by Troy Denning
“We’ll leave the badlands soon,” said Rowen, “It’s only a short ride then to where I last saw Alusair.”
“One of the opened tombs?” Tanalasta did not wait for the ranger to answer. “That will be interesting.”
Vangerdahast was about to quote the old aphorism about cats and curiosity when a soft thud sounded next to him. He looked down and saw a two-inch crater in the dried mud, a gleam of gold barely visible in the bottom. The wizard frowned, trying to imagine how a golden coin had come to fall into the canyon-then looked skyward and shouted the alarm.
“Watch your-“
A squarish shape came tumbling down into the canyon and struck him in the chest. The breath huffed out of Vangerdahast’s lungs and his feet flew out of the stirrups. He found himself flat on his back, gasping for air and groaning in agony. The canyon was filled with screaming voices and flashing magic and dancing hooves, and it finally came to him that he was lying on the ground with the battle already raging.
Vangerdahast pushed himself to a sitting position and found a legless, headless torso sprawled across his legs. He shoved the thing away in horror, then recognized the filthy armor as that of the orc he had used as a decoy. In his grogginess, he failed to see any humor in having it returned to him.
A horse hoof came down on Vangerdahast’s ankle. A sobering bolt of pain shot up his leg, and he grabbed a hock and shoved the beast off his throbbing foot. Tanalasta’s voice rang out, trolling the incantation of her one spell, and a flash of golden magic brightened the canyon. Vangerdahast shook his head clear and saw Rowen’s boots dart past on the other side of the horse, and it occurred to the wizard he had better do something before the ghazneth killed them all. He opened his hand to discover that the glove he had been holding was gone.
“Vangerdahast!” cried Tanalasta. “I can’t stall any longer!”
Vangerdahast glanced over and saw Cadimus turned sideways in the canyon, the princess sitting astride his back, pointing up the canyon wall and slapping ineffectually at her wrists. She had already used the bracers to discharge one set of magic bolts and the single combat spell she knew to fire another, and it would be some time before she could attack again. The bracers needed only a few moments to recharge their magic, but in the middle of a battle, a few moments could be a lifetime. The wizard followed the angle of Tanalasta’s arm and finally saw the ghazneth.
Too large by far to fly into the narrow gorge, the thing was climbing down the canyon wall, descending headfirst with its huge wings gathered up alongside its body. It was already halfway down, its white eyes glaring at the canyon floor, where Rowen stood ready to meet it with nothing more than a sword and rust-coated dagger.
This was going to be easier than Vangerdahast thought. He fetched a wad of sticky spider web from his cloak pocket and flicked it in the phantom’s direction, at the same time uttering his incantation. The ghazneth’s head swiveled toward the sound of his voice, then the thing pushed off the canyon wall and dropped, its long-taloned hands already drawing back to rip Rowen open from shoulder to hip. A circle of web blossomed on the wall behind it, burbling out to engulf the phantom up to one knee and bring its dive to an unexpected halt.
Vangerdahast sighed in relief then rolled to his feet and found his glove lying beneath his mount. He plucked it from under the beast’s dancing hooves and shook the dust off, then blew into the collar and whispered his incantation. The fingers wiggled once, then it drifted from his hand and began to float in the air before him. The wizard pulled a vial full of dried fireflies from his pocket and placed one of the tiny insects in the palm of the floating glove.
As Vangerdahast worked, the ghazneth spewed a string of unspeakable curses and beat its wings against the cliffside, trying to knock itself free of the entangling web. When that did not work, it twisted around and curled up toward its feet, drawing its arm back to slash at the web. The filament parted with a low pop, and the phantom came plummeting down the cliff backward. Rowen was on it as soon as it landed, beating aside its arms with two powerful sword strokes, then hurling himself forward to plant his orange dagger deep into its collar.
An unearthly shriek filled the canyon. The ghazneth rolled, slamming its wing into the ranger and launching him up the canyon to crash into Cadimus. Tanalasta and Rowen fell with the beast in a tangled screeching heap, and the phantom rolled to its feet. Though the hole Vangerdahast had blasted in its chest a few days earlier has completely healed, the rusty dagger remained planted firmly in its collar, with gouts of dark blood pumping out around the blade.
