Whisper of Venom: Brotherhood of the Griffon, Book II

by Richard Lee Byers

  Of course, were Jhesrhi with him, the task might be easier too. They might not need to sneak into the enemy camp at all, because she could command the wind to carry the sounds of voices to her from far away. He wondered what she was doing back at Tchazzar’s court. Dancing? He grinned and tried to find the thought ridiculous.

  An owl hooted, and Selûne’s silvery light glinted on the iron blade of a plow. The implement looked undamaged and accordingly valuable by peasant standards. Perhaps some unlucky farmer had dropped it as he fled the advance of Threskel’s army.

  Five paces beyond the plow blade, Gaedynn spotted a small, round shape in the gloom ahead. At first glimpse he took it for a stone or shrub, but he froze and peered at it anyway. There was a triangular bump like a snake’s head sticking up from the rounded part. He decided the form was really a kobold sentry sitting on the ground with most of his body hidden behind a shield.

  Could Gaedynn swing right or left and avoid the kobold’s notice? Possibly, but what if that meant moving straight toward another? He suspected there was more than one sentry, and he had no way of knowing how far apart they were.

  He eased an arrow from his quiver, laid it on his bow, then stood, drew, loosed, and dropped back down all in a heartbeat.

  The shaft punched into the kobold’s crown. The reptile flopped onto his back without making a sound.

  So far, so good. Gaedynn just had to enter the camp, accomplish his objective, and sneak away again before anybody found the corpse.

  As he passed the body, he looked for a badge he could appropriate. He didn’t see anything, and didn’t want to linger by the body to search. But fortunately, even though Threskel was a poor realm—or a poor province in rebellion, if you took the traditional Chessentan point of view—Alasklerbanbastos had somehow found the coin to hire a fair number of mercenaries from overseas. As a result, his army consisted of a diverse lot of warriors who were mostly strangers to one another. If Tymora smiled, Gaedynn could blend in for at least a little while.

  He kept low until he was near the perimeter of the camp, near enough that a fellow might have wandered that far out simply to piss in peace. He peered, searching for anyone who might be looking right in his direction, then straightened up. Pretending to close the fastenings of his breeches, he sauntered on toward the tents and crackling fires.

  As he’d hoped, he didn’t attract any special notice even though most of the human soldiers lay snoring, either in their tents or wrapped in blankets under the open sky. It was mainly nocturnal creatures, swaggering pig-faced orcs and other goblinkin, who were awake.

  He glanced around and spotted eight orcs sitting around one of the smaller fires. They all wore tabards marked with the eye and crossbones emblem of the Red Spears, a mercenary company made up exclusively of their kind. More to the point, they were passing a jug around, with another, still corked, waiting for when the first one ran dry. Gaedynn judged that it gave him a plausible pretext to approach them.

  “Well met,” he said. “What would a fellow sellsword have to do to get a pull from that jug?”

  The orcs all turned to look at him. The biggest, who wore a necklace of severed ears and had apparently gouged out one of his own eyes in devotion to the war god Gruumsh, sneered. “Grow tusks,” he said.

  His companions laughed.

  “And the stones to go with them,” said another orc.

  The Red Spears laughed again.

  “Too bad,” said Gaedynn. “I was hoping the answer was contribute some kammarth to the party.” He made a show of peering about, making sure no officers were looking, then removed a little cloth bag from the pouch on his belt.

  Kammarth was a drug compounded of a rare woodland root and subterranean fungi. It quickened the reflexes and imparted a feeling of boundless energy. Combined with alcohol and natural orc belligerence, it all but guaranteed a brawl, but Gaedynn hoped to be gone before the hostilities erupted.

  “Let’s see,” said the one-eyed orc.

  Gaedynn tossed him the bag.

  The Red Spear caught it, untied the thong securing the mouth, stuck in a finger, and brought it out with sand-colored powder on the tip. He sucked it clean, then shuddered.

  “Not bad,” he said thickly. “All right, human, sit down if you’ve a mind to.”

