Ed Greenwood - Cormyr

On the steps below the throne, the wizard Vangerdahast’s smile tightened. Giogi looked at him. Just for an instant, he saw the glittering stare of the ruthless hunter in the old mage’s eyes, and from below them came the raw sound of Aunadar’s disbelieving scream.

The abraxus breathed again, and the sphere could be seen clearly now as deadly vapors swirled within it. It was moving with the clanking monster, proceeding slowly down the Hall of the Dragon Throne toward the king.

Tanalasta turned an instant before the magical shield would have touched her. She stepped backward one step, then a second, and rushed into her father’s embrace. Azoun’s arms went around her and held her firmly.

Behind her, Aunadar’s scream broke off into choking, frantic hacking sounds that went on and on as the smoky sphere advanced. Tanalasta turned in the king’s arms to stare at it in horrified fascination. Her treacherous fiance was going to die, but would he be the only one? Were they going to be able to stop this golden clanking horror?

Was it her imagination, or was the sphere growing smaller?

The abraxus hissed again, and through the rising smoke of its breath, she dimly saw Aunadar bend double and blindly stagger away, only to strike the far side of the sphere. He clawed weakly at it, and then slid down into the swirling smoke. The sphere was drawing in around the golden monster!

Up on the dais, Giogi and Dauneth both caught sight of sudden sweat bursting into being on Vangerdahast’s brow. They turned to the old wizard, opening their mouths in identical protests of concern. The sweat was running off his old nose and dripping from the Royal Magician’s beard.

The sphere grew smaller, and the wizard began to tremble. The two men caught hold of Vangerdabast’s shoulders and elbows gently and held him up, even when his body began to shudder and spasm, folding up in violent, wrenching contortions.

“What can we do, sir wizard?” Dauneth hissed, but Vangerdahast set his teeth and made no reply. His eyes were steady on the sphere below him, the sphere that was dwindling rapidly now. It reached the edges of the abraxus itself, which stood hard and golden against it, though only for a moment. Then the golden automaton bent over sideways with a deafening crack of shattered metal. Tortured golden plates shrieked in protest as the sphere closed inward steadily. There was a splash of crimson as the body of Aunadar Bleth was broken along with the golden creature. Then there was another scream, the inhuman scream of crumpling metal.

Something tugged at Tanalasta’s hands. It was Cat, placing the oval talisman into them. She closed the fingers of the crown princess around it, gave Tanalasta an encouraging smile, and stepped a pace away, raising her hands in a quick, deft spell-weaving.

On the dais, between Wyvernspur and Marliir, Tanalasta noticed Vangerdahast sagging like a man gravely wounded. Cat lifted her hands in shaping gestures, and Vangerdahast shouted a single tortured, almost unintelligible word.

The sphere vanished, consumed in a sudden ball of flames. Tanalasta flung a hand over her eyes an instant before the fire became blindingly bright.

Then the Hall of the Dragon Throne rocked under the force of a blast that hurled flames up in a roaring column to scorch the ceiling, but touched nothing else.

Cat Wyvernspur, whose spell had directed the flames harmlessly upward, reeled back into the Obarskyrs, father and daughter. Azoun’s other arm found its way around her as well. The spent sorceress sagged against the king’s shoulder briefly, then immediately disengaged. The ragged panting of the magess was suddenly loud in a chamber that had grown silent again. All within the Hall of the Dragon-royals, spellcasters, Purple Dragons, and nobles-were silent for a moment.

The sphere was gone, leaving only a scorched circle on the marble tiles. Aunadar Bleth was gone. The abraxus was gone.

And on the steps beside the throne, the old wizard rose unsteadily, his hands on the shoulders of two faithful nobles. Vangerdahast cleared his throat and roared, “The king is restored to us! Long live the king!” The ceiling echoed back the Royal Magician’s words, and they rolled out and down the room.

Someone in the crowd of nobles cried, “Long live the king!”

Other voices joined in an instant later: “The king! The king! Long live the king!”

“Azoun!” roared the Purple Dragons, their swords flashing straight up in salute. “Azoun!”

“Long live the king!” The chant was spreading beyond the room now, resounding through the palace as wondering people flooded toward the Hall of the Dragon Throne.

“Long Live the king!” The roar echoed around the Hall like thunder, and then an old noble burst into tears and went to his knees. “Azoun-lead us!”

“Long live the king!” the chant came again, but it seemed to be coming almost entirely from outside the chamber now. Inside the Hall, man after man after highborn lady were going to their knees-another, and then another-until only the king, Tanalasta, and Vangerdahast remained on their feet. Dauneth dropped to one knee, but kept his sword ready and his wits sharp for one last attack.

Dauneth let his gaze drift to the face of Azoun-who was smiling quietly, and nodding to noble after noble, and to faces in the line of Purple Dragons-and then to the smiling face of the crown princess.

The heir to House Marliir looked at that face thoughtfully for a long time. He knew that both Lord Wyvernspur and Vangerdahast had noticed his intent gaze and followed it to its destination, and he did not care.

Gods, but she was fair. He could kneel to a woman like that. Dauneth drew in a deep breath, noting that Tanalasta had not wept for her lost love, Aunadar. Perhaps there was hope yet.

Dauneth Marliir, heir to a stained family name, sprang to his feet. “Long live the king!” he roared like a lion, raising his blade in flashing salute.

Azoun’s head turned in time to see Giogi’s blade flash up to join Dauneth’s, and then the old man between them giggled like a schoolgirl. Sudden magefire shaped a sword in his hand, too. The three blades swung up together as Cat, Azoun, and Tanalasta laughed as one, and the three men on the steps thundered, “Long live the king! Long live Cormyr!”

The echoes of their shout were so thunderous that only Giogi and Dauneth heard the old wizard’s muttered addition: “This ought to be worth a feast.”

Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)

The conspirators, real and incidental, were gathered in Gryphonsblade Hall. The king’s sickbed had been removed and the original furnishings replaced. The windows that had been sealed for fear of contagion were now flung wide, and below them the city of Suzail was spread out like a blanket, leading downward to a cool, blue sea that mirrored the sky above. Somewhere down there a bell was tolling, long ringing peals that cascaded through the streets.

“The king lives,” said Cat Wyvernspur, nodding her head towards the bell’s joyous clangor. “Long live the king!”

The king in question was playing chess with Cat’s husband, Lord Giogi. Giogi would stare intently at the board for many minutes, then carefully nudge a piece to its new location. Azoun would then stroke his beard twice, reach out, and make his move. Giogi would sink his chin into his hands and return to his intense concentration.

“How’s the game going?” she asked, stroking Giogi’s shoulders.

“Totally engrossing,” her husband replied. “I’ve tried every variation in the book, but I can’t crack his defenses. Worse, every time he repulses one of my assaults, I’m in a worse position. He’s won three games so far, and in this little slaughter, I’m down two turrets and a Purple Dragon already.”