More offerings from either end of the black dragon could come raging down at her at any time. Which meant prudence must be paramount. Ah, scale the rocks just there, so as to pick her way over yonder, and so on …
Unnoticed by the Sage of Shadowdale’s newfound dark elf body, there was the faintest of stealthy movements by the edge of the cleft.
Even an alert and staring Elminster could have seen no more than a shadow, just for an instant, as someone-or something-melted silently against the jagged cavern wall, well above the smooth, worn path of long ago acid flows.
The lone drow priestess ascending cautiously out of the Underdark had a very patient pursuer.
Lord Constable Farland looked across the table and found a certain grim measure of comfort in the faces staring back at him. He trusted these two men.
Sometimes he wished he could trust anyone else in all the Realms, but thus far, he’d found only these two. His senior constables. Tall, scarred, taciturn Anglur Traelshun, almost a head taller than grim, stocky, cynical Bradraer Delloak. Thank the gods the two were firm friends, because they were both capable men, and would have made deadly enemies for each other, had they been so inclined.
It was hrasted isolated at Irlingstar, perched on a knife-edged stone ridge running west out of Irlingmount, one of the Orondstars. Just “Oronds,” most called them; a cluster of uncharacteristically knife-edged peaks in the Thunder Peaks range, just a little northwest of halfway between the Realm of Wailing Fog and Thunderholme. Only one road reached the castle, and save for striding deep into the Stonelands-not the act of a sane man-it wasn’t possible to stay in Cormyr and yet get so far from the rest of the Forest Kingdom.
Which was why the Crown’s most secure prison was there, and not inside the walls of Sharran-infested Wheloon. The nobles in the cells at Irlingstar could birth no end of trouble if they were closer to other Cormyreans-folk in need of coins and susceptible to whispered threats, promises, and sly dealings.
“You’re no more mages than I am,” Farland said wearily, “but have you found any sign that the wards have been breached?”
They both shook their heads, wasting no words. They never did.
More than century ago, the infamous Royal Magician Vangerdahast had cast the first wards at Castle Irlingstar. With stark and strong magical barriers renewed annually ever since, this normally invisible dome of magic hampered most spells within Irlingstar, preventing translocation and scrying into and out of the fortress. Although the Spellplague had clawed at Irlingstar’s wards, they had survived, and remained crucial in preventing wizards hired by noble families from breaching the castle’s security at will.
“Right,” Farland said grimly. “You know what you have to do.” He got up, ending the meeting. The two senior constables made for the door.
Traelshun would rouse the few guards who’d been off-shift and asleep when Avathnar had been murdered, and Delloak was off to the gatehouse to order the wagon drivers to depart immediately, taking their wagons to Immerford to fetch fresh food. He was to ride ahead of them, to be Farland’s messenger to the nearest king’s lord-Lord Lothan Durncaskyn at Immerkeep-to report the murder and request war wizard reinforcements, for the inevitably difficult investigation. Mind-reaming, now that it so often left both interrogator and suspect drool-witted, was a thing of the past. Solving crimes was once more a process of threatening, peering, and cajoling-and given Irlingstar’s current roster of resentful, sneering, sophisticated, and very capable noblemen-the castle’s handful of weary duty war wizards were going to need all the help they could get. The sooner they got started …
Farland descended the back stair that would take him to the mages’ room. Well, they’d have to wait some days, as it was. Immerford, still growing visibly with every passing summer, was one of the newest settlements in Cormyr, centered on the ford where the East Way crossed the Immerflow. But the countryside betwixt here and where Lord Durncaskyn sat in his bright new castle of Immerkeep was hard country indeed, deep swamp wherever it wasn’t knife-sharp rock ridges cloaked by thick, dark, wolf-roamed forests. There wasn’t a fenced clearing between Immerford and Irlingstar, farm or ranch, because Cormyreans weren’t fools enough to try farming or steading there.
Durncaskyn wasn’t going to be pleased at Delloak’s report, but then Durncaskyn never was. Dragon in the sky, Irlingstar’s five duty wizards of war were probably going to be irked, too, but he could do nothing about that.
To say nothing of Irlingstar’s own all-too-superior mages, who’d be scared and therefore even harder to deal with than usual …
Farland reached the bottom of the stair, stepped through the archway, turned right-and stopped.
A long, wet tongue of fresh blood ran out into the passage right in front of him.
It was coming from under the door of the ready room into which the bedchambers of the war wizards all opened.
“Saer mages?” he called sharply.
The ominous silence continued unbroken.
Swallowing a curse, the lord constable of Irlingstar drew his sword and flung open the door, taking care to keep his feet out of the blood.
Even before it swung wide, he knew what he was going to find.
CHAPTER NINE
On his best days, the king’s Lord Lothan Durncaskyn of Immerford was a difficult man, gruff and cynical. On his worst days, he was as irritable and sharp-tongued as an aging, surly, and sarcastic retired Purple Dragon veteran whose many ill-healed wounds made him limp and ache during his every waking moment might be expected to be.
This was turning into one of those worst days. Lord Durncaskyn was not happy.
The messenger from Irlingstar had just departed. A constable of the rare, utterly trustworthy sort; Durncaskyn had believed his every word. Wherefore Immerford below his high windows was afire with the unpleasant news that the kitchen staff at the prison castle-Immerfolk, every one of them-had been murdered. Foul murders that cried out for justice. So of course, the gods having the twisted senses of mirth they did, Durncaskyn couldn’t render the aid he was obligated to-Hells, that he ached to.
Just when their presence had been demanded to see into these killings at Irlingstar, his best wizards of war were busy elsewhere. Off north, looking into reports of lawless men raiding caravans along the Moonsea Ride-brigands who must be lairing somewhere in the headwaters of the Immer, which made them Durncaskyn’s problem. He only had the one competent team, six tested mages led by the capable and well-respected Brannon Lucksar. The junior team, three jack-dancing idiots led by that utter fool Vandur, were …
Durncaskyn’s lip curled. He couldn’t call to mind a word bad enough for them. “Bumblers” was too polite and harmless, by far. “Realm-wrecking disasters” groped closer, but-
The unexpected knocking on his office door that erupted then was a sudden thunder of blows. By the sharpness of those sounds, the din was almost certainly being made by metal-shod canes … three or more of them.
Durncaskyn cast his gaze at the ceiling and waved his hands in an exasperated “What next?” flourish, but of course the gods failed to answer. This was shaping into a “worst” day, indeed.
“It’s unlocked,” he called. “Enter!”
The door was flung open, and the owners of those loudly peremptory canes crowded into the room. Seven good burghers of Immerford, men he knew well, to his cost. One glance told Durncaskyn their mood: furious because they were frightened and just bristling for a fight.