Once again the blade flared with white light, and for that same instant, Medrash saw the ghostly form of a pale, gleaming dragon behind his foe. Bahamut’s head snapped forward, and his jaws gaped.
Medrash threw himself to the side. Still, he couldn’t avoid the blast entirely, and it was as fierce and frigid as any north wind that ever blew. It staggered him and chilled him.
Patrin rushed in and cut at his opponent’s flank. Still off balance and shuddering, Medrash managed to parry, but not well. His defense robbed the stroke of some of its force, but Patrin’s sword jolted through it to gash his forearm.
Patrin instantly followed up by spewing flame in Medrash’s face. Burned, dazzled, Medrash reeled backward and swept his blade through a defensive pattern. He prayed that one of the parries would intercept Patrin’s next sword stroke even if he couldn’t see it.
Steel rang on steel as he deflected a thrust at his leg. Since he still could barely see, he riposted by drawing down Torm’s Power, then clenching his offhand and punching.
Light blazed at Patrin, and a gauntleted fist punched in the center of it. The blast-or the punch; they were one and the same-hurled Bahamut’s champion backward. He reeled but stayed on his feet.
Medrash reached out to Torm again. The resulting surge of vitality washed the blurriness and the stinging from his eyes. His sword arm kept bleeding though, and it was starting to throb.
“That’s first blood,” Patrin said, “and a wound that guarantees you can’t win. Please yield. There’s no dishonor in it.”
Medrash shook his head. “I won’t fail Torm and our people,” he rasped.
“Then I’ll make it quick.” Patrin advanced.
It actually wasn’t quick. Medrash judged that although Patrin was a good swordsman, he was a notch better, and the difference protected him for the next several phases. It enabled him to parry or dodge sword stroke after sword stroke ablaze with argent Power. But with fatigue and blood loss slowing him down, he could neither go on the offensive nor score with a riposte.
He might be able to channel a little more of Torm’s might, but not, he judged, enough to save him. Not unless he used it cleverly. He struggled to think of a tactic, and finally a notion came to him.
First he had to open up the distance. He punched the air, and a flash hurled Patrin back as it had before. Medrash swayed as though the magic had taken everything he had, which wasn’t far short of the truth.
Patrin rushed him. Medrash waited until his opponent was almost within striking distance, then clenched his empty hand and jerked his arm back.
For an instant a huge, ghostly fist gripped Patrin and pulled him forward. If Medrash was lucky, maybe it squeezed hard enough to do some damage.
But that wasn’t the reason he’d evoked the effect. It was a magic paladins used to drag reluctant foes within reach of their blades. He hoped that if an opponent wasn’t reluctant, if he was already charging in, then the unexpected yank would throw him off balance.
Patrin pitched forward. Medrash lunged. His sword drove deep into Patrin’s chest. Bahamut’s champion crumpled to his knees, then fell forward.
For a few heartbeats, everyone was silent. Medrash could feel the shock and the welling grief of the other cultists like a great reverberation implicit in the stillness.
Then Nala screamed, “He cheated! The Daardendrien cheated! Kill them!”
Her followers surged at Medrash, and at Balasar and Khouryn at the top of the steps, like a noose snapping tight around a hanged outlaw’s neck.
Patrin heaved himself up on an elbow. His form glowed with pearly light, and somehow-even fallen, struggling in a spreading pool of his own blood-he seemed indomitable and majestic.
“Stop!” he croaked, and there was power in that too. It should have been inaudible to anyone even a pace or two away, but Medrash was certain the entire crowd could hear it. “He didn’t cheat. Do what I promised. Don’t disgrace your god. Or me.” His body slumped. He plainly couldn’t hold his head up any longer.
But he didn’t have to. His plea had quelled the fury Nala hoped to incite.
Medrash kneeled down beside Patrin and pressed his hands against the dragon-worshiper’s back. Straining, he channeled a whisper of Torm’s Power through his own body and into that of the other paladin, but nowhere near enough to mend a fatal wound.
But Nala was a healer! Medrash looked up just in time to see her vanish, whisked away by the power of the small gray drake on her shoulder.
