Khouryn supposed it made sense. Thanks to the mounted charge and the other tactics he’d introduced, he and Medrash had emerged from the recent battle as heroes. Unfortunately, so had the leaders and warriors of the Platinum Cadre, and people—including many of the cultists—had a tendency to see all the innovations as parts of a greater whole. Especially since Medrash and Patrin had both proclaimed themselves the exotic sort of champion called paladins and fought side by side to save the vanquisher.
Since there was drink involved, Khouryn didn’t mind the attention all that much. He suspected it bothered Medrash more, but the Daardendrien’s natural courtesy masked it.
Eventually they managed to make their escape. They found a twisting staircase and descended into the Catacombs.
Balasar stepped from a shadowy niche in the wall. “It took you long enough,” he said.
“Your fellow maniacs are dancing all over the Market Floor,” Medrash said. “It ties up traffic.” He and his clan brother clasped hands.
Khouryn peered down the corridor with its dim, infrequent lights. “You’re sure you weren’t followed?” he asked.
Medrash smiled slightly. “He wasn’t. If there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s sneak. He learned it breaking curfew and the rest of our elders’ rules.”
“Fair enough.” Khouryn raised his hand to his chin, then made himself lower it again. He’d never considered himself vain, at least not about his appearance, but since the venom had burned his beard he’d acquired the unconscious impulse to cover the sad remains. “So, why did you want to meet us?”
“Did someone look at the bag?” Balasar asked.
Medrash nodded. “The wizard couldn’t tell a thing.”
“I swear,” Balasar said, “the talisman that interfered with the horses was in there.”
“We believe you,” Khouryn said. “Why else did the riders regain control as soon as you stole it? Why, if the contents weren’t incriminating, did they turn to dust as soon as a hand other than Nala’s untied the cord? But we can’t prove anything.”
“So the Platinum Cadre are marvels,” said Medrash, “winning new converts by the day. They’ll march with the rest of us when we head back onto Black Ash Plain to break the tribal alliance once and for all. Where, for all we know, Nala will betray us again.”
Balasar grinned one of the fang-bearing grins so often unsettling to folk unaccustomed to dragonborn. “Maybe not.”
Medrash’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning what?”
“I haven’t reported everything I’ve done as a spy. It’s dangerous to write very much, and impossible to hide a big sheet of parchment behind a stone. So you don’t know about the glassblower and her sand.”
He proceeded to tell how he’d followed said glassblower and two other cultists into the Catacombs, where he’d run afoul of a flying creature and a group of reanimated corpses.
“Later,” he concluded, “I made my way back to the spot where the winged thing ambushed me. There was no sign of it, so maybe I actually did kill it. But when I pressed on, I couldn’t find where Raiann and the others had gone, or anyplace interesting.”
“Still,” Khouryn said, “I think you were close.” He reached to stroke his chin, then lowered his hand again. “I’ve never actually run into a creature like the one you met, but I think I know what it is—a portal drake. The kind of watchdog a dragon priestess might use to guard the approach to something important.”
“Which means Torm has given us one more chance to unmask Nala before the army marches,” Medrash said. He always stood tall, but now seemed to draw himself up straighter still. “Lead on, kinsman.”
Khouryn’s nerves felt taut as they prowled along. It had nothing to do with the darkness or the stone overhead and all around. To a dwarf, such an environment was arguably more congenial than clear skies and green fields. Nor was he worried about the portal drake. Even if it was still alive, the three of them could handle it.
He was concerned because by then, Nala almost certainly knew someone had fought the reptile and survived. She didn’t know it was Balasar, or she would have tried to murder the Daardendrien as, Khouryn suspected, she’d sent the devil on the balcony to dispose of him. But she’d likely emplaced something worse than a portal drake and zombies to keep her secrets safe.
“I can’t believe Patrin knows,” Medrash said abruptly. “It’s difficult to imagine how he could not know, being a champion of the dragon god and Nala’s lover too, but I can’t believe he understands the vileness.”
