Swords of Dragonfire tkomd-2

by Ed Greenwood

  “ That’s the one! Well, the swords are real-and they’ve been found! What’s more, they’re guarding Emmaera’s treasure, all her spellbooks and wands and such, that’ve been rumored in Halfhap to lie hidden here, there, and everywhere for years! ”

  “So who’s the lucky finder, and when will he show up to blast us all to feast-meat?”

  “Well, that’s just it: no one has all the magic-yet. Y’see, there’s this old inn in Halfhap, the Oldcoats Inn, and it has the usual old, damp cellars. Well, some of them, on one side of things, have been getting a lot damper. So they wanted to dig out more space, for storage, over on the dry side. Which is when, about a tenday back, they found that one of those old cellar walls was just a single stone deep.”

  “Someone threw up a wall across one end of a room to hide its back half.”

  “Exactly! Well, behind that wall are a heap of chests and coffers and spellbooks and cloaks and wands and I don’t know what all-but no one can get close to them.”

  “Some sort of flesh-eating field? Or a spell that fills the air with hungry snapping jaws when you try to step forward?”

  “No, better than that! That’s where the swords come in! Emmaera Dragonfire put a ring of flying swords around her treasure to guard it, and the swords burn with all-consuming dragonfire! The innkeeper paid his pot-boy to put on armor and try to get to the treasure, and the swords cut through it and his body under it like he was smoke! He was smoke, too, in less than a breath! A little ash on the floor was all that was left of him!”

  “So the likes of Vangerdahast might be able to stroll in and pluck this treasure, but the rest of us-”

  “Are like to be kissing death, right quickly! Not that such fears’re stopping the local adventurers! They’re hurrying down from Tilverton just as fast as horses can bring them-and dying just as fast!”

  “No real wizards among ’em, then?”

  “Not yet. Or rather, hadn’t happened when the trader who told me left for Arabel. I heard it yestereve, from him and two others after him, who’d all been on the same run, straight through Arabel to here. Yet surely if someone snatches it, we’ll hear all about it! If things fall quiet, it’s a hoax or too deadly, or-”

  “Or our gallantly watchful and protective war wizards have rushed in and hushed it all up,” Yorlin said heavily. “ Well, now. This bears thinking more on-over a good deep drink. Or three. Let’s go get us some thirstquench.”

  “The brilliance of your plan overwhelms me.” Harreth chuckled, as they rose and hurried out, not daring to wink at each other until they were beyond the door-curtains.

  Leaving two war wizards staring excitedly at each other across a forgotten lanceboard-and then springing up to return to work early from their highsunfeast for the first time in their professional lives.

  “Of course not,” Duthgarl Lathalance agreed, giving the innkeeper a smile of cold promise. “Dissatisfaction on my part would prove to be… unfortunate.”

  Maelrin’s own smile never wavered. “If you’ll just follow me…”

  “Of course.” The handsome Zhentarim dropped a hand to his sword hilt as two rings on his other hand glowed briefly. If the keeper of the Oldcoats Inn saw those things, he gave no sign of it as he lifted his lantern and led the way up the stairs.

  Lathalance peered around the room and then nodded.

  Maelrin bowed. “We customarily serve newly arrived guests with a light repast, at no charge. Shall I have something sent up to you?”

  “What sort of something?”

  “Ale, zzar, or clarry, and soup, stew, or venison or fowl pie?”

  “Mulled ale and a pie. Venison.”

  Maelrin bowed again and withdrew, leaving the Zhentarim standing alone in the room staring at the window.

  The moment the innkeeper was gone, Lathalance went to the window, took down its bar and threw open its shutters, and discovered an outer set of shutters rather than any glass. He opened them, looked out over the three-man-height drop into the stableyard, and replaced everything as before.

  Then he went slowly around the room, peering at walls, floor, and ceiling before half-smiling, and taking up the lone chair in the room. He moved it to the empty center of the room, turned it to face the closed but unlocked door, sat down in it-and was asleep in moments, a sleep that lasted until a floorboard creaked ever-so-slightly in the passage outside his door.

  By the time the two serving-jacks knocked politely at that door, Lathalance was wide awake, on his feet, and striding confidently forward to greet them.