“It’s all right,” Patrin wheezed.
“I didn’t want to kill you,” Medrash said. “But I knew I only had one chance. I had to make sure I ended the fight.”
“It’s all right,” Patrin repeated, his voice growing even softer. “I prayed for truth and right to prevail, and they did. If Nala was what I thought …” He shuddered and then lay absolutely still.
For a moment, Medrash hated himself. Perhaps he even hated Torm, whose path had led him to that moment. Then that feeling crumbled into a pure and bitter regret. Clenching himself against the urge to howl out his grief, he stayed beside the corpse until Balasar came and gripped his shoulder. “Let’s find somebody to stitch up that arm,” the smaller Daardendrien said.
Aoth could see his hands and the spear he carried in the right one, but then, nothing was ever invisible to him. It was somewhat reassuring that he could also see a ghostly shimmer crawling on his limbs, a manifestation of the enchantments Jhesrhi, Oraxes, and Meralaine had cast to veil him.
He was about to find out how well they’d done their work. The wyrms hadn’t gone very far from camp. They were just ahead, their long necks rising like strangely curving tree trunks with all the spiny, leafless branches on one side.
Jet spoke to him across their psychic link. Even if they don’t see you, what about their noses? What about their ears?
Aoth sighed. Who woke you up? Gaedynn?
If you need a diversion, tell me and he’ll provide it.
No, he won’t. Neither will you.
Do you have any idea how sharp a dragon’s senses are?
Yes. But if the magic worked, I have no scent, and just in case it didn’t I’m downwind. And as far as noise is concerned, I do know how to sneak. I sneaked up on Malark on top of Szass Tam’s mountain.
And then he spotted you. And he wasn’t even a very old dragon, or undead, or a living god. Why are you doing this? Surely not just because you promised your new female.
No. Because she was right. We need a better understanding of what’s going on. All our lives may depend on it. Now stop pestering me and listen through my ears. If I do get into trouble, tell Jhesrhi and Gaedynn everything you heard before … well, before.
He skulked up to a broad, weathered stump. Good cover against many creatures, but not those tall enough to peer right over the top of it. He crept even closer to the dragons until he found a mossy old oak with a thick trunk. As he hid behind it, he realized that Tymora had favored him in one respect, anyway. Tchazzar and Jaxanaedegor weren’t conversing in the seemingly archaic Draconic dialect the vampire had used in camp. They were speaking the tongue as Aoth had learned it.
“-possibly trust you?” Tchazzar said.
“How can you not?” Jaxanaedegor replied. “Since I had some inkling of their purpose, my agents in Mourktar fought Alasklerbanbastos’s to make sure Jhesrhi Coldcreek and Gaedynn Ulraes ended up as my prisoners. Then, after I verified my information, I gave them a chance to escape and even allowed them to carry a staff of fire away with them. Because I suspected that if they actually found you, you might need a fountain of flame to restore you to yourself.”
In other circumstances, Aoth might have laughed in amazement. Whatever he’d expected to hear, it wasn’t that.
Meanwhile, Tchazzar snorted and tinged the air with smoke and sulfur. “ ‘Gave them a chance.’ ”
Yellow eyes glowing like foxfire, Jaxanaedegor bared his fangs in what might have been a grin. “I couldn’t just unchain them and wave
goodbye. I have to assume the dracolich spies on me as he does on others.”
“I assume his scrutiny is also supposed to excuse the attack you led against me.”
The green flicked his wings. It sounded like the crack of empty sails when a gust of wind finally filled them. “That’s exactly right, and look how I managed it. Alasklerbanbastos lost a powerful artifact and three of the dragons who were truly loyal to him. It all would have gone better still if you’d joined the battle sooner.”
“Don’t presume to criticize me!” Tchazzar snarled. “Not you, a leech and the spawn of the dark! Not you of all creatures!”
Aoth winced at the red’s vehemence, and even Jaxanaedegor seemed slightly taken aback. “I … intended no offense. I’m simply trying to convince you that I’m on your side, so that together we can exploit an opportunity.”
“Which is?”