Khouryn grunted. “I think it’s the same with most of the cultists, like the ones who wanted us to join their revels. They’re just misguided. At least until Nala has enough time to really twist their heads around.”
“That’s true,” Medrash said. “We’re fighting to save them as much as anyone else.”
“A noble sentiment,” Balasar said. “But it won’t mean a fish’s toenail if we can’t figure out how to win. We’re coming up on the corner where the portal drake attacked me. I’ll give the signal Raiann gave. If the wretched beast is still alive, that may convince it to leave us alone.” He whistled three ascending notes, the sounds reverberating off the walls.
Afterward, they stalked around the right-angle bend without incident. The tunnel beyond looked no different than the dark, lonely ones they’d just traversed.
“Can one of you find the way from here?” Balasar asked.
“I can ask the Loyal Fury for a sign,” Medrash said.
“And I can be a dwarf,” said Khouryn. “Maybe Lady Luck will smile on one of us.” He pulled off one of his leather and steel gauntlets and ran his fingertips along the right wall as they moved ahead. The granite was smooth and cool to the touch.
He wasn’t as attuned to rock or as adept at stonework as the master quarrymen, miners, and builders of his people. From childhood it had been clear that the Soul Forger had created him for war, and he’d pursued his calling gladly. Yet even so, he fancied he had a fair chance at finding something that even a dragonborn as clever as Balasar had missed.
Behind him, Medrash murmured a prayer. The holy Power he was drawing down warmed the air and made Khouryn feel vibrantly healthy and alert. But it didn’t produce a disembodied hand with an outstretched finger, or any other supernatural signpost to point the way.
Fortunately, it didn’t need to.
Though Khouryn was currently running his hand along the right wall, he suddenly sensed something different about the left one. When he looked straight at it, he spotted the minute cracks that outlined a hidden door. Maybe he’d unconsciously noticed them before, or else some subtler instinct was at work.
“Here,” he said, pointing. “A door of sorts. I think it turns on a central pivot.” He pushed on the wall, but there wasn’t any give at all. “Or at least it should.”
“You mean it’s latched or locked,” Balasar said. He ran his hands over the surface. “I don’t feel a catch, a keyhole, or anything like that.”
“It could be magic,” Khouryn said. “We might need a talisman, or to speak a password.”
Balasar whistled the same three notes that had supposedly calmed the portal drake. They didn’t open the wall. “I guess we could bring a mage down here.”
“That may not be necessary,” said Medrash. He planted his hands on the door and chanted somewhat louder than he had before. Khouryn had a sense of fierce but beneficent Power gathering. Then, grunting, Medrash pushed with all his might. And for that one moment he evidently possessed a giant’s strength, because something crunched and then the section of wall scraped partway open.
If it had opened fully, the space would have been just large enough for a donkey cart to squeeze through. On the other side were stone sarcophagi like Balasar had described, though Khouryn judged that this was a larger and even more opulent tomb. Tapers burned in five-branched candelabra, the flames variously red, blue, white, green, or teardrops of shadow. The statue of a five-headed dragon reared in the gloom.
&
nbsp; As they crept inside, Balasar murmured, “I wonder why the family thought they needed a secret way in and out of their crypt. Or do you think the builders installed the door on the sly, so they could rob the dead?”
“I don’t know,” Khouryn said. “But I’ll tell you something I have figured out. Nala doesn’t really worship Bahamut. This is a shrine—”
He suddenly sensed motion on his left. He pivoted just in time to see Medrash cut at his head.
Aoth noticed that the faces around the crackling, smoky campfire all had one thing in common. They reflected a grinding weariness. Most of them looked worried too. But, included in the council of war simply because they were mages, Oraxes and Meralaine were surreptitiously trading smiles as they sat side by side on the ground.
Aoth supposed they were too ignorant to be scared. Or maybe youthful infatuation trumped mundane concerns. He wondered with a touch of wistfulness if he’d ever suffered from that particular delirium. Maybe not. His temperament had always been phlegmatic and pragmatic. Certainly, with a hundred years behind him, he was in no danger of experiencing it now.
