Swords of Dragonfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  The wraith-blade thrust down again—and Semoor flung up his hands to ward it away from Jhessail’s unprotected head. It sliced through his magic and then him, almost severing one of his hands.

  The Anointed of Lathander stared in horror at the ruin dangling from his wrist, and started to scream.

  Which was when Jhessail’s battlestrike finally took effect, its bright leaping bolt sending the bladewraith wavering aside that had been circling to finish Semoor.

  An instant later, Vangerdahast’s chanting ended with the calm words “undeath to death”—and all five remaining wraiths collapsed in a clattering of falling swords and whirlwinds of corpse-dust.

  “Islif,” the Royal Magician snapped, without pause, “pry off that side of the doorframe. In a space behind you’ll find a coffer of healing potions. Use what you need. Now, disturb me not!”

  Pulling himself stiffly upright, he closed his eyes and hurled his will across the Palace, praying to Azuth that he’d be in time.

  “I’m in time! Turn right!” Vangerdahast’s voice murmured abruptly, sounding as if the Royal Magician were standing where he could speak right into Florin’s ear.

  The ranger almost jumped, but obediently hurled himself around the turn, still racing along in darkness relieved only by the tiny glows that marked spyhole-swivel coverings.

  “Slow down so you won’t miss this turn—right turn,” Vangey said, and Florin obeyed.

  “Keep going past the first opening, turn left here, up the steps … along … down the steps, and turn right on the first landing … aye … now, see the glowing line? That’s the edge of a panel—slide it hard away from you and go through, turning left immediately and moving fast and low!”

  Panting, the ranger-Knight did just as he was bid, seeing the plinths as he plunged out and around them. There was the false one, as he ran on, past it. Vangey said not a word … ah, of course; the wizard could hear him, too!

  Twisting back around the next plinth, Florin struck out backhand with the very tip of his blade at the false plinth—and felt his blade slice cloth, and flesh beneath.

  There was a hoarse shriek, and the ranger flung himself at the floor and then bounced up off it, slamming into the unseen wizard before the man could say or do anything. If he could ruin any spellcasting—

  They hit the floor together, Florin punching and kneeing, then stabbing and—being stabbed, that unseen dagger like icy flame punching into him, again and again.

  “Down, Florin!” Vangerdahast roared. “Cover yourself!”

  Trembling, sobbing in pain, Florin stabbed back at his foe, then clawed hold of unseen and blood-sticky cloth and hurled himself sideways, hitting the floor bruisingly hard but dragging the unseen, writhing man over on top of him. As he closed his eyes, a singing shriek heralded the shattering of all the crystals.

  “Keep rolling!” Vangerdahast bellowed, right in Florin’s ear. “Away, to the wall, and then make for the door! Let go of the carrion!”

  The ranger obeyed, scrambling faster than he’d ever moved in his life before, and through a red haze of pain was dimly aware of the shards racing across the room with eerie slowness, drifting—drifting—

  “Don’t watch them, you backwoods thickneck idiot! Get out of there!”

  Vangerdahast sounded angrier than Florin had ever heard him be before, so the ranger did as he was told.

  The aftermath of Ghoruld Applethorn’s last spell tore into him like a lightning storm, stabbing into his head and leaving his mind afire.

  Vangerdahast went to his knees, gasping and clutching feebly at his skull—and was startled as firm hands pushed him upright and forced a potion vial to his lips.

  Islif gave him a wry smile as he choked and coughed it down. Then she kissed him. “Thanks for saving our lives,” she said. “And the realm. Again.”

  “Wench, have done!” Vangerdahast replied testily, trying to wave her away. “I’ve a spell to work!”

  Islif rocked back on her heels to give him room, and the Royal Magician hastily worked an intricate magic that brought a blue haze down on the room.

  When it lifted, long breaths later, he and the Knights were all lying or kneeling just as they had been—but in the center of Anglond’s Great Hall, with a blood-spattered, wild-eyed Florin in front of them and something bloody, butchered, and in robes lying sprawled beside him.

  A collective gasp of horror rose across Anglond’s Great Hall. In the moment of awed silence that followed, the voice of the envoy of Silverymoon asked merrily, “And what does this celebrate?”

  Epilogue

  Above his scrying whorl, Beldos Margaster nodded grimly. So it was all going to end happily ever after. Except for war wizard traitors.