“It may end up being a good thing that your army took a beating. Alasklerbanbastos is wary, and he didn’t recruit all his sellswords and such because he meant to put himself in any real danger. But he also hates you with the cold, gnawing hatred of the undead. If he believes he has you at a serious disadvantage, he’ll come out of his caves to deliver the death stroke.”
“He does have me at a disadvantage!”
Jaxanaedegor smiled. “I can fix that. I’m directing the troops who are presently maneuvering to contain and isolate you. I can make them zig when they ought to zag, thus allowing reinforcements to reach you.”
Tchazzar grunted. “That would be helpful, but not necessarily sufficient.”
“Then it’s good that I have more to offer. I’ve communicated with some of the dragon princes and convinced them their arrangements with Alasklerbanbastos are contrary to their long-term interests. As a result, the warriors they provided will prove less useful than he expects.”
Aoth nodded. He’d wondered how High Imaskar, never before feared as a naval power, had conducted such a damaging series of raids on the Chessentan coast. And why he hadn’t seen any Imaskari among the troops who’d debarked from the pirate fleet to fight for the Great Bone Wyrm. The answer to both riddles was the same-High Imaskar had granted Murghomi warships free access to the Alamber Sea to fight on its behalf.
Which partly explained why there’d seemingly been dragonborn among the raiders. Wyrmkeepers were the dastards who knew how to disguise abishais as Tymantherans, and the principalities of Murghom, city-states ruled by dragons, were presumably crawling with them.
Unfortunately, the revelation raised new questions. In fact, it lent new levels of complexity to a situation that was already convoluted enough to make the War of the Zulkirs seem straightforward. But maybe if Aoth kept listening, he’d finally understand.
“And what of the other dragons Alasklerbanbastos commands?” Tchazzar asked. “Will they ‘prove less useful than he expects’?”
“Actually,” said Jaxanaedegor, “yes. I told you, we’ve already started the process of culling the herd. I should be able to eliminate at least one more of those who are truly loyal and blame her destruction on you. Which is to say, the majority of dragons who follow Alasklerbanbastos into battle will be just as tired of him as I am.”
“How confident are you that he hasn’t discerned their true sentiments? Or yours?”
“Reasonably. His hatred of you-and Skuthosiin, and Gestaniius-blinds him to other concerns. He blames you for every setback and misfortune he ever endured. In addition to which, his arrogance makes it difficult for him to imagine that any of his servants would dare rise up against him. He believes that even I must perforce content myself with fawning at his feet and begging for crumbs from his table.”
“As opposed to playing the game on your own behalf.”
“Yes. As opposed to that.”
Aoth frowned. “Playing the game” was likely just a metaphor for striving for power. Yet something in the dragons’ voices made him wonder if the phrase had some deeper meaning. If it had some connection to the Twenty-Eighth Precept.
He was still wondering when the red dragon’s head whipped around in his direction. “What’s that?” Tchazzar snarled.
“What?” Jaxanaedegor asked.
“The hiss of breath,” Tchazzar said. “The thump of a heart.” He crouched low, the better to peer along the ground.
I can reveal myself, thought Aoth. I can claim I followed to protect him if Jaxanaedegor played him false.
But instinct-or maybe just fear-persuaded him to remain motionless instead. Tchazzar took a long stride closer to his hiding place. So did Jaxanaedegor. Their yellow eyes, each bigger than a human head, glowed like terrible mockeries of the moon. Their smells washed over Aoth-sulfur and smoke from the red, stinging foulness from the green. He clenched against the urge to cough or retch.
After what felt like a long time, Jaxanaedegor said, “I don’t hear anything.”
“Neither do I, now.” Tchazzar said. A tiny bit of the tension quivered out of Aoth’s body, but he kept holding his breath.
Then Tchazzar whirled toward the other wyrm with a speed astonishing in anything so huge. The vampire leaped backward just as quickly. “But if this is a trap, I’ll tear you apart!” Tchazzar said.
“If I broke the Precepts,” Jaxanaedegor replied, “Brimstone would cast me out, and I wouldn’t risk that any more than you would. Besides, my best assassins don’t breathe, and their hearts don’t beat.”
