Текст книги "The Spectral Blaze"

Автор книги: Richard Lee Byers

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Balasar didn’t know what to say to that. “Just promise me that when the quicksilver drake comes back, you’ll fight, whether you think it’s supposed to be friendly or not.”

“Of course.” Vishva shook her head, and the ropelike scales dangling at the back rattled together. “But truly, I don’t understand.”

SIX

20-22 E LEASIS, THE Y EAR OF THE A GELESS O NE

Aoth leveled his spear and spoke a word of command. With a sharp crack, a thunderbolt leaped from the point and split a skull-sized stone on the slope above him.

“Impressive,” said Jet dryly.

“Let’s hope they think so,” Aoth replied. Otherwise, orcs being orcs, they were likely to try to kill him, and he and his comrades would have to slaughter them when all he really wanted to do was talk.

He waved the leafy branch that signified peaceful intentions over his head. Then he and Jet clambered on toward the ruined little fortress. Aoth’s boots slipped in the scree. Flying would have been easier but maybe a little too impressive. People sometimes panicked when a huge, black griffon with blood red eyes swooped down at them.

“As well they should,” said Jet, perceiving the tenor of his master’s thoughts.

Aoth glanced back at Gaedynn, Cera, Mardiz-sul, Yemere, Son-liin, and the other folk assembled on the trail below. Nobody was pointing or signaling, so apparently no one had spotted anything that had escaped his own attention. Of course, people rarely did, but it was still a good idea to have several pairs of eyes keeping track of a tense situation.

Eventually one of the half dozen gray-skinned, pig-faced archers on the crumbling battlements deigned to acknowledge him. Squinting despite the shade provided by the broad brim of a soft felt hat-orcs tended to be nocturnal-he yelled, “Who are you and what do you want?”

“My name is Aoth Fezim. I want to parley with your leader.”

“Lay down your weapons and come in. Leave the beast outside.”

Aoth grinned. “No. To all of that. It’s a nice day. If your leader feels like talking, he can come out.”

“Wait,” said the orc.

Aoth did. Judging that the branch had served its purpose, he set it down. Then three figures strode out of the shadowed arch where gates had once hung.

Two of them were orcs who’d each gouged out an eye in devotion to the war god Gruumsh, and were likely the most formidable in the group. But it was the third one who made Aoth wary and inspired him to activate a tattoo whose power shielded against poison.

That was because the creature was a medusa, and while the males of his kind were somewhat less terrible than the females, whose stare could actually turn a man to stone, they were fearsome enough. Tall and bald with yellow, slit-pupil eyes, he had a bitter, intelligent face and wore black and purple brocade garments that, though stained and faded, had once been elegant. He looked as if he’d started out as an important fellow in some sophisticated place, and Aoth wondered what ill fortune had reduced him to leading a handful of barbarians in the middle of the wilderness.

“You and your friends are on my road,” the medusa said.

“If it’s yours,” said Aoth, “you should maintain it better.”

“You’ll have to pay the toll,” the medusa persisted. “Half of what you have. My warriors will go through your possessions to make sure you don’t cheat.”

“Please,” said Aoth. “Peering from those walls, someone must have noticed that the folk down below are just the vanguard of a larger force. And by larger, I mean a great deal larger than yours. Do you really think you can keep us from passing by? Why, just because this heap of rubble commands the trail? Maybe if you had catapults, but I flew over, and I know you don’t.”

The medusa scowled. “This one time, you have my permission to pass.”

“Good,” said Aoth. “Thank you. But don’t give up on making some coin just yet. I am willing to pay for information about the area around the Old Man’s Head.”

The bandit chieftain smiled a snide sort of smile. “Do you have business with the gray wyrm?”

“Well, I’m certainly interested in hearing all about him.”

“Then it will be my pleasure to help you find him. Provided that the price is right.”

“How does ten gold-”

Something overhead made a thumping sound. Aoth looked up. One of the orcs on the battlements had an arrow sticking out of his chest. He tottered and pitched backward out of sight.

At the same instant, Jet spoke mind to mind, not with language but rather a wordless urging to look back down. As Aoth did, the medusa and his bodyguards finished snatching their scimitars from their scabbards.

Jet crouched, then, with a snap of his wings, sprang to tear the threatening creatures apart. The medusa hissed, hunched forward, and glared. The griffon jerked in mid-leap, and a vicarious spasm of pain and nausea knotted Aoth’s insides.

