Ed Greenwood: Death of the Dragon

“When my friends are safe.” Tanalasta ignored the wizard’s hand and pointed into the valley, where her companions were now struggling up the wooded hillside below the citadel. Several hundred paces behind them, a hazy cloud of insects was drifting across the river after them. “Alaphondar Emmarask and High Harvestmaster Foley are still out there, and the ghazneth is close upon them, as you can see.”

Sarmon and Filmore peered over the wall, then arched their brows in concern. The wizard turned back to Tanalasta and said, “Truly, Princess, the citadel is in enough peril from the orcs alone.” He reached for her arm. “My assistant will see to the safety of the Royal Sage Most Learned and your friend from Huthduth, but I dare not let you risk your life-“

Tanalasta pulled away before he could touch her. “You are not risking it-and don’t you dare teleport me without my permission. You have told me what the king commanded, but there are things he doesn’t know.”

Sarmon’s eyes betrayed his surprise at her commanding tone, but he nodded and said, “Of course, Majesty.”

The tower guards returned with four long ropes. Tanalasta instructed the sergeant to secure the lines to the merlons and drape the ends over the wall, then appointed four of Filmore’s burliest dragoneers to help the tower guards hoist her companions. The lionar assigned the rest of the company to battle the ghazneth when it came over the wall.

A loud crack sounded from the gate, followed by a muffled round of guttural cheers. The wizards in the gatehouse unleashed a tempest of lightning bolts and blasts of fire even greater than before, and again the tempo of the battering ram slowed. Tanalasta glanced over and wondered if her friends would be any safer inside the citadel. A large vertical split had appeared in the gate, and even Sarmon’s war wizards seemed unable to repel the attack.

An anxious murmur broke out beside Tanalasta. She turned to find the cloud of insects swirling up the slope behind her companions, who were finally breaking into the cleared area near the rear wall. There were only ten of them, and three of those were being carried by others. At least Owden and Alaphondar seemed to be all right.

As Tanalasta watched, one man stopped and kneeled at the edge of the woods. He placed the man he was carrying on the ground, then pulled off his black cloak and slipped it over the fellow’s shoulders. A second man stopped beside them. He placed a second figure in the arms of the first and pointed toward the corner where Tanalasta stood. The man in the cloak managed a weak nod, then he and his companion simply vanished.

A sharp noise sounded between the princess and Sarmon, and in the next instant two men, stinking of blood and gore, appeared. The pair collapsed in a heap of flesh and armor and lay groaning on the stones, their faces so swollen and blotchy that Tanalasta recognized only the one in the cloak-and even then only by the sacred sunburst hanging around his neck.

“Owden!”

Tanalasta dropped to her friend’s side. The man in his arms was already dead, his throat ripped out and his steel breastplate dented by the ghazneth’s claws. Owden himself was in little better condition, with a fist-sized wound in his left side and two ribs protruding from the hole. One elbow was coiled around his burden’s leg so that he could reach the weathercloak’s magic escape pocket. Tanalasta pulled the arm free, then allowed a dragoneer to drag the dead man from the priest’s arms.

“Owden, can you hear me?”

The priest’s only reply was a muffled groan.

Tanalasta motioned to Sarmon’s assistant and said, “Teleport this man to Arabel at once. His life is to be saved, and I don’t care if the queen must order the High Hand of Tymora himself to resurrect him.” When the wizard hesitated, Tanalasta added, “I think you should hurry. This was the last man to see Vangerdahast alive.”

“Alive?” demanded Sarmon. “What do you mean?”

“I thought you would have heard by now,” Tanalasta said. “After the loss at the Farsea Marsh, the royal magician vanished.”

Sarmon eyed Tanalasta as though she had been trying to besmirch Vangerdahast’s reputation. “There was nothing in Her Majesty’s message to imply Vangerdahast might be dead. The queen said only that he had disappeared while giving chase to one of the Cormaeril traitors.”

Tanalasta felt the heat rise to her face but resisted the urge to make a sharp reply. “Not all Cormaerils are traitors,” she said mildly. The wizard could hardly have meant to offend her, for he could not have known about her recent marriage to Rowen Cormaeril. The ceremony had been performed deep in the Stonelands, and so far her trail companions were the only ones she had told. “But when Vangerdahast disappeared, he was chasing Xanthon Cormaeril. Now Xanthon is chasing us.”

Sarmon’s face fell at the implications-both for Vangerdahast and for the citadel itself-then he gave his assistant a curt nod. “Take the good harvestmaster to the palace at once.”

The wizard nodded his obedience, then took Owden in his arms and uttered a single mystic word. The pair vanished with a distinct pop, leaving a huge pool of crimson blood where the harvestmaster had been lying. Tanalasta stared at the blood for a long time until Sarmon stepped to the wall beside her and peered over the side. Too exhausted to run even in such desperate circumstances, the rest of her companions were plodding up the steep slope toward the rocky cliff upon which the citadel sat. Behind them, the insect swarm was beginning to boil out of the woods and drone after the haggard company.

“If Xanthon is chasing you, am I to take it he is also a ghazneth?” asked Sarmon. “I thought the ghazneths were supposed to rise from the spirits of ancient traitors to Cormyr.”

“In most cases, yes,” said Tanalasta. “Xanthon is the one who dug them out of their graves. He also seems to have found a way to become one.”

The insect cloud began to obscure the men below. They broke into a weary trot and started to slap and curse. The one in the magic weathercloak pulled the hood over his head and looked up at the citadel. Tanalasta caught a brief glimpse of white hair and pale skin, then the figure raised a hand to his throat clasp.

The wrinkled face of Alaphondar Emmarask appeared in Tanalasta’s mind. With sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, the old man looked almost mad. He scowled angrily, then his rasping voice sounded inside her head.

Tanalasta! You’re smarter than that. Go to Arabel this instant! You carry Cormyr’s future in your belly.

Tanalasta started to bristle at the sharp tone, then realized the Royal Sage Most Learned was right, as always. Though she was barely a month pregnant, that did not diminish the importance of the child growing inside her. With the realm on the brink of war and King Azoun IV a few winters beyond sixty, the worst thing a crown princess could do was risk her life or that of her baby. In such precarious times, either of their deaths might well mean the end of the Obarskyr dynasty-and perhaps of the kingdom itself.

I’ll wait down in the bailey, Tanalasta replied, speaking to Alaphondar with her thoughts. Don’t be long!

As soon as she finished, the sage’s image vanished from her mind. There was no chance for him to argue. A weathercloak’s throat clasp allowed the user to exchange only one set of thoughts per day, and even then the messages had to be brief.

Tanalasta stepped away from the wall, then turned to Sarmon and said, “Filmore and his men seem to have matters well in hand. I’ll wait for you in the bailey.”

Sarmon’s brow rose. “Of course, Princess,” he replied. “There is no sense putting yourself at any greater risk.” A hint of disdainful smile danced at the corners of his mouth, and he pointed across the courtyard at the door of the opposite rear corner tower. “That will be a safe place to hide.”