Swords of Dragonfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  A guardpost. This one, thankfully, had no gong.

  The younger Zhentarim was breathing hard as he came through the door.

  “I got them all back here—just in time. There’re more Purple Dragons riding hard to Halfhap right now than I thought Cormyr could muster!”

  “Local Dragon commanders shrieking about Lord Manshoon and the Blackstaff and Elminster blowing up an inn in town will do that,” the older Zhentarim said, rising from a desk littered with librams, grimoires and scrolls.

  “Huh. Morelike old Vangerdahast got the scare of his life, ran home with his tail between his legs, and shrieked hard in his king’s ear. And Azoun was so awestruck at his oh-so-haughty Royal Magician babbling in fear that he called out all his armies!”

  “Perhaps so, indeed. So we’re well out of it, and can thank Lord Manshoon for the continued good health of our necks.”

  “You mean he got the same scare?”

  “Careful, Mauliykhus, careful. One never knows what words he might hear, or how he might take them. ’Tis best not to speculate as to his thinking; he frowns on those who do. Deeply. All I know is, from now on, we’re to stay out.”

  “Just that? ‘Stay out’? Aumrune, where did you hear those words?”

  “Orders. From the top. I hear the Lord Manshoon doesn’t want any of us near when the envoy from Silverymoon is welcomed at Court with all the pomp and glitter Suzail can mount. It seems some of the sorceresses she travels with like to hunt we of the Brotherhood—and they have something that links them all together, and makes them far more deadly than a mere handful of nosy women with a taste for the Art, each working alone. If they sniff us, Manshoon said, Harpers will just flood into Cormyr and trammel us for years, hacking at our backsides whenever we turn around.”

  Mauliykhus blinked. “Ah. Well. Put that way …”

  “Exactly.” Aumrune reached for a decanter, pointed at two goblets in a silent command to Mauliykhus to fetch them, and sat down at his desk again, sweeping glowing written magic aside with a careless wave of one arm.

  Turning a ring on his finger that awakened a singing in the air—a singing Mauliykhus had long suspected shielded against scrying—the older Zhentarim added in a lower, softer voice, “None of which forbids us to discuss points of interest in this matter that obviously had nothing at all to do with Lord Manshoon’s decision. Like the disappearance of one of his most trusted mages, Sarhthor. And a few treasonous nobles whose trade routes and dealings—when they’re soon jailed or beheaded—we may be able to make a little private use of. Oh, and talk of something called a hargaunt. And the wraithlike things seen plunging into and probably possessing too many loyal Zhentarim, to make them turn on fellows in the Brotherhood. Or the possibility that the Dragonfire magic, lo these many years passing, just might be more than mere illusion and minstrels’ fancies, after all.”

  Mauliykhus smiled as he set the goblets down, and took a seat across from his superior in the Brotherhood. “Ah. Good. I’ve been struggling not to ask over-many questions about all those things, but they’ve been burning inside my head these last few days.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Aumrune commented, his voice drier than Mauliykhus had ever heard it before. He poured until the goblets were full to the brim.

  “Just make very sure that talking and watching is all you do, until we receive orders otherwise. For now, we stand back and let nobles doom themselves with their little treasons, and Ornrion Dahauntul snarl and roar like a boar in rut, and these Knights of Myth Drannor stumble around like the naive fools they are. If Bane smiles on us all, their blunders will reveal more to us of the true nature of those wraiths and what the Dragonfire magic really is, before …”

  “Before we need to pounce on these Knights of Myth Drannor?”

  “No. Before it’s too late.”

  “Peace, loyal Purple Dragons!” Florin cried, waving his open and empty hand. “We serve the king and queen, and bear their charter! We have no quarrel with you, but must in haste find the Dragondown Chambers!”

  He broke off with a sigh. Faces hardening, the soldiers had already spread out, drawing their swords—and revealing a door behind them, out of which another four Dragons were hurrying, swords and maces in their hands.

  “Peace? Parley?” Islif snapped.

  “Surrender!” the oldest Dragon ordered, gesturing sharply at the passage floor with his drawn sword. “Down on your bellies, and toss your weapons aside!”

