Текст книги "The Spectral Blaze"

Автор книги: Richard Lee Byers

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

“It’s only been a little while. Most of them aren’t saddled-”

“I don’t care. I don’t care if they have riders. They’re more intimidating on the wing than on the ground. I want every man showing he’s ready to fight too. Don’t worry about putting them in formation. There’s no time for that either. Just have them point their weapons at the sky.”

“Right.” Ramed hurried away, shouting orders.

“It isn’t going to be enough,” Jhesrhi said. “Tchazzar’s a warlord. He’ll see that we’re not prepared to stop him.” She looked around. “Oraxes! Meralaine!”

She kept shouting while Gaedynn scrutinized the sky above the city. His mouth was dry, and his hands ached with their emptiness. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime although he knew that it had really been only a few breaths, Son-liin came running back with a longbow and arrows. Then Oraxes and Meralaine trotted out of the dark aisle that ran away between two rows of tents.

“Tchazzar’s coming for us,” Jhesrhi told them. “He’ll be here in a matter of moments. You have to make us look more ready than we are. You have to fill the night with shadows and phantoms and play on his fears. Start now and I’ll support you as best I can.”

Meralaine clutched her wand of bone in both fists and whispered. Her body shriveled and dark patches appeared on her skin as she took on the appearance of one of the dead. Oraxes drew one of his daggers and gashed the tattooed palm of his hand. At first the cut bled normally, but when he started to chant, the blood swirled forth as phosphorescent vapor, with vague shapes forming and dissolving inside the coils. Murmuring along with one incantation then the other, Jhesrhi stretched out her hand, and the air rippled between it and the younger mages to whom she was lending her strength.

The warm, summer night turned cold, and the stink of corruption tinged the air. Overhead, a griffon screeched, and even though he was in on the trick, Gaedynn felt a pang of reflexive dread because, somehow, it hadn’t sounded like the cry of a living creature. There was a quality to it, a hollowness, perhaps, that bespoke the insatiable hunger and malice of the undead.

But it was just an illusion, and how could anyone think that Tchazzar would fall for it again, when he understood that his supposed allies had been deceiving him all along? Scowling, Gaedynn laid an arrow on his bow.

“Aim for the eyes,” he told Son-liin. “They’ll be tough to hit, but if we do-”

The former firestormer gave a nod. “We might really hurt him,” she said, her youthful, soprano voice steady. “I understand.”

Then, suddenly, Tchazzar was there, a bat-winged shadow sweeping in from the east, still difficult to make out except for the glow of his eyes and the firelight flickering through his fangs. Gaedynn drew his arrow back to his ear-

And the Red Dragon veered off.

For a few moments, the camp was silent. Then people started cheering and Meralaine collapsed. Oraxes lunged, grabbed her, but couldn’t hold her up. Instead, she dragged him to the ground.

Their companions hurried over to them. Gaedynn was glad to see that Meralaine was breathing, and the blotches and streaks of discoloration were dissolving from her skin. She was still thinner than before she’d worked her magic but plainly alive as well.

“I think she’s all right,” Oraxes wheezed. “Is she all right?”

“She just fainted,” Jhesrhi said. “That weakened her like it did you.”

Oraxes sneered at the suggestion that anything could weaken him, made some effort to arrange Meralaine comfortably, then dragged himself to his feet.

“Nicely done,” Gaedynn said. “Frankly I had my doubts that it would work.”

“I suspect,” Jhesrhi said, “it only did because Tchazzar has an army and Alasklerbanbastos coming to help him. So he thought, why should he run any risk by tackling us by himself?”

Gaedynn stared at her. “Wait. Alasklerbanbastos is on his way here? To ally with Tchazzar?”

“That’s what he told me.”

“The fun just never stops, does it? Any clever ideas on how to handle that?”

With a rustle of wings, Aoth, Cera, and Jet settled on the ground. “Why don’t you start by putting on some clothes?” the warmage said.

THIRTEEN

7 E LEINT, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE

As Tchazzar swooped toward the roof of the War College, he scrutinized the various counselors and warriors assembled to meet him. There was no sign of Aoth Fezim and Cera Eurthos. Evidently they’d escaped too.

His body clenched with fury, and he thought how easy it would be not to light, but instead to stay in the air in dragon form and incinerate every last one of the traitors and incompetents who’d disappointed him yet again.

But he still had uses for them, so he plunged at the center of the roof, and people scurried to avoid being crushed. He poised himself to pull his substance in, to dwindle then decided not to. On a night of war and treachery, it was better to remain armored in the full panoply of his might. And if it frightened any of his subjects to see him in that guise, well, good. They were wise to fear him in his current mood.

