Whisper of Venom: Brotherhood of the Griffon, Book II

by Richard Lee Byers

  But although she was the one person manifestly out of place, it was to her that Tchazzar looked as Aoth swung himself out of the saddle. “What do you think, wise lady?” the red dragon asked. “What do the omens say?”

  Halonya blinked. “Uh … your soldiers are strong in their faith. But the dark is rising.”

  Gaedynn grinned. “That often happens at sunset.”

  “Respect!” Tchazzar snapped.

  The archer offered a courtly little half bow. It was a silent apology if one cared to take it that way.

  “The dark is rising,” the dragon said. He peered about as though a demon lurked in every deepening shadow. “We should have attacked by day.”

  “Majesty,” said Aoth, striding toward him and the folk clustered around him, “if you recall, we wanted to give the appearance of weakness to lure Alasklerbanbastos to the battlefield. Which meant we couldn’t attack at all. We had to let him advance on us, and we assumed from the start that he’d come by night.”

  “Actually,” Shala said, “we need him to. Jaxanaedegor couldn’t help us if we fought in the sunlight.”

  “Jaxanaedegor,” Tchazzar sneered, as though it were she and not himself who’d made a pact with the vampire. “Yes, by all means, let’s hang our hopes on him.”

  Shala’s square jaw tightened. “Does Your Majesty have a shrewder strategy?”

  “Perhaps,” Tchazzar said. “We could withdraw. Fight at a time of our choosing.”

  “Majesty,” said Aoth, “this is the time of our choosing. Of your choosing. And it’s too late to withdraw. You can fly away, but most of your army can’t.”

  Tchazzar turned back toward Halonya. Who, Aoth was certain, meant to go on saying exactly the wrong thing.

  He whispered words of power, then pointed his finger at the gangly, towheaded youth who was trying to strap Tchazzar’s armor on, having a difficult time of it as his liege lord fidgeted and pivoted back and forth. The cantrip sent a chill stabbing through the squire. He stumbled, and his hands jerked, jamming the war hero’s gorget into the soft flesh under his jaw.

  “Idiot!” Tchazzar snarled. He spun, grabbed the boy, and dumped him on the ground. Then he started kicking him.

  Aoth winced. But he hoped that with a battle and an archenemy awaiting his attention, Tchazzar could be persuaded to stop short of doing the lad permanent harm. And in any case, the chastisement gave Aoth the chance to shift close to Jhesrhi and whisper, “Distract him.”

  She immediately headed for the war hero. “Majesty, please!” she said. “I understand that you’re upset. But I have something I need to say.”

  “What?” Tchazzar said.

  “I think … I think that walking among us mortals in a form of flesh and blood, you sometimes half forget what you truly are—a god. Above all signs and auguries except the ones you find in your own heart, and your own nature.”

  Tchazzar frowned. “I suppose …”

  “If you want to know how the battle will go, then I promise, just peer into flame, and your own divinity will show you.” Jhesrhi waved him toward a fire crackling and smoking several paces away.

  Halonya scowled and started to follow.

  Aoth grabbed her by the forearm and clamped down hard enough to hurt her. “Lady,” he whispered, “a word.”

  She sucked in a breath.

  “Scream,” he said, still just as softly, “and I swear by the Black Flame, I’ll kill you. I can do it with one thrust of this spear. Even Tchazzar won’t be able to act fast enough to save you.”

  “This is sacrilege,” she said through clenched teeth. But her voice was as hushed as his own.

  “What do I care? I’m a mage and a Thayan, remember? Now, this is how it’s going to be. Right now, Jhesrhi is doing her best to nurse Tchazzar through his case of nerves. When they turn around again, you’ll help her. You’ll convince him to follow through and fight.”

  “You can’t bully me.”

  “Maybe not. But I truly will kill you if you don’t do what I say, and I won’t have to be this close to do it. I know spells—”

  “Let her go,” Hasos said. From the sound of it, he was standing right behind Aoth.

  “No,” said Aoth.

  “I have my dagger in my hand. You told the priestess that even Tchazzar couldn’t act quickly enough to save her. Well, neither your griffon nor Ulraes can save you.”

