Across the rolling hills, Tiuren ran until he could no longer hear the rumbling or feel the vibration of the ground and the unnatural scorching heat on his back. In the distance, only a reddish, hellish glow marked the palace. He collapsed from exhaustion.
Weeks later, Tiuren stood at the edge of what was once-beautiful Vantir.
Nothing in his experience could have prepared him for the sight of his homeland smoldering like a charnel pit. The stench of death pervaded the air. Smoke filled the sky, dragging the whole realm into an unending night.
After he had destroyed the palace and surrounding city, Kohath had systematically razed the nearby towns and villages. The smoke that choked the sun rose from burning homes, trees, crops, livestock, and even people. All that had been Vantir now burned. Of the inhabitants of the dead land, precious few had escaped. Kohath had, intentionally and methodically, slain his own kingdom.
Yet Tiuren lived. He could not help wondering if somehow, deep within the creature that was once Kohath, his friend had let him escape. Perhaps he owed his life to that undead monster. Buried within it, his friend possibly lived on. Yet if Kohath could lay waste to the land he loved, the man Tiuren knew was so utterly lost in the cavernous pit of his soul that he had no chance of ever escaping. He wondered if somewhere, immersed in that darkness, Kohath-the real Kohath- despaired.
The new Kohath was different. A few mortals had escaped his realm, and told of its horrors.
Deep within the dark land of death, on the site of the old palace of Vantir, Kohath used sorcery and undead slaves to build a new fortress. This fortress was made from the bones and flesh of the fallen citizens of Vantir. In this subterranean castle, the former king had begun to call himself Kohath the Eternal.
Tiuren knew no reason to think the moniker an idle boast. Nor did he intend to find out. Never again would he bring himself to utter the names Kohath or Vantir.
Faerun was a big place, and there were certainly other realms in which to live out the rest of his life. Without another look, he turned his back on his former home, his former friend and king,and his former life.
The Whispering Crown
Ed Greenwood
The young Lady of Dusklake stood alone in her feast hall, in the last golden gleam of the setting sun, and waited to die.
Dusklake and Grand Thentor had been at war for only a day now-but the battle between Aerindel and Rammast, Lord of Grand Thentor, had begun when they were both children. He had wanted her to be his slave and plaything for more than a dozen years-and Rammast was not a man accustomed to waiting long for anything.
He would come for her, and soon. Aerindel wondered if she'd be strong enough to hold on to the three things she valued most: her freedom, her land… and her life.
Knowing what was coming, she'd sent the servants away-but she also knew that eyes were watching her anxiously from behind parted tapestries and doors that hadn't quite closed. The eyes of those who feared she might take her own life.
The news of her brother's death lay like a heavy cloak over the household-but it rested most heavily on the Lady Aerindel. She could not quite believe she'd never hear his bright laughter echoing in this high hall again, or feel his strong arms lift her by her slim waist and whirl her high into the air.
But the news had been blunt and clear enough. Dabras was dead by dragonfire, the grim old warriors had said, proffering his half-melted sword hilt and their own scorched wounds as proof. And that made her ruler of Dusklake.
Though a small realm, Dusklake had once been widely known-and feared-for the man then its master: the mage Thabras Stormstaff. Thabras was Aerin-del's faintly smiling, sad-eyed father. He was the mightiest of a long line of famous heads of House Sum-mertyn, from Orbrar the Old, the grandfather that Aerindel had never known, to Asklas and Ornthorn and others in the early days, known only in legends. A small but proud hold, oldest of all the Esmeltaran, Dusklake was nestled in the rolling woodlands between Lake Esmel and the Cloud Peaks. And it was hers, now.
If she could hold it. Aerindel looked grimly out through a window that was seven times her height, at the lake the land was named for. Its waters were dark and placid, at the end of a bright, cool summer day. The Green Fields to the north were still a sheet of golden light, but westward, the purple peaks of the Ridge rose like a dark wall, bringing an early nightfall down on her hall.
