Pennae remained absolutely still until the other man, his hood still hiding his face, was quite gone. And then she crawled back the way she’d come, not even daring to whisper a curse.
“You’d think all this rain would’ve washed enough of the smell of blood off us,” Semoor complained, tugging on the reins that his snorting, head-tossing horse was threatening to drag right out of his hands.
The other three Knights of Myth Drannor were all too busy to reply. The rest of the horses were just as agitated. It had been some time since the four had seen a living Zhent, but Florin had been missing just as long, though Pennae—who kept vanishing and reappearing, a flitting shadow in the night—insisted his body was nowhere to be found in or near the stables.
She was gone right now, leaving just four Knights struggling in the deepening, still-raining night with horses enough for everyone, plus two remounts Pennae had insisted in taking from the stables “because the queen would want to see us properly equipped.”
The four were bruised, soaked, and cold. They were too tired to be scared any longer, but they were very nervous, and growing ever more so—expecting more misfortune at any moment. Either another Zhent attack, or the arrival of Dauntless and dozens of grim, armed-to-the-teeth Purple Dragons, to arrest them.
It was Doust who sighed and said, “I remember a day rather less damp than this one, and a herald proclaiming our names and the thanks of King Azoun, as the crowds cheered and—”
“Sounds nice. Wish I’d been there,” Pennae said laconically, from just behind him. She grinned as a startled “Eeep!” burst out of the priest of Tymora, as he jumped a little, hands shaking, and then whirled around.
“Pennae, if you ever do that again—”
“You’ll make that same charming sound? I await it with fond anticipation,” the thief said smoothly, patting his arm. She set down a sack almost as large as she was, with the clangor of many things made of metal shifting inside it. “Daggers,” she explained. “I’ve been plundering Zhents too dead to resist me.”
“A habit learned in festhalls?” Semoor asked; the darkness hid the rude gesture she made in reply, but he saw enough of the shift of her shoulders to know she was making it. “You wound me,” he said.
“Not yet, Light of Lathander,” she murmured, her voice heavy with promise. “Not yet.”
Then she spun around, hand streaking to a sheathed dagger. A sword glimmered suddenly, its flat coming down on that hand in a gentle slap.
“Please don’t,” Florin said wearily, from the other end of that sword. “I’m growing a little tired of facing sharp war-steel this night.”
Pennae nodded. “That’s not your sword. What befell you, and where have you been?”
“Aye, I wish I still had my own blade. This one’s old, good steel—and so it should be; I had it from a princess!—but badly balanced, too small for me, and heavier than it should be.”
“Oho! A princess, hey?” Semoor asked. “What else ‘had you’ from this fair royal flower? Or are we speaking of a festhall ‘princess’?”
“We are not,” Florin said. “We are speaking of the Princess Alusair Nacacia, whom I met with on the roof of yon temple, by merest chance. A Zhent almost slew her, but I was able to defend her—until too many Purple Dragons appeared for me to dare tarry. Unfortunately, neither did the princess, who used some sort of magic to vanish rather abruptly. I doubt those Dragons are all that pleased with me, just now.”
“I’m not surprised,” Jhessail said. “This being Arabel, they probably have their hands full of truculent madmen already. An Obarskyr princess, standing around on a rooftop, in this?”
“Belike you met someone who told you she was Alusair the princess,” Doust said, wrestling with two less than happy horses, “to avoid getting in trouble for being on that rooftop. She was probably a temple-thief, or hoping to be, until the gods sent you into her lap.”
“Friends,” Florin said, “I’ve seen both princesses a time or three while we were at the Palace, and this was the Princess Alusair.”
“Ah,” Semoor said, “you had time to examine her properly, checking all the birthmarks, did you? My, but the Obarskyrs will be glad to see us go! Right into fresh-dug graves, if you start dallying with royal daughters!” He tossed the reins of the largest horse to Florin, and added sharply, “Nice to know you keep your brains in your codpiece. Pity it isn’t larger, so you’d have a hope of carting a little more of them around with you!”
