The Sword Never Sleeps tkomd-3

by Ed Greenwood

  Lost in such thoughts, with the blurred glories of Azoun ushering dozens of bared, beautiful, and adoringly eager noblewomen of the realm into the waiting and deserving arms of Lord Rhallogant Caladanter, Telgarth Boarblade of the Zhentarim failed to notice something silent and stealthy rippling its way across the room behind him.

  Something mottled and shifting in its shape. It looked like an old scrap of tanned boarhide that was somehow alive and able to grow its own tentacle-like arms that flowed continually into new shapes, yet tugged the shapeless thing along with menacing purposefulness.

  Ghoruld Applethorn, had he still been alive, would have known it for what it was and would have been eager to learn just why the har-gaunt, after keeping company with him in such evident satisfaction, had so abruptly left him somewhere in the Royal Palace of Suzail.

  Yet a plot had failed, and Applethorn was dead, so there was no one to identify the hargaunt as it moved purposefully across Caladanter's study, unnoticed by Telgarth Boarblade. Gloating does take some concentration.

  Silently the strange shapeshifting thing flowed up an ornately carved chairback, reared up to deftly shape a long, narrow tentacle-and thrust it, ever so delicately, into one of Boarblade's ears.

  The Zhent stiffened and shivered, just once. Then, as the tentacle reached his brain, Boarblade's face went from astonished horror at being invaded to a calmer expression of interest, an expression that drifted into sharper, stronger interest-and then into a pleased exclamation: "Ho! Well, now!"

  Then, slowly, Telgarth Boarblade smiled an evil smile.

  Dark and scowling Brorn had been one of Lord Yellander's two best house swords, and tall, scarred Steldurth had been the other. A dozen armsmen each they'd commanded in Yellander colors.

  "My bullyblades," Lord Yellander had called them all proudly, and he entrusted them with all his "dark work." Slayings aplenty they had done for him and had fetched drugs and poisons by the caravan-load out of Sembia to enrich him. Thefts, too, and spyings. There were the Dragon Throne's laws, and there were the handful of those laws that the Lord Yellander cared to respect.

  The gap between had been the business of his bullyblades.

  Until their lord's disappearance. Purple Dragons had come to the Yellander lands then, six or seven for every bullyblade, and Wizards of War had ridden with them. They had taken firm possession of Yellander's properties and wealth, notably barn after barn full of the unlawful drugs thaelur, laskran, blackmask, and behelshrabba-to say nothing of several coffers of poisons. Those barns, packed to the rafters, had been guarded by Yellander's bullyblades.

  Not even an upland idiot farmer would believe their claims to have loyally served the Lord Yellander yet known nothing of what was in the barns.

  Wherefore Brorn, Steldurth, and the rest of the bullyblades had found themselves out of work, unpaid, and under suspicion. Still angrily proclaiming their innocence, they had been exiled from the realm for six summers each-and marched to the Sembian border under watchful eyes.

  It was Brorn who rallied them in a stable in Daerlun and slew the Cormyrean spy who tried to eavesdrop on their moot. It was Steldurth who emptied his own boots of coins to buy out the guards of a Suzail-bound caravan nighting over in Daerlun. It was Brorn, again, who found a few merchants in Suzail who wanted goods rushed north to Arabel and got a smaller caravan on the road again before any Wizard of War had time to grow suspicious. Whereupon it was Steldurth who sold the wagons and the plodding draft horses in Arabel, bought hardy remounts, and had the lordless bullyblades heading along the Moonsea Ride before a Dragon commander thought he recognized Brorn's face.

  By the time that officer recalled a name to go with that face, the bullyblades were gone into the trees, and a higher-ranking Purple Dragon was shrugging and telling the officer who'd confided in him that the bullyblades had probably stolen back into the kingdom just long enough to snatch one of Yellander's coin-hoards, ere heading for the Moonsea where they could be as lawless as their dark-booted little hearts desired.

  That option always awaited, but Brorn and Steldurth loved Cormyr a little more than that. And hated the Knights of Myth Drannor a little more, too.

  In their busy day in Suzail, they'd learned from a surviving Yellander spy at Court of the Knights' coming ride and the wealth the Royal Magician was about to hand them.

