The Spectral Blaze

by Richard Lee Byers

  Cera’s flying mace blinked out of existence. Chanting, she swept the similar but fully corporeal weapon in her hand over her head in an arc, then, on the final word of her prayer, thrust it at the dragonspawn. Even though Gaedynn wasn’t the target of the spell, he felt a fleeting twinge of fear. The reptile recoiled in sudden panic.

  That meant it dropped its guard relative to its other foes, who seized the chance that afforded them. Gaedynn thrust with one sword, then the other. Eider plunged down on top of the dragonspawn. Her momentum slammed it down on its belly, audibly snapped bones, and left its legs splayed out flat at unnatural angles. Jet pounced and bit away a big piece of its neck.

  The reptile was clearly finished, so Gaedynn and Jet both pivoted immediately, orienting on the other fight. At some point, Aoth had evidently managed to cast an actual spell or two because his dragonspawn had burns down the length of its scaly body. It was also thrashing and straining in an effort to break free of the grip of a dozen black tentacles that grew from the mosaic flooring underneath it.

  Aoth didn’t give it a chance to get loose. He shouted words of power that made Gaedynn’s ears ache and spun his spear over his head. The twirl looked like the sort of unnecessary flourish that got fools killed in melee, but since Aoth wasn’t a fool—at least where combat was concerned—it was no doubt a part of the spell. He drove the spear in behind the dragonspawn’s shoulder, and magic rotted its body to nothing in a heartbeat. The tentacles melted away along with it.

  Aoth immediately lowered his left arm. Gaedynn realized it was the same one the dragonspawn’s breath had caught. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I think it’s out of the socket,” Aoth replied.

  “I wish I’d realized. I thought you had things under control.”

  “I did. I used a tattoo to mask the pain.” Aoth looked around. “How’s everyone else?”

  “How do I look?” Jet rasped. Mardiz-sul jumped. He might have seen griffons up close before, but he’d almost certainly never heard one talk. Jet was unique.

  “Scratched,” Aoth replied unsympathetically. “Cera, will you attend to the poor maimed chick? Since there’s no else who needs it worse.”

  Gaedynn looked around and saw that it was true. There were no dead or grievously injured bystanders littering the terrace. It was a final bit of proof that the dragonspawn had been targeting Aoth, Cera, and him, not that he’d had any doubt of it before.

  “Well,” he said, “now we know that Vairshekellabex has a spy at Arathane’s court too.”

  “Apparently,” said Aoth. He turned his gaze on a dragonspawn carcass. “I suppose I’d call those scales gray. But they’re a shiny kind of gray.”

  “Whatever they are,” Cera said, “won’t this convince the queen that we’re telling the truth?”

  Gaedynn grinned. “Don’t count on it. Remember, we just finished a war where we fought dragons, many of which might well be holding a grudge. If I wanted to discredit us, I’d simply suggest that our recent troubles followed us to Akanûl.”

  Mardiz-sul shivered. He’d fought courageously once he got going, but since the threat was past, the fear that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel before was nibbling at him. “This is what it’s like to fight dragons,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

  Jet answered anyway, with a screeching laugh. “This is what it’s like to fight dragonspawn. True wyrms are far more dangerous.”

  The firestormer swallowed. “Captain, I … suppose we could talk further about how the expedition should be led.”

  * * * * *

  Tchazzar claimed Jhesrhi’s gift was a surprise, and so he chattered about everything but the gift as he led her through the War College. He rattled on about his plans to sculpt every remaining natural exterior surface of the fortress into a huge bas-relief celebrating his reign, the preparations for the invasion, salacious stories about Sune and other deities, and a dozen other subjects.

  Perhaps he meant it to distract her. But she soon realized they were heading for the dungeons, and a chill crawled up her spine. Did he still suspect her of helping Khouryn to escape? Was he taking her back to the scene of the offense in the hope that she’d do something incriminating? Or had he already made up his mind that she was guilty and decided to punish her in the same place where she’d betrayed him?

