Swords of Dragonfire

Florin Falconhand turned a corner. Was that light, ahead?

He quickened his pace, moving to the wall of the passage where, yes, a light was spilling down-down! — out of a break. Stairs at last?

Stairs at last. Growing a grin of relief, the ranger mounted the broad, steep stone steps in great eager bounds, hearing a faint din of voices growing swiftly louder. The grand Palace staterooms were before him at last, and Lamplight glinted on drawn steel, as blades were lowered to menace him. In the passage at the head of the stairs, seven full-armored Purple Dragons barred his way, swords or halberds in hand and stern looks on their faces.

“And who might you be,” their commanding lionar asked, “racing up from the dungeons with sword in hand and someone’s blood soaking that cloak in your hand?”

Florin drew in a deep breath, smiled with a confidence he did not feel, and announced, “I’m Florin Falconhand, Knight of the queen, and I must urgently speak with Her Majesty-or the king, or Lord Vangerdahast!”

The lionar scowled. “You were sent out of the realm, as I recall, and the lads up in Arabel were bidden to see you safely outside our borders. Now, I don’t know what you did, you and your Knights of Myth Drannor, but by the Dragon we swear by, I’m letting you get nowhere near the three most valuable persons in all the realm!”

He leveled his drawn sword at Florin as if it was a crossbow, and snapped, “Now throw down your weapons and submit to us, or by the Dragon I’ll put sword to you, here and now! You’re an adventurer, and I don’t trust adventurers as far as I can boot them with my toe up their backsides-and believe me, I’ve booted my share and more, down the years! Surrender, Falconhand! Surrender or perish!”

“Are those my only choices?” Florin asked, letting a little of his anger show as he started up the last few steps. “No taking me to your commander? Or conveying me to Vangerdahast under guard?”

“Not today, lad. Not with the Palace crawling with thousands of troublenecks, just like you, and we loyal blades stretched past our limits! Now throw down that sword, or die!”

“Do all of you read the same bad chapbooks?” Florin asked wearily, coming up the stairs to cross swords with five waiting blades-and slashing aside the two halberds that came thrusting for him.

Those halberds sliced at him from either flank, and he backed down a step or two, out of their reach, and carefully set down the glowstone and Pennae’s jack on a lower step, keeping his eyes on the Dragons as he did so.

It was as well he did, because the two guards with halberds advanced down the steps to thrust at him again.

This time Florin rushed swiftly up between the halberds, past the heads, and clamped their shafts under each arm. He kicked out hard, hurling himself back down the steps-jerking both halberd-wielding Dragons off their feet into helpless tumbles after him.

Florin let the halberds fall with a clatter as he whipped off their helms and brought his sword hilt crashing down on the backs of their necks. The two sprawled guards quivered and then went still.

A roar of rage arose, and amid it three of the Dragons rushed him, swords gleaming. The ranger dodged to one side along his step and then swiftly back again, drawing the three hastening guards to converge-with clangs and jostlings-into each other’s way.

As they stumbled, Florin snatched up a fallen halberd and drove its blade into one Dragon’s ankles. He fell down the steps, shouting curses. Florin rushed after him, pounced, and struck him senseless with his sword hilt.

“Stop, you fools!” the lionar bellowed. “Break off! Get back up here!”

One Dragon turned to obey-and Florin’s sword chopped his ankles out from under him. With a yell of pain he toppled, crashing and rolling all the long, painful way down the stairs with many bangs and boomings of metal on stone… to lie still at the bottom, senseless.

“O most mighty Dragons,” Florin taunted, as he crossed swords with the last of the three Dragons who’d dared the steps. “Truly, your skill in battle awes bards and honest Cormyreans from end to end of the realm, and will be much talked of, in days to come! Behold: seven against one becomes three against one! Ah, but so bravely have those seven contended that no victory the like of theirs has resounded across the kingdom these ninety years past! No, not since-”

“Shut your tluining face!” the Dragon fighting him raged, hacking at the ranger wildly. “Just tluin yourself, you-”

Florin ducked, the man’s wild swing cost him his balance, the ranger kicked his opponent hard behind a knee-and the cursing Dragon’s knees slammed down hard on the edge of a step, ere sliding to a jarring landing on the step below.

