The Spectral Blaze: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by Richard Lee Byers

  Medrash had to end the fight quickly, and—he hoped—he still held the means shivering and burning like ice inside him. But how could he cast the power at an invisible mark?

  He needed to sense Tiamat’s taint as he’d sensed it before. He reached out with his intuition or some faculty akin to it and thought he felt a sickening locus of vileness arcing through the air.

  He stretched out his hand and shouted, “Torm!” A white blaze leaped from his fingers. The fog diffused some of its light, but the rest played across and half-revealed the serpentine form of a dragon.

  The creature roared. Flailing its wings, it made a final furious effort to close with the bat and Medrash. Then, as he scoured it with the last of the holy light, it gave up that effort and its invisibility too. The glow of a burning building gleamed on scales like plates of polished emerald.

  You’ve … restored me to myself, the dragon said, speaking mind to mind. The words were like a kettledrum throbbing and rumbling inside Medrash’s head.

  “Then here’s how to thank me,” he replied. “My comrades and I need your help against Tchazzar and Alasklerbanbastos.”

  I acknowledge a debt to you, dragonborn, and I’ll repay you if I can. But I’m no match for the Red Dragon of Chessenta and the Great Bone Wyrm. I’d only be throwing my life away.

  “Like the rest of us,” Medrash said, “you’re no match for them by yourself. But I’m going to purge the other dragons too. As many as I can, until I run out of strength.”

  The emerald dragon pondered that for a breath or two as it and the bat glided over the rooftops. Then it said, Don’t bother with the black. I doubt you can break the Great Game’s hold on him.

  “I already guessed that. Does this mean you’ll help?”

  Until I judge my debt is paid. The wyrm lashed its wings and climbed.

  * * * * *

  Alasklerbanbastos hissed words of power, and a shape like a huge, black sword appeared in the air. Someone else might have called it a shadow, but Aoth’s fire-kissed eyes recognized it for what it truly was: a movable wound slashed in the fabric of the world, a hole through which a man could fall into nonexistence.

  The sword cut at him and Jet. The griffon swooped under the attack. It was bad tactics to give up the high air to the dracolich. But Aoth could feel how tired Jet was and that the familiar had been unsure of his ability to dodge the cut in any other way.

  The shadow sword leaped at them again. Aoth rattled off a counterspell and jabbed his spear at the blade. Nothing happened.

  Jet kept dodging, though the cuts were forcing him lower and lower. Aoth hurled fire at the black sword, and the flare winked out of existence as the two magics collided. The sword kept coming.

  Aoth rasped words of power, spun his spear over his head, and thrust it at the magical threat. A shadow sword of his own, smaller but identical in every other way, leaped from the point and shot at Alasklerbanbastos’s creation.

  The air, or a spherical portion of space itself, squirmed as the two manifestations of nothingness struggled to swallow one another. Bile burning in the back of his throat, Aoth averted his eyes. His instincts told him that if he didn’t, his truesight might discern something that would damage his mind.

  Twisted and knotted together like fighting serpents, the blades vanished. But Jet’s claws were nearly brushing the cobblestones, and looming overhead, lightning dancing over his naked bones, Alasklerbanbastos had nearly completed another incantation, one that would rain thunderbolts down on the narrow, crooked street. The air smelled of the coming storm.

  Aoth hurled darts of azure light from his spear. It was something he could do virtually instantaneously, but it was also a relatively weak spell. He knew it likely wouldn’t be enough to make the dracolich fumble his casting, and sure enough, it didn’t.

  But something else did. A howl stabbed through the air and smashed Alasklerbanbastos’s crested skull to the side. The lich whipped his head back around, seeking the new foe who’d dared to strike him.

  Aoth judged that gave him and Jet one chance to get out of Tchazzar’s view and catch their breaths. Perceiving what he wanted, the griffon touched down and charged at a door. Aoth pointed his spear and blasted the panel and much of the frame away with a pulse of pure force.

  Jet leaped through and they found themselves in a chandler’s shop. Aoth smashed away a section of wall, and they raced on into a hatter’s establishment.

  * * * * *

  Alasklerbanbastos couldn’t see the impudent wretch who had struck him. But he heard leathery wings flapping as the coward beat a hasty retreat into the … smoke? It actually looked like it might be fog.

