The Captive Flame botg-1

by Richard Lee Byers

  “I wish we still had that healing balm, but really, the knife just scratched me. The brigandine stopped the worst of it.” He pulled the arrows from his quiver. He’d used a lot of them during the fight, and the pressure of the dark coils and rolling around on the ground had broken some of the rest. “Curse it! What were these bastards, anyway? Shades? Shadar-kai?”

  “They were a long way from home if they were.” The Empire of Netheril, which bred men infused with the essence of darkness, lay two thousand miles to the west.

  “True.” He grinned. “I just think it would be nice to have Netherese running around our part of the world. Because things aren’t nearly complicated enough already.”

  “We should move out. In case something saw the flames.”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Farther down the hill, they found yokes with buckets of water attached, and the carcasses of slaughtered deer. Jhesrhi inferred that the gray folk had dropped them when they decided to attack.

  “Our foes were Tchazzar’s jailers,” she said, “charged with bringing him food and drink. They cleared out when the other dragon came to feed, for fear it would leech the strength out of them as well. When we met them, they were coming back.”

  “Maybe.” Squatting beside it, Gaedynn was clearly more interested in examining one of the deer. “Look at this!”

  She walked over and stood beside him. “What?”

  He pointed. “Look at the striped pattern on the hindquarters.” He indicated one of the legs. “And here-no dew claw. During your time in Threskel, did you ever see a doe like this?”

  “I don’t know. The elemental magi weren’t like your elves. They didn’t devote any time to teaching me woodcraft.”

  “Well, I know I haven’t seen one before. It’s… peculiar.”

  “You can ponder the mystery of its existence when we’re well away from here.”

  He smiled. “I suppose that might be the prudent thing to do.”

  They hurried onward, while the pain in the front and sides of her neck waxed and waned. Until Gaedynn finally halted and, turning in a complete circle, peered around.

  “What is it?” Jhesrhi whispered.

  “I think I must be lost,” he replied.

  Jhesrhi wondered if he was making another poorly timed and pointless joke. “You don’t get lost.”

  “No. I don’t. But we’ve walked far enough that we should be clear of the poisoned area. Yet we’re not.”

  The hill rising in front of them wasn’t as utterly and obviously blighted as the dragon captive’s immediate vicinity. But when she looked closely, it was obviously tainted. Shadows seethed when they thought no one was looking. Twisted oaks sweated a pale, viscous fluid that reminded her of pus.

  “And I can’t get my bearings,” Gaedynn continued. “The shape of the hills is off.”

  “Keep walking,” Jhesrhi said. “We’ll come to something we recognize.”

  They didn’t, though, and in time she began to suspect what had happened. But she had an irrational dread that somehow, saying it aloud would make it true. So she waited until what she supposed she could still call dawn. When the sky lightened from black to slate gray, but nothing recognizable as a sun rose to brighten it any further.

  *****

  Columns of smoke ascended from behind a rise. Just the thought that someone might be cooking breakfast there made Khouryn’s mouth water and his belly growl.

  Following their disastrous clash with the ash giants, he and the dragonborn survivors had tried to head east. Medrash wanted to tell the Lance Defenders about the threat of the lizard-bears, which apparently the enemy had never used before. But unfortunately, the riders kept spotting other giant war bands blocking the way to the Dustroad. Sometimes the giants spotted them too, and then they had to flee. Meanwhile their rations ran short, and only occasionally did they find potable water, or grass for their steeds. Two of the animals went lame.

  “Fried ham,” said Balasar. “If your friend Torm truly takes a benevolent interest in the affairs of mortals, then let him prove it by providing fried ham.”

  Medrash gave him a sour look. “The Loyal Fury has nothing to prove to you or anyone. And you might want to remember that giants have been known to build fires of their own.”

  “And that smoke sometimes rises from holes in the ground in this foul kingdom,” Khouryn said. “Still, that does look like it’s coming from somebody’s campfires. Let’s find out.” He pointed to the left. “If we swing that way, we can come up on high ground overlooking whatever there is to see. And if it’s giants, we’ll be far enough away to disappear before they can bother us.”

