Whisper of Venom

THREE

28 MIRTUL -3 KYTHORN THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

Wings beating, Eider climbed into the cool night air, attaining the altitude necessary to protect her from bowshots from the ground. She couldn’t find an updraft to carry her, and gave a querulous little rasp at the effort involved.

“Lazy beast,” Gaedynn said. “Do as you’re told, or it’s off to the knackers with you.” He gave the griffon an affectionate, rustling scratch amid the feathers on her neck.

When he judged they were high enough, he flew her over the city walls and the enemy camp beyond. The Threskelans’ yellow fires flickered, just barely revealing the nearest soldiers and tents. No one called the alarm as Gaedynn soared overhead, and he inwardly conceded that Eider might have had a point. Maybe it hadn’t been necessary to rise so high. Maybe the night was shield enough. But also maybe not. Kobolds, orcs, and some of the other beings in the Great Bone Wyrm’s employ saw pretty well in the dark.

Gaedynn flew some distance beyond the force encircling Soolabax, then set down behind a stand of oaks. If he’d been in command of Alasklerbanbastos’s army, he would have stationed a picket or two among the trees. But he hadn’t spotted any when he’d flown over in the daylight.

He scrutinized the shadows under the branches and decided no one was there now either. Something made a tiny rustling sound in the underbrush, but his hunter’s instincts told him it was a small animal, a vole or stoat perhaps, not a threat.

He unbuckled his safety straps, swung himself out of the saddle, and led Eider into the cover the coppice afforded. “Wait for me here,” he said. “Keep out of sight.”

Eider grunted. No wizard had altered her in the womb, and she didn’t possess a quasi-human intelligence like Jet. Still, Gaedynn was confident she understood.

He patted her head, then headed for the far side of the oaks. By the time he reached it, he was crouching low and creeping.

He was reasonably sure the enemy force was directing most of its vigilance inward, toward the town that was their objective. But they surely had at least a few sentries looking out at the countryside too. So he all but crawled across the open ground between the coppice and the tents and fires on the near side of the half-erected earthworks and half-assembled siege towers and trebuchets. He paused often to study the ground ahead.

He supposed a charm of invisibility could have made the little excursion easier. But relying on such an enchantment could also mean disaster. There were wards that could strip away invisibility. Bareris Anskuld had run into one at the Dread Ring in Lapendrar. And since Gaedynn was no spellcaster, he doubted his ability to detect and avoid them. Better then to rely on the woodcraft he’d learned during his captivity in the Yuirwood.

Of course, were Jhesrhi with him, the task might be easier too. They might not need to sneak into the enemy camp at all, because she could command the wind to carry the sounds of voices to her from far away. He wondered what she was doing back at Tchazzar’s court. Dancing? He grinned and tried to find the thought ridiculous.

An owl hooted, and Selune’s silvery light glinted on the iron blade of a plow. The implement looked undamaged and accordingly valuable by peasant standards. Perhaps some unlucky farmer had dropped it as he fled the advance of Threskel’s army.

Five paces beyond the plow blade, Gaedynn spotted a small, round shape in the gloom ahead. At first glimpse he took it for a stone or shrub, but he froze and peered at it anyway. There was a triangular bump like a snake’s head sticking up from the rounded part. He decided the form was really a kobold sentry sitting on the ground with most of his body hidden behind a shield.

Could Gaedynn swing right or left and avoid the kobold’s notice? Possibly, but what if that meant moving straight toward another? He suspected there was more than one sentry, and he had no way of knowing how far apart they were.

He eased an arrow from his quiver, laid it on his bow, then stood, drew, loosed, and dropped back down all in a heartbeat.

The shaft punched into the kobold’s crown. The reptile flopped onto his back without making a sound.

So far, so good. Gaedynn just had to enter the camp, accomplish his objective, and sneak away again before anybody found the corpse.

As he passed the body, he looked for a badge he could appropriate. He didn’t see anything, and didn’t want to linger by the body to search. But fortunately, even though Threskel was a poor realm-or a poor province in rebellion, if you took the traditional Chessentan point of view-Alasklerbanbastos had somehow found the coin to hire a fair number of mercenaries from overseas. As a result, his army consisted of a diverse lot of warriors who were mostly strangers to one another. If Tymora smiled, Gaedynn could blend in for at least a little while.