  He spit a booming, blazing thunderbolt into the cloud. But nothing screamed or thudded to the ground afterward.

  He hesitated, momentarily uncertain whether to go after the traitor or finish off Aoth Fezim, and the dithering cost him. When he looked back down into the street, the sellsword and griffon were gone.

  Alasklerbanbastos snarled, then strained to put frustration aside and think. And when he had, he lashed his clattering wings, climbed, and looked around the sky for flashes of fire.

  They led him to Tchazzar, who was chasing Jhesrhi Coldcreek. Plainly the wizard’s battle sense and the agility of her steed had thus far kept her alive in a confrontation with a vastly more powerful foe in much the same way that Fezim had survived his clash with Alasklerbanbastos.

  But now Jhesrhi would have two ancient wyrms to contend with, and she was so busy fencing with Tchazzar that she might not even have noticed Alasklerbanbastos’s approach. He studied the eagle, discerned its true nature, and whispered words of unmaking.

  The eagle vanished from underneath its rider. Jhesrhi plummeted between the tops of two buildings and vanished from view. Spewing flame, Tchazzar let out a roar of shock and anguish. He was afraid Alasklerbanbastos had cheated him out of his revenge by killing the wizard himself.

  Alasklerbanbastos doubted that, and when they each settled atop one of the houses—the structures creaked as they took their weight—and looked down into the twisting alley dividing them, he saw he was right. There was no corpse lying at the bottom.

  “These humans are tricky,” he said. “You have to give them that.”

  Tchazzar glared at him. “You piece of dung! I nearly had her! And then you … startled me!”

  The red’s petulance reminded Alasklerbanbastos of just how much he despised him, how much he wanted to lash out … but no. Not yet. Maybe not for many years to come. “I understand how you feel,” he began.

  “You don’t!” Tchazzar snapped.

  “I do. You hate the wizard for deceiving you. I hate Fezim for making a slave of me. And so we’ve both spent much of the battle chasing them around. Meanwhile, the complexion of the fight is changing around us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Llemgradac balked me just when I was about to finish off Fezim. Or at least I’m virtually certain it was him.”

  “Why would he do that? He must understand that he’ll score more points helping us preserve the sanctity of the game than he could pursuing any other course.”

  Alasklerbanbastos snorted. “So I assumed. But perhaps I overlooked the fact that we’re playing a game devised to last for decades or even centuries, and every worthy player employs a long-term strategy. Llemgradac may be willing to sacrifice points now in the expectation that it will pay off later on.”

  Tchazzar’s burning yellow eyes narrowed. “Whatever schemes he’s scheming, he wouldn’t dare cross us by himself.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. We have to assume the other wyrms will turn on us too.”

  “Curse you! You’re the one who brought them here!”

  “And fortunately for you, I’m also the one who’s figured out how to adapt to our changing circumstances.”

  “How?”

  “We stop allowing ourselves to be distracted even by the enemies we particularly detest,” Alasklerbanbastos said, “or any petty harassm
ent from the air. We finish the fight on the ground now, quickly, before the other dragons come at us together.”

  “How do we do that?” Tchazzar asked.

  “We locate Shala Karanok and hit her with everything we have because she’s Chessenta’s one alternative to you, and if we kill her, your rebels will lay down their arms. And if any Threskelans or genasi are stupid enough to keep fighting afterward, your loyal troops will overwhelm them.”

  Tchazzar grunted. “It could work.”

  “It will! And net us Jhesrhi Coldcreek and Aoth Fezim in the bargain. They’ll stand their ground to defend Shala. And afterward, when the other dragons see the city is ours, they’ll turn tail. They won’t stick around to fight us and every bowman and artilleryman who can send a shaft or a stone into the air.”

  Tchazzar spread his wings. “Let’s do it.”

  * * * * *

  After punching through several walls, Aoth and Jet went to ground in a butcher shop and waited to see if Alasklerbanbastos would track them or if he’d raze the entire street to flush them out. Aoth used the time to swig water from his waterskin and ease his smoke-parched throat. Jet discovered that the butcher dealt in horseflesh and set about devouring that portion of the stock.