  “Is it him?”

  Maelrin smiled thinly. “He’s a ‘he,’ yes. If you mean ‘is he the Zhentarim?’ the answer is-undoubtedly. I saw their sigil on his dagger hilt. He’s a wizard and a warrior; he could probably fight us all at once, just with blades, and prevail. So it’s the nauthus and the nutmeg.”

  The cook nodded and uncovered a platter that had been pushed to the back of his bench; the undercook took it up on a paddle and thrust it deep into the massive stone oven.

  The cook unstoppered the nutmeg vial and stirred a generous handful into the mulled ale warming on the iron rack above the oven vent. Separately, they were harmless, the nutmeg a spice and the nauthus a fatty thickener for gravies and cooked sauces. Together, they acted as a deadly-and swiftly virulent-poison.

  The Lords Yellander and Eldroon loved poisons. And as everyone on staff at the Oldcoats Inn now worked for them, the loves and desires of Yellander and Eldroon reigned, as Lathalance of the Zhentarim was about to unfortunately discover.

  Lathalance sipped appreciatively. The mulled ale was very good. He sipped some more, and turned to the venison pie only reluctantly. It was steaming hot, and smelled-ahh, yes…

  It tasted even better than it smelled, and he had to stop himself in mid-forkful to avoid burning his gullet.

  And then a different sort of fire bloomed inside him, racing up and out his nose, and Lathalance convulsed, slowly went purple-like a bright over-ripening fruit-and slumped over in the chair, staring wide-eyed at nothing.

  After a time, the fly that had come into the room with the food got tired of walking all over the half-eaten pie and the rim of the tankard, and buzzed over to Lathalance, where it walked daintily to and fro over his staring eyes.

  “Has it worked, yet?”

  “Long since, if he ate any at all. Unless he has some sort of magical protection.”

  “Huh. If he had that, he’d be down here trying to hack us all apart already! Torence, Orban-trot up there and see if our Zhent guest’s deep silence means what I think it means.”

  “And if he’s as right and bright as a spring day, and tries to kill us?”

  “Wear the rings. His spells will be hurled back from you and his blades will pass through you harmlessly, and you’ll have a wonderful story to tell in taverns.”

  The two serving-jacks gave Ondal Maelrin sour, disbelieving looks, but they’d been bullyblades in the service of Lords Yellander and Eldroon for long enough to know what would happen if they disobeyed Maelrin. Like every lass and jack in the Oldcoats Inn, they served Yellander and Eldroon in matters shady and sinister. At least at this inn, playacting meant regular meals and a roof over their heads and ale and wine whenever they felt thirst.

  Wherefore they donned the rings, nodded curtly to Maelrin, and went up the back stairs with their swords drawn.

  It had been more than a tenday since the secret panel in the back of the wardrobe had been used, and its hinges squealed.

  “Bane’s brazen boll-” Orban snarled, ere a glaring Torance slapped him fiercely across the throat to silence him.

  Like two black shadows the serving-jacks came out of the wardrobe and crossed the room to the man slumped in the chair. Torance leaned forward to peer into the Zhentarim’s staring eyes from less than a finger-length away, and then nodded.

  “Dead, right enough,” he told Orban. “Glorn hasn’t dug the grave yet-Old Ondal wants it big enough for five or more, not just this one-so for n
ow we’ll have to put him under the hay in the end sta-”

  The dead man’s hands shot up to sink fingers deep into Torance’s throat, and squeeze, hard.

  The startled serving-jack fought to raise his sword and draw breath, kicking and flailing-but the dead man in the chair ignored his frantic hacking and throttled him all the harder, standing up suddenly to haul Torance off his feet and swing him.

  The dying man’s boots caught the fleeing Orban across the back of the head. The dead Zhentarim let go of Torance to let him sail across the room and crash into a wall. Lathalance sprang forward to pounce on the fallen Orban, pinning him to the floor with both knees, and brutally twisted his head.

  The moment that thick neck broke, Lathalance was up and across the room again, to serve Torance the same way.

