Swords of Dragonfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  Blindly Amarauna Telfalcon obeyed, racing past a tapestry with her lover right behind her.

  Neither of them noticed the eyeholes in that tapestry, nor the eyes behind them that watched them run past.

  And neither of them heard the voice from behind that tapestry that then sneered, “Bumbling novices.”

  Chapter 22

  TAKE HER ALIVE

  Among the orders we hated most

  As they always meant greater peril

  And more of our blood spilled,

  Was any command of, “Take her alive.”

  In my years, I learned hard, sharp, and often

  That no woman wants to be taken alive.

  Onstable Halvurr

  Twenty Summers A Purple Dragon:

  One Soldier’s Life

  published in the Year of the Crown

  Pennae staggered, sobbing with pain, and one of the Purple Dragons laughed, “Ha! This shouldn’t take long.”

  The oldest of the three shook his head, and waved his sword at his fellows, directing them to spread out, to come at the wounded woman from three sides. “None of that! Disarm her, Strelgar! I want to know just what a lass is doing running around down here half-naked, felling war wizards! A hired slayer, or did we just interrupt a love-quarrel? Or something in between? I want some answers from this one, and so will Vangerdahast, so take her alive!”

  Strelgar growled, obviously not liking these orders—and he liked them even less a breath later, when Pennae raced at him, hurled herself at the floor when he slashed viciously at her, rolled in against his shins, and stabbed upward. Hard.

  Her blade darted under the edge of his chain mail shirt, up through the leathers beneath, into Strelgar’s belly and the hairy chest above it ere it flashed away again. He shrieked, writhed in pain, and staggered forward, getting in the way of the other two Dragon’s blades as they thrust at Pennae—who’d spun around against Strelgar’s ankles and past him, out of the trap closing in on her.

  Both of those Dragons fully expected her to flee, and jostled their ways past Strelgar to give chase, but Pennae whirled around behind Strelgar to stab him low on the seat of his leather pants, and sprang sideways across the path of the rushing Dragon commander, parrying his reaching blade.

  Their swords tangled together as he charged on, but Pennae trailed one leg rigidly behind her, catching his running feet at just the right height to collect some severe bruises, and to send him sprawling.

  The third Purple Dragon, also running too fast to do anything adroit, ran right over him, tripping and swearing and ending up hopping and staggering awkwardly. Which gave Pennae time enough to land with both knees on the commander’s back and slash his neck open, and then spring up again to deal with the moaning, doubled-over Strelgar. She dealt his temples two furious blows with her sword hilt, and watched him sag senseless to the floor over her shoulder as she finally did what was expected of her: turned and ran down the passage, not taking the time to try to retrieve her leathers from beneath the Dragon commander—and his slowly spreading pool of blood.

  The last Dragon gave pursuit, smiling as he saw the running lass ahead of him falter, put a hand to her side, and bring it away dripping with blood. She’d not last long, and then the glory of her capture would be his.

  Ahead, she turned a corner, reeling now as if she could barely keep her feet. His grin widened, and he started to hurry.

  Aye, Telsword Bareskar of the Palace Guard would win the day! Recognition at last! Recognition finally beyond mere war wizards’ disapproving looks whenever he slouched at a post, or traded saucy words with a passing maid. Oh, this would be—

  Rushing around the corner, his ankles met something hard, thin, and sharp, that shrieked against his metal-shod boots as he toppled helplessly into …

  A bone-jarringly hard meeting with the passage floor, bouncing with the wind slammed out of him and his helm tumbling away across the floor. He fought to keep hold of his sword, suddenly aware—with deepening fear—that the wench must have tripped him with her sword, and would probably be coming at him right now! He hoped not; he hoped she’d broken her stlarning arm trying that trick on him, but somehow the gods would have to smile on him far more widely than they’d been doing lately before he’d expect—

  Hoy! Desperately he flung up his sword and struck away the blade reaching for him. She was trying to slay him, and if he didn’t move right swift-like—!

  That blade came at him again. He parried desperately, staggering rather dazedly to his feet and discovering his left ankle hurt like tomb-fire, trying to beat back this lass while he got his wits and balance back.

