Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [28]
Hlael worked his spell again, and the whirling smoke promptly rolled up the wall that he was facing, scattered wild twinklings and swirlings of all hues of light, and twisted into a dark,– moonlit sight of booted feet lit at ankle height by shuttered lanterns. The lanterns were set in a ring on weedchoked, now trampled ground, and the unmistakable sound of picks and shovels striking buried stones rang out repeatedly.
"Quietly, blades, quietly! You want an admiring audience?"
"The sentinels will signal if anyone draws close enough to hear," someone replied disgustedly. "If your shovelwork is so much quieter, you're welcome to wield this shovel."
"We'll need those stones piled, after, to keep the wolves from digging him up. Pluck them aside," a low voice growled.
"Wolves? What's to keep curious villagers from having a look? Lads at play, and suchlike?"
"Old Meg's ghost, and fear of the wild things of the Stonelands – Zhent wizards, and the like."
Korthauvar and Hlael exchanged unlovely grins.
"Old Meg?"
"A local witch, or so folk hereabouts think. Her hut was about four strides that way, and in Eveningstar they'll swear to you that the whole gorge is haunted, this spot right here worst of all!"
"Don't start," another of the Highknights said disgustedly, dumping another shovel-load of dirt beside his lantern. Next to that light sat a small brazier, also hooded, where a fitful fire licked up from charcoal. "You can tell us all what horrible things she'll do to us when we're done and emptying flasks back at the Lady's Tower."
"I know why the King comes up here," a new voice said, from the other side of the deepening grave, and waited for the various grunts and chuckles to rise and then die away again, "but why now? He was ah, entertaining those four sisters from Tantras not two nights ago and seemed quite taken with them, too – and they with him. Why this sudden run right the way up the kingdom into the cold shadow of the Stonelands, to Tessaril's arms? Is she that good?"
There were just a few chuckles this time and one firm whisper: "Yes."
"No, Regrar, this can't be just the King in rut! He was frowning and tossing back his head the way he does when there's something troublesome on his mind, all the way up here. If I'm ever to do a decent job of guarding the Dragon, I have to know a lot more than I do now. Is this usual? Does he drop everything and come riding up here often?"
"Often enough, lad, often enough – and Daervin here isn't the first of us to be buried in this gorge, either – though there's never been any hint of shapeshifters before! Yet you've seen things clear enough. Azoun comes to Tessaril often, not just for her arms and her bed but as we do when we seek out old friends, men we trust, to rest easy and talk over our cares and the ongoing ruin of Faerun, and put our feet up. This ride, now, was a little different; something was eating at him. Forold?"
The low voice spoke again. "I spoke with Delmar, one of our eyes here. Vangerdahast came to Eveningstar and met with Tessaril. All manner of striding monsters and strange apparitions were seen around Eveningstar in the hours following his arrival – and they were hunted down by the Royal Magician when he came out of the Lady's Tower again, and blasted to dust and smoke."
"Old Vangey didn't look any too happy, if y'ask me," another Highknight muttered.
Forold growled a wordless agreement and asked,
"Isn't it deep enough yet? We're not digging a well, you know – and Daervin's