Until eventually they all fetched up in front of the siege engineers and artillerymen, who stood before the long wagons bearing their towers and mangonels broken down for transport. A few men wore badges or amulets in the shape of scrolls to identify them as namers, priests of Oghma, god of knowledge and invention. Wizards newly added to that particular corps sported green tattooing on their hands; the old stigma had become a sign of royal favor. A couple of the arcanists smiled up at Jhesrhi, and she made herself smile back.
At the front of the group was an old, stooped earthsoul named Jarelamar, whose reputation was such that even the Chessentans, with their high opinion of their own martial prowess, had agreed to put him in charge of that particular company. Bowing low, he said, “We’re ready to travel, Your Majesty.”
Tchazzar grunted. “Are you? Then tell me how you’re going to crack open Djerad Thymar.”
The elderly genasi cocked his head. “Your Majesty?”
“Am I speaking Aragrakh? I need to get into the dragonborn’s fortress quickly. Ideally before the end of summer. Tell me how you intend to accomplish it.”
Jarel-amar hesitated. “Majesty, I certainly recommend investing Djerad Thymar and prosecuting a siege as diligently as we can. And who knows what opportunities we’ll discover? But at the same time, we should be realistic. The place is a citadel like no other. It’s more likely to fall to starvation than anything else.”
“I agree,” Magnol said. Akanûl’s Steward of the Fire was a burly warrior with skin the color of brick. The lines running through it were duller than average, more copper than gold. Though of the highest quality, his arms and armor had a plain functionalism to them that reminded Jhesrhi of Aoth’s and Khouryn’s gear. “Surround the capital, lay waste to the rest of the kingdom, and eventually the dragonborn will have no choice but to surrender. But it’s likely to take a little time.”
“I don’t want their surrender!” Tchazzar snapped. “I want to exterminate them! Their crimes against our two peoples require nothing less! Or don’t the genasi agree?”
Magnol and Zan-akar Zeraez exchanged glances. Then the ambassador said, “Majesty, that would certainly be the … optimal outcome. But the queen hasn’t instructed us that we must inflict that ultimate degree of retribution. If we simply conquer the dragonborn, force them—”
“Shut up!” Tchazzar snarled. “The dragonborn have to die, now, by my hand, before another play—never mind! I’ll hang the next man who tells me it will take years or can’t be done at all!”
Magnol was courageous or maybe just didn’t understand how volatile Tchazzar truly was. Either way, he answered the war hero in a cool, matter-of-fact way that again reminded Jhesrhi of Aoth. “Majesty, my sovereign has placed my troops at your disposal, and you can count on our obedience. But I’ll need you to explain what we must do to achieve the outcome you envision with the resources at our disposal.” He waved his hand at the army drawn up on the field. A tiny ripple of flame ran along the top of his thumb. The pseudo-mind inside Jhesrhi’s staff nudged her to start a fire of their own.
Tchazzar followed the gesture and took another look at his assembled forces. From the sour cast of his expression, perhaps even he was finding himself forced to admit that his host, formidable as it was, was unlikely to reduce Djerad Thymar in a month, a season, or conceivably even a year.
Then, however, he laughed, wheeled his horse, and spurred the animal into a gallop. He raced away from the field as fast as his steed’s legs could carry him. His companions gaped after him in astonishment.
After a heartbeat or two, one of Tchazzar’s bodyguards remembered that he wasn’t supposed to let his master wander around unescorted. Spurring his own mount, he yelled, “Come on!” Whereupon everyone else, warriors and dignitaries alike, pounded after him.
Tchazzar led them all past the ongoing demolition that was clearing the site for the new temple and deeper into Luthcheq’s crazily twisting streets. It occurred to Jhesrhi that Gaedynn would have grinned to see all the overly dignified aristocrats struggling to keep up. He would have particularly enjoyed watching Halonya bouncing along, white-faced and pop-eyed, her miter fallen away and left in the dust.
But Jhesrhi couldn’t relish the prophetess’s discomfiture. She was too worried about where Tchazzar’s latest notion was taking them. And even Gaedynn would have stopped laughing when the living god rode right over an old woman who was too slow getting out of his way and hurtled onward without a second glance. A pear from the woman’s wicker grocery basket rolled into a muddy puddle.
