Pella’s final scream distracted Magrath the Minotaur, and that was all Duar needed. He drove his blade forward, glancing off the axe to catch the minotaur at the base of his breastbone, and shoved the steel upwards into the creature’s rib cage.
The great beast was pinioned on the blade like a bug on a needle. The great axe fell, and a choking howl burst from the pirate leader as blood gushed from his mouth. Then slowly the minotaur sagged down on the blade, flung up one arm, and twisted around, convulsing. Finally he fell backward.
With the death of Magrath, the fight went out of the rest of the defenders of the hold. Some laid down their weapons immediately, while others, particularly the goblins, sought to flee from the stockade. They were stopped by Amedahast’s sealed gates. The would-be escapees tried to make a stand, but the king’s men grimly cut them down where they stood.
Elvarin stood up slowly and painfully, retrieving her blade. The wound in her side and the deep cut on her face rivaled each other for pain. The gouge on her cheek would likely scar, but at least she’d have a tale to tell for it. Arnedahast could probably tell her what spell or curse had given Pella Dheolur biting mouths in her palms and if the wound itself was poisoned.
There was a flash of blonde hair and blue cloth from the manor house door. Elvarin raised her blade, but Amedahast put a restraining hand on the swordswoman’s shoulder. Threena Cormaeril dashed down the steps and embraced the bloody Duar. The force of their laughing embrace spun the weary king around, and he almost fell over.
Elvarin chuckled, pain making the sound harsher than usual, and said, “So that was our inside agent. I should have guessed. There has always been more than one way to conquer a town.”
Amedahast made no reply. Elvarin looked at her. The High Mage was stony in her silence, her brow furrowed deeply as if she’d been revisited by some old pain. Without a word, she turned and walked away, making for where the wounded were being gathered.
In the light from the blazing warehouse, Elvarin watched the king and the lady holding each other. Victory. They had captured Dheolur, and with Threena’s aid, they’d be able to hold it. The forces from High Horn could then commit to a forest campaign… and with Magrath dead, the pirates might even abandon Suzail rather than face a siege. The days-the years-ahead would not be easy, but Cormyr might survive after all.
Never underestimate the power of the king’s touch, thought Elvarin. Using her sword to support herself, the warrior limped to where Amedahast was already unpacking the healing potions and poultices.
Chapter 17: Meetings
Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)
The man in the gem-studded tunic and cloth-of-gold breeches knelt, drew his sword, and laid it at the feet of the silent man in robes.
Still on his knees, the gaudily dressed nobleman looked up and said firmly, “I, Embryn Crownsilver, being mindful of what I do, solemnly pledge my honor, my blade, and the arm that wields it to support you as Regent of Cormyr. I will fight to bring about the downfall of the decadent Obarskyrs, who have ruled far too long.” His last words rang around the small, high-ceilinged antechamber.
“Take up your sword,” the man he was kneeling before said quietly. “Your words will be remembered.”
Rather uncertainly the Crownsilver noble rose from his knees, jeweled blade in hand. Sheathing it with a flourish, he turned, half-cloak swirling, and strode hastily away.
The man in robes watched him go. The nobles of this realm certainly talked to one another swiftly. That was the fifth pledge this morning, and nothing had been said in public yet about a regency. Not that such a silence was all that surprising, to many, in Suzail especially, the word ‘regent’ was synonymous with ‘tyrant.’ Or one could just say, ‘Salember.’
Vangerdahast the Royal Regent. The robed man smiled thinly and struck a dramatic pose, shading his eyes as he stared at the far wall of the chamber, an imaginary crown on his brow. Then he snorted in self-mockery and turned back to his spellbooks. Strange things happen to kingdoms when folk start getting ideas…
Not all that far away from the palace, in the nearest wing of the court, one nobleman turned to another and said, “If my son ever gets back from traipsing around the wilderness with Princess Alusair, I’m going to send him away from the realm for a month or so. I don’t want someone thinking he might make a good king, then sliding a sword through him to preclude that chance.”
