Beyond the High Road c-2 Read online

  The ghazneth roared and hurled itself forward, determined to bowl him over and overwhelm his defenses. No longer being a fool, the king hurled himself at the creature’s feet and rolled, his armor filling his ears with a clamorous din. He crashed into a wall cabinet and brought the contents down on top of himself Convinced his foe would be on him before he could rise, he flung the debris away from his chest and raised his sword in a blind block.

  The expected blow never came. Instead, a strange gurgle erupted from the creature’s mouth, and the king scrambled to his knees to find the thing only a pace away. Merula was draped over its shoulder, struggling to draw his iron dagger across the ghazneth’s leathery throat. Azoun brought his sword around and lunged forward and drove the blade a mere finger’s length into the monster’s bloated abdomen.

  The ghazneth stumbled back, roaring and trying to shake Merula from its back. Azoun glimpsed Dauneth rushing toward the queen with a war wizard’s weathercloak wrapped around his shoulders. According to their plan, it should have been the High Warden or a dragoneer attempting to slit the creature’s throat and Merula preparing to escape with the queen, but the king was happy enough to see Dauneth grab hold of Filfaeril’s cocoon and reach into the cloak to find its escape pocket.

  The metallic clamor of armor began to knell up from somewhere lower in the tower, drawing the ghazneth’s attention toward the armory’s stout oaken door. It was barred from the inside, but the creature knew as well as Azoun that the door would last only as long as it took a magic-user to utter his spell. Spewing a filthy curse, the phantom brought a hand up and slammed the heel of its palm into Merula’s brow. There was a sharp snap, then the wizard’s eyes rolled back, and he dropped out of sight.

  The ghazneth turned toward Dauneth. Azoun gathered himself to intercept-then the High Warden finally found the right pocket and vanished with Filfaeril.

  Azoun turned toward the barred door, but the ghazneth sprang across the chamber and beat him to it.

  “Queen stealer!” it hissed. “Usurper!”

  Azoun leveled his sword and circled around so that he would not be directly in front of the door when Mungan arrived. Though a steady flow of dark, rancid smelling blood was oozing out of the ghazneth in half a dozen places, the dark thing looked little the worse for the wear.

  “Who are you?” Azoun asked. “What are you?”

  “Boldovar, King of Cormyr.”

  The answer was as mad as the ghazneth itself, but there was no time to argue. The clamor reached the landing outside the door and stopped. Azoun threw himself to the floor.

  “Now, Mungan!”

  Mungan’s voice rang out from the stairwell, and an instant later a terrific lightning bolt blasted the door into splinters. The ghazneth spun to face the rescue party and bellowed, and the room went dark.

  The tumult of anguished voices began to fill the air. Azoun leaped to his feet and pressed his back to the wall, his sword weaving a blind defensive pattern before him. He was not fool enough to believe he could block one of the ghazneth’s blows with a mere sword, but perhaps it would buy him enough time to dodge or roll away.

  The cacophony continued to grow louder for the next few moments-it seemed like forever, though it could have been no more than seconds. The thud of falling bodies reverberated across the floor with alarming regularity, and twice Azoun danced away when his sword brushed against some unseen menace. He kept expecting to feel the ghazneth’s talons ripping through his breastplate, but the blow never came. The battle din merely subsided, then men began to crawl across the floor and call each other’s names, and finally someone stumbled across a commander’s ring and spoke the proper word, filling the chamber with light.

  The room lay littered with wounded and dead-most felled by their own comrades, judging by the sword gashes in their flesh and the narrow dents in their armor. Only Mungan and two men behind him, all lying in the doorway with their throats ripped open, appeared to have been slain by the ghazneth. There was no sign of the phantom itself, but Azoun felt a cool breeze in the room and knew that someone had opened the door to the roof.

  17

  Tanalasta lay in Rowen’s arms, aching and feverish, captivated by the sunlight filtering down through the twisted buckeye boughs above. Alusair was readying the surviving horses for departure, and one of the priests was overseeing Emperel’s burial. Tanalasta was so foggy-headed her thoughts kept running in circles. She held Emperel’s message satchel clutched to her breast and recalled dimly that she had to get it to Alaundo. It was a struggle to remember why-and she was too weak to struggle.

