Swords of Dragonfire tkomd-2

by Ed Greenwood

“And stole your keys, by the look of it,” Myrmeen added, looking pointedly at his belt.

  “And stole my keys,” Dauntless agreed. “I take it worse matters have arisen whilst I was inspecting an empty cell?”

  “You take it correctly. I understand you were earlier this night given the responsibility of escorting the adventurers known as the Knights of Myth Drannor out of the city?”

  Dauntless managed-just-not to sigh. “They were attacked by some Zhentilar at the stables used by the war wizards, and upon hearing reports of the butchery, I gathered some Dragons from the barracks and made haste to arrest them. Laspeera appeared, rode with us, and commanded me not to detain them, but rather to assist her in conducting them out of the gates. I obeyed, and they were off up the Mountain Ride by the time the rainclouds fled and the moon came out. Whereupon Wizard of War Laspeera took herself-I presume-out of Arabel by magic, without a word of farewell.”

  “I see. Constal Raskarel, explain to the ornrion here what befell Lord Ebonhawk this night.”

  One of the officers stepped forward, fixed Dauntless with a frosty look, and announced flatly, “The younger Lord Ebonhawk-Lord Duskur Ebonhawk-had much to drink this night, and so was out late, unsteady on his feet, but within a walking ring of bodyguards who had imbibed nothing. They were traversing an alley hard by the stables as the fray you referred to was abating, and one of these Knights of Myth Drannor-a woman who goes by the name of ‘Pennae,’ we believe, and who steals for a living-encountered the young lord, cut away his purse, sprang up onto a nearby balcony, and thence climbed a drainpipe to the roofs, and got away.”

  Dauntless nodded, completely unsurprised. “That wench,” he said, “is so low she could put on a tall helm and stroll right under a slithering viper!”

  “And so?” another officer-an oversword-snapped.

  “And so… what?” Dauntless asked. “An interesting tale, but the miscreant is now out of my jurisdiction, transported thus under Crown orders, and-”

  “And so,” Myrmeen said gently, “I find myself needing to return this miscreant to the jurisdiction of my most capable ornrion, who stands most experienced in dealings with these particular adventurers. I’m temporarily relieving you of your engaging duties here, Dauntless, and ordering you to ride after the Knights of Myth Drannor, with however many Dragons you feel you’ll need, and recover all that this Pennae stole from young Lord Duskur Ebonhawk.”

  “But-”

  “These orders are effective right now, Ornrion Dahauntul!”

  “Uh-yes, Lady Lord Lhal. I go.” Swallowing his curses, Dauntless turned and headed for the garrison stables, snapping the names of five Dragons he wanted riding with him over his shoulder.

  “What,” Myrmeen Lhal asked mildly, “not the princess?”

  It was a chill morning of drifting mists as the two shivering guards pushed open the creaking western gates of Halfhap.

  Old Pheldarr stared out and down the empty road as far as the curling mists allowed-the length of a good bowshot, no more-spat thoughtfully onto the cobbles between his worn and split boots, and announced, “First watch is yours, Rorld. I’ll get the stew hot.”

  No sooner had he lumbered slowly into the gatehouse, still shivering, than a man in a splendid doublet, with breeches and boots to match, stepped out of a deep doorway across the street and strolled over to join Rorld-who had squared his shoulders and posed himself against the gatepost, spear placed in one rest and shield propped in another, so that from more than a few strides away it appeared as if he were wearing the one and holding the other at an unwavering angle. Then Rorld devoted himself to practicing his spitting.

  “Our deal stands?” the well-dressed man murmured, coming to a stop beside the gate-guard.

  “It does. When d’ye expect these adventurers, Velmorn?”

  “Right about now,” was the reply, accompanied by a lifted, pointing finger.

  Rorld peered into the mists, and beheld a weary line of riders, swaying in their saddles atop even wearier mounts. “Hunh. They’ll be going no farther soon.”

  “Indeed,” Velmorn agreed, stepping a careful pace farther out into the road. He stood watching the adventurers approach in gently smiling silence, until just the right moment. Whereupon he nodded greeting to Pennae and Florin and observed, “Long ride.”

