Cormyr c-1, page 45
part #1 of Cormyr Series
Small blocks detached the from the larger ones and swept around the city to east and west. “Light cavalry will break off at this point and cut off both east and west gates, to provide an impediment should Gondegal’s forces choose to bolt. They will include a few war wizards. Our main body of forces will hold the majority of our mages, the baron, the duke, and His Majesty.”
A series of small flashes appeared along the southern wall, in front of the largest block. “The war wizards will bring down the wail in this area with lightning bolts and instruments of blasting. There is a potential for severe damage in the buildings immediately north of the wall, so while the first wave secures the area, the forces who are to penetrate the city must get past any ruin and move swiftly. Later we can examine the fallen buildings for survivors.”
“Goodbye, Wink and Kiss,” muttered Thomdor, thinking of his favorite tavern, located on the far side of the wall that was to be breached.
“With the walls blown,” the wizard continued, “the main force will split up. Thomdor’s men will take the South Gate and let the mercenaries in, together, they are to cleanse the breached area of hostile troops and hold it-in particular, holding any relatively unblocked streets and emptying the buildings along those streets, in case a route of retreat is needed. Bhereu’s forces will enter the city and move to the East Gate, to take it-but even more importantly, to contain any enemy troops mustered there. The king will lead the main body across the city, to the Citadel of Mabel, to surround it and to try to force its gates. If we surprise them and move swiftly enough, it is likely we’ll snare most of Gondegal’s army in the city proper, before they can regroup at the Citadel.”
“And if they do manage to gather at the Citadel?” asked the mercenary captain.
“Gondegal can hold out in Mabel indefinitely,” said the king. “But unless he has substantially more food, plans, and men than we think he does, he cannot hold the Citadel for long if we hold the city around it. The signals you already know, pass on the orders to your subordinates and let all see to their weapons and prayers. We’ll march before the sun crests the horizon and launch the attack at dawn.”
A messenger in bright mail arrived to say the allied Sembian troops had arrived and were already complaining about their accommodations. The king smiled thinly and declared the meeting at an end. Chairs scraped and men rose, talk rising in the usual babble, the Purple Dragon pointed at his two cousins and at the wizard. They remained as the others went out.
“A solid plan,” said the king.
“Working with your suggestions,” the wizard said, “mated to the thinking written down in the court war files. There are table-sized piles of plans for attacking Mabel. Even during years of peace, it was a common practice for military scholars to attack a model Mabel with tin knights and dice.”
Azoun glanced at the city model, then folded his hands before him and steepled his fingers. “The question is,” he said slowly, “what happens afterward?”
“General amnesty,” Thomdor replied.
“We get Gondegal and his chief subordinates and hang them for their crimes, then use the treasure he’s looted for reparations,” added Bhereu.
“Troops will remain in Arabel, ostensibly to repair the wall,” said Vangerdahast, “but should remain thereafter in any case. Mabel is a frontier outpost. It should have sufficient protection.”
“Agreed,” said the king. “Cousin Thomdor, you will head up the Purple Dragon forces based here afterward, much as Bhereu controls the High Horn forces.” Both cousins nodded.
“What of the nobles?” asked the wizard.
“What of them?” asked the king.
“The talk in the court lays the weakness in Arabel at the collective feet of the Marliirs,” said the Royal Magician.
“All we know of Gondegal’s preparations has come from the Marliirs,” Thomdor said with a frown. “Old Jolithan Marliir risked a pair of daughters as messengers.”
“The Marliirs are not to blame,” said Azoun. “If anything, our own complacency brought us to this pass, wherein a charismatic impostor king can raise an army in a fortnight and seize a city in a season.”
“True, but you know court politics,” Vangerdahast replied. “Bleth, in particular, has reminded me of his contribution to this venture and of his great interest in seeing the Marliirs fail and a ‘true’ Cormyrean family have their seat in the city. Lord Bleth wants it badly.”
