Beyond the High Road

14

The Royal Excursionary Company emerged from the timeless murk with a crackle like lightning, then sat swaying in their saddles, stomachs rolling and heads spinning with teleport afterdaze. Slowly, darkness gave way to dun-colored light, and the warped sycamore appeared on the barren hillside ahead. A hot wind began to stipple them with brown moorlands dust, and the silence gave way to clattering and snorting, and stoop-shouldered silhouettes started to come into focus all around.

Something sharp struck Vangerdahast’s ribs and bounced off his magic shield without causing harm, then the horses began to scream.

“Swiners!” Vangerdahast yelled, finally coming out of his afterdaze. “Ambush!”

A streak of swooping darkness came down from his right and caught him by the arm, jerking him from the saddle and lifting him high off the ground. He glimpsed his excursionary company below, fifty mighty war wizards backed by two hundred Purple Dragons, mingled in with a horde of shrieking, startled swiners. Vangerdahast cursed. Though they had foreseen the reception committee, no one had expected to teleport into the very heart of an orc tribe.

Vangerdahast drew a small lead ball from his sleeve pocket and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, uttering a swift incantation. His body grew silvery and heavy. The ghazneth cried out in surprise and plunged toward the ground, its wings hammering the air in a futile attempt to keep the wizard aloft. Vangerdahast twisted around to clutch hold of its arm, though not because he feared being dropped and crashing into the ground. Like everyone else in the company, he had been magically shielded against any form of blow or cut before leaving Arabel. He was grabbing the phantom because of the mad bloodlust that had come over him the moment he glimpsed the thing-the same bloodlust he had experienced the first time he saw it. He wanted to drag it down to the ground and draw his iron dagger and slash the wicked creature into black ribbons.

As Vangerdahast expected when he looked up, he found himself staring into the haggish visage of the first ghazneth he had encountered. The thing was snarling down at him with flared nostrils and bare yellow fangs, its red-tinged eyes bulging with strain and hatred. Vangerdahast glimpsed the edge of the battle less than twenty feet below and pulled his black, cold-forged dagger from its belt sheath, and the phantom finally seemed to realize the hopelessness of its struggle. Hissing angrily, it opened its talons and let the wizard drop free.

In his mad battle fury, Vangerdahast could think of nothing but finishing the thing. He continued to hold onto its wrist-then yelled in agony as the full burden of his magical weight shifted to his own arm and jerked the shoulder out of its socket. His hand opened of its own accord, then he slammed to the ground and went tumbling backward across the rocks.

Even as he rolled, Vangerdahast heard the throb of a dozen bowstrings and glimpsed a flurry of dark shafts streak past above his head. The ghazneth shrieked, and the wizard knew at least one of the iron-tipped shafts had found its mark. On the next revolution, he jammed his feet into the ground and managed to bring his somersaulting to a stop, then tried to rise and found his body too heavy to lift.

Vangerdahast canceled the heaviness spell with a thought, then staggered to his feet still clutching his iron dagger. The ghazneth was already a hundred feet away, climbing back into the sky and banking northward, the shafts of half a dozen arrows dangling from its breast.

A pair of spear points slammed into Vangerdahast’s back, knocking him off his feet and driving him back to the ground. Though the spears could not penetrate his magic armor, the fall did cause his separated shoulder to erupt in pain. He cursed loudly, then dropped his dagger and thrust his good hand into his weathercloak, feeling for his thickest war wand.

Seeing that their first attack had not pierced the wizard’s woolen cloak, the orcs jammed their spear tips into his back again. A fresh wave of agony shot through Vangerdahast’s shoulder.

“Stupid swiners!” He rolled onto his back, slamming his heel into the first warrior’s knee and sweeping it off its feet. “Any kobold can see spears won’t work!”

Vangerdahast leveled his wand and a thread of golden light lanced out to pierce the orc’s chest. The creature dropped its spear, reached for its heart, and erupted into a crimson spray. The wizard turned away from the gory shower, then felt a pair of talons raking at his knees. He looked back to find the second swiner clawing its way up his legs, tusks gnashing and beady eyes burning with blood-hunger.

