Cormyr c-1, page 6
part #1 of Cormyr Series
“I-” The noble tore his gaze free from the old wizard’s and looked at Tanalasta, eyes almost pleading. Then he dragged his gaze reluctantly back to the wizard. “I pulled the wand out, but… I didn’t know how to activate it. Baron Thomdor showed me how.”
“Fortunate,” said the Royal Magician, “that the good baron remained coherent long enough to give instruction.”
“Fortunate indeed,” said the young Bleth almost tonelessly, slumping his shoulders in exhaustion. Tanalasta put a comforting arm around him.
Vangerdahast nodded. No doubt the youth had glossed over this last detail when he’d told the princess his tale.
“I’m-I’m very sorry for all of this,” Aunadar offered wearily to the room in general, slowly bowing his head.
The three sat in silence for a long moment. Tanalasta kept her arm around Bleth, who looked at the floor. Her hand tightened on his shoulders and shook him a little, he looked up at his beloved then and managed a weak smile.
His elbows resting on the arms of the chair, fingers steepled in front of him, the wizard studied the pair on the divan. His eyes never left the face of the young noble.
At length, Vangerdahast spoke. “In the future, young Bleth, when you are involved in any serious matter involving peril to a member of the royal family, you will remain around long enough to inform others who need to know what befell. I think you know who those others are.”
Aunadar raised his head and their eyes locked, noble and wizard, brief fire passing between them. The youth nodded slowly. “Of course. I thought the others were in your capable hands.” His words held no hint of bitterness.
Tanalasta leaned forward and captured Vangerdahast’s gaze with her own reddened, pleading eyes. “My father… will he be…?” Her voice trailed away into silence.
The Royal Magician inclined his head to her. “I know only what I told you earlier, Lady Highness,” he said carefully. “The tremors he and the baron experienced have subsided. However, neither has roused nor responded to any curative power we have brought to bear.”
The eldest princess of Cormyr went even paler at his words, her skin becoming almost as pale as milk. Now it was Bleth’s turn to put his arm about her. He whispered soft words in her ear, but his eyes, flaring the sharp light of an unmistakable challenge, never left those of the High Wizard.
“Your Majesty,” said Vangerdahast to the princess, returning Bleth’s look with a steady, steely gaze of his own as he spoke. “I am sure this matter will be swiftly resolved. The Lords Alaphondar and Dimswart are already in attendance on… the stricken, and I will be returning to them to render whatever aid I can. However, if the worst comes to pass…”
Tanalasta raised her hands in front of her and spread her fingers, as if warding off a blow. “No,” she said quietly.
“Your Majesty,” Vangerdahast pressed, his voice softening, “it would be most wise to prepare for every possibility…”
“No,” she said again, louder, and raised her head to regard the Royal Magician. She was crying again, but fire burned in those sapphire eyes.
“Even so,” the wizard began softly, “the realm-“
“I said no,” she said, steel creeping into her voice for the first time. “I refuse to even consider that until until all other possibilities have been excluded. Am I clear?”
“But, Your Majesty…” Vangerdahast said mildly, raising his brows.
Tanalasta stood, taller than most men and as imperious as Azoun at his most fierce. “Am… I… clear?” she repeated, biting off each word. Aunadar rose behind her and placed a supportive hand on her shoulder. He had to reach up to do it. As he looked at the Royal Magician, his other hand went slowly and deliberately to the hilt of his sword.
“As always,” the wizard replied calmly, also rising, “I will send word as we know more.”
“Do so,” said the princess coolly. “You have my faith, as my father and the baron have my prayers. You are dismissed.”
Expressionlessly Vangerdahast turned his head to regard Aunadar Bleth. The young noble treated him to a short, serious nod-a warrior’s farewell to an equal-but made no motion to depart. Nor did the princess make any motion that might have been interpreted as a dismissal of her suitor. The High Wizard bowed slightly from the waist, then strode to the door.