“Lord Bleth will have to he disappointed, then,” said the king. “My cousins are right. It would be unfair to punish the Marliirs after they risked so much for us. Besides, if I install a Bleth or anyone else who still thinks ‘true Cormyreans’ means born and raised in Suzail, I’ll have another revolution on my hands before the decade is out. Anything else?”
There was nothing else, and the king retired to his personal tent while the two cousins peered at every detail of the white stone model, pointing and plotting. Vangerdahast left them to it and wandered to the southern edge of the camp, away from the city.
Here the posted guards were widely spaced and the shadows between the fires deeper and larger. Night held sway, however many swords were gathered under it. He waited, counting the stars in the southern sky.
After about ten minutes, a voice hissed from the darkness. “Black sword.”
“Meets green shield,” the wizard replied.
“To make red war,” the darkness responded and broke away from the shadows to stand before the wizard. One of Vangerdahast’s spies. Let the royal cousins depend on nobles for information. Any wizard worth his cantrips had his own methods and his own servants.
The spy was a young woman in dark cape and leathers. Nothing gleamed upon her save an oversized golden ring on one hand. Her dagger sheaths, one on each hip, were wrapped in dark leather. Her face was soft and cherubic. “My lord wizard,” she said, “I bear news.”
“Speak,” said Vangerdahast.
“Gondegal is gone,” she replied, almost chirping.
“Gone? How so?”
“Vanished, faded away, evaporated with the summer dew,” the spy said happily.
“How comes this to you?” asked Vangerdahast.
“Through one of his captains,” said the girl, “or rather, one of the sword captains he left behind. Gondegal, a half dozen of his closest aides, and the treasure he’s pillaged for the past three months, all have suddenly gone missing from the Citadel. The surviving captains have their collective undergarments in the proverbial knot over this, but for all their hunting about the city, uproof and downcellar, there is no sign of their heroic master.”
“And what are their plans in the absence of their leader?” asked Vangerdahast, smiling in the darkness.
“The mages who allied themselves with Gondegal have already left the city by their own powers. The remaining leadership is split, but the larger faction supports freeing the Marliirs to plead for mercy with the king on their behalf.”
Vangerdahast patted his wide belly with both hands. “Return to the city, then, and pass this message on to the Marliirs: There will be a general amnesty, provided the gates are thrown open to the king at the first approach of his forces. Gondegal’s men should be waiting, unarmored and unarmed, at the base of the Citadel. The king will pardon all who are there but hunt down the rest to their deaths. Can you get that message back?”
“Without a doubt,” said the spy. “I go.”
“In good fortune,” the wizard murmured and watched her fade back into the darkness. His eyes never could follow her far. Gazing into the night, Vangerdahast permitted himself a broad smile.
Then, mastering his face and emotions, he turned and strode back to the king’s pavilion.
As before, Gondegal had chosen to run rather than fight. But this time he’d left a city behind, a city that would laud the arriving king as a savior and forever crush the bandit king’s hopes for an empire. Not a bad little war. Mabel regained and its loyalty ensured for the next generation, with not a drop of blood shed.
They’d have to check with the outriders, of course, but the wizard believed his spy. There would be no report of any horsemen fleeing the city, no signs of any foul play among Gondegal’s supporters, no bodies turning up mysteriously. And in the morning, they’d form up as planned, in full array, and go ahead-but instead of death and falling walls, the gates to Mabel would be swung wide, and the city would be spared. The king would get flowers instead of swords.
But best to tell Azoun alone about this, the wizard reasoned. If a surrender did not occur, the army of Cormyr would have to proceed with the attack. Men braced to fight would respond well to celebration, but men expecting a surrender would not be ready for battle.
Vangerdahast’s route took him through the wide circle of outward-facing Purple Dragons, who passed him through with silent nods of recognition. He proceeded around the pavilion and along the back of the king’s private tent. The low light within cast the shadow of the royal occupant onto the canvas-no, two occupants’ shadows, sithouettes moving and merging. Through the tent walls, he heard gasps, heavy breathing, and soft sighs.