“Semoor,” Florin said heavily, “our meeting was not like that, and was none of my doing—”
“So,” an all too familiar voice came out of the night behind them, “do I add molestation of a personage royal to horse-theft, in my reasons for having all of you flogged to death? Or have you some crimes more inventive yet to add to your confessions? Take your time, and leave nothing out of your reply. We Purple Dragons tend to be all too starved for entertainment.”
Half a dozen lanterns were unhooded in unison, and the Knights of Myth Drannor found themselves staring into the mirthless smile of Ornrion Dauntless—at the head of dozens of grim, armed-to-the-teeth Purple Dragons. Most of whom held loaded hand-bows, aimed at the faces of the Knights.
“Falconhand speaks truth,” said someone grimly, from just behind the ornrion’s shoulder. It was Laspeera of the war wizards. “I very much hope he continues to do so, as I ask this of him: what’s become of my fellow war wizard, Melandar Raentree, who was assisting you at the stables?”
Florin shrugged. “He bade us farewell there, departed—and we were promptly attacked. By many Zhentarim. Swordsmen, led by a wizard. Who was torn apart in a spell-blast … or so I believe.”
“So he’s gone, all his Zhent blades lie dead, and the Princess Alusair is gone too!” His tone of voice made it abundantly clear that Dauntless believed not a word. “Well, now, isn’t that all just so convenient?”
“Dauntless!” Laspeera’s rebuke betrayed the fury she was swallowing. She gave the Knights a long, level look and snapped, “Let’s get you out of Arabel before anything else happens.”
“Lathalance blundered,” Sarhthor reported, “and it cost us the mageling Neldrar, who had showed some small promise.”
Manshoon, Lord of the Zhentarim, turned from lighting the last of the tall bedside candles to smile sardonically. “Lathalance’s blunders are part of his charm. Make his death serve us some useful purpose.”
Sarhthor nodded. “I’ve ordered him to Halfhap.”
“And in that flourishing metropolis he’ll prove useful to us how?”
“The adventurers who were just given the Pendant of Ashaba by the Blackstaff will reach there on the morrow, on their ride to Shadowdale.”
“I quite see. This may prove amusing. Leave us now.”
Sarhthor bowed, turned, and went to the door. When he opened it, he found himself gazing into the darkly beautiful face of Symgharyl Maruel, The Shadowsil, Manshoon’s current favorite. It was a face widely feared among the Zhentarim—in particular when it was wearing the little catlike smile adorning it now.
The Shadowsil lifted an eyebrow in unspoken challenge as their eyes met. Sarhthor carefully kept a faint, polite smile on his own face, and his eyes on hers. Her black robe was hanging open, and she was bare beneath it.
In smooth silence he bowed and stood back to wave her in through the door. The Shadowsil slipped off her robe, handed it to Sarhthor, and strode into Manshoon’s bedchamber, clad only in high black boots.
“At least the sarking rain has stopped,” Semoor muttered, peering up at the bright moon riding high above them, in a sky full of stars and a few tattered clouds.
“Hush!” Jhessail hissed, from beside him. “The gods will hear! And we’ll have hailstorms, or worse!”
“I’d like a rain of gold coins,” Pennae said, looking up into the sky. “Of respectable mintings, slightly worn from use, that no treasury’s missing.” She waited, hands outspread, but nothing happened.
“I think the gods belie
ve they’ve rewarded you more than enough,” Islif grunted, “coming through that fray without a scratch—leaving the dead heaped in your wake.”
“That,” Pennae replied flatly, “was my doing, not any achievement of the gods.”
Doust and Semoor cleared their throats in unison, and she turned and laid a finger to her lips in a “be quiet” admonition. Semoor used one of his fingers to make another sort of gesture in reply.
The Knights were trotting their horses cautiously along the moonlit Mountain Ride, heading north-northeast out of Arabel. They were making good time, and talking in low tones about all that had unfolded.
“How will we even find Shadowdale?” Jhessail murmured, looking at the dark forest, and the soaring mountains beyond.
“This road leads there,” Doust told her, “so if we don’t stray off it in Tilverton or elsewhere …”
Pennae turned in her saddle, teeth flashing in a grin, to unbuckle the saddlebag behind her left leg. Flipping it open, she plucked something forth with a flourish. A map, splendidly drawn—as they could all see by the magical glow that awakened across its drawn surface, the moment she unfurled it.
