Death of the Dragon c-3

by Ed Greenwood

  “Die, tuskers!” the Steel Princess roared, her voice as raw and deep as any man’s, her sword and dagger dripping black with orc blood.

  She was everywhere along the line, her blade leaping like a fang over the shoulder of this cursing, reeling Purple Dragon, and that blood-drenched, exhausted man of Arabel. Where she went, her hair streaming out behind her, men shouted their exultation and hacked and slashed with renewed vigor. It had been hard, brutal work, cutting their way out of Arabel step by bloody step with the orcs roaring all around them and the dragon swooping down time and again to spew flame or just rake away heads with its claws, as it swept past so low overhead that the wind of its passage made men stagger or crash face first onto the heels of those staggering just ahead.

  The king strode into their midst, and his warden led the men and women of Arabel. Many of them were content to carry wounded fellows or the exhausted war wizards who’d worked to hold open the magical gate that had taken so many Arabellans to distant safety. Many of the marchers trembled in fear, kept from utter shrieking collapse only by the spells of the grim-faced, fearful priests who walked with them, as the dragon wheeled and glided over the Cormyreans again and again.

  Alusair snarled as she saw a black orc blade burst through the mail of the Purple Dragon ahead of her. As the man sobbed and started to fall, she ran right up his back, binding the blade that had slain him in his ribs, and with the toe of her boot secure on his belt, rose on high to stab down over him, driving her blade down with both hands into the throat of the orc who’d slain the man.

  The orc squealed, and the sound he was making became deeper and wetter. He stopped trying to wrench his sword free and sat back onto the trampled ground to die. The orcs all around were roaring at Alusair and straining to reach her with their curved black blades. She roared “Death to you all!” right back at them as her perch fell dead to the ground under her. The dragon’s talons stabbed ineffectually at the air where she had been moments before, raking a bloody toll on the orcs instead of the fighting princess of Cormyr.

  The shout came raggedly to her ears in an instant’s lull in the almost deafening clash of arms:

  “Rathtarrrr!”

  She spun around as she rose, slashing blindly out behind her in case any overbold orc was springing at her back and looked to where she’d thought that shout had come from.

  She was in time to see Guldrin Hardcastle go down.

  “Rathtar!” she cried, pitching her voice high and shrill to cut through the grunts and roars of orcs and the curses and groans of men rushing together all around her.

  A head turned-darkly handsome, as sullen as ever. Rathtar Hardcastle was killing his share of orcs with his resentment borne before him like a shield. He was just one of scores of young, handsome noble wastrels baffled as to what they must do to get the respect they felt Faerun-or at least the court of Cormyr-owed them.

  A sort of hope kindled in his eyes as Alusair beckoned him with a jerk of her head, already a stride past him as she cut down an orc with brutal efficiency.

  “Come!” she snapped, pointing with her blade as the gape-jawed orc fell away from it.

  Rathtar sprang to follow, almost stumbling in his eagerness. When he regained his footing, he found seven orcs or more lumbering into Alusair’s path. The Steel Princess never slowed, her blade singing back and forth as if it weighed nothing and the snarling, stinking orc bodies it cleaved were made of feathers or mere shadows.

  The man who did not yet know he was mere breaths away from becoming the Hardcastle heir swung his own blade with enthusiasm. This was something he could do, some way he could prove himself as every bit as much a bright hero of Cormyr as those old and grizzled men in medal-bedecked uniforms who limped sagely around the court, staring disapprovingly at anyone younger than themselves. Why, when he

  The last orc fell away under Alusair’s savage charge-gods, what a woman! Rathtar was more than a little afraid of her, even with her shapely behind waggling inches in front of his nose and the sleek line of her flank rippling as she turned to dart her sword tip under a struggling Purple Dragon and into the snarling face of an orc the dragoneer was grappling with.

  She was leading somewhere, for some glorious task, no doubt. Rathtar Hardcastle was going to be recognized at last, was going to be-

  Alusair spun suddenly, almost casually striking aside Rathtar’s lowered blade as he almost ran it through her, and clapped him on the shoulder just as he’d seen her do to a hundred weeping or pain-wracked Purple Dragon veterans.

