Death of the Dragon

28

“I grow tired of running,” the King of Cormyr growled as the familiar howling began again, down a hillside to their right. Alusair waved a wordless hand-signal to the nearest bowmen to stand and fire.

It was goblins this time, streaming down the slope in a torrent, waving their blades and yammering for blood. Human blood.

“Is it time to turn and fight?” Alusair replied, turning in her saddle to give her father a dangerous look that added the words “I would” to her words as loudly as if she’d shouted it.

“You would, aye,” Azoun returned, spurring his horse forward, “thinking only of yourself. If I turn and take a stand I risk all our lives, the crown, and the stability of the kingdom. With all these nobles foaming for the throne like stallions given a chance at a ready mare, and all our farmers and commoners between here and the sea, if we fall who’s to stop these vermin from pillaging all Cormyr?”

“Gods, with all those cares it’s a wonder that horse can carry you!” Alusair snapped back. “You’re right. I did mean to risk only myself and the blades who ride with me. The rabble of nobles you so dismiss as eager traitors, remember? What loss to the realm if they fall?”

Azoun leaned over in his saddle until their faces almost met, and muttered, “If I lose my Alusair, I lose my hope for Cormyr’s future-and the best general in the realm. And yes, I am measuring you against Ilnbright, Taroaster, and me. You’re the best of us, and more than that you’re the one commoners and Purple Dragons alike look up to, with love.”

Alusair went white, and almost snarled, “They love you, too, father!”

Azoun nodded, but replied, “A different love. I am the ‘now,’ with all the feuds and disputes and annoyances they know. You are the future that shines ahead. You they’ll follow to death with hearts full of hope. Me, they’ll go down with grimly, doing their duty.”

Alusair bent her head over her saddle for a moment, then looked up and met her father’s eyes squarely.

“I never thought I’d hear a man be so honest,” she almost whispered. “I am honored beyond belief that the man is my father and that he gives such honesty to me.” Then her eyes caught a movement to the south, her head snapped in that direction, her face changed, and she added, “Rider-messenger, come to meet us.”

She raised her hand to make another signal, but Swordlord Glammerhand was already sending two kadrathen of Purple Dragons through the ranks of the bowmen to cut down the last of the goblins and sounding the horn that would bring the bowmen back to a steady march.

The envoy proved to be no excited young soldier or war wizard cloaked in his own importance, but one of the veteran King’s Messengers from the palace. He was a sleek man, Bayruce by name, known well to both king and princess.

He bowed his head formally as he brought his horse to a weary walk, and said, “From Queen Filfaeril, glad greeting and good news. The crown princess prevails at court, and our loyal nobles whelm many swords in good array, north to meet with you and fight for you. Such is the whole of my message.”

Azoun inclined his head in formal thanks and asked, “So, Bayruce, if we were but two carters in a tavern over tankards and I asked you, ‘Pray, how many of our nobles be loyal to the crown enough to whelm swords for war?’ how would you answer?”

The messenger did not bother to hide his smile. “Majesty, I cannot say.” His smile fled again before he added, “If you faced no dragon nor these dark flying things that eat magic, the men I saw in my ride would be more than enough… but then, you do face those foes, and these goblins would not have reached beyond Arabel without them, no?”

Alusair and Azoun nodded in grim unison. “No,” they agreed. The king did not pause, but added, “Sir Messenger, rest your horse. We shall tarry here for a time, while the Princess Alusair essays an attack, planned yestereve, on those who harry us.”

The Steel Princess turned her head, jaw dropping in astonishment. As her eyes met those of the king, her father winked and said simply, “Do it.”

Alusair clapped her hand to her shoulder in a smart salute, spurred her horse away, and shouted back, “Redhorn’s riders carry the best wine, Bayruce. Mind you get to it before His Majesty, if you want any!”

“This dragondew is good,” Azoun agreed, wiping his mouth. “How did I sire such a daughter?”

“Do you desire me to say innocently, ‘In the usual way, Your Majesty’?” Bayruce asked the sky smoothly.

Azoun gave him a chuckle and turned his head back to the battle. Alusair had done just as he would have. Two arms of men were flung out like the arms of a crab, behind hills, bills and spears to the front and archers behind, to fire when their fellows were forced to retreat. Alusair had placed herself with the largest, strongest men in the center, to take a stand against the main company of goblins while the two hidden arms reached around to strike.