The guard shrieked in pain, and Florin rang his sword hilt off the man’s helm so hard he dented it as it bounded off the man’s head, falling to clang and bounce its way down the stairs. The Purple Dragon fell sideways without a sound, out cold.

“Two to one, now,” Florin said to the lionar and the lone Dragon still standing up in the passage. “Care to join the dance?”

The lionar smiled coldly, took a swift step aside from the stairs-and as the ranger started up to face the last Dragon, stepped right back into view with a loaded crossbow in his hands.

At a halberd’s length away, he took careful aim down the steps at Florin.

Slowly Pennae became aware that she was lying on her back on some sort of cot, with men standing over her, talking. Several men. She was still wearing her boots and breeches, but the weight of Yassandra’s belt, with its wand and pouches, was gone. They’d taken the gown off, too-no doubt to examine her wounds-but laid it over her like a blanket.

She kept her eyes closed and her breathing slow, trying not to change the expression on her face, as gentle but work-roughened fingers flipped the thin garment aside, to touch her over her heart, the man’s other hand going to her forehead.

“This healing will go more easily,” a man’s voice-a commoner, by his kindly tone-said suddenly, close above her, “if all of you fall silent for the short time I’ll need. Hamper me, and you may soon be questioning a corpse.”

Someone sighed impatiently. “Aye, Priest, do your wonders.”

“By the will of the Great Mother,” the cleric of Chauntea chided. “The wonders are hers.”

He started to murmur words Pennae did not know. Gently, almost reverently, his hands moved-from her forehead to her lips, throat, and right breast, and from her heart to her left breast, her navel, and then under her tight breeches to low on her belly. Both sets of fingers then trailed along her, never losing contact with her skin, to the palms of her hands. The incantation ended-and Pennae fought not to gasp aloud in pleasure, as a sudden warm tingling arose and rushed through her, washing all the pain away. She thrilled to her very fingertips as muscles throbbed and relaxed, bruises and sprains vanishing and taking their discomfort with them, and she writhed on the cot, straining involuntarily up to thrust herself into those wonderful fingers. She wanted to grind against them, plunge into them, never be parted from them…

“She’s awake!” a deeper, harsher man’s voice snapped. “The little slut’s aw-”

“No,” the priest said firmly, his firm hand guiding Pennae down flat on the cot again. He feigned pinching her, hard. “See? I pinched her hard enough to make her shriek, and she moves not. What you saw was her body enthralled by Chauntea’s divine magic, not an awakening.” Those gentle hands withdrew, covering her with the gown again. “Let her lie undisturbed for a time; she’ll waken soon enough.”

“Priest,” the deeper voice replied, sounding irritated, “we lack the time for such niceties! There’s thousands of guests in the Palace right now, and more arriving with every breath! We’re stretched past our limits! We’ve called in Dragons from out beyond the Wyvernwater, and still don’t have enough! If we weren’t all spread out at every last door and passage-moot and stairway, trying to keep all the gawkers where they belong and a few of His Majesty’s sculptures and small portables where they belong, I’d parade this wench past every last Dragon here this day. If she’s from Cormyr, there’s bound to be at least one of us who’ll know her.”

“If you’re so overstretched as all that,” the cleric asked mildly, “why is it that there are six of you crowded into the doorway to question one wounded lass?”

“Holy man,” responded a voice that was both higher and colder with authority, “you are duty priest on this shift, no more. Do not presume to tell the Purple Dragons of Cormyr how to do their work-just as we refrain from seeking to direct your devotions to the Earthmother.”

