Not that such maneuvering was easy. The dragon was faster and less predictable than the Beast. Its rippling alar membranes could swat a warrior, or its sweeping tail could shatter his legs, whether it was facing him or not.
Still, most of the warriors managed to stay alive for a few moments. Long enough for Khouryn to charge the wyrm and, taking advantage of his shorter stature, dash on underneath it.
He reversed his grip on the urgrosh and stabbed repeatedly upward with the spearhead. At first the dragon didn’t seem to notice. But then when he yanked the spike free, arterial blood spurted after it, spattering his arms, and the reptile jerked.
The brown wheeled, stamping, trying to claw and crush him or, failing that, at least get him out from underneath it. He scurried to avoid its feet, keep its ventral surface above him, and go on stabbing.
That worked long enough for him to draw a second huge spray of gore. Then the wyrm lashed its winglike frills and pounced far enough that he had no hope of keeping up with it. The same leap carried it back in striking distance of Biri.
Its head hurtled at her. But, galloping, Balasar reached her first. Leaning out of the saddle, he scooped her up, and the brown dragon’s fangs clashed shut on empty air.
Meanwhile, Medrash charged the wyrm, and his lance plunged into its flank. The brown jerked and roared. It was still roaring when a second lancer speared it a couple of heartbeats later.
Like the brown, hunched, long-armed saurians Khouryn and his comrades had met before, the dragon dissolved into a flying swirl of sand. The grit streamed through the air and hissed down the hole from which the reptile had first emerged.
Where, Khouryn hoped, it would return to dragon form and bleed out. Although he wasn’t certain of it. Dragons were notoriously hard to kill.
But as he could see since the cloud of sand was subsiding, at least they’d driven it off before it could kill or injure very many of them. The spearmen who’d surrounded it deserved much of the credit, and half of them wore purple and silver tunics or tokens.
Khouryn caught Medrash’s eye, then jerked his head toward the group. The paladin nodded in acknowledgment.
Balasar set Biri back on her own two feet. Then he grinned, bowed from the saddle, and said, “A thousand thank-yous for the dance, milady.” To say the least, his gallantry seemed incongruous amid the warriors noisily spitting out sand and ash on every side, but it made the mage smile in return.
But her smile withered as soon as she turned and took a good look at the corpses, and at the wounded clenching their teeth against the urge to cry out as the healers set to work on them. Khouryn realized that what looked like minimal harm to a hardened sellsword might seem like ghastly carnage to even a dragonborn, if she’d never been to war before.
She asked, “Is this my fault?”
“No,” Khouryn said. “The dragon was going to hit us at some point, and some of us were going to die when it did. But follow orders from now on.”
The unnatural power of his condition compensating for the lack of hide stretched across the bony framework of his wings, Alasklerbanbastos floated on the night wind and studied the enemy camp. Gliding at his master’s side, Jaxanaedegor surreptitiously studied him.
Tchazzar and his servants weren’t relying on invisibility to mask their true strength. It was difficult to keep such a glamour in place for days on end, and a wizard as accomplished as a dracolich was apt to see through it anyway. Instead they were using other tricks. A paucity of campfires, tents, and noise. Men and beasts tucked away wherever there was cover to obscure their numbers. Freshly turned earth to give the appearance of a mass grave. Lamplight and motion inside the healers’ pavilions. The absence of any whisper or tingle of mystical power at work.
Finally the Great Bone Wyrm wheeled. Jaxanaedegor did the same, and they beat their way back toward the north and the massed might of Threskel’s army.
But they didn’t go all the way back to their own camp. Alasklerbanbastos evidently didn’t want to wait that long to talk. Blue sparks jumping and cracking on his naked bones, he spiraled down to the crest of a low hill. From there, he’d be able to spot anyone or anything suicidal enough to approach him.
You’re always so wary, Jaxanaedegor thought. But not wary enough of me. I could strike at you right now, while you’re on the ground and I’m still on the wing.
But it was just a pleasant fantasy. Neither the high air nor the element of surprise would suffice to defeat a creature so endowed with every other advantage. Jaxanaedegor set down on coarse grass and weeds that had already started to wither simply because the dracolich was near.
Pale light gleamed in Alasklerbanbastos’s eye sockets, and the air around him smelled like a rising storm. “There are more soldiers,” he growled, “than you led me to believe.”
Jaxanaedegor felt a pang of uneasiness. He made sure it didn’t reflect in his tone or expression. “Truly, my lord? I estimated their numbers as accurately as I could.”
“Yes, truly,” the skeletal dragon replied, with the sneering mimicry his vassal had come to hate. “Are you sure Tchazzar hasn’t received reinforcements?”
“I can’t imagine how. They would have had to swing far to the east. Even if they’d had time, our watchers in the Sky Riders would have spotted them.”
Alasklerbanbastos grunted.
Jaxanaedegor had hoped he wouldn’t need to encourage the undead blue to attack. It seemed better-safer-if Alasklerbanbastos arrived at the decision on his own. But if he was having second thoughts, Jaxanaedegor supposed he’d have to give him a nudge.
“If I did underestimate,” the vampire said, “I apologize. But even so, there are more of us than there are of them, and you can feel the pall of demoralization hanging over their camp. The battle we already fought cost us, but we won. We crippled them.”
“They supposedly had necromancers. And sunlords.” Alasklerbanbastos was particularly cautious of those who wielded special power against the undead.
“We killed them,” Jaxanaedegor said. “Or most of them, anyway.”
