The Sword Never Sleeps

by Greenwood, Ed

  “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 sure. 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 character Graerus the Purple Dragon

  in the play Land of Dragons

  by Aunthus Durl of Westgate

  first performed in the Year of the Spur

  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!”

  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.

  The last light was dragged out onto the road. It proved to be a disheveled bullyblade, arms held out from his body and his head obscured by a blinding whorl of light.

  “No strangle-binding,” a thick-necked Purple Dragon lionar ordered curtly, “and no ‘accidents.’ This one is to be kept alive for questioning.”

  Then he turned to peer at Doust, Semoor, and Jhessail. He waved his hand imperiously at the young war wizard riding beside him, who nodded and murmured something.

  The shimmering
shield around the three Knights faded, leaving the Knights staring into eyes that were as steel gray as the lionar’s sparse hair—and held just a hint of weary amusement.

  “Is fair upland Cormyr so devoid of interest,” he asked almost tauntingly, “that you must swing swords for entertainment in the middle of the King’s High Road? Or does being an adventurer demand your participation in a certain count of hopeless battles each month?”

  Jhessail, who had risen to stand between the two priests behind Semoor, promptly bit Semoor’s ear, and as he flinched in startlement said into it, “Whatever cleverness you’re thinking of uttering in reply, don’t. Nor yet the second witty thing that rises to mind. In fact, just leave the talking to me.”

  Not waiting for a reply, she grounded her sword, met the lionar’s eyes, and told him, “We personally receive our orders from the Dragon Queen and are knights of the realm. As well as entertainment-starved adventurers.”

  The amusement in those gray eyes grew stronger. “Ah. That must be why we were given orders to see you safely out of the realm. Are any of you three hurt? Or can our healers get straight to work on the others?”

  War wizards were busily vanishing through the row of tapestries at the back of the Griffonguard Room when the princess entered. They were hurrying under the lash of the Royal Magician’s tongue, and he was spitting orders in a tone and at a rate that made it clear he was not in a good mood.

  Alusair wondered briefly what had gone wrong in the realm now, and then decided she really didn’t care one whit. She saw Vangerdahast start to turn in her direction, and she swiftly drove an imperious finger into the ribs of the Palace herald.

  Who announced hastily yet grandly: “The Princess Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr!”

  No one reacted in the slightest, but Alusair had expected that. She had also expected that Vangey wouldn’t bother to hide his annoyance at her appearance in his ready chamber. He didn’t.

  “Princess,” he greeted her with a curt nod, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your—?”

  He didn’t even bother to finish the sentence but devoted himself to glaring at the herald until that courtier bowed hastily and withdrew—as far as the spot where Alusair’s hand clamped fiercely down on his forearm. “Attend us, herald,” she said loudly and merrily. “By our royal command, we require your presence with us a breath or two longer, to bear witness to what follows.”

  Vangey had still not even bothered to meet her gaze. He transferred his glare from the herald’s back to the war wizard shadowing Alusair. He was one of an endless succession of silently polite escorts that Vangerdahast had assigned, seemingly to her elbow, to attend her every waking moment and report back to him everything she did. Every careless word, break of wind, and nose-picking moment. Gods, she hated wizards. This glaring one in front of her right now in particular.

  “Royal Magician,” she said, before he could speak again and so control the converse, “we have personally come to return this Wizard of War who hath so ably and attentively attended us. He is polite and capable and hath offended us not at all, but his presence at our side every waking moment is no longer required. Cormyr needs his services—and those of all the war wizard escorts you so kindly have seen fit to provide us with, these days past, far more than we do. Now that we have our own personal champion, approved of by both our royal father, the king, and our royal mother, the queen, to protect our person and attend our every need.”

  Alusair delivered one of her sweetest smiles to the glowering Vangerdahast. She had determined beforehand that no matter what befell, she would remain oh-so-sweet during this confrontation, because if she lost her temper she lost everything in the fires of Vangerdahast’s sneering satisfaction at her—what had he called them? Oh, yes—“immature inadequacies.”

  Vangerdahast slowly raised an eyebrow in the manner of a man condescending to humor a young fool. “Your Highness, this welcome news puzzles me, in that I am utterly unfamiliar with anyone suitable for such an important office, who is not already fully engaged in tasks vital to the realm. As Court Wizard it is imperative I know the identity of such a personage, to prevent loyal war wizards from destroying him—or her, I suppose—in their zeal to defend your person. So this, ah, champion of yours would be—?”

  Oh, but the man was a right bastard. Alusair clawed at her rising temper with both hands. Seeing by his smirk that her color must already have heightened, she said, “Ornrion Taltar Dahauntul, better known to all as ‘Dauntless,’ has been named our personal champion. Ably protected by him, we shall no longer have any need of war wizards, to say nothing of their heavy-handed authority—or yours.”

  Her words fell into a sudden icy silence.