Doust blinked. “Where’d you get that?” Without pause for breath he added gloomily, “As if I didn’t know.”
“Stolen,” she replied cheerfully. “Speaking of which—”
With a more elaborate flourish, Pennae flipped aside her half-cloak and drew forth something from behind her back.
It caught the moonlight as she reversed it in her hand: a well-used, splendidly made sword. She handed it to Florin, who hefted it appreciatively. Before he could ask, she said, “Now Officer Dauntless has a place to store his blinding temper. Inside his empty sword-scabbard.”
Florin groaned. Semoor whistled in appreciation. Jhessail snapped, “You didn’t!” Doust and Islif turned in their saddles to look back at the road behind them, for signs of pursuit.
Pennae shrugged. “I did. And War Wizard Laspeera saw me, and said not a word. She was too busy winking, I guess.”
In the darker streets of Arabel, it was not unusual to see the few folk of wealth and importance who walked around by night inside a protective ring of bodyguards.
In this particular street, this night, a drunken merchant came reeling out of an alley-mouth to stumble against the foremost bodyguards in one such ring. One bodyguard roughly slapped the drunkard aside—and then stiffened, whirled around, and took a swift step to clutch at his master, walking in the center of the ring; a wizard of the Zhentarim.
Who in turn stiffened, even as the other guards wrestled their fellow bullyblade back from him.
They saw the wizard’s eyes glow eerily. “Release him,” he ordered them curtly. “No harm was done.”
The bodyguards stared at their master suspiciously, for both the attitude and the manner of speech were unusual for him, but his wave to continue on was emphatic, even angry. They obeyed, leaving the drunken merchant slumped on the cobbles in their wake.
A few steps farther on, the wizard suddenly crumpled.
Bodyguards snarled curses and reached for him. Their curses turned to shouts of fear and horror when they felt the light weight in their arms—and saw they were holding little more than bones shrouded in skin. They let the lifeless husk fall to the cobbles and fled in all directions.
None of them saw the cloud gathering in the darkness above the nigh-skeletal wizard. It thickened, whirling, as Horaundoon mentally pawed through the memories he’d just ripped out of the wizard’s mind.
None of the bodyguards were left to hear him murmur, “So Lathalance is out on the Moonsea Ride … for a very little while longer. Ah, Lathalance, you’ll be first!”
“True, Horaundoon,” Old Ghost muttered, arrowing through the moonlit night, high above the Mountain Ride. “But you won’t be the one to claim him. When you arrive, you’ll find me.”
He began the plunge that would end in Lathalance’s unsuspecting body. The Zhentarim was galloping hard along the road ahead, not caring what he was doing to his horse. He had no intention of slowing until he caught sight of the Knights, whereupon he’d begin trailing them more stealthily, to Halfhap.
Duthgarl Lathalance was as cruel and capable as he was handsome, a Zhent swordsman and mage who obeyed his masters with unhesitating efficiency, coolly slaying scores at their behest. His magics shielded him against arrows and the like, and would even protect him if his hard-racing steed fell and hurled him down. He was crouching low and enjoying the ride.
Until something hurtled down out of the sky into him, causing him to arch his back and gasp.
Lathalance swayed in the saddle, eyes glowing red … then gold … blue … then returned to their normal brown.
Slowly his worried frown faded, and he smiled a wolfish smile.
Dauntless hadn’t been back at his desk long enough to feel truly dry—and they had to bring him this.
He glowered in the lamplight at a darkly handsome young lad, perhaps fourteen summers old, that he was certain he’d never laid eyes on before—who beamed back at him, despite standing clamped in the none-too-gentle grip of two hairy, burly Purple Dragons.
“Sword-brawls, wizards blown to spatters, what next?” Dauntless snarled. “Well?”
“Says his name’s Rathgar,” one of the Dragons said laconically. “Says he was expected, by whoever dwells inside the window we caught him climbing through.”
“Oh?” The ornrion’s voice fell into soft tones that dripped sarcasm. “Does he carry it around with him, this window, or was it part of a building I might know?”
