The Spectral Blaze botg-3

by Richard Lee Byers

  Still, it seemed that his audience understood at least a part of it. Enough to make them exclaim in shock and grow visibly more dismayed with every word.

  When he finished, Tarhun shook his head. “I knew we were in danger of losing Chessenta’s friendship, but I never dreamed it would come to this.”

  “If Shala Karanok were still on the throne,” Khouryn said, “it probably wouldn’t. But somehow, Tchazzar’s back, and he’s apparently a real dragon. The dragons are all playing a game; it’s worth a lot of points to conquer Tymanther-well, you heard it the first time I explained it.”

  “Yes,” Tarhun said, “and mad as it seems, I believe it. It explains why Skuthosin moved against us at this particular point in time. But he’s yesterday’s problem. How will we counter this new one?”

  “Fight,” rapped Fenkenkabradon Dokaan. The commander of the Lance Defenders was almost as hulking as Tarhun. He had bronze-colored scales and branching steel piercings sticking up from his temples like antlers. “Smash the Chessentans and Akanulans just like we broke Skuthosin and the ash giants.”

  “Of course,” Tarhun answered, “we’ll prepare to the best of our ability and fight to the last warrior if need be. That’s our way. That’s how our forefathers won their freedom from wyrms every bit as terrible as Skuthosin and this Tchazzar. Still, we have to be realistic. Defeating the giants cost us. It’s hard to see how we can turn right around, fight Chessenta, Akanul, and Threskel all at once, and come out on top.”

  Khouryn said, “There might be another way.”

  Tarhun cocked his head. “If so, I’m eager to hear it.”

  “Except for Medrash, Balasar, and Perra,” Khouryn said, “none of you know Captain Fezim. But he’s sharp. And as I understand it from Jhesrhi Coldcreek, when he found out about this game, he more or less analyzed the play, looking for a way to relieve the pressures that are driving the lands around the Alamber Sea to do what the dragons want.”

  Tarhun nodded. “Go on.”

  “Akanul is coming to attack you partly because its queen blames you for a series of raids and massacres. Thanks to Alasklerbanbastos, we now know that a gray dragon and his servants are really responsible. Aoth and others have slipped off to Airspur to prove it. If they do, maybe the genasi will pull out of the alliance with Chessenta.”

  “And maybe not,” Dokaan said. “They hated us before this insanity ever began, before the Blue Fire ever scooped up our two kingdoms and dropped them here in Faerun. And even if they don’t come, I suspect the Chessentans still will.”

  “And I suspect you’d be right,” Khouryn said, “if that were all of the plan.”

  Balasar grinned. “It sounds like we’re getting to the part where we get to have some fun.”

  Khouryn snorted. “That’s one way of putting it. Majesty, I remember when you asked High Imaskar for help against the giants. They said they couldn’t give it because creatures out of the Purple Dust were attacking their lands. According to Alasklerbanbastos, that, too, is a part of the game. A dragon named Gestanius created the crisis to cut you off from help.”

  “The same Gestanius who was Skuthosin and Tchazzar’s ally hundreds of years ago?” Biri asked.

  Khouryn shrugged. “I’m no authority on dragons, but that would be my guess. The important thing is, Alasklerbanbastos told my friends where to find Gestanius, and Jhesrhi told me. If some of us go to High Imaskar, join forces with the locals, and kill her, the attacks will stop, freeing up the Imaskari to come to your aid in return.”

  “So if everything works,” Medrash said, “Tchazzar loses an ally, and we gain one. And faced with such a radical shift in the balance of power, he ought to call off the invasion.”

  “Even if he doesn’t,” Khouryn said, “you’ll be in a much better position to fight him. By the Twin Axes, even if only half the plan works, you’re still better off.”

  Dokaan shook his head. It made the little steel antlers glint. “Majesty, I don’t like it.”

  “Why not?” Tarhun asked.

  “Because it’s all based on the presumption that Alasklerbanbastos, who isn’t just a dragon but an infamous, undead one, told Captain Fezim and his companions the truth.”

  “They had the means to wring it out of him,” Khouryn replied.

