The Lost Library of Cormanthyr (14 page)

“But how can you trust something you don’t believe in?”

“By asking you to trust in your own trust, Taker of Dragon’s Teeth. Hold, this will only hurt for a moment.” Krystarn laid her forefinger against a bare spot on the hobgoblin’s neck. To Chomack’s credit, he flinched only a little when her fingernail laid open his flesh in a furrow almost two inches long. The drow plucked a single silver coin from her bag of holding. Working quickly, she warded it, allowing the designs she drew in the air to show as traces of pale green fire.

Chomack paled, but he did not move.

Finished with the spell to permanently mark the coin, the metal still warm to the touch, the drow shoved it into the cut in the hobgoblin’s flesh. Chomack staggered only slightly, then regained his footing. Blood seeped down his neck.

“If you think to disappear, this will ensure that you won’t,” Krystarn stated. “No matter where you go, this coin will mark you and I’ll find you. If you seek to cut it out of your flesh, the coin will sink further into your body and become poisonous.” What she said was a lie, but the drow knew the hobgoblin chieftain would be too afraid of her power to disbelieve. Reaching into the bag of holding, she took out a small vial of healing potion. Pouring carefully, she sprinkled the area she’d opened up on the hobgoblin’s neck and along the side of his face. The torn flesh in those areas quickly mended. She stepped back. “Unless you have reconsidered your bargain.”

“No, sorceress. My desire for revenge is strong.”

“Then may your gods be with you. I will call you when I need you.” Krystarn walked from their campsite, listening to the chatter of voices fill the void she left. Only a heartbeat before the light from the cookfire left her entirely, she used her magic to teleport her to another spot along the trail above.

When she arrived on the trail, she glanced back down at the hobgoblin tribe, finding them suitably impressed. The demonstration of her power made her feel good about herself. The last four years spent with Folgrim Shallowsoul had been unsettling to say the least. But her obedience in the matter had been demanded by Lloth. The Spider Queen demanded harsh sacrifices for the rewards that she offered.

Krystarn turned her steps back toward the underground keep Shallowsoul had erected from the ruins. According to Shallowsoul, much remained to be done to undo the damage Golsway had managed.

She only hoped there would be more killing. The business tonight had only whetted the drow’s appetite, and she’d been too long without death at her hands.

“Baylee Arnvold!”

The young ranger turned his head, trying to track the familiar voice across the noise and imagery that were constants at any ranger forgathering. Long wooden tables hewed by axes from trees felled only two days ago occupied space under leafy awnings around the clearing.

Most of the activity remained around these tables. Stories were told there during all hours of the day. Amid the lies and boasts lounged half-truths that could save a man’s life one day. Above all, though, it was entertainment that many of the ranger breed would never have except at a forgathering.

At other tables, bartering and competitions were held amid dozens of crafts. And there was song. Songs of humor, songs of bravery, songs of great sadness, and songs of legend. Some of those songs were quietly strummed, while others were given a boisterous voice.

Xuxa, Baylee prompted.

The azmyth bat darted through the night sky, chasing insects for her eveningfeast. After all the succulent fruits and cakes she had eaten since their arrival early that morning, Baylee did not see how Xuxa could swallow another morsel. He guessed that she used the exercise of chasing after her next meal to work up another appetite.

I am looking, the azmyth bat protested. I did not hear the call clearly myself.

Baylee passed through the thronging crowd that made up the forgathering.

“Baylee!” the voice called again.

It was a man’s voice, the young ranger knew this time. That knocked out nearly half of the assembly.

West, Xuxa called from above.

Baylee turned slightly, getting his directions from the constellations spread across the clear sable sky. The Dragonspine Mountains ranged across the northern horizon, creating craggy gaps against the night since the forgathering was located in the foothills of the broken land.

A tenday and two days had passed since he’d recovered the book from the sacrificial well. He’d traveled to Waymoot and had the spell lifted from the page in the herbalist’s book, finding the contract between two noble families of Waterdeep and a Zhentilar house of assassins for the murder of King Azoun. What he was going to do with it remained to be determined. From Waymoot, he’d traveled north again to Hillsfar on the Moonsea, then up to the forgathering area.

