The Spectral Blaze botg-3

by Richard Lee Byers

  Ususi sighed and turned her gaze on the dragonborn and Khouryn. “And no doubt you come to ask again for military aid. It grieves me more than I can say that I must continue to refuse.”

  Balasar grinned. “Don’t grieve on our account, Majesty. It’s true that Tymanther needs your help. But we mean to earn it by solving your problem first, so you won’t need your whole army on this side of the Alamber to ward off the beasts from the east.”

  The empress hesitated. “And you truly believe you can accomplish this?”

  “Yes,” said Medrash, “we do. We’ve learned that a dragon called Gestanius is sending the creatures to plague you. We know-more or less-how they’re making their way out of the desert and through the mountains. We believe that with the information-and the troops we brought with us-we can stop the raids.”

  “Although,” Balasar said, “if you care to commit some of your own soldiers and mages to the effort, we won’t turn them down.”

  Ususi turned back to Nellis. “And you believe they can do this?” she asked.

  “I do,” Nellis said, “because I know what these very champions achieved in their recent war against the ash giants and the wyrms directing them. I also believe that with the empire under siege, you have little to lose and much to gain by giving them permission to undertake their expedition.”

  “Except,” the ancient monarch said wryly, “that if we gain a stop to the raids, we also gain a war with Chessenta. That’s the bargain, is it not?”

  “It is, Majesty,” Khouryn said, “but we hope it won’t come to that. We hope that once Tchazzar learns that High Imaskar stands with Tymanther, he’ll decide it’s too risky to invade.”

  “From what I’ve heard of the Red Dragon,” Ususi said, “I wouldn’t absolutely count on that.”

  “Well,” Medrash said, “then it comes down to this. Lord Nellis here, speaking on your behalf, has repeatedly assured us dragonborn that High Imaskar is our faithful friend and ally and would rush to our aid if only it weren’t fighting for its own survival. Was that the truth or hollow cant?”

  The assembled courtiers seemed to catch their breath. Ususi regarded Medrash in silence for a moment. Then she said, “You have a… direct way of speaking, knight.”

  “I’m a paladin of the Loyal Fury,” Medrash replied. “We say what we mean. And the knowledge that an army is even now mustering to attack my homeland makes me even less inclined to talk in circles.”

  The empress smiled thinly. “Fortunately I’ve learned to appreciate directness. Probably it’s because I, too, feel I no longer have time to waste. But I need details. I need to hear how you learned what you claim to know. If your answers satisfy me, you can undertake your expedition, and if it succeeds, Tymanther and High Imaskar will face down Chessenta together.”

  *****

  Cera was the only practitioner of healing magic in the company. But Son-liin had some rough-and-ready knowledge of how to clean and bandage wounds and splint broken bones. Perhaps her father had taught her so they could tend one another’s hurts when far from any other help in the wild.

  Working together, they first addressed the needs of wounded genasi, of whom, thank the Yellow Sun, there were relatively few, then moved on to the injured drakes. Through it all, though she acted with brisk efficiency, the young stormsoul looked as if she might start crying.

  Not because of the blood, Cera thought. She’s seen that before. Because she thinks it’s her fault.

  They crouched down together beside the final wounded steed. It lay panting and trembling on its side, and bubbles swelled and popped into the blood flowing from the puncture wound in its chest.

  Son-liin gave Cera a questioning look. Already knowing it was futile, she nevertheless took stock of herself and found only a hollow ache inside. For the time being, she’d exhausted her ability to channel Amaunator’s power, and no mundane remedy would suffice.

  She shook her head. Son-liin murmured to the drake, stroked its head with one hand, and drew her hunting knife across its throat with the other.

  As they were rising, Gaedynn sauntered over. Sidestepping a pool of blood, he said, “If you’re done, some of the fellows want to talk.”

  “What about?” Cera asked.

  “Oh, to congratulate this lass on her skill as a pathfinder, I imagine.”

  Son-liin’s face twisted. Cera frowned at Gaedynn, and he gave her a shrug as a reply.

