Swords of Dragonfire tkomd-2

by Ed Greenwood

  “Oh, joy, ” Dove and Dalonder Ree sighed in unison, from about sixty feet apart. “It begins.”

  “This,” Dalonder added, as he watched the Lady Summerwood extend a long arm almost as an afterthought to gather the king into a three-way embrace, “is going to be an interesting evening.”

  Vangerdahast murmured something, and a tiny coffer appeared in midair in front of him.

  He reached for it, opened it, and told Jhessail, “Touch only the unicorn-headed ring. Take it out, but don’t put it on, or allow even the smallest part of any of your fingers to pass into its circle. Just hold it up in front of me.”

  She nodded and did so. A swift flick of Vangey’s hand made the coffer go away again, and he carefully worked a spell on the ring.

  A red glow rose from it, and began to pulse. Jhessail’s face tightened in pain and she started to tremble. “Keep hold of it!” the Royal Magician snapped.

  The lady Knight nodded grimly, as a scene slowly built in the air between them, of a deserted stone room lit by a single scrying crystal that was pulsing and glowing with the same red hue as the ring she was holding. In the depths of that crystal, the Knights could see a tiny image of themselves standing with Vangerdahast, in the room they were now in.

  The crystal sat on a plinth of dark stone, one of a ring of identical plinths; the others all had dark, inactive crystal balls atop them. Every plinth was circled in chalk, and those circles were linked by raylike lines to a central, empty circle.

  Peering hard at the plinths, Vangerdahast snapped, “See you the plinth under the glowing crystal, Florin? Look at the chalk drawn around it, at the slight variations in circle and line from what’s been drawn around the other plinths. If the crystal went dark, could you tell that one plinth from the others?”

  “I… yes,” Florin said firmly. “Yes, I could.”

  “Good. That plinth is in truth a war wizard, a traitor to the realm. Go and slay him with steel, striking as fast as you can and keeping low, for he can with a word cause all those crystals to burst and spray deadly shards everywhere. Go out through the wardrobe, turn left, and run like a storm wind; my voice will guide you thereafter.”

  Without another word Florin raced across the room, drawn sword in hand, plunged through the wardrobe, and turned left.

  “Faster!” Laspeera snapped, as yet another guardpost of Purple Dragons moved to bar their way, uncertain frowns on their faces.

  Tathanter Doarmund thrust his warshield spell forward like a battering ram, but on its flanks Dauntless in his tatters and most of the dozen other Purple Dragons were already plunging ahead. The ornrion bellowed, “Make way! Aside! Get out of the tluining way! ”

  When one palace guard stopped uncertainly, halberd raised, Dauntless smashed it aside with his fists and slammed the soldier into the passage wall. When the guard snarled a curse and reached for a dagger, a Purple Dragon rushing along behind Dauntless punched him hard in the throat, leaving him to reel and fall in the wake of the hurrying throng.

  Tathanter, Malvert Lulleer, Laspeera, and the Dragons had already pounded along too many Palace corridors, striking aside servants and guards who hadn’t gotten out of the way fast enough-but there were the doors to Anglond’s Great Hall at last!

  The door-guards took one look at them and flung the doors wide; Laspeera’s band burst into the Great Hall, panting for breath but running hard.

  As shrieking fine-gowned merchants’ wives went sprawling, Dauntless and his dozen Dragons spread out, each racing through the thronged guests, sword out and looking for trouble.

  Trouble, as in the Knights of Myth Drannor.

  Pages, scribes, and courtiers from Silverymoon shouted in alarm and ran to surround and protect their lady. The envoy’s maid raced to Lady Summerwood’s side, eyes blazing with sudden silver flames.

  A voice erupted then from the breastplate of every Purple Dragon in the hall: “Laspeera am I, of the Wizards of War of Cormyr. Loyal Dragons and citizens, strike not at me, or those running with me! We serve the realm!”

  “No sign of them!” one of those running Dragons bellowed from the far end of the hall, gasping for breath.

  “None here!” another called. Other shouts followed, all announcing an utter lack of Knights of Myth Drannor from one end of the hall to the other.

  Laspeera frowned, worked a swift spell-and Dauntless and his dozen, from wherever they were all across Anglond’s Great Hall, were lofted into the air, rising upright to soar up onto the balconies. They promptly commenced to rage along those levels, peering and running.

