Death of the Dragon - Ed Greenwood [132]
"This can't go on forever," the war wizard muttered, after a seeming eternity measured by twenty-seven separate death screams. "The battle could sweep right up to us, and find us no more ready than so many helpless children."
As if his words had been a cue, the door hangings suddenly swirled and parted, held aside by the spears of two guards, who stepped into the tent and moved apart to allow someone to pass between them. The slightly stooped, stout figure in robes, who wore an iron crown on his head none of them had seen before, was otherwise familiar to all as Vangerdahast, the Royal Magician of Cormyr.
Azoun struggled to thrust himself up on his elbows and failed. The faintest of groans escaped from between set royal teeth.
The court wizard frowned and hastened forward. The sweat-streaked, working face before him opened pain-misted eyes for a moment, blinked, then stared. The king's mouth twisted into a crooked grin.
"Vangey!"
The court wizard winced-his love for that nickname had never been great-but replied with a smooth bow, "My liege. I live to serve you still, and am come with words you must hear without delay."
"Of course," Azoun replied airily, for all the world as if he was gesturing with a wine goblet at a revel and not lying on his back bleeding his life away. "I expected no less. How came you by yon crown?"
"That reply must wait," Vangerdahast said with a smile. He looked at the gathered priests, then gestured at the entrance.
No one moved, so he repeated the slow sweep of his pointing hand, clearing his throat and lowering his brows. The war wizard rose hastily, and the royal magician gave him an appreciative nod-which brought Eregar Abanther, Ready Hand of Tempus, a man known for neither slow wits nor pomposity, to his feet. Eregar made a low bow to the king, and departed.
Slowly the other clergy followed, their glacial responses tempered by their various desires to demonstrate the exaltitude of their rank or their lack of any need to obey a mere mage. When all others had risen, the war wizard almost had to thrust the high priest of Tymora out of his seat, but he settled for looming so close over him that Manarech Eskwuin clucked and sighed loudly-it was closer to a snarl-in disgust, before he shifted.
"Keep them ready, just outside," Vangerdahast commanded and barely waited for the mage to nod and leave before he leaned forward over the bed and murmured, "I've-"
The point of a sword swept in from beside the bed to hang, glittering-sharp, under the royal magician's nose. Vangerdahast straightened and favored the bodyguard holding it with a withering look, but the blade did not move.
"You may leave," he snapped, but the warrior's only move was to advance a step-as did his fellow Purple Dragon, on the other side of the royal bed, their weapons rising in unison to menace the royal magician.
Kings' Blades take orders only from their king. Not from a wizard wearing a crown they did not recognize, who might just be any mage using a spell to look like an old court wizard-the old court wizard they'd never liked much anyway-the wizard whose fingers, many said, had itched for years to take the crown of Cormyr onto his own head.
Their blades did not waver. Neither did Vangerdahast's glare.
Azoun tried to hide a smile, and failed. "Step outside, my loyal blades," he murmured, "but remain close and ready for my call."
The swords swept down. Their owners bowed to the king and shouldered past Vangerdahast-in the case of the Bannerguard to the King, Kolmin Stagblade, it was as if a moving mountain had brushed the wizard aside, sending him staggering helplessly back a pace or two. The ruler of all Cormyr and his old tutor were finally alone.
Vangerdahast cast a suspicious glance all