The Captive Flame botg-1

by Richard Lee Byers

  He waited for Nicos to tell him the purpose of their discussion, but the Chessentan seemed to be having trouble getting started. In hopes of moving things along, Aoth said, “I noticed that neither Lord Luthen nor his proxy Daelric said a word in council today. I suppose they realized they’d look like idiots speaking out against you now that you truly have stopped the Green Hand killings.”

  Although now that he thought about it, it was odd. Luthen hadn’t looked unhappy. He’d had a little smile on his round, bearded face.

  Nicos grunted. “We did stop them-or rather, you and your people did. It needed doing, and you succeeded brilliantly.” He hesitated.

  “But?” Aoth prompted.

  “It didn’t work out the way I hoped. I’m afraid the provocations from Threskel and High Imaskar, outrageous and damaging as they are, are merely the precursors to actual invasions. In large measure, that’s why I wanted to catch the Green Hands. To allay the common suspicion of mages enough that the war hero and her commanders would consent to use them in our defense.”

  Aoth nodded. “And we did. But now Chessenta won’t have dragonborn allies fighting alongside her soldiers. You’re worried you came out behind on the trade.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Of course, if Tymanther really is your enemy, you wouldn’t have had their help anyway.”

  Nicos waved a dismissive hand, as if to convey that Tymanther’s guilt was an impossibility. Aoth had his own doubts, based more on intuition than the facts, but he wondered how the Chessentan could be so sure.

  “In any case,” Nicos said, “our situation remains more complicated than anticipated. Shala’s right-Perra and her household are now in much the same situation as were the wizards two days ago. The people despise them and may well try to harm them, and we can’t trust native Chessentan troops to protect them. Can you provide an escort to see them safely back to Tymanther?”

  Aoth sighed. He would have preferred to have all his strength to contend with whatever Threskel sent south. “I can spare a few men.”

  “Good. There’s something else as well. But first, I have to ask you, are you truly my agent? Will you follow my orders in preference to any others?”

  Aoth stared at him. “By the Nine Dark Princes! Was Luthen right? Did you bring us here to help overthrow the war hero?”

  “No! Of course not!”

  “Well, that’s a relief, because I don’t think that at our current strength we could pull it off. We might kill or imprison her, but we probably wouldn’t fare well in the dung storm that would follow.”

  “I’m not a traitor!”

  “Clearly not, milord. I was just speaking hypothetically. To answer your question-yes, I’m your man, as long as you keep paying me.”

  “All right. Then how much do you know about Tchazzar?”

  Aoth cocked his head. “Very little. I’m old enough that I actually could have seen him, but I never did. I was a little busy up in Thay the last time he was around.”

  “I assume you’ve at least heard that he vanished during the upheavals of the Spellplague.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there’s a little more to the story. He ventured into Threskel and never returned. It’s possible he was looking for a way to protect Chessenta from the blue fire, although no one truly knows.”

  “So, if he was in enemy territory, it’s also possible his greatest enemy managed to kill him at last.”

  “Yes, but recently, some rumors have come out of the northeast. Allegedly, certain folk, while wandering somewhere in the mountains, have heard a dragon roaring on the darkest nights. A few even claim to have seen one sprawled on the ground, with flames flickering from its mouth and nostrils.”

  “Threskel’s full of wyrms, isn’t it? There’s a dracolich running the place, and a bunch of living wyrms who pay homage to him. I imagine some of them are fire-breathers. So what makes you think this particular dragon is Tchazzar?”

  “The reports say the dragon is huge and old, like Tchazzar. They also say he’s emaciated, and looks like he can’t stand up for some reason. If he’s crippled, or imprisoned somehow, that would explain why he never returned to Luthcheq.”

  “But it doesn’t explain why, over the course of nearly a century, Alasklerbanbastos never found him and finished him off. Or why, if he’s been lying helpless for all that time, you just heard about it ‘recently.’ ”

  Nicos scowled. “I don’t simply assume the dragon in question is Tchazzar. But it could be.”

  “And you want to find out for sure.”

  “Yes.”