“Of course,” the priest agreed. By the sound of his voice, he was rising from beside the cot and turning away. “I am no expert in matters of war. Yet all holy folk are skilled in talking to and counseling the injured, and I do know much about that. I am also a loyal, lifelong citizen of Cormyr, and as such a taxpaying citizen, I am curious: why do you not merely call the nearest war wizard-there’s one the other end of yon passage, as I recall-and have him do the questioning with his spells? Faster, and he’ll know when he’s hearing truth, and-”

“Something happened to many of our war wizards earlier today, which I’m not at liberty to discuss.” The cold voice was now positively icy. “Wherefore they’re… busy, and we’ve received orders that they’re not sparing anyone away from scrying duty to deal with someone who’s helpless and alone. The worst she might be is a madwits or a sneak-thief, not part of some plot or other, so she’ll keep. Or so they tell us.”

“So if she’ll keep, why not lock her in here, let her sleep, and bring all your Dragons by to try to identify her after the revel’s over?”

“Priest, stick to your herbs and greens-growing, and leave this to us, hey? She could be a sorceress just waiting for us to lock her in here, so she can cast spells at ease, in private, to bring this whole Palace down around our ears, and every last Obarskyr, war wizard, noble lord, and courtier with it! Now, out with you!”

“You’re very welcome for the healing,” came the mild rebuke, as the cleric of Chauntea departed.

“May the gods save me from such well-meaning dolts! ” the deep-voiced Purple Dragon said with a sigh of relief whose volume meant that he was approaching Pennae; a moment later, a chair creaked right next to her. “Anyone know how to wake a just-healed lass?”

“Slap her,” someone suggested.

“Climb on the cot with her,” another voice said slyly, “and show her-”

“Telsword Grathus, that’ll do, ” the deep-voiced officer said sternly.

“Pour water down her nose,” Grathus said quickly. “That always wakes Teln, here, when we’re camped-”

The gown was plucked away from her, and silence fell.

“Nice,” Grathus muttered appreciatively. “Should we remove the breeches too? She could have all sorts of weapons hidden-”

“ I’m sure she doesn’t, ” the officer growled. “No, I had her boots off earlier, and took out all the little knives she had strapped and sheathed so cunningly down there. They’re on the table, yonder, thrust into all the extra loops and sheaths and the like on that belt of hers. An impressive arsenal. So numerous, in fact, that I doubt she carries yet more. She didn’t look like a manacled prisoner shuffling along, remember, and with that much weight-”

“So, are you leaving the gown off to cow her into blurting out answers,” the cold voice snapped, “or just to give us all a good look? I’d hate for this to be, say, a maid of Silverymoon, who’ll swiftly tell her envoy what Cormyr’s so highly regarded Purple Dragons did to her.”

The gown was hastily returned-and gingerly smoothed over her too.

“She’s gotten blood all over it,” Grathus commented, “so she might as well keep it. She might need it, to keep warm in the cell.”

“Har har har,” another Dragon muttered. “I’m not easy about this. She doesn’t look like a sneak-thief to me.”

“Oh? And how many sneak-thieves have you seen, First Sword Norlen, to suddenly become so expert, hey?”

“Well,” came the prompt reply, “there was ‘Longfingers’ Draeran, and the two sisters-Vaelra and whatever-the-gods-called-her-and Lethran Armantle, and Dharkfox, and Balantros of Westgate, and that young lad with the mask who called himself the Hand of Justice, and-”

“ All right, Norlen!”

“-Zarmos of Essembra, and that Sembian with the missing fingers; Glathos? Klathos? Mrathos?”

“It was Drethlen Dlathos,” Telsword Grathus said helpfully.

“Ah, thank you; it just wouldn’t come to mind. Then there was Amglur the Amnian, Duke Hawkler who was no duke at all, and-”

“ Enough, Norlen!”

“I-uh, sorry, sir. I… sorry.”

“Forget it. We’ve got this one here, remember?”

“Forgive me, lionar,” Grathus said quickly, “but we don’t know she’s a thief yet, do we?”

“Grathus,” the lionar growled, “when I want your cracked copper’s worth, I’ll ask for it, and I haven’t asked for it now!”

“He is, however, correct,” the cold voice snapped. “Now put the gown on her, and get up out of that chair; I’ll handle this.”

“But-”

“Of the two of us, which is the lionar, and which the ornrion?”

“Yes, Ornrion Synond,” the deep-voiced lionar said wearily, and the chair creaked again.