Everyone started to bow or curtsy. He snarled, spitting some fire without quite meaning to, and all the humans flinched. A couple of them yelped.

“I take it,” he said, “that the royal garrison wasn’t up to the task of arresting a sleeping man and woman.”

“They did escape, Majesty,” Nicos Corynian said, stepping forward. The counselor’s house stood near the War College, and he’d likely rushed to the fortress in search of answers after the fire fell from the sky. “But they left a message for you.” He motioned an officer forward.

The soldier stank of sweat and trembled. His armor clattered faintly. “Captain Fezim said that he and his company just want to leave. But if anyone tries to stop them, they’ll make sure the battle destroys Luthcheq.”

Tchazzar twisted his head to glare down at Nicos again. It would be so easy to smash him flat or flick him over the battlements. “This is the scoundrel you brought into our land.”

Nicos inclined his head. “I beg forgiveness. I’ll try to make amends by giving the best advice I can.”

“I don’t need advice. I need spears and crossbows.”

“Then you do mean to detain the sellswords?”

“I mean to slaughter them to the last man! They’re on the edge of the city. How much damage can they do?”

“Are we sure we can keep the battle contained to that one area?” Nicos replied.

“With respect, Majesty,” Luthen said, “I’m worried about that too. There have already been fires tonight. We’re lucky they didn’t spread.”

The spectacle of the two perpetual rivals taking the same side ratcheted Tchazzar’s nerves even tighter. It made him feel even more like every one of his servants truly was a traitor or else so useless that he might as well be.

“Men can betray a king and get away with it,” he said, “but not a god. There has to be a reckoning.”

“I understand,” Nicos said, “but does it have to be here and now? All the armies are camped together. If one tries to fight another, there’ll be scant hope of directing the conflict. It will be chaos, pure and simple.”

“Especially with the Akanulans still camped there too,” Luthen said.

Tchazzar lifted his tail and lashed it down on the rooftop. The shock sent the courtiers staggering. “I ordered them gone!”

Hasos came forward. “With respect, Majesty, they’re an army. They can’t just pick up and go in an instant.”

“And it’s conceivable they found… cause for concern in what Your Majesty recently said to Zan-akar Zeraez,” Nicos said. “If hostilities suddenly erupt, who knows which way they’ll jump?”

“I hope they do fight us!” Tchazzar spit. “By the Hells, let’s take the uncertainty out of the matter and attack them too! We can have our war after all, with Akanul. We’ll butcher Magnol and his army tonight, then march north unopposed. I’ll be perched on Arathane’s throne before Highharvestide.”

Everyone just gaped at him. It would be so easy to burn away all their stupid faces. So easy.

“Do you think we don’t have the strength to fight the mercenaries and the genasi at once?” he asked. “I’m the Red Dragon of Chessenta! I have sufficient strength all by myself. But even if I didn’t, help is on the way. Alasklerbanbastos and several lesser dragons are coming.”

He expected the news to hearten the humans. Instead, they looked more dumbfounded than before.

Finally Kassur Jedea said, “Majesty, I served the Great Bone Wyrm my whole life until you cast him down. My father and grandfather served him. I know him and whatever he told you, you can’t trust him.”

“Even if you could,” Nicos said, “the destruction that several dragons could cause fighting through the city, blasting away with their breath…” He spread his hands.

“By all the stars,” Tchazzar said, “is there no one who believes in me?”

“I do!” Halonya cried. Her vestments flapping, she stamped out of the crowd of courtiers then whirled around to face them in a clatter of amulets and beads. “And shame on all of you for doubting! Who cares who dies in the fighting or if the entire city falls? Our master will resurrect the fallen and build a new Luthcheq, a new empire, pure and holy, where those who serve the one true god will live in joy forever!”

“Exactly!” Tchazzar roared. “So no more quibbling! Go and ready my troops for battle!”

*****

Hasos had hated it when Tchazzar loomed over them all in dragon form, flames licking from his jaws and his yellow eyes blazing almost as brightly. But he was glad that the war hero apparently meant to remain in that shape for the duration of the crisis. As a wyrm, he was too huge to follow his servants downstairs into the interior of the fortress.

Thus, Hasos felt free to stand still for a moment, even though he knew he should be scurrying off to prepare for battle like everyone else. Indeed, as one of highest-ranking officers in the red dragon’s army, he should be scurrying faster. But his thoughts were whirling, and he needed to sort them out.

