Aoth grinned, because it was a shrewd tactic. The grip would keep Alasklerbanbastos from using his own teeth or his breath.
Flames leaping between his fangs, Tchazzar bit down hard. Aoth saw the effort manifest in every bunched muscle down the length of the war hero’s body. Surely in another moment his teeth would clash together, and Alasklerbanbastos’s head would fall away from his body.
But the dracolich roared words of command. Several tendrils of power leaped from the empty air above Tchazzar and stabbed into his body. The magic was shadow dark, not bright, but it crackled, twisted, and smelled like lightning.
Tchazzar leaped out from under the evidently excruciating effect, but he had to let go of Alasklerbanbastos to do it. The dracolich’s skull dangled from his neck like a half-broken twig at the end of a dead branch. But it was still attached-and, with a succession of little jerks, it started to hitch back into its proper position, even as chips of bone floated up from the ground to patch the cracked, gnawed vertebrae behind it.
Then, at last, Jaxanaedegor plunged down on top of his master. Another green wyrm followed, and then a red. Tchazzar lunged to join them.
The four dragons ripped into the dracolich like a pack of starving wolves assulting a deer. Alasklerbanbastos spat all the lightning he had left-then, roaring, struck and clawed with all his might. It wasn’t enough. Gradually his foes bit, smashed, and wrenched him into such a scatter of broken bone that not even magic could go on putting him back together.
Aoth relished every moment of it.
Skuthosiin told himself he wasn’t tiring, nor weakening from blood loss. In his former life he’d been a Chosen of Tiamat, and he was still an ancient wyrm. No horde of scurrying little dragonborn could bring him down.
Although admittedly, it wasn’t just dragonborn. Acting through his champion, Torm himself was striving to kill Skuthosiin. But that didn’t matter either. Because, his paladin gifts notwithstanding, Daardendrien Medrash was as tiny and fragile as the rest of his kind. Skuthosiin only had to score once with his fangs or claws to tear the wretch to pieces.
To that end, he slashed with his forefoot. Medrash jumped back. But perhaps he too was tiring, because he didn’t recoil quite far enough. Skuthosiin didn’t connect with his body, but the tip of one talon snagged the top of the swordsman’s battered heater. As it jerked free, splitting the top half of the shield in the process, it yanked Medrash off balance.
Skuthosiin struck like a serpent.
Scrambling faster than should have been possible for such a squat, short-legged creature, Khouryn Skulldark knocked his comrade aside. Now he was under Skuthosiin’s jaws. Well, that was all right too.
Except that at the last possible instant, the dwarf hopped to the side, and Skuthosiin’s teeth clashed shut on empty air. Then something slammed into the side of his head.
Or at least it felt like a simple impact. But as Skuthosiin reflexively heaved his head high, he realized Skulldark had actually chopped him with his axe. The weapon was still buried deep in his flesh, perhaps even in the bone beneath, and the wound gave a first excruciating throb. Skuthosiin snarled.
Something else snarled back, close to his ear. Or perhaps it was a breathless but savage laugh. Dangling, Skulldark still clung to the haft of the axe. Either he’d been too surprised to let go of his weapon when Skuthosiin lifted his head, or else he’d chosen not to.
Clinging to the axe with one hand, Skulldark drew a dirk with the other and stretched his arm to the limit, trying for Skuthosiin’s eye. Unable to reach it, he plunged the knife through hide and into the flesh beneath.
Enraged, Skuthosiin lifted his claws to swipe both the dwarf and his weapon away. Then white light blazed before him as, seeing his distraction, Medrash charged his sword with divine Power, rushed in, and cut at the base of his neck.
Balasar darted in beside his clan brother and slashed with his own blade. So did Tarhun-Skuthosiin hadn’t even noticed his arrival on the scene-swinging a greatsword bloody from point to guard. Spearmen jabbed, and mages hurled bright, crackling thunderbolts and fire.
Skuthosiin toppled sideways. It was impossible, but it was happening anyway.
He struggled to get back up again, but merely thrashed and writhed. As his vision dimmed and his body went numb, even those useless convulsions subsided.