  Steel met steel again, right in front of his eyes, and his parry was a shade too slow. Her sword leaped over his to slice along his forehead like real fire.

  Bareskar roared in startled pain; he’d made telsword without ever suffering so much as a scratch, let alone—

  That curséd sword was coming at him again!

  Dripping his blood, too, it was! He struck it aside savagely and backed away, suddenly blind. Something wet and stinging was in his eyes, was—he wiped at it, desperately, and found himself looking at blood, running from his fingers. Tluining hrast!

  A door banged, nearby, and then another. Bareskar wiped the back of his hand across his brows, to try to see what—

  She’d slashed open his forehead, stlarning near blinding him, and now she was tearing open door after door along the passage! What by all the Watching Gods was she doing?

  She rushed at him again, bare chest bobbing distractingly. Bareskar wiped at his forehead again so he could see it—uh, her—better, hefted his sword, and prepared to meet her charge.

  He parried her first thrust with surprising ease, grinned at her shocked expression, and thrust back at her. She gave ground, one arm waving wildly as she fought for balance, and Bareskar’s grin widened as he pressed her, striking her sword aside once—twice.

  They fenced, swords clanging and rebounding in a ringing fury, and the telsword saw his half-naked foe holding her side again, pain creasing her face as they fought, as her sword started to waver.

  Aye, this was it! Bareskar blinked away stinging blood again, wiped his face frantically, and charged at her, hacking and chopping as she staggered back. They were hard by the doors she’d been opening, now; she’d strike the passage wall if she retreated farther. He knew he was grinning as he wiped at his forehead again, then lunged—

  Suddenly there was no half-naked lass in front of him, only darkness, and there was no floor under his right boot.

  Pennae shook her head as she kicked the Purple Dragon’s backside as hard as she knew how, and watched him plunge helplessly down out of sight with a shout of fear and pain, riding the laundry chute she’d found down into deeper cellars.

  Such an overconfident dolt, to swallow her sudden oh-so-wounded act, and believe his bladework was suddenly so superior, after she’d just wounded him at will. Some fools will believe anything.

  Yet there was a kingdom to save, and she would fall over if she went on running around and bleeding for long enough. She had to get gone, now.

  None of these doors had held stairs leading upward, but there were a lot of doors she hadn’t tried yet.

  Pennae sprinted down the passage to the next few. Darkness. Locked. Locked. Darkness; crowded room, not stairs. Locked. Locked.

  She ran out of doors, flung up her hands in exasperation, and ran on, around another corner, seeking more doors. Not that she expected to discover any shortage. They seemed to positively love doors in this Palace. Locked ones, in particular.

  “I should just run away,” Bravran Merendil sobbed to himself, cowering in the darkness of another Palace linen cupboard. “Just run from all this, and let Yarl get himself killed and Blacksilver get hacked down while I’m far away—and then go back to Mother and tell her it all failed. At least I’ll still be alive.”

  Then a cold and all too familiar voice spoke in his head, sharp and clear and seethin
g with fury.

  “If you do that,” Lady Imbressa Merendil told her stunned, terrified son, “don’t expect to live for a day longer than it will take me to breed you with some suitable wench. I need Merendil heirs, not spineless worms.”

  Bravran Merendil thought it a very good moment to faint again, and did so. This time, he didn’t even need a vial of deadsleep.

  “Nine Hells afire!” The Purple Dragon bearing the glowstone swore in amazement as much as anger, and broke into a run, his five fellows drawing their swords and hastening after him.

  Two Purple Dragons were sprawled on the passage floor, amid much blood.

  “I thought I heard battle-din!” the Dragon with the glowstone exclaimed, peering all around for any sign of a foe.

  Nothing. Just a swordcaptain lying facedown in a pool of blood, and this—Strelgar moved a little, then, and moaned.

  “Sword!” They snapped at him, seeing his rank but not knowing his name. “Soldier! What happened?”

