Swords of Dragonfire

"Ho, now! Hold hard there, my lad! Where d’ye be going, so hasty-like, on a night like-”

This voice was deeper than the first drunkard’s had been, and came with a reek of stale drink that was almost stupefying. Alusair reared back, bringing her sword and dagger up between her and that half-seen face. The hand abruptly let go.

It returned, coming in a little lower, thrusting past her bared steel to press hard into her chest and send her staggering back. “ Away with that war-steel!”

Then the drunkard made a surprised sound at what his fingers had found, and growled, “A lass? A lass, out in the night like this? Running from a murder, are ye?”

“Nay,” Alusair said, trying to make her voice snap in command as she’d heard her father do many a time, “but there will be a murder in this alley if you lay hands on me again!”

“Whoa, now! Easy!” The reply seemed a step or two farther away, as if the man had retreated. “A lass, light-dressed, out in the rain and the night with no lantern, carrying war-steel unsheathed… a slip of a lass, too, with a sword too heavy for her by half… ye’re an acolyte of Tempus, ye are!”

He sounded almost proud, as if he’d won some sort of prize. “The Lord of Battles keep ye and honor ye, Swordmaiden! Fair even to ye, and pray accept the apologies of ol’ Dag Runsarr-not the least of the King’s Dragons, in my day! Saw the king himself I did, once!”

Alusair resisted the urge to tell old Dag that she’d seen the King of Cormyr a thousand thousand times, and sometimes felt she saw far too much of him, yet at the same time not enough. “Fair even, Dag Runsarr,” she said, instead. “Tempus defend thee and watch over thee.”

That grand speech was rather spoiled by a sudden loud grumble from her stomach. Old Dag chuckled and shuffled off down the alley, in the direction she’d come. Leaving the youngest princess of Cormyr suddenly aware of just how hungry she was. She’d last eaten at morningfeast, and last sipped some spiced clarry just after high-sun… and the night was well begun, now.

A tavern. A tavern would still be serving food. So would a feasting hall, but she had no idea if Arabel even had any fine feasting halls. So a tavern it would be.

Alusair hurried along the alley and came out into a narrow cobbled street lit by two lonely, distant hanging lamps. She could see nothing but houses in either direction-and the alley continuing on, across the road. She crossed, returning to the darkness almost thankfully. A distant dog barked, but she knew she had little to fear: dogs in Arabel were working beasts, and only fools let their workers stand out in rainstorms to get chilled and fall sick. It would be a rare alley that would have wild dogs waiting for her. Rats, now…

That cheerful thought carried her right into a smell that made her stomach complain again. Stew!

Just ahead, where the alley met with another street, and started to reek like men spewing up too much ale, was a small, dingy tavern, its signboard dangling from one hook and too dark to read anyway. Light was spilling out into the night all around its warped, ill-fitting door. Much chatter came from within, and pipesmoke too. Reversing sword and dagger downward, and transferring them both into one hand, Princess Alusair thrust open the door and stepped inside.

The taproom was small, low-ceilinged, thick with drifting smoke, and crowded. She paused for a moment, expecting the room to fall silent in reverence, but no one seemed to so much as notice her-one more wet, bedraggled visitor from the night outside. When she peered around, she saw a few eyebrows, here and there, lifting in surprise at the blades in her hand and then at her gender, but everyone looked away, and no one remarked. Wise Arabellans tended not to comment on such things.

Alusair found an empty table and sank thankfully down into its lone chair, setting her blades carefully on the table and running her fingers back through her sodden hair to get it out of her eyes. Two none-too-clean men facing each other over tankards at the next table leered at her and then turned back to their converse. Their noses were long and sharp, their eyes sharper. Alusair ducked her head a little so the curtain of her wet hair hid her eyes from them, and tried not to seem like she was listening.

“Darthil, see the one in green? That’s him,” one of the sharp-nosed men said.

The other turned a ring on his tankard hand a little with his thumb. The ring caught the candlelight with a flash, and Alusair saw it had been polished mirror-bright-to serve, in fact, as a mirror.

“Aha. My, he’s the prance-dandy, isn’t he? We’ll deal with him later,” the other muttered. “But Mhaulo, tell me: Who’s the old mountain of meat beside him? His bodyguard we’ll have to fight?”

“No, far from it. Another he owes coin to, more likely. Gulkar has no bodyguards, not after-” Mhaulo cast a glance across the taproom at the white-haired, heavily muscled man sitting beside Gulkar, turned back in almost the same movement, and said with a smirk, “That, Darth, is Durnhelm Draggar Lenth B. Stormgate.”

Darthil lifted an eyebrow. “He’s called all that? No wonder he has shoulders that broad, if he has to carry all those names around. What’s the ‘B’ for?”

Mhaulo’s smirk widened. “Blade. But I’m not done; ’tis better than that. Old Durn asked his mother why he was called Durnhelm Draggar Lenth. She said those were her best three guesses as to who’d sired him.”

Darthil sighed. “Her last three lovers?”

“Her brothers.”

