Death of the Dragon

13

Gods, but he’d missed the wild, rolling northern marches of the realm.

Azoun looked out over miles of sheep-studded hills with stone-rabble and tanglestump fences, broken here and there with dense stands of trees. A lone hawk circled high in the cloudless blue sky.

Turning his head slowly, the King of Cormyr could see the rising purple and gray bulk of the Stonelands on one hand and the distant green and gold of the tilled fields nigh Immersea on the other. It had been years since he’d ridden these backlands with no more cares cloaking his shoulders than keeping word of his worst exploits from his father’s ears.

A sudden thought made him turn his head to look at his younger daughter. Alusair’s gaze was fixed on his face, a curiously gentle expression in her often stormy eyes. Over the last few years, the cares of the Steel Princess had been just the same as those of her young and carefree father. Azoun wondered just how much the war wizards who watched over her omitted from the reports they sent back to the king. A lot, if he knew anything about wizards.

“Gods,” he murmured to Alusair, leaning his head toward her to make his lowered voice carry, “but I begin to remember, from my younger days, the real reasons you spend so much of every year out here, riding with your sword drawn and your men around you.”

“Prettier perils than at court, eh?” the Steel Princess murmured back. “Though truth be told, my nobles treat me to a petty, bickering little traveling court that’s all their own.”

“I suppose so,” Azoun agreed, eyes still on the rolling beauty of this corner of his realm. “And with all of that riding with you, why ever seek the dust of Suzail for pomp, feuding, and intrigue?”

“Why indeed?” Alusair echoed, as they shared a smile.

Azoun shook his head. Gods, but Alusair reminded him of himself-the younger, more rebellious self who’d chafed over formalities and ceremony and preferred flirtations to feasts. Why, for half the coins in his

“My King!” a lancelord he did not know called out.

“There’s a man come to us who demands audience with you. He gives his name as Randaeron Farlokkeir and says he brings urgent word from court.”

Azoun frowned and exchanged glances with the Steel Princess. Alusair gave him a half-smile and a gesture that said clearly: “Your trials, and you’re welcome to them.”

“Consider yourself in command for the next few breaths, ere I return,” he told her with a wry smile.

“Urgent word from court” always meant “trouble.” Moreover, the lancelord was obviously suspicious of the messenger. When armies go to war, many men ride with their suspicions held ready before them like a drawn sword.

“I will speak with him,” Azoun told the officer. “Conduct me to him without delay.”

It seemed like only a passing breath or two before Azoun found himself looking down at a travel-stained man in plain leather armor who lay gasping on his back on an untidy heap of blankets. His weapons had been taken from him, and he was ringed by the glittering points of many drawn swords.

“My King,” he panted, trembling with weariness. “I am come from the Wyvernspurs with pressing news intended for your majesty’s ears alone.”

“Withdraw,” Azoun murmured, lifting a hand without bothering to look up. “I know this man.”

In truth, he’d laid eyes on the ranger only once or twice before, and had never known his name, but if Cat Wyvernspur trusted a man, that was good enough for the King of Cormyr.

Shuddering with exhaustion, Randaeron was now trying to roll to a kneeling position. Azoun put a hand on his shoulder to stop him-and to induce the more suspicious Purple Dragons to put away their blades and step out of hearing.

“How came you here?” the king murmured.

“R-ran, my liege. The Lady Wyvernspur… used her magic… to teleport me to a watchtower, well south of here. A ghazneth came and circled it before diving at me. I… I fought it off and ducked into ditches and ran until it flew away. Then I met with goblins… and fought and ran more.”

“Goblins,” Azoun nodded. Thus far they’d encountered only orcs. The king took note of this, then asked, “What news?”

“The Crown Princess faces troubles at court. Though her words are firm and fair, some nobles openly refuse to obey her, vowing to follow only you, sire. The Dragon Queen is similarly ignored by those who choose to do so… and they are many.”

There came a stirring among the men standing around, a muttering without words, but Azoun never looked up from the laboring lips. The ranger coughed weakly and went on. “The situation is… not good. Sembian interests seek a breach in our armor, many factions at court rise like restless lions to renew old plots, dismissing the war in the north as a ploy of the crown to empty their coffers and keep their sons as royal hostages… and the old whispers of rebellion-Arabel and Marsember, hidden royal blood heirs, and all-are heard again in the passages of the palace and the back rooms of the taverns. The Wyvernspurs fear the Obarskyr hold on the Dragon Throne will be lost-and Cormyr itself split over warring noble ambitions-despite the real foes that threaten the realm here. All it will take, Cat says, if I may be so bold, sire, is one blade through the wrong hotheaded noble’s guts, and the bloodshed will begin. You are needed, Majesty, and better you come surrounded by loyal and ready knights, in strength, to slay any thoughts of daggers in royal backs or ceilings spellsent down onto crowned heads.”

The king nodded, allowing the wry ghost of a smile to touch his lips. “I can tell there’s more, yet. Speak.”

The ranger let out a deep and unhappy sigh, then said in a rush, “Princess Tanalasta looks unwell and-not content, yet she seems determined to personally destroy the ghazneths. The more they’re seen, the more she rushes to cross blades with them.”

He and Azoun stared into each other’s eyes for a long, shared breath, both of them keeping their faces carefully expressionless, before the ranger added quietly, “I, too, have a daughter left alone in this, sire. The Wyvernspurs are not the only ones who fear that Cormyr may soon lose its heir.”

“So it would be best,” Azoun murmured, “if I reached the ghazneths before the princess does.” Another smile twisted his lips before he added, “And even better if I had some sort of plan in mind for defeating them when we do meet.”

“Majesty,” Randaeron agreed carefully, “it would.”

Azoun nodded. “You’ve done well. Stay in the field with the Princess Alusair, I charge you, as I take the men we can best spare here and head south in haste to hold my kingdom.” He strode away, murmuring, “And if the gods really smile upon me, perhaps I’ll even win myself a little rest. Old lions, however stupid, deserve to lie down once in awhile.”

Randaeron knew he wasn’t supposed to officially hear that last royal remark, so he let his eyes close and kept silent. Silence is often the best court policy.