Whisper of Venom botg-2

by Richard Lee Byers

  Heart thumping, mouth dry, Hasos brandished the sword of his ancestors, spurred his steed, and rode forth to attack the besieging army from one side while Gaedynn’s troops harried it from the other. Pounding along behind him, his men howled like some titanic beast.

  Aoth looked at Cera. Some of her bruises had faded. “Can you run?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Keep working on it.” As she began another prayer, he rose and rushed back out into the hallway.

  The drake looked like a wingless red wyrm charging on all fours. It nearly filled the passage, making it difficult to discern the dragon priest behind it.

  Scarcely slowing, the drake spewed slime. Aoth wrenched himself out of the way. The muck spattered the floor, where it sizzled and gave off vile-smelling smoke.

  Unfortunately, the evasion deprived Aoth of the time necessary to cast a spell. Nor was there any ranged magic stored in his sword potent enough to neutralize the drake and its master too. Regretting the absence of his spear, he poised himself to receive the reptile’s attack.

  The spitting drake sprang in an attempt to carry him to the floor. Somehow, though there was barely room for it, he sidestepped, released more of the power inside his blade to augment his strength, and stabbed downward.

  He missed the drake’s neck but pierced its shoulder. The sword drove in deep, then tore free in a shower of gore as the beast plunged onward. A pulse of Cera’s yellow light gilding its crimson scales, the beast reared onto its hind legs to spin around in the narrow hall. When it lunged again it was on three legs, the maimed one curled against its chest, but that didn’t slow it down.

  Aoth freed the last of the raw might stored in the sword, then heard the wyrmkeeper chanting at his back. A howl of frigid wind slammed into his back, knocking him forward. Off balance and chilled to the bone, he still tried to stab the onrushing drake. But it snapped, caught his sword arm in its teeth, and whipped its head.

  Only the truesilver mail shirt he wore beneath his outer garments kept the shearing action of the fangs and the whipping action from severing his hand. As it was, the drake threw him to the floor, and the pressure of its bite was as unrelenting as it was excruciating. The armor wouldn’t protect him for long.

  The drake lashed him back and forth. He tried to transfer his sword to his free hand but couldn’t reach it. He called darts of blue light from the blade to stab into the reptile’s body. It snarled with pain, but that was all.

  Her voice a little stronger, Cera chanted. A shaft of dazzling light blazed out of her cell onto the side of the drake’s head and neck, burning red scales black and melting a slit-pupiled yellow eye.

  Finally, recoiling, the reptile let go of Aoth. Then it glared in Cera’s direction, and he sensed it meant to spit more vitriol. He heaved himself to his feet, flung himself at the reptile, and stabbed. Sadly, the weapon no longer had extra force to lend, but, bellowing, he put every iota of his own strength and weight behind the stroke.

  The sword punched in one side of the drake’s neck and out the other. The beast thrashed, and a flailing leg or tail clipped Aoth and knocked him staggering. As he recovered his equilibrium, the drake collapsed to lie twitching and bleeding on the floor.

  He spun toward the wyrmkeeper. The priest was running and had already reached a branching corridor. He vanished around the corner before Aoth could even cast more shining darts from the sword, let alone recite an incantation. He growled an obscenity.

  Which failed to improve the situation. So he turned back to Cera just as she came limping out of the cell. “If the whoreson didn’t recognize me-” he began.

  Cera smiled wryly and ran a finger along his bare, sweaty temple. Which demonstrated that at some point during his struggles, his cowl had fallen back, giving the dragon priest a clear look at his head-shaved scalp, tattoos, glowing eyes, and all.

  He grunted. “Right. He did recognize me. So, now can you run?”

  “I think I can at least hobble quickly enough to reach the stairs before our friend assembles every wyrmkeeper on the premises at the top.”

  “Satisfying as it might be to kill our way through the whole pack of them, we’re not going out that way. Or at least I hope not.”

  “How, then?”

  “Often if a rich man thinks he needs a secret area in his home, he thinks he needs a secret way in and out of the house as well. If there’s one down here, I shouldn’t have much trouble spotting it. Let’s look.”

