by Ed Greenwood
The other guard lay in a huddled heap in the road well off to the left, several crossbow quarrels standing up out of his body, and a dark lake of blood spreading around him.
More quarrels studded the road north of that corpse, to where a coach lay smashed and canted on its side in the ditch, two weakly thrashing horses tangled in a welter of harness and more quarrels-beasts that no longer screamed in agony, but coughed and bubbled blood from their muzzles, drooling out their lives. Narantha’s stomach heaved.
Off to Narantha’s right, along the road, Master Delbossan still seemed to live. He was crouching, a light crossbow bolt standing out of his shoulder above an arm that hung limp and useless, in the lee of a dead horse bristling with half a dozen bolts.
Florin was bounding down to Delbossan, sword held high-and a crossbow bolt came humming out of the trees on the far side of the hollow, flashing past his hip before he could even hope to dodge.
Narantha tried to scream, and succeeded only in choking on her own sickness. Spewing her guts out, she slipped and slid down the bank into the hollow, another quarrel thudding into the earth close beside her.
There came a sudden thunder of hooves from the north, then around the bend and down into the hollow came three riders-men dressed in new and clean flamboyant hunting leathers, astride magnificent horses.
“I thought I heard shouting,” the foremost called back to those behind, a silver hunting horn in hand. “Look ye: Here’s a coach down, and-”
A crossbow cracked, and the man with the horn gave a queer sort of sob as a crossbow bolt tore out his throat and hummed on its way. Swaying in his saddle, already starting to topple, he galloped on, dead or dying, until another crossbow fired, and his snorting mount took a bolt in the withers, squealed, and reared, lashing out at the sky in pain.
The dead man fell to the road dust like a grainsack, windlasses whirred madly in the forest-and Florin changed his mind about running to Delbossan, and swerved to leap a fallen guard and race up the far bank of the hollow, shouting something incoherent.
“Back!” cried the second rider to the third, hauling on his reins so hard that his mount reared, bugling in fear.
Crossbows cracked in unison, a quarrel snatched the sword he was frantically drawing right out of his hand, blood spraying-and a second quarrel laid open his ear and spun him right out of his saddle with a shout.
The third rider-a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man-was already out of his saddle and racing up the slope into the trees that held the crossbowmen, gleaming sword in hand.
Narantha cowered away from the wildly dancing, riderless horse of the man with the horn, ducking away as deadly hooves lashed out in all directions. Maddened with pain, it raced off south, bucking and twisting. Gods above, Narantha thought, losing her footing again and clawing at bushes and weeds to try to keep her balance, what next?
A moment later, she found herself thinking: What superb horses! Who are these men?
The rider with the wounded hand and copiously bleeding ear had drawn his dagger and was staggering up the slope whence the deadly quarrels had come. White-faced and reeling, Delbossan staggered after him.
There were shouts in the trees, and violently dancing branches. Steel rang on steel, someone shouted, and someone else burst out of the trees and flung a crossbow full in the face of the man with the bleeding ear. The wounded rider fell over, losing his dagger, and was promptly pounced upon and stabbed. Delbossan lifted his sword awkwardly, in his off-hand-then retreated, cursing weakly, as a second man joined the first, followed by a third, fourth, fifth, and sixth.
Then Florin sprang out of the trees in an explosion of leaves, sword first, and slammed into the rearmost two, sending them all tumbling down the slope and taking the legs out from under the other “outlaws.”
Someone screamed hoarsely, back in the trees, and the third rider loped out of them, blood all over his sword and a ruthless smile on his face, and came leaping down to join the fray.
Florin rose up out of the tangle hacking like a madman, and Delbossan lurched forward to chop whoever he could reach. Bouncing ribbons of slashed leather revealed more bright mail as the crossbowmen struggled to their feet, cursing and shouting. The moment they saw the bearded third rider, they ignored Florin and Delbossan, crowding forward to slash and stab at this new target.