  “That’s the fastest way to the Dragondown Chambers?” Pennae asked impishly.

  “Hoy, now!” one of the Dragons said in pleased surprise. “Some of ’em are women!”

  “Fancy that!” Jhessail said sarcastically, looking down at herself. “All these years I’d not noticed, until now.”

  “Awake at last, Dragon?” Islif asked that Purple Dragon archly, smashing aside his sword with her own and twisting her blade to send his clanging and skirling from his hand.

  The Dragon beside him thrust his blade at her throat, shouting, “Surrend—”

  That was as far as he got ere Islif ducked past his sword point, and her free arm caught hold of his sword arm and tugged sharply. Her other hand, still gripping the hilt of her sword, crashed hard into his chin as he fell helplessly forward. He sighed, rolled his eyes up into his head, and crashed to the floor like a full, wet sack of grain.

  Beside her, Pennae danced across in front of three of the Dragons, blowing them a kiss—and then flung herself at their ankles, rolling hard and sending them toppling forward over her. As they landed, amid startled curses, Doust leaned forward and carefully rapped each one on the back of the helm with his mace, counting like a child at play in the street, “One Dragon. Two Dragon. Three Dragon!”

  “What madness is this?” the Purple Dragon officer snarled. “What’re you doing?”

  “Searching for the Dragondown Chambers!” Florin said. “Can you help us?”

  The officer flung up his weapon in a dramatic pose. “Never!”

  Semoor swung his mace. It slammed into the man’s helmed forehead and sent him reeling. Pennae promptly ducked behind him, going to her knees—and he tripped backward over her and crashed down onto his behind, roaring in pain. Thoughtfully she turned and hopped, landing with both knees on his armored chest and driving the wind out of him.

  His head snapped up as he struggled for breath. She smiled sweetly at him and backhanded him across the face, ringing his helmed head off the stone floor.

  “Then kindly drift off into dreams and get out of our way!” she snarled into his face. “We have a kingdom to save! Yours!”

  “No, Torsard, not the jeweled blade. No magic, remember?”

  “But—but—”

  Lord Elvarr Spurbright sighed. “Did we not discuss this? Have you not been instructed in Court etiquette for lo these dozen years now and more?”

  “But Algranth Truesilver will be wearing his best sword. It has quillons made to look like spread eagle wings! Why will he—”

  “He will not,” Lord Spurbright interrupted. “Vangerdahast may—with a frown—allow the Obarskyrs to wear weapons that bear magic to a revel, and just perhaps not rend the visiting envoy of Silverymoon limb from limb in front of us all for daring to do the same, but neither of us are royalty. Which is why your Lady Mother won’t be wearing her tiara that chimes, nor your sisters those glow-gem pectorals they’re so proud of. It may be a high-handed rule, it may be irksome, but Vangerdahast’s duty is to protect the Crown, he is doing so, and he worked to make this particular rule stone-solid long before you were born. You’ve grown up with it as something that ‘is,’ just as your noble standing ‘is.’ How can you accept the one without the other?”

  Torsard Spurbright’s lip curled. “Forgive me, Father, but our proud lineage is scarcely to be measured against an arbitary, some-occasions-only detail of Court etiquette!”

  “Oh? Are not our noble privileges matters of that same Court etiquette? The Crown can strip them away at a whim, can they no
t?”

  “Aye, the Crown,” Torsard said. “The king, not some jumped-up wizard!”

  “Well, that particular jumped-up wizard, daily and in truth, rules the realm more than king and queen put together, and happens to do so right now! So take hold of your temper, do off that blade, and choose one without enchantment!”

  “And what if some outlander or hired adventurer storms into the revel and menaces the fair Obarskyrs? What then?”

  “Then all the watching war wizards will hurl their spells at such menaces, and the sorceresses who pose as Lady Summerwood’s maids will do the same,” Lord Spurbright replied. “And if there just happens to be anything left of those menaces afterwards that half a realm’s worth of Purple Dragons seem to need aid carving up, your non-magical blade may prove useful!”

  “But—”

  “Now, are you a Filfaeril-favored Knight of Myth Drannor, or perhaps a murderous outlaw? Or a loyal noble of Cormyr, whom his father can be justly proud of?”

