Swords of Dragonfire tkomd-2

by Ed Greenwood

  His sword made a terrible squealing that made him wince at what he must be doing to it, but his shuddering shoulders met the challenge. He reached the door below moving slowly enough to grab at it with his jack-wrapped hand and cling.

  It took him several tries to swing hard enough to thrust the door open into the passage with him hanging from it, but he managed it at last, rolling out and to his feet with the sounds of battle much louder and nearer, now.

  Cones of light, like two flaring lantern-beams, were flashing and crossing yonder. Florin headed for them, hefting his sword. All Pennae could hope to do was run and run to avoid getting trapped, and to try to slip past the Doom, and he would know very well what she was trying. If the huge guardian got in just one solid strike…

  Then he was upon them, the great axe coming into view on a backswing, and Florin bellowed, “Doorwarden! Turn and fight me! ”

  The great shoulders started to turn. Florin yelled, “Pennae! Get past-and keep running! There’s a narrow place; get beyond it!” and launched himself at the guardian’s gigantic legs, seeking to move in behind the Doom as the man-mountain turned.

  “Florin!” Pennae almost shrieked. “Where have you been? ”

  “Touring the Palace,” he shouted back, and then had no more breath for shouting. The Doorwarden knew what he was doing; he kicked his great boot sideways as he turned, smashing into Florin’s hastily raised sword and flinging the ranger helplessly through the air.

  Where was Pennae? She wasn’t running past! Where The Doorwarden loomed up, sword and axe slicing down, one after the other, so that wherever he scrambled to avoid the first attack would be where the second weapon went hunting.

  Florin launched himself forward, right at the Doom, seeking to get in between his legs where his own bulk would keep the Doom from seeing him properly to hack and slice.

  The Doom backed away hastily, sword and axe swinging wildly to aid its balance-and Florin’s mouth went dry as he caught sight of Pennae, rushing up the many seams and plates of the huge guardian’s crudely cobbled-together boots to reach the back of his right knee, and thrust her dagger in under the plate there.

  The guardian felt her presence, as she tried to saw at straps she could not see, and growled, bringing his sword fist down to slam into her. Pennae swung around right behind the knee, dangling.

  “Run!” Florin yelled at her, from where he was right in front of the Doom. “Just drop and run! ”

  Pennae swung, kicked her legs high into the air like a juggler swinging from an overhead pole, and at the top of her swing let go.

  Florin stopped watching; if he was to live, he had to get between the Doom’s legs right now, and He managed it, fetching up on the inside of the guardian’s left boot. There was a tempting split there in the overlapping hides and metal plates covering those huge feet, so he drove his sword into it, twisted, and then plucked the blade back out and kept running.

  It was well he did. The Doorwarden roared in pain, deafening echoes rebounding off the ceiling and rolling up and down the passage, and stumbled, hopping awkwardly sideways, two huge boots moving through the spot where the ranger had been moments before.

  Behind the Doorwarden, and with the way clear before him and Pennae watching anxiously from the distance, Florin put down his head and ran. If the Doom fell over…

  “Run!” he yelled, the moment he had breath to do so. “Keep running!”

  Pennae stood where she was, waiting for him.

  “Run, hrast you!” Florin bellowed at her.

  She started to move, backing so she could keep watching him and the stumbling Doorwarden-who’d gotten himself turned now, and was coming after them, shaking the passage in his angry haste.

  “Pennae!” Florin roared in exasperation, as he came up to her.

  She grinned. “I never was very good at taking orders,” she said. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed a time or two.”

  “Just run! ” he snapped as he pounded past, whacking her backside with the flat of his sword.

  “Ah-such a greeting you give a lass!” She laughed, breaking into a run that kept her at his elbow.

  Winded, Florin only nodded-and then, as she darted ahead, plunged thankfully through the doorframe after her and slowed, stumbling.

  Pennae looked back as the Doorwarden roared his frustration at them, and then put out an arm and clung to Florin as he bent over, panting.

  When he had his breath back, he straightened and held out her jack. It was blood-soaked, cold, and wet, but Pennae’s eyes shone as if he’d been proffering the greatest treasure in all Cormyr.

