Ed Greenwood: The Dragon's Doom

"Now, Cleverfingers," Embra said affectionately, "you'd miss these endless rides-ho ho-if ever you weren't racing wild-cloaked across the realm."

"Which brings us back to what I was yammering about before yon carters went mad," the procurer responded with something like triumph. "If discontent and lawlessness among Aglirtans are rife from one end of the Vale to the other, and we've already harvested all the bad barons and dangerous wizards we know of-hidden Phelinndar and his Dwaer excepted, I'll grant-where precisely should we now be racing to? Wouldn't it be easier to establish ourselves somewhere pleasant that's well supplied with wine, platters of good food, and willing wenches, and wait for the foes of Aglirta to come to us? We could rig up some traps or the like, to-"

"My Lord Delnbone," Tshamarra Talasorn said in a dangerously silky voice, "I hardly think I missed hearing you say 'willing wenches.' "

"Ah, I was thinking of Lord Blackgult's comfort, my lady!" Craer replied brightly and a shade too swiftly. "Truly! I-"

"Craer," the Lady Talasorn said coldly, "I can tell your lies from several hills away. I think you'll be sleeping in cooler and lonelier circumstances. This night and henceforth."

The procurer winced and looked imploringly at Tshamarra, but she turned her head away, to stare west, downriver.

"Cold place, this 'henceforth,' " Hawkril told the nearest tree trunk conversationally, into the deepening silence. "I never liked visiting it, myself."

"The less said, here and now, on any personal matter between the Lady Talasorn and the Lord Delnbone, the better," Blackgult said firmly. "At the risk of sounding like some doom-tongued old father, let us speak only of other things. I can see much crawling in Craer's future, and things growing only worse if more words are uttered now. For all our sakes, let there be fair feeling between us. Two of us were for Stornbridge, as I recall. Embra, pray give us the reasons a warcaptain might head there, rather than take the other trail."

His daughter nodded. "As Craer started to say ere his tongue rode away with him, the easily identified foes of the crown have fled, fallen into our hands, or lie well hidden. We need some honest answers as to their whereabouts, or doings, or odd happenings locally-and about how Raulin is truly regarded by the local commoners, not what self-serving tersepts and barons and priests may tell us of what the folk feel." She gave her fellow overdukes the beginnings of a smile and added, "Several of us know the Tersept of Stornbridge-well enough to take our measures of him, at least. He's a bit of a fool, weakling, and drunkard-agreed?"

"Agreed," Blackgult said, as Hawkril and Craer nodded, and waved at her to say on.

Embra acquired a real smile. "Some wine should loosen his tongue enough-with you, me, and Tshamarra all probing with spells, if need be-to get him to spout some truths. Even if he knows nothing but the lean of the nearest fencepost, we should learn how the folk of his terseptry feel about the King, and Aglirta in general. The ones whose words he hears, at least. Perhaps we'll learn more than we want to know… But we must begin turning over rocks in the Vale somewhere, now that all the easy chasing is done."

"There's one thing more," Tshamarra added, a little hesitantly. "At the risk of insulting you all by pointing out the rock-hurled obvious, we've been hunting wizards for a while now, and swording Serpent-priests along with half the realm before that. If we see none now, it doesn't mean we've scoured the Vale of them all-it just means they've learned to be wary and keep hidden. We ride all over the realm, and can tell when a face we last saw down in Drungarth is now happily settled in Overember-but villagers don't. They're used to wandering peddlers and to folk fleeing this or that baron elsewhere in the Vale coming to town, and won't suspect new arrivals of being anything more than they claim to be. Not all mages-or Serpent-clergy-are arrogant, swaggering dolts. Some can hide themselves very well… and I suspect more than a few of them have learned both caution and patience, these last few years."

"Well said," Blackgult agreed. "Wherefore we find the loose-tongued and ambitious, and see what they can tell us. Stornbridge may of course know nothing beyond what he likes at feasts and in his bed, and where his next sack of coins is coming from… but folk desiring power would soon see that, and try to use him. If they have, we should at least be able to get their names and faces; my magic is laughable scraps set beside the might of you two ladies, and even I could get that much from him."

"Well then," Hawkril rumbled, mounting up, "it seems we're agreed. Our chosen idiot's castle lies near enough to be easily reached before much more of the day is fled-crazed passing carters willing-so let's be about it."

So it was that they took the eastern trail at Osklodge, along the way meeting with only a lone farmer walking beside his mule cart. He gaped at them and then nodded, as one Aglirtan to another, making no bows for overdukes but also refraining from howling and charging at them with a sword.

"Blessing of the Three," Embra murmured sardonically at that, and her companions gave her various wry expressions of agreement. As they rode, they saw a few folk working in distant fields. Most straightened to stare, but only one waved.

From time to time gated farm lanes departed the trail, but as the overdukes rode on, the trees on either side grew from thin boundary stands one could see rolling fields through to dark forests that entirely hid the farms.

As the light grew dim and green, Craer turned in his saddle and silently signaled Hawkril. The armaragor nodded and waved to his fellow overdukes to slow their mounts, be wary, and proceed as quietly as possible.

The procurer hastened ahead, opening up a large gap between his mount and Hawkril's. Tshamarra heard the faint rasp of Blackgult drawing his sword behind her. Frowning, she began to cast a slow, careful spell.

It was at about that moment that Embra realized there were no more birdcalls and whirrings of wings on either side of them. The forest had fallen strangely silent.

Their own gear creaked in its usual manner as they rode on, but the sounds were startlingly loud now as the overdukes listened intently, peered, and… waited.

Tshamarra suddenly stiffened in her saddle. At almost the same moment, the distant Craer threw up his hand in a silent wave of warning.

Silence held for a moment more-and then the trees flanking the trail erupted into snarling movement. Large, dark beasts burst out at the over-dukes through dancing branches, shredded leaves tumbling-six-legged monsters bigger than bears, gaping great wide jaws like the largest and ugliest lurgfish hauled up in Sirl nets. Mean and hungry red eyes flashed as the beasts hurled themselves at the rearing, screaming overduchal horses.

Embra cursed as she fumbled for her Stone while trying to stay in her wildly bucking saddle-and Blackgult's blade slashed past her out of nowhere to hack at monstrous jaws reaching to close on her arm.

Orange blood fountained from the beast's sliced snout, accompanied by a loud, pain-filled roar-a roar echoed by other beasts along the trail, where Craer had raced his own frightened mount back to join them, busily hurling daggers into red eyes and down beast-throats as he came.

Hawkril stood up in his stirrups, reins bouncing free, and held his own fearful mount steady by gripping its head in one iron-strong hand. His other hand swung his warsword, hacking tirelessly, the sharp steel rising and falling in a blur soon marked by sprays of orange gore.

Tshamarra cried out and clutched at her head as three coldly hostile minds broke her seeking spell and then fled from her thoughts again, as swiftly as if three swords had slid icily through her-and as they departed, the surging, unified beast attack broke apart into a growling flurry of monsters fleeing in all directions.