  The hall was in an uproar, but it died down when Dauntless thrust his way to the rail of the lowest balcony to wave at Laspeera and then spread his hands in a helpless “They’re not here!” signal.

  Grimly Laspeera turned to her king and queen, to tender her apologies-and stopped, her mouth hanging open in astonishment, as King Azoun gave her a broad, genuine smile ere turning to the Lady Summerwood and saying grandly, “Aerilee, at many of our revels we celebrate the vigilance of our war wizards and Purple Dragons with a mock chase, such this one you have just witnessed, to both entertain the citizenry and to remind them that the finest folk in all our realm watch over them constantly and vigorously! May I present Laspeera Naerinth, one of our foremost and most capable war wizards?”

  Still dumbfounded, Laspeera found herself swept into the warm embrace of Silverymoon’s envoy, whose enthusiastic kiss at first made her stiffen, then shrug, and then engage in as an equal partner in a warring of tongues.

  “I’ll bet you give great backrubs,” she murmured, when at last their lips parted.

  Airilee grinned impishly. “Oh, I do. Do you rub feet?”

  Laspeera grinned back, and shrugged. “I’m willing to try.”

  Up on the balcony, watching all the kissing, Dauntless slammed a fist down on the rail and growled, “Hrast! That could be me, down there!”

  The nearest balcony guard looked him up and down, and shook his head. “Nay. You’ve not the legs for it.”

  Nearby Purple Dragons started to snicker, as Dauntless gave the guard a choice glare.

  Semoor Wolftooth squeaked in surprise as the wardrobe doors in front of him crashed open in a great splintering of wood. Two dark, helmed shadow-things had just burst through them.

  Barely half a breath later, five more shadow-things shredded the tall painting on the east wall to ribbons by arrowing through it, sword points first.

  At the same time, the door the Knights had come in by crashed open under the onslaught of two more of Margaster’s bladewraiths-who were met by Islif’s snarling fury. Her swift-swung blade shattered a helm almost instantly, causing that bladewraith to fall into drifting dust, its sword clattering to the floor.

  The other bladewraith raced past her shoulder, heading for the Royal Magician of Cormyr.

  Vangerdahast spat out a word that boomed and rolled in all ears-and shattered three wraith-blades in midair, felling the shadow-thing racing for him and two that had burst in through the painting.

  Jhessail shrieked and ducked away from a wraith that chased her, blade foremost. Pennae sprang into the air to catch hold of the candle-wheel lamp hanging from the ceiling. A wraith-blade laid open her back as she did, causing her to shout in pain.

  Doust was proud of his grand technique when casting shields of faith, but threw it aside to stammer out the magic faster than he’d ever done. Jhessail had only just begun to shimmer in its protection when he shouted at her, “Right, do something to these!”

  A moment later, a wraith-blade plunged through his guts, and he doubled up around it as it burst wetly out of his back, vomiting his blood all over Jhessail as he plunged face-first to the floor, kicking and writhing.

  Semoor’s sanctuary magic formed just in time, bladewraiths circling over him like flying angry eels but not striking. Overhead, Pennae kicked a wraith-blade away, swung hard on the lamp, and used its momentum to hurl herself feet-first down and across the room. She landed smoothly,
bouncing to pluck up the fallen sword of the shadow-thing Islif had destroyed at the door.

  Her pursuing bladewraith plunged down at her from behind, and would have spitted her as surely as it had served Doust, if its sword hadn’t been slashed viciously aside by Islif, on her way to backhand another bladewraith away from Jhessail.

  The mage of the Knights sat on the floor, her face a-drip with Doust’s blood, frantically casting a spell. Across the room, Vangerdahast was chanting something too.

  On hands and knees, Semoor scuttled across the room, trying to reach Doust. He saw the shimmering around Jhessail flicker violently as a shadow-thing hacked at it-twice, thrice, and then the magic winked out.

  The wraith-blade thrust down again-and Semoor flung up his hands to ward it away from Jhessail’s unprotected head. It sliced through his magic and then him, almost severing one of his hands.

  The Anointed of Lathander stared in horror at the ruin dangling from his wrist, and started to scream.