  Two war wizards who’d just shouldered into view through separate tapestries froze, staring at the princess. The herald trembled beside her, and the tingling of the ring-shielding that Alusair had awakened as she swept through the Palace told her the war wizard escort had stepped behind her—no doubt to hide himself from Vangey’s fury—and was shaking, too, probably with mirth.

  Then, with a shivery little thrill of fear, Alusair realized she had succeeded in enraging the Royal Magician.

  “No, Princess, your conclusion is unacceptable,” he said. “Dispense empty titles if you feel the need, but your doing so can not affect my deployment of our loyal Wizards of War. Your survival is vital to Cormyr, wherefore your escort must remain on duty by your side. May I remind you that ruling is not a game? As your longtime tutor, I urge you to reconsider your behavior, and as Royal Magician of Cormyr, I order you—for the good of our Forest Kingdom—to return to your senses.”

  Alusair stared at him, fighting not to cower before the anger now bright and clear in his eyes. She forced herself to take a slow, leisurely step toward him.

  “Tell me, mage,” she said, abandoning formal pronouns because they were unfamiliar fripperies her tongue could all too easily stumble over, and she had to do this right. “Which of us in this room has royal blood in her veins and therefore a right to order the realm and so give orders to citizens of it—and which of us is an overbearing tyrant of an old man who wields just as much authority as we Obarskyrs let him have? Royal Magicians outlive their time and overreach their rightful authority, just as the gods tempt us all to do—and wizard, you long since ran out of yours, on both counts!”

  Without waiting for a reply, proud that her voice had sharpened but neither risen into a shout nor ascended into querulous tones while speaking her last few words, Alusair turned away—and so of course found herself facing the white-faced herald and the openmouthed and staring war wizard escort. “So this little matter has been decided,” she told them and treated them to a brief, bright smile. “Well and good.”

  She swept out, leaving a trembling-with-rage Vangerdahast staring after her.

  He did not have to say a word to make the herald and the war wizard escort both bolt after the princess. They almost collided in the doorway in their haste to be out of the room. Tapestries roiled and billowed as the other two war wizards plunged back through them, leaving the Royal Magician alone in the room, glowering at an open doorway.

  He was not alone for long. Laspeera emerged from behind one of those busy tapestries so promptly it was obvious she had been eavesdropping. “She’s right, you know,” she murmured, taking care not to smile.

  The look Vangerdahast favored her with was as sharp as a dagger, but Laspeera stood her ground, uncowed.

  “In one thing, Vangey,” she added. “You are getting old. Years back, you’d never have let any Obarskyr’s behavior get you this angry.”

  “Angry, lass?” Vangerdahast snapped. “You misunderstand me. I’m just enjoying getting my blood up. Our Alusair at last is growing a backbone and turning into someone it’s going to be fun crossing swords with—just as the realm needs her to be! That is my life’s work, forget not!”

  He started to pace. “First, this Dauntless—this conspirator for a young princess to work her mischief with! We must
remove him far from her feckless royal grasp, faster than immediately. A good long mission elsewhere, of course … and as it happens, I have just such a task going begging. Bring him here.”

  Laspeera nodded. “By your command,” she murmured sardonically, as she slipped back through the tapestries.

  Her tone made Vangey flush—but he found himself glaring around an empty room.

  “Overbearing old tyrant, am I?” he said, striding across the floor. A wall loomed up before him, and he spun around abruptly and marched back, pausing mid-stride to twist a ring on one of his fingers and announce to the empty air, “Tathanter Doarmund, make ready both the Halfhap portals and six horses—the latter with full field provisions, tents and all. You’ll be escorting the six riders from the east doors of the Griffonguard Room to the portals, so after you’ve seen to those matters, I’ll want you waiting outside those doors just as fast as you can get there.”

  Wizard of War Tathanter Doarmund’s reply was inaudible from halfway across the Palace, but Vangerdahast heard it and turned again, nodding ever so slightly. Some folk in the realm still obeyed him with alacrity, it seemed.

  It seemed doubly so, a moment later, when the open doorway showed him a sternly expressionless Ornrion Taltar Dahauntul marching toward him, with Laspeera striding along a pace behind.

  Vangerdahast took a stance before the tapestries, matching the soldier’s expressionless look, and waited. As Dauntless strode into the room, Laspeera softly closed the doors behind him, shutting herself out.

  When the ornrion halted before him, Vangerdahast tendered a bright smile and said, “A mission has arisen that requires your amply demonstrated capabilities, Ornrion Dahauntul. You are to shadow the Knights of Myth Drannor, see that they truly leave Cormyr, find out where they go, and report back their location, wherever in Faerûn they may be, when they show signs of settling down somewhere. If they split up or get involved in potential treason against the realm, you are to send some of the loyal Purple Dragons who will be accompanying you back to tell us, and redeploy your forces so as to lose track of not a single Knight. No Wizards of War shall be riding with you.”