  “Long enough,” Pennae agreed. “You look like a man paid to stand awaiting wayfarers and recommend an inn.”

  Velmorn grinned. “This being the flourishing many-spires realm-seat of Halfhap, you’d be right about all except the ‘paid’ part.”

  Pennae smiled. “Well?”

  “Well, you have the look of adventurers, and that means you’ll find a proper welcome only at one place inside our walls. The Oldcoats Inn. Turn right at the fork ahead, then left immediately, and when that road bends north again, it’s the black half-timbered building on your left, with the arched gate for its stableyard. It has a signboard. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks, friend,” Florin said appreciatively, as he passed. Velmorn and Rorld nodded pleasantly to them all: the thief and the ranger; the little lass-no, she was a little older than that, just small; the two priests; and the watchful warrior-woman bringing up the rear.

  “Lathander and Tymora,” Rorld commented on the priests’ holy symbols, as they watched the travelers turn right where the street forked. “Adventurers.”

  Velmorn nodded. “Adventurers.”

  The gate-guard casually held out his hand. “They’re the ones, hey?”

  “They’re the ones,” Velmorn replied, spilling a clinking stack of Lord Yellander’s gold coins into Rorld’s palm.

  The Purple Dragons who guarded the Royal Palace in Suzail were neither young nor inexperienced. They knew their duties very well-and when to call upon reinforcements.

  “Just here, sir,” the grizzled old first sword said with a puzzled frown, pointing at the floor. Something small, round, and blackened was lying right in the angle where the floor and two walls met, nigh a door. A ring. “You smell it too?”

  The lionar nodded and bent down to peer at the ring. He started to reach for it, and then caught sight of several human hairs standing straight out from the wall where they’d been spattered-and then partially melted-against it.

  By some sort of explosion.

  He carefully straightened up again without touching anything, and ordered, “Go get the War Wizard Laspeera. I’ll stay right here. Tell her, and anyone — anyone — who tries to stop you that nothing at all in the realm matters so much as her getting her here, right quick, to see this. If you can’t get her, get Vangerdahast.”

  “The-the Royal Magician?” The guard gulped visibly and then added, “ Yes, sir!” He flung open the door and raced away down the passage beyond, his speed surprising for his age.

  The lionar closed that door, drew his sword and his dagger, and placed himself carefully against the wall across from the ring.

  After a moment he stepped hastily away from the wall, whirled to stare at it suspiciously, and then slowly moved to the center of the passage, where he turned slowly all around, blades raised, looking for a foe.

  The Oldcoats Inn was a large, sagging place with a swaybacked roof. It was cloaked in black paint, broken briefly here and there by rows of small white-painted medallion ornaments, like lines of stars in a moonless midnight sky. The doors were black, the yard fence and arch were black, the porch pillars and floorboards were black-even the shakes on the roof were black.

  Yet stablelads trotted out to take their mounts cheerfully enough, and the innkeeper’s smile was affable, his welcome ringing true.

  “Ondal Maelrin, at your service whilst you’re under my roof here at Oldcoats,” he told them. “We’re an old house, but a good house.”

  His words fell into a soft, waiting silence: the stout tables and chairs of the dark common room were all empty, with not a living guest to be seen or heard. That seemed to bother Maelrin not a whit as he accepted a gold lion per Knight from Pe
nnae’s purse and carefully entered them in the ledger (“Knights of Myth Drannor, adventuring band, Royal Charter Cormyr: Florin Falconhand; Islif Lurelake; Jhessail Silvertree worker-of-Art; Pennae; Doust Sulwood anointed of Tymora; Semoor Wolftooth anointed of Lathander”).

  Four of the Knights peered around at the dim silence a little uncertainly; what afflicted Oldcoats, to leave it this dark and empty? Pennae stared at Maelrin’s writing intently, and Jhessail studied Maelrin. He was of middling years, jet black hair, easy smile, wearing a leather vest over an immaculate tunic and black breeches; as quiet and graceful as the servants in the Royal Palace. As if aware of their scrutiny, he looked up, flashing a bright smile.

  “A tankard of mulled cider and house soup each, to your rooms in a trice-all food and drink after that costs more coin,” he announced. Taking up one of the two low-trimmed lanterns on the bar that he was using as a reception desk, he led his guests up the flight of stairs that ascended out of the center of the common room, the stairs down to the cellar right beside them.

