Ondel had almost certainly recovered it from the hoard of Sundraer the She-dragon—whom he had loved and been loved by, when she took human form—after her death.
Elves had fashioned and enspelled the stone long, long ago. Just which elves, where, and how, he would probably never know. It was enough to know this much: Lorbryn Deltalon could now cloak his innermost thoughts and memories from any mind-probe, spinning false memories at will to deceive Vangey’s mind readings.
So if he was careful enough, deep shielding or no deep shielding, Vangey would never know what Deltalon thought of him—or what his oh-so-loyal Wizard of War was up to.
Hmph. Those secrets would be among the very few things afoot in the realm that Vangerdahast did not know all about.
Yes. It was high time the Forest Kingdom was protected against its sworn, too-powerful, far-too-tyrannical protector. A check on Vangerdahast’s might; a first small step toward finding a balance.
Smiling ever so faintly, Lorbryn Deltalon gathered his notes together, rose, and headed for the door on the other side of which Malasko Erdusking waited fearfully.
One more scared noble, who’d forgotten what nobles must never be allowed to forget: For the good of Cormyr, we must all sacrifice a little.
“More wine,” Rhallogant murmured to himself. “That’s what I need, just now.”
Yet he put off seeking it to continue pondering, not wanting to lose his quickening path of thought.
The Obarskyrs and their bootlicking Wizards of War worked tirelessly to rein in and frustrate the powers of all nobles. Everyone knew that.
Most nobles considered that reason enough to justify any amount of treason against the Dragon Throne, and Rhallogant Caladanter was proud to count himself among their number.
Getting caught meant an unpleasant death. Short of such capture, anything done to frustrate the decadent royals and the lawlessly skulking mages who served the tyrant Vangerdahast—the true ruler of Cormyr—could only be a service to the realm and all Cormyreans henceforth.
Long after Vangerdahast had been shamed and executed, the philandering King Azoun and his icy queen swept into “accidental” graves, and their two wayward daughters married off to nobles fit to lead the Forest Kingdom, Rhallogant Caladanter had every intention of happily standing among those “all Cormyreans henceforth.” With gold coins bulging in his coffers and the good regard of fair ladies all across Suzail.
A little treason was a small price to pay for such a bright life in a brighter realm.
Few even among the nobility knew who he was, yet. The son of a minor upland noble, Rhallogant was young and only recently ascended to his title—and hadn’t intended to be anything more than a wild young blade, enjoying the amusements of Sembia and perhaps Westgate or even fabled Waterdeep, for years yet. His father’s trusty Firelord had changed all that early one morning; the war-horse had thrown Lord Caladanter and then had fallen and rolled on his longtime master.
Rhallogant intended to be a trifle more subtle than Firelord had been. For a long time he’d idly contemplated treason against the Dragon Throne—but like most young highborn schemers, he had done nothing but contemplate and talk over his contemplations with other nobles of like age and opinions, over copious fine wine.
Such indiscretions, albeit trifling, made Rhallogant wince now. Just how well did the war wizards know him?
He was far from the only noble thoroughly frightened by the fates of the Lords Eldroon and Yellander—vanished and widely rumored to have died under prolonged magical torment at the hands of the Royal Magician—and of Lord Maniol Crownsilver, also now gone from public view and said to have become a suicidal, empty husk of a man under the constant care of ever-vigilant priests and war wizards. Yet Vangey’s skulkers would doubtless deal with more important nobles first, leaving the “young puppies” (as he’d heard a scowling senior war wizard refer to a rather noisy hall full of young nobles deep in revelry, which had included one Rhallogant Caladanter) until later. They might be moving down their rolls of the doomed toward his name even now.
Two of the nobles who’d so excitedly put their heads together with him over steaming larrack wine in that upstairs club in Saerloon were dead already, in a trade dispute in Westgate that Rhallogant didn’t think had anything at all to do with a few whispers of treason. The knives that had killed them, wielded by professionals of Westgate, had been poisoned, and Lord Eldarton Feathergate had happened to be aboard a ship just gliding into Westgate harbor when those knives had struck. He’d found the bodies and had disposed of them, before any war wizards could poke and pry them with spells and uncover things they shouldn’t.
