The Rage (32 page)

“Then maybe the forces of Hillsfar, Phlan, and whomever are pinned down fighting wyrms on their own lands, and the Zhents are taking advantage of it, making a bold play to take control of all trade across the Moonsea. For the time being, at least, they’ve already gone a long way toward asserting authority over traffic to and from the realms in the south.”

“Because Elmwood is the choke point,” Raryn said, nodding. “If the situation drags on indefinitely, Zhentil Keep will grow steadily richer and stronger, and her rivals poorer and weaker, until ultimately a time will arrive when they can resist the Black Network no longer.”

“But it won’t drag on,” Pavel said. “The other city-states won’t stand for it. Eventually they’ll drive the Zhents back to their castles in the west.”

Alamarayne gave him a wan little smile and said, “Every night, I pray to Our Lady of Silver that you’re right.’

“What I don’t understand” Kara said, “is how any of your people can behave this way.”

Ezril peered at her quizzically and asked, “Our people?” “She’s from Impiltur,” said Dorn.

Evidently he saw no reason to trust anyone, even folk who’d treated him fairly in the past, with Kara’s secret unless it was absolutely necessary.

“What I mean,” the slender bard continued, “is that a Rage of Dragons is upon you.”

Thoyanna’s eyes opened wide.

“Truly?” she asked. “You’re certain it’s a full-blown Rage?”

“Yes, and humanity’s best hope of weathering it is to unite and fight the rampaging drakes together. If you scheme and struggle against each other, it will be much harder for you. Your entire world could collapse. The wyrms could harry you to the brink of extinction.”

Dorn sneered, though at precisely what, Will wasn’t certain.

“But that’s who we are,” said the half-golem. “We take advantage. The greedy do it because they covet riches and slaves. The rest of us do it when it seems the only way to survive. As the dragons wreak havoc, the devastation will leave some folk weak and helpless, ripe for exploitation, and others hungry and desperate enough for any betrayal or atrocity. Rest assured, a good many of us will strive to wrest all we can from our neighbors.”

“I don’t believe that,” Kara said. “Oh, I know some corrupt or terrified folk will seek to prey on others, but not the majority. They’ll bear up bravely and try to help their fellows, because that’s the authentic human spirit, and the essential nature of dwarves and halflings as well. I know. I hear it in your music.”

Dorn shook his head and replied, “They’re just songs.”

“They’re your soul,” the bard insisted. “You don’t recognize it, Dorn Graybrook, because you don’t know yourself. You think anger and bitterness define you, but they aren’t what prompted you to risk your life to help the folk of Ylraphon.”

“We’re prattling about nonsense when we have practical problems to solve,” the half-golem said with a scowl. “We could march overland to Thentia and sail from there with whatever protections the wizards can provide.”

“The Zhents have patrols on the roads, too,” Thoyanna said, “and the way leads through Mulmaster, a part of their dominions, or near enough.”

Raryn took a drink from the stein, belched, and passed it on.

“We don’t need to use the roads,” said the dwarf tracker, “or tramp through the heart of the High Blade’s lands. But to do anything else will take a while. Truly, if we’re in a hurry, sailing’s the fast way to get anywhere around the Moonsea.”

“However the Zhentarim are finding the unlicensed ships,” Dorn said slowly, the fleshy half of his forehead furrowed, “it

seems likely the spotter merely glances at what are plainly their own vessels. Our band is too small to handle a war galley, and we’re no expert sailors in any case. Still, with luck, I’ll bet we could steer one of those patrol boats north to Thentia.”

“We could certainly seize one,” said Will. As with many thefts, the biggest difficulty would be making our getaway. Once the Zhents noticed the boat was gone, they could overhaul us in the galleys or failing that, pass word of the robbery to their fellows.” He grinned and added, “Still, I admit I like the audacity of it.”

Dorn turned to the village elders and said, “Striking by surprise, in the night, we might be able to wipe out the Zhents occupying your town.”

“You truly have that sort of power?” Ezril asked.

“Maybe, out here’s the thing. We owe you for sheltering us here, and we won’t wipe out the intruders without your leave. Because even if we succeed, liberation comes with a risk. Another bunch of Zhents could show up after we’re gone and hold you accountable for the slaughter.”