  Two of the other orcs shifted apart. As Gaedynn claimed the space they’d made, One-Eye uncorked the fresh jug, poured the kammarth into it, then gave the vessel a shake.

  When it came around the circle, Gaedynn considered only pretending to drink. But he didn’t want to risk the orcs noticing. The jug turned out to contain hard cider likely pilfered from some farmhouse. It might have been all right if the kammarth hadn’t turned it bitter.

  As it was, he didn’t like the taste or the jolt that started his heart pounding and sweat seeping from his brow. But he tried to look as if he did.

  “So,” he said, “another stinking siege.”

  One of the orcs grunted.

  “I like the loot when you finally get inside,” Gaedynn continued. “But I hate the waiting.”

  One-Eye grinned. “I guess you haven’t heard.”

  Oraxes crouched in the turret peeking out at the sentry prowling up and down the wall walk. He and his companions had crowded into their hiding place before sunset, and he was hungry, cold, and generally uncomfortable. But mostly, though he was doing his best to conceal it, he was nervous.

  The Threskelans were sending something in the dark. Something that could make its way to the top of Soolabax’s walls, find lone guards, and rip them apart.

  It was only a minor problem in the overall context of the siege. But, in what Oraxes believed to be a rare instance of accord, Aoth and Lord Hasos both wanted it stopped. To that end, they’d decided to set a trap. The bait was one of the ablest combatants in the Brotherhood of the Griffon, who was nonetheless counting on Oraxes and the other men in the turret to rush to his aid.

  Oraxes suspected killing the killer, who-or whatever it was, was likely to prove considerably more difficult than using his magic for petty theft to survive in Luthcheq. But it was apt to be more interesting too.

  Suddenly the sentry cried out and hefted his spear. A bare instant later, something big, dark, and eight-legged swarmed over the parapet. It moved fast, in a swirl of shadows blacker than the night.

  The sentry jabbed with the spear, but it glanced off his attacker’s shoulder. The spider thing—which, Oraxes observed, had a horned head and clawed feet more closely resembling a lizard’s—spewed something that instantly congealed into strands, which wrapped around the warrior, sizzled, and smoked. He cried out and strained to break the bonds. The spider thing opened its slavering, steaming jaws to bite.

  Oraxes rattled off words of power, jerked his right hand through a jagged pass, then pointed. A serpent made of bright, crackling lightning leaped from his fingertip and flew. It plunged its fangs into the spider thing’s flank and vanished in a flash.

  For a moment, the creature convulsed. It gave the sentry time to struggle free of his gluey, blistering restraints.

  Meanwhile, the men-at-arms in the turret scrambled out onto the wall walk and discharged their crossbows. Then they drew their swords and advanced on the beast.

  Which didn’t seem to mind that it was facing half a dozen foes instead of one. In fact, it sprang to meet them. A toss of its head and horns hurled the first mercenary crashing back against the next in line.

  Oraxes looked through the turret window for a clear line to the spider thing. He couldn’t see one. The mercenaries were in the way.

  He scurried out onto the walkway. It didn’t help.

  He told himself that the soldiers might not need any more magical aid, but saw immediately that it wasn’t so. The same problem that was hindering him could easily prove to be their downfall. The wall walk was just too narrow for them all to assail the spider thing at once, and they were no match for it two and three at a time. It tore away mail and flesh with a snap of its jaws, s
pun to spit more acidic strands at the warrior it had first entangled, then whirled again to rip away another piece of the man it had just bitten, before the poor bastard had even finished falling down.

  Oraxes climbed up onto a merlon. It was a step in the right direction, but not good enough. He swallowed and moved to the outer edge of the stone block.

  He felt the possibility of losing his balance and falling like a dizzying thinness in the air. He also felt the ghostly stab of the arrows the enemy might loose at a man standing in such an exposed position. But he finally had a clear shot, so he stayed where he was and recited an incantation.