Despite the assault, Jet slammed down on one orc and pierced him with his talons. But the other bodyguard jumped clear, then came on the attack. Shaking and seeing double, the familiar ducked an initial sword cut.

Aoth couldn’t go to his aid. He had his own adversary. The medusa lunged and slashed at his throat.

Gripping his spear with both hands-he’d left his targe behind so he could manage the cursed tree branch-Aoth parried, then riposted with a thrust to the guts. The medusa sidestepped and made it look easy.

Maybe for him it was. As they traded attacks, Aoth observed how economical and precise his adversary’s actions were and how he always returned to a perfect guard after even the fiercest exchange. The creature was as adept with a scimitar as Khouryn was with an axe or Gaedynn, with a bow.

And the poisonous power of a medusa’s gaze stabbed at Aoth whenever the exigencies of the duel obliged him to look his foe in the face. So far it was producing only twinges of headache, but it was bound to break through his defenses eventually.

Judging that he needed to finish the confrontation fast, he retreated right off the relatively flat space where the old fort sat and back onto the slope. He slid again, and swayed as he struggled to keep his balance. But he’d gained the distance and time he needed to rattle off rhyming words of power.

The medusa rushed him and cut at his head. Aoth blocked and as the two weapons banged together, the power with which he’d infused the spear discharged itself with a shriek and a flash. The scimitar snapped into several pieces.

Still glaring, the medusa retreated, dropped the hilt of his ruined sword, and snatched for a dagger. Aoth scrambled upward and thrust the spear between the creature’s ribs.

Just as he jerked it out again, an arrow streaked down and stuck in the ground beside his foot. He looked up and saw that, since they no longer had to worry about hitting their fallen chieftain, all the orcs on the battlements were aiming at him.

Then Gaedynn swooped overhead on Eider and shot two of them. Flying behind him, borne aloft by the wind, Yemere discharged his crossbow and killed another.

The rest of the vanguard was right behind them. A watersoul sprinted on his own two feet as easily as though he were traversing level ground, and everyone else clung to the backs of the scuttling, surefooted drakes.

By the time they reached the top, the wall was clear, and they streamed on into the ruin, past Jet where he lay and panted. Despite his sickness, he’d evidently killed the other one-eyed orc but then taken cover in the short tunnel that was the gate, where the archers on the battlements couldn’t hit him. Cera halted beside him and scrambled off her mount.

Are you all right? asked Aoth.

Of course, Jet answered. Especially if your female purges me. Go inside and finish it.

Aoth did, not that his comrades actually needed him. There really hadn’t been enough orcs to withstand even the vanguard, and Eider’s beak and claws, Gaedynn’s bow, and the genasi’s blades and elemental tricks made short work of them.

The one-sided nature of the little clash didn’t bother Aoth. Sellswords didn’t go in for chivalry, nor was he inclined to wax sentimental over orcs. But right at the end, a brown dog, the barbarians’ pet or mascot, presumably, sprang at him out of nowhere. He automatically whipped his spear into line, and the cur impaled itself, shuddered, and died.

For some reason that did make him feel a pang of regret. Or maybe it just reminded him that the whole fight had been pointless-indeed, counterproductive-and purely the result of someone’s blunder. He shook the dog’s carcass off the end of his weapon and went to find out whose.

He assembled his comrades in the fort’s dusty courtyard. “Who loosed that first arrow?” he asked. “The one that started everything.”

Gaedynn smiled a nasty smile. “Who do you suppose?”

Son-liin winced at the contempt in his tone. “I shot but it was not the start of everything! The orc was drawing his bow. He was going to shoot you, Captain.”

“Did anyone else see that?” asked Aoth.

“I didn’t,” said Jet, “and I was right up there with you, watching for signs of treachery.”

“I have to admit,” said Mardiz-sul, “I didn’t see it either.”

“Because your imagination doesn’t run away with you in a tense situation,” Gaedynn said.

“Mine doesn’t either!” Son-liin snapped. “I grew up in these mountains! I’m more accustomed to their dangers than any of you!”

“You are one of their dangers,” Gaedynn said.

A moment earlier, Aoth had been more than ready to berate the person responsible for starting the fight. But Gaedynn was doing such a fine job of heaping scorn on her head that his own displeasure seemed superfluous.