Before leaving, he looked back at the pair. Already Tanalasta’s moment of strength had passed, she was slowly collapsing back onto the divan, her face in her hands. Her slender shoulders were shaking. At her side, Aunadar Bleth stroked her shoulder and her hair and spoke words the wizard could not hear, his face close to hers. It was as if Vangerdahast, the palace, and all the court had become invisible, leaving the pair alone together.
Vangerdahast heard the heavy outer door of the princess’s chambers close behind him-and, ominously, the sound of a lock being thrown. The wizard raised his head as if to take in badly needed fresh air, letting his gaze stray up at the hallway’s ceiling. Warriors, witch lords, elves, and dragons battled in the yellowing plaster. Their eternal struggle ran all along the ceiling of the hall, in silent contrast to the tumult stirred up by this day’s disaster.
Vangerdahast lowered his gaze to see a figure running along the carpets toward him, a figure dressed in sapphire-hued robes. He gave her a raised hand of greeting and asked, “What are you called, lady priestess?”
She blinked at him, and then said, “Gwennath of Tymora, lord wizard, sometimes called the Bishop of the Black Blades Adventurers.” And then, without pause-a swiftness which Vangerdahast admired greatly-she plunged into what she had been going to say to him. “The convulsions have stopped for both men, and their breathing is weak but steady. Neither has roused, and both are extremely pale. They are hot to the touch, but cold compresses seem to moderate this condition somewhat. Loremaster Khelbor argued against leeching, but the sages are taking just a bit of blood for their own divinations.” She paused for breath, brushing a stray hair out her face with an impatient thumb.
The wizard nodded approvingly. “Any idea yet as to the cause?”
Gwennath shook her head. “None. They’re bringing the clockwork thing into Belnshor’s Chamber, next to the Satharw-but you know where that is. I’m sorry, lord… I assume you’ll want to look at it. Its very presence at the fray suggests poison, but whatever afflicts the king and his cousin continues to resist every purgative, curative, and medication we can call to mind.” Her confused frown deepened. “And, lord…?”
“Yes, blessed lady?”
“I tried that incantation to raise the dead on his lordship the duke. It didn’t work.”
“Given everything else, I’m not surprised,” Vangerdahast told her, the barest hint of bitter weariness in his voice.
“It’s not supposed to happen like this,” she added, shaking her head in exasperation.
“Just what is supposed to happen when a royal duke dies and your king’s life is endangered?” asked the Royal Magician in the mildest of tones, raising his eyebrows slightly.
“I’m sorry, lord wizard,” stammered the young priestess. “I was thinking aloud and meant no disrespect. It’s just that… when one of the royals falls ill, cost means naught, and no power need be spared. There are a score or more things one can do to give aid. We’ve tried them all… with no result. There’s more spell power in that banquet hall than anywhere else shy of Waterdeep and, I suppose, Shadowdale-and we cannot get either man even awake!”
“And frustration eats at us all,” the wizard murmured, eyes no longer seeing the earnest young priestess before him but looking instead at the distant room where priests and sages were fighting for the king’s life.
“Yes,” Gwennath sighed, then pursed her lips. “Lord wizard?”
“Yes?”
“Should King Azoun… I mean, if we can’t bring them back… what happens then?”
“Indeed,” Vangerdahast echoed softly, looking at the closed door of Tanalasta’s chambers. “What happens then?”
Chapter 4: The Raid
Year of Leather Shields (-75 DR)
Alea Dahast crept along the edge of the clearing, the dappled green and burnt orange hues of her hunting cape making her almost invisible in the long shadows of the Cormanthor sunset. All around her moved companions who were just as well concealed. The only sounds of their passing were occasional wolf whines in the brambles, each followed by a soft shushing noise, and then silence again.
They came down from the low hills, using the trees for cover. Ahead was the clearing: a scar carved out of the forest, which had once run unbroken to the rocky lakeshore beyond. Its edge was a rough pile of uprooted, close-tangled trees and brush. Alea was still amazed that these humans were so stupid as to think that this unguarded rampart of tumbled, ravaged forest would be enough to keep out a determined predator.