  Bleeding copiously from the deep cuts Torance’s sword had inflicted, the dead Zhentarim then picked up the two men he’d just killed, stumped to the wardrobe with them, and shouldered through it into the servants’ passage beyond.

  As he dragged the two dead serving-jacks down the back stairs, Old Ghost made the body he was animating grin hugely. Ah, but he was enjoying this.

  Frightened faces gaped at him as he passed the open door of the staff ready-room with his limp burdens. He gave them Lathalance’s best grin-or as good a grin as a purple body streaming gore from where one side of its head was largely sliced away can manage-and went on down the cellar stairs, to dump them.

  In his wake, staff bolted in all directions, some seeking weapons, others a place to hide, and a few the portal, to report to their masters and plead for much armed aid-and swiftly.

  Lord Yellander and Lord Eldroon strongly favored teamwork and plentiful reinforcements.

  On her hurried trip through the Palace to Ghoruld Applethorn’s chambers, Laspeera ordered the two Purple Dragons back to their duties and collected a trio of on-duty war wizards. Her words brought stern excitement to their faces and the wands at their belts into their hands. She set a brisk pace, and let them scramble to keep up with her.

  Applethorn’s office door was closed, and she smiled wryly at the words on the card in its placard-slide: “All inquiries to Laspeera of the Wizards of War.”

  It was written in Ghoruld’s hand, right enough. She raised her left hand, calling up the powers of the ring on her middle finger-and then stopped and frowned, throwing up her other hand in a quelling warning to the younger mages behind her.

  The door bore the usual spell-lock, and the trap magic that would hold immobile anyone passing through the doorway without the lock spell being properly ended. Both usual war wizard practice. Yet there was something more…

  The ring winked in warning as she attuned it to ignore the lock and the hold, and seek that additional magic. Behind her, the other three war wizards waited patiently.

  It was… something hostile, of course, but why the emptiness? Laspeera wondered The… oh, Mystra! It must be a feeblemind trap! Very dangerous to all mages, and so very much non-usual war wizard practice.

  “By all Nine of the Hells,” she murmured. “That it should come to this…”

  And then she shook back her sleeves and began to cast counter-spells with her usual unhurried, cautious care.

  Jhessail yawned, groaned in sleepy protest, and turned over in the bed for perhaps the twentieth time, kicking at the linens that enshrouded her.

  “Can’t sleep?” Islif asked from beside her, throwing out a long arm to gather her close. “Try remembering all the things we did together in Espar, dreaming of being adventurers. That’ll have you snoring soon enough.”

  “I’ll try. Can’t you sleep, either?”

  “Not until Pennae here stops waiting for us both to nod off, so she can get up and go creeping around the inn. I don’t want to have to spend far too much time, later, searching for her body.”

  “You,” Pennae murmured in the darkness, “worry too much. They have to catch me first.”

  “It won’t take them long if you haven’t figured out by now that this place is one big waiting trap for the likes of us.”

  “You hayteeth backlanders persist in using the wrong words when you speak. Say not ‘trap,’ but rather ‘challenge.’ ”

  “Right. One big waiting challenge. I’m still staying awake.”

  “Mother hen.”

  “Black sheep.”

  Silence fell again, until Jhessail filled it with a sudden snore.

  Chapter 11

  TREASURE IN THE CELLARS

  I know of more than a few strings of words that shine with excitement, but should be treated with the darkest of suspicion.

  One of these is any variation on the phrase

  ‘These very cellars hold a treasure yet unfound!’

  Onstable Halvurr, Twenty Summers A Purple Dragon: One Soldier’s Life published in the Year of the Crown

  T ouch nothing, ” Laspeera said, “and stay together, here with me.”

  Cautiously they peered around Ghoruld Applethorn’s offices.

  The man himself was missing. On his desk lay a scroll-tube labelled “Map: Halfhap.” Its end cap was off, and it was-Laspeers bent and peered inside-empty. The entire desk glowed faintly, as if reflecting the flames of a distant fire.

  “What spell is that?” Roruld asked from behind her, waving at it.

  “No spell,” Laspeera told him. “ ’Tis wildsnarl powder. Very rare, and priced to match. Used to defeat most divination magic.” Her eyes narrowed. This was all just a trifle overdone. “Go get Vangerdahast,” she ordered.