He kept low until he was near the perimeter of the camp, near enough that a fellow might have wandered that far out simply to piss in peace. He peered, searching for anyone who might be looking right in his direction, then straightened up. Pretending to close the fastenings of his breeches, he sauntered on toward the tents and crackling fires.

As he’d hoped, he didn’t attract any special notice even though most of the human soldiers lay snoring, either in their tents or wrapped in blankets under the open sky. It was mainly nocturnal creatures, swaggering pig-faced orcs and other goblinkin, who were awake.

He glanced around and spotted eight orcs sitting around one of the smaller fires. They all wore tabards marked with the eye and crossbones emblem of the Red Spears, a mercenary company made up exclusively of their kind. More to the point, they were passing a jug around, with another, still corked, waiting for when the first one ran dry. Gaedynn judged that it gave him a plausible pretext to approach them.

“Well met,” he said. “What would a fellow sellsword have to do to get a pull from that jug?”

The orcs all turned to look at him. The biggest, who wore a necklace of severed ears and had apparently gouged out one of his own eyes in devotion to the war god Gruumsh, sneered. “Grow tusks,” he said.

His companions laughed.

“And the stones to go with them,” said another orc.

The Red Spears laughed again.

“Too bad,” said Gaedynn. “I was hoping the answer was contribute some kammarth to the party.” He made a show of peering about, making sure no officers were looking, then removed a little cloth bag from the pouch on his belt.

Kammarth was a drug compounded of a rare woodland root and subterranean fungi. It quickened the reflexes and imparted a feeling of boundless energy. Combined with alcohol and natural orc belligerence, it all but guaranteed a brawl, but Gaedynn hoped to be gone before the hostilities erupted.

“Let’s see,” said the one-eyed orc.

Gaedynn tossed him the bag.

The Red Spear caught it, untied the thong securing the mouth, stuck in a finger, and brought it out with sand-colored powder on the tip. He sucked it clean, then shuddered.

“Not bad,” he said thickly. “All right, human, sit down if you’ve a mind to.”

Two of the other orcs shifted apart. As Gaedynn claimed the space they’d made, One-Eye uncorked the fresh jug, poured the kammarth into it, then gave the vessel a shake.

When it came around the circle, Gaedynn considered only pretending to drink. But he didn’t want to risk the orcs noticing. The jug turned out to contain hard cider likely pilfered from some farmhouse. It might have been all right if the kammarth hadn’t turned it bitter.

As it was, he didn’t like the taste or the jolt that started his heart pounding and sweat seeping from his brow. But he tried to look as if he did.

“So,” he said, “another stinking siege.”

One of the orcs grunted.

“I like the loot when you finally get inside,” Gaedynn continued. “But I hate the waiting.”

One-Eye grinned. “I guess you haven’t heard.”

Oraxes crouched in the turret peeking out at the sentry prowling up and down the wall walk. He and his companions had crowded into their hiding place before sunset, and he was hungry, cold, and generally uncomfortable. But mostly, though he was doing his best to conceal it, he was nervous.

The Threskelans were sending something in the dark. Something that could make its way to the top of Soolabax’s walls, find lone guards, and rip them apart.

It was only a minor problem in the overall context of the siege. But, in what Oraxes believed to be a rare instance of accord, Aoth and Lord Hasos both wanted it stopped. To that end, they’d decided to set a trap. The bait was one of the ablest combatants in the Brotherhood of the Griffon, who was nonetheless counting on Oraxes and the other men in the turret to rush to his aid.

Oraxes suspected killing the killer, who-or whatever it was, was likely to prove considerably more difficult than using his magic for petty theft to survive in Luthcheq. But it was apt to be more interesting too.

Suddenly the sentry cried out and hefted his spear. A bare instant later, something big, dark, and eight-legged swarmed over the parapet. It moved fast, in a swirl of shadows blacker than the night.

