Troy Denning: Beyond the High Road

Emperel experienced the sudden sensation of hundreds of little legs crawling down his tunic. Hoping the feeling was all in his mind, he stooped to get his head out of the web, then removed a gauntlet from his belt and slipped the steel glove onto his right hand. When presented palm outward, the glove became the holy symbol of his god, Torm the True, and it would keep any vampire at bay. Next, he drew his hand axe from its belt loop and, using the enchanted dagger, began to whittle the wooden butt into a sharp stake.

Though it seemed to Emperel that the sound of his breathing filled the chamber with a bellowslike rasp, the vampire continued to sleep. The silver-glowing dagger peeled the axe’s seasoned handle away in shavings as thick as coins, and it was not long before Emperel had sharpened it to a point. He sheathed his dagger again, then kneeled beside the vampire and raised the stake. His arm was trembling.

“Torm, guide my hand,” he whispered.

A bead of sweat dropped from his brow and landed on the vampire’s shoulder. The monster’s eyelids snapped open, its angry eyes shining white in Emperel’s enchanted vision.

Emperel brought the stake down, ramming it deep into the vampire’s ribcage. Blood, icy cold and as black as ink, seeped up around the shaft. An ear-piercing shriek filled the chamber, then something caught Emperel in the breastplate and sent him tumbling across the stone floor.

He passed through a curtain of gossamer filament and crashed into a dirt wall, his head spinning and chest aching. When he looked down, his mouth went dry. There was a fist-shaped depression in the center of his breastplate, and he had not even seen the murderer’s hand move.

Emperel spun to his knees-he was too dizzy to stand-and struggled to gulp some air into his lungs. A few paces away, the vampire lay on its side, writhing in pain and slowly pulling the stake from its chest. Emperel’s jaw fell. He had slain more than a dozen vampires, and not one had done such a thing. Had he missed the heart?

The vampire’s white eyes swung toward the wall. Emperel raised a finger, pointed at its gaunt hands, and shouted, “King’s bolts!”

Emperel’s bracers grew as hot as embers and sent four golden bolts streaking across the crypt. The magic struck the vampire’s hands with a brilliant golden flash, then sank into its flesh and spread up its arms in a pale saffron glow.

The vampire jerked the stake from its heart, then struggled to its feet and turned toward Emperel. Gouts of dark blood pumped from the hole in its chest, but it did not seem to care. It merely hefted the axe and stumbled forward.

Emperel jumped to his feet and stepped to meet the monster, drawing his magic dagger and boldly thrusting the palm of his steel gauntlet into its face.

“Back,” he commanded, “in the name of Torm!”

The vampire slapped the offending arm down so forcefully that the steel gauntlet flew from Emperel’s hand. “Do I look undead to you?”

Emperel’s mouth went dry, and he brought his magic dagger up, driving the silver-shining blade into the thing’s stomach and up toward the heart. The vampire-or whatever it was-closed its eyes and nearly collapsed, then reached down and clamped Emperel’s hand.

“How… treacherous,” it hissed.

Emperel tried to twist the blade, but found the thing’s grasp too powerful to fight. Struggling against a rising tide of panic, he pulled away, then slammed an elbow into the side of its head.

The blow did not even rock the monster.

“By the Loyal Fury!” Emperel gasped. “What manner of devil are you?”

“The worst kind… an angry one.”

The killer slammed Emperel into the wall, unleashing a cascade of pebbles and loose dirt, then pulled the dagger free. The silvery glow had all but faded from the enchanted blade, and as Emperel watched, the weapon grew cold and utterly black. The murderer tossed it aside and staggered forward, dark blood now pouring from two wounds.

Unable to believe what he was seeing, Emperel raised his ring finger and said, “King’s light!”

The amethyst setting burst into light, filling the chamber with a blue-white glow. Caught by surprise, the murderer closed its eyes and turned away, momentarily blinded. Emperel, who had known what to expect, leaped forward, drawing his sword and slamming a foot into the back of his foe’s knee. The murderer hit the floor rolling, tangling legs with Emperel and sweeping him off his feet.

Emperel landed hard, his head slamming against the stone floor. His vision narrowed and his ears began to ring, then his foe was on him, tearing at his throat and denting his helmet. He raised his arm to ward off the blows, and the murderer caught hold of his hand. His ring finger gave a sickening crack, then a terrible pain shot up his arm. Emperel cried out and brought his sword hand up, slamming the pommel into his attacker’s head.

The killer went sprawling, ripping the weathercloak off Emperel’s shoulders and pulling the magic ring off his finger-no, not off.

In the murderer’s hand was something thin and bloody, with the white nub of a knucklebone protruding from the red stump. Emperel’s ring was still attached, illuminating the killer’s head in brilliant blue-white. Its face was mantislike and skeletal, with ovoid eyes as red as embers and an impossibly slender chin. Even in the light, the creature’s complexion remained shadowy and dark-but not so dark Emperel failed to recognize something familiar in its arrow-shaped nose and upturned lip. He brought his sword around, placing the tip between himself and the manthing.

“Do I… I know you!”

The murderer’s eyes narrowed to red slits and it hissed, “Not for long.”

Emperel heaved his aching body to its feet and advanced a single step, bringing his sword to a high guard. The killer smirked and retreated the same distance, closing one fist around the stolen ring. A sigh of satisfaction slipped from its lips, and the amethyst’s light began to flow into its hand, filling the tiny chamber with eerie fingers of light.

Emperel felt a chill between his shoulder blades. The murderer was absorbing the ring’s magic-just as it had absorbed the magic bolts from his bracers and drained the magic from his dagger. The chamber began to dim rapidly. Realizing he would soon be trapped in total darkness without his weathercloak or any other means of escape, Emperel glanced at the exit passage. The murderer stepped over to block the tunnel mouth.

Perfect. Emperel sprang forward to attack, allowing himself a confident smile as the last light faded from the ring. His sword had no magic at all, and when the blade hit home, the murderer groaned and fell into the darkness. Emperel spun on his heel, bringing his sword down in a vicious backhand slash. Sparks flew as his blade clanged off the stone floor. He pivoted away, blindly weaving his weapon in a defensive pattern. A gentle thud sounded beside him, so soft he barely heard it over the whisper of his flying blade. He spun toward the noise, bringing his sword around in a hissing arc. The blade bit into the corner of the tunnel entrance, sending a spray of dirt and pebbles clattering down onto the stone floor.

A low moan sounded deep within the tunnel, followed by the scrape of leather on dirt. Emperel flung himself into the passage, blindly whipping his sword to and fro. He struck nothing but dirt and roots.

A moment later, his horse screamed, and the murderer was gone.

They sat swaying in unison, the four of them quietly watching each other as Princess Tanalasta’s small carriage bounced across the High Heath toward Worg Pass. The shades were drawn tight against blowing dust, and the interior of the coach was dim, dry, and warm.

The Warden of the Eastern Marches sat at an angle across from Tanalasta, square and upright in his polished field armor, his steely eyes focused curiously on the wiry priest at her side. The priest, Harvestmaster Owden Foley of Monastery Huthduth, rested well back in the shadows, his slender head turned slightly to smirk at a portly mage whose moon-spangled silks touted him as one of Cormyr’s more powerful war wizards. The mage, Merula the Marvelous, perched at the edge of his seat, bejeweled hands folded atop the silver pommel of his walking cane. He was staring at Tanalasta with a busby-browed glare that could only be described as rather too intense. Tanalasta sat studying the Warden of the Eastern Marches, a gangly, horse-faced man who was still somehow handsome in his scarlet cape and purple sash of office. She was thinking that a princess could marry worse than Dauneth Marliir.