  “Listen to me,” said Aoth, wondering how many more heartbeats he had left before Tchazzar turned back around. “You and I have had our differences. But I’ve learned that you’re an able warrior when you need to be. So you know Tchazzar has to fight tonight. He’ll lose Chessenta if he doesn’t. Halonya will lose her holy office. You’ll lose your barony, and the men-at-arms who followed you to this place will lose their lives. As a worshiper of Amaunator and Torm, you also know the difference between a true cleric revealing insights and a charlatan improvising blather.”

  Hasos stood silent for what felt like a long while. Then he said, “My lady, please forgive me for intruding on a private conversation.” Aoth sighed in relief.

  “Come back!” Halonya said. “You cowardly, blaspheming son of a—”

  “Shut up,” said Aoth. “You know what to do. You know what will happen if you don’t. Make your choice.” He stepped away from her.

  Gaedynn gave him an inquiring look, and Shala helped the scraped and bloodied squire to his feet. Then Tchazzar whirled around. For the moment at least, his uneasiness had given way to a grin.

  “I saw victory!” he said. Aoth wondered if Jhesrhi had surreptitiously supplied the images, or if the red dragon’s imagination had done all the work.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Shala said.

  Tchazzar looked to Halonya. “Still,” he said, a hint of hesitation returning to his voice, “you had … concerns.”

  The high priestess took a deep breath. “No longer, Majesty. I too saw triumph in the fire, even from over here.”

  “Then why are we standing around?” Tchazzar cried. “To your stations! Boy, why is my collar lying on the ground? And what happened to your face?”

  As it turned out, riding a giant bat wasn’t much like riding a griffon. Both the voice and the touch commands were different. The animal moved differently, perhaps even more nimbly, in the air, and Khouryn was still learning how and when to lean to aid its maneuvering.

  It also seemed incapable of making anything comparable to the diversity of rasps and screeches a griffon could emit. Which might be the only reason it wasn’t subjecting him to an ongoing critique of his technique.

  But his clumsiness notwithstanding, it felt good to fly again. And the loan of the winged steed was a mark of Tarhun’s trust, even though it was also a practical necessity if he was to scout the giant stronghold from the air.

  Biri’s arms shifted their grip around his waist. “Have you ever flown before?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “I always wanted to. It was why I meant—well, mean, I guess—to join the Lance Defenders when I’m older.”

  So she was young. “Well, ordinarily this isn’t the first flight I’d pick for you. Or the first time aloft on a bat that I’d choose for myself. But our companions know their business. We’ll be all right.”

  “I know,” she said. “The Daardendriens are very brave.” Her front brushed his back as she twisted to look left.

  She could have said that the Lance Defenders were very brave, for it was active members of the corps who made up most of the scouting party. She could also have looked right, toward Medrash and his borrowed bat, instead of to the left and Balasar.

  But she hadn’t done either of those things. So Khouryn sighed and said, “Balasar’s a fine warrior and my good friend. But not a suitable match for you.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she replied.

  Did the love-struck young ever listen to sound advice? Probably not. The Shining Dancer knew, Khouryn hadn’t. Nor did he regret it, despite all the horror and heartbreak that foll
owed.

  The smell of smoke that tainted the entire wasteland grew stronger. Black masses rose from the ground, and veins of glowing, flickering red threaded their way among them.

  The dragonborn called the place Ashhold. In one sense that was a misnomer, because the dark shapes were mostly extrusions of basalt, not the ashen spires encountered elsewhere on the plain. But it was a sacred site to the giants, where the fires that burned beneath their country found their way to the surface and, by ancient custom, the tribes set even the bitterest feuds aside. It was also the redoubt to which the survivors of Skuthosiin’s horde had retreated after Tarhun’s warriors pushed them out of Tymanther.

  Khouryn could see why. The hillocks of rock shouldn’t be as tough to crack as a castle with continuous walls, battlements, and other civilized defenses—thanks be to the Lord of the Twin Axes that the giants lacked the knowledge to erect such a structure. Still, they provided the advantages of high ground, partial cover, and a maze of obstructions to confuse an attacking force and break it up into smaller, less-effective units. The patches of flame and hot coals would further complicate the assault.