The first one that came clear was the familiar wish to be back home in Soolabax attending to the mundane business of his baronial court. But wanting couldn’t make it so, so he struggled to sort out his duty instead.

On the surface, it seemed clear enough. He’d sworn an oath of fealty to the sovereign who was both Chessenta’s greatest hero and, according to many, a god. But he’d sworn a vow of knighthood too that obliged him to defend the realm and the people, not just the throne. What was he supposed to do when one pledge clashed with the other?

Wait, he thought. Do just enough to satisfy Tchazzar’s requirements and hope things sort themselves out.

But no, curse it, no. He’d been a cautious man his entire life, and it had served him pretty well. But it wouldn’t anymore, not when he and the entire realm were running out of time.

He roused himself, then gave a start when he noticed Kassur Jedea loitering several paces away. Although perhaps it wasn’t so surprising. Tchazzar had carried the skinny, graying king of Threskel away from his homeland as a trophy of sorts. Unlike Hasos, the monarch didn’t have any urgent responsibilities.

“You look troubled,” Kassur said, coming closer and fingering the round, gold medallion he wore on a chain. A goldsmith had engraved little sigils around the rim. Hasos didn’t recognize any of them, and their odd, vaguely disquieting shapes served to remind him that his companion wasn’t just a king but some sort of sorcerer as well.

“Somewhat,” Hasos said.

“I certainly am,” Kassur said. “I kneeled to another overlord besides Alasklerbanbastos. The lich was gone, and I had no choice. But still, it’s not something he’ll forgive.”

“And you believe Tchazzar won’t protect you?”

“Does it seem to you that he’s greatly concerned about any of his human vassals at present? If not, then perhaps it’s time for said vassals to consider protecting themselves.”

“I’m not a traitor,” Hasos said. Indeed, the mere thought of being called such a thing was sickening. To a true follower of the code of chivalry, there was no fouler insult.

Except, perhaps, for coward.

“If I thought you anything other than a brave and decent man,” Kassur said, “I wouldn’t confide in you in a time of need.”

“I’m not,” Hasos insisted, and only belatedly realized that he was talking more to himself than to the king. He drew a long, steadying breath. “And I don’t understand more than a fraction of what’s going on here tonight or, really, for the past few months. But I do think we Chessentans need to stop dancing to any dragon’s tune before the creatures dance us right off a cliff. And I may know how to stop the music. Will you help me?”

The older man nodded. “If I can.”

Next Hasos collected ten of his most loyal retainers. They were good men, but he would have hesitated to take them into a fight with spellcasters without a magus or priest of his own. Fortunately he didn’t have to for this fight.

When they reached the narrows steps that descended to the dungeon, Kassur drew a bronze wand from his sleeve. It was as thin as a straw and scarcely gleamed in the gloom, yet paradoxically it hurt the eye to look directly at it, as if it were reflecting the light of the noonday sun. The Threskelan flicked it back and forth then led his companions down to a door that proved to be unlocked, although that likely hadn’t been the case a moment before.

The turnkeys jerked in surprise when the company stalked in. But they didn’t snatch for their weapons because they recognized Hasos.

Still, that didn’t mean it was safe to leave them behind. “We’re freeing Shala Karanok,” Hasos told them. “You can help, you can let us lock you in a cell, or you can resist and die.”

The two men looked at each other. Then the heavier one, a fellow with a drooping mustache and a round, stubbly chin, growled an obscenity. “We’ll help, my lord,” he said. “It’s not right down here. It hasn’t been for a while.”

Hasos could tell that from the stink and the echoing moans, and he felt a pang of shame to think just how many “traitors” and “blasphemers” were locked away in those vaults. Still, all but one would have to wait a while longer. He gestured for the turnkeys to lead the way.

They did, to another descending staircase. “I don’t know what’s down there, Lord,” the stout turnkey whispered. “I mean, I know the layout, but not anything the wyrmkeepers have done.”

“Tell me the layout,” Hasos replied.

“It’s a ring, basically.”

“Then we’ll split up at the bottom of the steps. Wherever they’re keeping Shala Karanok, we’ll come at it, and them, from two sides. Quietly now.”

Hasos took the lead, and they all descended. The passages above were poorly lit, but the darkness below was deeper still, although still less than absolute. A soft, sibilant chanting echoed, and the air smelled of bitter incense.

