Death of the Dragon - Ed Greenwood [121]
Azoun Obarskyr lay with his eyes closed and his mouth twisted in pain, his limbs moving restlessly. Tendrils of smoke from the black blood of the dragon rose from him, and his armor was crumpled into ruin above one hip, and entirely bitten away above the other, all along his flank, which was dark and wet with blood. Wherever his breast was dry of blood, it was dark with the ash left by dragon-fire.
Men were hastening up on all sides, now.
"He needs healing," Lord Steelmar Tolon gasped, finding his feet, "but we must get him into the tent before half a hundred archers start spreading word that they've seen him lying dead. Take his other arm… under the shoulders…"
"What're you doing?" Battlemaster Ilnbright roared, as the two lords staggered upright, Azoun hanging limply between them.
"To the tent!" Lord Braerwinter snarled. "Get him some healing-now!"
"You can't just-"
"Well, we are," Lord Tolon roared, in a voice even louder than the battlemaster's bellow. "Get out of the way or die!"
He held up the hand in a menacing fist and his ring winked. Ilnbright, not knowing for certain what that ring did, fell back, face black with rage, then turned and shouted for priests.
"Bring me healers!" he roared. "Every holy man on this field, whatever his rank or protests. Haste!"
The ring on Tolon's finger winked again, and the battlemaster fell silent, blinking in surprise. The ring's magic had carried his shout miles distant, in a great and terrible roar. All over the field Purple Dragons were on the move, snatching up robed men by the elbows and collars.
"Bring the king's sword," Lord Braerwinter said to the astonished officer. "A warrior feels better if he can hold his blade."
Still blinking, Battlemaster Ilnbright bent over and meekly scooped up Azoun's mighty warsword.
* * * * *
A little later, two weary lords staggered through the grim ring of archers, ignoring the hard eyes that watched them go down the hill. The dragon had not come again, but if it did, the army of Cormyr would be ready. A splayed forest of shafts rose from the ground in front of each bowman, and the archers were standing almost elbow to elbow, all around the height where the royal tent rose.
"There," Braerwinter murmured, pointing at the little hollow where the king had sat.
Alusair's blackened helm still lay there. Tolon bent and picked it up as the two men sat down together, back to back so as to be able to see anyone approach, and in unison thrust their fingers under their gorgets to pluck forth pendants.
Hidden on the backs of those pendants were clasps akin to the weathercloak clasps that war wizards bore. Etched beside each was a tiny symbol, the badge of Filfaeril, the Dragon Queen, whom Braerwinter and Tolon had served now for many years. Laspeera had laid longspeaking enchantments on them that even Vangerdahast-or so it was said-knew nothing about.
"Lady Queen," Braerwinter murmured, picturing the cold beauty of the lady they both served-and loved, "there is no gentle way to say this. His majesty has fought the dragon, and lies sorely wounded. The wyrm is fled, the orcs lie slain, and we hold the field against hosts of goblins still. They advance again, as we speak. More, the dragon came down on the Princess Alusair, and she is feared lost, with all who served under her. We gave the king all the healing magic we carried, ghazneths or no, for many healers have died already this day, but, your Highness, our potions seemed to do nothing to help him. I know not how much longer he has to live. He lies in his tent, atop the first hill north of Calantar's Bridge, just east of the Way. More priests are coming, but if you could send hence the mightiest clergy…
They both heard the gasp that came from Filfaeril's distant lips before she replied, her voice very steady, You've done well, I doubt not, and my thanks for this news, dark though it be. Guard my lord, both of you, and yourselves. Cormyr will have more need of you, soon.
"We hear and obey," the two lords chanted in unison, not falling to hear the sob that escaped the queen's