Текст книги "The Spectral Blaze"

Автор книги: Richard Lee Byers

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Tchazzar threw back his head and screamed.

So far, so good. But it felt as if there were an ocean of flame to drain, the remnants of what she’d given him and the vast reserves he’d produced for himself in the days since his restoration. She wasn’t sure she could handle the torrent rushing into the staff and her. But she had to. If it slipped from her control, it could explode across the battlefield and kill everyone except Tchazzar.

She cast some of the fire back into the Undying Pyre from which she and her weapon had drawn it in the first place. She sent part of it leaping up around her in a blue and gold pillar higher than the tallest spire in Luthcheq. Yet still there was more, shaking and drowning her at the same time.

She struggled against panic until something-a wizard’s intuition, perhaps-told her there was something else she could do with the fire, some alchemy it might accomplish and expend or cage itself thereby. Without trying to understand further-there was no time-she willed that magic into being. Heat blazed along her nerves and through her veins.

The staff screamed with the ecstasy of manipulating so much flame. It was still caterwauling when it exploded, and the shock flung Jhesrhi from brightness into darkness.

*****

Flying above all the foot soldiers and horsemen, Aoth could see exactly what ailed Alasklerbanbastos. Clad in their vestments and regalia, a collection of the city’s priests stood in the luminous haze of the power they were raising. The cloud grew brighter at the front, where it was transferring all that divine might to Cera. It burned from the head of the mace in her outstretched hand as a beam that was shoving Alasklerbanbastos backward, breaking away pieces of bone, and charring other bits to ash.

Unfortunately even that wasn’t enough to stop him. Breasting the tide of light, he plunged forward.

Discerning Aoth’s intent, Jet dived at the dracolich.

Aoth had already expended the greater part of his magic, but he blasted Alasklerbanbastos with flame on the way down. Then Jet slammed onto the naked vertebrae of the undead dragon’s neck.

The griffon instantly started clawing and biting. Thanks to their psychic link, Aoth felt both Jet’s fury and his frustration as the massive bones proved difficult to crack or even scratch. Rider and mount jerked as the lightning sizzling around their foe’s body jolted them.

Aoth flailed his arm and flung his shield away. He gripped his spear with both hands, charged it with destructive force, and began stabbing at the narrow gap between two vertebrae. He wanted to break whatever it was that held them together.

Alasklerbanbastos lurched to a halt. He tried to twist his head around to get at his attackers but couldn’t manage it. Jet had plunged down too close to the skull.

That didn’t mean the blue was helpless. Aoth listened for the start of an incantation and watched for any little shift that might signal Alasklerbanbastos’s intention to fling him and Jet loose with a snap of his neck or to crush them by rolling.

None of that happened. But suddenly Aoth realized that the little shocks that had stabbed into him and Jet had stopped. Yet the smell of an oncoming storm was stronger than ever.

“Fly!” he bellowed and Jet sprang into the air. An instant later, big lightning bolts flared down the length of Alasklerbanbastos’s skeleton, arcing and crackling from his skull to the end of his tail and back again.

Aoth and Jet had avoided that attack, but by returning to the air, they made it possible for the lich to reach them by other means. With more little pieces of his body crumbling and falling away as ash, Alasklerbanbastos whirled and struck.

Jet lashed his wings and dodged. The huge fangs snapped shut on empty air, showering sparks as they clashed together.

Jet tried to get out from in front of the dragon’s gnashing jaws and paralyzing stare. But Alasklerbanbastos matched him shift for shift, meanwhile snarling words of power.

Aoth stood up in the stirrups and drove the spear deep into Alasklerbanbastos’s brow, between the empty, glowing orbits and the bony spikes above. The undead blue jerked his head back and so tore his attacker’s weapon from his grip. Aoth cursed. But at least when the lich recoiled, he stumbled in the cadence of his conjuring, and it finally gave Jet the chance to swing out from in front of him.

As the griffon climbed, Aoth saw that they weren’t the only ones who’d engaged Alasklerbanbastos in close combat. Medrash, Balasar, and others were on the ground, hacking at the blue’s legs like woodsmen felling trees. Somewhat to Aoth’s surprise, neither the paladin nor his sword was glowing, nor were there any luminous runes floating around his body. Apparently he’d already expended every bit of mystical strength at his command.

But he must have been doing some damage even so because Alasklerbanbastos raised his foot high to stamp on him.

Aoth sent Jet diving back down onto the blue’s neck. Alasklerbanbastos staggered and Medrash scrambled out from under the creature’s talons.

