War in Tethyr (2 page)

Quick as thought, the dark man had an arrow from his quiver and nocked. He aimed his longbow skyward, scarcely drew back the strength. Yet when he released, the shaft shot a good two hundred yards straight up toward the puffy white cumulus mounds overhead.

When it reached the top of its trajectory and fell sideways to begin its return to earth, Stillhawk's second shot struck its shaft in the middle and transfixed it. The conjoined arrows fell to ground not a score of feet from Zaranda.

The halflings goggled. "Is that not an elven bow?" one asked in wonder.

"That is indeed an elven bow," Zaranda replied. Stillhawk walked over to retrieve his arrows. His soft-booted feet scarce made impressions on the earth. "Made for him by the elves of the Elven Woods, who raised him and taught him archery."

The dark man plucked the razor-edged broad head from the shaft, licked the ash-wood arrow lightly, and ran a scarred thumb across it. When it passed the arrowhead, the split shaft was mended.

"And sundry minor magics as well," Zaranda added. "Kindly forgive my answering for him. He cannot speak; an orcish raiding party cut out his tongue when he was a boy."

Stillhawk nodded in satisfaction and returned both arrows to his quiver. The halflings made
ooh
ing sounds.

"Wasn't that nice?" Father Pelletyr said, beaming. "Now, if you splendid little fellows could pull this tree aside-"

The spokesman began to sidle and roll his eyes at the heights. "Well, with all respect due a man of the cloth, Father, it ain't perhaps so simple as that. No, not at all."

Zaranda stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled.

Something arced out from the top of the cliff, something round and initially dark against the clouds. It showed a glint of metal in the sun as it fell, rebounded from a rock with a clang, and rolled until it almost touched the tips of the spokesman's hairy toes.

It was a helmet. He gaped at it in dismay.

"Don't fear, my friend," Zaranda said. "Your comrade's head is not within. Your fellows above are as safe as if they were home hiding behind their mothers' skirts. But they won't be pelting us with boulders from above."

The halflings stared upward. A figure appeared, leaning precariously out over the rim, and gave them a jaunty wave of his hat.

"Permit me to introduce the noted bard Farlorn Half-Elven," Zaranda said. "A man whose skills go quite beyond his gift for the making and playing of songs. Now, if you'd be so kind as to remove this barrier, gentlefolk, you and ourselves might be about our respective businesses in peace."

The dust was more metaphorical than real. It was the month of Mirtul, called the Melting, with the feast of Greengrass a few days past. Despite that, and the fact that snow still glittered like silver plate on the highest of the peaks behind them, most of spring's runoff had flowed into the flat Tethyr lowlands a fortnight since. This far south, the climate was temperate, with mild seasonal variations. Tethyr was an "Empire of the Sand" by courtesy of the overworked imagination of northern cartographers influenced by the Calim Desert to the south. The grass was green, and rain had touched the land recently enough to lay the dust, and long enough ago that mud was blessedly absent.

"Indeed, Father," Zaranda replied, "but in Tethyr the most direct route is not always the quickest."

"And there's truth for you," added Farlorn Half-Elven, who rode near Zaranda on his dappled gray mare. "Tethyr's a land of anarchy. No one rules, since the royal family was destroyed years ago."

"Rather, I'd say Tethyr suffers a surfeit of rule," Zaranda said. "Behind every hedgerow lurks a would-be duke or baron, each determined to enforce his will on whomever he can catch-and his taxes too."

"Our circumspection availed us little, sneaking through that secret pass in the Snowflake Mountains, if one so humble may be forgiven for pointing out the fact."

Farlorn put back his head and laughed. His laughter had a pealing edge, like a golden bell ringing. He was a bit over average height, slim and supple as the rapier he wore at his belt. His hair was black and wavy. In his features the admixture of human blood had created not coarsening but leavening of a sort; the literally inhuman beauty of the elven-kind was softened, mitigated, rendered more accessible, more
mortal.
Instead of being forbidding, his good looks were almost magically appealing, at least to most human women he encountered-and not a few elfin women had been known to agree.

He was that rarest of rarities, a wild elf-human hybrid. His features were as dark as Stillhawk's, but with a faint greenish cast, like patina on copper. When he laughed, his teeth flashed like silver mirrors.

