Текст книги "Whisper of Venom"

Автор книги: Richard Lee Byers

Соавторы: Richard Lee Byers
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Balasar strode to an improvised desk, a sarcophagus with parchment and writing implements on top and a stool positioned beside it. He picked up a couple of papers and, squinting in what for him was inadequate light, skimmed the text. “Who’s Skuthosiin?”

“A dragon,” said Khouryn, “who used to live hereabouts. He died during the Spellplague.”

“Don’t bet on it. We’ll have to go through these notes at length, but it seems Nala’s in communication with him.”

“I assume,” Medrash said, “that we can obtain other samples of Nala’s handwriting for comparison.”

Balasar laughed. “Oh yes. We have her. We absolutely have her. When Tarhun-” His eyes widened. “Watch out!”

Khouryn pivoted. Glaring, swaying slightly from side to side, Nala stood between them and the door Medrash had forced open.

Khouryn rushed her. The Daardendriens did too. She whirled and bolted for the corridor. As she dived through the door, she hissed a phrase in what he suspected was Draconic.

The door swung shut, nearly bashing Khouryn in the nose. He tried repeating the syllables Nala had spoken. Evidently he didn’t have them exactly right, because the mass of stone refused to pivot.

“Let me,” Medrash said. He planted his hands on the door, rattled off his prayer or mantra, and shoved. The door grated partway open as it had before.

But by the time they stepped back out into the passage, Nala was gone. They couldn’t even hear her footsteps.

Jhesrhi stood up. “Majesty,” she said, “I’m sure-”

Tchazzar whirled. His glare silenced her. “They can speak for themselves,” he rapped.

Jhesrhi swallowed. “Yes, Majesty.”

The dragon turned back to the other folk seated around the campfire. “Would anyone else like to speak words of blame?” Evidently, no one did. He fixed his eyes on Gaedynn. “Then perhaps you, sir archer, would care to expand on what you said before.”

Jhesrhi gazed at Gaedynn too, and hoped he’d understand what she wanted to convey: Control your tongue. Don’t antagonize him any further.

Gaedynn took a breath and let it out. Then, a tightness evident in his normally light, flippant baritone, he said, “Majesty, if it seemed I spoke words of reproach, then I ask your pardon for expressing myself poorly. I meant that I must not have understood the battle plan, because events didn’t unfold as I anticipated.”

Tchazzar sneered. “No, they probably didn’t. Because I’m surrounded by incompetence and disloyalty. And that’sthe reason we didn’t win today. Take this little bitch, for example.” Quick as a striking serpent, he grabbed Meralaine and jerked her to her feet.

She yelped, and Oraxes’s jaw and neck muscles bunched, betraying a desperate resolve. It was Aoth’s turn to give a silent, surreptitious signal-he made a little patting motion, telling the boy to stay put. He then stood up himself, but slowly enough that Tchazzar might not interpret the action as challenging.

“I brought Meralaine north,” said Aoth, his voice as mild and devoid of aggression as his movements. “That makes her a warrior of the Brotherhood, or as good as, and my responsibility. To discipline, if need be. Please tell me how she’s offended.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Tchazzar replied. “I ordered her not to use necromancy, and yet she stinks of the grave.”

“Our foes summoned the dead,” Aoth replied. “She simply used her art to dismiss and control them. We might have fared far worse if she hadn’t.”

“It’s true, Majesty,” Jhesrhi said.

“Maybe,” Tchazzar said through gritted teeth. “Maybe.” He let go of Meralaine. Caught by surprise, she staggered a step and almost fell on her rump. “But who will justify what this one did?” He rounded on Shala.

Shala met his glare without flinching. “How have I displeased Your Majesty?”

“Do you think me deaf? That I didn’t hear mytroops shouting yourname? You want the throne back, don’t you, traitor? You’re sowing the seeds of a coup.”

“Majesty, someone had to lead after Lord Hasos was incapacitated, and I didn’t tell the men what to chant. They simply fell back into an old habit, and I was too busy to correct them.”