  A steel gauntlet appeared above Tanalasta, floating in the air above her eyes. Taking it for an apparition-the hand of Iyachtu Xvim coming to pull her into his Bastion of Hate-she gasped and clutched at Rowen’s arm.

  “Stay with me.” She pushed the message satchel into his hands. “Then take this to Alaundo. Tell him about the glyphs… and about Xanthon.”

  “You are not that ill, Princess.” Rowen refused to accept the satchel.

  The gauntlet drew closer, warming Tanalasta’s face and obstructing her view. She was too frightened to look away.

  “Don’t argue.” Tanalasta tipped her chin back. “Kiss me. I want to die.”

  “You are hardly dying, Princess.” Rowen sounded almost insulted. “And certainly not in my arms. Now hold still, and Seaburt will have you feeling better in a minute.”

  “Seaburt?”

  Tanalasta saw the thick wrist protruding from the collar of the glove, and it slowly came to her that the gauntlet was not the hand of Iyachtu Xvim. It was the symbol of Torm the True, Alusair’s favored god and the one revered by both priests in the company. Seaburt laid the glove upon Tanalasta’s forehead and uttered a quick prayer to his god, beseeching Torm to aid “this dutiful daughter of Cormyr.” Recalling her arguments with Vangerdahast and the king, Tanalasta worried that the Loyal Fury might not find her deserving of his magic and continued to press the satchel on Rowen. Her skin started to prickle with the familiar sensation of magic, then the glove grew cold and dry against her brow. Her head began to throb more fiercely than ever, and she let slip an involuntary groan.

  “Have strength, Princess,” said Seaburt. With a month-old beard and black circles under his sunken eyes, the priest looked no better than Tanalasta felt. “Torm is drawing the fever out, but there will be some pain as it passes from your body.”

  Some pain? Tanalasta would have screamed the question, had she the strength. It felt as though someone had cleaved her head with an axe. She closed her eyes, listened to her pulse drumming in her ears, and begged Chauntea for the strength to endure Torm’s cure. The throbbing only grew worse, and she thought her brain must be boiling inside her skull. She did her best to hold still, and finally the gauntlet grew warm and moist against her skin. The glove blossomed into white-hot light, turning the interior of her eyelids red and bright, and then a wave of cool relief spread down her entire body.

  Tanalasta opened her eyes and found herself gazing up through the gauntlet’s veil of pearly brilliance. Seaburt’s jaws were clenched tight, his vacant stare fixed someplace far beyond the keep’s dilapidated walls. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, dripping out of his beard to splash against the searing gauntlet and hiss into nothingness. Tanalasta grew stronger. The fog vanished from her mind, and she no longer felt quite so queasy. She struggled to sit up, but Seaburt pressed her down and held her there until the glow faded completely from his gauntlet.

  When the priest finally lifted the glove and took his hand from inside, his skin was red and puffy. “You’ll still be weak,” he said. “Drink all you can, and you’ll feel better.”

  “I feel better already. Thank you.” Tanalasta sat up, then nearly blacked out when she tried to gather her legs beneath her. “Though I see what you mean about still being weak.”

  A whistle sounded from across the bailey, where her sister stood waving at them from the gate. With Alusair stood all that remained of her comp
any-the second priest, a dozen haggard knights, and fifteen sickly horses. Though the horses still had halters and reins, the poor beasts had been stripped of their saddles to lighten their burden.

  “Time to go.” Rowen slipped an arm under Tanalasta’s arm and pulled her to her feet. “I’m sorry, but it looks like you’ll be walking. The horses are too weak to carry even you.”

  As they approached Alusair and the others, Tanalasta eyed the languishing beasts with a sympathy born of her own haggard condition. “Why are we making these poor beasts come along at all?” she asked Alusair. “They’d have a better chance if we just left them to rest-and if not, at least they’d die in peace.”

  “And how would that help our cause?” asked Alusair “If they die on the trail, we’ve lost nothing. If they recover, they’ll save us a good five or six days of walking.”

