Swords of Eveningstar
Page 1
The Knights of Myth Drannor, Book I
SWORDS OF EVENINGSTAR
©2006 Wizards of the Coast LLC
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC.
F ORGOTTEN REALMS, Wizards of the Coast, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries. Hasbro SA, Represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.
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Cover art by: Matt Stewart
Map by: Todd Gamble
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6171-9
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v3.1
Shandril’s Saga
Spellfire
Crown of Fire
Hand of Fire
The Shadow of the Avatar Trilogy
Shadows of Doom
Cloak of Shadows
All Shadows Fled
The Elminster Series
Elminster: The Making of a Mage
Elminster in Myth Drannor
The Temptation of Elminster
Elminster in Hell
Elminster’s Daughter
The Cormyr Saga
Cormyr: A Novel (with Jeff Grubb)
Death of the Dragon (with Troy Denning)
The Knights of Myth Drannor
Swords of Eveningstar
Swords of Dragonfire
Stormlight
Silverfall: Stories of the Seven Sisters
The City of Splendors: A Waterdeep Novel
(with Elaine Cunningham)
The Best of the Realms, Book II
The Stories of Ed Greenwood
Edited by Susan J. Morris
Caveat lector. Non solum fumo speculisque, sed etiam tintinnabulis fistulisque factum est.
This one’s for Andrew, Victor, John, Ian, Anita, Jim, Cathy, Jenny, and all who’ve brought the Knights to life over the years. May you always ride in glory.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Other Books by This Author
Dedication
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1: Wearing Rabbit Stew
Chapter 2: A Hunger for Adventure
Chapter 3: A Foray in the Forest
Chapter 4: In Forest Deep, a Lady Fair
Chapter 5: Laws, Schemes, and Dooms
Chapter 6: Deceptions Within Deceptions
Chapter 7: To Love Cormyr
Chapter 8: Blood and Glory
Chapter 9: Adventurers Avaunt!
Chapter 10: New Blood for the Old Game
Chapter 11: An Evening Star in Haunted Dreams
Chapter 12: Trouble Travels North
Chapter 13: In Halls Dark and Haunted
Chapter 14: Dark Days for the Realm
Chapter 15: Death Always So Close to Us
Chapter 16: Some Abrupt Arrivals, Some Sudden Departures
Chapter 17: Whisperings and Ponderings
Chapter 18: Just Another Night in Arabel
Chapter 19: Darksome Cesspits, and More
Chapter 20: Their Fangs Want Blood
Chapter 21: Things Change
Chapter 22: And I Am Sent to Take Thee
Chapter 23: Swords-Out and Shouting
Chapter 24: Fell Wizards and Angry Dragons
Chapter 25: The Storm Breaks
Chapter 26: True Treasure
Chapter 27: Titles, Riches, and High Regard
Epilogue
Now in the time of which I have the honor to write, the fair realm of Cormyr was suffering from a dearth of adventurers, which is to say: an uncustomary shortage of fools …
Ragefast, Sage of Baldur’s Gate
Gloryswords: An Informal And
Incomplete Overview of Adventuring
Bands in the Year of the Spur
published in the Year of the Gauntlet
Prologue
Delyn Laquilavvar laughed in farewell and let the mists claim him. Then he was falling, a brief and silent plunge toward an elusive brightness beyond the swirling blue endlessness …
His boot came down on soft moss, the great dark trees familiar and friendly around him. Sunfall soon; the shadows were already long as he crossed his glade. The unseen wards stirred at his approach, and amid their gentle caresses Delyn of the Seven Spells chuckled softly, remembering the merry jests Fluevrele and the others had just flung.
Most elf mages—if they disliked bullying apprentices or taking awed and fearful lovers—walked alone, and grew as wary as the ancient Horned Ones of the forests. He was fortunate to have such friends, and so escape tha—
His wards hummed serene and unbroken, nothing amiss. Nor had the ancient way he’d just taken, to cross half of Faerûn with a single step, been a whit different.
So why now, with his wards singing all around him, was something coiling—nay, uncoiling—sickeningly, deep inside him.
“What—?”
He’d time for no more than that before something gnawing, strange, and impossibly large surged up into his throat, chokingly …
Delyn reeled, clawing vainly at the empty air. His tree-cats, who’d been mincing unconcernedly to join him, now shrank back, arching and hissing.
Whatdoomcanthisbe? Wherewhatracingoutofmyownmindto—to—
The elf swayed, face as white as winter moonlight, towering over Myrithla, eldest and longest of his furred companions, who watched in grim fear as her master’s eyes went as dark and empty as the sockets of a skull. Even before they shriveled, she could see that he was no longer there behind them.
No one was.
Whatever had been Delyn Laquilavvar had been snatched—or drained—away, leaving behind a suddenly spasming, trembling body that flung wide its arms, dropped its jaw slack to drool a foamy river, and … started to flare at its fingertips.