“The widow Tarathkule’s house, on the Stroll.”
Ornrion Dahauntul stared at the boy, who gave him a merry wink and said brightly, “She’s insatiable! Worth coming all this way for!”
“Lad,” Dauntless said heavily, “she’s seen ninety-odd winters, walks with two canes, is as deaf as yon wall, and looks about as handsome as this desk. Try again.”
“Ah. Well …” The lad who gave his name as Rathgar looked at the Purple Dragons on either side of him, one after the other, and then peered past Dauntless as if seeking spies in the gloom beyond the desk. He tried to lean forward, but the Dragons hauled him firmly back, so he settled for lowering his voice into a confidential whisper. “I got lost on the way to my tryst with the princess. I said the Tarathkule tale, first, as, well, ah, one doesn’t like to stain a lady’s hon—”
“You got lost—stay! Which princess?”
“Ahh … Her Highness, Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr. She’ll vouch for me.”
The Dragons looked expressionlessly at Dauntless, and he looked back at them. None of them bothered to roll their eyes.
Silence fell, and stretched, until the ornrion grew tired of the view, and turned his head to peer harder at the handsome lad.
“Lad,” he growled, “I don’t know what your name is, except that it’s not Rathgar. I don’t know your game, but you lie like a sneak-thief. I don’t believe you for the time it takes me to draw one breath, and all I really know about you is that you come from Westgate—your speech tells me that—and that you own”—he squinted at what was lying on the older Purple Dragon’s palm—“three thumbs, five falcons, and a dagger too big for your hand. Which means you can feed yourself in this city for about five days, if you eat in the worst places, drink nothing that doesn’t come out of a horse-pump, and sleep on the streets. So, d’you want to be turned out of our gates? Or are you looking for work?”
“I don’t particularly want to be a sarcastic, bullying ornrion,” the lad replied, as his stomach rumbled loudly, “but if the job lets me keep my vow to lovely Aloos, I’ll accept your kind offer.”
Dauntless gave him a glare, and then smiled grimly, turned away, and snapped, “Jar him for the night. And give him something to eat. Leave the dagger here.”
“It starts with a dungeon inspection?” the boy asked impishly, as the Dragons lifted him off his feet, turned him, and started marching away. “Or does she want me in
chains? She didn’t mention such tastes, but …”
A heavy door slammed behind them. Shaking his head, Dauntless turned back to his reports.
Chapter 9
A NIGHT UNSUITED FOR SLEEPING IN SADDLES
Then the king spake the last words
he ever said to me: “When you hear
the wolves, lad, it is unlikely to be
a night suitable for sleeping in your saddle.”
Horvarr Hardcastle
Never A Highknight:
The Life of a Dragon Guard
published in the Year of the Bow
When Dauntless looked up again, just before dawn, the dagger was gone from atop his papers—and a key was lying in its place.
A cell key.
His eyes narrowing, the ornrion looked up at the key-board, clapped his hand to his belt—and swore horribly.
His purse was gone, its lacings neatly cut and dangling.
Striding heavily and breathing like a winded horse in his anger, Dauntless snatched up the key and headed for the door to the dungeons. With his luck, the lad had locked both Glarth and Tobran in the cell, wearing signs reading, “Kiss me, I’m the Princess” or some such.
Little rat.
But how by the blazing Dragon Throne itself had he known about the Princess Alusair being in Arabel this night?
Laughing, Horaundoon plummeted down out of the night like a striking hawk, plunged into the hard-riding Duthgarl Lathalance of the Zhentarim—and swirled right back out again, shrieking in pain.
“Yes, Horaundoon,” the Zhent said coldly, the voice clearly that of Old Ghost, “we meet again. You can burn this worm to ash in a day or three, if you want, but not now. And if you cross me, I’ll burn you—and the Realms will hold one fewer Horaundoon. I can. Believe me.”
“What … what d’you want of me?” Horaundoon gasped.
“Absolute obedience, all the time the Knights of Myth Drannor are in Halfhap. If you don’t give it, I’ll destroy you. If you serve me well, you can have Lathalance and your freedom in a few days. I’ll even help you destroy Manshoon.”
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