Youngbloods of most of the foremost titled families of the realm, they had all been recruited for some mysterious “special missions for the Crown.” That meant something. Just being born into the families whose names they bore was enough to puff them up with their own importance when dealing with lesser folk. But every last one of them knew that they themselves had as yet done nothing to merit any personal respect. Or earn one thin coin of any minting.
It did not take more brains than those of the nearest dolt to suspect that if they performed these missions well, important Crown posts—and salaries, to boot—would be theirs. That would make their fathers sit up and take notice.
Wherefore they were now sitting, several-times-refilled goblets in hand, conferring with Alaphondar over a map-strewn table in the richly paneled Lion Room, as the doors opened and a few aging senior servants in splendid livery brought in a light repast. Platters of fried, breaded, and sugar-dusted soft-shelled crabs.
“That bastard!”
The hiss that came through the open doors in the wake of the steaming food was furious, unexpected, and feminine. Every head around the table snapped up in unison to regard the open doors.
In time to witness the Princess Alusair in her nightgown, striding furiously past the Lion Room without a glance and on down the passage, with a similarly garbed female war wizard half a step behind her.
With one accord, the young noblemen set down their goblets and reached for the hilts of ceremonial swords that no longer rode in their scabbards.
Then they sighed or cursed, recalling that they’d had to surrender their blades earlier. They boiled out into the passage in the wake of the princess to see what was afoot.
The forgotten Royal Sage smiled fondly at their backs and strode silently after them.
A dozen chambers and passages along, he murmured the brief incantation that silently restored seven courtsabers to as many rightful scabbards. It was interesting to watch just how many strides it took most of the youngbloods to notice the reappearance of their weapons. Truly, the Forest Kingdom stood not unguarded.
Alaphondar snorted at another thought. There would be trouble over this, but it would be well worth it to see Vangerdahast’s face.
Finally, his chance!
Drathar wasted not an instant on a triumphant smile. There’d be time enough for that later. He was too busy weaving the strongest foeblasting spell he had left.
One long, hissing incantation later, it was done.
And the Harper Dalonder Ree exploded, flattening his fellows as his shredded limbs were hurled everywhere.
Drathar’s spell cut the walking skeleton in half, too, and collapsed the hargaunts back into scattered, blazing scraps.
And what of it?
Then Drathar smiled.
It was a grin that lasted a mere instant or two. The ranger and the ornrion were sturdier stuff—and had keener eyes—than he’d thought. They were up and charging at him already, with some of the other Knights—the young wench with the knife and one of the priests—in their wake.
Naed.
No matter how many years one spent mastering the Art, it all came down, again and again, to how fast you could run.
Hrast it.
Drathar ran, ducking under and past clawing branches, dodging around tree trunks that stood in his way like so many tall black statues, and whirling from time to time just long enough to catch sight of a pursuer. He sent a battlestrike spell back at them.
Those flaring blue bolts never missed, and it didn’t take many of them to wound all but the strongest—or most foolishly determined—pursuer.
He was just starting to really gasp for breath and stumble because his feet were getting heavy, when he realized he’d managed it. The trees behind him were no longer filled with the crashings of angry, hurrying Knights of Myth Drannor.
Doust found them by the simple tactic of falling over them. Pennae broke off gasping for breath long enough to chuckle.
“Well met,” she said, hauling on the priest’s hair to lift his face out of the dirt. Doust spat out some twigs and crumbling old fern fronds and thanked her.
“I’m done,” he added, unnecessarily.
“We all are,” Florin said grimly, as they knelt together in the little hollow, panting hard.
“So he’ll be out there,” Pennae said, “lurking. Able to blast us at will, as he did to Ree. Hrast it, all he has to do is wait until we fall asleep!”
Florin nodded. “You’re right,” he said grimly when he’d found breath enough to speak. “We have to go after him. Doust, can you—can Tymora—give us light, yonder? If so, do it. Pennae, you and I are going wizard-hunting. You make noise, dodge about, and don’t attack him.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. That will be my task. I liked Dalonder Ree.”
