Cormyr c-1, page 44
part #1 of Cormyr Series
Chapter 31: Loyalties
Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)
“Our shy crown princess certainly showed some fire,” Rhauligan remarked, raising his glass to his companion in the Snout Room. “I guess we’ll just have to get a stool into her hand more often.”
“As she governs Cormyr, you mean?” Emthrara responded with a smile, clinking her glass gently against his.
Rhauligan nodded. “I’m getting just a trifle too old for such frantic scramblings as this morning’s little fray.”
“You’re getting just a trifle too fat, you mean,” Emthrara replied, shaking her head to tell an approaching patron that she wasn’t interested in dancing just now. The man held up three golden lions hopefully, but she continued to shake her head. He raised his eyebrows and pressed on through the crowded Roving Dragon in search of a lady who’d say yes. Rhauligan watched, the patron’s trip was not a long one.
“At least the threat to the throne is ended,” he said, licking his lips and gazing into his glass appreciatively.
“This threat to the throne is ended,” the Harper corrected him. “There’ll be others, knowing our valiant nobles.”
In a place much darker and quieter than the Roving Dragon, where two hallways met in a little-used back corner of the sprawling royal court, a young, cleft-chinned nobleman stood talking to nothing, keeping his voice low.
“I’ll ask you the same thing I asked Vangerdahast and Gaspar Cormaeril,” Immaril Emmarask, cousin to the now-deceased Ensrin, said calmly. “What’s in it for me?”
“Loyalty to Cormyr?” the woman’s voice came back to him. “A bright future for the realm?”
Immaril shrugged. “Grand goals, bandied about all too much by folk seeking justification for small and dirty things they want done right now. Offer me something I can have and hold for my loyalty.”
“A typical noble son of Cormyr,” said the voice that came out of the small, whirling cluster of winking lights.
Immaril shrugged again. “I prefer to see myself as slightly more honest than most. I don’t bother to hide the same feelings that drive most of my fellows. We see others enjoying wealth and power in return for things done, or silences kept, for the crown. Why should we not have the same things?”
“Why indeed? If I fill your hand with rubies right now, will you serve me?”
Immaril hesitated. “I need to know just a bit more about you first. Am I hitching myself to a lich righting age-old wrongs? Or a dragon seeking an even more ancient revenge on the realm? Or a Red Wizard seeking to gather an entire kingdom of slaves? Or some other archmage, out to smash a realm for mere entertainment?”
“This is something it would be better if you did not know,” the voice told him, “but let us share a few secrets. Tell me who stands with Vangerdahast, and I’ll tell you whatnot who-I am.”
“Fair enough,” Immaril said, glancing around. “The Dauntinghorns-most of them-the Rowanmantles, the Rallyhorns, the Skatterhawks, the Immerdusks, The Wintersuns, the Wyvernspurs, the Indimbers… and House Indesm.”
“Hmmm,” the voice commented, “that certainly seems like a muster of all the far-flung and obscure household names among the nobility.”
Immaril shrugged. “Many are country squires and come to the court once a year at most. Most of the city nobles, the true nobles of Cormyr, stand against Vangerdahast. As a group, they are greedy or stupid enough to think that they can trust each other and rule the realm better than an Obarskyr backed by all the war wizards. The recent and sudden demise of Ondrin Dracohorn should be proof enough to even the most stone-headed that they cannot, but a lot of us believe what we want to believe and not what the world shows us to be the truth.” He raised his voice a trifle and said, “And I believe it’s my turn to be shown some truth now. What are you?”
“A human woman skilled in magic.”
“So much is obvious. I expected something more than what has already been established.”
“Fair enough,” the voice from the lights said. “Know, then, that I once shared King Azoun’s bed, and-“
“Had a son by him,” Immaril said calmly, “which is why you want all the Obarskyrs slain. Lady, so much is also already apparent. I trust you know that approximately half the Cormyrean noble sons of my age are reputed to have been fathered by our Purple Dragon?”
There was a little silence, and the voice was distinctly colder when it came back to him. “I have heard something of the sort. How many nobles will have to die, then?”
