Scream of Stone

10

5 Mirtul, the Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR) Firesteap Citadel

Marek watched Insithryllax fidget. The black dragon wore his human guise, but his coal-dark eyes darted across the sky above him, his feet shuffled, and his shoulders twitched like a restless bird. The day was unseasonably warm, the sky a pure blue untroubled by clouds, and the dragon wanted to fly.

“He is himself again,” Wenefir said. His voice made Insithryllax jump a little and turn with an angry twist to his heavy brow. The priest of Cyric ignored him and went on, “I don’t know if it’s the clean southern air, or maybe even that trollop of his, but it’s as though he’s returned from a long journey.”

Marek shrugged while bowing to Wenefir in greeting. All three of them turned their eyes down to the ground fifty feet or more below them. From the top of the citadel, they could see the whole of the mustering grounds. There Pristoleph’s newly-acquired private army marched and drilled.

“Certainly you agree, Master Rymiit?” Wenefir prompted.

Marek shrugged and said, “I’ve seen better prepared, better armed, and better disciplined armies in my day.”

He could sense Wenefir stiffen at his side but didn’t look at him. Instead, he let his gaze wander back to Insithryllax, who had once again turned his attention to the beckoning sky.

“Well,” the Cyricist huffed, “of course we all have.” Marek could tell that Wenefir hadn’t. “Still, it’s been barely three months.”

“And they weren’t an army before?” Marek teased with a smile.

The priest didn’t return the smile when he replied, “Not hardly. They were rabble, most of them, living off the paltry wages of Salatis’s sorry excuse for a military and more than one of them had other interests… other business interests that is.”

“They were thieves,” Marek said.

“The best of them were, yes,” Wenefir replied, “while others either supported or extorted the camp followers, provided private security or other dark deeds for whatever coin might have been thrown at them… they were thieves, yes, and murderers, too.”

“I seem to recall,” Marek said, enjoying every second of what he was about to say with a wide, toothy grin, “hearing tell of a young soldier named Pristoleph who, some decades ago, provided his comrades in arms with the company of women… women, one might say, of generous affections.”

Wenefir tensed and Marek got the distinct impression the priest was holding himself rigid, as though unwilling to give the Red Wizard the satisfaction of whirling on him. His jaw tensed, his eyes closed, then all at once he relaxed. Behind him, the black dragon stared at the priest with the threat of violence in his eyes.

“What is it about you, I wonder,” Wenefirsaid, forcing a smile on his face with obvious difficulty, “that causes me to underestimate you in all the least important ways?”

“Let us call it ‘charisma’ and leave it at that,” Marek replied.

The priest tipped his head in acquiescence and once again the three of them turned their attention to Pristoleph at the head of his army.