"Do you truly think, Father," he asked, "that those poor foolish halflings were as great a danger as we might have faced? Indeed, they had even mislaid the pry bar intended to lever their boulders down upon your heads, and were all crowded together at the cliff edge on hands and knees, rapt with the spectacle. 'Twas child's play to take them unawares."

"Mountains are trickish places," Father Pelletyr said with a touch of petulance. "Who knows but that we might have blundered into a hill giant or a manticore, straying so far from the beaten path?"

"Such things are predators," said Zaranda absently. "They stay close to where prey's most readily found-as their human kindred do."

She was riding along in a reverie, trusting Goldie to make her way on her own. The mare often made resentful noises about her occupation as a mount, but actually displayed great pride in her craft. The caravan was meandering along a trail that was no more than two parallel ruts left by generations of wagon wheels, vaguely following a sluggish creek toward its eventual meeting with the Shining Stream. The sun had fallen low along their back trail and seemed poised to plunge into the jagged if not particularly lofty Snowflakes, still prominent behind them.

They were in a broad, shallow valley. Late sunlight ran like honey along the high places and brought young plants, wheat and barley and oats, to illusory bloom; the year's second crop had already begun to sprout. The water-smell and the aroma of good, rich bottom soil rose about them like a pleasant haze, with only the occasional whine of a mosquito to break the serenity.

"The good father is surely not complaining of the hardships of the trail?" Farlorn asked in a honeyed voice.

"Indeed not!" Pelletyr replied indignantly. "I think only of the welfare of our men and beasts, who have fared many a long and weary mile today-though certainly the gods gave us beasts to bear our burdens and will not be displeased to see us using them in this wise." This last was directed to Goldie, who had quite forgotten teasing him earlier in the day, and paid him no mind.

The valley turned due east. As they came around the bend, they saw what appeared to be a golden beacon shining from the top of a hill perhaps half a mile ahead. A moment, and they saw it was the lofty keep of a castle or manor house, catching the light of the setting sun.

"It's beautiful!" Father Pelletyr exclaimed.

"It is my home," Zaranda Star said.

They turned off on a track that led between fields of rich grass. White and red-brown cows grazed with calves nuzzling their flanks. A skinny youth dressed in a simple homespun smock stood up and waved, a gesture that roused Zaranda to smile and wave in return.

The boy clutched a staff-sling with his other hand.

"It grieves me to see one so young go armed," the priest said.

"Maybe you'd rather he try to reason with the wargs," Goldie said.

"Perchance a risky tendency to encourage in one's vassals," Farlorn said. "Especially in a land as given to anarchy as Tethyr."

"No vassals in my valley," Zaranda said. "There are only freeholders, and employees on my estate proper, which we've entered. When I bought the county, after the Tuigan incursion, I made pact with the peasants that they should buy the land they worked, paying in installments." As I myself am paying for the county, she thought with something of a twinge.

Being finally shut of the burden of payments for her holding was a major goad that had driven her into this risky enterprise. The system had actually worked to her benefit, since she was still making hefty payments on Morninggold herself. She had had a very successful campaign against the nomads, but the booty she'd gained had gone only so far.

The priest sniffed. "That seems rather a radical notion, and subversive of the social order."

Zaranda wants her people to be allies rather than adversaries,
signed Stillhawk, who had ridden with her to the Tuigan War.

As they approached, the manor of Morninggold took on more detail. It was more fortified house than castle, lacking a surrounding wall or moat: a large, rambling structure of two stories here, three there. The walls were stoutly built of dressed granite from the Snowflakes, the roofs pitched and covered in half-cylindrical red tiles. It showed signs of having been built for defensibility, remodeled for leisure, and then subtly returned to its original purpose. Arched outlines of different-colored stone showed where broad windows on the ground floor had been filled in and replaced by long horizontal windows set above the level of a tall man's head and too narrow to admit even a halfling thief. These were interspersed with arrow loops. The rosebushes budding out beneath the remaining windows were meticulously tended-and their thorns served to further deter intruders. A few outbuildings, likewise stout stone, clustered around the main structure, and a vegetable garden nestled by its flank.