“Lady,” Immaril said gravely, “you can’t have enough rubies to manage all those killings. Besides, I myself am said to be Az-“
The bolt of roaring white death that snapped from the winking lights then left only drifting white ashes and a sharp burnt smell at the place where the two hallways met. An instant later, the little group of whirling lights flickered, faded, and was gone.
When the Purple Dragon sword captain Lareth Gulur came striding along a minute later, his sword half drawn and peering about for whatever might have caused the roaring sound, all that remained was the reek of fiery death. He stopped, sniffed, frowned, and shook his head. More magic. Someone-or two dueling combatants, perhaps-had died here.
He’d never thought the court in Suzail would become a more dangerous place than the battlefields of the Tuigan Horde. But it had. Perhaps it was time to retire and settle down in one of the quieter dales and brew beer. Gulur sighed and went back to his post. He knew he’d never leave this land, whatever happened. He just hoped his bones wouldn’t soon be tossed into some pit in Cormyrean soil. He wanted to see the realm at peace again before he died.
*
Dauneth Marliir gasped and reeled as his descending sword suddenly came alive with sparks from end to end. He was still trembling helplessly when the young man with the glass in his hand set it down on a side table, loped to him, and removed his sword, then kicked the front door shut and took Dauneth’s throat in the crook of one elbow.
Vangerdahast, smiling faintly, said, “Two daggers at his belt and one in his left boot.”
Deft fingers plucked out the indicated weapons and tossed them away. They landed with steely slidings atop the discarded blade, and Giogi Wyvernspur said pleasantly to his prisoner, “Come and sit down. Cat’ll-oh, have you met my wife, Lady Cat Wyvernspur? Sorry, should’ve introduced you straightaway-Cat’ll be most upset if Vangey has to fry you with some spell or other. Tends to ruin the furniture and leave nasty stains and whatnot.”
“Unhand me!” Dauneth snarled, struggling to get his breath. He drove a vicious elbow backward, but it seemed to strike some sort of tingling barrier.
“Ah, ah,” Giogi reproved him. “Play nice.”
“Wizard!” Dauneth roared, ignoring his captor and trembling with a rage that suddenly threatened to consume him, “You have betrayed your king, the crown, and Cormyr! You have brought the realm to the brink of war!”
The Royal Magician raised his eyebrows. “There is a fire in our young nobles that I sometimes wish could be kept alive as they grow older-and much wiser. Still, I’m pleased to see that you can distinguish between the differing calls of monarch, rulership, and realm. Very few of your fellow bluebloods can. I assure you, Dauneth Marliir-son of a family which has demonstrated expertise in determining loyalties, to be sure-that I am acting for the betterment of all three.”
“Spare me your lies,” Dauneth spat as Giogi sat him down in a chair, smiled like the gracious host he was, and wordlessly offered Dauneth a glass of wine.
The young noble struck it sharply upward, so that its contents splashed into Giogi’s face. He then launched himself across the room, tearing out the dagger from its sheath in his sleeve, a dagger that Vangerdahast did not know of.
Lady Wyvernspur rose, lifting her hands and starting to mutter words, but Dauneth had already looped one long arm around the Royal Magician of Cormyr and brought his dagger to the old man’s throat.
It struck some sort of barrier, and fire blazed from it. Dauneth ignored the sudden heat and pressed it in harder.
“Desist, young Marliir. I have no interest in slaying a loyal son of Cormyr.”
The pain was excruciating now. Dauneth leaned into it with all the strength in his shoulders and snarled, “If such a great threat to the realm I love is destroyed, the loss of my own life will be worthwhile and gladly given!”
“Gods, I wish I heard such heartfelt words from more men of Cormyr!” said an admiring voice from somewhere off to the left. Dauneth raised his eyes from watching his dagger tip turn slowly red, inches from the wizard’s hairy, scrawny old throat, and saw a single, shadowy form standing in an inner doorway. The watcher took a step forward and smiled, and as the lamplight fell across his face, Dauneth gasped and dropped his dagger. His hands slowly fell away from the wizard, who rubbed his nose, shook himself, and went straight to the wine bottle on the side table where Giogi-who was wiping at a nose that still dripped wine-had left it.