  “Well met,” said the Royal Magician of Cormyr dryly, from just behind them.

  As they stiffened, blinked, and whirled to face him, he snapped, “Roruld, go now in haste and seek Ghoruld Applethorn in the Garden Wing. Alais, the same search; Palace staterooms. Morlurn, likewise, but ’tis the Royal Court for you-and mind you don’t miss the cellars!”

  The three war wizards nodded, still blinking, and hurried out. Leaving Vangerdahast and Laspeera facing each other in the empty office.

  “Odd, indeed,” Vangey said. “I’m beginning to think I should collect those unicorn-head rings. Baerauble made them just a bit too useful.”

  Laspeera nodded. “Applethorn’s will prevent us magically tracking, farscrying, and detecting him, but what about mind-prying; will it stop your spells?”

  “Yes. Everyone’s,” the head of the war wizards said shortly, turning away. “And Ghoruld knows that. The question is: Who else does? Are we chasing Applethorn, or someone working with him-or someone who put a dagger through his ribs and took his likeness?”

  He strolled across the room, one hand raised and the rings on it winking restlessly, before shaking his head and adding, “No one’s scrying us right now, at least.”

  “I know of a dozen unicorn rings, all worn by alarphons,” Laspeera said quietly. “Are there more I should know about?”

  Vangey turned. “In case I go missing on the morrow? No, just twelve. That I know of. And no master ring to control them or overcome their protections, though Baerauble may have enspelled them in a way that let him shut them down by means he kept secret, that died with him. There’d be no point in using them at all, to try to keep their minds hidden and protected from all magic, if a way to defeat them could be seized and worn by just anybody.”

  “Of course. I-”

  Running feet made a brief thunder in the passage outside, and two war wizards burst breathlessly through the door, gabbling about Emmaera Dragonfire and swords and inns and treasure, long-lost magic and adventurers converging on Halfhap.

  Vangerdahast and Laspeera listened until Corlyn and Armandras ran out of excited things to say. They then politely thanked and dismissed the pair, who went out again peering at the two highest-ranked war wizards a little doubtfully, evidently wondering if the Royal Magician of Cormyr and the Court Underwizard of the Realm had heard them correctly.

  When they were well out of sight and hearing, Vangerdahast turned to Laspeera. “Just a b
it obvious, isn’t it?”

  Laspeera nodded.

  “Well, take a dozen or more of our best with you-and have them conduct themselves with caution. Even when you know what you’re striding into, a trap’s a trap.”

  The rapping on the door was insistent, and Florin came awake reaching for his sword.

  When he opened the door, blade at the ready, the man on the other side of it also held a drawn sword. And a worried, wary, but not hostile expression.

  “What news?” Florin asked quietly, as Doust and Semoor sleepily joined him.

  “Grave news,” the man replied, a distinct whiff of horse coming from him as he grounded his blade. The innkeeper Maelrin and a serving-jack stood behind the stablemaster, facing in either direction down the passage. They, too, had drawn swords in their hands.

  “Item the first. There’s a killer on the loose. Here in the Oldcoats Inn.”

  “Oh?”

  “A trained Zhentarim slayer, a sword and spell man. He’s in his room now, but he killed two of us-of the inn staff-while all of you were sleeping, and neither poison nor being hewn to the bone with a sword seems to have stopped him. He is, in fact, walled in with us.”

  “Walled in?”

  There was a brief commotion behind Ondal Maelrin as the door across the passage opened and an alert and fully dressed Pennae and Islif peered out.

  “Item the second,” the stablemaster began, but Maelrin put a hand on his arm and he fell silent.

  “There’s more,” the innkeeper said, looking from the lady Knights to the men. “Your horses have all been taken.”

  “Taken?” Jhessail snapped, before anyone else could, as she pushed past Islif, looking almost child-sized beside her tall friend-but far from a child indeed in her clinging shift.

  The three Oldcoats men stared at her, and then quickly looked away. Jhessail folded her arms and waited, withering glare at the ready, for them all to surreptitiously glance her way again. “Taken?” she repeated.