Swords of Dragonfire

Epilogue

Above his scrying whorl, Beldos Margaster nodded grimly. So it was all going to end happily ever after. Except for war wizard traitors.

He might have only a few breaths more of life left to him, if he didn’t speedily “get hence.”

The portal to Halfhap-well, why not? Those Dragonfire swords…

Up on the balcony, Dauntless peered down at Florin, frowning, and then bellowed suddenly, “Hey! Hoy! My sword! Give my sword back, you confounded thief!”

Florin looked up and waved cheerfully. Dauntless exploded into a sputtering, wordless roar of fury and started to claw his way angrily along the rail toward a stair down.

Two hard-faced Purple Dragons closed hands on the furious ragtag warrior, one of them snapping, “That’s enough, saer! Abate thy temper, saer!”

“What?” Dauntless roared at them. “ Take your hands off me! I’m an ornrion of the Dragons, and-”

“Right, saer, and I’m the Princess Alusair!”

“Wrong, soldier! I’m the Princess Alusair,” said a crisp voice from behind the struggling Dragons.

Everyone turned in astonishment. The Princess Alusair was standing a few strides behind Dauntless and the soldiers grappling with him.

As they stared, she tore off her fine gown, to their gasps of amazement-literally ripping the fine silks and shimmerweave apart-to reveal, beneath, a leather bodice, mens’ breeches, and high boots.

“Ornrion,” the young princess snapped, “if I give you the finest blade you’ve ever owned-something with a spell or two on it, out of the royal armory-will you gift the one Florin Falconhand has to him, and forget all thoughts of arresting him?”

Dauntless blinked. “I… uh, yes, of course.”

“Good,” she said with a smile, and offered him her arm as if he was a grand noble rather than a dusty, sweaty soldier in tattered garb.

The Purple Dragons silently let go of him, and the ragtag ornrion came forward a little dazedly to take the proffered royal arm.

Its owner gave him a regal smile and said sweetly, “Now you may escort me down to meet Cormyr’s latest hero. He saved my life back in Arabel, and I never got the chance to properly thank him.”

Dauntless paled. “I-uh, your Highness, would that be wise? I’m no expert in matters of Court, but-”

“No, Ornrion, you’re not. Nor am I wise. I am sick unto death of doing what’s right and proper, and I’m going to stop. Here and now. So get me down there, without delay-and you’ve my full permission to draw your sword and carve up anyone who tries to stand in our way!”

Ornrion Taltar Dahauntul gulped. “Y-yes, your Royal Highness. At once.” He drew his sword, saluted her, made sure her arm was settled in his just so, and started for the stairs.

Everyone was crowding around, the gabbling of excited questions rising to a nigh-deafening din. The only clear space was a little more than the reach of a long arm around Lady Summerwood and her maids, and when Jhessail caught the eye of one maid and saw a flash of silver in the wink sent in her direction, she knew why. She smiled happily at the disguised Lady in Green through a rapidly closing gap in the sea of silks, pearls, cloth-of-gold, glittering gems, shimmerweave, and jostling shoulders and elbows.

When she turned to tell Florin, an instant later, he was lost in the heart of a forest of crowding-forward Cormyreans.

“A battle, hoy?” Lord Cormrlryn shouted enthusiastically in the heart of that tangle, his monacle steaming over. “Did you butcher the traitors, lad? Hey?”

“Well, yes, one of them,” Florin said mumbled politely, weaving his way to his feet. Aged and hairy noble hands were pounding him on the back, slapping at his shoulders, and waving in victorious fists in the air. Well, at least they weren’t all trying to sword him…

He had Vangerdahast to thank for that. The wizard’s bellow of, “Behold! The realm hath been saved! ” had rolled from end to end of Anglond’s Great Hall-magic, of course.

“Lord Bellarogar Rowanmantle,” a noble as tall as Florin boomed loudly, enfolding the ranger’s shoulder in a crushing grip. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance-”

“Dauntinghorn! Horntar Dauntinghorn! Lord Horntar Dauntinghorn!” another noble bellowed, bouncing his fist off Florin’s chest as if it was a castle door he needed hard-of-hearing servants to come and open.

“Well met, hero! Any friend of Cormyr is a friend of mine!” another noble called, from behind Dauntinghorn’s substantial shoulders. “I’m Lord Ildabray Indesm! I — oogh! — and this is my wife, the Lady Indesm!”

Florin tried not to grin at the evident sharpness of Lady Indesm’s elbows, and became aware, beyond his own ring of admirers, of Lord Elvarr Spurbright struggling through the crowd like a caravel slicing stormy seas to reach the edge of the little open area around the Lady Summerwood.

Her maids turned to form a serenely smiling, unbreachable wall against him. “Aerilee!” Spurbright called over it, almost desperately, and the Lady Summerwood swept forward from between two maids with a brightening smile on her face and the delighted words, “ Elvarr! Alustriel speaks of you often-and so do I!”

