Cormyr

Chapter 16: The King’s Touch

Year of the Sea Princes (432 DR)

It’s never been this bad, thought Elvarin Crownsilver in the darkness. How can the realm possibly survive?

She looked around the night-shadowed forest. Here were the last of the great House of Obarskyr, huddling in the dark, waiting for a traitor to bring them their first victory

Their first victory in three long years of being hunted through the king’s own forest. Or their final defeat.

It all had begun with Baerauble’s death, of course. Everything was always traced to the death of the original High Mage. Without his steadying hand, every wobble of fate seemed to bring the realm closer to its destruction. He seemed to be eternal, Cormyr’s protector forever… and then he was gone. Amedahast, his student, was the best mage Crownsilver knew, but she was a mere shadow of her mentor.

And how could they have known that their proud, prosperous kingdom was a merest soap bubble, which must be constantly protected from the harsh realities of the outside world lest it collapse and swallow them all?

A plague came first, borne by merchants from Marsember, decimating the folk of the countryside and turning bright Suzail into a charnel house where the dead lay in heaps on the streets. At first the priests fought it as best as they could, but when the sickness spread so fast and they had only so many healing spells and so many prayers left, the holy folk chose to keep their healings for themselves. A bad decision, since the city dwellers had more swords. When the dust cleared, there were no priests to be found save those of Talona, who spread the plague further.

Then dragons descended on Suzail and Arabel and every small encampment from the mountains to the sea. Great blues settled upon the fields and tore apart houses, and massive reds laid fiery waste to entire regions. Greens raided the few ships and caravans that sought to reach Cormyr. Even the mythical Purple Dragon was reported in an attack on the western settlements.

Arabel was gone in a night, this latest rebellion championed by a “Merchants’ Revolutionary Committee.” But now other holds and homesteads had risen and rebelled as well. It was hard to send men to aid the beleaguered crown when half the population was dying and the other half fighting dragons in the fields. Crown agents were killed, and government coffers looted.

Then the orcs arrived, driven south by some nasty battle in the Stonelands. Normally such a threat would bring Arabel back into the kingdom, but now there was little in the way of a Cormyrean army to send aid. The goblin-kin seized the heart of the King’s Forest.

And when King Duar set out to defeat the orcish army, his own father-in-law, Melineth Turcassan, sold the city of Suzail to the pirates for five hundred sacks of gold.

His Majesty destroyed the largest of the orcish armies, but returned to find his throne stolen and the gates of his city barred against him. Worse, the pirate lord, Magrath the Minotaur, kept the crippled city as his prize and plundered the treasury for mercenaries to expand his reach into the rest of Cormyr.

That was three years ago, and in three years, those loyal to the crown had seen their numbers ebb-from battle losses, from treachery, and from raw despair. Many of the nobles, Crownsilver included, had shipped their families north to the Dales or west to Waterdeep. The loyal nobles broke into smaller groups, and still smaller bands. Duar’s present band numbered only twenty.

Elvarin looked about the glade in the full moonlight. She and her cousin Glorin Truesilver. Jotor Turcassan, who had broken with the rest of his treacherous family, Omalra Dracohorn, and Dintheron Bleth. The men were the last of the Purple Dragons, their adventuring group from before everything collapsed. The rest of their ragged band were non-noble swordsmen and retainers. And King Duar, of course, and Amedahast.

Duar waited in the darkness, looking more like a funereal statue than a living soul. He was a giant even among Obarskyrs, but his great, muscular shoulders seemed weighed down by more than the crown he still wore. The betrayal of Melineth had almost broken him, and it would take a long time for him to truly recover. The death of the Turcassans later that year, at the hands of their treacherous allies, eased the pain only a little. He slept in his armor, and his tabard and robes were tattered and grimy. The only new item on his person was the sword Amedahast had crafted for him, Orbyn, the Edge of Justice, which slept for the moment in a battered sheath.

Duar had truly become King of the Forest Country, a refugee hiding in the broad expanse of the King’s Forest. The orcs and goblins soon learned that this was not a land to settle in and retreated to the north. The dragons, too, had gone, returning to whatever slumber engulfed them after a rampage. And while Magrath the Minotaur put a price on Duar’s head higher than what he’d paid for Suzail itself, he had few takers among the fearful common folk.

The common folk. Crownsilver shook her head at the thought. Entire hand counts of noble families switched sides at the drop of a crown. Cities like Arabel declared their independence with fickle regularity. But the common folk, the people in the farms and the villages and isolated homesteads, they always rallied around their king. Their group might be battered and beaten, looking little better than the brigands who now prowled the road from Suzail to Arabel. Yet one look at their grim king always brought out the best food and hidden weapons and the secret supplies. Despite threats and bribes, the common folk stood by their king.

