Death of the Dragon c-3

by Ed Greenwood

  Korvarr scowled in confusion, but was too much the soldier to ask the question on the tip of his tongue.

  Tanalasta answered it anyway. “There is nothing uncertain about the parentage of my child, and I think it’s time we made that clear to Lord Goldsword and his ilk.”

  Korvarr mustered the courage to follow her toward the wardrobe. “I beg the princess’s pardon, but I may have put the matter too delicately. It is the child’s legitimacy they are complaining about. That your first born should be misbegotten-“

  “It is not ‘misbegotten,’ Korvarr.” Tanalasta could sense the disapproval in the lionar’s voice, and it was all she could do not to whirl on him. “It was ‘gotten’ by my husband.”

  Korvarr stumbled over his own feet and nearly fell. “Husband?”

  “Rowen Cormaeril,” Tanalasta said. “And I think it is time the realm knows it-before Lord Goldsword and his cronies sell our kingdom to the Sembians.”

  22

  The King of all Cormyr took a cautious step forward on the damp forest moss, then froze. Overhead, through the dappling of many green fingers of leaves, the light had changed. Azoun Obarskyr knew all too well what that meant.

  The source of the stolen sun flashed past overhead, beating dark wings. The dragon-a red dragon as large, or larger, than any he’d ever seen-was heading south in a hurry. Azoun grimly watched it go.

  Something fell in its wake, something that had spun out of its jaws to hurtle to the ground forgotten.

  Something that was plummeting down so close to Azoun that the dragon’s forgetting it was a very good thing.

  Azoun stood as still as any tree as the something crashed into the damp leaves, bounced once, then fell still. A little dust trailed away from where it had landed, but not enough to conceal from intent royal eyes what the forgotten detritus was. It was the bloody remnant of a human leg, still encased in a boot-a boot of the sort well-to-do Cormyrean courtiers wear when they must take to the country.

  The king wondered which of his subjects this grim remnant had belonged to-and if a swift, but brutal death now was going to turn out to be a fortunate thing for a Cormyrean. An instant later, he was very glad he’d kept still and silent. Hoots and hissing chuckles-goblin mirth, without a doubt-arose from just ahead of him. The sound came from at least three sides, mingled with cries of “Nalavara!” and “Ardrak!” That last word, he knew, was “dragon” in some goblin tongues.

  No lad or lass of Cormyr over about four winters of age thinks of the deep green forests as empty, private places. The tales they’re told leave them in no doubt that the woods are more alive than even barley fields with no hawks or owls about to keep the mice down. They also know that if one is not to become hunted on any woodland journey, one must have stealth, wary alertness, and ready weapons. Yet in all but the most northerly reaches of the Forest Kingdom, goblins were a woodland rarity. Azoun allowed himself a soundless curse of astonishment. A sizeable band of the scuttling vermin must be just in front of him, very close by. They could only be in the woods on some sort of stealthy business… and that business, of course, could only be an intended ambush of the king’s army.

  Azoun Obarskyr had not played at being a forester since the most daring and pranksome days of his lass-chasing youth, but he sank down onto his knees in the soft forest moss as slowly and gently as any veteran woodsman. The lives of many Purple Dragons depended on how careful he was now. To say nothing of the life of just one Azoun Obarskyr IV.

  Moreover, goblin noses and ears were keener than those of the human guards and others he’d fooled when he was younger, bolder, and more agile. He was, he hoped, just a little wiser now, so he waited until a good ten breaths after he heard the faintest rustling moving away from him before he followed. Then he crawled.

  The rotting caused by the ghazneth was feeble now and would kill him as surely as a goblin blade if this took too long. Well, it would take as long as it took, that was all. The King of Cormyr wore caution like a cloak during the eternity of stealthy creeping that ensued, moving along with infinite care so as to keep the stealthily advancing goblin battle band always ahead of him.

  Ahead, finally, to a place where he could hear the murmur of human voices, occasional heavy footfalls, and even the ring of an incautiously drawn blade. The goblins had led him back to his army… so that he could save it, if he handled this just right. Slowly, like a vengeful shadow, he drew himself to his feet, standing upright and throwing his head back to draw in the breath he knew he’d need. With but a single chance, this must be done just right.