  Medrash nodded. “Onward.”

  On the way up, rocks slid and clattered under the hooves of Khouryn’s mare, and for a moment he feared the tired beast was going to fall. She didn’t, though. She regained her footing and carried him up onto the ridge with his companions.

  Where the view was well worth seeing. Although tiny with distance, the figures in the camp below were plainly dragonborn. He felt a surge of elation, which faded when he noticed his companions didn’t appear to share it.

  Their attitude was a peculiar mix of emotions. Like him, they were relieved. But also surprised, and to varying degrees disgusted.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  For a moment no one replied, as if the answer was shameful. Then Medrash said, “Look at the banner.”

  Khouryn did. The black flag had a silvery squiggle on it. Trying to make out what it represented, he squinted, then blinked in surprise. “Is that a dragon?”

  “Yes,” the paladin said. “And as you’ve heard, dragons are the tyrants who held our ancestors as slaves. Yet there are those among us who preach that we’re kin to wyrms and that we should celebrate that kinship and forget the ancient debt of blood.”

  Khouryn decided he’d just learned whom dragonborn spat at in the street.

  “Or to put it another way,” Balasar said, “they fixated on one of the gods of this new world-Bahamut, is that what they call him?-the same way you did.”

  Medrash glared. “If anyone but a clan brother made that comparison, I’d challenge him.”

  “Then it’s lucky for you I am one.”

  “So anyway,” Khouryn said, “these… cultists?”

  “They call themselves the Platinum Cadre,” Balasar said.

  “So anyway, this Platinum Cadre apparently fielded its own company to fight the ash giants. And we need help. So I assume we’re going down there, even if you find their creed objectionable.”

  Medrash sighed. “We have no choice.” He urged his horse down the slope that led to the camp. Everyone else followed.

  Khouryn rode beside Balasar. “He’s really not happy, is he?”

  “No,” Balasar replied. “When the giants defeated us and killed so many, he put the blame on himself. And needing to ask dragon-lovers for help? That’s yet another disgrace. You can see that everybody else feels it too, although not as keenly. The rest of us are a little less fanatical about our honor and a little more interested in getting off Black Ash Plain alive.”

  The dragonborn of the Platinum Cadre gathered to watch the riders approach. The majority wore mismatched bits of armor or none at all. Some carried axes intended for chopping wood and spears designed for hunting boar. A number had only round little scars where their piercings should have been.

  They all stared, and Khouryn discerned that a good deal of their curiosity focused on himself. But he didn’t sense anything hostile about it.

  Two dragonborn stepped forth from the crowd to greet the newcomers.

  The one on the left was a big warrior with crimson scales, and scars where, at some point in the past, a blade had hacked away some of the frills around his left cheek and ear. Three silver chains dangled from the studs pierced into his lower jaw like a sparse, clinking excuse for a beard. Judging from the expert workmanship of his plate, Khouryn thought it likely that one of his own people’s arm
orers had made it. The deep blue surcoat bore the platinum-colored head of a dragon.

  The one on the right was a female. Her brown hide was freckled with gold, with a pale, puckered spot on the left side of her brow ridge to show where she’d once carried her piercing. She wore a dark purple robe embroidered with silvery sigils and held the shadow-wood staff of a spellcaster. Unlike most dragonborn of either gender, who generally gave the impression of massive solidity, she swayed lithely, ever so slightly, as she swiveled her head to study the riders one at a time.

  “Well met,” said Medrash, and whatever his true feelings, his tone was respectful. “Clan Daardendrien and Sir Khouryn Skulldark, our trusted ally, request assistance.”

  “You’ll have it,” the warrior replied. “I’m Shestendeliath Patrin. I’m in command here. This is Yrjixtilex Nala, my lieutenant.”

  “It’s just Nala now,” the wizard said.