  He might have only a few breaths more of life left to him, if he didn’t speedily “get hence.”

  The portal to Halfhap—well, why not? Those Dragonfire swords …

  Up on the balcony, Dauntless peered down at Florin, frowning, and then bellowed suddenly, “Hey! Hoy! My sword! Give my sword back, you confounded thief!”

  Florin looked up and waved cheerfully. Dauntless exploded into a sputtering, wordless roar of fury and started to claw his way angrily along the rail toward a stair down.

  Two hard-faced Purple Dragons closed hands on the furious ragtag warrior, one of them snapping, “That’s enough, saer! Abate thy temper, saer!”

  “What?” Dauntless roared at them. “Take your hands off me! I’m an ornrion of the Dragons, and—”

  “Right, saer, and I’m the Princess Alusair!”

  “Wrong, soldier! I’m the Princess Alusair,” said a crisp voice from behind the struggling Dragons.

  Everyone turned in astonishment. The Princess Alusair was standing a few strides behind Dauntless and the soldiers grappling with him.

  As they stared, she tore off her fine gown, to their gasps of amazement—literally ripping the fine silks and shimmerweave apart—to reveal, beneath, a leather bodice, mens’ breeches, and high boots.

  “Ornrion,” the young princess snapped, “if I give you the finest blade you’ve ever owned—something with a spell or two on it, out of the royal armory—will you gift the one Florin Falconhand has to him, and forget all thoughts of arresting him?”

  Dauntless blinked. “I … uh, yes, of course.”

  “Good,” she said with a smile, and offered him her arm as if he was a grand noble rather than a dusty, sweaty soldier in tattered garb.

  The Purple Dragons silently let go of him, and the ragtag ornrion came forward a little dazedly to take the proffered royal arm.

  Its owner gave him a regal smile and said sweetly, “Now you may escort me down to meet Cormyr’s latest hero. He saved my life back in Arabel, and I never got the chance to properly thank him.”

  Dauntless paled. “I—uh, your Highness, would that be wise? I’m no expert in matters of Court, but—”

  “No, Ornrion, you’re not. Nor am I wise. I am sick unto death of doing what’s right and proper, and I’m going to stop. Here and now. So get me down there, without delay—and you’ve my full permission to draw your sword and carve up anyone who tries to stand in our way!”

  Ornrion Taltar Dahauntul gulped. “Y-yes, your Royal Highness. At once.” He drew his sword, saluted her, made sure her arm was settled in his just so, and started for the stairs.

  Everyone was crowding around, the gabbling of excited questions rising to a nigh-deafening din. The only clear space was a little more than the reach of a long arm around Lady Summerwood and her maids, and when Jhessail caught the eye of one maid and saw a flash of silver in the wink sent in her direction, she knew why. She smiled happily at the disguised Lady in Green through a rapidly closing gap in the sea of silks, pearls, cloth-of-gold, glittering gems, shimmerweave, and jostling shoulders and elbows.

  When she turned to tell Florin, an instant later, he was lost in the heart of a forest of crowding-forward Cormyreans.

  “A battle, hoy?” Lord Cormrlryn shouted enthusiastically in
the heart of that tangle, his monacle steaming over. “Did you butcher the traitors, lad? Hey?”

  “Well, yes, one of them,” Florin said mumbled politely, weaving his way to his feet. Aged and hairy noble hands were pounding him on the back, slapping at his shoulders, and waving in victorious fists in the air. Well, at least they weren’t all trying to sword him …

  He had Vangerdahast to thank for that. The wizard’s bellow of, “Behold! The realm hath been saved!” had rolled from end to end of Anglond’s Great Hall—magic, of course.

  “Lord Bellarogar Rowanmantle,” a noble as tall as Florin boomed loudly, enfolding the ranger’s shoulder in a crushing grip. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance—”

  “Dauntinghorn! Horntar Dauntinghorn! Lord Horntar Dauntinghorn!” another noble bellowed, bouncing his fist off Florin’s chest as if it was a castle door he needed hard-of-hearing servants to come and open.

  “Well met, hero! Any friend of Cormyr is a friend of mine!” another noble called, from behind Dauntinghorn’s substantial shoulders. “I’m Lord Ildabray Indesm! I—oogh!—and this is my wife, the Lady Indesm!”