  After a while, it became apparent that Alasklerbanbastos had given up the pursuit. Aoth slumped, releasing tension he hadn’t realized he was holding, even though he expected that he and Jet would be back fighting the dracolich soon enough.

  You know that clever plan you had? the griffon asked, speaking mind to mind because his gnashing beak was busy tearing horsemeat. The one where you and I would sneak off to Akanûl and kill a dragon and because of that there wouldn’t be a war?

  “Yes,” Aoth replied.

  How do you think that’s working out?

  Aoth scowled then laughed. “Plainly it’s working brilliantly. The actual goal was to prevent the invasion of Tymanther and we did. We’re fighting on Chessentan soil instead. Do you feel ready to go back aloft?”

  Jet gulped a final chunk of horsemeat. “Just open the door.”

  Aoth did and peeked out. There was no dracolich glaring down at him, or any other foe in view. There was battle somewhere nearby—he could hear the muddled roar of it—but it hadn’t yet spilled into that section of street.

  When he and Jet took flight, he had the griffon climb high. It made him feel exposed, but it was his only hope of assessing the overall progress of the battle despite the billowing, eye-stinging smoke and the buildings breaking up the view.

  Even after Jet reached the apex of his ascent, no dragon, living or undead, attacked them. But when Aoth saw where Tchazzar and Alasklerbanbastos actually were, he cursed.

  Troops loyal to the Red Dragon were plainly massing to assault a central part of the allied formation. Tchazzar himself towered in their midst, no doubt giving them orders and trying to inspire them to valor. Flickering with lightning, Alasklerbanbastos perched on a rooftop a little way back, probably so he wouldn’t spook his new partner’s warriors. He’d join the attack when it began.

  “They’re throwing everything into a run at Shala,” said Jet.

  “Yes,” Aoth answered. “Get us over there.”

  As they streaked toward Shala’s troops, he blew calls on his bugle because, while the sellswords on the ground had little hope of reaching Shala, griffon riders could. And one by one and two by two, those who were still able flew out of the night to race along beside him.

  They swung west to avoid a premature brush with the enemy, then looped in over Shala’s formation. As they arrived, still more flyers came to join their wheeling, swooping company. Riding double on Eider, Gaedynn and Son-liin preceded a band of windsouls with fluttering garments and blue lines glinting on their faces. Her staff rippling with fire, Jhesrhi floated like the genasi; something had evidently happened to her eagle. Oraxes and Meralaine rode their stolen drakkensteeds.

  And others flew in as well, folk Aoth hadn’t even dared to hope would appear just when he needed them most. Khouryn was riding a giant bat, of all things. Balasar and a white-scaled dragonborn arrived on horses made of congealed fog whose bodies dispersed as soon as the Tymantherans dismounted.

  “We might actually live through this,” murmured Aoth.

  “Or at least have all our friends with us in the afterlife,” Jet replied. “Either way, it’s starting.”

  He was right. Tchazzar spread his wings, and his warriors scurried or dropped low to avoid being swatted. The red dragon leaped into the air, and Alasklerbanbastos sprang from his rooftop. A flick of his fleshless tail tore half the shingles and several planks away. Beneath the dragons, warriors bellowed war cries and charged.

  Aoth and Oraxes hurled bursts of flame at Alasklerbanbastos. Settling to the ground behind the sheltering ranks of Shala’s warriors then swinging her staff overhand like a greatsword, Jhesrhi threw a howling wind full of hailstones in Tchazzar’s face. Her hands moving ceaselessly like a juggler’s, Meralaine plucked bits of darkness from the fabric of the night and lobbed those at the red dragon too. Griffon riders, hovering windsouls, and the bowmen on the ground loosed whistling clouds of arrows at the oncoming wyrms.

  And none of it even slowed them down. Alasklerbanbastos hissed words of power, and a huge, clawed hand made of shadow appeared in the air. It snatched and Jet dodged it by a hair. Tchazzar spewed a dazzling blast of fire. When the blaze died away, Jhesrhi was standing unharmed where it had fallen, but bodies lay black and twisted to either side.

  Meanwhile, the masses of spearmen, axemen, and swordsmen crashed together. But although Aoth actually knew better, it was hard not to feel that their struggle was meaningless compared to the violence and terror erupting over their heads.