“We’ll chance it,” Thoyanna said. “Maybe the other cities will strike against Zhentil Keep, foiling the Black Network’s strategy, and no more reavers will come here. If they do, we’ll claim that ships from Hillsfar came and killed their comrades. Why shouldn’t they believe it? Elmwood itself obviously lacks the strength to destroy such a force.”

“Better yet,” Kara said, “blame dragons, for that’s what the evidence will indicate.”

I Z Tarsakh, the Year of Rogue Dragons

It rained steadily through the night. Taegan, whose turn it was to stand a predawn watch, tried to maintain a good vantage point and stay dry at the same time by perching fifteen feet above the ground in the fork of a sycamore. It didn’t work all that well. Logic indicated that the canopy of branches overhead must be catching some of the raindrops, but plenty more spilled right on through. By the time a first hint of Lathander’s light gleamed in the east, and the downpour subsided to a drizzle, his clothes were soaked, and he was cold and in a foul mood generally.

Nor did it help when Rangrim tramped forth from camp and called a jovial, “Good morning! I brought you some hot soup.”

Taegan flicked his wings, shaking rainwater out of the black feathers, spread them, and leaped from

the sycamore. His pinions trapped air to slow his descent, and he floated down gently.

“My dear but seemingly demented friend,” the maestro said. “How can you bed down in cold mud, rise with the sun on such a dreary morning, and be cheerful? It must have something to do with your being a paladin.”

The chunky, curly-bearded human grinned and proffered a steaming tin mug of lentil broth. The warmth of the cup felt good in Taegan’s chilled fingers, and so did the heat of the first sip going down.

Rangrim glanced around at the towering, mossy trees dripping glistening water from every branch and twig. Spring had found the Gray Forest, and new green leaves and buds were sprouting despite the occasional patch of snow still spotting the ground. Birds, some newly returned from the south, chirped to greet the morning.

“I like the woods,” said the paladin, “even on a cold, damp morning. I’m amazed you don’t.”

“I don’t see why my indifference constitutes such a marvel. I like soft beds, blazing hearths, well-made roofs, comfortable chairs, fine wine, gourmet cooking, and luscious, affectionate women. Everything Lyrabar affords, and the wild doesn’t.”

“But you’re an elf.”

“An accident of birth,” Taegan replied, “that I strive to transcend.”

They turned and headed toward the camp, where other paladins and Warswords could be heard muttering and rattling around. One of the Queen’s Bronzes lifted the tapered head at the end of its long, sinuous neck and peered around. Its forked tongue darted forth to taste the morning air.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of your heritage,” Rangrim said.

“What heritage would that be?” replied the avariel. “In case you haven’t noticed, all the cities of Impiltur and the surrounding lands are the work of men, with a degree of assistance from dwarves and halflings.”

“Still….”

“Please,” Taegan said, “let’s speak of something else, for I assure you, I’m delighted to be what I’ve become, a loyal subject of Impiltur and our wise and gracious queen. Surely you, her sworn champion, don’t mean to imply it was an unworthy aspiration.”

The paladin snorted and said, “You’re twisting my meaning, and you know it. But have it your way. How much longer do you think it will take to find the cult’s stronghold?”

“We should be drawing close, but who knows? We simply have to follow the directions dear Cylla gave me and keep looking. If you like, I can do some more scouting above the treetops while everyone else is breaking camp.”

“Don’t you want more breakfast?”

Taegan realized he didn’t. For some reason, even though he’d endured such comments many times before, Rangrim’s witless albeit well-intentioned observations about his race had left him feeling restless.

“I believe I can forgo it.”

“Well, in that case,” said the paladin, “Quelsandas and I will tag along.”

Taegan hoped he could prevent that_ He didn’t fancy any more of Rangrim’s hearty, virtuous company just at present, and in fact, never particularly enjoyed being around the bronze. The paladin doted on Quelsandas, his faithful comrade in countless exploits, but though Taegan had made an honest effort to like the dragon for his new friend’s sake, he couldn’t quite manage it. The gigantic reptile had a sullen, guarded quality that bothered him.

Or perhaps, given that Rangrim seemed oblivious to his mount’s glumness, the problem was simply that Taegan didn’t understand drakes and their ways. He certainly hadn’t spent enough time with Kara and Brimstone to make him an expert. But he did know he’d prefer solitude for the next little while.

