Dragon King The

by R. A. Salvatore

  He stood now beside puffy Guy deJulienne in Brind’Amour’s audience room, facing the grim-faced king of Eriador. DeJulienne’s gaze was more centered on the king’s companions standing behind the throne, particularly on the gaily dressed halfling who stood beside the fair half-elf named Siobhan.

  Oliver eyed the foppish Avonese as well, winking and blowing kisses at the man.

  It was a strange scene for the two ambassadors, and Felese was worldly enough to know that something important was brewing. Brind’Amour sat in his customary throne, but a second seat had been brought in and placed beside the first. It was empty, and Felese, suspicious and wary, hoped that Brind’Amour meant to announce that he would soon wed, or something as innocuous as that.

  Judging from the king’s companions, standing with perfect posture in a line behind the chairs, he didn’t think so. Anchoring the line to Brind’Amour’s left stood the tough dwarf with the bushy blue-black beard, Shuglin by name. Beside him stood Proctor Byllewyn of Gybi, a most important man in Eriador, and next to him, a fierce-looking black-haired woman, obviously a warrior. Then, at the king’s left shoulder, stood Katerin O’Hale, a fiery woman Felese longed to know better. Looking to Brind’Amour’s right, the ambassador was reminded of the impossibilities of such a tryst, though, for there stood Luthien Bedwyr, the famed Crimson Shadow, slayer of Duke Morkney and hero of the last war.

  And also, Katerin’s lover.

  Beside Luthien came Oliver deBurrows, a fellow Gascon, that most curious of fellows. Felese liked Oliver quite a bit, mostly because of the way the halfling unnerved deJulienne, whom Felese did not like at all. Anchoring the line on Brind’Amour’s right stood the half-elf Siobhan, a former slave, leader of the notorious Cutters, a band of Fairborn who had ever been a thorn in the side of those who would unlawfully rule Eriador.

  Felese looked them over carefully, trying to guess the intent. It was the presence of Kayryn Kulthwain, the one he did not know, who finally tipped him off. This was no announcement of a future queen of Eriador, Felese realized, for these were Brind’Amour’s generals!

  “I do appreciate your coming here on such short notice,” Brind’Amour said casually.

  “We are entertaining a great guest?” deJulienne asked, nodding to the empty chair.

  “A fellow king,” Brind’Amour replied.

  “Huegoth?” Felese asked hopefully, for news that the war on the eastern shores was at its end would have been most welcome to the Gascon.

  Brind’Amour didn’t miss that excited smile, and he also noticed that deJulienne didn’t seem so pleased.

  The Eriadoran king shook his head. “No,” he replied. “Not Huegoth.” Then, without dragging out the suspense, Brind’Amour motioned to one of the guards standing in front of a side door. The man opened the door and an orange-bearded dwarf, regally attired in a flowing purple tabard hanging loosely over gleaming silver mail, strode confidently into the room.

  Both ambassadors went down to one knee as the orange-bearded dwarf walked past to take his seat beside Brind’Amour.

  “I trust that you two are familiar with King Bellick dan Burso of DunDarrow?” Brind’Amour asked, and he did well to hide his smile at the hint of a frown tugging at the edges of Guy deJulienne’s mouth.

  “I am honored, good King Bellick,” said Felese sincerely.

  “My friend Brind’Amour has spoken well of you,” Bellick answered, and neither ambassador missed the importance of the fact that Bellick had not referred to Eriador’s leader as “King Brind’Amour.”

  “I, too, am honored,” said deJulienne.

  Bellick snorted derisively and looked to Brind’Amour.

  “I have summoned you here to announce a truce,” Brind’Amour explained, then looked to his dwarvish friend. “More than a truce,” he corrected. “Know you that the kingdoms of Eriador and DunDarrow are now one.”

  Felese wore a grin, though he realized that the situation in Avonsea might soon deteriorate. DeJulienne, though, openly gawked, obviously displeased by the prospect of taking such unwelcome news to his merciless king!

  “Under Eriador’s flag?” Felese asked.

  Brind’Amour looked to Bellick, and both shrugged. “Perhaps we will design a new flag,” Brind’Amour said with a laugh, for they hadn’t even thought of such minor details.

  “But you, Brind’Amour, will speak for DunDarrow in Eriador’s dealings with Gascony?” Felese pressed, thinking that this might work out well for his merchant kingdom.

