Whisper of Venom

TWELVE

28 KYTHORN -5 FLAMERULE T HE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

Summer had come, and, as Khouryn had observed on the march southwest, Tymanther was blooming. Trees were full of green leaves and singing birds; pastures of grass and the sheep, goats, and cattle grazing there; and fields of oats and barley. In contrast, Black Ash Plain had simply gotten nastier. The hot air was smokier, and some of the cinders adrift on it were stinging hot.

I don’t blame the giants for wanting to steal somebody else’s country, he thought. I wouldn’t want to live here either.

He wondered how they even managed to live in the midst of such desolation, then dismissed the question as irrelevant. His concern was to make sure that a goodly number of them didn’t live much longer. To that end, he took another look at the ash drifts and cracked, rocky soil to either side of the column.

Towers of ash glided in the distance, somewhat like ships under sail except that they moved independently of the wind. Then suddenly a gray-black bump bobbed up and then back down out of sight behind one of the true cinder dunes, if that was the right term for them. They were drifts big as hills, and a fellow could climb them like hills until he set his foot wrong. Then the ash would swallow him like quicksand.

Despite the haze in the air, and the smarting blur in his eyes, Khouryn knew he’d just seen a giant skirmisher. He drew breath to shout an alert, but one of the dragonborn marching under the banners of the Platinum Cadre did it first.

So instead Khouryn shouted, “Form up! Protect yourselves!” He was sure there were only a few giants lurking on their flank, or somebody would have spotted one before then. Since they were too few to pose a serious threat, their purpose was to slow the advance, giving the bulk of Skuthosiin’s army more time to prepare. By halting and covering up with their shields, the Tymantherans were essentially giving them what they wanted. But they had to do something to keep the barbarians from picking them off one and two at a time.

Five giants popped up, and their long arms whipped. They didn’t throw spears or any other sort of crafted weapon. They must have been hoarding those for the true battle to come. But they were an offshoot of the race called stone giants and, like others of their kind, could fling rocks with deadly force and accuracy.

The impacts cracked and banged. One dragonborn fell down. But no stones streaked past shields to hammer the bodies behind them.

The barbarians ducked back down. Several crossbows clacked, an instant too late to have any hope of hitting their targets.

A female voice chanted words that sent a pang of chill stabbing through the hot air.

Khouryn turned. Several paces to his left, Kanjentellequor Biri, the albino wizard who’d unraveled the deeper secrets of Nala’s papers, had somehow prevailed on two spearmen to open a gap in the shield wall. Where she stood, inviting another stone as she rattled off her incantation and flicked a rod of roughly hewn and polished quartz through small, repetitive downstrokes.

Just as Khouryn reached her side, hailstones pounded down to batter the far slope of the dune. A giant howled.

Khouryn gripped Biri’s wrist and hauled her back behind the warriors. “I didn’t tell you to do that,” he said.

She grinned. “But it worked. They had cover, but not in relation to something that dropped straight down from overhead.”

“You didn’t have any cover either. It’s only by the Luckmaiden’s grace that you didn’t end up with your brains splashed across the ground. As it is, you showed the giants where you are.”

Tarhun had scattered the mages throughout the army, partly so the giants couldn’t target all of them at once. He’d also instructed them to refrain from casting spells till he said otherwise.

Biri’s smile melted away. Despite his time among them, Khouryn wasn’t good at guessing how old a dragonborn was. But he got a feeling the wizard was younger than he’d first supposed. “I just wanted to help,” she said.

“You already have,” Khouryn said, “and trust me, you will again. But for now, let the soldiers do the work. They can handle it.”

As if to illustrate his point, a squadron of outriders charged the giants. Khouryn couldn’t see everything that happened next. His hulking spearmen with their overlapping shields were in the way, and so was the ash dune. But he made out Medrash’s heater, painted with the steel gauntlet of Torm, and Balasar’s targe, emblazoned with the six white circles of Clan Daardendrien. He also saw giants toppling with lances embedded in their guts, or blood streaming from sword cuts on their necks and chests.

The infantry raised a cheer. Except that there was something wrong with it. Khouryn strained to make out the one voice that wasn’t jubilant, all but lost amid the clamor.

“Turn around!” someone bellowed. “Turn around!”

Khouryn did, and suffered a shock of amazement and dread. A brown dragon was heaving itself out of the ground. Huge as the burrowing creature was, it defied common sense that so few of the dragonborn had noticed its relatively blunt head with its mass of short, thick horns looming high above their own. But there hadn’t been anything there just a moment before, and almost everyone was watching the fight between the outriders and the giants.

The dragon glanced around, then oriented on Khouryn. Or maybe on the wizard standing beside him.

“Crouch down behind me!” he shouted. He wanted to tell her to close her eyes and turn her head too, but the brown didn’t give him time. Its neck whipped forward. Its jaws opened and spewed its breath weapon.