From the back of Castle Morninggold rose the keep that they had seen from a distance. It was tall and round and built of some tawny fieldstone that the waning sunlight turned to pure gold. Networks of ivy clung to its lower reaches. The smooth rounded stones gave off an indefinable air of antiquity, leaving no doubt that the keep had been here long before the rest of the house-and likely would remain long after.

Stablehands emerged with welcoming shouts as the party rode into the yard. Zaranda greeted them by name, inquiring after health and families. Golden Dawn, Stillhawk's bay, Farlorn's gray, and the little donkey were led off to the stables. Goldie issued a stream of instructions as to her care, which the stable-boy who held her halter ignored with an air of practice. The dozen armed escorts dismounted and began to tend their own mounts while the muleteers unloaded the packs from their beasts, preparatory to turning them out to pasture for the night. Zaranda led her three companions up the flagged path to the arched front door.

Before they reached it the door swung open. "Holy Father Ilmater!" Father Pelletyr cried, clutching his holy symbol. Farlorn's rapier hissed free of its scabbard.

The doorway was filled by the bulk of a bugbear. It opened its mouth in a terrible fanged smile and stretched forth black-nailed hands.

At the very stroke of the eighth hour after noon came Zaranda, who despised tardiness. Having indulged a favorite vice by soaking her long limbs in a hot tub for an hour, she had arrayed herself in a gown of soft velvet a shade or two lighter than indigo. It clung to her slender form like moss to a forest oak. Around her hips she wore a girdle of three golden chains, caught together in clasps front and back and at the hips. Her hair hung free to her shoulders in back. The light of candles in the chandelier above the great dining table evoked witch-fire in her gray eyes.

Father Pelletyr smiled and nodded. As a priest of the Cormyrean Synod, he was celibate, an obligation he took as seriously as his vows of poverty and abjuration of the shedding of blood. But he was a goodly man by nature, and polite.

"It is good to see you allowing the feminine part of you to come to the fore, Zaranda Star," he said.

Stillhawk, who stood brooding by the dark fireplace, greeted his employer and comrade-in-arms with a nod, which she returned.

She smiled at the priest. "Thank you, Father. It's an indulgence I enjoy as well, although I have little opportunity for it on the road."

She walked to the chair at the table's head. The priest's face fell as he noticed the dagger-with jeweled hilt but eminently businesslike blade-that she wore in a gilded sheath at her girdle.

"Ah, but can't you lay aside the implements of war, even for a moment, even in the shelter of your home?" he asked sadly.

"Such implements won me this house, Father," she replied, "and guard it still-as well as my guests within."

"When you have traveled a bit farther with Zaranda Star, Father," a voice said from the doorway, "you'll realize she seldom strays far from her lethal toys."

They turned. Farlorn had arrived, fashionably late, dressed in silken hose and velvet doublet with puffed-and-slashed sleeves, all in shades of dark green, as was his wont. He was a figure of striking elegance, with his hair hanging in ringlets to his shoulders and his yarting slung over his back. He walked to the foot of the table, unslung his yarting and rested it against the table, then flung himself into a chair.

"The battle-axes crossed beneath the ancient shield on the wall, the boar-spear over the fireplace… I've not guested in our hostess's hold before, yet I can assure you, none of these is purely for show, Father."

Pelletyr shook his bald head sadly. Zaranda smiled a slight smile and gestured. Flames roared suddenly to life in the fireplace. The father jumped, then looked sheepish.

"The beasts are tended, the men fed," Zaranda said. "Shall we be seated, gentlemen?"

They sat. The door to the kitchens opened. The bugbear bustled in, wearing a leathern apron and carrying a tray laden with silver bowls and a great tureen of steaming soup. Father Pelletyr's eyes bugged slightly, and Farlorn stiffened, one fine hand straying to the ball pommel of the dirk he wore at his own hip. Stillhawk showed no sign of reaction to the huge creature's apparition.

"I swear, Zaranda, those men of yours eat like a herd of dragons," the bugbear rumbled as he set the tureen down in the middle of the table and began to distribute bowls. "That's the reason soup is late, in spite of all my efforts."

"I don't believe dragons come in herds, Gisbertus," she said with a smile as he began to ladle out portions. "And you're my chamberlain and chief steward. Don't we have under-servants so that you need not serve us with your own hands?"