Who had both sword and dagger, and wielded them with deadly skill, crafting a wall of ringing steel that brought death to the first two who tried to wade through it. Fighting furiously, Florin took down a third, and in the frantic swordplay that followed Narantha saw Delbossan grunt and grapple a man from behind. They struggled together, snarling, and beyond them one outlaw sprang forward to bear down the bearded rider’s sword arm, the last outlaw lunged, thrusting hard over it at the man’s face-and Florin slashed that thrust aside, wielding his steel in wild and frantic parries that took him reeling aside entangled with one outlaw. The bearded man’s superb blade lashed out so flickering-fast that the second outlaw was going down, head wobbling atop his slit throat, before he truly realized he was dying.
“No! Not supposed to-” he said plaintively, blood bubbling forth at his every word, and he fell on his face.
The bearded man reached over him to slice the throat of the crossbowman struggling in the horsemaster’s grip, turning to snap at Florin as he did so: “Take him alive! It makes the questioning easier!”
Somewhere behind them all, Narantha gasped.
Florin, however, was gasping too, doubled over and clutching his ribs with bloody fingers as if he could stop the welling blood. The slash was deep; he was touching one of his own ribs through the slippery stickiness…
The last “outlaw” spun away from the faltering forester, grinning savagely, and flung his blade full in the bearded man’s face.
The parry was swift and hard, but sent the bright blade clanging out of its wielders hands, and the grinning outlaw sprang forward, drawing a needle-blade dagger that glinted bright purple in the sunlight.
“Poison!” Delbossan shouted hoarsely, as the bearded man reached for his own dagger, the “outlaw” leaped, and Florin flung his sword, sobbing in pain. End over wobbling end it flashed, to bite deep into the hand that held the poisoned dagger, and snatch it away, trailing a finger.
The “outlaw” shrieked in pain, and the bearded man brought his empty hand up in a roundhouse blow that lifted the man off his feet, scream ending in a clattering of teeth clashing together, and let him crash limply to the ground, senseless.
“Well fought!” the bearded man boomed, striding forward to ease Florin to the ground. “What’s your name, lad, and where hail you from?”
“F-Florin,” Florin managed to gasp, shuddering. He barely saw a gleaming steel vial being unstoppered under his nose, but it flooded down his throat cool and soothing, and the pain ebbed instantly. “Florin Falconhand,” he gasped, “of Espar. What’s yours?”
He was still too pain-dazed to lift his head and look around, and so did not know that Delbossan and the Lady Narantha were already kneeling in the road, but he did hear Narantha gasp at his blunt asking.
“Azoun,” the bearded man said with a smile-a smile that broadened as a stunned Florin gaped at him. “Azoun Obarskyr, of all Cormyr.”
If the glare that Lord Crownsilver leveled at the war wizard whose hands cradled and gave life to the speaking-stone sizzled with searing fire, the look with which Lady Crownsilver favored that same mage held deadly ice.
He met both dooms with an urbane smile and the words, “I’m not listening, lord and lady; you may continue to speak freely, in utmost confidence.”
Narantha’s father glanced mistrustfully around the chamber, deep in the Royal Court of Suzail-and her mother snapped, “Piffle! You’re hearing every word, varlet!”
“True,” the War Wizard replied solemnly, “but I’m not listening to them.”
Narantha’s tinkling laughter rose out of the speaking stone at that, causing the Lady Jalassa to wail, “My baby
! ” once more, which turned Narantha’s laughter into a despairing, embarrassed, “Moth-er!”
“Well, you’re safe,” Lord Crownsilver said gruffly, “and so’s the king. And you played some small part in foiling the mysterious assassins. We’re proud of you, lass. Now you just sit tight, right where you are-never stepping out of sight of Lord Hezom or his chatelaine for an instant, do you hear? — until we see you again. Whoever sent those slayers will be furious, and will try for you next, so no more gallivanting around the woods with young commoners! I absolutely forbid such conduct! Do you hear me well, daughter?”
“Daddy!” Narantha protested. “ ’Twas not like that at all! We did no ‘gallivanting,’ if that’s your clumsy euphemism for rutting, and whatever his birth, he’s a fine and loyal subject of the king!”
“I’m sure,” Lord Crownsilver said curtly. “Just remember what I said-if you’re a true Crownsilver, and would like to remain so in our eyes.”
He wagged an imperious finger at the war wizard, and added, “This converse is at an end.”
