Whisper of Venom botg-2

by Richard Lee Byers

  No one paid him any attention.

  But then Medrash galloped across the field, between some of the riders and the folk on foot. Even spattered with mud from the practice, even in the midst of the spring sunshine, he seemed to glow, and when he shouted for everyone to halt, his voice boomed like thunder. The lancers reined their horses in.

  Balasar sighed and shook his head. Spit and roast him if he ever groveled to Torm or any other jumped-up spook. But there was no denying that it had taught Medrash some useful tricks.

  “What’s wrong?” shouted one lancer. “These are the traitors! You brought them down!”

  “I helped bring down their creed,” Medrash answered. “That doesn’t mean they deserve to be attacked on sight. Nala tricked them as she did the rest of us.”

  “She tricked them worse,” said Balasar, riding out to take up a position beside his clan brother.

  “Some of them were dragon-worshipers before Nala ever declared herself their prophet,” another lancer growled.

  “And if I hadn’t infiltrated the cult and exposed it for what it was,” Balasar said, “some of you fools would be lining up to join. So the least you can do is accede to my judgment-and Medrash’s-when we tell you you don’t need to hurt these people. In fact, if you give yourself over to rage and viciousness, you’re embracing the same qualities that the dragon goddess tried to instill in them. So save your strength for killing ash giants!”

  “And for practice,” Medrash said. “You all need more before we ride south. I suggest you get on with it.”

  The riders stared back at him for a moment, then sullenly started turning their mounts around. An archer set his horse cantering, then loosed at a target. The arrow pierced the outer ring.

  Meanwhile, Medrash rose in his stirrups and peered. Balasar looked where his kinsman was looking. Two of the cultists were helping the fellow who’d taken the blow from the lance get back on his feet. Evidently he wasn’t badly injured.

  Medrash then regarded the group as a whole. “Get out of here,” he said. “Before your presence provokes them all over again.”

  A brown-scaled female named Vishva stepped from the front of the crowd. Like a number of the cultists, she had little puckered scars on her face. They were the spots where she’d worn her piercings before her clan expelled her.

  “With all respect,” she said, “we can’t do that. We came here for a purpose.”

  “I don’t care,” Medrash replied.

  She continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “Those few of us who were closest to Nala, who understood what she was actually doing and helped her make the talismans, went to ground when she disappeared. The rest of us want to go on fighting the giants.”

  Medrash snorted. “That’s out of the question.”

  “We need to prove our loyalty and atone for our transgressions.”

  “Well, you’ll have to find another way to do it. Even if Tarhun would tolerate your presence in the ranks, the Lance Defenders and the rest of the army wouldn’t. They’d treat you as these fellows”-he jerked his head to indicate his fellow mounted warriors-“wanted to treat you.”

  “Maybe not,” Vishva said. “Not if Clan Daardendrien and the very warriors who unmasked Nala sponsor us.”

  Balasar laughed. “What a good idea! In case you haven’t noticed, the fight against Nala made Medrash and me heroes. Why would we want to jump down into the mud with you?”

  “If you won’t vouch for us,” Vishva said, “then we’ll march without it, alone if need be. And if it’s only to lay down our lives, so be it. At least we’ll die with our honor restored, like Patrin.”

  Medrash scowled. “Wait here.” He rode a little distance from the cultists. Balasar followed.

  “What do you think?” Medrash asked.

  “I think I’m surprised you’d even bother to inquire,” Balasar said. “You despise the very idea of dragon worship, remember? Our elders raised us to despise it. And since these people are still flying their banners, they still are wyrm-worshipers. They’re just trying to renounce Tiamat and give their devotion back to the real Bahamut. From a rational, decent perspective, what’s the difference?”

  “We said we were trying to save them as much as everyone else,” said Medrash.

  “You and Khouryn said that,” Balasar said. “I was busy trying to figure out where the cart had gone and keeping an eye out for trouble.”

  “How have we saved them if they die on Black Ash Plain or at the hands of their own people before they even get there?” asked Medrash.

  “We saved them from Nala’s lies,” said Balasar. “If they turn right around and commit suicide, that’s their problem.”