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling widely, and tore the gown off over her head. Flinging it down, she took her jack and slipped it on, shivering at its clamminess.

  “Come on!” Florin told her, clapping her arm. “I’ve uncovered another plot. Someone named Blacksilver is wandering the Palace, and-”

  Pennae put firm fingers over his mouth to silence him, and then took them away a moment later to kiss him.

  He blinked at her.

  She smiled wryly. “Well, I had to shut you up somehow. Now listen and heed, O mighty and valiant Falconhand!”

  Florin nodded, gave her a rueful half-smile, and waved at her to “say on.” “Nothing,” Pennae told him, her eyes large and serious, “ nothing at all, in all the Realms, is more important than finding our fellow Knights. Kingdom rise or kingdom fall, we’re going through this together. I am sick unto death-or hrasted nearly was-of running around in these stlarning cellars, lost and alone! We find Jhess and Islif and our two chucklehead holynoses, too, and we stand together. Then we all go and seek out the king, the queen, and the hrasted Royal Magician Vangerdahast! Any disputes, faithful dog of a ranger?”

  “None,” Florin replied, his eyes shining. “None at all.” Then he put a firm arm around her, and kissed her with fervor. And not a little valiant might too.

  Chapter 27

  TOGETHER WE STAND

  Together we stand against hosts

  And prevail, glorious, victorious.

  Together we rouse kingdoms

  Gathering trouble as farmers reap turnips

  Together we share laughter

  And dig and remember each other’s graves.

  Velorna Jalaneth, Bard from the ballad Friends I Weep For You published in the Year of the Adder

  A pplethorn swallowed, grimaced, and then shuddered all over and gasped, “Always hated the taste of these. Despite the relief-mmm, almost rapture-they bring.”

  Sitting in the dusty shadows of one of his secret places in the Palace, the alarphon restoppered the healing potion, put it upside down in the rack to remind himself later that it was now empty, and closed the cast-iron lid to keep the rats at bay. Nibbled corks meant healed rats… and doomed wizards.

  One of the luxuries of a hiding hold was the chance to speak his thoughts aloud; he did so now, rather grimly.

  “I can’t spare any more time now for hunting down Knights of Myth Drannor. Vangey will check in with me soon. I must get back to my duties. Later, it won’t matter a whit if he suspects, and comes for me-but not yet. Not quite yet. Not until his doom-as they say-is assured.”

  He chuckled, stepped through the sliding panel that would take him into the back of a wardrobe built into one of the long-disused apartments of the Northturret wing, still smoke-damaged from a minor fire of four decades ago, went via other panels into other wardrobes to emerge several apartments away, and hurried to the stair that would bring him down behind the pantries.

  Healed and hale again, War Wizard Ghoruld Applethorn was his cold-eyed, smilingly alert self from the moment he stepped out into the back passage and started shooting looks at various war wizards that they answered with silent “all serene here” hand-signals.

  Wherefore, when the expected gruff voice touched his mind and asked him much the same as he’d just been asking other mages, he was where he should have been, and in the mood he should have been. Vangerdahast imparted the menta
l equivalent of a supportive smile and broke contact.

  Leaving Applethorn smiling softly indeed.

  “Semoor, I hardly think we’re going to manage to talk it to death!” a sharp woman’s voice-Islif’s-rang out suddenly, from around a corner. “For the love of Lathander, cast your spell! ”

  Florin and Pennae exchanged delighted looks, and blurted out words at the same time: “The Knights!” and “We’ve found them! And they need us!”

  Then they grinned at each other, roared “Charge!” in unison, and broke into a run, ducking around the corner with weapons out.

  Islif and Doust were facing down a tall armored warrior-no, a suit of armor with no head inside its helm!

  Jhessail stood with her back to Islif, and Semoor crouched behind Doust, causing Florin to frown and ask, “What’re they doing, Jhess and Semoor?”

  “Yon’s a helmed horror, or similar,” Pennae replied. “They can whisk themselves around from place to place like mages do-attack you from in front one moment, and behind the next!”