The wizard cursed to himself. Even on the eve of battle, in the middle of an armed camp, Azoun could not keep his Obarskyr blood from boiling over. There had been enough misadventures over the years to teach any king a little prudence, but the hardheaded kings of Cormyr never seemed able to care about the danger inherent in trysts.
Vangerdahast circled the tent. A single guard was posted before the hoop-arch tunnel that led to its door.
The noise and shadows were not obvious from this side, facing the crowded camp, and the wizard thanked Tymora for the king’s good sense-or blind luck-in choosing his bedroll spot. The guard was fresh-faced and young, a new conscript from some country town.
“Tell the king to contact me as soon as he is done,” the Royal Magician said in a loud, brisk voice, then lowered his tones and added, “And see that the young woman is escorted quickly and quietly from the campground as well.”
The youngster goggled at the elder wizard as if he had suddenly spoken of flying dogs.
“Done?” asked the youth, his voice cracking. “His Majesty was retiring for the evening and dismissed me from his quarters. There was no woman there then, and none have passed me since!”
Vangerdahast looked at the boy but could discern no lie on that set, firm, loyal face. He peered to the right, and the guard turned to look that way as well. With a snarl, the wizard brushed past the guard on his left, and the confused youngster snapped a quick protest and then trotted into the tent after the wizard’s fast-moving back.
The king’s personal sleeping quarters were at the back of the tent, behind a fabric screen that muffled both sound and light. The wizard burst through these and cursed at the sight.
King Azoun was lying on the raised divan he always used on campaign, his armor and robes both set aside. Astride him was a woman who wore an open red gown and not much else. She had one hand raised-and that hand bore a bone dagger, ready to plunge into the king’s chest.
Vangerdahast’s curse slid into a snapped spell-simple magic, quickly effected. A gust of air filled the tent, booming its sides outward and hurling the red wizardess from her perch.
The wizardess was on her feet in a moment with the grace of a panther, backing away from the divan toward the edges of the tent, keeping Azoun between herself and the wizard. The young guard had the presence of mind to snatch at his belt whistle and sound an alert.
“A murder is foiled,” said the wizardess, “but a greater theft has been made.” She put her hands on her hips and smiled at Vangerdahast. “Tell your king that Thay thanks him for his gift.”
Vangerdahast pointed at the woman, and spears of blue fire lanced out at her. She shouted some brief words, then became a swirling, fading mist. The magical missiles scorched tent fabric or seared grass, and shouts arose from the guards.
Suddenly angry Purple Dragons with swords in their hands were running into the tent from all directions, shouting, “The king! The king!”
A sudden, silent flash of light made them halt and blink. Its source was the belt of the Royal Magician.
“Men of Cormyr!” he snapped. “I order you, in the name of Azoun, to stop trampling the king’s gear and forthwith search the camp and the grounds around, moving out as far and as fast as your legs can carry you. Look for a sorceress in a red gown, bring her back alive if you can, but bring her back. A Thayvian-tall, barefoot, long black hair! Take custody of any woman in camp that you do not recognize as one of this company, bring all such to the pavilion. Go!”
They’d find nothing, Vangerdahast knew, but at least their departure would let him get a look at Azoun before it might be too late. Men in armor streamed around the wizard for a moment, and then he was alone with the king.
Azoun seemed unharmed, but mazed in his mind, not seeing the wizard bent over him and mumbling when shaken. The effects of a magical charm.
Vangerdahast touched the brow of his sovereign with his fingertips and muttered words that should unwind any spell in the Thayvian arsenal.
King Azoun IV grunted, grimaced, and grabbed at his forehead. The shattering of his thrall apparently bestowed a cranial punishment akin to a hangover.
“What-what happened?” the king muttered, blinking in the lantern light.
“A Thayvian assassin,” Vangerdahast announced. “She’s been driven off.”
