Cormyr

Chapter 2: The Passing of Power

A Year of Good Hunting (-205 DR)

The elf stood on the lowest step, waiting as impassively as a statue. Behind him, the broad flagstone steps led up to the horn tower-a tower that in turn soared up above the surrounding bare trees, stabbing proudly into the cloud-studded sky. Its peak was a huge, glowing crystal carved into the shape of a leaping flame. The crystal, glowing a brilliant blue against the riot of autumn color, was lit in expectation of the guest.

The elf did not turn to look at it, he needed no reminder of the power of his people. Nor had he looked again at the words above the tower’s door since the day his spell had carved them out of the smooth stone. He knew the traditional warning to goblins well enough not to have to be reminded of it each time he passed, like some forgetful child.

Key’anna de Cormyr, read the runes: “We guard this wooded land.” Or, to put it more bluntly, “Beware: this land is ours.” Soon those words would hold truth at last.

A deep shadow passed quickly across the tower steps, followed by two more. Had he not been expecting it, the elf would have flinched or fled for the security of the tower. He did neither. He was accustomed to the manner of his guests by now, and for once welcomed it. Red and ocher leaves whirled and danced in the great wind that followed the shadow, scuttenng around the elf’s ankles. He did not spare them a glance.

The three guests made a low, banking turn over the forest and pulled up sharply, beating their wings and tails to bring them to a halt. More dead leaves swirled up as all three alit gracefully and in unison, on coiled hind legs. The largest of the elf lord’s guests, his ancient black scales fading to a violet shade, swept his wings back once to steady himself, in the process blowing the elf lord’s cassock and cope about with a sharp snap.

The elf permitted himself a small half-smile. It was just like the dragon to use even his entrance as a display of dominance and power. The intent was to make the elf flinch, step back, or raise an arm to ward off the swirling leaves and buffeting wings.

A game for children, he reflected. Neither of them were children any longer.

With slow, deliberate grace, the elf came down from the step, raising his arms in welcome. His face remained impassive as he strode forward. His green garments billowed out behind him like a sail, the soft cassock and the long, slightly darker cope, flared so that it was almost a full cape. Threads of spun gold entwined and circled along the cope’s front and hem, and here and there among their warm splendor gleamed delicate carvings of amber. Long, silver-blond hair drifted behind the elf in the false wind the dragon had wrought. The hair was held from wild and tangled ruin by a thin circlet marked by three spikes in the front and a purple amethyst at the center of his brow.

In one hand the elf bore a golden staff, its haft twisted to resemble a heavy rope, its tip adorned with another purple stone, this often carved into the shape of a soaring bird. The sash that gathered in the cassock at his slim waist bristled with wands along one hip, each wand in its own sheath. These battle wands had made the warrior mage famous among elves even before he rose to power. On his other hip the mage wore a thin elven sword, a long, narrow blade with a graceful haft and pommel.

Faint glowing auras surrounded some of the wands, seeping through their sheaths. They were the reason the best warriors of the elven House of Amaratharr bowed to this slender, still young wearer of green. His was the power that had brought them victory in battle after battle with the strongest foe they’d ever faced, the dragonkin of dread Thauglor, and his fellow warriors all knew it. That was why he’d been chosen for this meeting, as well as for his fearless demeanor and quick wit.

The dragon, for his part, was well aware of the elf’s lack of fear, but dignity demanded a fitting entrance. He had met this one before, and it would not do for the lord and master of the forest to come crawling like a lizard to any humanoid, regardless of what power the small creature might wield. Even-or especially-this small one, so mighty in his magic. The dragon towered over the one who strode to meet him, the elf appearing like nothing more than a small green dot against a living wall of black and purple.

The two smaller dragons, one red, one blue, flanked the great blackscaled beast a respectable few yards behind their liege. They were younglings, newly out of their shell, their colors as bright as the forest around them. That, too, was a sign of power from the dragon. He confidently chose inexperienced youths as his seconds.

“Iliphar Nelnueve,” said the largest dragon in a booming voice, “who is called Lord of the Scepters.”

“Thauglorimorgorus,” replied the elf, bowing slightly, “who is called Thauglor the Mighty and Thauglor the Black Doom.”

