Beyond the High Road c-2

by Troy Denning

  She pulled her lips away from his long enough to run a fevered line of kisses up his neck, then whispered, “Rowen

  ” She had to stop to catch her breath. “We need a plan.”

  “I have one.”

  He loosened her belt, then ran a hand up the bare skin beneath her tunic. She shivered in delight and let her eyes roll back, feeling as though she would black out from sheer pleasure.

  “No…”

  When Rowen’s hand hesitated, she grabbed his wrist through her tunic and guided his palm to her naked breast.

  “I mean yes,” she gasped. “But what about the future?”

  Rowen’s fingers grew still. “I still can’t take you with me.” He started to withdraw his hand-then stopped when Tanalasta clamped her elbow across his arm. A wanton smile came to his lips, but-somehow-he managed to keep his mind off his desire long enough to say, “There’s no telling how long it will take to find Vangerdahast, and-“

  “And I must show the king what I’ve found as soon as possible-I know.” Tanalasta reached for his belt and began to fumble with the buckle. She was so nervous-or was it excited?-that her hands were trembling. “How do you get this thing off?”

  “Just like yours.”

  Rowen arched his back to give her a better angle, and the prong finally came out of the hole. Tanalasta grabbed the hem of his tunic and lifted it to his shoulders. Her stomach filled with butterflies, and she decided she was the luckiest princess in Faeriin. She leaned over and kissed her way up toward his neck.

  Rowen moaned softly, then fell silent and still. For a moment, Tanalasta feared she had done something wrong-or, recalling her own trembling hands, thought perhaps he’d grown too excited too quickly (having read in Miriam Buttercake’s Treatise on Good Wifery that men sometimes suffered such disappointments), but that turned out not to be the case. As suddenly as he had fallen quiet, Rowen pulled her mouth to his and gave her a long, lingering kiss.

  When he finished, he looked deeply into her eyes and said, “There is one thing that even kings and queens may not dictate, that only we may control.”

  Tanalasta nodded eagerly. “I know.”

  She started to pull her tunic off over her head, but Rowen caught her arm.

  “No. I mean there is a way to stop them from keeping us apart-but only if you are sure about risking your crown.”

  Tanalasta did not even hesitate. “I’m thirty-six years old. If I can’t make a decision by now, what kind of queen would I be anyway?”

  Rowen smiled, then rolled to his knees and picked up the seed bag that lay beside the plot of ground she had been preparing. He pulled a single columbine seed from inside and placed it in his open palm. Tanalasta stared at the kernel for a long time. She was more nervous than ever, with her pulse rushing in her ears and her heart fluttering up into her throat.

  Finally, she gathered her wits and asked, “The Seed Ceremony?”

  Rowen nodded. “If you will have me.”

  Tanalasta rose to her own knees. “Are you doing this for me-or for the realm?”

  “Neither.” Rowen continued to hold the seed in his palm. “I am doing it for me.”

  The rushing sound vanished from Tanalasta’s ears, and her heart settled back down into her chest where it belonged. “Good answer.”

  She placed her palm over the seed in Rowen’s hand, and they began the invocation. “Bless us, O Chauntea, as we bless this seed, that all we nurture may grow healthy and strong.”

  With their free hands, Tanalasta and Rowen dug a single small hole in the plot she had prepared, then the princess grabbed her waterskin and dampened the soil.

  “We prepare this bed with love and joy,” Rowen said.

  Together, they placed the seed in the hole and covered it with dirt.

  Tanalasta began the next part. “In the name of Chauntea, let the roots of what we plant today grow deep…”

  “And the stalk stand strong…”

  “And the flower bloom in brilliance…”

  “And the fruit prove abundant.”

  They finished together, then poured more water the planting and kissed. This time, it was Rowen who pulled Tanalasta’s tunic over her head.

  18

  The royal wizard’s bones were acting their age. After more than a tenday of ghazneth-chasing, his hips throbbed, his back hurt, and the last thing he wanted to do was crawl up a rocky hillside on his hands and knees to spy on a tribe of swiners. That was what Royal Scouts were for… but Vangerdahast was fresh out of Royal Scouts. Owden Foley had found the last one earlier that morning-a bloated, blotchy red corpse blanketed in stinging ants. There had been no question of touching the thing. They had simply poured a flask of torch oil over the body, commended the man’s soul to Helm, and set him alight. Now the royal magician had to do his own spying.