“A Skatterhawk on the throne?” Sardyn Wintersun mused. “You know, I can see that. Does your son still think the moon, sun, and stars ride in the heart of the wayward princess?”
Narbreth Skatterhawk looked a little smug. “He does, my lord, and I can say more. A Purple Dragon she sent back from Eveningstar with their last report says he saw her kiss him, right on the lips, and hungrily, like a tavern wench, in front of everyone!”
Sardyn chuckled and ran a hand through his white-streaked hair. “I mean no slight to our friendship, my lord, but it’s not for nothing that the common folk say Alusair would kiss her horse if it trotted up to her!”
The head of House Skatterhawk laughed, a little stiffly, but whatever he might have said was swept aside by a cheerful greeting from behind them both. “Well met this fair day, pillars of the realm!”
Sardyn rolled his eyes once in silent eloquence before he turned, and Narbreth almost sputtered with laughter. Almost.
Ondrin Dracohorn was resplendent in flaming scarlet, his swept-sleeve tunic open clear down to the waist to reveal a heavy row of golden spanglestars and medallions that resembled, but did not exactly duplicate, some of the medals awarded by the crown to valorous soldiers.
The hue of his wardrobe was matched by the daringly slit gowns worn by the ladies on each of Ondrin’s arms, ladies whose beauty both of the other nobles had admired at feasts and revels before. They were the finest that discreet money could buy in Suzail. Their graceful elegance made the little man strutting between them look like a puffed-up peacock.
Neither Sardyn nor Narbreth bothered to tell him that, of course. Their houses, the Skatterhawks and Wintersuns, were minor nobility and country nobles to boot, and it would be ungracious to offend one of the more established city families. Instead, they put on broad smiles and said, “Ondrin, old friend!” and “How goes the Dracohorn all men of sense listen to?”
“Things couldn’t be better, my lords, couldn’t be better,” Ondrin said with an airy wave of his hand. “I’ve just heard that Embryn Crownsilver’s been to see our court wizard about a certain matter.”
The heads of House Skatterhawk and House Wintersun exchanged glances.
“We’ve heard about that affair, Ondrin. You can speak freely,” Sardyn replied, and then winked at one of the hired ladies. Said lady, a safe pace behind Ondrin and a head taller, was mouthing a wide-eyed and silently dramatic ‘No! Please, no!’ plea against his invitation to Ondrin to talk.
Ondrin chuckled like the man of the world he was. “I have secrets that I dare not yet reveal, even to such old and trusted friends as you! I’ll say only this,” He leaned close, like a small boy furtively passing secrets, and whispered loudly, “You’d better go see the Royal Magician. I’m setting him up as regent, you know.”
Ondrin’s supposed regent was at that moment slipping behind a curtain in the garderobe attached to his chambers. The little corner of the room facing him held a marble bust of a bored-looking Baerauble on a pedestal to Vangerdahast’s left, and a shelf full of neatly folded towels and dishes of scented soaps on his right. A row of carved gargoyle faces, which bore an uncanny resemblance to the four previous High Mages of the realm, ran along the wall, and the floor here was tiled in a chessboard pattern of alternating dark and light squares.
Ignoring Baerauble’s unmoving gaze, the Royal Magician put one hand on his head, stretched forward uncomfortably to touch the fingers of his other hand to a certain gargoyle nose, and then touched the toe of his right boot to a particular tile square. Silent radiance rose and sparkled around him.
When it faded, he was somewhere else, somewhere piled with towels and soaps. It was the servants’ closet off the retiring room in one of the royal apartments. The voices he’d hoped to hear came clearly to his ears as he made a certain gesture, then sat down comfortably on nothing to listen, his generous behind perched on empty air.
“… I know things seem dark, Tana,” Aunadar Bleth was saying soothingly, “but Cormyr has faced tougher
