Elminster Enraged

“Broadshield’s men initially employed ordinary stag arrows because they didn’t want to waste their most valuable shafts on heavily armored Purple Dragons. Or kill the prisoners, who are the prizes they daily seek,” he explained to his fellow watcher.

“Prizes … for ransoms?”

“Indeed. They convey their catches-all nobility of Cormyr-to upcountry hunting lodges in Sembia and there deliver them to freedom. After wealthy noble relatives of the prisoners yield up stiff ransom fees.”

“And the poisoned arrows?”

“They saved those for the foes they know they must eliminate: the wizards of war. Every attack on prisoner escorts is made not just to gain prisoners for ransom income, but in hopes of bringing Crown wizards within reach, so Broadshield’s Beasts can slay them.”

“I’ve not seen arrows that could rend a target in an explosion before. Those blasts sprayed acid, yes, but it wasn’t … black dragon spew, was it?”

“It was. Broadshield’s ‘dread arrows’ burst inside the bodies they strike, as their attached acid bladders react with a certain substance smeared on the arrows. The blasts emit the flesh-melting acid, of course. They’re meant to make targets die horribly-and usually succeed.”

“How do these Beasts get black dragon acid?”

“They work with-or more properly for, though they haven’t quite realized that yet-a black dragon that lairs near the isolated border region they roam in, one Alorglauvenemaus by name.”

“And the ‘certain substance’ you’ve not named, that reacts with the bladders-how do you know about it?”

The taller watcher smiled. “Who do you think gives it to Broadshield? Manshoon is far from my only toy in the Forest Kingdom.”

“I … see.”

At that moment, the distant Manshoon banished the scene he’d been watching and mused aloud. Both watchers listened with interest-and one of them with amusement, too.

“So what makes lawless plunderswords bold enough to openly attack-to chase-war wizards?” the distant would-be emperor of Cormyr asked his cowering assistant. “Or scares or coerces them so well that they prefer facing battle spells to turning on the one that sent them?”

The two watchers exchanged smiles. Then the taller one looked at the image of Manshoon and drawled, “What, indeed?”

“You just ran from battle, leaving your wounded fellows and the wizards of war who came to your aid to die?”

Arclath’s question was loud and incredulous, so all the Dragons crowded around could hear. They’d ridden hard, until the horses were exhausted and stumbling, and a halt and rest had become a forced necessity.

“We have our orders to fulfill,” the ranking Purple Dragon officer-the sandy-haired lionar, who had thrice refused to give his name-snapped. “They do not include tarrying to fight pitched battles with brigands on ground of our foe’s choosing. We are charged to deliver the two of you- without delay-into lawful custody in Castle Irlingstar. Rest assured we’ll seek Broadshield’s Beasts during our travel home. Which must be along this road, seeing as there’s no other.” He turned his head and ordered savagely, “Mount up!”

“But sir, the horses-”

“Hrast the horses! If I’ve had enough rest, they’ve had enough rest!”

“Oh, well then,” Arclath said brightly, “I’ll ride you. Because my poor mount is still weary. That’ll give your poor beast a bit more rest, too!”

“Lord Delcastle,” the Dragon officer said icily, “pray belt up. The law against ‘incitement’ gives me all the justification I need to gag you securely, so none of us will have to hear one more word out of you, if I so desire-and right now, my desire to do so is mighty strong and growing stronger, believe you me!”

“Easy,” Rune murmured to Arclath, out of the side of her mouth. “There’s such a thing as carrying the ‘irritating idiot noble’ act too far.”

Arclath gave her an ‘I know that well’ wink and bowed deeply-and silently-to the lionar. The Dragon officer let out a sigh of exasperation that was almost a roar, turned on one spur-booted heel, and strode to his horse.

This time, Arclath was carefully assisted in mounting by no less than seven Dragons. Their handling was precise and gentle, and included gentle pats of encouragement and support. What he’d said to the lionar was obviously popular.

The ride was short. As it happened, they had halted only a dozen or so dips and bends before the gates of their destination.

“Castle Irlingstar,” the lionar announced tersely and unnecessarily, as their road ascended the ridge to the stark and towering walls of a smallish keep that seemed to grow up out of the rocks rather than perch atop them. No moat, of course, nor fields, walled or otherwise-and not another building or steading or other sign of human habitation to be seen. Just the fortress, all alone in the cold wind, amid uncounted rising rocks. The road ended at its gates.

Without war horn flourish or signal, the portcullis clattered up to admit them … into a gloomy roofed-over forehall that smelled strongly of horses, thanks to the open stalls that lined one wall. A dozen-some fully armored Purple Dragons were waiting for them.

Two galleries overlooked the forehall, and folk lined both. Guards with ready crossbows-who looked almost eager to use them-to the right, and grim, glowering men in rather dirty fine clothing lined the larger gallery to the left, flanked by guards; prisoners, gathered to measure the new additions to their ranks.

By their leers and murmurs, they hadn’t failed to notice that Rune was not only a woman, but a female who looked both younger and prettier than an old boot or a chamber pot bucket. When she looked up and gave them a wink and a smile of flirtatious anticipation, the murmurs leaped in both hope and volume.

“Dalliance later,” the head of the gathered fortress guards said crisply. “For now, come with me. Lionar, I thank you for the safe delivery of these prisoners. A meal is ready for you in the lower hall. It may not be up to the usual standards, but you’ll soon hear the ‘why’ of that. Prisoners, you are to accompany me into the presence of the lord constable of Irlingstar.”

“Delighted,” Arclath replied heartily, as if being ushered into a meeting with a duchess he very much wanted to seduce.

“Why, it will give me the greatest of pleasure …,” one of the fortress guards murmured mockingly. Evidently earlier prisoners had adopted a manner similar to Arclath’s upon their arrival.

Wisely, Arclath took the hint, saying no more during their brief journey up several flights of stairs within a watchful ring of guards who had maces and daggers ready, other than to remark once, “These chains are heavy, you know!” and later, “Do we get to see the seneschal after the lord constable? My father gave me a message for the seneschal.”

“The seneschal,” the guard right behind him said grimly, “is dead.”

“Oh, my,” Rune piped up, before Arclath could say more and get himself into real trouble. “An accident or ailment, or something darker?”

“The lord constable will tell you all you need to know,” was the firm reply she got, plus the firmer order, “No more talking!”

There wasn’t time to ask anything else and get a reply, even if Amarune had wanted to defy the guards. They were on their last, short stretch of gloomy passage on their way to a closed door, the few wall torches low and waveringly dim in their blackened brackets.

At their approach the door swung open, guards saluted, and a grim-looking man behind a desk eyed his two newest prisoners rather wearily.

He made a swift hand-signal, and Arclath and Rune were settled into chairs fitted with hooks for their their chains to clip into, to keep them seated. Then all but two of the guards withdrew, closing the door behind them.