Ed Greenwood - Swords of Dragonfire

Ravelo took a side-alley, trotting swiftly in the wet darkness, and then turned along a cross-alley, back to the street where the Princess Alusair was walking, once he was sure he’d gotten ahead of her. He crouched in the mouth of the alley, weathercloak drawn close around him. Yes, here she was now, looking like some sort of bad actor in a fancy-play, sneaking along having an adventure.

Ravelo’s lip barely had time to curl before he and the princess both became aware that something of interest was happening on the roof of a stables not far ahead of Alusair. Men were rushing around in the rain there, fighting with swords, and many of them, one after another, fell or were hurled off the roof, to crash down out of sight behind a warehouse that still had lanterns lit and men sorting and shifting coffers and crates around. Those, that is, that hadn’t stopped to gape up at the fighting.

There were occasional yells, and even a shriek or two. The princess slowed, but her sword and dagger came up as if to deal death, and her eyes shone with excitement. Ravelo’s sneer slipped into a grin.

A sudden glow came into being up on the roof, coming from the front of someone-a wizard-in robes, and illuminating a dozen or more men with sword and daggers, who seemed to have been converging on a lone man, but who were now turning to look at the glowing wizard. Ravelo’s eyes narrowed. Was that Neldrar of the Brotherhood? Yes, he was almost certain it was Neldrar, whose cold commands Ravelo had heard and obeyed a time or two, and A blinding-bright burst of flame suddenly split the night, an ear-smiting blast that seemed to come from Neldrar.

It echoed off taller nearby buildings and hurled men with swords in all directions. Writhing men plunged through the air and smaller, unseen things came pattering down all around.

Ravelo watched the princess shrink back as what was left of a torn and boneless human arm bounced in the street in front of her boots and rolled bloodily past her. Half a dozen dead or senseless Zhent warriors crashed heavily into the street, swords and daggers clanging and skittering away across the cobbles. A pale-faced Alusair turned as if to go back the way she’d come.

Mouthing a silent curse, Ravelo stepped out of the alley to glide after her-but ducked back in as he saw her stop, and heard and saw why: a Watch patrol was pelting down the street, swords drawn, their boots raising a rising thunder of their own. A dozen Purple Dragons in full chain mail, with the Dragon of Cormyr on their surcoats-and one glimpse of that badge had the princess turning and running right for the mouth of Ravelo’s alley.

Grinning like a fox, Ravelo waited for her, his knife ready. If the Princess Alusair were found murdered here in so-often-rebel Arabel, Cormyr would rouse to arms.

And in the wake of a royal killing, the kingdom should be so beset by confusion that the Brotherhood could covertly enact all manner of killings and thefts. If they spread the right rumors, to manipulate the citizenry effectively, they could quite possibly start a civil war.

His Zhentarim superiors would take the credit and claim all the rewards, of course, but one Ravelo Tarltarth, opportunistic low-ranking Zhent spy, should be able to steal loot in plenty for himself in all the tumult.

And all because he undertook the moment’s work of slitting the throat of one pampered fool of a girl.

Princess Alusair Nacacia darted into the alley, right past the crouching Ravelo. As he turned, rising and shaking off his weathercloak, he thumbed forth the magic token that had ridden for so long clipped to the inner face of his belt buckle, and slapped it to the cobbles. It winked, and utter silence fell.

The princess was already turning, having seen something moving in the darkness nigh her elbow. Her eyes widened in alarm, her mouth opened-and Ravelo, hefting his knife, grinned broadly. Silent screams summoned no aid.

His murderous intent was unmistakable. The young royal parried wildly, her sword long enough to drive aside his first thrust.

Ravelo chuckled. It was splendid steel, but too large and heavy for her slender arm, and she’d just entangled her cloak on it, dragging it down. Ah, but this killing would be easy.

Easy enough to enjoy a bit…

He slashed at Alusair’s face, expecting her to shrink back, but she clenched her teeth and brought her sword arm up sharply, swirling cloak and all-so Ravelo showed her what a slaying-sharp knife could do, slicing through thick wool and sasheen lining as if they were but mist, slicing a neat, shallow cut in the royal sword arm.

Alusair shrieked soundlessly, her face going pale. She staggered back, hand falling open. Her cloak came off her shoulders and dragged her sword from her fingers-and she spun around and fled, cloak and sword falling together in her wake, dagger flashing in her other hand.

Ravelo sprang after her. It would be the work of a moment to pounce on the princess, a knee in her back to bear her down hard onto the cobbles, and slit her throat while she was still bouncing and wallowing to try to get her breath.

Yet she was, yes, running to a tall, ornate iron gate in the alley wall, a gate Ravelo knew. He slowed, his grin widening.

It was the back way into the mansion of the Delzuld noble family. Better and better. If her murder were blamed on the Delzulds-and how could it not be, if she were found sprawled in her blood in the Delzuld grounds? — given their nigh-certain reaction, and those of their allies, it would mean civil war.

Panting soundlessly in the spell-silence, Alusair shook the gate. It was locked, and she clawed her way up it in a frenzy, slipping twice or thrice on the wet iron.

At the top she slipped again, risking impalement on the row of spikes that crowned the gate.

Ravelo strolled to just below her kicking feet and waited. If she did die on the gate, he’d climb up and leave his knife hilt-deep in her, but ’twould be better if Alusair sobbed in fear, staring blindly into the dark wet night, and when a hand reached down out of nowhere to take firm hold of hers, it seemed to her as if the Watching Gods themselves had reached down to deliver her from doom.

The blast plucked up Florin Falconhand in mid-dive and hurled him over the stableyard and the grand wall beyond. He tumbled helplessly through an endless instant of whistling wind-to a bouncing, bruisingly hard landing on the roof of the Delzuld gatehouse.

Skidding to a halt, he rolled over, fighting for breath. It was not a place he recognized, but seemed much safer than the stable roof and its plentiful supply of murderous swordsmen. He came weaving to his feet, still a little dazed and winded-only to stare down into the terrified, wide-eyed face of a young girl clawing her way up the gate with an alley skulker just below her.

She took his proffered hand, and Florin hauled her bodily up onto the roof, out of the way, and drew his dagger. His sword was deep in a Zhent’s gut, back on the stable roof-if there was a roof anymore.

As Florin brought his dagger up, her would-be slayer was already up the gate and-smashing the ranger off his feet, driving Florin down hard on his backside. As they skidded back along the roof, a needle-sharp dagger stabbed like an icicle into Florin’s shoulder.

He grunted in startled pain. The slayer clawed his way over Florin reaching his dagger for the girl’s throat, but she struck his blade aside with a knife of her own. Florin’s stabbed arm was useless, but he twisted under the man and slammed his other hand into the man’s throat. The slayer stiffened. Florin closed his fingers around that throat and squeezed, as hard as he could.