Vangerdahast raised his brow at the uncharacteristic display of courage, then leveled his wand at the orc’s forehead. The rabid creature did not even cringe as the golden thread of light lanced out to blast its skull apart. The wizard pushed the headless corpse from his lap and leaped to his feet. A swiner scrambled past, its crooked spear braced for the attack. Vangerdahast leveled his wand, then was surprised to hear himself shouting in glee as its magic reduced the warrior to flying pieces.

A loud rumble sounded behind him. He turned toward the sound and found himself looking into the heart of the battle, where a web of flashing thunderbolts and glimmering death rays was littering the ground with smoking swiner corpses. The orcs, of course, could cause little harm against the might of magic. Their stone spear points shattered against the impenetrable armor of the Purple Dragons, their soft swords bent against the enchanted wool of the war wizards’ weathercloaks, and their claws snapped against the magic-shielded flanks of the snorting war-horses. The Royal Excursionary Company countered with good Connyrean steel and well-chosen spells, and orcs fell by the dozen. One dragoneer lopped the heads off three foes in a row, only to be outdone an instant later when a fireball reduced half a dozen swiners to charred bits of bone.

Finding the battle well in hand, Vangerdahast turned to look for the ghazneth. After a lengthy search, he found it circling high overhead, a mere speck well beyond arrow range. The battle clamor faded as quickly as it started, and the phantom continued to circle. Reluctantly, Vangerdahast tore his eyes away from the dark speck and began to wade through the carnage.

“Down magic!” he commanded, trying to find one of the company clerics to fix his separated shoulder. “Odd troops, iron. Even troops, steel!”

The Royal Excursionary Company scrambled to obey, the war wizards canceling their protective spells, the dragoneers wiping their blades clean before exchanging them for weapons of the appropriate metal. Vangerdahast waited on the exchange with ill-concealed impatience. The wizard had been drilling them in his special maneuvers for the last two days-the length of time required for the smiths of Arabel to forge a full complement of iron arms for every man in the company-and he was still not satisfied with their performance. The ghazneths were vicious, quick creatures who would repay any fumbling with swift death, and the wizard had no idea how many of them there were-or how they would respond to the presence of the Royal Excursionary Company.

There had been no sign of phantoms yesterday, when he and his war wizards had scouted the canyon where Vangerdahast had last seen Tanalasta, but it seemed clear that at least one ghazneth had watched them select the sycamore tree as the Royal Excursionary Company’s assembly point. Vangerdahast doubted the thing had intended for them to teleport in on top of the swiners-no sensible commander would have risked the confusion of an enemy suddenly appearing within his ranks-but it had made known its feelings about the force’s presence. Finding the royal princesses was not going to be easy, even with two hundred and fifty of Cormyr’s mightiest warriors to help him.

Vangerdahast neared the front of the company, where a small cluster of men in mottled camouflage armor had dismounted and spread out through the carnage. They were dragging wounded swiners around by the tusks, growling and snarling in passable Orcish and threatening all manner of gruesome torture unless someone told them where to find “two humans riding one meal.” The terrified orcs pointed in every which direction, a sure sign they had no idea what had become of Rowen and Tanalasta.

“Scouts! You’re wasting your time.” Vangerdahast waved his good arm around the perimeter of the battlefield. “Find me a trail-and be quick about it!”

The Royal Scouts were quick to obey, pausing only long enough to put the captured orcs out of their misery before scattering in all directions. Owden Foley appeared, leading Vangerdahast’s horse and scowling at the rangers’ efficiency.

“This isn’t good,” he said, dismounting. “This needless killing will only bring harm to us.”

“These are not the lands of Chauntea,” growled the wizard. Having agreed to bring the priest along only at Azoun’s insistence, he was none too happy at being lectured on his men’s treatment of orcs. “These lands belong to Gruumsch and Maglibuyet, and they have a thirst for blood. Besides, killing them is the kindest thing. A wounded orc can look forward to one of two things: a slow death by starvation, or, if he’s lucky, being made a slave to his own tribe. Swiners don’t care for their wounded.”

“Then you are lucky we are not orcs.” Owden passed the reins in his hand to an assistant and took hold of the wizard’s limp arm. “But it was not the orcs I was thinking of. Did you not feel that lunatic bloodlust?”

