Balasar abruptly remembered that the long-necked reptiles beside the Methmere had possessed breath weapons. He sidestepped, held his own breath, and lifted his buckler to cover his face.
A jet of vapor washed over him. His eyes burned and filled with tears. But in spite of them, and the flickering, he could just make out the troglodyte rushing him. He ducked a stroke of its flint-studded war club and thrust his point up under its ribs. It collapsed and Biri cried out behind him.
He turned. Two troglodytes had grabbed her by the arms, a tactic that deprived her of the use of any spell requiring mystical gestures, and were wrestling her toward the edge of the drop. She started shouting words of power, but Balasar doubted she could finish the incantation in the moment she had left.
He jerked his sword out of the creature he’d just killed, rushed Biri’s assailants, and slashed the throat of the one on the left. The other let go of her and pounced at him with raking claws and snapping fangs. He jumped out of the way, killed the thing with a cut to the spine, and only then recognized that he himself was teetering on the very lip of the drop. The wretched flickering was still playing tricks on his eyes. He heaved himself forward and banged down on his knees. It hurt but it was preferable to plunging to his death.
The ambient light belatedly grew brighter and steadier. Several paces away, Medrash had set the blade of his sword shining with Torm’s power. Peering around, Balasar was relieved to see that only a couple of his comrades were down. No doubt that was because there actually weren’t all that many quicksilver troglodytes, and those there were had only primitive weapons. Apparently they’d counted on their breath attacks and the explorers’ blindness to even the odds.
Well, you lose that wager, Balasar thought. He chose another foe, but before he could reach it, Khouryn stepped up behind the creature and chopped its head half off. Balasar oriented on still another just in time to watch Medrash drive his sword into its torso.
And that was the end of that. As the last troglodyte’s legs crumpled beneath it, Nellis and Jemleh clambered up into the chamber.
“Perfect timing,” Balasar said.
Nellis, who’d gotten used to his sense of humor, smiled and made an obscene gesture in response. Jemleh glowered. Biri giggled.
Peering down the passage that stretched away before them, Khouryn flung some of the gore from his axe with a snap of his wrist. “I’m now reasonably sure this is the right path,” he said. “Does anyone disagree?”
“It remains to be seen,” Jemleh said. “But I admit, the troglodytes were sentries. And you don’t post sentries where there’s nothing to protect.”
“And if I’m not mistaken,” Medrash said, “these sentries were akin to some of the creatures that served Skuthosin. The ones the giant shamans summoned with their talismans.”
Khouryn took a rag from the pouch on his belt and wiped more blood from his weapon. “We should rig some ropes,” he said, “so the rest of the company can climb up here without it taking all-look!”
Balasar peered down the new tunnel and felt a stab of alarm when he saw the dragon glaring back at him.
Crouching at the edge of the light, it gleamed like the quicksilver troglodytes. Its head had a pair of short horns curling forward under the jaws and two longer ones curving back behind the eyes. Its body was serpent-slim, and Balasar could just make out the lashing tail all but concealed behind its wings.
He and his fellow warriors came on guard. The wizards lifted their arcane implements and started chanting, at which point the wyrm fled-but not by turning and retreating up the tunnel. Instead, it dissolved and flowed sideways, pouring itself through a narrow crack in the granite. It took only a heartbeat, and then it was gone. The mages’ voices trailed off, leaving their incantations unfinished. The forces that had been accumulating around them dissipated in crackling showers of sparks.
“The real guardian of the way,” Biri said.
“And we scared it off,” said Nellis.
Balasar grinned. “Don’t feel too smug. I imagine we’ll see it again. It just means to fight us at a place and moment of its choosing.”
Still, he shared the wizard’s good humor because he and his comrades clearly had found Gestanius’s secret path, and the dragonborn had contended with wyrms before.
But when everyone had made the climb into the new cave and the expedition was arranging itself in the proper marching order, he noticed that not all of his comrades looked eager. Vishva had a clenched, dour set to her jaw.
That wouldn’t do. She was one of the mainstays of the Cadre, and if she lost her nerve, it might well prove contagious.
Balasar sauntered over to her and murmured, “Buck up. We beat Skuthosin, didn’t we?”
The cultist glowered. “I’m not afraid.”
“Then what is wrong?”
“From the description, the creature you saw down the tunnel was a quicksilver dragon. A metallic.”
Balasar shrugged. “If you say so.”
“Skuthosin and the dragons who served him were chromatics,” Vishva said. “Children of Tiamat. It made perfect sense that they were doing evil. But metallics are the children of Bahamut. So why is this one helping Gestanius?”
“Did you ever listen to the old stories and songs?” Balasar replied. “Our ancestors had all sorts of wyrms eating and enslaving them in the world that was.”
“I know that!” Vishva snapped. “I’m not an idiot. But those dragons didn’t know the gods. The ones here do. It ought to make a difference.”
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 tatt
oo 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 t
orrents 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.
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