And finally they heard some good news. Word came from her cousin, Agrast Huntsilver, that the High Horn had fallen into their hands, and the military units there were willing to throw in with the king. But only if Duar could produce a victory, and produce it fast. Crownsilver, His Majesty, and the mage frowned over the maps for all one long day before choosing the site of the attack. It was central to the kingdom, lightly guarded, and, most importantly, it was held by a noble family that had thrown in with Magrath’s pirates: House Dheolur.

Elvarin frowned in the darkness. Duar’s own grandfather had elevated the Dheolurs to nobility, and they’d spent the next three generations plotting and planning and scheming. They gained the right to put their stockaded settlement in the heart of the forest, and then did everything in their power to undermine the crown. When Suzail was seized, House Dheolur swore fealty to Magrath in an instant.

There was a noise in the distance, no more than the snapping of a twig. Everyone stiffened at the sound but Amedahast. The wizard stood up silently and looked in the direction of the noise. She had elven blood in her veins, but of late, Elvarin was sure it was ice water. Rumor had it that some Cormyrean noble had broken her heart at a young age. Elvarin just hoped for her sake that said noble was not a Crownsilver, Amedahast looked like a woman who held grudges.

Everyone held his breath for a moment as something moved at the opposite edge of the glade. A lone man appeared, moving cautiously. He was dressed in a cotton blouse and patched woolen pants, and his unkempt gray hair jutted in all directions from beneath a shapeless cap. He held an unlit lantern in his hand. He was clearly visible in the moonlight, as were they.

The old farmer waved the unlit lantern slowly.

Amedahast duplicated the motion in return, and the farmer limped forward, smiling.

Duar arose from where he’d been sitting. Upon seeing the king’s face, the old farmer threw himself to his knees in respect. The king walked up to him and knelt as well, taking the old man by the shoulder and lifting him to his feet. Crownsilver had seen this many times now. Duar had become very good at it, and it sealed the loyalty of the peasants he embraced so. The touch of a king still held great power.

The two engaged in a conversation of hushed whispers. Amedahast and Crownsilver reached them at the same moment.

“Magrath is there,” said Duar, smiling.

“So our information was correct,” said Amedahast solemnly.

“Aye,” said the farmer. “He’s a hulking beast, Sire, with horns long as my arms. He’s got his men up there, as well. They’re in the main feast hall, and will be for the next several hours. There are a lot of them.”

“So the victory will be that much sweeter,” said Duar.

“You knew?” said Elvarin. “You knew Magrath would be here?”

“We suspected,” said Amedahast. “It was one reason we chose Dheolur in the first place. We’ll get High Horn’s troops if we win a town, but we can throw all the pirates into disarray if we kill or capture their leader.”

And what of the disarray if we lose you? Thought Crownsilver. Instead, she said, “Is this wise, Your Majesty? We are but twenty, and it’s a full-moon night. We’ll be spotted as soon as we break cover.”

“Spotted by drunken guards and watchmen more interested in what is going on within the settlement than without. Do you remember where the feast hall in Dheolur is?”

“Aye,” said Crownsilver stonily. “I also remember the twenty-foot wall around the hold. What are we to do about that? Does Amedahast here have a spell that will allow us all to pass through walls?”

The wizard shot Crownsilver a look that froze her blood, but Elvarin did not care. If she was going to die following her king, it would not be because they had forgotten so simple a thing as the main gate.

“The plan is already well in hand,” said Duar quietly. “Trust me and follow me, as you have followed me thus far.”

With that, the farmer set off, followed by Amedahast, Duar, Crownsilver, and the others. They left their horses behind. Elvarin knew that if they needed mounts this night, it would be because their cause was already lost.

Dheolur was surrounded with a stout stockade, rising protectively around the warehouses and homes of House Dheolur. The traitor house. Elvarin remembered what she could not yet see in the darkness.

The place needed the protection of its wall, for even in the best of times, goblins and other monsters came wandering out of the King’s Forest. Inside now would be Lord Dheolur, his loathsome and reptilian sister Pella, and Lady Threena, a Cormaeril who’d married into the household. Of the lot, Threena was the only one worth more than a bucket of warm suet. Elvarin hoped she would survive this night. But then, she hoped all of the folk with her, advancing cautiously through the forest, would survive this night.

The feast hall would also be the main warehouse, emptied for the revel. It stood to the right-hand side of the stockade, facing Dheolur Manor on the left, a large and ugly sprawl of pretentious turrets and wings built on the ruins of a temple that once stood there. And whose temple had that been? Elvarin thought for a moment. Moander, Threena Cormaeril had told her. Some minor and malicious deity of rot and decay.