  Force flared from his outstretched hand. It whipped the spider thing’s head all the way down to crack against the wall walk like a blow from an invisible hammer. Before the creature could raise it and resume an aggressive posture, two warriors landed sword cuts.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough to finish the spider thing. It lunged again, horns stabbing, jaws snapping. So Oraxes raked it with a flare of yellow fire.

  It snarled and sprang back over the parapet. For an instant, Oraxes assumed it had decided to flee. Then he saw that it was actually scuttling horizontally along the wall faster than a man could sprint. Coming for the foe who was hurting it the worst.

  Fear turned Oraxes’s bowels to water, but he knew that if he froze or flinched, he’d die. He shouted words of power, and, as the thing turned to charge straight up at him, he thrust both arms down at it with all the strength in his body.

  Fist-sized hailstones materialized in midfall, clattered and thudded against the spider thing, and knocked it off the wall. It fell and smashed against the ground.

  Oraxes felt relief until he realized that his last, excessively forceful mystic gesture had shifted his center of gravity. He was toppling outward and about to plunge down right on top of the foe.

  A hand grabbed him by the belt and hauled him backward. Trembling, he climbed back down onto the wall walk.

  Once there, he and the sellsword who’d pulled him to safety looked down at the creature. It wasn’t moving, and the seething gloom that had shrouded it was gone. Which paradoxically meant that despite the distance, Oraxes could see it about as well as before.

  The sellsword panted. “That was good work.”

  The remark made Oraxes feel awkward, which was something he generally hated. But it wasn’t so bad this time. “We were all beating on it, I guess. We should get the men who are hurt to the healers.”

  “I know we’re intent on winning the war against Threskel,” the burly, white-haired merchant said, his breath scented with brandy. He’d evidently served in the navy when he was younger and, as was the Chessentan fashion, still wore his collection of gleaming medals stamped with anchors, sea serpents, and other nautical emblems looped around his neck. “But I ask you, have we forgotten all about the filthy pirates?”

  “I’m sure His Majesty hasn’t,” said Jhesrhi, marveling that the rich, self-important old man, who’d probably spent his whole long life despising arcanists, had sought her out for a conversation. “But it won’t do much good to protect our shipping and harbors if we lose the rest of the realm while we’re accomplishing it.”

  “That’s sound thinking as far as it goes,” the merchant said. “But still, if the most important trading vessels could travel in convoy with a proper escort, it would benefit Chessenta immensely.”

  Jhesrhi assumed that by “the most important trading vessels,” he meant the fleet he owned himself. Amused, she said, “If you care to request an audience, I imagine His Majesty will at least listen to your proposal.”

  The shipping magnate beamed as though her response all but guaranteed success. Who knew? In the oblique parlance favored by courtiers, maybe it did. “Thank you, lady. Rest assured I won’t forget.”

  Jhesrhi glanced out the casement at the western sky, gauging the position of Selûne and the glittering haze of tears that forever trailed the goddess across the firmament. With a twinge of reluctance that surprised her, she decided it was time to leave the party.

  She took a final look around. Tchazzar had commanded that mementoes of his past campaigns be placed on display in a hall in the War College to inspire martial ardor in his subjects, and the court was attending a private viewing. Some of the trophies were functional arms and armor, others a pavilion, captured banners, and obsolete maps.

  For the most part the lords and merchants paid little attention to them. They were too busy talking. To Tchazzar, resplendent in crimson and gold, if he chose to favor them with his attention. Or to Halonya, more gaudily robed than ever, her entourage of newly anointed priests hovering in attendance, as a second choice.

  Or, Jhesrhi suddenly wondered, to herself? Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t lacked for companionship over the course of the evening. Other courtiers loitered nearby, waiting to take the place of the elderly sea trader, and they looked rueful now that something in her demeanor told them she meant to go.

  For some reason that made her blush, which in turn annoyed her. “I may be back,” she said. “If I can.” She turned and strode away.

  She had to climb stairs to reach her apartments—which, despite the exertion involved, was a mark of Tchazzar’s favor. The finest and most coveted suites in the citadel were near the top, where the view looking out over Luthcheq was at its most spectacular. She nodded to the sentry the monarch had insisted on posting at her door, then went inside.