A night that would surely bring Rammast. Dusklake was small but verdant, perhaps the fairest of all the Esmeltaran. Rammast wanted it more even than he wanted her.
Aerindel looked at the fire-scarred blob that was all she had left of dear Dabras, and drew in a deep, unhappy breath. She would cry no more, whatever the hours ahead brought. She was a Summertyn, even if her slim arms were too feeble to swing a warrior's sword.
Her spells might serve her where his sword had failed him-though she hoped never to be foolish and battle-hungry enough to go off to the distant Dales, as he had, hunting dragons. It was the year 902 there, she thought dully, recalling the words of a far-traveled trader… but there, as here, it was the Year of the Queen's Tears.
How fitting. She had wept for hours, two nights ago, clinging to the fire-scarred warriors as if their unhappy memories and awkward soothings could somehow bring Dabras back to life… wept until she was exhausted and fell asleep in their arms.
Sometime the next day-yesterday-she'd been awakened in her own bed by a frightened chambermaid, bringing in the oh-so-polite missive from Rammast.
He grieved for her loss, the flowery-scrolled words read, and hoped to be of help in her time of need. With the world growing ever darker and more dangerous, there is no one in Faerun who can stand alone in safety, without friends.
Dusklake now stands in need of strong swords to defend it against brigands and the ores of the mountains, Rammast's words went on-and Grand Thentor had need of her magic, just as his heart had need of her hand. A wise woman would gladly see that the union of their two lands would set them all on the road to a brighter future; but if she lacked that wisdom or inclination, his duty was clear. His people needed the protection of a sorceress, and he must win her by formal duel if not by willing submission. At the next going down of the sun, he would come for her answer.
It had taken all of Aerindel's brittle self-control to keep from crumpling and shredding the parchment in fearful fury. She had grown less and less fond of darkly handsome, cruel Rammast as the years had passed.
In the pale, slim, so often silent days of her youth, he'd been the first man to look upon her with hunger in his eyes. Later, he had been the first to see that though she'd inherited the rings and staff and spellbooks of the mighty Thabras, her magic was no more than a feeble, faltering echo of his… and that Dusklake, secure for so long behind his might, had far fewer hardened warriors to ride to its defense than other neighboring holds could muster.
Once, at a wedding in Hulduth Hold, he'd been particularly forceful in his attentions during a private walk in the gardens. Freeing herself from his grasp, Aerindel had made her own feelings about him coldly and crisply plain. Unperturbed, Rammast had given her the special swift, sly grin he used when gloating, and told her softly that one day Dusklake would be his, and her with it-as his slave, willing and eager to serve him once his magic controlled her wits.
Now, the final taunting words of his missive said that his own magic remained regrettably inadequate to the task of defending Grand Thentor against its foes, but that he had learned some measure of… control. He hoped she'd remember, and greet his suit fondly.
Aerindel hadn't heard anything of Rammast's own dabblings in magic since he'd inherited Grand Then-tor-beyond a few rumors of summoned beasts running amok and hired hedge-wizard tutors disappearing mysteriously. His reminder of wanting her as a mind-controlled slave, however, was clear enough. And that confidence meant that he'd measured her magic, and knew himself to be clearly the more powerful of the two.
Bringing her thoughts back to here and now, Aerindel licked lips that had gone
dry and glanced again at the banner-pole, one of a pair flanking the tall window. The pole was really her father's staff. No doubt she'd be needing it soon.
She would need it, and some greater magical aid or ally she knew not where to find, let alone to plead with. What could she give in payment? Herself and her land were all she had… and the very things Rammast sought. She could see no way to keep from losing one-or both-before dawn.
Night was coming down swiftly now, the last light fading from the still waters of the lake.
Then, suddenly, she saw him: a lone, dark figure walking steadily across the lake toward her-walking upon the waters as if they were a vast courtyard. He spent the spell to show her how powerful he was, powerful enough that he could afford to waste magic before a duel.
