Doust yawned. Again. "Isn't it time to wake Jhess and Stoop?" he asked, fighting down yet another yawn.
"Yes," Florin said, leaning close to dig steel-hard fingers into Doust's ear and bring him instantly and very painfully wide awake, "but see that you do it quietly. And weapons out, all."
Doust blinked. "Why? Is there someone out there?"
"Someone. And a beast, too. They're watching us."
As he said these words, Florin rose, his drawn sword moving from across his knees to ready in his hand.
As it happened, he was just in time.
Chapter 20
Talons in the Night Now dripping red where once so white Fangs well fed flash not so bright Yet no gentler now their thirsty bite Fear always lurking talons in the night
He had to leave. Sooner or later a Wizard of War would discover some need to use a spell-shielded chamber and walk in on him. Yet he might never again have this much safe, quiet solitude in which to think.
And by Mystra, Azuth, and the Purple Dragon, he had to think.
Cormyr was a deathtrap for him, now and henceforth. Even if Vangerdahast should happen to drop dead before the next highsun-and he'd not be surprised in the slightest if the Royal Magician turned out to be one of those mages who has to be slain six or seven times before it worked-war wizards did not forget.
Not that Onsler Ruldroun had ever been bright lightning and gasps of awe as a war wizard. He had managed to steal a few spell scrolls down the years and retain a spellbook that should have been passed on to Old Thunderspells, but that still left him as "competent, but no more." He couldn't hope to challenge anyone but a fumbling lackspells and survive.
So he would have to be what he'd been before Yellander's gold had seduced him. Very careful. Until the bright empire could be founded, another mistake would mean death.
Which was why he'd dared to use the portals to take himself here after Boarblade was safe. He would have to disappear now and keep hidden, trailing along after Boarblade and the four. He'd keep close watch over their doings but stay unseen, using his spells to aid them only when he could do so undetected.
The four were on their way to join Boarblade already. Only the second man to whom he'd whispered had refused, and he'd managed to stuff that body down into the sewers. If he could manage it, those would be last individuals he would ever meet and have dealings with as Onsler Ruldroun.
Careful and cautious, that would be his way. From now on, he would work only through others, always hiding his true face.
As if it had heard his thought, his favorite hargaunt emerged at the top of the tapestry it had been hiding behind and flowed down the rich fabric toward him.
He reached out a hand to it, and it curled itself off the tapestry like a caterpillar to flow along his arm.
Ruldroun embraced it, kissing and then licking its wrinkled, purplish-brown warmth. It shifted in hue to match his skin and nuzzled him, emitting a purr he could feel more than hear.
His only friend, perhaps his only lover…
"Mother of my precious ones, I'll hide my real face using you," he murmured to it. "And when Shadowdale is ours, my beloved, you shall have the rewards I've promised, that you've been so patiently waiting for all these years. Your picks of the best humans to subvert and conquer: the strongest war wizard and Zhentarim agents who come skulking, the best Harper mages, perhaps even a Chosen of Mystra, if we dare that high. Persons of importance, who, when they return to the realms you desire to rule, can get you to rulers and those who choose rulers… and the real conquest of Faerun can begin. Unnoticed by those who bluster and blow warhorns and gallop under banners."
He was humming happily to match its purrings now, as he tenderly stroked the shifting, caressingly moving bulk of the hargaunt.
"A hargaunt empire, where humans made docile reap rich harvests and burn out diseases and stand together against monstrous foes."
A sudden grin split Onsler Ruldroun's weary face, and he said to the silent room around him, "And Telgarth Boarblade wonders why I hold my tongue so tightly!"
Flowing from his cheek across his face, the hargaunt purred.
Belthonder prided himself on never uttering an excuse-and never needing to. Once he'd had to tell Vangerdahast, "Not yet," but the Royal Magician had known he was right and had smiled and nodded his approval.
Vangey knew who were his best Wizards of War.
And if Marim Belthonder was no longer as young and supple and devastatingly handsome as he'd once been, he was wiser, more artful in his persuasions, and just as tall. The women of Cormyr still smiled invitingly when he looked their way, which sometimes accomplished half his work for him.
Now, for instance. This path led to a glade where a certain nobleman's wife would be waiting for him, cloaked againsr the night cold but probably wearing nothing much beneath it save boots. The moment his seeking spell was done, to make sure she'd come alone and wasn't being followed by anyone suspicious, he would put on his very best smile and go to meet het.
Belthonder flexed his fingers before working the spell-precise and elegant, that was how all castings should be-and stepped away from the trunk of the sheltering shadowtop to give himself room.
The Sword That Never Sleeps promptly sliced through his throat and several of his fingertips as it raced past.
It looped and came racing back to bury itself quillons-deep in Belthonder's heart before the body had even begun to topple.
Then it twisted and flew backward, freeing itself from flesh and bone. Glistening with the best war wizard blood, the sword flew away, vanishing back into the night.
Armaukran's enchantments were peerless in some regards but merely adequate in others. Old Ghost was almost out of earshot before the noblewoman's screams began.
Drathar had no intention of playing the dead hero. So far as he knew, no Brotherhood superior was scrying him now. How he carried out the orders Hardtower had relayed to him was his business. Stop the Knights from reaching Shadowdale, kill as many as possible, and above all get the Pendant of Ashaba. Clear enough.
Yet there was no need to try for all three goals in one fray. That probably would get him killed, going up against a chartered band of adventurers. Killing one or two and wounding others so as to slow their travel would be solid work for this night.
So he could hang back and use his spells to watch. Or to whisk himself away if the need arose.
Let the dirlagraun-displacer beasts, most mages called them- take on the Knights of Myth Drannor and die in his place. The sword-sharp spell he'd cast on its claws had lengthened them into razor-keen, hooked talons as long as sabers, and the shielding spell he'd cast on the beast should hurl the first spell they sent at the dirlagraun right back where it had come from.
Perhaps-just perhaps-that would be enough. If not, thete would be other nights before even Knights on fast horses could reach Shadowdale. And these Knights were walking.
And every night would hold another dirlagraun-or something far more interesting, if his spells could find and conquer it.
At them, my champion! He sent that burning thought and pulled out of its mind. There were two priests and a mageling up on that ledge.
Eagerly, barely needing his urging, the dirlagraun bounded up the scree, loose stones hissing and rolling under its paws-and pounced.
Omgryn cared not a whit if others got the praise. What mattered to him was that he knew-along with Belthondet, Vangerdahast, Laspeera, and even Queen Filfaeril and her lord husband, King Azoun himself-that he and Belthonder were the Royal Magician's best war wizards. The spellhurlers Vangey turned to when Cormyr stood in need, the two who could get the hardest tasks done-and do them well.