Cormyr

Chapter 24: Sembians

Year of the Soft Fogs (1188 DR)

King Pryntaler stormed around the campfire, his arms pinwheeling so violently that Jorunhast thought he’d take flight right then and there. “If war is what they want, then war is what they’ll get,” he snarled for the fifth time during this current rant.

“War is not what they want,” the wizard replied calmly. “What they want is Marsember. If they can get it without war, then so much the better.”

The pair stood in the midst of a small encamped band of nobles, clerics, scribes and guards at the narrowest part of Thunder Gap, the traditional boundary between the Land of the Purple Dragon and the Chondathan colonies of Sembia. But now the Sembian cities were colonies no longer, but a nation of merchant cities ruled by expediency and gold rather than kings and wizards. The uplands around the storm-haunted peaks, which had been so much wilderness for so many centuries, were now regularly transversed by merchant caravans.

The Cormyrean group was camped on the near side of the pass, the Sembians in their oversized wagons on the far side. Their mutual meeting ground was at the saddle of the pass, a great field where tents of purple and black had been erected. The intention had been to hearken back to the splendor and power of the elves, but instead of radiant elven pavilions, these meeting tents looked like smoky mountains made of storm clouds.

The activity within the largest tent was as stormy as the color of its canvas. For three days, the king had met with the representatives of the Sembian houses, and for three days, he and Jorunhast had returned to their own fires without a settlement. Each day Pryntaler’s war mutterings grew louder and sharper.

The sticking point was Marsember, of course. A nominally independent city-state on the Cormyrean side of the Thunder Peaks, it had extensive ties, both legal and less so, with Sembia. The more prestigious Marsemban merchant families, craving respectability, favored merging with the Sembian state, while the nobles and the shadier merchants wanted it to remain an open city. The senior nobility, the Marliir family, sought the support, if not the armies and taxes, of the Cormyrean crown.

Jorunhast was supportive of an independent Marsember, at least for the time being. There were many times when the business of the crown needed to be dealt with in the shadows of Marsember rather than braving the bright scrutiny of many noble eyes in the halls of Suzail. A measure of independence was needed for that.

Sembian rule would be worse. An established presence of Sembians on the western side of the Thunder Peaks would be an ever present encouragement for the more adventurous among the merchant families. Once the Sembians had one of their cities on this side of the Thunders, what would keep other cities and towns-such as Arabel, cradle of rebels-from swearing fealty to gold as opposed to the Dragon Throne?

After a number of long talks with the young king, Jorunhast had made the point that Marsember must be protected, and called a parley with the Sembians. Officially they were here to settle the exact border between Cormyr and Sembia, but the question of Marsember’s status overshadowed wilderness boundary decisions. Pryntaler’s argument was simple and straightforward:

An independent Marsember would be good for all sides, and its fate was essentially a decision for the crown of Cormyr, since Marsember stood squarely within Cormyr’s sphere of influence.

And every evening, after a day of talk, they returned to their camp and Pryntaler exploded with ever-growing rage. Now he stalked around the glow of the fire like a caged lion, spitting out his words like venom.

“Gold-fisted, book-smart, thieving, lawyer-loving, scheming merchants!” he bellowed. “How did my ancestors stand to have such worms as their neighbors all these years?”

“They were far neighbors for most of that time,” the wizard explained patiently, “and spent most of the time in frays with the elves and the Dalesmen to the north, and with their own Chondathan masters. Now that they are free of Chondath’s tethers, they seek their own future.”

“A future that includes Cormyrean territory, it seems,” Pryntaler shot back. “Perhaps we should take the battle to them, instead of wasting time on words!”

The other nobles at the fireside raised a cheer, and Jorunhast saw a few of the servants and his own scribes nodding in agreement. He shook his head in amazement.

Pryntaler, son of King Palaghard and the warrior queen Enchara of Esparin, had grown strong and true, the very image of his father. He had his father’s broad shoulders and piercing blue eyes. He had inherited his mother’s fiery temper, however, and her ability to bring the troops to a blood boil. Which was, of course, exactly what this situation did not need.

Jorunhast sighed deeply. He had grown as well, though most of that had involved an ever-increasing waistline. His shoulders were still broad, and he had slowed the work of time sufficiently to keep his good looks. But next to Pryntaler, the wizard tended to resemble a baker or a contented Lathanderite friar. If Pryntaler got his troops incensed, nothing would stop them short of war. And Jorunhast realized what none of his countrymen seemed to see: In any dispute that went beyond a single battle, Cormyrean steel could not hope to prevail against Sembian gold.

