Whisper of Venom

EPILOGUE

15 FLAMERULE THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

Blind and deaf, aware of nothing but the alternating mumble and yammer of his own thoughts, Alasklerbanbastos floated in the void. Deliverance came as a sudden feeling of soaring.

For an instant, the mere fact of sensation filled him with such ecstasy that he could think of nothing else. Then he remembered that Tchazzar, Jaxanaedegor, and the rest of the traitors had destroyed his body and sent his ghost into his phylactery. So it was almost certainly the red dragon calling him forth, and not because the lunatic had decided to show him any mercy.

Well, so be it. Tchazzar would no doubt thrust him into some weak and possibly crippled form, but Alasklerbanbastos still had his spells. And with magic, many things were possible.

For a heartbeat, he felt heavy as lead, and then merely corporeal once more. But that didn’t entirely relieve him of the feeling of burdensome weight. Someone had buried the body he now occupied, a frame of rotting flesh as well as bone.

Which was strange. Tchazzar couldn’t possibly expect a mere grave to hold him.

Puzzled, Alasklerbanbastos snarled an incantation and noticed how odd it felt to have an actual tongue curling and flapping in his mouth again. Then the earth above him rumbled and split, revealing a glimpse of the stars. He heaved himself up into the open air, and dirt streamed from his wings.

When he noticed the crooked talon on his right forefoot, he realized he’d entered the corpse of Calabastasingavor, a relatively young blue Tchazzar had killed at the start of his campaign. That explained all the charred, flaking patches on his hide, not that they or the provenance of his new body mattered at the moment.

What did was that much to his amazement, neither Tchazzar nor Jaxanaedegor was anywhere to be seen. Instead, it appeared that Aoth Fezim, Gaedynn Ulraes, and a woman with a mace and shield had taken it upon themselves to call Alasklerbanbastos back into the world.

The idiots apparently thought themselves safe because they had his phylactery. They had no idea how fast and to what lethal effect he could strike, even locked in a youthful dragon’s body. He drew breath to roar a word of power, and then conjured sunlight blazed around the woman.

Agony ripped through Alasklerbanbastos’s frame. Magic was suddenly impossible. So was moving, or even standing upright. His legs buckled beneath him, dumping him back down into the pit.

Fezim came to the edge and peered down at him. “I know liches aren’t as susceptible to sunlight as, say, vampires,” the Thayan said. “But none of you undead like it, do you?”

“How are you doing this?” Alasklerbanbastos growled.

“We tampered with your phylactery,” said Fezim. “You could say we poked a hole in it to let the light in. And my friend the sunlady can make a very bright light when it suits her. She’s going to hold on to the stone for now, to guarantee your cooperation.”

“What is it you want?”

“Answers. She and I were the disembodied souls who spied on you dragons palavering atop your mountain. What was the point of that council? Why are so many of your servants trying to turn everyone against Tymanther? When wyrms talk about Precepts, what does it mean?”

Alasklerbanbastos hesitated. “I can’t tell you.”

“No, I think you probably can.”

The light spilling over the edge of the grave blazed brighter. Alasklerbanbastos screamed, and parts of his hide burst into flame. He convulsed, and his thrashing brought earth pouring down, half burying him again.

Finally the light dimmed, and the searing flames went out. “Well?” said Fezim.

Alasklerbanbastos surprised himself by laughing a grinding laugh, and he found it gratifying when the impudent mites before him flinched. “All right, human. I’ll tell you what you want to know. But I warn you. You won’t like it very much.”

On the trip north, Khouryn had named his bat Iron, for the gray-black color of its fur and its manifest endurance. The animal was demonstrating the latter quality now. It had already flown for hours, but showed no signs of fatigue as it wheeled and swooped over the rooftops of Luthcheq.

Unfortunately, despite Iron’s willingness to carry him wherever he wanted to go, Khouryn could see no sign that the Brotherhood of the Griffon was currently in the city or anywhere near it. Not that he was surprised. He’d assumed his comrades would be somewhere in the north fighting Threskel. But it meant he’d have to ask somebody to point him in precisely the right direction.

He could inquire of Nicos Corynian, but the nobleman might not be privy to all the latest news and every detail of the war hero’s plans. Whereas someone in the War College surely would be. So Khouryn sent Iron winging toward the citadel.