  Her fingers tightened on her staff, and the presence inside it stirred at the prospect of a fight, idiotically so, for the fire in which it delighted would be useless against a red dragon, whose own nature partook of flame. Even if Tchazzar were a wyrm of a different breed, it would be insanely optimistic to think that she could prevail against such a creature by herself.

  The war hero spoke the password that Shala had taught her, then led her down the stairs. The door swung open before them, seemingly of its own accord, and the guards in their alcove leaped up and saluted when their sovereign came into view. In his haste, one overturned his chair, and it clattered on the floor.

  Instead of conducting Jhesrhi down the next flight of stairs, to the level where she’d found Khouryn and fought the wyrmkeepers, Tchazzar ushered her into the stench and muddled noise of the cells crammed full of prisoners. She felt some of the tension quiver out of her muscles and tried not to let her relief show in her face.

  The captives fell silent as they spotted Tchazzar and her. “Do you know who these wretches are?” he asked.

  As was often the case when she responded to him, she tried to frame an answer warily but quickly, so he wouldn’t notice any hesitation. “Folk accused of crimes against either the Crown or your Church. Against you either way.”

  Tchazzar grinned. “Mostly right but not completely. One is accused of crimes against you.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “You’ll see.” He waved her down a branching corridor. The cells along the sides were dark and empty, except for one halfway down on the left.

  The wavering yellow light of the torch burning in a wall sconce revealed a pale, flabby, white-haired man lying facedown in dirty straw. Someone had torn away most of his clothing, the better to flog his back to scabby ribbons oozing pus.

  “Show your face,” Tchazzar said. “Quickly! Or I’ll order the inquisitors to slice away something else.”

  Cringing, the old man lifted his head, and Jhesrhi understood what the dragon meant. Like his back, the prisoner’s mouth and chin were filthy with dried blood, and his jaws and neck were swollen with infection. Someone had cut out his tongue. Despite all the wounds and brutality she’d seen on the battlefield, Jhesrhi felt a little queasy.

  Tchazzar studied her face then, sounding slightly irritated, asked, “Don’t you recognize him?”

  “No,” Jhesrhi said. “Should I?”

  “Most people would think so. He’s your father.”

  She caught her breath. “What?”

  “Your father,” the dragon repeated. “The coward who mistreated his own helpless child for years and then finally gave her to the elemental mages to save his worthless life.”

  Back in Impiltur, Jhesrhi had dreaded the prospect of returning to Chessenta, but not because she’d expected to encounter her parents. For some reason, perhaps simply because it was easier to assume it, she’d imagined that they must be dead. She studied the prisoner’s bloody face and still couldn’t recognize the merchant who’d been ashamed of her arcane gifts and beaten her whenever he caught her experimenting with them. But maybe she shouldn’t expect to, not when she’d struggled for years to forget him, and age, dread, and suffering had altered him. He looked back at her with wide, bewildered eyes.

  “What about my mother?” she asked.

  “Dead,” Tchazzar said. “But at least this one lived long enough to face retribution.” He snapped his fingers, and the cell door unlocked itself and swung open. “Crawl out,” he told her father. “Kiss the feet of the daughter you betrayed.”

  During her years of slavery, Jhesrhi had sometimes fantasized about subjecting that man t
o the same tortures her hulking captors used on travelers who fell into her hands. But as she stood there, the thought of his groveling before her made her sick to her stomach. “That isn’t necessary,” she said.

  “Of course,” Tchazzar said. He looked back to the old man. “She doesn’t want your filthy lips on her. But you will crawl.”

  “Please, no,” she said. “Truly, none of it is necessary.”

  Tchazzar frowned at her. “I thought this would delight you.”

  She took a breath, trying to compose herself and respond in a way that would appease him. “I know you did, Majesty, and I’m grateful. It’s just that this is … well, a shock.”

  “I suppose so,” Tchazzar said. “But we agreed that in some cases, giving justice to those with arcane abilities requires more than reparations. Those who raped, maimed, and murdered them must suffer in their turns. So why not start with the creature who wronged the foremost wizard in the realm?”

  Jhesrhi shook her head. “I … envisioned it being done in the usual way. With courts and trials.”