  “Well-reasoned,” replied Brind’Amour.

  Guy deJulienne could hardly contain himself; he knew by the fearful flutter of his heart that something bigger would be revealed here.

  Brind’Amour saw his discomfort, and so he played along, enjoying the spectacle. “All goods traded between Gascony and DunDarrow will flow through Port Charley,” he explained. “Port Charley to Caer MacDonald, and then distributed to the dwarvish encampments in the Iron Cross.”

  Guy deJulienne was trembling.

  “And what of the east?” Felese pressed. “When will Chalmbers be opened to Gascon trade?”

  “The fighting in the east is ended,” Brind’Amour announced, and it seemed to him as if deJulienne was having trouble drawing breath. How the Eriadoran king was enjoying this! “The men of Isenland will not fight in the face of Eriador’s fleet.”

  “A stolen fleet!” deJulienne blurted before he could help himself.

  Brind’Amour shrugged and chuckled, willing to concede that irrelevant point. “However gotten, the fleet flies under Eriador’s flag, and the fierce Huegoths will not battle with these ships, for they have no desire to give aid to Greensparrow, who is Eriador’s enemy.”

  The words sent a shock ripple through the gathering, sent murmurs along the line behind the Eriadoran king and even from the guards standing at the room’s three doors. All of those waves seemed to gather heavily on the shoulders of the foppish diplomat from Avon.

  Baron Guy deJulienne worked very hard to control himself, to steady his breathing. Had Brind’Amour just declared war with Avon?

  “Surely we have not come together on this glorious occasion to hurl insults,” said Felese, trying to soothe things. The news of the Caer MacDonald–DunDarrow alliance was marvelous, the news of cessation of hostilities with the Huegoths even better, and Felese didn’t want the continuing animosity between Eriador and Avon to put a damper on this bright situation. From Gascony’s greedy perspective, it was better for all if the two kingdoms of Avonsea were at peace.

  “Insults?” deJulienne managed to stammer. “Or threats?”

  “Neither,” Brind’Amour said sternly, coming out of his seat to stand tall over the foppish man. Felese tried to intervene, but the powerful wizard simply nudged him aside. “Know you that there will be no peace between Eriador and Avon as long as Greensparrow sits on Avon’s throne,” Brind’Amour proclaimed, as overt a gesture of war as could be made.

  “How dare you?” deJulienne said breathlessly.

  “My good King Brind’Amour,” soothed the shocked Gascon ambassador.

  Brind’Amour relaxed visibly, but did not sit down and did not let the scowl diminish from his face. “We asked for peace,” he explained. “In good faith earlier this same year, we signed in Princetown with Duchess Deanna Wellworth, who spoke for King Greensparrow of Avon, a binding document for peace.”

  “Binding!” echoed deJulienne loudly, pointing an accusing finger and seeming to gain a fleeting moment of momentum.

  Oliver blew him a kiss and the distraction gave Brind’Amour the upper hand.

  “Broken!” the Eriadoran king roared, coming forward, and the stunned deJulienne skittered backward and nearly tumbled. Brind’Amour did not pursue him physically, but his verbal tirade continued the assault. “Broken by cyclopians, working for your treacherous king! Broken by the spilled blood of Eriadoran innocents in hamlets along the Iron Cross!

  “Broken,” shouted Brind’Amour, motioning to his stern-faced fellow sitting c
almly in the second throne, “by the spilled blood of DunDarrow’s dwarfs.”

  “Be not a fool!” deJulienne pleaded. “We have Huegoths to contend with, and so many other . . .”

  Brind’Amour waved his hand and the terrified man fell silent. “We of Eriador have a more pressing enemy.” Then, responding with his trump card, Brind’Amour motioned again to the two guards standing at the door over to the side of the room. Again the door was opened and a miserable Resmore was dragged in by two elven escorts.

  Felese stood back in thoughtful posture, his hand stroking his fashionable goatee.

  “Now you know your enemies, foolish pawn of Greensparrow,” Brind’Amour said to deJulienne. “Go to your king. War is at your door!”

  The man of Avon, horrified, ran from the room, but Felese remained, seeming truly intrigued. “A friend of Greensparrow’s?” he asked, indicating Resmore, who was in a crouch on the floor, seeming barely conscious.