“Well, we all came out of the scrape in one piece,” he said. “And it was a nice shot, all the way from the trail up the hill to the top of the wall. You yourself couldn’t have done too much better.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gaedynn said. “Of course I could. Partly because I’m not a panicky child.”

One firestormer muttered to the comrade next to him. Aoth couldn’t catch the words, but from their tone, he surmised that the genasi agreed with Gaedynn’s assessment.

“Son-liin,” said Aoth, “you’ll look more carefully next time. Now let’s move on. We captured this miserable outpost, so we might as well search it. I want maps. Papers. I doubt that any of the orcs was much of a writer, but their chieftain may have been.”

*****

Lightning ripped through the black sky, and rain fell in torrents to hammer the rooftops of Luthcheq. Watching through the casement of her chamber, Jhesrhi thought that it was as if the true gods were rebuking Tchazzar’s pretensions by demonstrating what genuine divine power could do.

But even if that fancy had been true, the mad dragon was incapable of comprehending such a lesson. So it was up to Jhesrhi to address his ambitions in a more practical way.

Despite the danger, she was eager to do so. For a long while, she’d felt torn between Gaedynn, Aoth, and the Brotherhood on one hand, and Tchazzar on the other. Despite the war hero’s vices and lies, a part of her had clung to the notion that he was the savior so many Chessentans believed him to be. That in time he’d recover from his ordeal in the Shadowfell and cast off cruelty and arrogance like a serpent shedding its skin.

But his actions had steadily chipped away at her faith. Maybe it had been the sight of Khouryn bound to the rack, or of the poor, bewildered old man with his tongue torn out, that finally shattered it altogether. Maybe it was the eerie moment when she saw something twist in the dragon’s mind, and he started believing the wretch groveling before them truly was her father, for no other reason than that he wished it to be so.

Whatever it was, it had finally turned her against him for good and all because she believed that even if some miracle healed his reason, he’d remain just as vicious and devious as before. A creature who, even if he imagined himself capable of loving human beings, ultimately regarded them as nothing more than pawns on a lanceboard.

It was time to show what one pawn could do when she moved herself.

Jhesrhi put on an old, gray, hooded cloak Aoth had given her shortly after rescuing her from the elemental mages. It had seen so much hard wear that Gaedynn said it made her look like a beggar. But she’d kept it anyway, and certainly, no one would mistake it for the sort of ornate, elegant garments she’d worn of late.

She took up her staff, and it urged her to set something ablaze. Not tonight, she thought, not in this downpour. That would be far too much work and too suspicious as well.

She opened the casement. The rain battered her. She spoke to the wind, and howling, it picked her up off the little balcony.

She wasn’t worried that anyone would see. She was just a dark speck moving against the black sky.

Despite the weather, it was exhilarating to fly again, although not as exhilarating as it would have been on Scar’s back. She felt a fresh pang of loss for the steed who’d given his life to save hers, and wondered if she’d ever ride a griffon again. Then she scowled as she recognized the thought for what it was: a tacit admission of the fear that she’d never escape her current situation.

The wind carried over the precinct being demolished to clear a space for Tchazzar’s temple, then to the encampment beyond. In some portions, the tents stood in orderly rows, while in others a person would have to weave his way through. Jhesrhi suspected that the lower sorts of sellsword, the undisciplined ruffians who gave them all a bad name, were responsible for the areas of disarray.

She landed in the shadow of one of the outlying houses the camp had grown up around. It was late enough that no light showed through the windows shuttered against the storm. She walked on, her feet sliding in mud and slopping through puddles. Sensing that she still had work for it, the wind that had borne her aloft lingered close to her, gusting in one direction, then another. It made her cape swing back and forth like a bell and kept threatening to shove her cowl back off her head, not out of prankishness or resentment, but simply because it didn’t know any better.

She spotted a sentry huddled under a tree and passed within a stone’s throw of him. He didn’t challenge her. With a flicker of a smile, she decided that she probably would have needed to brandish a severed head and scream “Death to Chessenta!” to draw him out from under the meager shelter of the dripping branches, especially since, in a patchwork army, strangers were constantly wandering around.

In time she stopped under a tree of her own, as anyone who needed a respite from the drenching sting of the rain might. She stared out at the supply tents and wagons a short distance away, shifted her grip on her staff, and spoke to the wind again.

What she said was an incantation of sorts, possessed of a precise cadence and punctuated with words of command. But she didn’t feel like she was giving orders. Prior to the war with Threskel, she’d spent enough time in Luthcheq to get acquainted with the breezes and gales hereabouts, and it was more like asking help from friends.