  “Even if we could convince them to stay home, what sort of lives would they have?” Medrash asked. “People have always scorned them. They’ll hate and persecute them now. Unless they can redeem themselves.”

  “Is this about you feeling guilty over Patrin?” said Balasar. “Because you’re a warrior from a warlike clan. It looks stupid if you feel bad just because you killed somebody.”

  “I keep remembering how he said that Bahamut and Torm were friends, and we should be too,” Medrash said. “I remember that it felt … right to fight alongside him. And in the end, even though he realized I’d given him his death, he saved us from the mob.”

  “I liked him too,” Balasar said. “But shepherding his fellow idiots won’t bring him back.”

  “You’re the one who spent time with them. So tell me, are they deranged or depraved beyond all hope of redemption?”

  Balasar sighed. “No. Nala dirtied them up a little, but essentially they’re just people. They joined the Cadre because they were unhappy. It’s not all that different from when you pledged yourself to Torm.”

  Medrash smiled a crooked smile. “I don’t like the comparison, but we can save that for another time.” Sunlight glinting on the white studs in his face, mail clinking, he urged his horse back toward the cultists. Balasar clucked, bumped his mount with his heels, and rode after him.

  Medrash raked the dragon-worshipers with a stern gaze. “You claim you want to atone,” he said. “But you still carry Nala’s taint. Right now, even as you’re asking for our help, some of you are swaying back and forth.”

  “Can you cleanse us?” Vishva replied. “Nothing would please us more.”

  “Are you sure?” Medrash said. “If I break your ties to Tiamat, you’ll lose her gifts. You won’t be able to use your breath attacks more often than any other dragonborn. You won’t feel the fury that fills you with strength and burns away your fear. As far as Balasar and I are concerned, that … weakening is necessary. We won’t sponsor warriors who fight like rabid beasts and gorge on the raw flesh of the fallen. But it means that for you, battle will be more dangerous than before.”

  “We want to be clean,” Vishva said. Other cultists called out in agreement.

  “Then you will be.” Medrash slid his lance back into the sheath attached to his saddle, then raised high his hand in its steel gauntlet. He whispered something too softly for Balasar to make out the words.

  Brightness pulsed from the gauntlet like the slow, steady beats of a heart at rest. Each pulse gave Balasar a kind of pleasant, invigorating jolt, like a plunge into cold water on a hot day.

  But the cultists didn’t look invigorated. They grimaced and cringed away from the light.

  Medrash whispered faster, and the glow throbbed faster too. The distinct shocks of exhilaration Balasar had been experiencing blurred into a continual soaring elation.

  The cultists fell to the ground and thrashed. Dark fumes rose from their bodies, five from each. The strands of vapor coiled and twisted around one another like serpentine necks supporting heads that wanted to peer in all directions at once.

  The smoke, if that was the proper term for it, looked filthy. Poisonous. Even Balasar’s euphoria didn’t prevent a pang of loathing. If I’d let it in during my initiation, he thought, that stuff would be inside me too.


  As they pulled free of the cultists’ bodies, the lengths of vapor whipped one way and another as if they too were convulsing in pain. Some looped around and struck like serpents, seemingly trying to stab their way back inside the flesh that had hitherto sheltered them. But each glanced off like a sword skipping off a shield.

  Then, all at once, they leaped at Medrash. Balasar opened his mouth to shout a warning. A final burst of brilliance flared from the paladin’s gauntlet, and the vapors frayed to nothing midway to their target.

  The light went out of Medrash’s hand, and his arm flopped down at his side. His body slumped as if he was about to collapse onto his horse’s neck.

  Trying for a better look at his clan brother’s face, Balasar leaned down. “Are you all right?”

  Medrash swallowed. “Yes,” he rasped, and then, with a visible effort, sat up straight. “It’s just that that was … taxing.”

  “I don’t see why,” Balasar said. “All you did was the break the hold of a goddess on dozens of people at once. A hatchling could have done it.”

  Medrash smiled slightly. “Next time we’ll find that particular hatchling and give the job to him.”

  The members of the Cadre started slowly and shakily drawing themselves to their feet.

  “Is everyone all right?” Medrash asked.

  “I … think so,” Vishva quavered. “That hurt. It really hurt. But it’s better now.”

