The Dragon's Doom

Ed Greenwood

The Dragon's Doom

Esse Quam Videri

Yet folk who know Aglirta of old will know already what befell next.

For the people were unhappy.

The barons were no better than they had ever been

Sly tongues of evil were busy in the land

Fell magic had corrupted those who sought and wielded it

Without ever weakening their eager hands

This could be almost any year in Aglirta

So be thankful for the bards and heralds

Who look upon the Vale that is so fair

And yet so seemingly gods-cursed

For they at least help us keep our disasters straight.

From A Year-Scroll of Aglirta

Scribe of Sirlptar

Prologue

A hard, sudden rain was lashing the rooftops of Sirlptar as the came down, driven ashore by a home-harbor wind. The storm rattle on the slates and tiles of hundreds of roofs quite drowned out the customary chimney-sighs for which the Sighing Gargoyle was named. Flaeros Delcamper could barely hear his own harp notes, but-newly esteemed bard to the court of Flowfoam or not-this was his first paying engagement in the City of River and Sea, and he sang on with determination.

Yet even he knew, as he lifted his voice in the refrain of his newest ballad about the Lady of Jewels and the Fall of the Serpent, that he might just as well have saved his breath. Not a man-jack was listening.

Every patron of the Gargoyle was bent forward over the table that held his tankard, listening-or talking-intently. The mutter of voices held no note of happiness.

"And so 'tis another year gone, and how's Aglirta the better for it?"

"Aye, harvests thi

"Huh. No joy there, yet he can hardly be worse than what we've had, these twenty summers now-wizards and barons, wizards and barons: villains, all!"

"Aye, that's so. Wizards have always been bad and dangerous-'tis in the breed, by the Three!"

"So we thrust a pitchfork through every mage we spot, and what then?

Who of our Great Lord Barons can be trusted not to lash out on a whim? They've all been little tyrants to put the most decadent kings of the old tales to shame!"

"And here we sit, thi

An empty tankard thunked down on a table, and its owner sighed gustily, clenched his hand into a helpless fist, and added bitterly, "And the great hope of the common folk, Bloodblade, turned out to be no better than the rest."

An old scribe nodded. "All our dreams fallen and trampled," he said sadly, "and no one cares."

A drover shot Flaeros a look so venomous that the bard's fingers faltered on his harpstrings, and growled, "Now we have some boy for a King, and his four tame overdukes scour the countryside for barons and wizards who took arms against him-and who cares for us?"

1

To Conquer a Kingdom

The rattle of keys awakened an echo in that dark and stone-walled place, and then a heavy door scraped open, flooding torchlight into a damp darkness that had lasted for decades. Old Tha

A lithe, slender man who wore skintight garb of soft, smoky-gray leather on his body and a half-smile upon his darkly handsome face held the torch high and behind his own shoulder, to peer into all corners of the cell. A little water was seeping in high on the south wall, glistening as it ran down the stone, but of intruders-beyond a small, scuttling legion of spiders-he saw none. Craer Delnbone was one of the best procurers in all Asmarand… which is to say that after too many years of escapades enough for a dozen thieves, he was still alive. If Craer's bright eyes saw no intruder, none was there.

The woman who followed at his elbow saw nothing either. She was much of Craer's size, and moved against him with the familiarity of intimate companions, but she was no thief. Tshamarra Talasorn was a sorceress from a proud family of Sirlptar, the last of her line-and her tongue could be every bit as sharp as her wits, as Craer had learned to both his fascination and cost. His "Tash" wore garments cut like his but of shimmerweave and silk, that flashed back torchlight every bit as much as her large and alert eyes. She, too, saw no peril in the cell-though most of her thin-lipped attention was bent upon the burden being carried behind her.

That burden was a large, stout man in rich garments, frozen in a pose as stiff and rigid as stone save for his furious eyes-eyes that darted this way and that, seeking to see all as one does who knows he will soon have very little to look upon at all. An armaragor of great size and thews carried the straight, immobile man, with the legs-steadying aid of a slightly smaller, older warrior who strode along with the easy authority of one born to command.

Hawkril Anharu was a gentle giant of a man, unless one crossed blades with him in battle. He carried their captive as lightly as if the man weighed nothing, and had to stoop and turn his broad shoulders at an angle to pass through the narrow door of the cell. He resembled an amiable bull in armor more than anything else.

The formerly raven-dark hair of the older armored man behind Hawkril was going gray and white now, but Ezendor Blackgult-once infamous across Asmarand as "the Baron Blackgult," a dashing warcaptain, decadent noble, and seducer of ladies high and low-was still handsome… and every bit as alert, as they moved through the dungeons, as Craer at the front of the band.

A radiance far paler than the torchlight flickered about their captive's head-the light of magic, lancing forth from a molded stone carried in the palm of a tall, slender woman who walked at the rear of the group. Above a slight frown, her eyes were also fixed upon her captive.

Embra Silvertree had once been best known as "the Lady of Jewels" for her elaborately decorated gowns, but she much preferred the simple leather breeches, warriors' boots, and open silk shirt she was wearing now. Her long, dark hair swirled untamed down her back as if it was a half-cloak, and men best knew her now in Aglirta as the most powerful sorceress in the land.

Like the others who walked with her, she was an Overduke of Aglirta-and like them, she was carrying out a distasteful but necessary duty this day. Her gaze never left their dark-robed captive as Hawkril swung the frozen-limbed man upright-boots uppermost-as if he weighed no more than the petals of a flower.

Craer and the Baron Blackgult deftly plucked and fitted dangling manacles, the slender procurer trying the smaller key Tha

A tremor ran through those limbs as they were secured-gods, but the man must be part dragon, to struggle so in the thrall of Dwaer-magic! -and Embra let out a sigh of pain. Hawkril gave her a quick glance as he stepped back from the chained man, but she gave him a reassuring smile through the ribbons of sweat now ru