“Stand up,” Tchazzar said, and Shala did. “Give me your sword.” She drew the weapon and handed it to him.

Firelight ran along the blade as he sighted down its length. “A fine weapon,” he said. “With a proud history, I imagine.”

“Yes, Majesty,” Shala said. “Ishual Karanok used it to defend Chessenta during the Spellplague.”

One hand gripping the leather-wrapped hilt and the other the blade, Tchazzar held the sword at eye level. He then hissed a charm of weakening, the words so charged with malignancy that they made Jhesrhi’s ears ache and her stomach churn.

When he finished, he thrust the sword back at Shala pommel first. “Break it,” he said.

She hesitated. “Majesty?”

“You just told me it’s the blade of a war hero. Break it to show me you understand you are no longer a war hero and never will be again.”

Her square, plain features betraying nothing, Shala took the sword in both hands and did as he’d commanded. He crowed when the weapon snapped like a dry stick.

“Let that be a lesson to all of you!” Tchazzar cried. “Understand that you are blessed! Of all the peoples in all Faerun, only Chessentans have a god incarnate guiding and protecting them every day of their lives. Never doubt or question! Be grateful and rejoice!”

A part of Jhesrhi wanted to say that was exactly how everyone felt. It seemed the best way to calm him down. But the words caught in her throat, and it appeared that nobody else was moved to speak them either.

Tchazzar took in their silence and shuddered. He grew a little taller, and his nose and jaws protruded a trifle from the rest of his face. A wisp of smoke curled from one nostril, and Gaedynn’s hand slipped toward the spot on the ground where he’d set his bow.

I have to stop this, Jhesrhi thought. She struggled to figure out how, and then a putrid stench filled her nose and nearly made her gag. “Look up!” Aoth shouted, and she did.

A cloud of mist spilled down from the sky. As it reached the ground, it drew in on itself, thickening and taking on a definite, bat-winged form. Slanted yellow eyes gleamed in a scaly, wedge-shaped head.

Jhesrhi felt an odd mix of fear and relief. Fear because she’d discerned how powerful Jaxanaedegor was when she and Gaedynn were his prisoners. Relief because Tchazzar had a new target for his ire, and because for some mad reason the vampiric green had intruded without any of his minions. Which ought to mean that, his prowess notwithstanding, she and her comrades could destroy him.

Everyone who wasn’t already standing scrambled to his feet. Aoth leveled his spear, and blue light seethed around the point. Jhesrhi gripped her staff with both hands and felt the pseudomind inside exult when she called for fire. Tchazzar grew to colossal size in a heartbeat, and Oraxes jumped aside to keep the red wyrm’s writhing, lengthening tail from knocking him down.

Jaxanaedegor snarled, “I claim my right to parley under the Twenty-Eighth Precept!”

Or at least Jhesrhi thought that was what he’d said. Like many wizards, she spoke some Draconic. But she wasn’t entirely fluent, and unless she was mistaken, the green had used an obscure or archaic dialect.

With the possible exception of Aoth, none of the other humans gathered there comprehended any of it at all. They continued readying their weapons, Shala gripping her stub of sword for want of anything better. The warriors at neighboring campfires cried out. Their footsteps thumped as they scrambled for their gear.

“Halt!” Tchazzar roared, tongues of flame flaring from his jaws. The sound was prodigiously loud, and everyone faltered.

“Lord Jaxanaedegor and I will confer,” Tchazzar continued in a somewhat softer voice. “Alone.” And then, to Jhesrhi’s astonishment, he and the green stalked into the dark together.

TEN

16 KYTHORN, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

Medrash and his companions climbed out of the Catacombs as fast as they could. But as they scrambled up the steps that connected one of the uppermost tunnels to the Market Floor, he saw that it hadn’t been fast enough.

Some-the most agitated or tainted ones, no doubt-slithering vertically in place, wyrm-worshipers surrounded the top of the stairs. They glared down at those whose path they obstructed.

Balasar gave them a charming grin. “Brothers! Sisters! Wonderful news! My clan brother and the dwarf have decided to join our faith!”