Aerindel turned slowly, her dark gown rustling about her hips, and wondered idly why she'd dressed in her best finery to meet her most hated enemy. Looking all around the hall, she raised her voice and said calmly to the unseen watchers, "Withdraw, all of you. Danger comes swiftly."
She turned back to the window in time to see Ram-mast Tarangar smile broadly in sardonic greeting, incline his head to her, and raise one hand.
The bright bolt that burst from it shattered the tall window from top to bottom, sending singing shards of glass flying down the chamber like scattered fragments of a rainbow.
The Lady of Dusklake did not flinch. " Tis a sirange man," Aerindel observed, her voice calmer than it might have been, "whose wooing takes the form of battle."
Rammast stepped through the empty window frame and into the room, the tiny lightning of a warding spell flickering briefly about his shoulders. When no attack came, he glanced around the room, seeking warriors with ready weapons. Finding none, he smiled at her more broadly, advancing across the tiles at an insolent stroll.
"You are as beautiful as ever, my lady," he said to her through his smile, "and your tongue remains as cold and cruel as I recall. Yet tongues can be tamed, Aerindel."
"Ah, but can ambition also be tamed, Lord Rammast? I am not 'your lady;' not now, not ever. Yet I see no need not to be the ally of Grand Thentor. Our two realms can be friendly without our being wed… or my taking up the position you suggested."
Ramniast's eyes burned into hers. "Ah, but I believe you'll enjoy being my slave. You'll find me the most gentle and thoughtful of men-until I have two strong sons to be my heirs." He shrugged. "By then, of course, you may have grown weary of being my consort, or of being Lady of Dusklake, or even-who knows? — of life itself."
They both heard an angry gasp from behind a tapestry, as one of the warriors who'd refused to leave his lady wrestled with his temper. Rammast casually raised a hand and sent lightning crackling along that side of the room. In two places, down the long sweep of tapestries, forms stiffened, slid down the far side of the heavy cloth, and lay still.
The Lord of Grand Thentor raised an eyebrow. "Am I too late, Lady? Have you consorts already?"
Aerindel bit her lip, trembling in grief and rage, until she could master her words. He waited, smiling mockingly, until she opened her mouth deliberately and said, "In Dusklake we have laws against slaying, Lord Rammast-and you now stand in violation of those laws. Are you willing to submit to my justice, or is it to be war between us?"
Rammast raised his other eyebrow. "Are you threatening me?"
With the same casual ease as last time, he cast lightning along the other side of the hall, scarring hangings and statues alike. "Or do you just ache to see me on my knees?"
"It's a pose you've no doubt pictured me in often enough," Aerindel replied grimly, raising her own hands to weave a spell.
Rammast smiled broadly and, with a formal bow, beckoned her magic toward him. "I wondered how long you'd tremble and haw before loosing some of that vast and mighty magic all of us in the Esmeltaran talk about! Hurl away, bright lady!" He crossed his arms and stood waiting.
Roaring pinwheels of green flame were his reply, snarling out of the empty air around her slim fingers to fly at him, spinning and expanding.
Rammast stood unmoving as they reached him and burst-and for the briefest of moments Aerindel thought she could see their dying flashes through him. Then he yawned and stepped forward again.
"Your fame is not undeserved," he said lightly, dismissive boredom in his tone. "Impressive. Very impressive." And he opened his hand.
Something small fluttered from it: a serpent with wings. It circled his head once as Aerindel quickly cast another spell, and then it flew toward her.
A stream of lightning flashed at Rammast. Two crackling arcs curled aside to meet the flying thing, but expired in brief halos as they encountered some sort of shield around it.
The Lord of Grand Thentor stood immobile, still smiling, as her lightning lashed him. Aerindel saw the snake swooping at her, and ducked away-but it followed, eyes bright and fangs agape. It was glistening, wet with slime, and mottled like an uncooked sausage.
She hissed a quick magical shield as she retreated from it-but the very air shattered with screams and flashing radiances as the flying monster darted right through her magic.
Aerindel covered her face as it roared down at her- and her cry was answered by the crack of a crossbow, fired from a high balcony.