The two Crownsilvers rose together, ignoring both the nodding war wizard and Narantha’s faint and fading farewells as the speaking-stone lost its glow of operancy, and strode into the innermost chamber, closing the door firmly.
The war wizard (they had not troubled to remember his name) had earlier assured them it was shielded to ensure utmost privacy-from war wizards and great archmages half Faerun away, not merely lurking servants-but Lord Crownsilver trusted no wizard. He tapped the great crystal that topped his cane and murmured a word over it, saying nothing more until its kindling glow became a steady radiance. Then he held it out horizontally, and his wife sat herself with deft dignity in one of the waiting chairs and took hold of the other end of it.
“Gods above,” Lord Crownsilver hissed, leaping in before his wife’s tongue could rule their converse, “but I am more furious than I have ever been, in all my life! Our daughter- our daughter — bedded by some unshaven backwoods lout! And now she wants to wed him, too!”
“Don’t be silly, ” Lady Crownsilver hissed. “We won’t allow her to do anything of the sort, and after she’s raged about it for a tenday or so and smashed enough things over the heads of loutish servants who frankly deserve it, she’ll be tired of him and be on to someone else, as she always does. Someone more suitable! We’ll see to that, and so will the court, after I say a few of the right words to the right people!”
“But Nantha is ruined, ” Lord Crownsilver said angrily, “and our reputations with her! How can we expect anyone to believe she’s untouched? Anyone who matters? ”
“Maniol, stop bellowing foolishness.” Lady Jalassa’s voice was as iron-hard as usual, but it held a cold commanding note her lord had heard only once or twice before. “We will not have to convince anyone of any social standing to believe in anything-because we will not tell them what befell our Nantha. So they will never know.”
“But Kim-”
“Your mother will know nothing if you say nothing, Maniol. For once.” Now Jalassa’s voice was like a stone dungeon door grating shut.
For the first time in his life, Lord Maniol Crownsilver looked at his delicate, diminutive wife with something akin to fear.
“So who is this ‘Florin Falconhand,’ anyhail?”
Highknight Arglas Duskeldarr shrugged. “Some backwoods bumpkin with a fair face, the luck of loving Tymora Herself, and a quick blade. Too clever by half, so he’ll doom himself within the month, and end up dead behind some tree with a dagger in his vitals, black-tongued with poison in some noble’s private feasting room because he refused to join in treason-or we’ll be dismembering him, ye and I, on Vangey’s orders. That’s what befell the last half-dozen lads Azoun liked the look of, anyhail.”
Highknight Malustra Thaurant sighed, cleaned already-perfect fingernails with the point of her belt knife, and uncrossed her long legs in a way that never failed to make Arglas swallow. She winked, just to watch him blush, and rose with sinuous grace, her every move a wanton beckoning. “Can I have some fun with him first?”
Arglas sighed in exasperation, and pointed the highcoin lass to the door. “I don’t for the life of me know why His Majesty ever made you a highknight!”
“Oh?” She crooked one cool eyebrow and purred, “I do.”
Her strut, as she went out, left Arglas swallowing repeatedly, his throat very dry. Which made him thankful he was the king’s cellarer, with the duty to sample every last bottle and decanter.
He very much wanted to sample several of them, right now.
War Wizard Andreth Thalendur had safely returned the speaking-stone to its thrice-locked coffer long since, and was oh-so-casually commencing to dust the ornate container’s lid for the third time when a door opened and the words he’d been expecting came to his ears.
“You, man! Sirrah!”
He made no reply and declined to look up, and so collected a sharp prod in the ribs with the gilded nether tip of Lord Crownsilver’s cane, wielded by Lady Crownsilver, who accompanied her polite greeting with the words, “War Wizard, we’re speaking to you!”
Andreth looked up, smiling the faintest of smiles. “Yes? I hear your words, but I’ve been trained not to listen to them.”
“Oh, you’ll listen to these, all right!” Lord Crownsilver snarled, reaching out a hand to dig iron fingers into the knave’s robes at the throat, to haul the smug byblow right off his feet so every Crownsilver word henceforth could be spat right into his face.
