“By the Flame,” he whispered, “it’s Alasklerbanbastos.”
Up until then, he’d imagined he and Cera had a good chance of going undetected. But suddenly it seemed all too likely that an undead wyrm would notice the presence of discarnate spirits, and probably sooner rather than later.
It made Aoth glad that like every other ledge, the one he and Cera occupied had an opening to the tunnels. “We’re retreating into the caves,” he said. “And as soon as all the dragons are out of sight, you’re going to pray us back where we belong.”
She nodded. “If I can.”
They backed up. Given their status as living ghosts, they shouldn’t have needed to tiptoe or creep slowly, but they did anyway. With dragons and a dracolich only a stone’s throw away, Aoth found it impossible to do otherwise.
But even if his attempt at stealth made sense, it wasn’t good enough. On the other side of the bowl, on a shelf near the jagged top of the rim, a dragon sat up abruptly. A dull, mottled red with a black ridge on its spine—Aoth wondered exactly what sort of wyrm it was—peered at them with eyes like burning coals. Then it exhaled a cloud of vapor and cinders with a care that reminded him of a pipe smoker blowing a smoke ring.
The exhalation writhed and billowed, forming legs, batlike wings, and a serpentine head, neck, and tail. Becoming a vague, semitransparent parody of its creator. Then the smokelike image hurtled straight at Aoth and Cera. Startled, puzzled, other dragons and even the Great Bone Wyrm himself twisted to follow its flight.
Aoth had no doubt that the wyrm with the rust-colored scales realized the intruders were spirits, give or take, and had unleashed a magic capable of harming them. Kossuth grant that meant a living phantom could hurt it in return. “Run!” he rapped. He leveled his spear and spoke a word of power.
Wind howled out across the bowl. It didn’t disturb so much as a particle of dust existing solely in the material world, but it hurled the smoke-thing backward, frayed its limbs, and stretched them out of shape.
Still, the blast of air didn’t tear it apart as Aoth had hoped it would. The creature, if that was the right word for it, pulled itself more or less back into shape and kept coming.
As it set down on the ledge, he threw a pearly blast of frost at it. Seemingly unaffected, it sprang forward and lifted a forefoot to claw at him.
Then warm golden light shone from behind him. To him it felt pleasant, bracing, but the smoke-wyrm flinched.
“Its maker is undead,” Cera said, “so sunlight burns it as well.”
“I don’t care!” snapped Aoth. “I’ll hold it off. You concentrate on getting us back where we belong.”
The breath-entity plunged forward. Aoth sidestepped a silent snap of its hazy jaws, charged the point of his spear with destructive force, and thrust it into his adversary’s neck.
But had the attack actually hurt it? He couldn’t tell.
The smoke-thing clawed at him. He thought he jumped back far enough to avoid the raking stroke—although with the limits of the entity’s body so poorly defined, it was hard to be sure about that either. In any case, a chill stabbed through his body, weakening and numbing him. Tiny red droplets burst from his pores to drift up and merge with the swirl of sparks and vapor.
He drew strength from a tattoo to stave off feebleness, shouted words of evocation, and hurled a bright, twisting bolt of lightning into his foe. It faltered and shuddered, but only for an instant. Then it snapped at him again.
Aoth dodged. As, visible through the swirling vapor that was the breath-entity’s substance, Alasklerbanbastos crawled into the cave. Aoth looked into the seething blue light that was the dracolich’s gaze. Suddenly he couldn’t move, absolutely could not move, while the smoke-wyrm lunged—
Aoth shot upward through the solid rock above him and high into a sky flashing from dark to light and back again. He looked for Cera and found her to his right, just beyond arm’s reach. It occurred to him he ought to try to take his bearings, but it was too late. They were already hurtling through time and space.
He returned to his physical form with a sort of mental jolt, like he’d jumped out of a tree. For an instant, solid flesh and bone felt heavy as lead. He stumbled to the bench, shoved the box off onto the grass, and flopped down.