The Princess Alusair was good at storming. Many guards were quaking behind her by the time she’d traversed much of the Palace and the Royal Court to burst in on the Royal Magician in a certain little-known chamber.
He and Laspeera looked up, ready magic rising crackling into their hands.
“Don’t even think of it, wizard!” the Princess said, as Tsantress and the seven young noblemen spread out behind her.
Vangerdahast stared past her at the sea of unfriendly noble faces. She watched him recognize each of them in one instant, then in the next put his best “aghast” expression across his face. “Who are these?”
“Cormyreans,” Alusair told him. “The very citizens of Cormyr you are sworn to serve, Court Wizard. Remember?”
“Well, yes, as Court Wizard I am indeed, but as Royal Magician I cannot allow the security of the realm to be imperiled—”
That argument had always left her seething. Its goad was just what she needed right now. “True, Vangey, but in matters of precedence and formal authority, the Royal Magician takes orders from the Court Wizard, and the Court Wizard is obligated to take orders from me. Not just my father, King Azoun, or my mother or older sister, but from any Obarskyr. So, Court Wizard Vangerdahast, you just tell the Royal Magician to shut up for once and stop defying me and thereby practicing treason—and I’ll overlook his open defiance of the Crown. Once.”
Vangerdahast stared at her, mouth opening and closing like that of a large platterfish in the royal fishponds, and said nothing. For once.
The Sword That Never Sleeps streaked through the night, its point cleaving mists and clear air alike. It was racing across Faerûn faster than any striking hawk, but it was a long way from Waterdeep to a certain spot in the wilderland forests that currently held the Knights of Myth Drannor.
Old Ghost bore down with his will until it hurt, to make the sword really move.
“Princess,” Vangerdahast said, “this is none of your business, truly. Rather, it is a secret of the realm that none of these—”
“I’ll decide what is, and what is not, a secret of the realm,” Alusair said. “From this moment on, everything you and everyone else does in Cormyr is my business. Especially things you try to keep secret. So I’m going to be doing a lot of poking and prying and giving you orders. Plenty of orders. Wizard, get used to it!”
Among the grinning nobles, someone sniggered.
“None of that,” Alusair said. “The man is doing his job—and it’s one of the worst in all the kingdom. Even if he dwelt in a Cormyr entirely empty of snippy little princesses and haughty nobles. Now, Vangerdahast, tell me: Just why is my champion in the heart of a battle outside the realm?”
Vangerdahast stared at her again, his mouth once more opening and closing like that of a large platterfish in the royal fishponds, and said nothing. Again.
“They’re not much,” Semoor said, “but they should at least blunt a spell or two. One from Clumsum and one from me. You’re as ready as we can make you. Go wizard hunting.”
“My thanks,” Florin replied. Clapping both of the priests on their shoulders, he rose and sought the night, Pennae at his side.
“I’m going afte
r them,” Semoor said. “Just down there, into that stand of trees, to keep watch. Any passing beast can’t help but see us up here on this ledge. ’Tis like being on display in a Suzail shop window.”
“Heh,” Dauntless said, “now you know how lawkeepers feel when we go on patrol into the alleys of Marsember on foggy nights. Or the Stonelands, any time.”
“Hey, what’re you doing?” Doust asked. “What’s that?”
“Very strong healing,” the ornrion said, holding up the little steel vial he’d drawn from his belt. “Given to me by Laspeera, to treat any Knight who needed it.” He waved the vial at Jhessail, slumped on the ledge beside him. “Like this one.”
Doust looked at Semoor, who nodded reassurance, then looked back at Dauntless.
The ornrion had politely awaited their approval. He thrust two fingers onto the sides of Jhessail’s face, opening her jaw—and upended the unstoppered vial into it.
Her tiny form spasmed under his knees, she coughed, and her eyes snapped open.
