Death of the Dragon

22

The King of all Cormyr took a cautious step forward on the damp forest moss, then froze. Overhead, through the dappling of many green fingers of leaves, the light had changed. Azoun Obarskyr knew all too well what that meant.

The source of the stolen sun flashed past overhead, beating dark wings. The dragon-a red dragon as large, or larger, than any he’d ever seen-was heading south in a hurry. Azoun grimly watched it go.

Something fell in its wake, something that had spun out of its jaws to hurtle to the ground forgotten.

Something that was plummeting down so close to Azoun that the dragon’s forgetting it was a very good thing.

Azoun stood as still as any tree as the something crashed into the damp leaves, bounced once, then fell still. A little dust trailed away from where it had landed, but not enough to conceal from intent royal eyes what the forgotten detritus was. It was the bloody remnant of a human leg, still encased in a boot-a boot of the sort well-to-do Cormyrean courtiers wear when they must take to the country.

The king wondered which of his subjects this grim remnant had belonged to-and if a swift, but brutal death now was going to turn out to be a fortunate thing for a Cormyrean. An instant later, he was very glad he’d kept still and silent. Hoots and hissing chuckles-goblin mirth, without a doubt-arose from just ahead of him. The sound came from at least three sides, mingled with cries of “Nalavara!” and “Ardrak!” That last word, he knew, was “dragon” in some goblin tongues.

No lad or lass of Cormyr over about four winters of age thinks of the deep green forests as empty, private places. The tales they’re told leave them in no doubt that the woods are more alive than even barley fields with no hawks or owls about to keep the mice down. They also know that if one is not to become hunted on any woodland journey, one must have stealth, wary alertness, and ready weapons. Yet in all but the most northerly reaches of the Forest Kingdom, goblins were a woodland rarity. Azoun allowed himself a soundless curse of astonishment. A sizeable band of the scuttling vermin must be just in front of him, very close by. They could only be in the woods on some sort of stealthy business… and that business, of course, could only be an intended ambush of the king’s army.

Azoun Obarskyr had not played at being a forester since the most daring and pranksome days of his lass-chasing youth, but he sank down onto his knees in the soft forest moss as slowly and gently as any veteran woodsman. The lives of many Purple Dragons depended on how careful he was now. To say nothing of the life of just one Azoun Obarskyr IV.

Moreover, goblin noses and ears were keener than those of the human guards and others he’d fooled when he was younger, bolder, and more agile. He was, he hoped, just a little wiser now, so he waited until a good ten breaths after he heard the faintest rustling moving away from him before he followed. Then he crawled.

The rotting caused by the ghazneth was feeble now and would kill him as surely as a goblin blade if this took too long. Well, it would take as long as it took, that was all. The King of Cormyr wore caution like a cloak during the eternity of stealthy creeping that ensued, moving along with infinite care so as to keep the stealthily advancing goblin battle band always ahead of him.

Ahead, finally, to a place where he could hear the murmur of human voices, occasional heavy footfalls, and even the ring of an incautiously drawn blade. The goblins had led him back to his army… so that he could save it, if he handled this just right. Slowly, like a vengeful shadow, he drew himself to his feet, standing upright and throwing his head back to draw in the breath he knew he’d need. With but a single chance, this must be done just right.

“Araga?” a goblin throat hissed, not far away to his left. That, if his memory served, meant “Ready?”

Azoun decided not to wait for the answer. Filling his lungs, he roared as loudly as he could, “We’ve got them surrounded! Purple Dragons, attack!”

A ragged shriek of rage and dismay rose like a wall of wailing in his face. The King of Cormyr flung himself forward to the highest perch within reach-atop a moss-cloaked boulder-and planted his feet, staring intently into the furious tumult below. Surprise lost and ambush ruined, most of the furious goblins charged at the king’s warriors on one front, while others turned to attack the foe who’d shouted.

Azoun Obarskyr awaited those howling goblins calmly, standing alone and swaying with weakness, but wearing a wolfish smile. His eyes were looking for just one thing: ready crossbows in goblin hands. The moment he saw one, he triggered the first of the two blade barrier spells the plainest ring on his left hand held and sprang back down from the rock.

No quarrels sped at him out of the grisly whirlwind of shredded leaves, wet goblin screams, and thudding bodies that followed. He calmly unleashed the second and last blade barrier off to the right of the first, where he could see more racing goblin bodies.

He took the ring from his finger and hurled it into the heart of the butchery of conjured blades, watching where squalling goblins fell and where amid the moss and dead leaves their weapons landed.

When he saw what he wanted, Azoun was down from behind his rock like a striking snake. He had a cocked goblin crossbow in his hands and was darting sideways to scoop up a quarrel before any goblin nearby even knew it.

“Never,” he murmured aloud as he settled himself under a thorn bush with the bow ready to fire, “was a ring of spell storing quite so valuable to the Crown of Cormyr. Have my thanks, Vangey-wherever you are.”