  Alusair turned to lead the way out of the gate, but Tanalasta was too alarmed to follow. Saving five or six days would mean reaching Goblin Mountain well ahead of Rowen, and she had no illusions about what would follow if that happened. Alusair would have a war wizard teleport Tanalasta back to Arabel at once, and her parents, regarding any courtship with a Cormaeril more of a political disaster than Dauneth’s rejection, would see to it that Rowen never came within fifty miles of her.

  Rowen offered a supporting hand. “What’s wrong? If you are too weak to walk, I’ll carry you.”

  “No.” Tanalasta held him back until the others were a few paces ahead. “Rowen, you can’t leave me tomorrow.”

  “But I must.” He made no effort to keep their conversation quiet. “Vangerdahast has no idea-“

  “Vangerdahast will figure it out soon enough,” Tanalasta whispered. “Even if he doesn’t, Old Snoop is certainly capable of taking care of himself.”

  Rowen cast a nervous glance at Seaburt’s back. “Perhaps we should talk about this later. You’re still weak.”

  “No!” Tanalasta took his hands. “Rowen, you must know I have feelings for you-and that I hope you have feelings for me.”

  “Of course.” He gave her a sly smile. “I didn’t think you were the kind of princess who kisses just any man who happens to be there when you decide to bait a ghazneth.”

  Tanalasta did not return his smile. “I’m not, and you are avoiding my question.”

  Rowen looked away. “You are above my station-but yes, I do see you more as a woman than a princess.”

  Tanalasta furrowed her brow. “Am I to take that as a yes?” When Rowen nodded, she continued, “Then we can’t let Alusair separate us. You know what she’s trying to do.”

  “I doubt we are all she’s concerned about.”

  “Of course not,” said Tanalasta. “She’s also concerned that when the king hears of our affections, the weight of the crown may land on her head instead of mine.”

  Rowen’s expression grew enigmatic. “And that fear is not well founded?”

  Though Tanalasta sensed the pain in his question, she did not hesitate to answer honestly. He deserved that much. “Your family’s disgrace would cause a difficulty for the throne, yes. The loyal houses would see any favor shown you as an affront to their allegiance, and the neutral houses might take it to mean the throne has a short memory.”

  “Then the king would have no choice in the matter,” Rowen surmised. “He would be forced to name Alusair his heir.”

  Tanalasta shrugged. “It is not for us to predict the king. He can be a surprising man, and he knows that it’s better to retreat than to lose. Our chess games have taught him that.”

  As Rowen considered this, Seaburt glanced back from the end of the line. “If the princess is too weak to walk…”

  “The princess is strong enough to walk,” Tanalasta said. “Pay us no mind. We’ll ask if we need help.”

  “Of course.” Seaburt cocked his brow and turned away. “I will be listening for your call.”

  Experiencing a sudden dislike for the priest, Tanalasta glared at his back. When he was out of earshot, she took Rowen’s arm and started after the rest of the company.

  “You know what will happen when we reach Goblin Mountain,” she said, speaking softly. “Alusair will do a sending, and five minutes later a dozen war wizards will arrive to whisk me back to Arabel.”

  Rowen gave her a sidelong look. “And I should be sorry to see you safely back in the city?”

  “Yes, if it means we’ll never see each other again.”

  “Aren’t you exaggerating? I should be capable of finding my way to Arabel-and Suzail too, for that matter.”

  “When? Between scouting patrols into the Anauroch and spying missions in the Dun Plain? My father and Vangerdahast will keep you so busy you won’t see a Cormyrean city until I am wed and fat with some other man’s child.”

  Though Rowen remained unmoved, at least he showed the courtesy of wincing. “And if I disobeyed Alusair I’d spend the next ten years in Castle Crag’s dungeon instead-with no hope at all of redeeming my family name.”

  The company began to fan out across the flat scrub-land, each man leading a horse more or less westward, laying a network of false trails before they turned south. Tanalasta remained silent for a time, knowing Rowen was right. She had no authority to countermand Alusair’s order, and Vangerdahast was certainly ruthless enough to have the scout locked away under the pretext of disobedience.

  “You’re right, of course. I can’t ask you to defy Alusair.” Tanalasta kept her eyes on the ground as she spoke, watching the brush for snakes and other hazards. “So I will come with you.”

  “What?” Rowen nearly shouted the question, drawing a curious-and rather condemning-glance from Seaburt. The ranger lowered his voice, then continued, “I’d like nothing better, but Alusair would never permit it.”