As the two embraced, kissing ardently before everyone in the hall, Florin saw Torsard standing behind his father, staring at the Lady Summerwood with helpless, brains-over-boots, smitten-quick love clear and deep on his face.

He had to turn his head away from that raw, swallowing longing-and found himself facing a tall, thin aging noble who nodded politely and said, “Well done, Sir Falconhand. Lord Rustryn Staglance offers his thanks and praise. If you’re ever-”

“Are you wed, Sir Falconhand?” a sharp-tongued woman asked, thrusting herself up between Staglance and Florin like a fish leaping out of the sea. She had snapping black eyes and a long flow of hair adorned with a fine net of gold chains. Florin blinked not only at the gold and sparkling gems that were all over her, but at the upthrust bosom that those strings of begemmed chains were designed to lure his eyes down into.

“I am Ramurra Hornmantle,” the woman said, leaning forward as if trying to climb his chest, “ wealthy lady of taste and breeding, and I would be honored- ”

“Ildaergra Steelcastle!” snapped another woman, tugging at Florin’s arm. “I’m wealthier!”

“I believe,” Semoor said sardonically, from somewhere close behind the ranger-Knight, “that Lathander is giving us all a little taste of our most rosy reward! As such, it would be almost blasphemous not to partake-”

Ildaergra Steelcastle reached out and hauled on the large whiskers of Lord Cormelryn in an attempt to elevate herself up and over Ramurra Hornmantle; the old noble roared in pain, his monacle springing forth on its fine gold chain to plunge straight down her bosom-just as Ramurra leaped straight up into the air, snarling, to fling Ildaergra over backward. The last Florin saw of her was the monacle, left behind in midair above the site of her landing.

“Saer!” another man called loudly from nigh Florin’s left shoulder, “I am Arbitryce Heldanorn, Master Trader In Spices, Scents, and Wonders, and I was hoping to spend a few moments of your time in discussion of some schemes mutually benef-”

Beyond the spice-trader, Florin caught sight of Pennae wrapped around several finely dressed nobles, her hands at work almost as skillfully as theirs were groping clumsily. A look of disgust was passing over her face as deftly filched purse after ring was falling through her fingers-and she was turning her head to give Vangerdahast a glare.

The Royal Magician of Cormyr shouldered past Florin chuckling and murmuring in Pennae’s direction, “Merely a side effect of my ironguard, little she-snake. Keeping a dagger or two from harming you is worth more than an ill-gotten bauble or two, hmm?”

“ There she is!” another voice snapped. “Make way! Make way, all of you! I am Ornrion Delk Synond of the Purple Dragons, and this woman is a dangerous thief and would-be murderer, who has resisted arrest, assaulted Purple Dragons lawfully engaged in the prosecution of their sworn duty-”

“Oh, belt up, loudjaws!” a tall, red-faced woman snapped, as Telsword Grathus rudely thrust her aside, and Ornrion Synond stepped on her foot in his grand stride forward.

“And who are you? ” Synond roared at her. “An accomplice?”

There was a dull ringing sound before she could reply, and the ornrion toppled face-first onto the telsword’s heels.

“I am Goodwoman Kaylea Delruharmond,” the woman told the unconscious Dragon rather uncertainly, her anger giving way to apprehension.

Behind the unconscious ornrion loomed the man who’d felled him: a crimson-faced, formidably tall and fat man in sauce-smeared robes, a dented skillet in his hand. “Always wanted to do that,” he announced with satisfaction, grinning at Pennae and the rest of the Knights, beyond. “Master of the Kitchens Braerast Sklaenton, me. Heard you liked my smallbites!”

Telsword Grathus stumbled around to face the cook, sword grating out. That sword went straight up in the air as he suddenly fell over backward, deftly tripped by the same man who caught the sword out of the air, turned, and handed it to Pennae. “You might need this,” he murmured, he said, as he stepped firmly on the telsword’s throat. “Dalonder Ree, Harper. If ever you need me…”

Goodwife Deleflower Heldanorn would never have dreamed of backing into the Royal Magician of Cormyr and turning to grope at him and coo, “Oh, are you a Knight of Myth Drannor too?” if she’d caught proper sight of him in the press of bodies. She’d not have dared to say a word to him, or come within six strides of the man. However, Vangerdahast was rather shorter than she thought him to be, she did not get a good look at him, and she did grope.

For Vangerdahast, who liked to be the one to choose who groped him, or for that matter dared to speak to him, it was the proverbial flagon too many.

Anglond’s Great Hall suddenly erupted in roiling red flames. Flames that burned not, but roared mightily, in a ring that soared toward the lofty ceiling and spread wings to take the shapes of young and snapping-jawed dragons.

There were gasps of awe and screams, and a sudden urgent movement to depart the crowd around Vangerdahast and the adventurers.