  “The duke of Newcastle,” Brind’Amour replied. “Sent into the mountains by Greensparrow to incite the cyclopians into war against Eriador and DunDarrow. I will furnish Duke Resmore’s complete confession for you to take to your lords.”

  The man nodded. He had no intention of committing Gascony to the war, and Brind’Amour didn’t ask for, or expect, such a pledge. All that the king of Eriador needed was for Gascony to stand with him in spirit or, at the least, to remain neutral.

  “I will send my messengers at once,” Felese replied, and bowed and turned to leave. He looked back at Brind’Amour and nodded, all the confirmation the king of Eriador needed. Then he left the room, his mind whirling with the possibilities. For the Gascons, this situation might well prove profitable. No matter the outcome, both sides would soon need tons of supplies.

  Back in the audience room, Brind’Amour motioned to the guard at the door on the opposite side of the room, and when they unlocked it, it nearly burst apart as King Asmund and Ethan stormed in.

  “You did not introduce your other ally,” Ethan explained. “My king feels slighted.”

  “I did not reveal the most potent of my weapons,” Brind’Amour replied, bidding Asmund to take the unoccupied throne at Bellick’s side, Brind’Amour’s own.

  The proud Huegoth puffed out his chest and accepted the seat of honor, satisfied with the gesture and with the description of his warriors as Brind’Amour’s “most potent” of weapons.

  OPENING MOVES

  I will keep Asmund and my people from bloodlust,” Ethan assured Luthien quietly. The two of them stood along the side wall of a small, unfurnished chamber. A few feet away, Brind’Amour worked his magic, opening a tunnel through the stone and across the miles, a fast run to Chalmbers. King Asmund, Proctor Byllewyn, and Brother Jamesis stood beside the old wizard, the two men of Gybi waiting patiently, but the Huegoth king obviously anxious.

  Ethan looked to Asmund and couldn’t suppress a grin. It had taken him a long time to convince Asmund to come through the tunnel to Caer MacDonald. Now, though Asmund desperately wanted to get back to the Dorsal Sea and his fleet, it seemed as though another battle would have to be fought.

  Luthien was too busy scrutinizing Ethan to take note of the sight that had brought a smile to his brother’s face. The younger Bedwyr was encouraged by Ethan’s continuing shift back toward their family. Ethan’s unsolicited promise to keep the Huegoths in line during the war showed that the man cared deeply about Eriador. How deeply? Luthien had to ask himself, and as yet he had no answer. In that same promise, Ethan had referred to the Huegoths as “my people,” a notion that Luthien was finding harder to dispute.

  The two walked over to the others as Brind’Amour, clearly growing weary from his extensive use of magic over the last few days, completed the passage. This was the old wizard’s second magical tunnel this day, having earlier delivered Kayryn Kulthwain back to Eradoch, where she would gather her forces.

  “My folk will join with me in Chalmbers,” Proctor Byllewyn explained.

  “They have sailed from Gybi already,” Jamesis added. “Escorted by the thirty galleons of Eriador’s Dorsal fleet.”

  “Our fishing boats will remain in dock there,” the proctor went on. “It is not so far a march from Chalmbers to Malpuissant’s Wall, where my folk of Gybi will meet with the forces of Dun Caryth and Glen Albyn, as well as Kayryn Kulthwain and her fierce riders.”

  “Out with you then,” insisted Brind’Amour. “Captain Leary leads the Eriadoran fleet and anticipates your return.”

  Proctor Byllewyn and Brother Jamesis bowed curtly and said their farewells, promising victory, then entered the tunnel without hesitation.

  “One of your longships awaits you at Chalmbers’s dock,” Brind’Amour said to the nervous Huegoth king.

  “Will it wait long enough for me to walk?” Asmund asked, managing a slight chuckle. Rennir followed suit, laughing exuberantly, but the king’s other Huegoth escort was distracted at that moment.

  “Luthien Bedwyr,” Torin Rogar called, joining Luthien and Ethan at the side of the room. “We never found chance to speak of my kin who was your friend.”

  “We will meet again,” Luthien promised.

  “In celebration,” said Torin determinedly. He clapped Luthien on the shoulder, then nodded to Ethan and moved back to join his king. He and Rennir stepped into the swirling blue mists together, paving the way for Asmund.