At the bottom of the stairs, a straight corridor ran to a place where light shined from half a dozen doorways. Another passage twisted away to the left. Hasos prowled onward with Kassur whispering charms at his back. The men-at-arms started to divide into two groups as he’d directed.

Then a blast of vapor enveloped them all. Eyes burning, half blind with tears, Hasos doubled over, coughing. His comrades choked and retched behind him.

Its enchantment of concealment falling away, a drake the size of a donkey appeared immediately in front of Hasos. It instantly followed up on its breath attack with a lunge, its jaws agape to strike and tear.

Hasos could see it only as a blur amid the gloom, and he hadn’t yet managed to inhale anything but stinging, strangling filth. Still, he sprang to meet the reptile, and perhaps that tactic caught it by surprise. He cut and his sword bit deep into its skull.

The drake went down, thrashing. In its spasms, it nearly clawed Hasos’s leg out from under him, but he jumped away just in time.

Someone screamed. Hasos pivoted. Somewhat smaller than the one he’d just dropped, a second drake had one of his men down and was tearing lengths of gut out of his midsection. Arterial spray spurted upward.

Hasos drove his sword into the second drake’s flank. Another warrior stabbed it in the neck with a spear. It collapsed, although not in time to save the man it had eviscerated.

Hasos realized there were snarls and cries behind him too, which meant there’d been at least one drake in the branching corridor. But before he could even consider trying to do anything about it, a pair of shadowy figures stepped out of the lit doorways ahead of him. Alternately twirling and making chopping motions with their picks, they started chanting.

Kassur Jedea stepped up beside Hasos, jabbed with his wand, and rasped a word of power. The pool of light at the end of the passage seemed to swirl in a way that Hasos couldn’t quite see but that made his eyes ache and his stomach turn over nonetheless. The wyrmkeepers vanished and reappeared in slightly different places. The dislocations sent them staggering off balance.

Intent on closing the distance before the priests could attempt any more magic of their own, Hasos charged. Another warrior sprinted after him. And perhaps closing the distance kept the wyrmkeepers from using their most formidable powers. But they had time to come on guard and wake the enchantments bound in their weapons. The head of one pick burst into flame, while a coating of frost flowed across the other.

Hasos was on the same side of the corridor as the priest with the burning weapon. He sidestepped the wyrmkeeper’s chop at his head then lunged. His point drove into the priest’s torso.

A voice said, “Here.” Hasos turned in that direction, toward a wyrmkeeper standing behind a doorway. The dragon worshiper’s gaze stabbed into him, and he froze in sudden fear. The priest sprang and swung a pick whose head dripped with steaming vitriol.

Hasos broke free of his paralysis just in time to parry. The weapons clanged together. The shock jolted his arm and nearly knocked his hilt out of his grip but not quite. He riposted with a slash to the throat, and his opponent fell backward.

Hasos rushed on into the room and looked around for the next foe. There wasn’t one. And when he rejoined his comrades in the hall, he couldn’t find one there either. It appeared that he and his allies had killed all the priests and drakes, although they’d lost half their number in the process.

Hasos took a breath to steady himself. He’d known some of the men who’d just died since he was a child. But there’d be time to mourn later, or at least he hoped so.

“I see a barracks, a torture chamber, and a shrine,” said Kassur, looking into the various lit doorways. “But no Shala Karanok.”

“Keep looking,” Hasos replied. “She has to be here.”

And she was, locked in a bare cell not much farther along. Her captors simply hadn’t seen fit to give her a source of light, which meant Hasos couldn’t estimate the full extent of her injuries until he hauled her semiconscious form out into the passage.

There, he felt a mix of anger and relief. Shala’s face was bruised and swollen, and her back, crisscrossed with whip marks, but her condition could have been far worse than it was. Glad that he’d taken to carrying one around with him during the campaign against Threskel, he extracted a pewter vial of healing elixir from the pouch on his belt and held it to her lips. “Drink,” he said.

She did, although some of the clear liquid ran down her chin. Full awareness came back into her eyes, and her scarred face set in its customary scowl. She pushed Hasos’s hands away, clambered to her feet, and arranged her filthy, ragged garments as best she could.

Hasos stood up and saluted. “Hail, Shala Karanok, war hero of Chessenta,” he said. His companions did the same.

Shala grunted. “I didn’t resent giving up that title, no matter what Tchazzar thought. I figured it was his by right. And I prayed his mind would heal, and then he’d be the leader the stories tell about. But I assume that if you’re here, things are getting worse instead of better.”

“Much worse,” Hasos said. He explained as best he could.