Accordingly, he said, “If we are nearing the enemy, perhaps I should scout alone. I’m considerably smaller and harder to

spot than a dragon wheeling against the sky. Besides, you’re the war captain. Your faithful followers need you here to put them in order for the new day.”

“Suit yourself. Good hunting.”

Taegan sprang into the air and flew upward. He looked for vertical pathways wide enough to accommodate an avariel’s beating wings, out the branches grew thickly, and at certain moments, it was easier simply to seize hold of them and clamber like a squirrel, as he had in the Earthwood years before. The memory made him frown.

Fortunately, he reached the treetops soon enough. He took a wary glance around, making sure no wyvern, abishai, or whatever was hovering close at hand, was in position to attack as soon as he broke cover. Then he launched himself higher, where he soon found a friendly updraft to hold him at that altitude with minimal effort on his part.

Gliding between the gray overcast above and the dark green foliage below, Taegan’s mood brightened despite his sopping clothes and the persistent drizzle. He could see for miles, from the ranks of mountains in the north to the blacker clouds, their bellies full of flickering lightning, massed far to the south above the Sea of Fallen Stars. If he’d needed to forsake his timorous, reclusive people to experience such vistas, that alone had been sufficient reason to turn his back on them.

But he knew he mustn’t simply float and enjoy the spectacle for long. He had work to do. He flew west, looking for the fortress Sammaster and Cylla had established. It was possible that, shielded by layers of overhanging branches or even veils of illusion, the place was invisible from the air. But if he could spot it from on high, it might well save the expedition days of tedious groping about on the ground, days during which the cultists could strengthen their defenses, make more dracoliches, or Sune only knew what. At least avariels had sharp eyes. Taegan thought he had about as good a chance of sighting the secret fortress as-What was that? For a moment, he glimpsed something big moving along far below on the ground. Then it disappeared, concealed by the canopy.

Plainly, it hadn’t been a stationary manmade structure of the sort he was seeking. But it could certainly have been one of the wyrms Sammaster had recruited to guard the stronghold and eventually undergo the transformation into undead, in which case, it could annihilate alone avariel with one snap of its jaws or a single puff of dragon breath. Accordingly, he made his way back down through the branches as warily and silently as he could, until he finally saw more.

He wasn’t sure if one of the creatures he observed stalking eastward was the same immense being he’d glimpsed before, but it made no difference. The only important thing was to reach his comrades in time.

Though he wouldn’t reach them at all unless he continued to go unnoticed. He whispered a spell, and bladesong instantly transported him a couple hundred yards eastward, onto the limb of a different tree.

Peering down, he saw it wasn’t far enough. He was still above a portion of the advancing force, its leading edge, composed of scouts and skirmishers. Nor could he use the same magic to shift himself a second time. At his level of skill, he could only hold a single spell of such power in his memory, and having expended it, it was gone until he had a chance to study his grimoire once again.

So he crept along the branches with all the stealth his father and the rest of the tribe had taught him, crouched, wings folded tight to make himself smaller, spreading only when he needed the exquisite balance they afforded him, or to spring across a gap his legs couldn’t manage by themselves.

It was a race of sorts, one he could never have won if the creatures on the ground hadn’t been trying to prowl along unobtrusively themselves, an effort that slowed them significantly. As it was, he gradually outdistanced them, and when reasonably confident he was far enough ahead that they

wouldn’t spot him, he unfurled his wings and flew the rest of the way to camp at top speed. It felt bizarre that his comrades were chatting, folding tents, tying bedrolls, inspecting the horses’ hooves, and in general, calmly preparing to march, but of course they had no inkling of what he’d rushed to tell them.

“Lord Rangrim!” he shouted.

“Here!”

The paladin was busy saddling Quelsandas, a task he insisted on performing himself. His caution was understandable considering that if the job was done incorrectly, he might conceivably lose his seat and plummet hundreds of feet to the ground.

“Did you see something?” asked Rangrim.

“To say the least,” Taegan replied as he landed in front of the knight and dragon. “A band comprised of men, wyrms, hobgoblins, and what I take to be werewolves is stealing up on us. In a few minutes, our pickets will spot them, but by then it will be too late.”