  When he saw how much trouble she was having keeping up, he put his arm around her and half carried her along. Then echoing voices called back and forth. The wyrmkeepers were coming after them.

  They seemed to be proceeding cautiously, but it was still just a matter of moments before one of them caught sight of their quarry. Aoth had just about decided it was time to turn around and make a stand when he and Cera came to the largest room they’d seen so far.

  The wyrmkeepers had turned it into the holiest part of their secret temple, complete with a sizable lacquered statue of their dragon goddess-batlike wings half unfurled, wedge-shaped heads glaring in all directions-that they’d somehow smuggled in. But what instantly snagged Aoth’s attention were the tiny cracks defining a rectangle on the back wall.

  In his haste he all but dragged Cera across the room, and she gasped in pain. “Sorry,” he said, examining the hidden door more closely.

  He found the catch and pressed it, and the panel clicked open. It was actually wood, with a stone veneer to make it look like the rest of the wall. On the other side was a tunnel. He and Cera scurried inside, and he shut the door.

  “You realize,” she whispered, “I can’t see a thing.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’ll guide you.”

  He only had to do it for a short distance. Then they reached the end and a ladder leading upward. When he cautiously cracked open the door at the top, he found himself peeking out into a cobbler’s shop where the air was redolent of leather. The place was dark at that hour, the proprietor likely asleep upstairs.

  He led Cera inside. A little light seeped through the oiled paper windows, enough for ordinary eyes to discern the essential nature of the place, and so she breathed, “We made it.”

  He snorted. “Not yet. My guess is that the wyrmkeepers will run to Halonya, and she’ll run to Tchazzar. But maybe we can get to him first.”

  FIVE

  5 KYTHORN, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  Some of the horsemen and griffon riders still had work to do. They had to chase the enemy warriors who’d fled the battlefield. Oraxes couldn’t imagine how they’d find the energy. He felt utterly exhausted, and while his own contribution to the victory had required intense concentration, at least he hadn’t had armor weighing him down or needed to swing a mundane weapon over and over again.

  He’d ridden out of Soolabax behind Gaedynn on griffonback. Since the archer was busy elsewhere, he had to find the stamina to trudge back into the town. He made it through the gate, then flopped down on the ground with his back against a wall. A steady stream of soldiers passed before him, their strange mix of satisfaction and weariness a match for his own. The scene stuttered as he repeatedly dozed, then jerked awake.

  “The sellswords who looked after me said I should stay and loot the bodies with them,” said a soprano voice.

  Startled, Oraxes snapped his head around. Meralaine was standing in front of him.

  “But I was too tired,” she continued.

  He dredged up a sneer. “Besides, it’s wrong to rob your friends.”

  She stared at him for a moment. Then she said, “No zombie ever cheated me or threw stones at me just because I had green marks on my hands. There are worse friends than the dead.”

  “And I guess that if you can’t find any living ones, that’s good.”

  She sighed. “I thought that fighting the immolith together might help us be friends. But maybe not. Is it because you think I want to be the leader of the mages?�
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  He frowned. “Don’t you? You were certainly kissing Gaedynn’s boots.”

  “I was not!” She hesitated. “But if I seemed like it, it was probably just because he and the other Brothers act like they don’t hate arcanists. Why would I care about being in charge of just three other people? Especially knowing how contrary the rest of you are. Especially since this Jhesrhi person will take over the job as soon as she comes back.”

  He surprised himself by chuckling. “When you put it like that, it does seem kind of stupid. I just …”

  “Was never put in charge of anything or anybody before?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  She sat down beside him. “You should learn necromancy. Then you’d always have dead things to order around.”

  Tchazzar kissed his way down Lady Imestra’s body. Like so many Chessentans, she had a taut, athletic frame, and her milky skin was smooth as silk. She was also the wife of one of the city’s principal lords, and that made her even more desirable. It had always been thus, and evidently a century in exile hadn’t changed his proclivities.

  At first she squirmed and arched her back in delight. He didn’t notice precisely when that changed. Eventually though, he realized she’d started screaming and struggling, tangling her fingers in his hair and straining in a vain attempt to pull his head up.

