Swords of Dragonfire tkomd-2

by Ed Greenwood

  She turned to the queen and added, “Learning something of her… activities, I relieved her of this ring”-Dove turned back to Laspeera, and handed her a ring that certainly hadn’t been in her fingers a moment earlier-“that this night took her to Arabel before she dropped in on us, and then I brought her home to you.”

  She spun around again to face Filfaeril, and murmured, “Fee, you must promise me you won’t cage your younger daughter-or let your war wizards do so. They’ll only make matters worse if they try. Instead they’re going to have to shadow her — unseen by her-as she spreads her wings into womanhood. Ready to rush in and rescue her if needful, of course, but taking care not to rush in too soon, and in doing so rob her of making her own mistakes and darings.”

  The Dragon Queen lifted her chin. “You certainly have my promise on that, Dove. Yet you speak as if you suspect otherwise. What dark things did you learn from my Alusair’s mind?”

  “That she feels caged right now. She bitterly hates being shut into the Palace and hounded by ever-watchful servants and courtiers and war wizards. She hungers for adventure-so strongly that just going into a tavern alone, to eat stew and some buns, delights her as adventure.”

  Laspeera sighed. “I know you’re right, Dove. I’ve been watching her. Yet eating in a tavern isn’t all she did, is it?”

  “No,” Dove said, putting a comforting arm around the Dragon Queen before she added, “She went for a walk along an alley or two, and met some drunks and a Zhentarim.”

  Filfaeril started to shake, silently, and Dove spun her gently around into a full embrace, folding her arms around the queen. For all her iron will and sharp tongue, Fee had never gotten over the murder of her infant son Foril, and what this particular Chosen of Mystra was going to have to say to her next certainly wasn’t going to help her do so.

  “A Zhentarim,” Dove repeated softly. “Not a wizard, but a spy with a knife. The Princess Alusair came very close to being slain, as unpleasantly as possible-and knows it, thank the gods. Her life was saved by a young man known to you, the chartered adventurer Florin Falconhand.”

  She felt Filfaeril stiffen, and saw Laspeera stiffen too.

  “He took the knife-thrust meant for her,” she added, “on a rooftop, in the rain, though he knew not who she was until after. Or so, at least, she believes and remembers it.”

  Queen Filfaeril tugged free of Dove’s embrace, and turned to look at her almost helplessly, and then at Laspeera. Tears streamed down her face as she murmured, “And I sent him away-I sent them all away. To the Nine Hells with Khelben’s schemes, and Vangerdahast’s too! Can’t we call them back?”

  Far indeed from the castle in Cormyr where a queen known to the citizenry of Suzail for her icy manner sobbed helplessly, a man who was no longer a man pondered life as it now was.

  Horaundoon might have lacked a body of his own, but he had all the bodies of living folk of Faerun to choose from. King or commoner, mighty-thewed bodyguard or curvaceous veiled dancer, human or snake-man or tentacled, slithering thing-he could “ride” them all.

  No longer a cringing, middling mage of the Zhentarim, he could now wield the Brotherhood like a weapon, manipulating it or possessing those who gave orders within its ranks… or he could destroy it, butchering his way through those same ranks until none remained to menace the Realms.

  Yet increasingly he found such struggles and schemes beneath him, or no longer mattering all that much. Being a wraithlike spirit was changing him, and the changes excited him, scared him, and thrust him ever onward into… an unknown life.

  He still often plunged murderously into people, burning them out from within in the space of a few breaths as he drank their life-energies. Sometimes he did so just to lash out, dealing death as much out of furious frustration as out of his need for life-force to empower him.

  Yet Horaundoon was learning to enjoy the rides, and to cherish his steeds as well as destroying them.

  Just now, he was riding a hapless wealthy merchant of Amn, one Unstraburl Hordree.

  Cloak swirling out behind him, Hordree was striding home through the glittering streets of Athkatla, rubbing his hands in satisfaction. His trotting bodyguards formed a grim ring all around him as he hastened along, teeth bared in a wider sharklike smile than was usual.

