Cormyr

Chapter 32: Gondegal

The Year of the Dragon (1352 DR)

The watch fires burned in a rough crescent along the hilltops south of Arabel. Each fire marked a thousand men, Purple Dragons, local militiamen, adventuring bands, and mercenaries. All were poised and ready for the assault on the rebellious city, come the dawn.

Mabel itself lay like a sparkling gem against a dark and dusty field of paddocks, tilled fields, and caravan grounds. Within its walls, the city blazed with light-the light of its own watch fires, of torches and lanterns, and of candles and magical radiances. Despite their shine, the surrounding watch fires would be visible in the city like a row of low, reddish stars. Neither the people in the city nor in the camps were getting much sleep this evening.

In the largest camp, the king’s pavilion rose like a hulking purple mountain against the stars. Beneath its highest peak, the war leaders were gathered. Paunchy Baron Thomdor and balding Duke Bhereu anchored one end of the table, their faces hard twins of concern. Aside from a narrow aisle left bare along either side of the table, the room was crowded with chairs occupied by mercenary captains, militia leaders, and war wizards. Their attention was on the long, linen-covered table littered with papers, messages, reports, and diagrams. In the center of its clutter, wrought by magic but appearing as if sculpted of alabaster, was a three-dimensional model of Arabel itself.

At the table’s head, in a low, carved throne of duskwood, sat King Azoun IV himself, seventy-first of the Obarskyr line, face furrowed, hand reflectively stroking his beard. The Royal Magician, Vangerdahast, stood to one side of his liege. He was the only one presently on his feet, and when he was addressing the gathered commanders, he would stalk the length of the table. For the moment, he stood bent over Azoun’s right shoulder, looking every bit like the king’s pet raven, perching.

“We know he’s in there?” said the king, eyeing the sparkling white model of the caravan city.

“He, his men, and those who have flocked to his banner in the past three months,” Thomdor replied grimly. His forces had spent those three months chasing the self-styled bandit king over most of northern Cormyr. Eight days ago their prey had alighted in Mabel, crowned himself Gondegal I with a crown snatched from a Sembian tomb, and dared any other man to take that crown from him.

No one knew Gondegal’s origin, though he claimed the blood of kings ran in his veins. One thing was certain, as even Thomdor had to admit: He was a determined and charismatic leader of men. Time and again the baron had drawn up for an attack, only to have the forces he faced melt away into the fog and the forest. And with every near defeat, Gondegal’s legend grew, and with those exciting tales had grown his supporters. On the first of the year, he was unknown. Now, three weeks after Midsummer Eve, he had encouraged Arabel to revolt once more and made it the seat of his own nascent empire.

In his declaration, Gondegal had laid out his new, nameless kingdom as running from the Wyvernwater northeast to Tilver’s Gap, and from the desert of Anauroch southeast deep into Sembian territory. In reality, he ruled only as far as his sword would reach from the saddle of his ever-moving war-horse, but that did not lessen the effrontery of his demands. The Purple Dragon would not allow half its territory to suddenly cleave to a new ruler… even one as charismatic as Gondegal.

That declaration had been seven days ago, and for seven days, Mabel had held its breath as the “new king” readied his defenses. For seven days, the forces of loyal Cormyr, bolstered by allies who stood to lose land to Gondegal’s kingdom, tightened the net around Mabel.

“Whoever he is, he’s served in uniform somewhere,” said Duke Bhereu, pointing to the alabaster model of the city. “He’s worked wonders in a handful of days. All three gates have been fortified, and he’s built outrider towers to cut off blind spots along the walls. Guard patrols have been doubled, water taken in from rivers in every jug and cask for miles around, and ballistae have been spotted in the major towers! This is no uprising of frustrated merchants, this foe knows his business.”

“And all he need do is hang on to the city long enough to cement his hold on it, and he has us,” added the baron grimly. “He literally only has to repel the initial assault. If we settle into a long siege, we’ll be hurting Mabel itself.”

“And what of the people of the city?” asked the king.