“What—whooo! What was that?” she asked, trying to slide out from under him. A large, hairy ornrion’s hand was promptly planted on her bosom with a flat disregard for proprieties, pinning her down.
“Hoy, Orn—Dauntless!” she said. “Let me up!”
“To do what?”
“Go to wherever the fighting is, and—”
“No.”
“My spells are needed, and—”
“No.”
“Doust! Semoor! Anyone? Get him off me!”
Jhessail struggled, kicking and squirming and elbowing, but the ornrion had her overmatched in size, strength, weight, and position. He easily held her down.
Jhessail cursed, hurling words that would have astonished someone who was judging her by her size and looks.
“If you set out to be a hero, lass,” Dauntless said through her profane fury, “you’re setting out to die. Heroes are something bards create out of real folk who’ve struggled just to get through some danger or other. Anyone who stops in the heart of peril to think how he’ll be regarded is stlarning likely to die a fool’s death, right then and there. Now, the line between fool and hero is sometimes hard to see—so sane folk waste no time looking for it. They just do what they have to do or die trying.”
“Ornrion,” Jhessail spat at him, “your words are very interesting, and I both value them and await with pleasure an opportunity—if we both happen to live so long—to debate them with you, perhaps over goblets of something suitably delicious. But right now, my friends are in peril. So let me up, or so help you, I’ll maim you with magic!”
“Fine thanks, that, for healing you,” Dauntless told her sadly, as her vain attempts to jerk free dragged him this way and that along the ledge.
One of her frantic movements turned her enough to catch sight of a familiar face.
“Doust!” she called despairingly—and the priest of Tymora sighed, took hold of one of the ornrion’s boots, and twisted, flipping Dauntless over.
In a flash Jhessail jerked free and was gone into the night in a tangle of tossed red hair and a last snarled curse.
Dauntless glared at Doust.
The priest had carefully positioned himself so as to block the ornrion’s way off the ledge to pursue Jhessail. He smiled, folded his hands in prayer, and offered, “May the Lady of Luck be with you.”
“You may need her more,” the ornrion glowered, drawing back his fist to punch Doust in the face.
At that moment, a passable imitation of his own voice bellowed out of the night: “Ho, Knights of Myth Drannor! ’Tis Ornrion Taltar Dahauntul of the Purple Dragons, Dauntless to most, come to render you all aid in your time of need. Aye, I’m your friend now! Orders have changed!”
Doust, looking at Dauntless, lifted his eyebrows in a silent question.
Staring back at Doust, Dauntless snarled, “Caztul! Blood of the Lady! Arntarmar and Alavaerthus! Some tluining wizard or sneak-thief is pretending to be me! Gelkor! Talandor! Obey Vangerdahast for one hrasted breath, get plunged into a naeding murdering battle, and some motherless, harcrimmiting teskyre-head is witlessing-well using my name! We’ll tluining well see about that! Let me at the bastard! Harcrimmitor!”
Doust grinned. “You want me to do all of that? At once? Shouldn’t you be talking to Semoor?”
There it was again. A small, stealthy sound in the bushes very close by. To the right.
Drathar turned and blasted.
The momentary flare of his strike showed him he’d torn apart defenseless bushes—and the reason why. The thief-wench of the Knights was leaning out from behind a tree with a palm-sized stone in her hand. She’d obviously made those sounds by tossing stones into the bushes and was just as obviously intending to hurl the next one at him.
She was giving him a malicious grin right now and drawing back her arm for a throw.
As the glow died away, Drathar flung himself a few steps to the right and crouched down to avoid being hit. His next spell blasted the tree she’d been sheltering behind.
There was a brief crashing sound, as of thornbushes being crushed, nearby on his left, but he ignored it. She’d obviously thrown her stone there to divert him, rather than hurling it at him. What of it?
The riven shards of the tree burned fitfully in the wake of his spell. Drathar stood watching them, smirking in satisfaction.
Anger a wizard, and die.
An old, old saying, but perhaps thieves were too busy pilfering things to learn the wise lessons that kept most folk in Faerûn alive.