He hoped that when his head smashed against the ground, it had smashed Skulldark as well. Or that he’d pulped the dwarf during his death throes. But then he saw Skulldark sitting a few yards away, bruised and bloodied but alive. And watching him, no doubt to make sure he was really finished.
After a futile attempt to spit poison in the sellsword’s direction, Skuthosiin decided that he truly was. He watched worthless giants flee into the night, heard dragonborn start cheering, and then knew nothing more.
FOURTEEN
7-14 FLAMERULE THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
Kassur Jedea was a skinny, graying fellow in his middle years. But he looked older. Aoth, leaning on his spear-which rather to his amazement he’d recovered intact from the midst of Alasklerbanbastos’s scattered, shattered bones-his burns, scrapes, and bruises aching despite the healers’ prayers, ointments, and elixirs, wondered if the nominal monarch of Threskel had looked so elderly a tenday earlier, or if he’d aged all at once in anticipation of what was about to happen.
Kassur kneeled stiffly before Tchazzar, removed the simple gold circlet that served as a crown in the field, and laid it at the red dragon’s feet. “I surrender my kingship,” he said in a tight baritone voice. “I surrender myself to Your Majesty’s judgment.”
Tchazzar let him kneel there in silence for another moment. Then he bent over, picked up the circlet, and offered it back to Kassur. “Keep it,” he said.
Kassur blinked. “Majesty?”
Grinning his broad white grin, Tchazzar stood up from his folding camp chair and hoisted the Threskelan back onto his feet. He pressed the circlet back into Kassur’s hand.
“Keep it,” he repeated. “I don’t need to proclaim myself king of Threskel so long as the man who holds the title acknowledges himself my vassal. Because I’m the war hero and a living god, and that sets me higher any king, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Of course, Majesty!” Kassur jabbered.
“Some would say,” Tchazzar continued, “that because you took up arms against your rightful liege lord, you’re unworthy of your title and estates. But I know Alasklerbanbastos left you no choice, as he left none to any Threskelan. So I won’t punish any of you. Keep your lives and your freedom, your coin and your lands. Simply heed my command that from this day forward, all Chessentans, whether born in the north or the south, will live together peacefully as one people.”
Sunlight gleaming on their helmets and mail, people started cheering. Aoth judged that as was only natural, the defeated Threskelan troops were the most enthusiastic. But by and large, even the victorious Chessentans seemed to support the red dragon’s decision to show mercy. And it was probably a shrewd one if the war hero wanted to rule a united realm hereafter.
Gaedynn leaned sideways and murmured behind his upraised hand, “I guess we won’t be sacking Mordulkin and Mourktar.”
“Then Tchazzar will just have to dig deeper into his own treasury to pay us,” Aoth replied. For Kossuth knew they’d earned it.
The red dragon let the assembled warriors cheer and pound their weapons on their shields for a while, then raised his hands. Gradually the throng fell silent.
“We’ll need both unity and courage in the days to come,” Tchazzar said. “Because while Chessenta is no longer at war with itself, it still has neighbors scheming to destroy it. Those of you who hail from the south know to whom I refer-the dragonborn of Tymanther, who raid our ships and our coasts and commit murder in Luthcheq.”
What in the Hells? thought Aoth. What in the names of all the Hells? Wondering if he could possibly have misheard, he turned to Gaedynn. Who, for once, looked as taken aback as Aoth felt.
>
“I know,” Tchazzar continued, “that we lost many fine warriors fighting among ourselves. But the dragonborn have committed outrages against Akanul as they have against us. I have the word of a spokesman for Queen Arathane-”
“Zan-akar Zeraez,” Gaedynn whispered.
“-that the genasi will aid us in our quest. We’ll crush this threat and plunder Tymanther to punish her for her treachery. After which you have my promise to divide the loot fairly. By summer’s end, no one will call Threskel a country of paupers anymore!”
Cheering erupted again, even louder.
Medrash and Balasar hurtled at the open space in the center of Djerad Thymar. Trying to overtake them on his own bat, Khouryn felt a pang of incredulity that they were really going to do this.
