Troy Denning - Beyond the High Road

Hag’s dismay showed in his face, and Tanalasta could tell that it had not even occurred to him that the field might be ruined forever.

“I’d be grateful for whatever they can do,” he said. “It’ll be hard enough doing city work this year without knowing I have to clear another field before spring.”

Owden nodded to his priests. They dismounted and began to sort through the small assortment of tools piled in the farmer’s cart, having left their own shovels and hoes back in Arabel. Despite the offer of help, Hag still did not seem inclined to volunteer any information. He led Tanalasta and her two companions to the corner of his field, then stopped and looked at them expectantly.

Tanalasta put her hands into the pockets of her weathercloak. “You must swear on your honor as a Purple Dragon to hold what I tell you in the strictest confidence.” With a practiced motion, she slipped on two of the handful of magic rings that Vangerdahast had pressed on her before setting out from Arabel. “You may not tell even your wife.”

“I swear,” said Hag. “Not even my wife.”

“Good. Clearly, you have realized by now that I am no war wizard, and that many of those traveling with me are not normal Purple Dragons.”

Vangerdahast cleared his throat gruffly. “Milady, I hardly think this is wise-“

“But it is my decision, Lord Wizard.” Tanalasta removed her hand from her pocket, displaying to Hag the hardened gold band of a Commander’s Ring of the Purple Dragons. “I have no doubt that you also recognize this, and what it must mean for someone who wouldn’t know a troop from a tulip to be wearing it.”

“I know what it is, as you say,” said Hag, “but I can’t imagine why you’d be wearing one.”

“Of course you can.” Tanalasta motioned to the twelve priests already poking around at the edge of his field. “You’ve already guessed, and with little enough help from us. We’re trying to stop this blight before it becomes a serious problem for Cormyr. To do that, we need to find the orcs who are spreading it.”

Hag cocked an eyebrow and thought for a moment, then said, “I suppose it doesn’t really matter who you are.”

“Not if you value your tongue,” Vangerdahast threatened. The free farmer nodded reluctantly, then picked up a long stick. “You’ll be wanting to see this.” Talking as he worked, Hag began to scrape the mold away from the soft soil underneath. “He must have snuck up on us. The dogs didn’t start barking until he was already in the field, and by the time I saw him, he was halfway across.”

“Who?” asked Owden.

“Whoever left that.” Hag pointed to a track he had uncovered. It was shaped like a man’s bare foot, save that it was half-again too long, with the narrow line of a claw mark furrowing the ground in front of each toe.

“No orc made that track,” Tanalasta said.

“He looked more like a beggar,” said Hag. “A tall beggar, with a huge ragged cape and some sort of tattered hood. I was going to invite him to sleep in the goat shed, until he turned and I saw his eyes.”

“His eyes?” Tanalasta asked.

“They were full of blood.” Hag hesitated, then added, “And they… well… they had to be shining.”

“Had to be?” Vangerdahast demanded. “Be specific, sergeant.”

Hag’s bearing grew a touch more proud and upright. “It was dark, Lord Wizard. He was really only a shadow, but I could see his eyes. They weren’t bright, it’s just that they were the only thing I could really see.”

“Did he do anything threatening?” asked Tanalasta.

Hag flushed. “Not really… but he frightened me all the same. I set my dogs on him. They chased him over to the corner by where you came in, and that was the last I saw of them alive.”

“How were they killed?” Vangerdahast asked.

“I couldn’t say. In the morning, my son found them sleeping on the stream bank. They wouldn’t wake up.”

“You sent your son to look for them?” Owden asked.

“To call them,” Hag said, bristling at the note of disapproval in the harvestmaster’s voice. “My wife and I were busy in the field.”

“The blight?” Tanalasta asked.

“A diagonal stripe right where he walked. We pulled every turnip within two paces of his footsteps, but the whole crop had wilted by evening.” Hag gestured at the field. “You know the rest.”

Owden and Vangerdahast exchanged worried looks, then the harvestmaster said, “It appears I was wrong about the orcs. I’m sorry.”

Vangerdahast laid a hand on the harvestmaster’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t be too hard on myself. It was only a working theory, and a good one at that.” He turned to Hag. ‘What else can you tell us about this vagabond?”

Hag shrugged. “Nothing. He came and went in the night, then everything just died.”

“Came from where?” Vangerdahast demanded, scanning the rocky farmyard around them. “Went to whence?”

“It’ll do no good to search for a trail now. There was a good wind two days ago,” said Hag. “Besides, I looked after and found the dogs dead. The vagabond-or whatever he was-didn’t leave any more tracks.”

Tanalasta studied the surrounding area. The grange was located just a few hundred paces north of the tiny hamlet of LastRest, near where The Mountain Ride ascended the foothills of the Storm Horn Mountains into Gnoll Pass. The vegetation was alternately scrub willow and thin copses of beech, with plenty of boulders and stones to hint at the difficulty of clearing a pasture. It would have been hard for anyone to approach the field through so much brush without leaving some sign of his passage.

‘Tm no scout, but I know how to look for a trail,” said Hag, correctly interpreting Tanalasta’s scrutiny of the area. “There were no broken twigs, no overturned stones-at least not that amounted to a trail.”

Vangerdahast used his hand to trace a path from the far corner of the field to where they were standing, then turned to continue the line. He was pointing between two massive peaks just to the left of Gnoll Pass.

“The Stonelands,” Tanalasta observed.

Vangerdahast nodded. “Well, I suppose that’s no surprise. Nothing good has ever come from the Stonelands.”

Owden turned to Hag. “Perhaps we can learn something about this stranger from the death of your dogs. Would you mind if I had a look at them?”

“If you want to dig them up.” Hag pointed toward a mound on the far side of his goat shed.

Vangerdahast frowned and looked to Tanalasta. “I’m sure there is no need to remind you of our mission. We hardly have time to tarry here all afternoon while the good harvestmaster digs up those poor creatures.”

“Of course not,” Tanalasta said, starting for her horse, and motioning for the others to follow. “You and I will cross the Storm Horns with all due haste. The Harvestmaster and his priests will stay here to learn what they can from Hag’s field, then set off after this vagabond.”

Now Vangerdahast really scowled. “It’s hardly necessary to send them back. Either one of us can report-“

“Those are my orders,” Tanalasta said. “And if you care to argue them, I can simply release the Badgeless Maces from the king’s service. Of course, then I would also have to confiscate their cloaks, leaving them to ride about the realm asking questions and chasing vagabonds without any disguise whatsoever.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“You think not?” Tanalasta reached her horse and took the reins from the young priest who had been holding it, then swung into the saddle. “Try me.”

Vangerdahast did his best to warp his wrinkled face into a mask of outrage. “The king himself shall hear of this.”

“I have no doubt. I suspect he might even be expecting it.” Trying hard to suppress a smile, Tanalasta turned to Hag. “You have the thanks of the realm, and I hope the priests are able to save your field.”