Death of the Dragon

14

The echo of a distant splash rolled down the river behind Vangerdahast and faded into nothingness. The wizard turned and looked toward the sound. The water was as black as the foul air, and the air was as black as the contorted walls, and the walls were as black as a chimney flue-save that instead of soot, they were covered in some black scum that seemed half moss and half stone. Circles of the stuff floated on the water just a few inches beneath Vangerdahast’s chin, stinking of must and mildew and some ancient filth he did not dare consider, given that he was in a tunnel just one level beneath the city of the Grodd.

The cavern remained ominously quiet, but at the last bend behind Vangerdahast, the scum circles were rising and falling ever so slightly on the river surface. The wizard looked at the tiny crow leg hovering above his palm, which he was holding above the water more or less at eye level, and saw that it was still pointing forward. The ghazneth remained somewhere ahead-so what was behind?

Visions of albino sharks and cave-dwelling anacondas began to fill his head, but Vangerdahast dismissed these fears as unfounded nonsense. Such creatures needed a steady diet, and the goblins-the only substantial food source he had found in these caverns-had repopulated their city only recently. It seemed more likely that a patch of scum had simply fallen off the ceiling and made the sound as it landed. Much more likely.

Vangerdahast continued down the passage, following his makeshift compass down one fork of a three-way intersection. If he was right about the ghazneth’s identity-and he sincerely hoped he was not-the thing was Rowen Cormaeril, the handsome young ranger whom Princess Tanalasta had found so unfortunately infatuating. The wizard had last seen them together in the foothills of the Storm Horn Mountains, when the pair had pulled free of his grasp to avoid being teleported back to Arabel. At the time, Vangerdahast had been furious with the pair, but now he was-well, now he was scared to death. If Rowen had become a ghazneth, he could not bear to think what had happened to Tanalasta.

The water grew a few inches deeper, and the wizard tipped his chin back and slipped his feet carefully along the bottom. Holding the torch so high tired his arm, and he wondered whether it might be wiser to cast a spell of light on the crow’s foot. With both hands full, he would have a difficult time defending himself if there was something behind him, and there was a very real possibility of stepping into a hole and dousing the flame anyway.

But casting a light spell would mean feeding Nalavara more magic, and he was worried about how close he had come to freeing her already. A few hours after his near capture at the goblin tower, Vangerdahast had taken advantage of his pursuers’ lingering confusion to return to the great plaza and sneak a peek at Nalavara. To his horror, he had found a dragon fully six hundred feet long, with the remains of his weathercloak, wands, rings, and other magic items lying dull and drained of mystic energy around her head. Though she was still attached to the ground along one flank, writhing in the air were four tree-sized legs, a wing large enough to shade the Suzail Palace, and a spiked tail half the length of the Royal Parade Ground. The sight had frightened Vangerdahast so greatly that when the inevitable cohort of goblins found him out he very nearly allowed himself to be captured rather than cast another spell. Only his determination to track down the ghazneth and find out what had happened to Tanalasta had convinced him to flee.

Another splash sounded in the cavern behind Vangerdahast, louder and more certain than the last. The noise was followed by a hissed chitter, and for a moment the wizard could not grasp what he was hearing. It could not be goblins-not when the water was so deep it soaked his beard to the chin. He listened and heard a soft, rhythmic purling, and his disbelief changed to dismay. They had followed him-and his own nose told him how. Though he had grown accustomed to the acrid stench of his torch, the smoke it produced was heavy and rancid and must have seemed like a beacon to the goblins.

Vangerdahast glanced one more time at the crow’s leg in his palm, then thrust the butt of his torch into a small wall crevice. The flames began to lick a loose sheet of black crust, and almost instantly the edge began to smolder, sending plumes of ghastly smelling smoke rolling along the ceiling. Chuckling quietly at the thought of what the bitter stench would do to the goblins’ sensitive noses, the wizard set off into the darkness.

A few minutes later, the goblins seemed to realize what was happening and filled the tunnel with angry chittering. Though Vangerdahast was already feeling his way around the next bend, he paused long enough to look back down the passage into what had become a flickering ring of fire. The goblins were paddling into view on rough-hewn logs, sitting three and four to a raft with their legs dangling in the water and using crudely shaped paddles to propel their craft forward. As they approached the burning wall, they squealed and pressed their faces into their elbows, trying to shield their heat-seeing eyes from the flames.

The first log hit the wall and spilled its passengers into the water, and it became apparent that goblins could not swim-at least not in bronze armor. The second log seemed to be staying on course, so Vangerdahast backed around the corner and turned into the darkness-then let out a cry when he saw a pair of pearly eyes shining down on him from above.

The cry elicited a cacophony of chortled commands and sloshing paddles from the goblins, but Vangerdahast had no time to react before a hand grabbed him by the beard and hauled him onto a small rock ledge.

