Cormyr c-1, page 29
part #1 of Cormyr Series
“I’m not,” Huldyl replied in a voice of doom. “This has all the feel of a home-brewed plot.”
“How so?” Kurthryn asked dubiously. “You think some old noble with a grudge or ambitious young one can get his hands on a dead-magic toxin? Someone who’s very powerful in magic must be involved, someone better than even our Lord High Wizard, or he’d have cured the king by now.”
“Unless he’s behind it all,” Huldyl returned. “Who better placed to lead priests astray? And those of us who tried to help, too? All your point about the means of slaying really tells us is that the traitor or traitors have money enough to buy powerful magic. The deadly means might have come from anywhere in Faerun… perhaps the far Tuigan Wastes, or the lands of the far south, or across the seas to the west. What better place to find something that’ll baffle our best healers?”
Kurthryn nodded. “That feels right, that argument-but nothing in your words really proves it’s traitors here at home. Cormyr has no shortage of foes who’d like to see it gone… rich Sembians who’d like to expand their holdings, in particular.”
“Ah,” Huldyl said, leaning forward, “but which of those outsiders wants their prize of Cormyr damaged or ruined by strife? None of them. Who can’t see any way to what they want but strife? Someone who dwells here and has a place in society he knows he can’t be budged from. And who would benefit most from Azoun’s death and chaos in Cormyr?”
“Well,” Kurthryn responded, “who? You tell me! Alusair doesn’t really want the crown. She’s happiest playing lady adventurer across half Faerun, at her own whim. Apparently Tanalasta doesn’t want it either. This Bleth would probably be happy as prince consort, but he dare not move quickly to take real power or half the nobles in the realm’ll set him straight-and have him murdered if he ignores their rebukes. All of the nobles would probably like to strengthen their influence, wealth, and holdings, but no one noble house will be allowed to rise above the rest once the Obarskyrs are gone. They all regularly backstab each other, and they have no central leader. Their distrust of each other is so strong that they could never have one!”
“Go on, master plotter,” Huldyl said eagerly, waving at his friend to continue.
Kurthryn took a deep breath and added, “The military is loyal, by and large, to whoever sits on the Dragon Throne. The people always suspect us war wizards of treachery against the crown, but surely if there was some plot within our ranks, we’d have heard of it or smelled something. Besides, Vangerdahast keeps us on a short leash.”
“It all comes back to Vangerdahast, doesn’t it?” Huldyl said grimly.
They nodded to each other, both facing the same unpleasant possibility. The Lord High Wizard was powerful enough, perhaps, to create the deadly poison. One war wizard who’d confronted the old mage about his planned regency had disappeared. Vangerdahast was spending a lot of time trotting around, whispering with nobles, but he had said nothing, beyond a few curt orders, to his own war wizards. Moreover, he was usually a master at spreading rumors and swaying the people-yet this time he’d done nothing in that line, even with the folk of Suzail blaming the royal plight on any wizard who was handy. What was the old vulture’s game?
“Well,” Kurthryn said heavily, “at least we know at last what has laid the royals low. If I know old Thunderspells-and he is as loyal as I believe him to be-we’ll probably have a cure for it in days.”
“Too late for Bhereu.”
“Too late for him, but we could even lose Baron Thomdor and survive. So long as the king does not die, Cormyr will see itself through this crisis as it has through so many others. Even a king lying abed for years will save us from civil war… I hope.”
“You have more hope in you than I do,” Huldyl said gloomily. “And-“
Whatever else he may have said was lost forever as a lone figure in blue and silver, stumbling a little, came forlornly up the hall toward them. It was the priestess of Tymora, Gwennath, coming from the direction of the royal quarters. She was as white as Kurthryn’s chess pieces.
The war wizards exchanged a look, and Kurthryn put out a gentle hand. “Lady? Is there aught we can do for you?”
“Pray,” the priestess said in a trembling voice. “Pray for me… and for him… and for the realm. I have failed. Baron Thomdor is dead.”
She shook off his comforting hand, burst into tears, and strode away, sobbing out a prayer to Tymora.