“You’re getting old, Vangey,” the man at the doorway said gravely.
“Old and forgetful,” Vangerdahast replied, raising the bottle and not bothering with a glass. “Perhaps I should start considering my own replacement, eh?”
Dauneth was staring at the man by the door. When he could finally speak, he asked, “But-but-if you’re here, then what’s going on at the court? Who’s trying to rule Cormyr?”
“A lot of folk, lad,” the Royal Magician said with a smile. “A lot of folk. The reasons lie in the past, but to see the unfolding of their fruit, we must adjourn to the palace. Bring your sword. By now they’ll all be waiting for us there.”
Chapter 32: Gondegal
The Year of the Dragon (1352 DR)
The watch fires burned in a rough crescent along the hilltops south of Arabel. Each fire marked a thousand men, Purple Dragons, local militiamen, adventuring bands, and mercenaries. All were poised and ready for the assault on the rebellious city, come the dawn.
Mabel itself lay like a sparkling gem against a dark and dusty field of paddocks, tilled fields, and caravan grounds. Within its walls, the city blazed with light-the light of its own watch fires, of torches and lanterns, and of candles and magical radiances. Despite their shine, the surrounding watch fires would be visible in the city like a row of low, reddish stars. Neither the people in the city nor in the camps were getting much sleep this evening.
In the largest camp, the king’s pavilion rose like a hulking purple mountain against the stars. Beneath its highest peak, the war leaders were gathered. Paunchy Baron Thomdor and balding Duke Bhereu anchored one end of the table, their faces hard twins of concern. Aside from a narrow aisle left bare along either side of the table, the room was crowded with chairs occupied by mercenary captains, militia leaders, and war wizards. Their attention was on the long, linen-covered table littered with papers, messages, reports, and diagrams. In the center of its clutter, wrought by magic but appearing as if sculpted of alabaster, was a three-dimensional model of Arabel itself.
At the table’s head, in a low, carved throne of duskwood, sat King Azoun IV himself, seventy-first of the Obarskyr line, face furrowed, hand reflectively stroking his beard. The Royal Magician, Vangerdahast, stood to one side of his liege. He was the only one presently on his feet, and when he was addressing the gathered commanders, he would stalk the length of the table. For the moment, he stood bent over Azoun’s right shoulder, looking every bit like the king’s pet raven, perching.
“We know he’s in there?” said the king, eyeing the sparkling white model of the caravan city.
“He, his men, and those who have flocked to his banner in the past three months,” Thomdor replied grimly. His forces had spent those three months chasing the self-styled bandit king over most of northern Cormyr. Eight days ago their prey had alighted in Mabel, crowned himself Gondegal I with a crown snatched from a Sembian tomb, and dared any other man to take that crown from him.
No one knew Gondegal’s origin, though he claimed the blood of kings ran in his veins. One thing was certain, as even Thomdor had to admit: He was a determined and charismatic leader of men. Time and again the baron had drawn up for an attack, only to have the forces he faced melt away into the fog and the forest. And with every near defeat, Gondegal’s legend grew, and with those exciting tales had grown his supporters. On the first of the year, he was unknown. Now, three weeks after Midsummer Eve, he had encouraged Arabel to revolt once more and made it the seat of his own nascent empire.
In his declaration, Gondegal had laid out his new, nameless kingdom as running from the Wyvernwater northeast to Tilver’s Gap, and from the desert of Anauroch southeast deep into Sembian territory. In reality, he ruled only as far as his sword would reach from the saddle of his ever-moving war-horse, but that did not lessen the effrontery of his demands. The Purple Dragon would not allow half its territory to suddenly cleave to a new ruler… even one as charismatic as Gondegal.
That declaration had been seven days ago, and for seven days, Mabel had held its breath as the “new king” readied his defenses. For seven days, the forces of loyal Cormyr, bolstered by allies who stood to lose land to Gondegal’s kingdom, tightened the net around Mabel.
“Whoever he is, he’s served in uniform somewhere,” said Duke Bhereu, pointing to the alabaster model of the city. “He’s worked wonders in a handful of days. All three gates have been fortified, and he’s built outrider towers to cut off blind spots along the walls. Guard patrols have been doubled, water taken in from rivers in every jug and cask for miles around, and ballistae have been spotted in the major towers! This is no uprising of frustrated merchants, this foe knows his business.”