  “Alusair can command you to leave, but she cannot command me to stay,” said Tanalasta. “She is not my master.”

  “Please, Tanalasta-I can’t. Doing as you ask would make me the same as Gaspar and Xanthon.”

  “You could never be the same as those two.”

  “I would be, if I put my own desire above my oath as a Purple Dragon.” Rowen guided Tanalasta away from a red catclaw bush, pulling her safely beyond the striking range of a half-hidden pixie-viper. “We all have our duties. I am a scout, and my duty is to move swiftly and find Vangerdahast. You are the learned one, and your duty is to return to Arabel and inform the king of what you have discovered.”

  “And I will,” said Tanalasta. “In your company.”

  Rowen shook his head. “You will be safer with Alusair.”

  “Really?” Tanalasta cast a doubtful glance at her sister’s sickly men. “I should think it would be easier for the ghazneths to find a large company of sick men than two people moving swiftly and stealthily?’

  “Perhaps.” Rowen paused to think, then said, “That would be so if you were healthy, but with the fever, you are too weak.”

  “The fever will improve. Seaburt said…”

  Tanalasta let the sentence trail off as the significance of Rowen’s pause struck her. He had been there when Seaburt cured her, and he certainly should have heard what the priest had told her. She stumbled along two more steps, then stopped and whirled on the scout.

  “You don’t want me to go with you.”

  Rowen’s expression fell, and Tanalasta saw she had guessed correctly. She pulled her arm free and stumbled back.

  Rowen stepped after her. “Please, Tanalasta, it’s not what you think. I have every confidence in your ability-“

  Tanalasta stopped him with a raised hand, then lifted her chin and began to back away. “That is quite enough, Rowen. And you may address me as Princess Tanalasta, if that will make you feel more comfortable.”

  A muffled patter drummed down out of the pines, reverberating down through the valley, bouncing from one slope to the other until Vangerdahast could not tell whether the sound came from ahead or behind. He reined Cadimus to a stop and raised his arm, and the Royal Excursionary Co
mpany clattered to a halt behind him. The air filled instantly with the swish and clank of wizards and dragoneers readying for battle. Over the past day and a half, the company had lost dozens of men and horses to orc ambushes and lightning-swift ghazneth strikes, and now even the dee-dee-dee of a chickadee could send them diving for cover.

  Vangerdahast twisted around. “Will you be quiet back there?”

  He glared until the company fell silent, then looked forward again. The valley was one of those serpentine canyons with a meandering ribbon of marshy floor and steep walls timbered in pines. He could see no more than fifty paces ahead, and to the sides not even that far. As the patter grew louder, the trees scattered it in every direction, and soon the drumming seemed to be coming from all around. Sometimes it sounded like hooves pounding grassy ground and sometimes like wings beating air.

  Cadimus nickered and raised his nose to test the air, then a ginger mare galloped around the bend, chest lathered and eyes bulging, reins hanging loose, stirrups flapping empty. She came straight down the valley at a full run, barely seeming to notice Cadimus and Vangerdahast, or the entire Royal Excursionary Company behind them. Close on the mare’s tail came a streaking ghazneth, its wings a black crescent as it banked around the corner, its arms stretching for the flanks of the ginger mare.

  Vangerdahast leveled a finger at the phantom and uttered a single word, sending a dozen bolts of golden magic to blast the dark thing from the sky. The impact hurled the ghazneth into the pines, snapping branches and ripping boughs. In the next instant, the valley erupted into a cacophony of thundering hooves and screaming voices as dragoneers and war wizards urged their mounts to the charge. If the Royal Excursionary Company had learned anything over the past two days, it was never to hesitate around a ghazneth. Vangerdahast wheeled Cadimus around just as quickly and started after the riderless mount.

  Tanalasta’s horse had been a ginger mare.

  The horse did not snort, nor whinny, nor even groan. It merely dropped to its knees and closed its eyes, then toppled over onto a thicket of smoke brush. Tanalasta watched as Alusair, dazed with exhaustion and a relapse of fever, idly yanked the beast’s reins and tried to continue walking. When the horse did not move, Alusair cursed its laziness and, without turning around, hauled harder on the reins.