Rough hands lifted Pennae up to a half-sitting position. She played dead as best she could, head lolling and arms trailing limply, as the thin cloth was dragged over her face, bunching up around her shoulders, and then tugged down her body.

“Oh,” First Sword Norlen said suddenly, in the midst of this process, “how could I have forgotten the one you chased down, lionar? Transtra Longtresses, remember? She was a looker, now-”

“Norlen,” the lionar snarled, “shut up.”

“Save the rest, thank you. Well done, First Sword. If I should need someone to talk this prisoner to death, I’ll know who to call upon.”

Telsword Grathus snickered, and the ornrion let that brief mirth die into silence before adding icily, “And if I should need someone to amuse her by playing the fool, I can lay hands on just the man for that, too.”

Wisely, Grathus kept silent.

“ Now, lass,” the ornrion’s voice said, close by her ear, “I’m sure you’re awake after all that. Probably smiling inwardly at the thought of what prize idiots we all are too. I am Ornrion Delk Synond of the Purple Dragons, and I have the full authority to set you free, jail you for the rest of your life, butcher you here and now, or just cut little pieces off you and feed them, one by one, to the nearest hungry hogs-as you lie chained in their mud-wallow. Which I choose will depend upon your cooperation. Now, you can begin by opening your eyes, giving me a polite smile, and telling me your full name. Then spell it, please, so the lionar here can write it down.”

Pennae opened her eyes, thrust out a hand to stab Ornrion Synond in the throat with her rigid fingers-and then sprang up, vaulting over his choking, gagging body by planting a firm hand on his shoulder.

The door was open, all the Dragons were shouting, Grathus was backing away from her in fear and Norlen in frankly smiling admiration-and a pedestal table stood just ahead to her right, with the belt she’d taken from Yassandra displayed atop it.

She landed, ducked her hips aside to elude the lionar’s halfhearted grab, snatched the belt, and whirled to menace them with the wand.

“Want to die, Dragons?” she hissed.

Ornrion Synond was struggling to try to breathe and shout something.

“See to him, Lionar,” she ordered. “I think he may need his teeth knocked down his throat.”

That earned Pennae startled blinks giving way to the beginnings of grins, around the room, and she added, “First Sword Norlen, we didn’t hear all of the sneak-thieves you remember. Oblige us, please.”

“Sorry, las-er, Lady! I-uh-well-uh-”

The lionar suddenly charged at her, so Pennae shoved the pedestal table under his shins and sidestepped to let him greet the wall face-first.

Then she plucked one of her little sand-bombs from her own belt pouches and hurled it in the telsword’s face, its leaf-wrapping bursting satisfyingly. Grathus staggered blindly back from the door-and with Yassandra’s belt flapping in her hand, Pennae plunged out into the passage, running hard.

Florin ducked low and sprinted along the step, leaning to snatch up the glowstone and Pennae’s jack.

The crossbow cracked, its quarrel shattering the glowstone into brightly cartwheeling shards, and Florin, staggering back a step with his fingers bleeding, heard the lionar curse and snap at the last Dragon, “Don’t stand gawping! Get the other bow!”

Florin turned and dashed down the steps, as fast as he could. Behind him he heard an alarm gong sound, the lionar curse again, and then the high-pitched whizzing creaks of a windlass being used with frantic speed to recock the fired crossbow.

Florin hurled himself for the same corner he’d so enthusiastically rounded, and was in the air when the second bow fired.

Its quarrel hummed past so close that the tip of his right ear caught sudden fire.

Wincing, Florin ran on, clapping Pennae’s jack to his ear and deciding it was his turn to curse.

Pennae pelted down the passage, buckling Yassandra’s belt around her as she ran. The Dragons were shouting and pounding along after her; not quite on her heels yet, but closing fast. It’d be only a matter of time before she raced right into another guardpost, or ran out of passage.

She passed many dark, closed doors, and the crowd-din grew. She needed a door with that noise just the other side of it…

This one!

Gasping for breath, Pennae yanked down the front of her gown, letting it fall to hang around her waist, snatched open the door, and plunged into the brightly lit hubbub beyond.