  Upstairs seemed no more populated.

  “Are we the only guests, just now?” Pennae ventured to ask, as the innkeeper produced two large room keys with a flourish, offered them to her, and bowed, indicating the first doors on either side of the passage, at the head of the stairs.

  “Just now,” Maelrin replied, “but word has been sent ahead of a few more who’ll be joining us before nightfall-and a large caravan’s expected, coming down from the Moonsea, this night or the next. When it arrives, we’ll have folk sleeping out in the stable loft.”

  The rooms were as dark as the rest of the inn, but were clean, furnished simply with massive wooden wardrobes and rope-and-straw mattress beds; the straw was fresh, and the Knights nodded and smiled acceptance.

  Maelrin lit the rooms’ oil-lamps and departed, taking his lantern with him. The moment they heard his boots descending the stairs, the men trooped across the hall to confer with the lady Knights, yawning hugely.

  “Three coppers one of us is asleep before those tankards arrive,” Pennae suggested.

  “No takers,” Doust muttered. “My thighs and backside fell into slumber well before dawn. Could we possibly arrange to have adventures that don’t involve riding horses, from now on?”

  “Doubt it,” Islif said cheerfully. “And what do the intrepid Knights of Myth Drannor think of the dark and haunted inn, hmm?”

  “Certainly looks haunted,” Semoor agreed.

  Jhessail shot a look that had daggers in it at Islif. “Have my deepest thanks for mentioning that. Now I’ll-”

  “Be snoring in a trice like the rest of us,” Semoor said. “Good thing the doors have foot-wedges; I doubt any of us could stay awake on watch.”

  “Ah,” Pennae murmured, “but are the doors we see the only ways into these rooms?”

  Everyone glanced around, and swiftly agreed that thus far, each room in the Oldcoats they’d seen looked like the sort of place where every wall, floor, and ceiling had sliding panels, and secret passages behind them.

  Pennae grinned at that and started toward the nearest wall, but Islif and Florin both grabbed her by the forearms and growled, “ No. ”

  Islif added, “See if you can get through one night-just one-without prowling anywhere, getting into trouble, or stealing from anyone.”

  Pennae lifted her chin defiantly.

  “For the novelty of it?” Semoor suggested.

  Pennae rolled her eyes, and handed him his own purse.

  Semoor looked down at his belt where it was supposed to be-and wasn’t-and then back up at her, dumbfounded.

  Doust touched the back of Pennae’s neck. He sprang back as she whirled to face him and snapped, “ Catch her, Florin!”

  Florin shot out one long arm and got hold of Pennae’s shoulder as her spin turned into a topple. She was senseless, eyes wide and staring.

  “You used magic on her,” Islif said.

  Doust nodded, yawning. “I’m too tired for her nonsense just now.”

  Islif gave him a cold look. “So am I, as it happens, but I think you and Semoor are going to sit down with the rest of us and have a long talk about any of us using magic on each other without agreement aforehand.”

  Semoor frowned. “Oh? What about her?” He pointed at Jhessail.

  “She,” Islif said, “isn’t an idiot. You two, I’m increasingly not so sure about.”

  “Well,” Semoor observed with a bright smile, “ that’s reassuring.”

  Chapter 10

  ALL NINE OF THE HELLS BREAK LOOSE

  The Realms tremble whenever

  The last six or so of the Nine Hells

  Break loose again

  To spill their latest bloodshed

  Any fool can scream and die then.

  The trick is to notice, earlier,

  When the first few Hells silently gape wide

  Dark smiles heralding the doom to come.

  Aumra Darreth Vauntress One Bard’s Musings published in, the Year of the Wanderer

  Laspeera rose with the ring in her hand, face expressionless, and told the lionar and the first sword quietly, “You were right to summon me.”

  “Someone was spell-blasted here,” the lionar said grimly.

  She lifted a finger to tap her lips and warned him, “You didn’t say that, and you won’t say that again. Anyone who hears you might just be the one who decides it’s necessary to silence you forever.”

  “Does-does the ring identify who died?” the first sword asked. “There can’t be that many unicorn-head rings like that.”