And she and the other elves in her hunting band were determined predators. They had carefully scouted, and easily found, passages through the maze of woody detritus, both the intentional routes and the ways left by carelessness. These humans aped the brambled fortifications of her people, but their work had none of the beauty of elven creations-and none of the security.
Another wolf whine, and another soft shush, the beasts were getting restless. Alea wondered about the wisdom of bringing them along, but they would undeniably be useful both for their speed and their ability to terrorize the humans.
Despite their growing restlessness, she gave the signal for a halt and heard the faint noises of the sign being passed among her people. She wanted to watch the humans for a moment. She wanted to be sure.
Inwardly she heard Iliphar’s voice. The old Lord of the Scepters always recommended calm, always recommended accommodation… always recommended negotiation. When the furry brutes had attacked the first elves they encountered, he’d recommended containment and observation.
Iliphar was letting the weight of his years rule him. There were more and more of these humans wandering through elven lands now, wreaking havoc as they went.
Typical humans were like orcs come down from the mountains-hunters seeking prey, refugees seeking settlement, merchants seeking stability. The great forest held no long-term lure for them, and when they saw that the land of trees was held by the elves, they drifted on, to wherever humans drifted on to. But these men were different. This breed of human cleared the forest, killing nearly all the trees. They piled the rent corpses of forest giants-and their own wastes-around their clearings and chased off the animals. And when they had done all this, they moved on to do it all again, in another part of the forest. Someday, if they were allowed to go on, there might be no forest.
Alea watched the human camp from her hiding place. The houses were little more than camp hovels, consisting of nothing more than bent saplings lashed together and topped with animal hides. Elves put together such flimsy quarters only for a evening’s housing against a stormy night, to be dismantled the following day. These humans made such crude sheds their permanent homes, to be used until the land was despoiled and sucked dry.
The largest of the huts was a common feast hall and sleeping quarters, and likely the home of the reigning petty lord. There was a scattering of smaller buildings, including one low hut with bars that Alea thought was for tamed beasts, but she’d seen no sign of goats, chickens, or the like.
The humans looked little better than beasts themselves. They were frightening parodies of the elven form, with too much skin, hair, and fat hung on oversized frames. They dressed in the same hides as wrapped their houses, with only slightly better tailoring. They were hairy and coarse and never seemed to have bathed since the last drenching rainfall. Alea had heard that they rolled around in the dirt to keep fleas at bay. Looking at these humans, she believed it. The elves had approached downwind from the campsite, since she was unsure if the humans could smell anything beyond their own pungent selves. The stench was strong, humans lived in their own waste… which was why the wolves were whining.
Most of this group was male. There were a few tough-looking women, their hair as matted and rough garb as stained as that of their mates. She’d seen no cubs, perhaps they were kept in the low, barred hut… or been abandoned early in life to fend for themselves.
The last of the camp dwellers were returning now, dragging a large buck behind them-more game poached from forests that belonged to the elves and wolves!
Two deer were already turning on rude spits over the fire, and another pair, badly dressed, hung amid buzzing flies nearby. Alea cursed. They didn’t even need the food, yet they continued to despoil the forest!
Two days ago she’d come across the site of a human kill. Something large, perhaps a bear, had been brought down. Both human and elf arrows were at the site, and from it led the trail of something heavy dragged off in this direction-passing the corpse of an elf of the Elian clan, who lay bristling with crude human arrows, his ears lopped off.
Alea had no doubt the elf had brought down the game, then been attacked by the humans afterward. She’d tracked the downed prey through the forest to this camp before gathering her hunting companions for the raid. Most of the elves around her had seen fewer than a hundred summers. The elders were discussing and mourning the dead Elian. While the elders talked, Alea’s hunters would do something about this outrage!
