Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [43]
Those were the very words he’d used when next speaking privately with his two youngest brothers, Rondras and Marlin. Who took full heed of the warning and kept very quiet for years, until Nethglas died fighting at the side of Crown Prince Emvar Obarskyr, when the prince and all of Cormyr who’d ridden with him were slain in a Sembian ambush south of the Vast Swamp in the Year of the Silent Flute.
As the body of Nethglas was being brought back for burial in the family crypt, Marlin had quietly poisoned his older brother Rondras. Though he and Rondras detested each other, he’d done it more to get his hands on the Flying Blade—a gorgeous sword that also happened to be a family magic traditionally worn by the Stormserpent heir—than to become head of House Stormserpent.
Marlin had longed to hold and wield the gorgeous weapon since he was small and had thanked the gods that Nethglas had not taken the Flying Blade to war but left it safe in the vault deep under Stormserpent Towers. He promptly purloined a key to the vault but visited the sword only rarely, to gloat over it and run a cautious fingertip down its gleaming length.
However, the possibility that it held one of the ghosts of the Nine made him really want to have it. Not locked away but riding his hip and under his hand all his waking hours; power he could hold.
He’d left it at home for this foray, though. No sense risking it’s being seized by war wizards when he could use Thirsty instead—and his long, long dosings of paralyzing poison were done, leaving him immune to the mischance of the same stinger that should put paid to any Purple Dragon or war wizard his pet stirge could reach.
The chalice couldn’t be traced by the spells of war wizards or anyone, thanks to the magic on what it was hidden within—and its own enchantments, too.
Hidden within, aye. On that night, so long ago, Nethglas had hurriedly thrust the chalice up inside the hollow head of a yawning-jawed sculpted stone dragon in the huge sculpture that dominated the Chamber of the Wyrms Ascending, a rearing statue for which that glossy-floored, crossroads chamber had been named.
Marlin had been told the stone dragon was awash with enchantments that made an endless cycle of glowing lights arise and shift hues all over it. Images of dragons seemed to melt out of it and silently spread huge wings, beating them so as to soar up to and through the vaulted ceiling above and—
“Here ’tis, saer!”
The chalice flashed as one of the hireswords turned from the dragon statue, brandishing the cup. “Just where you said—”
“Cast down your swords, and surrender, in the name of the Dragon!”
The echoes of that thunderous bellow rolled off distant walls behind him as Marlin blinked his way back to the moment. His hirelings had found the chalice stlarning near the same farruking moment as a night patrol of Purple Dragons had discovered them!
His men had their orders, even if they hadn’t known what awaited prisoners taken in such circumstances. They were rushing the palace soldiers already, wasting no breath on shouts or war cries.
What his dead father had liked to call “a brief and bloody affray” was about to erupt.
Marlin smiled and pulled open the breast of his jerkin to let Thirsty fly free.
One distant Dragon wasn’t running to meet the sellswords, but was instead trotting off down a side passage. Marlin pointed at the man the moment the poison-painted stinger of his pet stirge was safely out past his arm.
“That one!” he snapped—and Thirsty flapped off in untidy, streaking haste.
Marlin waited, ignoring the first grunts and clangs of hard-swung swords as the rushing men met. Swords flashed and thrust, a Dragon fell with a groan, and a hiresword and another Dragon guard slumped with nigh identical wet gurgles.
Marlin still stood motionless, head cocked and listening hard. Gods, this was taking forever …
Then Thirsty flapped