Khouryn covered up with his shield and squinched his own eyes shut, which was possibly the only thing that saved them from the hot grit that rasped across his skin. When he opened them again, sand and ash hung so thick in the air as to make the smoky haze he’d despised before seem clear by comparison.

Dragonborn cried out, because the brown’s breath had scraped them, or simply in fear and confusion. Khouryn could see some of the nearer ones, milling around or sprawled on the ground, but he couldn’t see the wyrm. A moment before, the sudden appearance of such a behemoth had seemed a nightmarish impossibility. Its vanishing felt like another, even though he assumed the cloud was actually responsible.

He only knew when it charged because its strides jolted the ground, and because dragonborn yelled as it trampled them or brushed them out of the way. “Run!” he rasped, his mouth foul with sand, and then his huge foe pounced out of the murk. The scalloped, winglike frills that extended down the sides of its body were undulating. Maybe that was how it kept the air agitated and full of grit even when it wasn’t spitting the stuff out of its gullet.

It struck at Khouryn, and he met its head with a thrust of his spear. The weapon drove straight into a nostril. The brown screeched and recoiled, jerking the spear out of his hand. It whipped its head back and forth until the foreign object tumbled out.

That gave Khouryn just enough time to discard his shield and snatch the urgrosh off his back.

The brown dragon clawed at him. He spun aside and chopped at its foot. The axe glanced off its scales.

At almost the same instant, the head at the end of the long neck arced over him, too high for him to attack. The brown was reaching for Biri. But she conjured a blast of frost that spattered the wyrm’s jaws and eyes and made it falter.

“You get away from it!” Khouryn bellowed. “Spears, follow my voice! It’s here!”

The dragon lifted a forefoot high. He only just spotted the action in the brown, swirling gloom. It stamped down at him. He sidestepped, cut, and that time hacked a gash in its hide.

Thunder boomed and light flared as Biri burned the wyrm with lightning. From a safer distance, Khouryn hoped. They were holding their own, but it couldn’t last-not unless they had help. Where were the damn spearmen?

There! Shadows swarmed out of the murk on either side of the dragon. Spears jabbed.

The brown struck left, then right, biting a dragonborn to pieces with each snap. Some spearmen cried out and retreated madly. But others were less frantic. They fell back just far enough to protect themselves, then attacked again as soon as the wyrm pivoted away.

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 dracolich 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 know 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.”

“Then why are we standing around?” Tchazzar cried. “To your stations! Boy, why is my collar lying on the ground? And what happened to your face?”

As it turned out, riding a giant bat wasn’t much like riding a griffon. Both the voice and the touch commands were different. The animal moved differently, perhaps even more nimbly, in the air, and Khouryn was still learning how and when to lean to aid its maneuvering.

It also seemed incapable of making anything comparable to the diversity of rasps and screeches a griffon could emit. Which might be the only reason it wasn’t subjecting him to an ongoing critique of his technique.

But his clumsiness notwithstanding, it felt good to fly again. And the loan of the winged steed was a mark of Tarhun’s trust, even though it was also a practical necessity if he was to scout the giant stronghold from the air.

Biri’s arms shifted their grip around his waist. “Have you ever flown before?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I always wanted to. It was why I meant-well, mean, I guess-to join the Lance Defenders when I’m older.”

So she was young. “Well, ordinarily this isn’t the first flight I’d pick for you. Or the first time aloft on a bat that I’d choose for myself. But our companions know their business. We’ll be all right.”

“I know,” she said. “The Daardendriens are very brave.” Her front brushed his back as she twisted to look left.

She could have said that the Lance Defenders were very brave, for it was active members of the corps who made up most of the scouting party. She could also have looked right, toward Medrash and his borrowed bat, instead of to the left and Balasar.

But she hadn’t done either of those things. So Khouryn sighed and said, “Balasar’s a fine warrior and my good friend. But not a suitable match for you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied.

Did the love-struck young ever listen to sound advice? Probably not. The Shining Dancer knew, Khouryn hadn’t. Nor did he regret it, despite all the horror and heartbreak that followed.

The smell of smoke that tainted the entire wasteland grew stronger. Black masses rose from the ground, and veins of glowing, flickering red threaded their way among them.

The dragonborn called the place Ashhold. In one sense that was a misnomer, because the dark shapes were mostly extrusions of basalt, not the ashen spires encountered elsewhere on the plain. But it was a sacred site to the giants, where the fires that burned beneath their country found their way to the surface and, by ancient custom, the tribes set even the bitterest feuds aside. It was also the redoubt to which the survivors of Skuthosiin’s horde had retreated after Tarhun’s warriors pushed them out of Tymanther.