  When he raised it, he saw reddened, blistered skin. A trace of a red dragon’s fire must have warmed his lips and tongue.

  In wyrm form, mating with one of his own kind, he would have deliberately caressed his lover with his flame. He wondered if, addled by passion, he’d made an embarrassing mistake.

  But that possibility only troubled him for an instant, and then he perceived the truth. He was a god, and so his divine nature protected him. Imestra couldn’t bear his touch because she was disloyal.

  “Traitor,” he said. “Traitorous bitch.” He jumped up, grabbed her arm, and jerked her off the broad canopy bed onto the gleaming marble floor.

  “Majesty!” she wailed.

  “I know how to deal with traitors.” He dragged her across the floor to the chair where he’d tossed his clothing and the dagger he’d worn along with it.

  Then someone knocked on the chamber door. “Majesty!” called the sentry posted outside. “Is everything all right?”

  “In a way!” Tchazzar snarled. “My guards are evidently too stupid to keep traitors away from me. But fortunately a deity can protect himself!”

  The sentry hesitated, then said, “A lot of people are here waiting to see you, Majesty. Even though it’s late, and we told them you gave orders not to be disturbed. There’s Lady Halonya, Lords Daelric and Nicos, the sellsword captain-”

  “You mean Fezim?”

  “Yes.”

  Even with the insight of a divine being, Tchazzar couldn’t imagine what was going on. But it seemed clear he needed to find out. He started to call the guard in, then hesitated.

  He’d proved Imestra’s guilt. But would mere mortals understand that? It might make life simpler if he provided more conventional evidence.

  He left her sprawled and sobbing, picked up the dagger, unsheathed it, and tossed it to clank down beside her. Then he told the sentry to come in.

  “Arrest her,” Tchazzar said. “Watch out for the knife she smuggled in.”

  “Yes, Majesty,” said the guard.

  “Arrest her pimp of a husband too. Where did you put all these folk whose problem can’t wait until morning?”

  “In the Green Hall.”

  “That will do.” Tchazzar momentarily considered dressing properly, then decided that given the hour and the impromptu nature of the assembly, a robe was good enough. He pulled on one sewn of crimson mocado and headed for the door. Behind him, Imestra blubbered.

  An escort formed around him as he exited the royal apartments, and they all marched into the Green Hall together. Tapestries depicting Chessentan naval victories adorned the walls. The seas in the woven pictures were the color one would expect. So were the tiles on the floor, and the upholstery on the high-backed, ornately carved chair atop the dais.

  As Tchazzar seated himself, he surveyed all the frowning folk awaiting his pleasure. They stood in three clumps.

  On his right were Halonya-he really would have to tell the poor child to stop second-guessing her dressmakers, jewelers, and hairdressers-a couple of her subordinate priests, and plump Luthen with his balding head and goatee.

  In the middle, as if to separate the other two groups, were sour-faced, mannish Shala Karanok and one of her clerks.

  And on the left were Jhesrhi, Nicos, Daelric, Aoth, and the sunlady the war-mage had brought to the coronation-Cera, that was the name. The priestess had scratches and bruises all over her, and her yellow vestments were torn and stained.

  That seemed a little ominous, but what bothered Tchazzar more was seeing the only two mortals he completely trusted on opposite sides of the hall. Halonya was the visionary who most clearly perceived his divinity, while Jhesrhi was his luck, the agent of destiny who’d helped him escape the endless torture of the Shadowfell. Even the hint that they might be at odds was … disquieting.

  He let the men bow and the women curtsey, then told them when it was enough. As they straightened up, he said, “All right, what is it?”

  Several people starting babbling at once.

  “Stop!” Tchazzar glowered at Shala. “Chamberlain, what is it?”

  “Captain Fezim and Cera Eurthos were the first to arrive,” Shala said. “That was a while ago. They claim that after she sneaked into your interim temple to look for evidence of treason, the sunlady was held against her will in a secret dungeon. They further claim the priests tried to kill both of them when Fezim entered the building to set her free.”