The Lady of Dusklake rolled and hit out at the serpent. Above, she saw a crossbow bolt halt in midair, catch fire from end to end with blue flame that did not consume it, and spin around to race back the way it had come.
There was a despairing shout an instant before it struck, and blue fire burst forth in a blast that outlined the bones of the Duskan warrior-before it hurled them, fleshless and glowing, around the room.
Aerindel felt a painful tug on her scalp. Something was pulling her hair-oh, gods, no!
Rammast smiled down at her. "It's eating your hair, Lady… and mind: you're getting your best gown all dirty, rolling around like that. Show a little dignity, now: come up at least to your knees. My little pet will take care of your gown after it's bared your scalp. And then you'll be wearing shoes, too, won't you? It should be a good while before it gets around to eating your eyelashes."
Aerindel screamed, rolling frantically in an attempt to dislodge the thing. It was leaving a wet, slimy trail through her hair, and went on biting and tearing as if she'd done nothing, even when she drew her belt-knife and stabbed it repeatedly. It was a thing of magic, immune to her steel.
Rammast smiled indulgently at her and then strolled around the room, looking critically at the tapestries and statues. 'Tour father's taste wasn't as bad as I'd heard," he said grudgingly, ignoring Aerindel's sobs.
She frantically rose to cast a purging spell on herself. "Get out of my house? she snarled at him as she finally felt the gnawing serpent fade away to nothingness. "You cold-blooded bastard.1"
Rammast turned to meet her furious gaze, shook his head with a disapproving sigh, and opened his hand again. Another serpent flew from his hand-and as she screamed in despair, he chuckled heartily and strolled in her direction.
"Perhaps your gown first, and the hair later," he suggested. "I suspect you're the superior of any of these rather contorted maids on pedestals your father collected. Was your mother particularly ugly, or did he just have odd tastes?"
Through tears of utter fury, Aerindel spat her last battle spell, sending a ravening purple cloud of flesh-eating radiance in his direction.
"Oooh," Rammast said in appreciation. "My, my." And he faded away, leaving her spell with nothing to slay. It rolled out over the lake, vainly seeking something to do to death.
Abruptly the darkly handsome Lord of Grand Then-tor was standing beside her, a mocking smile on his face, as his second serpent flashed down over her shoulder to sink its fangs into her bodice.
Aerindel screamed.
"On your knees, Lady," Rammast suggested gently. "Remember?"
He waved a hand, and she felt an unseen force pressing her down. With a snarl she hissed her last dispel, wiping it away along with the s
harp-fanged serpent.
He smiled even more broadly, and opened his hand again. Another serpent flapped its wings in his palm, eyeing her with glittering amusement.
"Perhaps one eyelash," her foe said calmly, "to remember me by."
And as the serpent sprang from his hand, Aerindel found that she had no spells left. Clapping her hands protectively over eyes that streamed tears of rage and despair, she snarled a certain word.
On the wall beside the shattered window, the Storm-staff flashed into life-and lightning lashed forth like great tentacles to encircle the Thentan intruder, and drag him up into the air.
Even as he struggled in the grip of its awesome energies and the white fire of its fury burst forth from his skin, Rammast smiled down at her. "So that is how paltry your spells are-and those are the words that awaken your father's staff. My thanks, Aerindel. You've been most helpful-if far more feeble a foe than I thought. Don't bother taking your own life; I shall merely bring you back from death to serve me."
The lightning was beginning to tear him apart now, but the lord of Grand Thentor showed no pain as he added, "You could fix your hair and change your gown, though. I will come for you."
And then, with a last sneering smile, his false body faded away, leaving her lightning nothing to ravage.
The Lady of Dusklake sent the lightning racing out over the lake before it could do any harm to the hall or any of her folk, and then went to her knees and wept for a long time in the shattered chamber.
When she could weep no more, Aerindel fell silent and threw herself full-length onto the floor. Lying with the smooth stone cold and hard against one cheek, she murmured the words that would bring the comforting length of the Stormstaff into her hands.
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