Khouryn could see why. The hillocks of rock shouldn’t be as tough to crack as a castle with continuous walls, battlements, and other civilized defenses-thanks be to the Lord of the Twin Axes that the giants lacked the knowledge to erect such a structure. Still, they provided the advantages of high ground, partial cover, and a maze of obstructions to confuse an attacking force and break it up into smaller, less-effective units. The patches of flame and hot coals would further complicate the assault.

So far, no giant was bellowing the alarm. The bats were evidently hard to see in the smoky, benighted sky. With the tap of a finger against the surprisingly soft fur on its shoulder, Khouryn made his steed swoop a little lower. Then he studied Ashhold and imagined the various ways in which it might be attacked with the troops at the vanquisher’s disposal, and how the giants might respond in each instance. The possibilities danced before his inner eye like pawns and pieces moving on a sava board.

“Go farther in,” Biri said, “and lower.”

“Why?”

“Magic. I feel a lot of force stirring. I see it too, like a spot in the air after you glance straight at the sun. It’s there.” She stretched her arm past his head to point the way.

He was reluctant to take greater risks than they had already. But he’d brought her along to provide a wizard’s insight, so he supposed he’d better give her a look at what she needed to see.

He nudged his bat with his knee, but it ignored the command. Apparently the beast too sensed mystical energy rising and was leery of it. He kneed it again, harder, and then it wheeled and beat its way in the right direction.

Ashhold opened up at the center, rather like a real castle with a courtyard. In the middle of the space burned the greatest of its fires, leaping up from a forked crack in the baked and barren ground. Crouching on a low, flat protrusion of basalt, the glow of the flames glinting on his dark green scales, a gigantic green dragon stared into the blaze and hissed words of power. A dozen giant adepts chanted contrapuntal responses.

Since he was so close, even Khouryn could feel magic accumulating, as a queasiness in his guts and an ache in his joints. He ignored the discomfort to peer at the huge green, who surely had to be Skuthosiin.

His first impression was that the wyrm was deformed, even though he couldn’t pick out anything that was specifically wrong with him. The dragons he’d seen hitherto were terrifying but beautiful. Even the burrowing brown had been magnificent in its way. In contrast, Skuthosiin made him want to wince and avert his gaze, like a sick person covered in weeping sores.

He remembered the stories he’d heard. At one time, Skuthosiin had been a Chosen of Tiamat. He’d died, and his goddess had restored him to life. Maybe he’d come back tainted.

A giant standing atop one of the masses of rock abruptly shouted. Evidently he’d spotted one of the bat riders gliding and wheeling overhead.

Skuthosiin didn’t even deign to raise his head, nor did any of the other mages involved in the ritual. But as Khouryn turned his bat, and his comrades likewise prepared to flee, shadows the size of hounds-but with the serpentine shapes of dragons-darted up the sides of various stones. They silently lashed their scalloped wings and leaped into the air.

As soon as they soared very high above the fire, they became difficult for even dwarf eyes to see. Agitated, Khouryn’s steed veered one way, then the other, while the Lance Defenders’ bats did the same. Evidently they too were having trouble perceiving the shadow things.

A dragonborn cried out. His bat tumbled with one of the ghostly dragons ripping at each leathery wing.

Medrash called out to Torm and shook his fist. White light flared from his steel gauntlet. It revealed the locations of the shadows, seared them, and dashed them toward the ground. The two clinging to the wounded bat lost their holds, and the steed spread its torn wings and leveled out of its fall.

Unfortunately, the blaze of holy Power dimmed immediately, and the dark things winged their way upward again. Khouryn took a frantic look around and decided the creatures were fewest in the northeast.

He pointed. “I want a blast of fire right above that rock with the two lumps on top.”

Biri chanted and thrust out her wand of quartz. A red spark flew from the tip and exploded into a roaring mass of flame.

The fire washed over shadow things and burned them to nothingness, breaking the circle they’d formed around the scouts. “This way!” Khouryn shouted, urging his mount toward the gap. His comrades streaked after him.

Medrash hurled another flash of Torm’s Power to slow pursuit. Khouryn glanced back-with a dragonborn seated behind him, he had to lean sideways to do it-and met the gaze of Skuthosiin’s lambent yellow eyes.

To his relief, the green was still perched on his makeshift dais, still performing his ritual, and showed no signs of joining the chase. But his stare was chilling.

Khouryn spat the chill away.

As the scouts raced on, leaving the shadow things behind, giants hurled javelins and rocks. But as far as Khouryn could tell, none of the missiles found its mark, and after a few more heartbeats he and his comrades were clear of Ashhold entirely.

But they didn’t slow until they reached their own camp, an orderly sprawl with a scarcity of campfires. The foragers couldn’t find fuel, and even had it been otherwise, Black Ash Plain in summer could blunt anyone’s enthusiasm for heat and smoke.