“Mabel has revolted so many times before that they have it down to an art form,” said the duke bitterly. “The merchant livestock and caravans have been pulled north, and the paddocks are empty. Gondegal will likely have mages in the outbuildings, or missile-armed troops. Most of the townspeople have emptied their basements and are willing to wait out the duration there. The temples have been stockpiling food and water for a long time, it seems, and triple guards stand over all the wells.”

One of the mercenary captains, a rough barbarian from the lands north of Phlan, broke in with a snarl.

“Bah! Then let us burn this ready fortress to the ground and slaughter all within its walls. Let their pyre be a warning to others who might think to thwart your king’s will!”

A silence descended on the table as if a lid had banged closed. Vangerdahast broke away from the throne and drifted down along the table until he stood next to the barbarian captain. The mercenary looked to other faces for support but found none. All he saw was shock and indignation.

Vangerdahast put a heavy hand on the barbarian’s shoulder. “The reason,” he said, pressing down with a grip like the tightening gauntlet of an armored giant, “is that the folk in that city are Cormyreans, regardless of who leads them. They will be treated as loyal citizens of the realm until such time as they choose to actually raise arms against the Purple Dragon.”

“But if they are in rebellion, haven’t they…?” asked the mercenary wincing, his words cut short by the increasing pressure on his shoulder.

“They are our people,” said the wizard through clenched teeth. “Half the army would desert if they had to fight their own brothers and cousins. We will treat them accordingly.”

He released the mercenary captain, who exhaled and rubbed his shoulder. The mage had more power in his hands than mere wizardry.

“As has been said, Mabel rebels with astounding regularity,” said the king softly. “Yet it has always returned to the shelter of the Purple Dragon’s wings. One thing the long history of this land has taught my family is that creating grudges only perpetuates our difficulties.”

He met the eyes of the mercenary captain and added, “Let me remind everyone present that this attack is no excuse for pillaging and looting. No one is to set any fires except by order. If the person fleeing from your sword is a civilian, he is a target you will not strike at, molest, or maim ‘accidentally.’ I’ll consider that clearly understood by all of you, see that your men also clearly understand the punishment they’ll face if they forget such things.”

One of the militia leaders piped up. “Can’t we convince just one of these loyal Arabellans to open the gates for us?”

The king shook his head. “They are cowed by Gondegal’s swords and his popularity. Once battle is joined and we rout a few of his stalwart swords, the populace will rise on our side, but for the moment, all of them are lying low. The folk here are fickle, but dependably so.”

One of the wizards asked, “What about the noble houses? Have they thrown in with Gondegal?”

Bhereu spoke up in reply. “A few of the minor houses have, the Immerdusks and Indesms being the most prominent. The Marliirs, the largest Arabellan house, have remained loyal. Most who bear that proud name are under house arrest now, keeping a few of Gondegal’s troops busy guarding prisoners rather than manning the walls.”

“Most of what we know about what’s going inside has come from the Marliirs,” added Thomdor. “Magical reconnaissance has been largely ineffective.”

“On that note,” said the king, “this is the battle plan for the morrow.”

Vangerdahast nodded and waved his hands. A series of purplish blocks appeared on the table, outside the walls of the model city. As the wizard spoke, the blocks moved toward the walls.

“The militia will form on the left flank and mount a feint attack on the High Horn Gate and northwest wall, while the mercenaries will make a sally against the South Gate, more to draw fire and force a committal of defenders than to earnestly take the gate. The bulk of the army, on the right flank, will move along the long southern wall. The intent is to make Gondegal’s forces think the bulk of our army is moving to the East Gate, to attack there. In fact, the forces under the duke will move farthest east, the forces under the king will stand to the center, and the forces commanded by the baron will assemble at the western end of the front.”

Small blocks detached the from the larger ones and swept around the city to east and west. “Light cavalry will break off at this point and cut off both east and west gates, to provide an impediment should Gondegal’s forces choose to bolt. They will include a few war wizards. Our main body of forces will hold the majority of our mages, the baron, the duke, and His Majesty.”