  “That’s nonsense!” Halonya shrilled. “I’m told Cera Eurthos was detained-briefly-after she broke in to snoop around. Then the Thayan broke in too. Together they assaulted two of Your Majesty’s holy servants and killed a sacred beast.”

  “Several days isn’t ‘briefly,’ ” said Aoth. “And what gives your gang of ruffians the right to lock up anyone for any length of time, under any circumstances? If they thought Cera had committed a crime, why didn’t they summon the city guards?”

  “The Church of Tchazzar is the instrument of his sacred will,” Halonya replied. “Whatever we do is lawful and proper by definition.”

  “Amen,” Luthen said.

  “If your fellowship was truly and only the Church of Tchazzar,” said Aoth, “that might be a proper sentiment. But Cera and I found proof that some of the folk who pledged you their service are really priests of Tiamat.”

  Tchazzar snorted. “Is that was this is all about? I already knew that, of course.”

  Aoth stared at him. “You did?”

  “Why wouldn’t they serve me, when I’m the Dark Lady’s champion, and she’s my mother and my bride? When I am her and she is me?”

  Aoth took a breath. “Majesty, as I’m sure you realize, you’re talking about mysteries beyond a mortal’s understanding. What I do understand is that wyrmkeepers sent abishais disguised as dragonborn to murder me in Soolabax. There’s every reason to believe they used the same ploy to commit the Green Hand murders here in Luthcheq. They captured Jhesrhi and Gaedynn when they were in Mourktar and delivered them to Jaxanaedegor. They’re enemies of Chessenta, and that means they’re your enemies too.”

  “It’s the way of wyrmkeepers,” Tchazzar said, “to attach themselves to one dragon or another. Those who committed offenses against Chessenta plainly serve Alasklerbanbastos or his lieutenants. The ones who pledged their devotion to me are just as obviously a different group.”

  “Then why did they keep me prisoner for days on end without telling anyone?” Cera asked. “Why did they torture me to find out what I knew about their schemes? Why, if they have nothing to hide?”

  “Frankly, milady,” Luthen said, “if they held you for a little while and twisted your arm a bit,
that’s regrettable. But no more than you deserve for your meddling. Undertaken, I would assume, without the knowledge of your patriarch.” He turned an inquiring eye on Daelric.

  Stout and ruddy-faced, his yellow vestments trimmed with amber and topaz, the sunlord took a long breath, then let it out again. “I knew nothing about it, and, rest assured, I will discipline her. But I must also say that the person of a priestess of Amaunator is sacred, and I’m outraged at the treatment she’s received.”

  Halonya made a spitting sound. “No one cares a turd about your outrage.”

  “Did you even understand that many of your new clerics are actually wyrmkeepers?” Daelric replied. “Did you even know they were holding a sunlady prisoner? I think not, just as I’m reasonably certain you can’t perform even the simplest feat of divine magic to support your pretensions to sanctity.”

  “I proclaimed her a prophet and a priestess!” Tchazzar snapped. “Do you question my ‘pretensions’ to divine Power as well?”

  Daelric’s pink block of a face turned white. “No, Majesty, of course not. It’s just … Lady Halonya is a visionary, but likewise an innocent. That may be precisely the quality that enables her to see what others don’t. Still, to appoint her leader of your church and thus, in effect, a part of the government, is perhaps no benefit to anyone, herself least of all.”

  “Apologize,” said Tchazzar. “On your knees.”

  Daelric swallowed. “Yes, Majesty.” He started to lower himself before the throne.

  “No,” said Tchazzar. “To her.”

  The high priest faltered.

  “Do it,” Tchazzar said. “Or I’ll break you into something so wretched that even an illiterate pauper will look like a queen to you.”

  Daelric stiffly kneeled before Halonya. “I apologize,” he said, “for doubting your fitness for your office.”

  Halonya lashed him across the face with the back of her hand. The big red stones she wore on every finger tore his skin, and Tchazzar smelled the coppery tang of the beads of blood. “Now I forgive you,” she said in a tone as sweet as honey.