“Spy!” someone spat.

“Liar!” cried somebody else.

Others called for Nala. Her name echoed off the thick stone columns and away across the market.

“Let us pass,” Medrash said. “You have no right to hinder us.”

In response, some cultists inhaled deeply, readying their breath weapons. Others hefted blades and maces. Probably thanks to the dancing, they had a goodly supply.

Medrash cloaked himself in the majesty of Torm. The cultists’ eyes widened. “Let us pass,” he repeated.

The dragon-worshipers flinched. Started to clear a path. Then, in a puff of displaced air, Patrin and Nala appeared out of nowhere, the latter with a small gray drake perched on her shoulder. It had a scabby gash in its flank where Balasar’s knife had pierced it.

And what a shame the blade hadn’t killed the portal drake. For it was no doubt the creature’s power that had enabled Nala to exit the Catacombs far enough in advance of her foes to arrange the reception.

“My friends,” Patrin said, looking down the stairs, “what are you doing?”

For an instant, Medrash considered lying. But Balasar’s lie hadn’t accomplished anything. Besides, lying had never been Medrash’s way, and it certainly wasn’t the path of Torm.

“You know,” he said. “Or rather, you know what Nala told you-a distorted version of the truth. Down in the Catacombs, we found evidence of her crimes. Proof that she doesn’t worship your Bahamut but a different Power altogether, and has tricked the Platinum Cadre into serving that goddess as well. Proof that she herself creates the summoning orbs for the giants.”

A sort of collective snarl sounded from the mob.

“Growl as much as you like,” Balasar said. He reached into his jerkin and brought out one of the green globes. “Here’s a talisman she hadn’t yet gotten around to smuggling out. We have papers she wrote as well.”

Patrin scowled. “We just won a victory against the giants. I don’t suppose it was difficult to loot the bodies of a few adepts. If a clan has the resources of Daardendrien, I don’t imagine it’s difficult to get documents forged either.”

“You know us,” Medrash said. “Would any of us be a party to such a thing?”

“I don’t like believing it,” Patrin said. “But time after time I’ve seen how my faith repulses you, even when you tried to hide it. And plainly you’re not above deceit, or Balasar would never have joined the Cadre.”

“You have us there,” Balasar said. “I did trick you. But a little trickery is one thing. A false accusation of treason is another. I ask you to believe we wouldn’t stoop to that.”

Nala laughed an ugly laugh. “He has the gall to say that, when we intercepted them on the way to do that very thing!”

Khouryn looked up at Patrin. “If you won’t trust us, then trust the vanquisher’s justice. If our accusations are false, then Nala has nothing to fear.”

The wyrmkeeper touched her lover and champion on the forearm. “We’ve come so far,” she said. “But there are still many-including counselors close to Tarhun-who despise us. Don’t give anyone a chance to undo what we’ve accomplished.”

“Iron and stone,” Khouryn said, still speaking to Patrin, “just think, will you? I’m no priest or mystic, but even I now understand why your gifts are nothing like those of the rest of the Cadre. You were pledged to Bahamut before you ever met Nala. Your bond with your god shields you from Tiamat’s taint. But the rank and file aren’t as lucky.”

Patrin hesitated, and Medrash hoped the dwarf was getting through to him. Then the other paladin said, “I do have a tie to the Lord of the North Wind. So I’d know it if anyone were subverting his worship.”

“No,” Medrash said. “Ever since Torm drew me to the scene of one of the murders in Luthcheq, I’ve prayed for him to tell me everything I need to know and what I’m supposed to do about it. But I’ve learned that except in the rarest instances, the gods don’t operate that way. Which means that even paladins can miss the truth and make mistakes.”

“My dear one,” said Nala to Patrin, “remember how it was for you-for all of Bahamut’s worshipers-before I heard his call and came to guide you. You were a tiny circle of outcasts scorned by all. Look at us now. Can you possibly doubt that you and I have been doing his work?”

“No,” Patrin. “Of course I don’t.”