A series of small flashes appeared along the southern wall, in front of the largest block. “The war wizards will bring down the wail in this area with lightning bolts and instruments of blasting. There is a potential for severe damage in the buildings immediately north of the wall, so while the first wave secures the area, the forces who are to penetrate the city must get past any ruin and move swiftly. Later we can examine the fallen buildings for survivors.”

“Goodbye, Wink and Kiss,” muttered Thomdor, thinking of his favorite tavern, located on the far side of the wall that was to be breached.

“With the walls blown,” the wizard continued, “the main force will split up. Thomdor’s men will take the South Gate and let the mercenaries in, together, they are to cleanse the breached area of hostile troops and hold it-in particular, holding any relatively unblocked streets and emptying the buildings along those streets, in case a route of retreat is needed. Bhereu’s forces will enter the city and move to the East Gate, to take it-but even more importantly, to contain any enemy troops mustered there. The king will lead the main body across the city, to the Citadel of Mabel, to surround it and to try to force its gates. If we surprise them and move swiftly enough, it is likely we’ll snare most of Gondegal’s army in the city proper, before they can regroup at the Citadel.”

“And if they do manage to gather at the Citadel?” asked the mercenary captain.

“Gondegal can hold out in Mabel indefinitely,” said the king. “But unless he has substantially more food, plans, and men than we think he does, he cannot hold the Citadel for long if we hold the city around it. The signals you already know, pass on the orders to your subordinates and let all see to their weapons and prayers. We’ll march before the sun crests the horizon and launch the attack at dawn.”

A messenger in bright mail arrived to say the allied Sembian troops had arrived and were already complaining about their accommodations. The king smiled thinly and declared the meeting at an end. Chairs scraped and men rose, talk rising in the usual babble, the Purple Dragon pointed at his two cousins and at the wizard. They remained as the others went out.

“A solid plan,” said the king.

“Working with your suggestions,” the wizard said, “mated to the thinking written down in the court war files. There are table-sized piles of plans for attacking Mabel. Even during years of peace, it was a common practice for military scholars to attack a model Mabel with tin knights and dice.”

Azoun glanced at the city model, then folded his hands before him and steepled his fingers. “The question is,” he said slowly, “what happens afterward?”

“General amnesty,” Thomdor replied.

“We get Gondegal and his chief subordinates and hang them for their crimes, then use the treasure he’s looted for reparations,” added Bhereu.

“Troops will remain in Arabel, ostensibly to repair the wall,” said Vangerdahast, “but should remain thereafter in any case. Mabel is a frontier outpost. It should have sufficient protection.”

“Agreed,” said the king. “Cousin Thomdor, you will head up the Purple Dragon forces based here afterward, much as Bhereu controls the High Horn forces.” Both cousins nodded.

“What of the nobles?” asked the wizard.

“What of them?” asked the king.

“The talk in the court lays the weakness in Arabel at the collective feet of the Marliirs,” said the Royal Magician.

“All we know of Gondegal’s preparations has come from the Marliirs,” Thomdor said with a frown. “Old Jolithan Marliir risked a pair of daughters as messengers.”

“The Marliirs are not to blame,” said Azoun. “If anything, our own complacency brought us to this pass, wherein a charismatic impostor king can raise an army in a fortnight and seize a city in a season.”

“True, but you know court politics,” Vangerdahast replied. “Bleth, in particular, has reminded me of his contribution to this venture and of his great interest in seeing the Marliirs fail and a ‘true’ Cormyrean family have their seat in the city. Lord Bleth wants it badly.”

“Lord Bleth will have to he disappointed, then,” said the king. “My cousins are right. It would be unfair to punish the Marliirs after they risked so much for us. Besides, if I install a Bleth or anyone else who still thinks ‘true Cormyreans’ means born and raised in Suzail, I’ll have another revolution on my hands before the decade is out. Anything else?”

There was nothing else, and the king retired to his personal tent while the two cousins peered at every detail of the white stone model, pointing and plotting. Vangerdahast left them to it and wandered to the southern edge of the camp, away from the city.

Here the posted guards were widely spaced and the shadows between the fires deeper and larger. Night held sway, however many swords were gathered under it. He waited, counting the stars in the southern sky.