  Aoth cast a blast of focused sound at Alasklerbanbastos, and a tremor rattled down the length of the creature’s skeletal form. But the bones didn’t break apart, and the lich still didn’t falter. He whipped his head from right to left, and the pale light in the empty eye sockets flared. Aoth felt his muscles try to clench into immobility. He growled a word of denial and released the power of a warding tattoo, and his limbs relaxed.

  Several windsouls were less fortunate. They couldn’t move or, apparently, even command the air to shift them as the Great Bone Wyrm snarled an incantation, and acid exploded in their midst. Bubbling and sizzling, their flesh dissolved, and their steaming bones showered out of the sky.

  The vitriol dropped too and splashed on the ground below. It reared up into a rippling, flowing dragon shape and swiped at a nearby crossbowman with its forefoot. He fell down, thrashing and screaming until the liquid eating into his face and chest stole his voice away.

  Alasklerbanbastos was close. Jet dodged to the right, and the dracolich turned to keep the griffon and his rider in front of his jaws and paralyzing gaze. Then like a bright, roaring waterfall, flame cascaded down on the wyrm from overhead.

  * * * * *

  Jhesrhi did her best to maintain the confidence and indomitable will that wizardry required. Still, as the dragons came driving in, it was hard to ignore the fear whispering that she and her friends were overmatched. And when the other wyrms came swooping into view, she felt a pang of near despair.

  Then, its blue scales gleaming in the light of a fire, a swooping sapphire dragon punched a hole in Tchazzar’s wing with the shriek that was its breath weapon. The red jerked and veered off course, and before he could recover, an emerald wyrm plunged down on top of him and smashed him to the ground.

  The emerald dragon leaped back into the air. Tchazzar lurched to his feet. His whipping tail killed men without his even intending it. He spewed flame at the green-colored wyrm, but the creature lashed its wings and dodged.

  Jhesrhi had no idea why the lesser dragons had changed sides, but since they had, maybe she and her comrades had a real chance after all. She blasted Tchazzar with frost. Jabbing with a wand crafted from a wisp of cloud, a dragonborn with snowy scales and silver skewers for piercings did the same.
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  * * * * *

  Cera led her gaggle of priests forward, toward the howl and clangor of battle. Then the mass of warriors in front of her parted for a moment, giving a woman of less-than-average height her first clear look at what was actually happening up ahead. She gasped and stopped short.

  She and the rest of Amaunator’s clerics had indeed found wyrmkeepers holding other priesthoods prisoner in their own temples. The dragon worshipers apparently hadn’t possessed sufficient manpower to capture everyone, but they had neutralized every order known to be particularly unhappy about the ascendancy of the Church of Tchazzar.

  Surprising the captors as they’d likely surprised their captives, the sunlords found it fairly easy to overwhelm them, especially since every victory added fresh recruits to their band. Cera tried not to feel too much vicious satisfaction as the wyrmkeepers fell, although, when she remembered how they’d imprisoned and tortured her, it was hard not to feel that, if anything, a quick death by sword thrust or battle prayer was too good for them.

  When every servant of a true god was free, she took her company west, toward the armies who, judging from the echoing racket, had begun to fight in earnest. She and her comrades had to handle a couple of skirmishes, but they swung around the bulk of Tchazzar’s forces and avoided a major confrontation. It seemed the wiser course. Rich in magic though she and the other priests were, a band of trained warriors would still stand a fair chance of slaughtering them until they united with the soldiers on Aoth and Shala’s side.

  Her success at reaching Shala’s company safely left Cera feeling a little smug about her own emerging talents as a war leader, and she knew a fierce resolve to do whatever she could to aid the defense. But that feeling fell away when she saw the heart of the battle, and awe welled up to take its place.

  Dragons were fighting one another, and their struggle had all but become the entire conflict, at least on the part of the discontinuous, irregular battleground that she could see. Warriors had fallen back to keep a stray blast of breath weapon or the stamp of a huge foot from killing them. That limited their ability to engage one another, not that they seemed much inclined to do so anyway. No doubt experiencing the same amazement and dread as Cera, for the most part, they, too, were simply watching the dragons assail one another.