Jorunhast did not entirely blame his liege’s inherited temper for these outbursts. In each of their meetings thus far, the five Sembiaris had behaved like moneylenders approving a loan, as opposed to diplomats meeting a king. Kodlos was their nominal leader, but he had to check with the others before deciding even on breakfast. The vulpine Homfast and vulturelike Lady Threnka were united in their lust to make Marsember Sembian. Old Bennesey was the scholar of the group and seemed to have every treaty, purchase, and chance meeting of the two nations committed to memory. And Jollitha Par sat there and said nothing but watched everything, a spider waiting at the center of his web.

At no time in the past three days had they received Pryntaler as a royal personage, or even a head of state. They would not call him “Majesty” or “Sire.” They interrupted him often, with the air of merchants breaking into the ramblings of a junior clerk. They asked improper questions that time and again sent Jorunhast to check with his scribes, and then challenged their records while the king sat smoldering. Jorunhast felt they did not want war, but their treatment of the king sent them well down the dark road to the battlefield.

For his part, as the talks wore on, Pryntaler had become more belligerent and stubborn. Now he was refusing to even discuss minor matters of tariffs and exports, merely presenting the Cormyrean viewpoint and refusing to compromise. Jorunhast understood his mood in the face of the constant insults and spurious challenges of plainly established facts and historical records, but the Sembians were not rebellious minor nobles or haughty representatives of someplace so comfortably distant as Thay. These men had gold to spend, and they would send it to work in Cormyr, or they would send it elsewhere. And if they sent it elsewhere, they might use it to buy soldiers.

None of these observations would calm the angry king nor sway the other nobles and guards, so Jorunhast cleared his throat and said, “Perhaps we should merely decamp tonight and return to Suzail. Methinks the Sembians would get a very clear message should we not be here next morning.”

Pryntaler halted by the fire, as if looking for an answer in its coals. Jorunhast knew that despite his bombast, the king would lose Marsember if discussions broke down now. Finally the king raised his head and snapped, “One more day. I will deal with those accountants and gold misers for one more day. Then they’ll see what it is like to anger a Purple Dragon!”

He wheeled and stormed into the moonlit darkness. Instantly two of the nobles, Juarkin and Thessilion Crownsilver, fell into place behind him. Pryntaler thought of them as watchdogs. Jorunhast thought of the two nobles as the king’s minders and, more importantly, as the wizard’s informants.

They would walk down to the nearby lakeside, and the king would lecture them about how things weren’t like this in his father’s day. And the Crownsilvers would nod and listen and make stern grunts of agreement, until eventually the king ran out of steam and bluster. In the meantime, the other nobles, squires, scribes, and healers of the royal party would trade tales and speculate as to what the wizard Jorunhast would do to save the day in this particular case.

Jorunhast, in this particular case, did not have a clue. On one side, he sympathized with the king. The Sembians were a bureaucracy without a strong leader, and as treacherous to deal with as a community of drow. On the other hand, now was a time for speakers, not warriors. If the king could not deal with the Sembians, war loomed on the horizon, if not with Sembia, then somewhere else.

The Royal Magician smiled to himself, thinking of how things truly were in Palaghard’s day. Pryntaler’s father almost launched the nation into a war with distant Procampur soon after his coronation, when a new crown crafted for the coronation was stolen. The king thought the jewelers of Procampur were responsible, and he mustered the armies accordingly. The true thief, the pirate lord Immurk, was eventually revealed and the crown recovered. It was an ugly, top-heavy monster of sculpted gold, and after a few months, it was relegated to the family treasury in favor of the original three-spired crown. Yet that golden monstrosity had nearly started a war. And now, perhaps, the hardheadedness of the Sembians was going to create another one.

Jorunhast rose, dusted off his robes, and slowly and leisurely headed after the king, one of his own scribes following in his wake. Around the fire, a few heads were nodding to each other that the king and the Royal Magician would butt heads for a while away from prying eyes, and the wizard would eventually bring the Purple Dragon back to the negotiating table. And from the look in the eyes of some, that would not be the best thing for Cormyr, in their opinion.

Jorunhast walked slowly down to the lake, both to enjoy the scenery and to give the king more time to calm himself. The meadows were as close to high summer as they would get, and it was pleasantly cool around him. A light woods of small, stunted fruit trees ran down to the lake. Once it must have been an orchard or a grove planted for late harvesting, but its original planters were gone, leaving only the trees as a living memorial. A waning moon low on the horizon illuminated the path sufficiently that the wizard did not need magical light to see his way. Somewhere, night-blooming plants had opened for the bats, and their soft, fragrant scent hugged the ground.

Jorunhast was among the trees when he heard the sounds of battle ahead, at the edge of the lake itself. Human shouts were punctuated by the clang of metal clashing against metal. Jorunhast broke into a trot, his young scribe scrambling to keep up.