It seemed to Khouryn that his bat landed with an awkward bump. Unlike a griffon, the beast wasn’t built to prowl around on the ground. But it had its own virtues, and he gave it a pat before allowing a black-scaled Lance Defender-in-training to take charge of it.

“That’s the kind of young fellow you should be ogling,” he murmured.

Like Skuthosiin-well, not really-Biri declined to respond to the provocation.

Medrash and Balasar gave up their borrowed steeds, and the four of them strode onward to the center of the army. Where Tarhun awaited them along with a motley assortment of senior Lance Defenders, clan war leaders, and mages.

Smiling, the vanquisher rose from his campstool as they approached. “Did everyone get back safely?” he asked.

“Yes, Majesty,” Medrash said, saluting. “They spotted us, but we managed to break away.”

“And that’s not the only piece of good news,” said Balasar with a grin. “We didn’t see all that many of the giants’ pets. Apparently the adepts haven’t figured out that we can keep them from calling the beasts from afar. Which means they really won’t be much of a factor in the fight.”

“True,” said Medrash. “That much is good news.”

Belatedly registering his clan brother’s somber demeanor, Balasar said, “All right, what did I miss?”

“Since you aren’t versed in a mystical discipline,” Biri said, “I understand why you didn’t sense it. But Medrash is right. The ceremony Skuthosiin is performing is something powerful and bad.”

“You saw Skuthosiin?” Tarhun asked.

“Yes,” Khouryn said, “and, if anything, he looks even nastier than his reputation. So I can believe he’s about to dump something hellish on our heads. The only question is, what form will it take?”

Biri hesitated. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t able to tell that.”

Balasar gave her a smile. “It’s all right, sweetling. You did fine. We might not have gotten out of there without you.”

A clan leader scratched her chin with the claw on her thumb. She had a row of little ivory moon piercings-waxing from new to full, then waning again-running across her brow. “If we don’t know exactly what Skuthosiin’s doing,” she said, “do we know how much longer it will take?”

“No,” Biri said.

“So if we want to interrupt the proceedings,” Khouryn said, “we should attack now.”

Tarhun frowned. “At night. After rushing our preparations.”

“I admit it would have its drawbacks,” Khouryn said.

“Which is why the giants won’t expect it,” Balasar said.

“I’m no longer a member of the Lance Defenders,” Medrash said, “but I still remember what I learned when I was. The bats will spot what we can’t. They’ll let us know what’s lurking in the dark.”

Khouryn had no difficulty believing that was true. A griffon didn’t need to be able to talk to alert its rider to the presence of danger, and a bat probably didn’t either.

Fenkenkabradon Dokaan, commander of the Lance Defenders, was a bronze-colored warrior almost as big as Tarhun. He carried a sheathed greatsword tucked under one arm, and branching steel piercings like miniature antlers jutted from his temples. He grunted and said, “One of your escort told me you just now ran into shadow creatures the bats had trouble seeing.”

“With respect, High Lord,” Medrash replied, “magic and unnatural creatures always pose special problems. My observation is still sound.”

Dokaan gave a brusque nod. “Fair enough. It is.” He turned toward Tarhun. “Majesty, I think Sir Khouryn’s plan has merit.”

Several other officers and clan leaders tried to speak at once. Somewhat to Khouryn’s surprise, they all seemed to be expressing support. But maybe it shouldn’t have surprised him. They were the warrior elite of a valorous people, and they were heartily sick of the giants.

“So be it,” said Tarhun. “Ready the troops.”

Jet flew a zigzag course to throw off the aims of archers and crossbowmen. Aoth chanted words of power and repeatedly jabbed his spear at the Threskelan company below. Hailstones the size of his fist dropped out of thin air to pummel the foe.

Aoth wanted to conserve his power. But that particular war band had soldiers riding bounding drakes, as well as a pair of shambling, long-nosed war trolls. It made sense to soften them up a little.

Once Jet carried him beyond the reach of their arrows and quarrels, he twisted in the saddle and looked for some sign that Tchazzar had entered the battle. The Firelord knew, it shouldn’t be hard to spot.

But you’re afraid he’ll balk, the griffon said.

Jhesrhi stayed behind to encourage him, Aoth replied. Unfortunately, Halonya’s there too, without me to intimidate her. We just have to hope-

A roar thundered across the scrubland, drowning out the rest of the muddled cacophony of battle. Wings lashing, golden eyes burning, blue and yellow flames leaping from his mouth, the red dragon rose from the center of the Chessentan formation.

In the night, few of the advancing enemy could see Tchazzar as clearly as Aoth could. Yet even so, every one of them faltered. Lurching, stumbling hesitation rippled across the battlefield.

Congratulations, said Jet. One of your schemes finally worked.