  “Better than better,” said a fellow with umber scales. A grin lit up his face.

  “I was so sick,” said a female-astonishment, revulsion, and relief all tangled together in her tone, “so ugly. And I didn’t even know!”

  In another moment, a dozen of the cultists were clamoring all at once.

  “Thank you,” shouted Vishva, making herself heard above the din, “and thank Torm, who lent you his glory! Thank Bahamut, who led us to you!”

  Medrash looked like he didn’t know to respond. In the end, he settled on gruffness, perhaps to hide whatever he was feeling.

  “Now comes the hard part,” he said. “Stripped of your powers, you’re nothing special. We can only hope that some hard training will make you marginally useful. As spearmen.” He turned to Balasar. “Khouryn doesn’t have a prejudice against Bahamut worshipers. Do you think he’ll teach them, and lead them into battle when the times comes?”

  Balasar grinned. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be as thrilled as I am.”

  Studying the rolling scrubland beneath them, Aoth and Jet floated on the night wind. Jaxanaedegor could shift the companies under his command as he saw fit. But he couldn’t neglect dispatching scouts to range across the countryside, or officers loyal to Alasklerbanbastos would realize something was amiss. Someone had to keep those scouts from reporting that reinforcements were reaching the Chessentan army.

  Aoth spotted four kobolds skulking along the lee of a low rise. He kindled light in the point of his spear, swept the weapon down to point at the scouts, then extinguished the glow. He hoped that if the kobolds even noticed, they’d think they’d merely seen a shooting star.

  Jet furled his wings and plunged at the kobold at the back of the line. Rising in the stirrups, Aoth braced for the jolt to come.

  Jet’s talons stabbed home, and his momentum smashed the kobold to the ground beneath him. The scaly little creature likely died without ever even realizing he was in danger, and the thud of his demise was relatively quiet.

  But not quiet enough. The other three kobolds spun around.

  Jet yanked his gory claws out of the dead scout’s body, then pounced. He slammed another kobold down on the ground, raked with his leonine hind legs, and tore lengths of gut out of the warrior’s belly.

  A third kobold hissed rhyming words and jerked a length of carved bone through a zigzag pass. Hoping to blast the shaman before he finished his spell, Aoth aimed his spear at him.

  Then Eider plunged down on the reptilian adept to rend and crush the life from him. Gaedynn pivoted in the saddle, drew, and released. The arrow hit the last kobold in the throat, where his hide and bone armor didn’t cover. He toppled backward, thrashed, and then lay still.

  Jhesrhi and Scar glided to earth. “You didn’t leave any work for me,” the wizard said.

  “We didn’t want you to get blood on your new clothes,” Gaedynn answered.

  Jhesrhi scowled.

  Making sure they hadn’t missed any kobolds, or anything else requiring their attention, Aoth took a look around. Everything was all right.

  Which was to say, they’d tackled the kind of task that sellswords were supposed to perform, and done it well. Wishing that the rest of life was as simple, he said, “This is as good a place as any for a talk.”

  Gaedynn smiled. “I had a hunch. Why would you take both your lieutenants off on a patrol, unless it was to talk where no one could overhear?”

  Aoth swung himself off Jet’s back, then scratched his head. It made a rustling sound and tinged the air with the smell of feathers. “I told you about Tchazzar and Jaxanaedegor’s palaver. You’ve had some time to mull it over. What do you think?”

  Jhesrhi dismounted and removed a leather bottle from one of Scar’s saddlebags. “Essentially,” she said, “assuming we can trust Jaxanaedegor, it was all good news. He and his minions will betray Alasklerbanbastos, and we’ll all destroy the Great Bone Wyrm together.”

  Gaedynn snorted. “There’s a subtle analysis.”

  “It’s a sound analysis!” Jhesrhi snapped. “And you’re a jackass if you don’t like it. We’re going to win, collect plenty of gold for our trouble, and restore the Brotherhood’s reputation. Which is exactly what we came to Chessenta to do.”

