blade turned out to keep even excitable Marsembian nobles at bay.
“You see another choice?” Azoun asked calmly in return. “If we retreat to Suzail or Marsember, we abandon our farmers-and their crops-to the goblins. We’d be left to fight the dragon on our own rooftops, with all the war- ruin on the heads of our wives and children. If we retreat beyond our cities, Cormyr is lost. If we cannot stand against these foes here, let us fall as dearly as we can, so those who come to the gates of Suzail and Marsember are as few and as wounded as we can leave them.”
“That’s all that’s left to us?”
Azoun shrugged. “A ruler does what he can and tries to find or make new roads, new chances… but my time for that is past. Now I must bar and guard the gate on the road I’ve built. It’s the task left to me.”
Eldroon’s reply was a wordless snarl as he spurred his stallion back along the ridge to where his troops stood in a knot, still not fallen into formation.
“There’s trouble waiting to happen,” Battlemaster Ilnbright growled, glaring after the dwindling noble. The veteran Purple Dragon commander looked like the hewn and hardened warrior he was-a chopping block as wide as he was tall, as massive as a cask in his deliberately dulled armor.
Azoun shrugged. “No time to right it now. If any man here sees aught amiss with our friend Eldroon’s deeds on this field, and lives to see the end of it, take word to either of these two men.”
Men looked where he pointed. The king’s gauntlet was extended at a grim-looking Dauneth Marliir, High Warden of the Eastern Marches, and a nervous-looking Lord Giogi Wyvernspur. They sat on horses-swift errand- mounts, not warhorses-behind the crest of the hill.
” ‘Take word’?” Haliver Ilnbright growled. “Where’re they going, then?”
“To Jester’s Green, to command the last hope of the realm,” the king said, loudly enough for all of the war captains gathered around him to hear. “If we fall, and our foe goes on to threaten Suzail, these two lords have the duty to lead our eldest veterans and youngest reserves in the field. Their task will be to guard the walls of Suzail as long as possible, and get as many Cormyreans-your wives and children-away safe from our shores if need be. There are already coins from our vaults, hidden away safe, in certain cities elsewhere. If Cormyr falls, its royal treasury goes to its citizens, a hundred gold each, and thrice that for heads of families.”
A lone voice cut through the general murmur that followed. “Gods bless you, my liege,” one of the older war captains growled, bowing his head. “That’s one care gone from me, right there. If I fall, I’d not want my king to go unthanked for such service to me and mine.”
“Aye! Well said,” and the like came from a dozen throats. Amid their thunder, Azoun gestured to Dauneth and Giogi. They saluted and turned their mounts away, down the slope that led to the next hill closer to Suzail-a height where the king’s tent had been erected, and a few hostlers stood holding nobles’ warhorses.
“What about Marsember?” a lone voice asked softly, as the war captains turned grimly to face the foe again.
“We’ve not swords enough to spare to guard both,” Azoun said bleakly. “The navy holds Marsember with the aid of some hired adventurers. If a thousand thousand goblins appear at its gates, there’re boats enough.”
“But…” the voice began, then fell silent.
Battlemaster Ilnbright’s broad and hairy hand fell on the Marsembian’s shoulder. “That’s the hard part of being king, lad,” he growled in a whisper that was audible half the hill away. “There’s never enough to do anything proper, or please all the folk. Ye do what ye can, and yer subjects hope ye’ve a heart and honor to be their shields. This one does-be thankful ye live in Cormyr and not someplace a lot more cruel.”
“Haliver,” the king said quietly from close by, “sound the trumpet. It’s time.”
Battlemaster Ilnbright nodded, squared his shoulders, and took the horn from his broad belt. He did not hesitate as he blew the call that would send almost every man on that hill down to his death.
Ilberd Crownsilver had never been in a battle before. He was here now only because he was a Crownsilver, young and expendable enough to ride into possible death so as to serve the king and bring glory to the family. He’d been young enough to be excited and even nonchalant about the clash of arms. After all, how much harm could one take, riding with King Azoun and Royal Magician Vangerdahast? He was even looking forward to swaggering into eveningfeast to grimly tell his kin of his bravery and tell them of how the king had personally praised his cool manner and valor. At least, he’d been young enough for all that about an hour ago.
