Swords of Dragonfire

"Hear that?” Islif snapped, inclining her head toward a message-pipe. A faint thunder-the clamor of hundreds of excitedly chattering folk-was spilling from it. “The revel’s beginning, or soon will be. We’re running out of time.”

“Before you ask,” Jhessail said, “I haven’t a spell to make us all fit in yon pipe and soar up it. If we’re ever going to get out of the stlarned cellars, ’tis stairs we’ll be using.”

“Those stairs are still missing,” Semoor said. “And the same paucity of relevantly helpful magic afflicts Doust and myself. So it’s going to be the old way.” He lifted one boot and waggled it, in case any of his fellow Knights had forgotten what “the old way” was.

By their weary expressions, none of them had. “We could open more doors,” Doust said, “if Pennae-”

“ Yes, holynose,” Islif replied, a little testily. “And we could save the realm if the king and queen and Vangerdahast all came strolling up to us right now. But they won’t. Waste not my time with ‘ifs.’ ”

“That,” a sharp and cold woman’s voice said out of the darkness, “sounds like a herald’s cue. I am none of the three you seek, but I know who you are: intruders. Throw down your weapons, in the name of the king!”

The woman striding down the passage toward them might have been a larger, more muscular version of Pennae. Her leathers and boots were glossy black, and her faced looked as sharp and forbidding as the sword gleaming in her hand.

Yet she was sleek, and moved like a tavern dancer. Set against to her grace and curves, Islif Lurelake looked like a man. A red-faced, work-stained farmer, with her smudged face and tangled hair.

“You invoke the king’s name too?” Islif shook her head, taking a step nearer the approaching woman. “Why don’t you throw yours down, at the same time, and we’ll talk? I’m seeking the king, as it happens, and the queen too. Not to mention Royal Magician Vangerdahast and two fellow Knights of ours, who got separated from us down here by some sort of falling iron barrier-”

The woman in leathers lifted her voice to override Islif’s. “I believe I heard myself give you a clear command, brigands!”

“Say not ‘brigands,’ but ‘Crown-chartered adventurers and Knights of the Realm,’ ” Islif corrected her sharply. “And I do believe I heard myself offer you a suggestion.”

They stared bleakly at each other in silence for a moment before Islif added calmly, “As far as I’m concerned-as you haven’t bothered to identify yourself-your authority doesn’t apply to us. I see a woman in leathers, alone, running around down here in the dark with a drawn sword in her hand; obviously a thief or hired slayer. So I believe I’ll now command your surrender, in the name of King Azoun of Cormyr, fourth of that name.”

“And Queen Filfaeril, our personal patron,” Jhessail added, stepping to one side so as to cast spells freely.

“And have you proof of this patronage?” The woman sneered, putting a hand on her hip, among all the sheathed daggers and pouches there.

“Have you a name at all, to be asking us such things?” Semoor Wolftooth asked sharply. “We’ve met with Purple Dragons high and low-and war wizards, likewise-and seldom encountered such lofty arrogance. Being highnosed with strangers is my failing. You’re not an Obarskyr… so who are you?”

“Rarambra Tarlgrael, Highknight of Cormyr,” the woman with the sword snapped, her eyes flashing fire. “Personally sworn to Azoun; a friend and more to me, not just my king.”

“Behold me unsurprised,” Semoor murmured. “Is there a woman south of, say, Jester’s Green that Az-”

“Speak no treason!” Rarambra snarled at him. “And I say again, in Azoun’s name, lay down your arms, Knights-if you are Knights-or I’ll proclaim you traitors and treat you accordingly.”

“Which would be… how?” Doust Sulwood asked, stepping forward.

In reply, Lady Tarlgrael gave him an unlovely smile and touched the gorget at her throat. There was a sudden shimmering in the air around her, that moved with her as she suddenly charged at Doust, sword flashing. “Let us see how enthusiastically Tymora aids you, Luckpriest!”

Doust retreated hastily, hefting his mace. She sneered, judged him, “Coward!” and lunged at him.

In the air, her blade was met and stopped short by Islif’s longer, heavier sword with a ringing clang.

The Lady Highknight blinked in disbelief, then set her teeth and shoved, even though Doust had now backed well away. Islif’s arm stayed where it was, as hard as an iron bar and utterly immobile, the locked swords quivering a little but not moving.