The dragon beckoned with one wing, then the other. “Gloriankithsanus.” The blue made a solemn bob of his neck. “Mistinarperadnacles.” The red made a jerky, coltish nod as well, her eyes already scouting the surrounding woods for elven ambushers. “Did you bring your witnesses?”

Not seconds, thought the elf lord, but witnesses. “They are within the tower and await my command.”

“You have good cause to summon me to this parley?” asked Thauglor, a warning rumble behind his precise and polite words.

“Ask, not summon,” Iliphar returned calmly. “I appreciate your coming, for we have need to discuss matters of our two peoples. I trust you are well.”

“As well as can be expected,” said the dragon as calmly, “given the continual battles between our two kindreds. I trust the wounds you acquired at our last meeting have fully healed.”

Despite himself, the elf touched the jagged scar that crossed his face from temple to chin, the only mark that marred his otherwise smooth skin. It was a souvenir of his last encounter with Thauglor, a reminder that even proud elf lords should think twice before entering into battle with the Black Doom.

The elf ran a finger along the scar, hesitated when he saw the slow, toothy spread of the dragon’s smile. The elf lord had flinched first, after all.

“Our healing spells are sufficient,” Iliphar said steadily. “I trust that draconian curative spells have similarly undone the damage inflicted on you?”

The dragon’s fang-studded smile grew broader. “Damage? Oh, a few scales lost, and a bit of blood, but little in the way of major harm. Thank you for asking, but I doubt such concern was the reason for your summons.”

“I wish to talk about the difficulties between our peoples. The strife that ends not, between dragons and elves,” said the Lord of Scepters. “Our battles must come to an end.”

“Battles?” said Thauglor, mock indignation coloring his tone. “Do you mean our little games of hunter and prey? Or the valiant attempts of pointed-ear sneak thieves to steal into our homes? Or the red fires and black bile of our brethren burning out nests of the invading elven vermin? Are these the battles you speak of?”

“I mean the battles in which elf and dragon perish needlessly,” said the elf lord.

“You are ready to surrender to my authority, then?” asked the dragon in tones of quiet triumph.

“I am prepared to show you that you have no such authority,” Iliphar replied as quietly.

“Then this discussion has ended before it has begun,” said Thauglor silkily, spreading his wings and flexing his lower haunches, preparing to leap into the air. “This was not,” he added warningly, “worth rousing me from my slumber.” The other, lesser dragons spread their wings and lowered their necks, ready to leap into the sky.

Iliphar raised a hand. “Hold a moment. This is our last chance to speak.”

The dragon drew in his wings again, brow quizzical. “Speak then, little intruder,” he said, cocking his massive head to fix Iliphar with one cold eye.

“There are more of my people coming. Already elf and dragon have been fighting in this beautiful woods, my kin to defend themselves, yours to destroy what we have built. Neither race is as numerous as humans or goblins, any loss is felt.”

“Your people are the invaders,” Thauglor corrected coldly. “My families, and those of other dragons, seek to defend our hunting grounds. We must live and hunt as we have always lived, free and unfettered.”

“There is still a chance for us to live in this place together,” the Lord of the Scepters told the ancient wyrm. “You have merely to respect those areas that elves have claimed.”

“And what,” snarled the dragon, “avoid them? Restrict ourselves in where we hunt? Little humanoid, know you that this land has belonged to dragons before the hatching of my eldest known ancestor, and I have hunted here for a time that is long even to the proudest elf. For almost all of those passing years, I have defended these great forests against the depredations of other wyrmkin, and through hard battle have come to dominate them-the redscales, the mighty blues, and the greenwings such that now, and for a thousand years before now, my word is and has been law from the eastern peaks to the western and from the northern range to the narrow sea. And if, as you oh so subtly threaten, there are more of your kind coming, will the lot of you not soon force us from our hunting grounds entirely?”

As the thunder of his roar echoed back from the horn tower, the dragon rose to his full height and added almost casually, “We should stop you elves now, before you take any more of our domains as your own.”

“Very well, then,” Iliphar replied. “Stop us now.”

Thauglor the Black regarded the slender elf at his feet in surprise, wondering just what the small one with the raised and ready scepter was planning this time. He had not long to wait.

“You speak for all the dragons in this forested basin?” said Iliphar. It was more confirmation than question.