  “Without Shala realizing you have someone looking into it. Because she’d take it to mean you lack confidence in her rule.”

  “Yes. Although it would be completely unfair to take it that way, considering that Tchazzar was a living god. Obviously, he could provide for his people in a way no mortal sovereign could. And he might not even want to resume the throne. It’s possible he’s beyond such things.”

  And possible he’s not, thought Aoth, in the highly unlikely event he’s still alive. “I have to say, I never spotted you for a member of the Church of Tchazzar.”

  “I’m not. But you don’t have to be to revere Chessenta’s savior. Or to look into every possible source of aid now that our enemies are pressing us hard. Will you help me?”

  Aoth deferred the necessity of answering by taking another sip of liqueur. The cordial suddenly tasted too sweet, and burned in the pit of his stomach.

  He had an unpleasant sense of being caught up in matters he didn’t understand. There were too many anomalies. The unanswered questions about the Green Hands and the apparent treacheries of the dragonborn. Nicos’s unexpected mystical skills, and his claim that after almost a hundred years, rumors of Tchazzar’s survival had reached him only now, just when Chessenta was in urgent need of its champion. To say the least, it was a remarkable coincidence.

  But did Aoth need to understand? Did he even want to? Or did he want to keep to his… well, definitely not his place. Though he observed the proper forms of respect to the lords of the world, particularly if they were employing him, he’d long since forsaken true subservience to anyone. But his role, the one he’d freely chosen for himself, was to be the sellsword captain who fought for gold and reputation without caring or having to care about the plots and maneuvers that sent realms to war in the first place.

  That role was in jeopardy now. If he pushed Nicos for further answers, gave the nobleman reason to suspect his loyalty, it might slip from his grasp forever.

  “You realize,” he said, “that even if a spy did find Tchazzar alive, that doesn’t mean a mere man could fix whatever problem is holding a dragon helpless.”

  “I wouldn’t expect him to try,” Nicos replied. “He just needs to report his findings, and then I’ll decide what to do next.”

  Aoth grunted. “All right. I’ll send someone to run this errand too. If anyone notices, I’ll just say I’m dispatching scouts across the border to gather intelligence on Alasklerbanbastos’s forces.”

  *****

  Khouryn sat with his feet stretched out toward the campfire and his back against Vigilant’s flank. The griffon’s body heat prevented the chill of the evening fog from sinking into her rider’s bones, and keeping her close discouraged her from taking an inappropriate interest in the horses and mules.

  Naturally he wouldn’t have done it if any of his companions minded having such a big, potentially deadly animal lounging close at hand, but none of the dragonborn did. In the main they seemed to be hearty, practical folk like dwarves or sellswords, and he liked them more every day they traveled together.

  And that had been long enough that he was starting to feel like he could relax and enjoy their company. They’d journeyed at a good pace. Maybe fast enough to outrun the news that Tymanther had supposedly betrayed Chessenta.

  Balasar, who justly took pride in his camp cooking, handed him a grilled trout fillet wrapped in a big leaf from some aquatic p
lant. The best route from Luthcheq into Tymanther ran along the northern shore of the Methmere. The frequent mists were one of the inconveniences. The fresh fish were one of the advantages.

  Khouryn took a bite. Too quickly-it burned his mouth. But it was tasty, sweet, moist, and spiced with something he didn’t recognize. Vigilant gave a little squawk, begging, and he told her to shut up. “You had your supper before the sun went down.”

  “Yes,” said Balasar, grinning, fog blurring his features even though he was just a few feet away. “Do be quiet, Vigilant. Your master has to keep up his strength to protect us poor, helpless dragonborn from harm.”

  Khouryn chuckled. “Peace. I think you realize we didn’t tag along because anyone doubts your prowess. It’s just that a few extra spears are never a bad idea. And if we run into angry peasants, well, it’s you they hate, not us. So maybe we can persuade them to back off without needing to kill any.”

  Medrash scowled. “I still can’t believe it’s come to this. And, stuck back in Tymanther, we’ll have no way of uncovering the truth.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Balasar said. “Although maybe that god of yours is to blame. If he’s what really set you on the trail of the Green Hands.”

