by Ed Greenwood
“Eight or so, if one counts untried apprentices,” Arkenfrost replied calmly through the tumult, “and three who’ve spells enough to make a difference in battle.”
“If they try,” Azoun snarled, “ghazneths galore will be down on them like hungry vultures. We’ve been duped-again!” Gods, he missed Vangerdahast’s foresight and sarcastic calm… but this was one war the King of Cormyr was just going to have to win without his royal magician.
He looked around at Purple Dragons heartily hacking down orcs, then back at Arkenfrost. “If we leave you, can you bring these men out into the sunlight again and back to rejoin us?”
Arkenfrost shrugged. “We fought our way in here, Majesty,” he replied calmly. “I daresay we can fight our way out.”
The king nodded curtly, caught hold of Alusair’s hand, and snapped, “We go. Guard yourselves.”
Alusair opened her mouth to say something, but Azoun made no move to halt his will. His ring flashed once as the vast blue falling seized them both-and when it cleared they were out under the sun again, the royal standard Azoun had sought to return to was fluttering beside their ears, and they were staring into the frightened eyes of three men in robes whose hands were leveled at the Obarskyrs, and whose wrists were crackling with the awakened lightning of battle magic.
“Strike not your king!” Alusair roared, her voice as deep a snarl as any swordcaptain’s. “How goes the battle? Did you face any ghazneths?”
The foremost man sketched the briefest of bows and stammered, “N-none, Royal Lady. Ah, Eareagle Stormshoulder, loyal mage of the Crown, at your service. Uh, your majesties.” He drew in an unhappy breath, and said stiffly, “We face a sea of orcs-tuskers everywhere, like a cloak on the hillsides all around. We dare not use much magic, for fear of the darkwi-the ghazneths.”
“Prudent,” the king said, nodding, “but use what magic you must. To let men die while you stand idle is to give a ghazneth a victory it hasn’t even taken the field to earn.” He shot the other two mages a steely glance. “Has Stormshoulder seen the fray correctly?”
“Ah, he has, your majesty,” one wizard said awkwardly, while the other stammered, “He has.” Then they both seemed to remember whom they were addressing, and found their knees with almost comical haste.
“Loyal Mage Lharyder Gaundolonn, O King.”
“Loyal Mage Mavelar Starlaggar at your service, Crowned Lord of Cormyr.”
Azoun waved these formalities aside with a growl that became the command, “Follow me! I’ll have these orcs swept from my land even if I have to slay each and every last one of them myself! For Cormyr and victory!”
Holding high his warsword as if it were a flaming brand sent down by the gods, the king charged forward. Alusair snatched up the royal standard and followed, snapping a quiet, “Come!” to the open-mouthed war wizards.
Helmed heads were turning to look at them as they trotted forward. The king’s army was facing a host of orcs that covered the hills ahead for as far as they could see, but a great shout went up as the Obarskyrs surged forward to the line where men and orcs were hacking at each other in the sunlight with a sort of grim resignation.
“For Cormyr and victory!” a thousand throats shouted in unison.
“Death to all orcs!” a swordcaptain called back, and the reply rolled out deafeningly, “For CORMYR AND VICTORY!”
And as the royal army raced forward with renewed vigor to hew down orcs, slipping and sliding in the black blood of the tuskers who’d already fallen, not a man there spared a glance into the sky for a ghazneth. There were orcs to kill, and too little daylight left to down them all.
“For Cormyr,” Azoun shouted happily, shouldering his way past a startled lancelord to lay open the face of a snarling orc, “forever!”
“Gods, yes,” Alusair murmured, from somewhere near his left shoulder, “let it be forever.”
12
Tanalasta stood on the Amethyst Dais of the Royal Audience Hall, feeling small and lost in the soaring grandeur of the golden chamber, yet also very glad for the concealing bulk of her Purple Robe of State. She was beginning to thicken around the middle, and it wouldn’t do to have this particular pack of wolves speculating over the cause. There were nearly two hundred of them clustered at the base of the stairs, droning quietly in their little cliques even as Lord Emlar Goldsword addressed the crown.