A breath passed, and then another, as Highknight Targrael struggled, Islif stood like a grimly smiling post, and the rest of the Knights watched.

They saw Lady Targrael’s face grow dark with anger as she strained and shoved, then tugged her sword to try to dart it past, only to find it deftly caught and bound by Islif’s blade… the silent contest of sword arms went on-until the Highknight suddenly snatched a dagger from her belt, to stab at her foe.

Only to find the wrist of her dagger hand gripped in midair, iron-hard, with Islif’s gently smiling face behind it. The Lady Highknight stared furiously at that face, and saw contempt looking back at her.

“Traitor!” she hissed.

“I have found that word is flung around far too loosely,” Islif replied, “by folk such as you, merely to brand anyone who stands against them. I’m growing tired of it.” Her shoulders rippled, and she plucked her adversary up into the air by the hold she had on one straining wrist, and hurled the Lady Highknight across the passage, into the wall.

Lady Targrael thumped solidly against unyielding stone, well off the floor, slid down to meet it with a snarl of anger, and launched herself back across the passage at Islif, blade whirling.

“Knights,” Islif commanded, as she stepped forward to meet that storm of steel, “go on opening doors. We can’t let this woman delay us further. She could well be part of the treason!”

Jhessail and the two priests stared at her, and then hastened a little way along the passage, to where there were doors they hadn’t examined yet, and started trying to open them.

“Well, Lady Highknight?” Islif asked, as their swords rang sparks off each other in a dazzling dance that let the woman in black advance not a stride. “Tired yet? Willing to consider a truce, that we can serve the realm together?”

“No!” the Highknight spat, starting to pant now. “ I guard this level, and you will submit to my authority! Or I’ll-”

“Or you’ll what?” Islif growled, pressing forward and forcing her foe to give ground. “Sneer me to death?”

With a wordless grunt of anger and a toss of her head, the Lady Targrael sprang back, breaking off their blade play, and sprinted along the passage, heading for Doust’s unprotected back.

Semoor barked a warning and Jhessail raised her hands to weave a spell, but Islif barked, “ Save our spells! ” as she ran after the Highknight. “Leave her for me!”

Doust whirled around, saw his peril, and sprang away from the door he’d just forced open, leaving it swinging.

“Find anything useful?” Islif called to him, merrily.

“Nay,” he called back, trying to ignore the gale in black leathers racing down on him, sword and dagger flashing. “Nothing but a laundry chute! Goes down, not up!”

“That’ll do!” Islif replied. “That’ll do just fine!” And with a burst of speed she caught up to the Highknight, struck aside Lady Targrael’s vicious attempt to stab her-and slammed into the running guardian, shoulder-first.

The Highknight reeled, almost falling, but caught her balance and whirled to slice Islif with sword and dagger.

The Knight ducked suddenly and kicked out, sweeping Targrael’s feet from under her. She bounced on her behind, hard enough to make her shriek and lose her grip on both sword and dagger, but came up with another drawn dagger in hand and murder in her glare.

Islif was up, too, sword lashing out to force the Highknight to sway back and away or be cut open. Lady Targrael gave ground with a snarl-and then suddenly turned, dashed away, running raggedly but still at blinding speed, and scooped up her fallen sword, hard by the passage wall.

Whereupon Islif’s drop-kick, with all her weight behind it, smashed the Lady Highknight’s sword hand, shattering it against the stone wall.

Targraerl screamed in pain, her sword spinning away, and Jhessail darted in, slicing at the Highknight’s belt with her dagger.

It sagged a trifle, exposing a little flat and sweating belly. Jhessail dropped her dagger, caught the bottom of Targrael’s jack, and tugged straight up, pulling the garment inside out and up over the Highknight’s head.

Then she planted one tiny fist in what she judged to be the face of that blinded head, only to back away, wincing and clutching her hand.

As Doust, Islif, and Semoor closed in, Islif starting to say that this should be left to her, Jhessail charged at the struggling Highknight, found that shattered sword hand, and punched it hard, slamming it momentarily against the wall.

Targrael shrieked and doubled over, sobbing, her furious struggles to be free of her leathers momentarily lost in writhing pain.

“Lathander defend!” Semoor muttered to Doust. “Remind me if we’re ever captured: don’t let them give me to the women!”

“Take over,” Jhessail gasped to Islif, wringing her hand and retreating. Islif nodded, took one long stride to reach the Highknight, and delivered a solid punch to Targrael’s shrouded head that bounced it off the wall.