  “Yours,” she murmured into his ear, and her lips brushed his cheek for just a moment as she spun away, murmuring, “I’ll stand guard.”

  It felt like his cheek was burning, where her lips had been. Rathtar reached up almost wonderingly to touch it as he stared down and suddenly, chillingly, knew what this was all about.

  His older brother Guldrin, as large and slow-witted as ever, was staring up at him with eyes that were going dull, blood oozing like a dark red flood from his slack mouth.

  “Y-you heard me,” Guidrin mumbled, as Rathtar crashed to his knees on dead orcs and reached out for him. His lips twisted. “For once.”

  “Are you-?” Rathtar snapped, trying to lift him.

  Guldrin nodded almost wearily. “Dying? Aye. You’re… heir now. You with your looks and giggling lasses every night, and… and… oh, gods, have my blessings and make Father proud.”

  Much blood fountained from his mouth, and he groaned weakly before gasping, “T-tell him… tell him I died well.”

  “I will! Oh, gods keep you, Guld, I will!” Rathtar shouted, finding himself on the verge of tears. Somewhere inches but a world away, steel rang on steel and Alusair snarled at the orc she’d just slain and hurled aside, and at the one behind it who was fast losing enthusiasm for facing this warrior woman with the eyes of flame.

  They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, the older brother and the younger, then… then Guldrin was simply gone from behind those staring eyes.

  Rathtar let his head fall slowly among the dead, blinking back hot tears, and spat, “Death! Death! Death to all orcs!”

  He thrust aside Alusair as if she was an inconvenient hanging tapestry and plunged into the orcs beyond her, stabbing and slashing like a madman. The Steel Princess raced after him, calling his name vainly and trying to guard his flanks, though she could only reach one.

  It was only a few breaths before a black orc blade burst through the flank she was guarding, driven in from the other side, and Rathtar Hardcastle went down on his face without a sound. Alusair cut open the grinning face of his orc slayer as she spun around to race back to safety, reminding herself to stay alive to get to Suzail and personally tell Ildamoar Hardcastle how bravely both of his Sons had fallen in battle. Cormyr owed the loyal old nobleman that and more.

  Someone stumbled over backward, arms windmilling in almost comical futility, two orc blades standing out of his back. Ilmreth Illance, another of the men that unpopular family had already lost in these last few years, and probably not the last. Alusair sighed. She didn’t want men to die bravely-she wanted them to live on to ripe old ages and die in bed, happy and safe and prosperous in a Cormyr free of Obarskyr sins and armies marching because of them.

  “Arabel may be burning,” she heard a Purple Dragon grunt behind her, “but it’s one big orc oven. I saw one street chest-deep in tusker bodies, their blood running in a river down into the sewers.”

  “You’ve caught up to us, Paraedro!” someone else called happily. “You must have run like the very wind.”

  “No,” the dragoneer replied sourly, “I walked-butchering orcs every step of the way. Slow work, but if you lot were any slower at slaying orcs, I’d have passed you and been halfway to Immersea by now.”

  “Be our guest!” another voice bellowed, over the ringing clang of his sword shattering an orc blade. “We’ve saved plenty of tuskers for you!”

  “Aye,” Paraedro replied in dry tones. “I’d notice
d.”

  27

  The huge refectory doors swung open, and the first nobles filed into the sparse room looking confused and uneasy. Each was accompanied by two dragoneers, one to carry his scabbards, jewelry, purse, and anything else that might conceal a weapon, the other to stand guard over him with a bared sword. When they saw the four dining tables placed together in the center of the room and the unadorned benches upon which they were being asked to sit, their expressions changed from apprehension to irritation.

  Tanalasta, seated opposite her mother at the center of the table, stood as the first lords drew near. Her purpose today was not to assert her authority but to win the hearts and minds of Cormyr’s nobles, just as her efforts to care for the refugees had won the love of the common people. Queen Filfaeril remained seated in her throne, which was the only trapping of royal privilege in the room. The queen would be representing the crown, not to direct the proceeding but to bestow the royal blessing on whatever occurred there that day.