The two burst from the trees to see that the two Crownsilvers were already down, and the king himself was locked in combat with a great metallic gorgon. The creature’s scaled flanks caught the moonlight and reflected it back in shattered shards. Its massive head was wreathed in clouds of greenish smoke.

Jorunhast turned to the scribe and shouted, “Get back to camp and bring every priest and every man who has a sword to swing!”

The young woman hesitated for a moment, her eyes locked on the great metallic creature. Then the wizard’s shouted curse at her mazed wits broke her transfixed state, and she went scrambling back up the path.

The king was fighting oddly, rushing forward to slash at the creature and then dancing back again, then dodging aside when the great bull charged. Time and again his blows skittered along the sides of the beast, and in the darkness, Jorunhast saw sparks fly as the steel struck against the scales.

The wizard knelt by one of the fallen Crownsilvers. The youth was unmarked, but his face was drawn and he was gasping for breath. Poison, then. Jorunhast laid the young noble’s head down-there was little to be done until the healers arrived-and turned back to the battle.

The king was tiring, and the monster seemed unscathed by his attacks. Again His Majesty danced forward, slashed without effect, and dodged back, clear of the creature’s horns and breath. Not a gorgon, but some relative, perhaps, thought the wizard. The monster looked as if it could continue the battle until dawn. The king, sweat already pouring down his face, obviously could not. Pryntaler favored the wizard with a short, desperate look, then dodged out of the way of the beast’s poisonous maw.

Jorunhast caught the pattern of the king’s attack. It would be tight, and he did not know if the magic he had would affect the beast. However, he could not wait, and the nobles and knights would arrive too late if he hesitated.

The Royal Magician raised his hand and started to craft the spell as Pryntaler dodged in once more to strike the beast. His blow had no more effect than the others. When the king jumped back, out of range of the poisons that engulfed the beast’s head, he hoped fervently, Jorunhast let loose his spell.

A bolt of lightning sprang from his fingertips and thundered into the beast. The blast of energy struck the side of the creature and spread along its scales, as if it were trying to slit the creature apart. The golden gorgon, or whatever it was, staggered forward for a moment, then halted in its tracks, as if turned to stone by the force of the blow.

Pryntaler’s shoulders sagged in exhaustion, and he nodded his thanks at the wizard, panting, “The monster was waiting for us here when-“

Jorunhast held up a hand, and the king fell silent, puzzled. The gorgon was clicking, as if it had swallowed a giant ratchet.

The magician of the realm approached the stone-still creature. Yes, it was making the low clicking noise. Now he could see in the moonlight the beast was not a living thing, but rather an automaton or golem in the shape of a great bull. Somewhere within it, something was attempting to repair the damage of the lightning bolt.

Wizard and king looked at each other, and Jorunhast raised his hand again, signaling Pryntaler to stay back. He approached the clockwork beast carefully, expecting it at any moment to spring back to life. Holding his breath, he ran his fingers along the thing’s head and shoulders. He found a small tray tucked beneath its chin. He pulled it forth, and a smoking, greenish pile of herbs tumbled out. The poison, obviously herbal in nature, that had felled the two Crownsilvers.

Jorunhast stepped back two swift paces and let the toxic fumes waft away in the night air. Then he returned to the creature’s side and resumed his inspection. The clicking became louder and more rapid. He ran his fingers along the ridge of the machine’s back. There was a small stud at the top of the spine, directly behind the nape of the creature’s massive neck.

Sweat gathered on the magician’s forehead. The latch might silence the clicking or reactivate the beast fully or might cause it to explode. Should he wait for the other nobles, the knights, and healers?

The creature began to slowly move its jaws, opening and closing them in a jerky rhythm. Within the metallic shell, Jorunhast heard bellows flex, and the mouth hissed to exhale the now removed poison.

Jorunhast cursed, offered a silent prayer to Mystra, and moved the control.

The wheeze of the bellows died with the clicking. The beast became inert once more. There were shouts from up the hill as the first of the rescuers reached the abandoned orchard.

King Pryntaler examined the creature. “A magical device?”

Jorunhast nodded. “One not normally found in the wilderness of Cormyr. Someone put this here to ambush you

“

The king snarled, “The Sembians! I swear this means war!”

“Yes and no,” said Jorunhast. “Yes, it probably was the Sembians, or at least one of the merchants. But, no, I don’t think it means war. They saw this creature as a tool to be used to solve the border dispute. Let us use it to the same purpose.”

The king looked hard and long at the wizard, then nodded. Now the would-be rescuers were spilling down along the shore. The king turned and barked orders for the healers to attend the fallen Crownsilvers and left Jorunhast to examine his prize.