  “Flame and blood, woman, you told me the truth, didn’t you? And is the lord god of Chessenta obliged to seek permission from a magistrate or a jury before taking action?”

  “No, Majesty. Of course not.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say so. So deal with this piece of dung. At the very least, you must want to berate him, spit on him, or give him a kick.”

  She supposed that maybe a part of her did, and even if not, some token abuse might placate Tchazzar and bring the dizzying, surreal moment to an end. She stepped into the cell doorway.

  “How could you do it?” she asked. “Even if you were terrified that the giants would kill you, Mother, and everybody else in the caravan, even if you were certain I was tainted, I was your daughter and I loved you!”

  He tried to answer, but she couldn’t understand the gurgling, croaking sounds that came from his ruined mouth.

  Then she realized how odd it was that Tchazzar had deprived the old man of the power of speech and so denied her the chance to have a true conversation with him and understand his pleas for mercy. In fact, she could only think of one reason he would have done it. She scrutinized the prisoner’s face again, and then she was certain.

  She turned. “Majesty, this isn’t my father.” She knew even as she spoke that she shouldn’t say it, but Tchazzar’s ruse had so roiled her emotions that she couldn’t hold back.

  He frowned. “Of course it is. Do you think your god could be mistaken?”

  Upset as she still was, she made more effort to choose her next words carefully. “No, but Your Majesty has fallible mortal servants. I assume you gave one of them the task of finding my father.”

  “Well, yes,” Tchazzar said. “Shala Karanok. Apparently I can’t trust the ugly sow with even the simplest task.” Jhesrhi felt sure that Shala had had nothing to do with it. “But I can correct her mistake.”

  With that, the Red Dragon narrowed his slanted, amber eyes and pressed his fingertips to his temples. Jhesrhi didn’t know if he was actually attempting some sort of mystical feat or merely pretending to, but since she didn’t sense any telltale stirring of magical energy, she suspected the latter.

  Tchazzar held the pose for a few heartbeats then let out a breath and smiled. “There,” he said and paused.

  He was clearly waiting for Jhesrhi to ask, “ ‘There’ what?” So she did.

  “Your father was dead. But I fished his soul out of the Nine Hells and placed it in this cringing carcass before us. Now you can deal with him as you see fit.”

  Jhesrhi wondered if Tchazzar truly expected her to believe his bizarre assertion. She wondered if he truly believed it himself.

  Whether he did or not, she couldn’t abuse the prisoner, whoever he was, any further. It just wasn’t in her. She took a breath and said, “In that case, Majesty, I pardon him.”

  Tchazzar scowled. “What?”

  “I agree that we with arcane gifts deserve justice. You’ve heard me assert it myself. But my father hurt me a long time ago. And you’re trying to create a Chessenta where everyone lives in harmony, not one where the persecuted and the persecutors merely switch roles. So let me set an example by forgiving.”

  “If that’s what you truly want.” Tchazzar snapped his fingers, and the cell door clanged shut. “The turnkeys will release him in due course. Let’s get out of this dismal hole.”

  They walked back past the cells stuffed full of prisoners. Hoping to repair whatever damage to their relationship she might have done, Jhesrhi said, “I do appreciate what you did for me. Truly.”

  “Show me,” Tchazzar growled. He pivoted, grabbed her by the forearm, jerked her into an embrace, and planted his mouth on hers. Although her staff gave her a measure of protection against flame, she could still feel that his lips and probing tongue were blistering hot.

  He’d caught her by surprise, and once again, although she knew how she should respond, she couldn’t control her revulsion. As she strained to pull away from him, it was all she could do to curb the impulse to knee him in the groin or resort to one of the other wrestling tricks Aoth had taught her.

  Tchazzar was stronger than she was, and for a moment, it seemed that he wasn’t going to let her escape. Then his arms opened all at once. She reeled backward and banged her shoulders against the iron bars at the front of one of the cells. One of the prisoners on the other side yelped as if it meant something terrible was going to happen to them.

  “I’m sorry,” Jhesrhi panted, fighting the urge to scour her lips with her sleeve. “You startled me.”