  “The day will come,” Patrin said, “when your clan will be proud to take you back.”

  “I pray you’re right,” said Nala, “but either way it’s the last thing these people care about. Climb down from your horses, friends. By the looks of you, you need water, food, and rest. Perhaps the aid of a healer as well.”

  “Thank you.” Khouryn clambered down off his steed.

  “I understand supplies are hard to come by in this wasteland,” Medrash said. “But if you can do anything for our horses, that will place us even deeper in your debt.”

  “Of course,” Patrin said. “We’re mostly a company of foot soldiers, but we have a few horses and feed for them in the supply carts. We can spare a little.”

  As it turned out, breakfast wasn’t ham. It was lukewarm gruel, biscuits that needed the mold trimmed off the edges, and strips of jerky. But it was filling, and even Balasar appeared content with it.

  Nala and Patrin sat at the dying fire along with Khouryn and the Daardendriens. At first the pair kept quiet and let the newcomers eat in peace. But as they were finishing up, the warrior in the blue surcoat said, “I know there must have been more than six of you when you rode onto Black Ash Plain. I’m sorry if it’s a painful subject, but what happened to the rest?”

  Where Medrash was concerned, “painful” was surely an understatement. But he also no doubt recognized that a fellow defender of Tymanther, even a member of the Platinum Cadre, both needed and had a right to the information. He told the story of the fall of the bat, and of all that followed, in a calm, clear manner.

  “So you see,” he concluded, “the ash giants have learned new tricks. They’re even more dangerous than they were before. And I hope you won’t take it badly if I repay your hospitality by presuming to give you some advice.”

  Nala smiled. Even sitting cross-legged in the dirt, the skirt of her robe puddled around her, she still had the trick of swaying almost imperceptibly from side to side. “You don’t need to,” she told Medrash. “We can guess what you’re going to say. If a company of Daardendrien’s finest couldn’t defeat the giants, then plainly we perverse, crazy outcasts have no hope of doing so.”

  “That’s not what I was going to say,” Medrash replied. “I don’t share your beliefs and never could, but I wouldn’t answer kindness with an insult. What I will say is that most of your troops are nowhere near as well armed as Sir Patrin. Some don’t appear in the best of health. I’ll hazard a guess that those same fellows haven’t spent much time in the training yard in recent years, nor has your company had much opportunity to drill together as a unit. So perhaps you’re not ready to march deep into enemy territory. Maybe you could better serve Tymanther by garrisoning a post along the border.”

  Patrin rose. “I regret dragging you to your feet again so soon, but I want to show you something.”

  They all tramped over to one of the carts the cadre officer had mentioned. He picked up a sack that smelled of rot. The stink grew stronger when he dumped the contents out.

  Those contents were severed ears, too big for a dwarf or human head, and the gray was their natural color. It was the brown and purple spots that betrayed decay.

  “I know taking this sort of trophy is a little barbaric,” Patrin said. “But after the war is over, we need to be able to prove what we accomplished.”

  “And then the doubters will see the truth and value of our path,” Nala said.

  Medrash shook his head. “How did you accomplish this?”

  “I just told you,” the wizard said, her upper body weaving a fraction of an inch from side to side. Khouryn wondered if the rhythmic motion was a symptom of some malady or just a nervous tic. “With Bahamut’s aid. By embracing the dragon nature inside us.”

  “If you say so,” said Balasar, “but I think my clan brother was asking about tactics.”

  Patrin shrugged. “Well, as to that, I doubt they’re different from what anyone else would use. But if you’d like to see us in action, I’m glad, because I have a proposition for you.”

  “What’s that?” Medrash asked.

  “You came to the Plain to fight and so did we. So join us.”

  Medrash hesitated. “None of us wishes to accept your faith.”

  Patrin smiled. “Well, I certainly don’t expect you to. I recognize the device on your shield, just as I know that when a paladin pledges himself to a god, the commitment lasts forever.”

  Plainly even more perplexed than before, Medrash narrowed his eyes. “How do you know I’m a paladin?”