“I am growing tired of saving you, Old Snoop,” said the same husky voice he had heard earlier. A powerful hand caught Vangerdahast’s wrist and plucked the enchanted crow’s leg from his palm. “Were I you, I would not rely on my good graces again.”

Vangerdahast’s heart sank, for there were only a handful of individuals who knew him by Tanalasta’s favorite nickname-and Rowen Cormaeril was one of them.

“Stay here, old fool.” Rowen dropped off the ledge and slipped into the water as silently as an owl slips into the air.

“Rowen, wait!” Vangerdahast rolled to his belly in the darkness and began to feel for the edge.

The goblins’ voices rose in a sudden panic, then a tremendous wind roared through the passage, stirring the water into a splashing frenzy and threatening to tear the wizard from his perch. Vangerdahast pressed his face to the ledge and dug his fingers into the dirt, working his hand cautiously forward until he came to a loose rock.

When the wind finally slackened to a mere tempest, he sat up and rubbed his fingers over the stone’s slickness, casting a spell of continual light upon it. He would have preferred to give himself the ability to see in darkness, but that particular enchantment required either an agate or a pinch of dried carrot to activate it, and he had lost most of his spell components when Rowen pulled him out of his weathercloak at the goblin tower.

A deep glow arose within the rock, flooding the passage with magical light and illuminating the ghazneth at the bend of the passage. Though the wind was roaring past his head and the water crashing against him in waves, Rowen stood upright without any hint of effort, his long hair hanging to his collar motionless, straight, and utterly undisturbed.

Finally, no more sounds were heard from the goblins, and the wind slackened to a mere bluster. Rowen glanced back once, then looked away and started around the corner without causing the water to ripple or purl even slightly.

“No you don’t, Rowen Cormaeril!” Vangerdahast swung his legs over the lip of the ledge and dropped into the water, then splashed down the passage after the ghazneth. “Come back here, coward! Stand and present yourself!”

Much to Vangerdahast’s surprise, he rounded the corner and found himself looking up into Rowen Cormaeril’s murky face. With a sturdy brow, prominent cheeks, and cleft chin, the scout’s features were still chiseled and handsome. They were also more gaunt and pronounced than Vangerdahast remembered, so that the overall effect was one of power and domination.

“Do I look like a royal scout to you?” Rowen’s hand seemed to twitch. Vangerdahast found his wrist locked in the ghazneth’s grasp. “The time when I must take orders from you is long past.”

“No one has released…” Vangerdahast had to swallow to wet his dry throat. “No one has released you from your oath. I am the king’s Royal Magician and superior to every soldier in the land. You will do as I as command… unless the blood of all Cormaerils runs treasonous.”

Rowen’s eyes grew white with anger. His grasp began to tighten, and Vangerdahast’s fingers came open of their own accord. The ghazneth glared at him for a long moment, perhaps debating whether to continue squeezing, then plucked the glowing stone from Vangerdahast’s hand and began to absorb its magic.

“For someone reputed to be the most cunning man in Cormyr, you are certainly the fool,” said Rowen. “I would think you would know the consequences of using magic by now.”

Vangerdahast began to breathe easier. “I do, but you have made yourself difficult to reach. It was the only way to find you.”

“You have found me now.” Rowen absorbed the last of the light from Vangerdahast’s rock, then dropped it into the water. “And I pray you are done mocking me. Do not be so bold again.”

Ignoring the menace in the ghazneth’s words, Vangerdahast reached out blindly and caught his arm. The flesh was firm and cold and as slimy to the touch as that of an eel.

“I did not come to mock you,” the wizard said. “To kill you, perhaps-or to ask your aid, depending.”

Rowen’s eyes continued to glow white. “Depending on what?”

“On what became of Tanalasta,” Vangerdahast said.

The anger faded from Rowen’s gaze. He turned away, plunging the cavern into total darkness.

Thinking his quarry was slipping silently away, Vangerdahast sloshed forward-and ran headlong into the ghazneth’s back.

“I left her with Alusair,” said Rowen. “I was leaving the company to find you, and they were on their way to Goblin Mountain. That was the last time I saw her and knew it to be certain.”

“And knew it to be certain?’” Vangerdahast echoed.

Rowen grabbed the wizard by the shoulder and led him up the passage, guiding him onto a slick incline that climbed up onto the ledge where he had been earlier.

“It was perhaps a day after the battle at the Farsea Marsh,” Rowen began. “Your company lay floating and bloated in the water, and the orcs were still looting the bodies. I discovered a note in Alaphondar’s spyglass charging whoever found it to report to the king that the scourges of Alaundo’s prophecy were awakened. I took the note and was about to start for Goblin Mountain when your horse, Cadimus, broke out of hiding in some willows at the edge of the marsh.

