“Sorry,” Khouryn answered. He swung at the speaker’s kidney, and it collapsed in a frenzy of skinny, thrashing limbs and whipping tail. The actual Medrash dispatched it with a thrust to the heart.
Still feeling some ache from his phantom wounds as well as the genuine gashes on his leg, Khouryn looked around. He didn’t see anything else advancing to attack. “Everyone all right?” he panted.
“Just scratched up a little,” Balasar said. “And craving a nap. How could you tell the difference between them and us?”
“The purplespawn copied your looks,” Khouryn answered. “They couldn’t copy your fighting styles. And when I stared hard, I could make out the details of what was going on.”
“Purplespawn,” Balasar repeated. “That’s what these things are?”
“I think so,” Khouryn said. “They generally live underground like dwarves do. They’re supposed to be related to dark elves and dragons too, disturbing as that coupling is to imagine.”
“So,” said Medrash, “like the portal drake, they’re the kind of creature we might expect to find in Nala’s service. But before they interrupted us, you were telling us you’d discovered something you didn’t expect.”
Khouryn grinned. “Ah yes.” Since he’d decided to linger in Tymanther, he’d often regretted that he had so little aptitude for unraveling mysteries and conspiracies; Gaedynn or Aoth could surely do better. But by the Wanderer’s Eye, with help from the Daardendriens, he’d still found the end of the trail. “This isn’t a shrine to Bahamut but to Tiamat. Nala is actually a wyrmkeeper, a priestess of Tiamat.”
The dragonborn just looked at him.
“I don’t know a great deal about either Bahamut or Tiamat,” Khouryn persisted. “My people worship other gods. But I do know that Bahamut is considered good, and Tiamat evil. So, by infiltrating the Platinum Cadre, Nala has taken a group of worshipers who aspired to be virtuous and tricked them into corruption.”
“But for the most part,” Balasar said, “dragonborn don’t know anything about any of your gods.” He stifled a yawn. “They certainly don’t know enough to distinguish between one dragon god and another. Now that Nala’s accomplished the hard task of convincing them that any kind of wyrm worship can be a good thing, I don’t think this bit of news will trouble them. They simply won’t understand it.”
Khouryn frowned. “Surely the cultists won’t like hearing they pledged themselves to a completely different god than they imagined.”
“Once they go through the initiation,” Balasar replied, “Nala has at least the tip of a claw in every one of their heads.” He yawned again. “They’re the least likely of all to see the importance.”
“Curse it!” Khouryn said. “I can’t believe we’ve come this far and still have nothing!”
“I don’t believe it either,” Medrash said. He looked around and then, for want of anything better, wiped the blood from his sword with the edge of his cloak. “Torm brought us here for a reason.” He smiled. “And besides, you’re both forgetting we still haven’t discovered the reason for that wagonload of sand.”
Watching for more purplespawn or other threats, they stalked deeper into the tomb. Khouryn reflected that the owners must be—or have been—an important clan to possess such a spacious vault. Then he gasped at something extraordinary enough to push all such extraneous thoughts right out of his head.
Khouryn didn’t know a great deal about glassblowing, but he recognized the furnaces, blowpipes, marver, punty, and other tools required for the work. Raiann had set up in an open space where three crypts came together, and the five-headed statue of Tiamat he’d glimpsed previously loomed over everything else.
Nala’s ritual circle covered the patch of floor immediately in front of the idol. Intricately rendered in several colors, the figure was in its essence a wheel with S-shaped spokes.
The glass globes that Raiann crafted and Nala enchanted sat on a simple wooden rack convenient to both workspaces. Pinpoints of light from the votive candles reflected in the curves.
This, or something like it, was exactly what Khouryn and his comrades had needed to find. Yet for a moment, he felt less overjoyed than stunned by the sheer audacity and enormity of Nala’s scheme. She hadn’t just seized on the opportunity a menace afforded to foist her noisome creed on her fellow dragonborn. She’d help create the threat by crafting weapons to make the giants more dangerous than they’d ever been before.
“I said the barbarians had never made anything as fine—as civilized—as those orbs,” Balasar remarked at length. “Do you remember me saying that?”
