Death of the Dragon - Ed Greenwood [64]
"Swordlord," Azoun said evenly, "are your wits still about you?"
Ethin Glammerhand was sweating like a river, and a muscle was working on one side of his jaw, rippling in endless, uncontrolled spasms, but his voice was steady enough as he replied, "I-I think so, my liege."
The king drew his sword and said, "Bring all of the mages and priests to me, speedily if you think they are as stricken as these men here. Use any officers you can trust to disarm and truss those doing harm to others. Worry not about chasing those who flee into the forest."
"Forthwith, Your Majesty," the swordlord snapped, and leaped away into the confusion of shouting, staggering men with a stream of bellowed orders. The sound of his voice seemed to steady some of the demented, but Azoun had eyes only for the war wizard standing beside him, and the point of his blade was raised and ready.
"Arkenfrost?" he barked.
The Lord Mage smiled thinly. "I believe my wits are unaffected, Majesty," he said. "In answer to your query, we can be standing beside the Dragon Queen in the space of two breaths. If I must now use magic to heal or quell maddened or injured clergy or mages, it will of course take longer to be elsewhere."
Azoun grimaced rather than grinning. "You're as sound as any of us, I guess."
Glammerhand was already trudging back toward them, head swinging constantly from side to side as he shot glances around at the tumult of men among the trees. "If any of the holy men or the mages were affected, Majesty, they've recovered speedily and thoroughly enough to conceal their afflictions entirely from me."
"Can you handle those affected without us?"
"With all respect, Your Majesty," the swordlord growled, "I can do so better if I need not watch and worry for the king's safety."
"Get gone, then?"
Ethin Glammerhand's frowning face split in a real smile. "Eloquently put, my liege."
Azoun gave him an answering smile, sheathed his blade, and turned to the waiting lord mage. "Arkenfrost?"
The war wizard inclined his head, and reached forward his hand to touch Azoun's wrist. "To the queen," he murmured and cast his spell.
The world was suddenly a place of blue roiling mists, shot through with lightninglike flickers of brighter, lighter blue, through which Azoun was endlessly falling… but suddenly on solid ground-or rather, somewhere that moved underfoot, as warm and fetid as a slaughterhouse charnel pit, all rotting meat and damp rushing air. Somewhere slippery.
Shaking his head to clear his eyes of the after-daze, Azoun clung to the reassuring firmness of the sword in his hand, and crouched low, trying to listen, and keep his balance. He seemed to be somewhere dark and warm that was rapidly getting darker.
Abruptly he realized that the dark bulk immediately in front of him was a gigantic tooth, long and sharp, and that it was one of a line of teeth. He was in the mouth of a huge creature, standing on a tongue that was rising under his boots like an inexorable wave, to hurl him forward into the reach of those clashing fangs! Arkenfrost was already tumbling ahead of him. Gods preserve-they were in the mouth of the dragon!
The fangs drew back, Azoun's world suddenly brightening, and an instant later the King of Cormyr was plunging helplessly forward, borne on the reeking wind of the dragon's breath. In a moment those cruel teeth would clash down, and he'd be cut in two or crushed.
Shuddering, the Most Royal Flower of the Obarskyrs kicked out hard against the slippery tongue, tumbled crazily forward until his boots struck a fang, and sprang away. Teeth crashed down, someone screamed, and the king was suddenly in utter darkness and awash in stinging fluid-fluid that seared like flame, and swiftly acquired the iron reek of fresh human blood. Arkenfrost was probably now dead.
The dragon's teeth parted again, light flooded in around the king, and Azoun flung himself between them, out into the brightness beyond.
He was