His heart had pulled at him in Hillsfar to forget the Glass Eye Concourse and travel on to Waterdeep to show Fannt Golsway his prize. Seeing Jaeleen again had wakened his feelings for seeing the old mage again. But Baylee had decided to wait. The Glass Eye Concourse happened only once a year. At his age, a year seemed like a long time. Looking back on it now, the concept of time passing had been one of the biggest points of contention between himself and Golsway.

“Baylee! Over here!”

The ranger recognized the voice only an instant before he spotted the man it belonged to. Aymric Tailpuller leaned against a tree near one of the wagons the mountain men had provided. Casks of wine and mead loaded the wagons down, and all of them flowed constantly.

“Deaf as you are,” Aymric protested, “how is it you’ve managed to stay alive so long?” Tall and thin, the falconer enjoyed the slim good looks of youth and the vigor of the Moon elven bloodline. He wore his long blue hair in a single braid that ran down to his narrow hips when he let it loose. Deep blue eyes emphasized the paleness of his face and the sharp planes of his features. His leather armor showed the advantages of great care and considerable attention. A well-used bastard sword with a runed handle stuck up over one shoulder.

He has me to watch over him, Xuxa answered from above.

Aymric crowed with laughter as a smile split his face. He turned toward the sky. Xuxa! How are you?

Finally being properly cared for after nearly starving to death, the azmyth bat responded. Thank you for asking.

A number of rangers, their senses ever alert despite the amount of wine and mead that had been consumed, ducked as Xuxa came winging down in great, leathery flaps that cracked the air. The azmyth bat made a show of her aerial prowess, coming to nearly a dead stop in front of the Moon elf ranger before reaching out with her claws to seize the leather band around Aymric’s wrist. She hung upside down, looking at the Moon elf and chuckling her happiness.

Despite his bond with the azmyth bat, Baylee always felt a pang of jealousy to see Aymric with Xuxa. She seemed clearly to favor the Moon elf with her attentions, and never had a cross word to say about him.

With quick hands, Aymric seized a morsel of an apple nut confection from a passerby involved in conversation before the owner knew he was there. The Moon elf held out the tidbit on a forefinger.

I couldn’t, Xuxa said.

Of course you can, Aymric replied. After all, it will be a whole year before another Glass Eye Concourse, and there is no better food at any of the other forgathering. This apple nut confection is a favorite, and you don’t get it like this in many places.

Xuxa accepted the treat in one winged paw and brought it daintily to her mouth.

“Watch out,” Baylee warned aloud, abandoning the silent conversation, knowing Xuxa would resent it, “this is the bite that will make her burst.”

A handful of people standing nearby who knew Xuxa and her prodigious appetite laughed.

You need to teach your friend manners, Aymric chided.

Xuxa ignored the exchange. She leaped from Aymric’s arm and took up roost from a nearby tree branch.

“My friend,” the Moon elf said warmly, reaching for Baylee and hugging him close, “how have things been with you?”

“Busy,” Baylee admitted.

“Having much luck?”

“Some.” Baylee had learned never to tell the first story around the elf, because the elf would surely top it with one of his own.

“How’s Golsway?”

“I haven’t seen him in some time.”

Aymric shook his head. “Are you still insisting on going it alone?”

Baylee kept his emotions cloaked. “I like it that way.”

“Of course you do.” Aymric took a clay cup from one of the stacks near the wine casks. He filled it with help from a woman who happened to tap the cask at the same time as he needed it. When the cup was filled, he passed it to Baylee.

The young ranger tried to turn it down. “No, really, I’ve had enough.”

“Enough wine?” Aymric looked incredulous. “That could never happen. The gods willing, you’ll have a discretionary bladder that keeps everything flowing.”

“I remember a forgathering a year or two ago in which I ended up cutting you down from your own hammock one morning because you couldn’t even stand up by yourself.”

“This is a party,” Aymric protested. “A man can be forgiven his occasional indulgences.”

Baylee is in no position to throw stones at anyone over indulgences, Xuxa spoke up. Little more than a tenday ago, he ran into Jaeleen again….

