Swords of Dragonfire tkomd-2

by Ed Greenwood

  Semoor grinned. “But of course! Isn’t that what the word means? ”

  “There may come a time when we’ll have the leisure to sit down and discuss such matters,” Pennae replied. “I may even have learned patience enough to discuss them with you, by then. However-”

  “However,” Florin said firmly, “we’re passing lots of closed doors, and I’m starting to hear folk talking behind some of them; should we open any, and look? We seem to be just running along bli-”

  A door promptly opened, ahead of the running Knights, and a bearded Highknight in leathers peered out, gave the onrushing adventurers a startled look that fell into a glare, and shouted loudly, “ ’Ware! Thieves!”

  Doors banged open, up and down the passage. Purple Dragons stepped through them, both before and behind the Knights of Myth Drannor, who came to a swift halt.

  In the sudden silence after their boots were stilled, there was a loud hiss as many swords were drawn.

  Crownsilver kept his eyes closed as he was disarmed, stripped, and searched most thoroughly. At length, they helped him to dress again, asking him questions throughout, their voices becoming steadily more respectful.

  In the end, the constal said gravely, “Lord Crownsilver, I shall be honored to escort you to the Royal Magician of the Realm.”

  “Good,” Maniol Crownsilver said, not bothering to hide his sigh of relief. “Then let us go. I cannot help but think that urgency looms larger above us, with every passing breath.”

  Soon he was marching along passages with an escort, the constal calling out to guards they approached as to the whereabouts of Vangerdahast.

  The lionar of the sixth such guardpost frowned and said, “He passed this way not long ago. By now, he’s personally attending the Silverymoon reception, in Anglond’s Great Hall.”

  The constal nodded, turned and opened a particular door, and started to run.

  “Stop!” Florin said sternly to the Purple Dragons who were forming a ring around the Knights. “We’ve no desire to spill blood here! We but seek the Dragondown Chambers!”

  It seemed he’d said the wrong thing.

  The ring of Purple Dragons around the Knights widened as every guard stepped hastily back, their swords rising to readiness.

  The ornrions among them and the lone Highknight slapped fingers over rings they were wearing, and hissed into those rings, “War wizard aid! War wizard aid! Armory Shadowpassage! Armory Shadowpassage!”

  The two wizards standing in the Longstride Hall were just beginning to hope that their shift might somehow go off without a hitch, as day headed into evening, when the pendants they both wore under their splendid uniforms suddenly murmured, “War wizard aid! War wizard aid! Armory Shadowpassage! Armory Shadowpassage!”

  “Oh, tluin, ” Tathanter told the world feelingly, as that chanted summons continued. “What now? ”

  Malvert had already snatched a wand out of its chased silver scabbard on his leg; Tathanter hastily drew his too.

  Dodging among curious guests, they ran to a particular panel in a tapestry-hung back corner of the hall, hastily clawed it open, and plunged through it.

  “My,” a bright young shopkeeper’s wife, spectacular in a sheath of shimmerweave that covered her from throat to ankles-except where cutouts left both of her rounded hips bare-remarked to her husband, “it’s just like in the tales-wizards running everywhere, doing urgent, secret things! Isn’t it exciting? ”

  Her husband scowled. “No. Unless you change ‘exciting’ to ‘frightening.’ Then I’d agree with you.”

  “ ‘Frightening’? But surely not for you! You did your years in the Dragons!”

  He nodded and replied curtly, “That’s why.”

  Lord Maniol Crownsilver was staggering and gasping for breath by the time they reached Anglond’s Great Hall. Sweating and nigh-incoherent when he tried to speak, he clutched at a handy servant-who fought successfully to stand both still and expressionless-for support as the guards who’d escorted him laid hands on the magnificent door looming up over them, and hauled it wide open.

  Crownsilver hastened inside, wiping persistent sweat from his brow, and stared around. He’d forgotten just how hrasted huge the hall was. It was heavily thronged with guests who were busy staring in all directions and marveling at the size and splendor of the hall and of each other.

  Maniol Crownsilver took a few steps this way, and a few more that way, and then stopped, baffled.

