“Well?” Alusair demanded.
Tanalasta ignored her, pretending she was still in contact with the king, and took a moment to plan out her next few actions. Alusair came and stood beside her impatiently.
Tanalasta looked up. “He says mother is safe but shaken.”
“What does that mean?”
Tanalasta shrugged. “He seemed to think we would know.”
Alusair considered this a moment, then shook her head helplessly. “Well, I suppose that’s good news. What were his orders for me?”
Tanalasta answered quickly, not giving herself time to reconsider ” ‘The realm can’t afford to be without Vangerdahast and Alaphondar at this time of crisis.’ ” It was more of an opinion than a lie. ” ‘You must do what you can to save them.’ “
Alusair closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded and looked to her sister. “And what am I to do with you?”
Tanalasta spread her hands helplessly. “Take me along, I suppose. He didn’t have time to say.”
20
The chamber was darker than a grave and so thick with orc stench it sickened Vangerdahast to breathe. Tangles of snakes slithered across the floor in wet, hissing snarls, while clouds of droning insects hovered just beyond the light, kept at bay by some magic Owden had worked. The corpses of charred swiners lay strewn along the walls, shrouded under blankets of clicking beetles and humming flies. Ribbons of yellow fume swirled through the air, hot, acrid, and moist with the smell of the swamp.
When no more orcs presented themselves for execution, Vangerdahast fluttered his arms and led the way slowly forward. The darkness of the place seemed to compress the light around his glowing wand, squeezing what would normally be a twenty-foot sphere into a misshapen egg barely a quarter that size. A low, constant groan rumbled through the keep, as though the unnatural radiance were an affront to the building itself. The terrible heat made Vangerdahast sweat heavily, and a steady stream of perspiration dribbled from his old brow to the floor. The snakes hissed and struck at the salty beads.
As they drew nearer to the doorway, Vangerdahast saw that the lintel and hinge post were rotting apart, while the surrounding walls were covered with the ashen residue of some foul-smelling fungus. The door itself hung open into the next room, dangling by the tattered remnant of a single leather hinge. Vangerdahast motioned for Owden to be ready, then floated through the doorway.
He found himself in the corner of a narrow corridor, one branch turning left toward a marble stairwell and the other leading straight ahead toward a closed door. The walls were coated with the same white moss he had seen in the blighted fields of northern Cormyr. A steady flow of sweltering yellow fume poured down the stairs to swirl around the corner and disappear down the dark hall, and the air was even warmer and more fetid than in the previous room.
Vangerdahast drifted down the passage and tried the door. The latch came off in his hand, tearing a gaping hole in the rotten wood. Brown scorpions began to swarm through the cavity and drop onto the floor.
Vangerdahast discarded the latch. “Perhaps we’ll try upstairs first.”
“It would seem more likely,” agreed Owden.
Neither of them mentioned the obvious fate of anyone trapped in a room full of scorpions. The royal magician drifted around the corner into the stairwell. It was cramped and narrow and just as slime-caked as the keep’s lower level, and so filled with hot fume that Vangerdahast heard Owden gag on its rotten smell. The wizard covered his own mouth and floated up the stairs without breathing. Even then the stench made him feverish and dizzy.
As Vangerdahast neared the top, a pair of crude arrows hissed out of the darkness to ricochet off his magic shielding and thud into the moldy walls. A guttural voice barked a command, and bone-tipped spears began to poke their way through a dozen fungus-choked murder holes hidden along the inner wall. Though the points snapped off against the wizard’s weathercloak, the attacks did threaten to shove him into the stairwell wall and drain his magic.
Vangerdahast touched his wand to the nearest spear and sent a fork of lightning crackling into the murder hole. The thunderbolt ricocheted down the ambush passage, filling the stairwell with blue flashes and muffled squeals as it danced from orc to orc. The air grew thick with a smell like scorched bacon, and the offending spears clattered harmlessly out of sight. If any swiners survived the wizard’s reprisal, they were wise enough to fall silent and conceal the fact.
“Watch above!” Owden cried.
Vangerdahast looked up to find the last two swiners leaping down the stairs into the light. He kicked himself closer to the ceiling and let them stumble past below, dispatching one with a quick dip of his wand. The other fell to a crushing blow from Owden’s iron-flanged mace.
“This seems a little more promising,” said Vangerdahast. “At least they’re trying to stop us.”
He led the way upstairs and found himself in a large chamber, floating above a square table strewn with moldering drawfish, eels, and whatever else the orcs could dredge from the swamp. The place hummed with the sound of untold insects, giving rise to a maddening din that made Vangerdahast’s head throb. The radius of his light spell was too small to illuminate all the walls, but next to the stairwell, the iron door of a small cell hung open. Motioning Owden up behind him, the royal magician floated over to inspect the interior.
Along one side lay a straw sleeping pallet and a dozen miscellaneous rings, chalices, and weapons. Though all were of exquisite craftsmanship, their condition was now dull and lusterless. Opposite the sleeping pallet, the acrid smoke of charred flesh was wafting out of a small trap door opening down into the ambush passage. The far wall of the tiny chamber was occupied by the splayed recess of an arrow loop, through which Vangerdahast could see the company horses beginning their mad charge into the astonished orc horde out in the marsh. The ghazneths were nowhere in sight.
Vangerdahast backed out of the door and inspected the rest of the room. On the two flanking walls, they found four more open cells, each with a sleeping pallet and an assortment of leaden treasures that had once been enchanted with magic. At the opposite end, only one of the iron doors hung ajar. The other was closed fast. The royal magician readied a web spell, then gestured for Owden to open the closed door.
Owden pushed the latch, and it did not budge. He tried pulling. The door still did not open, but a muffled clatter sounded inside the cell.
“Tanalasta?” Vangerdahast could barely hear his voice over the sound of his drumming heart. “It’s Vangerdahast.”
Owden glowered, then turned back to the door. “And Owden.”
There was no reply. The two men exchanged worried glances.
“Tanalasta, we must open this door,” said Vangerdahast. “If you’re unable to answer, give the royal knock. Otherwise, I fear Owden may be somewhat overanxious.”
“I can answer.” The voice was somewhat lower and rougher than Tanalasta’s.
Vangerdahast narrowed his eyes and whispered, “That doesn’t sound like her.”
Before Owden could reply, Tanalasta answered, “And I doubt Owden is the overanxious one.”
Owden shot Vangerdahast a smug smile. “That’s her!”
Vangerdahast scowled, then motioned for the priest to wait above the door with his mace. “Better to be safe.”
“So it will look like I’m the suspicious one?” Owden shook his head. “She has been their captive for how long? Of course she sounds a little hoarse.”
Vangerdahast continued to point toward the ceiling. “It is no insult to be cautious.”
Owden rolled his eyes and reluctantly floated up to hover above the door. Vangerdahast pointed at the latch, then uttered a single magic word. The door creaked open, but Tanalasta did not emerge.
“Tanalasta?” Owden called, negating any possible surprise bestowed by his position. “Come along-we don’t have much time.”