  Florin tried not to grin at the evident sharpness of Lady Indesm’s elbows, and became aware, beyond his own ring of admirers, of Lord Elvarr Spurbright struggling through the crowd like a caravel slicing stormy seas to reach the edge of the little open area around the Lady Summerwood.

  Her maids turned to form a serenely smiling, unbreachable wall against him. “Aerilee!” Spurbright called over it, almost desperately, and the Lady Summerwood swept forward from between two maids with a brightening smile on her face and the delighted words, “Elvarr! Alustriel speaks of you often—and so do I!”

  As the two embraced, kissing ardently before everyone in the hall, Florin saw Torsard standing behind his father, staring at the Lady Summerwood with helpless, brains-over-boots, smitten-quick love clear and deep on his face.

  He had to turn his head away from that raw, swallowing longing—and found himself facing a tall, thin aging noble who nodded politely and said, “Well done, Sir Falconhand. Lord Rustryn Staglance offers his thanks and praise. If you’re ever—”

  “Are you wed, Sir Falconhand?” a sharp-tongued woman asked, thrusting herself up between Staglance and Florin like a fish leaping out of the sea. She had snapping black eyes and a long flow of hair adorned with a fine net of gold chains. Florin blinked not only at the gold and sparkling gems that were all over her, but at the upthrust bosom that those strings of begemmed chains were designed to lure his eyes down into.

  “I am Ramurra Hornmantle,” the woman said, leaning forward as if trying to climb his chest, “wealthy lady of taste and breeding, and I would be honored—”

  “Ildaergra Steelcastle!” snapped another woman, tugging at Florin’s arm. “I’m wealthier!”

  “I believe,” Semoor said sardonically, from somewhere close behind the ranger-Knight, “that Lathander is giving us all a little taste of our most rosy reward! As such, it would be almost blasphemous not to partake—”

  Ildaergra Steelcastle reached out and hauled on the large whiskers of Lord Cormelryn in an attempt to elevate herself up and over Ramurra Hornmantle; the old noble roared in pain, his monacle springing forth on its fine gold chain to plunge straight down her bosom—just as Ramurra leaped straight up into the air, snarling, to fling Ildaergra over backward. The last Florin saw of her was the monacle, left behind in midair above the site of her landing.

  “Saer!” another man called loudly from nigh Florin’s left shoulder, “I am Arbitryce Heldanorn, Master Trader In Spices, Scents, and Wonders, and I was hoping to spend a few moments of your time in discussion of some schemes mutually benef—”

  Beyond the spice-trader, Florin caught sight of Pennae wrapped around several finely dressed nobles, her hands at work almost as skillfully as theirs were groping clumsily. A look of disgust was passing over her face as deftly filched purse after ring was falling through her fingers—and she was turning her head to give Vangerdahast a glare.

  The Royal Magician of Cormyr shouldered past Florin chuckling and murmuring in Pennae’s direction, “Merely a side effect of my ironguard, little she-snake. Keeping a dagger or two from harming you is worth more than an ill-gotten bauble or two, hmm?”

  “There she is!” another voice snapped. “Make way! Make way, all of you! I am Ornrion Delk Synond of the Purple Dragons, and this woman is a dangerous thief and would-be murderer, who has resisted arrest, assaulted Purple Dragons lawfully engaged in the prosecution of their sworn duty—”

  “Oh, belt up, loudjaws!” a tall, red-faced woman snapped, as Telsword Grathus rudely thrust her aside, and Ornrion Synond stepped on her foot in his grand stride forward.

  “And who are you?” Synond roared at her. “An accomplice?”

  There was a dull ringing sound before she could reply, and the ornrion toppled face-first onto the telsword’s heels.

  “I am Goodwoman Kaylea Delruharmond,” the woman told the unconscious Dragon rather uncertainly, her anger giving way to apprehension.

  Behind the unconscious ornrion loomed the man who’d felled him: a crimson-faced, formidably tall and fat man in sauce-smeared robes, a dented skillet in his hand. “Always wanted to do that,” he announced with satisfaction, grinning at Pennae and the rest of the Knights, beyond. “Master of the Kitchens Braerast Sklaenton, me. Heard you liked my smallbites!”