“Then I won’t mind taking the title back either,” Shala said, “assuming we can get it.”

“The reason we came after you,” Hasos said, “is that the army still respects you. I believe there are plenty of Chessentan soldiers who will follow you into battle against the dragons, and at least a few who will follow me. We just have to get out of the War College and rally them.”

“And get word of our plans to Captain Fezim and Lord Magnol,” Shala said.

“Do you really think the genasi will stand with us?” Hasos asked.

Shala snorted. “They will if Tchazzar actually is crazy enough to strike at them too. Let’s hope he is.”

Kassur Jedea cleared his throat.

Shala turned to him. “Yes, Majesty?”

The king smiled a crooked smile. “Contrary to popular opinion, I was never entirely a figurehead. There are portions of the Threskelan army that will follow me into rebellion the same way Chessentans will follow you.”

“I’d be grateful,” said Shala. “But don’t misunderstand. I’m not going to relinquish Chessenta’s claim to Threskel. They should always have been one kingdom, and that’s how they’re going to stay.”

“All I ask,” Kassur said, “is to retain my crown as your vassal, and that you impose no taxes or duties on my lands unless they apply everywhere in the realm.”

“Done,” Shala said. “And so it appears we have a plan.” She peered at Hasos. “What is it?”

“What’s what?” Hasos answered.

“You’re grinning.”

“Am I?” Hasos shrugged. “I guess I like recklessness more than I expected.”

*****

Jet soared on the night wind, and although Aoth could feel the griffon’s soreness and fatigue through their psychic link, no one else should have been able to tell it from the occasional smooth, powerful beat of his wings. But apparently, somehow, Cera could, or else she was just sensible enough to guess. Riding behind Aoth, she murmured a prayer that set her fingers aglow with golden light, then stroked the familiar’s fur. Warmth tingled through the contact and washed the aches away.

Meanwhile, Aoth watched the Brotherhood prepare for battle. They were doing as well as could be expected. The western edge of Luthcheq wasn’t the same demented tangle of streets one found farther in, and thank the Firelord for that. But it was still harder to set up a proper formation in the city than it would have been in open country, and as he so often had of late, he missed Khouryn’s expertise.

Responding to his unspoken will, Jet flew in a spiral, carrying him farther out, and even for a veteran soldier with fire-kissed eyes, the situation on the ground became harder to read. Some Chessentan, Threskelan, and sellsword companies were moving from their campsites to join forces with Aoth’s men. Others were shifting farther away to form what would become the opposing army. Some bands were still debating what to do, sometimes with words, but sometimes with fists or even blades.

That was to say, it was chaos, or at least most of it was. In the midst of all the scrambling and squabbling, the Akanulans stood like a rock in a surging tide, ready to fight but visibly removed from the Brotherhood and their allies. They were making it plain they wouldn’t fight if Tchazzar left them alone.

If Tchazzar himself attacked now, said Jet, while everyone’s still dithering and scurrying around, he could win.

Maybe, Aoth answered, but he won’t. Not at night. Since he’s got help coming, he’ll wait for it.

“I can’t make out anything,” Cera said.

“I warned you,” Aoth replied.

“Well,” she said, “to be honest, taking a look wasn’t the only reason I wanted to come aloft.”

Partly amused and partly apprehensive, he snorted. “What were you thinking?”

“That you and Jet can get me to the Keeper’s house faster and more safely than if I tried to make my way through the streets.”

It was easy to guess what she had in mind. “Do you really think you can convince the other sun priests to fight?”

“As I understand it, Tchazzar butchered our high priest for no reason at all.” Cera hadn’t particularly liked Daelric Apathos, but even so, outrage put steel in her voice. “They should fight. It may just take someone giving the call to arms.”

Aoth remembered Chathi burning and dying in an instant. “I can’t stay with you.”

She knows that, said Jet, and we need all the help we can get. He raised one wing, dipped the other, and turned in the direction of Amaunator’s temple.

*****

Khouryn and his companions were doing most of their traveling by night. The bats liked it better, Praxasalandos didn’t care one way or the other, and the darkness kept Chessentans from loosing arrows and quarrels at the supposed enemies flying overhead.

For his part, Khouryn was happy to escape baking in the late-summer sun and to enjoy the stately, glittering pageant of the moon and stars. It could be his last chance if Tchazzar reacted poorly when they reached Luthcheq.

He contemplated the constellation dwarves knew as the Serpent, with its bright eye, long fangs, and twisting tail. Then someone blew a brassy, long note and a short one on a horn. It was the signal to descend, probably so they could all confer since that was all but impossible in the air. Winged steeds needed too much space between them.