  “Oh, naed, ” Florin commented with a “what next? ” grin, and charged between the busily parrying Islif and Doust to thrust his sword right at the emptiness inside the helm. The silent suit of armor parried with a swift, strong ease that astonished him, as if it had been waiting for just such an attack-but Florin had never expected anything less than a skillful parry, and had his dagger out even as he made that lunge. As his blade was blocked, he half-turned to bring his dagger full to the fore, and thrust it through the open face of the helm, into darkness.

  A darkness that numbed his arm and shot sparks in all directions-in the fleeting breath before the armored guardian seemed to burst, armor plates (and Florin) hurtling in all directions.

  The ranger screamed as he flew, scarcely aware of Islif and Doust smashed off their feet and tumbling along with him.

  The fires of the gods-or so it felt-raced through him, searing his vitals, tongue, fingertips, and very eyeballs…

  And then he crashed into something that gasped, gave, and curled herself around him, so they bounced bruisingly together, armor plates clanging and striking spitting sparks all around them, to roll and tumble and roll more slowly, finally to a stop.

  Florin coughed. Then he blinked, and felt reassured that he could still do both of those things. He tried to move, to rise, and found that Pennae was wrapped firmly around him, arms and legs cradling him… and that she wasn’t moving.

  “Pennae?” he gasped, sudden terror rising in his throat.

  “Ohhhh,” she moaned, her mouth somewhere over his right shoulder. Then she moved weakly against him. “Great hero,” she husked, “can we smite our next helmed horror in a different manner, d’you think?”

  “I don’t know if I can think, right now. Is it destroyed?”

  “If you don’t see armor plates flying back to draw together, yes. Which will doubtless annoy good Vangerdahast no end.”

  Florin chuckled, a chortle that built helplessly into a guffaw. Lying on his back on the cold stone floor, he roared with laughter, roars that echoed until he heard Semoor say archly, from somewhere not far off, “Well, someone’s unhurt, I hear. Having a woman wrapped around you is obviously a tactic I must practice for our next fray. Islif? Jhessail?”

  “Live in hope,” Islif replied. They heard a clank of armor plate on stone, then a groan, as she rolled over and-unsteadily, swaying and trying to clutch at handholds that did not exist-stood up.

  Across a litter of riven armor plate and sprawled Knights, Jhessail gave her a wan smile and used the fallen bulk of a grimacing Doust as a ladder to climb, hand over hand, up to a crouch. Pennae-reluctantly, it seemed, her hands lingering on his shoulders and chin and then hips-drew back from Florin and sat up.

  “Is everyone well?” Islif asked.

  Semoor gave her a twisted smile. “As the immortal said to the dying man: I’ll live-and you?”

  A line of blood trailed down the side of his face and dripped slowly from his chin. Doust, too, bled from somewhere, though he rolled slowly over now, to flex his arms and then twist around to look for his mace. Semoor joined Islif and Jhessail among the standing, to shake their heads and kick at deadly shards of armor plate.

  “The gods must have been watching over us, truly,” Jhessail murmured, wincing at the sight of three long, swordlike fangs of riven metal. “We could all have been spitted like boar for a roast…”

  The immediate growling from Semoor’s stomach was more like a roar. “You had to mention food, didn’t you?” he said. “Thanks, O most dainty of lady mages.”

  “Won’t Lathander provide?” she asked innocently, spreading her hands like a preaching priest.

  Semoor used his hands, then, to favor her with another sort of gesture.

  Florin and Pennae joined them, reaching down to haul a grunting Doust to his feet. The priest of Tymora limped once, gingerly, then sat down again to adjust his boot, stood up to kick his foot back into its proper place, and pronounced himself fit.

  “Unscathed, or nearly,” Semoor murmured, ignoring the blood adorning him. “Truly, a miracle.”

  “Yes,” Jhessail agreed, and turned to Florin to say severely, “Don’t ever do that again! We might have been killed!”

  He stared at her, struggled not to laugh-and then gave up and roared. One after another, the rest of the Knights joined in.