“So what happens now?” Balasar asked. “Are you going to set this whole mob on us? You’ll make murderers of them if you do.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Nala said. “No one will ever know what became of you.” But perhaps that had been the wrong tack to take, for it drew a frown from Patrin.

“If you send dozens against three,” Medrash asked, “is that in accordance with Bahamut’s creed?”

Patrin scowled. “It would be better if you surrendered. I’m not sure what we’ll do thereafter, but I guarantee your lives.”

“I have a better idea,” Medrash said. “You and I will fight a fair fight, one against one. A duel of honor that won’t get anyone in trouble with the law.

“If I win,” he continued, “then we all go to Tarhun together. Balasar, Khouryn, and I will present our charges, and Nala will rebut them as best she can.

“If you win, then Balasar and Khouryn-and I, if I’m still breathing-will give ourselves into your hands. You can destroy our evidence, extort promises, or anything else you like.”

Nala’s fingers tightened on Patrin’s forearm. “There’s no need for this. We havethem.”

Patrin smiled at her. “You’re not a warrior, so you don’t understand. There is a need, because it’s the honorable thing. Besides, there’s nothing to worry about. Truth and right are on our side.” He gently removed her grip from his arm and looked at the cultists clustered around them. “Clear a space.”

Medrash took a deep breath. He’d achieved his purpose. The mob wasn’t going to tear them apart. But he hated the thought of dueling a warrior whom, despite everything, he regarded as a comrade and a friend.

Especially when he was by no means certain he was going to win.

Aoth felt as dumbfounded as everyone else looked. Jaxanaedegor was Alasklerbanbastos’s chief lieutenant and the commander who’d nearly slaughtered Tchazzar’s army. And the two of them were strolling off together like old friends? What in the name of the Black Flame was the Twenty-Eighth Precept anyway?

“Well,” Gaedynn said, an arrow still resting on his bow, “that was interesting.” He turned to Jhesrhi and arched an eyebrow. “Can you explain it?”

“No,” she said. A line of blue and yellow flame rippled down her staff, then guttered out.

“How odd,” the archer said. “I thought you were privy to all his divine secrets.”

“Don’t start,” Aoth said. “We have work to do.” He gestured to Oraxes and Meralaine. “You too.”

Shala started around the campfire. “Captain, if-”

“No, High Lady,” said Aoth. “Thank you, but no. This is a matter for the Brotherhood.” He led his fellow mages and Gaedynn into a stand of oaks.

“Actually,” Oraxes said, “Meralaine and I aren’t sellswords either.”

“Shut up,” said Aoth. “Here’s the plan. I’m going to sneak after the dragons and eavesdrop.”

Gaedynn smiled. “That sounds a little dangerous.”

“That’s why I need every enchantment anyone can cast to help me hide.”

“It also sounds like work for an expert scout.”

“You don’t speak Draconic.”

Oraxes swallowed. “I speak some. And I can veil myself even better than I can somebody else.”

“Thanks,” said Aoth. “But it’s my stupid idea, and I’ll run the risk. If I get caught, none of you knew anything about it.”

“Captain …” Meralaine’s voice trailed off, but she finished her thought by indicating Jhesrhi with a tiny jerk of her head.

“It’s all right,” Gaedynn said. “She’s still one of us. Aren’t you, Buttercup?”

“Of course!” Jhesrhi snapped. “But I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I,” said Aoth. “Now everyone start conjuring.”

As he climbed the last few steps, Medrash studied Patrin. Bahamut’s champion wore sturdy garments incorporating a fair amount of leather. They’d provide him with a measure of protection, but not nearly so much as actual armor.

That was good as far as it went. But it just meant the two combatants were equal in one regard, because Medrash wasn’t wearing armor either. When he’d found Balasar’s note, he hadn’t known how dangerous the night would become, and hadn’t wanted to make himself conspicuous by clinking around the city in plate or mail.

He suspected there were ways in which his foe actually had the advantage. Medrash had already exerted himself and expended mystic Power. He’d been scratched by a purplespawn’s tail, and though he’d used Torm’s gifts to heal himself, he might still have a trace of sleep poison in his veins to slow him down. Whereas Patrin was presumably fresh.

