Ribs broke and the organs within burst before those jaws parted, sagging open again in death. Torn, Azoun gasped aloud at the pain, barely noticing as the Scepter of Lords caught fire in his trembling hands.
Yet its fury revived him from sinking into oblivion. He stood his ground, holding it deep in the dragon’s jaws, and snarled, “For Cormyr!”
Let those ladies on the walls of Suzail change their wagers, damn them. He had a realm to save, whatever the cost, and this self-damned dragon was taking far too long to die.
Hot black blood boiled out of Nalavara’s gullet then, washing over his chest and arms, drenching his wounds and raging through him wherever it touched his own blood. Azoun growled in pain and staggered as his foe shivered once, from end to end, then slowly gurgled into eternal silence.
As the Devil Dragon fell away, smoke rising from her empty, staring eye sockets, Azoun went to his knees atop the familiar form of Vangerdahast. It was done, his strength was spent, and it was time. Time for even a king to leave his throne behind in favor of a calmer place.
44
The Steel Princess peered through fog that was streaming across heaped bodies like smoke in a hurry to be elsewhere. The dead were everywhere, piled and sprawled across the rolling fields like a grotesque crop. Vultures and crows were already circling and gliding, looming out of the mist like lazy black arrows as they descended. The goblins were like a gory, countless carpet, but among them too many a brave knight or dragoneer lay stiff and staring. Even if this was the realm’s last battle for a season or more, there’d be few Purple Dragons to watch the borders and patrol the roads. The Stonelands would just have to go unwatched for a year or three-and if Sembia or another eager reaver decided to reach out into the Forest Kingdom, little valor and fewer swords would be left to stand against them.
Alusair’s boots slipped on a tangle of interlocked blades, and she nearly fell onto the goblins frozen in desperate striving with the lancelord who lay beneath them, his face cut away into a ruin of blood and crawling flies. She recovered herself grimly and peered again at the battlefield. Somewhere ahead in all of this death lay her father. He’d have been fighting the dragon chin to tail, no doubt, and that would probably mean on a hilltop, given where dragons prefer to swoop.
That one on the right, Alusair decided, would be her first destination. She could see goblins clambering up its slopes, a handful of living among so many dead. Swallowing, she hefted her blade and glanced to her right, where a dark cloud hid the ghazneth that the priest had so grimly but insistently assured her was a friend and vital ally. The ghazneth had once been Rowen Cormaeril. Gods above, Alusair thought, what cruel joke are you playing on fair Cormyr now?
The cloud was trudging along with her as obediently as any war captain, and Alusair had curtly ordered him to be treated as such, ignoring the raised eyebrows and dark looks she’d received in return.
“Giving orders might not be easy or popular, but by crown and Tempus, they are my orders to give!” she’d snarled.
She could see a large, dark bulk on the hilltop ahead, now, accompanied by the canted, barbed ruin of a dragon’s wing. The Devil Dragon was down.
“Haste!” she snapped, pointing with her sword. “The crown lies in peril!”
She could see now that a smaller hill, off to her left and a little behind her, was crowned with the royal standard and what could only be a tent. They looked undamaged, and she could see the glint of a few-a very few-helms and shields there. Azoun’s own crown banner, though, wasn’t flapping on high. The king had not returned to his tent.
“Move, you oxen!” she snarled at the men around her, as they slipped and slid wearily in goblin gore. “I’ve seen bloated barons scuttle faster when their creditors came calling-or their wives to the brothel doors!” She lifted her blade like a scourge and smacked her own hip with it, as if flogging herself to greater speed. “Get up there!”
Someone among the grimly hastening knights made an insolent lowing sound, and someone else echoed it. There were chuckles, and a few tight smiles, and Alusair’s spirits suddenly rose. Gods, but she was proud to lead men such as these!
A goblin squirmed under her feet, among the dead, thrusting upward viciously at her crotch. Before she could do more than dance aside, three swords had met in its squalling body, her knights sprawling to reach it with no thought for their own safety.
“Loyal idiots,” Alusair cursed them fondly. “Get on!”
They were most of the way up the hill now, climbing over goblins heaped so high that the untidy piles were rolling and sliding downslope when disturbed, often carrying a cursing Purple Dragon with them. Ahead, on the summit, the living goblins were taking no notice of their advance but seemed locked in some sort of vigorous dispute involving something on the ground in front of the dead dragon.
Alusair licked suddenly dry lips, and murmured, “My father-it must be.”
Owden Foley, laboring up the hill to her right, gave her a sharp look, then glanced at the dark cloud moving beside him. Before he could speak, a sudden wind howled across the hilltop, bowling many goblins over and away, and forcing the rest to the ground. It was a gale that moaned as if it was alive, but it scoured only the summit. The climbing Cormyreans could barely feel a breeze on their faces.
The slope ended and they were atop the hill, with the ghastly bulk of the dragon rising like a wall across the crest, and goblins sprawled helplessly everywhere. There were no heaped dead here-only living goblins, now screaming out their rage and terror as they saw the armored humans looming up with bloody swords drawn-and something more.
Something dark, wet, and glistening lay in front of the dragon’s jaws. The dying wyrm’s ichor had spewed forth in a huge pool, drenching two sprawled men who lay there, one atop the other. Both of them wore crowns and looked more or less whole. One-the one feebly moving an arm-was King Azoun. The other was… Vangerdahast?
A secret king of Cormyr? Or had he crowned himself king of some new realm? Alusair thought. Had he been playing us all false after all and commanding the foes of Cormyr? Or was the circlet some ancient adornment passed on by Baerauble, with fell powers to be used only when the realm tottered?
No matter-or rather, no matter to be worried about now.
Alusair turned her head with difficulty. Where she stood was on the very edge of the storm, and its winds shoved against the movement like a solid stable door that had smacked her cheek long ago.
“Rowen!” she called, knowing the gale tore the name from her lips before anyone upwind could possibly hear it.
She could not see the ghazneth, shrouded in its cloud, but it must have been watching her. The wind died in an instant, and Alusair charged forward, running hard across squalling goblins, heading straight for the king. The thunder of booted feet and the mingled curses of men and goblins told her that her knights and dragoneers were right behind her.
A goblin swung a wickedly hooked bill at her. Alusair caught its blade with her own and kicked out, as hard as she could, skidding on trampled grass as she came down. Yelling, the goblin tumbled through the air and away. The Steel Princess found herself teetering on the edge of the dragon’s spew. Sudden balls of flame rolled up from it, coalescing out of nowhere, and a brief crackle of blue-green lightning played over it.
“Wild magic!” one of the priests gasped. “Thank Chauntea!”
“Chauntea?”Alusair snapped, bewildered, even as they wheeled around in unison to form a defensive wall around the darkened area. Snarling goblins surged forward against them, hacking and stabbing.
“He has to thank someone,” a dragoneer panted. “Being a priest, he calls on his god.”