Looking as exhausted as he felt, Cera sank down beside him. “Are you all right?” she panted.
He realized he was winded too, even though his body hadn’t done anything. He pulled off his gauntlets and saw his hands looked the same as always. At least, unlike his spirit form, the physical Aoth hadn’t bled.
“The breath-thing hurt me a little,” he said, “but now that we’re back, I imagine I’ll shake it off. I’m just glad it didn’t take you any longer to end the spell.”
“So am I.” She closed her eyes, whispered something, and kissed the flaking yellow cover of her book.
“Do you have any idea where we were, or when?”
“No.”
“I didn’t recognize anything either. Well, nothing but the Great Bone Wyrm. I mean, I assumed it was him. Damn it! Why didn’t we stay where we wanted to be?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe the dragonborn’s defenses did interfere. Maybe I didn’t perform the magic properly. Or …”
“Go on.”
“Maybe I really had no business trying it at all. Perhaps the circumstances didn’t warrant it. One thing’s certain—I broke the rules of my order by doing it without asking Daelric’s permission.”
“Because you knew he wouldn’t give it.”
“Well … yes. And I believed my judgment in the matter was better than his. Perhaps what we just experienced was the Keeper rebuking my arrogance.”
“It seems like an odd sort of punishment. Why not just send an angel to give you a spanking?”
That tugged a slight smile out of her. “I don’t know.”
“Is it possible that Amaunator, or whichever of his exarchs took control of the magic, meant to help you? That he showed us what he thought we ought to see, as opposed to what we believed was important?”
Cera frowned. “I suppose it’s conceivable. But if so, why was that more important?”
“I don’t know. Finding the reptiles who want to murder me strikes me as extremely important. But come to think of it, there’s even another possibility.”
“What?”
“You were trying to cast what’s essentially an enchantment of seeing. My eyes already carry a magic of seeing that, even a century after the Spellplague, no one truly understands. Perhaps the two powers combined in a way we couldn’t anticipate.”
She shrugged. “I guess it’s possible.”
“There’s doubt in your voice. But either of my ideas is more plausible than the notion that your god is angry with you.”
“I hope you’re right. More than once I’ve heard it whispered that I’m nowhere near as solemn and dignified as a sunlady ought to be. But I do love Amaunator and try to walk in his light.”
“Of course you do. I feel the strength of the bond you share every time you invoke his power.”
She smiled. “As if a devil-worshiping Thayan would recognize holiness when he saw it.”
He grinned back. “Well, you’ve got me there. Do you think we dare try that particular magic a second time?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. We don’t have a second set of statues.”
“Next you’re going to tell me they were worth thousands and thousands of trade bars, and you expect me to pay for them too.”
“Maybe I can think of a way for you to work off the debt.” Using her fingertip, she traced the shape of the tattoo on the back of his hand.
E
I
G
H
T
7–8 MIRTUL, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
The night darkened. Or at least it seemed to. Jhesrhi assumed that in reality, the enchantment she’d cast to enable Gaedynn and herself to see on the moonless night was wearing off
. She’d have to renew it soon.
Fortunately, that shouldn’t pose a problem. Though she still regretted the loss of the staff the wyrmkeeper had taken from her in Mourktar, the new one was a worthy tool in its own right, and her bond with it grew ever stronger. The red alloy rings were even turning yellow, apparently just because she was used to carrying a staff trimmed with gold.
“Do you know,” Gaedynn murmured, “I have to give credit where it’s due. You said Jaxanaedegor wouldn’t bother sending a search party into the Sky Riders, and we haven’t seen any sign of one.”
“Don’t start,” Jhesrhi said.
“On the other hand, I have to give credit to the dragon too. He didn’t send anyone because he believed there was nothing to find. And again, evidently—”
“It’s the last night of the new moon,” Jhesrhi said, gritting her teeth. “If we don’t find anything, we’ll head back to Soolabax in the morning. Meanwhile, stop complaining and look.”