But at least Medrash had truth and right on his side, and never mind that Patrin had just asserted exactly the same thing.

As he took his starting position opposite the other paladin, Patrin said, “I never wanted this. I still believe our gods intended us to be friends.”

“Then don’t fight,” Medrash said. “Come with us to Tarhun and let him determine the truth.”

Patrin shook his head. “I can’t. Not now that I know you hate us enough to lie.” He drew his sword, gave Medrash just enough time to do the same, and charged him.

Medrash spat lightning. It flickered down Patrin’s torso, and he stumbled and shuddered. Medrash sprinted forward, his point extended at the other warrior’s sword arm.

But Patrin recovered from the shock before his adversary could close the distance. He sidestepped and shouted Bahamut’s name. His blade blazed with silvery light as he cut at Medrash’s flank.

Medrash saw that his own attack was going to miss and snapped his blade across his body just in time to parry. Charged with the Platinum Dragon’s Power, Patrin’s stroke almost jolted his weapon from his grip. But only almost, and then he plunged on by.

Which carried him out of striking range but put his back to his foe. Using one of Balasar’s favorite moves, Medrash ducked, whirled, and slashed.

The cut didn’t hit anything, because Patrin wasn’t rushing in to take him from behind. Instead, Bahamut’s champion chanted, swept his sword through a star-shaped figure, then thrust it out.

Once again the blade flared with white light, and for that same instant, Medrash saw the ghostly form of a pale, gleaming dragon behind his foe. Bahamut’s head snapped forward, and his jaws gaped.

Medrash threw himself to the side. Still, he couldn’t avoid the blast entirely, and it was as fierce and frigid as any north wind that ever blew. It staggered him and chilled him.

Patrin rushed in and cut at his opponent’s flank. Still off balance and shuddering, Medrash managed to parry, but not well. His defense robbed the stroke of some of its force, but Patrin’s sword jolted through it to gash his forearm.

Patrin instantly followed up by spewing flame in Medrash’s face. Burned, dazzled, Medrash reeled backward and swept his blade through a defensive pattern. He prayed that one of the parries would intercept Patrin’s next sword stroke even if he couldn’t see it.

Steel rang on steel as he deflected a thrust at his leg. Since he still could barely see, he riposted by drawing down Torm’s Power, then clenching his offhand and punching.

Light blazed at Patrin, and a gauntleted fist punched in the center of it. The blast-or the punch; they were one and the same-hurled Bahamut’s champion backward. He reeled but stayed on his feet.

Medrash reached out to Torm again. The resulting surge of vitality washed the blurriness and the stinging from his eyes. His sword arm kept bleeding though, and it was starting to throb.

“That’s first blood,” Patrin said, “and a wound that guarantees you can’t win. Please yield. There’s no dishonor in it.”

Medrash shook his head. “I won’t fail Torm and our people,” he rasped.

“Then I’ll make it quick.” Patrin advanced.

It actually wasn’t quick. Medrash judged that although Patrin was a good swordsman, he was a notch better, and the difference protected him for the next several phases. It enabled him to parry or dodge sword stroke after sword stroke ablaze with argent Power. But with fatigue and blood loss slowing him down, he could neither go on the offensive nor score with a riposte.

He might be able to channel a little more of Torm’s might, but not, he judged, enough to save him. Not unless he used it cleverly. He struggled to think of a tactic, and finally a notion came to him.

First he had to open up the distance. He punched the air, and a flash hurled Patrin back as it had before. Medrash swayed as though the magic had taken everything he had, which wasn’t far short of the truth.

Patrin rushed him. Medrash waited until his opponent was almost within striking distance, then clenched his empty hand and jerked his arm back.

For an instant a huge, ghostly fist gripped Patrin and pulled him forward. If Medrash was lucky, maybe it squeezed hard enough to do some damage.

But that wasn’t the reason he’d evoked the effect. It was a magic paladins used to drag reluctant foes within reach of their blades. He hoped that if an opponent wasn’t reluctant, if he was already charging in, then the unexpected yank would throw him off balance.