Jet bit and tore at the dracolich. Aoth willed his safety harness to unbuckle, grabbed the warhammer strapped to the saddle to serve as a backup weapon, and clambered over the griffon’s rump. Without the reach his lost spear had provided, it was the only way to get at his foe.

A jerk of Alasklerbanbastos’s neck almost flung him off, but he crouched low and grabbed a projecting knob of bone. He stayed in that attitude as he began to pound. The impacts woke the enchantments bound in the hammer. The glyphs graven into the steel glowed brighter and brighter, and each blow hit harder than the one before it.

Finally somebody’s attack-Aoth had no idea whether it came from him, Jet, one of the dragonborn, Oraxes, or Cera and the priests-proved lethal. Alasklerbanbastos roared, convulsed, and shattered like a piece of porcelain.

That left Aoth with nothing underneath him. But he released the magic bound in a tattoo quickly enough to turn a plummet into a slower descent. Bits of bone clattering beneath him, he drifted down into a cloud of dust and ash.

Caught in the midst of it, Balasar coughed and spat. “This is why I hate fighting the undead,” he panted. “You always get filthy.”

*****

The twin strands of fire-the one streaming from Tchazzar to Jhesrhi and the one leaping from the wizard up into the sky-winked out at the same moment.

The sudden loss of all that brightness muddled Gaedynn’s sight. For a heartbeat, he imagined that the magic had stopped because Jhesrhi had killed or crippled the dragon. Then he saw that, although Tchazzar had shrunken into a wasted thing like the prisoner from the Shadowfell, with his gashed hide hanging loose on shriveled limbs, he was still on his feet. It was Jhesrhi who toppled with her body still wreathed in flame. Gaedynn couldn’t tell if that was a last, harmless manifestation of the magic she’d just worked or if she was in imminent danger of burning to death.

But he did see Tchazzar resume hobbling toward her, and he knew that if the red dragon reached her, she was going to die no matter what.

He sent Eider plunging to the ground. He tore at his safety straps and leaped off the griffon’s back. “Fly!” he shouted. Eider lashed her wings and sprang back into the air.

But Son-liin didn’t go along. She, too, swung herself off Eider’s back and snatched an arrow from her quiver.

His golden eyes burning as brightly as ever, Tchazzar glared down at the human and genasi who stood between him and the fallen wizard. “This is good,” he rumbled. “You’re another one I wanted to kill personally.”

“Shut up and die,” Gaedynn answered. He shot at the wyrm’s right eye. Son-liin loosed her shaft too.

Tchazzar tossed his head, and neither arrow hit an eye or any other particularly vulnerable spot, although Gaedynn’s did stick in the creature’s face. He reached for another of the few shafts left in his quiver, and the dragon advanced. His legs were so long that, even limping, he would come within reach of his foes with another stride or two.

Then Khouryn charged in on the dragon’s right. He bellowed, “East Rift!” and chopped at Tchazzar’s good foreleg with his axe. Armed with lances, Hasos and other warriors jabbed at the colossal creature’s belly. Meralaine and a white-scaled dragonborn hurled jagged blades of shadow and bursts of pale frost respectively.

Tchazzar reeled. But then, striking like a snake, hammering his wings up and down, swinging his tail like a flail, he scattered his new assailants and kept coming.

Shooting as fast as she could, the argent lines in her purple skin shining like white-hot metal, Son-liin pierced the red with arrows charged with lightning. Each balked him for maybe an instant but no longer.

Meanwhile, Gaedynn did something he almost never did. He took his time aiming.

He no longer had much hope of piercing an eye and the brain behind it. Tchazzar reflexively protected his eyes. But confident in his armor of scales, he sometimes disregarded attacks that mere human warriors aimed at other parts of his body.

That, Gaedynn resolved, was going to turn out to be a mistake because his recent dragon fighting had taught him where an artery lay close to the surface in the underside of a wyrm’s neck. He’d have to hit the spot exactly, and the loose, dangling skin would only make it more difficult. But if he did, even a living god should find the results unpleasant.

He loosed. The shaft hurtled from the bow. And maybe Tchazzar somehow sensed it was a genuine threat because he started to twist his neck. But he was too slow, and the arrow plunged deep into the mark.

Tchazzar stumbled then swayed. He sat back on his haunches, lifted his good forefoot, and swiped the arrow out of his flesh, but that only made things worse. Gouts of blood spurted rhythmically from the wound, and the red dragon collapsed onto his side.