  “Because like speaks to like. You might feel it too if not for your… preconceptions. But here’s the point. We won’t press you or any of these others to embrace our beliefs. If they come to Bahamut, let it be in their own time and for their own reasons. I want you because Clan Daardendrien has a reputation for valor, and so do the dwarves of East Rift. And because you have horses. They’re in sad shape now, but it’s nothing feed, rest, and a little magic won’t cure-and I need outriders.”

  “We intended to head east,” said Balasar, “to report our experiences to the Lance Defenders.”

  “Perfect,” Nala said. “That’s the way we’re headed. Now that we’ve tested ourselves in a couple of battles, we’re going where the giants are thickest.”

  “I’d like to discuss this with my comrades,” Medrash said. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”

  A scowl flickered across Nala’s face, but Patrin said, “By all means.”

  Medrash led his clan brothers and Khouryn several paces away from the Bahamut worshipers and the cart. “What do you all think?” he asked.

  “I’ll do whatever you and Sir Balasar want,” said an umber-scaled Daardendrien warrior. “But can it be honorable to fight alongside dragon-lovers?”

  “It might be more honorable than slinking home with nothing but defeat to report,” Balasar said. “Lunatics or not, this war band is winning its battles.”

  “And if we ride with them,” Khouryn said, “we’ll share in any future victories. And even if they don’t locate any more of the enemy, it’s safer than traveling this wasteland alone.”

  “I’ve always looked down on the Platinum Cadre,” Medrash said, “and now I feel ashamed. These warriors have done us nothing but good. Maybe saved our lives. Perhaps they aren’t mad or depraved but simply misguided.”

  Balasar grinned. “So we accept Patrin’s offer.”

  “If everyone agrees.”

  Khouryn looked around the circle and saw that everyone did.

  *****

  The day never brightened past a kind of filthy twilight. Even Jhesrhi’s golden hair and eyes couldn’t shine. In fact, for the first time Gaedynn could remember, she didn’t look beautiful.

  Or maybe that was just because he was angry.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, realizing even as the words left his lips just how stupid they were.

  Jhesrhi waved a hand to indicate the wooded slopes around them. “You yourself told me that a lot of the trees and bushes are different, and even the contours of the hills. By all accounts, shadar-kai live in th
e Shadowfell as well as Netheril. And there’s no sun in the sky. What do you think?”

  “That we’re in the Shadowfell.” From what he understood, it was a distorted shadow the mortal world cast to give form to an adjacent universe. Or something like that. “Even though the wizard in our little band never sensed we were going astray until it was far too late.”

  She glared. “If your stories aren’t all lies, you and your elf friends used to visit other worlds on a regular basis. Voices of the Abyss, you actually used the trick to shake the Simbarchs’ army off our tail when we were marching through the Yuirwood. So don’t make out that I’m the one who should have noticed the transition!”

  Her refusal to take the blame had the paradoxical effect of dissolving his annoyance. Perhaps because it was likely the way he would have responded himself.

  “The elves took me to the Feywild.” A reflection of the mortal world as fair as the Shadowfell was foul. “Well, and on one unpleasant occasion, the Sildeyuir. But even then it was hardly the same thing as blundering into the Shadowfell. Still, it’s remotely conceivable you have a point. Perhaps we’re both to blame-or neither. Let’s agree on neither. But tell me this. How did it happen? We didn’t pass through a circle of standing stones or anything else that looked like a portal to me.”

  “Or to me. But scholars say it’s possible for two worlds to overlap, often intermittently.”

  “So in this case, a bit of the hills becomes a bit of the Shadowfell on the darkest nights. Because that’s when the two places are most alike.”

  “I think so.”

  He grinned. “I should have been a scholar myself.”

  “It’s possible Tchazzar blundered into the Shadowfell during the time of Blue Fire, when all the worlds were in upheaval and congruencies were more common. Then the blight dragon-”

  “That’s the wyrm that’s leeching his strength away?”