Patrin pitched forward. Medrash lunged. His sword drove deep into Patrin’s chest. Bahamut’s champion crumpled to his knees, then fell forward.

For a few heartbeats, everyone was silent. Medrash could feel the shock and the welling grief of the other cultists like a great reverberation implicit in the stillness.

Then Nala screamed, “He cheated! The Daardendrien cheated! Kill them!”

Her followers surged at Medrash, and at Balasar and Khouryn at the top of the steps, like a noose snapping tight around a hanged outlaw’s neck.

Patrin heaved himself up on an elbow. His form glowed with pearly light, and somehow-even fallen, struggling in a spreading pool of his own blood-he seemed indomitable and majestic.

“Stop!” he croaked, and there was power in that too. It should have been inaudible to anyone even a pace or two away, but Medrash was certain the entire crowd could hear it. “He didn’t cheat. Do what I promised. Don’t disgrace your god. Or me.” His body slumped. He plainly couldn’t hold his head up any longer.

But he didn’t have to. His plea had quelled the fury Nala hoped to incite.

Medrash kneeled down beside Patrin and pressed his hands against the dragon-worshiper’s back. Straining, he channeled a whisper of Torm’s Power through his own body and into that of the other paladin, but nowhere near enough to mend a fatal wound.

But Nala was a healer! Medrash looked up just in time to see her vanish, whisked away by the power of the small gray drake on her shoulder.

“It’s all right,” Patrin wheezed.

“I didn’t want to kill you,” Medrash said. “But I knew I only had one chance. I had to make sure I ended the fight.”

“It’s all right,” Patrin repeated, his voice growing even softer. “I prayed for truth and right to prevail, and they did. If Nala was what I thought …” He shuddered and then lay absolutely still.

For a moment, Medrash hated himself. Perhaps he even hated Torm, whose path had led him to that moment. Then that feeling crumbled into a pure and bitter regret. Clenching himself against the urge to howl out his grief, he stayed beside the corpse until Balasar came and gripped his shoulder. “Let’s find somebody to stitch up that arm,” the smaller Daardendrien said.

Aoth could see his hands and the spear he carried in the right one, but then, nothing was ever invisible to him. It was somewhat reassuring that he could also see a ghostly shimmer crawling on his limbs, a manifestation of the enchantments Jhesrhi, Oraxes, and Meralaine had cast to veil him.

He was about to find out how well they’d done their work. The wyrms hadn’t gone very far from camp. They were just ahead, their long necks rising like strangely curving tree trunks with all the spiny, leafless branches on one side.

Jet spoke to him across their psychic link. Even if they don’t see you, what about their noses? What about their ears?

Aoth sighed. Who woke you up? Gaedynn?

If you need a diversion, tell me and he’ll provide it.

No, he won’t. Neither will you.

Do you have any idea how sharp a dragon’s senses are?

Yes. But if the magic worked, I have no scent, and just in case it didn’t I’m downwind. And as far as noise is concerned, I do know how to sneak. I sneaked up on Malark on top of Szass Tam’s mountain.

And then he spotted you. And he wasn’t even a very old dragon, or undead, or a living god. Why are you doing this? Surely not just because you promised your new female.

No. Because she was right. We need a better understanding of what’s going on. All our lives may depend on it. Now stop pestering me and listen through my ears. If I do get into trouble, tell Jhesrhi and Gaedynn everything you heard before … well, before.

He skulked up to a broad, weathered stump. Good cover against many creatures, but not those tall enough to peer right over the top of it. He crept even closer to the dragons until he found a mossy old oak with a thick trunk. As he hid behind it, he realized that Tymora had favored him in one respect, anyway. Tchazzar and Jaxanaedegor weren’t conversing in the seemingly archaic Draconic dialect the vampire had used in camp. They were speaking the tongue as Aoth had learned it.

“-possibly trust you?” Tchazzar said.