  He thought of Vangerdahast as a great looming figure, dark-robed and terrible, dominant at Court even when Azoun was on his throne. Yet it seemed that only in his mind was the Royal Magician of the Realms truly tall. Here, especially with all the thick-soled boots and high spiked heels being worn by guests desiring to make an impression, there were many folk who were taller than Royal Magician Vangerdahast. Many, many folk, some so tightly clustered together that movement among them was a matter of many bumped elbows and apologies.

  In short, Vangey could be anywhere. And Anglond’s Great Hall was big enough to hold a lot of anywheres.

  Lord Crownsilver sighed and threw his head back to gaze slowly around at the heights of the long, rounded, high-ceilinged chamber. Not so much at that magnificent painted ceiling, with its gilded, relief-carved dragons, but at the tiers and tiers of balconies below it, that circled the hall in unbroken rings, four high.

  Aye, a lot of anywheres. Crownsilver shrugged, let his gaze drift down again to the floor of the hall where he was standing, and starting hunting Vangerdahast.

  “The wizards are coming,” the Highknight announced, his voice startlingly loud in the tense silence that had fallen over the passage. “Maintain the ring of swords. Draw it closer. Two paces, no more.”

  Slowly and with care, the Purple Dragons closed in around the Knights, swords raised.

  “Keep to the ring, even if they start hurling spells?” an ornrion asked.

  The Highknight shrugged. “Kill them all if we must. The war wizards can always question their corpses.”

  Chapter 28

  TO MAKE WELCOME FAIR SILVERYMOON

  Unbar and throw open your gate, burn off its bright rune

  For the time is now come to make welcome fair Silverymoon.

  Orammus “the Black Bard” of Waterdeep from Alustriel Comes Calling a ballad contained in Old Or’s Black Book published in the Year of the Scourge

  "I‘ve had about enough of this,” Jhessail snapped, and raised her hands to cast a spell.

  Pennae whirled around and caught hold of her arm. “ No. Try this, first. The firing-word’s on the butt.”

  She snatched a wand from Yassandra’s belt and slapped it into Jhessail’s palm.

  The red-haired mage looked at it, and then back up at Pennae. “Just which wizard is missing this?”

  “One who’s also missing her life-not my doing-and so won’t be showing up to complain. I hope. Yet tarry a moment, before you start blasting.” She lifted her head and snapped, “Knights, a ring around us both, please.”

  “Done,” Florin and Islif said in perfect unison, steering the two priests by their elbows to form as much of a ring as four people could manage.

  “Steady,” the Highknight ordered the Purple Dragons all around them, from only a few strides away. “Continue to advance slowly and in formation. The man who charges will face my wrath.”

  “And my blade,” Islif added mildly, earning herself a glare from the bearded Cormyrean.

  Pennae had plucked something small from one of the pouches on Yassandra’s belt, and hefted it in her hand. Now she held it up between thumb and forefinger-and threw it, hard.

  It was a small black bead, and when it struck the Highknight’s nose, there was a flash of blue light-and the passage was suddenly blocked off, blotted out by a black sphere of shimmering force that filled it, flickering wildly as it tried to expand farther than the distance between the passage floor and ceiling would allow. Purple Dragons cried out and struggled in its thrall, many of them fighting to back
away-and were suddenly swallowed up in or behind the blackness, as the magic gave up trying to expand as a sphere, and flooded in both directions to seal off the passage entirely.

  Pennae took Jhessail by the arm again, turned her around to face the other way, and gestured as grandly as any servant. “ Now you may blast, please.”

  The Purple Dragons who’d crowded in behind the Knights were relatively few, perhaps two dozen in all. They backed warily away now, frowning, into a three-rank-deep living barrier across the passage, and more than one man turned to the ornrion among them and asked, “Permission to go and fetch our shields, sir?”

  Whatever the ornrion might have decided was left unsaid, as Jhessail gave the massed Dragons a sweet smile and announced clearly, “ Clarrdathenta. ”

  The wand in her hand quivered-and then spat bright blue-white bolts of magic like four battlestrikes all being cast at once.

  The magical missiles sped home, just as she’d wanted them to, striking at every Dragon. Twice.

  The Dragons reeled, and Jhessail fed them from the wand again.