Which left, aside from Rhallogant himself, just one other conspirator in this particular sordid little conspiracy: Eldarton Feathergate.
Dearest Feathergate. Useful, efficient Feathergate. Feathergate who knew far too much about Rhallogant’s ambitions and current business. Tall, as swift-witted as a viper, and the sole son and heir of a highborn family just as minor—but far wealthier—than Rhallogant’s own. Neither a fool nor an easy target, he.
Which is why only Rhallogant’s most trusted bodyguard was good enough to kill Feathergate.
The bodyguard Rhallogant had just summoned with a firm, decisive tug on his private, personal bell pull. Boarblade would arrive in three breaths or less, as quiet and as impassive as always.
Not that it had been a bad plot, if he did say so himself. Frame Baron Thomdor Obarskyr, Warden of the Eastern Marches, as a traitor to the throne, portraying him as a jealous lout aided, goaded, and controlled by Vangerdahast. Set swords to swinging and nobles, Obarskyrs, and commoners alike to raging, with the intent of getting rid of Vangey and as many war wizards as possible. Many of those hated wizard spies would be butchered by common folk across Cormyr, led by one loyally outraged Rhallogant Caladanter, enthusiastically commanding his bodyguards to use their swords on these “traitors to the realm.” He’d had those speeches written for months.
The third arrow glanced off Florin’s shoulder as he was clawing at his shield buckles. It smashed the wind out of him and spun him around sideways, all in one whirling instant.
He reeled in his saddle, fighting to find breath enough to shout hoarsely, “Spread out, ride hard, and get down!”
Around him the Knights’ horses were snorting and bucking, Pennae a gasping heap in the road dust under their dancing hooves.
The volley of a dozen or more arrows sleeted out of the trees, sending two of the horses down to join Pennae. Another bolted with Doust shouting and tugging vainly at it to stop—until he fell off. The rest reared, spilling their riders, and fled.
The Knights found themselves wallowing in the dust of the Moonsea Ride in the company of two very large and pain-wracked horses, who were wildly rolling, writhing, and kicking.
“Holy naed!” Semoor swore, skidding his chin along rather stony mud as an iron-shod hoof lashed the air just above his head. “Down on my tluining face eating dirt with some tluiner trying to kill me again!”
“You sound surprised,” Islif grunted, rolling hard away from the horses in the opposite direction from where the arrows had come. “Really, holynose, you should be getting used to it by now!”
Florin staggered to his feet, clutching at the arrow standing out of his shoulder. His arm felt on fire, and he couldn’t feel the hand at the end of it at all, even when he clenched his fingers into a fist. The shaft had struck his chest and glanced along the armor over his heart to go in under the edge of his shoulder plates. The fire seemed to grow hotter. He winced. At least it wasn’t his sword arm.
Taking a few steps, as if he could walk away from the pain, he snarled defiance at the trees, hoping the sudden lack of arrows meant that the unseen archers had run out of them.
It seemed he was right, judging by the armed men who answered his snarl by bursting out of the trees with swords and daggers drawn and nary a bow in sight. Much good that it would do him.
“Up!” Florin barked to h
is fellow Knights. “Up and together!” He spared not a glance for them, his eyes never leaving the grim faces of the men charging at him. They were all in well-worn fighting leathers adorned with no hint of badges or house colors. Outlaws—or men trying to seem outlaws.
Movement to right and left; the ranger shot swift glances in both directions and saw Islif clambering to her feet, her sword singing out, and Doust limping back to rejoin the Knights, mace in hand.
From her knees, Jhessail snapped out a battlestrike, sending magical missiles streaking at the ambushers in a hungry swarm of glowing blue darts. Men stiffened and cursed as they were struck—Cormyreans, by their accents—but none fell or fled. There were more than twelve of them … a score or so.
Florin wrestled with the arrow in his shoulder, trying to snap off its shaft before an outlaw could reach him and grab hold of it, but—
He was out of time. Swords came swinging at him in a steely rain.
