Ed Greenwood - Cormyr

“Unhand me!” Dauneth snarled, struggling to get his breath. He drove a vicious elbow backward, but it seemed to strike some sort of tingling barrier.

“Ah, ah,” Giogi reproved him. “Play nice.”

“Wizard!” Dauneth roared, ignoring his captor and trembling with a rage that suddenly threatened to consume him, “You have betrayed your king, the crown, and Cormyr! You have brought the realm to the brink of war!”

The Royal Magician raised his eyebrows. “There is a fire in our young nobles that I sometimes wish could be kept alive as they grow older-and much wiser. Still, I’m pleased to see that you can distinguish between the differing calls of monarch, rulership, and realm. Very few of your fellow bluebloods can. I assure you, Dauneth Marliir-son of a family which has demonstrated expertise in determining loyalties, to be sure-that I am acting for the betterment of all three.”

“Spare me your lies,” Dauneth spat as Giogi sat him down in a chair, smiled like the gracious host he was, and wordlessly offered Dauneth a glass of wine.

The young noble struck it sharply upward, so that its contents splashed into Giogi’s face. He then launched himself across the room, tearing out the dagger from its sheath in his sleeve, a dagger that Vangerdahast did not know of.

Lady Wyvernspur rose, lifting her hands and starting to mutter words, but Dauneth had already looped one long arm around the Royal Magician of Cormyr and brought his dagger to the old man’s throat.

It struck some sort of barrier, and fire blazed from it. Dauneth ignored the sudden heat and pressed it in harder.

“Desist, young Marliir. I have no interest in slaying a loyal son of Cormyr.”

The pain was excruciating now. Dauneth leaned into it with all the strength in his shoulders and snarled, “If such a great threat to the realm I love is destroyed, the loss of my own life will be worthwhile and gladly given!”

“Gods, I wish I heard such heartfelt words from more men of Cormyr!” said an admiring voice from somewhere off to the left. Dauneth raised his eyes from watching his dagger tip turn slowly red, inches from the wizard’s hairy, scrawny old throat, and saw a single, shadowy form standing in an inner doorway. The watcher took a step forward and smiled, and as the lamplight fell across his face, Dauneth gasped and dropped his dagger. His hands slowly fell away from the wizard, who rubbed his nose, shook himself, and went straight to the wine bottle on the side table where Giogi-who was wiping at a nose that still dripped wine-had left it.

“You’re getting old, Vangey,” the man at the doorway said gravely.

“Old and forgetful,” Vangerdahast replied, raising the bottle and not bothering with a glass. “Perhaps I should start considering my own replacement, eh?”

Dauneth was staring at the man by the door. When he could finally speak, he asked, “But-but-if you’re here, then what’s going on at the court? Who’s trying to rule Cormyr?”

“A lot of folk, lad,” the Royal Magician said with a smile. “A lot of folk. The reasons lie in the past, but to see the unfolding of their fruit, we must adjourn to the palace. Bring your sword. By now they’ll all be waiting for us there.”

The Year of the Dragon (1352 DR)

The watch fires burned in a rough crescent along the hilltops south of Arabel. Each fire marked a thousand men, Purple Dragons, local militiamen, adventuring bands, and mercenaries. All were poised and ready for the assault on the rebellious city, come the dawn.

Mabel itself lay like a sparkling gem against a dark and dusty field of paddocks, tilled fields, and caravan grounds. Within its walls, the city blazed with light-the light of its own watch fires, of torches and lanterns, and of candles and magical radiances. Despite their shine, the surrounding watch fires would be visible in the city like a row of low, reddish stars. Neither the people in the city nor in the camps were getting much sleep this evening.

In the largest camp, the king’s pavilion rose like a hulking purple mountain against the stars. Beneath its highest peak, the war leaders were gathered. Paunchy Baron Thomdor and balding Duke Bhereu anchored one end of the table, their faces hard twins of concern. Aside from a narrow aisle left bare along either side of the table, the room was crowded with chairs occupied by mercenary captains, militia leaders, and war wizards. Their attention was on the long, linen-covered table littered with papers, messages, reports, and diagrams. In the center of its clutter, wrought by magic but appearing as if sculpted of alabaster, was a three-dimensional model of Arabel itself.

At the table’s head, in a low, carved throne of duskwood, sat King Azoun IV himself, seventy-first of the Obarskyr line, face furrowed, hand reflectively stroking his beard. The Royal Magician, Vangerdahast, stood to one side of his liege. He was the only one presently on his feet, and when he was addressing the gathered commanders, he would stalk the length of the table. For the moment, he stood bent over Azoun’s right shoulder, looking every bit like the king’s pet raven, perching.

“We know he’s in there?” said the king, eyeing the sparkling white model of the caravan city.

“He, his men, and those who have flocked to his banner in the past three months,” Thomdor replied grimly. His forces had spent those three months chasing the self-styled bandit king over most of northern Cormyr. Eight days ago their prey had alighted in Mabel, crowned himself Gondegal I with a crown snatched from a Sembian tomb, and dared any other man to take that crown from him.

No one knew Gondegal’s origin, though he claimed the blood of kings ran in his veins. One thing was certain, as even Thomdor had to admit: He was a determined and charismatic leader of men. Time and again the baron had drawn up for an attack, only to have the forces he faced melt away into the fog and the forest. And with every near defeat, Gondegal’s legend grew, and with those exciting tales had grown his supporters. On the first of the year, he was unknown. Now, three weeks after Midsummer Eve, he had encouraged Arabel to revolt once more and made it the seat of his own nascent empire.

In his declaration, Gondegal had laid out his new, nameless kingdom as running from the Wyvernwater northeast to Tilver’s Gap, and from the desert of Anauroch southeast deep into Sembian territory. In reality, he ruled only as far as his sword would reach from the saddle of his ever-moving war-horse, but that did not lessen the effrontery of his demands. The Purple Dragon would not allow half its territory to suddenly cleave to a new ruler… even one as charismatic as Gondegal.

That declaration had been seven days ago, and for seven days, Mabel had held its breath as the “new king” readied his defenses. For seven days, the forces of loyal Cormyr, bolstered by allies who stood to lose land to Gondegal’s kingdom, tightened the net around Mabel.

“Whoever he is, he’s served in uniform somewhere,” said Duke Bhereu, pointing to the alabaster model of the city. “He’s worked wonders in a handful of days. All three gates have been fortified, and he’s built outrider towers to cut off blind spots along the walls. Guard patrols have been doubled, water taken in from rivers in every jug and cask for miles around, and ballistae have been spotted in the major towers! This is no uprising of frustrated merchants, this foe knows his business.”

“And all he need do is hang on to the city long enough to cement his hold on it, and he has us,” added the baron grimly. “He literally only has to repel the initial assault. If we settle into a long siege, we’ll be hurting Mabel itself.”

“And what of the people of the city?” asked the king.