Not yet, said Aoth, but it’s off to a reasonable start.

Tchazzar was supposed to fight hard during the opening movements of the battle, wreaking havoc on Alasklerbanbastos’s army and creating the appearance that he was squandering his strength. Assuming he conducted himself as he had in past conflicts, the Great Bone Wyrm would let his archenemy wear himself down, then attack when he judged he had the advantage. At which point Jaxanaedegor and his fellow traitors would turn on their overlord, and they and Tchazzar would take him down together.

It would be a neat trick if it came together. Aoth could think of a dozen ways it could go wrong. But then, that was the case with most such plans.

Tchazzar hurtled toward a blue dragon on the wing. The blue had an unusually long beard of bladelike scales dangling beneath her chin, and the massive horn on her snout lacked a secondary point. By those details, Aoth identified her as Venzentilax, one of the wyrms genuinely loyal to Alasklerbanbastos.

She spat a bright, twisting flare of lightning. Tchazzar didn’t even try to dodge. Nor did he jerk, falter, or reveal any other sign of distress when the attack hit him, although it blackened a spot at the base of his neck.

“Watch out!” a griffon rider shouted. His mount gave a piercing screech, and others took up the cry, spreading the alarm across the sky.

Aoth turned to behold a flight of undead hawks the size of horses, with green phosphorescence shimmering in their sunken eyes and bone showing through holes in their rotting feathers and skins. The raptors had come up on his flank while the dragons’ duel distracted him.

He pointed his spear and started to hurl fire at the hawks. Then Jet lashed his wings and flung himself sideways.

Even so, a stab of cold chilled both the griffon and Aoth to the bone-he could feel the familiar’s distress through their psychic link. Both undead, another mount with another master plunged down at them. They’d flown in higher than the hawks, and that had kept Aoth from noticing them before. Even fire-kissed eyes couldn’t spot trouble if he was looking in the wrong direction.

The steed was the reanimated corpse of a chimera. It had the pallid wings, hind legs, and serpentine tail of a white dragon, while the rest of the body was leonine. Three heads sprouted from the shoulders-the wyrm’s, the lion’s, and the odd one out, a ram’s complete with curving horns.

The rider had three heads too, although they all looked the same-naked human skulls perched atop a single skeleton. It clutched a staff in its bony hands.

Beating his wings, Jet flew out from under the chimera. Aoth tried to aim his spear and recite an incantation, but the aftereffects of the jolt of cold made his hand shake and his mouth stammer. He botched the spell, and as his attackers dived past, the skull lord-as such things were called-glared at him. Pale light seethed in the orbits of the fleshless head on the left, and cold burned through him once again.

But that was even worse than the dragon head’s frigid breath, because it also sent terror howling through his mind. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was flee.

He looked around, but horribly could find no clear path to safety. His sellswords and the undead hawks were fighting on all sides. Apparently the griffon riders had discovered that their bows were of little use, for they were relying on their mounts to fight the raptors, beak to beak and claw to claw, with the losers falling to earth in pieces.

Get hold of yourself! snapped Jet. You aren’t really afraid! The skull lord put it in your mind!

Aoth realized it was true. He struggled to focus past the fear and activate the countermagic bound in one of his tattoos. A bracing sting of power restored him to himself.

But why let the skull lord know it? He mimed panic while the undead chimera wheeled and climbed for another pass. Jet floundered in flight like a mount infected with his rider’s distress or confused by nonsensical commands.

The chimera swooped at them. Aoth let it get close, then leveled his spear and spoke the single word necessary to release one of the spells bound inside the weapon.

The fiery blast sent the ram’s head tumbling in one direction and the dragon’s in the other. The wings tore away to drift like burning kites on the night wind, while the remains of the body dropped away beneath them. The skull lord’s six orbits stared upward in impotent astonishment or rage.

Are you all right? asked Aoth.

Just a little frostbitten around the edges, said Jet. That was like being back in Thay.

What it was, said Aoth, was a reminder that we have other things besides dragons to worry about. Twisting in the saddle, he looked to see which of his fellow griffon riders needed help.

Nala cradled the green orb in both hands and focused her will on it. If she established a psychic bond, she’d be able to summon dragonspawn a shade more quickly in a little while, when the defenders of Ashhold needed them.

As they would. Created from actual wyrm eggs with rituals imparted by Tiamat herself, dragonspawn had proved insufficient to win the last big battle in Tymanther. But surely this time would be different. The giants were fighting on their home ground, where the towering masses of rock and the channels of fire running through the ground would make a mass charge of lancers impossible. What was more, Skuthosiin himself would take the field.

And after he won, the green would surely recognize just how valuable a weapon her talismans had been.

