Death of the Dragon c-3

by Ed Greenwood

“Is it… gone?” his fellow lord gasped, not daring to look. Braerwinter nodded, lacking the breath to speak again, and rolled slowly off the King of Cormyr.

  Azoun Obarskyr lay with his eyes closed and his mouth twisted in pain, his limbs moving restlessly. Tendrils of smoke from the black blood of the dragon rose from him, and his armor was crumpled into ruin above one hip, and entirely bitten away above the other, all along his flank, which was dark and wet with blood. Wherever his breast was dry of blood, it was dark with the ash left by dragonfire.

  Men were hastening up on all sides, now.

  “He needs healing,” Lord Steelmar Tolon gasped, finding his feet, “but we must get him into the tent before half a hundred archers start spreading word that they’ve seen him lying dead. Take his other arm… under the shoulders…”

  “What’re you doing?” Battlemaster Ilnbright roared, as the two lords staggered upright, Azoun hanging limply between them.

  “To the tent!” Lord Braerwinter snarled. “Get him some healing-now!”

  “You can’t just-“

  “Well, we are,” Lord Tolon roared, in a voice even louder than the battlemaster’s bellow. “Get out of the way or die!”

  He held up the hand in a menacing fist and his ring winked. Ilnbright, not knowing for certain what that ring did, fell back, face black with rage, then turned and shouted for priests.

  “Bring me healers!” he roared. “Every holy man on this field, whatever his rank or protests. Haste!”

  The ring on Tolon’s finger winked again, and the battlemaster fell silent, blinking in surprise. The ring’s magic had carried his shout miles distant, in a great and terrible roar. All over the field Purple Dragons were on the move, snatching up robed men by the elbows and collars.

  “Bring the king’s sword,” Lord Braerwinter said to the astonished officer. “A warrior feels better if he can hold his blade.”

  Still blinking, Battlemaster Ilnbright bent over and meekly scooped up Azoun’s mighty warsword.

  A little later, two weary lords staggered through the grim ring of archers, ignoring the hard eyes that watched them go down the hill. The dragon had not come again, but if it did, the army of Cormyr would be ready. A splayed forest of shafts rose from the ground in front of each bowman, and the archers were standing almost elbow to elbow, all around the height where the royal tent rose.

  “There,” Braerwinter murmured, pointing at the little hollow where the king had sat.

  Alusair’s blackened helm still lay there. Tolon bent and picked it up as the two men sat down together, back to back so as to be able to see anyone approach, and in unison thrust their fingers under their gorgets to pluck forth pendants.

  Hidden on the backs of those pendants were clasps akin to the weathercloak clasps that war wizards bore. Etched beside each was a tiny symbol, the badge of Filfaeril, the Dragon Queen, whom Braerwinter and Tolon had served now for many years. Laspeera had laid longspeaking enchantments on them that even Vangerdahast-or so it was said-knew nothing about.

  “Lady Queen,” Braerwinter murmured, picturing the cold beauty of the lady they both served-and loved, “there is no gentle way to say this. His majesty has fought the dragon, and lies sorely wounded. The wyrm is fled, the orcs lie slain, and we hold the field against hosts of goblins still. They advance again, as we speak. More, the dragon came down on the Princess Alusair, and she is feared lost, with all who served under her. We gave the king all the healing magic we carried, ghazneths or no, for many healers have died already this day, but, your Highness, our potions seemed to do nothing to help him. I know not how much longer he has to live. He lies in his tent, atop the first hill north of Calantar’s Bridge, just east of the Way. More priests are coming, but if you could send hence the mightiest clergy…

  They both heard the gasp that came from Filfaeril’s distant lips before she replied, her voice very steady,

  You’ve done well, I doubt not, and my thanks for this news, dark though it be. Guard my lord, both of you, and yourselves. Cormyr will have more need of you, soon.

  “We hear and obey,” the two lords chanted in unison, not falling to hear the sob that escaped the queen’s lips before the magical connection faded.

  Lord Edryn Braerwinter looked at his friend and said, “Well, I guess we’d best-“

  That was as far as he got, through a vain shout from nearby, before a dark form swooped down out of the sky, cruel talons spread, and tore off both their heads.