  Medrash glared. “Torm charged me to further the cause of good. But somehow I bungled the task, and because I did, the alliance fell apart.”

  “How?” Balasar asked. “How would any sane person say you botched the job?”

  “Perhaps stopping the Green Hands wasn’t the job. Maybe I misunderstood Torm’s prompting from the start. I just don’t know!”

  Khouryn decided he didn’t want to watch two friends quarrel, or Medrash wallow in self-recrimination either. Hoping to divert the conversation, he asked, “How did you get to be a paladin, anyway? I always heard that dragonborn don’t worship the gods.”

  Medrash smiled like he too was glad of a distraction. “Back in Abeir, where we lived before the Blue Breath of Change hurled us across space, none of us did. But we’ve been in Faerun for a while now. We’re picking up some of your ideas.”

  “A pointless craving for novelty that corrupts the old traditions.” Balasar’s tone was severe past the point of pomposity, but then he grinned. “Or at least that’s what the clan elders say. Me, I just think all this praying and such is silly. As far as I can see, all it does is fill fools like my clan brother here with fretting and discontent.”

  A coil of the steadily thickening fog billowed across Medrash’s face, half obscuring it. “It gives us purpose.”

  “What better reason to avoid it?”

  Once again, Khouryn intervened. “All right, that explains how some dragonborn come to embrace the gods. But how did you receive the call to be a paladin?”

  “I suppose I heard it,” Medrash said, “because I needed to. As a youngling, I was the shame of my parents and of Clan Daardendrien. Weak, clumsy, and-worst of all-timid in a kindred famous for its warriors.”

  Khouryn snorted. “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Maybe, but it’s true. All the other youths despised me. Everyone but Balasar.”

  “Ascribe it to my kindly nature,” Balasar said. “Or maybe my contrariness.”

  “Anyway,” Medrash continued, “I was well embarked on a wretched life. It was even possible Daardendrien would cast me out. But then I started dreaming of a warrior with a steel gauntlet. At the start, I didn’t even realize he was Torm, or a god at all. But I could feel his magnificence, and when he urged me to put my trust in him, what did I have to lose?”

  “Clarity of mind?” suggested Balasar.

  Medrash gave him an irritated look.

  “I take it,” Khouryn said, “that after you pledged yourself to the god-or something like that-things changed for you.”

  “Not all at once,” Medrash said. “I didn’t stop being afraid, but I found the willpower to try things even though I was. I threw myself into my warrior training, because for the first time I truly believed I could improve.”

  “And that’s the tooth that cracks the shell,” Balasar said. “Attitude. Confidence. I don’t need to believe that a god truly took a personal interest in one sad, puny little child to explain what happened next.”

  “After half a year,” Medrash said, “I was stronger, quicker, and a better fighter than a number of my fellow students. After two years, I was better than nearly all of them.”

  Balasar swallowed a mouthful of trout. “Except me. Obviously.”

  Medrash snorted. “Oh, obviously. Later still, I happened across a Tormish temple. I looked at the paintings and statues and recognized the protector from my dreams. I took instruction from the holy champions and asked them to train me to be a paladin.”

  “What did your clan think about that?” Khouryn asked.

  “They tolerated it,” Medrash said. “Most dragonborn believe that those who pay homage to the gods are a little odd, but they don’t scorn us the way the Chessentans do their mages.”

  “The clan realizes,” Balasar said, “that wherever Medrash’s special talents come from, they’re useful. Anyway, you can’t hate everybody at the same time, and well before any of our folk took an interest in the gods, Tymanther had already chosen targets for its bigotry.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” Medrash snapped. “So, Khouryn, you’ve heard my story, such as it is. Now you answer a question for me. I understand why Lord Nicos wanted Perra to have an escort. I don’t understand why one of Aoth Fezim’s senior officers is commanding it. Doesn’t he want you with him when he fights the marauders out of Threskel?”