  “That night in the orchard,” Tchazzar said, “I thought we were making progress. But now it seems like nothing’s changed.”

  “It has,” Jhesrhi said. “It is. It’s just that, like I told you, I need time.”

  “And I gave it to you,” the dragon said. “But be careful it doesn’t run out.”

  * * * * *

  Medrash, Balasar, and Khouryn stood at the rail of the carrack and watched the three Chessentan warships sail out of the north. They were still tiny with distance but not as tiny as they’d been.

  Unsteady on her feet—she hadn’t acquired her sea legs yet—Vishva approached. Brown-scaled, with puckered scars on her face where she’d worn her piercings before her clan cast her out for the disgrace of dragon worship, she was one of the Platinum Cadre’s officers and the person who’d begged Medrash to purge her and her fellow cultists of Tiamat’s influence.

  “Are they going to catch us?” she asked.

  “I doubt it,” Medrash said, “and if they do, we’ll make them wish they hadn’t.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Vishva bobbed her head and opened her arms slightly then moved off.

  “I’d really rather the Chessentans not intercept us,” said Khouryn, keeping his voice low. “They’ve got us outnumbered, and I never got around to training your fellows to fight on shipboard.”

  It still seemed strange to Medrash to hear the Cadre warriors referred to as his, in any sense. Adhering to the common prejudice, his own clan elders had raised him to despise wyrms and those who revered them; thus he’d taken command of the cultists with reluctance. But a good deal had happened since then, and he didn’t feel the same disdain anymore.

  “I wonder if our weather witch can do any more,” Khouryn continued, glancing in Biri’s direction.

  The white-scaled wizard stood near the stern, where both masts and sails were in front of her. She stared at them and chanted, mostly whispering, but sometimes raising her voice to a howl. At those moments, she accompanied her incantation with sweeps and jabs of a wand that was evidently solid to the touch but looked like a spindly, gray wisp of cloud.

  “She’s doing as much as anyone could,” Balasar said. “She explained to me that she’s having to force the winds to blow contrary to their natural inclination.”

  “I don’t doubt her ability,” Khouryn said. “But I still wish Jhesrhi were here.”

&
nbsp; “I don’t know that I can help her,” Medrash said. “I’ve never done anything comparable before. But I’m going to give it a try. Excuse me.”

  He looked around for a clear section of deck. Clear, of course, was a relative term in the cramped confines of a troop ship, with the sheets running every which way, mariners scrambling around to accomplish their various tasks, and everyone else gawking at the oncoming Chessentan vessels. But toward the bow and to starboard, on the opposite side from the enemy, there was a strip of space that should do.

  He walked there, stood in the center, and took a breath, centering himself. Then he snatched his broadsword from its scabbard and stepped forward. He cut to the head, spun back around, parried an imaginary thrust to the heart, and riposted. It was a training dance, one intended to prepare a swordsman who might someday have to fight in a tight little alleyway or tunnel.

  The final move of the dance was to sheathe one’s sword. Medrash did so and reviewed his performance. He assumed the ready position then grabbed for his blade again.

  As he danced the brief dance—it was only twelve moves all together—repeatedly, he turned, struck, and parried faster and faster. His focus sharpened and narrowed until he was acutely aware of his own body and weapon, his phantom attackers, the equally hypothetical walls hemming him in on either side, and nothing else. A kind of exultation overtook him.

  Many warriors and athletes knew that pure, primal feeling. Maybe other sorts of folk, musicians and craftsmen, perhaps, experienced something similar when they practiced their particular skills. Medrash couldn’t say. But he did know that for the god-touched, the exhilaration could serve as a gateway to something grander still.

  He didn’t perceive Torm’s presence all at once. It wasn’t that the god was being coy, but rather that Medrash’s exertions were gradually heightening his awareness. And even when he became entirely cognizant and executed the last three actions of the dance for the final time, he didn’t truly see the deity. But he had a sense of the Loyal Fury as a dragonborn warlord taller than the tallest giant and made of golden light, looming over the ship with a greatsword canted casually over his shoulder.