At no time in the past three days had they received Pryntaler as a royal personage, or even a head of state. They would not call him “Majesty” or “Sire.” They interrupted him often, with the air of merchants breaking into the ramblings of a junior clerk. They asked improper questions that time and again sent Jorunhast to check with his scribes, and then challenged their records while the king sat smoldering. Jorunhast felt they did not want war, but their treatment of the king sent them well down the dark road to the battlefield.
For his part, as the talks wore on, Pryntaler had become more belligerent and stubborn. Now he was refusing to even discuss minor matters of tariffs and exports, merely presenting the Cormyrean viewpoint and refusing to compromise. Jorunhast understood his mood in the face of the constant insults and spurious challenges of plainly established facts and historical records, but the Sembians were not rebellious minor nobles or haughty representatives of someplace so comfortably distant as Thay. These men had gold to spend, and they would send it to work in Cormyr, or they would send it elsewhere. And if they sent it elsewhere, they might use it to buy soldiers.
None of these observations would calm the angry king nor sway the other nobles and guards, so Jorunhast cleared his throat and said, “Perhaps we should merely decamp tonight and return to Suzail. Methinks the Sembians would get a very clear message should we not be here next morning.”
Pryntaler halted by the fire, as if looking for an answer in its coals. Jorunhast knew that despite his bombast, the king would lose Marsember if discussions broke down now. Finally the king raised his head and snapped, “One more day. I will deal with those accountants and gold misers for one more day. Then they’ll see what it is like to anger a Purple Dragon!”
He wheeled and stormed into the moonlit darkness. Instantly two of the nobles, Juarkin and Thessilion Crownsilver, fell into place behind him. Pryntaler thought of them as watchdogs. Jorunhast thought of the two nobles as the king’s minders and, more importantly, as the wizard’s informants.
They would walk down to the nearby lakeside, and the king would lecture them about how things weren’t like this in his father’s day. And the Crownsilvers would nod and listen and make stern grunts of agreement, until eventually the king ran out of steam and bluster. In the meantime, the other nobles, squires, scribes, and healers of the royal party would trade tales and speculate as to what the wizard Jorunhast would do to save the day in this particular case.
Jorunhast, in this particular case, did not have a clue. On one side, he sympathized with the king. The Sembians were a bureaucracy without a strong leader, and as treacherous to deal with as a community of drow. On the other hand, now was a time for speakers, not warriors. If the king could not deal with the Sembians, war loomed on the horizon, if not with Sembia, then somewhere else.
The Royal Magician smiled to himself, thinking of how things truly were in Palaghard’s day. Pryntaler’s father almost launched the nation into a war with distant Procampur soon after his coronation, when a new crown crafted for the coronation was stolen. The king thought the jewelers of Procampur were responsible, and he mustered the armies accordingly. The true thief, the pirate lord Immurk, was eventually revealed and the crown recovered. It was an ugly, top-heavy monster of sculpted gold, and after a few months, it was relegated to the family treasury in favor of the original three-spired crown. Yet that golden monstrosity had nearly started a war. And now, perhaps, the hardheadedness of the Sembians was going to create another one.
Jorunhast rose, dusted off his robes, and slowly and leisurely headed after the king, one of his own scribes following in his wake. Around the fire, a few heads were nodding to each other that the king and the Royal Magician would butt heads for a while away from prying eyes, and the wizard would eventually bring the Purple Dragon back to the negotiating table. And from the look in the eyes of some, that would not be the best thing for Cormyr, in their opinion.
Jorunhast walked slowly down to the lake, both to enjoy the scenery and to give the king more time to calm himself. The meadows were as close to high summer as they would get, and it was pleasantly cool around him. A light woods of small, stunted fruit trees ran down to the lake. Once it must have been an orchard or a grove planted for late harvesting, but its original planters were gone, leaving only the trees as a living memorial. A waning moon low on the horizon illuminated the path sufficiently that the wizard did not need magical light to see his way. Somewhere, night-blooming plants had opened for the bats, and their soft, fragrant scent hugged the ground.
Jorunhast was among the trees when he heard the sounds of battle ahead, at the edge of the lake itself. Human shouts were punctuated by the clang of metal clashing against metal. Jorunhast broke into a trot, his young scribe scrambling to keep up.
The two burst from the trees to see that the two Crownsilvers were already down, and the king himself was locked in combat with a great metallic gorgon. The creature’s scaled flanks caught the moonlight and reflected it back in shattered shards. Its massive head was wreathed in clouds of greenish smoke.
Jorunhast turned to the scribe and shouted, “Get back to camp and bring every priest and every man who has a sword to swing!”
The young woman hesitated for a moment, her eyes locked on the great metallic creature. Then the wizard’s shouted curse at her mazed wits broke her transfixed state, and she went scrambling back up the path.
The king was fighting oddly, rushing forward to slash at the creature and then dancing back again, then dodging aside when the great bull charged. Time and again his blows skittered along the sides of the beast, and in the darkness, Jorunhast saw sparks fly as the steel struck against the scales.
The wizard knelt by one of the fallen Crownsilvers. The youth was unmarked, but his face was drawn and he was gasping for breath. Poison, then. Jorunhast laid the young noble’s head down-there was little to be done until the healers arrived-and turned back to the battle.
The king was tiring, and the monster seemed unscathed by his attacks. Again His Majesty danced forward, slashed without effect, and dodged back, clear of the creature’s horns and breath. Not a gorgon, but some relative, perhaps, thought the wizard. The monster looked as if it could continue the battle until dawn. The king, sweat already pouring down his face, obviously could not. Pryntaler favored the wizard with a short, desperate look, then dodged out of the way of the beast’s poisonous maw.
Jorunhast caught the pattern of the king’s attack. It would be tight, and he did not know if the magic he had would affect the beast. However, he could not wait, and the nobles and knights would arrive too late if he hesitated.
The Royal Magician raised his hand and started to craft the spell as Pryntaler dodged in once more to strike the beast. His blow had no more effect than the others. When the king jumped back, out of range of the poisons that engulfed the beast’s head, he hoped fervently, Jorunhast let loose his spell.
A bolt of lightning sprang from his fingertips and thundered into the beast. The blast of energy struck the side of the creature and spread along its scales, as if it were trying to slit the creature apart. The golden gorgon, or whatever it was, staggered forward for a moment, then halted in its tracks, as if turned to stone by the force of the blow.
Pryntaler’s shoulders sagged in exhaustion, and he nodded his thanks at the wizard, panting, “The monster was waiting for us here when-“