Although Cera had showed him he could still like a woman well enough to do something reckless to help her. He smiled and hoped she was keeping out of trouble in Soolabax.
Then Tchazzar came striding up to the fire with a crimson cloak billowing out behind him and Jhesrhi in tow. Everyone rose to bow or salute as quickly as stiff, aching limbs would allow.
The war hero sat down on the campstool reserved for his use. He flicked a hand as though brushing away a gnat. “Sit. Report. You first, Captain.”
“I’ll let Shala and Hasos speak to the condition of the troops, Majesty. I spent most of the day with the scouts.”
“And?”
“Threskel has more companies in the field, essentially a whole other army we haven’t fought yet. They’re maneuvering to keep us from retreating to Soolabax and to keep reinforcements from reaching us.”
“How is that possible?” Shala asked, the firelight gleaming on the bits of steel trim on her masculine garments. “Threskel is a poor country. Even if Alasklerbanbastos spent every coin in his hoard, how can he field so many troops?”
“I can speculate,” said Aoth. “Ships supposedly in the service of High Imaskar have been raiding the Chessentan coast and Chessentan shipping for a while.”
Tchazzar gave a brusque nod. “The ships with dragonborn for crew.”
Aoth hesitated. Did Tchazzar truly not remember they had reason to doubt those particular pirates were actually Tymantherans? “That’s what the survivors claimed. At any rate, there was nothing to indicate the raiders were in league with Threskel. But it’s possible they’ve formed an alliance, and the pirate fleet landed troops to help Alasklerbanbastos fight us.”
“It would have been nice,” said Hasos, his head wrapped in bloody bandages, “if the great sellsword captain had noticed the existence of such an alliance before now.”
Aoth glowered, partly because he too had been privately wondering if he should somehow have predicted what was coming. “My lord, I remind you that I’m not one of His Majesty’s envoys or spies. I’m just a war leader. Now, if you want to cast blame because no one spotted the new troops before they reached their present positions … well, maybe there you have a point. But it’s hard to look everywhere at once, and we were busy keeping track of the three dragons and their minions.”
“Besides,” Gaedynn said, “this is your country, milord—give or take—and what useful intelligence have your own scouts ever gathered about anything? Perhaps you should pry their eyes open before you criticize the way my fellows do their jobs.”
Hasos sucked in a breath, no doubt for an angry retort, but Shala spoke first. “Captain, a moment ago you said, ‘ships supposedly in the service of High Imaskar.’ What did you mean by that?”
Grateful to her for interrupting the budding quarrel, Aoth said, “Ever since we learned the truth—well, part of it—about the Green Hand murders and the violence in Soolabax, we’ve known Chessenta has enemies who are using misdirection against us. And none of us scouts saw any Imaskari today. Even though, with that marbling in their skins and those black clothes they like, they’d be hard to miss.”
“Maybe they hired mercenaries and stayed home themselves,” Hasos said.
Aoth shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Whoever they are,” Tchazzar said, “they mean to kill us if they can. What is the state of the army?”
“One man in nine is either dead or unfit to fight,” Shala said. “The rest are exhausted. Even after scavenging what we could from the battlefield, we’re short on arrows. I recommend we not fight again if we can possibly avoid it. If we fall back toward the Sky Riders—”
Tchazzar’s glare was enough to cut her off. “We will not go any closer to the Sky Riders,” he growled.
Shala met his gaze for what seemed like a long time, then finally bowed her head. “As you command, Majesty.”
“Exactly,” said the living god, “as I command. Now, let’s talk about why we’re in this fix.”
With that, silence fell, broken only by the popping and snapping of the fire and the drone of the camp as a whole. Aoth was astonished—to say nothing of wary—that Tchazzar would redirect the discussion in such a way, and he imagined everyone else was too. He wondered if any good could possibly come of giving an honest response.
He was still wondering when Gaedynn spoke up.
“Since you ask, Majesty, I would have to say—with all respect—that even with the complication of Jaxanaedegor and the ghosts, the plan could still have worked. If you’d acted when the rest of us expected it.”