Even a giant bat wasn’t a griffon, and as far as Khouryn knew, Iron and its kind had no special yen for horsemeat. Still, it might be asking a lot of human grooms to take charge of such an exotic and intimidating animal. So he set down on top of the great mass of sandstone, where the Chessentans had carved battlements and emplaced catapults and ballistae. A sentry noticed his sudden, plunging arrival and yelped.

“It’s all right!” Khouryn called. “I’m the dwarf sellsword. Remember me? I want to see Shala Karanok. Or whoever’s in charge, if she’s gone north.”

“Wait here,” said the guard, then scurried away. Khouryn frowned. So much had happened since his departure that he’d half forgotten that the average Chessentan didn’t like dwarves-until the sentry’s curtness reminded him. But maybe the fellow was just rattled.

Whatever he was, he eventually returned with two others like him, as well as an officer with a jutting plume on his helmet and a baton tucked under his arm. Khouryn greeted them and repeated his request.

“It’s been arranged,” the officer said. “But what about your … animal?”

“He’ll be all right here for a while,” Khouryn said, “as long as no one bothers him.”

“Then come with us.”

The soldiers took Khouryn down several stairways into the heart of the cliff, then through a series of passages. The corridors became more ornate, more palatial, as they progressed toward the east and the rest of the city. Finally they arrived at cast bronze double doors decorated with a relief of warships fighting. A guard stood on either side of the entry.

“You have to surrender your axe and dirk,” said the warrior on the left.

Khouryn frowned, but he knew better than to argue. “It’s actually called an urgrosh,” he said, pulling the weapon off his back.

Once they’d disarmed him, the doorkeepers opened the valves. When he saw who waited on the other side, he stopped short.

The hall was predominantly green, with jade tile on the floor and ships on the tapestries battling amid emerald seas. At the back rose a dais surmounted by a thronelike chair.

The skinny woman who appeared to be in charge hadn’t presumed to occupy it. But she’d had someone carry in an almost equally fancy seat of her own and place it right in front of the platform. Glowering, she perched there, a splash of red amid all the green, her ruby-and topaz-bedizened robe hanging on her like a tent.

“Go on!” the officer said. “And bow!”

Khouryn obeyed. To the best of his recollection, he’d never seen the woman in red before. But she was evidently somebody important.

“Good evening, milady,” he said. “I apologize for disturbing you so late in the evening. But I’m Khour-”

“I know who you are!” she snapped.

“Oh. Well, then you probably realize why I’m here. I want to rejoin Captain Fezim’s company as quickly as possible.”

She smirked. “I’m sure you do, dwarf. I’m sure you do.”

He hesitated. “Excuse me?”

“You must think I’m a fool. You dare to come here on the back of one of the dragonborn’s special steeds. Yet you imagine I’ll simply smile and send you on your way.”

“I realize there was a … problem between Chessenta and Tymanther. That’s why my men and I had to take Ambassador Perra home. But-”

“There’s more than a problem, dwarf. There’s war! And since His Majesty is away raising fresh troops, it’s my responsibility to watch for spies and enemies.”

His Majesty? The more the madwoman talked, the less Khouryn understood. “Milady, please believe I mean no offense. But I think I really need to speak to Lord Corynian. Or Shala Karanok.” Or anyone but you.

“The Red Dragon put me in charge in his absence! Shala Karanok is only a minor functionary now, and will be lucky to cling to even that. And you’re my prisoner. You’ll pay for every threat and insult your master and his witch … I mean, you’re going to tell us everything you know about Tarhun the Vanquisher’s schemes! Arrest him!”

Hands fell on Khouryn’s shoulders. He spun, breaking their grips, and drove a punch into a guard’s gut. The human doubled over. Khouryn backpedaled, looking for a way out.

The madwoman in the gaudy finery might be it. If he could get his hands on her, he could threaten to break her neck if the guards didn’t let him go. He charged her, and then a man in a chasuble of shimmering scales stepped out of the shadows. He hissed words of power and whirled a hand with rings on all five fingers through a serpentine pass.

Khouryn’s muscles locked, and he pitched forward onto his face. He was still lying that way when something hard slammed down on the back of his head.