After about ten minutes, a voice hissed from the darkness. “Black sword.”

“Meets green shield,” the wizard replied.

“To make red war,” the darkness responded and broke away from the shadows to stand before the wizard. One of Vangerdahast’s spies. Let the royal cousins depend on nobles for information. Any wizard worth his cantrips had his own methods and his own servants.

The spy was a young woman in dark cape and leathers. Nothing gleamed upon her save an oversized golden ring on one hand. Her dagger sheaths, one on each hip, were wrapped in dark leather. Her face was soft and cherubic. “My lord wizard,” she said, “I bear news.”

“Speak,” said Vangerdahast.

“Gondegal is gone,” she replied, almost chirping.

“Gone? How so?”

“Vanished, faded away, evaporated with the summer dew,” the spy said happily.

“How comes this to you?” asked Vangerdahast.

“Through one of his captains,” said the girl, “or rather, one of the sword captains he left behind. Gondegal, a half dozen of his closest aides, and the treasure he’s pillaged for the past three months, all have suddenly gone missing from the Citadel. The surviving captains have their collective undergarments in the proverbial knot over this, but for all their hunting about the city, uproof and downcellar, there is no sign of their heroic master.”

“And what are their plans in the absence of their leader?” asked Vangerdahast, smiling in the darkness.

“The mages who allied themselves with Gondegal have already left the city by their own powers. The remaining leadership is split, but the larger faction supports freeing the Marliirs to plead for mercy with the king on their behalf.”

Vangerdahast patted his wide belly with both hands. “Return to the city, then, and pass this message on to the Marliirs: There will be a general amnesty, provided the gates are thrown open to the king at the first approach of his forces. Gondegal’s men should be waiting, unarmored and unarmed, at the base of the Citadel. The king will pardon all who are there but hunt down the rest to their deaths. Can you get that message back?”

“Without a doubt,” said the spy. “I go.”

“In good fortune,” the wizard murmured and watched her fade back into the darkness. His eyes never could follow her far. Gazing into the night, Vangerdahast permitted himself a broad smile.

Then, mastering his face and emotions, he turned and strode back to the king’s pavilion.

As before, Gondegal had chosen to run rather than fight. But this time he’d left a city behind, a city that would laud the arriving king as a savior and forever crush the bandit king’s hopes for an empire. Not a bad little war. Mabel regained and its loyalty ensured for the next generation, with not a drop of blood shed.

They’d have to check with the outriders, of course, but the wizard believed his spy. There would be no report of any horsemen fleeing the city, no signs of any foul play among Gondegal’s supporters, no bodies turning up mysteriously. And in the morning, they’d form up as planned, in full array, and go ahead-but instead of death and falling walls, the gates to Mabel would be swung wide, and the city would be spared. The king would get flowers instead of swords.

But best to tell Azoun alone about this, the wizard reasoned. If a surrender did not occur, the army of Cormyr would have to proceed with the attack. Men braced to fight would respond well to celebration, but men expecting a surrender would not be ready for battle.

Vangerdahast’s route took him through the wide circle of outward-facing Purple Dragons, who passed him through with silent nods of recognition. He proceeded around the pavilion and along the back of the king’s private tent. The low light within cast the shadow of the royal occupant onto the canvas-no, two occupants’ shadows, sithouettes moving and merging. Through the tent walls, he heard gasps, heavy breathing, and soft sighs.

The wizard cursed to himself. Even on the eve of battle, in the middle of an armed camp, Azoun could not keep his Obarskyr blood from boiling over. There had been enough misadventures over the years to teach any king a little prudence, but the hardheaded kings of Cormyr never seemed able to care about the danger inherent in trysts.

Vangerdahast circled the tent. A single guard was posted before the hoop-arch tunnel that led to its door.

The noise and shadows were not obvious from this side, facing the crowded camp, and the wizard thanked Tymora for the king’s good sense-or blind luck-in choosing his bedroll spot. The guard was fresh-faced and young, a new conscript from some country town.