The high tower room lacked windows to look out over the roofs and towers of Zhentil Keep, but hardly needed them. The glossy surface of the round table that dominated the dimly lit chamber had been worked into a great map of the lands from Tunland to the Vast, and the Moonsea to Turmish, inlaid in polished stones of many hues.

Behind that table stood a great chair, tall and dark and ornately carved. In it reclined Lord Manshoon, smiling slightly.

The Shadowsil sat beside him, in a lesser chair, arms crossed over her breast, wearing her little “I’ll rend you” smile.

Sarhthor stood facing them, naked. His body was covered with dried blood and crisscrossed with great wounds. Some of his fingers, along most of his hair, were missing. His flesh had sprouted many clusters of little tentacles, but they hung lifelessly, looking very dead.

“You are very tardy in reporting back,” Manshoon observed quietly, those great dark eyes steady upon Sarhthor, “and present a rather different appearance from your usual. So, tell me: What happened at the Oldcoats Inn?”

“Zhentarim fighting Zhentarim,” Sarhthor replied calmly. “Not the usual betrayals, Lord. Something took hold of their minds and made puppets of them, burning the brains of some to ash, and working tyranny on all, forcing them to hurl spells at each other and at our Zhentilar. Eirhaun Sooundaeril was among them, Lord, and as affected as the rest. I saw no way to protect the Brotherhood but to cast them forth from Faerun, using the mightiest spell I know.”

“You sent them to the Abyss.”

“I did,” Sarhthor confirmed, unsurprised that Manshoon knew what his strongest-and hitherto most secret-spell was. “Eirhaun perceived it as an attack on himself, and worked a magic that dragged me along into the Abyss too. I encountered some difficulties, as my appearance should attest, in returning here.”

“Eirhaun?”

“Also returned, though much weakened, and in the care of the priests right now.”

“The others?”

“I slew most of them myself, seeking to eliminate the controlling presences I so feared.”

“And did you?”

Sarhthor shrugged. “I believe so-and know I have returned untainted.”

Manshoon raised an eyebrow. “And if I believe you not? And slay you now, in order to… protect the Brotherhood?”

“Do it, Lord, if you deem it needful,” Sarhthor answered, a little wearily. “I cannot resist you, and desire never to defy you. I have served the Brotherhood well.”

“What? No desperate flight? No plea for your life?”

“Lord, I never learned to beg. And if I go to my knees now, I fear I will fall on my face and never rise again.”

“I believe you,” Manshoon said quietly. “You may go, and see what the priests can do for you.”

“Thank you, Lord,” Sarhthor whispered. He bowed his head, turned to depart-and collapsed on his face.

“Symgharyl,” Manshoon murmured, “use your magic to convey him, with all the haste that gentle handling allows, to healing. I would rather not lose him.”

The Shadowsil crooked an eyebrow. “And may I… reward him?”

“Suitably? By all means. I want to know every last little thing in his mind.”

“Yes. He said nothing at all about the swords of Dragonfire.”

“Indeed. As it happens, I have that matter in hand. Yet it will be interesting to know his desires regarding them.”

“You soon shall. So, what shall we do about what unfolds in Cormyr?”

Manshoon smiled, waved a hand-and above many places on the tabletop, sudden blue lights in the air announced the arrival from otherwhere of as many floating, glowing scrying spheres. “We watch-only that-and enjoy the entertainment, as mayhem unfolds at the revel in the Palace of the Purple Dragon, and war wizard slaughters war wizard. I expect much armed dispute, and many frantic runnings-about.”

The Shadowsil smiled her catlike smile, and went out.

Manshoon stared silently after her lithe swayings, until the tapestry of many magics swirled closed behind her. Only then did he add calmly, “And while you pleasure loyal Sarhthor, I’ll ride your mind and know all you learn from him. Just as I know all of your little treacheries. And the punishments they deserve, that you enjoy so much. Such a twisted little mind.”

He shivered, just for a moment, and added in a whisper, “ ‘Tis why I love you so.”