  “So it is,” said Aoth. “And half the time, I feel like a fool for trying to look any deeper. But the other half, I worry that something bad will take us by surprise if we don’t. So, what do you make of the part of the conversation that Tchazzar didn’t share with us? The part that wasn’t just him and the vampire conspiring to bring Alasklerbanbastos down?”

  Jhesrhi frowned as though she felt rebuked, although that hadn’t been Aoth’s intention. Pulling the stopper from her bottle, she said, “Have it your way. If you insist on fretting, I do have one bone for you to gnaw on. Do you know the tales of the final Rage of Dragons?”

  “I recall a bit of them,” Aoth said, “and I lived through a nasty little piece of the Rage myself.”

  “Well, Brimstone was the name-or, to be precise, the nickname-of one of the wyrms who helped destroy the lich Sammaster and put an end to the madness.” Jhesrhi took a drink, hesitated for an instant, then offered the bottle to Aoth.

  He made sure his fingers didn’t brush hers as he took it. It turned out to contain lukewarm water. Too bad. He’d hoped for something stronger.

  Gaedynn shrugged. “The last Rage happened even before the Spellplague. With all respect to our hoary old captain here, I don’t see how it could have anything to do with our current problems.”

  “Neither do I,” Jhesrhi said. “Especially since in Karasendrieth’s song cycle, Brimstone dies at the end. But it’s all I have, so I thought I’d mention it.”

  Aoth wiped his mouth and passed the water to Gaedynn. “This is just a guess, but maybe Brimstone’s a nickname you’d assume if you hoped to command a dragon’s respect or even his obedience. And Jaxanaedegor did speak of this Brimstone like it’s someone who could impose some sort of sanction against him and Tchazzar both.”

  Seeming to sense its dislocation by sheer instinct, Gaedynn smoothed down a stray wisp of his coppery hair. “But really, what sense does that make? Jaxanaedegor’s overlord is Alasklerbanbastos, and his stated goal is to slay the Bone Wyrm and be free. And Tchazzar is even less inclined to acknowledge any sort of authority. How could he, when he believes he’s not just a god, but the greatest of gods?”

  Jhesrhi glared. “He never said that.”

  “Not in so many words,” Gaedynn answered. “Not yet. But it’s coming.”

  “Here’s one
thought,” said Aoth, “unlikely though it may seem. More than once, Tchazzar and Jaxanaedegor spoke of playing a game. Some games need an overseer to tally points and enforce the rules.”

  Gaedynn’s eyes narrowed. “Brimstone could be the overseer, and the Precepts could be the rules,” he said.

  “You’re both letting your imaginations run wild,” Jhesrhi said. “Aoth, you have to remember you don’t speak Draconic perfectly. Even if you did, you don’t understand exactly how dragons think or what sort of relationships exist among them. Surely if they referred to a game, it was just a figure of speech.”

  “Maybe,” Aoth admitted.

  “Even if they do think of the war as being, in some sense, a game,” Jhesrhi said, “what does it matter? Won’t we fight it and profit by it the same as ever?”

  “I hope so,” said Aoth.

  “It may not matter to us sellswords,” said Gaedynn, “who wanted to fight somebody someplace. But if it’s all just an amusement, that’s hard luck for the Chessentans and Threskelans, with no choice but to struggle and die for their masters’ entertainment.”

  “It clearly isn’t just an amusement,” Jhesrhi said. “Tchazzar and Alasklerbanbastos have been trying to destroy one each other for centuries. There aren’t two more committed enemies in all the length and breadth of Faerun. In addition to which, Tchazzar wants to control all the lands that are rightfully his, just like any other king. And since when do you care about the Chessentans, the Threskelans, or anybody else outside the Brotherhood?”

  Gaedynn smiled a crooked smile. “Fair enough. You have me there. Which doesn’t change the fact that Tchazzar is keeping secrets from us-and is crazy besides. He’s no more trustworthy than Nevron or Samas Kul.”

  “He’s sick from his ordeal. You’ve never suffered anything similar, so you can’t understand.”

  “You have no idea what I’ve suffered.”

  “Actually, I do. You told me. And no matter how much you secretly pity yourself because of it, you got off lightly.”

  Gaedynn hesitated, then said, “If we compared scars, I might concede that yours run deeper than mine. But we’re talking about Tchazzar.”