  The lionar gave him a sharp look. “There aren’t. They’re worn by all alarphons in the war wizards.”

  Laspeera nodded. “Of whom, it seems, we now have one fewer in the service of the realm.”

  “ Three fewer, actually,” Ghoruld Applethorn purred into the glow arising from his scrying crystal, “but who’s counting? Any moment now you’ll remember I’m the senior alarphon, and should know where all the others are. Idiot novices like Lacklar included.”

  He turned to look at the row of fingerbones in the open coffer behind him, and added with a crooked smile, “And as it happens: I do.”

  Tarnsar’s Platters was one of the better dining-houses on the Promenade-good food, attentive staff, and pleasant decor, without the breath-robbing prices of the truly haughty establishments. As a result, it was always crowded to the doors, and nigh-deafening with the chatter and clatters of hundreds of excited Suzailans.

  Two men having the appearance of middling years and wealth pushed and sidled patiently through the crowded passages of the Platters, seeking a certain back room where strangers off the street seeking to dine weren’t customarily seated. They knew two young war wizards were wont to dine there, in a curtained-off back alcove of that room, and enjoy a quiet post-prandial game of lanceboard.

  Reaching the archway they sought, they slipped through door-curtains enspelled to quell all sound, into the dimly lit, seemingly deserted room beyond. Then they padded as quietly as they knew how-which was very quietly-to the booth nearest the alcove, and settled down to listen.

  “… and this Elminster had written in the margins!” a young voice murmured indignantly. “Right in His Majesty’s book! The gall of the man!”

  “He’s legendary for that,” a voice that sounded as young, but more nasal-and calm-replied. “What did he write?”

  “Well, I copied it out, to study and make sure ’twasn’t a code, or some such. He wrote: ‘The death of an old hero, gone toothless, is not tragic. It may seem so, but the tired old bones are at peace, in pain and loss no more. The bards and minstrels and those who spin tales in taverns have been handed the freedom to make the hero what they want him to be, glowing giant or otherwise, unfettered by such inconveniences as the truth.’ I mean, how trite! Does he think no one but him has ever thought such thoughts before?”

  “You’ve never taken Alaphondar’s ‘High History of the Realm’ classes, have you?”

/>   “No! Crashing old bore! Why?”

  “You would have heard that Elminster wrote that over twelve hundred years ago, for the eyes of King Duar, when Duar was but a lad and grieving over the passing of various grand old lords at Court. If you flip through some of the other volumes that used to be Duar’s, you’ll find some far more, ah, fascinating advice.”

  “Oh? Such as?”

  “How and when to get royal heirs-and how not to. The arts of pleasuring others, and the best ways to refuse without offending.”

  “You’re jesting! Old Nastyspells giving advice on wenching? ”

  “Huh. If that makes you incredulous, picture him doing so to a young and callow Vangey!”

  “Mystra spew! Gods Above and Below! I… I…”

  There followed a tapping sound that might have been a fingernail on a hard-polished lanceboard, and the other war wizard chuckled and added, “I suppose this is as good a time as any to point out that your seneschal is imperiled by both of my champions.”

  What? Tluin! Armandras, you sly bastard! ”

  “Why, Corlyn, you credulous ramhorn-head!” Armandras sounded amused. “ Such endearments!”

  The two listeners looked at each other, nodded, and retreated to the doorway as quietly as they had come. The moment the two war wizards fell silent again, they advanced down the room once more, pushing past some chairs noisily.

  “In here,” Harreth stage-whispered to Yorlin, as they headed straight for the curtain. “No one can overhear us in here.”

  The two agents of Lord Yellander took a table just the other side of the curtain from the one that must be hosting that customary game of lanceboard, where the hidden war wizards couldn’t help but overhear them.

  “Right,” Yorlin said excitedly, leaning forward across the table. “This is private enough, so out with it, man! What’s this so-secret news?”

  “Ever heard of Emmaera?”

  “Who?”

  “Better known as Dragonfire. Long-dead, practiced her magic around Halfhap? No?”

  “ ‘Dragonfire’ I heard once or twice, years back… something about animated swords, I think. A legend, not anything Vangey found useful.”