  Torsard snorted, threw up his hands in exasperation, and turned on his heel to stalk out of his father’s study. Only to spin around again, frowning. “Look you, why before all the gods do we have to get dressed up and mingle with every commoner who can afford a bath and a decent tunic?”

  “We don’t. We can stay right here and take no part in this reception. I’ll not be surprised if the Bleths and Illances do just that; they oppose closer ties with Silverymoon.”

  “Huh. Want all the gold their ships can bring them, in ever-more trade with the Vilhon, don’t they?”

  “Precisely,” Lord Spurbright said. “Though I’d also not be surprised if the young Bleth and Illance men sidle in with masks on to enjoy the revelry, even if their fathers forbid them.”

  “Oh? A revel for an outlander envoy? Of some elf-loving, backwoods Sword Coast city that freezes every winter and river-floods every summer? Why?”

  “Your vast knowledge of Silverymoon overwhelms me, son. As to your ‘why,’ well, they say the Lady Summerwood is almost as beautiful as High Lady Alustriel herself.”

  “Ah, yes, fair and fabled Alustriel,” Torsard said. “One of those silver-haired polearms of women who bed everyone within reach and claim to be the daughter of a goddess. If you reached through the spells they use to make themselves so beautiful, to actually touch them, I daresay your fingers would find near-skull faces and wrinkles and warts and all the other delights old hags have to offer.”

  “Oh? Think you so? Well, my all-knowing heir, my fingers have gone on that adventure you so sneeringly refer to—well before I took your mother to wife, I might add—and I found Alustriel to be very fair. Very fair, indeed.”

  Torsard stared at his father. Lord Elvarr Spurbright’s voice had gone both soft and rough, and his eyes were gazing at something far away and long ago. Eyes that seemed suspiciously bright—until Lord Spurbright turned his back on his son, and said gruffly, “Well? Just how long is it going to take you to fetch that blade? The revel’s today, look you!”

  “We seek the Dragondown Chambers,” Semoor said, shaking the battered-looking Purple Dragon by the throat, their noses almost touching. “Where are they?”

  “I’ll never tell!” the guard snarled. “Cormyr forever!”

  Semoor backhanded the man across the face, ringing the man’s helm against the stone wall behind him. Then the priest grinned and told his fellow Knights, “Hey, this is fun! I’ve years of being clouted by soldiers to make up for!”

  Florin turned away. “Must we do this?”

  Islif laid a hand on his shoulder. “Easy,” she whispered. “I’ll not let it go on much longer.”

  “Now”—Semoor smiled into the guard’s face—“let’s try this again. The Dragondown Chambers: where are they? How do we reach them from here?”

  “I’ll not tell you, false priest!” the Dragon spat.

  Semoor’s punch had real force behind it this time, and his smile had vanished. “You insult Lathander more than you do me, man,” he snapped. “Now, are you—”

  Islif took hold of Semoor’s arm and hauled him to his feet, away from the guard—who promptly launched himself into a frantic run that lasted for only a single stride before Islif’s deftly outstretched leg sent him sprawling.

  Pennae landed on the Purple Dragon’s back, bounced hard, and drawled, “I wonder how he’ll look after a little slicing?”

  She let the man see the knife before she cut the rear strap of his codpiece, and was rewarded with a whimper and a frantic attempt to escape that ended, this time, with Florin hauling the man to his feet—and then off his feet and up against the wall, kicking helplessly with Florin’s hand around his throat.

  The ranger said to the guard, “We serve the Crown of Cormyr just as you do. The king himself signed our charter; the queen knighted us and gave us her blessing. We’re trying to save the realm right now. We need to get to the Dragondown Chambers, where as you well know there will be war wizards aplenty, who will promptly and firmly stop us if they judge us disloyal. We need directions. Please give them.”

  “Or I’ll continue,” Pennae added lightly, “with this.” Lifting the armored Purple Dragon codpiece aside, she pressed the point of her knife against the revealed leather beneath, just enough for the man to feel it.

