Death of the Dragon c-3

by Ed Greenwood

  They saw Alusair step forward to face a goblin who stood half a head taller than all the rest and saw her shudder and stagger under the shock of their blades meeting. Sparks flew around her as the Steel Princess struck back, their blades meeting again. She threw herself onto her back, hauling hard on their locked swords and driving a boot into the goblin’s belly. He hurtled over her to crash helplessly on his face and die under the daggers of half a dozen enthusiastic archers.

  “Well, now,” Bayruce said in soft admiration. “Well, now…”

  Alusair was up again, hand dipping to her belt. A moment later, the clear horn call went up, and the Cormyreans fell back. Both of the pincer-arms came into view over the rise as they rushed to take the last few goblins from behind, their bills dipping in deadly unison.

  “Well hammered,” Azoun agreed in satisfaction. “We can’t afford to lose many men, so she’s nursing them like a mother. A born battlemaster!”

  With one accord, the king and his messenger reached for more dragondew. The wineskin was almost empty.

  “There are more orcs than you can count two or three hills back, but that’s most of the goblins,” Alusair said in satisfaction, as she reined in her mount. She was spattered from head to boots with black goblin blood.

  Azoun leaned over in his saddle to embrace her and growled, “Have you forgotten what helms are for, young lady?”

  His wayward daughter’s eyes danced as she laughingly replied, “Ah, but it’s good to fight alongside you, Father!”

  “Sure you don’t prefer scores of ardent young noblemen?” Azoun asked teasingly.

  “Well, their pratfalls to impress me do provide more unintentional entertainment than you do,” the Steel Princess told him, “but as steady feast-fare, even pratfalls can bring on yawns.”

  Azoun chuckled, then a sound caught his ear. He looked to the south and his face changed.

  “More messengers,” Bayruce said for him. “Riding hard.”

  “Trouble, Father?” Alusair asked quietly, reaching for her sword.

  Azoun shrugged. “I know not-but I do know that this would not be a good time to have to fight any traitors among the nobles.”

  Alusair lifted an incredulous eyebrow. “They’d be fools enough to stab at our backsides with dragon-led goblinkin sweeping down the realm to their very gates?”

  “Larger, grander pratfalls,” Azoun replied in dry tones.

  The messengers proved to bear good news. Well-armed forces had indeed been whelmed by many nobles and now awaited the king’s pleasure near Jester’s Green under the command of Battlemaster Haliver Ilnbright, an old, grizzled Purple Dragon respected by many nobles who’d fought alongside him down the years.

  “We’ll make a stand at Calantar’s Bridge,” Azoun decided, turning in his saddle, “then fall back into the hill farms when we must.”

  Everyone fell silent and grim then as the dark form of the great red dragon rose into the sky, silhouetted against the setting sun, and flew leisurely back and forth over the Heartlands of Cormyr.

  After a few breaths, the tiny silhouettes of six ghazneths could be seen rising to meet it. Alusair shivered, and Azoun reached over wordlessly to hold her hand.

  “Sorry,” she murmured.

  “Don’t be,” he muttered back. His hand tightened, warm and reassuring.

  “Seven scourges,” she murmured. “So who and where is the last one?”

  “Don’t ask me,” her father growled. “I’m just a king.” Suddenly, Alusair found herself shrieking with laughter.

  29

  Like everything else about the betrayal, Tanalasta found the summoning signal complicated, juvenile, and utterly disheartening. She was atop Rallyhorn Tower, watching from the darkness as Orvendel ran the crudely sewn standard of a ghazneth up the family flagpole. The banner depicted a broad-shouldered male with upraised wings and huge crimson eyes. It clutched the Royal Tricrown of Cormyr in one hand and a bolt of lightning in the other. One foot rested on the chest of dying man, the other on the blocky ruins of a noble tower.

  “The sick little bastard,” hissed Korvarr. “I had no idea.”

  “Obviously,” Tanalasta replied.

