Ed Greenwood: Death of the Dragon

Alusair whirled away, tearing free of his grasp, but not with the snarl of anger he’d feared and not to spurn him. Instead, she was crouching with drawn steel, like all the other war captains on that hilltop, awaiting fresh menace. The wizard peered around her.

The Steel Princess was facing a whirling chaos of growing radiance in the air a little way down one slope of the hill-the glow of manifesting magic.

“Translocational arrivals,” Vangerdahast said loudly, to identify the magic for any who might not yet have recognized it. “Launch no attack until I bid y-“

“Be still, wizard!” one of the war captains snapped, eyes intent on the brightening glows. His voice sank to a mutter, Vangerdahast forgotten as he studied the flaring magic, and he added, “For once…”

Several heads snapped around to see how Vangerdahast would react to that outburst, but the royal magician’s face was expressionless as he took a step sideways to place himself squarely between this burgeoning magic and the fallen king. Vangerdahast squinted into the flares of brilliance as they reached their heights, then sighed and stepped back, a sour expression flickering across his face so swiftly that Alusair, watching him, could not be quite sure she’d seen it there.

Some of the veteran war captains of Cormyr were not so discreet. Disgust and disdain were written large on their faces as Cormyrean high priests of various faiths appeared out of the roiling sparks and glows of their collective teleport. Loremaster Thaun Khelbor of Deneir, his face set with fear, glanced this way and that at the wrack of battle, and was promptly shouldered aside by the High Huntmaster of Vaunted Malar, who in turn found himself in the striding wake of Aldeth Ironsar, Faithful Hammer of Tyr. Evidently the war wizards who’d sent them hence had lacked magic enough to send the upperpriests of each church who customarily accompanied their superiors everywhere. Every arriving priest ruled the Cormyrean churches of his faith.

“Trust the vultures to come now,” someone among the watching war captains said loudly, as many blades-but by no means all of the swords held ready on the hill-were sheathed.

“Aye,” someone else said bitterly, “now that the bloody work’s done.”

The Lord High Priest Most Favored of the Luck Goddess turned his head and snapped, “Who said that?”

For a long, cold moment there came no reply, then the air grew more frosty still when more than a dozen of the blood-drenched men in armor said in flat, insolent unison, “I did.”

Manarech Eskwuin blanched and quickly looked away, striding on, like all of his fellows, up the hill to where the king lay. As if the magic that had brought him was rolling along before him, fresh flames and radiance burst into being around Azoun’s body, and he roared and twisted in pain, spasming on the bed of shields. The taint of the dragon’s blood had returned.

“Make way!” commanded the high priest of Malar. “We are come in Cormyr’s hour of need to heal the king.”

“This is not a matter for straightforward healing,” Vangerdahast said warningly, standing his ground. Behind him, something that hissed and coiled arose from Azoun’s mouth, and small puffs of flame curled up from his drumming heels. Fell magic was raging and gnawing within him.

“I fear there is nothing you can do here, holy men,” the royal magician said politely, “save to let King Azoun die with the dignity he has so valiantly earned.”

Some of the war captains there drew in to stand beside the wizard, barring the high priests from reaching the king, but others cast suspicious glances at Vangerdahast, and murmurs were heard of, “Refuse the king healing? What treachery’s this?”

Augrathar Buruin, High Huntmaster of Vaunted Malar, raised an imperious hand. It was swathed in a furry gauntlet whose fingers were tipped with the claws of great cats, and whose outer side was studded with the bone barbs of beasts. He pointed at the royal magician, then swept his arm to one side, still pointing. There was a sneer on his face, and his eyes glittered with contempt through his obvious excitement. “Back, Vangerdahast!” he snarled.

The old man in the torn and dirty robe neither moved nor spoke.

The huntmaster snapped, “In this, wizard, you’re but an ignorant, meddling courtier. Stand back, and take your puny spells with you. The divine might of Malar shall prevail, as it always has-and always will.”

A swelling of light occurred in the air behind the priests then, and several of them whirled around in swiftness born of fear, faces tightening. The light outlined a figure, then swiftly faded into streaming sparks. Out of their heart trudged a man in hacked and blood-drenched armor. He was bareheaded, his face wore the weathered calm of a veteran warrior, and the bare-bladed miniature sword floating upright a foot in front of his breastplate marked him for all eyes as a battlelord, a senior priest of Tempus, come late to the feast. On this battlefield, first rank should be his, yet the huntmaster of Malar gave no sign of noticing the warpriest’s arrival, but merely gestured imperiously to Vangerdahast once more to stand back.

Something that might have been the faint echo of a smile passed across the old wizard’s face, and without turning away, he retreated three slow steps.

The huntmaster drew himself up in triumph and cried, “Oh, Malar, Great Lord of Blood and master of all who hunt, as this brave king has done, look down upon thy true servant in this hour of a kingdom’s need, and grant thy special favor upon this endeavor! Let the strength of the lion, the suppleness of the panther, and the stamina of the ice bear flow through me now, to touch this fair monarch in his time of need!”

The healing spell needed neither the invocation nor the grand gestures that followed, but no one moved or spoke as the huntmaster almost leisurely completed what must surely have been the most spectacular casting of his holy career, stretching forth both hands to Azoun with white purifying fire dancing between them.

The fire leaped forth to the bed of shields and plunged into the body of the king. Azoun convulsed, hands curling into claws as the surge of magic lifted him, back arched, amid sudden snarls of lightning and rolling, fist-sized balls of flame. Fire fell to the turf, and smoked, shields buckled with a shrill shriek, and out of the fading white fire a crackling arm of lightning reached, with an almost insolent lack of haste, to wash over the huntmaster.

Buruin staggered back with a strangled cry of his own, crashing into the watching priests behind him. Only the steadying arms of Owden Foley and Battlelord Steelhand kept him from falling. As they steadied him, the Malarite’s face was gray, his eyes were dark, staring pits, and his teeth chattered.

Holy faces turned pale, holy hands-some of them trailing radiance that hung in the air, glowing, in the wake of where the hands had been-hastily sketched warding signs in the air, and holy boots as hastily moved back. Fearful glances had not failed to notice that more than one war captain of Cormyr had half drawn a blade and stepped forward in slow menace, faces as cold and set as stone.

“Your concern for and your devoted service to the king are both noted and appreciated,” Vangerdahast told the priests gravely, the iron crown on his brows giving him the look of an old and mighty monarch. “Stand you back, now, and bear witness. Your gods would desire you to be present and to pray, but the time for healing, I fear, is past.” He allowed a frown to cross his face as he lifted an imperious hand and added, “The king fades swiftly. Rob him not of his last moments.”

The priests hesitated, several mouths opening to launch uncertain protests, and glanced at the angry warriors.