by Ed Greenwood
“The king,” the silver-haired woman snarled, “has been poisoned. We’ve only just uncovered the plot! He’ll very soon fall on his face, dead. Let me through this door! Do I look like I have any weapons?”
She spread her hands, showing what was left of her once-magnificent gown clinging to her shapely figure, to reveal that she wore nothing much beneath. Involuntarily, the wizards and guards blinked at her.
Then they stared at each other, worry and doubt on every face.
“What if they’re Marsembian agents? Or Sembians? Or from Westgate?” one mage snapped, waving at the two women.
“Can’t be,” one of the youngest Dragons replied, pointing at Amarune. “Seen that one before, dancing at the Dragonriders’—an’ if she’s some sort of secret agent, I’ll eat my cods!”
From inside the Council chamber came the ring of steel and shouts.
“Oh, farruk!” snarled the senior war wizard. He turned and flung open the doors.
“Sit down!” Lord Summerstar, Lord Delcastle, and other nobles bellowed, but many nobles clearly intended to menace the throats of the crown prince and the king, and were already crossing swords with the Highknights.
In moments, a pitched battle was raging around the two royals. A war wizard reeled, clutching his slit throat; a Highknight went down under a dozen stabbing nobles; and someone managed to stab Irvel—only to discover that his dagger plunged through a royal midriff as if the prince weren’t really there; although, the hard punches Irvel was landing told him the struggling Obarskyr was present and very solid, to boot.
“Ironguard!” that murderous lord cried and clawed at the prince’s gorget—which was popularly rumored to confer such protection—to tear it off.
A Highknight’s desperate leap took the lord away from Irvel and down to the floor with a heavy crash. The landing proved fatal for the lord, as both the dagger and sword of a writhing, groaning noble he landed on burst through him.
Startled shouts and gasps rose all over the Hall of Justice as a woman in archaic fluted armor appeared out of thin air in the empty uppermost tier of seats. A pair of hooked and curved swords—blades like something out of Calimshan or far Raurin—gleamed in her hands.
As nobles stared, she vaulted two tiers down and ran both blades through Lord Barelder, who was wrestling with another noble from behind.
He arched, shrieked, and fell limp. Kicking him off her swords, she sprang down to the next tier of seats, ducked past a shouting dagger-wielding noble, and pounced on Lord Ambrival, hacking ruthlessly.
He managed to half-turn to face her amid that storm of sharp steel before she slashed out his throat. As he toppled, head flopping loosely amid a fountain of pumping blood, she spun away and leaped down another tier of seats.
The unknown swordswoman was seeking specific targets, moving like lightning as she hunted—lunging and slashing with eerie speed through nobles, wizards, and guards alike. But what awakened fear in the brawling Cormyreans wasn’t her deadly swordplay. It was the aura of cold blue flames that wreathed her, igniting nothing but leaving those they touched wincing and moaning with chill.
“Blueflame ghost! A blueflame ghost—a new one! Right here!” Lord Mountwyrm shouted hoarsely.
“Get her!” a young lord bawled. “If we all strike at her, we can have her down before she slaughters every last one of us!”
As he shouted those words, the flaming figure reached a tall, aging lord—Foulweather—and hewed him bloodily to the floor.
Then blue flames flashed brightly—and were gone.
The ghost had disappeared as suddenly as she’d arrived.
Oaths filled the air. The nobles of Cormyr might be many things, but few of them were slow or stupid men. What they’d just seen … aye, it had been real enough; there was Foulweather lying butchered, and up there Ambrival was draped over the seats with his throat still spewing gore. It meant that someone in the room, a noble attending Council, had a blueflame item and knew how to use it.
Curses faltered in that grim realization—until a lord thrust his belt dagger into the face of a longtime rival, and the chamber erupted in wild battle again.
So much Arclath saw as he fought his way along the seats toward the Obarskyrs, to defend them—before someone he knew sprang out of nowhere, so close their noses bumped. A face grinned at him as he stared in dumbfounded astonishment.