  Brorn and Steldurth reacted to that news in the same manner, and together concluded it would be fitting revenge to slay the Knights, redeem themselves as loyal to the realm by claiming the Knights were butchering innocent upland farmers and merchants-murders they would do themselves, to gain coin, food, and goods-and relieve the Knights of all those coins, too.

  So here they were, with only a handful of their foes still standing.

  Brorn smiled. The revenge was going well. He threw up his hand to signal rhe ring of men should stop, closing no further.

  "Spellhurlers, air of these," he said curtly to the best bowmen among the bullyblades, indicating the last three Knights. "Turn them into pincushions."

  "You miss her, don't you?" Torsard Spurbright murmured, refilling his father's goblet.

  Two summers ago he would have uttered those words in a fury, enraged that his sire's dalliance with the lady envoy of Silverymoon- and the old, old friendship they so obviously shared-amounted to an insulting spurning of his mother, the Lady Delandra Spurbright.

  But then, two summers ago everything Lord Elvarr Spurbright said and did had infuriated or at least embarrassed Torsard. Now, he understood his father-and the ways of the world, or at least Cormyr-rather better.

  Now, he would have given almost anything to have an old friend he could trust as much as Lord Spurbright and the Lady Aerilee Summerwood trusted each other. And if that old friend could also be a lover…

  And if he could have her-gods, if it was he, Torsard, the beyond-beautiful lady envoy wrapped her welcoming arms around and melted against! O, Sune and Tymora both, I would heap gold on your altars! — and still love and be loved by an unresenting wife… Well, either women were far greater fools than he'd ever thought in all his green years up until now, or Lord Elvarr Spurbright was someone… remarkable.

  He'd never thought past the resentment before, to try to really see his father as others might. Now that he was doing so, much as he hated to admit it, his father was, he supposed, rather remarkable.

  Which made his son, Torsard Spurbright, that much more important. And more obviously the green fool, too.

  "I do," his father replied, meeting his eyes with a level gray gaze that startled Torsard with its honesty. His father, speaking to him as an equal? Well, now…

  Lord Elvarr Spurbright had always loomed large, dark, and a little terrible in his son's mind. The Great Forbidder who decreed this or that limitation on Torsard's behavior, yet was also the person whose approval the heir of the Spurbrights most craved. And found hardest to earn.

  To step around that great darkness and look at the older man across the table as a… a fellow Spurbright, perhaps even a friend…

  He found himself blinking at someone familiar, who at the same time looked utterly different.

  For one thing, he'd never seen his father this melancholy before. Grim, yes, and snappingly angry many a time… but not this weary sadness that rode atop remembered joy.

  He wanted the angry Lord Elvarr Spurbright back.

  With that sire, at least, he knew where he stood. Cowering and disapproved of, but that was, at least, a familiar cloak.

  Wherefore he ttied again to lift his father's melancholy mood. The cause lay like a great silence between them, obvious to the entire household in the wake of Lady Summerwood's departure for Silverymoon.

  Gods, his mother must love this gray-eyed man across the table so much to smile and embrace him so earnestly and often, last night and this day!

  Yet she did, and he so obviously loved her, too, kissing her more fervently than Torsard could remember him doing for years. It was as if the lady envoy was a fire that warm
ed and then ignited those she touched, kindling them into little flames of their own in her wake.

  Torsard shuddered in remembered lust, seeing Aerilee Summerwood again, sleek and beautiful, all catlike swirling grace as she turned her head, laughing.

  He'd stood watching, shaking with longing but not daring to speak or step closer. His father had met his gaze and had seen the longing in his eyes, and he had done nothing but nod in silent understanding. Not condemning or mocking, imparting no hint of anger, just… understanding.

  They were two men smitten by the same laughing arrow.

  That smiling, dancing-eyed face, the lush, flawless body below it… Torsard swallowed hard and had to clear his throat twice before he managed to ask, "Will we… ever see her again?"

  Again the level, direct look. "King Azoun," his father said carefully, "has promised to send me to Silverymoon as Cormyr's envoy to the Gem of the North, but 'twould not be seemly to do so before next spring."

  "Send you," Torsard echoed, not knowing quite what he dared to ask.