“I remember Nala destroying every talisman we captured as soon as she could get her hands on it,” Medrash answered. “To make sure no mage or diviner could possibly figure out who fashioned it.”
Balasar strode to an improvised desk, a sarcophagus with parchment and writing implements on top and a stool positioned beside it. He picked up a couple of papers and, squinting in what for him was inadequate light, skimmed the text. “Who’s Skuthosiin?”
“A dragon,” said Khouryn, “who used to live hereabouts. He died during the Spellplague.”
“Don’t bet on it. We’ll have to go through these notes at length, but it seems Nala’s in communication with him.”
“I assume,” Medrash said, “that we can obtain other samples of Nala’s handwriting for comparison.”
Balasar laughed. “Oh yes. We have her. We absolutely have her. When Tarhun—” His eyes widened. “Watch out!”
Khouryn pivoted. Glaring, swaying slightly from side to side, Nala stood between them and the door Medrash had forced open.
Khouryn rushed her. The Daardendriens did too. She whirled and bolted for the corridor. As she dived through the door, she hissed a phrase in what he suspected was Draconic.
The door swung shut, nearly bashing Khouryn in the nose. He tried repeating the syllables Nala had spoken. Evidently he didn’t have them exactly right, because the mass of stone refused to pivot.
“Let me,” Medrash said. He planted his hands on the door, rattled off his prayer or mantra, and shoved. The door grated partway open as it had before.
But by the time they stepped back out into the passage, Nala was gone. They couldn’t even hear her footsteps.
Jhesrhi stood up. “Majesty,” she said, “I’m sure—”
Tchazzar whirled. His glare silenced her. “They can speak for themselves,” he rapped.
Jhesrhi swallowed. “Yes, Majesty.”
The dragon turned back to the other folk seated around the campfire. “Would anyone else like to speak words of blame?” Evidently, no one did. He fixed his eyes on Gaedynn. “Then perhaps you, sir archer, would care to expand on what you said before.”
Jhesrhi gazed at Gaedynn too, and hoped he’d understand what she wanted to convey: Control your tongue. Don’t antagonize him any further.
Gaedynn took a breath and let it out. Then, a tightness evident in his normally light, flippant baritone, he said, “Majesty, if it seemed I spoke words of reproach, then I ask your pardon for expressing myself poorly. I meant that I must not have understood the battle plan, because events didn’t unfold as I anticipated.”
Tchazzar sneered. “No, they probably didn’t. Because I’m surrounded by incompetence and disloyalty. And that’s the reason we didn’t win today. Take this little bitch, for example.” Quick as a striking serpent, he grabbed Meralaine and jerked her to her feet.
She yelped, and Oraxes’s jaw and neck muscles bunched, betraying a desperate resolve. It was Aoth’s turn to give a silent, surreptitious signal—he made a little patting motion, telling the boy to stay put. He then stood up himself, but slowly enough that Tchazzar might not interpret the action as challenging.
“I brought Meralaine north,” said Aoth, his voice as mild and devoid of aggression as his movements. “That makes her a warrior of the Brotherhood, or as good as, and my responsibility. To discipline, if need be. Please tell me how she’s offended.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Tchazzar replied. “I ordered her not to use necromancy, and yet she stinks of the grave.”
“Our foes summoned the dead,” Aoth replied. “She simply used her art to dismiss and control them. We might have fared far worse if she hadn’t.”
“It’s true, Majesty,” Jhesrhi said.
“Maybe,” Tchazzar said through gritted teeth. “Maybe.” He let go of Meralaine. Caught by surprise, she staggered a step and almost fell on her rump. “But who will justify what this one did?” He rounded on Shala.
Shala met his glare without flinching. “How have I displeased Your Majesty?”
“Do you think me deaf? That I didn’t hear my troops shouting your name? You want the throne back, don’t you, traitor? You’re sowing the seeds of a coup.”
“Majesty, someone had to lead after Lord Hasos was incapacitated, and I didn’t tell the men what to chant. They simply fell back into an old habit, and I was too busy to correct them.”
“Stand up,” Tchazzar said, and Shala did. “Give me your sword.” She drew the weapon and handed it to him.