  Cold laughter trailed the ghazneth as it soared into the sky again, pendants clutched in fingers that trailed blood, as the torn husks that had been Lords Braerwinter and Tolon toppled to the ground in bloody ruin. Arrows stabbed into the sky after the laughing scourge, but as usual they were too few, too feeble in flight, and too late.

  35

  It might have been the brisk way the door opened or the odd heaviness in Alaphondar’s step, but Tanalasta knew at once something terrible had happened. She stepped away from the great map table and waved the others in the room silent.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Alaphondar stopped inside the door, scanned the gathering of weary faces, and opened his mouth without speaking. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, his expression numb and vacant. Tanalasta tossed her pointer onto the map, not really caring as it scattered the company emblems she and her war council had just spent the last hour arranging, then went to the sage.

  “Alaphondar, what’s happened?”

  She gave him a little shake, and he emerged from his daze.

  “The queen…” He glanced around the room again, this time seeming to see the faces before him, and looked at Tanalasta. “The queen received a sending. The dragon has destroyed Princess Alusair’s army.”

  Tanalasta tried not to think the worst. The loss of the army hurt, but Alusair had faced any number of such calamities and always returned. “And the princess?”

  Alaphondar looked away. “They found her helmet and shield in a heap of scorched bones.”

  Tanalasta felt a sudden stillness in her chest. “But not the rest of her armor?”

  Alaphondar shook his head. “It was something of a mess.”

  “We’ll pray for the best, then.” Tanalasta turned back to her war council, putting on a brave face, but also placing a hand on the map table to take a little weight off her shaking knees. “Our thoughts go to the dead and wounded, but Alusair has a way of surviving these things.”

  “Highness, I’m sorry, but there is more.”

  Tanalasta stopped and tried to pretend she did not notice every eye in the room watching her. The act must have been unconvincing, for Owden Foley came to her side and took hold of her elbow.

  “Yes?” Not wanting to appear distressed in front of her war council, she motioned the priest aside and faced Alaphondar again. “Go on.”

  This time, the sage could not prevent tears from welling out of his eyes. “Your father’s army is under attack, and the king has fallen.”

  “Fallen?” Tanalasta’s legs lost their strength. She forgot all the eyes watching her and stumbled over to a wall, barely pivoting into a chair before her knees buckled. “Is he dead?”

  “Not dead,” Alaphondar said. “They say he was burned badly and also opened from collar to groin.”

  “But is he with his healers?” Tanalasta demanded.

  “I fear his healers were killed in the battle. Lords Tolon and Braerwinter were trying to carry him to safety when they informed the queen. They promised another sending the moment it is safe.”

  “Then the battle continues?” asked Korvarr Rallyhorn, now recovered from the murderlust Lady Merendil had roused in him when she broke his arm.

  Alaphondar nodded and said, “The queen has ordered a troop of war wizards to ready themselves to teleport there.”

  Korvarr turned to Tanalasta. “If I may, Princess, my company is standing inspection at the moment and could leave on the instant.”

  Still too shocked to speak, Tanalasta simply nodded and w
aved him out the door.

  “Are you sure that’s wise, Princess?” asked Lord Longbrooke. “We are already stretched thin in the south.”

  “And hunting only two ghazneths,” countered Hector Dauntinghorn.

  “Only two ghazneths, but Sembia’s ten thousand already equal us man for man,” noted Melot Silversword. “We must not forget they are fresh…”

  Tanalasta barely heard the debate. She was too stunned. Her successes against the ghazneths had blinded her to just how uncertain victory remained. The dragon and her orcs already controlled everything from Dhedluk north. If the royal army collapsed-and Tanalasta was not fool enough to believe it could stand long with Alusair missing and her father fallen-the rest of Cormyr would soon follow.

  Even that realization left her more numb than panicked. She felt dizzy and hollow, perhaps because the anguish of losing a sister, father, and kingdom all at once was simply more than she could bear. The sensation was similar to her longing for Rowen, a cold deep ache that never went away, that was always there ready to pull her down into a swirling black void of despair. It was a feeling to which she could never surrender, not even for a moment. Too much depended on her-and she was thinking not only of Cormyr. Her child would be coming soon, and she wanted to have a kingdom for it to be born into.