Such a god would have a good home here. Dheolur was surrounded by low, peaty bogs and patches of marsh. This, more than any stockade wall, served it as protection. The farmer knew the way, and they kept to a series of forested rills, the ferns of the undergrowth slapping against their armored legs and thighs. All through their journey, Elvarin was concerned they’d be spotted, but if anyone noticed their passing, no alarm was raised.

They reached the clearing that surrounded Dheolur. The rebellious nobles had ordered the forest cut back a hundred yards in all directions but had not maintained their vigilance since that burst of good sense. Already ferns and spindly saplings were growing in the blasted land. Still, one had a clear view of the stockade, the gate-house, and a crudely built watchtower. Despite the full moon, Elvarin could not determine if the dark wooden structure was occupied.

What now? Was Amedahast going to make herself invisible, fly over the walls, and open the gates for them? Elvarin could not believe the king would risk his last surviving mage.

Duar said something to the wizard, and the farmer drew close with his lantern. Amedahast muttered something short and sharp, and a flame appeared at her fingertip. The farmer held the lantern steady, its shutters closed. The mage lifted the glass globe and lit the wick.

The farmer faced the settlement and opened the shutters of the lantern, then closed them again immediately. Then a second time, this time a little longer, then closed again. Short-long, short-long.

There was a pause, during which all in the royal party held their breath. Then there was a response from the guard tower itself. Short-long, short-long.

Duar gave the signal to advance. The entire party, blades drawn, moved forward into the clearing.

The farmer remained, and Duar turned to him. Elvarin passed near as the two talked.

“You have the thanks of the rightful king. What is your name, good man?”

“Dhedluk, Sire,” said the farmer, and he spelled it.

King Duar nodded and said, “When the victory is ours, you will be remembered.” He laid a hand on the man’s forearm, and the startled farmer clasped arms with his king, as equals. When Duar released his grip, the man dropped immediately to his knees. The king clapped him on the shoulder and hauled him up again. And with that, he and Elvarin joined the others.

Elvarin’s breathing was tight and ragged as they crossed the blasted field by moonlight. Duar had a spy within, probably another farmer like Dhedluk. Or perhaps a guard who’d volunteered for watch duty while the others were occupied.

Or perhaps it was all a trap, and they’d arrive at the stockade with no open gate and no ladder or rope to gain entrance. Then archers would appear over the sharp rim of the palisade and cut them down like a farmer scything barley.

They were almost at the wall when a shadowy line appeared in it. The gate had been opened-not fully, just a crack. The opening would have been invisible if the moon had not been full.

They reached the gate, and Amedahast pulled it open enough to allow two men to pass through at a time. Elvarin was among the first into the encampment, alongside the king. They were alone on the other side of the gate. Of their benefactor, there was no sign.

Behind them, Amedahast stepped inside, closed the gate, and drove the bolt home. Then she spoke a few words, and the lock flared with a brief, yellow-green radiance. She had locked them inside. No one would be leaving this battle until it was over.

The manor stood on one hand, and the large improvised feast hall on the other. Crates and barrels had been removed for the celebration honoring Magrath and were piled untidily at the ends of the warehouse. There was no sign of any guards. The manor was shrouded in darkness, but the thin, high windows of the warehouse were lit from within. The shouts and laughter of drunken men, muffled only slightly by the walls, streamed from the interior.

Duar pointed at three of the common soldiers, and they crept forward with torches, again lit by the High Mage of the Wolf Woods. A pile of canvas sacks provided tinder, and the flames licked at a pile of crates bunched against the side of the warehouse. They caught fire almost immediately, and a deep roar began. Flames flickered hungrily upward, and the thatch roof flared with a crackle.

The reaction was almost immediate. There was a great chorus of shouting from within, orders were bellowed, women screamed, and the celebration became pandemonium.

The main doors of the warehouse, facing the manor house, burst wide open, and a press of humanity streamed out: serving girls and cooks, merchants and toadies, all sprinting and stumbling. And behind them, led by Dheolur himself, came the household guards. Behind those armored forms, framed in the growing radiance of the fire, was the shadowy hulk of Magrath himself

The women and servants fled from the reaching flames to the manor, sobbing, and Duar’s men let them go. The warriors saw their waiting foes and strode forward without pause. With a cry, the Purple Dragons engaged them.

Dheolur, resplendent in black plate armor brought all the way from Chondath, charged Duar. The chased and fluted armor was Dheolur’s pride and joy, and he’d apparently wanted to impress his guests by wearing it. The renegade noble’s helm was down, and he looked like an angry clockwork figure. His blade was long and slightly curved, and its edge glittered in the moonlight.