The two wizards looked at each other again. “Check,” Huldyl said bitterly, moving his bat-mounted mage to threaten Kurthryn’s king.
Slowly Kurthryn reached out and tipped Galaghard over to signify his surrender. “We’d better go see,” he said wearily, and they got up in a swirl of robes and strode down the hall. Although they hurried, there was really no need to hurry now.
When they were gone, the moonstone queen that had felt odd to Kurthryn’s fingers earlier pulsed, shifted its position slightly, and then slowly flowed, like syrup, down over the edge of the board to the floor, where it rose, growing with terrifying speed, to become… a woman in a plain, dark, revealingly cut gown. She wore a locket on a black ribbon at her throat, with hair the color of honey and eyes like warm flames.
Emthrara the Harper, who with Laspeera had unlocked the secrets of the abraxus, unclenched her right fist. In her hand was a white chess piece: the queen she’d been. She set it on the proper square of the board, murmured, “Check indeed, good sirs,” and glided to one wall of the antechamber, where her deft fingers probed, pushed, and finally opened a hitherto hidden door in the paneling. Without a backward look, she slipped into the darkness beyond and was gone. The door shut behind her with the faintest of clicks, leaving the room dark and empty. Once more this part of the palace felt like a tomb.
Chapter 20: Battle of the Witch Lords
Year of the Thirsty Sword (900 DR)
It was not a meeting they had time for, thought Aosinin Truesilver, but then it was not a meeting they could afford to miss, either. By rights, King Galaghard, his noble court, and High Wizard Thanderahast should be seeing to the last details of the planned assault in the morning. But these were elves, and these elves demanded immediate attention.
Their appearance was both ominous and telling. For the past three months, the Glory of Cormyr, the army of the king, had met and routed the Witch Lords’ armies time and time again. At the fords of Wheloon, at the forgotten temple, at Juniril and again at the Manticore’s Crossing, each time overrunning the Witch Lords’ position and trampling their undead troops beneath the hooves of good Cormyrean steeds. Yet their foe had risen from the dead again and again-literally.
From each battle, the most powerful Witch Lord necromancers slipped away, to regroup with forces of moldering fighting men freshly disinterred. Now the Glory of Cormyr had ridden to the limits of their supplies and trapped the remaining human mercenaries and levies of the Witch Lords flat against the western verges of the Vast Swamp. A victory here would break their power in Cormyr forever and free the eastern half of the realm from their threat.
Yet on the eve of the assault, a rider arrived, with the news that a great pavilion had suddenly appeared behind the king’s forces. Its green and yellow spires rose like new mountains in the darkness, lit from within by their own radiance.
These were not simply elves of the woods, who had always passed through the kingdom, moreso since the fall of their greatest city. They were noble elves, the first to arrive in Cormyr since the fall of Myth Drannor. Noble elves who demanded a reception.
“They couldn’t have picked a worse time,” muttered Thanderahast as they drew near the entrance. Save for the wizard, everyone in the small party of Cormyreans approaching the pavilion was in full battle armor, including the king, the High Priest of Helm, and several nobles, among them Aosinin Truesilver, the king’s cousin.
“You would snub them, then, and risk seeing their forces arrayed alongside those of the Witch Lords?” asked the king in a low voice.
“We may see them there yet, Sire,” said one of the Dauntinghorns. “The elves have always been treacherous. Not fifteen winters ago, they repelled the Sembians and their Chondathan mercenaries in the Battle of the Singing Arrows despite the fall of Myth Drannor.”
“Don’t speak nonsense,” snapped the wizard. “The Sembians were logging elven lands heavily, thinking that with their cities gone, the elves would be weak. The power of the elves has never been in cities but in the forest itself. Now, hold your tongue, for the ears of the elves are as sharp as their skin is thin.”
One of the Illances made a joke about the sharp, pointed nature of elven ears, but he was shushed by his fellows. The party entered the pavilion.