  Plainly, Khouryn thought, I’m not the only one who knows how to change the subject. But fair enough. I don’t need to know who it is that Tymantherans spit at in the street. “I asked to lead the escort. During the riot and again in the fight with the Green Hands, you fellows saved my life.”

  Medrash shrugged. “We three simply watched out for one another, as comrades do.”

  “Maybe,” Khouryn said, “but I felt like helping you get home safely. Besides, there’s another reason I wanted to come. Tymanther’s not that far from East Rift. My wife’s there, and I haven’t seen her in a couple of years. I’m hoping to travel on down the Dustroad and visit. On griffonback, it’s not that long a trip.”

  “Why don’t you live with her?” Medrash asked.

  Khouryn grunted. “That’s not as happy a story as yours. Nor one I’m much inclined to tell, except to friends. When I was about as young as the two of you-which is damn young, for a dwarf-”

  Vigilant sprang to her feet, dumping her master on his back. Balasar chuckled, but his mirth died away when he saw how the griffon was looking around.

  Khouryn scrambled to his feet. “Something’s coming.” His mind raced: What did he have time to do? Pull on his mail? Saddle Vigilant? Quite possibly neither.

  “We have sentries,” Balasar said.

  “Who don’t see what’s sneaking up on us,” Khouryn said. Mace and boot, now that he was belatedly paying attention, he realized that except for the other campfires, reduced to mere smudges of glow, he could barely even make out the rest of the camp. He raised his voice to a bellow. “Something’s in the fog!”

  In response, voices cursed. He could picture his fellow wayfarers hastily rising from their ease and grabbing their weapons, even as he was snatching up his urgrosh.

  Balasar and Medrash took up their shields and drew their swords. The paladin rattled off an invocation, set his blade aglow with silvery light, and grimaced when he saw that the luminescence only helped a little to reveal what lay within the mist.

  Then, closer to the lake, someone screamed. One of the pickets, maybe cut down before he even realized he was in danger. An instant later, Vigilant gave a deafening screech and charged in that direction.

  Khouryn ran after her, and Medrash and Balasar pounded after him. Still, the griffon outdistanced them and vanished into the fog. Then wings snapped, bodies thudded together, and hissing cries rasped. She’d f
ound the enemy.

  When Khouryn caught up, he nearly faltered in surprise, for Vigilant was fighting creatures unlike any he’d ever seen. At first glance they somewhat resembled lizardfolk, but with limbs and torsos foreshortened from human- to dwarf-length, and flexible, whipping necks stretched more than long enough to make up the lost height. Their scales gleamed orange-yellow in the glow of Medrash’s sword.

  Despite their fangs and claws, they were no match for Vigilant in close combat. She’d already shredded two and was gutting another with her talons. But four more, keeping their distance, spat what looked like water at her, and she screamed and jerked.

  Khouryn charged the closest one. It spat the same spray at him. He dodged, but some of the jet still caught him.

  It felt hot instead of wet. A wave of sickness surged through him. He stumbled, and his foe rushed him. The fanged head on the long neck struck at him like a snake.

  Refusing to be weak no matter how wretched he suddenly felt, he swung the urgrosh and lopped it off. Then he pivoted and chopped a second such creature in the chest.

  He looked around and saw that Medrash and Balasar had killed a couple too. That seemed to be all of them in the immediate vicinity. And to his relief, he didn’t feel as miserable as he had a moment before. Just parched, like he’d marched under the hot sun all day without a drop of water.

  “Where now?” Balasar asked.

  It was a good question. Khouryn could tell from the battle cries and shrieks that the whole camp was under attack. But since he couldn’t see the battle, how could he judge where he and his companions were needed most?

  He tried to swallow away the dryness clogging his throat. “We go to the ambassador. Protect her.”

  Medrash gave a brusque nod, and they headed for the center of the camp and Perra’s fire. With luck, maybe she hadn’t strayed far from that location.

  When they blundered into more of the hissing, long-necked creatures, they killed them. Once or twice, Vigilant shot Khouryn what he would have sworn was an annoyed glare. Maybe she considered it beneath her dignity to fight on the ground. But he was afraid he’d see even less if he rode her up into the air.