He ducked away, parrying furiously, and heard ringing steel and Islif grunting as she did when putting real might behind a slash. More clanging and clashing of swords, then a shout of pain—an outlaw—and Jhessail unleashing another battlestrike. Semoor was casting something, too, calling on Lathander for aid in smiting.
Smiting was something Florin had to take care of himself. His blade bit deep into the side of a screaming outlaw’s face, lodging in bone, and he couldn’t—couldn’t—
The swords that thrust into him then, under the edges of armor plates low on his side and high on his neck, burned like fire and chilled like a deluge of icy water.
Florin staggered back, dragging the man he’d slain with him—but the weight of that toppling body snatched his sword from his hand, leaving him with nothing to parry a grinning outlaw’s wicked roundhouse slash.
“Die!” another outlaw shouted, hacking with the dagger Florin was trying to snatch out of his fingers. “For Cormyr and Yellander! Die!”
Those words echoed strangely around a rising, pounding dark flood that seemed to race through his ears, wash through his head, and back out to blind him as grinning men closed in, and fire and ice lashed Florin again … and again …
Not far away, Jhessail screamed as a hurled sword spun at her face. She ducked, and it tumbled through her hair, slicing open her cheek and catching fast in the tree behind her, still tangled in her hair.
Clawing at the enemy steel to get it away from her eyes, she saw Islif beset by six outlaws. One staggered and went down, sobbing and spraying blood—but was followed by several of Islif’s armor plates that went flying aside as she reeled and then toppled, two swords buried in her.
Islif down, a bare breath after Florin’s fall …
Muttering words that sounded more like curses than prayers, Doust clawed aside a sword and bounced his mace off the face of the outlaw wielding it, hard.
That face exploded into a burst of teeth and gore. Doust slammed his mace into the throat beneath it before whirling to meet a one-eyed outlaw who’d come leaping from the fallen Islif to hunt red-haired spellhurlers.
Almost casually the outlaw hacked Doust aside, her lifelong friend crumpling and spitting blood, and came right for Jhessail, swinging back his sword to chop—
Nothing at all, as Semoor swung away from busily battering an outlaw to the ground to bash in one side of the one-eyed outlaw’s head. The man crashed to the ground, dashed senseless, his arms and legs jerking like fish flapping when pulled out of a river.
“Over here!” Semoor panted at Doust, who was still doubled up, one bloody hand clutching his stomach. “Over to Jhess, here, to stand over her, so she can either rescue us all with some bright spell or other … or we can at least die together. Tluining Vangerdahast! I’ll bet he’s behind this! Where’s that Dragon patrol that was riding at our heels? Hey?”
Doust nodded but managed only a groan by way of reply, as Jhessail grimly clutched the sword that had arrived in her hair. She had no spell left that could deliver them from so many foes. Dark and dripping blood, her two friends loomed above her as they came together, back to back.
They were standing guard over her, for the last few breaths any of them were likely to take. Around them, on the dusty Moonsea Ride, their ambushers closed in.
Not hurrying now, the outlaws—or whoever they were—formed an unbroken ring around the last three Knights before slowly, in unison, striding closer.
White-faced, Jhessail stared at them. They looked back at her, showing their teeth in grim, unfriendly smiles.
Then with slow care, they closed in, cruel grins widening.
“Know any holy spells that’d be really useful about now?” Semoor shouted desperately over his shoulder.
“No!” Doust shouted back. “Do you?”
They stepped apart long enough to turn and stare at each other, as if some divine deliverance might be found written across the face of one of them for the other to discover.
Jhessail looked helplessly up at them, clutching the heavy and unfamiliar sword she so hoped she’d not have to try to use. They were going to die. Here, a few breaths from now. This wasn’t some bardic ballad, where an improbable rescue would burst upon them all.
She could see that same realization in the faces of her two friends, as they peered at each other, found no up-any-sleeve escape … and let all hope drain out of their eyes.
“Tluin!” they snarled, in emphatic unison, and spun around to slam shoulders against each other once more. Waving their maces and staring at the battle around with empty, despairing faces, they prepared to die.