The Highknight sagged, and Islif punched her again. This time, as the Highknight rebounded off the wall, she staggered. Islif took her by one shoulder and the back of her breeches, ran her a few steps along the passage, and thrust her head-first down the laundry chute.

Her descent was a short but noisy succession of bangs and slitherings that made the Knights of Myth Drannor grin at each other in satisfaction.

Their mirth would have been louder had they known that somewhere beneath them, a bloody and disheveled Telsword Bareskar of the Palace Guard had just revived. Bewildered, he was flailing around in seemingly endless dirty clothes, seeking to gain his footing and get out-when something fast, hard, heavy, dark-leathered, and very sudden slammed down atop him, smashing him back into the rather unpleasant dream he thought he’d finally escaped.

“This way!” First Sword Brelketh Velkrorn gasped, winded from all his running. The war wizards, of course, had fallen well behind his fellow Dragons, but surprisingly, the duty priest-a cleric of Helm the Vigilant-was right behind Velkrorn.

Good, because his healing would be needed swiftly. Down this passage, turn at about where that hrasted courtier had gotten away, and…

Velkrorn slowed, cursing. The wounded and the dead were still sprawled in the passage, but Rellond Blacksilver was gone.

They rushed to the bodies regardless, peering, and gently rolled the blood-drenched Kaerlyn over for the Watchful of Helm to lay hands upon, and begin his prayer.

“Gone,” Velkrorn said in disgust, “and all we have is this!” He hefted Blacksilver’s magnificent sword in his hand.

It promptly exploded, taking that end of the passage and everyone in it to the gods.

In the depths of her crystal, the dust and smoke hadn’t stopped swirling, but the rubble had ceased to rain down. She could see enough to know no one was still standing.

Lady Merendil turned away from that chaos with a bitter smile on her face. “Witnesses are tiresome in the extreme,” she murmured aloud. “Even corpses can be made to talk. Splattered blood and innards, now, thoroughly mixed… they can keep secrets.”

Still wearing that crooked smile, she looked at Rellond Blacksilver, lying asleep on the table her spell had just brought him to. She ran a hand down his nearest hip and leg. And smiled.

“Physically magnificent,” she said thoughtfully, “with a boorish reputation that will sour any revelations he might try to make, and just enough wits left to obey orders and use a garderobe without instruction… the perfect slave. And if anything happens to my dolt of a son, this walking meat can serve me in another way, and sire replacement Merendil heirs. So, Roughshod, lie you there and wait this revel out. Other days of glory await you.”

Pennae had never thought it would take such effort to climb a simple flight of stairs. If they hadn’t been narrow servants’ stairs, with rails on both sides for her to reel to and rest her forearms on, she’d never have made it.

Finding the stairs at last, it seemed, had been the easy part.

“Gods, I’m in bad shape,” she mumbled. “No Purple Dragons, please. I need… I need…”

She’d had to abandon the poker down below, and slide her sword back into its scabbard. The din of all the revelers talking raged on all sides, which meant Palace staterooms were all around her. Dressed like this, covered in nothing but dirt and blood and sweat above her waist, she’d certainly attract attention… but to get a priest’s healing, she’d somehow have to look like a revel guest, not some sneak-thief or pleasure-lass. So she needed a gown.

“But strike me if I have the strength left to take one off some passing lady,” she whispered, leaning against a wall as a wave of weakness washed over her, leaving her feeling empty, weak, and trembling.

The stairs opened onto a moot of narrow and deserted passages, one running straight off to a distant curtain, and the other at right angles to the first, and lined with doors, the nearest one open and spilling light out into the passage. She was still in the realm of the servants, obviously, and she either had to go through that door or get past it unseen.

The door opened into just what she’d been seeking: a “ready wardrobe,” of the sort most palaces and feasting halls kept, for the fashion emergencies of guests. It was a large room with chairs and tall, tilted dressing-glasses, lined with racks and racks of gowns, cloaks, sashes, and the like.

And of course, it came with a dresser. A maid, now rising from her stool by the door, looking at Pennae in startlement.

And no wonder. Pennae gave her a wavering half-smile, only too well aware of her white-faced, staggering, half-dressed state. “Well met,” she husked. “In the name of the king-”

The maid shrieked.