Tanalasta’s voice rang through the gorge. “King’s bolts!”
Four golden streaks shot past in front of Vangerdahast, but the ghazneth was ducking behind its wing even as the bolts struck. The leathery appendage grew white and translucent, revealing the fanlike network of delicate bones within.
Vangerdahast made a fist and gestured toward the creature, and his floating glove closed around the firefly in its palm and shot in the direction indicated. Still hiding behind its wing, the ghazneth gathered itself to spring, The wizard guided his glove over its wing, then turned his hand palm down and made a slapping motion. The glove flipped over and slapped the firefly against the phantom’s head.
“Light!” Vangerdahast commanded.
A brilliant globe of magic light engulfed the ghazneth’s head. The creature cried out and jumped back, shaking its head madly. The light moved with it.
Vangerdahast lowered his hand and closed his fingers as though grasping a knife handle. The glove disappeared behind the phantom’s wing, and a snarl of surprise rolled up the canyon. The wizard moved his hand up and down. The glove rose and fell with the motion, grasping Rowen’s rusty knife and spattering the canyon walls with streams of dark blood.
The ghazneth shrieked and lowered its wing, fully revealing the brilliant aura that engulfed its head. Its arms and wings flailed about wildly, but its efforts to catch the floating glove were all in vain. It could see nothing inside the golden ball but blinding yellow light. Vangerdahast whipped his hand around, and the rusty dagger circled and came up beneath the phantom’s ribcage. The ghazneth clutched at the black-bleeding wound and fled down the canyon, careening oft’ the walls and wailing in rage.
Vangerdahast started after it, but the creature was as fast as a lion. Before his third step, the wizard realized he would never keep up and turned to find Tanalasta now on her own mare, pulling Rowen on to the horse behind her. Though the fellow had suffered no obvious wounds, he seemed to be reeling from his collision. Cadimus was standing behind her, looking wide-eyed and dazed, but little worse for wear. Vangerdahast rushed up the canyon and grabbed the stallion’s reins, then swung into his saddle.
“Go!” Though one of Vangerdahast’s light spells normally lasted close to a day, he suspected the ghazneth would not need nearly that much time to absorb the enchantment’s magic and return more angry than ever. “I didn’t kill it, you know!”
“Yes, but at least we wounded it.” Tanalasta set her heels to the mare’s flanks, and the horse sprang up the canyon at a gallop. “That’s an improvement.”
Vangerdahast started after her, at the same time motioning the glove back to his side. Fearful of losing Rowen’s dagger, he plucked the bloodied weapon from the magical hand. To his astonishment, it was a simple blade of cold-forged iron. Demons hated cold-forged iron, but the ghazneth wasn’t a demon-it couldn’t be. He cleaned the blade on his saddle blanket and stuck it in his belt, then snatched his linen glove out of the air and returned it to his pocket.
They galloped around two sharp corners, then Tanalasta cried out and reined her horse up short. Expecting to find a band of orcs blocking the way-it was inconceivable that even the ghazneth had negated his light spell that fast-
Vangerdahast reached into his cloak for a chunk of brimstone, then eased up beside the princess. Twenty paces ahead, the canyon was blocked by a huge steel gate.
“By the nine doors to hell! What’s that doing here?
”
Rowen peered over Tanalasta’s shoulder, then pinched his eyes shut and tried to shake his head clear.
“Are you sure this is the way?” Tanalasta asked.
“It’s the way,” Rowen replied. “It must be an illusion. We ran into one before, just before we opened the second tomb.”
“An illusion?” Vangerdahast waved his hand at the door and uttered a long string of mystic syllables. “Begone!”
The door vanished at once, revealing a dark, squat figure with large crimson eyes and a huge nose veined from too much drink. A tarnished crown sat tangled into his wild halo of long, spiky hair, and the gaping hollow in his unkempt beard could be identified as a mouth only because of its four yellow fangs and wagging red tongue.
“What? No knock?” the stranger croaked. He flung his arms to the sky in some strange gesture Vangerdahast did not understand. “You just vanish my door?”