“She?” asked the king, frowning. Then, slowly, he nodded. “She. Yes! She appeared out of nowhere, all shimmering robes and soft scents. She had a name. Brandy? Brannon? I thought she was a dream.”
“A nightmare,” Vangerdahast replied softly.
The king shook his head firmly. “I hate assassins. Apparently clearing out the Fire Knives was not enough. When we are done here, we’re going to have to outlaw assassins. And Red Wizards to boot!”
“But we’re not done here,” said the wizard softly, spreading a blanket over the tired monarch and calling to mind a spell of magical purification and another of shielding. “First Gondegal and Arabel. Then we’ll take on Red Wizards and assassins. We’ll take on anything that threatens the crown or Cormyr, whatever its origin. Trust me on this.”
The king smiled sleepily. “Good old Vangey. Trust me “
“Trust me on this,” said the fat wizard, his voice carrying the strength of iron. “As always.”
Chapter 33: At The Brink
Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)
The Hall of the Dragon Throne was one of the oldest parts of the court, Obarskyrs had walked here for more than a thousand years. Tall, fluted pillars ran down both sides of the lofty chamber, supporting a wooden gallery added by Palaghard in one of many renovations performed on the site over the years.
Between the lines of columns, in the open area that was usually crowded with murmuring courtiers, stood the great sealed stone tomb of Baerauble the Mage, its surface worn smooth by the touch of a million hands over the countless years. Facing it was the lowest step of the short, curving flight that led to the high dais.
On that bright-polished height stood two arch-backed chairs of state for the princesses of Cormyr, and between them the filigreed Throne of the Dragon Queen and the taller, simpler, far older Dragon Throne itself. All of them were empty.
“Why are we here, love?” Crown Princess Tanalasta asked, nestling against Aunadar’s shoulder. Something about their lovers’ stroll felt wrong. They had never come near the throne room before.
“Some folk are going to meet us here, and if all goes well, something important is going to happen,” Aunadar Bleth murmured. The dark-paneled doors partway down the room opened, and a group of young nobles strode in. Gaspar Cormaeril led them, and behind him, Tanalasta recognized Martin Illance, Morgaego Dauntinghorn, Reth Crownsilver, Cordryn Huntsilver, Braegor Truesilver, and others.
Tanalasta stood very still. “This has the look of a meeting of state,” she said and stepped quickly to a bellpull to summon guards. The cord came away in her hand and fell to the floor. It had been cut through with a sword. No alarm sounded.
“This is not right,” Tanalasta said, and three quick strides took her back to Aunadar, to pluck at his sleeve. “Aunadar! What’s happened? Why are we gathered here?”
“The road ahead for Cormyr must be chosen,” Aunadar said, turning to face the high dais, as if he expected more figures to suddenly appear there. “Your father has died,” he added shortly. “We think he died some time ago-and that foul wizard, our Royal Magician, hid that fact from us all, hoping to take the throne before you could be crowned.”
Tanalasta reeled and then clung to him, fighting down sudden tears. Azoun! Papa! Oh, merciless gods! Her mind flooded with memories of a smiling bearded face, hands gently helping her to toddle her first few steps, or sweeping her up onto a saddle so high that she shrieked in fear, or…
Aunadar must have known that the wizard was going to appear by the throne. He was watching, hard-faced, as the air shimmered and glowed on the broad step below the thrones where men knelt to be knighted and envoys to plead. When the light died away, three men stood on that step: the fat old Royal Magician of Cormyr, and on either side of him a grim noble holding a drawn sword. Lord Giogi Wyvernspur was on the wizard’s right, and young Dauneth Marliir on his left.
Tanalasta stared up at them through helpless tears.
What was going to happen? Was there going to be a fight?
She turned to ask Aunadar, only to discover that she stood alone. Her lover had walked back to stand with Gaspar Cormaeril and the other young nobles.
The crown princess looked from the trio by the throne to the confident line of nobility, and a sudden chill shook her. Father! she cried silently, come back! Cormyr needs you! I need you.