“These ghazneths are proving a nuisance, Highness. Already, a rather stubborn blight has taken hold in my vineyard, the flies have made a maggot barn of my stables, and I have had to dismiss several servants who spoke harshly to Lady Radalard.”
The complaints differed only in detail from the litany of grievances to which Tanalasta had been listening all morning. A fissure of molten rock had run down the middle of the Huntcrown country estate, swallowing the mansion, Lord Tabart’s favorite stallion, and a dozen good gardeners. A quarter of the ships in the Dauntinghorn merchant fleet had developed sudden cases of dry rot, forcing the family to leave whole shiploads of foodstuffs moldering on the docks. For no reason anyone could name, the young men of the prolific Silverhorn family had developed a sudden hatred of the Hornholds and initiated a deadly blood feud that had already cost both families their firstborn heirs.
Most of the speakers were united in implying that Tanalasta had brought this plague of calamities with her when she came down from the north, and in suggesting that had she had the foresight to seek refuge elsewhere, perhaps they would not have been so inconvenienced. She listened to each lord politely, interrupting only to clarify a point or to ask a description in the rare event that the speaker had actually joined his guards and gone out to do battle when the ghazneth came. What the princess heard convinced her that all six of the creatures were now plaguing southern Cormyr.
It also convinced her that most of the nobles before her were not worthy of the name. Why was it, she wondered, that the highborn of a family so often turned out to be selfish cowards, while the lesser cousins proved true and brave? That had certainly been so among the Cormaerils. She could easily picture Gaspar or Xanthon there before her, complaining about the inconvenience of having the kingdom assaulted by the scourges of Alaundo’s prophecy while their lesser cousin Rowen was off actually trying to do something about it.
Tanalasta forced herself to focus on Lord Goldsword. She did not know whether it was her condition or her growing concern about Rowen’s long absence, but she found her attention wandering to her husband at increasing intervals. It had been three months since King Azoun had found the ranger’s mount riderless and alone in the Stonelands, and she had heard about the blood on the saddle and the likelihood it had come from a festering wound. The conclusion was obvious, but Tanalasta could not bring herself to believe it without a body, especially not when she had heard nothing from Rowen himself. He had been wearing a royal ranger’s cloak, which had the same magic throat clasp as a war wizard’s weathercloak. Had he lain slowly dying somewhere, Tanalasta knew his last act would have been a sending to say good-bye. He would never be cruel enough to simply die and leave her in doubt-not Rowen Cormaeril.
“Highness?” asked Lord Goldsword.
Tanalasta found herself looking past the pate of Emlar’s shiny bald head and realized she had been staring off into space again. With much-practiced poise, she kept her gaze fixed on the ivory dragon at which she had been staring and did not allow her face to betray any shock.
“You were saying that some of your servants had gone mad and insulted Lady Radalard,” Tanalasta said. “Was there anything else?”
“Only the matter of the hounds, Highness,” he said.
“Ah yes, the hounds.” Tanalasta let her gaze drop to the lord’s face. This time she did not try to disguise the irritation she felt at being petitioned about vineyards and hunting dogs while the ancient prophecy of Cormyr’s doom came true before their eyes. “What do you intend to do about it, milord?”
Goldsword looked taken aback, and the drone of the half-whispered conversations ar
ound him fell suddenly silent. “Do, Majesty?”
“Yes, Emlar,” said Tanalasta. “What do you intend to do about the ghazneths? They are the cause of all these troubles-or haven’t you heard?”
Emlar’s eyes flashed with irritation. “Of course I have heard, Highness.” His voice assumed that silky tone nobles liked to use when they tried to manipulate some fact or half truth to their own advantage. “Everyone knows how you brought them-“
“The princess did not bring them, Lord Goldsword,” said Queen Filfaeril. She rose from her throne, where she had been quietly working on a silken needlepoint depicting her rescue from Mad King Boldovar. “If you will recall, they were waiting when we arrived. The princess was very nearly killed-and I, for one, would like to know how that came to be.”