The sentry jabbed with the spear, but it glanced off his attacker’s shoulder. The spider thing-which, Oraxes observed, had a horned head and clawed feet more closely resembling a lizard’s-spewed something that instantly congealed into strands, which wrapped around the warrior, sizzled, and smoked. He cried out and strained to break the bonds. The spider thing opened its slavering, steaming jaws to bite.

Oraxes rattled off words of power, jerked his right hand through a jagged pass, then pointed. A serpent made of bright, crackling lightning leaped from his fingertip and flew. It plunged its fangs into the spider thing’s flank and vanished in a flash.

For a moment, the creature convulsed. It gave the sentry time to struggle free of his gluey, blistering restraints.

Meanwhile, the men-at-arms in the turret scrambled out onto the wall walk and discharged their crossbows. Then they drew their swords and advanced on the beast.

Which didn’t seem to mind that it was facing half a dozen foes instead of one. In fact, it sprang to meet them. A toss of its head and horns hurled the first mercenary crashing back against the next in line.

Oraxes looked through the turret window for a clear line to the spider thing. He couldn’t see one. The mercenaries were in the way.

He scurried out onto the walkway. It didn’t help.

He told himself that the soldiers might not need any more magical aid, but saw immediately that it wasn’t so. The same problem that was hindering him could easily prove to be their downfall. The wall walk was just too narrow for them all to assail the spider thing at once, and they were no match for it two and three at a time. It tore away mail and flesh with a snap of its jaws, spun to spit more acidic strands at the warrior it had first entangled, then whirled again to rip away another piece of the man it had just bitten, before the poor bastard had even finished falling down.

Oraxes climbed up onto a merlon. It was a step in the right direction, but not good enough. He swallowed and moved to the outer edge of the stone block.

He felt the possibility of losing his balance and falling like a dizzying thinness in the air. He also felt the ghostly stab of the arrows the enemy might loose at a man standing in such an exposed position. But he finally had a clear shot, so he stayed where he was and recited an incantation.

Force flared from his outstretched hand. It whipped the spider thing’s head all the way down to crack against the wall walk like a blow from an invisible hammer. Before the creature could raise it and resume an aggressive posture, two warriors landed sword cuts.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough to finish the spider thing. It lunged again, horns stabbing, jaws snapping. So Oraxes raked it with a flare of yellow fire.

It snarled and sprang back over the parapet. For an instant, Oraxes assumed it had decided to flee. Then he saw that it was actually scuttling horizontally along the wall faster than a man could sprint. Coming for the foe who was hurting it the worst.

Fear turned Oraxes’s bowels to water, but he knew that if he froze or flinched, he’d die. He shouted words of power, and, as the thing turned to charge straight up at him, he thrust both arms down at it with all the strength in his body.

Fist-sized hailstones materialized in midfall, clattered and thudded against the spider thing, and knocked it off the wall. It fell and smashed against the ground.

Oraxes felt relief until he realized that his last, excessively forceful mystic gesture had shifted his center of gravity. He was toppling outward and about to plunge down right on top of the foe.

A hand grabbed him by the belt and hauled him backward. Trembling, he climbed back down onto the wall walk.

Once there, he and the sellsword who’d pulled him to safety looked down at the creature. It wasn’t moving, and the seething gloom that had shrouded it was gone. Which paradoxically meant that despite the distance, Oraxes could see it about as well as before.

The sellsword panted. “That was good work.”

The remark made Oraxes feel awkward, which was something he generally hated. But it wasn’t so bad this time. “We were all beating on it, I guess. We should get the men who are hurt to the healers.”

“I know we’re intent on winning the war against Threskel,” the burly, white-haired merchant said, his breath scented with brandy. He’d evidently served in the navy when he was younger and, as was the Chessentan fashion, still wore his collection of gleaming medals stamped with anchors, sea serpents, and other nautical emblems looped around his neck. “But I ask you, have we forgotten all about the filthy pirates?”

“I’m sure His Majesty hasn’t,” said Jhesrhi, marveling that the rich, self-important old man, who’d probably spent his whole long life despising arcanists, had sought her out for a conversation. “But it won’t do much good to protect our shipping and harbors if we lose the rest of the realm while we’re accomplishing it.”