  The wounded Dragon groaned again, eyes fluttering, and drooled blood as they gently tugged him up to a sitting position, cradling his shoulders to keep him from sagging back. “What’s your name?”

  “Strelgar am I,” Strelgar mumbled slowly, and groaned again, retching blood. “Hurt. Hurt bad.”

  The lionar with the glowstone had seen sorely wounded Dragons a time or two before. He looked up at the five men under his command and shook his head in disagreement. This one just thought he was “hurt bad.”

  “What happened?” he said, more loudly and firmly. this time.

  Strelgar groaned, and then managed to mumble, “Well … uh … there was this lass, see … half-naked she was …”

  There were times when Wizard of War Tathanter Doarmond hated the good looks and superbly impressive voice the gods had gifted him with—and this was one of them. Even the comforting banter of his best friend and fellow war wizard Malvert Lulleer was doing nothing to quell his nervousness. Grand Court events were always headaches, and matters weren’t helped by racing gossip insisting that someone had already managed to butcher dozens of war wizards, leaving the Dragondown Chambers looking like a slaughterhouse, and that someone was probably running around somewhere under Tathanter’s feet right now, hurling spells even Vangerdahast couldn’t quell.

  And none of the bitter “well, well, you haughty-robes finally got yours” chuckles from various Purple Dragons were helping, either. Tathanter was finally starting to understand why the soldiers were all so surly. Once the fighting and running around started, it would be fine—provided he wasn’t blown apart or maimed, right off—but this hrasted waiting …

  He and Malvert stood in the Longstride Hall, with its high, beautifully painted ceiling, just outside the doors of King Duar’s Hall. Until further orders arrived, they were apparently guarding a rather splendid pair of arched, gilded double doors.

  Doors that stood open, with their fellow Purple Dragon guards’ shoulders keeping them that way, to allow seemingly endless droves of glittering-gowned ladies and their splendidly attired escorts to parade grandly in and out of the ballroom, gossiping—and laughing, and occasionally shrieking with malicious mirth—their scented and primped heads off.

  There were more than thousand of these early arrivals in the hall already, and more were arriving in stlarning droves with every passing breath. Some idiot servant had decided to start serving them wine, which meant the hurling and fights and bodices being torn off and all of that would be starting just about the time the newly arrived envoy from Silverymoon was formally received. As the Dragon guards had already sourly noted.

  “Always get someone’s sick all over my best uniform, at one of these,” Telsword Torlgrel Dunmoon growled. “Hope their High-n’-Mightynesses like the smell of it.”

  “These hrasted revels always go wrong, one way or another,” Tathanter said, adjusting his jet-black-with-silver-trim uniform for the thousandth time.

  “Of course,” the oldest Purple Dragon murmured. “So just watch and enjoy and wait for the disaster—and then enjoy that.”

  “Tath, if you don’t stop fiddling with that codpiece, the hrasted thing’s going to fall off,” Malvert warned.

  “Don’t tempt me,” Tathanter muttered.

  Florin had tried three of the faint, dim glowstones before he found one he could wrench out of its iron cage, high up on the passage wall. Its glow was feeble indeed, but it was all he wanted. He sought light enough to see by, not the making of himself into a bright beacon.

  He hurried along passages, glowstone in one hand and drawn sword in the other, seeking stairs up, or some sign of the other Knights.

  Instead, he found the passage he’d been traversing for a long time suddenly ended in a short flight of steps going down.

  For a moment he hesitated, thinking he should turn back, but there was light ahead, down there, and that probably meant a better chance of finding stairs and servants—and a way to reach Vangerdahast. As well as returning him to the same level of cellars where he’d been separated from Pennae and the others.

  So he hurried down the steps. The light proved to come from oil lamps burning in a servants’ room that looked recently vacated—by many folk, no doubt bearing things the room had held up to rooms of state somewhere overhead—but not far beyond it Florin found other things.

  First he came upon many bootprints, stark on the stone floor. Prints that had been made with fresh blood, and trailed back to a large pool of gore. Right beside it was …

  Florin rushed forward and plucked it up, hoping he was wrong.