But then he rolled halfway onto his belly and somehow contrived to drag himself forward. And as Gaedynn and Son-liin drew their bows, he flailed with his claws and forced them to scatter. Had they stood their ground, the stroke would have torn them apart.

Panting, Tchazzar visibly gathered his strength for one final heaving motion to drag himself within reach of Jhesrhi. Then Shala ran out of the darkness with a gory broadsword in her hand. She thrust it into the base of Tchazzar’s neck. The red wyrm shuddered, a tremor so violent that Gaedynn could feel it through the earth, then slumped motionless.

As soon as Gaedynn was sure Tchazzar was no longer a threat, he whirled and dashed to Jhesrhi. When he reached her, he didn’t know whether to feel horrified or relieved.

Fire still covered the unconscious woman from head to toe. It was hot enough that it took an effort of will to stand within a pace of her, and it had burned every thread of clothing away. But it wasn’t burning her. She didn’t have even a blister.

*****

Phicos scurried through the cellars, grabbing a scroll here, an onyx statuette of Tiamat there, a five-headed wand elsewhere, and stuffing them into his satchel. Thanks to an enchantment, the bag was bigger inside than out, but it still couldn’t hold everything he and his fellow wyrmkeepers had used to equip and sanctify their shrine. Even if there were time to gather more, only the holiest and most powerful artifacts could go.

A footstep scuffed on the floor behind him. Startled, he spun and snatched for the dagger on his hip. He relaxed when he saw that it was Esvele who’d come up behind him.

To venture into the streets, the priestess had traded her vestments for nondescript clothing, including a hood to shadow her thin, sallow face with its pentacle tattoo. On such a terrible day, it was no longer safe for Luthcheq’s few surviving wyrmkeepers to look like what they were.

“Did you find out about Ferzath?” Phicos asked.

“Yes,” Esvele said. “He’s dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Chelnadatilar-the gold-killed him.”

Phicos cursed because it was an offense against the Dark Lady for any other being to kill a chromatic dragon but also because he and Esvele had hoped the black might help them escape the city.

“Well-” he began and, with a clinking and clattering of beads and pendants, someone else staggered into the multicolored candlelight. It was Halonya, with the layers of her grotesque, trailing costume muddy and askew.

The “high priestess” gaped at the satchel in Phicos’s hand. “What are you doing?” she shrilled.

“Running,” he answered. “Before Shala Karanok’s guards show up to arrest us.”

“No! I order you to stay and defend the temple!”

“Sorry,” Phicos said. “While Tchazzar lived, we deferred to you because he wanted us to. But now he’s gone.”

“He isn’t! He’ll rise again because he’s a god!”

“No,” Phicos said, “he wasn’t. We went along with his pretensions too since it was necessary to serve him and, through him, our true deity. But the time for that has passed as well.”

“Blasphemer!” Halonya screamed.

Phicos drew breath to deny the change, but Esvele said, “You’re wasting time we don’t have debating with a lunatic.”

And plainly she was right. Phicos pulled his knife from its sheath, stepped, and thrust. Mouth and eyes gaping wide, Halonya toppled backward, the sharkskin hilt jutting from her chest.

“Dangerous as the city is,” Esvele said, “I’m glad we lingered long enough for that.”

EPILOGUE

7 E LEINT-5 M ARPENOTH, THE Y EAR OF THE AGELESS ONE

In Airspur, Son-liin had observed the pomp and ceremony with which a queen conducted her affairs on a normal day. Now, she reflected, Shala Karanok was demonstrating the stark efficiency with which a ruler could manage a crisis.

The war hero hadn’t returned to the War College. Instead, as soon as word spread that Tchazzar was dead and those who had fought for him started surrendering, she set up a command post right on the edge of the battlefield, with corpses sprawled and crumpled in plain view. And there she took the city in hand, hearing reports, giving orders, and dispatching messengers. She didn’t even bother moving indoors when the rain Astanalan-the emerald wyrm-called to douse the fires began to fall. As a result, she and the human lords and officers attending her had wet hair plastered to their heads.

Many of those folk were eager to speak, but Zan-akar Zeraez looked ready to burst. And finally Shala called on him, although, judging from her glower, she begrudged the time for that as well.

“Your Majesty,” the ambassador cried, “that dastard deliberately provoked a dragon into charging genasi troops!” He pivoted and pointed at Gaedynn.