  Then he led them toward a relatively broad patch of sand, where everyone could take his ease without having to sit in water. And “everyone” was pretty much the way of it. Most of the firestormers were headed for the spot as well. Perhaps, given that they were all volunteers, they all felt entitled to participate in a council of war. Meanwhile, Jet kept watch, soaring high overhead.

  When everybody had flopped down where it suited him, Aoth, who’d found a mossy piece of log to perch on, said, “First let’s take note of our victory. This was no easy fight, and we only lost four men winning it. I’ll be honest with you. When we set out from Airspur, I wasn’t sure you fellows had what it takes to kill dragons. Now I am.”

  His words had the desired effect on some of the firestormers. One earthsoul sat up straighter, another smiled and touched the stock of his crossbow, and a watersoul elbowed his firesoul friend in the side.

  But not everyone basked in their new leader’s words of commendation. Some still looked sick and shaky from the desperate action they’d just fought, while others scowled.

  Yemere was one of the latter. Glimmers flowing along the blue lines etching his silvery skin, he stood up and said, “That’s all very well, Captain, but we shouldn’t have been exposed to that particular danger in the first place. We consulted the maps back in the Motherhouse. We weighed all factors and chose the best route. We should have stuck to it, not deviated on a whim.”

  “It was one of your own who suggested the deviation,” Gaedynn drawled. Perhaps to avoid dirtying his garments in the sand, he’d ordered Eider to lie down, then sprawled atop her as if she were a divan. His fingers scratched in the bronze-colored feathers at the base of her neck, and her eyes closed in bliss.

  “But it was Captain Fezim who ordered it,” Yemere replied.

  “Yes,” said Aoth, “it was. So if you think anyone can fairly be blamed for not knowing about something that only happens occasionally on a patch of earth in the middle of the wilderness, blame me. But let me ask you this: Did you believe we could travel this region without running into anything dangerous? Isn’t that why your Cabal formed in the first place? Because the outlying parts of Akanul are dangerous?”

  “Yes,” said Mardiz-sul. “That’s exactly why.”

  “But it isn’t the point,” Yemere said. “The point is whether this outlander is the right man to lead our expedition. People say he won some notable victories in his day. But not lately. Not in Thay and Impiltur.”

  Aoth took a long breath that, to Cera’s eye, conveyed as eloquently as any words just how sick he was of having his supposed failures in those two campaigns thrown in his face.

  “I learned to fight in the legions of old Thay,” he said, “one of the finest armies Faerun has ever seen. I’ve spent the past hundred years sharpening my skills in wars throughout the East. What are your qualifications to lead, Sir Yemere?”

  “I don’t want to lead,” the windsoul noble said. “But in light of what just happened, I do wonder why we aren’t following Mardiz-sul.”

  Some of the assembly muttered in agreement.

  Mardiz-sul held up his hand. “Please. I’m honored that my comrades trust me. But if you really do, then trust my judgment. I agreed that Captain Fezim should command because I’m convinced it’s the best way to accomplish our purpose.”

  Son-liin stood up. “If there’s anybody here who’s lost any claim on your trust, it’s me.”

  “How true,” Gaedynn said.

  “So hate me if you want to,” she continued, “for the sake of those who died. But don’t let it turn you
against our leaders or our mission. I came upon one of the slaughtered villages not long after the raiders struck. I saw all the bodies, even children and babies, hacked to pieces. If this Vairshekellabex is responsible, then the firestormers need to kill him.”

  “Like I said before,” said Aoth, “if there’s any blame to assign, it belongs to me, who made the decision to ride through this gorge. But the rest of what Son-liin said is on the mark. We came out here to do a job, and it’s just as important now as it was before.”

  Cera rose. “It’s more than important,” she said. “It’s a holy quest, and Amaunator will support us as we fight to accomplish it. Surely you realize that it was his power that kept the blue mist from transforming every drake. Or us, for that matter.”

  “We believe you,” said an earthsoul. “It’s just… those things. I mean, if dragons are anything like that…”

  “They are,” said Aoth, “but I swear by the Black Flame that Gaedynn and I have killed them before. And when we kill Vairshekellabex, you fellows will be heroes. The girls in Airspur will fight over you like magpies.”