Its interior had a ghostly, ethereal quality. There were elves on all sides, lounging on broad pillows. They sipped fluted glasses of glowing fluids, regarding the passing humans as if they were mongrel dogs who had wandered into a dinner party. Then the elves turned their attention back to their own dealings. Somewhere in the distance, a sad lute was being played, joined by a wispy thin, haunting voice that just caught the edges of their hearing.
The greatest chamber of the pavilion was nearly empty. A pair of guards stood at the entrance, clad in finely-made but archaic chain mail. Across the chamber stood the twisted stump of an ancient tree, a living throne into which three seats had been carved. Two of the seats were empty. The third, the farthest to the right, was occupied by a single cadaverous figure.
Aosinin reached for his sword, thinking this was one of the Witch Lords and that they were standing in the heart of an enormous trap. He relaxed only when he realized that the figure was an elf… though a very ancient elf, it seemed.
The figure on the throne was clad from head to toe in chain, its ornately shaped links as fine as any that could be crafted in Suzail, even by dwarven hands. Its design, like the mail worn by the guards, was archaic, and many of the links were thin enough from wear to appear nearly translucent. The elf’s face was elongated, his cheeks and eyes deeply sunken, his remaining hair silver-white and flowing from a receding forehead.
Aosinin had never seen an elf this old before. And yet something about the figure seemed familiar… like the mage Thanderahast. There was something similar in the elf’s fluid, well-practiced movements, the grace of well, a near immortal, Aosinin supposed.
The elf lord waited for the royal party to reach the foot of the throne before speaking. His voice sounded like an old book opening for the first time in a century. “So these are the children of Ondeth and Faerlthann? Somehow I expected more.”
The king took a pace ahead of the others. “I am King Galaghard the Third, royal head of Cormyr, called the Forest Kingdom, the Wolf Woods, and the Land of the Purple Dragon. This is my Royal Wizard, Thanderahast, of the blood of Baerauble himself. And the mightiest men of my noble court.”
The elf regarded the humans for a long moment, and Aosinin wondered if these elf lords could cast death magic without moving an eyelid. At length, he said, “I am Othorion Keove, last of the house of Iliphar Nelnueve, the Lord of Scepters. Do you remember me?”
Thanderahast stepped forward. “We know of the tales of great Iliphar and of that first coronation of Faerlthann nearly nine centuries back. I fear we have lost much of the records of his court, but we welcome you back to Cormyr.”
The elf regarded the wizard stonily. “You are the blood of old Baerauble Elf-friend? The blood must be thin indeed by now, though I believe something magical pulses through your veins, allowing you a long life as old Baerauble had.”
Instead of replying, the wizard chose to ignore the venom in the remark. “The same magic that probably pulses through your noble brow as well, lord elf. I am surprised to see one so ancient outside the elven homeland of Evermeet.”
The elf nodded. “I have resisted the call of Evermeet the Fair for many years in order to fight against the human incursions, to fight against the fiends of the pit who claimed Myth Drannor, and lately to fight against the southerners who sought to claim our forests unasked.”
King Galaghard stepped forward. “May we ask why you are here, lord elf?”
“I thought to do a little hunting,” said the elf. “Tell me, do you still have forest buffalo here?”
Thanderahast broke in. “I fear not, Venerable Othonon. They vanished long ago.”
“Giant owlbears, then?” suggested the elf lord. “Or envenomed pumas, or great rugs?”
“They are no more as well, lord elf,” the wizard replied.
Othorion Keove regarded the humans coldly. “You haven’t really taken care of our lands very well, have you?”
Now the king stepped forward once more. “We tend to the land as best as we are able. There are still great forests in Cormyr, which cannot be said of neighboring Sembia, and trees here that stood when your Lord of Scepters was here last. The forested domains are smaller, but they have served us well and have been well tended and mastered.”
Thanderahast tried to speak, but the king gave him no chance, continuing, “We have defended this land from dragons and from orcs, from pirates and from evil sorcerers. On the morrow, we set out in one last battle against the evil forces of the necromantic Witch Lords. We have protected this land and its people because long ago we made a promise to your liege to do so. We have nothing to apologize for to any elf, lord or no.”
