Swords of Dragonfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  “Manshoon? You know?”

  “Oh, stop gasping, man. How high did you rise in the Brotherhood?”

  The War Wizard Gorndar Lacklar flung open the door and rushed inside, gasping, “Sorry I’m late, Ghoruld! Gods, what a night! Off to Arabel with the queen’s new blades, then back here again to see to the Andamus matter—and then Sarmeir tells me I’m to report to you again for another jaunt to Arabel! Queen’s own orders, he says! What’s up?”

  “This,” Ghoruld Applethorn said sweetly, ramming a wand into Lacklar’s mouth and speaking the word that triggered it.

  Even before the back of Lacklar’s head had finished spattering all over the old cloaks he’d pinned ready on the ceiling, Applethorn had laid hold of his underling’s slumping body and whirled him aside, into the glow of another waiting portal.

  He’d be back before Lacklar’s brains started to drip onto the floor. Damned disloyal young war wizards—who’d have thought it? Better call in the best of the alarphons to investigate. Good old Applethorn.

  Dragon-damned right he’d be back. There was Sarmeir to butcher before this night was out. And if Gorndar Lacklar, Sarmeir Landorl, and good old Applethorn, too, all went silent, Vangerdahast would have to send Laspeera to investigate. With whoever else she thought she’d need hurrying along right beside her.

  Right into the trap he’d prepared in Halfhap, and thereafter, oblivion.

  The sudden shrieks of pain were far behind them, but were certainly clear enough.

  The Knights of Myth Drannor grabbed for their weapons and asked each other, “What was that?”

  A wolf howled then, nearby in the trees off the road to the north, and the horses became very uneasy.

  The Knights held their reins in firm hands and made gentling sounds and speech until their horses slowed again, and Semoor dared to answer their shared question: “Someone screaming in agony, obviously. It didn’t last long.”

  “So much killing,” Florin muttered. “It goes on and on.”

  Semoor nodded. “I’ll confess I was glad we were leaving Arabel, earlier, and gladder still that the rain stopped, but now …”

  “Oh?” Pennae asked. “Is the stern and oh-so-certain Light of Lathander actually changing his mind?”

  “The changing of my mind,” Semoor purred back at her, “is the best evidence I know for proving I’ve got one. Unlike certain barb-tongued present company.”

  Doust managed the feat of rolling his eyes and yawning simultaneously—and so impressed himself that he promptly repeated the yawning part.

  “Don’t go to sleep and fall out of your saddle,” Islif told him, spurring her mount near enough to take hold of his elbow. Doust looked at her with heavy eyes, and she told him crisply, “Listen to the splendid entertainment Semoor and Pennae are providing, and stay awake.”

  Ahead of the battling tongues Islif had just heralded, Florin scowled into the night like he wanted to slay it. Jhessail frowned at him and asked gently, “What troubles you just now, Florin?”

  “Narantha,” her friend told her. “We’re just riding away from her, leaving her unavenged, and every time I try to think of her and make peace with myself, someone else comes at me with a sword and snatches the time away from me again, and … and.…”

  He set his teeth, and shook his head. Jhessail put a hand on his thigh, looked up into his hard stare, and murmured, “I understand, Tall Sword, and I’ll do my best to see to it that you get plenty of time to think of her in days to come.”

  He nodded curtly, and they rode on. After a time Jhessail hissed, “And to you I swear this: I will give all aid I can to help you deal with those who drove her to slay herself, when the time is right.”

  Florin brought his hand down to cover and then clasp hers, where it rested on his leg, and managed a smile.

  “I thank you,” he said, “which should mean that ’tis now time for someone else to attack us.”

  Jhessail smiled thinly. “ ’Tis certainly starting to seem that way, isn’t it? This life of adventuring is not what I dreamed of it being, back in Espar.”

  “No,” Florin sighed. “ ’Tis … dirtier.”

  No sudden menace came at them out of the night, so Jhessail risked a look back over her shoulder. The horses were faltering, plodding now as often as they trotted, and their riders all reeled and yawned in their saddles. This fighting and riding all night wasn’t the splendor-glory minstrels made it out to be! When they reached Halfhap—hah! If they reached Halfhap—it would be high time for all, humans and horses alike, to rest. Being Knights of Myth Drannor or carrying said Knights across the wide Realms, it seemed, were similarly wearying professions.

