The Sword Never Sleeps tkomd-3

by Ed Greenwood

  She took it with a smile and asked, "Aren't you going to turn your back as I slip into this?"

  "No," Vangerdahast told her, shrugging off his own tatters. "Why?"

  He had always loved Laspeera's laugh.

  The glade exploded.

  Ruldroun didn't even have time to leap down out of the tree before its great trunks shattered above him, its boughs torn off and swept away in a crashing rain-and he was hurled along after them, his shielding buffeted, struck hard, slammed against other trees, and shattered.

  He hit the ground in a tumbling chaos of snapping twigs, sliding wet leaves, mud, and bruised wizard.

  "And so I taste the Royal Magician's little slap," he grunted. Pain flared in his left side. Broken ribs, probably. His shielding had done its work, but it was clear that it would be the act of an utter fool to tarry anywhere near the glade.

  He'd best get to the Knights and skulk along aftet them. He could still conjure his best shielding and weave a lesser one as well, then combine the two-but he'd best do it only after he'd passed the clearing and gotten well clear of its other side.

  Not that there was anything forcing the Knights to stay where they were. Ruldroun sighed, winced again at the pain that brought, turned to face the pattering of falling twigs that matked whete the clearing had just enlarged itself, and started to run.

  "I believe that particular tactic would be one I'd deem, in the words of Lord Piergeiron, 'less than wise,' "a warm, lyrical, woman's voice said. That would be Sharanralee.

  "I'm not talking wise, look ye," Mirt the Moneylender rumbled. "I'm laying all the tactics I can think of before us, rather than sorting out just those I deem best or preferable beforehand. I've heard too many lords' deliberations-or Harper moots, come to that-to want to do otherwise."

  "So," an amused, mature, man's voice asked in quiet amusement, "are we then as bad as Harpers, Mirt-or as good as Harpers?"

  That would be the wizard Tarrhus, straying from Piergeiron's shadow for once. The Open Lord of Waterdeep must be very well guarded by someone else just now.

  The night was dark, the turret that held those three folk was widely deemed inaccessible to creatures who couldn't fly, and the wards around it would raise instant alarm upon the approach of any flying creatures.

  It seemed those wards deemed hovering magical swords to be something other than creatures. Whereupon no alarm had been raised, and it was extremely unlikely that anyone would be out and peering up at the turret just to check up on the efficacy of those wards.

  Besides, Old Ghost was making Armaukran float absolutely motionless, vertical, and quite close to the shutters of the window. The little conference was quite interesting.

  It was folk such as these three whom he wanted to collect in the Sword That Never Sleeps. To know the workings of the Harpers, or the Lords of Waterdeep, orIt was at that moment that a spell Old Ghost had cast a long time ago suddenly stirred, sending its brief and faint warning across half of Faertin.

  Battle spells had erupted in a certain clearing used by Cormyr's Wizards of War, a clearing he'd cast his watch spell upon-and now, scant breaths later, someone had cast a complex, manyspells shielding.

  That castet had to be someone powerful, on important business bent.

  Business-and a person-he was very much interested in knowing more about.

  The long, slender sword silently drew away from the window, turned in the air until its point was aimed east, and raced silently away from the turret, as swiftly as if it had been loosed from the bow of a mighty archer.

  Old Ghost had decided to get to that nameless forest clearing just as fast as the Swotd That Never Sleeps could fly.

  Tsantress was barefoot and in her nightgown, sitting uptight on the edge of her bed-the bed she'd been tossing and turning in, mere moments ago.

  No wonder, that, given the time, but her restless inability to sleep and the energetic propensity of certain unscrupulous merchants of Suzail to get up to things illicit the moment her back was turned had her renouncing all attempts to get back to sleep.

  She ran her hands absently through her sleep-tangled hair and stared into her scrying sphere.

  It glowed softly as it hung in the air in fronr of her nose, awakening inro a view of Albaertus Tranth's private office, quite a few streets closer to the harbor than where she was sitting.

  It seemed the good merchant-if that wasn't using the tetm too loosely-was also afflicted with sleeplessness just now. He was using his wakefulness to meet with someone cowled, masked, and gloved, who appeared to have fallen into the habit of knocking on back doors in Suzail in the dark wee hours with heavy sacks of gold coins in his hand.

  The war wizard bent forward and peered closely. Tranth was unlocking a heavy metal coffer with a key that had been hanging around his neck, andAbruptly the scrying sphere flashed bright white, blinding her into a sharp gasp, and flung itself across the room.

  Thankfully, it struck her row of cloaks and gowns, rearing them all off their pegs as it raced past to strike a heavy tapestry.

  Tsantress rolled on her bed and rhen off its edge to land hard on her spread knees on the carpeted floor. She clawed at her flooding eyes and tried to crawl toward her door on her elbows. An inescapable conclusion reared up like a'dark and inexorable foe in her mind: Vangerdahast was up to his tricks again.