  Young Orvendel Rallyhorn, wide-eyed and pale, was shown to a seat a little down from the queen. Because Urthrin Rallyhorn was already in the north fighting at King Azoun’s side and Korvarr was needed to oversee the guards, Queen Filfaeril had insisted that the awkward youth speak on behalf of his family today. That he did not yet know of her command accounted, perhaps, for his queasy aspect and trembling hands.

  Tanalasta gave the boy a reassuring smile, then forced herself to nod politely as Emlar Goldsword came to stand next to the youth. The arrangement was no accident. The princess had intentionally arranged the seating to break up cliques and power blocs. Emlar returned Tanalasta’s nod with a spiteful glare, showing no curiosity about the manner of his summons nor the unusual site of the meeting. She wondered just how extensive his spy network was.

  When the last noble had been shown to his seat-or hers, for there were more than a few matriarchs in the gathering-it was one of the neutral lords, Melot Silversword, who turned to glower at Tanalasta.

  “Your assassins were not fast enough?” he demanded. “Or have you decided it will be more expedient to arrest and exile us?”

  “No one is under arrest, Lord Melot. You are entirely free to leave.” Tanalasta glanced down the huge table in both directions, then let her gaze linger a moment on Emlar Goldsword. “You all are.”

  A few brows rose, but there were too few friends seated next to each other for the resulting murmur to be more than gentle. Tanalasta allowed a moment for any noble who wished to leave to do so, but it was a mere ploy to make them feel they were attending of their own will. No one would leave before hearing the reason for her unusual summons. Of that she felt certain.

  When none of the lords surprised her, Tanalasta nodded. “Good. I apologize for bringing you here under guard, but I wanted to be certain you arrived alive.”

  She motioned them to sit, not bothering to elaborate. The rash of assassinations had continued unabated for well over a tenday now, and the ghazneths, starved for magic by Tanalasta’s ban, had begun to attack nobles in search of hidden magic items. That the creatures had an uncanny knack for assailing only lords who insisted on safeguarding their own magic suggested to Tanalasta that their spy was well-placed indeed. She had heard that Emlar Goldsword had another, more mercenary explanation.

  After the nobles took their seats, Tanalasta continued to stand. “I summoned you because, as nobles of the realm, I thought you should be the first to hear some devastating news received by the palace just this hour. Arabel has fallen to the orcs.”

  A few of the nobles cringed and closed their eyes, suggesting that Tanalasta’s words were mere confirmation of the rumors they had already heard through other sources. Most, including Emlar Goldsword, simply let their jaws drop and stared at the princess in shock. Only Orvendel Rallyhorn, staring around the table with an expression that could best be described as smug, did not seem shocked.

  “What… what of the king?” asked Lady Calantar.

  Still puzzled by Orvendel’s reaction, Tanalasta tore her eyes from the youth and turned to the noblewoman, whose winsome face had gone as gray as ash. The question was, of course, foremost on the mind of every lord and lady in the room. With Emlar Goldsword and his followers standing in more or less open opposition to the crown princess, the king’s death would bring Cormyr to the brink of civil war and all but assure a “stabilizing” invasion by Sembian mercenaries.

  Tanalasta was about to answer when Emlar Goldsword cut her off. “The king is alive.” He stared directly at the princess as he spoke. “If the king were dead, do you think I would not have joined him already? The princess’s assassins have proved themselves most capable.”

  Tanalasta was careful not to nod. “The king is well, as is the Steel Princess. If they were not, Lord Goldsword would be in Prisoner’s Tower, not a grave.” She resisted the urge to accuse the coward of trying to put the blame for his tactics on her. If this meeting degenerated into a shouting match between her faction and Goldsword’s, Cormyr was lost. “I have called this council to inform you of the crown’s decision to send its remaining troops north to reinforce the survivors from Arabel.”

  The room broke into an immediate uproar, and several of the guards stationed behind each noble stepped forward to push a protesting lord back to his seat. Only Emlar and his supporters remained quiet, some studying Tanalasta and clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop, others ohserving her with an air of self-righteous satisfaction-convinced, apparently, that Arabel’s fall would force her to accept Sembia’s offer.