  So far, no giant was bellowing the alarm. The bats were evidently hard to see in the smoky, benighted sky. With the tap of a finger against the surprisingly soft fur on its shoulder, Khouryn made his steed swoop a little lower. Then he studied Ashhold and imagined the various ways in which it might be attacked with the troops at the vanquisher’s disposal, and how the giants might respond in each instance. The possibilities danced before his inner eye like pawns and pieces moving on a sava board.

  “Go farther in,” Biri said, “and lower.”

  “Why?”

  “Magic. I feel a lot of force stirring. I see it too, like a spot in the air after you glance straight at the sun. It’s there.” She stretched her arm past his head to point the way.

  He was reluctant to take greater risks than they had already. But he’d brought her along to provide a wizard’s insight, so he supposed he’d better give her a look at what she needed to see.

  He nudged his bat with his knee, but it ignored the command. Apparently the beast too sensed mystical energy rising and was leery of it. He kneed it again, harder, and then it wheeled and beat its way in the right direction.

  Ashhold opened up at the center, rather like a real castle with a courtyard. In the middle of the space burned the greatest of its fires, leaping up from a forked crack in the baked and barren ground. Crouching on a low, flat protrusion of basalt, the glow of the flames glinting on his dark green scales, a gigantic green dragon stared into the blaze and hissed words of power. A dozen giant adepts chanted contrapuntal responses.

  Since he was so close, even Khouryn could feel magic accumulating, as a queasiness in his guts and an ache in his joints. He ignored the discomfort to peer at the huge green, who surely had to be Skuthosiin.

  His first impression was that the wyrm was deformed, even though he couldn’t pick out anything that was specifically wrong with him. The dragons he’d seen hitherto were terrifying but beautiful. Even the burrowing brown had been magnificent in its way. In contrast, Skuthosiin made him want to wince and avert his gaze, like a sick person covered in weeping sores.

  He remembered the stories he’d heard. At one time, Skuthosiin had been a Chosen of Tiamat. He’d died, and his goddess had restored him to life. Maybe he’d come back tainted.

  A giant standing atop one of the masses of rock abruptly shouted. Evidently he’d spotted one of the bat riders gliding and wheeling overhead.

  Skuthosiin didn’t even deign to raise his head, nor did any of the other mages involved in the ritual. But as Khouryn turned his bat, and his comrades likewise prepared to flee, shadows the size of hounds—but with the serpentine shapes of dragons—darted up the sides of various stones. They silently lashed their scalloped wings and leaped into the air.

  As soon as they soared very high above the fire, they became difficult for even dwarf eyes to see. Agitated, Khouryn’s steed veered one way, then the other, while the Lance Defenders’ bats did the same. Evidently they too were having trouble perceiving the shadow things.

  A dragonborn cried out. His bat tumbled with one of the ghostly dragons ripping at each leathery wing.

  Medrash called out to Torm and shook his fist. White light flared from his steel gauntlet. It revealed the locations of the shadows, seared them, and dashed them toward the ground. The two clinging to the wounded bat lost their holds, and the steed spread its torn wings and leveled out of its fall.

  Unfortunately, the blaze of holy Power dimmed immediately, and the dark things winged their way upward again. Khouryn took a frantic look around and decided the creatures were fewest in the northeast.

  He pointed. “I want a blast of fire right above that rock with the two lumps on top.”

  Biri chanted and thrust out her wand of quartz. A red spark flew from the tip and exploded into a roaring mass of flame.

  The fire washed over shadow things and burned them to nothingness, breaking the circle they’d formed around the scouts. “This way!” Khouryn shouted, urging his mount toward the gap. His comrades streaked after him.

  Medrash hurled another flash of Torm’s Power to slow pursuit. Khouryn glanced back—with a dragonborn seated behind him, he had to lean sideways to do it—and met the gaze of Skuthosiin’s lambent yellow eyes.

  To his relief, the green was still perched on his makeshift dais, still performing his ritual, and showed no signs of joining the chase. But his stare was chilling.

  Khouryn spat the chill away.