  That made some of the firestormers grin, and Yemere, apparently recognizing that he’d failed to convince them, withdrew into sullen silence. By the time the assembly broke up, Cera judged that morale was about as high as anyone could reasonably expect. Yet the fact remained that most of the genasi weren’t hard men like Aoth, accustomed to sudden mayhem and horror, and she wondered if their spirits would hold in the face of more ill fortune. She prayed they wouldn’t have to find out.

  Then the misery manifest in Son-liin’s expression recalled her to more immediate concerns. Wishing she could infuse her hand with some of the Keeper’s comforting warmth, she put it on the genasi’s shoulder. “Aoth was right,” she said. “There was no way for you to know, and so you have no reason to feel guilty.”

  “Maybe I do,” Son-liin said. “I… I think my father told me to beware of traveling the canyon in high summer. But I didn’t remember! Not until after the blue fog rose!”

  *****

  Oraxes raised the leather dice cup to his mouth and blew magic into it. But his intention was not to cheat, not anymore, profitable though it might have been. He considered himself an officer of sorts, especially with Aoth currently in the west and Jhesrhi in the south, and petty swindles were beneath his newly acquired dignity.

  As he threw the eight carved ivory cubes, he spoke a monosyllabic word of power and reached after them with his mind. For a moment he fumbled the contact-a little too much beer dulling his edge-but then his power locked on to them.

  First, he made them jump like maddened crickets, clattering and bouncing. Then he forbade them to fall back onto the dice table. Instead, his will floated them higher and higher, whirling them around one another all the while.

  He raised them almost to the smoke-blackened oak beams supporting the ceiling before letting them drop, and even then, he kept control of them. They bounced around a little more then stacked themselves into a tower where they finally came to rest.

  His audience, a mixture of hunters, sailors, soldiers, and whores, whooped and applauded. Someone slapped him on the back. He glanced around and gave Meralaine a wink, and she smiled back. He’d learned early on that she wasn’t as fond of raucous taverns as he was, but she seemed to be enjoying herself. And why not? They’d come a long way from the bad old days in Luthcheq, when just the green tattoos on their hands, let alone an actual demonstration of arcane power, could have earned them a beating or worse.

  Another hand fell on his shoulder. He turned and looked into the beak-nosed, bushy-browed face of Ramed, a sellsword he’d first met during the siege of Soolabax. In fact, it was Ramed who’d saved him from falling off the top of the wall.

  “My friend!” Oraxes said. “Have a drink on me!”

  “You have to come with me,” Ramed answered. “Meralaine too. Right away.”

  Oraxes started to ask why, then realized that might be indiscreet with so many folk loitering close enough to overhear the answer. He smiled and gave a wave to his audience, then beckoned to Meralaine. She picked up her slim bone wand where it lay within easy reach of her dainty-looking hand, and rose. They followed Ramed out into the night.

  Alasklerbanbastos’s war had brought an influx of coin to Mourktar as the mercenaries the dracolich had hired passed through the port. Most of those warriors were gone, in many cases added to Tchazzar’s army in the south, but the town still clung to a fading air of celebration. The windows of taverns and festhalls burned bright, and music lilted through. It was as if the proprietors couldn’t bring themselves to admit the boom was over.

  But it mostly was, and once Oraxes and his companions had progressed a few paces down the rutted, muddy street, Oraxes judged that they had enough privacy to converse. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “A wyrmkeeper showed up,” Ramed said. “He’s got a paper with Tchazzar’s seal on it. Apparently it authorizes him to get a report from Captain Fezim about how the hunt for the rebels is going.” Oraxes inferred that Ramed was as illiterate as most men who followed his trade and hadn’t been able to read the document for himself.

  “Did you tell him the captain is away on patrol?”

  “Yes,” said Ramed. “He said he’ll wait.”

  “Well,” said Oraxes, “let him wait, then. Maybe Lady Luck will smile, and Captain Fezim and the others will get back soon.”