  The young prisoner wasn’t in his cell, of course, but neither were the two Dragons who’d put him there. Evidently the lad had picked the lock and let himself out after their departure.

  Thinking darkly murderous thoughts between persistent urges to just blow out the lamps and seek his bed, Dauntless trudged back to his desk—and came to a sudden halt at what he saw awaiting him. Watching Gods Above, what deep sin had he committed, without even remembering doing so, to be so amply rewarded this night?

  The Lady Lord of Arabel herself stood waiting for him, leaning on his desk with her hand on her hip. She was in full armor—the leathers that clung to her so interestingly, not her battlefield coat-of-plate—and no fewer than four senior Purple Dragon officers were standing behind her, similarly garbed. Everyone wore swords.

  “Do you leave this desk unguarded often, Ornrion?” Myrmeen Lhal asked mildly.

  “No,” Dauntless told her. “Only during jailbreaks.”

  “Oh? Who’s missing?”

  “A young lad, a thief, from Westgate, who was caught climbing through a window not his own, but insisted he was here to tryst with Princess Alusair—who was in Arabel this night. He gave his name as Rathgar.”

  “And stole your keys, by the look of it,” Myrmeen added, looking pointedly at his belt.

  “And stole my keys,” Dauntless agreed. “I take it worse matters have arisen whilst I was inspecting an empty cell?”

  “You take it correctly. I understand you were earlier this night given the responsibility of escorting the adventurers known as the Knights of Myth Drannor out of the city?”

  Dauntless managed—just—not to sigh. “They were attacked by some Zhentilar at the stables used by the war wizards, and upon hearing reports of the butchery, I gathered some Dragons from the barracks and made haste to arrest them. Laspeera appeared, rode with us, and commanded me not to detain them, but rather to assist her in conducting them out of the gates. I obeyed, and they were off up the Mountain Ride by the time the rainclouds fled and the moon came out. Whereupon Wizard of War Laspeera took herself—I presume—out of Arabel by magic, without a word of farewell.”

  “I see. Constal Raskarel, explain to the ornrion here what befell Lord Ebonhawk this night.”

  One of the officers stepped forward, fixed Dauntless with a frosty look, and announced flatly, “The younger Lord Ebonhawk—Lord Duskur Ebonhawk—had much to drink this night, and so was out late, unsteady on his feet, but within a walking ring of bodyguards who had imbibed nothing. They were traversing an alley hard by the stables as the fray you referred to was abating, and one of these Knights of Myth Drannor—a woman who goes by the name of ‘Pennae,’ we believe, and who steals for a living—encountered the young lord, cut away his purse, sprang up onto a nearby balcony, and thence climbed a drainpipe to the roofs, and got away.”

  Dauntless nodded, completely unsurprised. “That wench,” he said, “is so low she could put on a tall helm and stroll right under a slithering viper!”

  “And so?” another officer—an oversword—snapped.

  “And so … what?” Dauntless asked. “An interesting tale, but the miscreant is now out of my jurisdiction, transported thus under Crown orders, and—”

  “And so,” Myrmeen said gently, “I find myself needing to return this miscreant to the jurisdiction of
my most capable ornrion, who stands most experienced in dealings with these particular adventurers. I’m temporarily relieving you of your engaging duties here, Dauntless, and ordering you to ride after the Knights of Myth Drannor, with however many Dragons you feel you’ll need, and recover all that this Pennae stole from young Lord Duskur Ebonhawk.”

  “But—”

  “These orders are effective right now, Ornrion Dahauntul!”

  “Uh—yes, Lady Lord Lhal. I go.” Swallowing his curses, Dauntless turned and headed for the garrison stables, snapping the names of five Dragons he wanted riding with him over his shoulder.

  “What,” Myrmeen Lhal asked mildly, “not the princess?”

  It was a chill morning of drifting mists as the two shivering guards pushed open the creaking western gates of Halfhap.

