The metallic clamor of armor began to knell up from somewhere lower in the tower, drawing the ghazneth’s attention toward the armory’s stout oaken door. It was barred from the inside, but the creature knew as well as Azoun that the door would last only as long as it took a magic-user to utter his spell. Spewing a filthy curse, the phantom brought a hand up and slammed the heel of its palm into Merula’s brow. There was a sharp snap, then the wizard’s eyes rolled back, and he dropped out of sight.
The ghazneth turned toward Dauneth. Azoun gathered himself to intercept-then the High Warden finally found the right pocket and vanished with Filfaeril.
Azoun turned toward the barred door, but the ghazneth sprang across the chamber and beat him to it.
“Queen stealer!” it hissed. “Usurper!”
Azoun leveled his sword and circled around so that he would not be directly in front of the door when Mungan arrived. Though a steady flow of dark, rancid smelling blood was oozing out of the ghazneth in half a dozen places, the dark thing looked little the worse for the wear.
“Who are you?” Azoun asked. “What are you?”
“Boldovar, King of Cormyr.”
The answer was as mad as the ghazneth itself, but there was no time to argue. The clamor reached the landing outside the door and stopped. Azoun threw himself to the floor.
“Now, Mungan!”
Mungan’s voice rang out from the stairwell, and an instant later a terrific lightning bolt blasted the door into splinters. The ghazneth spun to face the rescue party and bellowed, and the room went dark.
The tumult of anguished voices began to fill the air. Azoun leaped to his feet and pressed his back to the wall, his sword weaving a blind defensive pattern before him. He was not fool enough to believe he could block one of the ghazneth’s blows with a mere sword, but perhaps it would buy him enough time to dodge or roll away.
The cacophony continued to grow louder for the next few moments-it seemed like forever, though it could have been no more than seconds. The thud of falling bodies reverberated across the floor with alarming regularity, and twice Azoun danced away when his sword brushed against some unseen menace. He kept expecting to feel the ghazneth’s talons ripping through his breastplate, but the blow never came. The battle din merely subsided, then men began to crawl across the floor and call each other’s names, and finally someone stumbled across a commander’s ring and spoke the proper word, filling the chamber with light.
The room lay littered with wounded and dead-most felled by their own comrades, judging by the sword gashes in their flesh and the narrow dents in their armor. Only Mungan and two men behind him, all lying in the doorway with their throats ripped open, appeared to have been slain by the ghazneth. There was no sign of the phantom itself, but Azoun felt a cool breeze in the room and knew that someone had opened the door to the roof.
17
Tanalasta lay in Rowen’s arms, aching and feverish, captivated by the sunlight filtering down through the twisted buckeye boughs above. Alusair was readying the surviving horses for departure, and one of the priests was overseeing Emperel’s burial. Tanalasta was so foggy-headed her thoughts kept running in circles. She held Emperel’s message satchel clutched to her breast and recalled dimly that she had to get it to Alaundo. It was a struggle to remember why-and she was too weak to struggle.
A steel gauntlet appeared above Tanalasta, floating in the air above her eyes. Taking it for an apparition-the hand of Iyachtu Xvim coming to pull her into his Bastion of Hate-she gasped and clutched at Rowen’s arm.
“Stay with me.” She pushed the message satchel into his hands. “Then take this to Alaundo. Tell him about the glyphs… and about Xanthon.”
“You are not that ill, Princess.” Rowen refused to accept the satchel.
The gauntlet drew closer, warming Tanalasta’s face and obstructing her view. She was too frightened to look away.
“Don’t argue.” Tanalasta tipped her chin back. “Kiss me. I want to die.”
“You are hardly dying, Princess.” Rowen sounded almost insulted. “And certainly not in my arms. Now hold still, and Seaburt will have you feeling better in a minute.”
“Seaburt?”
Tanalasta saw the thick wrist protruding from the collar of the glove, and it slowly came to her that the gauntlet was not the hand of Iyachtu Xvim. It was the symbol of Torm the True, Alusair’s favored god and the one revered by both priests in the company. Seaburt laid the glove upon Tanalasta’s forehead and uttered a quick prayer to his god, beseeching Torm to aid “this dutiful daughter of Cormyr.” Recalling her arguments with Vangerdahast and the king, Tanalasta worried that the Loyal Fury might not find her deserving of his magic and continued to press the satchel on Rowen. Her skin started to prickle with the familiar sensation of magic, then the glove grew cold and dry against her brow. Her head began to throb more fiercely than ever, and she let slip an involuntary groan.
“Have strength, Princess,” said Seaburt. With a month-old beard and black circles under his sunken eyes, the priest looked no better than Tanalasta felt. “Torm is drawing the fever out, but there will be some pain as it passes from your body.”
Some pain? Tanalasta would have screamed the question, had she the strength. It felt as though someone had cleaved her head with an axe. She closed her eyes, listened to her pulse drumming in her ears, and begged Chauntea for the strength to endure Torm’s cure. The throbbing only grew worse, and she thought her brain must be boiling inside her skull. She did her best to hold still, and finally the gauntlet grew warm and moist against her skin. The glove blossomed into white-hot light, turning the interior of her eyelids red and bright, and then a wave of cool relief spread down her entire body.
Tanalasta opened her eyes and found herself gazing up through the gauntlet’s veil of pearly brilliance. Seaburt’s jaws were clenched tight, his vacant stare fixed someplace far beyond the keep’s dilapidated walls. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, dripping out of his beard to splash against the searing gauntlet and hiss into nothingness. Tanalasta grew stronger. The fog vanished from her mind, and she no longer felt quite so queasy. She struggled to sit up, but Seaburt pressed her down and held her there until the glow faded completely from his gauntlet.
When the priest finally lifted the glove and took his hand from inside, his skin was red and puffy. “You’ll still be weak,” he said. “Drink all you can, and you’ll feel better.”
“I feel better already. Thank you.” Tanalasta sat up, then nearly blacked out when she tried to gather her legs beneath her. “Though I see what you mean about still being weak.”
A whistle sounded from across the bailey, where her sister stood waving at them from the gate. With Alusair stood all that remained of her company-the second priest, a dozen haggard knights, and fifteen sickly horses. Though the horses still had halters and reins, the poor beasts had been stripped of their saddles to lighten their burden.
“Time to go.” Rowen slipped an arm under Tanalasta’s arm and pulled her to her feet. “I’m sorry, but it looks like you’ll be walking. The horses are too weak to carry even you.”
As they approached Alusair and the others, Tanalasta eyed the languishing beasts with a sympathy born of her own haggard condition. “Why are we making these poor beasts come along at all?” she asked Alusair. “They’d have a better chance if we just left them to rest-and if not, at least they’d die in peace.”
“And how would that help our cause?” asked Alusair “If they die on the trail, we’ve lost nothing. If they recover, they’ll save us a good five or six days of walking.”
Alusair turned to lead the way out of the gate, but Tanalasta was too alarmed to follow. Saving five or six days would mean reaching Goblin Mountain well ahead of Rowen, and she had no illusions about what would follow if that happened. Alusair would have a war wizard teleport Tanalasta back to Arabel at once, and her parents, regarding any courtship with a Cormaeril more of a political disaster than Dauneth’s rejection, would see to it that Rowen never came within fifty miles of her.
Rowen offered a supporting hand. “What’s wrong? If you are too weak to walk, I’ll carry you.”
“No.” Tanalasta held him back until the others were a few paces ahead. “Rowen, you can’t leave me tomorrow.”