  After hearing Orvendel describe almost proudly how he had played on Korvarr’s emotions to learn Tanalasta’s plans, the lionar had resigned his commission and asked to share Orvendel’s punishment. Tanalasta had accepted the resignation but declared Korvarr’s contrition punishment enough. According to the elder Rallyhorn, Orvendel’s poor eyesight and studious habits had made him something of a laughingstock growing up. In the wild days of his youth, Korvarr and his friends had delighted in playing practical jokes on the gullible boy. Early in the ghazneth invasion, however, the lionar had momentarily fallen under the sway of Mad King Boldovar’s delusions and came to appreciate how damaging those hoaxes could be. Vowing to change his cruel ways, he immediately sent his brother several apologies.

  All of the messages were rebuffed, for Orvendel’s resentment had already blossomed into a festering rage-and not only for his brother. Lord Rallyhorn had also earned the hatred of his youngest son by not bothering to conceal his disappointment in the boy’s physical awkwardness and lack of strength. So did the rest of Cormyrean society, which followed the lead of the brother and father in treating the boy either as an unfortunate sibling or the family buffoon. It was no wonder, then, that when Orvendel began to hear reports of the damage being done to the realm by the Scourges of Alaundo’s prophecy, he was secretly delighted.

  Orvendel became obsessed with the ghazneths and learned everything he could about them, finally coming to see the dark creatures as tools of his personal vengeance. It was an easy matter to raid the family magic vault and sneak off to attract their attention, and by the time Korvarr did a sending to say he would be teleporting home soon with the princess, Orvendel had already established a relationship with Luthax. Under the ghazneth’s tutelage, the young Rallyhorn had finally accepted his brother’s overtures of friendship and become a spy, exacting his vengeance by helping the monsters devastate southern Cormyr.

  Once the spiteful banner reached the top of the pole, Orvendel lit a storm lantern and shone it on the banner. “You’d b-better go downstairs now.” The youth did not look at Tanalasta or his brother, and he was so frightened that the lantern beam wavered as he spoke. “You don’t want him to see you.”

  “Steady your lamp, Orvendel,” said Tanalasta. “We don’t want him to think anything’s wrong.”

  Orvendel looked down at his trembling hands and exhaled a couple of times, then gave up and braced the back of the lantern against his stomach. “It’s all right. I… I’ve been nervous before.”

  “And you’re sure he’ll see it?” asked Korvarr.

  “He’ll be watching,” answered Orvendel. “He’ll be starved for magic, and he won’t wait long. Hurry.”

  “Go ahead, Highness,” said Korvarr. “I’ll stay by the door with my crossbow in case he tries to escape.”

  Orvendel glanced at his brother and said, “Do you think you’re faster than a ghazneth?” Even frightened as he was, the boy’s lip was raised in a slight sneer. “If you stay here, dear brother, Luthax will kill you. It makes no difference to me, but it would certainly give away the princess’s plan.”

  Tanalasta took Korvarr’s arm. “Orvendel won’t betray us this time. Luthax would kill him anyway, and I’m sure he’d rather be remembered as the hero who saved Cormyr than the child who betrayed it.”

  Orvendel’s entire body started to shake, and he turned to stare over the dark city. After his defiant confession-which had come even before Queen Filfaeril finished laying out her evidence-Tanalasta had spoken the hardest words of her life and sentenced the boy to death. After leaving him to consider his fate for a few days, she had begun to play him, describing all the horrible executions of past traitors, then pleading for his cooperation so she could name something quicker and more painless. Orvendel had endured this part of the interrogation surprisingly w
ell, remaining defiant and proud until Korvarr began to talk about how his peers would ridicule him after his death.

  These descriptions had upset Orvendel far more than the tortures Tanalasta described, and the boy had finally agreed to help them lure Luthax into a trap. Given his fear of mockery, the princess felt sure he would do as he promised. As a girl in her teens, she herself had suffered anxieties similar to Orvendel’s, and she knew better than most how powerful such feelings could be.

  Tanalasta took Korvarr’s arm and pulled him down the stairs after her, wondering how she would live with herself when the “Time of War” ended. A mere tenday earlier, at what had already become known as the “Council of Iron,” she had had Lady Calantar executed for the mere crime of protesting a royal order. Now she was using a frightened boy-a young man by law and custom, but still a boy in his heart and hers-to lure a ghazneth into her trap. If the lad did well, his reward was to be a painless death.