  Men went from staggering to falling, this time, and there were only a few weakly sliding down the walls when Florin said, “Come. Back through them, then start opening doors. Before all the gods, we are going to find those hrasted stairs up!”

  The Knights charged, and the lone Purple Dragon to try to stand against them-the ornrion-fell on his face when Islif simply struck aside his sword and ran right over him, Jhessail and Doust right behind her.

  Everyone started wrenching open doors.

  “You’d not think it too much to ask, would you, to build a door that has stairs behind it?” Islif growled in rising exasperation.

  Pennae grinned. “Was that your seven-and-tenth door?”

  “No; score-and-sixth,” Islif snapped. “Not that I’m counting.”

  “Praise Lathander!” Semoor crowed at that very moment. “Behold! Stairs ascending!”

  Islif raced to the opened door that the Anointed of Lathander was so grandly indicating-and charged right up the stairs without pause, the rest of the Knights racing after her.

  There was a dimly lit servants’ passage running across the top of the stairs, and four guard-Dragons were standing in it, resplendent in large Purple Dragon tabards. They turned to peer at the Knights, frowning.

  Islif and Florin ignored them, going straight to the two nearest doors in the passage wall.

  “Hey! Halt! Halt and down arms, in the name of the king!” a telsword bellowed, from among the four Dragons.

  Islif turned and snapped, “What room’s on the other side of this door?”

  “I said halt!” the soldier shouted, running up the passage and reaching for his sword.

  Islif let him get it halfway out before taking hold of his wrist, ramming the weapon back down into its scabbard, closing her hand around the telsword’s throat, and plucking him off his feet to touch noses with him and ask gently, “What room, valiant Dragon, lies on the other side of this door?”

  There was a grunt and a crash from behind her, as another Dragon decided to turn and run to an alarm gong-and Doust threw his mace between the soldier’s hurrying ankles to lay him out, stunned, on the passage floor.

  The telsword stared into Islif’s eyes, and she stared right back into his, putting a slow smile on her face. It was not a nice smile.

  “Uh-ah-urkh,” the Purple Dragon strangled, as she shook him gently. When she loosened her grip a trifle, he gasped quickly, “A-Anglond’s Great Hall! W-where the revel-”

  “ Thank you,” Islif said, dropping him to the floor. “And Vangey-pardon, Royal Magician Vangerdahast-would he be in that hall?”

  “Y-yes,” the telsword managed to croak, rubbing his bruised throat and wincing as a shrewd mace-blow from Semoor sent another of his fellow guards reeling and then slumping to the floor.

  When he grabbed for his dagger, the tall, horse-faced woman slapped it away, clouted him across the side of the head on the backhand of her blow, and snatched his tabard up and over his head, blinding him.

  “Tabards-good thought!” Florin snapped. “Collect them all!”

  The moment she’d settled the tabard she’d taken over her head, Islif flung the door wide and strode through into the terrific din beyond, the rest of the Knights right behind her. Jhessail looked like a small girl wearing her father’s borrowed tabard, Pennae’s was more than a little wrinkled, and the two priests had none to wear, but Florin and Islif looked as stern and loyal as any Purple Dragon ever had. Florin waved the priests to the rear as the Knights strode after Islif.

  So Semoor ended up being the last Knight in line. He swept a low bow to the groaning telsword as he stepped across the threshold.

  The stricken Dragon took one last look at him and fainted.

  The heat and din of the press in the heart of the crowded hall were on the verge of overwhelming Ildaergra Steelcastle. Looking not at all her customary bright, sharp, social-climbing self, she winced and looked around worriedly. “The envoy-is she coming at all, do you think?”

  From beside her, Ramurra Hornmantle smiled dismissively. “Don’t fret so, Ildaergra. Envoys always turn up late. It’s the only way they have to show kings and queens that they do possess some power, albeit puny. Just relax, enjoy the sweets and smallbites-you see, if she’d been early, we wouldn’t have been served these, now would we? And look at those heaped platters. We can gorge, my dear! — and this chance to get a good look at Anglond’s Great Hall, and enjoy the evening. After all, you weren’t going to hurry off anywhere, were you?”