The bugbear tut-tutted and shook his head, making his bat ears wag. "Not one of them could be trusted not to spill soup all over that stunning gown, Zaranda, not a solitary one. You cannot conceive how hard it is to come by competent help these days. They're all fearful of bandits-or eager to run off and become brigands themselves. The cook took off a fortnight ago, and the best replacement I've yet turned up scarce knows a garlic clove from a common thistle, so I've to oversee the cooking in addition to all my other chores."

Father Pelletyr glanced up sharply, having found something even more alarming than the immediate presence of a monster in an apron. "Are we liable to attack here?"

The bugbear's eyebrows crawled up its flat skull. "Good heavens, no, Father! This is Zaranda Star's house. None would dare attack it, never knowing when she might return to avenge such a slight." And he turned and went out with the empty tray.

"Not to mention the fact that the premises are guarded by a bugbear," Farlorn murmured. "How did you manage
that,
Zaranda?"

"Gisbertus? Oh, he's harmless. He's been with me forever." She attacked her soup with her customary appetite.

Seeing that no further explanations were forthcoming, Father Pelletyr picked up his own spoon. "How is it that you came to forswear the practice of magic, Zaranda?" he asked.

"The practice of magic?" She glanced up from her own spoon. "I never did, Father."

"I realize that, child; I saw how you lit the fire, and I've seen you in action. Let me say, the study, then?"

She shrugged. "Too sedentary a life. I like being able to stretch my limbs betimes."

"Few even
attempt
the transition from the way of the wand to the way of the sword."

"It's never been my ambition to be like anybody else, Father."

Gisbertus came back, bearing small fowls baked in clay vessels. These he cracked open with deft strokes of a mallet, leaving neither shards nor dust, then served out the steaming birds.

"What are the tidings, Gisbertus," Zaranda asked, "aside from the difficulties entailed in keeping a domestic staff?"

"Banditry on the rise, and the roads are nowhere safe. Your larger inland cities yet harbor dreams of conquest, but after the fall of Ithmong's tyrant Gallowglass, they've grown quite circumspect. And from Zazesspur comes great talk of restoring the monarchy."

Zaranda laughed. "I asked for fresh tidings, Gisbertus, not the same news as last time I visited, and the time before."

The bugbear sniffed, tucked the serving tray beneath his furry arm, and rose to his full height, endangering the age-blackened timbers of the high ceiling. "The change winds are blowing, Zaranda, mark my words. From every street corner in Zazesspur, halflings preach redistribution of the wealth while the Earl Ravenak preaches the expulsion by force of all nonhumans from the land. Bands of darklings ravage the streets by night, fell creatures who spring from no-one-knows-where to sow terror and dismay."

The bugbear hugged himself and shivered as if to a thrill of horror, eliciting wide-eyed glances of surprise from Farlorn and Pelletyr and, perhaps, the flicker of a smile from Stillhawk.

"The people cry out for a strong man, a Man on Horseback to bring order from chaos."

Zaranda laughed and flared the nostrils of her aristocratic but somewhat skewed nose. "Such a man is like a shooting star: he may portend great fortune or may crash through your roof." She picked up her fowl and tore at it with strong white teeth, and no great daintiness. "I've seen more roofs in need of mending than folk blessed with fortunes fallen from heaven," she added, chewing thoughtfully.

"Nonetheless," Gisbertus said huskily, "great things are expected from Baron Faneuil Hardisty. He himself seems one of those so blessed. Or so I hear it said. He's the man, not just for Zazesspur, but for all Tethyr. Or so the travelers say."

Zaranda put down her bird and gave him a look of surprise. "Oh, so? Such talk might have gotten a body torn asunder by a mob not so many years ago."

"The change winds, Zaranda. They blow and blow."

"Ah, well." She shrugged and picked up her fowl again. "Air grows stale where no winds blow, as water grows stagnant where there's no flow. Though I've no love for men on horseback, myself."

The bugbear went out again.

"Your help is rather familiar," Farlorn said.

"He's pretty much all the family I have-save my comrades of the road." She glanced at his plate. "You're picking at your food. If you don't want it, I'll take it."

Farlorn's laugh sounded a trifle forced. "Oh, no you don't, Zaranda. It's just that the presence of such a fell creature throws off my appetite."

"Very little throws off mine."