Pennae winced. It sounded like a wyvern’s scream, stabbing right through her ears. She snatched a garment off the nearest rack, as the wide-eyed maid tried desperately to sprint past and get out the door, and tossed it over that still-shrieking head, dropping her hands to catch hold of the maid’s wrist, and hold on.

The terrified lass was still running hard; she dragged Pennae as far as the door, pivoting blindly around Pennae’s hold, before running right into the doorframe.

Still running blind with a gown around her head, the maid reeled back into Pennae, her shriek becoming a moan.

When it promptly rose back to a sirenlike wail again, and the maid started running once more, Pennae sighed, took hold of her shoulders, and ran her hard into the wall.

Which she slid down in limp silence, to lie still in a heap on the floor.

“In the name of the king,” Pennae muttered, “ shut up. ”

Then it was her turn to groan, as the room started to move. It was turning slowly around her, now, and things seemed oddly dark…

Pennae clawed at the nearest rack of gowns, desperately seeking something that looked as if it would fit her. Twice she had to cling to the hanging-bar and rest for a moment, ere grimly clutching at gowns again.

This one! It looked like a fall of roses, and was a horrid blushing pink hue, but Pennae was long past being choosy. Slowly, moving as if in a dream with the room still turning slowly, she shrugged it on over her leather breeches and boots.

The floor seemed uphill, somehow, as she stepped cautiously out of the room…

Pennae managed three steps out and along the passage-and then fainted, falling on her face right in front of the boots of a startled Purple Dragon, who’d been rushing to the wardrobe with seven Palace Guards right behind him, to seek the cause of all the shrieking.

The shield-hung passages, magnificently paneled staterooms, and vaulted- and painted-ceilinged great halls of the ground floor of the Palace were all crowded now, and still the guests were streaming in.

All in their finery, gems and false jewelry alike gleaming and glittering on arms and down plunging fronts and a-drip from earlobes, great sleeves of shimmerweave and other exalted fabrics bright and flowing, men nodding grandly to each other and the women on their arms tittering and finger-waving and leaning their heads together conspiratorially to share the latest, juiciest gossip.

The din was incredible, overwhelming upon the ears. Goodwife Deleflower Heldanorn had gone from glowing-eyed awe and wonder to a look of worry and brow-furrowed, wincing pain; one of her hammering headaches must be coming on. Her husband patted her arm and tried to mask his irritation behind a soothing tenderness he did not feel.

Servers were everywhere, sliding deftly past with platters of cakes and decanters of wine, ensuring every guest was well supplied. Arbitryce Heldanorn could taste the faint bitterness under his tongue, and nodded sourly. The wine had been treated to make drunkards sleepy rather than angry or boisterous. Of course.

“I–I don’t know how all of these people are going to fit into Anglond’s Great Hall,” Deleflower remarked worriedly, watching still more fellow guests arrive. “After all, it’s only one hall, isn’t it?”

Arbitryce Heldanorn, Master Trader In Spices, Scents, and Wonders, was one of the wealthiest merchants in Suzail, and had been in Anglond’s Great Hall a time or two; he knew just how vast and many-balconied that chamber was. Yet he agreed with his wife, and was pleased. She wasn’t going to say only silly things for once, after all.

A dozen Purple Dragons with the grand tabards of Palace Guards over their armor swept past, shouldering through the thronging guests swiftly with snapped orders of “Make way!” with a war wizard stalking along in their wake.

“Tryce, what’s happening? ” Deleflower Heldanorn gasped, eyes widening as she clutched his arm. “All these men with swords striding around-they look so stern!”

Arbitryce smiled and airily told his wife, “Ah, but think, my flower: there’s nothing exciting about this for them. They do this sort of thing every day. See that one yawning? They’re bored as posts, all of them. They’ll probably welcome some pratfall or statue toppled over-or some such-just for a little excitement.”

Crouched over his crystal ball in the nearest ready room, a war wizard rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, Goodman!” he begged the oblivious image of the spice merchant. “Don’t tempt the stlarning gods any more than they already have been, I beg of you!”

A Purple Dragon leaned his head in the door, peered around until he saw the wheat-sheaf badge that clerics of Chauntea used when on healing duty at the Palace, and called gruffly, “Saer priest? Healing needed, down by the ready wardrobe. Some lass in a gown has hurt herself.”

“Gods, they’ve started already,” another war wizard groaned, a little way down the line of crystal balls.