“As Cadimus crested the hill, the ghazneths noticed him and left their keep. It was all I could do to get mounted and into the woods before they were on us. They hunted me the rest of the day. One even ambushed me as I crossed a clearing and latched its talons into my shoulder before I dragged it into a tree. That night, I decoyed the monsters by activating my cloak’s throat clasp and sending it downstream on a log. I slipped away and was no more than a day from Goblin Mountain when I heard her.”

“Tanalasta?”

There was a pause in which Vangerdahast could imagine the ghazneth nodding, then Rowen continued, “She was screaming and begging me to kill her, and… and I couldn’t bear it. I knew Alaphondar’s message to be even more important than Tanalasta’s life, but I was in love, and I went after her.

“The ghazneths turned northward and started to play games, scraping her along the treetops above my head, landing on the other side of a meadow and making her beg for death until I used my escape pocket to reach her, then snatching her away and flying off before I came out of the afterdaze. By then, I knew they didn’t want to kill me. They were just luring me northward into a trap, but what could I do? I was too exhausted to think straight and terrified of letting her suffer. Even if I had turned back they would have killed me on the spot.”

“No doubt,” said Vangerdahast, trying not to sound unsympathetic. “But what of Tanalasta?”

“I… I don’t know,” Rowen said. “Before I knew it, we had crossed to the north side of the Storm Horns again. The last I saw her, King Boldovar had her on the far rim of gorge, and he was… he was doing something unthinkable to her. I went mad and used my escape pocket to reach his side of the canyon. But when I came out of the afterdaze, she wasn’t there-only my cousin Xanthon, laughing and holding me over the canyon by my collar, threatening to push me in after Tanalasta.”

Though he was already in the dark, Vangerdahast closed his eyes and whispered, “Very good.”

“Very good?” echoed Rowen, sounding less surprised than he might have. “Then it was a decoy?”

“Our own trick used against us,” Vangerdahast confirmed. “Boldovar can create illusions. He did the same thing to us at the Farsea battle, and it nearly cost Alaphondar his life.”

“It has cost me more than that, I fear,” Rowen continued. “I slipped my iron dagger out and managed to plunge it into Xanthon’s stomach, then held on as he stumbled back from the edge of the rim. Boldovar started after me, then the others appeared, and I took Cadimus and fled into a grove of the largest trees I can ever recall seeing.

“The ghazneths stopped at the edge and stood there hurling the vilest curses I’ve ever heard, and I couldn’t understand why they didn’t come after me until I looked around and saw the elven glyphs. They were similar to the glyphs we found on those twisted trees over the tombs Boldovar and the others came from-except these trees were not twisted and diseased. They were all beautiful and healthy, and when I ran my finger along the letters, the songs made me cry. Even the ghazneths fell quiet until the music was done.”

“A whole copse of Trees of the Body?” Vangerdahast gasped.

A Tree of the Body was a sort of memorial created by the ancient elves who had inhabited Cormyr before men. According to Tanalasta-and the princess was known for being well read on such things-when an esteemed elf died, his fellows sometimes inscribed his epitaph on the trunk of a small sapling and buried the body beneath the roots. Vangerdahast did not understand all of the subtleties of such commemorations, but he had never before heard of even two of the majestic trees being found in a single location, much less a whole copse.

“You are sure they were Trees of the Body?” Vangerdahast asked.

“Later I became sure,” Rowen said. “There were hundreds of them, and the ghazneths kept me trapped among them for nearly a tenday. They watched me constantly and were there waiting every time I tried to leave. One night, I decided the time had come to die or escape, and I was riding out when the ghost of a handsome elf lord rose from the ground before me. He wore a three-spiked circlet set with a single purple stone, and in his hand he carried a golden staff with the haft twisted in a ropelike pattern, and he spoke to me harshly.

” ‘Nine days have thou forsaken thy duty hiding here, human, and nine days have we sheltered thee, but ere thou leave, know thy death atones nothing. To undo thy betrayal, a greater amends must thou make at a cost greater to thee than death.’

“I did not need to ask what betrayal, for I still carried Alaphondar’s letter close to my heart and knew well how I had failed. I had let my love for Tanalasta blind me to my duty, and I knew that Cormyr would pay dearly for my failure. What could I do but bow my head and reply, ‘Milord, I would redeem myself. My only question is how.’

“The elf warned me again of the terrible cost, and again I told him I would gladly pay. The elf smiled then and took Cadimus’s reins from my hand. He whispered something in the horse’s ear that caused him to nicker and nuzzle me on the cheek, then turn and flee to the far side of the grove.

“The elf spoke again. ‘Know, human,’ he said, ‘that I am Iliphar, King of Scepters, and this grove is my burial place, where a thousand treasures have lain hidden for more long ages than I can count. Follow me that I may bestow on thee the greatest of all, the Scepter of Lords.’