Vangerdahast looked at the priest. “You felt it too?”

“Of course-I still do.” Owden lifted one foot and braced it against Vangerdahast’s ribs, then began hauling on the wizard’s arm. “It was caused by this ghazneth-just as the last one caused your insanity.”

Vangerdahast screamed until his arm popped into its socket, then dropped to his knees and tried not to groan.

“Battle-lust can make men foolish,” said Owden. “What do you suppose will happen when the ghazneths are ready for us?”

“I suppose you know the answer,” Vangerdahast growled. He struggled to his feet and tried to raise his arm. He could not lift it more than a few inches, and the effort made him hiss with pain. “I imagine you have a solution?”

“Chauntea does.” Owden laid a healing hand on the wizard’s aching shoulder. “Here, the goddess will help you with that.”

Vangerdahast jerked his arm away. “I don’t need her help.” The wizard fished a healing potion from inside his own cloak and downed it, then said, “And the Royal Excursionary Company does not need her protection.”

Owden pointed at the empty vial in Vangerdahast’s hand. “That elixir was blessed by aged. There is no difference between drinking it and accepting the All Mother’s help.”

“The difference is that the Royal Treasury paid good gold for this.” Vangerdahast could already feel the potion’s fiery magic driving the ache from his strained shoulder. He used his injured arm to hurl the empty vial into a rock. “And that is all Tempus expects of us in return.”

Owden shook his head. “I am not your adversary, Vangerdahast.”

“Then why did you persuade the king to send you along?”

“Because you may need my help.” Owden’s eyes betrayed the anger he was struggling to contain. “I’m not trying to take your place. I’m only thinking of Tanalasta.”

“You are not thinking of Tanalasta.” Vangerdahast snatched Cadimus’s reins from Owden’s assistant, then swung into his saddle. “If you were thinking of Tanalasta, you would be back in Huthduth by now.”

The wizard jerked Cadimus around toward the warped sycamore tree, leaving the priest to glare at his back. Despite the harsh words, Vangerdahast knew the harvestmaster to be a good and capable man-and that was the heart of the problem. Having cured both the king and the royal magician of insanity, Owden had risen high in the opinions of many influential people-including the Royal Sage Alaphondar Emmarask, many of the nobles who had at first opposed creating a Royal Temple, and most importantly Azoun himself. Not only had the king insisted on sending Owden along to help find his daughters, he had asked the rest of the harvestmaster’s priests to help him and Merula rescue the queen.

Given Azoun’s inherent decency, the king would certainly feel obliged to express his gratitude to the monks, perhaps by establishing Tanalasta’s Royal Temple-and that Vangerdahast simply could not allow. As trustworthy and capable as Owden might be, there could be no guarantee that his successor would prove as valuable to the realm, or that Chauntea would not use him to impose her own will on the kingdom. It had been more than thirteen hundred years since the ancient elves had charged Baerauble Etharr with serving the first Cormyrean king as advisor and Royal Wizard. Since then, it had been the sole duty of every Royal Magician to protect both the king and his realm by steering them down the safest path. Vangerdahast was not about to let that tradition end under his watch-not when it had proven the wisest and most effective guarantee of the realm’s safety for thirteen-and-a-half centuries.

When Vangerdahast reached the gnarled sycamore tree, he found old Alaphondar exactly where he had expected: stumbling absentmindedly around the trunk, squinting at the glyphs and painstakingly copying them into his journal. So absorbed was the Royal Sage Most Learned that he did not notice the wizard’s presence until Cadimus nuzzled his neck-then he hurled his pencil and journal into the air, letting out such a shriek that half the company started up the hill to see what was wrong.

Vangerdahast signaled the riders to stop, then asked, “Well, old friend? Was it worth the trip?”

Alaphondar pushed his spectacles up his nose, then lifted his chin to regard the royal magician. “It’s curious, Vangerdahast-really quite strange.”

If the sage was irritated at being startled, his voice did not betray it. He simply retrieved his journal and pencil off the ground, then turned back to the tree and continued to work.

“These glyphs are First Kingate,” he said. “In fact, they are quite possibly Post Thaugloraneous.”

Vangerdahast had no idea what the sage was talking about. “First Kingate?” he echoed. “As in, from Faerlthann’s time?”