  Vangerdahast crested the hill and found himself looking across the vast, fog-laced expanse of the Farsea Marsh. Stretching to the horizon, it was a sweep of golden-green tallgrass with channels of bronze water meandering past scattered copses of swamp poplar and bog spruce. The place teemed with cormorants and black egrets, all as raucous as a band of goblins, and swarms of black insects glided through the grass in hazy amorphous clouds.

  On the near shore, several orc tribes were camped together on a rocky spur of land that jutted out into the marsh perhaps a thousand paces. The males had broken into four large companies and retreated to separate corners of the little peninsula for formation drills and weapons training. The females and children were clustered around tribal fires working, or wading through the shallows in search of fish and crustaceans. A two-story keep of dried mud stood at the end of the promontory, overlooking the marsh on three sides and guarded landward by a timber drawbridge. Its blocky construction and rounded arrow loops were evocative of ancient Cormyrean architecture. From the second-story windows oozed a strange aura of darkness that clung to the place like a death shroud.

  The water around the keep gleamed silver with floating fish. Clouds of insects swirled through the orc camps, filling the air with a drone that was enough to drive Vangerdahast mad even a hundred and fifty paces inland. A strange network of tiny crevices stretched along the center of the peninsula, discharging thick curtains of yellow-gray smoke into the sky. Every plant within a hundred yards of the promontory had withered and died, and a carpet of gray mold was fanning outward from its base. The slope between Vangerdahast’s hiding place and the shore was strewn with deer carcasses, all so putrid that even orcs would not eat them.

  The royal magician waved to his deputies, and he was joined presently by the acting commander of his Purple Dragons and the interim master of the company’s war wizards. Alaphondar and Owden followed the pair uninvited, but Vangerdahast did not object. The Royal Sage Most Learned would need to record what followed, while Harvestmaster Foley’s opinions were often worth the hearing-provided Vangerdahast did not put himself in the position of seeming to elicit them.

  Vangerdahast pointed at the mud keep and said nothing.

  “Tanalasta is inside?” asked Owden.

  “I’ll know that when I get inside.”

  Owden nodded. “I suppose that’s the only way to find out.”

  Vangerdahast’s stomach sank. The truth was he could not even be sure the ghazneths were inside, and he had been hoping Owden would suggest an easy way to find out. Instead, it appeared they would have to storm the keep-and with less than half the company remaining.

  Vangerdahast took a deep breath, then said, “Here’s my plan.” He quickly outlined what he wanted, making both commanders repeat their instructions. When they had done so, he turned to Owden, giving the priest one last opportunity to make him look like a fool. “I’m assuming the ghazneths are inside because orcs don’t normally practice drills.”

  “Or share encampments, or build keeps fashioned in the style of ancient Cormyr,” added Owden, “and because we haven’t seen them in the last half-day. What are we waiting for?”

 
“Nothing, it would seem.” Vangerdahast nodded to his subcommanders, who retreated twenty paces down the hill to prepare their men.

  As soon as they were gone, Alaphondar asked, “You two do realize there’s more to this than meets the eye?”

  “Are you referring to the keep?” asked Owden. “Its significance hasn’t escaped me.”

  “What significance?” asked Vangerdahast.

  “What the keep means,” explained Alaphondar. “Historically, citadels built in such forlorn places are home to some embattled, ever-watchful spirit.”

  “I’d call that a fair description of the ghazneths,” said Vangerdahast.

  “And I would call it a description of their master,” said Owden. “We are entering the world of the phantom, my friend. You would do well to listen to your soul.”

  Vangerdahast regarded the priest sourly. “My soul tells me that an ancient spirit would not inhabit a keep built of mud. In this climate, such places tend to melt rather quickly.”

  “Which is why we must consider the ghazneths’ reason for building beside a rainy marsh in the first place,” said Alaphondar. “Have you read Ali Binwar’s treatise, Of the Four Natures?”