A brief struggle, then horns would sound the retreat and they’d flee south again, probably to the Starwater, and make a stand there. Giogi would just have to lose a year’s grapes and the good wine that came from them.

The goblins came over a rise and roared with excited fury when they saw their foes standing ready for them. They lumbered into a charge without a one of them looking up or to either side. Yes, goblins loved to fight. “Glath!” they called. “Glaaath!”

“Blood!” that was, in Common. Azoun smiled thinly. Let it be goblin blood. The goblins struck the line where his daughter was standing with a crash that made him wince, and he and the messenger watched intently as the charge drove Purple Dragons helplessly back. Those long hacking swords were busy now.

Alusair’s hair was streaming about her shoulders. “Gods above, girl, they don’t care how beautiful you look!” Azoun roared, standing up in his stirrups. “Put your damned helm back on!”

Alusair never turned her head, but both men thought that her long warsword thrust up at them in a rather rude gesture. Archers were lying on their bellies behind the fray, firing arrows point-blank up at any goblin they could get a clear shot at. At such close range, the shafts were tearing clear through screaming goblin bodies or plucking their victims up into the air and hurling them well back among their fellows.

They saw Alusair step forward to face a goblin who stood half a head taller than all the rest and saw her shudder and stagger under the shock of their blades meeting. Sparks flew around her as the Steel Princess struck back, their blades meeting again. She threw herself onto her back, hauling hard on their locked swords and driving a boot into the goblin’s belly. He hurtled over her to crash helplessly on his face and die under the daggers of half a dozen enthusiastic archers.

“Well, now,” Bayruce said in soft admiration. “Well, now…”

Alusair was up again, hand dipping to her belt. A moment later, the clear horn call went up, and the Cormyreans fell back. Both of the pincer-arms came into view over the rise as they rushed to take the last few goblins from behind, their bills dipping in deadly unison.

“Well hammered,” Azoun agreed in satisfaction. “We can’t afford to lose many men, so she’s nursing them like a mother. A born battlemaster!”

With one accord, the king and his messenger reached for more dragondew. The wineskin was almost empty.

“There are more orcs than you can count two or three hills back, but that’s most of the goblins,” Alusair said in satisfaction, as she reined in her mount. She was spattered from head to boots with black goblin blood.

Azoun leaned over in his saddle to embrace her and growled, “Have you forgotten what helms are for, young lady?”

His wayward daughter’s eyes danced as she laughingly replied, “Ah, but it’s good to fight alongside you, Father!”

“Sure you don’t prefer scores of ardent young noblemen?” Azoun asked teasingly.

“Well, their pratfalls to impress me do provide more unintentional entertainment than you do,” the Steel Princess told him, “but as steady feast-fare, even pratfalls can bring on yawns.”

Azoun chuckled, then a sound caught his ear. He looked to the south and his face changed.

“More messengers,” Bayruce said for him. “Riding hard.”

“Trouble, Father?” Alusair asked quietly, reaching for her sword.

Azoun shrugged. “I know not-but I do know that this would not be a good time to have to fight any traitors among the nobles.”

Alusair lifted an incredulous eyebrow. “They’d be fools enough to stab at our backsides with dragon-led goblinkin sweeping down the realm to their very gates?”

“Larger, grander pratfalls,” Azoun replied in dry tones.

The messengers proved to bear good news. Well-armed forces had indeed been whelmed by many nobles and now awaited the king’s pleasure near Jester’s Green under the command of Battlemaster Haliver Ilnbright, an old, grizzled Purple Dragon respected by many nobles who’d fought alongside him down the years.

“We’ll make a stand at Calantar’s Bridge,” Azoun decided, turning in his saddle, “then fall back into the hill farms when we must.”

Everyone fell silent and grim then as the dark form of the great red dragon rose into the sky, silhouetted against the setting sun, and flew leisurely back and forth over the Heartlands of Cormyr.

After a few breaths, the tiny silhouettes of six ghazneths could be seen rising to meet it. Alusair shivered, and Azoun reached over wordlessly to hold her hand.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

“Don’t be,” he muttered back. His hand tightened, warm and reassuring.

“Seven scourges,” she murmured. “So who and where is the last one?”

“Don’t ask me,” her father growled. “I’m just a king.” Suddenly, Alusair found herself shrieking with laughter.