The strange little man was as naked as the day he was born, with glistening skin the color of obsidian and a pot belly the size of a soup kettle. There were broken yellow talons at the ends of his fingers, a pair of tall wings folded behind his shoulders, and an unspeakable collection of parasites crawling through his sparse body hair.
“Another..” Vangerdahast was so astonished he could hardly gasp the question. “Another ghazneth?”
“Of course!” Tanalasta sounded more excited than frightened. ‘They’ve opened three tombs.”
“Three… that we know of,” Vangerdahast said.
The ghazneth flexed its wings. When the appendages hit the canyon walls, it cursed vilely and started forward at a walk.
“Enough is enough!” Vangerdahast dropped his reins and reached over to grab his companions by the wrists. “Hold on.”
Rowen’s eyes grew large. “Not me!”
The ranger jerked his arm free, then snatched the dagger from Vangerdahast’s belt and slipped off the mare. The ghazneth closed to within ten paces.
Tanalasta twisted around in the saddle. “Rowen-“
“My duty is here,” he said, backing away from the horse.
Tanalasta glanced at the ghazneth. Its long tongue snaked out between its fangs, and it gathered itself to spring. Vangerdahast leaned across Cadimus’s back and reached for the ranger.
“Give me your hand,” the wizard commanded. “Now!”
Rowen backed away. The ghazneth cackled madly and sprang into the air. Vangerdahast pulled his hand back and pictured the stables of the palace in Arabel. Tanalasta cried out, then ducked and twisted away, tearing her arm from his grasp as he spoke his incantation. The world went black and something heavy and hard slammed into Vangerdahast from above, then suddenly he was falling.
It seemed to take forever to, reach the ground. The weight vanished from his back. He grew disoriented and queasy and lost all sense of time. This fall seemed to be taking forever, and he thought maybe this was what a quick death felt like-no pain, no fear, just a sudden, endless darkness-save that he could still feel something foul and hot touching his neck, and something bristly rubbing against his cheek.
The light returned the same instant it had vanished. Vangerdahast glimpsed Cadimus’s brown flank slipping past his nose, then crashed headlong into the brown soft earth. The weight of the world came crashing down on top of him, and he found himself buried beneath a heap of cackling, rancid-smelling black leather.
For a long instant, the wizard lay there with his head spinning, trying to sort out where he was and what the terrible stench in his nostrils might be. He heard voices crying out in astonishment-men, and a few women, too-and he grew aware of a terrible crushing pain in the center of his back.
Vangerdahast reached out and dug his fingers into the soft ground, then slowly dragged himself forward. Now he heard the sound of clanking armor. Certain voices began to seem familiar to him. The wizard pulled himself forward and suddenly he was free of the terrible weight. He rose to his knees and saw the hem of a woman’s gown and no fewer than fifty horse legs separating him from the white, daub-and-wattle walls of a well-kept stable, then it all came flooding back to him.
Vangerdahast craned his neck and found himself looking up at a fully armored company of Purple Dragons. With them were several familiar figures: a tall, gray-bearded man in dusty riding clothes and a golden field crown, a bushy-browed wizard with a plump face, a honey-haired beauty with eyes as blue as ice, a wiry priest with a thin, weather-beaten face. Azoun, Merula, Filfaeril, Owden-all staring at him with confused looks of horror on their faces.
Something fluttered next to Vangerdahast, and he looked over to see the tip of a leathery black wing beating the air.
“No!” He clambered to his feet, at once raising a hand to wave off his friends and whirling around to face the ghazneth. “Defend your-“
A black hand swept down to catch Vangerdahast in the side of the head, launching him end-over-end across the stable. He crashed down a dozen paces in front of Cadimus and tumbled onto his stomach, ears ringing and blood pouring from his opened scalp. His vision narrowed. He shook his head clear and thrust his hand into his cloak.
A dozen dragoneers managed to spur their mounts out to intercept the ghazneth. The dark creature streaked through them like an eagle through a field of gophers, then slapped the sword from Azoun’s hand and settled into the saddle facing the horrified king.
“Usurper!”
The ghazneth snatched the crown from Azoun’s head, then sank its filthy claws through his armor and hurled him from the saddle like a child’s rag doll. Vangerdahast felt a sudden wave of nausea, and the darkness began to close around him. He gritted his teeth and grabbed his favorite wand, willing the darkness to stay away.