“That’s sound thinking as far as it goes,” the merchant said. “But still, if the most important trading vessels could travel in convoy with a proper escort, it would benefit Chessenta immensely.”

Jhesrhi assumed that by “the most important trading vessels,” he meant the fleet he owned himself. Amused, she said, “If you care to request an audience, I imagine His Majesty will at least listen to your proposal.”

The shipping magnate beamed as though her response all but guaranteed success. Who knew? In the oblique parlance favored by courtiers, maybe it did. “Thank you, lady. Rest assured I won’t forget.”

Jhesrhi glanced out the casement at the western sky, gauging the position of Selune and the glittering haze of tears that forever trailed the goddess across the firmament. With a twinge of reluctance that surprised her, she decided it was time to leave the party.

She took a final look around. Tchazzar had commanded that mementoes of his past campaigns be placed on display in a hall in the War College to inspire martial ardor in his subjects, and the court was attending a private viewing. Some of the trophies were functional arms and armor, others a pavilion, captured banners, and obsolete maps.

For the most part the lords and merchants paid little attention to them. They were too busy talking. To Tchazzar, resplendent in crimson and gold, if he chose to favor them with his attention. Or to Halonya, more gaudily robed than ever, her entourage of newly anointed priests hovering in attendance, as a second choice.

Or, Jhesrhi suddenly wondered, to herself? Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t lacked for companionship over the course of the evening. Other courtiers loitered nearby, waiting to take the place of the elderly sea trader, and they looked rueful now that something in her demeanor told them she meant to go.

For some reason that made her blush, which in turn annoyed her. “I may be back,” she said. “If I can.” She turned and strode away.

She had to climb stairs to reach her apartments-which, despite the exertion involved, was a mark of Tchazzar’s favor. The finest and most coveted suites in the citadel were near the top, where the view looking out over Luthcheq was at its most spectacular. She nodded to the sentry the monarch had insisted on posting at her door, then went inside.

A servant had already lit a fire in the hearth. She kneeled down and traced a star-shaped but asymmetrical figure on the floor. Her fingertip left lines of yellow phosphorescence.

When the sigil was done, she rose and took her staff in both hands. The rod wasn’t alive, but it possessed a sort of quasi consciousness, and it always yearned to create and manipulate fire. She could feel its eagerness when it sensed that was her intent.

She recited words of power while shifting the staff around. First she held it vertically to her right, then in the same attitude on her left, then horizontally over her head. Together with the floor, the three positions defined a rectangle. Or, as she imagined it, a window.

She wasn’t adept at long-distance magical communication. Her talents lay elsewhere, and the same was true of Aoth. But they both possessed some mastery of fire. And since all fires were in a mystical sense the same fire-manifestations of the same cosmic principle and essential force-if they prearranged a time, they could sometimes use flame to talk to each other.

A tapestry started to smoke, and she silently commanded it not to ignite. Then the blaze in the hearth leaped higher. Dimly at first, then more clearly, she spied Aoth and Gaedynn-or shrunken images of them-standing on the far side of the flames. Spear in hand, Aoth was standing and making magic in much the same fashion as herself. Looking relaxed and self-possessed as a cat, Gaedynn sprawled in a chair with a cup in his hand and one long leg thrown over the armrest.

The archer leaned forward and peered. “Is that sweet Lady Firehair herself descended from the heavens to speak to us? Or have you acquired even more new finery?”

Jhesrhi scowled. “These are wizard’s robes, not some useless gown.”

“But not especially practical for the field either,” Gaedynn said. “Are those garnets or rubies in the flame pattern?”

“Enough,” said Aoth, scowling. “I’m not holding this conduit open so you two can bicker. Jhes, I assume that if you haven’t left Luthcheq, neither has Tchazzar.”

“No,” she said. It felt like an admission, which annoyed her because it was unfair. She couldn’t order the monarch around, nor could she leave until he gave permission.

“What about the legions”-the Chessentan forces weren’t actually called that, but the Thayan way of speaking still occasionally colored Aoth’s speech-“in and around the city?”

“They haven’t moved either.”

