Ed Greenwood - Swords of Dragonfire

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!”