War In Tethyr Book 2 of the Nobles series A Forgotten Realms novel by Victor Milan
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Release Date: January, 24th, 2005
"Who dares impede the return of the Countess Mominggold to her home?" Zaranda called in a clear voice.
The whispering from beyond the barricade rose to a crescendo. A commotion came from the branches of the tree, and with a certain amount of crackling and rustling, a small figure appeared, crawling between dead branches. Once clear, it paused to haul forth a glaive-guisarme fully thrice its own length, then hopped erect with more swagger than conviction to confront Zaranda.
"We represent an autonomous collective of demi-humans of diminutive stature," the apparition announced in the deepest voice it could muster. Diminutive was right. He was no more than three feet tall and wore a morion helmet easily three sizes too large and a brigandine corselet that came down almost to the hair on the tops of his feet. "We demand toll of all who would pass this way."
Halflings...
War in Tethyr
Victor Milan
WAR IN TETHYR
Copyright ©1995 TSR, Inc.
All Rights Reserved.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All TSR characters, character names, and the distinct likenesses thereof are trade-marks owned by TSR, Inc.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of TSR, Inc.
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Distributed to the book and hobby trade in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd.
Distributed to the toy and hobby trade by regional distributors.
FORGOTTEN REALMS is a registered trademark owned by TSR, Inc. The TSR logo is a trademark owned by TSR, Inc.
Cover art by Walter Velez.
First Printing: October 1995
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-68154
987654321
ISBN: 0-7869-0184-5 TSR, Inc.
TSR Ltd. 120 Church End, Cherry Hinton Cambridge CB1 3LB
United Kingdom
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To the memory of Roger Zelazny
Prologue Night Wings
She sleeps, and as so often, dreams of flight.
First comes the unfolding. She seems to open outward from herself, like a piece of paper folded to a small packet, expanding, becoming greater, becoming other, in a way she cannot comprehend.
A moment poised between exaltation and uncertainty, and then she flies, rising into a sky full of stars, her wingbeats sure as a swimmer’s strokes. High, and higher she rises, until the narrow grimy streets and al-leys, the city itself, are no more than shabby toys beneath her. Beyond its walls stretches the level countryside, black and silver and soft in starlight.
She soars above neat peasant cots, their fields and or-chards laid out with mathematical precision like sym-bols on a wizard's scroll. Over stream and keep and sleeping herd she passes, high and silent and unseen.
She knows two feelings strange to her in waking life: freedom and power. She can fly where she pleases, and no one can say her nay— and she senses, somehow, that her power goes beyond the ability to burst gravity's bonds. The sensations fill her with an almost terrible ex-hilaration.
Yet even as she begins to realize and exult in those unfamiliar feelings, she is gripped by an awful unseen power that cancels both. Down she is drawn, and down, helpless now, plummeting into a black chasm that yawns in the earth itself, into a pit filled with darkness, the impression of waving tentacles blacker than despair, and a multitude of red-glowing eyes. A voice from below whispers sibilant obscenities in her ears.
She screams, but her screams are as futile as her struggle and, screaming, she falls. . . .
The jarring impact to her ribs came like salvation.
"Up, Scab," the stable owner said. "You were riding abroad on night's mare, and your caterwauling riled me steeds. Up now; time to be feeding, anyhow."
She nodded, not trusting her voice. The stable owner turned and shuffled off, dragging a foot lamed in some forgotten skirmish. The land of Tethyr was plentifully supplied with those.
She felt her ribs through the dirty, ragged smock she wore. No damage done; the kick had not been that hard. The stable owner was no brutal man, nor even a hard one, intentionally. But he had been raised to hard times, and hard ways, and knew none other.
At least he didn't try to become familiar with her. She was overyoung, by Tethyrian standards, though not everyone was deterred by the fact. Likely as not, he didn't realize she was female. Her face was generally obscured beneath grime and matted masses of dark red hair, and there was nothing of her rag-wrapped scare-crow frame to suggest that she was a girl in her early teens rather than a boy.
There was a handspan of open space between the brick walls of the stable and the eaves, to allow air to circulate in the stifling Zazesspurian summer. The slice of sky she could see had gone dawning purple, stained with the faintest of pinks. A night bird fluttered past the opening, or perhaps a bat, returning to its roost to sleep the day away. She felt a twinge of fear and long-ing.
The tasks she must perform in return for a few crusts of bread and lodging in a vacant stall were not demanding: she must feed and water the horses, muck their stalls, brush them and comb their manes. Then she would be on her own through the heart of the day, free—as free as she got in waking hours—to continue her search for some wizard to accept her offer of apprenticeship.
If my reputation hasn't spread too far.
She picked herself up and felt her side again. The soreness was fading quickly. The hunger pangs that gnawed her every waking hour like a rat in her belly were already stronger. She tottered off to the pump be-tween stalls redolent of horse-sweat and hay and ma-nure, on legs that seemed to have atrophied from dreams of flight.
Part I Astronomy Domine
1
The golden mare tossed her long white mane and said, "I sense trouble ahead, Randi Star."
The woman who sat astride her in a high-cantled Calimshite saddle frowned. "Of course you do," she said. "We're about to enter Tethyr. And don't call me 'Randi.' It's far too young a name for me."
The mare flared her nostrils and produced a ladylike snort. The slow sound of her hooves rebounded from natural walls of dark granite, lichen-splashed and for-bidding, so high that, although it was midmorning, the day's first sunlight had yet to spill farther than halfway down them. Playing around their ears like schools of fish were the hoofbeats of burden beasts and outriders' mounts, the jingle-jangle of harnesses, the calls of the muleteers, all muted as the caravan wound through the secret pass across the Snowflake Mountains.
They were bound for Zazesspur on the Sword Coast, a city of fabled wealth and intrigue; the years of trou-bles had, in truth, little scratched its wealth and done nothing at all to diminish its intrigues. The caravan's hundred mules were laden with luxury goods, wizardry supplies of nonmagical nature, and specialty items for Zazesspur's demanding craftsmen, but the core of the profit Zaranda planned to realize on this expedition was a handful of rare and immensely potent magic ob-jects.
At that, the caravan and its riches—deceptively great for its size and unassuming appearance—were merely a facet of Zaranda Star's complex scheme to re-tire her debts, and then just retire.