  “Wha-why,” he struggled to ask Jhessail, when his mirth started to abate, “didn’t you blast it with a battlestrike or two?”

  “I did,” she replied. “Just once. It sent all of the little bolts right back at me. They hurt. ”

  “Hurt? I’m surprised you’re still standing!”

  “If I hadn’t kept my healing potion in my boot, I wouldn’t be. It’s drunk now. That’s why I demanded you not do that again.”

  “Is everyone all right?” Islif asked. “Truly, I mean?”

  She gave ever-quiet Doust a hard look, then challenged Florin with her eyes. Both of them nodded, and there were mumbles affirming good health from all around Islif.

  “Right,” she said. “Then isn’t it about time we got back to warning and protecting our king and queen and the formidable scoundrel who happens to be both Court Wizard of Cormyr and Royal Magician of the Realm-as well as holding a lot of other lesser or at least less savory offices too?”

  “Quite a speech,” Semoor replied. “Islif the courtier… hmm…”

  “Semoor the battered corpse,” she responded crisply. The Anointed of Lathander hastily stepped back out of reach behind Jhessail and said brightly, “As ever, your commands are an inspiration to us all, Lady Lurelake! Lead on! If you can find us a way out of these cellars before we’re reduced to starving skeletons, I will obey you, right happily!”

  “Then let’s go!” Islif ordered, as loudly and firmly as if she’d been a veteran Purple Dragon lionar, and set off at a trot. When she was clear of the debris of the helmed horror, she started to really hurry.

  Pelting along in her wake with the other Knights, Semoor complained to the listening Realms, “Somehow I knew this was going to involve running. Again.”

  Lord Maniol Crownsilver gasped for breath. He’d been running through the Palace for a while now, his only falterings being his encounters with guard after wary guard. The last one had insisted on trotting along with him, until they turned a corner and came upon three burly, full-armored Dragons standing in a living wall across the passage. Each was a full two heads taller than the winded lord. They stood sternly gazing at him with their arms folded across their chests, not looking as if they had any intention of ever letting any lord of the realm past them.

  There was an open door in the passage wall beside one of the three guards, and out of it stepped a fourth Dragon-this one only a head taller than Crownsilver, and wearing the badge of a constal on his chest. He gave the panting lord a tight, unfriendly smile, and asked breezily, “So, my Lord Crownsilver, what engenders such haste in you, this fine day?”

  “
I-” Maniol Crownsilver gasped for breath, furious that he once again was unable to seem grand and commanding. He fought for air until he managed to say, “I bear a message for the Royal Magician, of utmost importance for the realm!”

  “Another one?” The Purple Dragon rolled his eyes and told the passage ceiling wearily, “Big state revels certainly bring out all the madfolk to join the parade.”

  “I’m serious!” Crownsilver sputtered.

  “Aye, aye, of course you are. Wherefore we’re going to take you into this handy little room here, where you can drop your hose and cods and fine doublet, and-”

  “ What? ”

  “Oh, ’tis the latest fashion at Court, Haven’t you been keeping up, Lord? Aye, ’tis clothes off if you need whisper important things to Old-to Vangey. Orders of the king, of course.”

  Lord Maniol Crownsilver opened his mouth to say something, then, but nothing came out. He settled for blinking, once or twice, as firm hands towed him into a chamber lit by three braziers, with a bare table in it and half a dozen big, burly Purple Dragons who greeted him with welcoming smiles.

  “The table warms up once you’re on it, mind,” a large-jawed, burly Dragon leaned over him to advise with fatherly joviality.

  Lord Maniol Crownsilver shuddered, muttered, “The things I do for love of Cormyr,” and firmly shut his eyes.

  “Tell me when it’s over,” he snarled at the unseen soldiers around him, through clenched teeth.

  “Well,” Islif puffed, as they rounded another corner and ran on, “at least we’re seeing passages we haven’t been in before.”

  “Progress,” Semoor added cheerfully. “Something every church supports!”

  “Aye,” Pennae agreed, “but they mean a little farther down the road to getting their own way in everything!”