But they were. They were racing as Lance Defenders traditionally raced, and the course ran through the gaps in the outermost row of columns and on across the Market Floor. Where Khouryn discovered that Balasar’s airy reassurances were true. If a rider maneuvered properly-veering, swooping, and climbing-he could find enough clearance, vertically and horizontally, to avoid smashing into any of the massive pillars, permanent structures, temporary kiosks, or dragonborn who happened to cross his path.
Some of those folk reflexively ducked, or cursed and shook their fists. But more of them simply grinned their fanged grins and turned to watch, cheered Khouryn on, or shouted good-natured jeers because he was in last place.
He was too intent on guiding his mount to answer. Too tense as well. But he was also grinning.
He burst out into Selune’s silvery light. He cast around, then cursed. Because Medrash and Balasar had already turned their bats and climbed halfway up the truncated pyramid that was the City-Bastion.
By the time Khouryn flew his bat through the rectangular opening to the Lance Roost, his friends had already landed on one of the platforms. As Khouryn set his own animal down, Balasar said, “Did you see? I won. As usual.”
“And I came in third,” Khouryn said. “Also as usual.”
“But you’re riding well now,” Medrash said. “And your mount has learned to trust you.” He swung himself out of the saddle and scratched his own bat’s throat. It tilted its snub-nosed head back to facilitate the process.
Khouryn took a breath. “In that case, I suppose it’s time for me to leave.”
He’d do it flying. Tarhun had made him a gift of his bat. From what he understood, no one not a dragonborn had ever before received such an honor.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Medrash said. “We defeated the ash giants, but we took heavy losses doing it. We could use help putting the army back together.”
“Otherwise,” said Balasar, tossing the reins of his bat to the cadet waiting to take charge of it, “they’re liable to make me do it. The vanquisher is threatening to order us back into service with the Lance Defenders. What kind of reward is that for all my valor?”
Khouryn chuckled. “The world is full of injustice.”
“If you won’t stay,” Medrash said, “where will you go? East Rift?”
Khouryn sighed. “No. Our business here took too much time. I don’t regret a moment of it, but I can’t take any more. Not when I have no idea how the Brotherhood is faring in the campaign against Threskel.” In an effort to avert the melancholy suddenly threatening to take possession of him, he forced a grin. “Besides, I can’t go home to a kingdom of dwarves with my beard in this condition.”
“Give Aoth, Jhesrhi, and Gaedynn our regards,” Medrash said, “and travel with Torm’s blessing.” He raised his hand, and his steel gauntlet shimmered.
Khouryn felt a tingling surge of well-being. “Thanks,” he said, then shifted his gaze to Balasar. “Be careful of Biri’s feelings. She’s young, and she wants more than a dalliance.”
“Indeed she does,” Medrash said. “But she’d make a good wife for a notable warrior from a prominent clan. And I’ve heard the elders say it’s past time for Balasar to settle down.”
Balasar gaped at him, for once at a loss for words.
Khouryn laughed, tugged on the reins to turn his bat, and tapped it with his heels. The animal hopped off the edge of the balcony, plunged for an instant, then spread its wings. It fluttered back out into the balmy summer night.
Her bare body pressed against Aoth’s, Cera looked at her lover’s tattooed face, noted the pensive frown, and sighed.
Amaunator had answered her prayers by bringing him back from the war alive and well, give or take a few mostly healed burns and scrapes. They’d celebrated by having Jet fly them to one of her favorite places, a cool, clear pond where willows and purple and yellow wildflowers grew on the surrounding slopes. The griffon had then gone hunting while the two humans swam, started their lovemaking in the water, and finished on the soft, thick moss carpeting the shore.
It should have been a perfect moment. Except that Aoth was plainly brooding. Again.
Well, she supposed that except for the flawless order manifest in Amaunator, nothing was ever truly, completely perfect. But that was no reason not to chastise him. Glad that he didn’t shave all his hair, she twined her fingers in the most abundant growth he had left and tugged hard.
“Ouch!” he said. “What was that for?”
“The same as usual,” she said. “I just shared my womanly treasures with you. You’re supposed to be deliriously happy.”