Cormyreans fled in all directions, leaving the Knights standing suddenly alone with a few unconscious, trampled fallen, the king and queen a few steps one way, and the envoy’s maids a few steps the other.

Between those of Cormyr and those of Silverymoon stood Lady Summerwood and Lord Spurbright, locked in an oblivious embrace. With Torsard Spurbright standing uncertainly behind his father, poking his oblivious sire in the suddenly deepening silence.

“Pa? Dad? Lord Dad?” he quavered, his voice trailing away.

A ring of fascinated, scared faces now surrounded the cleared center of the hall.

“ Enough! ” Vangerdahast roared. “Let us have some civility. There’s no need to push and shout and jostle!”

He turned to look all around, and then began to prowl, striding slowly with his hands clasped behind his back. “I mislike marauding rumor, and it does much damage in its wild flowerings besides. So, know you all: these adventurers, here before you, whom some of you already know as the Knights of Myth Drannor, personally chartered by the king-”

He bowed low to Azoun, who nodded.

“-and personal champions of the queen-”

The wizard bowed even lower to Filfaeril, who nodded and smiled.

“-have just, at great risk to their own lives, foiled a dastardly plot against the Crown and the person of the Lady Envoy of Silverymoon-”

He bowed in the direction of the Lady Summerwood, who was busily running her hands up under Lord Spurbright’s best new silken tunic, her lips still locked on his, and paying the wider world not the slightest heed at all.

“-and that traitors among the nobility of Cormyr, subverted by evil wizards of Zhentil Keep, were involved!”

There was a gasp of horror and anger that was almost a roar, that then broke into an excited hubbub.

Vangerdahast cut through it with one word that brought utter silence down again in an instant, probably with the aid of his magic: “ However. ”

He let the silence deepen, and added, “This is what we who serve the Crown of Cormyr do. This peril is now ended, and we have a most distinguished guest at our Court, and our attention should now be upon celebrating her embassy to us, our joy at her presence among us, and her every need.”

He paused to stroll around Lord Spurbright and Lady Summerwood, as they murmured to each other, lips still locked together and eyes closed.

“As,” the Royal Magician then added dryly, “our most dedicated agent Lord Elvarr Spurbright is so ably attending to.”

Vangerdahast stepped back with a smile, and raised his arms to encourage the roar of mirth that followed. It rocked the hall, ringing deafeningly around the high vaulted ceiling and balconies-and when it began to diminish, a long breath later, he roared, “So let us have revelry! ”

And the noise really began.

In the depths of that din, Pennae ducked back in among the Knights, grinned, and arched one eyebrow in the direction of the Royal Magician. “Did he actually say that? ‘A dastardly plot’?”

“Dastardly,” Semoor assured her solemnly. “Those are the worst kind.”

Penna astonished him then by throwing her arms around him and kissing him.

Beldos Margaster drew in a breath of deep relief as he reached the portal to the ruined inn in Halfhap. Not only was it unguarded, but-if he was right-he’d reached it unseen. Now, if only this coffer of magical necessities, coins, and gems wasn’t so hrasted heavy.

He strode forward, the moment of falling endlessly through chill blue mists followed, and then he was…

Standing under the open sky with the hovels and battered old shops of Halfhap all around him-amid the sagging ruins of what had been the Oldcoats Inn. Tumbled beams, splintered furniture, sagging upper floors all twisted and fire-blackened, and Wood creaked nearby. Margaster turned toward the sound and found himself staring into the hard faces of two grim, wounded Zhentilar warriors. Judging by the sacks of pans, kitchen knives, and the like they were carrying, they’d been camping out in the ruins trying to plunder anything of value. They both bore notched, well-used swords in their other hands.

Giving him stony looks, they hefted those blades and lurched toward him, spreading apart so as to come at him from two directions.

Margaster gave them a sneer and a swiftly hurled slaying spell-and got it right back in his face, as rings on their hands winked in unison.

Gods, the pain!

Staggering in agony, Beldos Margaster turned and fled, scrambling as swiftly as he could across the slippery chaos of the tumbled and fallen inn.

Chuckling grimly, the Zhents pursued him, moving more carefully. They knew there was nowhere for one old man whose spells couldn’t touch them to run, to escape them.

Margaster, however, knew exactly where another portal stood. Whether there was still an inn standing around it or not, just ahead-here! — was one of the portals to Lord Yellander’s hunting lodge. He plunged through it gratefully, greeting the blue mists once more for the brief moment that always seemed surprisingly long, and then stepped out into the hunting lodge. It’d be deserted, of course. He spared it not a glance, but whirled around and cast a spell that would close the portal forever, and hand him safety from brutish warriors.

It was a powerful magic, and a long one. Beldos Margaster had just triumphantly pronounced its last word when he heard crossbows crack in ragged unison behind him, and the hum of a volley of converging bolts rising angrily in his ears.