“King Iliphar led me to the center of the grove, where stood an ancient oak the size of a castle keep. The ghost pointed at the base of the tree and said, ‘Take my scepter and give it to thy king. Tell him that when wielded with compassion, it has the power to smite any elven-spawned evil-but only given that all the wrongs that spawned that evil in the first place have been set right. By surrendering the scepter to a human, I am righting the first. It will be for he who wields this weapon to right the other.’

“And that was all King Iliphar said,” said Rowen. “He stepped away and faded back into his tree. I drew my dagger and began to dig where he had pointed. No sooner had my blade touched the soil than the ghazneths screeched in triumph and streaked in to attack. I thought for a moment they had deceived me again and tricked me into dispelling the grove’s magic protection-which I am sure now was their entire purpose in luring me north in the first place-but if so, the last trick was on them. An army of elf ghosts rose from beneath their trees to meet the ghazneths, and the trees wove their branches into an impenetrable net of protection. The ghazneths tore into the limbs with fire and blight, and the ghosts tore into them with sword and club. I concentrated on my digging, and it was not long before I had wormed my way well down among the roots.

“But even the elves could not hold on forever, and it seemed the deeper I dug, the weaker they grew. By the time I finally broke into Iliphar’s treasure chamber, the great tree branches behind me were cracking and snapping as the ghazneths tore through. I pulled my commander’s ring and activated the light spell, then cried out at all the treasure I saw heaped beneath the tree. There were hills of it, glowing with magic and crusted with enough gems to dazzle the eyes of old Thauglor himself.

“A loud rumble rolled down the tunnel from outside, then all the trees started to sing at once. I rushed into the chamber and began tearing through the treasure heaps. There were wands and staves and rods of every ilk. Any one of them and none of them could have been the Scepter of Lords, and I despaired of ever finding the right one.

“Then a terrible rasping broke out in the tunnel behind me. Thinking to bring the roof down on my pursuer, I grabbed a silver sword and rushed toward the mouth-and that is when I saw it, resting in the crooks of two roots, with a thin circlet of gold hanging from its haft.”

“The Scepter of Lords?” Vangerdahast asked.

Rowen’s pearly eyes rose and fell in the darkness. “It was a golden scepter fashioned in the shape of sapling oak, with finely wrought branches sprouting off at odd angles and a huge pommel of amethyst carved in the figure of an acorn. It was the most beautiful treasure in the chamber, and there was no mistaking its power.

“I snatched the scepter off its hooks and stepped off to the side of the tunnel, still fumbling with the crown on its haft as I cocked the thing back. The crimson eyes of a ghazneth appeared in the tunnel mouth, and I threw my weight into a mighty strike.

“But as I brought the head down, a hellish curse came from the tunnel and spilled out into the room in billowing black fumes. The ground shook and cracked beneath me. The floor gave way, and I fell into this horrid abyss, and I have been no more able to leave than you have.”

“What of the scepter?” Vangerdahast’s heart was pounding so ferociously he could barely hear his own question. “Tell me you didn’t lose the scepter!”

“Of course not.” Rowen’s fingertips crackled with tiny balls of lightning, illuminating the ledge in twinkling bursts of silver. He reached behind him and produced a small, triple-spiked circlet with a pale amethyst set in the center. “Nor the crown that went with it.”

Vangerdahast snatched the crown from the ghazneth’s hand. It was as dull as lead, all the golden magic gone from it.

“You didn’t!”

“I’m afraid I did, before I realized what I was turning into,” said Rowen. “On the other hand, it was a useful lesson. The Scepter of Lords is still full of magic and hidden safely away-someplace where Nalavara’s goblins will never find it, and where it hasn’t been a constant temptation to me.”

“That’s something.” Vangerdahast flipped the leaden crown in his fingers, silently bemoaning the loss of such ancient magic. He could have learned much by examining it-almost as much as he had by listening to the tale of its recovery. He patted Rowen warmly on the knee-then instantly regretted the gesture when it elicited a shudder of revulsion from the ghazneth. “You’ve done well, Rowen. We can make this work for Cormyr.”

“How?” The ghazneth waved his crackling fingers around the cavern in despair. “How can we make this work for anyone?”

Vangerdahast smiled. “Nalavara went to a lot of trouble to trick you into breaking the power of Iliphar’s burial ground. She wouldn’t have done that unless she was worried about the scepter-a weapon you’ve kept out of her hands.”

Rowen’s expression brightened considerably. “We’re going to kill her?”

“Not us,” said Vangerdahast. He was thinking of the ancient secret that he and the other royal magicians had helped their kings keep for so many centuries. “Azoun will do it. If the scepter is to work, I fear it must be wielded by a king.”