  He wasn’t. He held Pennae’s leather jack—yes, there was the hooked slice in it that some foe’s dagger had made, long ago. This was hers—and it was soaked with blood.

  Blood that still dripped from it in streams. No woman could lose that much blood and yet live.

  “Oh, no,” Florin sobbed, there on his knees staring at what he was holding up—and watching Pennae’s blood drip to the floor. “No.”

  “Pennae,” he whispered, as tears flooded up to choke and overwhelm him. “Pennae!”

  He was dimly aware of shaking his head as he bowed it, trying to deny all of this. “Pennae … Narantha …”

  He’d been holding black misery at bay for so long, and now was suddenly swallowed up, in the midst of it. Falling, falling with no hand to steady him, to comfort. “Martess … even Agannor and Bey, damn them!” The faces of the dead were swimming up to loom over him—laughing obliviously at least, not staring at him accusingly. He couldn’t have borne it if they’d been doing that.

  It wasn’t glory and laughter and parading grandly across the lands, being bowed to by farmers and Purple Dragons alike. It wasn’t gold coins in heaps in one’s hands, or high titles. He’d known that, back in Espar, known that death lurked impatiently always, waiting …

  Yet there was knowing and … knowing. By the gods, he hadn’t even the words to grieve properly!

  “Mielikki,” he cried. “Lady, aid me!” For if ever I’ve needed my goddess, I need her now.…”

  He seemed to smell wet forest moss, then, and hear the rustle of leaves in a green, growing forest, see dark trunks and a glow of power behind them, a glow he was rushing toward … just around this tree … just …

  Then he was around the tree, and the light was full and gloriously bright before him, and he stared at—

  Islif, with her arm around Jhessail’s shoulders. Doust smiling at him in greeting, and Semoor giving him that familiar wry, sly grin too. His fellow Knights of Myth Drannor.

  His Knights. Still alive, still his family, still needing him.

  Always and ever worth fighting for.

  Just like Cormyr.

  Both needed his sword, and the little he could do to aid and save them. The fallen were the fallen, but the living …

  “Are still mine,” he managed to croak. “My problem, my burden.”

  He sprang to his feet, then bent down again to pluck up Pennae’s bloody jack from where it h
ad fallen from his hands.

  Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, he threw back his head and whispered, “Thank you, my lady.”

  He shifted the dripping garment into the hand that held the glowstone, hefted his sword, and went on.

  “Lady of the Forest,” he murmured as he walked, “aid me ever.”

  Once there was a kingdom, and it needed saving …

  The moment of chill blue sparks faded and fell from them, leaving Terentane and Telfalcon standing together blinking at the familiar decay of the boathouse around them.

  Amarauna drew in a deep breath. “Well. Safe back in Marsember, at least.”

  “There’ll be another day, and another way,” Terentane told her. “Patience will keep both our heads on their shoulders.”

  Then he turned, grabbed at her clothing, and started to tug it off.

  “What’re you—?” she asked, laughing. “Now?”

  “Well,” he replied calmly, his fingers busy on her laces, “we could both be dead tomorrow.”

  “Hreldur, you’re so full of naed ’tis coming out of your mouth now, not just your ears!”

  “No, I’m not lying, Drel! I swear!”

  “I swear, too, and my teeth gleam when I do! Now just away with it! There’re sneak-thieves and cutpurses by the hundreds all over the Palace right now, and half a hundred women I’d like to get a better look or three at, too, and most of ’em are wearing things that’ll let me get those looks I want, and more.” Drellusk waved an exasperated hand. “So my head’s full of all this, and you are spewing wild and wilder tales of some stlarning nude sorceress and expecting me to believe—”

  “Ho, Drellusk! Ho, Hreldur!”

  “Ho, Lhaerak!” the two Purple Dragon telswords replied in chorus. Lhaerak was their lionar, and had come out of a side passage striding along even faster than they were. They started half-trotting to keep up.

  “So, what’s all this I’m hearing about this sorceress?” he growled.

  Drellusk waved a dismissive hand. “Just another of Hrel’s fancy-tales, mi—”