dragged it into a tree. That night, I decoyed the monsters by activating my cloak’s throat clasp and sending it downstream on a log. I slipped away and was no more than a day from Goblin Mountain when I heard her.”
“Tanalasta?”
There was a pause in which Vangerdahast could imagine the ghazneth nodding, then Rowen continued, “She was screaming and begging me to kill her, and… and I couldn’t bear it. I knew Alaphondar’s message to be even more important than Tanalasta’s life, but I was in love, and I went after her.
“The ghazneths turned northward and started to play games, scraping her along the treetops above my head, landing on the other side of a meadow and making her beg for death until I used my escape pocket to reach her, then snatching her away and flying off before I came out of the afterdaze. By then, I knew they didn’t want to kill me. They were just luring me northward into a trap, but what could I do? I was too exhausted to think straight and terrified of letting her suffer. Even if I had turned back they would have killed me on the spot.”
“No doubt,” said Vangerdahast, trying not to sound unsympathetic. “But what of Tanalasta?”
“I… I don’t know,” Rowen said. “Before I knew it, we had crossed to the north side of the Storm Horns again. The last I saw her, King Boldovar had her on the far rim of gorge, and he was… he was doing something unthinkable to her. I went mad and used my escape pocket to reach his side of the canyon. But when I came out of the afterdaze, she wasn’t there-only my cousin Xanthon, laughing and holding me over the canyon by my collar, threatening to push me in after Tanalasta.”
Though he was already in the dark, Vangerdahast closed his eyes and whispered, “Very good.”
“Very good?” echoed Rowen, sounding less surprised than he might have. “Then it was a decoy?”
“Our own trick used against us,” Vangerdahast confirmed. “Boldovar can create illusions. He did the same thing to us at the Farsea battle, and it nearly cost Alaphondar his life.”
“It has cost me more than that, I fear,” Rowen continued. “I slipped my iron dagger out and managed to plunge it into Xanthon’s stomach, then held on as he stumbled back from the edge of the rim. Boldovar started after me, then the others appeared, and I took Cadimus and fled into a grove of the largest trees I can ever recall seeing.
“The ghazneths stopped at the edge and stood there hurling the vilest curses I’ve ever heard, and I couldn’t understand why they didn’t come after me until I looked around and saw the elven glyphs. They were similar to the glyphs we found on those twisted trees over the tombs Boldovar and the others came from-except these trees were not twisted and diseased. They were all beautiful and healthy, and when I ran my finger along the letters, the songs made me cry. Even the ghazneths fell quiet until the music was done.”
“A whole copse of Trees of the Body?” Vangerdahast gasped.
A Tree of the Body was a sort of memorial created by the ancient elves who had inhabited Cormyr before men. According to Tanalasta-and the princess was known for being well read on such things-when an esteemed elf died, his fellows sometimes inscribed his epitaph on the trunk of a small sapling and buried the body beneath the roots. Vangerdahast did not understand all of the subtleties of such commemorations, but he had never before heard of even two of the majestic trees being found in a single location, much less a whole copse.
“You are sure they were Trees of the Body?” Vangerdahast asked.
&nb
sp; “Later I became sure,” Rowen said. “There were hundreds of them, and the ghazneths kept me trapped among them for nearly a tenday. They watched me constantly and were there waiting every time I tried to leave. One night, I decided the time had come to die or escape, and I was riding out when the ghost of a handsome elf lord rose from the ground before me. He wore a three-spiked circlet set with a single purple stone, and in his hand he carried a golden staff with the haft twisted in a ropelike pattern, and he spoke to me harshly.
” ‘Nine days have thou forsaken thy duty hiding here, human, and nine days have we sheltered thee, but ere thou leave, know thy death atones nothing. To undo thy betrayal, a greater amends must thou make at a cost greater to thee than death.’
“I did not need to ask what betrayal, for I still carried Alaphondar’s letter close to my heart and knew well how I had failed. I had let my love for Tanalasta blind me to my duty, and I knew that Cormyr would pay dearly for my failure. What could I do but bow my head and reply, ‘Milord, I would redeem myself. My only question is how.’