Both the main body of goblins and almost all the leaves in the area where the spell-born blades whirled were shredded now-a dark, wet mass of huddled ruin beneath whirling emptiness. He suspected he’d not have much longer to wait before-

Like a dark thunderbolt, a ghazneth plunged down.

Flashing blades melted away like mist before a gale as it drank in the magic of Azoun’s unleashed spells, paying them almost no attention as it sought the ring.

Azoun calmly put his quarrel into the thickest part of its body as it stalked forward, then threw himself down, not pausing to try to recognize it. “Men of Cormyr,” he bellowed up at the shredded branches above, “empty every bolt and arrow you have into this beast! Stint not! Fire at the king’s will!”

He rolled upright and peered over the edge of the rock. He’d not taken the time to try to recognize the ghazneth before, and he doubted he could be sure of it now. It was almost entirely obscured by the thudding rain of arrow after arrow as the Purple Dragons enthusiastically feathered it with iron arrowheads by the dozens.

Azoun watched in satisfaction as the ghazneth staggered, took two or three frantic running steps through the trees, then beat wings that shook and trembled until it was aloft, crashing through dozens of branches in its heavy, faltering flight away.

“Purple Dragons, to me!” Azoun roared, sitting down behind the rock again. Now would not be a heroic time to take an arrow from his own men, either mistaken or deliberate. There must be some in Cormyr who blamed this war on the Obarskyrs. There always were.

In but a few moments the king was surrounded by familiar, grinning faces above breastplates emblazoned with the Purple Dragon. “Well met, Your Majesty!” a dragoneer bellowed, extending a hand to his king.

Azoun took it and was hauled to his feet. “Well met, indeed!” he boomed, looking around as armored men clustered around him. “What news?”

“More losses, my liege,” one of the swordlords growled. “The war wizards, too, have deserted us.”

“Deserted?”

“Easy, there,” a lancelord reproved the first officer, and turned to face the frowning king. “They said they’d learned by magic that neither you, Your Majesty, nor Arkenfrost, had been seen at court. They told old Hestellen they feared treachery on the part of certain nobles-they named no names-and said they could trace you, if you stood nearby, through your clothes that they’d but lately handled. And with that they went.”

“To Suzail?”

“Aye.”

“Stormshoulder, Gaundolonn, and…?”

“And Starlaggar,” the lancelord said unhappily.

The king nodded grimly, seeing again a bloody, booted foot tumble to earth. “I fear their journey ended in the dragon’s jaws,” he told the swordlord. “Speak no ill of them. I’ll be needing to use the healing vials of an officer or two, though, if they left no healing magic behind.” He drew in a deep breath, and asked the question he must know the answer to. “How is our muster now?”

“Your Majesty,” the swordlord began, his tones matching the general unhappiness, “I’m sorry to say th-“

He was astonished when the king flung up a hand in a soundless order to be silent, but obeyed, watching mutely as Azoun took two swift steps away and swung his arm to bid all of the men around him to keep silence and fall back.

Father.

Alusair’s voice, in his mind, trembled on the sword’s edge of helpless tears. “Yes, lass,” he muttered, as gently and warmly as he knew how. “I’m here. Speak.”

Utter slaughter. Dragon. Few of us left-goblinkin on all sides. I fear I can’t get my men out.

Azoun threw back his head, looking up through bare, hacked branches at a sky that was thankfully free of dragons, and drew in a deep breath. He knew in that moment that he was going to Alusair’s side.

Tanalasta was just going to have to deal with the problems at court on her own. The gods and all Cormyr knew she’d had long enough to get to know the nobles and their ways, and a trial by fire while a certain Azoun Obarskyr lay near death and a grasping young Bleth romanced her and sought to dupe his way onto the throne. Moreover, the crown princess had come a long way since those dark days, and learned much. In these last few months, she’d continually surprised him with the sudden flowering of her confidence and ability.

The Steel Princess, on the other hand, was a known quantity. She was a warrior who could lead Cormyr and keep it strong even if all of her kin-especially one old, white-haired, wheezing warrior who happened to wear a crown on his head-were to fall. She was a blade no kingdom should throw away, even if she hadn’t been his favorite daughter.

More than that, to stride into the palace now would be to rob Tanalasta of any chance for a victory at court, or increased confidence, or a reputation for anything in the eyes of anyone, or learning anything from what had befallen-all would be swept away as “the little girl mishandling the throne ere her father returned.”

It hadn’t been such a hard decision after all.

“Make ready, men,” he called, making sure Alusair would hear his words through their rings. “We go north as swiftly as we can, to join the force under the Steel Princess. No battle cries, now, and no noise. The dragons seem to be bad this year.”

He wasn’t sure who groaned more grimly at that, the men around him, or Alusair in her desperation, standing wearily on a hilltop leaning on a blade black with drying orc blood.