by Troy Denning
Owden rose unsteadily into the air, blocking Vangerdahast’s view of Cadimus’s mad charge. “Ready!”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Vangerdahast turned away and glided into the keep’s marble darkness.
19
From the hilltop where Alaphondar lay hiding, the keep appeared as a mere thumb-sized box at the heart of a slow-swirling spiral of brownish marsh haze. The men of the Royal Excursionary Company-what remained of them-were tiny stick figures glimpsed occasionally through the smoke and flame at the peninsula tip. The orcs were a frothing mass waiting in the water, while the ghazneths looked like four shadows and a single tongue of flame pressed to the face of the invisible wall. Now and again, Alaphondar’s hill would vibrate with the low rumble of an explosion, or the air would smell briefly of brimstone or scorched flesh. Otherwise, the battle had drawn in on itself, leaving him blind to the events below and frightened for his companions.
The one thing he could see clearly-the marsh mist spiraling in toward the keep-worried him more than anything. Aside from seeming rather unnatural, it suggested an ominous gathering of forces, as if the tower were drawing inward the Royal Excursionary Company, the ghazneths and orcs, even the corrupting energies of the marsh itself. Alaphondar felt quite certain that Vangerdahast wouldn’t notice the pattern, or appreciate its significance even if he did. The royal magician was a man of many strengths, but philosophical insight was not among them-and especially not in the midst of battle.
Alaphondar started to reach for his throat clasp, then pulled his hand away and rose from his hiding place. Even if he were to contact Vangerdahast, what would he say? I’ve noticed a suspicious pattern? The old wizard would only bark at him for drawing the ghazneth’s attention to himself-and rightly so. To be any help to his friends, the old sage needed more information.
Alaphondar descended the hill at the best pace his old legs could manage, then retrieved his spyglass from his saddlebags and started back up the hill. When he had first shown his invention to Vangerdahast, decades before, the old curmudgeon had mocked it as a “four-foot monocle” and asked why anyone would suffer such a blurry jumpy image when a simple clairvoyance spell could produce a perfectly clear vision. Alaphondar had accepted the criticism gracefully and muttered something about improving the opticals.
When Alaphondar reached the crest of the hill and raised the spyglass to his eye, the image was not blurry at all-nor was it jumpy, so long as he steadied the end of the viewing tube on a boulder. The keep now appeared as tall as his arm, and even through the gauzy yellow smoke, he could see Owden Foley flying behind Vangerdahast through a windowlike breach. Strangely, the timber gate now seemed to be sheathed in dark iron, while the building’s lower story had taken on the glossy appearance of black marble.
A series of silver flashes silhouetted Vangerdahast in the dark portal, waving a wand around the chamber’s dark interior. Outside, another six inches of wall darkened from mud to marble, and the sage had a sinking feeling he had guessed right about the significance of the keep’s location. It had been built to protect something coming out of the marsh, and Vangerdahast’s magic was hastening matters along.
A war wizard stepped into view and began to gesture at the portal as though casting a spell. To Alaphondar’s astonishment, a dozen dragoneers swarmed the sorcerer at once. An iron wall appeared over their heads and fell on them all. Several warriors near the edges crawled from beneath the slab in various states of injury, then staggered to their feet and limped off with raised weapons. One pair turned to scramble into the keep and they were promptly blasted out of the portal by a lightning bolt. The others rushed off in the opposite direction.
Alaphondar shook his head at the madness, then noticed the company horses racing into the marsh. He swung the spyglass over to the charge and was astonished to find the terrified beasts stampeding into the orc horde, barreling into the front rank and forcing those behind to retreat or be trampled. The royal magician’s brave mount, Cadimus, was leading the assault, rearing up to slash both front hooves at any swiner between him and the open marsh. So fierce was the stallion’s assault that Alaphondar wondered if Vangerdahast had used some spell to drive the poor beast into a battle frenzy.