  “Are you certain of that?” Dokaan asked. “Do you truly understand the magic involved?”

  Khouryn shook his head. “Not a bit of it. But Jhesrhi said she does, and that’s good enough for me.”

  “And I trust your judgment,” Tarhun said. “It was sound during the campaign against the giants. Still, I understand why Dokaan is reluctant to see anyone dispatched on such a… speculative mission. We’re likely to need every warrior we have to stand against the invaders.”

  “Maybe not every warrior,” Medrash said. “The soldiers of the Platinum Cadre fought well against the giants, but the rest of the army still doesn’t trust them very far. That could limit their usefulness on this side of the sea. So why don’t Khouryn and I take them to High Imaskar?”

  “Dokaan,” Tarhun said, “do you agree that’s a reasonable plan?”

  Dokaan shrugged. “Medrash is right. They fought pretty well. Still, if we have to excuse somebody from a fight with a dragon, it might as well be our company of dragon worshipers.”

  “I ask to be excused too,” Balasar said. “Medrash, Khouryn, and I made a good team before.” He grinned. “I supplied the brains and panache, and they, the… well, I’m sure there was something.”

  Tarhun snorted. “Fine, you can go too.”

  “And me?” Biri asked.

  Balasar turned back around to face her. “My lady, don’t you think you’re needed here? There aren’t many dragonborn mages, whereas High Imaskar is a land of wizards. When we get there, we’ll have all we need.”

  “Yes,” she said, “when you get there. But I’m under the impression that every moment counts. And I have some power over wind and weather. I can ensure a speedy voyage.”

  “That sounds good to me,” Medrash said.

  “And to me,” Tarhun said. “Fetch Nellis Saradexma,” who, Khouryn recalled, was the Imaskari ambassador. “He can go too to speed things along when you reach your destination.”

  *****

  Selune’s silvery light seemed incapable of penetrating the depths of the gorge. It was as though the aura of death and despair emanating from the bottom held it at bay.

  There was power in that feeling, and if he were still wearing his old body, Alasklerbanbastos would simply have plunged into the crevasse to claim it for his own. Now, however, he had to consider the possibility that something else, something capable of harming the diminished creature his enemies had made of him, had gotten there first. And so, hating it, he crawled warily down the precipitous wall of the crevasse.

  Like most undead, he could see in the dark, although not as far as a man could see by day, and he soon discerned that when the Spellplague raged and the earth convulsed, that crack had opened and swallowed a town. Most of the buildings lay broken and half buried at the bottom. Although, looking as if a breath would suffice to dislodge them, a few houses clung to the sides.

  Something fluttered. Alasklerbanbastos looked around. Birds, or things like the shadows of the birds, were landing on the roof of the nearest house. They didn’t seem to be flying in from somewhere else so much as taking shape from the ambient gloom, and it was only the attitude of their bodies that told the dracolich they were looking back at him. He couldn’t pick out a gleam of eyes or a hint of feathery texture anywhere on their vague, almost flat-looking forms.

  He considered blasting them with his breath. But so far, they weren’t doing anything hostile, and perhaps they wouldn’t. He was still a dracolich, after all, a being most creatures feared to provoke. So he simply continued his descent, and the ghostly flock simply kept pace with him, flying from one broken rooftop to the next.

  When he reached the bottom, he could feel a gradation in the palpable memory of anguis
h. It festered on every side but was foulest in the direction of the fortresslike temple of Helm the Watcher, lying on its side. Alasklerbanbastos surmised that many of the townsfolk had fled there to pray for succor when the upheavals began, and there they’d perished when it never came.

  Picking his way through rubble and bones, Alasklerbanbastos headed in that direction. The black birds divided. They still kept pace with him, but some flew and perched to the right, and the rest, to the left.

  Then other creatures, similarly murky but somewhat manlike, came out of the dark. Those bearing scythes stalked from behind cover. Others simply flickered into view. All barred the path to the temple.

  Once again, Alasklerbanbastos felt the urge simply to smite the impudent mites, and once again he held it in check. “Who commands here?” he asked. “I assure you, it’s in your best interest to parley with me.”