  The soldier shook his head. “That’s a lot to hope for. It’s a ways to Akanul, even on griffons, and it wasn’t an easy chore they had to tackle once they got there.”

  “And what if the wyrmkeeper starts asking questions,” said Meralaine, “and some of the other sellswords say they haven’t seen Aoth or Gaedynn in days? What if they say their officers have marched them this way and that, but they haven’t seen a trace of renegade necromancers or any other leftover enemies?”

  “Right,” Oraxes said. The tipsiness that had seemed so exhilarating in the tavern was like a blanket smothering his ability to think. He took a deep breath in an effort to clear it away. “We can’t just let him hang around. We need to send him on his way, and that means we need either Captain Fezim or someone who can pass for him. Ramed, I’m going to shroud you in his appearance.”

  The sellsword goggled at him. “Me?”

  “Yes. You’re an officer of the Brotherhood, and the captain let you in on the secret of what’s going on before he left. You’re the perfect man for the job.”

  Ramed shook his head. “Truly, lad, I don’t think so. I’m a warrior, not a player. I’d botch it.”

  “He’s right,” said Meralaine. She was standing right beside Oraxes, but it was still oddly difficult to see her features clearly. It was as though the darkness had stained her with itself. “You’re the illusionist, and if you conjure a mask, it will fit you better than it would anyone else.”

  “But I’m not a warrior,” Oraxes said.

  Meralaine smirked. “That’s not what you think to yourself when you’re swaggering around with that pot on your head.”

  Oraxes felt his face grow hot. “I’m saying that I won’t be able to answer questions the way a veteran soldier would.”

  “But we can hope,” Ramed said, “that the dragon priest won’t ask difficult questions. After all, he’s not a soldier, either.”

  “And your magic,” said Meralaine, “will lend an air of plausibility to anything you say.”

  Oraxes shook his head. “I still don’t think-”

  She raised her hand to cut him off. “This is why Captain Fezim left us here, so if it was needed, we’d do what only wizards can. And you can do this. Ramed and I will help you.”

  He took a breath. “You’re right, curse it.” He looked around and found the mouth of a narrow, litter-choked alley even darker than the street. He waved at it. “Let’s duck in there.”

  “You don’t have to do it right now,” said Meralaine.

  He grinned. “Don’t worry. The prospect of wha
t’s to come is sobering me up fast. And it’s like you said. We want to send the wyrmkeeper back to Luthcheq before he talks to a bunch of other people.”

  He took off the steel and leather helmet Meralaine had mocked, then started the magic by writing runes on a clapboard wall. His fingertip trailed blue phosphorescence. Ramed kept watch and stood in such a way as to hide the two wizards from anyone who might happen to pass in the street.

  After he finished writing, Oraxes murmured rhymes in dactylic hexameter. Meralaine whispered contrapuntal responses. They hadn’t practiced performing that particular ritual together, nor did he understand the language she was speaking. But he could feel how her efforts supported his own, and it made sense that they would. Darkness and deception were natural allies.

  As his recitation progressed, he gradually raised his hands to his head. He ran them through his hair and imagined it falling away. He felt it just as if it were really happening. He shifted his hands to his face and molded it like clay, reshaping his sharp features into Aoth Fezim’s blunt ones and branding them with the Thayan’s black tattoos.

  As he reached the final line of the spell, he touched his eyes with his forefingers, and, as though lighting a pair of candles, commanded a blue glow to flower inside each one. For a moment he felt a double pulse of warmth.

  He lowered his hands. “Well?”

  Meralaine smiled. “It’s good. You look like him and sound like him too.”

  Ramed turned and his eyes widened. “She’s right! You truly do!”

  Oraxes snorted. “You don’t have to sound so surprised about it.” He put his helmet back on, looked around for Aoth’s spear, and found it leaning against the wall. Naturally he knew it was just another piece of the illusion, but the deception would be stronger if there were a part of him that didn’t know, and when he closed his fingers around it, the ash shaft felt solid and smooth. “Let’s go see the wyrmkeeper before the magic starts to wear away.”