His curiosity vanished a moment later, when a ghazneth rose from the water behind Cadimus. The phantom spread its wings and raised an arm to point in the stallion’s direction, then slipped and nearly fell as another horse ran into one of its wings. The ghazneth spun around, spraying a long arc of crimson fire from its fingertip, and pointed into the oncoming stampede. A dark rift opened down the center, swallowing half a dozen beasts in the blink of an eye. A moment later, their smoking carcasses reappeared atop a blinding curtain of crimson fire.
A second ghazneth shot out of the water, then launched itself into the air with nebulous ribbons of darkness trailing from its wings. It began to circle back and forth over the stampede, dragging the black streamers across the heads of the charging horses. The beasts went wild, turning to bite at the others around them, or stopping to buck and kick at the beasts pressing them from behind.
The charge began to falter. A third ghazneth rose from the water and launched itself over the orcs, yelling and gesturing wildly into the stampede. To a warrior, the swiners turned and flung themselves against the charge, hacking and slashing with their primitive weapons and paying no heed to their own lives. The horses responded in a like manner, stopping in the middle of the horde to bite and kick, or even wheeling around after they had cleared the fighting to wade back into the fray. Only Cadimus and a handful of sturdy beasts in the front part of the charge escaped the ghazneth’s influence and continued forward.
The fourth and fifth ghazneths rose together from a spreading circle of browning marsh grass. One launched itself after the escaping horses, swooping in from behind to sprinkle them with brown droplets from its wet wings. The beasts slowed almost at once, flecks of white foam spewing from their nostrils. Only Cadimus escaped, hurling himself into the marsh on his side and disappearing beneath the water.
Not waiting to see whether the stallion surfaced again, Alaphondar swung his spyglass back to the last ghazneth. The creature had alighted on a powerful bay that was rearing up in the middle of the battle, jaws clamped around one foe’s neck and forefeet slashing at two more. The ferocious beast split one orc’s skull, pinned the second beneath the water, bit through the third one’s spine, and went to work on its unwelcome rider, bucking and whirling and biting in a mad effort to tear the phantom from its back.
The horse tired only a moment later. Its coat suddenly grew dull and grizzled, its face became gaunt, and the muscle melted from its body. The beast dropped to its side and rolled, trying one last trick to unseat its rider. The ghazneth merely leaped to another mount, leaving the bay to drown in the marsh.
Alaphondar lowered the spyglass and sank behind the boulder, his veins running cold at what he was seeing: fire and fury, darkness, disease and decay-five primal forces wielded by five dark phantoms Emperel had been chasing when he disappeared. The implications were manifest. Emperel guarded the Lords Who Sleep, a secret company of Cormyrean knights hibernating against the day when a prophesy uttered by the great sage of Candlekeep, Alaundo the Seer, came true:
Seven scourges-five long gone, one of the day, and one soon to come-open the door no man can close. Out come the armies of the dead and the legions of the devil made by itself to sweep all Cormyr away in ruin, unless those long dead rise to stand against them.
Boldovar was a scourge long gone, now returned bearing darkness and lunacy. Alaphondar did not know the names of the other ghazneths, but it seemed reasonable to assume they might also be scourges from Cormyr’s past. He could list a dozen eligible names off the top of his head, and those were just kings.
That left only two scourges, “one of the day” and “one soon to come,” to open the “door no man can close.” Alaphondar’s next thought made his chest tighten. Tanalasta might well be
one of those scourges. Certainly, Vangerdahast had predicted dire consequences for the realm if the princess proceeded with her plan to establish a royal temple, and the Royal Sage Most Learned knew enough history to realize that royal magicians were seldom mistaken about such things.
Alaphondar forced himself to stand. Cadimus was creeping toward the shore, having eluded the orcs and ghazneths by circling into the marsh and ducking into a thicket of high grass. The rest of the horses lay near the peninsula, floating in the shallows or piled high along the shore, thwarting the orcs’ progress as they clambered ashore. The ghazneths seemed to be hanging back to urge the horde onward, apparently unconcerned that Vangerdahast had entered their keep. Of course, they had little reason to worry, since every spell the wizard cast transformed another few inches of mud into hard marble.