“Tell the king to contact me as soon as he is done,” the Royal Magician said in a loud, brisk voice, then lowered his tones and added, “And see that the young woman is escorted quickly and quietly from the campground as well.”

The youngster goggled at the elder wizard as if he had suddenly spoken of flying dogs.

“Done?” asked the youth, his voice cracking. “His Majesty was retiring for the evening and dismissed me from his quarters. There was no woman there then, and none have passed me since!”

Vangerdahast looked at the boy but could discern no lie on that set, firm, loyal face. He peered to the right, and the guard turned to look that way as well. With a snarl, the wizard brushed past the guard on his left, and the confused youngster snapped a quick protest and then trotted into the tent after the wizard’s fast-moving back.

The king’s personal sleeping quarters were at the back of the tent, behind a fabric screen that muffled both sound and light. The wizard burst through these and cursed at the sight.

King Azoun was lying on the raised divan he always used on campaign, his armor and robes both set aside. Astride him was a woman who wore an open red gown and not much else. She had one hand raised-and that hand bore a bone dagger, ready to plunge into the king’s chest.

Vangerdahast’s curse slid into a snapped spell-simple magic, quickly effected. A gust of air filled the tent, booming its sides outward and hurling the red wizardess from her perch.

The wizardess was on her feet in a moment with the grace of a panther, backing away from the divan toward the edges of the tent, keeping Azoun between herself and the wizard. The young guard had the presence of mind to snatch at his belt whistle and sound an alert.

“A murder is foiled,” said the wizardess, “but a greater theft has been made.” She put her hands on her hips and smiled at Vangerdahast. “Tell your king that Thay thanks him for his gift.”

Vangerdahast pointed at the woman, and spears of blue fire lanced out at her. She shouted some brief words, then became a swirling, fading mist. The magical missiles scorched tent fabric or seared grass, and shouts arose from the guards.

Suddenly angry Purple Dragons with swords in their hands were running into the tent from all directions, shouting, “The king! The king!”

A sudden, silent flash of light made them halt and blink. Its source was the belt of the Royal Magician.

“Men of Cormyr!” he snapped. “I order you, in the name of Azoun, to stop trampling the king’s gear and forthwith search the camp and the grounds around, moving out as far and as fast as your legs can carry you. Look for a sorceress in a red gown, bring her back alive if you can, but bring her back. A Thayvian-tall, barefoot, long black hair! Take custody of any woman in camp that you do not recognize as one of this company, bring all such to the pavilion. Go!”

They’d find nothing, Vangerdahast knew, but at least their departure would let him get a look at Azoun before it might be too late. Men in armor streamed around the wizard for a moment, and then he was alone with the king.

Azoun seemed unharmed, but mazed in his mind, not seeing the wizard bent over him and mumbling when shaken. The effects of a magical charm.

Vangerdahast touched the brow of his sovereign with his fingertips and muttered words that should unwind any spell in the Thayvian arsenal.

King Azoun IV grunted, grimaced, and grabbed at his forehead. The shattering of his thrall apparently bestowed a cranial punishment akin to a hangover.

“What-what happened?” the king muttered, blinking in the lantern light.

“A Thayvian assassin,” Vangerdahast announced. “She’s been driven off.”

“She?” asked the king, frowning. Then, slowly, he nodded. “She. Yes! She appeared out of nowhere, all shimmering robes and soft scents. She had a name. Brandy? Brannon? I thought she was a dream.”

“A nightmare,” Vangerdahast replied softly.

The king shook his head firmly. “I hate assassins. Apparently clearing out the Fire Knives was not enough. When we are done here, we’re going to have to outlaw assassins. And Red Wizards to boot!”

“But we’re not done here,” said the wizard softly, spreading a blanket over the tired monarch and calling to mind a spell of magical purification and another of shielding. “First Gondegal and Arabel. Then we’ll take on Red Wizards and assassins. We’ll take on anything that threatens the crown or Cormyr, whatever its origin. Trust me on this.”

The king smiled sleepily. “Good old Vangey. Trust me “

“Trust me on this,” said the fat wizard, his voice carrying the strength of iron. “As always.”