  Horaundoon was broadening that smile with his own pleasure, having just ridden voyeur on Hordree’s lovemaking, at his secret loveden of enslaved-with-drugs mistresses.

  Hordree was the third man Horaundoon had ridden for days on end without harming him all that much. He was learning.

  Mastering his rage at what had been stolen from him, and learning to control humans rather than just drain them. Growing comfortable with being a wraithlike spirit, and starting to see the possibilities of his new existence.

  Mindworms and stolen elven spells were behind him.

  Nobles, adventurers, and royalty in Cormyr were just playthings, and he was past all that now.

  No fearful, skulking retirement in hiding awaited him. No hargaunt and no fear of being hunted at Manshoon’s orders.

  Why, if he went about things deftly and patiently, he could well slay all of his former rivals in the Zhentarim, by drinking their very lives. Lathalance and Sarhthor, Eirhaun Sooundaeril… and Manshoon himself.

  Yes.

  After all these years, if he kept well hidden-and who would be looking for “dead by his own hand” Horaundoon? — he could finally dare to strike at Manshoon.

  Destroying Manshoon… now that would be true power.

  “Well met, Dragon,” Dove said, as King Azoun strode back into the room. “You’ve been told all?”

  Azoun nodded. “I have, and I thank you. We still have two daughters this night because of you.”

  “Because of Florin Falconhand,” Dove corrected him. She looked at Queen Filfaeril. “I must leave you now, I’m afraid. Other business”-one of her fingers brushed her harp-shaped belt buckle for an instant, a momentary gesture unseen by Laspeera or Margaster through the intervening royal bodies-“presses me sorely. So you must guard your own princesses.”

  Azoun gave her another grim nod. As he stepped forward to clasp her hand, he asked, “Margaster?”

  The old war wizard bowed. “My king?”

  Azoun waved at the sleeping Alusair. “The Dragondown Chambers?”

  The war wizard nodded.

  “Both Tana and Luse,” Azoun added. “Stay with them as much as you can. And you can put my lasses into spell-sleep for a year if you deem it needful-just don’t let them run off!”

  The war wizard bowed again, looking grave.

  Though it was dark enough in the shadow of the Hullack Forest to foil the eyes of most humans, it seemed that there were more trees around Lord Prester Yellander’s hunting lodge this night than usual-and that some of those trees were moving.

  A patient eye would have eventually identified those extra dark trunks as the torsos of bodyguards. Many, many bodyguards, standing staring out into the night and listening intently for sounds of anyone approaching.

  Those veteran swordjacks could hear nothing from inside the thick log walls of the hunting lodge, despite the relative quiet of small night sounds in the forest and their own breathing, because the three men inside all wore multiple magecloak magics on their persons. Enough to foil even the most intent war wizard scrying.

  Which was a good thing, because every word of their converse was dark treason.

  Chapter 7

  HIDDEN DRAGONFIRE

  So much magic lies hidden in Cormyr

  That I scarce know where to begin.

  Darlock’s six tasked spirits

  The Crown of the Slayer

  The Hunting Blade

  The Door Into Nowhere

  The wandering cloaks of wyvernshape

  And dead Emmaera Dragonfire

  Who left so many silent flying swords

  To guard her enchanted bones

  And I’ve but begun the list.

  There ar
e all the tombs of the nobles, yet.

  Sebren Korthyn, Sage of Elturel, The Realm of the Dragon: Cormyr In The Time of Vangerdahast, Volume 1 published in the Year of the Bright Blade

  The table between the three lords was small. If it hadn’t been for the metal goblets between them, their knuckles could easily have touched.

  Lord Maniol Crownsilver stared across that small distance at Yellander and Eldroon, and said quietly, “I believe all Cormyr knows my very good reason for hating the Knights of Myth Drannor and wanting to see them meet swift and brutal dooms. Lords, may I know yours?”

  The two lords across the table exchanged glances, Yellander gave the briefest of nods, and Lord Blundebel Eldroon leaned forward to explain calmly, “We’re furious at the Knights for shattering a means of income that brought us each more than a thousand-thousand golden lions a year.”