Tchazzar was as handsome a man as Aoth had ever seen, yet he contrived to smile a smile as ugly as the stained leer on a lich’s withered skull. “So it’s all my fault, is it? Do you all agree?” He rose. “Does each and every one of you agree?”
Khouryn jumped back, and the sword stroke fell short. He kept backpedaling as he snatched for the urgrosh strapped to his back.
As he did, he glimpsed another Medrash trading cuts with Balasar. Or at any rate one version of Balasar. A second one slashed right, left, and right again at the Medrash and Khouryn who were trying to flank him.
Obviously the guardians of Nala’s shrine could adopt the appearances of those they fought. Khouryn wished that Aoth and his truesight were there.
The false Medrash’s sword whirled in a backhand cut at his throat. He parried with his spiked axe, and steel clashed on steel. But at the same moment he felt something slice across his thigh.
He didn’t think the attack had cut deeply. His leather breeches had spared him the worst of it. But a sudden grogginess took hold of him. His eyelids drooped, and the urgrosh felt heavy in his hands. Insane as it was in the middle of a fight for his life, he had the feeling he was in danger of pitching over fast asleep.
He attacked furiously, recklessly, and his foe gave ground. With each swing he bellowed a war cry. The frantic onslaught woke him up, but also left him vulnerable to a sudden stop thrust. He managed to jerk to a halt with the false Medrash’s point a finger-length from his chest.
Another invisible attack slashed across his knee. Once again lethargy tried to smother him, and he bellowed it—or the worst of it—away. Perhaps to achieve the same end, Medrash and Balasar were shouting too, and the clamor echoed through the crypt.
Khouryn doubted he could endure too many more doses of sleep venom or too many more slices across the leg before one crippled him. But he had figured out his opponent’s favorite combination—cut high with the sword to draw a parry, then immediately slash low with whatever it was that did that.
Khouryn sidestepped the next sword stroke and simultaneously chopped with the urgrosh. Though he couldn’t see his target, battle sense guided his hands, and he felt his weapon bite.
The false Medrash gave a shrill hiss unlike any sound that Khouryn had ever heard emerge from the mouth of a genuine dragonborn. The mask of illusi
on fell away, revealing a reptilian creature skinny as a snake, its body mottled with an intricate pattern of black and purple scales. Covered in spines, the severed tip of its long tail twitched and coiled on the floor.
Then the guardian’s form rippled, and illusion veiled it once more. But not the same illusion. Khouryn was facing himself.
He assumed the trick was supposed to make him hesitate, but if so the reptile had misjudged him. He advanced, struck, and his foe didn’t hop back quickly enough. The axe ripped a gash in its torso.
Pain tore down Khouryn’s body as if he truly had cut his own flesh. It’s not real! he insisted to himself. And when the reptile hurled itself at him, he met it with another strike.
The urgrosh smashed through ribs and into its target’s vitals. The shock, or the echo of it, made Khouryn black out. When he roused, he was lying on the floor. So was his foe. Looking like its natural self again, it stared at him with lifeless, slit-pupiled eyes.
He judged that he’d only been unconscious for a heartbeat or two, because everyone else was still fighting. The other guardians had adopted the same tactic the dead one had used at the last. Medrash was dueling a copy of himself, and Balasar other Balasars.
And even there, where the fact that two were fighting one should have made it obvious, Khouryn found it difficult to pick out the real Balasar from one moment to the next. It was like there was more than simple illusion at work, like the guardians’ power gnawed at his mind to promote confusion and hysteria.
Refusing to succumb to them, he studied what was happening in front of him. Then he jumped up, rushed one of the Balasars, and chopped the base of its spine. Its shroud of illusion melted away as the creature crumpled. He started toward the other, and then instinct made him stop short. He felt the breeze as the reptile’s tail spikes whipped by in front of his face. He lunged into striking range and hacked one of its legs out from under it.
The real Balasar pounced to finish it off, and Khouryn rounded on the nearer Medrash. Who saw him coming and cried, “No! It’s me! Kill the other one!”
Whisper of Venom: Brotherhood of the Griffon, Book II Page 20