Flare as in flames, licking and rising, as swiftly as if the elf were dry deadwood and not living flesh.
Myrithla hated fire, and sprang back, spitting in fear. The other rethren were already fleeing behind her, mewing their terror in loud unison.
Their cries were abruptly drowned out by a loud wail, a shriek that burst not from the elf mage’s mouth but from his every orifice, air and juices boiling forth together as the flames built into their own roar.
Myrithla flung herself back, heedless of rough landing.
Her master was a column of flame, already shedding ashes, the air thick with the stink of scorched meat …
And like all rethren, Myrithla hated her meat cooked.
The scrying orb glowed brightly, lighting up a soft smile.
The column of flames in its depths was already beginning to shrink and flicker, the evening gloom of that distant deep-forest glade returning around its fading brilliance.
“Perfect,” said the owner of that smile, in a voice soft with satisfaction. “And such spells, Laquilavvar! This one should give me just the key I need to open Dathnyar’s wards. Thank you.”
Chapter 1
WEARING RABBIT STEW
Great things befall when one is brave enough to do something bold, strange, and unusual. Something off one’s daily trail, apart from one’s chosen character and station and presented-to-the-world mask. Great things—or terrible. Or merely pratfalls and troublesome chaos in their wake.
All of which proves one thing beyond all doubt: Whatever gods watch over us, they’re starved for amusement, and richly reward those who entertain them.
Ulvryn Hamdarakh, Sage of Saelmur
Musings On Mortality
published in the Year of the Dying Stars
It had been a bright and glorious day of listening to the new leaves rustle around her every time the gentle breeze set them to fluttering.
Yet the late Tarsakh sun stabbed through them, eager and hot. The Purple Dragon was glad to doff her helm and step into the roadside shade when the gruff old lionar led a dozen fresh blades to her post and told her she was done until next sunrise.
Though the bustle of Waymoot was just around the bend behind her, she went the other way, striding straight to the smells that had been tantalizing her.
The farmwife who’d been selling apples and fresh bread whisked aside the fly blankets from their baskets at her approach, her smile widening.
“Tummy trumpeting?”
“And how,” the warrior replied, fumbling for her purse. “Gods, I feel I could eat—eat—”
She stared past the end of the farmwife’s cart at something in the trees beyond, her jaw dropping open and her words trailing away forgotten.
The farmwife peered—and grinned. “Him? Aye, I think half the folk hereabouts could, given the chance. The female half.”
The Purple Dragon swallowed. “Who is he?”
They stood elbow to elbow, watching a tall, broad-shouldered man coming out of the trees as quietly as a passing breeze. His stride was long and liquid, his square-jawed face as handsome as—
“King Azoun,” the warrior whispered. “He carries himself like a king.”
The apparition’s level blue-gray eyes had noted the two women several soft strides ago, but flicked a glance at them again now. Their owner added a firm smile and a nod—and then was across the road and into the trees on its far side, his dusty brown leathers vanishing among them in a few strides.
The farmwife chuckled. “Nay, he’s not one of the king’s brood. Or so his parents claim. Prentice to the armorer Hawkstone these last few seasons, but seeking the king’s coin as a forester now, I hear. ‘The Silent,’ they call him hereabouts. You can see why.”
The Purple Dragon licked her lips, cleared her throat, and blinked as if banishing daydreams. “Now that,” she said almost regretfully, “was what a man should look like.”
The farmwife turned to her. “The Rebel Prince. Chapter Three. Boldgrim the Outlaw!”
The warrior nodded eagerly. “You read Goldghallow too?”
The farmwife beamed. “Aye, I’ve every one of his at home—including the ah, Blackcovers edition of The Nymph Said No.”
The Purple Dragon’s jaw dropped open again. This time, one of the flies that had been buzzing around the food took a chance and flew into her mouth.
When she was done choking, the farmwife flung an arm around her and said, “Eat what you want for free, dear—and take latestew with me this night. Rhabran’s gone to market these two nights, now, and we can talk all we want. After you read the naughty bits.”
The shadows in the sun-dappled shade were deepening; sunset wasn’t far off. Florin moved quickly, gliding through ferns like a ghost. Queen of the Forest, but he loved these walks. The deep green shadows, the magnificent trees, gnarled and vast and patient, sentinels that had seen dozens of passing kings of Cormyr, and stags beyond number …
He was of the forest, he felt at peace here. This was where he belonged.
And yet as spring quickened toward summer in this Year of the Spur, there was a restlessness rising in Florin Falconhand.
Not the weariness of hot metal and forge-crash and ringing, numbing hammerwork that had driven him here from Hawkstone’s service, despite his passable skills, but … something else. Something that was riding him as eagerly as his fellow youngbloods of Espar were riding their lasses this spring, despite the peace of the forest. He gave the trees around him a smile. He didn’t want anything more than this.
But somehow, he needed something more than this.
Soft-footed and sure, Florin strode on, along a ridge that would bring him back to the king’s road again.