Khouryn sent Iron fluttering down toward an open field. The bat gave a squeal of annoyance. He somehow sensed that his rider meant to set down, and he didn’t like crawling awkwardly around with his head higher than his feet. But he still obeyed.

They touched down with a final flutter of leathery wings, then waited for everyone else to do the same. Prax was the next to land, with Medrash and Biri on his back.

Khouryn didn’t know why the paladin had chosen to ride the quicksilver dragon. Maybe he still feared treachery and wanted to be ideally placed to retaliate. The white-scaled wizard was perched behind him because she wasn’t an experienced flyer. No doubt she would have preferred to ride behind Balasar, but it would exhaust a bat to carry two riders over long distances.

When everyone was on the ground, Perra looked to Medrash. “You gave the signal,” she said.

“Yes,” Medrash replied. “I sensed something up ahead. By which I mean, Torm enabled me to sense it.”

“Here we go,” Balasar groaned.

To Khouryn’s surprise, Medrash smiled. “I could almost share your irritation because I used to hope for signs and portents, but they never turn out to be good news, do they?” His face and tone turned serious again. “Something bad is going to happen in Luthcheq very soon. If our goal is to avert a calamity, we need to get there as fast as possible.”

“Our goal is to avert the invasion of Tymanther,” Perra said, “and a disaster in Luthcheq might accomplish that. Still, I take your point.”

“We nearly are to Luthcheq,” Khouryn said. He’d paid attention when he and the dragonborn had marched in the opposite direction.

“I know a spell or two to help us travel faster,” Biri said.

“As do I,” said Prax. He shifted his wings, and they gleamed in the moonlight. “But I can’t cast mine on the entire company, and I imagine yours are the same.”

Perra scowled for a moment, pondering. Then she said, “Sir Medrash, you’ll go on ahead. It’s your premonition, after all. Lady Biri and Sir Praxasalandos will accompany you to speed you on your way. And if the magic can manage so many, Khouryn and Balasar will ride with you as well. The rest of us will catch up as soon as we can.”

Balasar gave Khouryn a look of mock disgust. “I knew we wouldn’t dodge this either,” he said.

*****

Cera kissed Aoth, then stepped far enough away from Jet to give him room to unfurl his wings. The griffon trotted with the uneven gait of his kind and then leaped upward. He and his master vanished into the night sky.

Cera took a long breath and turned toward the Keeper’s temple with its enormous sundial and colonnaded facade. Banners emblazoned with stylized sunsets hung from the cornices. She took that for a promising sign. Her order had chosen to observe the passing of its high priest whether Tchazzar liked it or not.

Then she stepped through the doorway and hands reached out to grab her from either side.

The assailant on her right had her arm gripped tightly, immobilizing her mace. But the one on her left didn’t achieve quite as firm a hold. She screamed, tore free, spun, and hit the man on the right in the teeth with her buckler, putting all her weight behind the blow.

The steel shield clanged. The man let go and reeled backward, and she saw he wore a badge in the shape of a wheel with five S-shaped spokes. A wyrmkeeper, then, or a warrior in their service.

His partner threw his arms around her from behind. She sensed she wouldn’t be able to break free again. But she did manage to shift sideways and jab the butt of the mace backward at groin level.

The man gasped and went rigid. She jabbed him again, and his arms jerked, loosening their hold. She yanked free, whirled, and smashed his nose with the mace. He fell back.

She glanced around, making sure neither man was about to come at her again, then looked to the interior of the temple. A fair number of men, women, and beasts were looking back at her.

It appeared that Tchazzar, Halonya, or someone else still loyal to the Red Dragon had also thought the sunlords might come out and fight. But unlike Cera, that person had moved to prevent it by dispatching wyrmkeepers, ruffians, and a pair of mastiff-sized drakes to round up Amaunator’s clergy and hold them prisoner in their own house of worship. It had likely been easy enough. The intruders had probably had surprise on their side, and while the sunlords all knew magic, including battle prayers, some had little experience in actual combat.

A wyrmkeeper snarled a sibilant word in what was almost certainly Draconic. The golden light of the lamps rippling across their olive green scales, the two drakes charged across the marble floor.

Cera called out to the Keeper, swept her mace over her head, and pointed it at the reptiles. A hedge of bright, whirling blades sprang into existence right in front of them. They were charging too rapidly to stop, and their own momentum flung them in. They tumbled out the other side, shredded and flopping in their death throes.