Bushes rustled again, very near, on his left. Drathar whirled, cursing, to hurl a swift battlestrike.
Florin’s thrown sword took him in the face, and Florin was right behind it, punching hard and brutally, battering the breath right out of Drathar Haeromel’s lungs even before Drathar hit the littered forest floor.
The Zhentarim took a hard punch in his throat and had no means left even to scream as the ranger’s dagger plunged into his breast once, twice, and thrice.
Drathar had time to think that he was dying and to see a few stars through his welling tears.
Then the dagger came down again, and it all ended.
“So you sent my champion—my champion, Vangerdahast, one man out of an army of thousands you could have chosen from, to say nothing of all the Wizards of War under your personal command, who would seem to be far more useful in aiding the Knights against foes who are hurling spells at them! And now he bids fair to get slain while we watch, I helpless because I can do nothing to aid him but scream at you, and you helpless because you stlarning well want to be!”
Vangerdahast glowered at her, tight-lipped, but he made no reply.
“Well?” Alusair pressed him. “Are you going to do nothing? While we all watch? Very well, I order you to protect Ornrion Taltar Dahauntul of the Purple Dragons—to say nothing of my mother Queen Filfaeril’s personal Knights! Do something! Work some magic! Or shall I just order all of these loyal, upstanding noble sirs to draw their swords and reward your treason fittingly?”
“Thereby dooming them all,” the Royal Magician said. “I am not without defenses of my own, Highness. Pray think before you speak so rashly.”
“Think before I speak? Think before I speak?” Alusair’s voice rose like a trumpet. “I have seen barely more than a dozen winters, sirrah. I am a willful, spoiled brat—by your own description, don’t think I haven’t heard it—and I am an Obarskyr! Being born royal was not my choice, nor have I been much of a credit to my blood thus far, but I do know that one thing royalty do not have to do is think before they speak! They have Royal Magicians to do that for them—and speak for them behind their backs, all too often, too!”
Silence fell as Alusair panted to draw breath for the rest of her tirade. Into the gap burst a small, explosive sound that froze everyone in the chamber.
Laspeera, the demure and motherly second-most-powerful Wizard of War in the realm, was snorting in suppressed mirth.
“Hand me your sw
ord,” Pennae said. “It’ll take me forever to saw his head off with this little dagger.”
Florin winced. “You’re going to decapitate him?”
“Just to make sure. He doesn’t seem to have had any of those blast-the-countryside contingencies tied to his death, but perhaps he has a slow healing and will come after us after he’s lain here long enough.”
Florin winced again. “Someday soon I’ll be wanting to hear more about when and where you heard of such things.”
“Someday soon,” she agreed. “If you tie me to the bed, you may even get some answers.”
Florin was too busy blushing to reply as she rose, patted him on the arm, thrust his sword into his hand, and said, “Let’s get back to the others. The Watching Gods alone know what trouble they’ll have gotten into.”
As they came out into the trampled and burned area in front of the cliff, Pennae said, “Well, well. Seems the gods guide my tongue.”
Dauntless was charging across the corpse-strewn ground at … himself. Or rather, at someone else who wore the face of Dauntless and a ragged, dirty peasant’s dress. Roaring, waving his sword wildly, Dauntless lumbered closer and closer to his foe.
After a shout of “I am the real Dauntless! Knights of Myth Drannor, strike down this impostor! Stop him!” the Dauntless in the dress seemed to realize his deception was hopeless. He raised his arms and started to cast a spell.
“Hrast, that’s a stlarning strong war spell!” Pennae said as she and Florin sprinted forward. “Dauntless is doomed—or we are!”
The wizard wearing the face of Dauntless raised his voice to end his incantation—and noticed the running pair for the first time.
“Naed!” Pennae gasped, swerving to take herself wide and away from Florin.
The wizard hastened to finish the spell, eyes fixed on her.
Light bloomed around him as Doust cast the only thing he could think of to distract the foe.
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