  Old Pheldarr stared out and down the empty road as far as the curling mists allowed—the length of a good bowshot, no more—spat thoughtfully onto the cobbles between his worn and split boots, and announced, “First watch is yours, Rorld. I’ll get the stew hot.”

  No sooner had he lumbered slowly into the gatehouse, still shivering, than a man in a splendid doublet, with breeches and boots to match, stepped out of a deep doorway across the street and strolled over to join Rorld—who had squared his shoulders and posed himself against the gatepost, spear placed in one rest and shield propped in another, so that from more than a few strides away it appeared as if he were wearing the one and holding the other at an unwavering angle. Then Rorld devoted himself to practicing his spitting.

  “Our deal stands?” the well-dressed man murmured, coming to a stop beside the gate-guard.

  “It does. When d’ye expect these adventurers, Velmorn?”

  “Right about now,” was the reply, accompanied by a lifted, pointing finger.

  Rorld peered into the mists, and beheld a weary line of riders, swaying in their saddles atop even wearier mounts. “Hunh. They’ll be going no farther soon.”

  “Indeed,” Velmorn agreed, stepping a careful pace farther out into the road. He stood watching the adventurers approach in gently smiling silence, until just the right moment. Whereupon he nodded greeting to Pennae and Florin and observed, “Long ride.”

  “Long enough,” Pennae agreed. “You look like a man paid to stand awaiting wayfarers and recommend an inn.”

  Velmorn grinned. “This being the flourishing many-spires realm-seat of Halfhap, you’d be right about all except the ‘paid’ part.”

  Pennae smiled. “Well?”

  “Well, you have the look of adventurers, and that means you’ll find a proper welcome only at one place inside our walls. The Oldcoats Inn. Turn right at the fork ahead, then left immediately, and when that road bends north again, it’s the black half-timbered building on your left, with the arched gate for its stableyard. It has a signboard. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks, friend,” Florin said appreciatively, as he passed. Velmorn and Rorld nodded pleasantly to them all: the thief and the ranger; the little lass—no, she was a little older than that, just small; the two priests; and the watchful warrior-woman bringing up the rear.

  “Lathander and Tymora,” Rorld commented on the priests’ holy symbols, as they watched the travelers turn right where the street forked. “Adventurers.”

  Velmorn nodded. “Adventurers.”

  The gate-guard casually held out his hand. “They’re the ones, hey?”

  “They’re the ones,” Velmorn replied, spilling a clinking stack of Lord Yellander’s gold coins into Rorld’s palm.

  The Purple Dragons who guarded the Royal Palace in Suzail were neither young nor inexperienced. They knew their duties very well—and when to call upon reinforcements.

  “Just here, sir,” the grizzled old first sword said with a puzzled frown, pointing at the floor. Something small, round, and blackened was lying right in the angle where the floor and two walls met, nigh a door. A ring. “You smell it too?”

  The lionar nodded and bent down to peer at the ring. He started to reach for it, and then caught sight of several human hairs standing straight out from the wall where they’d been spattered—and then partially melted—against it.

  By some sort of explosion.

  He carefully straightened up again without touching anything, and ordered, “Go get the War Wizard Laspeera. I’ll stay right here. Tell her, and anyone—anyone—who tries to stop you that nothing at all in the realm matters so much as her getting her here, right quick, to see this. If you can’t get her, get Vangerdahast.”

  “The—the Royal Magician?” The guard gulped visibly and then added, “Yes, sir!” He flung open the door and raced away down the passage beyond, his speed surprising for his age.

  The lionar closed that door, drew his sword and his dagger, and placed himself carefully against the wall across from the ring.

  After a moment he stepped hastily away from the wall, whirled to stare at it suspiciously, and then slowly moved to the center of the passage, where he turned slowly all around, blades raised, looking for a foe.

  The Oldcoats Inn was a large, sagging place with a swaybacked roof. It was cloaked in black paint, broken briefly here and there by rows of small white-painted medallion ornaments, like lines of stars in a moonless midnight sky. The doors were black, the yard fence and arch were black, the porch pillars and floorboards were black—even the shakes on the roof were black.

  Yet stablelads trotted out to take their mounts cheerfully enough, and the innkeeper’s smile was affable, his welcome ringing true.