  Yet another dark figure emerged from behind the others. But this one had scalloped wings like Alasklerbanbastos’s own sprouting from his shoulder blades, spindly horns like the points of a jagged diadem jutting from his head, and round, luminous red eyes. The dragon could just make out a few of the runes engraved on the blade of the newcomer’s scythe.

  That was enough to confirm that the creatures were sorrowsworn, haunters of sites where mortals had perished in pain, in terror, and in quantity. Alasklerbanbastos had assumed as much, but the things resembled a number of other denizens of the netherworld, and it was always better to be sure.

  “You’re intruding on a sacred place,” the deathlord said.

  For an instant Alasklerbanbastos wondered what deity or quasi-deity the sorrowsworn served, then decided he didn’t care. “A useful place,” he replied. “I need to borrow it for a while.”

  “No,” the deathlord said.

  “I need to tap the kind of power a place like this provides. I promise to leave it as I found it.”

  “No,” the red-eyed creature repeated, then hesitated, as though deciding how much more he wanted to say. “Something seeks to be born in the house of the fallen god. It was conceived forty years ago and must gestate undisturbed for twenty more. Leave now while-”

  Alasklerbanbastos spit a crackling flare of lightning. The deathlord floundered backward, jerking in a spastic dance.

  But when the lightning flickered out of existence, he didn’t collapse. Instead, his seared flesh smoking, he screamed a command in a language that even Alasklerbanbastos didn’t recognize.

  The shadowravens instantly hurtled at the dracolich from all sides. By itself, each little peck of a beak or scratch of a talon would have been insignificant, but dozens every instant were a different matter. Worse, the birds flapping around his head all but blinded and deafened him, allowing the sorrowsworn to advance unopposed. Scythes sliced along his ribs, the blades bumping and catching on his bones.

  He swept his head from side to side and burned shadowravens out of the air with an arc of lightning. Or rather, he tried. In his old body, he could have used his breath weapon several times before depleting it, but in his new one, he’d exhausted it with a single exhalation.

  A shock ripped through the base of his neck. One of his foes-the deathlord, he suspected-had driven a scythe in deep. Another stroke or two like that could cripple him.

  He leaped into the air, lashed his wings, and soared upward.

  That rid him of all the foes who didn’t have wings to follow. He swiped with his claws, smashing birds by the dozen, and snarled an incantation. Meanwhile, he felt some sort of psychic magic pounding at his mind. But it wasn’t divine power like the despicable sunlady wielded, and it couldn’t pierce his defenses.

  He bellowed the last word of his spell, and a cloud of acidic vapor seethed into existence around him. It stung him, but it was worth it because it annihilated the shadowravens. Sizzling, they fell like stones and corroded away to nothing before they reached the ground.

  A beat of his wings carried Alasklerbanbastos clear of the burning mist, and he looked around for the deathlord. He was reasonably sure the creature had followed him aloft, but at first glance, he couldn’t spot him.

  A weight thumped down on top of Alasklerbanbastos’s head. Certain that he had only an instant before the deathlord’s scythe would slash at one of his eyes, he lashed his neck as though he were cracking a whip. The sorrowsworn tumbled from his perch.

  Alasklerbanbastos twisted his head and tried to snap him out of the air. His teeth clashed shut on nothing. The deathlord had shifted through space to dodge the attack. Another psychic attack beat at Alasklerbanbastos’s consciousness. He snarled in annoyance as he tried to locate his opponent once again.

  There! Even blurrier than before, probably turned intangible, the deathlord was swooping toward the ground to rejoin his underlings. Alasklerbanbastos’s snarl turned into a laugh because abandoning the high air was the wrong play.

  He furled his wings, plunged downward, and rattled off three words that drew all the lightning that continually danced in a blue dragon’s body down into his foreclaws. Crackling, they glowed white and should annihilate an insubstantial foe as readily as any other.

  Just before Alasklerbanbastos plummeted into striking distance, the deathlord sensed the danger. He wrenched himself around, congealed into solidity, and swung the scythe. It gashed Alasklerbanbastos’s leg, but that was all.

