The new Kohath was different. A few mortals had escaped his realm, and told of its horrors.
Deep within the dark land of death, on the site of the old palace of Vantir, Kohath used sorcery and undead slaves to build a new fortress. This fortress was made from the bones and flesh of the fallen citizens of Vantir. In this subterranean castle, the former king had begun to call himself Kohath the Eternal.
Tiuren knew no reason to think the moniker an idle boast. Nor did he intend to find out. Never again would he bring himself to utter the names Kohath or Vantir.
Faerun was a big place, and there were certainly other realms in which to live out the rest of his life. Without another look, he turned his back on his former home, his former friend and king,.and his former life.
The Whispering Crown
Ed Greenwood
The young Lady of Dusklake stood alone in her feast hall, in the last golden gleam of the setting sun, and waited to die.
Dusklake and Grand Thentor had been at war for only a day now-but the battle between Aerindel and Rammast, Lord of Grand Thentor, had begun when they were both children. He had wanted her to be his slave and plaything for more than a dozen years-and Rammast was not a man accustomed to waiting long for anything.
He would come for her, and soon. Aerindel wondered if she'd be strong enough to hold on to the three things she valued most: her freedom, her land… and her life.
Knowing what was coming, she'd sent the servants away-but she also knew that eyes were watching her anxiously from behind parted tapestries and doors that hadn't quite closed. The eyes of those who feared she might take her own life.
The news of her brother's death lay like a heavy cloak over the household-but it rested most heavily on the Lady Aerindel. She could not quite believe she'd never hear his bright laughter echoing in this high hall again, or feel his strong arms lift her by her slim waist and whirl her high into the air.
But the news had been blunt and clear enough. Dabras was dead by dragonfire, the grim old warriors had said, proffering his half-melted sword hilt and their own scorched wounds as proof. And that made her ruler of Dusklake.
Though a small realm, Dusklake had once been widely known-and feared-for the man then its master: the mage Thabras Stormstaff. Thabras was Aerin-del's faintly smiling, sad-eyed father. He was the mightiest of a long line of famous heads of House Sum-mertyn, from Orbrar the Old, the grandfather that Aerindel had never known, to Asklas and Ornthorn and others in the early days, known only in legends. A small but proud hold, oldest of all the Esmeltaran, Dusklake was nestled in the rolling woodlands between Lake Esmel and the Cloud Peaks. And it was hers, now.
If she could hold it. Aerindel looked grimly out through a window that was seven times her height, at the lake the land was named for. Its waters were dark and placid, at the end of a bright, cool summer day. The Green Fields to the north were still a sheet of golden light, but westward, the purple peaks of the Ridge rose like a dark wall, bringing an early nightfall down on her hall.
A night that would surely bring Rammast. Dusklake was small but verdant, perhaps the fairest of all the Esmeltaran. Rammast wanted it more even than he wanted her.
Aerindel looked at the fire-scarred blob that was all she had left of dear Dabras, and drew in a deep, unhappy breath. She would cry no more, whatever the hours ahead brought. She was a Summertyn, even if her slim arms were too feeble to swing a warrior's sword.
Her spells might serve her where his sword had failed him-though she hoped never to be foolish and battle-hungry enough to go off to the distant Dales, as he had, hunting dragons. It was the year 902 there, she thought dully, recalling the words of a far-traveled trader… but there, as here, it was the Year of the Queen's Tears.
How fitting. She had wept for hours, two nights ago, clinging to the fire-scarred warriors as if their unhappy memories and awkward soothings could somehow bring Dabras back to life… wept until she was exhausted and fell asleep in their arms.
Sometime the next day-yesterday-she'd been awakened in her own bed by a frightened chambermaid, bringing in the oh-so-polite missive from Rammast.
He grieved for her loss, the flowery-scrolled words read, and hoped to be of help in her time of need. With the world growing ever darker and more dangerous, there is no one in Faerun who can stand alone in safety, without friends.
Dusklake now stands in need of strong swords to defend it against brigands and the ores of the mountains, Rammast's words went on-and Grand Thentor had need of her magic, just as his heart had need of her hand. A wise woman would gladly see that the union of their two lands would set them all on the road to a brighter future; but if she lacked that wisdom or inclination, his duty was clear. His people needed the protection of a sorceress, and he must win her by formal duel if not by willing submission. At the next going down of the sun, he would come for her answer.
It had taken all of Aerindel's brittle self-control to keep from crumpling and shredding the parchment in fearful fury. She had grown less and less fond of darkly handsome, cruel Rammast as the years had passed.
In the pale, slim, so often silent days of her youth, he'd been the first man to look upon her with hunger in his eyes. Later, he had been the first to see that though she'd inherited the rings and staff and spellbooks of the mighty Thabras, her magic was no more than a feeble, faltering echo of his… and that Dusklake, secure for so long behind his might, had far fewer hardened warriors to ride to its defense than other neighboring holds could muster.
Once, at a wedding in Hulduth Hold, he'd been particularly forceful in his attentions during a private walk in the gardens. Freeing herself from his grasp, Aerindel had made her own feelings about him coldly and crisply plain. Unperturbed, Rammast had given her the special swift, sly grin he used when gloating, and told her softly that one day Dusklake would be his, and her with it-as his slave, willing and eager to serve him once his magic controlled her wits.
Now, the final taunting words of his missive said that his own magic remained regrettably inadequate to the task of defending Grand Thentor against its foes, but that he had learned some measure of… control. He hoped she'd remember, and greet his suit fondly.
Aerindel hadn't heard anything of Rammast's own dabblings in magic since he'd inherited Grand Then-tor-beyond a few rumors of summoned beasts running amok and hired hedge-wizard tutors disappearing mysteriously. His reminder of wanting her as a mind-controlled slave, however, was clear enough. And that confidence meant that he'd measured her magic, and knew himself to be clearly the more powerful of the two.
Bringing her thoughts back to here and now, Aerindel licked lips that had gone dry and glanced again at the banner-pole, one of a pair flanking the tall window. The pole was really her father's staff. No doubt she'd be needing it soon.
She would need it, and some greater magical aid or ally she knew not where to find, let alone to plead with. What could she give in payment? Herself and her land were all she had… and the very things Rammast sought. She could see no way to keep from losing one-or both-before dawn.
Night was coming down swiftly now, the last light fading from the still waters of the lake.
Then, suddenly, she saw him: a lone, dark figure walking steadily across the lake toward her-walking upon the waters as if they were a vast courtyard. He spent the spell to show her how powerful he was, powerful enough that he could afford to waste magic before a duel.
Aerindel turned slowly, her dark gown rustling about her hips, and wondered idly why she'd dressed in her best finery to meet her most hated enemy. Looking all around the hall, she raised her voice and said calmly to the unseen watchers, "Withdraw, all of you. Danger comes swiftly."