  Tanalasta could not help shuddering at what she was becoming. She was a ruler who needed to see the south safely through this war, perhaps, but what about after? When she saw Rowen again, would she be able to look him in the eyes and describe all the terrible things she had done?

  As Tanalasta stepped out of the stairwell, Owden Foley took her arm and guided her into Urthrin Rallyhorn’s spacious study.

  “Highness, you’re shaking!” he said. “Are you cold?”

  “I fear I am growing so.” Tanalasta glanced around the chamber and asked, “Is everything ready here?”

  Though the room looked empty enough, the princess knew that more than a dozen dragoneers stood concealed behind a wall of false bookshelves along the near wall. A pair of war wizards sat inside a curtained arrow loop, and two more were crouching behind the duke’s heavy desk. The rest of the company-a hundred handpicked warriors and another dozen war wizards-waited in the stairwell below, ready to charge into the room the instant the trap was sprung.

  “We are as ready as we can be,” said Owden.

  He led Tanalasta across the room to a broad oaken wardrobe and opened the door. Inside, the cabinet looked less like a closet than a coffin built for two. It was actually an iron box disguised as a wardrobe, with a thick lining of padded leather and a steel lock bar that could only be opened from the inside. The princess knew better than to think it would prevent a ghazneth from getting at her, but it would certainly buy a few moments to use her weathercloak and escape.

  Tanalasta stepped inside and took hold of the weapon she would use to destroy Luthax-an ancient gem-encrusted crown that had once belonged to King Draxius Obarskyr. She glanced down at her stomach, now so swollen she could no longer see her toes, then said, “I hope the door will close.”

  “I’m quite sure it will, Highness,” Owden said. He stepped in beside the princess and, despite his confident assurance, pulled the door shut to make sure. “You see?”

  “Quite,” Tanalasta said. The leather padding pushed her belly up toward her breasts, but she heard the locking bar clack as it fell into place. “But let’s not close it until we must, if you don’t mind.”

  Owden let out a growl of disapproval, but opened the door again. Almost at once, Tanalasta smelled the acrid odor of brimstone and noticed a yellow haze hanging in the room. Her first thought was that Luthax had smelled a trap and was trying smoke them out, but then something heavy landed on the roof and the whole tower began to tremble. A gravelly voice reverberated down through the ceiling planks, as powerful and as deep as an earthquake.

  “Where have you been, child? I have needs.”

  “I… I know.” Orvendel’s reply was barely audible as it drifted down the stairs. “The princess has forced all nobles to bring their magic to the royal palace. You must have-“

  “So I noticed,” rumbled Luthax. “You should have warned us. Had there been time, we could have ambushed them. With all that magic… you know it would not have been long before we made you one of us.”

  Tanalasta’s heart skipped a beat, and she heard Owden hissing through his teeth next to her. This was not something Orvendel had told them-that he was trying to become a ghazneth-but it made perfect sense. In her mind’s eye, she could see him pointing down through the ceiling and mouthing the word “trap.” She felt like a fool for thinking she understood how the boy thought-but not too big a fool. Even as they spoke, there were a hundred dragoneers approaching on hippogriffs, ready to meet the ghazneth in the air and drive him back down to the roof. In the end, the only difference would be how Cormyr remembered Orvendel Rallyhorn and how Tanalasta thought of herself.

  But Orvendel was not as naive as he had once been. There was a long pause, then he said, “I’ve helped you find twice that much magic. If you were going to make me one of you, you’d have d-done it by now.”

  The next sound Tanalasta heard was a body tumbling across the roof. She thought for a moment Luthax had killed the boy, then the ghazneth addressed him again.

  “I have a thirst, child. It is not a good time to toy with me.”

  “I’m not.” Orvendel’s voice was so soft that Tanalasta barely heard what followed. “I have something special for you.”

  “Where?” demanded Luthax. “I feel no magic.”

  “Not magic-something better,” said Orvendel. In the box next to Tanalasta, Owden cursed under his breath, apparently convinced that the boy meant to betray them yet. Orvendel continued, “Come downstairs.”

  “Downstairs?” Luthax’s voice was suspicious. “Bring it up.”