“Curse it!” said Aoth. “Soolabax is already under siege. There’s fighting all along the border. I need reinforcements, or a dragon of my own to counter the wyrms flying out of the north. Preferably both. What’s Tchazzar waiting on?”

Jhesrhi knew Aoth’s frustration was justified. So perhaps it was her suspicion that he blamed her for the problem that made her want to defend the war hero. “He was gone a hundred years. He has a lot to sort out.”

“None of which will matter a lump of dung if Threskel overruns us,” Gaedynn drawled. “Do you think the old snake’s afraid to fight?”

She hesitated, then remembered how Tchazzar had destroyed the blight wyrm Sseelrigoth. “He’s a dragon,” she said.

“Fine,” said Aoth, a trace of the blue light in his eyes gleaming through the wavering yellow haze of the fire. “He isn’t scared, just unwise. The point is this: Gaedynn did some spying and learned that more dragons are on their way here. Fortunately not too quickly. They’re herding some other creatures along, and not all of those can fly.

“I don’t want them joining the siege,” the war-mage continued. “I want to break out, then ambush the procession before it gets here. I’ve picked out a good spot.”

“That’s a bold plan,” she said. The notion of attacking flying creatures by surprise was always problematic, and if said creatures also possessed the cunning of dragons, it compounded the difficulties. But if anyone could do it, the Brotherhood could.

“At this point,” said Aoth, “Luthcheq’s soldiers can’t get here in time to help. But Tchazzar can.”

“I’ll talk to him,” she promised, “and tell you tomorrow night what he said.”

“Good.” Aoth hesitated. “How’s Cera?” he asked gruffly. Behind him, Gaedynn grinned.

“I haven’t seen her for a couple of days,” Jhesrhi said.

Aoth’s eyes narrowed. “What? Everyone knows Soolabax is surrounded, don’t they? She wouldn’t try to return here without a flying steed to carry her.”

“Everyone knows,” Jhesrhi said. “Your messenger arrived. Now that you mention it, it’s strange, because I’ve seen plenty of Daelric.” Mostly trying fruitlessly to arrange to talk to Tchazzar without Halonya in attendance. “You’d think Cera would have accompanied him at least part of the time.”

“I’m coming down there.”

At the end of the palaver, Aoth waved his hand. Jhesrhi’s image vanished, and the leaping flames subsided to mere flickering wisps among the coals. They’d devoured most of the wood while the magic was active.

“You realize,” Gaedynn said, “this is stupid. Maybe not let’s-go-to-Thay-and-fight-Szass-Tam stupid, but stupid nonetheless.”

“Somebody has to prod Tchazzar into motion.”

“And that somebody is Jhesrhi. The drake picks his favorites, and for the moment at least she’s one of them. So if she can’t do it, you can’t either. You’ll just make yourself look bad by showing up at court when you’re supposed to be here attending to business.”

“I’ll be there attending to business.”

“It’s Cera, isn’t it? You only just met the wench. How can she mean so much to you?”

“You’re one to talk.”

One corner of Gaedynn’s mouth quirked upward. “I have no idea what you mean by that. But if I did … Never mind. Just because Jhesrhi hasn’t seen her for a day or two, why do you leap to the conclusion she’s in trouble? A vision?”

“I wish. It’s because she believes Amaunator wants her to find out what’s really behind the Green Hand murders and all the other mysteries. She urged me to help, and I refused. I told her fighting the war was my proper concern.”

“Which was sensible. But you’re afraid she took advantage of being in Luthcheq to snoop around by herself and has come to grief because of it.”

“Pretty much.”

“Then let me go look for her.”

“It may take truesight to pick up her trail. Now, I give you my word. Whether I find her or not, I won’t stay gone for long. While I’m away, you’re in command. Don’t make any big moves unless you have to. But use scouts to track those wyrms and other creatures coming down from the north. If you decide you need to go ahead and break the siege to spring the trap as planned, do it.”

It had been a long time since Aoth had seen Gaedynn succumb to consternation. “I know how to lead my bowmen and skirmishers,” the lanky redhead said. “But the whole Brotherhood?”

“You can handle it.”