  "I will go nowhere without your mother by my side," Lord Spurbright said firmly. "Neither I nor she wishes to be sundered from each other, and the Lady Summerwood wants to see us both."

  Torsard blinked, trying to imagine his mother abed with the Silvaeren lady envoy-and then trying hard not to imagine it.

  "I'm sorry, Son," his father murmured. "You must keep the family banners high while we are away from home. However, envoys are housed differently in Silverymoon than here; visitors choose where in the city they wish to dwell, and the High Lady's purse pays for it."

  Torsard frowned. "I–I don't follow you."

  "Aerilee promised to help her dear friends the arriving Spurbrights find suitable lodgings," Lord Spurbright said gently. "If I were to send you to Silverymoon some months ahead of us… well, you are Lord Spurbright, too. You saw how approvingly she measured you."

  "M-me?" Torsard knew he was blushing hotly and didn't care. Had she really?

  His father nodded, ever so slightly, and smiled in a way that made Torsard suddenly grin and feel very warm indeed and want to be in Silverymoon right now. He settled for bringing his fist down on the table-gently, not with a crash-and asking, "You'll do that, Father? You promise?"

  "On one condition. Having tasted of the lovely Aerilee, you return here at an agreed-upon time and start to become truly Lord Spurbright. My successor and head of our house. The gods, after all, might decide I'll die in Silverymoon, yes?"

  "If you do," Torsard dared to say or rather said before he could stop himself, "I can guess how!"

  Then he stopped, staring into his father's eyes, suddenly afraid- until the sudden, boyish grin that appeared flashingly beneath them swept away all fear.

  "There are worse ways to die," Lord Elvarr Spurbright observed, apparently addressing the rim of his goblet. He went on staring at it for a long, long breath as his grin faded, and then shook himself and fixed Torsard with that steady gray look.

  "However," he said, "let us be serious with each other now. You will be in charge of the affairs of House Spurbright in our absence. I want you fully mindful of what that means. Oh, the freedom to get drunk and spend imprudent coins on toss-skirts on more than one night, yes, but Torsard, heed me. It's time. You must now learn to be careful."

  Torsard found himself a little nettled. His father seemed to be treating him as a sullen boy in need of reprovement again. "Careful, Father?"

  "Watch out for Vangerdahast's plots. He'll be seeking to press the advantage he holds over us in the eyes of the common folk, that he does what is distasteful for the good of the realm, because we nobles shirk our duty. And why? Because all nobles are rich, sneering traitors who should be reined in, hard!"

  Torsard spread his hands, feeling real exasperation. "And just how am I supposed to even know what old Thunderspells is up to? He works behind closed doors, and anyone who tries to peek past them, even with magic, gets their brains fried!"

  His father nodded and replied calmly, "Watch where Purple Dragons are sent around the realm, and watch the Knights of Myth Drannor."

  "The Knights? Exiled adventurers?"

  "Son, son, hearken: They are the queen's pets, so Vangerdahast regards them as expendable weapons the realm is better off without. He may well succumb to the temptation to wield and even expend them. Moreover, the Knights are sought after because-as all the realm knows by now-they bear the Pendant of Ashaba. If they are slaughtered and the Pendant taken, it entitles the bearer to the lordship of Shadowdale."

  Torsard sneered. "A northern dale? A few farms in the forest? Who-"

  "And Shadowdale," his father interrupted, favoring his son with a tongue-stilling glare, "is a place Zhentil Keep has wanted to own for quite some time now. Establishing an open presence there will provoke our armies to march and Zhent-hunting Harpers to spring out from behind every tree, to say nothing of marauding elves and opportunistic Sembians and perhaps even a few fools from Hillsfar."

  Torsard's answering shrug was smaller than usual. Though his father's face could be hard to read, he'd had a lot of practice in doing so and could tell he'd won some small measure of Lord Spurbright s approval. Just why, he wasn't sute. He knew he was now wearing the frown that always stole onto his face when he was thinking hard; perhaps that was why. "And so?" he asked, making that question far less of an insolent challenge than was his wont.