  A servant had already lit a fire in the hearth. She kneeled down and traced a star-shaped but asymmetrical figure on the floor. Her fingertip left lines of yellow phosphorescence.

  When the sigil was done, she rose and took her staff in both hands. The rod wasn’t alive, but it possessed a sort of quasi consciousness, and it always yearned to create and manipulate fire. She could feel its eagerness when it sensed that was her intent.

  She recited words of power while shifting the staff around. First she held it vertically to her right, then in the same attitude on her left, then horizontally over her head. Together with the floor, the three positions defined a rectangle. Or, as she imagined it, a window.

  She wasn’t adept at long-distance magical communication. Her talents lay elsewhere, and the same was true of Aoth. But they both possessed some mastery of fire. And since all fires were in a mystical sense the same fire—manifestations of the same cosmic principle and essential force—if they prearranged a time, they could sometimes use flame to talk to each other.

  A tapestry started to smoke, and she silently commanded it not to ignite. Then the blaze in the hearth leaped higher. Dimly at first, then more clearly, she spied Aoth and Gaedynn—or shrunken images of them—standing on the far side of the flames. Spear in hand, Aoth was standing and making magic in much the same fashion as herself. Looking relaxed and self-possessed as a cat, Gaedynn sprawled in a chair with a cup in his hand and one long leg thrown over the armrest.

  The archer leaned forward and peered. “Is that sweet Lady Firehair herself descended from the heavens to speak to us? Or have you acquired even more new finery?”

  Jhesrhi scowled. “These are wizard’s robes, not some useless gown.”

  “But not especially practical for the field either,” Gaedynn said. “Are those garnets or rubies in the flame pattern?”

  “Enough,” said Aoth, scowling. “I’m not holding this conduit open so you two can bicker. Jhes, I assume that if you haven’t left Luthcheq, neither has Tchazzar.”

  “No,” she said. It felt like an admission, which annoyed her because it was unfair. She couldn’t order the monarch around, nor could she leave until he gave permission.

  “What about the legions”—the Chessentan forces weren’t actually called that, but the Thayan way of speaking still occasionally colored Aoth’s speech—“in and around the city?”

  “They haven’t moved either.”

  “Curse it!” said Aoth. “Soolabax is already under siege. There’s fighting all along the border. I need reinforcements
, or a dragon of my own to counter the wyrms flying out of the north. Preferably both. What’s Tchazzar waiting on?”

  Jhesrhi knew Aoth’s frustration was justified. So perhaps it was her suspicion that he blamed her for the problem that made her want to defend the war hero. “He was gone a hundred years. He has a lot to sort out.”

  “None of which will matter a lump of dung if Threskel overruns us,” Gaedynn drawled. “Do you think the old snake’s afraid to fight?”

  She hesitated, then remembered how Tchazzar had destroyed the blight wyrm Sseelrigoth. “He’s a dragon,” she said.

  “Fine,” said Aoth, a trace of the blue light in his eyes gleaming through the wavering yellow haze of the fire. “He isn’t scared, just unwise. The point is this: Gaedynn did some spying and learned that more dragons are on their way here. Fortunately not too quickly. They’re herding some other creatures along, and not all of those can fly.

  “I don’t want them joining the siege,” the war-mage continued. “I want to break out, then ambush the procession before it gets here. I’ve picked out a good spot.”

  “That’s a bold plan,” she said. The notion of attacking flying creatures by surprise was always problematic, and if said creatures also possessed the cunning of dragons, it compounded the difficulties. But if anyone could do it, the Brotherhood could.

  “At this point,” said Aoth, “Luthcheq’s soldiers can’t get here in time to help. But Tchazzar can.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” she promised, “and tell you tomorrow night what he said.”

  “Good.” Aoth hesitated. “How’s Cera?” he asked gruffly. Behind him, Gaedynn grinned.

  “I haven’t seen her for a couple of days,” Jhesrhi said.