Amarune Whitewave stopped smiling long enough to kiss him on the nose and vaulted past him onto the nearest seat.
Standing tall on it, she shouted in a rough old male voice that rang across the chamber thanks to magic, “I, Vangerdahast, order you all to stand away from the king and crown prince! All of you!”
In the wake of that thunderous shout, as everyone turned to stare, she smiled with sad, old eyes.
Her hands wove a spell, and as nobles began to shout derision, seeing only a young woman instead of a wizard, she unleashed her magic.
It was a spell Elminster had perfected centuries before. A horrible spell.
As it flooded the chamber, it tore bones out of noble bodies, killing this lord and that, but leaving others untouched, taking down only those who were charging at the royals. As the shrieking deaths mounted, dumbfounded Highknights, war wizards, and Obarskyrs stood back, untouched.
The clash of steel died as those who remained stared at the boneless, blood-drenched things, whose screams fell into dying burblings.
Amarune reeled and slumped, starting to gibber.
Shocked and frightened, Arclath reached out to catch her before she fell. Storm Silverhand already had hold of Rune’s other arm and was whispering, “Oh, El!”
Doors burst open all around the chamber, and more war wizards and Dragons came storming in. Servants entered after them, and the uproar arose again as hasty misunderstandings reigned, spells were hurled, and servants dashed the wine they were ready to serve into noble faces. Meanwhile, the Obarskyrs were hustled out.
As Storm slumped into a seat as Rune abruptly stopped gibbering and instructed Arclath in her own voice, “Come!”
Looking at her, then down at Storm in bewilderment, Arclath found the wrist of his free hand captured in Amarune’s firm grip. She guided it to Storm’s waist.
“Carry her!” Rune snapped. “Hurry!”
Arclath blinked, nodded, hauled Storm up against his hip, and took one awkward step, waving his sword for balance.
A war wizard promptly loomed up in front of them. “Halt, in the name of the king! Surrend—”
Amarune’s leaping kick hurled the man’s wand high into the air, shattered the fingers that had held it, and burst through them to the mage’s chin. He went over backward without a sound, out cold.
As Amarune landed like a cat, two gleaming-armored Dragons raced up to confront them, but gave way before Arclath’s wildly swung sword and her desperate snarl, “Harm us and you are both traitors! We serve the king!”
When the Dragons’ blades came up in reply, Arclath hacked them aside. Rune flung herself at the guards’ boots in a roll that swept them off their feet with a wild clangor of blades and armor, leaving Arclath’s path to the door clear.
He ran, dragging Storm, with Rune gasping, “I’m right behind you! Hurry!”
A few frantic moments later they raced out of the palace together, into a bright and sunny morning.
Palace Understeward Corleth Fentable had spent much time being angry these last few days, but he was really angry now. War wizards and countless Dragons rushed this way and that, and not one of them would stay still long enough to hear his orders. He wanted some to seek the Lord Arclath Delcastle, others to find a young lass who’d been admitted into the palace that day but shouldn’t have been, and—
He was just about to let loose a great bellow of rage and hit someone with something when a familiar, faintly glowing shadow that looked very much like the portrait of Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr, the Steel Princess, that hung in the High Hall of Heroes—strode up to him and snapped, “I have orders f
or you, Fentable. Do none of those things you’re gabbling about, and instead apply yourself to something important, for once. Namely, getting down to the Hall of Justice with mages enough to put the worst belligerents to sleep. Then disarm everyone, summon healers from the temples, and set yourself to calming all surviving nobles who attended Council, before some of them—possibly several cabals of them—decide making war on the fair family of Obarskyr will bring a brighter future to Cormyr!”
“Nobles always think that,” Fentable snapped before he could stop to ask himself why he was bothering to talk to a ghost. “Why should I do anything about your silly fears?”
“Because some of those nobles can’t wait to execute every last war wizard—or courtier—they can find,” Alusair told him calmly, “and because your silly fears are about to include this.”
She stepped right into the same space his body was occupying—plunging the understeward into an unbearable cold that drove him into uncontrollable, gray-faced shivering, his teeth chattering wildly.