It was help they proved eager to give. The wind roared and threw the wings of her cloak out in front of her like flapping banners. She had to snatch at the tree to keep from falling. And she wasn’t even the target of the blast. She was simply standing at the fringe of it.

It shoved the tents out of shape and sent ripples streaming through the canvas. A wagon rocked sideways, then settled back on all four wheels.

“More,” Jhesrhi murmured, and the wind wailed louder. The raindrops caught in the surge almost seemed to be hurtling horizontally, not falling from the black clouds on high.

A piece of tent ripped loose from the rope and stake holding it in place and flapped wildly. Other sections did the same until one tent flipped over, exposing its contents to the wind and rain. For a few heartbeats, the lines on the far side of the neatly stacked supplies anchored the canvas like a leash holding back a frantic dog. Then it tore loose and flew away.

One by one, the other tents pursued it into the night. Meanwhile, the piles of foodstuffs and other items essential to an army on campaign blew apart. Kegs tumbled over the ground until they ruptured and spilled the ale inside. Bags split and surrendered their contents to the gale. The flour looked like a band of ghosts put to rout, while the fletchings were too small for human eyes to make out in the rain and the dark. Had Jhesrhi not been attuned to the wind and perceiving partly as it perceived, with a sort of touching at a distance, she wouldn’t have noticed the bits of feather flying away.

With a crash, a first wagon overturned. Others followed. She couldn’t tell how badly they were damaged, but at least their contents came tumbling out of the cargo beds for the elements to scatter, pilfer, and foul.

Eventually she decided she’d done all the harm she could at that particular site. She considered turning the wind on some of the other tents nearby, the ones that had soldiers inside them, but decided against it. She’d taken enough risks for one night.

She thanked the winds and told them they could stop generating the magical gale. It started subsiding immediately, although the violence of the hammering rain, blazing lightning, and booming thunder remained impressive in its own right.

Jhesrhi glanced around, making sure no one was watching, then asked the particular wind that had carried her there to return her to Tchazzar’s palace. As she floated upward, she wondered how much she’d actually accomplished.

She’d likely delayed the start of the Red Dragon’s campaign but possibly not by more than a day or two. Was that enough to matter? It all depended on how Gaedynn, Aoth, Khouryn, and the others were faring, and she had no way of knowing that.

She sighed. As much as she felt ill equipped to deal with all the subterfuge and intrigue, in one respect, the game she and her comrades were playing was like the sort of war to which she was accustomed. A soldier focused on his own particular task, often with no knowledge whatsoever of how a battle or campaign was progressing overall. He just had to hope that everybody’s efforts would add up to victory in the end.

In her imagination, Gaedynn smiled crookedly and responded to her thought: Right you are, Buttercup. It’s chaos and mass confusion every time. But don’t tell anybody, or how will Aoth peddle our alleged expertise?

You have my word, she thought, smiling, missing him. Then she felt a light tactile sensation like the brush of a hanging leaf, although it was almost lost amid the cold, wet drumming of the rain.

It startled her, and it took her a moment to figure out what had happened. Because of the magic she’d worked to destroy the supplies, she still had some residual connection to all the currents of air at play in her vicinity, some ability to sense what they were sensing. She hadn’t been conscious of it while it was simply validating what she perceived with her natural senses, but it was alerting her to something she hadn’t noticed.

She rattled off a rhyme to strengthen the bond, then reached out as if she had a hundred invisible hands attached to arms dozens of yards long. And so she found the creature.

It was flying some distance behind her, its leathery wings bouncing raindrops back up into the air with every beat. Like many creatures of the netherworld, it was somewhat manlike but possessed of an elongated, half-bestial head, clawed, four-fingered hands, and spines growing over most of its hide like a porcupine’s, although not so thickly as to obscure the essential gauntness of its frame.

It was a spined devil. Jhesrhi had encountered them on the battlefield when some enemy sorcerer or priest summoned them. But she’d never run into one that could make itself invisible, and she had no idea why one was shadowing her.

Maybe she could force it to explain, but probably not by mystically shackling its will. That wasn’t her kind of wizardry. She’d likely have to beat the answer out of it.

She warned the wind that when she turned, the devil was likely to hurl some of its spines at her. It should be prepared to shield her with a vigorous gust. Her staff urged her to blast the spinagon with fire, and she told it to stop its nudging and do as she commanded. Then she spun in the air, raised the weapon over her head, and spoke the first word of an incantation.

