Death of the Dragon - Ed Greenwood [72]
The source of the stolen sun flashed past overhead, beating dark wings. The dragon-a red dragon as large, or larger, than any he'd ever seen-was heading south in a hurry. Azoun grimly watched it go.
Something fell in its wake, something that had spun out of its jaws to hurtle to the ground forgotten.
Something that was plummeting down so close to Azoun that the dragon's forgetting it was a very good thing.
Azoun stood as still as any tree as the something crashed into the damp leaves, bounced once, then fell still. A little dust trailed away from where it had landed, but not enough to conceal from intent royal eyes what the forgotten detritus was. It was the bloody remnant of a human leg, still encased in a boot-a boot of the sort well-to-do Cormyrean courtiers wear when they must take to the country.
The king wondered which of his subjects this grim remnant had belonged to-and if a swift, but brutal death now was going to turn out to be a fortunate thing for a Cormyrean. An instant later, he was very glad he'd kept still and silent. Hoots and hissing chuckles-goblin mirth, without a doubt-arose from just ahead of him. The sound came from at least three sides, mingled with cries of "Nalavara!" and "Ardrak!" That last word, he knew, was "dragon" in some goblin tongues.
No lad or lass of Cormyr over about four winters of age thinks of the deep green forests as empty, private places. The tales they're told leave them in no doubt that the woods are more alive than even barley fields with no hawks or owls about to keep the mice down. They also know that if one is not to become hunted on any woodland journey, one must have stealth, wary alertness, and ready weapons. Yet in all but the most northerly reaches of the Forest Kingdom, goblins were a woodland rarity. Azoun allowed himself a soundless curse of astonishment. A sizeable band of the scuttling vermin must be just in front of him, very close by. They could only be in the woods on some sort of stealthy business… and that business, of course, could only be an intended ambush of the king's army.
Azoun Obarskyr had not played at being a forester since the most daring and pranksome days of his lass-chasing youth, but he sank down onto his knees in the soft forest moss as slowly and gently as any veteran woodsman. The lives of many Purple Dragons depended on how careful he was now. To say nothing of the life of just one Azoun Obarskyr IV.
Moreover, goblin noses and ears were keener than those of the human guards and others he'd fooled when he was younger, bolder, and more agile. He was, he hoped, just a little wiser now, so he waited until a good ten breaths after he heard the faintest rustling moving away from him before he followed. Then he crawled.
The rotting caused by the ghazneth was feeble now and would kill him as surely as a goblin blade if this took too long. Well, it would take as long as it took, that was all. The King of Cormyr wore caution like a cloak during the eternity of stealthy creeping that ensued, moving along with infinite care so as to keep the stealthily advancing goblin battle band always ahead of him.
Ahead, finally, to a place where he could hear the murmur of human voices, occasional heavy footfalls, and even the ring of an incautiously drawn blade. The goblins had led him back to his army… so that he could save it, if he handled this just right. Slowly, like a vengeful shadow, he drew himself to his feet, standing upright and throwing his head back to draw in the breath he knew he'd need. With but a single chance, this must be done just right.
"Araga?" a goblin throat hissed, not far away to his left. That, if his memory served, meant "Ready?"
Azoun decided not to wait for the answer. Filling his lungs, he roared as loudly as he could, "We've got them surrounded! Purple Dragons, attack!"
A ragged shriek of rage and dismay rose like a wall of wailing in his face. The King of Cormyr flung himself forward to the highest perch within reach-atop a moss-cloaked boulder-and