Aosinin thought he saw a small smile break across the elf lord’s face. “I see the blood of Faerlthann runs thick and true in his descendants. Your first king had such fire, and his words were sharp, while those of Baerauble were cloying and tricky. It is pleasant to see that threats and bold speech, at least, have not changed. Am I not welcome to hunt within your woods?”
“You are welcome, Othorion Keove,” said the king quickly. “Welcome as an old friend of the land. I apologize in advance for not keeping sufficiently dangerous creatures at hand for your return. I ask only that you trouble none of the citizens of this land, nor harm them in any way. For they, like the land, are in my trust, and I am obligated to protect them.”
The elf nodded silently and the king continued. “If you will excuse me and my brethren, then, we must prepare for our own hunt on the morrow. There are few hours between now and then, and we must make the best use of them.”
The elf lord nodded and raised a hand slowly in dismissal.
Thanderahast said quickly, “The battle tomorrow, O elf lord… we could use any aid you could muster.”
A wintry smile twisted Othorion’s lips. “The Witch Lords’ representative has been here and gone already with a similar invitation, hedged with hidden threats and blatant promises. I will tell you what I told him: I am here for the hunting. But that one did give me a message for you, child of Baerauble. He said that Luthax sends his regards.”
The mage’s face went pale, and he stiffened visibly. Then he bowed low and joined the others in leaving the tent. None of the elves paid the grim, armored humans any attention.
The ride back was a time of low whispers. They did not talk of elves, but rather of the upcoming battle. Marsember had sent some desperately needed infantry, fresh but untried. They would stand on the left flank. The veteran Purple Dragons would hold the right, backed up by Thanderahast’s apprentices. Arabel had sent troops, but even their marching was a shaky, undisciplined affair, they might well prove unreliable. Their ranks would be seasoned with veteran militia from Suzail and placed in the center, near the king and the main vanguard. Those nobles not leading specific units would be mounted and go into battle flanking the royal forces, behind the central troops.
They returned to the camp to find nothing amiss, though there had been activity and many fires in the Witch Lord encampments. The goblins and orcs in the necromancers’ host preferred to fight in the dark, but the presence of human troops meant that they would have to wait until daylight.
The nobles congregated to confirm the battle plan one last time, then broke for the evening. The nobles who had brought their own units returned to their camps, and the wizards retired to their meditations. Soon only a handful were left.
Throughout, King Galaghard was mostly silent, marshaling his words as if they were strength, even after the others had dispersed. At length, he rose. “I want to check the perimeter one last time. Truesilver, walk with me.”
Aosinin strode alongside the king, and the two paced in silence along the hard-packed earth. Finally Truesilver could contain himself no longer and asked, “Cousin, who is Luthax?”
The king looked out over the wide valley that come the dawn would be their battlefield. High fires blazed in the Witch Lords’ camp, and he could imagine the orcs and ogres and trolls dancing about the flames. He said, “Luthax is an old rival of Thanderahast’s, I believe, from before he became the High Wizard.”
“I cannot imagine anything still being around from before Thanderahast was High Wizard,” said Aosinin.
Galaghard smiled in the moonlit darkness. “Wizards live forever, and their rivalries longer than that. I worry that the wizard will forget his loyalty to the crown in the heat of battle, particularly if an old foe has aligned himself with the Witch Lords. Yet many beings in Faerun are older than Thanderahast. That old elf lord, for one. He was hunting here before our ancestors arrived.”
“I didn’t think elves lived that long,” said Aosinin.
“They don’t,” responded the king. “I think he has some of the same magic that keeps Thanderahast and the other wizards going for centuries. Yet he, the elf lord, expected to return here and find all as it was-forests instead of fields, monsters instead of cattle, trees instead of homesteads. It makes me worry.”
“Worry, Sire?” asked Aosinin.
The two passed a guard. Salutes were exchanged, and Galaghard continued only once they were well past. “All that we have achieved, all that we have built, has happened in his one lifetime. Were we to fail tomorrow, to fall to the necromancers, would any record of us be here in another nine hundred years? Would the forests reclaim our fields and the monsters lair in our ruins and no one remember our names?”