Aymric shook his head. “I tell you, Baylee, that woman is worse than any bad habit you could pick up. You should stay away from her.”

“It was a chance meeting,” Baylee stated.

“Ill fortune, you mean.” The Moon elf shook his head.

“Jaeleen is not my problem,” Baylee replied.

Aymric clapped him on the shoulder. “And you would do well to make sure she never becomes your problem, my friend.” He gestured toward the central area of the forgathering. “Come, let us enjoy what festivities lay before us.”

Baylee followed his friend, moving from table to table and speaking with those rangers he knew. They watched arm wrestling competitions and dart slinging championships, and listened to a few of the lies the mountain men spun with such silver-tongued ease, and even joined in with a chorus or two here and there when favorite songs were being sung.

“Aymric, Baylee,” a young lad called from behind a tree. “Filston sent me to gather you if I could.” He was tall and slender limbed, his hair springing about his freckled face.

“What is it?” Aymric asked.

“He said you would want to hear Vaggit’s re-telling of the rise and fall of Myth Drannor,” the young boy said. “Hurry. Vaggit is only now starting.”

Aymric glanced at Baylee. “Shall we?”

Baylee grinned in anticipation. “How could we not?” He filched a slice of plum and pear pie from a heavily laden table and cupped it in his hand.

They followed the boy, taking a meandering path around the central campfire that blazed taller than a man. Spits hung with roasting venison and fowl still turned as volunteer cooks manned them, dripping honey glazes and pepper seasons across them.

Vaggit sat on a limb ten feet above the ground, resting on the soles of his bare feet with his arms wrapped around his knees. An audience of forty and more men and women, young and old, had already gathered for the telling. Baylee knew the forest runner had only just begun the lengthy telling because Vaggit wasn’t yet pacing along the thick branch like a stage orator from a house of arts in Waterdeep or other civilized areas.

Short and scrawny, looking near to flesh leaned out over bone, the forest runner wore gray and green splashed garments that blended in with the night and his chosen environment. His leather armor stayed supple and loose, moving without a sound. In his profession as heckler of the aristocratic greedy in and around Zhentil Keep, moving quietly was a necessity. His gray hair and long gray beard testified to the experience he had, and the scars and way he carried himself spoke of the skills he’d learned. A long bow occupied a space beside him on the branch, an arrow resting at the ready on the bowstring.

Baylee took up a position against a gnarled elm with low sweeping branches. Winged animal companions and some possessing climbing skills sat in the trees surrounding the small pocket clearing of the forgathering. Occasional cries or cawing as they shifted chased through the cool breezes coming down from the Dragonspine Mountains.

“And lo,” Vaggit said in his deep basso voice that was so surprising from so little a man, “wise and mighty Eltargrim, himself a warrior and experienced in many battles, looked out over this city that had become known as the Towers of Song, and he listened to the counsel of Elminster even though it cost him the support of the Starym and other families who left the Elven Court.”

A young girl of no more than five or six summers walked forward and held up a stone cup of mead. Her blond hair whipped in the breeze, almost touching the ground when the wind died down.

Amazingly, a section of the branch above Vaggit’s head shifted liquidly. The color changed as Baylee watched, becoming the red-brown skin of a pseudodragon that fell from the branch in a loose sprawl.

For a moment, the pseudodragon looked certain to smash against the child. Then it opened its wings and deftly took the cup from the little girl’s hands. She laughed gaily, then turned and ran back to her mother.

Vaggit held out a hand, never bothering to check for the cup. The pseudodragon put the cup gently in his hand.

“The old scoundrel has had a good year from all accounts I’ve heard,” Aymric whispered at Baylee’s side. “He’s emptied the purses of several Zhentil nobles in his pursuit of justice in his woods, then spread the wealth back among the people those nobles robbed under the statutes of the law. Though why he didn’t keep enough for a good set of clothes to wear to the concourse this year is beyond me.”

Baylee smiled. He respected and admired the old forest runner. “If Vaggit cared about material possessions, he’d never be the man he is. Should he have wanted a new suit of clothes, I’m sure one of the lonely ladies around Zhentil Keep who think so highly of him would have made a set for him just for the asking.”