  Ildaergra sipped her latest flagon of firewine, smiled ruefully, and replied, “Hardly.”

  “Well, then,” Ramurra said. “Just enjoy the company and the converse-look, there’s the Royal Magician himself, not six paces from us!”

  “Surrounded by a dozen-some barely begowned ladies all so feeble-brained as to be smitten with nasty old rogues of mages, I see,” Ildaergra sniffed.

  “I can get you through them to meet Vangerdahast himself, if you’d like.”

  “Oh, would you?”

  “Our grand entrance,” Semoor commented, “and we emerge behind a pillar. How fitting.”

  “Still the tongue, holywits,” Jhessail said. “There are four tiers of balconies above us; they have to hold them up with something.”

  They stood in shadows beneath the balcony, amid many servants deftly gliding here and there with decanters and platters of smallbites in their hands. A few gave the bloody, disheveled Knights sharp looks or frowns, but the Purple Dragon tabards and holy symbols seemed to reassure them. One hurrying maid plucked a polishing-towel from her hip and tossed it to them. Pennae deftly caught it with a smile of thanks.

  “Crusted silverfin cheese,” Doust moaned from behind her, getting a whiff from some smallbites passing nearby. “In the name of Tymora, lass, feed a starving priest!”

  The serving maid he’d called to turned with a grin. “There are no starving priests, saer, but by all means eat your fill.”

  Doust swept the platter out of her hands, agreeing, “No starving priests any more!”

  Before the maid could protest, Pennae had scooped an armful of the greasy, flaky-crusted smallbites off the platter and thrust them at her fellow Knights. Doust gave her a hurt look and turned away to shield what was left with his shoulder, but his protest was lost amid the rumbles of the Knights’ stomachs. They emptied Pennae’s hands in a single breath, Semoor bending forward to lick her fingers until she snatched them away and slapped him with them.

  That made the serving maid grin, shrug, and depart for another platter.

  “There!” Florin said suddenly, pointing out into the brightly lit center of the hall, over the heads of courtiers, nobles, and commoners in their brightly hued best, all standing talking with drinks in their hands.

  Standing quite near, in the midst of a throng of daringly gowned ladies hanging on his every growled word, was Vangerdahast.

  The Knights hurrie
d toward him. At the sight of them, Purple Dragons clad in full shining armor, with halberds in their hands, stepped away from pillars they’d been stationed at, and trotted to intercept the intruders.

  “Stand aside,” Florin murmured as the first guard moved to bar his way. The halberd came down to menace him, but the ranger slowed not a whit.

  One of the ladies clustered around Vangerdahast saw the flash of the halberd descending as she glanced idly in that direction-and screamed.

  As heads turned and guests started to stare and murmur, the Royal Magician of the Realm looked up, saw the Knights, and glared.

  A guard thrust a halberd in Islif’s way. She ducked under its head, grasped its shaft, and heaved, hurling the man aside. Finding herself in possession of the polearm, she flicked its other end between the ankles of the next hurrying guard-and then lost the halberd as he crashed forward onto it, nose-first, and went on to find the floor, hard.

  A halberd jabbed at Pennae from another direction. She dived under its thrust and rolled swiftly across the floor to crash under its wielder’s ankles, toppling him-into Florin’s arms.

  The ranger plucked the guard off his feet and hurled him bodily into the two guards right behind him, sending them all crashing down in a welter of bouncing halberds.

  Lady revelers shrieked and tried to flee-and a reeling, off-balance guard stepped on the trailing gown of one buxom lady merchant and bared her to dethma and elegantly jeweled clout as her low-backed, lower-fronted gown tore from top to bottom. There were cries of both glee and rage at that-and Vangerdahast swept grandly out of his ring of admirers and spread his hands, rings catching fire on all of his fingers, to blast the Knights.

  Florin desperately swept Pennae up off her feet, boosted her upright to his shoulder, and threw her forward and high into the air-as the Royal Magician’s spell-blast slammed into the Knights, hurling them back. Pennae, aloft, escaped that roaring magic, but it flattened guards, servants, and guests alike, sweeping them all, bone-shakingly, past pillars to the back wall, to end up with the Knights in a chaos of bruised, interlocked, writhing folk.