Nala needed that because the failure of her schemes in Djerad Thymar had cost her his favor. He’d granted her asylum among the giants, but hadn’t seen fit to include her in his great magical ritual or even explain what it was meant to accomplish. That had to change if she was ever to assume her rightful role as a high priestess of the Nemesis of the Gods. Indeed, if she was even to be certain of avoiding the grim fate he intended for every other Tymantheran.

Her mind reached into the globe in somewhat the same way that she might have stuck her hand through a hole. Then her companion, a giant shaman who was doing the same thing with a gray talisman, cried out.

Nala glanced around in time to see the adept flounder back against a basalt wall. Blood streaming from his mouth and his left eye, he heaved the globe away from him. It smashed against the rock face on the other side of the relatively narrow alley in which they’d taken shelter.

Nala felt a stab of outrage. She and her true acolytes had worked long and hard to make the globes. Then, perhaps because the giant’s distress alerted her, she sensed resistance in her own orb. A heartbeat earlier it had been a doorway. Now it was a trap snapping shut. She snatched her psychic presence clear before it could catch her.

“Betrayer,” the shaman mumbled. He pushed off the wall, swayed, and stumbled toward her, enormous gray hands outstretched.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “I didn’t ruin the talismans. The vanquisher’s wizards found a way to do it. If you’re hurt, let me help you.” She grabbed hold of one of the giant’s fingers and rattled off a healing prayer. Tiamat’s Power manifested as a glow of warmth at her core, which then streamed through the point of contact.

The giant grunted.

“Better?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, no longer sounding dazed. Although he seemed nonplussed that his menacing advance hadn’t frightened her.

“Then go find the other shamans. Warn them not to use the orbs. Or if they already did, heal them so they can fight.”

He studied her for another moment, and she in turn could see just how reluctant he still was to trust or obey any dragonborn. But at last he said, “All right.” He swiped blood from his face, turned, and loped away.

Nala headed for the other end of the passage and the shouting, crashing cacophony of battle. It was maddening that the talismans had failed-had, indeed, become a means for the enemy to cripple the adepts-but since they had, she needed to find a new way to make herself not just useful but indispensable to the defense.

The passage narrowed down to an opening narrow enough that no adult giant could squeeze through. It seemed like a good place to crouch and study the combat without being noticed.

Giants perched on the ledges and tops of the stony eminences, hurling javelins and rocks at foes who remained, for the moment, out of Nala’s view. Then motion flickered above one such elevated position, there and gone too quickly for her to see it clearly. A shaft of wood sticking straight up from the top of his bald, knobby head, a barbarian toppled and crashed to the ground. She realized a Lance Defender had swooped down and speared him.

A volley of crossbow bolts pierced several of the slain giants’ fellows and made the rest dive for cover. Then her countrymen came streaming through one of the broader passages dividing the towering stones.

By the Five Breaths, how she hated them! She’d brought them gifts that would have made them a great people, and they’d spurned them. Driven her into exile to live among savages. And now come to deprive her of even that miserable refuge.

In her heart, she begged the Dark Lady for revenge.

A long shape burst from the earth right in front of a company of Tymantheran spearmen. For an instant in the darkness, it looked like a new basalt spire suddenly rising to claim a place among the old ones. Then it swayed, opened its jaws, and roared.

The brown dragon bore ugly, half-healed wounds, yet it had come to fight the intruders anyway. Nala loved it for its courage.

It spewed hot sand, and dragonborn reeled, scorched and scraped bloody. The grit stayed in the air too, in a blinding, choking swirl. It afflicted Nala as much as anyone else, but she laughed anyway. Because she could just make out how helpless the soldiers were as the brown repeatedly struck and lifted its head, dispatching a foe with every bite.

Then white light flashed in the front rank of the foot soldiers. In the darkness, churning dust, and general confusion, Nala found it difficult to be sure, but it seemed to her that one of the soldiers vanished, and another dragonborn appeared in his place.

The newcomer was on horseback, and the horse was galloping. It only took it an instant to close the distance to the startled dragon, and then the rider’s lance plunged into the creature’s chest.

The brown jerked, then snarled and raised a clawed foot to retaliate. But at the same instant, a second lancer drove in on its flank and speared it in the base of its neck.

The wyrm thrashed, then tried to dissolve into sand. Nala could just make out its outlines softening and streaming. She surmised that it wanted to pour itself down the burrow to safety.

The first rider pulled his lance free, then stabbed repeatedly. Each attack flared with mystic power. The force, or the agony it brought, evidently hindered the brown’s ability to transform, for the process slowed, then stopped. Leaving the sacred creature sprawled lifeless on the ground.

The cloud of sand subsided, and then Nala could see Medrash and Balasar clearly. Their comrades saw them too and raised a raw-throated cheer.