  Telsword Grathus stumbled around to face the cook, sword grating out. That sword went straight up in the air as he suddenly fell over backward, deftly tripped by the same man who caught the sword out of the air, turned, and handed it to Pennae. “You might need this,” he murmured, he said, as he stepped firmly on the telsword’s throat. “Dalonder Ree, Harper. If ever you need me …”

  Goodwife Deleflower Heldanorn would never have dreamed of backing into the Royal Magician of Cormyr and turning to grope at him and coo, “Oh, are you a Knight of Myth Drannor too?” if she’d caught proper sight of him in the press of bodies. She’d not have dared to say a word to him, or come within six strides of the man. However, Vangerdahast was rather shorter than she thought him to be, she did not get a good look at him, and she did grope.

  For Vangerdahast, who liked to be the one to choose who groped him, or for that matter dared to speak to him, it was the proverbial flagon too many.

  Anglond’s Great Hall suddenly erupted in roiling red flames. Flames that burned not, but roared mightily, in a ring that soared toward the lofty ceiling and spread wings to take the shapes of young and snapping-jawed dragons.

  There were gasps of awe and screams, and a sudden urgent movement to depart the crowd around Vangerdahast and the adventurers.

  Cormyreans fled in all directions, leaving the Knights standing suddenly alone with a few unconscious, trampled fallen, the king and queen a few steps one way, and the envoy’s maids a few steps the other.

  Between those of Cormyr and those of Silverymoon stood Lady Summerwood and Lord Spurbright, locked in an oblivious embrace. With Torsard Spurbright standing uncertainly behind his father, poking his oblivious sire in the suddenly deepening silence.

  “Pa? Dad? Lord Dad?” he quavered, his voice trailing away.

  A ring of fascinated, scared faces now surrounded the cleared center of the hall.

  “Enough!” Vangerdahast roared. “Let us have some civility. There’s no need to push and shout and jostle!”

  He turned to look all around, and then began to prowl, striding slowly with his hands clasped behind his back. “I mislike marauding rumor, and it does much damage in its wild flowerings besides. So, know you all: these adventurers, here before you, whom some of you already know as the Knights of Myth Drannor, personally chartered by the king—”

  He bowed low to Azoun, who nodded.

  “—and personal champions of the queen—”

  The wizard bowed even lower to Filfaeril, who nodded and smiled.

  “—have just, at great risk to their own lives, foiled a dast
ardly plot against the Crown and the person of the Lady Envoy of Silverymoon—”

  He bowed in the direction of the Lady Summerwood, who was busily running her hands up under Lord Spurbright’s best new silken tunic, her lips still locked on his, and paying the wider world not the slightest heed at all.

  “—and that traitors among the nobility of Cormyr, subverted by evil wizards of Zhentil Keep, were involved!”

  There was a gasp of horror and anger that was almost a roar, that then broke into an excited hubbub.

  Vangerdahast cut through it with one word that brought utter silence down again in an instant, probably with the aid of his magic: “However.”

  He let the silence deepen, and added, “This is what we who serve the Crown of Cormyr do. This peril is now ended, and we have a most distinguished guest at our Court, and our attention should now be upon celebrating her embassy to us, our joy at her presence among us, and her every need.”

  He paused to stroll around Lord Spurbright and Lady Summerwood, as they murmured to each other, lips still locked together and eyes closed.

  “As,” the Royal Magician then added dryly, “our most dedicated agent Lord Elvarr Spurbright is so ably attending to.”

  Vangerdahast stepped back with a smile, and raised his arms to encourage the roar of mirth that followed. It rocked the hall, ringing deafeningly around the high vaulted ceiling and balconies—and when it began to diminish, a long breath later, he roared, “So let us have revelry!”

  And the noise really began.

  In the depths of that din, Pennae ducked back in among the Knights, grinned, and arched one eyebrow in the direction of the Royal Magician. “Did he actually say that? ‘A dastardly plot’?”

  “Dastardly,” Semoor assured her solemnly. “Those are the worst kind.”

  Penna astonished him then by throwing her arms around him and kissing him.

  Beldos Margaster drew in a breath of deep relief as he reached the portal to the ruined inn in Halfhap. Not only was it unguarded, but—if he was right—he’d reached it unseen. Now, if only this coffer of magical necessities, coins, and gems wasn’t so hrasted heavy.