  Which was when Jhessail’s battlestrike finally took effect, its bright leaping bolt sending the bladewraith wavering aside that had been circling to finish Semoor.

  An instant later, Vangerdahast’s chanting ended with the calm words “undeath to death”-and all five remaining wraiths collapsed in a clattering of falling swords and whirlwinds of corpse-dust.

  “Islif,” the Royal Magician snapped, without pause, “pry off that side of the doorframe. In a space behind you’ll find a coffer of healing potions. Use what you need. Now, disturb me not!”

  Pulling himself stiffly upright, he closed his eyes and hurled his will across the Palace, praying to Azuth that he’d be in time.

  “I’m in time! Turn right!” Vangerdahast’s voice murmured abruptly, sounding as if the Royal Magician were standing where he could speak right into Florin’s ear.

  The ranger almost jumped, but obediently hurled himself around the turn, still racing along in darkness relieved only by the tiny glows that marked spyhole-swivel coverings.

  “Slow down so you won’t miss this turn- right turn,” Vangey said, and Florin obeyed.

  “Keep going past the first opening, turn left here, up the steps… along… down the steps, and turn right on the first landing… aye… now, see the glowing line? That’s the edge of a panel-slide it hard away from you and go through, turning left immediately and moving fast and low!”

  Panting, the ranger-Knight did just as he was bid, seeing the plinths as he plunged out and around them. There was the false one, as he ran on, past it. Vangey said not a word… ah, of course; the wizard could hear him, too!

  Twisting back around the next plinth, Florin struck out backhand with the very tip of his blade at the false plinth-and felt his blade slice cloth, and flesh beneath.

  There was a hoarse shriek, and the ranger flung himself at the floor and then bounced up off it, slamming into the unseen wizard before the man could say or do anything. If he could ruin any spellcasting They hit the floor together, Florin punching and kneeing, then stabbing and-being stabbed, that unseen dagger like icy flame punching into him, again and again.

  “Down, Florin!” Vangerdahast roared. “Cover yourself!”

  Trembling, sobbing in pain, Florin stabbed back at his foe, then clawed hold of unseen and blood-sticky cloth and hurled himself sideways, hitting the floor bruisingly hard but dragging the unseen, writhing man over on top of him. As he closed his eyes, a singing shriek heralded the shattering of all the crystals.

  “Keep rolling!” Vangerdahast bellowed, right in Florin’s ear. “Away, to the wall, and then make for the door! Let go of the carrion!”

  The ranger obeyed, scrambling faster than he’d ever moved in his life before, and through a red haze of pain was dimly aware of the shards racing across the room with eerie slowness, drifting-drifting “Don’t watch them, you backwoods thickneck idiot! Get out of there! ”

  Vangerdahast sounded angrier than Florin had ever heard him be before, so the ranger did as he was told.

  The aftermath of Ghoruld Applethorn’s last spell tore into him like a lightning storm, stabbing into his head and leaving his mind afire.

  Vangerdahast went to his knees, gasping and clutching feebly at his skull-and was startled as firm hands pushed him upright and forced a potion vial to his lips.

  Islif gave him a wry smile as he choked and coughed it down. Then she kissed him. “Thanks for saving our lives,” she said. “And the realm. Again.”

  “Wench, have done!” Vangerdahast replied testily, trying to wave her away. “I’ve a spell to work!”

  Islif rocked back on her heels to give him room, and the Royal Magician hastily worked an intricate magic that brought a blue haze down on the room.

  When it lifted, long breaths later, he and the Knights were all lying or kneeling just as they had been-but in the center of Anglond’s Great Hall, with a blood-spattered, wild-eyed Florin in front of them and something bloody, butchered, and in robes lying sprawled beside him.

  A collective gasp of horror rose across Anglond’s Great Hall. In the moment of awed silence that followed, the voice of the envoy of Silverymoon asked merrily, “And what does this celebrate?”

  Epilogue

  Above his scrying whorl, Beldos Margaster nodded grimly. So it was all going to end happily ever after. Except for war wizard traitors.

  He might have only a few breaths more of life left to him, if he didn’t speedily “get hence.”

  The portal to Halfhap-well, why not? Those Dragonfire swords…

  Up on the balcony, Dauntless peered down at Florin, frowning, and then bellowed suddenly, “Hey! Hoy! My sword! Give my sword back, you confounded thief!”