“The elf warned me again of the terrible cost, and again I told him I would gladly pay. The elf smiled then and took Cadimus’s reins from my hand. He whispered something in the horse’s ear that caused him to nicker and nuzzle me on the cheek, then turn and flee to the far side of the grove.
“The elf spoke again. ‘Know, human,’ he said, ‘that I am Iliphar, King of Scepters, and this grove is my burial place, where a thousand treasures have lain hidden for more long ages than I can count. Follow me that I may bestow on thee the greatest of all, the Scepter of Lords.’
“King Iliphar led me to the center of the grove, where stood an ancient oak the size of a castle keep. The ghost pointed at the base of the tree and said, ‘Take my scepter and give it to thy king. Tell him that when wielded with compassion, it has the power to smite any elven-spawned evil-but only given that all the wrongs that spawned that evil in the first place have been set right. By surrendering the scepter to a human, I am righting the first. It will be for he who wields this weapon to right the other.’
“And that was all King Iliphar said,” said Rowen. “He stepped away and faded back into his tree. I drew my dagger and began to dig where he had pointed. No sooner had my blade touched the soil than the ghazneths screeched in triumph and streaked in to attack. I thought for a moment they had deceived me again and tricked me into dispelling the grove’s magic protection-which I am sure now was their entire purpose in luring me north in the first place-but if so, the last trick was on them. An army of elf ghosts rose from beneath their trees to meet the ghazneths, and the trees wove their branches into an impenetrable net of protection. The ghazneths tore into the limbs with fire and blight, and the ghosts tore into them with sword and club. I concentrated on my digging, and it was not long before I had wormed my way well down among the roots.
“But even the elves could not hold on forever, and it seemed the deeper I dug, the weaker they grew. By the time I finally broke into Iliphar’s treasure chamber, the great tree branches behind me were cracking and snapping as the ghazneths tore through. I pulled my commander’s ring and activated the light spell, then cried out at all the treasure I saw heaped beneath the tree. There were hills of it, glowing with magic and crusted with enough gems to dazzle the eyes of old Thauglor himself.
“A loud rumble rolled down the tunnel from outside, then all the trees started to sing at once. I rushed into the chamber and began tearing through the treasure heaps. There were wands and staves and rods of every ilk. Any one of them and none of them could have been the Scepter of Lords, and I despaired of ever finding the right one.
“Then a terrible rasping broke out in the tunnel behind me. Thinking to bring the roof down on my pursuer, I grabbed a silver sword and rushed toward the mouth-and that is when I saw it, resting in the crooks of two roots, with a thin circlet of gold hanging from its haft.”
“The Scepter of Lords?” Vangerdahast asked.
Rowen’s pearly eyes rose and fell in the darkness. “It was a golden scepter fashioned in the shape of sapling oak, with finely wrought branches sprouting off at odd angles and a huge pommel of amethyst carved in the figure of an acorn. It was the most beautiful treasure in the chamber, and there was no mistaking its power.
“I snatched the scepter off its hooks and stepped off to the side of the tunnel, still fumbling with the crown on its haft as I cocked the thing back. The crimson eyes of a ghazneth appeared in the tunnel mouth, and I threw my weight into a mighty strike.
“But as I brought the head down, a hellish curse came from the tunnel and spilled out into the room in billowing black fumes. The ground shook and cracked beneath me. The floor gave way, and I fell into this horrid abyss, and I have been no more able to leave than you have.”
“What of the scepter?” Vangerdahast’s heart was pounding so ferociously he could barely hear his own question. “Tell me you didn’t lose the scepter!”
“Of course not.” Rowen’s fingertips crackled with tiny balls of lightning, illuminating the ledge in twinkling bursts of silver. He reached behind him and produced a small, triple-spiked circlet with a pale amethyst set in the center. “Nor the crown that went with it.”
Vangerdahast snatched the crown from the ghazneth’s hand. It was as dull as lead, all the golden magic gone from it.