“By blood and by Feint of Honor, I am master,” snarled the dragon. “My words are those of every bog-dwelling black, mountain-hunting red, and forest-lairing green. That is my authority, and I demand you recognize it.”

“1 recognize it as authority over dragons, not elves,” replied Iliphar. “And I represent my people as well.” He pulled a small golden scroll from inside his cope. “This is a document of my people, from mighty Myth Drannor to the north. It gives me hegemony over the elves of this land.”

“The elves, but not the land itself,” sniffed Thauglor. “You are invaders, and like the human wanderers and orc barbarians, you will recognize my sovereignty or be destroyed.”

“We recognize no sovereignty of yours,” said the elf, “but at my command, I can empty this region of elves. We can abandon this place and set our borders at the northern range.”

“For your people’s sakes, I hope you do,” said Thauglor, a small reptilian smile tugging the corner of his jaw. “Though they do make tasty treats.”

“I said ‘can,’ old wyrm.” Iliphar kept his face solemn, not rising to the dragon’s baiting tone. “Not will. Not unless you can convince me.”

“Convince?” replied the dragon, suddenly sterner. “How may I convince you of anything, if you are not wise enough to see that your people court their own deaths by opposing us? Your kind are not welcome here. Not welcome to hunt, not welcome to farm, not welcome to stay. Use your authority over your fellow creatures and leave us to our land.”

“You say you represent all of your people,” said Iliphar, drawing himself up to his full height. “If you tell them to leave us in peace, will they do so?”

The dragon’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “What are you proposing?”

“I propose a Feint of Honor,” said Iliphar.

The dragon made a harsh, barking noise that might have been a laugh. “A Feint of Honor with a mammal? How droll. Feints are between dragons, to settle their differences without killing one or both parties.”

“A battle until one is subdued and surrenders to the other,” the elf went on, nodding. “You represent your people, and I represent mine. The winner takes the forest country.” Iliphar stopped there, holding his tongue and waiting to see if the dragon would take the bait.

A silence descended on the forest, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the autumn breeze. The red wyrmling was still skittish and kept craning her neck around, looking for attackers. Her blue cousin seemed deep in thought.

Thauglor rumbled, “When I win, you will pull your people back beyond the northern passes.”

“Should you win,” said the elf lord. “And should I triumph, you agree to leave the forests of this land to my people?”

The dragon’s eyes narrowed, then opened wide again, showing milky violet orbs beneath a curtain of black scales. “Why should I agree?”

Iliphar motioned with his golden staff, and his retainers poured out of the horn tower. There were twenty elves in all, carrying five great reptilian skulls. The skulls were set with amethysts along their brows. One had as few as three stones, one as many as twenty. The skulls had massive fangs in their upper jaws, but no horns. They were the remains of green dragons.

Stone-faced and impassive, the bearers laid their prizes on the steps behind Iliphar and retreated silently back into the tower. One remained in the doorway, the elven witness to the proposed duel.

Iliphar kept his eyes on the dragons throughout the proceedings. Thauglor remained motionless, but the muscles bunched beneath his jaws. Two sacs inflated along his neck, just behind the head, where, the elf lord knew, the black acidic bile of the dragon was stored. The blue tried to mime his master’s determination, but his eyes were wide. The red looked as if she were ready to bolt, and only fear and respect was keeping her in her place. To both the younger dragons, the message was clear: Their skulls could be added to this collection.

Iliphar spoke flatly, seeking to draw out the dragon but not to goad him immediately into battle. “These greens were slain within the past month. The gems on their foreheads represent the elves who lost their lives fighting the creatures, one for each elf.”

Thauglor’s lips tightened in a snarl, but only for a moment, and the dragon’s response was as flat and mannered as the elf’s. “It would seem your people got the short end of the bargain.”

“Aye,” the elf replied, “but there are more of us. And if it costs a hundred elves to take down a creature of your power, there would be a hundred elves afterward who would remember their deed and honor their memory. Can you say the same for your people? How many dragons are there in the forested land?

Thauglor was silent a long time, considering. “Feint of Honor?” he said at last.

Iliphar managed a small smile. “With the winner getting the forests, and the loser promising not to hunt the winner’s race. I challenge you, Thauglorimorgorus, by the ancient rites of your people.”