  “Araga?” a goblin throat hissed, not far away to his left. That, if his memory served, meant “Ready?”

  Azoun decided not to wait for the answer. Filling his lungs, he roared as loudly as he could, “We’ve got them surrounded! Purple Dragons, attack!”

  A ragged shriek of rage and dismay rose like a wall of wailing in his face. The King of Cormyr flung himself forward to the highest perch within reach-atop a moss-cloaked boulder-and planted his feet, staring intently into the furious tumult below. Surprise lost and ambush ruined, most of the furious goblins charged at the king’s warriors on one front, while others turned to attack the foe who’d shouted.

  Azoun Obarskyr awaited those howling goblins calmly, standing alone and swaying with weakness, but wearing a wolfish smile. His eyes were looking for just one thing: ready crossbows in goblin hands. The moment he saw one, he triggered the first of the two blade barrier spells the plainest ring on his left hand held and sprang back down from the rock.

  No quarrels sped at him out of the grisly whirlwind of shredded leaves, wet goblin screams, and thudding bodies that followed. He calmly unleashed the second and last blade barrier off to the right of the first, where he could see more racing goblin bodies.

  He took the ring from his finger and hurled it into the heart of the butchery of conjured blades, watching where squalling goblins fell and where amid the moss and dead leaves their weapons landed.

  When he saw what he wanted, Azoun was down from behind his rock like a striking snake. He had a cocked goblin crossbow in his hands and was darting sideways to scoop up a quarrel before any goblin nearby even knew it.

  “Never,” he murmured aloud as he settled himself under a thorn bush with the bow ready to fire, “was a ring of spell storing quite so valuable to the Crown of Cormyr. Have my thanks, Vangey-wherever you are.”

  Both the main body of goblins and almost all the leaves in the area where the spell-born blades whirled were shredded now-a dark, wet mass of huddled ruin beneath whirling emptiness. He suspected he’d not have much longer to wait before-

  Like a dark thunderbolt, a ghazneth plunged down.

  Flashing blades melted away like mist before a gale as it drank in the magic of Azoun’s unleashed spells, paying them almost no attention as it sought the ring.

  Azoun calmly put his quarrel into the thickest part of its body as it stalked forward, then threw himself down, not pausing to try to recognize it. “Men of Cormyr,” he bellowed up at the shredded branches above, “empty every bolt and arrow you have into this beast! Stint not! Fire at the king’s will!”

  He rolled upright and peered over the edge of the rock. He’d not taken the time to try to recognize the ghazneth before, and he doubted he could be sure of it now. It was almost entirely obscured by the thudding rain of arrow after arrow as the Purple Dragons enthusiastically feathered it with iron arrowheads by the dozens.

  Azoun watched in satisfaction as the ghazneth staggered, took two or three frantic running steps through the trees, then beat wings that shook and trembled until it was aloft, crashing through dozens of branches in its heavy, faltering flight away.

  “Purple Dragons, to me!” Azoun roared, sitting down behind the rock again. Now would not be a heroic time to take an arrow from his own men, either mistaken or deliberate. There must be some in Cormyr who blamed this war on the Obarskyrs. There always were.

  In but a few moments the king was surrou
nded by familiar, grinning faces above breastplates emblazoned with the Purple Dragon. “Well met, Your Majesty!” a dragoneer bellowed, extending a hand to his king.

  Azoun took it and was hauled to his feet. “Well met, indeed!” he boomed, looking around as armored men clustered around him. “What news?”

  “More losses, my liege,” one of the swordlords growled. “The war wizards, too, have deserted us.”

  “Deserted?”

  “Easy, there,” a lancelord reproved the first officer, and turned to face the frowning king. “They said they’d learned by magic that neither you, Your Majesty, nor Arkenfrost, had been seen at court. They told old Hestellen they feared treachery on the part of certain nobles-they named no names-and said they could trace you, if you stood nearby, through your clothes that they’d but lately handled. And with that they went.”

  “To Suzail?”

  “Aye.”

  “Stormshoulder, Gaundolonn, and…?”