  Vangerdahast rolled his eyes. “Sadly, I have better things to do with my time than waste it on idle reading.”

  “Gladly, I do not,” said Owden. “You are referring to the chapter on elemental amalgamation?”

  A gleam came to Alaphondar’s eyes. “Exactly. In the marsh, we have the fusion of earth and water, but the absence of air or fire. The idle elements combined, the vigorous excluded.”

  “Perfect conditions for spiritual decomposition,” agreed Owden. “We will have to be careful.”

  “Indeed, but it’s not you I was thinking about.” Alaphondar waved a hand down the rocky hillside. “There are plenty of stones about. Why build the keep of mud?”

  Owden’s eyes widened in alarm. “Because mud combines the nourishing power of earth with the dissolving properties of water.”

  “Yes-the perfect medium for transformation.” Alaphondar pointed to the mud tower. “Give it a shape, add a little fire and some air, and a few days later you have a keep.”

  “Or give it a spark of life, and you have a ghazneth,” said Owden.

  Vangerdahast frowned. “What are you saying?” When no one replied, his imagination supplied its own answer. “That they are trying to make a ghazneth of Tanalasta?”

  “That might explain why the ghazneths have been working so hard to keep us away from here,” said Alaphondar.

  Vangerdahast felt a growing hollow in the pit of his stomach. “Don’t be ridiculous! Boldovar’s crypt wasn’t anywhere near a marsh.”

  “Marshes have been known to dry up,” said the sage.

  Vangerdahast started to counter that there had been no sign of a keep, but a thousand years was a longtime. So many seasons of spring rains would have destroyed any sign that the grave had ever been guarded by a mud fortress. Instead, be asked, “What about the tree? I doubt we’ll find any elven poets in an orc camp.”

  “The thought does strike me as something of a self-contradiction,” said Owden, “but there are many things we don’t know-“

  “Including the keep’s purpose.” Vangerdahast began to inch back down the hill. “I’ll hear no more of this philosophical nonsense. We could argue in circles all day, and it would make no difference. If Tanalasta is in there, we must rescue her.”

  “And if she is not, we must make a ghazneth tell us where she is,” said Owden.

  The priest started down the hill after Vangerdahast, and Alaphondar crawled toward his assigned hiding place in a jumble of boulders. No one suggested using a spell to locate the princess. If she was not a prisoner already, the magic would lead the ghazneths to her like an arrow.

  As they parted ways, Alaphondar paused. “Good luck, my friends, and be careful.”

  “We’ll be safe enough,”Vangerdahast assured him. “It’s you who is taking the risk, staying here alone. You remember my signal?”

  Alaphondar nodded. “The shooting star.” He gestured toward his weathercloak’s escape pocket. “I’ll rejoin the company as soon as I see it.”

  “Good. If we have the princess, we can’t wait around long,” said Vangerdahast. “If we don’t, there won’t be time to look for you.”

  “And if matters go badly, Alaphondar, don’t even think of joining us,” added Owden. “You won’t be able to help, and someone will need to inform the king.”

  “Preferably in person.” Vangerdahast tapped the throat clasp on Owden’s weathercloak. “So don’t use this unless you must. It would be nice if you lived long enough to chronicle what little we’ve learned about these things.”

  Alaphondar nodded reluctantly. “I know, I know-my pen is my sword.”

  He wished them luck again, then turned away. Vangerdahast and Owden returned to their horses and mounted.

  What remained of the Royal Excursionary Company sat ready and waiting, an unclasped weathercloak draped over the shoulders of every rider. Though the cloaks were standard issue only for war wizards, the company had lost so many men they now had one for even the lowest-ranking dragoneer.

  Vangerdahast nodded, and the company closed their throat clasps. The war wizards began to sprinkle powdered steel over everyone in the company, filling the air with magic incantations as they cast their spells of shielding. The royal magician did the same for himself and Owden, then looked toward the top of the hill. Alaphondar was kneeling in the midst of the boulder jumble, squinting down toward the keep and holding one arm up to signal.

  “Be ready!” Vangerdahast started Cadimus up the hill at a walk, motioning the company to follow. “Stragglers will pay dearly.”