Now he was cowering behind a rampart of fly-swarming goblin bodies, the stink of death and his own vomit strong around him, hoping to somehow see the end of the day alive. His ears were ringing from the constant din of screaming, blades crashing upon blades and armor-some of these knights used their swords like clubs or threshing flails, battering their foes into the dirt by simply hammering on armor and shield until the limbs beneath broke or were wearied and beaten down-and he’d yet to see a valiant death. Or even a clean one.
Their first charge had slaughtered goblins by the thousands. The brook was running black with goblin blood and flooding the field, its channel so choked with little humanoid bodies it created a wide marsh of blood-hued mud. Their second charge fared as well, but the earfangs were endless. On they came, in an endless howling flood, and more and more men were beginning to fall. Perhaps four hundred were left-no more-and still the goblins came on, waving their spears.
And the Devil Dragon had not yet taken wing. Almost lazily she lay sprawled on that hilltop, gloating, as her forces surged on in their hundreds and thousands, overwhelming the Purple Dragons by the sheer weight of their numbers. The army of Cormyr had retreated back up the hill to force their foes to climb to meet them. The hillside was heaped with dead goblins, slaughtered almost at will until the arrows and quarrels ran out, sword arms grew tired, and the patient sun beat down.
Still the goblins came. Each wave forced its way a little higher up the slope. Each left behind a red wash of fallen, but there were armored men aplenty among all the goblins now, and though he’d swung his sword all of twice, Ilberd was reeling with weariness.
He didn’t know how the battlemaster and the other older, larger knights could even stand up, yet they spent the time between each wave drinking water from troughs, mustaches dripping, and pointing out particular goblins to strike at when the next wave came. The time during waves they spent hacking like merry madmen, bellowing war cries and bounding around like boys at play. Gods above, if he ever lived to see the sunset, this would be the last battlefield he’d ever
“Guard yourself, lad!” Haliver Ilnbright bellowed, clapping Ilberd between the shoulders with enough force to make him stagger, and striding on without breaking stride. “They’re coming again!”
“Slow to learn, aren’t they?” a white-haired old knight who’d lost his helm in the last fray drawled. “This is getting to be like a proper romp in the Dragonjaws, it is! I’ll have to get my minstrel to write a ballad about this…”
“I hope he sings swiftly,” a Purple Dragon armsman growled. “Here they are!”
The howling spilled over the bodies in another rushing tide of flapping leather, slashing swords, and beady goblin eyes. Men planted themselves-no running and leaping now-to hew steadily, like harvesters with scythes and many fields in front of them, in a rhythm of death.
Ilberd dodged a yelling goblin, slipped, found himself nose to nose with another-and was promptly blinded by its blood as a foot took it in the face and a blade bit deep into its neck.
” ‘Ware, lad,” Lareth Gulur shouted through the din of steel all around them. “Hold your place… ‘tis hard to fell goblins when you’re wallowing about on the…”
His next words, whatever they may have been, were lost in a little scream as one goblin ran right onto his blade, a second thrust a blade deep into his crotch, and a third bounded up to slash his face.
The Purple Dragon spun around, clawing at the air for support, and crashed down on his face. Ilberd didn’t even have time to gape. It was all so sudden. Sudden, and final.
And the realm said the Steel Princess did this every day-had done this every day, for years. Gods, but she must have been frightening to stand near!
“Back, boy, if you don’t know how to use that!” Hathian Talar roared, shouldering him aside and slaying a trio of goblins with a deft fore-and-back cut. He tripped over Gulur’s arm, saw who it was, and cursed like a fiend, then he snatched up his fallen friend’s blade, shook the dead goblin off it, and charged down the hill with both blades flashing in his hands like bolts of lightning. Goblins fell in droves around Talar, as he stood alone in their midst roaring like a walrus. Tears were streaming down his face and he was shouting curses so fast the words were tripping over each other to get out of his mouth.
Ilberd Crownsilver gaped at him in utter astonishment-and was still staring like a statue when hurled goblin