Alaphondar raised the spyglass to his eye. The tower was already black to three-quarters of its height, with the marsh’s brown haze swirling around it in tight spirals. Close to the ground, the cloud was so thick he could no longer see the wall itself only the silver flicker of Vangerdahast’s battle spells flashing through the gaping breach. Alaphondar was disheartened to see his friend had made so little progress. By the time he reached Tanalasta, the tower would be solid marble and completely swaddled in brown fog.
What remained of the Royal Excursionary Company had gathered about twenty paces in front of the keep. Incredibly, the small force was trying to ready itself for a charge. The dragoneers were holding their iron swords and pushing and shoving each other into a rough semblance of a double rank. The two surviving war wizards stood together in the center of the second line, facing each other and gesturing angrily. Alaphondar could not imagine what the dragoneers expected to accomplish, but their jerky motions and comical efforts at organizing themselves suggested they had fallen prey to Boldovar’s dark madness.
The sage was about to lower the spyglass and start down the hill when a cloud of insects rolled over the company from behind. The men flew into a frenzy, breaking ranks to slap wildly at themselves and each other-sometimes with the flats of their iron blades. The two wizards pulled spell components from their pockets and spun around, gesturing toward the top of the keep. Neither managed to complete his spell. One suddenly covered his eyes and fell writhing, and the other dropped when an errant sword caught him across the back of the neck.
Alaphondar turned his spyglass toward the keep, tracing the black cloud to a second story arrow loop. Though the tower interior remained dark and impenetrable, he had little doubt what he would have found inside, had he been able to see: the sixth ghazneth, master of swarms and Scourge of the Day.
Leaving his spyglass where it lay, Alaphondar stepped from behind the boulder and started down the front of the hill, then thought better of rushing into danger with no backup plan. He took his note journal from his weathercloak pocket and fished out a writing lead, then scrawled a message on a blank page.
You who read this, I pray you be loyal to the Purple Dragon and perform a vital service to your king. If you be one of the few who know the Sleeping
Sword, then go and awaken it at once-the scourges have come, and the door is opening. If this be nonsense to you, then I pray you carry this note to the king in all haste and present it to him at once. May wise Oghma watch over this message and see it delivered to the right hand,
Alaphondar Emmarask,
Sage Most Learned to the Royal Court of Cormyr
Alaphondar tore the page from its book and did a quick signet rubbing, then opened his spyglass and slipped the message inside. If all went well, he would retrieve the note himself. If not, then whoever the king sent to investigate his absence would see the message when he found the device and looked inside. The sage slipped the spyglass down between two boulders, leaving enough exposed to attract the attention of someone searching the area for hints as to the fate of the Royal Excursionary Company, and started down toward the marsh.
Judging by the location of Vangerdahast’s prismatic wall, he needed to reach the bottom of the hill before he used his weathercloak’s escape pocket, and that would give him the time to do a quick sending. He closed his throat clasp and pictured Tanalasta’s face in his mind.
When Tanalasta noticed the trail, Alusair’s company was stumbling down into one of those narrow, steep canyons that meandered aimlessly through the Storm Horns, making any journey through the mountains a maddening exercise sweat, and so when she looked down through the pines and glimpsed a swath of churned earth running up the center of the marshy valley, she at first took the dark stripe to be a product of delirium. It had been six days since her last healing spell, and she knew from experience that such hallucinations became common as a person grew sicker. Five days after her wedding-it seemed like she had married Rowen years ago, though she thought the actual time was something little more than a tenday-they had dared to cast a round of healing spells and lost three men to a ghazneth attack. Since then they had resorted to magic only when they grew too ill to continue moving, and the ghazneths never failed to extract a heavy toll.
Finally, Tanalasta staggered out of the trees onto a grassy ribbon of valley floor and heard the lilting trickle of running water. A dozen paces ahead stood a tall stand of willows, screening the creek from view. Thirty paces beyond the creek rose the canyon’s southern wall, blanketed in pines and as steep as a rampart stairway. Drawn on by the promise of cold water to quench their fevers, the entire company lurched through the willows at a near run and dropped to their bellies on the stream bank and began to palm cool clear water into their throats.