He sighed. “I know I am. I mean, I am! Being with you makes me very happy! But I also mean, I know I’m supposed to be.”
“You’re babbling,” she said.
He smiled. “I am, aren’t I? I’ll try to speak more clearly. I shouldn’t care that Tchazzar is lying to provide an excuse for an unjust war. The Brotherhood would starve if we only fought for noble causes. I also shouldn’t care that I like Medrash and Balasar. Every sellsword knows that from time to time he’ll look across the battlefield and see friends standing on the other side. All that should matter is that our employer has another campaign in the offing, he stands an excellent chance of winning it, and we’ll earn a lot of gold helping him.”
“But you do care,” Cera said.
“As do you,” said Aoth. “Because we still don’t know how the puzzle fits together, do we? Wyrmkeepers disguising abishais as dragonborn. Games and Precepts. What does it all truly mean? By the Black Flame, spying on Tchazzar and Jaxanaedegor just made me feel even more confused than I was before.”
“Have you thought of any way to sort it out?”
Aoth grunted. “Maybe. If I’m willing to commit still more treason, and my friends are too. I know Gaedynn would be. He hates Tchazzar. But Jhesrhi’s the really important one. And up to now, she’s done everything I’ve asked of her. But this-”
“She’ll help you,” Cera said.
“You sound pretty sure, considering you hardly know her.”
“A priestess learns to read people and recognize how they connect to one another. You’re Jhesrhi’s father, whether you and she realize it or not. Gaedynn is the man she’d choose if she could ever have one. The Brotherhood is her family and her home. I admit Tchazzar did a fair job of tempting her away with balm for hurts she’s carried since she was a child. But by now she knows him for the cruel, mad thing he truly is.”
“I hope so. If you’re mistaken, I suppose I’ll find out when I confide in her, she tattles to him, and he orders my arrest.”
“That won’t happen. Now, since the Keeper actually assigned the task of solving this mystery to me, and then I merely goaded you into helping, you’d better have a task for me as well.”
He scowled. “Yes. A hard one. And the fact that Tchazzar would view it as treason may not even be the bad part.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Don’t promise till I tell you what it is.”
Tchazzar pivoted before the full-length mirror, checking the lines of his scarlet, gold-trimmed doublet. He supposed that if any of his fellow gods were watching, they were amused. For how could a deity appear less than m
agnificent to mortal eyes? And even if he could, it was beneath his dignity to care.
But Tchazzar had discovered his fate was linked to Jhesrhi Coldcreek’s, and he wanted to tie her to him with bonds of affection and gratitude as well. Yet despite all the favor he’d shown her, she often seemed morose and aloof.
But perhaps the ice was starting to melt, because, for a change, he hadn’t been the one to suggest they spend time together. She’d diffidently proposed it, and he intended to be as charming a supper companion as any lady could desire.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Yes,” Tchazzar said.
“Lady Jhesrhi is here,” the servant answered.
So she was, waiting in a portion of the royal apartments that afforded a panoramic view of the rooftops of Luthcheq and the crimson sunset beyond. She looked endearingly uncomfortable wearing a trailing formal gown the color of honey, with her blonde hair arranged in elaborate braids.
They exchanged greetings, and then he did her the honor of pouring her a goblet of tart white wine. Careful not to let their fingers touch, he placed in her hand. She sipped, and smiled a wan little smile.
“Come say good night to my little brother Amaunator.” He waved her to one of the two leather chairs positioned before the row of open casements. “And as we see him off for the evening, you can tell me about your day.”
Jhesrhi hesitated. “It was pleasant.”
Tchazzar gave her a look of mock severity. “It’s foolish to lie to a god.”
“It was, truly. It’s just that I keep thinking of Scar.”
“He was a brave and faithful creature. He gave his life to keep Alasklerbanbastos away from you.”
“I know.”
“But fine as he was, I’ll find you a flying steed that’s even better.”
“That’s … generous, Majesty. But you needn’t bother. Much as Scar’s death saddened me, I’ve also been thinking that it was a … passage. A sign that my time with the Brotherhood is over, and I truly am meant to stay and serve you when they move on.”
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