  When Tanalasta grew aware of her environment again, she found herself surrounded by a host of disheartened faces. Melot Silversword and Barrimore Longbrooke were huddled together, looking terrified and whispering something about Sembia. Even Ildamoar Hardcastle and Roland Emmarask looked pale and dismayed. Clearly, everyone in the room thought the war lost, and it soon would be if Tanalasta did not do something to restore their confidence.

  The princess thought first of going north to assume command of the royal army “until her father recovered,” but-thankfully-the thought flashed from her mind as quickly as it appeared. Even were she as clever a tactician as Alusair (and she knew she was not), and even were her presence as inspiring as that of King Azoun (and she knew it was not), an immensely pregnant woman who could barely waddle-much less lead a charge into battle-would not inspire the royal army to stand firm against Nalavarauthatoryl and her orcs.

  But she knew who could.

  Tanalasta braced her hands on the arms of the chair. “Lord Longbrooke, I am sure that you and Lord Silversword would not be discussing calling for the aid of Sembian troops.” When the two men shook their heads, she pushed herself up. “Good. I doubt Vangerdahast would approve.”

  “Vangerdahast?” gasped Roland Emmarask. “Then you know where he is?”

  “Better than that. I think Harvestmaster Foley has determined a way to free him.” Tanalasta turned to the priest. “Isn’t that so, Owden?”

  Owden smiled and inclined his head, a sure sign of his displeasure. “When was the princess suggesting? Given tonight to complete my studies, I could possibly be ready by dawn.”

  “I was thinking sooner.” Tanalasta removed Rowen’s holy symbol from around her neck and passed it to the priest. “Perhaps now would be good.”

  Owden was too subtle and loyal to let anyone but Tanalasta see the annoyance in his eyes. He had first proposed opening a gate into Vangerdahast’s prison with the understanding that he would trace the route by himself, so the princess would not be endangered by such an unpredictable spell. When it had grown apparent that Owden did not have a strong enough emotional connection to find Vangerdahast through Rowen’s holy symbol, however, Tanalasta had begun to press for her own involvement. So far, the priest had steadfastly refused, claiming she was as likely to be sucked into Vangerdahast’s dimension as the reverse. Until now, Tanalasta had acquiesced.

  When Owden did not readily agree, Tanalasta turned to the door guard. “Send for Battlelord Steelhand.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Owden said. He motioned Tanalasta back to her chair. “The princess is right. The time has come to open the door and see what spills out.”

  Owden dangled the holy symbol in front of Tanalasta’s eyes and began to swing it back and forth. “Concentrate. Picture Vangerdahast’s face.”

  Tanalasta followed the silver amulet with her eyes and pictured Vangerdahast as she had last seen him, strangely young and haunted, with a bushy black beard and a crown of iron ringing his ragged mane of hair. The image melded with the symbol and began to swing back and forth, then the map room and the men in it vanished from sight, leaving only the face of the royal magician sweeping back and forth in front of her.

  She had the sense of plunging down a long tunnel into a huge black vastness. An inky darkness fell across the amulet. Vangerdahast’s face vanished, replaced by the gaunt visage she had first glimpsed when she had tried to contact her husband. The stranger’s brow was heavy and sinister, the eyes white as pearls, the chin square and strong with a hint of cleft. This time, Tanalasta did not call out, and the pearly eyes stared at her for a moment, brimming with joy and sorrow and some unspeakable craving a thousand times more powerful than even the longing she felt for Rowen.

  The air grew gray with rain, and the face vanished. An instant later Vangerdahast was there, scowling and impatient as ever.

  It’s about time.

  “I have him,” Tanalasta reported to Owden. To Vangerdahast, she said, “Do you have the scepter, Old Snoop?”

  Vangerdahast frowned in confusion, but nodded and brought the amethyst pommel into view. I do.

  “Good,” Tanalasta said. “Owden, we’re ready.”

  The harvestmaster rattled off a long string of mystic syllables. The distance between Tanalasta and Vangerdahast seemed to vanish. The wizard’s eyes grew round. He let out a startled cry and seemed to fall toward the princess, arms windmilling and legs kicking. Behind him, she glimpsed an iron throne and a crescent of little green goblins, the flashing bolts of a thunderstorm and a dark figure scrambling back from the portal.