“Khouryn’s still in Tymanther doing Keen-Eye only knows what.”

“That’s why you have to handle it.”

“With both you and Jhesrhi absent, there’ll be scarcely any sorcery to speak of.”

“Despite being a surly young snot, Oraxes has some power, and some sense and grit to go with it. He can help you use what magic you do have to best effect.”

“You realize Hasos won’t be happy taking orders from your lieutenant.”

“I’ll order him to obey you as he would me.” Aoth snorted. “For whatever that’s worth.”

Clad in her favorite purple robe with the silvery sigils sewn on, Nala spun her shadow-wood staff through complex figures and chanted in the secret, sibilant language the dragon god evidently preferred. As usual, her body writhed from side to side like she was a snake trying to crawl straight up into the air.

As the chant progressed, that sinuous motion became contagious. The half dozen true neophytes started doing it too.

Balasar knew why. He could feel Power buzzing around his head like a swarm of flies. But because he’d resisted the temptation to yield to his dragon nature during his initiation, it couldn’t get inside.

He just had to hope Nala couldn’t tell. He shifted back and forth like his fellows in an effort to keep her from taking a closer look at him. Which made him feel like a jackass with spectators watching.

Up until then, the Platinum Cadre had conducted nearly all its rituals and other activities removed from the hostile public eye. But since the cult had gained a measure of acceptance, Nala and Patrin had decided to conduct the trial of faith in a corner of the shaded, breezy Market Floor-with thick columns along the edge of the platform, the prodigious bulk of the City-Bastion suspended overhead, and the cries of vendors sounding not far away.

Nala twirled the staff faster and faster. Her voice rose until she was all but screaming. Then, on the final word of her chant, she whipped down the rod to rest in front of her with the butt exactly equidistant between her feet. Except for the constant boneless shifting, she stood motionless. Even to Balasar, who’d learned sword forms from some of the most exacting masters-at-arms in Tymanther, the instantaneous transition from frenzy to stillness was impressive.

Nala scrutinized the recent converts. Perhaps her gaze lingered on Balasar for an extra moment. More likely it was just his imagination.

“You’re ready,” she declared. “Arm them, Sir Patrin.”

The paladin with his deep blue surcoat and clinking beard of silver chains opened a wooden box and started handing out knives. Balasar felt a pang of dismay.

Which, he supposed, had its comical side. He’d fought a topaz dragon and its strange, formidable minions on the journey down from Chessenta. And he was worried about a pen full of pigs?

Well, yes. Because they were the enormous, savage variety sometimes called dire boars, and an unarmored knife fighter-no matter how skilled-would be at a substantial disadvantage. Especially in the somewhat cramped confines of the pen, where an animal could pin him against the fence.

Yet it was obvious the other neophytes didn’t share his trepidation. Shifting, they stared at the pen like they could hardly wait to start the slaughter.

Nala didn’t keep them waiting any longer than it took to distribute the dirks. “Begin!” she cried, and Balasar’s fellows rushed the pen. He saw little choice but to rush right along with them.

The rules said an initiate couldn’t attack until he was inside the pen. Balasar arguably cheated just a little by breathing frost at the nearest boar while still vaulting over the top of the fence.

Rime painted the pig’s snout white and, as he’d intended, encrusted its eyes. Too ferocious to balk or even flinch, the hump on its back as high as he was tall, the black beast charged him anyway. He sidestepped its slashing tusks and stabbed at its neck.

The knife penetrated, but failed to draw the arterial spurt he wanted. The accursed animal was moving too fast. Its bristle-covered hide was too thick, and there was too much fat and muscle underneath.

Elsewhere in the pen, gouts of fire leaped and lightning crackled. Carried on the breeze, a stray trace of poisonous vapor stung Balasar’s nose and filled his mouth with an acrid taste. His companions were using their breath weapons repeatedly, because unlike him, they could. After a dragonborn truly gave himself to Nala’s deity, the ability renewed itself more quickly.

The boar slammed into the fence. The heavy rails lurched and banged, and the spectators gasped and recoiled. But the barrier held. The pig spun, faster than such a massive, short-legged beast had any right to, and Balasar had to give ground before it. To scurry back toward the center of the pen.