  As the scouts raced on, leaving the shadow things behind, giants hurled javelins and rocks. But as far as Khouryn could tell, none of the missiles found its mark, and after a few more heartbeats he and his comrades were clear of Ashhold entirely.

  But they didn’t slow until they reached their own camp, an orderly sprawl with a scarcity of campfires. The foragers couldn’t find fuel, and even had it been otherwise, Black Ash Plain in summer could blunt anyone’s enthusiasm for heat and smoke.

  It seemed to Khouryn that his bat landed with an awkward bump. Unlike a griffon, the beast wasn’t built to prowl around on the ground. But it had its own virtues, and he gave it a pat before allowing a black-scaled Lance Defender-in-training to take charge of it.

  “That’s the kind of young fellow you should be ogling,” he murmured.

  Like Skuthosiin—well, not really—Biri declined to respond to the provocation.

  Medrash and Balasar gave up their borrowed steeds, and the four of them strode onward to the center of the army. Where Tarhun awaited them along with a motley assortment of senior Lance Defenders, clan war leaders, and mages.

  Smiling, the vanquisher rose from his campstool as they approached. “Did everyone get back safely?” he asked.

  “Yes, Majesty,” Medrash said, saluting. “They spotted us, but we managed to break away.”

  “And that’s not the only piece of good news,” said Balasar with a grin. “We didn’t see all that many of the giants’ pets. Apparently the adepts haven’t figured out that we can keep them from calling the beasts from afar. Which means they really won’t be much of a factor in the fight.”

  “True,” said Medrash. “That much is good news.”

  Belatedly registering his clan brother’s somber demeanor, Balasar said, “All right, what did I miss?”

  “Since you aren’t versed in a mystical discipline,” Biri said, “I understand why you didn’t sense it. But Medrash is right. The ceremony Skuthosiin is performing is something powerful and bad.”

  “You saw Skuthosiin?” Tarhun asked.

  “Yes,” Khouryn said, “and, if anything, he looks even nastier than his reputation. So I can believe he’s about to dump something hellish on our heads. The only question is, what form will it take?”

  Biri hesitated. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t able to tell that.”

  Balasar gave her a smile. “It’s all right, sweetling. You did fine. We might
not have gotten out of there without you.”

  A clan leader scratched her chin with the claw on her thumb. She had a row of little ivory moon piercings—waxing from new to full, then waning again—running across her brow. “If we don’t know exactly what Skuthosiin’s doing,” she said, “do we know how much longer it will take?”

  “No,” Biri said.

  “So if we want to interrupt the proceedings,” Khouryn said, “we should attack now.”

  Tarhun frowned. “At night. After rushing our preparations.”

  “I admit it would have its drawbacks,” Khouryn said.

  “Which is why the giants won’t expect it,” Balasar said.

  “I’m no longer a member of the Lance Defenders,” Medrash said, “but I still remember what I learned when I was. The bats will spot what we can’t. They’ll let us know what’s lurking in the dark.”

  Khouryn had no difficulty believing that was true. A griffon didn’t need to be able to talk to alert its rider to the presence of danger, and a bat probably didn’t either.

  Fenkenkabradon Dokaan, commander of the Lance Defenders, was a bronze-colored warrior almost as big as Tarhun. He carried a sheathed greatsword tucked under one arm, and branching steel piercings like miniature antlers jutted from his temples. He grunted and said, “One of your escort told me you just now ran into shadow creatures the bats had trouble seeing.”

  “With respect, High Lord,” Medrash replied, “magic and unnatural creatures always pose special problems. My observation is still sound.”

  Dokaan gave a brusque nod. “Fair enough. It is.” He turned toward Tarhun. “Majesty, I think Sir Khouryn’s plan has merit.”

  Several other officers and clan leaders tried to speak at once. Somewhat to Khouryn’s surprise, they all seemed to be expressing support. But maybe it shouldn’t have surprised him. They were the warrior elite of a valorous people, and they were heartily sick of the giants.

  “So be it,” said Tarhun. “Ready the troops.”

  Jet flew a zigzag course to throw off the aims of archers and crossbowmen. Aoth chanted words of power and repeatedly jabbed his spear at the Threskelan company below. Hailstones the size of his fist dropped out of thin air to pummel the foe.