  Crownsilver blinked. “Might, ah, I know how any noble of Cormyr manages to make such sums without all the realm knowing about it?”

  “Smuggling,” Eldroon said simply. “Scarce or banned goods that command high coin, and upon which we pay not a copper thumb in taxes. The scarce wares include certain wines and scents much sought-after by many nobly born-and even more avidly by the wealthiest merchants of Suzail; those desperate to show the kingdom that they’re either worthy of ennoblement, or are wealthy and powerful enough that they can have what we nobles have.”

  “And the banned goods?”

  “Poisons and certain drugs prohibited under Crown law. Thaelur, laskran, blackmask, behelshrabba-that sort of thing.”

  “I have heard of thaelur, and that it has something to do with pleasure,” Lord Crownsilver said slowly, lifting his eyebrows in a clear request for information.

  “Thaelur comes from the beast-cities of the South,” Eldroon obliged. “It gives a sensation of intense bodily pleasure, and short-lived freedom from pains in the joints, but each dose does damage. Frequent users lose years off their lives. Hence its illicit status.”

  “We concern ourselves not with the uses to which others put goods, but merely with the business of moving such goods around,” Lord Yellander put in. “Untaxed and expensive goods in, and certain shipments out-which is to say shipping done for those who pay us highly enough.”

  Crownsilver frowned. “Slavers?”

  “Nothing so crass, man.” Eldroon’s drawl held irritation. “Dealers in pickled cadavers and body parts, thieves who want jewels they’ve stolen from nobles out of the realm in a hurry, that sort of thing.”

  “The Knights fought from end to end of our warehouse in Arabel. What with all the Zhentarim, war wizard, and Purple Dragon scrutiny since, our business-which flowed through that building-is in shambles.”

  Crownsilver frowned. “Can you not use another warehouse? It’s not as though you haven’t coins enough to buy dozens of them!”

  “Coins don’t move a portal elves created long before there was a Cormyr,” Eldroon grunted, “and it’s that portal in that warehouse-with its other end on the far side of yon mountains-our wares move through.”

  “By the way,” Yellander purred pleasantly, lifting a fluted decanter to refill all three goblets, “speak of this to anyone, Maniol, and you’ll die.” He took up his own full goblet, sipped appreciatively, and added matter-of-factly, “ Very slowly, and screaming in agony. We have the poisons to make very sure of that.”

  Crownsilver stared into Yellander’s gentle smile, then took up his goblet and sipped as his host had done-and doubled over in sudden sharp agony, as something caught fire in his throat and gut.

  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t…

  The world spun, he slid helplessly out of his chair, everything going oddly green-and Maniol Crownsilver found himself on the floor, writhing and gasping, staring up helplessly into Yellander’s tight smile and cold, cold eyes.

  His host unhurriedly produced another goblet and poured some of its contents into Crownsilver’s mouth-a flood that brought cool relief, coursing through him in a racing flow that banished his pain as if it had never been.

  “Always keep antidotes handy,” Yellander said brightly, reaching down a hand to help Crownsilver to his feet. “Sound policy for every poisoner.”

  Settling thankfully back into his seat, Maniol Crownsilver shook his head in disgust. “That demonstration was not necessary.”

  He waved his hand as if to banish all memory of what had just occurred, and said, “What I don’t understand is why you two don’t own all Cormyr-Obarskyrs, war wizards, Purple Dragons, stinking Marsember and all-already! You could have been sending long caravans of loaded trade-wagons, or mounted, weapon-gleaming armies, through that portal!”

  Eldroon shook his head. “Listen not to minstrels’ tales. Portals will never replace caravans for overland trade. Even if the way you’re using is free of some fell and ancient evil watching over it in the belief that all who use it are their rightful meals, the ways themselves occasionally ‘drink’ or melt away things taken through them.”

  “ ‘Things’?”

  “Coins, swords, trade goods. Anything you’re wearing or carrying.”

  “Which is why,” Yellander put in smoothly, “you can step through a portal in your best armor, waving your sword-and arrive at the other end naked, with your sword hand empty.” He sipped from his goblet. “Something of a crestfallen disaster for your mounted, weapon-gleaming armies.”