The color drained from Emlar’s jowly face, as it did from so many faces when the queen spoke in that icy tone. “I beg the princess’s pardon.” He continued to look at Filfaeril and bowed more deeply than he had to Tanalasta. “I meant only to say that these ghazneths are a matter for the crown. The nobles can hardly be expected to muster their household guards-“
“And why not?” demanded Tanalasta, glaring at the lord even more harshly than he deserved. Though her mother had been careful to stop a pace behind her, the princess would rather the queen had remained in her throne. Even the mere demonstration of support for Tanalasta’s leadership implied that it was needed and weakened her in the eyes of the nobles. To regain their respect, she would need to be more stern than before. “While I was in Huthduth, did the king release the nobles of their liege duties and neglect to inform me?”
“Of course not,” replied the lord, “but the king is not here.”
“The king is always here,” Filfaeril began.
Tanalasta raised her hand ever so slightly. As subtle as the movement was, such things seldom went unnoticed in the cagey world of lordly politics, and the gesture drew an astonished gasp. Lord Goldsword looked to the queen, clearly expecting her to put Tanalasta in her place and take over the audience. Instead, Filfaeril merely inclined her head and retreated to her throne, leaving the nobles to ponder the new structure of royal power.
Tanalasta stepped to the top of the stairs. “The king is in the north fighting orcs, as are most of Cormyr’s armies.” She looked away from Goldsword and ran her gaze over the other nobles. “If the south is to be defended, it will not be by Purple Dragons.”
The expected murmur had barely begun when a husky voice called out from the back of the crowd, “Perhaps I may be of some service in that regard, Majesty.”
Tanalasta looked toward the speaker and saw a broad-shouldered man with dark hair and darker eyes stepping out of a small circle of Rowanmantles, Longthumbs, and other merchant families. The fellow’s foppish feathered hat prevented the princess from seeing his face clearly, but as he bowed she caught a glimpse of swarthy cheekbone and a proud cleft chin. Her heart began to pound so violently that she feared the nobles could hear it down on the chamber floor. Though she could not imagine what Rowen would be doing in the garish silks of a Sembian merchant, the similarity of their appearance was too great to overlook.
Tanalasta extended a hand and could not quite keep the excitement from her voice as she said, “The gentleman in feathers may rise and present himself.”
The enthusiasm in her voice prompted a louder murmur than the last, and even Lord Goldsword turned to see what stranger had prompted such a reaction from their taciturn princess.
The newcomer removed his hat with a flourish and bowed even lower, then answered in an almost comically thick Sembian accent, “As you command, Majesty.”
The man stood and started forward, and Tanalasta’s heart fell a little. The distance was too far to see his face clearly, but his hair was shorter than Rowen’s and more heavily styled. Still, hair could be cut and trained, and if her husband had some reason for coming to her in the guise of a foreigner-and she could not believe any true Sembian would speak with such a thick accent-it would behoove him to be certain his hair supported the disguise.
Tanalasta’s curiosity could not wait until the man reached the base of the stairs. “Tell us your name, good sir.”
The man stopped and bowed again, and even Queen Filfaeril grew curious enough to leave her throne and step to Tanalasta’s side.
“That would be Korian Hovanay,” said the man. “Ambassador of the Consortium Princes of Saerloon, Selgaunt, and all of Sembia, at your service, Majesty.”
Filfaeril glanced at Tanalasta and cocked her brow, but the princess paid the gesture no regard and motioned the man forward again.
“Come along, Ambassador Hovanay,” she said, playing along. “We are discussing serious matters here. We do not have all day to wait on your bowing and scraping.”
Korian quickly rose and started forward again, and Tanalasta’s heart sank a little further. The man’s face was fleshier than her husband’s, and it lacked the chiseled, weatherworn aspect that had attracted her to Rowen in the first place.
Still, Sembians liked to eat well, as though the number of a squid tails and octopus legs a man could afford to choke down were a measure of his acumen as a merchant. Two months of such rich, heavily buttered food would fatten the cheeks of even the hardiest royal scout.
