"If you do," Torsard dared to say or rather said before he could stop himself, "I can guess how!"
Then he stopped, staring into his father's eyes, suddenly afraid- until the sudden, boyish grin that appeared flashingly beneath them swept away all fear.
"There are worse ways to die," Lord Elvarr Spurbright observed, apparently addressing the rim of his goblet. He went on staring at it for a long, long breath as his grin faded, and then shook himself and fixed Torsard with that steady gray look.
"However," he said, "let us be serious with each other now. You will be in charge of the affairs of House Spurbright in our absence. I want you fully mindful of what that means. Oh, the freedom to get drunk and spend imprudent coins on toss-skirts on more than one night, yes, but Torsard, heed me. It's time. You must now learn to be careful."
Torsard found himself a little nettled. His father seemed to be treating him as a sullen boy in need of reprovement again. "Careful, Father?"
"Watch out for Vangerdahast's plots. He'll be seeking to press the advantage he holds over us in the eyes of the common folk, that he does what is distasteful for the good of the realm, because we nobles shirk our duty. And why? Because all nobles are rich, sneering traitors who should be reined in, hard!"
Torsard spread his hands, feeling real exasperation. "And just how am I supposed to even know what old Thunderspells is up to? He works behind closed doors, and anyone who tries to peek past them, even with magic, gets their brains fried!"
His father nodded and replied calmly, "Watch where Purple Dragons are sent around the realm, and watch the Knights of Myth Drannor."
"The Knights? Exiled adventurers?"
"Son, son, hearken: They are the queen's pets, so Vangerdahast regards them as expendable weapons the realm is better off without. He may well succumb to the temptation to wield and even expend them. Moreover, the Knights are sought after because-as all the realm knows by now-they bear the Pendant of Ashaba. If they are slaughtered and the Pendant taken, it entitles the bearer to the lordship of Shadowdale."
Torsard sneered. "A northern dale? A few farms in the forest? Who-"
"And Shadowdale," his father interrupted, favoring his son with a tongue-stilling glare, "is a place Zhentil Keep has wanted to own for quite some time now. Establishing an open presence there will provoke our armies to march and Zhent-hunting Harpers to spring out from behind every tree, to say nothing of marauding elves and opportunistic Sembians and perhaps even a few fools from Hillsfar."
Torsard's answering shrug was smaller than usual. Though his father's face could be hard to read, he'd had a lot of practice in doing so and could tell he'd won some small measure of Lord Spurbright s approval. Just why, he wasn't sute. He knew he was now wearing the frown that always stole onto his face when he was thinking hard; perhaps that was why. "And so?" he asked, making that question far less of an insolent challenge than was his wont.
"And so when we all converge on the tranquil farms of Shadowdale, the beholders and mightiest mages of the Zhentarim, standing a safe distance from what they hold dear in Zhentil Keep, will take great delight in slaughtering us all and using our aggression as a pretext for all sorts of things."
"What 'sorts of things?' " Torsard could not quite keep the scorn out of his voice.
"Alliances with Westgate and Sembian interests to invade and conquer Cormyr," Lord Spurbright replied firmly. "Those sorts of things."
Chapter 3
Arrows and tapestries So is it to be arrows in my face? Or daggers thrusting through Tapestries into my back? Always 'tis arrows and tapestries As my blood spills, and I struggle To go on serving the realm.
The bowmen among the bullyblades nodded to Brorn, plucked up arrows, and raised their bows. The ring of warriors around the Knights watched the archers and waited to stand aside to make way for their arrows.
Around the three Knights the air suddenly shimmered-seeming to surprise the Knights as much as the bullyblades-and a distant thundering rumble arose back west, along the road.
Brorn flung up one hand to prevent any arrows being wasted, and with his other hand he pointed west along the Ride. Steldurth was already striding in that direction, frowning and peering.
For a long way hereabouts the Moonsea Ride seemed both straight and level, but in truth it rose and fell as it mounted a succession of hills, sacrificing the wandering ways and gentler grades of many local lanes for a straighter, steeper route.
Up over the nearest of these now rose a line of Purple Dragons in full armor, visors down, riding their horses hard-straight at the bullyblades and Knights in the road.
"Glorking war wizards!" Steldurth spat, whirling around and waving his arms in alarm.
"Into the trees!" Brorn bellowed. "If you've a bow, scatter and hide-and loose at any war wizards you see! Everyone else, to horse! Mount and swords out, or they'll ride us down! Forget the Knights! Move, hrast you!"
The bullyblades moved. As Jhessail, Doust, and Semoor watched, not daring to abandon the little cloud of air that tingled and shimmered around them, their attackers scrambled for saddles or raced into the shadows under the trees.
The Purple Dragons came on, riding hard, the thunder of churning hooves growing. The Knights stared silently at that magnificent charge, until Jhessail cursed and tried to slither out from between the boots of the two priests.
"Stand fast," Doust snapped. "I have a spell that should turn aside the horses, if it looks like they'll ride right over us. Gods, look at them come!"
It was a scene right out of a fireside tale. Three ranks or more of mounted armsmen were all galloping shoulder to shoulder, armor gleaming and swords out. Two bore banners on long lances-and as they drew nearer, the bullyblades wildly shouting and hauling on reins as they tried to wrestle their own mounts out into the road, those lances lowered to menace the road before them with long, glittering tips.
Brorn took one look at those sharp points and the number of grim Dragons riding hard behind them, and he bellowed something the Knights didn't quite understand.
The bullyblades did, though. In the space of a swift breath they were galloping, too, fleeing east along the road with Brorn at their head and leaving the Knights-and their own bowmen, one of whom burst out of the trees to try to run after them ere he realized his peril and ducked out of sight again-behind, abandoned in swirling road dust.
Steldurth was at the rear of the bullyblades, spitting a steady stream of curses. He gave the Knights a glare as he spurred past, but-perhaps deterred by Semoor's ready mace and eager grin- didn't lean out from his saddle to try to carve anyone with his sword.
The Knights watched the hooves of Steldurth's mount rising and falling in the dust, as he and the rest of the bullyblades dwindled eastward.
Then the Dragons were upon them and thundering past in a racing horde of hooves, streaming manes and tails, and flashing armor.
There were six ranks of them-more than thirty riders, in all, with uncomfortable-looking war wizards bouncing on saddles in their midst-and the later ranks started to slow as they swept past the Knights, descending from gallop to canter and then to a trot, ere they started to circle back. Several Dragons sprang from their saddles, hefted their swords, and plunged into the trees, obviously seeking the bowmen. One of the war wizards, his reins held by Purple Dragons riding on either side of him, cast some sort of spell that made lights flare brightly amid the trees. Those lights moved swiftly and stumbled and cursed, running blindly into trees or branches until the Dragons reached them-and their running and cursing swiftly ceased.