Duar stood to meet him, blade held out to one side, his tattered robes barely covering the chain mail beneath. The gold circlet gleamed on his head. As Dheolur rushed, Elvarin shouted and charged forward, leading with her unwounded side. She did not try to use her blade, but instead slammed into Pella with her shoulder, sending the woman sprawling. The wicked dagger spun away into the darkness.

The force of their meeting sent the staggering Elvarin to the ground as well, losing her grip on her blade. Pella recovered before she did, and in a moment, she pounced on the Crownsilver warrior with serpentlike grace. Throwing herself on top of Elvarin with thrusting knees, she clawed at the warrior’s face.

Elvarin heaved and gasped, trying to shift the woman off her, but Pella seemed to have the strength of a huge beast, not the puny might her fairly small frame should have commanded.

Then one of those clawing hands drew back to strike-and Elvarin saw the horror of Pella’s palms. Instead of unbroken, cupped skin below her fingers, Pella Dheolur’s flesh was split with twisted mouths filled with sharp teeth and framed with oozing green lips. Elvarin struggled frantically and turned her head to one side, but Pella brought her open, toothy palm down on the Crownsilver’s bare cheek. Elvarin screamed as needle-sharp teeth bit into her flesh. Pella’s haglike laughter rose harsh and shrill around her.

And then the laughter broke and ended. A slender hand had taken Pella by the hair, pulling her backward. The Dheolur noblewoman was unprepared, and the jaws closing on Elvarin’s face loosened for a moment.

Elvarin blinked back tears of pain and shook her head to shake away the blood and let her see.

Amedahast was hauling Pella over backward by a hand locked in her hair. The noblewoman was clawing the air vainly, trying to reach the wizard, as she was peeled bodily away from Elvarin.

Then the High Mage shouted a spell, and her free hand burst into a ball of cold blue flame. Pella clutched at Amedahast, but the fangs in her palms seemed unable to gain purchase on her.

Amedahast shoved the small fireball into Pella’s face. The noblewoman screamed and writhed as roaring flames spread along her cloak and into her hair. The High Mage let go and stepped back. Pella tried to rise, her eyes glowing holes against an ashen skull beneath. She staggered forward, faltered, and with a banshee’s wail collapsed in a tattered heap of burning rags.

Pella’s final scream distracted Magrath the Minotaur, and that was all Duar needed. He drove his blade forward, glancing off the axe to catch the minotaur at the base of his breastbone, and shoved the steel upwards into the creature’s rib cage.

The great beast was pinioned on the blade like a bug on a needle. The great axe fell, and a choking howl burst from the pirate leader as blood gushed from his mouth. Then slowly the minotaur sagged down on the blade, flung up one arm, and twisted around, convulsing. Finally he fell backward.

With the death of Magrath, the fight went out of the rest of the defenders of the hold. Some laid down their weapons immediately, while others, particularly the goblins, sought to flee from the stockade. They were stopped by Amedahast’s sealed gates. The would-be escapees tried to make a stand, but the king’s men grimly cut them down where they stood.

Elvarin stood up slowly and painfully, retrieving her blade. The wound in her side and the deep cut on her face rivaled each other for pain. The gouge on her cheek would likely scar, but at least she’d have a tale to tell for it. Arnedahast could probably tell her what spell or curse had given Pella Dheolur biting mouths in her palms and if the wound itself was poisoned.

There was a flash of blonde hair and blue cloth from the manor house door. Elvarin raised her blade, but Amedahast put a restraining hand on the swordswoman’s shoulder. Threena Cormaeril dashed down the steps and embraced the bloody Duar. The force of their laughing embrace spun the weary king around, and he almost fell over.

Elvarin chuckled, pain making the sound harsher than usual, and said, “So that was our inside agent. I should have guessed. There has always been more than one way to conquer a town.”

Amedahast made no reply. Elvarin looked at her. The High Mage was stony in her silence, her brow furrowed deeply as if she’d been revisited by some old pain. Without a word, she turned and walked away, making for where the wounded were being gathered.

In the light from the blazing warehouse, Elvarin watched the king and the lady holding each other. Victory. They had captured Dheolur, and with Threena’s aid, they’d be able to hold it. The forces from High Horn could then commit to a forest campaign… and with Magrath dead, the pirates might even abandon Suzail rather than face a siege. The days-the years-ahead would not be easy, but Cormyr might survive after all.

Never underestimate the power of the king’s touch, thought Elvarin. Using her sword to support herself, the warrior limped to where Amedahast was already unpacking the healing potions and poultices.