  “And Starlaggar,” the lancelord said unhappily.

  The king nodded grimly, seeing again a bloody, booted foot tumble to earth. “I fear their journey ended in the dragon’s jaws,” he told the swordlord. “Speak no ill of them. I’ll be needing to use the healing vials of an officer or two, though, if they left no healing magic behind.” He drew in a deep breath, and asked the question he must know the answer to. “How is our muster now?”

  “Your Majesty,” the swordlord began, his tones matching the general unhappiness, “I’m sorry to say th-“

  He was astonished when the king flung up a hand in a soundless order to be silent, but obeyed, watching mutely as Azoun took two swift steps away and swung his arm to bid all of the men around him to keep silence and fall back.

  Father.

  Alusair’s voice, in his mind, trembled on the sword’s edge of helpless tears. “Yes, lass,” he muttered, as gently and warmly as he knew how. “I’m here. Speak.”

  Utter slaughter. Dragon. Few of us left-goblinkin on all sides. I fear I can’t get my men out.

  Azoun threw back his head, looking up through bare, hacked branches at a sky that was thankfully free of dragons, and drew in a deep breath. He knew in that moment that he was going to Alusair’s side.

  Tanalasta was just going to have to deal with the problems at court on her own. The gods and all Cormyr knew she’d had long enough to get to know the nobles and their ways, and a trial by fire while a certain Azoun Obarskyr lay near death and a grasping young Bleth romanced her and sought to dupe his way onto the throne. Moreover, the crown princess had come a long way since those dark days, and learned much. In these last few months, she’d continually surprised him with the sudden flowering of her confidence and ability.

  The Steel Princess, on the other hand, was a known quantity. She was a warrior who could lead Cormyr and keep it strong even if all of her kin-especially one old, white-haired, wheezing warrior who happened to wear a crown on his head-were to fall. She was a blade no kingdom should throw away, even if she hadn’t been his favorite daughter.

  More than that, to stride into the palace now would be to rob Tanalasta of any chance for a victory at court, or increased confidence, or a reputation for anything in the eyes of anyone, or learning anything from what had befallen-all would be swept away as “the little girl mishandling the throne ere her father returned.”

  It hadn’t been such a hard decision after all.

  “Make ready, men,” he called, making sure Alusair would hear his words through their rings. “We go north as swiftly as we can, to join the force under the Steel Princess. No battle cries, now, and no noise. The dragons seem to be bad this year.”

  He wasn’t sure who groaned more grimly at that, the men around him, or Alusair in her desperation, standing wearily on a hilltop leaning on a blade black with drying orc blood.

  23

  They were sitting on the veranda of the grand Crownsilver estate, three of them-Maniol Crownsilver himself, Duke Kastar Pursenose, and the Lady of Pearls, Bridgette Alamber-drinking merlot and staring out over the rolling grounds of the estate. The lands looked as though a rare freeze had drifted in from the north and overstayed the tolerance of its hosts. The pear orchards had withered to neat rows of twisted black skeletons, the much-vaunted flock of Silver-marsh sheep lay bloated and huffing in their brown pasture, and the vineyard had vanished beneath a snowy blanket of white mold.

  “A pity about the vineyard, Manny,” said Lady Alamber, draining the last red drops from her glass. “There simply is no equal for the Silverhill merlot. I shall miss it, I’m afraid.”

  “We still have a barrel or a hundred in the cellar.” Maniol drained the last of the ewer’s contents into Lady Alamber’s glass and set the empty container on the table edge, where an anonymous hand in a white glove took it away to be refilled. “I’ll have a cask sent over for you.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “Not at all,” said Maniol. “All I ask is that you keep it away from your magic.”

  “You may rest assured,” said Lady Alamber. “It would be a pity to have such a fine vintage spoiled by one of these ghazneth things. Perhaps I’ll even accept the princess’s offer and send my magic to the castle for safekeeping.”

  The mockery in her voice drew a sardonic chuckle from both men, and the anonymous hand returned the ewer to the table. Duke Pursenose offered his glass to Maniol to be refilled.

  “Tell me, what are we going to do about this Goldsword business?” he asked.