The spined devil lashed one arm at her, just as though it could strike her a backhanded blow from far away. And in a sense, it could, for a flare of crimson force exploded from the ring she belatedly noticed on its forefinger. The blaze spiked pain through her head and collapsed her thoughts into confusion. Perhaps it hurt and addled the wind that was carrying her too, because it dropped her and she plummeted toward the ground.

She wrenched her mind back into focus and cried a word of command that was exactly that. The wind scooped her up just a few feet shy of the top branches of an elm tree.

Visible, the spinagon snarled, snatched quills from its shoulder, and threw them. They hurtled at Jhesrhi like arrows and, despite the rain, burst into flame in midflight.

She sensed that the wind was still recovering from the first attack. It couldn’t hold her aloft and shield her from the missiles too. She gasped a word of warding and lifted one wing of her cloak in front of her.

For an instant the wool became as strong as mail. Two quills punched all the way through anyway. One pierced her sleeve too and pricked her arm. A wave of dizziness assailed her.

No, curse it! Surely only a tiny drop of the devil’s poison had entered her blood, and she refused to let it stop her. She snarled a word intended to produce a surge of vigor, and it steadied her to a degree, enough to take in the fact that her cape was on fire.

She snapped the garment to shake the spines out of it. Then she grasped the flames with her will. From her staff’s perspective, controlling fire wasn’t as good as making it. But it was something, and the pseudo-mind inside the weapon crowed in satisfaction.

Guided by instinct as much as arcane knowledge, she drew the fire out of the cloth, into herself, and streamed it on into the staff to add to the rod’s store of power. As it passed through her, it painlessly burned away the rest of her vertigo and weakness, a benefit she hadn’t anticipated.

She peered around, using both her own eyes and the wind’s tactile way of seeing. She found the spinagon hovering not far from where it had been a moment before. When it recognized that its first barrage of spines hadn’t incapacitated her, it hurled a second.

But like her, the wind had recovered from that initial assault. Without even needing to be prompted, it howled and sent the quills tumbling off course.

The devil wheeled and fled in the direction of the heart of the city. Jhesrhi gave chase.

As she did, she asked another favor of the winds. Bellowing, they whirled themselves into a spinning column, visible by virtue of the dust and litter caught in the spin.

The spined devil was caught in it too. The whirlpool of air sucked the nether creature down, or perhaps, tumbled and buffeted, the thing simply found it impossible to fly. Either way, it slammed down on the ground, and Jhesrhi allowed the vortex to disperse.

The spinagon glared up at her. It occurred to her that a winged predator probably wasn’t used to crouching on the ground while an enemy hovered overhead.

“You see how it is,” she called, raising her voice to make herself heard over the hiss and rattle of the rain. “I can kill you if you force the issue. But I don’t especially want to. Tell me why you’re here.”

The spined devil snarled.

“Someone sent you after me, didn’t they?” Jhesrhi persisted. “Why? What were you supposed to do?”

“All right,” growled the spinagon. Its guttural voice sparked a disorienting sort of synesthesia. Jhesrhi heard the words, but they also filled her nose with a smell like hot metal. “I’ll tell. For all the good-”

The creature exploded into motion. It lashed its wings and threw double handfuls of quills.

Fortunately Jhesrhi and the wind were ready. A blast of air tumbled the spines backward and smashed the devil back down onto the ground. Jhesrhi spoke to the earth and water that had blended to form mud, and the muck became even softer and sucked the spinagon down. The nether creature floundered, struggling to drag itself clear.

It likely could, too, but not for a few moments. Jhesrhi judged that she had time enough for a longer incantation.

Though her skill at binding devils and demons was rudimentary at best, she was somewhat more proficient at countermagic. She might be able to dissolve the constraints that the spinagon’s summoner had imposed, the compulsions that forbade it to answer her questions. And if she restored its free will, the fiend might see that it was in its best interests to do so.

She chanted percussive words full of hard consonants, and gripping her staff in both hands, swung it like a mallet she was using to break down a wall. The raindrops pouring down on the spinagon glowed white and steamed and sizzled on its hide.

That seemed promising, but it was still no guarantee that she’d overcome the other spellcaster’s power. She supposed she’d know in a moment. “Now will you talk to me?” she asked.