  Then Vangerdahast was there on top of her, sprawled across her and hugging her like a mother, laughing, weeping, and screaming all at once, cold and clammy and wet, stinking like he had not bathed in months.

  He kissed her full on the lips, then scrambled off her and stooped down to kiss her swollen belly, then planted the tip of the golden Scepter of Lords beside her chair and leaned down to kiss her on the mouth again.

  Tanalasta pushed him off. “Vangerdahast!”

  The wizard gave her a waggish grin. “Don’t tell me you’re not happy to see me!”

  “I am.” Tanalasta wiped her face, less to rub off the dampness left by the wizard’s rain-soaked beard than to freshen her nostrils with the perfume on her cuff, “But we have work-“

  Tanalasta was interrupted by the knelling of an alarm bell, and the map room broke into a tumult of voices and clattering boots. Vangerdahast turned slowly on his heel, watching in amazement as the nobles rushed off to join their companies.

  “Are they running toward battle?”

  “You might say that, old friend,” said Owden. He clapped a hand on Vangerdahast’s shoulder. “Or you might say they are fleeing what Tanalasta would do to them if they hesitated.”

  “Is that so?” Vangerdahast cocked his brow at the princess. “I’ll be interested to hear how you did that.”

  “And I have a few questions for you as well,” Tanalasta said. “But they will have to wait. We have a ghazneth coming.”

  Vangerdahast’s brow rose in shock, then he looked around the map room as though confirming he was where he thought he was. “Coming here? To the Royal Castle?”

  “So it seems.” Tanalasta struggled out of her chair and started for the door. “And let us pray it is not King Boldovar.”

  36

  “Is this all that’s left of us?” Kortyl Rowanmantle almost squeaked, looking around at the grim gaggle of men crowded among the trees. “Two hundred men, maybe less?”

  At their center rose a great, gnarl-rooted stump, taller in its ruin than the tallest man there-and atop it stood the Steel Princess, her hands on her dragonfire
-blackened hips, and most of her once-magnificent, unruly mane of hair now a scorched ruin.

  “Evidently so, Kortyl,” she replied almost cheerfully. “All the more goblins for the rest of us.”

  An uneasy silence greeted her words. Squalling earfangs were neither glamorous nor all that easy to slay, when they came rushing in their swarms-and come in swarms they did, endless streaming tides that overwhelmed weary sword arms and butchered all too well… leaving too few survivors here, panting, in the forest.

  On the other hand, goblins weren’t nearly as glamorous-or as deadly-as the Devil Dragon. More than a few of the Cormyreans glanced up through the green gloom at the branches overhead, seeking a gap large enough for a huge red dragon-gliding along just above the treetops, as she’d met with them not so long ago-to see them through.

  The wyrm had burst upon the nobles with such sudden fury that many had been scorched to ash before they’d had time to do more than see their doom, and scream. The trees around them had burned like torches, and not a few had toppled, crushing those beneath them and showering everyone else with sparks. The forest had been their cloak and salvation, though, the crackling topfires hiding the terrified men in their smoke. The deeper, unburnt green depths gave them a vast lair to scatter in and hide.

  It had taken a grim Steel Princess, sword drawn and so much soot caking her that more than one man thought her some sort of black-hided monster at first glance, to find and gather them. Sword drawn and only her eyes and teeth bright, she looked like something out of a horror-tale whispered to scare children. Her doffed helm had been lost in that first burst of dragonfire, its hiphook-straps burnt away as she twisted and rolled, and her shield was gone too-hurled down in half-melted, red-hot ruin after it had saved her from the direct stream of dragonfire that had been the wyrm’s attempt to cook a princess.

  A frown crept back onto Alusair’s face as she came back to that thought, for perhaps the tenth time. The dragon had seemed to be looking for her…

  Enough reflection. “This is the harshest test Cormyr has faced in centuries,” Alusair said abruptly, looking around to meet the eyes of man after man, “and the lives of those you hold dear, whether they be within the walls of Suzail or in manors all over this realm, now depend on your swords. We are the realm’s best… and now it’s time to prove it. I’m going back to find that dragon, and hack it down. If I die, I’ll go down knowing I did what I could for Cormyr and did not cower and hide, waiting for goblin blades to find me in the night. Whatever happens, I stood forth to defend the people of Cormyr.”