The black dragon looked at the gem-encrusted skulls of his subjects. “Agreed. Neither side uses his spells or wands, and neither uses his, eh, breath weapons. Are you prepared?”

The elf lord took a deep breath, as if the difficult part of his task had been completed. “I am as prepared as I ever shall be.” He began to take off his flowing cope and cumbersome cassock, to reveal a fine mesh of silvery mail beneath them.

The dragon leapt upon him immediately, like a fox leaping on a field mouse. Yet Iliphar was ready for the sudden attack, and in midleap, Thauglor realized his error. The elf whipped the capelike covering upward across the outstretched claws of the black beast.

Thauglor roared and pulled his claws back. The hem of the elf’s cope was studded with some impossibly sharp crystals that cut into the thick, fleshy pads of the dragon’s claws. The crystals were coated with something else as well, for the shallow wounds stung. It was akin to grabbing a giant porcupine.

Iliphar made use of the dragon’s momentary distraction to divest himself of his robes and toss aside his belt of wands. Now he stood on the steps, facing the dragon. His entire body, from neck to ankles, was encased in the thinly spun chain of the elves. Iliphar drew his sword as well, a slender, whiplike blade, perfect for digging beneath the dragon scales into the tender flesh beneath them. In his other hand, he still bore his golden staff.

“You did not tell me your coat was a weapon,” said the dragon, now crouching low. The other two dragons backed to the edge of the clearing to give their liege room to engage in battle.

“You did not tell me you would not allow me time to remove it,” replied the elf, gracing Thauglor with a wide, calculated smile. The smile was taunting, but the dragon saw that the eyes above the smile were cold and hard.

The elf took two steps forward and lunged with his staff. Thauglor easily beat aside the blow with a swipe of his taloned claw, but again Iliphar had thought beyond the dragon’s reaction. As the staff’s blow was caught and struck aside, he stabbed hard with his slender blade, driving it deep into the shallow wounds carved earlier.

It felt as if a hot sliver had been driven into the dragon’s flesh. Thauglor bellowed and convulsed. Iliphar cursed as the blade was ripped from his grip, clanged once on the stone, and went skittering down the steps to stop at the feet of the dragon.

Almost immediately Thauglor reacted with a sharp blow from his other paw. The blow was weak and clumsy, but it still knocked the elven lord sprawling from his feet. His mail made a serpentlike whisper as he slid across the flagstones, dropping the staff as well.

The dragon snaked his head forward and grasped Iliphar by one leg in his heavy jaws. Iliphar felt the ragged daggers of fangs cut through the mail and into his soft flesh. He held back a scream beneath tight lips.

The dragon then whipsawed his neck upward and let go, flinging the elf in a short arc that ended back on the steps. Iliphar bounced against the flagstones and felt something sharp give along the muscles of his ribs. His head was ringing from the force of the landing. It would clear if he had a moment’s rest…

But Thauglor gave him no rest, instead repeating the maneuver, grasping the elf tightly in his jaws and flinging him up in the air once more. This time something snapped in Iliphar’s leg, and he screamed from the sudden stabbing pain.

A third time the dragon’s jaws flung him aside, and Iliphar landed on his shoulder, enough to dislocate it but not enough to strike him senseless. His sword was beneath the dragon’s claws, but his ornate staff lay just a few feet away.

The dragon was now playing for the crowd, Iliphar realized, both for his own two young minions and for the elves in the tower. See how easy it is! See how inconsequential and weak these elves are! See what happens to those foolish enough to challenge the might of Thauglor! The dragon’s head came close again, his jaws gaping wide. Thauglor could swallow him easily, the elf lord realized, but then who would enforce the agreement? Iliphar shoved that thought to the back of his mind and rolled sharply toward the staff. The dragon’s jaws closed on air.

Iliphar’s entire body was wracked with pain. He clutched the staff, but could not rise. His legs, lying at odd angles to his torso, would no longer obey his mind’s commands.

The dragon’s head snaked down once more, jaws agape.

Drawing on the last of his strength, Iliphar surged upward, using the staff as a crutch, and leapt forward into the jaws of the great creature. He shoved the staff upright, into the dragon’s mouth, the wide nob of its base jammed into the lower inside gum. The delicately carved bird at the top shattered as it scraped the roof of the purplish beast’s mouth and dug into tender flesh.