The bowman looked bewildered and spread his hands. “I can’t imagine what you mean, my lord. I fled from a dragon, certainly. I fled from several before the night was through. But I was never trying to lead any of them anywhere.”

“Liar!” Zan-akar spit. “Your intentions were plain!”

Magnol laid his hand on his fellow genasi’s arm. “I don’t know how you’d prove that,” the burly firesoul said. “And the truth is we were going to have to fight. I could tell it even if you couldn’t. And it was good that we joined the battle sooner rather than later.” He looked at Shala. “I understand Lord Zan-akar’s… concerns, Majesty, but Akanul is willing to let the matter drop.”

“Thank you, High Lord,” Shala replied, “and thank you again for your help.”

At that point Hasos and a squad of warriors herded two dozen bedraggled, stumbling prisoners toward the throne. Each captive had his green-tattooed hands bound behind him.

“The arcanists, Majesty,” Hasos said. “Or at least all that we’ve rounded up so far.”

The war hero scowled at them and they cringed. “Take them to the dungeons,” she said. “Do whatever you have to do to keep them from using magic to escape.”

Jhesrhi strode forward from the spot where she, Gaedynn, Aoth, Oraxes, Meralaine, Son-liin, and other sellswords stood in a group. Unlike everyone else, she was dry.

As Son-liin understood it, that was because the wizard had undergone a transformation. Jhesrhi had become a creature of fire, like a red dragon or a salamander. Her magic somehow enabled her to contain the flame and heat, so she could wear clothing and other people could approach her without danger. But the raindrops dried as soon as they touched her.

“Majesty,” she said, “this isn’t fair. You declared amnesty for everyone who fought for Tchazzar.”

“And the witches will share in it,” Shala replied. “I’ll release them when order is restored. Although I am reinstating the old laws that regulated their conduct.”

“That’s not just either,” Jhesrhi said.

“We’ve just suffered through the harm they do when we don’t control them,” Shala snapped. “And I have too many urgent matters to address to argue the issue with you. The decision stands.”

As Hasos and the soldiers led the prisoners away, the mages glared at Oraxes and Meralaine. Traitors! their eyes screamed. Traitors!

The illusionist and the necromancer both flinched but looked dismayed for only a breath or two. It didn’t really matter that they no longer had a place in Luthcheq, even among the folk most Chessentans shunned. Like Son-liin, they’d found a new home among the Brotherhood.

It was Jhesrhi who, as she trudged back to her comrades, looked truly disconsolate. “So it really was all for nothing,” she sighed.

“The city just tore itself in two,” Gaedynn answered. “Shala figures folk need someone to blame if they’re to come together and be one people again. Since everyone already hates mages, they’ll do nicely.”

“It’s wrong,” Jhesrhi said.

“But nothing to do with you,” he said. “Not now that you’re back where you belong. What’s important is to leech the fire out of you, and we’ll figure out a way. Aoth can help. Meralaine and Oraxes, too, I expect.”

She simply looked at him for a moment. Then she said, “No. That isn’t what I want.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This change is the one thing that did work out. I’ve lived my life in dread of people… touching me. Now they can’t.”

“But that’s not ever how you wanted to be.”

“No, and the dissatisfaction only added to my misery because while my deformity was only in my mind, I couldn’t accept it. There were times when I all but drove myself crazy trying to overcome it.” She smiled a sad, little smile. “And drove you crazy while I was about it. But that’s over now. If I’m a freak inside and out, I have no choice but to learn to be content as I am. We finally have no choice but to be what we’ve always been and nothing more.”

“I won’t let you give up on yourself.”

“Damn you, you will never understand! It isn’t your choice to make!” She turned and stalked away.

You don’t need her, Son-liin thought. You need someone who will make you happy.

*****

As she peered at the ceiling, Cera had an abstracted frown on her face. Aoth reared up from the bed, twisted, dug his fingers into her ribs, and tickled. She tried to squirm away or to grip and immobilize his wrists but could manage neither. He didn’t relent until she ran out of wind, and her helpless chortles changed to little puffs.

“That was cruel,” she wheezed.

“How so?” he replied. “You never hesitate to attack me if we’ve made love and then I don’t look all dazed and stupid with bliss for the rest of the night.”

“That’s different,” she said and apparently considered that answer enough.

“So what were you brooding about?” he asked.

“Chessenta and High Imaskar,” she said. “Tymanther and Akanul. They still hate each other. Even without dragons manipulating them, they’ll end up fighting eventually. So what was the point of what we did? Why did the Keeper even care?”