Just as everything started to go dark and he fell, she stepped back, looked down at his gasping body, and said briskly, “Now get up so I can do that again, Saer Fentable. You aren’t sick enough of it yet. You aren’t pleading.”
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
BLOOD ON THE WHIRLWIND
As rebels and traitors have learned before, once laws are dashed
Down and folk know fear, as you’ve flung aside graces and let
Masks slip, then all beasts are loosed and any man may go down;
there’s blood on the whirlwind, and no safety to be found.
Be proud of your achievement, butchers. Be proud.
Grauth the Old Warrior, in Act III, Scene I of the play
Daunthan Laid Waste by Dunsul Blaklam “the Black
Bard” first performed in the Year of the Sceptered One
To Arclath’s astonishment, Amarune steered him along the outside of the palace to the stable gates, where they found the row of guards gone and only one worried-looking hostler and a lone young Purple Dragon left on duty.
“What’s happening?” the Dragon asked them sharply.
“Fighting at Council,” Arclath replied grimly, holding up his sword to show the bright blood on it.
The young soldier stared at it and looked a little ill. His spear trembled as it came up to menace Arclath. “I’ll be needing you to surrender that, lord, and—”
“I’ll be needing you to stop trying such foolishness, and get yourself to the Hall of Justice as fast as you can run,” Arclath snarled. “They tried to kill the king! And the crown prince, too. Some of the old lords, that is, and they’re all still loose in the palace right now, most of them waving swords. Go!”
The young Dragon gave him a frightened stare—and went.
Leaving the gates unguarded, their way into the royal stables clear. The hostler had taken to his heels at his first sight of Arclath’s blade.
Rune strode into the stableyard. “We’ll be needing a horse. Storm won’t be able to walk for some time.”
“You’re Elminster, aren’t you?” Arclath asked, struggling along in her wake with Storm draped over his back. “What have you done with Amarune?”
Rune turned, found the point of his blade at her throat, and smiled a little sadly at him.
“No, Arclath, it’s me.” She shook her head wearily. “Even if it was the old wizard, if you kill your Amarune—well, you kill your Amarune, don’t you?”
With a growl, Arclath took his blade away.
Together they went into the warm, dimly lit stables. Horses occupied every stall, but Arclath and Rune found no guards and surprisingly few hostlers—and the handfuls they did see were whispering excitedly in various corners.
None paid them any heed as Arclath shifted Storm’s limp body onto his shoulder and let Amarune guide him deeper amid the stalls.
When she started to stride too swiftly, he flung out a hand and caught hold of her wrist. “I’m not leaving your side. Come what may to House Delcastle or the Dragon Throne, whether that was Vangerdahast or Elminster or the ghost of the fourth Azoun himself speaking through you in that chamber, when you stood and shouted, I—I—all gods damn it, Amarune, I love you!”
Eyes shining, Rune spun, flung her arms around him, kissed him as if she wanted to take his entire body into her mouth, and gasped, “And I love you, so hurry!”
They hurried.
“So,” Arclath puffed as they hastened past stall after stall, “are—are you really you right now, Rune? How can I tell?”
His lady gave him a wink. “Trust, Lord Delcastle. Trust. Believe me when I assure you it was truly Amarune Whitewave, whose dances you’ve enjoyed so often, who kissed you just now—and professed my love in return. I do still have some scruples.”
She pointed at Storm’s slack face and gaping mouth, within which she knew ashes were roiling in merry madness. “Him, I’m not so sure about.”
“It was you? That’s, ah, good,” Arclath replied uneasily. “Tell me, Rune, what sort of horse are we seeking?”
“Anything good and sturdy that will carry her and not go wild on us,” she said a little helplessly. “I don’t know horses.”
“Ah,” said Arclath, turning her about. “Back here. We’ll take the most suitable of the ready mounts—those that by standing order are kept saddled and bridled, in shifts.”
He chose an older, sleepy-looking beast and used a long leading rein to lash Storm’s body onto its saddle. The horset stood still as he worked, so he deemed it acceptable and led it out of the stables.