“That would be Faerlthannish, would it not?” Alaphondar peered over his spectacles, regarding Vangerdahast as though the royal magician were the under-educated scion of a minor family. “I mean First Kingate, as in Iliphar of the Elves.”

“The Lord of Scepters?” Vangerdahast gasped. “The first king of the elves?”

Alaphondar nodded wearily. “That would be First Kingate,” he said. “Approximately fourteen and a half centuries ago-a hundred years before Faerlthann was crowned. More than fifty years before the Obarskyrs settled in the wilderness, in fact.”

Vangerdahast glanced at the barren moors around them, trying to envision some unimaginably ancient time when they were covered with lush forest and home to a lost kingdom of elves.

“But the glyphs aren’t the interesting part,” said Alaphondar.

“They aren’t?”

The sage shook his head, then said, “This tree isn’t that old. In fact, it’s three hundred years too young.”

Vangerdahast knew better than to doubt the sage. “And you know this because…”

“Because of this.”

Alaphondar turned and ran his hand over the glyphs. Instantly, the raspy voice of an anguished elven maid filled the air, and the sound of nervous horses and astonished men rose behind Vangerdahast.

Alaphondar translated the song:

This childe of men, lette his bodie nourishe this tree. The tree of this bodie, lette it growe as it nourishe. The spirit of this tree, to them lette it return as it grewe. Thus the havoc bearers sleepe, the sleepe of no reste. Thus the sorrow bringers sow, the seeds of their ruine. Thus the deathe makers kille, the sons of their sons. Here come ye, Mad Kang Boldovar, and lie among these rootes.

When the song was finished, Vangerdahast gasped, “Boldovar?”

Alaphondar nodded excitedly. “You see?” The sage ran his finger along a set of curls that looked identical to every other set of curls. “He died three hundred years after these serpentine beaks passed out of vogue.”

“I’ll have to trust your judgment, old friend,” said Vangerdahast. He knew how to make the glyphs sing, but he could not read them-much less identify the era in which they had been inscribed. “What does it mean?’

“Mean?” Alaphondar looked confused. “Why, I couldn’t begin to tell you.”

“But we can conclude that the elf who inscribed these glyphs was over three hundred years old,” Vangerdahast prodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the Royal Scouts returning from their search for Tanalasta’s trail. Their lionar was riding up the hill to report.

“Oh yes,” Alaphondar prodded, “and more importantly, that she had been living away from her people for at least that long. Do you have any idea what that kind of loneliness would do to an elf?”

Vangerdahast eyed the glyphs, recalling their bitter words and the anguished tone of the song. “Yes. I’m afraid I do.”

Alaphondar started down the hill toward the hole that led beneath the roots. “Perhaps I’ll learn more in the burial chamber.”

“I’m afraid there won’t be time for that.” Vangerdahast turned to face the scouts’ lionar, who was reining his horse to a stop in front of the wizard. “We’ll be leaving directly.”

Alaphondar stopped in his tracks. “Leave?” he gasped, spinning around. “We can’t leave yet. It will take at least a day to sketch the site properly, and another day just to start the preliminary excavations.”

“We don’t have a day.” Vangerdahast looked into the sky and found no sign of the ghazneth. “We may not have even an hour.”

“But-“

“This is a military expedition, Alaphondar,” Vangerdahast interrupted, motioning the scouts’ lionar forward. “Our goal is to find the princesses and return them to Arabel-quickly.”

The exhilaration vanished from Alaphondar’s eyes. “Of course-how could I forget?” He started toward his horse, then had another thought and turned back to Vangerdahast. “Maybe you could go ahead…”

“You’ve seen two ghazneths now,” Vangerdahast said. “Do you really want to face one of them alone-or even with a dozen dragoneers at your back?”

Alaphondar grimaced, then turned toward his horse. “Forget I asked.”

Vangerdahast faced the lionar. “Did you find their trail?” The scout nodded, then pointed into the valley between the Mule Ear peaks. “We found a few old hoof prints. They’re heading south into the mountains.”

“That’s welcome news indeed,” Vangerdahast said, sighing in relief. “Maybe Tanalasta has finally come to her senses and decided the time has come to return to Cormyr.”