  “Do?” Maniol poured for the duke. “The same thing we always do, of course-wait until the matter sorts itself out.”

  “Really, I don’t know what the princess could have been thinking,” said Lady Alamber. “It’s bad enough to sleep with a petty noble, but to marry him?”

  “And a Cormaeril at that,” agreed Maniol. “Was she trying to make allies for Goldsword?”

  “Still, there are those who feel she showed nerve, and who admire her candor,” said Pursenose. “With the setbacks in the north, they say she has been showing leadership.”

  Maniol nodded and poured for himself. “The Hardcastles and Rallyhorns-and the Wyvernspurs, as well… Now that they have the old Cormaeril estates, they’ve become a family to be dealt with.”

  “Precisely the point.” Lady Alamber drained her glass again. “On the one hand, she’s produced an heir.” She held one hand out and lowered it dramatically. “On the other hand-it’s a Cormaeril.” She held out the other hand and lowered it. “There’s no telling who’s going to win this thing.”

  “That is hardly important, my dear,” Maniol said, refilling her glass. “What is important is that we don’t lose in it.”

  “In normal times, yes,” said Pursenose, “but with these dreadful ghazneths running about tearing the place up and orcs and goblins loose to the north… it’s bad for the ledgers, and it could get worse. It might be less expensive if we simply choose a side.”

  Maniol shook his head vigorously. “And what if we were to choose the wrong side? You saw what Azoun did to the Bleths and Cormaerils after the Abraxus Affair. I doubt the Sembians would be any more gracious if we were to side with Tanalasta against them.” He took a long pull from his glass, then made a sour face. “I say, the mold must have gotten to this cask.”

  Pursenose had already noticed the same thing, but had not wanted to insult his host by complaining. “There does seem to be a touch of vinegar to it,” he said politely. “But it seems to me we’re overlooking the ghazneths in all this. Aren’t they the real enemy? If we let things go on like this, we’ll all lose our crops this year.”

  “Which will only drive the price of our stores that much higher.” Maniol’s sly smile was tainted by a sudden flushing of the brow. “Nobody ever said it was easy to be a noble.” He grimaced at a sudden burning down in his belly, but managed to keep a polite smile as he turned to draw Lady Alamber back into the conversation. “Wouldn’t you agree, Bridgette?”

  But Lady Alamber was not saying anyt
hing. She sat slumped in her chair, mouth agape and red-rimmed eyes staring into the sky. Bloody drool ran from the corner of her mouth and an acidic stench rose from the chair beneath her.

  Duke Pursenose hissed in pain and the glass slipped from his hand to shatter against the stone patio. “I say, Maniol,” he gasped, slumping down in his own chair. “This wine does seem a bit… foul.”

  Lord Crownsilver was past caring. His head hit the table with a hard thump, and a long, wet rasp gurgled from his mouth. Still gloved in white, the anonymous hand reached over and removed the ewer from the table.

  From the King’s Balcony, the Royal Gardens resembled the camp of some vast army settling in for a long siege. It was filled with smoky pillars rising from small campfires, and old sails, waxed tarps, and anything else that could serve as a tent were strung between delicate fruit trees and carefully shaped topiaries. There were people everywhere, gathered together in small, miserable groups, sleeping alone under trees, milling about listlessly looking for lost children and familiar faces. The smell of food, squalor, and aromatic flowerbeds all merged into one, creating a greasy, too-sweet aroma. The cloying smell reminded Tanalasta of an old noblewoman whose nose had grown too accustomed to her own perfume.

  “They started arriving last night,” Korvarr explained.

  “We told them the park was not for sleeping, but they refused to leave. With the royal palace so close, they said it was the only safe place in Cormyr to sleep.”

  “I’d be willing to argue the point with them,” Tanalasta said dryly. “Let me think on the matter for a time. At the moment, I’m more concerned about these assassinations.”

  She turned to Sarmon the Spectacular, who sat behind her in a wheeled chair that Alaphondar had designed for him. Though she knew the wizard to be no more than fifty, he looked close to twice that age, with baggy eyes, wrinkled alabaster skin, and hair so thin she could see the liver spots on his scalp.