At the gates they encountered a fresh and rather breathless handful of guards and war wizards, who gave them—and Storm’s bound body, scorched gown and all—rather startled looks, but Amarune told them brightly, “Another of her fits—too much excitement. She once took an evil spell meant for the king and has suffered from these ever since, poor thing. They know what to do, down at the temple, to stop her from sliding into even worse shape.”
They waved a farewell and led the horse out into the busy Promenade before anyone thought to stop them or ask more. Such as which temple.
“That did not go well,” King Foril Obarskyr said grimly, accepting the goblet of flamewine Glathra—after sniffing it suspiciously and taking a tiny sip—passed him.
“Your Majesty has a peerless gift for diplomatic understatement,” Glathra replied curtly and turned to give the priests working on Crown Prince Irvel another glare. “How is he?”
“Only a few bruises now,” one replied soothingly. “There were three cuts, none of them deep. Our healing has made them disappear completely.”
“How many lords were lost?” the prince muttered sleepily, from somewhere beneath the attentive clergy.
Glathra was about to ignore the question but caught the look Foril gave her, an unspoken command to provide a full and honest reply.
“We know not. For one thing, there’s still fighting going on, as some seek to settle old scores. For another, some lords were sorely wounded—at least, so all the spilled blood tells us—but fled the palace. Whether they’ll reach healing in time …” She shrugged.
“There were deaths,” the king said heavily.
Glathra nodded. “The bodies of the Lords Dragonwood, Ambrival, Foulweather, Barelder, Tantorn, Hardivyper, Ravenhill, and Briarbroke have been identified and taken to the Chapel of the Valiant, where they lie under guard.” She started to pace. “I can’t find Sir Winter, yet, nor my fellow wizards of war Blamreld and Lareikaun, but I want all three to examine the bodies before priests or kin get to them.”
Running a hand over her weary eyes, she added, “Most of all, I want the wielder of our new blueflame ghost identified and found! Right after young Lord Stormserpent, who commands the two who have caused so much butchery in the city already, is taken into custody—alive, if we can manage it—and the items he uses to control his ghosts seized by us and put somewhere secure.”
“Busy days,�
� Irvel murmured, from the drawling edge of slumber.
Glathra stiffened, then quelled the angry reply that rose to her lips. One does not rebuke princes. Over trifles, at least.
She sighed instead, looked at the king, and told him bluntly, “If the nobles set to fighting each other and the commoners and our Dragons, in the streets, we’ll be hard pressed to hold the palace. We’ll have to call on every ally, from Alusair’s ghost to the Sage of Shadowdale—when he inevitably reappears. Even that self-proclaimed Lord of Waterdeep who’s skulking around our halls stealing food and wine as if he were eating for a dozen. I hate to trust any of them, but right now we must. We need them—or at least need them not to be our foes.”
“And later?” one of the king’s Highknight bodyguards asked with a bleak smile.
“Later,” Glathra said viciously, “we’ll take their measures and settle scores accordingly. When the Dragon Throne is safe again.”
“Do what you must,” King Foril said wearily, looking at the soundly sleeping prince, “but don’t presume I’ll hide forever. My place is leading my kingdom, not vanishing because the palace—or the city or the realm—is deemed unsafe.”
“Majesty,” Glathra said hastily, “I would never presume—”
“Glathra, you do nothing else,” Foril told her with a wry smile. “I know. I’ve been watching you. Don’t turn into another Vangerdahast on me, now.”
Before she could stop herself, Glathra spat out an oath that made the priests wince and the Highknights all grin.
Then, mortified, she bent low to add, “Of course not, Your Majesty,” then spun around and fled without meeting the king’s gaze.
After she was gone, he sighed, reached for more flamewine, and murmured, “Busy days, indeed.”
Outside the guarded chamber, as if on cue, there was a muffled crash.
“The king is dead! They killed King Foril and chopped him up into so many butchers’ roasts!”
“Who killed him?”
“All the highnoses—the high Lords of Waterdeep, what met with him in this Council and all! Went for him, every last one of them!”