  “Uh, I can’t.”

  “Are you playing at something, child?” A muffled slap sounded from above, followed by the thump of Orvendel hitting the roof again. “Do what I tell-“

  “Orvendel?” Tanalasta called. She passed Draxius’s crown to Owden and pushed out of her hiding place. “Orvendel, I heard voices. Is someone up there with you?”

  The roof went silent, and Owden caught hold of her arm. “What are you doing?”

  “Quiet!” Tanalasta hissed. She pulled free and went to the base of the stairs. “Orvendel! Answer me!”

  Something rustled across the roof, and the brimstone cloud grew thicker and harsher. Korvarr emerged from the stairs below and took Tanalasta by the arm.

  “Orvendel!” Tanalasta yelled. “I won’t wait much longer for this surprise of yours. A princess’s time is-“

  “Orvendel?” Korvarr called sternly, now following Tanalasta’s lead. He stepped in front of the princess and began to back away from the stairwell, pushing her toward her coffin. “If this is another of your childish games…”

  “Hardly!” rumbled Luthax’s deep voice.

  A tongue of crimson flame licked out of the stairwell, striking Korvarr square in the chest and blasting him into Tanalasta. She stumbled backward and fell, her nostrils filled with the sickening stench of charred flesh. Korvarr landed square atop her, howling and screaming as his burning limbs pounded the floor beside her.

  A wizard’s head poked out from behind the curtain over the arrow loop, then the bookshelf began to sway as the dragoneers hiding behind started to slide the case aside.

  “Stop!” she yelled, putting a tone of royal command into her voice. The wizard’s head vanished behind the screen at once, and the bookcase stopped moving. She sighed in relief, then repeated herself in a more panicked voice, “Stop moving, Korvarr!”

  Though the order had not really been meant for him, somehow through his pain and fear, Korvarr found the strength to hold still. Tanalasta rolled him off her and tried desperately to think of what she would do next, were she not aware of Luthax lurking on the roof above, listening to her every move and trying to smell out a trap.

  “Help!” Even as she screamed the word, she motioned Owden to close the “wardrobe” and waved the rest of her companions to remain where they were. Korvarr, she left burning on the floor beside her. “Guards, help!”

  That was all Luthax needed. A tremendous crash rumbled down the stairwell into the room, followed by a choking fog
of ash and smoke. In the center of the cloud stood a manlike silhouette with a sizable wizard’s paunch and crooked, stick-thin legs. His fiery eyes swung in Tanalasta’s direction, then he took one step forward.

  A tempest of coughing erupted behind the false book shelf, and the ghazneth’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. He spun toward the sound raising a finger.

  “Now!” Tanalasta screamed. “Do it now!”

  The bookcase toppled forward, slamming Luthax to the floor. A circle of crimson flame erupted beneath it, shooting out to lick at Tanalasta’s feet and set the carpets ablaze, then a dozen dragoneers scrambled forward and pulled the iron backing off the shelves.

  A pillar of flame shot up through the opening, blasting a horse-sized hole in the room’s oaken ceiling. Two dragoneers fell back screaming, hands pressed to their melting faces. The others began to hack and stab through the hole with their iron swords.

  Now that the ghazneth was trapped, Tanalasta turned her thoughts to Korvarr, whipping her weathercloak off and spreading it over the lionar’s still burning body. He screamed and rolled away, entangling himself in the cloth and smothering the flames.

  A tremendous crack shot through the room, then the floor on the far side gave way and dropped into the story below. Choking and coughing on sulfurous fumes, Tanalasta rushed forward and peered over a knee-high curtain of flame into the smoky room below.

  The false bookshelf lay square in the center of a larger section of burning floor, beneath which lay dozens of groaning, screaming dragoneers. Luthax was just rising to his knees, poking his head up through the back of the case. The ghazneth was surrounded by perhaps thirty dragoneers, their iron weapons clanging off each other as they struck at him madly. Though many of the wounds seemed to close as fast as they opened, some did not, and Tanalasta knew they were prevailing by sheer numbers.

  “Owden, the crown!” She thrust her hand out behind her, then pointed at the wizards who had been hiding behind the huge desk. “And get your box down there!”