  Florin looked up and waved cheerfully. Dauntless exploded into a sputtering, wordless roar of fury and started to claw his way angrily along the rail toward a stair down.

  Two hard-faced Purple Dragons closed hands on the furious ragtag warrior, one of them snapping, “That’s enough, saer! Abate thy temper, saer!”

  “What?” Dauntless roared at them. “ Take your hands off me! I’m an ornrion of the Dragons, and-”

  “Right, saer, and I’m the Princess Alusair!”

  “Wrong, soldier! I’m the Princess Alusair,” said a crisp voice from behind the struggling Dragons.

  Everyone turned in astonishment. The Princess Alusair was standing a few strides behind Dauntless and the soldiers grappling with him.

  As they stared, she tore off her fine gown, to their gasps of amazement-literally ripping the fine silks and shimmerweave apart-to reveal, beneath, a leather bodice, mens’ breeches, and high boots.

  “Ornrion,” the young princess snapped, “if I give you the finest blade you’ve ever owned-something with a spell or two on it, out of the royal armory-will you gift the one Florin Falconhand has to him, and forget all thoughts of arresting him?”

  Dauntless blinked. “I… uh, yes, of course.”

  “Good,” she said with a smile, and offered him her arm as if he was a grand noble rather than a dusty, sweaty soldier in tattered garb.

  The Purple Dragons silently let go of him, and the ragtag ornrion came forward a little dazedly to take the proffered royal arm.

  Its owner gave him a regal smile and said sweetly, “Now you may escort me down to meet Cormyr’s latest hero. He saved my life back in Arabel, and I never got the chance to properly thank him.”

  Dauntless paled. “I-uh, your Highness, would that be wise? I’m no expert in matters of Court, but-”

  “No, Ornrion, you’re not. Nor am I wise. I am sick unto death of doing what’s right and proper, and I’m going to stop. Here and now. So get me down there, without delay-and you’ve my full permission to draw your sword and carve up anyone who tries to stand in our way!”

  Ornrion Taltar Dahauntul gulped. “Y-yes, your Royal Highness. At once.” He drew his sword, saluted her, made sure her arm was settled in his just so, and started for the stairs.

  Everyone was crowding around, the gabbling of excit
ed questions rising to a nigh-deafening din. The only clear space was a little more than the reach of a long arm around Lady Summerwood and her maids, and when Jhessail caught the eye of one maid and saw a flash of silver in the wink sent in her direction, she knew why. She smiled happily at the disguised Lady in Green through a rapidly closing gap in the sea of silks, pearls, cloth-of-gold, glittering gems, shimmerweave, and jostling shoulders and elbows.

  When she turned to tell Florin, an instant later, he was lost in the heart of a forest of crowding-forward Cormyreans.

  “A battle, hoy?” Lord Cormrlryn shouted enthusiastically in the heart of that tangle, his monacle steaming over. “Did you butcher the traitors, lad? Hey?”

  “Well, yes, one of them,” Florin said mumbled politely, weaving his way to his feet. Aged and hairy noble hands were pounding him on the back, slapping at his shoulders, and waving in victorious fists in the air. Well, at least they weren’t all trying to sword him…

  He had Vangerdahast to thank for that. The wizard’s bellow of, “Behold! The realm hath been saved! ” had rolled from end to end of Anglond’s Great Hall-magic, of course.

  “Lord Bellarogar Rowanmantle,” a noble as tall as Florin boomed loudly, enfolding the ranger’s shoulder in a crushing grip. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance-”

  “Dauntinghorn! Horntar Dauntinghorn! Lord Horntar Dauntinghorn!” another noble bellowed, bouncing his fist off Florin’s chest as if it was a castle door he needed hard-of-hearing servants to come and open.

  “Well met, hero! Any friend of Cormyr is a friend of mine!” another noble called, from behind Dauntinghorn’s substantial shoulders. “I’m Lord Ildabray Indesm! I — oogh! — and this is my wife, the Lady Indesm!”

  Florin tried not to grin at the evident sharpness of Lady Indesm’s elbows, and became aware, beyond his own ring of admirers, of Lord Elvarr Spurbright struggling through the crowd like a caravel slicing stormy seas to reach the edge of the little open area around the Lady Summerwood.