He was horribly conscious of squeals and grunts, the thump and scrape of trotters on stone, and the smells of blood and burned flesh right behind him. But he couldn’t even glance around to see if a second boar was about to gore him. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the one that he knew for certain meant to kill him.

The frost had largely fallen away from its little red eyes. Which, evidently not frozen and blind, were glaring straight at him.

The boar surged forward. He dodged, and it compensated. He sidestepped again, and his foot slipped. Because, while the Market Floor was made of granite, the pigs had been in the pen long enough to start fouling it with muck.

Balasar floundered for balance and saw that he couldn’t avoid the hog. At best he might be able to avoid being sliced open by one of its tusks. As it charged into range, he planted his hand on top of its head and jumped.

It was nothing like the agile spring that had carried him over the fence. It heaved him above the tusks, but the boar’s bulk still slammed into him and bounced him off to the side.

He landed hard, and for a moment the world was just a jumble of lunging shapes and noises that didn’t mean anything. Then he remembered what had happened to him and knew the pig was already turning to attack him again.

It lunged, dipping its head to slice a target so low to the ground. Balasar twisted, somehow avoided the stroke, then snatched with his offhand. His fingers closed on one of the lower tusks. As long as he maintained his grip, the pig wouldn’t be able to gore him.

Unfortunately, it could wrench its head back and forth and up and down, trying to break his hold. The motion pounded him against the granite. Meanwhile, he repeatedly plunged his dirk into its throat and the underside of its jaw.

He felt his fingers slipping. Then, finally, blood spattered him and the stone in rhythmic gushes. The boar thrashed in a convulsion that flung him loose, charged, but collapsed a pace or two short of its target.

Balasar just wanted to lie still and gasp for breath. But with a fight raging all around him, that was a good way to get killed. He lifted his head and looked around.

Some of the other pigs were dead, and by and large those that were still active looked in worse shape than the cultists who seared them with repeated blasts of flame and vitriol. Balasar had just about decided he could sit out the rest of the fight when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a hog toss its head and slice a green-scaled dragonborn from thigh to shoulder.

Even as Balasar scrambled to his feet, it occurred to him that the injured fighter was a wyrm-worshiper and thus, in the truest sense, an enemy. Someone he himself might want to kill someday. But his instincts were stronger than that consideration. He charged the boar, meanwhile yelling as best he could in the hope that he could distract it from the foe sprawled helplessly before it.

The huge pig started to turn. Hoping the blade would pass unimpeded under bone and find some vital spot, Balasar thrust his point at the base of its jawline.

The boar exploded into a great thrashing spasm, and it was luck as much as Balasar’s nimbleness or battle sense that kept it from slashing him in the process. But it didn’t, and then it flopped over onto its side.

Still keeping an eye on it, he moved to check the wounded cultist. The son of a toad lay in a sizeable pool of his own blood, but at least he was breathing.

Balasar looked around. All the pigs had fallen and lay inert, mere ugly mounds of bristles and charred, bloody flesh, while Patrin was already trotting in his direction. The paladin evidently realized that if he used his healing powers quickly enough, he could save the maimed cultist.

Patrin kneeled down in the gore, murmured a prayer, summoned silvery light into his hands, and then applied them to the long gash in his fellow worshiper’s body. The magic worked exceptionally well. The wound closed completely, and the fellow dazedly raised his head.

When Patrin helped him to his feet, the cheers erupted, with only a scattering of holdouts among the crowd looking disgusted at everyone else’s reaction.

Balasar registered the acclaim with mixed emotions. He really didn’t want anyone applauding the Cadre for anything. But curse it, he’d fought well, and there was a part of him-no doubt the part the elders of Clan Daardendrien had always decried as frivolous, immature, and irresponsible-that simply wanted to wave and bow.

Then Nala came to the side of the pen, and her cool, appraising gaze reminded him he was playing a deadly serious game-and nowhere near winning it yet.

“You only used your breath once,” she said.

Balasar smiled. “My way was more sporting, and more fun.”

“He fought well,” Patrin said.