Darthil gave Mhaulo a decidedly disbelieving look, lifted his tankard, and said cautiously, “ ’Tis a good thing she only had three brothers.”

“Oh, I don’t think that matters all that much. Blade was the name of her horse.”

Princess Alusair suspected her face was reddening, and turned away swiftly to lean her chin in her hand and so block any view Mhaulo or Darthil might have of her. She found herself facing a weary-looking woman in an apron, who’d just stopped by her table and asked, “What’ll it be, good-lass?”

“That stew I’m smelling, and-” Alusair caught sight of some sweet buns on another table, and pointed. “Oh, and what wines d’you have?”

The serving maid’s voice sharpened. “None, lass, ’til the new vintage comes in. High-coin cellars are for grander houses. Here in the Hound, we serve good honest ale.” She started to turn away, and then said, “And being as you’re not wearing a face I know and you’ve blades bare on the table before you, I’d best ask for coin up front.”

Alusair stared at her. “Why-” She started to make the airy gesture that would refer the maid to the chamberlain at her shoulder, and then remembered there wasn’t any chamberlain at her shoulder.

And princesses a-prowling around the Palace didn’t carry purses full of coins at their belts. She had nothing.

Panic stabbed at her-until something caught the candlelight, on the table in front of her, and she remembered she was wearing several rings besides the magic one that had brought her here.

The plainest was a band of plain gold surmounted by a single small, dainty pearl. She twisted it, hoping her wet fingers would let it come off easily, and the gods smiled on her. Alusair held it up triumphantly. “With this.”

The serving-woman’s eyes widened, and she pointed at the sword and dagger. “Lass,” she said helplessly, as heads turned at tables all around them. “Lass, you didn’t slice up a husband with those and go running out into the storm, did you? Tell truth, now.”

Alusair blinked at the woman angrily, and then drew herself up in her chair, throwing her shoulders back as she’d seen courtiers do all her life, and snapped, “I always tell the truth. The realm depends upon it.”

Alsarra and many other maids and guardians and courtiers had instructed her to say-and do-as much, from before she could walk.

“Ooooh,” said someone at a table nearby, in mocking mimicry of a haughty, oh-so-pompous noble-the very sort of parody Alusair loved to indulge in herself. She cast a glance around, and saw astonishment on many hard-bitten faces.

“Lass,” a fat man asked, from a table not far off, “who are you?”

Alusair stood up slowly, planted her fingertips on the tabletop, stared at the serving maid, then slowly turned her head to survey everyone around her, as far to the left and right as her stance permitted.

“Folk of Cormyr,” she said proudly, “I am your princess. The Princess Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr, daughter of the Purple Dragon himself.”

Her last few words reminded her that in troubled Arabel, every last man of the local Watch was a Crown-sworn Purple Dragon, and as her eyes fell on Mhaulo and Darthil, gaping at her in staring astonishment, she added sternly, “It is my royal command that none of you, here or after departing this place, tell any man of the Watch or war wizard of my presence.”

In the awed silence that followed, she held out the ring again to the serving maid, who shrank back from it as if it were red-hot and flaming from a forge.

“By all the Watching Gods, are we to believe this wild-tongue work?” a tall merchant scoffed, from far across the taproom. “If this drab is Princess Alusair, I suppose then I’m Vangerdahast, wearing the crowns of all the dead kings of Cormyr as I play my grand games, lifting up the king and queen and setting them as his unwitting playing-pieces, and-”

“ Be still! ” Another man was on his feet, a gray-haired trader in once-fine robes, his voice shaking with anger. “You dishonor us all, man! I have been to Suzail, and been slipped into a grand revel to watch from a balcony as the royal family swept in-and this is the princess.”

And in the sudden, utter silence, he went down on his knees to Alusair.

In the warehouse next door, men growled instructions, grunted with effort, and hastened to and fro as new stacks of crates and coffers were shifted by lanternlight. The stable, however, was dark and silent except for the sounds of horses tossing their heads and pawing at the straw.

The most restive horses seemed to be the ones made ready for the Knights, their reins tied to pillars. Things did not improve as the Knights mounted up.

“Fare you well, Knights of Myth Drannor,” Melandar said, walking along the row of horses with a hand that glowed faintly. He calmed each horse at a touch. “Your horses now all know the way to the Eastgate, and will desire to go only there. The gate will open at your approach. Know that the good wishes of Cormyr go with you, and that agents of the Crown will bring word when you are welcome back.”

“Thank you,” Semoor murmured. “Is that word expected in our lifetimes?”

The war wizard gave him a wry smile, said gently, “Of course it is, Sir Priest. This is no exile nor punishment. Consider it a personal service to the queen. I will not be surprised to see all of you back at Court far sooner than you expect to be there. Yet now I must leave you to attend to my next task.”

His wave was the last of him that the Knights saw. His body vanished, swallowed by some silent magic or other, his moving hand winking out last.

Florin sighed, shook himself as if coming out of a deep slumber, and said, “Well, we’d best get out of Arabel without delay, as such is obviously expected of us, and-”

Something moved in the darkness, swift and near. Islif ducked to let a knife flash past, then lifted an arm to strike aside a dagger whirling at her. Jhessail’s horse reared and screamed. Pennae launched herself from her saddle at a man who dodged out from behind a pillar and a heap of hay, running at them with a drawn sword and dagger in his hands.

