What remained of the Royal Excursionary Company had gathered about twenty paces in front of the keep. Incredibly, the small force was trying to ready itself for a charge. The dragoneers were holding their iron swords and pushing and shoving each other into a rough semblance of a double rank. The two surviving war wizards stood together in the center of the second line, facing each other and gesturing angrily. Alaphondar could not imagine what the dragoneers expected to accomplish, but their jerky motions and comical efforts at organizing themselves suggested they had fallen prey to Boldovar’s dark madness.
The sage was about to lower the spyglass and start down the hill when a cloud of insects rolled over the company from behind. The men flew into a frenzy, breaking ranks to slap wildly at themselves and each other-sometimes with the flats of their iron blades. The two wizards pulled spell components from their pockets and spun around, gesturing toward the top of the keep. Neither managed to complete his spell. One suddenly covered his eyes and fell writhing, and the other dropped when an errant sword caught him across the back of the neck.
Alaphondar turned his spyglass toward the keep, tracing the black cloud to a second story arrow loop. Though the tower interior remained dark and impenetrable, he had little doubt what he would have found inside, had he been able to see: the sixth ghazneth, master of swarms and Scourge of the Day.
Leaving his spyglass where it lay, Alaphondar stepped from behind the boulder and started down the front of the hill, then thought better of rushing into danger with no backup plan. He took his note journal from his weathercloak pocket and fished out a writing lead, then scrawled a message on a blank page.
You who read this, I pray you be loyal to the Purple Dragon and perform a vital service to your king. If you be one of the few who know the Sleeping
Sword, then go and awaken it at once-the scourges have come, and the door is opening. If this be nonsense to you, then I pray you carry this note to the king in all haste and present it to him at once. May wise Oghma watch over this message and see it delivered to the right hand,
Alaphondar Emmarask,
Sage Most Learned to the Royal Court of Cormyr
Alaphondar tore the page from its book and did a quick signet rubbing, then opened his spyglass and slipped the message inside. If all went well, he would retrieve the note himself. If not, then whoever the king sent to investigate his absence would see the message when he found the device and looked inside. The sage slipped the spyglass down between two boulders, leaving enough exposed to attract the attention of someone searching the area for hints as to the fate of the Royal Excursionary Company, and started down toward the marsh.
Judging by the location of Vangerdahast’s prismatic wall, he needed to reach the bottom of the hill before he used his weathercloak’s escape pocket, and that would give him the time to do a quick sending. He closed his throat clasp and pictured Tanalasta’s face in his mind.
When Tanalasta noticed the trail, Alusair’s company was stumbling down into one of those narrow, steep canyons that meandered aimlessly through the Storm Horns, making any journey through the mountains a maddening exercise sweat, and so when she looked down through the pines and glimpsed a swath of churned earth running up the center of the marshy valley, she at first took the dark stripe to be a product of delirium. It had been six days since her last healing spell, and she knew from experience that such hallucinations became common as a person grew sicker. Five days after her wedding-it seemed like she had married Rowen years ago, though she thought the actual time was something little more than a tenday-they had dared to cast a round of healing spells and lost three men to a ghazneth attack. Since then they had resorted to magic only when they grew too ill to continue moving, and the ghazneths never failed to extract a heavy toll.
Finally, Tanalasta staggered out of the trees onto a grassy ribbon of valley floor and heard the lilting trickle of running water. A dozen paces ahead stood a tall stand of willows, screening the creek from view. Thirty paces beyond the creek rose the canyon’s southern wall, blanketed in pines and as steep as a rampart stairway. Drawn on by the promise of cold water to quench their fevers, the entire company lurched through the willows at a near run and dropped to their bellies on the stream bank and began to palm cool clear water into their throats.
Tanalasta was swallowing her third mouthful when she caught a faint whiff of the familiar, too-sweet odor of horse manure. She took one more drink, then rose and forded the creek across a series of stepping stones. Pushing through the willows on the other side, she found herself looking at the same swath of churned ground she had glimpsed earlier.
The trail was close to ten feet wide, with a generous coating of dried manure and a distinct trio of paths worn shoes, and a single set of smooth-soled boot prints lay superimposed over the center line of horseshoe tracks.
Rowen.
Tanalasta turned to call the others and found her sister already stepping out of the willows. Alusair dropped to her haunches and crumbled some of the horse manure between her fingers.
“It’s been a while,” she said. “Maybe a tenday.”
“But it was Vangerdahast.” Tanalasta pointed to the three trails. “According to the Steel -Princess’s Field Guide to Tactics of the Purple Dragon, that’s the standard riding formation for a company with a heavy complement of war wizards. Warriors shielding sorcerers.”
“You read that?” Alusair replied, lifting a brow. “I doubt half the lionars in the army have cracked the cover.”
“Perhaps because your style was stiff,” said Tanalasta.
“I’ll be happy to help you liven it up in a revision.”
Alusair’s tone grew as terse as her syntax. “There isn’t going to be a revision-there’s going to be an order.” She pointed at the boot print. “I suppose you’ve read my little book on tracking as well?”
“Of course, though it was clear that you hadn’t read Lanathar Manyon’s.” Ignoring the curl that came to her sister’s lip, Tanalasta squatted beside the print. “I think it’s safe to assume this track is Rowen’s. Because it’s on top of the horses, we know he was following them. He seemed to be in good health.”
Tanalasta pointed to the broadest part of the boot print, where a slight depression implied a swift, powerful stride.
Alusair inclined her head. “Very good. That should make you happy.”
“I’ll be happy when I see him again.” Tanalasta stood and looked up the dark strip of churned ground. She couldn’t see Rowen, of course, but it comforted her to know she stood on the same ground he had. “In his book, Lanathar claimed a careful observer could tell the age of a track by nothing more than its deterioration.”
“Roughly,” growled Alusair. “And if he claimed more, he was a damned liar.”
Tanalasta remained silent and allowed her sister to study the tracks. As she waited, the rest of the company forded the creek and came to stand with them. Two of the men wandered down the trail to make an evaluation of their own, but they were still crumbling manure when Alusair stood.
“I’d say the company came through eight to fifteen days ago. Rowen’s tracks are harder to place, but I’d guess about eight days.”
“Then it’s possible he has caught them by now,” surmised Tanalasta.
Alusair studied her a moment, then scowled and shook her head resolutely. “Don’t even think it! We’re going to Goblin Mountain, and that’s final.” She turned to her men. “Drink up and fill your waterskins. We’ve got a hill to climb before dark.”
“Why?” Tanalasta demanded, truly surprised. “Vangerdahast is bound to be closer.”
“Vangerdahast could be anywhere by now. And so could Rowen.”