Telgarth Boarblade slipped through the study door, glided to a halt in front of his employer, and bowed, saying nothing. Aside from his eyes, asking an eager, wordless question as to how he could tender service, his face was an impassive mask. Rhallogant Caladanter might be an unobservant fool, but from time to time rather more sharp-witted folk had been known to visit him.
Boarblade already knew why he had been summoned and Caladanter’s intentions regarding him, but he let nothing of that show in his expression or manner. Letting one’s guard drop or getting careless had meant death long before he’d ever come to Cormyr and let the foolish young Caladanter heir “discover” him.
Caladanter was reclining in his favorite chair, one glossy-booted leg up on a footstool carved into quite a good likeness of a snarling panther. The decanter beside it was already almost empty, and the ring-dripping hand that waved that huge goblet so jauntily trembled visibly. Drunken sot.
“Boarblade,” Rhallogant greeted him almost jovially, leaning forward like a bad actor broadly overplaying a sly conspirator. “I’ve a task for you. A dangerous task. A secret task.”
“Lord?” Boarblade murmured, taking a step closer to signify that he heeded his employer’s lust for secrecy, and bending forward to show how eager he was to hear the great secret that might be imparted.
“I need you to kill a man.”
Chapter 2
WHAT TRAITORS ARE UP TO
… And if it should come to pass, between dragonslayings
Or late nights of downing fiery oceans of strong drink
In the hungrily enfolding arms of too-willing wenches,
That we for once have time to stop and use our wits,
Let there then be no shortage of matters to ponder.
In Cormyr, there never is; two things, at least,
They never tire of considering:
Whose bed lusty King Azoun will conquer next
And what these traitors, or those,
Are up to since this morn.
Sharanralee of Everlund
My Years With Blade And Harp
Published in the Year of the Lion
Kill a man, indeed.
If Caladanter had meant those words to shock his most trusted bodyguard, they failed to do so. Little wonder. This was not the first time he had ordered such a deed. Boarblade merely nodded and waited.
“You are familiar with Lord Eldarton Feathergate. His usefulness to me is
ended. Go to Feathergate, slay him in a way that will not lead all the Wizards of War in the realm right back here, get away unseen, and return here promptly. The customary reward will be waiting for you.”
Telgarth Boarblade had been able to control every muscle of his face for years. It was no work at all to keep the sneer off it now.
Customary reward, indeed.
Telgarth Boarblade knew the reward Caladanter intended him to receive upon his return wasn’t the usual satchel of gold coins but a hail of arrows from a dozen waiting archers, whose work would leave no one alive who knew of Rhallogant Caladanter’s treasonous intentions but Caladanter himself.
“And you would trust such a fool as yourself?” Boarblade murmured, in mild rebuke. “The rest of us are not the gaps in your armor, Lord.”
Rhallogant Caladanter blinked at his bodyguard in disbelief. “Hey? Quoth you—?”
“Lord Caladanter,” Boarblade said firmly, “the time has come for you to know one of my secrets.”
The young nobleman was staring at him as if he had several heads, and he was going pale. Good.
“I am a wizard,” the Zhent announced in a low voice, taking a step closer to Caladanter—who flinched as if his bodyguard had drawn a sword with a menacing flourish, instead of spreading his empty hands reassuringly, “but not a war wizard. Rather, I spy on the Wizards of War for the royal family. I serve the Obarskyrs.”
Boarblade held up one hand in a “bide easy” gesture and added, “Yet the king does not hold your little plot against you. Rather, he sees it as your love of our fair land and anger at what is being done to it goading you into trying to do something to aid Cormyr. The king is saddened that like so many highborn of your age, you have been so misled by the villainous Vangerdahast as to think the royal family of Cormyr your foe. Not at all! The Obarskyrs consider themselves the prisoners of the Royal Magician and his sinister Wizards of War and want to make common cause with dissatisfied nobles against the scheming mages who have ruled the Forest Kingdom for far too long. The king has need of you, Lord Rhallogant Caladanter, and intends you for high rank at Court and much wealth and power, when the fell power of Vangerdahast is broken!”
The Sword Never Sleeps Page 2