Tanalasta was swallowing her third mouthful when she caught a faint whiff of the familiar, too-sweet odor of horse manure. She took one more drink, then rose and forded the creek across a series of stepping stones. Pushing through the willows on the other side, she found herself looking at the same swath of churned ground she had glimpsed earlier.
The trail was close to ten feet wide, with a generous coating of dried manure and a distinct trio of paths worn shoes, and a single set of smooth-soled boot prints lay superimposed over the center line of horseshoe tracks.
Rowen.
Tanalasta turned to call the others and found her sister already stepping out of the willows. Alusair dropped to her haunches and crumbled some of the horse manure between her fingers.
“It’s been a while,” she said. “Maybe a tenday.”
“But it was Vangerdahast.” Tanalasta pointed to the three trails. “According to the Steel -Princess’s Field Guide to Tactics of the Purple Dragon, that’s the standard riding formation for a company with a heavy complement of war wizards. Warriors shielding sorcerers.”
“You read that?” Alusair replied, lifting a brow. “I doubt half the lionars in the army have cracked the cover.”
“Perhaps because your style was stiff,” said Tanalasta.
“I’ll be happy to help you liven it up in a revision.”
Alusair’s tone grew as terse as her syntax. “There isn’t going to be a revision-there’s going to be an order.” She pointed at the boot print. “I suppose you’ve read my little book on tracking as well?”
“Of course, though it was clear that you hadn’t read Lanathar Manyon’s.” Ignoring the curl that came to her sister’s lip, Tanalasta squatted beside the print. “I think it’s safe to assume this track is Rowen’s. Because it’s on top of the horses, we know he was following them. He seemed to be in good health.”
Tanalasta pointed to the broadest part of the boot print, where a slight depression implied a swift, powerful stride.
Alusair inclined her head. “Very good. That should make you happy.”
“I’ll be happy when I see him again.” Tanalasta stood and looked up the dark strip of churned ground. She couldn’t see Rowen, of course, but it comforted her to know she stood on the same ground he had. “In his book, Lanathar claimed a careful observer could tell the age of a track by nothing more than its deterioration.”
“Roughly,�
� growled Alusair. “And if he claimed more, he was a damned liar.”
Tanalasta remained silent and allowed her sister to study the tracks. As she waited, the rest of the company forded the creek and came to stand with them. Two of the men wandered down the trail to make an evaluation of their own, but they were still crumbling manure when Alusair stood.
“I’d say the company came through eight to fifteen days ago. Rowen’s tracks are harder to place, but I’d guess about eight days.”
“Then it’s possible he has caught them by now,” surmised Tanalasta.
Alusair studied her a moment, then scowled and shook her head resolutely. “Don’t even think it! We’re going to Goblin Mountain, and that’s final.” She turned to her men. “Drink up and fill your waterskins. We’ve got a hill to climb before dark.”
“Why?” Tanalasta demanded, truly surprised. “Vangerdahast is bound to be closer.”
“Vangerdahast could be anywhere by now. And so could Rowen.”
“No, Rowen’s going to bring the company back this way. That’s what he’s trying to tell us,” Tanalasta said. When her sister frowned, she knew she was making progress and pointed at the boot prints. “Rowen isn’t this careless. If he left a trail, he wanted us to see it.”
Alusair shook her head. “He couldn’t know we’d cross here.”
“He knew we’d be coming over Marshview pass, and we’re only two days south of there,” Tanalasta said. “We’re going south, while the trail runs west. We had to cross it somewhere.”
Several men dared to murmur their agreement.
Alusair shot them a warning scowl, then looked back to Tanalasta. “You’re reading an awful lot into one set of boot prints. If you’re mistaken-“
“I’m not,” Tanalasta insisted. “I know Rowen.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Alusair’s face hardened, then she uncorked her waterskin and turned to fill it from the stream. “I’ve made up my mind. I won’t take these men chasing across the Storm Horns just because you’ve got an itch to share someone’s bedroll.”