Though Nala had imagined herself full of hatred before, it had been a feeble thing compared to the loathing that gripped her now. Her breath weapon burned in her throat, and she shivered with the urge to hurl herself forward and attack. But that would just be throwing her life away. Which was the last thing she truly wanted to do, considering that Tiamat had just answered all her prayers.

Instinct-or perhaps the Dark Lady’s whisper-told her that the paladin of Torm and his clan brother would prove to be pivotal figures that night, just as they and Khouryn Skulldark had been in Tymanther. And if she stalked them and waited for the right moment to strike, then she too would play a crucial role.

But how could she be sure of keeping them always in sight amid the frenzy of the battle? By the looks of it, they were already preparing to press on. For a moment, the problem perplexed her, and then she smiled at her own foolishness.

For of course she too was dragonborn, and how likely was it that anyone would notice her telltale swaying or recognize her in some other fashion, in the dark, with far more obvious dangers looming on every side? As long as she didn’t get too close to Medrash, Balasar, or any members of the Platinum Cadre, she should be fine. She discarded her robe of shimmering scales, then slipped from the notch between the stones to join the vanquisher’s troops.

As Scar carried Jhesrhi up into the sky, she watched Tchazzar blast Venzentilax with his fiery breath. The quasi mind in her staff exhorted her to find a target and conjure a blaze of her own. Soon, she told it, soon.

Tchazzar had invited her to ride him into battle, as she had when he’d rescued Gaedynn and avenged himself on the shadar-kai. But she had a hunch it would be imprudent for a fragile human to sit on his back while other dragons tried to kill him. She also wanted to fight astride her griffon in concert with the rest of the Brotherhood. Impossible as it seemed, she might not get another chance.

It was a pity the red dragon hadn’t insisted that Halonya ride him, to use her alleged clerical powers in the fray. But alas, Tymora hadn’t smiled so widely as that. Halonya was still back in camp, safe as any of them were that night and likely nursing her many grudges.

The reanimated carcass of a huge bird of prey flew toward Jhesrhi’s flank. She spoke to the wind, and the air thinned beneath the zombie’s pinions. It floundered and tumbled, and, deciding not to waste any more magic on it, she had Scar swoop down on top of it and rip it apart with talon and claw. Which meant she had to endure its putrid stink, but fortunately only for a moment.

Up ahead, other griffon riders were fighting similar products of necromancy. Points of green light streaked across the dark as Aoth cast darts of force. She was about to urge Scar onward to the heart of that particular fight when something else snagged her attention.

A huge draconic skeleton lumbered out of the night. For a heartbeat Jhesrhi thought it was Alasklerbanbastos himself. But it didn’t have a glow in its eye sockets, or small flares of lightning leaping and arcing from bone to bone. In fact, the bones looked like they didn’t even all come from the same body, giving the thing a lopsided appearance and a limp.

It was a necromantic construct then, not unlike the undead hawks. But it was plainly a far greater threat, and one that Jaxanaedegor hadn’t warned his new confederates about. Maybe his overlord had never told him of its existence.

The siegewyrm, as such colossal automata were called, was advancing on a formation of archers. With every lurching, uneven stride, jagged spurs of bone sprouted from the ground around it like fast-growing saplings. The bowmen drew and released with commendable coolness, but most of their shafts simply glanced off their target. Even Gaedynn, standing in the forefront, seemed unable to score a hit that mattered.

Jhesrhi felt a twinge of guilt that she hadn’t enchanted any more arrows for him since their escape from the Shadowfell. But she’d simply never found the time.

Well, she’d help him now. She spoke a word of command and pointed her staff. An explosion of flame bloomed at the point where the siegewyrm’s wings connected to its spine.

The detonation jolted and blackened bones, but it didn’t shatter any of the big ones or break the linkages between them. She drew breath to try again, and then, vertebrae scraping and rattling together, the siegewyrm twisted its neck and raised its head to stare at her.

Pain ripped through her. Scar screeched as the same agonizing shock apparently jolted him. Together, they fell.

Struggling against the paralyzing pain, she told the wind to support the griffon or, failing that, to cushion his landing. No doubt fighting the same fight, Scar managed to half spread his wings. They thumped down hard, but not hard enough to kill them.

Although it seemed likely they’d only prolonged their lives by a few heartbeats. The siegewyrm heaved itself around in their direction. Spurs of bone as long as her staff and as sharp as Scar’s talons stabbed up from the ground as it advanced.

Hands shaking, she lifted her staff and tried to focus her will. She felt Scar shuddering too. He was trying to find the strength to take to the air again. Then the construct lumbered into striking distance, and she and her mount were out of time.

A second griffon swooped onto the siegewyrm’s back. Clinging, Eider tore and bit. Gaedynn leaned out of the saddle and smashed with a long-handled maul. Bone chips flew.