  They had nearly reached the hilltop before Alaphondar’s arm finally dropped. Vangerdahast slapped his heels into Cadimus’s flanks, urging the big stallion into a run. The air began to resonate with the drumming of hooves. The clamor of an alarm bell rang out across the marsh, followed by a tumult of grunting and squealing.

  The royal magician crested the hill to see five hundred orcs scurrying toward the neck of the peninsula. Ahead of the swiners flew five streaks of darkness, their black wings mere blurs as they shot forward to meet the Royal Excursionary Company. Vangerdahast’s heart sank. They had never before seen more than three ghazneths at a time.

  The charge started down the front of the hill and picked up speed. Vangerdahast’s old knees began to ache from squeezing Cadimus so hard. The ghazneths continued to climb higher as they approached, and they were a hundred feet in the air by the time the company crossed the neck of the peninsula. The royal magician slipped one hand inside his weathercloak and found the escape pocket, craning his neck to keep watch on the rising phantoms. At last, when he judged them to be two hundred feet above the ground, they wheeled around to fall on the company from behind.

  Vangerdahast looked forward again and saw the orcs forming ranks along the neck of the peninsula, their officers pushing and shoving frightened warriors into short stretches of line. The swiners were armed with an odd assortment of spears, swords, and pikes-whatever they happened to be holding at the moment the alarm was sounded. Even without magic, it would have been an easy matter to break through their defenses, but the royal magician was in no mood to waste time in melee, especially with the ghazneths swooping down on them from behind.

  Vangerdahast fixed his gaze on a tribal campsite about two hundred paces shy of the keep, looking past a long line of orcs streaming down the peninsula to meet the charge. He could barely make out the distant figures of females and children, turning to stare after their warriors and shake their arms in encouragement. They were in for a big surprise.

  Vangerdahast thrust his hand into the escape pocket, and a large black square appeared directly ahead of him. Cadimus whinnied and tried to veer off, but there was no time. He hit the doorway at a full gallop, and Vangerdahast experienced that familiar feeling of dark, endless falling.

&nbs
p; An instant later, he burst back into the light, head spinning and ears ringing with astonished squeals and grunts. Cadimus stumbled, something shrieked, and Vangerdahast took a blow across the shin. He looked down, but his vision was still a blur, and he could not imagine what might have happened. The sound of drumming hooves began to build around him, and the world erupted into a cacophony of shrieking and snorting. Cadimus ricocheted off something soft but sturdy, then bumped into something just as soft and sturdy on the other side, and the round shape of a horse’s rear end came into focus ahead of Vangerdahast.

  The wizard shook his head clear, recalling that he was in the middle of a cavalry charge. He began to make out the shapes of dazed horses and glassy-eyed men all around, all galloping forward at a full sprint, all oblivious to the blocky keep standing at the end of the peninsula just fifty paces ahead.

  “Halt!” Vangerdahast reined Cadimus in, being careful not to pull up so short that he caused a collision with the horse behind him. “Stop! Stop!”

  Slowly, the rest of the company began to heed his orders. By the time Vangerdahast reached the keep, the charge had slowed to an amble, with horses stumbling about blindly and men struggling to shake their heads clear. The ground at this end of the peninsula was striped with hairline crevices, all spewing yellow fumes and fouling the air with the acrid stink of brimstone. Clouds of mosquitoes, wasps, and flies drifted back and forth through the smoke, biting, stinging, and filling Vangerdahast’s ears with their maddening drone.

  He wheeled Cadimus around and found himself looking back at the remnant of an orc camp. There were hides and half-cooked food strewn everywhere, and the terrified females were herding their stunned young into the marsh. About two dozen grizzled males, and a like number of husky females, were scuttling forward with crooked hunting spears clutched in their hands.

  Vangerdahast maneuvered Cadimus through a tangle of afterdazed dragoneers and waved his hand across the width of the peninsula, uttering a long and complicated incantation. Unlike many spells, this one required no material components, but it required half a minute of tongue-twisting chanting. Before he finished, the swiner elders began hurling spears in his direction, and the ghazneths appeared in the sky over the promontory, streaking back toward the keep. Though he could not see the main body of the orc army, he felt sure it would be charging up the peninsula to defend the keep.