“Yes,” Nala said. “But I’m not sure I saw the god’s gift of fury augmenting his strength.”

“My teachers trained me to fight with a cool head,” Balasar said. “Sun and sky, when we faced the giants, Patrin didn’t constantly spit fire, and he didn’t go berserk either.”

“It’s because I’m a paladin,” Patrin said. “Bahamut blessed me with a different set of gifts.”

“Well,” said Balasar, “maybe he’ll end up making me a paladin too.”

Nala snorted. “I doubt it. Still, it’s true that the god doesn’t bless everyone in precisely the same way, and occasionally it can take a while for his blessings to manifest. Even so, the next time-”

The war drums started thumping. They’d sounded often across the Market Floor, and through all Djerad Thymar, ever since the giant tribes had set aside their feuds and joined forces to assail Tymanther. Sometimes the drummers had pounded out the steady cadence of an alert and sometimes the slow, hollow beats that announced defeat. Only rarely had they hammered out the fast, intricate, largely improvisational rhythms used to celebrate a victory, but they were doing so now.

The spectators headed toward the center of the marketplace, where many folk were starting to cheer. Nala, Patrin, Balasar, and the rest of the neophytes followed.

On horseback, the lancers loomed above the heads of the crowd. Despite all the excited people crowded together in front of him, Balasar could more or less see Medrash and the rest of the procession riding past. Unlike the Platinum Cadre, the patrol hadn’t mutilated the bodies of fallen giants for trophies. But they had appropriated the barbarians’ huge stone weapons to show what they’d accomplished.

“This is glorious!” Patrin said.

He didn’t see the scowl Nala gave him, but Balasar did. At that moment, it was difficult to believe the two were lovers.

As the servant ushered Gaedynn into Hasos’s study, he reflected that he and the baron had a good deal in common. They were both gently born and followed the profession of arms. They were still young and good-looking, and in their disparate styles took pains with their appearances. Still, he could tell from Hasos’s frown that it wasn’t likely to be a particularly cordial meeting.

I don’t like it either, Gaedynn thought. But if I have to swallow the stone, then so do you.

Hasos stood up from behind his desk, although not with any great alacrity. “Sir Gaedynn,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“My scouts report that the dragons and their creatures are closer than we’d hoped.” Gaedynn noticed a map on the desk and pointed to a spot in Threskel. “As of this morning, they were here. Which means that to carry out Captain Fezim’s strategy, we need to break the siege now.”

Hasos’s frown turned into an outright glare. “That’s impossible.”

“To the contrary. It’s entirely feasible, especially since we have powerful wizards on our side.” At least they might be powerful. Gaedynn hadn’t seen any irrefutable evidence to the contrary.

Hasos made a spitting sound. “Wizards. Devil-worshiping degenerates.”

Gaedynn grinned. “Not anymore. Not since Tchazzar proclaimed them to be fine fellows, one and all. More to the point, whatever you think of them, we can put them to good use.”

“Still-”

Gaedynn decided it was time to move on from unfounded optimism to outright lies. “It’s also my pleasure to inform you that the war hero and the army under his personal command are now on their way to Soolabax. They’ll advance onto the battlefield when their sudden appearance will do the most damage.”

“Where’s the messenger who carried this news? Why didn’t you bring him to me right away?”

“Because it was the mage Jhesrhi Coldcreek, speaking to me from far away. The spell didn’t last long enough for me to send someone to fetch you.”

“Then have one of the ‘powerful’ wizards who are still in the city communicate with her. Or Captain Fezim. Or the war hero himself.”

Gaedynn smiled and spread his hands. “I wish that were possible. But as you may know, every sorcerer has his own secrets and specialties. Oraxes and his fellows truly are formidable, but alas, none of them is a master of the particular art in question.”

Hasos sneered. “You have an answer for everything.”

“I like to think so. Unfortunately, it’s clear you don’t find any of them especially convincing. But you can believe this: We’re going ahead with Aoth’s plan, and Tchazzar will receive a report of the outcome. It’s up to you whether he hears that you gave your wholehearted support or balked at every turn.”

His voice tight with resentment, Hasos said, “When exactly are we planning to launch the attack?”