  “So our trade has been well and truly disrupted,” Lord Eldroon concluded. “Wherefore we want the Knights of Myth Drannor and particular war wizards and Zhentarim dead, and their corpses missing or reduced to scattered dust-so not even beyond death will they be able to tell anyone about certain things they may have seen in our warehouse.”

  “Which, by the way,” Yellander added, “also contains many legitimate wares, stored for other traders.”

  Eldroon nodded. “We only need six-and-twenty or so slain, but they must be the right six-and-twenty.”

  Crownsilver frowned. “Adventurers, war wizards, Zhents-so you’re going to start a war in the streets of Arabel? How, exactly, without dragging every war wizard in all the realm-and half the Purple Dragons too-down on our heads like so many hungry war-dogs?”

  “No,” Yellander snapped, “not Arabel. We’re not dolts, man.”

  “Halfhap,” said Eldroon.

  “ Halfhap? ”

  “Walled town, well on the way to Tilver’s Gap, going eas-”

  “Yes, yes, I know it. Why Halfhap?”

  “It has a lure we can use. With your help.”

  “All right,” Lord Crownsilver said warily, “suppose you tell me first how my help is a key to this cunning scheme. Then you can tell me the cunning part, and all about this lure.”

  Yellander smiled thinly. “Well said, Maniol. Here ‘tis then, bluntly: you’re being watched.”

  “By?”

  “The war wizards, who else? They’re very interested in you right now, expecting you to either take your own life or more likely work treason in a rage against your recent losses. So, upon our signal, you will bait our hook by hiring a few bullyblades and gathering your most able servants for a little run to Halfhap-telling said servants why of course, so they can tonguewag it all over Suzail-to find and seize Emmaera Dragonfire’s magic for your own.”

  “Ah. That’s your lure.”

  “Indeed. The persistent local legend of the hidden, never-yet-found magic of Emmaera Dragonfire. More properly Emmaera Skulthand, but minstrels prefer her nickname, of course. Long dead, cloaked in many wild bards’ tales-just the sort of thing adventurers, Zhents, and our ever-meddling war wizards all find irresistible.”

  “So given that very irresistibility, why hasn’t someone plundered Emmaera’s magic long since?”

  Yellander shrugged. “Perhaps they have. It certainly isn’t in Halfhap, so far as we can tell.”

  “And given that the war wizards undoubtedly know that too, how exactly do you expect the lure to work?”

  Lord Eldroon
smiled. “You cover ground the two of us have argued over a time or two before. Let us share our conclusions with you.”

  “Please do.”

  “Well, if we make sure the Knights of Myth Drannor and particular Zhents-and, once our favorite adventurers have reached the Oldcoats Inn in Halfhap, certain war wizards too-overhear news that the dead woman’s long-lost spellbooks, wands, and all have been discovered behind a false wall in the deepest cellar of the inn, but that no one dares approach them because a ring of floating, magically animated swords guards them-”

  “Swords that blaze with all-consuming dragonfire,” Yellander murmured.

  “Guardian swords that blaze with all-consuming dragonfire,” Eldroon agreed. “The Knights and the war wizards are sure to race to claim such a prize. As the rumors we spread and the hook-baiting your hurried preparations and travel serve to make that ‘sure’ even more certain.”

  Crownsilver nodded. His face seemed to be getting used to wearing a slight frown. “And how will that help you? Once they discover there’s nothing there, won’t they all just leave again?”

  “Ah, but there isn’t nothing there. There’s a spell Dragonfire cast, an illusion of her spellbooks, wands, and baubles. The war wizards have searched that old decaying barn of an inn dozens of times, and banished her spell, too, but it keeps returning. It was her lure-and one of the reasons we bought the inn some years back.”

  “Her lure, you say? So where is her magic, really?”

  “No one knows, and we’ve never wanted to waste coin, time, and lives finding out. The inn cellars serve us as way-storage, and the new keeper serves us, sending us coin that the rooms above bring-the rooms that aren’t full of our bullyblades.”