  “I—uh—don’t let her! Ah—”

  “My arm,” Florin informed the guard, “is growing tired. There will soon come a time when I let you fall. And then—”

  Pennae swiftly moved the knife to press upward beneath bulging leather, where it could be felt. Its owner swallowed and then said in a rush, “Take the passage with the spyholes to the second way-moot! Turn left there, and go to the end. There’s a cross-way and two doors. Either one opens into a Dragondown Chamber!”

  “Thank you,” Florin said gently. “It’s been a pleasure talking with you, saer.”

  “Go to sleep now,” Jhessail whispered, and cast the spell that would send the Purple Dragon into deep slumber.

  Florin lowered the man gently to the stone floor. “So, which passage is the one with the spyholes?”

  “This one,” Pennae said, starting off into the darkness. The rest of the Knights rushed after her.

  “So this is being a hero,” Doust muttered, as he started to pant again. “None of the minstrels ever sing about all the running!”

  “How’d you know the right passage,” Semoor called to Pennae. “Or do you know the right passage?”

  Pennae gave him a grin back over her shoulder. “Of course. See those?” She pointed at a few tiny glows along the passage wall ahead.

  “Glowfire paint,” Islif murmured.

  “Aye. Marking little swivel-panels that can be swung aside to look through a spyhole; there must be a room on the other side of this wall that the war wizards or Highknights have occasion to watch folk in. The ladies’ baths, perhaps.”

  “I see,” Islif said. “And how is it that you recognize these spyholes at a glance, hmm?”

  As she ran on, Pennae started to hum an oh-so-innocent little tune by way of reply.

  Chapter 19

  WHEN HUNGRY VULTURES GATHER

  And at the looked-for death of kings

  When hungry vultures gather

  Look you for the most reluctant to retire

  And you’ll see the proudest titles,

  The most gleaming gems

  And the brightest fangs.

  Anglym Warlar

  One Bard’s Book

  published in the Year of the Firedrake

  The Calishite wizard yawned. “Merchant Haerrendar, never try to threaten me again. Or should I call you Bravran Merendil?”

  His host went as white as winter snow. “You know!” he gasped.

  “Of course. It is the business of Talan Yarl to know such things.” The wizard’s smile was jovial as he stroked his scented, immaculately trimmed beard, but his eyes were ice cold.

  “Moreover,” he added, “your threats are unnecessary. When Talan Yarl is bought, he stays boug
ht. You have blundered; pray refrain from doing so again. You intend a little regicide at this revel, do you not?”

  The man Suzail knew as Ostagus Haerrendar, dealer in barrels, kegs, and pipes, stepped back, shuddering. It was some moments before he swallowed and said faintly, “It seems to be your business to know all things, no matter how secret or dangerous to know.”

  “It is more than my business; it is my life, or rather, the reason I still have one. Yet that does not mean I ever approach knowing all, merely that I like to know who I’m truly dealing with. Doing so, I find, saves excess spilled blood.”

  The Calishite looked down at the still form on the table between them. “This would be Rellond Blacksilver, known to many young noble ladies of your realm as ‘Rellond the Roughshod’ for his crude and impatient lovemaking. A rake and a wastrel I expected to see dead and buried long ago, with some angry noble father’s sword having relieved him of both his life and what fills his codpiece. Yet I see that he lives. Drugged or enspelled. This worthless braggart has something to do with your cunning plan?”

  “Drugged,” Merendil said stiffly. “And there’s no need to mock my cleverness—or lack of it. I’m paying you very well.”

  “That is true. Your gold should be sufficient to make me contentedly accept any idiocy you might offer, I’ll grant. Yet humor me, Merendil. Unfold to me your scheme. I really want to hear it. Truly.”

  “If your magic is sufficient to accomplish control of this man’s mind,” the nobleman said carefully, “Rellond Blacksilver will … do the deed. Stabbing the King of Cormyr during the dancing. Outraged, you will then reduce him to ashes—regrettably too late to save Azoun, but—”

  “I will do no such thing, idiot. If I am using a spell to control your dupe, the war wizards will detect it before he or I am anywhere near the king, and we shall both be imprisoned and later mind-reamed and executed.”