Death of the Dragon

8

“Are you hurt, your majesty?” several warriors growled in rough unison, charging forward with swords raised.

Azoun gave them a mirthless smile and said, “Not unless my men refuse to follow me. Lass, have you chosen?”

“These who stand with me,” Alusair replied, spreading her hands to indicate a burly swordlord, a lancelord, a war wizard, a dozen or so noble blades and dragoneers, and the lords Braerwinter and Tolon.

“We’ve left a command here in the field?” the King of Cormyr asked, indicating the army spread out around them.

Alusair gave her father what some were wont to call a “dirty look.”

Azoun grinned openly before turning his head to watch the ghazneth who’d once been a lord among war wizards streak away into the sky. “Then let us be away,” he said calmly.

“You go to try to recapture the escaped darkwings?” a swordcaptain asked excitedly. “Take me!”

The king spun around. “No, loyal warrior. A few only are needed for this foray. The ghazneth did not escape-we let him go, that he might lead us to its lair.”

“But… he’s gone, beyond our sight.”

“The royal magician gifted me with a magical trick,” the king explained, raising his voice so that many could hear. “It’s a dust I used to taint that which the ghazneth snatched. I can trace it for some days-which I hope will not be needed. Expect our return forthwith, but do not hesitate to move on from here if battle demands it. We go!” Without further ado, the small force went, shaping itself around the king like a gigantic, wary shield. Azoun seemed sure of the ghazneth’s direction and led them without pause over a hill into a place of stony slopes.

“Think you there’re orcs ahead?” a Purple Dragon growled to his companion.

“Undoubtedly,” that veteran warrior replied, hefting his sword. “In fact, I’m counting on it.”

“Why is it,” Lancelord Raddlesar inquired of the world at large, “that so much of fighting consists of hurrying through the wilderlands, chasing something that’s well beyond the ends of our swords-and possibly beyond our powers to slay?”

“That’s not just fighting, warrior,” the war wizard told him quietly. “That’s life.”

Some stealthy things that might have been orcs scurried out from behind rocks and away as the king led his small strike force over several hills into an area where the land was riddled with breakneck gullies and rock outcrops, cloaked in stunted trees. They were probably only a few miles from the main army, but they might as well have been several kingdoms away, in land that-save for the occasional sheep’s skull-looked like men had never set foot on it.

A shrill cry rang out from a ridge ahead as they struggled up a thorny slope to a knife-edged crest.

“A sentinel,” Alusair said warningly. “Expect trouble ahead, and keep low-beware of arrows.”

Trouble was indeed waiting for them when they reached the ridge. A line of impassive, hulking orcs in black leather armor with well-used axes and swords in their hands stood ready.

“Strike, then withdraw at my horn call,” Alusair snapped. Men looked to the king for guidance. He merely nodded and indicated the Steel Princess, so they inclined their heads to her and made ready their swords.

The fray was brief and brutal, the king’s men keeping close together so that two or three of them could face-and swiftly fell-a single orc. With the safety of both the king and a royal heir at stake, there was no “fairness” to hold to. Two dragoneers fell before Alusair sounded her horn and the panting Cormyreans drew back, leaving behind twice their number of twitching or motionless orcs to the flies.

“Did you see-?” the lancelord gasped.

“Not yet,” the Steel Princess snapped, “but I’m watching. Look there.” A dozen orcs-no more-came up the hill to join the few survivors along the ridge. “If there are many more ahead, they want us to advance. I see no messengers hastening away to call any others.”

The king nodded. “So into the waiting jaws we’ll go,” he said. “I’m tired of wandering around these hills waiting to be attacked by a foe who seems to dwell or rest nowhere. It’s time, and past time, to lash out.”

Heads nodded agreement as the Steel Princess raised her hand and looked around. “Ready all?” she asked.

A breath or two later, she brought her hand chopping down. “Then forward!”

The orcs seemed to melt away like smoke before the wind of their charge. The Cormyreans broke through a small thicket onto a ridge that overlooked a small, deep bowl valley. Its depths held a mud castle akin to the ones many in the force had seen before.

“Gods!” one of them swore. “How is it that these things can be built in our own marches, and us not know?”

“A fortress!” another growled in disbelief. “A bloody tusker castle!”

Orcs in plenty could be seen on the slopes of the valley and on the spiraling ramparts of the mud tower, which was gray wherever it wasn’t a sickly fresh dung color. It rose untidily out of a muddy moat, rock rubble strewn around it. The tower might have been raised the day before, or might have been older than the king.

“Has anyone among us traveled these hills before?” Azoun asked, almost absently.

He was answered only by uneasy silence, until his daughter growled, “What does it matter? We know what we have to do.”

As if her words had been a signal, the ghazneth that Luthax the War Wizard had become circled the mud tower almost lazily, slipping out of one of the structure’s many gaping, arched windows to plunge back into another. It was almost a taunt.

“I’ve no love for these mud fortresses,” the king said flatly, “but a lair we came seeking, and a lair we’ve found. Let our swords strike for Cormyr!”

“For Cormyr!” came a ragged shout in reply.

The small force trotted down into the valley, steel rang on steel, and again the slaughter began.