The mage hummed to himself as be peered at the creature, exclaiming as he found small additional latches and hidden panels. He called for the four strongest of the knights to remove their armor and be ready for some heavy lifting.

In the morning, the Sembians were already gathered at the purple and black pavilion, waiting and asking in thirty-second intervals what the time was. The Cormyreans arrived late, to five scowling faces.

His Majesty King Pryntaler, by contrast, was all smiles. If he had spent the previous evening battling for his life, he did not show it.

“You are late,” said Kodlos gloomily, as if the king were a clerk sneaking past the noon bell. “Yesterday you spoke of our lack of respect to your claims, and now-“

“Not late… merely delayed,” said the king, beaming as he interrupted the leader of the Sembian merchants. Kodlos blinked twice, and Pryntaler waved back at the entrance.

Two of the noble knights of Cormyr were wrestling a low, wheeled cart into the pavilion. On the cart stood a large object shrouded in a great swath of fabric. At one side of the cart walked Jorunhast, a contented grin plastered on his face. The merchants exchanged curious glances.

Pryntaler continued, not giving the Sembians the opportunity to respond. “Last night I went for a walk, to consider your offers and viewpoints. While I was doing so, I came across this in an abandoned orchard not far from here.”

The king nodded. Jorunbast took hold of a corner of the fabric shroud and hauled it aside with a flourish, revealing the golden gorgon he’d first seen the night before.

Four Sembians leaned forward curiously at the sight of the golden bull. One, the ever quiet Jollitha Par leaned backward, his face turning an ashen gray.

Jorunhast called, “This is a wondrous creation, some sort of clockwork guard, apparently unaffected by the ages. But we do not know what it is. It-“

Old Bennesey, the scholar, interrupted just as rudely as he had for the last three days. “It is an abraxus, mage. These were automatons, created by Chondathan mages, but they could be used by anyone. They were usually activated by an unwilling human sacrifice and served as both guards and assassins…” Finally his brain caught up with his tongue and tripped up his flow of words. He stammered, looked at Jollitha Par, then stammered again.

Pryntaler broke in. “Chondathan, you say? Well, that would explain your knowing about it. I think this must have been an old guard for Sembia’s Chondathan borders. Jorunhast, have you found out how to operate the creature?”

The mage bowed low. “I believe that there is a latch along the spine here.”

Jollitha Par started as if he had been set on fire. “That will not be necessary!” he protested, his voice rising along the scale with every word spoken.

His Sembian fellows-or at least, Kodlos, Homfast and Lady Threnka-turned their heads slowly to stare at the spiderlike Jollitha. This was the first time the quiet merchant had spoken aloud, and it was as if the golden abraxus had suddenly broken into song.

Pryntaler went on. “I note that learned Bennesey, here, referred to this as a guard. If this is left over from the era of the Chondathians, it could be said that the original settlers of your country recognized the Thunder Peaks as the border between our lands.”

Lady Threnka gave the king a small smile and adjusted her pinch-nosed glasses to regard Pryntaler with cold condescension. “You would have us believe that this creature has been sitting unaffected for hundred of years, just so that you might state that the borders of our lands-“

“What other explanation do you have, my lady?” said Jorunhast. “If it had not been left here by some previous Sembians, the alternative is that some present-day Sembians put it there. Then the question becomes who and why. Is this what you are saying?”

As he spoke, the spidery Sembian grabbed Lady Threnka’s arm and spoke softly and sharply in her ear. Her demeanor tightened as he spoke, transforming from haughty and superior to tense and worried.

She ignored the wizard’s words and spoke to Pryntaler. “I see your point, Your Majesty. Perhaps we should adjourn for a short caucus, Kodlos, to discuss the merits of setting the official borders between our nations.”

Kodlos made a puzzled noise. “My lady, we had just gotten started rather tardily-“

“And we will start again once we consider this.” She rose to her feet. “Come. You will forgive us this leave, Your Majesty.”

Pryntaler smiled and managed a small half-bow. “Always, your ladyship.”

The five representatives and their aides made a quick retreat. Pryntaler turned to his wizard. “How long do you think it will take?”

“It depends,” said Jorunhast, “On whether they come back to accept the Thunder Gap as our mutual border, or just head back for Ordulin right here and now.”

“She called me ‘Your Majesty,’” Pryntaler said.

“Twice,” replied Jorunhast, nodding. “Though it looked as if she were gargling slugs as she said it.”

“And you noticed Jollitha Par?” said the king.

“Aye,” said the wizard, “and if you choose not to behead him right here and now, I guarantee he’ll get a special magical visit later, and none will mistake the message or the messenger.”

“Behead him?” thundered Pryntaler, smiling broadly. “The old spider has accomplished in one fell swoop what we’ve been trying to do for the past three days. I may give him a medal!”