“How can you not?” Jaxanaedegor replied. “Since I had some inkling of their purpose, my agents in Mourktar fought Alasklerbanbastos’s to make sure Jhesrhi Coldcreek and Gaedynn Ulraes ended up as myprisoners. Then, after I verified my information, I gave them a chance to escape and even allowed them to carry a staff of fire away with them. Because I suspected that if they actually found you, you might need a fountain of flame to restore you to yourself.”

In other circumstances, Aoth might have laughed in amazement. Whatever he’d expected to hear, it wasn’t that.

Meanwhile, Tchazzar snorted and tinged the air with smoke and sulfur. “ ‘Gave them a chance.’ ”

Yellow eyes glowing like foxfire, Jaxanaedegor bared his fangs in what might have been a grin. “I couldn’t just unchain them and wave goodbye. I have to assume the dracolich spies on me as he does on others.”

“I assume his scrutiny is also supposed to excuse the attack you led against me.”

The green flicked his wings. It sounded like the crack of empty sails when a gust of wind finally filled them. “That’s exactly right, and look how I managed it. Alasklerbanbastos lost a powerful artifact and three of the dragons who were truly loyal to him. It all would have gone better still if you’d joined the battle sooner.”

“Don’t presume to criticize me!” Tchazzar snarled. “Not you, a leech and the spawn of the dark! Not you of all creatures!”

Aoth winced at the red’s vehemence, and even Jaxanaedegor seemed slightly taken aback. “I … intended no offense. I’m simply trying to convince you that I’m on your side, so that together we can exploit an opportunity.”

“Which is?”

“It may end up being a good thing that your army took a beating. Alasklerbanbastos is wary, and he didn’t recruit all his sellswords and such because he meant to put himself in any real danger. But he also hates you with the cold, gnawing hatred of the undead. If he believes he has you at a serious disadvantage, he’ll come out of his caves to deliver the death stroke.”

“He does have me at a disadvantage!”

Jaxanaedegor smiled. “I can fix that. I’m directing the troops who are presently maneuvering to contain and isolate you. I can make them zig when they ought to zag, thus allowing reinforcements to reach you.”

Tchazzar grunted. “That would be helpful, but not necessarily sufficient.”

“Then it’s good that I have more to offer. I’ve communicated with some of the dragon princes and convinced them their arrangements with Alasklerbanbastos are contrary to their long-term interests. As a result, the warriors they provided will prove less useful than he expects.”

Aoth nodded. He’d wondered how High Imaskar, never before feared as a naval power, had conducted such a damaging series of raids on the Chessentan coast. And why he hadn’t seen any Imaskari among the troops who’d debarked from the pirate fleet to fight for the Great Bone Wyrm. The answer to both riddles was the same-High Imaskar had granted Murghomi warships free access to the Alamber Sea to fight on its behalf.

Which partlyexplained why there’d seemingly been dragonborn among the raiders. Wyrmkeepers were the dastards who knew how to disguise abishais as Tymantherans, and the principalities of Murghom, city-states ruled by dragons, were presumably crawling with them.

Unfortunately, the revelation raised new questions. In fact, it lent new levels of complexity to a situation that was already convoluted enough to make the War of the Zulkirs seem straightforward. But maybe if Aoth kept listening, he’d finally understand.

“And what of the other dragons Alasklerbanbastos commands?” Tchazzar asked. “Will they ‘prove less useful than he expects’?”

“Actually,” said Jaxanaedegor, “yes. I told you, we’ve already started the process of culling the herd. I should be able to eliminate at least one more of those who are truly loyal and blame her destruction on you. Which is to say, the majority of dragons who follow Alasklerbanbastos into battle will be just as tired of him as I am.”

“How confident are you that he hasn’t discerned their true sentiments? Or yours?”

“Reasonably. His hatred of you-and Skuthosiin, and Gestaniius-blinds him to other concerns. He blames you for every setback and misfortune he ever endured. In addition to which, his arrogance makes it difficult for him to imagine that any of his servants would dare rise up against him. He believes that even I must perforce content myself with fawning at his feet and begging for crumbs from his table.”