Firelight ran along the blade as he sighted down its length. “A fine weapon,” he said. “With a proud history, I imagine.”
“Yes, Majesty,” Shala said. “Ishual Karanok used it to defend Chessenta during the Spellplague.”
One hand gripping the leather-wrapped hilt and the other the blade, Tchazzar held the sword at eye level. He then hissed a charm of weakening, the words so charged with malignancy that they made Jhesrhi’s ears ache and her stomach churn.
When he finished, he thrust the sword back at Shala pommel first. “Break it,” he said.
She hesitated. “Majesty?”
“You just told me it’s the blade of a war hero. Break it to show me you understand you are no longer a war hero and never will be again.”
Her square, plain features betraying nothing, Shala took the sword in both hands and did as he’d commanded. He crowed when the weapon snapped like a dry stick.
“Let that be a lesson to all of you!” Tchazzar cried. “Understand that you are blessed! Of all the peoples in all Faerûn, only Chessentans have a god incarnate guiding and protecting them every day of their lives. Never doubt or question! Be grateful and rejoice!”
A part of Jhesrhi wanted to say that was exactly how everyone felt. It seemed the best way to calm him down. But the words caught in her throat, and it appeared that nobody else was moved to speak them either.
Tchazzar took in their silence and shuddered. He grew a little taller, and his nose and jaws protruded a trifle from the rest of his face. A wisp of smoke curled from one nostril, and Gaedynn’s hand slipped toward the spot on the ground where he’d set his bow.
I have to stop this, Jhesrhi thought. She struggled to figure out how, and then a putrid stench filled her nose and nearly made her gag. “Look up!” Aoth shouted, and she did.
A cloud of mist spilled down from the sky. As it reached the ground, it drew in on itself, thickening and taking on a definite, bat-winged form. Slanted yellow eyes gleamed in a scaly, wedge-shaped head.
Jhesrhi felt an odd mix of fear and relief. Fear because she’d discerned how powerful Jaxanaedegor was when she and Gaedynn were his prisoners. Relief because Tchazzar had a new target for his ire, and because for some mad reason the vampiric green had intruded without any of his minions. Which ought to mean that, his prowess notwithstanding, she and her comrades could destroy him.
Everyone who wasn’t already standing scrambled to his feet. Aoth leveled his spear, and blue light seethed around the point. Jhesrhi gripped her staff with both hands and felt the pseudomind inside exult when she called for fire. Tchazzar grew to colossal size in a heartbeat, and Oraxes jumped aside to keep the red wyrm’s writhing, lengthening tail from knocking him down.
Jaxanaedegor snarled, “I claim my right to parley under the Twenty-Eighth Precept!”
Or at least Jhesrhi thought that was what he’d said. Like many wizards, she spoke some Draconic. But she wasn’t entirely fluent, and unless she was mistaken, the green had used an obscure or archaic dialect.
With the possible exception of Aoth, none of the other humans gathered there comprehended any of it at all. They continued readying their weapons, Shala gripping her stub of sword for want of anything better. The warriors at neighboring campfires cried out. Their footsteps thumped as they scrambled for their gear.
“Halt!” Tchazzar roared, tongues of flame flaring from his jaws. The sound was prodigiously loud, and everyone faltered.
“Lord Jaxanaedegor and I will confer,” Tchazzar continued in a somewhat softer voice. “Alone.” And then, to Jhesrhi’s astonishment, he and the green stalked into the dark together.
TEN
16 KYTHORN, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
Medrash and his companions climbed out of the Catacombs as fast as they could. But as they scrambled up the steps that connected one of the uppermost tunnels to the Market Floor, he saw that it hadn’t been fast enough.
Some—the most agitated or tainted ones, no doubt—slithering vertically in place, wyrm-worshipers surrounded the top of the stairs. They glared down at those whose path they obstructed.
Balasar gave them a charming grin. “Brothers! Sisters! Wonderful news! My clan brother and the dwarf have decided to join our faith!”
“Spy!” someone spat.
“Liar!” cried somebody else.
Others called for Nala. Her name echoed off the thick stone columns and away across the market.