  “Ondal Maelrin, at your service whilst you’re under my roof here at Oldcoats,” he told them. “We’re an old house, but a good house.”

  His words fell into a soft, waiting silence: the stout tables and chairs of the dark common room were all empty, with not a living guest to be seen or heard. That seemed to bother Maelrin not a whit as he accepted a gold lion per Knight from Pennae’s purse and carefully entered them in the ledger (“Knights of Myth Drannor, adventuring band, Royal Charter Cormyr: Florin Falconhand; Islif Lurelake; Jhessail Silvertree worker-of-Art; Pennae; Doust Sulwood anointed of Tymora; Semoor Wolftooth anointed of Lathander”).

  Four of the Knights peered around at the dim silence a little uncertainly; what afflicted Oldcoats, to leave it this dark and empty? Pennae stared at Maelrin’s writing intently, and Jhessail studied Maelrin. He was of middling years, jet black hair, easy smile, wearing a leather vest over an immaculate tunic and black breeches; as quiet and graceful as the servants in the Royal Palace. As if aware of their scrutiny, he looked up, flashing a bright smile.

  “A tankard of mulled cider and house soup each, to your rooms in a trice—all food and drink after that costs more coin,” he announced. Taking up one of the two low-trimmed lanterns on the bar that he was using as a reception desk, he led his guests up the flight of stairs that ascended out of the center of the common room, the stairs down to the cellar right beside them.

  Upstairs seemed no more populated.

  “Are we the only guests, just now?” Pennae ventured to ask, as the innkeeper produced two large room keys with a flourish, offered them to her, and bowed, indicating the first doors on either side of the passage, at the head of the stairs.

  “Just now,” Maelrin replied, “but word has been sent ahead of a few more who’ll be joining us before nightfall—and a large caravan’s expected, coming down from the Moonsea, this night or the next. When it arrives, we’ll have folk sleeping out in the stable loft.”

  The rooms were as dark as the rest of the inn, but were clean, furnished simply with massive wooden wardrobes and rope-and-straw mattress beds; the straw was fresh, and the Knights nodded and smiled acceptance.

  Maelrin lit the rooms’ oil-lamps and departed, taking his lantern with him. The moment they heard his boots descending the stairs, the men trooped across the hall to confer with the lady Knights, yawning hugely.

  “Three coppers one of us is asleep before those tankards arrive,” Pennae sugge
sted.

  “No takers,” Doust muttered. “My thighs and backside fell into slumber well before dawn. Could we possibly arrange to have adventures that don’t involve riding horses, from now on?”

  “Doubt it,” Islif said cheerfully. “And what do the intrepid Knights of Myth Drannor think of the dark and haunted inn, hmm?”

  “Certainly looks haunted,” Semoor agreed.

  Jhessail shot a look that had daggers in it at Islif. “Have my deepest thanks for mentioning that. Now I’ll—”

  “Be snoring in a trice like the rest of us,” Semoor said. “Good thing the doors have foot-wedges; I doubt any of us could stay awake on watch.”

  “Ah,” Pennae murmured, “but are the doors we see the only ways into these rooms?”

  Everyone glanced around, and swiftly agreed that thus far, each room in the Oldcoats they’d seen looked like the sort of place where every wall, floor, and ceiling had sliding panels, and secret passages behind them.

  Pennae grinned at that and started toward the nearest wall, but Islif and Florin both grabbed her by the forearms and growled, “No.”

  Islif added, “See if you can get through one night—just one—without prowling anywhere, getting into trouble, or stealing from anyone.”

  Pennae lifted her chin defiantly.

  “For the novelty of it?” Semoor suggested.

  Pennae rolled her eyes, and handed him his own purse.

  Semoor looked down at his belt where it was supposed to be—and wasn’t—and then back up at her, dumbfounded.

  Doust touched the back of Pennae’s neck. He sprang back as she whirled to face him and snapped, “Catch her, Florin!”

  Florin shot out one long arm and got hold of Pennae’s shoulder as her spin turned into a topple. She was senseless, eyes wide and staring.

  “You used magic on her,” Islif said.

  Doust nodded, yawning. “I’m too tired for her nonsense just now.”