The skeletal dragon twisted its neck to retaliate. Eider lashed her wings and flew beyond its reach.

Meanwhile, veering to avoid the jagged bones sprouting from the earth, archers charged the undead wyrm. Jhesrhi saw that most of the ones who dared were sellswords of the Brotherhood. They battered their huge foe’s legs with mace and axe.

Oraxes and Meralaine attacked the thing as well. Jhesrhi hadn’t spotted them, but, sensitive to magic, she could half hear them chanting incantations even amid the clamor of battle. She could also see it when their wizardry produced its effects. Oraxes created a flying blade of yellow light to hack at the siegewyrm’s neck. The necromancer’s power pulled darkness boiling out from between its ribs and through the cavities in its skull and, judging from the way it jerked, hurt it worse than anything else so far.

But not enough to stop it. Its lashing tail knocked men flying through the air. One archer plunged down on a spike of bone and, impaled through the midsection, writhed there screaming. The siegewyrm struck and bit another man to pieces. It stared, and three more mercenaries crumpled in agony just like Scar and Jhesrhi had.

Gaedynn and the others had saved them. She had to return the favor, or the siegewyrm might kill them all.

Weak and shaky with pain as she was, she might in other circumstances have found it impossible even to make the attempt. But fortunately she had a cure for her debility, since her comrades had bought her the chance to use it.

She fumbled with the buckle securing the pouch on her belt. Something flickered at the edge of her vision. She turned her head.

Another length of bone was leaping up from the ground, at an angle. She jerked herself sideways. The spur stopped growing when the jagged point was a finger joint short of her face.

She sat frozen for an instant, then finished extracting the pewter vial from the bag. The potion inside was tasteless but warm, and the glow spread out from her stomach to melt away her pain.

She drank half, then dismounted. She showed the bottle to Scar, and the griffon raised his head and opened his beak. She poured the remaining liquid in, and his feathered throat worked as he swallowed.

The elixir worked as quickly on him as it had on her. He gave a rasping cry, then whirled around to face the siegewyrm.

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s kill the wretched thing.” She swung herself back into the saddle and, begrudging the time it would have taken to refasten the safety harness, urged Scar into motion. He trotted, leaped, beat his wings, and carried her skyward.

Where she could see that while her allies had inflicted a degree of damage on the automaton, it showed no signs of breaking down anytime soon. Meanwhile, with nearly every bite and sweep of its tail, it was doing grievous harm to the men scrambling around it.

Jhesrhi didn’t have the natural affinity with lightning that she did with earth, fire, wind, and water. But she hurled a bright, roaring thunderbolt anyway, in the hope that the siegewyrm would prove more susceptible to it than it had to flame.

It didn’t.

How should she attack it, then? It must have some weakness. She peered down, searching for a clue to what that might be.

Another mage-Oraxes or Meralaine, she assumed-assailed it with a conjured burst of flame. The flash produced a metallic glint at certain of its joints, particularly the points where bones from different dragons fit together.

Evidently artificers had cobbled the construct together with wires and hinges. Smiling, Jhesrhi whispered sibilant words to the powers of rust and corrosion.

Tendrils of vapor swirled around the siegewyrm, and the metal in its joints sizzled like bacon in a frying pan. It lurched as its left hind leg started to separate from the rest of it.

Oraxes and Meralaine chanted, using their magic to heighten the effect of Jhesrhi’s spell. The fumes thickened, and the sizzling noise grew louder. The hind leg finished falling off, and the right wing broke into several pieces. Slumping, the entire construct looked on the verge of collapsing into a heap.

But it wasn’t finished yet. Somehow it managed a final lunge that sent sellswords reeling and put it in striking distance of the two adolescent mages from Luthcheq. Oraxes jumped in front of Meralaine.

Then Eider slammed down on top of the siegewyrm’s skull, which broke away from the neck bones behind it. At last, the entire automaton disintegrated into clattering pieces. Eider flapped her wings and returned to the air before the skull finished its tumble to the ground.

The sellswords raised a cheer. Oraxes and Meralaine hugged. Gaedynn flashed Jhesrhi a grin, as he had on many other occasions when they’d accomplished some notable feat or desperate endeavor together.

But then something, joy or authenticity, went out of the smile like he’d remembered something unpleasant. She realized he somehow knew she’d promised to stay in Chessenta.

She wanted to tell him it had been a difficult choice. That she’d made it partly to help the Brotherhood, and that she still wasn’t sure it was the right one.

But even if there were time for it, and even if they were close enough to converse without shouting, what difference would it make? The two of them had never been like those children embracing below, and they never could be.

Feeling old and bleak inside, she pointed to signal her intention to join up with Aoth and his squad of griffon riders. Gaedynn gave her a casual wave of acknowledgment and sent Eider swooping toward the ground.