Otka had barely enough time to look up before the slab dropped. It flattened not only her but the generals who had been moving forward alongside her.
Vangerdahast barely noticed, for it felt as though his skull had been chopped off from the iron crown up. Dizzy, blind, and sick, he collapsed screaming into the throne and tried to tear the burning circlet off his head.
It was too tight. He could not slip his fingers under the band, nor push it up, nor even twist it around beneath his pressed palms. The thing had melded itself to his skull, and nothing he did would loosen it.
Eventually, a gentle drizzle cooled his brow to a temperature less than feverish, and the pain subsided to the point that Vangerdahast could think of something beside his aching head.
“Vangerdahast?”
He looked up to see Rowen’s dark face peering down at him from atop a four-foot slab of iron. Flanking the ghazneth were a dozen goblin generals, their greenish faces paled to sickish saffron. Their iron swords remained sheathed, and they took care to keep a reasonable distance between themselves and the Naked One.
“Not Vangerdahast, you fool!” Vangerdahast hissed, glaring up from beneath his new crown. “The Iron One.” He reached down and picked the Scepter of Lords up from the foot of his throne, then used it to push himself to his feet. “King of the Goblins.”
26
“It really doesn’t matter what any of us want, Dauneth,” Alusair snarled, bringing her fist down on the map-strewn table with a resounding crash.
“This city is going to fall!”
The High Warden cast an anxious glance over his shoulder at the closed doors, knowing two local born men-at-arms were standing guard on the other side of them. He cleared his throat, imploring her silence with his eyes.
The Steel Princess jerked her head at a tapestry on the other side of the room. “Myrmeen’s spy’s over there,” she said in a dry voice. “Her ears are the ones you have to worry about.”
Dauneth Marliir grimaced in frustration. “Your Highness,” he hissed, “I’m trying to stop any more panic!”
“Our healing kept Myrmeen alive,” Alusair snarled, “averting the worst cause for panic I can think of-except for the one we lack men enough to deal with: the orcs raging through the streets! Gods, Dauneth, how can you be so dense? And to think that my moth-“
“Daughter,” Azoun said warningly, “enough.”
The King of Cormyr laid a hand on Alusair’s arm and added, “Dauneth is being as loyal and as helpful as he can. Whatever schemes the queen may have had regarding weddings and your sister are neither here nor there. For the record, I think he’s worked wonders, with Myrmeen lying near death and half the old families of Arabel trying to flee with the best of our horses and wagons and mounted guardsmen, while the others snarl at him for not defending them well enough and at the same time try to wring concessions and funding from him as if this crisis was intended purely for their benefit and no officer of the crown could possibly have anything better to do than offer them his ear and fawning attention. He’s not beheaded a single Arabellan yet, nor thrown anyone in chains-not even bellowing princesses. Stand back and let the man do his work.”
Alusair turned a gaze on her father that had raging fire in it. Dauneth Marliir quickly turned away and became intensely interested in the nearest tapestry, trying to stop the trembling that seemed to have suddenly afflicted his hands. The last three days had been a waking nightmare. The sight of orcs raging through the streets was almost as bad as seeing Myrmeen Lhal, the Lady Lord of Arabel, lying white-faced and near death on a litter made of shields that were swimming with her spilled blood. She’d held off dozens of snortsnouts before falling under three black, hacking blades. Those blades had done cruel work before the nearest Purple Dragons could fight their way near enough to protect her… or what was left of her.
“Father,” Alusair said at last, her voice quavering in anger, “let me say jus-“
“No,” the king said flatly. “Words said cannot be unsaid. We lack the time right now for Alusair’s temper, just as we can’t spare it for many other things. Flay my ears later, lass, but for now, be as sensible, prudent, and calm as I hear you always are in battle.”
Alusair’s gasp of rage was almost a sob.
“Give me your wisdom,” the king continued. “You alone know which of your men we can best put to defending this lane here or that section of the ramparts there. I need to know who the hotheaded heroes are so I can throw their lives away fighting in the streets, and who knows how to tend the sick, or remember fire buckets, or how to anticipate where orcs’ll try to sneak to. Do you understand, girl?”
Dauneth clenched his fists until the knuckles went white, wishing he was anywhere but there. The silence stretched, and it seemed a very long time-until it ended, he didn’t realize he was holding his breath-before Alusair said calmly, almost meekly, “Very well. You’re right, Father. Turn around, Dauneth, and help us with these maps.”
The High Warden of the Eastern Marches plucked an old mace and an even older shield down off the wall-almost every one of these older rooms in the Citadel boasted a dozen such relics, or more-as he turned around. He put on the shield, presented the mace to the princess, and said gently, “If you’ll feel better after hitting someone…”
Alusair’s eyes widened, something like savage glee leaping in her eyes. She hefted the mace and, to Dauneth’s surprise, the Steel Princess threw back her head and laughed-as loud and as hearty a guffaw as any man’s. Dauneth stood in confusion for a moment, noting the smile that rose to touch Azoun’s lips, before Alusair returned the mace gently into his waiting hands.
“Well done, Warden,” she said wryly. “Dense you’re certainly not.” She sighed and added, “But Arabel is still doomed.”
“Your Highness,” Dauneth murmured with a courtier’s smooth half bow, “your eloquence has quite convinced me.”
It was Azoun who snorted in involuntary mirth this time. “Enough sport,” he growled a moment later. “Purple Dragons are dying out there.” He strode to the barred doors that opened onto a balcony, and threw aside the bar.
“The maps?” Alusair ventured, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m through with maps for the moment,” the king said shortly, laying his hands on the great wrought-iron door latch.
“Your Majesty,” Dauneth cried warningly, “if there’re ghazneths waiting out-“
“I believe I’d welcome a ghazneth about now,” Azoun snarled over his shoulder, flinging the doors wide.
Nothing dark and powerful flapped at him, or reached out with claws for any of them, as the King of Cormyr strode out onto the old stone balcony to gaze out grimly over the Caravan City.
The balcony was high on the frowning west wall of the citadel. From the citadel to the western end of the city Arabel was either a battlefield or already in orc hands.
Orcish hoots and howls rose above the dirgelike drumbeats that seemed to accompany tuskers everywhere into war. The steady thudding could be heard even above the roaring of flames from the worst fires, and the clash and clang of steel as Purple Dragons waged a valiant house-by-house defense-or, to be a trifle more accurate, a fighting retreat.
Smoke hung heavy over the city. Perhaps it was keeping the dragon away. At least for this they owed some thanks to the stupidity of the orcs, who always seemed to feel the need to burn immediately after the joy of destruction and looting was spent. The orcs were coming on in waves.
“Gods,” Dauneth groaned, coming up beside the king, “is there no end to them?”
“That’s always the problem with goblinkin,”Azoun said with dark irony. “Your scribes are always too busy fighting-and dying-to get accurate counts. Afterward, of course, it no longer matters.”