Ed Greenwood - Death of the Dragon

“Blood to us,” a war captain growled in satisfaction. “Now let’s get over there and finish the task.”

They were already moving forward when a lancelord pointed and snapped, “Gods above! More of them!”

Up into view from the far side of the dragon’s hill were coming more goblins-a steady stream of fresh faces, shields, and waving blades.

The men on the hill came to an uneasy halt-all except for the king and the wizard, who trudged steadily on amid the goblin bodies, heading down the hill into the blood-drenched valley. The cavalry swept past the way they’d come, seeking more goblins to slay or perhaps a place to take shelter from red dragons on the wing.

Lancelord looked to lionar, then down at the dwindling figures of the king and the wizard, then at each other again. Helpless shrugs followed and the grim, bloody survivors began to descend the hill once more.

“King Azoun?” one of them called uncertainly.

“On! Our work’s not done yet!” the king called back, rather grimly.

“What price glory?” Ilberd Crownsilver grunted wearily, as his slippery descent brought him down beside his ruler. “Haven’t we slain goblins enough?”

“We’re not here to win glory, lad,” Azoun growled. “We’re here because Cormyr needs us. Or at least that’s why I’m here.”

The young swordlord stared at him for a moment, face going pale, then suddenly ducked his head and went on down the hill.

As they came to the blood-choked stream, the king drew his sword again.

The knelling of the ghazneth bell barely registered in Tanalasta’s mind. She sat crouched on the comfortable reading chair in Vangerdahast’s study, staring at the empty space into which Owden and his priests had just vanished. Her head was whirling and her stomach churning, and she felt numb with shock. What had happened seemed unthinkable. It seemed unimaginable that her husband had become a ghazneth. It seemed impossible that Owden and the others had been drawn through the gate into Rowen’s dark world.

Clagi turned from the window where he was standing watch and said, “Your plan worked, Princess. Boldovar ignored the palace and came here. He’s circling the tower now.”

The young priest paused for a response. When there was none, he asked, “Princess? What are we to do?”

Tanalasta felt hollow and sick inside. Had she listened to Owden, he and the others would be there now. Instead, she had chosen to ignore his warning, to trust her own selfish emotions and Vangerdahast’s gentle lies and declare that Rowen could never become a ghazneth. What a fool she had been. Vangerdahast might be harsh and manipulative, but he did what was right for Cormyr. In second-guessing him, she had condemned Owden and his priests to some wet hell she could only imagine. Worse, she had lost a dozen loyal men and women when Cormyr needed them most.

“He’s circling lower,” Clagi reported diligently. He stepped back from the window and came to take Tanalasta’s arm. “We must get you out of here.”

Tanalasta jerked away. “No, I’m going to destroy that ghazneth.” She pulled an iron short sword from its scabbard inside her hiding box, then snatched a pair of silver manacles from Vangerdahast’s study table. “I won’t run-not after what I did.”

“This isn’t about you, Highness.” Clagi’s tone was stern. Like most of Owden’s priests, he spoke even to Tanalasta with no fear of recrimination. He pointed at her huge belly. “It’s about your baby. You mustn’t risk it so foolishly.”

“This baby is hardly the most important thing in the realm,” Tanalasta shot back, growing more furious by the moment. “No traitor’s child will ever sit…”

Tanalasta let the sentence trail off when she saw the shock in Clagi’s face and realized what she was saying. Her anger was at Rowen and herself, not the baby. It was not the child’s doing that its father had betrayed her and Cormyr, and even if it never would sit on the Dragon Throne (Vangerdahast would see to that), she was still its mother. She still loved it. She still had to keep it safe and healthy.

The chamber grew dark. Tanalasta looked over to see Boldovar’s black silhouette sweeping past the window, his fiery eyes shining crimson in a wild halo of black hair. A gaping crescent opened in the center of his unkempt beard, and a long red tongue shot past a pair of yellow fangs to wag at Tanalasta.

Clagi pulled the lapels of her weathercloak closed. “Use your escape pocket. I’ll hold him.”

The chamber brightened again as Boldovar cleared the window. He dipped a wing and banked out over Lake Azoun, wheeling around for a direct approach to the window. Clagi turned to go and block the window, but Tanalasta caught him by the sleeve.

“No.” She pulled him toward her iron hiding box, which was standing open in the corner. “The child must be protected-but so must Cormyr.”

The priest looked confused. “But we are only two. How can we-“

“By stalling,” Tanalasta interrupted. She stepped into the box, pulling the priest in after her and returning her short sword to its place. “Until we know what is happening in the battle against Nalavara, we must hold Boldovar here.”

Clagi swallowed. “Very well.”

He slipped the iron locking bar into place, plunging them into darkness, then a loud puffing sounded outside the box as Boldovar streaked into the room and spread his wings to halt.

Tanalasta closed the throat clasp of her weathercloak and pictured the hard-bitten face of Battlelord Steelhand in her mind. She felt a surge of warm magic rushing into her head, then the battlelord’s thin eyebrows rose in surprise.

Bring a dozen warpriests to Vangerdahast’s tower-no one else! Tanalasta commanded, speaking to him in her thoughts. We are alone and Boldovar is upon us.

Two minutes, came the reply.

The princess would have liked to know how the battlelord intended to reach Vangerdahast’s tower in only two minutes, since it was at least a ten minute run out the gate and over the nearest bridge. Probably, he intended to have a band of war wizards teleport his party into a nearby street, then run the rest of the way. That meant Tanalasta would have to work hard to keep Boldovar’s attention focused on the magic inside the room.

Outside her hiding place, Boldovar’s clawed feet began to tick across the floor. Tanalasta removed her commander’s ring from her pocket and slipped it on, then whispered, “King’s light.”

An eerie, blue-white light filled the box, illuminating Clagi’s frightened face beside her. The young priest was holding one hand on the iron locking mechanism, as though his grasp would keep the door secure where a full inch of iron could not. With the other hand, he clutched his iron mace close to his chest. The ticking of Boldovar’s feet grew louder, and loud snuffling sounds began to hiss through the seams of the iron box.

“Magic!” he rasped. “Magic I smell… and magic I’ll have!”

He ran his claws down the face of the iron door, and a deafening screech reverberated inside the box. Tanalasta heard Clagi hissing through his teeth, then felt him grasp her arm in reassurance, and she realized she was the one making the sound. Boldovar let out an angry grunt and tried to rip the door open. The box tipped forward, then teetered on the edge of falling and rocked back to clang into the wall behind it. Tanalasta’s head slammed into the leather padding and began to ache.

She felt a sudden tightness low in her abdomen, then noticed something warm and fluid inside her legs.

“No.” It couldn’t be happening now.

Boldovar tried again to rip the door open, then grew frustrated and simply slammed the iron box down on its face. Tanalasta took the impact entirely on her belly and felt her womb cramp in reaction. The spasm did not subside. A heavy thump sounded above their backs as Boldovar jumped on top of the box. He began to scratch his claws down the seams, looking for a weak point.