Death of the Dragon - Ed Greenwood [85]
Alusair turned a gaze on her father that had raging fire in it. Dauneth Marliir quickly turned away and became intensely interested in the nearest tapestry, trying to stop the trembling that seemed to have suddenly afflicted his hands. The last three days had been a waking nightmare. The sight of orcs raging through the streets was almost as bad as seeing Myrmeen Lhal, the Lady Lord of Arabel, lying white-faced and near death on a litter made of shields that were swimming with her spilled blood. She'd held off dozens of snortsnouts before falling under three black, hacking blades. Those blades had done cruel work before the nearest Purple Dragons could fight their way near enough to protect her… or what was left of her.
"Father," Alusair said at last, her voice quavering in anger, "let me say jus-"
"No," the king said flatly. "Words said cannot be unsaid. We lack the time right now for Alusair's temper, just as we can't spare it for many other things. Flay my ears later, lass, but for now, be as sensible, prudent, and calm as I hear you always are in battle."
Alusair's gasp of rage was almost a sob.
"Give me your wisdom," the king continued. "You alone know which of your men we can best put to defending this lane here or that section of the ramparts there. I need to know who the hotheaded heroes are so I can throw their lives away fighting in the streets, and who knows how to tend the sick, or remember fire buckets, or how to anticipate where orcs'll try to sneak to. Do you understand, girl?"
Dauneth clenched his fists until the knuckles went white, wishing he was anywhere but there. The silence stretched, and it seemed a very long time-until it ended, he didn't realize he was holding his breath-before Alusair said calmly, almost meekly, "Very well. You're right, Father. Turn around, Dauneth, and help us with these maps."
The High Warden of the Eastern Marches plucked an old mace and an even older shield down off the wall- almost every one of these older rooms in the Citadel boasted a dozen such relics, or more-as he turned around. He put on the shield, presented the mace to the princess, and said gently, "If you'll feel better after hitting someone…"
Alusair's eyes widened, something like savage glee leaping in her eyes. She hefted the mace and, to Dauneth's surprise, the Steel Princess threw back her head and laughed-as loud and as hearty a guffaw as any man's. Dauneth stood in confusion for a moment, noting the smile that rose to touch Azoun's lips, before Alusair returned the mace gently into his waiting hands.
"Well done, Warden," she said wryly. "Dense you're certainly not." She sighed and added, "But Arabel is still doomed."
"Your Highness," Dauneth murmured with a courtier's smooth half bow, "your eloquence has quite convinced me."
It was Azoun who snorted in involuntary mirth this time. "Enough sport," he growled a moment later. "Purple Dragons are dying out there." He strode to the barred doors that opened onto a balcony, and threw aside the bar.
"The maps?" Alusair ventured, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm through with maps for the moment," the king said shortly, laying his hands on the great wrought-iron door latch.
"Your Majesty," Dauneth cried warningly, "if there're ghazneths waiting out-"
"I believe I'd welcome a ghazneth about now," Azoun snarled over his shoulder, flinging the doors wide.
Nothing dark and powerful flapped at him, or reached out with claws for any of them, as the King of Cormyr strode out onto the old stone balcony to gaze out grimly over the Caravan City.
The balcony was high on the frowning west wall of the citadel. From the citadel to the western end of the city Arabel was either a battlefield or already in orc hands.
Orcish hoots and howls rose above the dirgelike drumbeats that seemed to accompany tuskers everywhere into war. The steady thudding could be heard even above the roaring of flames from the worst fires,