“Well,” said Aoth, “when they do fight, at least they’ll do it because they choose to and not because dragons tricked them into it. They won’t wage war so often and savagely that they’ll lay waste to the East and open the door for the wyrms to conquer it all. In addition to which, we united Chessenta and Threskel and weakened the Church of Tiamat hereabouts. All that’s something, isn’t it?”

She smiled. “Spoken like a true champion of the Yellow Sun.”

He snorted. “I told you, I was never really working for Amaunator. I wanted to preserve the Brotherhood and restore our reputation and I did. Everybody knows about the victories we’ve won lately. I’ve got warriors from all the other mercenary companies in Luthcheq asking to join. I’ve got the gratitude of the crowned heads of Chessenta, Tymanther, Akanul, and High Imaskar. They’ll all bid for my services when they’re ready to go to war again.”

Cera smiled and shook her head, and one of her tousled, yellow curls flopped down on her forehead. “I know that’s not the only reason you did it.”

He took a breath. “You’re right, but it still wasn’t to please a god, except maybe indirectly. I understand that you couldn’t even think about giving up your responsibilities here when everything was turning to dung. But now that it’s not, will you come away with me when it’s time to move on?”

She just looked at him for a heartbeat. Then she said, “With Daelric dead, some people are saying I should be the sunlady of Chessenta.”

He sighed. “Oh.”

“But I haven’t said yes! I have to meditate and pray. Figure out what I want and what Amaunator wants.” She touched his cheek. “And whatever that turns out to be, we’re together here and now.”

He smiled. “We are at that.” He took hold of her hand and kissed her fingertips.

*****

Khouryn studied the crags of Dracowyr as he and his comrades spiraled down from above. As far as he could see, no enemy was lying in ambush, but that didn’t necessarily rule it out. According to Chelnadatilar and the gem wyrms, there was room for dozens of dragons and hundreds of their servants to lurk in the tunnels honeycombing the granite outcroppings around the central bowl, and he kept his eyes moving after Iron set him down on a ledge. He noticed Aoth, Jet, Gaedynn, Jhesrhi, Medrash, and Balasar doing the same.

But nothing lunged out and attacked them. Instead, a smell of smoke and combustion suffused the air, and a pair of luminous red eyes appeared in the mouth of one of the caves. “Some of you don’t belong here,” whispered a sibilant voice.

“They’re here because dragons invited them,” replied Astanalan. Even in the fading twilight, his flesh gleamed as if he truly were made of emerald. “Come out, Brimstone. We have matters to discuss.”

A wyrm with red flecks mottling his charcoal-colored scales stalked out onto a shelf of his own, where the stone behind him blocked the rays of the setting sun. A dragonborn walked beside him with a staff canted over her shoulder. Khouryn assumed she was Ananta, guardian of the earthmote.

Brimstone turned his head without haste, taking in the assortment of dragons, warriors, wizards, griffons, and other winged steeds looking back at him from various points around the natural amphitheater. His gaze settled on Aoth and Cera. “You’re the ones who trespassed on the conclave,” he said.

“Yes,” said Aoth.

“Then your deaths are worth a bonus,” Brimstone said. He looked at the other dragons. “It was skillful play to betray Alasklerbanbastos and Tchazzar and get these folk to help you kill them. But there are still plenty of points to be earned for slaughtering them and so protecting the game.”

Khouryn gripped his axe and looked around to see if any of the wyrms would take Brimstone up on his offer. None did. They just stared back at him.

“No?” the vampire asked. “No one? I realize you imagine the paladin has freed you from some sort of enchantment. But surely you remember the beauty of the game, the fascination. How alive you felt as you crafted your strategies.”

“We do,” Domborcojh rumbled. The sapphire dragon held his truncated foreleg bent, with the stump well off the ground. “But a poison can taste sweet.”

“We acknowledge you as one of the saviors of our kind,” Chelnadatilar said. “That and the sanctity of Dracowyr are the reasons we didn’t simply attack you.”

Brimstone grinned and two of his upper fangs grew longer. “And here I thought it was because you have no way of knowing what other secrets I brought back from the north.”

“Don’t posture,” rapped the gold. “We recognize that we owe you a debt. But even the benefactor who freed us from one madness can’t be allowed to afflict us with another.”

“In other words,” said Aoth, “end the game. Dissolve the spell you cast on the other players.”

“You may find,” Brimstone whispered, “that many of them will want to play regardless.”