  "And so when we all converge on the tranquil farms of Shadowdale, the beholders and mightiest mages of the Zhentarim, standing a safe distance from what they hold dear in Zhentil Keep, will take great delight in slaughtering us all and using our aggression as a pretext for all sorts of things."

  "What 'sorts of things?' " Torsard could not quite keep the scorn out of his voice.

  "Alliances with Westgate and Sembian interests to invade and conquer Cormyr," Lord Spurbright replied firmly. "Those sorts of things."

  Chapter 3

  Arrows and tapestries So is it to be arrows in my face? Or daggers thrusting through Tapestries into my back? Always 'tis arrows and tapestries As my blood spills, and I struggle To go on serving the realm.

  The bowmen among the bullyblades nodded to Brorn, plucked up arrows, and raised their bows. The ring of warriors around the Knights watched the archers and waited to stand aside to make way for their arrows.

  Around the three Knights the air suddenly shimmered-seeming to surprise the Knights as much as the bullyblades-and a distant thundering rumble arose back west, along the road.

  Brorn flung up one hand to prevent any arrows being wasted, and with his other hand he pointed west along the Ride. Steldurth was already striding in that direction, frowning and peering.

  For a long way hereabouts the Moonsea Ride seemed both straight and level, but in truth it rose and fell as it mounted a succession of hills, sacrificing the wandering ways and gentler grades of many local lanes for a straighter, steeper route.

  Up over the nearest of these now rose a line of Purple Dragons in full armor, visors down, riding their horses hard-straight at the bullyblades and Knights in the road.

  "Glorking war wizards!" Steldurth spat, whirling around and waving his arms in alarm.

  "Into the trees!" Brorn bellowed. "If you've a bow, scatter and hide-and loose at any war wizards you see! Everyone else, to horse! Mount and swords out, or they'll ride us down! Forget the Knights! Move, hrast you!"

  The bullyblades moved. As Jhessail, Doust, and Semoor watched, not daring to abandon the little cloud of air that tingled and shimmered around them, their attackers scrambled for saddles or raced into the shadows under the trees.

  The Purple Dragons came on, riding hard, the thunder of churning hooves growing. The Knights stared silently at that magnificent charge, until Jhessail cursed and tried to slither out from between the boots of the two priests.

  "Stand fast," Doust snapped. "I have a spell that should turn aside the horses, if it looks like they'll ride right over us. Gods, look at them come!"

&nb
sp; It was a scene right out of a fireside tale. Three ranks or more of mounted armsmen were all galloping shoulder to shoulder, armor gleaming and swords out. Two bore banners on long lances-and as they drew nearer, the bullyblades wildly shouting and hauling on reins as they tried to wrestle their own mounts out into the road, those lances lowered to menace the road before them with long, glittering tips.

  Brorn took one look at those sharp points and the number of grim Dragons riding hard behind them, and he bellowed something the Knights didn't quite understand.

  The bullyblades did, though. In the space of a swift breath they were galloping, too, fleeing east along the road with Brorn at their head and leaving the Knights-and their own bowmen, one of whom burst out of the trees to try to run after them ere he realized his peril and ducked out of sight again-behind, abandoned in swirling road dust.

  Steldurth was at the rear of the bullyblades, spitting a steady stream of curses. He gave the Knights a glare as he spurred past, but-perhaps deterred by Semoor's ready mace and eager grin- didn't lean out from his saddle to try to carve anyone with his sword.

  The Knights watched the hooves of Steldurth's mount rising and falling in the dust, as he and the rest of the bullyblades dwindled eastward.

  Then the Dragons were upon them and thundering past in a racing horde of hooves, streaming manes and tails, and flashing armor.

  There were six ranks of them-more than thirty riders, in all, with uncomfortable-looking war wizards bouncing on saddles in their midst-and the later ranks started to slow as they swept past the Knights, descending from gallop to canter and then to a trot, ere they started to circle back. Several Dragons sprang from their saddles, hefted their swords, and plunged into the trees, obviously seeking the bowmen. One of the war wizards, his reins held by Purple Dragons riding on either side of him, cast some sort of spell that made lights flare brightly amid the trees. Those lights moved swiftly and stumbled and cursed, running blindly into trees or branches until the Dragons reached them-and their running and cursing swiftly ceased.