Unthinkingly, as he threaded his way around rocks upon rocks, he set enjoyment of the forest aside to wonder rather irritably what it was, this mysterious ‘something’ he yearned for … and abruptly became aware that a new sound had joined the whirring wings and chirping calls of the berrybirds all around.
A distant, faint, confused sound that didn’t belong here, in the deep stillness of the forest.
A few long strides took him close enough to know that it was a human voice—a high, furious woman’s voice, with the shrill, thin fluting accents of highnose Suzail. Someone rich, then, or even noble, but cursing like … like …
Well, like no one Florin had ever heard before. He was used to the snarled “tluin, sabruin, and hrast” of the exasperated, and everyone said “naeth” in surprise or dismay, but this …
This was something new.
Florin headed toward the voice as swiftly as he could soft-stride, leaves dancing in his wake. It was rising into a screech, like the cooks did at Tlarnuth’s in Espar, savaging each other after emptying too many tankards, unfamiliar words coming out in a fluid rush, and … yes, there, again: being answered by a deeper voice that spoke but little.
Florin ducked under a long-fallen tree cloaked in moss, slithered down a muddy bank beyond, and was close enough to hear properly at last.
“Lady, I—” It was a man’s voice, low, gravel-rough, and to Florin’s ear somehow familiar.
“ ‘Lady’ nothing, sirrah! ‘Oh, pretty lady,’ you mouth, but your words are empty, empty—and your head emptier still! Deeds, not words, knave! Deeds! Treat me as a lady and I am one—but insist I am one yet treat me as any common trull, some prettily dressed slave of yours, and you make me that!”
“Lady,” the man said heavily, “I have my orders. They’re quite clear and em—”
“Hah! What care I for your orders, sirrah? You say I am a lady, and so I am—and that means I give orders, and you obey! O, watching gods above, why must I be saddled with such a hog-faced, slop-guzzling idiot dog of a miscreant?”
Florin winced, embarrassed by this venom almost into retreating back into the trees, yet fascinated.
The angry lady whooped for breath and went on. “Brutish in words and deeds and at your trencher, before all the gods! You call this food? Fare fit for dogs, aye, and for any passing hog, but not for a lady of the realm!”
The next word was a screech of pure rage, as if words had failed she who insisted so strongly on being a lady, and left her clawing the air in search of what next to say.
She found something.
“Villainous traitor! Seek to poison a Crownsilver? Sirrah, royal blood runs in my veins—I am Cormyr! When you seek to harm me, you harm all Cormyr! The next Purple Dragon I see, I’ll inform of your treachery, and have you put to the sword! Keep me captive, drag me into this horrible wilderness, feed me chopped and stirred offal—why, I’ll see you dead for it! Yet—yet—you’ll suffer first!”
There followed a violent wet sound akin to a wet fish being slapped on a riverside rock, a short, choked-off male growl of anger, and the furious feminine voice rose again, a little farther off.
“Whoreson! Rogue! You’ll die begging for my forgiveness—and I’ll not give it, and stand smiling as they lop off
your head!”
“Lady—”
Florin had heard that tone of exasperated protest before, and knew who the man was, now: Delbossan! Horsemaster to Hezom, Lord of Espar, a man he’d known all his life. But who was this spitfire of the loud and murderous rage? Hezom had no daughter, to curse a man in the for—
“Oh, yes, Master Delbossan, you’ll die for this! I will have it so!”
With a final shriek of outraged dismissal, the harridan—by the Dragon, the Lady Harridan!—fell silent.
A smirking Florin ducked around the last few trees, crouching low to avoid thorncanes, and peered out onto a pleasant view of one of the old woodcutters’ glades beside the king’s road, long ago gone to grass and much used for camping.
Its well-trodden grass was dominated by a grand pavilion tent of flame-orange hue that had been pitched at the far end of the glade. Several horses had been hobbled at the near end, and a dainty coach sat in its trail between, with two of Hezom’s guardsmen wincing and grinning in its lee, not yet daring to peer around the conveyance at what sat glumly beyond.
Not far in front of the pavilion a tiny fire flickered on scorched stones, and sitting on a log before it was Irlgar Delbossan, wearing the remains of a—yes, a large bowl’s worth of stew that had been dumped all over his head.
Florin slipped out of the trees so swiftly and quietly that he was halfway across the glade before the two guards saw him. They came around the coach in a hasty scramble, swords singing out—but Delbossan looked up, gave Florin a hard stare that turned into a sour smile of recognition, and waved the men back whence they’d come.
Flies were already buzzing around the horsemaster. There was—Florin sniffed appreciatively—rabbit stew, still steaming and thick with toasted bread-ends and a thick herbed gravy, all over Delbossan’s shoulders and lap, and piled high on his head.
Some of it fell from brow to lap with a slow, inexorable plop as Florin came to a halt, trying very hard not to chuckle.
“New way of banishing baldpate, Del?” He couldn’t quite keep a smile off his face.