“Then what a pity,” said Aoth, “that the contest can’t continue without its judge and scorekeeper, a role you’ll abandon and never take up again. Otherwise we’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

Brimstone chuckled. “Well. When you put it that way. Give me a moment.”

Hissing words of power, he scratched glyphs in the rock beneath his forefoot. Each flared red, white, blue, green, or somehow black, as he completed it. Khouryn watched the smoke drake even more intently than before because he had no idea what the creature was doing, although he took some reassurance from the fact that Jhesrhi, Aoth, and the other mages looked vigilant but not alarmed.

As Brimstone inscribed the final rune, power rushed outward like a ripple in a pond where someone had dropped a stone. Khouryn couldn’t see it or feel it in any normal way because, he supposed, it jolted his spirit and not his flesh. But it rocked him back even so.

“There,” Brimstone said. “Are you satisfied?”

Balasar turned to Medrash and asked, “Are we?”

“Yes,” the paladin said. “I felt Tiamat’s power wither.”

“Then I should think we’re done,” Brimstone said, “and I can feel that the sun has slipped below the horizon. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be off.”

“Give us one more moment,” said Aoth.

“Yes?”

“You don’t seem all that upset that we wrecked the game.”

“I rarely explain myself to lesser creatures,” Brimstone said. “But just for fun, let’s imagine that I wasn’t really the impartial arbiter of the tournament. Let’s suppose I was playing too, and my goal was to kill or at least weaken Tchazzar, Skuthosin, Gestanius, and Alasklerbanbastos.

“That would make sense, wouldn’t it? They were the most powerful wyrms in this part of the world. There wasn’t much chance that anyone else would achieve preeminence among dragons with them squatting on top of the heap.

“But now they’re not. And what if it’s because I manipulated my own chosen pawns into eliminating them without said pawns ever even suspecting they were working for me? Then I wouldn’t have any reason to feel disheartened, would I?”

“Is that what happened?” asked Aoth.

“Oh, no, of course not. As Chelnadatilar quite properly observed, I’m the savior of dragonkind, and how could a savior stoop to cheating? Watch out for Alasklerbanbastos, Captain. If you didn’t destroy his phylactery, he might return one day.” Brimstone leered. “Come to think of it, so might I, and perhaps on that night, you won’t have such a formidable assembly of allies standing ready to assist you.”

“Maybe I won’t need them,” Aoth replied.

Brimstone nodded to Ananta. “Good-bye, my lady. I hope I wasn’t too troublesome a guest.” He turned, paced back into the tunnel, rounded a bend, and disappeared.

“Well,” Gaedynn said, “that was interesting.”

“Don’t pay any heed to his insinuations or his threats either,” Medrash said. “He just wanted to salvage his pride and leech the joy from our victory. And it is a victory. We accomplished everything we set out to do.”

“Which means we can go home,” Balasar said.

“Then I guess this time really is farewell,” Khouryn said. He and the dragonborn climbed off their bats for a round of handshakes. “If you see them, give my best to our comrades from the Platinum Cadre.”

“Oh, we’ll see them,” Balasar said. “Torm told Medrash to appoint himself their protector.”

Medrash scowled as if his clan brother had revealed something embarrassing. “No, he didn’t. And ‘protector’ is an exaggeration. But as time passes, those who scorned the Cadre before may forget how well they fought against the giants. They may need someone who’s not a dragon worshiper to speak up for them.”

“Whereas I,” Balasar said, “intend to sink into a life of idleness and debauchery.” Biri snorted and he grinned. “I mean, in a married sort of way.”

There was a final round of good-byes. Then the dragonborn climbed back onto their bats, the one that had survived the battle against Tchazzar and the two they’d borrowed when Perra reached Luthcheq, and the animals fluttered up into the air.

Everyone else watched the Tymantherans vanish into the gloom. Then, her dark garments somehow all but invisible even to a dwarf’s eyes, her pale face floating disembodied like a ghost’s, Meralaine said, “It’s funny.”

“What is?” Oraxes asked.

“We never will know if Brimstone was really using us as his weapons. And we don’t know there aren’t other games of xorvintaal going on across the world right now. Even if Brimstone believes he rediscovered a secret that everyone else had lost, that doesn’t necessarily make it so. So ultimately, how can anybody ever know if he’s making his own choices for his own reasons or if he’s just a pawn on a lanceboard?”

Khouryn glowered at Oraxes. “For the Dancer’s sake, give the girl a kiss. Or a drink. Anything to shut her up.”