But a good hunter makes sure of his prey… and they had to be sure of these reeking humans. As the buck was brought into camp, the humans all shouted and waved, jabbering at each other in their mongrel tongue. So much like real speech, thought Alea, but all twisted, like the humans themselves. The buck’s slayers made big, sweeping hand signs, indicating the bulk of the stag that had escaped them. The others laughed and hooted, outlining with gestures their own rival escaped beasts, of even more impossibly large proportions.
Alea growled deep in her throat just as the wolves did. These human vermin poached on elven lands! Their clumsy butcherings were beginning to drive the game away, they didn’t even have the sense to move on and let the land recover from their depredations. Alea growled more loudly and almost rose to signal the attack, but Lord Iliphar’s admonitions held her in place. Were she wrong, she’d be little better than these rightly despised savages.
The door of the largest hut in the camp scraped open, and out strode the petty lord. Apparently he’d been waiting for the last hunters to return before making his own entrance. This one had leathers of a finer cut than most and was bedecked with polished gemstones on leather thongs. He was flanked by two equally tough-looking women. Consorts? Bodyguards? Both?
On one of the lordling’s thongs hung two pale slivers of meat, just starting to wrinkle and yellow with age. The ears of an elf.
Alea gave the signal to prepare for battle.
The hairy human lord strode to the fire pit at the center of the gathered humans and jabbered at them. They made assenting sounds. He jabbered at them some more. They grunted another assent. He pointed in Alea’s direction, and the elf froze for a moment. Did they know of her presence? But then the lordling marked off the other cardinal points, and Alea realized what he was doing.
He was staking his claim, like a cooshee marking its territory: all this land was his. A fire began to burn within her, rising up into her chest. How dare the savages claim elven hunting lands!
She was about to give the signal to attack when the human lord grunted and waved, and the two muscular bodyguard wives went to the low barricaded hut. One stood outside while the other entered and then dragged out some sort of prisoner.
At first Alea thought the prisoner was an elf, for he was thin and pale compared to the barbarians. But on closer examination, it was clear the prisoner was another human, tall and lean, with a ratty reddish beard. Half his face was puffy with a monstrous bruise, and he hobbled forward on an equally swollen ankle. His wrists were crossed before him and secured together with a single iron cuff. He wore loose, tattered trousers and a shirt of similar stuff all worn and filthy but still of finer cut than the garb of the humans of the camp. He didn’t look much like his captors.
The women dragged the frail human forward and forced him to his knees in front of the hairy lord. His lordship puffed out his chest and smiled. He was missing his front teeth, upper and lower.
His lordship barked a question in the mangled human language. Alea did not catch the wispy human’s response, but it was apparently insufficient. The lord cuffed him, hard, on the bruised side of his face. The captive’s eye on that side was swollen shut, and he did not see the blow coming. He went sprawling backward for his lack of awareness.
The crowd of watching humans shouted its approval. One of the muscular consorts dragged the thin human back to the barbarian lord’s feet. Again the question was jabbered. Again the damaged human said something. Again the local lord cuffed him, he sprawled, and the crowd hooted.
This apparently passed for human entertainment, and the crowd looked as if it could enjoy it all night. The local lord boasted of his accomplishments, pointed in all directions, and pulled the elven ears on the thong at his side, dancing them in front of the other human. And again he asked the question.
Alea raised her hand, and in the semicircle concealed around the camp other elves raised theirs as well, preparing to leap forward. Safety wedges were carefully unclipped from crossbows, and wolves were slipped silently from their harnesses.
The predictability of humans did not disappoint them. Once more the lord slapped his frail prisoner down and the crowd hooted their approval. Alea dropped her hand and charged forward.
It took more than a moment for the humans to react, to realize that the shouts they heard were not their own. By that time, the elves were fully free of the brambles. The wolves bounded in front of their masters but were beaten to the foe by elven crossbow quarrels, which hummed into the crowd of humans from both sides of the clearing. More than half a dozen human warriors toppled, clutching at transfixed stomachs and necks, and the beaten ground tasted barbarian blood.
