Ed Greenwood: Death of the Dragon

“Wild magic!” one of the priests gasped. “Thank Chauntea!”

“Chauntea?”Alusair snapped, bewildered, even as they wheeled around in unison to form a defensive wall around the darkened area. Snarling goblins surged forward against them, hacking and stabbing.

“He has to thank someone,” a dragoneer panted. “Being a priest, he calls on his god.”

“Thank you, sir wit,” Alusair said sarcastically between pants of effort, as she spitted a goblin who’d run in behind one of his fellows, then lunged forward to hack at the dragoneer’s ankles. “That much I managed. What I want to know-” she growled as her blade burst through a chink in a rusty forest of salvaged plates worn by the tallest goblin she’d ever seen, and her blade sank hilt-deep into it, the point running into the goblin behind, “-is why wild magic is such cause for thanks.”

She had to kick with all of her strength to get the bodies back off her blade, and out of habit swung them sideways as a ram against others trying to swarm past. Spitting, snarling goblins were all around her now.

The dragoneer swung his sword like a scythe, raking goblins aside. One of them fell into the dragon’s blood with a shriek of terror, rolled, and raced back out of it, limbs pumping frantically, as fresh fires arose around them.

Alusair stabbed down viciously with her dagger, slashed open a goblin face on her backstroke, and danced aside from two lunging spears. She booted the goblin she’d blinded right into the faces of the two spear-wielders, and followed it with two quick sword thrusts. Was there no end to goblins? What did they all eat, anyway?

“Livestock and the fair farmers of Cormyr who tend them,” the dragoneer told her sourly, and Alusair stared at him in bewilderment for a moment before she realized she’d asked those questions aloud.

Lightning cracked across the hilltop then-blinding, ravening bolts that raked through the goblins surging forward to strike at the Cormyrean shield ring. Lightning lashed shrieking goblins as if it was a giant whip wielded with deft skill by some unseen giant, striking down this squalling earfang then that. When the fury died away, leaving behind a seaside tang in the air and the unlovely stink of cooked goblin flesh, only a handful of living goblins were left, almost cowering against the blades of the humans they fought. Some died immediately, and others fled, squeaking and gibbering in utter terror. Alusair did not have to snap an order for her warriors to let them go. They knew all too well what they were here for.

Sardyn Wintersun, wearing more blood than she’d ever seen on him before, grimly gave the order to “Stand fast, blades out, and hold against all foes!”

She opened her mouth to snarl that she hadn’t died and left him in charge just yet-then closed it again, the words unspoken, as he waved her into the dark area within the shield ring. Alusair looked at him for a moment, then nodded in curt and silent thanks, and turned into the dark, wet gore. It was a glistening black, sucking warmly at her boots, and ankle-deep. Strange singing sounds heralded the magic raging fitfully within it as she advanced. Flames surged up around her boots as she strode-strange yellow-green tongues that tickled her nose and throat like exotic spices-and Owden was moving along grimly at her side.

The dark, grotesque form of the ghazneth was with them, stepping to the fore, and the magics boiling up from the black, slimy blood seemed to stream into it and vanish.

Their journey was only a few paces, but it seemed as if they’d been walking for hours across a strange realm before they came to where the King of Cormyr lay twisting fitfully atop the scorched, motionless body of the Royal Magician. Alusair went to her knees heedless of what the blood-magic might do, and was almost hurled back by a tongue of flashing, tinkling radiance. A dark hand reached out to drink in the fell flood, and Alusair flashed Rowen a smile of thanks before she stretched out cautious fingers to trace along her father’s jaw, took firm hold with her other hand of the blade he’d let fall, and asked hesitantly, “Father?”

For a moment it seemed as if the King of Cormyr had not heard. He turned his head slowly, almost idly, his eyes staring up unseeing at the low, streaming ceiling of gray clouds, and twisted his lips in a bitter-or was it rueful?-smile.

The princess was about to speak again when Azoun said slowly, “So they did get you, bravest of daughters. Twice the warrior most of my knights are. My little Alusair. My Steel Princess. I’d begun to permit myself the tiny, sneaking hope that you’d somehow escaped the dragon, and yet lived.”

“Father,” Alusair said, leaning close to kiss him, “I am alive… and so are you. You’ve slain the dragon.”

“Such long sadness,” the king murmured. “So deep, so fierce. Her love as strong as any Obarskyr, but for a different Cormyr…”

“Father? Are you hurt?” Alusair asked sharply, shaking him gently. It was a foolish question if she’d ever uttered one. Owden Foley was already deep in muttered incantations, laying his hairy-backed hands on Azoun’s throat, brow, and palms with careful care.

The princess sat back to give him space to reach. Under his careful hands, the king murmured something unintelligible. A fleeting lacework of purple fire flashed into being across Azoun’s body, then was gone. The king convulsed, gasping, and his eyes fell shut. Alusair’s own eyes narrowed.

“What was that, Harvestmaster?” she snapped.

Owden Foley’s face was grim as he met her angry gaze. “The best healing I’m capable of-or so it began as,” he said. “What it became, I’ve no idea. We’ve got to get his majesty out of this dragon’s blood. I don’t know why, but it’s twisting all magic awry-and worse.”

“Worse how?”

Owden lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned close to the princess to murmur his next words, putting a hand to his mouth to shield his speech from the man lying beneath them. “It’s eating away his flesh, Your Highness-right down to the bones, if we let it work long enough. We have to move him.”

“His tent,” Alusair snapped, inclining her head in the direction of the other hill. “There’ll be water there to wash this ichor away.” She lifted her hands, now tingling-no, burning slightly-under their coating of black slime. She regarded them thoughtfully for a moment before she turned her head the other way and called, “Sardyn!”

“My lady?”

“Are you finished felling goblins, or do some of the lads feel the need to add to their sword-totals yet?”

“The hill is clear and we’ve all had our fill and more,” came the heartfelt reply.

Alusair’s lips twisted in a wry smile and she turned to regard the shield ring. Sardyn had turned to address her, but the others, true to their training, were still facing the battlefield, leaning on their blades and resting now. Gods, what brave swords!

“I need the king and the royal magician carried-as gently and as safely as possible, in a ring of blades-to the royal tent. Tarry not.”

Sardyn inclined his head, then bellowed, “Break ranks! Walking ring! Elstan, Murrigo, Julavvan and Perendrin-to me!”

All around her, men started to move. Alusair stood, motioning Owden and Rowen to keep their distance from her, and went a little distance away, to where she could wipe the dragon’s blood from her boots, knees, and hands. Her fingers went to the clasp of the weathercloak she wore, bunched and sweat-drenched, around her shoulders beneath the high-fluted shoulders of her armor.

“He’s alive, Tana,” she murmured in relief, as she fixed her sister’s face in her mind and concentrated on it.

The contact did not come. Frowning, Alusair closed her eyes and shut out the battlefield, its calling crows and tramping men fading away, to see Tanalasta as vividly as she could.