"If Zaranda vouches for him," said Father Pelletyr, biting off the end of a thighbone and sucking out the marrow, "that's good enough for me. The gods have gifted her with sound judgment."

"Well, sometimes," Zaranda said.

"Besides," the priest said, "good Stillhawk eats with fine appetite, and he's suffered more at the hands of evil things than the rest of us combined."

The meal ran to several more courses. Farlorn got over his momentary squeamishness and fell to as eagerly as the others. All four were famished after a long day on the road and the brief excitement at the halfling roadblock. Conversation dwindled, first because the serious business of eating took precedence and then because bellies filled with good food and wine from Ithmong, the fatigue of the trip across the Vilhon Reach-and the more vigorous preliminaries-began to lay hold of them, weighing down their eyelids as well as their tongues.

Stillhawk, who tried for Zaranda's sake to ape the civilized courtesies to which he was unaccustomed, rose first from the table. She looked up at him and nodded.

"The night is warm and fair," she said. "You'll be sleeping outside?"

The ranger nodded. He had little use for feather beds, less for walls and roofs. "In the unlikely event it rains, there are empty stalls in the stable. If Goldie's gambling with the grooms again, run them out. She cheats abominably, anyway."

Stillhawk nodded again and withdrew.

"With your permission, fair lady," Father Pelletyr said, stifling a yawn behind a pudgy hand, "I shall retire to my evening prayers as well." Despite this announcement, he made no move to leave the table.

"My house is yours," she said.

"What of you, Zaranda?" asked Farlorn, lounging with apparent artlessness in a chair of age-stained oak.

"I'm off to my tower, and then to bed."

The half-elven bard pushed a laugh through his fine nostrils. "So that's why you bought yourself a manor with a fine high keep."

"In part," she said, rising and smoothing her gown. It was a gesture of surprising femininity from one whose hands were callused from gripping a sword-hilt.

"I'll never understand the fascination the tiny lights in the sky hold for you, Zaranda," Farlorn said, shaking his head. "They're lovely, aye, and suitable for illuminating lovers and inspiring song. But they're no more than jewels set in a crystal sphere; all know this."

"Perhaps," said Zaranda, frowning slightly. Master of words as well as melodies, Farlorn seldom said anything without good reason, perhaps reasons in layers. The remark he tossed off about the stars illuminating lovers cut close; she'd been sleeping alone for a long time.

Once, long ago, Farlorn the Handsome had been Zaranda's lover. Briefly. They had parted ways and not seen one another again for years. Then, when she was gathering up the risky expedition to Thay that preceded her current journey in the bustling Sembian port of Urmlaspyr, she had chanced to meet him again in an open-air market.

He professed himself willing to undertake an adventure or two. He seemed changed, not quite as ebullient, a shade more somber. But he was a master of stratagem and diplomacy; his jests and songs and tales of wonder could do as much for morale on a long, hard trail as a thrown-open cask of gold; he had the elven stealth in his feet, and his fingers were as nimble wielding his sword and dagger as they were at plying the frets of his yarting. Perhaps the change was due to nothing more than age, though the years lay almost as lightly on him as his wild elf kinfolk-more lightly even than on Zaranda, who wore her winters well. In any event, she had invited him to join her company readily enough, and had already had several occasions to be glad of her choice. And still… and still, something about him troubled her.

"Perhaps she seeks to read her fortune in the stars," said the father indulgently. In a mild sort of way, Ilmater disapproved of astrology. The common folk of Faerun suspected it was one of those proscriptions laid down by the god so his servants could feel as if they held the moral high ground in dealing with weaker souls.

"No, Father," Zaranda said. "I misdoubt, somehow, I'd be well served in knowing my future."

The priest raised his eyebrows. "Why, child, most of humanity and demihumanity alike would pay most handsomely for an accurate augury of what the future holds in store."

"Not Zaranda," the bard said, smiling halfway. "She delights in differing from everybody else. Contrary is our Zaranda Star."

She gave him a look. He had one leg, well-turned beneath her gown, thrown over an arm of the chair, and a golden goblet in his hand.

"I don't believe we travel fixed, immutable paths, like oxen yoked to a grindstone," she said. "And anyway no stars, whether jewels in crystal or the suns of distant worlds, control my destiny. That I do myself."