Troy Denning - Beyond the High Road

“And yet the realm might benefit immensely by courting the blessing of the gods,” said Daramos. “Tymora has always shown great favor to Cormyr. Had she not taken refuge here during the Time of Troubles, surely the realm would have suffered more than it did.”

“No one can argue that her presence proved a blessing,” agreed Azoun, “but I hardly think that calls for a royal temple.”

The veins in Daramos’s eyes grew as wide as string, and before Azoun could finish what he had been about to say, the high priest burst into a fit of righteous indignation.

“After the kindness Tymora showed your kingdom, you would insult her by establishing a royal temple to Chauntea instead?” Daramos backed away, his face trembling and turning crimson with a zealot’s rage. “Do not anger the Lady, little king! Fortune has two faces, and only one is pretty.”

The threat silenced the reception almost instantly, and a trio of bodyguards stepped forward to flank the high priest.

“This is what I was talking about, Majesty,” said Merula. As the wizard spoke, he was returning a small glass rod to the sleeve pocket inside his cloak. Apparently, he had feared for a moment that Daramos was actually deranged enough to attack the king. “Priests cannot be trusted. They must beg their spells from their gods, and so they always serve at the pleasure of those fields masters.”

“We thank you for your opinion, Merula.” Silently, Azoun cursed Daramos’s outburst, and wondered just how obsessed the man was. Because of the goddess Tymora’s stay during the Time of Troubles, the Lady’s House had almost as much power in Arabel as did his own governing lord, and it simply would not do to have Daramos Lauthyr angry-not unless Azoun wanted to crush another Arabellan revolt. He waved the guards back, then said, “The Lord High Priest’s point is well taken. Though the princess and I have had little time to discuss the matter, there will be no royal temple in Cormyr-to Chauntea or anyone else.”

The redness began to drain from Daramos’s face, but the man looked far from calm. “Of course you are right about the other gods, Majesty, but Tymora has blessed the Obarskyrs for more than a thousand years.”

“Which is why I would never dishonor her by establishing a royal temple,” said Azoun.

Daramos looked confused. “Dishonor her?”

“Tymora took refuge here in Arabel during the Time of Troubles, but the capital of Cormyr is Suzail,” Azoun said. “I cannot help but think it would offend her to establish a greater temple in the South. I was under the impression that she wished your own temple to be the center of her faith.”

Daramos’s eyes lit in alarm. “I see what you mean, Majesty.”

Azoun shrugged sadly, then turned to Merula. “I am afraid you are right, Merula. Cormyr will have to do without a royal temple after all.”

A wry smile came to the wizard’s lips, and he said, “Then I guess you have only the War Wizards to rely upon for your magic.”

“It would appear so,” Azoun replied. “It is a good thing for the realm that they have proven themselves so many times through the ages. I would hate to think what might become of Cormyr without them.”

“It would be a travesty, undoubtedly,” said Lady Kraliqh. “Which brings us back to the question of Tanalasta. There will be no Royal Temple while you reign, Majesty, but what of when you are gone-may that be a hundred years from now?”

Azoun forced a smile and turned to the duchess. “Lady Kraliqh, you are so bad at guessing ages that I am beginning to think your eyes have grown weak,” he joked, trying to guess what it would take to placate her. “Even with the many blessings of Daramos’s goddess, I doubt I will see another twenty years.”

“Which is all the more reason to answer my question now.” As Lady Kraliqh spoke, she stepped aside to make room in the conversation circle for Filfaeril, who was returning with a fresh platter of minted liverpaste. “Of late, Tanalasta has proven herself to be a most intelligent and strong-willed princess. I doubt very much that even you could bend her to your will from the grave. What do you intend to do about that?”

“Yes, Azoun,” said Filfaeril, offering the canape platter to Marliir and the others. “What will you do then?”

Azoun glanced around the little group and saw that despite the concessions he had made already, he would find no help from them. Tanalasta had returned from Huthduth stronger and full of her own ideas, and that scared them far more than the possibility of someone like Aunadar Bleth ruling from the shadow of her skirts. It scared him, too.

“While I am king, I’ll rule the way I think best-and that includes choosing a fit heir,” he said, waving off the canapes “Once I have chosen, it will be up to Cormyr to live with her queen.”

Filfaeril smiled, then thrust the platter into the Lady Kraliqh’s astonished hands. “Will you have someone take these away?” she said. “The king hates minted liverpaste.”

A searing wind full of grit and ash howled south out of the Stonelands, rolling up the northern face of the Storm Horns in throat-scorching clouds as thick as fog. Through the haze came the distant clang of sword-on-sword and voices cursing in guttural Orcish and civilized Common. Tanalasta could sometimes glimpse small gray figures scurrying about hacking and slashing at one another. She recognized the stooped postures of orcs pressing the attack and the more upright forms of men defending an egg-shaped ring of blocky shapes that could only be wagons.

The orcs had caught the caravan at the edge of the plain, where the Stonebolt Trail descended out of the mountains to start across the empty barrens toward Shadowdale. The location was a favorite place for such raids, as it was where the hot wind sweeping south out of the distant Anauroch Desert crashed into the Storm Horn Mountains and dropped its load of airborne sand. The result was a mile-wide band of boulder-strewn sandlands that slowed wagon travel to a crawl.

“A largely band of swiners,” observed Vangerdahast.

“Aye,” agreed Ryban Winter. A rugged-faced man of about Tanalasta’s age, Ryban was the lionar of her Purple Dragon bodyguard. He spit a mouthful of grit onto the ground, then added, “Though this stonemurk makes it hard to be certain.”

“There are at least two hundred of them,” Vangerdahast said. He pointed at the ring of wagons, the presence of which was the only visible indication of the Stonebolt Trail’s existence. “That is no small caravan. The orcs wouldn’t have attacked unless they outnumbered the guards.”

“Then the caravan must need help.” Tanalasta turned to the royal magician and added, “Are we going to do something? Or is this just another of your ruses, Vangerdahast?”

“What could I hope to gain by something like this?” Vangerdahast cast her a menacing glance, then turned to Ryban. “Take the princess and go around. I’ll scare the swiners off and join you in an hour.”

“Scare them off?” Tanalasta asked. “And let them attack some other caravan? I think not. We’ll destroy that orc band now-before it gets to be an army.”

Vangerdahast scowled. “That is easier for a princess to say than a wizard to do. Even I can’t kill that many orcs without getting the caravaneers, too.”

“You don’t have to,” said Tanalasta. “We have twenty-five Purple Dragons with us. Lionar Ryban will stay here on the mountain with twenty men while we ride around behind the orcs and drive them up the hill away from the caravan.”

Ryban looked doubtful. “Two hundred against twenty? In this murk?”

“The murk will be to your advantage. The orcs won’t know how many of you there are,” Tanalasta said. “You need only slow them long enough for Vangey to come up from behind, then you’ll want to ride fast and furious anyway. I really don’t see you sticking around to fire more than a volley or two of arrows.”