Another man sprang up beside Florin’s horse, knife flashing. The ranger kicked out as hard as he could, taking the man under the chin.

Florin could feel the man’s neck and jaw shatter as his boot heaved the writhing, spasming man up into the air. A few teeth flashed back lanternlight momentarily as their owner spun away. Florin’s mount bucked and screamed in fear, and he wrestled with the reins to stay in the saddle.

Doust cried, “Tymora be with us!”

At the same time Semoor chanted, “Lathander’s light sunder this night!” and light flared in the air around them-only to be extinguished an instant later, by a spell that made the air all around the Knights crackle and crawl.

The horses screamed in terrified unison, a horrible sound that was cut off as abruptly as if by a slicing knife, leaving only silence. A silence that swallowed everything except a man’s cold, cruel laughter.

“Die, Knights of Myth Drannor,” the unseen man said, “at the hands of the Zhentarim. Faerun will be much improved by the removal of a queen’s toys before they have any chance to become annoying. You are as nothing-so be nothing!”

“There are six Knights of Myth Drannor now. Behold, and mark them well. All but one from the flourishing, upcountry spired-city of Espar.”

The guards chuckled, but went on peering at the glowing spell images. Even the house wizards of minor nobles were apt to be testy with underlings who treated their orders with anything less than eager attention.

“This tall, handsome ladies-swoon hero is Florin Falconhand. Honest, true, swift with a sword, and a lot more naive than his manner will make you think-or than he thinks he is. This ruddy-faced farm lass who looks capable of wrestling him to the ground is Islif Lurelake. Strong, doesn’t say much; you know the sort. The dainty little thing with the big elflike eyes is Jhessail Silvertree, who knows a spell or two. Looks like a little girl just ready to flirt, eh? Beware her-aside from this one, skulking here at the end, she’s the most dangerous if the Knights ever step over our threshold.”

“And will they?”

The house wizard shrugged. “Who knows? They’re saying these Knights now serve the queen-and you know what that means.”

“I know what it usually means, but notorious adventurers with blades hanging off them are hardly effective spies.”

“Aye, but they can be effective distractions. And threats too.” The wizard’s voice sharpened. “Which we can speak of later. For now, learn these last three. The dangerous one is the outlander: Pennae, she calls herself, though she’s used a score of other names across Sembia in the last ten winters. A sneak-thief, and a good one. Learn her face if you remember none of the others.”

“And the holy men? Aren’t they mere novices?”

“They are. This handsome one is Doust Sulwood, dedicated to Tymora. Shy, unassuming, but misses little. The other’s Semoor Wolftooth, of Lathander. He’s ruled by his smart tongue and inability not to use it all the time. What comes out of his mouth will give us all the excuses we need to attack, imprison, or run off these Knights, if they show up here. Any questions?”

“Have they any weaknesses?”

The house wizard sighed. “They’re adventurers, Dlarvan. Therefore they’re reckless fools, by definition. Inexperienced reckless fools. Surely you can deal with a handful of such dolts?”

“I’m sure we can,” Dlarvan said-at the same time as a guard somewhere in the shadows well behind him muttered, “Well, we deal with a wizard every day.”

The look the house wizard gave them all then was his best withering glare, but they looked back at him with identical expressions of moon-faced innocence. Motherless bastards.

Black-clad men were everywhere in the darkness, swords flashing in the gloom of the stables. Pennae threw a dagger into one man’s face, then leaped in another direction to stab a half-seen warrior.

Doust threw himself awkwardly out of his saddle, bare moments before a sword stabbed at where he’d been. Its wielder ducked around the hind end of Doust’s horse-and was flung hard against a pillar as the horse kicked angrily.

Jhessail reached out for a rafter, to try to haul herself off her bucking, kicking horse, but arched back and away with a little shriek as a man swung down out of the loft to thrust a sword along the beam she’d been reaching for.

In the eerie spell-silence, with her fellow Knights fighting for their lives all around her, Islif spat out an oath that no one heard.

People were crowding around the preening princess, as she sipped thankfully from the cooling-spout of the most ornate soup bowl in the tavern, and sighed her appreciation. Everyone was trying to get a good look at royalty, and many faces wore a hesitancy that betokened an inward war between wanting to touch the princess for good luck, and not daring such a boldness lest it offend-and cause spell-hidden war wizards and Purple Dragons melt out of the air to slay anyone so profaning an Obarskyr.

Old retired Purple Dragons shuffled forward in reverent silence, and outlanders peered and even stood on chairs to feed their curiosity. Among all the others seeking to gaze upon the Princess Alusair, no one noticed a lone diner-a quiet little man in a dark weathercloak, tunic, and breeches-eyeing the princess very thoughtfully from his nearby table. He nodded, as if in respect, rose, edged out of the press of awed Cormyreans, ducked through a curtain into a back room, and failed to emerge again.