Using the tip of a claw, Alasklerbanbastos scratched a rune in the dirt. A different symbol inscribed itself beside it, and then another after that, until there were seven in a line. Despite his own considerable knowledge of arcana, Jaxanaedegor didn’t recognize any of the characters, nor did he have any idea what the magic was meant to accomplish. Not knowing twisted his nerves a little tighter.
“But you didn’t kill Tchazzar,” the Bone Wyrm said.
“No,” Jaxanaedegor replied. “But our spies say he’s behaving erratically, and I myself told you how long it took him to join the battle. He’s not the same dragon you remember, and surely not Tiamat’s Chosen anymore.”
“He was dragon enough to kill three others when he finally did take flight.”
“My lord,” Jaxanaedegor said, “if you think it prudent, return to the safety of Dragonback Mountain. That’s a king’s prerogative. Your knights and captains will stay to fight for you and die for you if need be. That’s a vassal’s duty. But I ask you to consider whether you truly wish to forgo the joy of destroying Tchazzar with your own breath and claws. I ask you also to consider the effect on your reputation.”
Sparks crawled on Alasklerbanbastos’s fangs, and the light in his orbits grew brighter. “Meaning what, exactly? Choose your words carefully.”
“Great one, you know I fear you. How could I not? How many times have I felt the pressure of your foot on my spine or the top of my head? How many years have I lost to true death, my ghost wandering Banehold until it suited your whim to pull your stake from my heart? But xorvintaal … changes things. Every dragon is studying every other for signs of weakness. And, while one wins points for achievement and guile, a player can also score for daring and renown-if he makes the right move.”
At first Alasklerbanbastos didn’t reply. The moment stretched until it seemed that something-Jaxanaedegor’s composure, perhaps-must surely snap.
Then the dracolic
h snorted. “You may be right about the game. You’re certainly right that it’s past time for Tchazzar to die, and that I want to be the one who dowses the flame. Come!” He lashed his rattling, fleshless wings and climbed.
Jaxanaedegor followed with a certain feeling of joyful incredulity. He possessed considerable faith in his own cunning. Still, perhaps there was a buried part of him that hadn’t believed he could bring the scheme to fruition.
Yet he had. After centuries of preliminary maneuvering, the two most powerful wyrms in Chessenta were going to meet in final battle.
During the early phases of the combat, Jaxanaedegor would perform as Alasklerbanbastos expected, and if the army of Threskel gained the upper hand, he’d simply continue to do so. But if, as he hoped, Tchazzar seized the advantage, then Jaxanaedegor and his followers would switch sides just as he’d promised the red. And whichever elder dragon ultimately won, he’d reward Jaxanaedegor for playing a key role in his victory.
There was even a chance that Alasklerbanbastos and Tchazzar would destroy each other, making Jaxanaedegor the most powerful creature in Chessenta. He reminded himself it was such a remote possibility that he didn’t dare base his strategy on it. But if it happened, it would be the sweetest outcome of all.
From on high, the Threskelan army looked rather like a mass of ants creeping across the ground. Aoth supposed he should be glad the ground was where most of them were. He and his comrades had apparently wiped out most of the Great Bone Wyrm’s flying minions in the previous battle.
Of course, there were dragons in the air, as well as bats with suspiciously phosphorescent eyes. Aoth reminded himself that if he could trust Jaxanaedegor-a significant if-then most of the flyers were actually on his side.
Whether they were or not, he was ready to fight. Partly, he supposed, because an honest battle would provide a respite from mysteries and pandering to Tchazzar’s eccentricities. But mostly because a decisive victory that night would restore the Brotherhood’s reputation. Afterward would be time enough to fret over the meaning of the dragons’ Precepts and to decide how much longer to remain in the war hero’s service.
Time enough as well to sort out Jhesrhi. She’d told him that Tchazzar had expressed sympathy with Skuthosiin’s desire to slaughter the dragonborn-not that he knew what to make of that either-but he sensed there was something else, something more personal, that she was keeping back.
You can guess what it is, said Jet. Tchazzar wants to make her a princess, and she’s decided to let him.
Aoth sighed. You may be right. What sellsword doesn’t want to retire to a life of luxury? And this is the country of her birth.
So you’d leave her to the whims of a mad king?
Not happily, but it’s her choice. Anyway, if the Great Bone Wyrm slaughters us all before morning, it won’t much matter, will it? Why don’t we focus on winning the war for now?
Jet gave an irritated rasp and then, responding to his rider’s unspoken will, wheeled and flew back toward Tchazzar’s army. A first star glimmered in the charcoal-colored eastern sky.
Below Aoth, warriors scurried, preparing for battle. His eyes instinctively sought out his own men, griffons, and horses. It looked like the sergeants were doing a good job of putting everything in order.
Jet furled his wings and swooped toward the patch of open ground in front of Tchazzar’s pavilion. The war hero stood with his legs apart and his arms away from his torso as a squire buckled gilt plate armor onto him a piece at a time. Why, only the Firelord knew. He was supposed to fight in dragon form.
Other folk were hovering around him, either because they were awaiting final orders or simply because he wanted them there. Jhesrhi, Gaedynn, Shala, and Hasos were all armed in their various fashions and looked like the seasoned combatants they were. Halonya’s top-heavy, bulbous miter and garnet-dotted robe with its long dragging train made her look like a parody of a priestess costumed for a farce.
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 kn
ow 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.”
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