“And all he need do is hang on to the city long enough to cement his hold on it, and he has us,” added the baron grimly. “He literally only has to repel the initial assault. If we settle into a long siege, we’ll be hurting Mabel itself.”
“And what of the people of the city?” asked the king.
“Mabel has revolted so many times before that they have it down to an art form,” said the duke bitterly. “The merchant livestock and caravans have been pulled north, and the paddocks are empty. Gondegal will likely have mages in the outbuildings, or missile-armed troops. Most of the townspeople have emptied their basements and are willing to wait out the duration there. The temples have been stockpiling food and water for a long time, it seems, and triple guards stand over all the wells.”
One of the mercenary captains, a rough barbarian from the lands north of Phlan, broke in with a snarl.
“Bah! Then let us burn this ready fortress to the ground and slaughter all within its walls. Let their pyre be a warning to others who might think to thwart your king’s will!”
A silence descended on the table as if a lid had banged closed. Vangerdahast broke away from the throne and drifted down along the table until he stood next to the barbarian captain. The mercenary looked to other faces for support but found none. All he saw was shock and indignation.
Vangerdahast put a heavy hand on the barbarian’s shoulder. “The reason,” he said, pressing down with a grip like the tightening gauntlet of an armored giant, “is that the folk in that city are Cormyreans, regardless of who leads them. They will be treated as loyal citizens of the realm until such time as they choose to actually raise arms against the Purple Dragon.”
“But if they are in rebellion, haven’t they…?” asked the mercenary wincing, his words cut short by the increasing pressure on his shoulder.
“They are our people,” said the wizard through clenched teeth. “Half the army would desert if they had to fight their own brothers and cousins. We will treat them accordingly.”
He released the mercenary captain, who exhaled and rubbed his shoulder. The mage had more power in his hands than mere wizardry.
“As has been said, Mabel rebels with astounding regularity,” said the king softly. “Yet it has always returned to the shelter of the Purple Dragon’s wings. One thing the long history of this land has taught my family is that creating grudges only perpetuates our difficulties.”
He met the eyes of the mercenary captain and added, “Let me remind everyone present that this attack is no excuse for pillaging and looting. No one is to set any fires except by order. If the person fleeing from your sword is a civilian, he is a target you will not strike at, molest, or maim ‘accidentally.’ I’ll consider that clearly understood by all of you, see that your men also clearly understand the punishment they’ll face if they forget such things.”
One of the militia leaders piped up. “Can’t we convince just one of these loyal Arabellans to open the gates for us?”
The king shook his head. “They are cowed by Gondegal’s swords and his popularity. Once battle is joined and we rout a few of his stalwart swords, the populace will rise on our side, but for the moment, all of them are lying low. The folk here are fickle, but dependably so.”
One of the wizards asked, “What about the noble houses? Have they thrown in with Gondegal?”
Bhereu spoke up in reply. “A few of the minor houses have, the Immerdusks and Indesms being the most prominent. The Marliirs, the largest Arabellan house, have remained loyal. Most who bear that proud name are under house arrest now, keeping a few of Gondegal’s troops busy guarding prisoners rather than manning the walls.”
“Most of what we know about what’s going inside has come from the Marliirs,” added Thomdor. “Magical reconnaissance has been largely ineffective.”
“On that note,” said the king, “this is the battle plan for the morrow.”
Vangerdahast nodded and waved his hands. A series of purplish blocks appeared on the table, outside the walls of the model city. As the wizard spoke, the blocks moved toward the walls.
“The militia will form on the left flank and mount a feint attack on the High Horn Gate and northwest wall, while the mercenaries will make a sally against the South Gate, more to draw fire and force a committal of defenders than to earnestly take the gate. The bulk of the army, on the right flank, will move along the long southern wall. The intent is to make Gondegal’s forces think the bulk of our army is moving to the East Gate, to attack there. In fact, the forces under the duke will move farthest east, the forces under the king will stand to the center, and the forces commanded by the baron will assemble at the western end of the front.”