Still wallowing in mud, the creature was appeared to be trying. Its mouth moved but no sound came out, or at least, none she could hear through the clatter of the rain. Then it shrieked and snatched out two more handfuls of its quills.

Jhesrhi prepared to defend. But the spinagon stabbed the spines deep into its own torso and pitched forward onto its face.

Well, that settles that, she thought. Scowling in annoyance, she floated to the ground and kneeled down to inspect the iron ring that had enabled the spinagon to hurl its own burst of countermagic and probably to become invisible before that. Presumably the creature’s master had given it the talisman, but there was nothing distinctive about the design to suggest who that person was.

Not knowing made returning to the War College an even less appealing prospect than it would have been otherwise. But that was where Aoth’s strategy dictated Jhesrhi should be. So she murmured to the mud, and it churned, sucked down the spinagon’s body, and buried it completely. Then she flew back toward the fortress.

*****

Like many mages, Oraxes had trained himself to be cognizant of his own internal states, and as a result, he often recognized a dream for what it was. Such was the case currently, and he was enjoying it. When he’d lived through the “raid” in reality, he’d been dry mouthed with anxiety that the ruse wouldn’t work. No longer. He could bask in his own cleverness as the pantomime unfolded.

He’d masked himself in Aoth’s appearance and made a common griffon look like Jet. Occasionally he even made it talk. Maintaining the illusions was tricky, but as he and his companions flew through the night toward the proper hillside in the Sky Riders, he knew that Meralaine had an even more difficult task. She had to make it look as if she were attacking to some effect while simultaneously controlling her puppets on the ground, the zombies and skeletons masquerading as a coven of traitorous necromancers and their undead minions.

She managed it, though. Swooping on the back of her griffon, stabbing with her wand, she actually threw the first attack, and jagged shards of something blacker even than the night rained down on the figures below.

The sellsword archers started loosing an instant later. As befitted supposed wizards, the zombies struck back with flares of power from the miscellany of arcane weapons and talismans Oraxes had found among Aoth’s belongings. And as instructed, the dead aimed the blasts at the drakkensteeds and the wyrmkeepers astride them. If anyone was going to get hurt, let it be them.

Throughout the action that followed, Meralaine managed to create the appearance of such fierce, fanatical resistance that when the battle ended, it seemed credible that the attackers hadn’t succeeded in taking any of the coven “alive.” The wyrmkeepers weren’t happy about it, but Oraxes mollified them by “discovering” folded papers in the pocket of a zombie’s robe. The ambiguous but suggestive jottings looked like just the clues to lead the Brotherhood on to other enemies of the Crown. It would simply take a little study.

It was all Oraxes could do to keep from laughing as Sphorrid Nyra congratulated him on the success of the assault. He took a breath to steady himself and started to reply with the same cordiality. Then, suddenly, something covered his mouth.

That jolted him awake, to find that he really did have a hand clamped over his lips and a dagger at his throat as well. It was dark in Aoth’s tent, with just the first gray hint of dawn light seeping through the canvas, but he could still tell it was Sphorrid and the other wyrmkeepers standing over him and Meralaine. One of the priests was covering the necromancer’s mouth and holding a big, curved knife with a single-edged blade to her neck as well.

“Don’t struggle,” Sphorrid said. “Don’t raise your voice above a whisper. Don’t say anything that even sounds like it might be the start of a spell. Otherwise, I swear by the Five Breaths that we’ll kill you both immediately.”

He nodded to the priest restraining Oraxes, and the man uncovered his mouth.

“I never did meet the real Aoth Fezim, did I?” the wyrmlord continued. “It was you all along. That’s why you’re sleeping in his pavilion and his bed, to keep up the imposture until we leave camp.”

Oraxes kept silent.

“Why was it necessary?” Sphorrid asked. “Where is Fezim?”

Oraxes groped for a credible, useful lie. He couldn’t think of any.

Sphorrid shrugged. “Suit yourself. If you won’t talk here, I guarantee you will when we get you to Luthcheq. Let’s get them up and dressed. Make sure they don’t have any weapons or charms hidden in their clothes.”

The wyrmkeeper with the dagger threw the sheets back and dragged Oraxes up off the cot, and the one with the knife did the same to Meralaine. Oraxes felt a flash of anger that the priests were seeing her naked, but there was nothing lewd in their demeanor. They were intent on their business, and that, he realized, was worse. Had she been able to distract them, perhaps it would given him a chance to… do something.