“All right.” Tchazzar stood up straighter; he wasn’t coiled to spring anymore. “Suppose I decide I’m willing to trust you. What do you want in exchange for your help?”
“Very little. To be the supreme master of my own lands, and no one else’s vassal.”
“I’m fighting this war to bring Threskel under my control.”
“At this point you ought to be fighting to preserve your life and keep Alasklerbanbastos from bringing all Chessenta under his control. But leave that aside. After we win you can credibly claim to rule Threskel, because you actually will govern most of it. Your humans won’t care who or what is still inhabiting Mount Thulbane and its environs, because to their way of thinking, the country is a wasteland.”
“To everyone’s way of thinking,” Tchazzar replied. “Which makes me wonder why you’re willing to settle for such a meager reward.”
“There are two answers to that. The first is that punishing Alasklerbanbastos for his bullying and arrogance will be satisfying for its own sake. The second is that the game has barely begun. I have a long-range strategy that starts with complete control of my own domain, however modest others may judge it to be.”
“All right,” Tchazzar said. “If you deliver all you’ve promised, then neither I nor any of my servants will interfere with Mount Thulbane or the lands around it. I swear it by our Dark Lady and my own divinity.”
“We have a bargain, then. You’ll hear from me by one means or another.”
Jaxanaedegor turned, trotted, lashed his wings, and flew up toward the stars. Tchazzar watched the vampire’s dwindling form for a time, then abruptly dwindled himself-into human guise. Smiling, one hand resting on the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side, the red dragon sauntered back toward camp. Aoth waited a while, then followed.
For all Nala knew, pursuit was right behind her. Mages, or Lance Defenders riding bats, could have departed Djerad Thymar almost as quickly as she had.
That meant there was no time to bury the portal drake. She could only lay its body gently on the ground.
Despite its wound, she’d pushed it hard, commanding it to shift through space again and again to carry her clear of the city. And the faithful creature obeyed until the strain stopped its heart.
Its death was a tragedy. Worse, it represented yet another crime against the Dark Lady, who’d given Nala the drake to aid her in her holy task. She looked back at Djerad Thymar, rising like a black arrowhead against the starry sky, and a spasm of hatred shook her.
All the goddess’s foes were going to pay. Medrash. Balasar. The dwarf. A
ll of them. Because they hadn’t won anything. Nala knew where to go and what to do to continue her work. Denying fatigue, fear, or any feeling but rage, she ran across the fields.
ELEVEN
19-24 KYTHORN THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
Balasar rode at the wooden target Khouryn called a quintain. He grinned when the blunt tip of his practice lance thumped home, spinning the horizontal arm out of his way. He had some catching up to do if he was going to practice the strange new form of fighting when the army returned to Black Ash Plain, but he seemed to be getting the hang of it.
Behind him, some of his comrades raised a shout. He turned his horse around, then gaped in surprise.
Dozens of folk were marching toward the muddy training field from the place where Djerad Thymar rose like a broken-tipped blade against a cloudy sky. Several of them were carrying purple pennons with silvery dragon shapes coiling down their lengths.
Balasar hadn’t seen such banners since the night Nala fled and her treason became common knowledge, rekindling the average dragonborn’s hatred of wyrm worship. He hadn’t expected to see them ever again.
By the broken chain, he thought, what’s the matter with you people? Go home, lie low, and if anyone asks if you ever belonged to the Platinum Cadre, lie till your scales fall off! Don’t throw your lives away!
For it was possible that that was exactly what they were doing. A lancer whooped, couched his weapon, and rode at one of the cultists carrying a banner. The dragon-worshiper made no effort to dodge or otherwise defend himself. The lance slammed him in the chest and hurled him and his pennon to the ground.
It was conceivable that the impact had seriously injured or even killed him. Or that the horse trampled him; tall grass kept Balasar from seeing. Other lancers turned their steeds toward other living targets, and those cultists too made no effort to protect themselves. One warrior dropped his blunt length of ash and drew a sword of gleaming steel.
Balasar sent his horse racing toward the slaughter in the making. “Stop!” he bellowed. “Stop!”
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