“You didn’t!”
“I’m afraid I did, before I realized what I was turning into,” said Rowen. “On the other hand, it was a useful lesson. The Scepter of Lords is still full of magic and hidden safely away-someplace where Nalavara’s goblins will never find it, and where it hasn’t been a constant temptation to me.”
“That’s something.” Vangerdahast flipped the leaden crown in his fingers, silently bemoaning the loss of such ancient magic. He could have learned much by examining it-almost as much as he had by listening to the tale of its recovery. He patted Rowen warmly on the knee-then instantly regretted the gesture when it elicited a shudder of revulsion from the ghazneth. “You’ve done well, Rowen. We can make this work for Cormyr.”
“How?” The ghazneth waved his crackling fingers around the cavern in despair. “How can we make this work for anyone?”
Vangerdahast smiled. “Nalavara went to a lot of trouble to trick you into breaking the power of Iliphar’s burial ground. She wouldn’t have done that unless she was worried about the scepter-a weapon you’ve kept out of her hands.”
Rowen’s expression brightened considerably. “We’re going to kill her?”
“Not us,” said Vangerdahast. He was thinking of the ancient secret that he and the other royal magicians had helped their kings keep for so many centuries. “Azoun will do it. If the scepter is to work, I fear it must be wielded by a king.”
15
“Tears of Chauntea!”Azoun swore. “Even if they raid so savagely and so unopposed as to strip the land bare, fair Cormyr’s northern reaches can’t feed this many goblins! Where are they all coming from?”
The grim, weary officers around him didn’t bother to answer. After hacking a bloody way through two walls of goblins already this day, the king’s army had crested another hill to find the rolling country ahead awash in hooting, chittering goblins. The little humanoids waved their banners tauntingly at the sight of the royal standard, but held their positions as if they were the claws of a well-disciplined foe, rather than charging in their usual wild flood. The way south, it seemed, was blocked by several thousand sharp and waiting goblin blades.
“Hold ranks!” a swordlord snapped, as some of the men ahead surged forward, armor clanking.
“To Talos with orders and ordered formations now!” a nobleman roared, raising his blade. “In at them, and slay-for Azoun and for me!”
Others took up the cry. “For Azoun and for me!”
The king watched them charge to their deaths with frustration and pleasure warring behind a tightly expressionless face. He couldn’t afford swift-tempered, disobedient idiots of nobles here in the
field-or, for that matter, flourishing anywhere in the realm-but it did feel good to hear that battle cry, and see the excitement around him as men joined in, waving their blades but holding their positions under the watchful gazes of growling swordcaptains and cold-eyed lancelords.
“Let no true Cormyrean leave this height without orders to do so!” a swordlord roared, and Azoun doffed his helm to let the eyes he knew would be turning his way clearly see him nodding in agreement. He needed capable swords, not glory-seeking corpses. He also needed a way south to Suzail that would be swifter and less bloody than carving his way through all of these waiting goblins.
The war wizards had already agreed grimly that wild nursery tales notwithstanding, the army was much too large to teleport. Not even by draining all their magic items and trying a combined spell, even without ghazneths racing to pounce on any significant use of magic, could they guarantee to pluck more than a few hundred men south. Their best efforts, therefore, could only serve to scatter the army and even slay a few men with the roiling energies of the translocational magic. Even that was assuming nothing at all went wrong, and something would, they all knew. On battlefields, something always did.
There had to be another way. Even if he’d had time and men enough to march wide to the east, his Purple Dragons couldn’t outrun eager goblins, or avoid running into the barrier of the Wyvernwater. That left only the forest. It would be something of a shield against spying eyes and a deadly maze for both his men and any goblins who plunged into it in search of them.
Unless, of course, he had a guide as expert as the foresters who accompanied him on his rarer and rarer stag hunts. That meant finding Duskroon’s, or one of the other dozens of foresters’ cottages, along the edge of the forest. Feldon was a local man…
He turned to the lancelord standing nearest and said crisply, “Swordcaptain Feldon to me, at once!”