“I am looking. I can do that and complain at the same time.”
But he fell silent again as they prowled through the pines that grew along the ridge. The horses, lucky beasts that they were, were presumably sleeping back in camp. Even with his sight sharpened, Gaedynn didn’t want to ride through the dark for fear he’d miss signs he would have noticed on foot.
A long, echoing, inhuman cry sounded from somewhere to the west. As one, Jhesrhi and Gaedynn pivoted in that direction.
“On the other hand …,” the archer said.
Her heart thumping faster, Jhesrhi took a breath. “I can’t tell if the creature making that noise is a dragon. I certainly can’t tell if it’s Tchazzar. But we’ve found the reason for the stories.”
“Come close to finding it, anyway. Let’s hope it keeps wailing to draw us in.”
It did, and its call reminded her of wounded men crying out in agony on the battlefield. As, stalking up one hillside and down the next, she and her companion approached the source, her staff warmed in her grip. The sensation made her even more eager.
Because the arcanist who’d fashioned the implement had been particularly interested in fire magic. And now it was reacting to the presence of a mighty blaze—or, given the absence of any telltale glow, something capable of producing one. Like a red dragon.
A hand grabbed her forearm, arresting her progress, startling her, and bringing the usual reflexive spasm of loathing.
“Sorry,” said Gaedynn, releasing her again, “but you have to watch where you’re stepping.”
She looked down at the patches of pale, whorled fungus in front of her. He was right. If she’d stepped on them, the spores would have stuck to her legs, producing painful pustules or worse.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but this is about the most unpleasant bit of the Sky Riders we’ve wandered into so far.” He waved a hand, inviting her to inspect the gnarled, blighted-looking trees and thickets.
“I noticed,” she lied.
“Was it poisoned by the same power that’s making our friend caterwaul?”
“I can’t tell. Maybe.”
“Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
They stalked on. Over hills and through hollows where noisome fungus flourished and other vegetation didn’t. The leaves on the trees were sparse and spotted, and bark had flaked away to reveal pockets of slimy rot in the sapwood.
Shadows shifted at the edges of her vision, settling when she turned her head to look at them directly. She’d seen the same phenomenon in Thay, on battlefields where necromancers had conjured. The darkness was struggling to give shape to something vile. It just wasn’t strong enough.
Her staff went from warm to hot until its touch would have blistered anyone else. Another cry sounded, and she could tell the source was close. Maybe just over the next rise. She and Gaedynn climbed to the crest of the hill and, lying on their stomachs, peeked over.
A dragon sprawled on the barren slope below. It was huger even than Jaxanaedegor, but also profoundly emaciated, although lack of food didn’t seem to be the problem. A scatter of bones suggested that it ate from time to time.
Or, more precisely, that someone fed it. For staples of some black substance clasped its legs and tail to the ground.
“It looks sick,” Gaedynn whispered, “but even so, I’m surprised those restraints can hold it.”
“They’re enchanted.” She could feel the magic inside them like an itch on her face. “Still, it surprises me too.”
“Have we seen enough to be sure that against all probability, you and Lord Nicos were right, and that’s Tchazzar?”
“We’ve seen all that we safely can, that’s for certain. Let’s get out of here.”
They started to crawl backward. Then something snapped and rustled overhead. They froze.
A wyrm almost as big as the prisoner plunged down to land beside it. Short horns encrusted the newcomer’s head, and rows of spines ran down the length of its body. The membranes connecting them looked puny and awkward compared to the wings of any dragon Jhesrhi had seen before, but she assumed that somehow they must suffice to carry it through the air.
It moved in what appeared to be a haze of grit, and as soon as it landed, several dust devils swirled up from the ground around its feet. Its eyes were pits of shadow with a sort of oily shimmer in the depths.
The prisoner raised its head and tried to spit fire at the newcomer, but the attack was too feeble even to reach its target. The brief, wavering glow revealed that the scales of both dragons were dull red.