A flurry of Purple Dragons whirled on the ghazneth, hacking and slashing. It beat them off with a few strokes of its dark wings, then the war wizards cut loose with bolt and flame. The ghazneth furled its wings and roared with laughter as the spells languished against its defenses, then leaped over a wall of guards to land atop Filfaeril.
The barrage of war spells ceased as suddenly as it had started. The queen shrieked in terror, and the creature hid her behind its wings.
Vangerdahast’s vision continued to narrow. He pulled the wand from his cloak.
“No need to be frightened, my dear,” said the ghazneth. A mad cackle sounded from the other side of the leathery curtain. “I wouldn’t harm my queen-would I?”
The creature sprang into the air, Filfaeril clasped securely in its claws. Vangerdahast’s vision narrowed to a keyhole. He whipped his wand toward the queen’s flailing figure and shouted his command word as the keyhole closed.
11
The glyphs ringed the sycamore in an elegant spiral, as sinuous as a snake and as clearly defined as the day they were engraved. Though Tanalasta could not identify the era of the carving, she had studied enough elven literature to recognize the style as an archaic one. The letters flowed gracefully one to another, with long sweeping stems and cross arms that undulated so gently they appeared almost straight. While the language was definitely High Wealdan, the inscription itself seemed archaic and stilted, even by the standards of the Early Age of Orthorion.
This childe of men, lette his bodie nourishe this tree. The tree of this bodie, lette it growe as it nourishe. The spirit of this tree, to them lette it return as it grewe.
Tanalasta stopped reading after the first stanza and stepped back. Aside from its peculiar spellings and the reference to men, the inscription was the standard epitaph for a Tree of the Body, a sort of memorial created by the ancient elves of the Forest Kingdom. When an esteemed elf died, his fellows sometimes inscribed the epitaph in the trunk of a small sapling and buried the body beneath the tree’s roots. The princess did not understand all the details of the commemoration, but she had read a treatise suggesting only elves who had been a special blessing to their communities were honored in this way. In any event, she had visited several of these memorials during her short-lived travels with Vangerdahast and n
ever failed to be impressed by the majesty of the trees bearing such inscriptions.
The sycamore before her was a marked contrast to those ancient monuments. The tree was a warped and gnarled thing with a split trunk and a lopsided crown of crooked branches straying off into the sky at peculiar angles. Its yellow leaves looked like withered little hands dangling down to grasp at anything unlucky enough to pass beneath its boughs, and the bark changed from smooth and white on the branches to a mottled, scaly gray at eye level. The greatest difference of all lay at the base of the trunk, where a recently dug hole wormed down into the musty depths beneath the roots.
Tanalasta returned to the inscription and read the next stanza.
Thus the havoc bearers sleepe, the sleepe of no rests. Thus the sorrow bringers sow, the seeds of their ruins. Thus the deathe makers kille, the sons of their sons.
Tanalasta’s stomach began to feel hollow and uneasy. Curses were rare things in elven literature, even in the relatively angry era of King Orthorion’s early reign. Of course, the Royal Library did not contain works predating Orthorion-apparently, early Cormyreans had lacked either the time or interest to learn High Wealdan-but the princess found it difficult to believe that such curses had been any more common to pre-Orthorion poetry. Aside from a single famous massacre and a few lesser incidents, elves in the Age of Iliphar had been standoffish but peaceful.
Tanalasta followed the inscription around the tree and read the last stanza, which consisted of only a single line of summoning:
Here come ye, Mad Kang Boldovar, and lie among these rootes.
Tanalasta thought instantly of the crowned ghazneth that had disappeared with Vangerdahast, then stumbled back from the tree, hand pressed to her mouth, heart hammering in her chest. Boldovar the Mad was one of her own ancestors, a king of Cormyr more than eleven centuries before. According to the histories, he had slain a long succession of palace courtesans before being dragged off the battlements of Faerlthann’s Keep with one of his victims. The unfortunate woman had died on the spot, less because of the fall than the horrible wounds inflicted by the insane Boldovar.