Now the Sembian began to speak as he walked. “I apologize for keeping Her Majesty waiting, and will endeavor to be brief. Cormyr’s many and growing troubles in the north and elsewhere having come to my masters’ attention, they have bade me come to Suzail and offer their every assistance.”
“Assistance?” Tanalasta echoed, finding it difficult to concentrate on the man’s words instead of his face. “What kind of assistance?”
“The kind the crown of Cormyr finds to be mutually agreeable.” The ambassador stopped at the base of the stairs and started to bow again, then caught himself and simply continued. “At this moment, my masters have an army of ten thousand sellswords commanded by our own Sembian officers on the march toward Daerlun.”
“Ten thousand?” Filfaeril gasped.
Tanalasta barely heard her mother, for she saw now that this handsome ambassador could not be her Rowen. Though hardly fat-especially by Sembian standards-the merchant’s softness clung to him like a blanket, and his mannerisms had the smooth, practiced air of an accomplished liar.
“Ten thousand sellswords?” Filfaeril repeated, this time more into Tanalasta’s ear than toward the ambassador. “That is not help. That is an invasion.”
Korian raised his hands in denial. “Nothing of the sort is meant. My masters only wish me to convey that the army is advancing to the Swamprun for our own protection. And since it will already be close, they thought-“
“They might as well claim southern Cormyr,” Tanalasta said. Now that she had discovered the error of her assumptions, the princess’s amiable disposition toward the man was replaced by an unreasonably terse anger. “Ambassador Hovanay, you may return to your masters with our thanks-and this warning: While their armies remain on Sembia’s side of the Swamprun, our countries remain at peace.”
The ambassador’s eyes widened in a practiced show of surprise. “Majesty, I fear you misinterpret my masters’ intentions.”
“And I fear I do not,” replied Tanalasta.
“And I fear you are being too hasty,” said Lord Goldsword. He dared to place a foot on the bottom stair of the dais, prompting Korvarr Rallyhorn and a dozen more of Tanalasta’s bodyguards to grab the hilts of their swords and flank him.
Goldsword remained where he was. “You said yourself that our own armies are occupied in the north, and I’m sure I speak for every noble here when I say we have our hands full enough just trying to keep these ghazneths off our lands.”
He glanced around the chamber and received an enthusiastic round of hear, hears. Only Giogi Wyvernspur, Ildamoar Hardcastle, and a handful of other dour-looking loyalists remained silent.
A terrible anger welled up inside Tanalasta and she descended a single st
ep toward Emlar Goldsword. “Are you a coward, sir?”
Emlar’s jaw dropped, and his face turned stormy and red. “I beg your pardon?”
Tanalasta descended another step, ignoring Korvarr Rallyhorn’s startled head shake. “I believe my question was clear enough, Goldsword. I asked if you were a coward.”
Emlar’s face turned the color of Tanalasta’s royal robe. He started to ascend the stairs to meet the princess-only to find the tip of Korvarr’s dagger pressed beneath his chin.
“What-” Emlar was so furious he had to stop and lift his shaking jowls off the dagger before continuing. “What is the meaning of this?”
Tanalasta descended another step, bringing her to within arm’s length of the quivering noble. “The crown demands to know.” She reached out and slapped the man. “Are you such a coward that you’d rather sell your realm than defend it?”
“I-I-I ought to-“
“Careful.” Korvarr pricked his dagger beneath the man’s chin. “You’re speaking to the throne.”
Emlar glared at the princess. “You… are… not the… king.”
“No, I am the crown princess acting in his absence.” Tanalasta looked to Korvarr, then said, “If that is all Lord Goldsword cares to hide behind, let us see how brave he really is. Korvarr, stand back and let him go.”
The lionar’s eyes flashed in alarm, but he sheathed his dagger and backed away as ordered. Tanalasta stepped down another stair, so that she was now standing eye-to-eye with Goldsword.
“Well?”
Goldsword’s body began to shake so violently that Tanalasta thought he would drop dead. His hand drifted toward his sword belt, and a series of sharp chimes echoed through the chamber. Giogi Wyvernspur and a few others drew their own weapons. That was enough for Emlar, who backed off the step and turned to leave.