Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [109]
Evaereol Rathrane would be a name heard again in Faerun, a name feared and respected. A name that would be spreading soon… he needed but a trifle more, and if these echoes were good indication of what lay ahead, he'd shortly have more than enough, perhaps more might than ever before.
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Greywings were honking in the distant backlands as Beldimarr waved them off the road close by the crude gates of Triel.
Obediently Shandril guided their groaning wagon along a palisade of huge, graying old tree trunks toward the distant figure of Arauntar, who stood atop some rocks, directing wagons. As they bumped across the grassy but much-rutted field, Narm frowned. "Why aren't we going into Triel?"
Shandril shrugged. "Ask him," she said, waving a hand at the grizzled Harper, so Narm did.
Arauntar swung himself up on the perch and growled, "Just along here,.. aye… right, halt!
Tether and hobble, lad. I'll chock your wheels."
"Well?" Narm prompted him, a few minutes of stooping and rein-wrestling later.
In a low voice Arauntar told them both, “Yer short answer: Triel's ruled by a madman, Elvar the Grainlord. He's so afraid outlanders'll try to steal food from him – he who's no slouch at thieving himself – that he won't let any of us stay a night inside his walls."
Narm looked at the decaying but still formidable stockade, and muttered, "Is he one of those gigantic waddling gluttons?"
Arauntar grinned. "Ah, I see you've tasted the world a trifle already, young Lord o' Spells. No, he's just mad, that's all. He tasted a hard winter a score o' years back and has feared running out of food ever since. So inside you'll see dirt streets, little rickety shops an' taverns.. – and looming over 'em all, granary after granary, packed to the rafters. Folk in Triel go about with long jab-forks, to slay rats on sight, an' everyone has to keep traps an' patrol 'em proper, so no dead rat rots. They get pickled, see, in case there's need to eat them."
Shandril gagged, and Arauntar grinned happily. "Oh, an' he's mad another way, too: about the gods."
Narm, still slightly green from a vivid vision of curled-up rat claws sticking up by the dozens out of an open cask of pickling-wine, asked reluctantly,
"Mad about the gods how?"
"Every four mornings or so – or swifter by now, I've not been in to see, yet – Elvar awakens after new dream-visions, and announces he now serves a new god. Not that he creates 'em, see – just not the god he went to sleep praying to. He's been around 'em all dozens of times by now, an' keeps his guards, poor dogs, busy rooting out regalia and holy symbols they hid away from the last time around for this or that Divine One."
"Anything else?" Shandril asked, a little faintly.
"Enough, be it not? That's why nary a caravan goes anywhere but around Triel or camps outside, here or over yon."
"What's that other road?" Narm asked, pointing.
"The Dusk Road, from Elturel. It joins the Trade Way at Triel midmoot, inside. That roof atop the knoll hard by is Duskview House – an inn outside the walls, for the likes o' you and me – or rather, for the likes of travelers who dare to stay there."
Shandril raised an eyebrow. "Particularly dangerous?"
"For the lady who hurls spellfire, every place we'll see is 'particularly dangerous,' but no, 'tis just too pricey for Master Voldovan's tastes. 'Tis a highcoin house, newly built an' all, sitting all serene on its height looking down the Dusk Road. It caters to the safety of the lone traveler, and charges accordingly."
"So why do I see Voldovan on his way there?"
Shandril asked quietly.
"He has to look for replacement guards somewhere,"
Arauntar said heavily, "or we'll none of us live to see Waterdeep."
"Can we go inside by daylight?" Narm asked, squinting at the sky to judge how much day was left.
"I might lead an armed band inside to buy us food, later – a barrel of rats or two, whatever they'll sell,"
Arauntar growled amiably, "but you won't be along with me, nor any of these fat wagon-merchants."
Shandril raised the other