The newcomer snarled. Jhesrhi thought she heard a kind of laughter in the noise. Then the wyrm snatched with a forefoot, caught the prisoner’s serpentine neck just behind the skull, slammed its head to the ground, and held it there.
The master wyrm stared down at the other. The prisoner withered a little more. Meanwhile, branches on the trees adjacent to the bare earth dropped their sickly leaves like it was autumn instead of spring. Blades of grass turned brown and dry.
And Jhesrhi felt a sudden weakness and gut-twisting sickness. She gripped the staff and recited a charm of protection to shield Gaedynn and herself, and the sensation passed.
“Thanks,” he gasped. “When we got out of Thay, I hoped we were done with vampires. Now I can’t empty my bladder without hitting some kind of vampire dragon.”
She wished he’d shut up. The terrible thing below them might hear even a whisper. Although it didn’t appear to; maybe it was too intent on its meal.
It seemed to go on feeding for a long time, while its victim shuddered and shriveled, and newly dead branches cracked under their own weight. At last it turned away. That would have been a good time for the prisoner to attempt another attack, but it was evidently too drained.
The life-drinker trotted a few steps, lashed its peculiar wings, and sprang into the air. In flight, it wobbled in a way that made it look unsteady, like it might plummet at any moment. But it gained altitude almost as quickly as a griffon.
Jhesrhi waited for it to disappear, and for one hundred heartbeats afterward. Then she turned to Gaedynn. “Now?”
“Now,” he said. “Let me lead, and stay under the trees as much as you can.”
Where it’s darkest, she thought, but he was right. The shadows’ impotent yearning for mayhem was a paltry threat compared to what was soaring on the night wind.
She and Gaedynn started down the hill. And ran straight into what was climbing up the other way.
The people, if that was what they were, had scarred, tattooed gray skin, dark braided hair, and eyes a featureless black like the dragon that had just flown away. Their garments were black as a crow as well, and the gloom seemed thicker in their vicinity than elsewhere, even though there was nothing hanging over them to cast a shadow. They weren’t walking like they were trying to be especially quiet, but they were anyway, and Jhesrhi sensed that silence came as naturally to them as to a cat.
“Easy, friends,” Gaedynn
said. “We’re just peaceful travelers.”
The gray people appeared to laugh, although Jhesrhi couldn’t actually hear it. The darkness around them thickened, and the two men in front pulled off the chains wrapped around their waists. The links didn’t rattle. The warriors vanished and instantly reappeared almost within striking distance of Jhesrhi and Gaedynn. Preparing to attack, they spun their weapons.
Then arrows pierced their chests and they stumbled backward. As Gaedynn spoke his placatory words, he’d also gotten ready to shoot, and neither the chainfighters’ sudden shift through space nor their shroud of gloom had thrown off his aim.
The rest of the gray people—Jhesrhi still couldn’t make out exactly how many that was, but she thought at least half a dozen—howled in fury. She heard them at last, although the sound was faint and thin, like it was coming from miles away. They glided and flickered forward, while also spreading out to flank their foes.
Gaedynn and Jhesrhi gave ground. His hands were a blur as he loosed arrow after arrow. She shifted her staff into a central guard, and a rhyme to conjure fire leaped into her mind.
That was the influence of the staff. Though it was neither alive nor sentient, in its own way it yearned for the element to which it was most attuned.
But it would have to go unsatisfied at the moment. Flame in the dark could catch the eye of the wyrm that had flown away, or of something else she didn’t want to meet. She rattled off a different incantation and made a stabbing motion with the staff, and a dozen small knives appeared in the air around two of the chainfighters. They too stabbed. One gray warrior fell. The other scrambled clear of the effect, but with blood staining part of his shirt a different shade of black.
Jhesrhi hesitated, trying to decided whether to finish off the wounded man or attack someone else. In that instant, she sensed motion on her left, something different from the fast but steady rhythm of Gaedynn’s shooting.
The Captive Flame: Brotherhood of the Griffon • Book 1 Page 24