“Maniol!” Lady Crownsilver snapped, but whatever else she’d been going to say died unspoken as tiny blue-white arcs of lightning sprang from the war wizard’s robes to Lord Crownsilver’s reaching fingertips, causing the noble to shout in astonished pain.
“Ah. Sorry. I’m wearing something new that High Lord Vangerdahast is testing,” Andreth said pleasantly. “Seems to smite foes of the realm very well… doesn’t it?”
“Enough of this effrontery, knave,” Lady Crownsilver said coldly. “We demand an audience with Azoun-His Majesty to you! Kindly take word to him at once!”
Andreth bowed to them, smiled, and wordlessly withdrew.
The Crownsilvers scarcely had time to exchange glances and for Maniol to receive a hissed, “Stop holding your fingers like a child about to cry! Look like a lord, stlarn you!” ere the war wizard returned, bowed, indicated the man who’d followed him into the room, and departed again.
The man was not, however, the King of Cormyr.
The Royal Magician Vangerdahast gave the Crownsilvers his all-too-familiar half-smile, along with the words, “I regret to inform you that His Majesty is in the countryside, shielded from converse by magics even I cannot break. Rest assured that he will be informed of your polite request as soon as it is possible to inform him of anything, and that he will grant you an audience shortly thereafter, as the pressing needs of the realm allow.”
Lady Crownsilver said coldly, “Spare the glib-tongued emptynesses, Vangey. You’re not performing before all the court right now. I’d have much ruder things to say to you if we didn’t need your cooperation and candor-for the good of the realm, of course. So speak plain and true. Did this commoner Falconhand rut with our daughter?”
Vangerdahast did not hesitate. Looking Jalassa straight in the eye, he said, “No. Your daughter is, ah, untouched; you need fear no unexpected heirs.”
Glowering, Lord Crownsilver snapped, “You’re certain?”
“We’ve cast some spells to see into their minds, while they were dreaming,” the royal magician said soothingly, “searching for memories of intimacy, and that alone. There were no such memories.”
“Aye, but she’s smitten with the lout! What if he-?”
“The king is well aware of your concerns. You might say that as a father and as a monarch concerned with inheritance and lineage, he anticipated them. More than that, he shares them. Wherefore His Majesty is going to grant this Florin Falconhand and his friends a charter-so as to have ready pretext to
send them all away.”
“Far away,” Lady Crownsilver snapped.
“Where?” Lord Crownsilver snarled.
Vangerdahast smiled, spread his hands like a conjurer discovering a gift for a small child in his palm, and replied, “To the Stonelands, of course. It’s needed conquering for years.”
Slowly-very slowly-Lord Crownsilver nodded, a grim smile spreading across his face. “So it has.” His smile grew, as he echoed in a satisfied whisper, “So it has.”
As the door closed behind the royal magician, busily ushering the Crownsilvers out before him, the speaking-stone glowed once, ever so faintly.
There was no one in the chamber to see it, but someone else did. Someone whose hand, adorned with a striking unicorn-head ring, waved into nothingness a scrying-spell linked to the stone. And smiled.
Sometimes, the watcher mused, it’s very handy being a war wizard entrusted with enspelling scrying crystals.
When the time comes, and he’s staring right into one, Vangerdahast won’t know what’s hit him.
Greenwood, Ed
Swords of Eveningstar
Chapter 9
ADVENTURERS AVAUNT!
There is no greater plague upon the lands than the chartered adventurer. Crown-sanctioned mischief makers, brigands whose thefts, casual murders, rapine and pillage are excused where the same things done by a cobbler or a milkmaid would be answered with severings of hands or other appendages, plus brandings-or all of those and hanging or death by drawing between four horses.
Yet there is no more necessary plague. Adventurers make even kings think twice about cruelly oppressing all who pass within reach, teach prudence to high priests and even rogue wizards, and are almost the only curb upon the numbers of dragons and other large and monstrous beasts.
On the whole, I think the balance comes out about even. What makes us keep adventuring charters instead of burning them along with their bearers is the entertainment adventurers afford the populace. In hamlets and at waymoots, after one’s grumbled about the weather, taxes, the latest rumors of war and orc raids, and the all-too-paltry gossip about the indiscretions of royalty and nobility, there’s little else to talk about but the foolish escapades of adventurers.