“Owden Foley,” he replied. Owden waved two of his priests down the slope toward the ghazneth. “And if you are through skulking about down here, we have some real work to do. The goblins are on the march.”
Alusair frowned. Though she recognized Owden’s name as that of her sister’s favorite priest, she was still having trouble understanding… well, pretty much everything.
“On the march?” she said. “To where?”
“To reinforce Nalavara, of course,” Owden waved a hand at all the priests he had brought with him into the darkness, then continued, “But I seem to have discovered the secret to traveling between the two realms. If you have done with your sightseeing down here, it is time we return to Cormyr and turn your blades where they will do some good.”
43
“I’m beginning to wish the goblins had driven us back to Jester’s Green,” a war captain panted, as they toiled up a slope wet and slippery with goblin gore. “At least it’s flat.”
Azoun chuckled. “If you think I’m sparing breath to sound a horn right now…”
“I’d have to be crazed enough to be King of Cormyr, hey?” Lanjack Blackwagon grunted.
The king laughed aloud and clapped the oversword on the back-or tried to. In the attempt he slipped on a tangle of goblin bodies and almost fell instead. Three arms shot out to steady him.
Perhaps twenty men in once-magnificent armor, now scarred and hacked, spattered with mud and blood, and creaking and clanking where it was torn or twisted, still stood around the king and the puffing, red-faced highest- ranking wizard in the land. War captains all, officers of senior rank through noble birth or battle prowess, they were all that was left, it seemed, of the once-mighty army that had fared forth to leisurely rout one more goblin rising before eveningfeast.
Well, the wrong side might have done the routing, but goblins now lay dead in their thousands on this rolling field-yet there still seemed to be many around, stooping among the slain to pluck up swords and knives and coins. They kept well away from the small, purposeful band of their human foes, but cast many baleful, hissing glances at the passing men.
Ahead, atop the hill the battered-armored Cormyreans were climbing, the Devil Dragon was rallying more goblins, her huge batlike wings arching up into the air like restless, menacing sails as she skulked to and fro. This battle was far from done yet.
“Aye, if we were on the Green, the ladies could almost watch us from the walls of Suzail,” Kaert Belstable joked, striking a valiant pose.
“And adjust their bets,” the lancelord next to him added dryly, touching off a chorus of mirthful grunts and chuckles.
Azoun glanced around and met the startled eyes of Ilberd Crownsilver for an instant. He gave the lad a wink and a smile as they crested the hill-and found themselves facing a lot of goblins.
Goblins who looked fresh and eager for battle, drawn up in three neat ranks, their shields gleaming and maces hanging ready in their hands, flanked by wedges of spear carriers who were even now trotting forward to encircle the small and weary band of humans. Above and behind them hung the heavy-lidded, leering head of the Devil Dragon, regarding her last handful of foes in open triumph.
Harsh, high voices barked commands, and there was a rattle of chain as hundreds of goblin arms moved in unison, laying maces back on their shoulders for that first blow before they charged. Ilberd Crownsilver licked his lips and glanced swiftly to his left and right. He seemed to be the only fearful man present. On the older faces around him he saw only fierce determination and grim resolve.
Ilberd swallowed, shaking like a leaf in a freshening wind, then heard a disturbance behind him. He turned almost wearily, fearing silent goblins had risen up in their rear to transfix the last few men of Cormyr on their spears, like boar spitted for the fire.
No goblins, nor even alarm. Someone was pushing forward through the ranks, someone old and stout and armorless, his breath ragged. It was Vangerdahast, wearing that strange iron crown. War captains slid smoothly aside to give him room.
Ilberd Crownsilver relaxed. A spell from the court wizard or a blast from his wands, and the battle would be done.
Vangerdahast reached the forefront of the Cormyrean band and threw up his hands. The crown on his brow seemed to sparkle for a moment, dazzling the eyes. His voice, when it came, thundered across the battlefield as if he were an angry god or colossus. The words that boomed and rolled forth were harsh and unfamiliar to Ilberd’s ears. They sounded akin to the shrill cries of the goblins. When they ended, there was a little silence but for the last rolling echoes, as the humans and the goblins regarded each other.
Then, in eerie silence, the goblins went to their knees, laying their weapons gently down on the much- trampled ground, and touched their faces to the dirt.
The dragon’s head snaked back and forth in obvious astonishment as she saw her force disarm itself. She reared back and bounded into the air. All around Ilberd, armor rattled as warriors tensed, trying to raise shields they did not have.
Vast she was, yet sleek and terrible in her power. The young Crownsilver gaped at her magnificence, standing transfixed as she soared into the sky then turned, wings rippling, and plunged down upon them. He’d never seen such catlike grace, or sheer size-the beast was as large as some castles of the realm. He’d never seen such
– swift and casual death. The dragon raced into the Cormyreans, spewing fire when she was perhaps twenty paces from the royal magician and following it like a giant torch thrust through cobwebs. Men were hurled in all directions. Ilberd saw Elber Lionstone tumbling along the dragon’s scaled back, his face a mask of pain and his frantically stabbing dagger rebounding from its scales in futility. He fell sideways from view, to crash somewhere back down the hillside whence they’d come. Red fire streamed along the dragon’s path, blazing in the grass around their boots. Men groaned or cursed weakly as they staggered or struggled to rise. Many a gauntlet dipped to a belt flask to quaff enchanted healing and banish searing pain.
For a moment it seemed the royal magician had vanished-burned to ashes by the dragon’s fire or devoured by it, perhaps-then, as the Devil Dragon passed overhead, returning to her chosen spot, Ilberd saw King Azoun staggering along with a body in his arms that seemed more ash than flesh. Ilberd stumbled forward to help. Azoun gave him both a fierce grin and the limp, senseless, and gods-be-damned-heavy Vangerdahast to hold.
“Time for swords, it seems,” the king said cheerfully, watching the goblins who’d surrendered stream down and away from the hilltop.
They left their weapons behind, shields and gleaming steel covering the hilltop between the dragon and the Cormyreans like a cloak of war metal. At the base of the hill, cleaving up through them, were other goblins, answering a hissed call from the dragon. These new earfangs held their weapons ready, and showed no sign of imminent surrender.
“I must get to the dragon!” the king shouted suddenly. “To me, men of Cormyr!”
A breath later, they were pounding across the hilltop, slipping and sliding on the discarded weapons underfoot, and the dragon was turning her head in their direction, looking as startled as any boy surprised in a pantry in mid-theft.
She gathered her mighty wings to spring aloft, and Azoun roared, “Don’t let her fly away!”
“Ahead of you, my king,” a lancelord with the arms of Tapstorn on his shoulder shouted back. “Behold!”
Ilberd saw a ring on his finger-a prized heirloom of the Tapstorns, no doubt-gleam with sudden fire. Magical fire blazed only for an instant as the ring blackened and crumbled away, leaving Murkoon Tapstorn wincing and shaking scorched fingers. The flames streaked across the hilltop to pounce on the dragon’s head, raining down blows of something unseen like a crashing, ringing chorus of forge hammers. The great wyrm shrank back, ducking her head and retreating. The striking spell seemed to move with her, its battering ceaseless.
They reached the first hissing, snarling goblins, mere steps from the great bulk of the dragon. Ilberd was gasping under the weight of the royal magician, who rode upon his shoulders like a dead man-who, by the gods, might well be a dead man.