  Then the dragon’s claws stabbed into the sorrowsworn’s body, piercing it, all but splitting and tearing it to pieces. It was a killing stroke even without the lightning that discharged itself with a thunderous bang an instant later.

  Alasklerbanbastos flicked the charred scraps that were all that remained of the deathlord off his talons and spread his wings for a softer descent.

  The remaining sorrowsworn were brave, stupid, or compelled by some enchantment. Even with their chieftain and the shadowravens destroyed, they kept fighting, and pretty well at that. Still, it took Alasklerbanbastos only a few more moments to rip them apart.

  He looked around and made sure he’d gotten them all. Then he stalked on to the dead god’s temple.

  Since the building was lying on its side, the entry was halfway up the wall. At some point, the doors had come loose from the hinges, leaving just a hole. He stuck his head inside.

  Somehow, the outer shell of the temple had survived its slide or tumble into the crevasse partially intact. But the disaster had shattered interior walls and shaken everything loose from its proper place. Broken pews, icons, and skeletons lay heaped and jumbled altogether.

  Alasklerbanbastos felt a little disappointed. Whatever the sorrowsworn had believed was growing inside the ruinous womb, he couldn’t detect any sign of it. But he could still feel the throbbing, malignant power of the place, and that was what was important.

  He crawled through the doorway. The litter shifted under his weight, so, using his claws and tail, he scooped and swept it to the sides until he had a clear place to work. Then he chanted words of power and scratched a rune on the stone beneath him whenever the ritual called for it.

  When he’d written all twenty-five, he slit the hide on his left foreleg and started to flay himself.

  It wasn’t easy. Even though the undead were less susceptible to pain than the living, the discomfort was considerable. And on top of that, the skin was damaged. Tchazzar had burned it, death had rotted it, and the fights Alasklerbanbastos had gotten into since occupying the body hadn’t done it any good either. Yet he needed to remove it in just a few pieces. Cutting or inadvertently tearing it into too many would spoil the magic.

  Finally the painstaking task was through. He laid out the sheets of hide in the proper places, refocused his concentration, and whispered the final rhyme.

  The darkness seemed to spin around him. Disembodied voices wailed, and a stench like vomit filled the air. Broken bones jerked and rattled.

  Blue light danced where one sheet of scaly skin touched another, fusing them back together. Then the hollow, flapping but united thing they’d become heaved
itself up off the floor. It whipped around toward Alasklerbanbastos and opened its jaws, revealing the hard, serrated ridges that had formed to substitute for fangs.

  But Alasklerbanbastos had expected resistance. He grabbed the dragon shell by the neck, slammed it to the floor, and held it there while it tried to wrap around him like a python. He bound it with words of command.

  When it stopped struggling, he let it up and gave it a more leisurely inspection. Satisfied with his handiwork, he smiled.

  *****

  A watersoul functionary had informed Aoth that he and his companions would have to wait until Queen Arathane could find the time to receive them. He suspected the reality was somewhat different. Her Majesty was more likely conferring with Tradrem Kethrod, the Steward of the Earth and her spymaster, and anyone else who might have some idea why a sellsword captain in service to Chessenta had unexpectedly appeared to request a palaver with the ruler of Akanul.

  Waiting made Aoth edgy, and he tried to calm himself by taking in the view. The royal palace was a spire that, from the outside, resembled a narwhal’s horn. It occupied the highest point in Airspur, and the outer wall of the waiting room was made entirely of glass. He could see much of the capital spread out below.

  Even in the Thay of his youth, where the Red Wizards had not infrequently turned their Art to spectacle and ostentation, he’d never seen another city like it. It incorporated dozens of small, low-floating earthmotes, linked to one another and adjacent towers by bridges. And everything reflected the genasi’s kinship with, and mastery of, the elemental forces. Most structures had a flowing, rounded look to them, as if they’d been molded from clay, not hewn from stone. A few hung like mirages in midair. Sparkling in the sunlight, water cascaded from the higher levels of the city to the lower.