  The princess watched Orvendel watch the others, his eyes wide and the corners of his mouth curled up almost unnoticeably. The youth was enjoying this. Why? Because it made him feel important? Tanalasta gestured for quiet. Under the gentle prodding of the dragoneer guards, the chamber slowly fell silent.

  As soon as the tumult had died, Lord Longbrooke said, “This is outrageous!” He was so angry that even his heavy jowls were red. “You’ll leave the south undefended.”

  “That is for this council to decide,” said Tanalasta. “A small garrison will remain to defend the royal palace and keep order in Suzail, but the rest is up to the nobles.”

  “This-this-this is coercion!” sputtered Longbrooke. “We’ll not stand for it.”

  “The crown’s troops are the crown’s to do with as it pleases,” said Tanalasta. “The first companies are marching north even as we speak. The decision before this body is a simple one. Will the nobles stand and fight, surrender to the ghazneths, or invite an invasion from Sembia?”

  Finally, Goldsword smirked. “You would condone their help?”

  “I would not,” said Tanalasta.

  “Nor would the crown,” said Queen Filfaeril. She leaned forward to look down the table toward Goldsword. “At the moment, however, the crown has no more say over that than this council has over the disposition of the Purple Dragons and war wizards. You will do what you will do, and we’ll all live with the consequences. There are, however, some things you should know.”

  Filfaeril leaned back in her throne and nodded to Tanalasta.

  “Giogi Wyvernspur remains poised on the border and will invade Sembia the instant their mercenaries cross into Cormyr,” the princess said, “under any circumstances. He lacks a large enough force to win a victory, of course, but we all know how tenacious Lord Wyvernspur can be when he gets to bulling around. I shouldn’t be surprised if he managed to destroy every bridge in the realm and set half the cities ablaze before the Sembians finally tracked him down.”

  “Then call him off,” said Goldsword.

  Filfaeril’s answer was simple and plain. “No.”

  Goldsword’s face began to redden, and Tanalasta continued, “There are also the Letters of Marque to consider.”

  “Letters of Marque?” It was Longbrooke who asked this.

  Tanalasta turned to Hector Dauntinghorn, Commodore of the Imperial Flotilla based in Marsember. He was attending both in his capacity as a naval officer and as a r
epresentative of the Dauntinghorn family, his uncle being in the north with half the family retainers and King Azoun.

  “After Ambassador Hovanay’s visit, the crown issued Letters of Marque to every ship loyal to Cormyr,” Hector explained. “In the event of a Sembian invasion, they are to consider any vessel flying a Sembian flag or entering or leaving a Sembian port as an enemy. In the event of said invasion, they are authorized to capture or sink every such vessel they encounter and keep all booty recovered.”

  Goldsword’s eyes narrowed. “You would plunge Cormyr into a second war rather than accept aid in winning this one?”

  “The crown would fight a second war rather than let its nobles sell the kingdom cheap,” Queen Filfaeril corrected. “But the choice is yours. As I said, we can’t stop the nobles from doing what they will do.”

  “But you don’t have to!” burst Orvendel Rallyhorn. “You know how to stop the ghazneths!”

  Tanalasta tried to warn the boy off with a quick shake of her head, but he was too busy looking around in surprise as everyone turned to face him.

  “What did you say, Lord Rallyhorn?” asked Emlar.

  The flattery was all that was needed to make the youth continue. “Princess Tanalasta knows how to rob the ghazneths of their power. She and Alaphondar have been working on it for more than a month. All they need is some help from us to catch them.”

  “Is that so?” asked Lady Calantar.

  Trying to ignore the angry look her mother flashed her, Tanalasta sighed and half-nodded. “After a fashion. We know how to weaken the ghazneths temporarily, but with the spy on the loose we have not been able to get close enough to the monsters to put our knowledge to use.” The princess did not need to explain which spy she meant. The entire royal court was abuzz with speculations about the identity of the ghazneth’s informant. Tanalasta furrowed her brow at Orvendel. “The ghazneths know every trap before we set it. Orvendel knows this.”