  “I look forward to our meetings when this is at its end, King Brind’Amour,” said Asmund. “We have much to learn from each other.”

  Brind’Amour took the huge man’s wrist in a firm and sincere clasp. Luthien and Ethan exchanged hopeful looks at the encouraging words.

  “Do not tarry,” Asmund ordered Ethan, and with a deep breath to steady his nerves, the Huegoth king went into the magical tunnel.

  “Eriador free,” Luthien said as he and Ethan walked to the spot.

  Ethan turned to him, curiously at first, but his expression gradually and surely changed to one of excitement. “Eriador free,” Ethan offered, “my brother.”

  They hugged each other tightly, and for that short moment, Luthien felt as close to Ethan as he had through all their years together in Dun Varna. At that moment, Luthien understood that Ethan could proclaim whatever heritage he desired, but the truth of it was that he and Luthien were of the same blood, were indeed, as Ethan had just generously offered, brothers.

  “Until we meet again,” Ethan said.

  “At the gates of Carlisle!” Luthien called as his brother disappeared from sight, lost in the fast pace of the swirling blue mists.

  “A pity there weren’t more of you,” Brind’Amour snickered under his breath. Luthien looked at him curiously, not understanding the comment.

  “Your father sired two fine sons,” the old wizard explained. “A pity there weren’t more of you.” Brind’Amour walked past Luthien, patting him comfortingly on the shoulder, then exited the room, heading for his bed and some much-needed rest.

  Luthien stood for a long while watching the wizard’s tunnel diminish and then disappear altogether. He missed Ethan already! The last year or so, since he and Oliver had stumbled into Brind’Amour’s secluded mountain cave, then into a revolt against Duke Morkney that quickly degenerated into open rebellion against Avon, had been such a wild ride for the young Bedwyr that he had hardly given his absent brother much thought. Ethan, to his knowledge, had been far away in the Kingdom of Duree, fighting with Greensparrow’s loaned troops beside the Gascon army.

  Only when Luthien had finally returned to Dun Varna and seen Gahris on his death bed, had he found time to focus attention on his past, on his lost brother and his redeemed father.

  Then, suddenly, Ethan had been thrown back into Luthien’s life. Luthien’s emotions swirled as had Brind’Amour’s tunnel, moving along at a pace no less swift, but with a destination far less clear. Ethan was returned, perhaps, but Gahris was dead. That much was certain.

  Luthien’s father was dead.

  The young Bedwyr b
it his lip hard, trying to hold the tears in check. Eriador needed him, he reminded himself. He was the Crimson Shadow, the hero of the last war and destined to lead this war. He could not stand facing a blank wall in an empty room and weep for what had gone before. He could not . . .

  But he did.

  “I will deliver Brind’Amour’s head unto you,” the woman promised.

  King Greensparrow rested back comfortably in his plush throne, throwing both his legs over one arm of the great chair and studying closely the fingernails of one hand. The pose did little to diminish Deanna’s suspicion that the king was greatly agitated. He had called to her through an enchanted mirror, a call she had at first decided not to answer. The urgency of his tone, though, could not be ignored, and Deanna had concluded quickly that if she did not go to her own enchanted mirror in her private quarters, Greensparrow would likely show up in Mannington, something the duchess most definitely did not want to see!

  “Where is Taknapotin?” Greensparrow asked, the question Deanna had feared all along.

  Deanna put on a perplexed look. “Where should the fiend be?” she replied.

  “I want to know.”

  “In Hell, I would suppose,” Deanna answered. “Where Taknapotin belongs.” Greensparrow didn’t believe any of her explanation, Deanna realized by his sour expression. He was indeed closely tied to the fiend he had given to her, as she had suspected. Now the king had her backed into a corner because he could not contact his demonic spy.

  Deanna silently congratulated herself on the power of her dismissal of Taknapotin. Her enchantment and the breaking of the crown had apparently blasted the fiend from the world and put him beyond even Greensparrow’s considerable reach.

  —Unless the king was bluffing, Deanna suddenly feared. Unless Taknapotin was sitting in Greensparrow’s throne room, out of view, sharing a diabolical joke with the merciless king of Avon.

  Deanna understood that her fears showed clearly on her face. She quickly composed herself and used that involuntary expression to her benefit.