Thauglor reared back in pain, giving the elf lord the moment’s respite he needed to roll free of his attacker’s maw. The pain was returning to his legs, but Iliphar managed to rise unsteadily to one knee.

The dragon thrashed, trying to dislodge the staff crammed into his mouth. Thauglor tried to pull it out with a taloned finger, but only succeeded in driving the shattered tip farther into the roof of his mouth. His tongue lolled to one side, and great tears dribbled down the black dragon’s cheeks.

The great acid pouches in his throat swelled, and Iliphar realized that the creature was going to melt the obstruction loose. Knowing the nature of his staff, he dropped to the ground and flattened himself there.

The dragon spat a great gout of watery blackness from his throat, bathing the golden staff in its hot sludge. The staff began to glow, then, weakened, slowly bent under the pressure of the dragon’s jaws. Finally the elf lord’s staff snapped.

And the dragon’s throat exploded. The enchantments within the staff were discharged in a single great fireball. For the first and only time in his long life, Thauglor the Black breathed flames.

The force of the blast drove the dragon backward, and the Black Doom thrashed on the ground, smoke spilling from his mouth and nostrils. The sight was too much for the red, and she bolted, rising from the forest like a frightened pheasant, then wheeling and barreling northward toward the distant peaks. The blue held his ground but seemed to pull in on himself, as if he, too, expected a sudden and merciless attack.

Iliphar pulled himself slowly to his feet. He heard movement behind him and tried to wave off the elves from the tower. Somebody pressed another staff, this one gnarled and wooden, into his hands. He did not refuse it, but used the gnarled staff as a crutch. He looked down involuntarily. One leg was hopelessly mangled beyond all but magical remedy, and the other felt as if it had been shattered in a dozen places. He staggered down the steps to where Thauglor lay, belly up, smoke streaming from his burned jaws. The dragon’s eyes were wide and wreathed by the smoke.

The elf lord did not even make for his sword, for fear that the effort would be too much. Instead, he put the tip of the wooden staff against the dragon’s head and asked, “Give up?”

The dragon hacked a great cloud of black smoke up from his gut. “You weren’t supposed to use magic, technically.”

“You weren’t supposed to use your breath weapon. Technically.” He did not move the staff. Let the dragon think this was another magical staff, as deadly as the first.

The dragon responded with another great cough, and Iliphar added, “It was your own breath that caused the magical damage. You know that. We elves have honor. Do you dragons?”

Thauglor, the Black Doom, gave a weak nod and barked for the remaining blue. Iliphar took a half-step back as the two conversed briefly in the Auld Wyrmish tongue of the dragons. Then the dragon turned to Iliphar again.

“We dragons have honor,” said the black, the last tendrils of smoke wreathing his bead. “And we honor our agreement. You have the forests of this land, and the dragons who swear fealty to me will not trouble the elves who swear fealty to you. Glor, here, will carry the word and reassure those that Mist encounters that I survived this battle.

“But know this,” the dragon added. “We honor the letter of the law. Our agreement is with your elves and only applies to the forests. The swamps are mine, and the mountains and bare hills belong to my people as well. The day will come, elf lord, when you will regret winning this battle as much I resent losing it.”

And with that, the young blue dragon, Glor, leapt into the air with a majestic beating of wings and flew to the north, hoping to catch up with the cowardly red. Thauglor himself coughed one last time, folded his wings, and slunk off, half crawling, into the forest.

The dragon had surrendered, thought Iliphar, at the cost of one elf’s shattered body. Still, it was not a bad price for a kingdom. Thauglor was ancient and would have to sleep a long time to recover from the wounds inflicted today.

The other elves streamed from the tower and surrounded him now, the priests intoning the healing enchantments and the retainers shifting back and forth between fearful worry and jubilation.

Iliphar waited until the last of the dragon’s black tail vanished into the multihued forest before surrendering to the inner darkness of oblivion. He put his trust in the gods and his shattered frame in the bands of the priests.

And in the blackness, Iliphar Nelnueve, the Lord of the Scepters, dreamed a singular dream. He saw in his dreams the battle he bad just fought, but with himself as the dragon, tormented by a multitude of smaller, frailer creatures. And though he did not speak of it upon his awakening, he carried that dream with him for the rest of his long elvish life.