  No one else-save Laspeera, and she had more sense-would dare to cast a slaying spell through one of Vangey's precious scrying spheres, causing ir to explode and shattering any other scryings going on at the same time. Certainly not anywhere near the Royal Court. Or the Palace, come to that.

  Either the halls were going to be crowded wirh angry, wand-waving Wizards of War in the next few breaths, or the Royal Magician was to blame, and evetything would remain still and tensely silent until morning.

  Well, not this time. She could find and pull on her boots by feel, if her eyes didn't stop streaming, and probably find her way to the Palace, too.

  She had to reach the Princess Alusair. That blinding flash had thrust a vision into her mind, fleeting and vivid and tluining alarming: Knights of Myth Drannor, fighting hard against some unknown foes in a deep, wild forest somewhere, with Dauntless- Alusair's champion, that Dauntless-fighting alongside them.

  Now, the Royal Magician was… the Royal Magician. Very much a law unto himself, who said and did as he pleased and somehow seemed to escape consequences that would kill-not merely discomfit or career-shatter-others. She, Tsantress, was not the Royal Magician and would be before-all-the-gods damned if she behaved anything like the Royal tluining Magician.

  She kept her word, once given. And she'd sworn to the Princess Alusair-an Obarskyr who just might end up on the Dragon Throne if bad things befell her family-that she'd inform the princess immediately if Vangerdahast ordered Ornrion Taltar Dahauntul into danger again.

  Which meant the moment she had her boots on and had found and buckled her wand belt on over her nightgown, she was going to hurry to the tunnel that linked the Royal Court with the Royal Palace just as fast as she could sttide.

  Then, blindness or no blindness, royal slumber or no royal slumber, she was getting to the Princess Alusair just as fast as she could, spitting out the pass phrase that meant doom was coming down on Cormyr, so the guards barring her way at door after guarded door would be frightened as they hurried to fling open their doors for her.

  Because if Dauntless died because of Vangerdahast's orders, and the Princess Alusair found out about it, doom would be coming down on Cormyr.

  Chapter 24

  Anger a wizard and die Aye, I have learned a thing or three Thus far in a life well heaped in deceit And treachery. There's keeping pacts And knowing when to run And this: Anger a wizard, and die.

  I've never seen a skeleton like that before!" the Harper said. "Keep back!"

  "I've never seen a skeleton like that before, either," Dauntless said. "But never mind that. Look you past it at the creeping things!"

  "Hargaunts," Dalonde
r Ree said, as he, Dauntless, and Florin backed away from Brorn and tried to peer past the sword-wielding skeleton. "They're called hargaunts."

  "That's nice," Dauntless said. "It's always the height of urbane courtesy to know the name of what's trying to kill you."

  Beyond the advancing skeleton, the hacked-apart pieces of hatgaunts were flowing together like worms mindlessly converging on something dead and beginning to rise up into a vaguely humanlike figure.

  "Saers!" Florin called to Dauntless and the Harper as he stepped to the left and waved at them to move to the right. He was motioning them to move so the three of them could strike at the skeleton from its front and from both of its sides, all at once. Ree and the ornrion nodded back and moved as the ranger had directed.

  "Tluin," the skeleton said.

  He felt much better with the shielding around him.

  Two wardings and a lesser ironguard woven into the result, to turn back most magics and make him untouchable by the swords and daggers of Knights of Myth Drannor-or anyone else, unless those blades bore strong magics.

  Yet there was room for something more. A simple deception for simple adventurers. He'd not face the Knights as Onsler Ruldroun or as some crone in a dirty dress-but as the ornrion Dauntless, in the shreds of a failed disguise, out here stalking them under Crown orders.

  That, they'd believe in a trice. Letting him walk among them, rather than spending his days skulking out in forests, straining to get close enough without being noticed.

  The hargaunt was alteady stirring approvingly, even before he really concentrated on the remembered face of-the ornrion.

  A few moments of creeping and flowing, and he'd be hurrying on again to the battle.

  The Lion Room was warm and richly paneled, and the firesparkle in their goblets was good. They were almost past the sneering and elbowing each other stage, carried along on their own rising excitement into being fellow conspirators. And that was saying something, considering how fervently these young noble rivals had hated each other before this night.

  Royal Sage Alaphondar knew how to defer to nobility. He knew their strengths and had praised them, saying nothing of their pride and pratfalls and indiscretions. Wherefore Lharak Huntcrown, Doront Rowanmantle, Beliard Emmarask, Cadeln Hawklin, Faerandor Crownsilver, Garen Truesilver, and Talask Dauntinghorn were all secretly thrilled to be sitting in this ptivate chamber of the Royal Palace.

  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 nearesr 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 ro 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 cetemonial 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 snorred 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 hait 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 enqugh 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 stotming. 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 Ptincess 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 Faerun 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 wotst 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 mourh once more opening and closing like that of a large platterfish in the royal fishponds, and said nothing. Again.