“Let us pass,” Medrash said. “You have no right to hinder us.”
In response, some cultists inhaled deeply, readying their breath weapons. Others hefted blades and maces. Probably thanks to the dancing, they had a goodly supply.
Medrash cloaked himself in the majesty of Torm. The cultists’ eyes widened. “Let us pass,” he repeated.
The dragon-worshipers flinched. Started to clear a path. Then, in a puff of displaced air, Patrin and Nala appeared out of nowhere, the latter with a small gray drake perched on her shoulder. It had a scabby gash in its flank where Balasar’s knife had pierced it.
And what a shame the blade hadn’t killed the portal drake. For it was no doubt the creature’s power that had enabled Nala to exit the Catacombs far enough in advance of her foes to arrange the reception.
“My friends,” Patrin said, looking down the stairs, “what are you doing?”
For an instant, Medrash considered lying. But Balasar’s lie hadn’t accomplished anything. Besides, lying had never been Medrash’s way, and it certainly wasn’t the path of Torm.
“You know,” he said. “Or rather, you know what Nala told you—a distorted version of the truth. Down in the Catacombs, we found evidence of her crimes. Proof that she doesn’t worship your Bahamut but a different Power altogether, and has tricked the Platinum Cadre into serving that goddess as well. Proof that she herself creates the summoning orbs for the giants.”
A sort of collective snarl sounded from the mob.
“Growl as much as you like,” Balasar said. He reached into his jerkin and brought out one of the green globes. “Here’s a talisman she hadn’t yet gotten around to smuggling out. We have papers she wrote as well.”
Patrin scowled. “We just won a victory against the giants. I don’t suppose it was difficult to loot the bodies of a few adepts. If a clan has the resources of Daardendrien, I don’t imagine it’s difficult to get documents forged either.”
“You know us,” Medrash said. “Would any of us be a party to such a thing?”
“I don’t like believing it,” Patrin said. “But time after time I’ve seen how my faith repulses you, even when you tried to hide it. And plainly you’re not above deceit, or Balasar would never have joined the Cadre.”
“You have us there,” Balasar said. “I did trick you. But a little trickery is one thing. A false accusation of treason is another. I ask you to believe we wouldn’t stoop to that.”
&nbs
p; Nala laughed an ugly laugh. “He has the gall to say that, when we intercepted them on the way to do that very thing!”
Khouryn looked up at Patrin. “If you won’t trust us, then trust the vanquisher’s justice. If our accusations are false, then Nala has nothing to fear.”
The wyrmkeeper touched her lover and champion on the forearm. “We’ve come so far,” she said. “But there are still many—including counselors close to Tarhun—who despise us. Don’t give anyone a chance to undo what we’ve accomplished.”
“Iron and stone,” Khouryn said, still speaking to Patrin, “just think, will you? I’m no priest or mystic, but even I now understand why your gifts are nothing like those of the rest of the Cadre. You were pledged to Bahamut before you ever met Nala. Your bond with your god shields you from Tiamat’s taint. But the rank and file aren’t as lucky.”
Patrin hesitated, and Medrash hoped the dwarf was getting through to him. Then the other paladin said, “I do have a tie to the Lord of the North Wind. So I’d know it if anyone were subverting his worship.”
“No,” Medrash said. “Ever since Torm drew me to the scene of one of the murders in Luthcheq, I’ve prayed for him to tell me everything I need to know and what I’m supposed to do about it. But I’ve learned that except in the rarest instances, the gods don’t operate that way. Which means that even paladins can miss the truth and make mistakes.”
“My dear one,” said Nala to Patrin, “remember how it was for you—for all of Bahamut’s worshipers—before I heard his call and came to guide you. You were a tiny circle of outcasts scorned by all. Look at us now. Can you possibly doubt that you and I have been doing his work?”
“No,” Patrin. “Of course I don’t.”
“So what happens now?” Balasar asked. “Are you going to set this whole mob on us? You’ll make murderers of them if you do.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Nala said. “No one will ever know what became of you.” But perhaps that had been the wrong tack to take, for it drew a frown from Patrin.
Whisper of Venom: Brotherhood of the Griffon, Book II Page 21