Tchazzar halted in front of a gymnasium and bathhouse. What had led him to that particular establishment, as opposed to one of its many counterparts around the city, Jhesrhi had no idea. The monarch swung himself off his horse and, without bothering to tie the animal or secure it in any way, strode toward the main entrance.
By the time his entourage reined in their steeds, the war hero had disappeared inside the building. Somebody, the doorkeeper, perhaps, gave an involuntary squawk when the lord of all Chessenta unexpectedly barged in.
“What’s happening?” Hasos asked.
Jhesrhi replied with a shrug and a scowl. She liked the baron better than she used to, but at that moment, it felt unfair that she was the one expected to understand.
They all scurried after Tchazzar as soon as they could climb down from their saddles. They found him in a spacious, high-ceilinged room with straw mats on the floor. Apparently the athletes he’d interrupted had been tumbling or wrestling.
Those athletes were boys, none of whom looked older than eight or nine. Dressed in breechclouts, they were kneeling in front of their sovereign. So were their teacher and the various mothers and servants who’d brought them to the lesson.
“Rise!” Tchazzar boomed. He spun around and gave Jhesrhi and her companions a wide, white-toothed grin. “There you are! It’s about time! Here’s our weapon! Here’s the power that will burn Tymanther like a dry leaf in a bonfire!”
“Majesty, I don’t understand,” Jhesrhi said. She figured she had to. Everyone else looked too wary or bewildered.
“I’ve explained,” Tchazzar said, “that I draw power from the faith of my people. You must remember.”
Jhesrhi remembered his claiming he drew power from blood sacrifice. It had been his justification for the slaughter of the prisoners at Soolabax. But she knew better than to point out the discrepancy.
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Well, watch this.” He spun back around, grabbed a child by the forearms, and hoisted him into the air. The little boy gasped. His pulse beat visibly in the side of his neck.
“Who am I?” Tchazzar asked.
The child just goggled at him.
“Who am I?” the dragon repeated, his tone harsher. A wisp of smoke fumed from his mouth. A hint of crimson scales rippled across the last joints of his fingers.
A god, Jhesrhi thought. Tell him he’s a god.
And perhaps one of true gods whispered that answer in the child’s ear. For, stammering almost inaudibly, his voice rising at the end, that was what he said.
“Good!” Tchazzar cried. He dropped the child and gave him a slap on the back that knocked him to his hands and knees. He turned back to Jhesrhi and the assembled lords, clerics, warriors, and envoys. “You see? The pure, perfect faith of an innocent. The greatest power in all the world. Chessenta’s children will march with us and stand in the vanguard. With their god on the field to inspire them, they’ll do deeds to put the paladins of myth to shame. And with them to bolster me, I’ll finally be myself as I was before I went away. Invincible! Beyond the reach of anything that lurks and creeps in the dark!” He stared at Halonya. “Isn’t that right?”
Please, Jhesrhi thought, this one time, don’t feed his madness.
Halonya hesitated. Then she said, “Yes, Majesty, it is. You’ve found the answer.”
Magnol shot Zan-akar Zeraez an inquiring glance. The diplomat responded with a tiny shake of his head, advising the
Steward of Fire to say nothing. Maybe it was because the children of the genasi were safe in Akanûl.
It occurred to Jhesrhi that conscripting the children might actually aid Aoth’s strategy because it would inevitably slow the march south, thus buying more time for her friends to accomplish their missions. But it didn’t matter. She couldn’t allow any possibility that children would end up on a battlefield facing dragonborn warriors, not if she could possibly avert it.
“Majesty,” she said.
Tchazzar turned his grin on her. “What?”
“I don’t pretend to understand the mysteries of faith,” she said, “but if you say the children will give you strength, then I know it must be so. Still, surely it’s their prayers that will do it, not a struggle to spill blood with their own hands. And can’t they pray just as well in Luthcheq? I would think, better.”
Halonya glowered at her. “His Majesty has explained how it’s going to be.”
Jhesrhi lowered her head. “Of course, sister. Forgive me if I spoke foolishly. I already confessed that I don’t understand sacred matters. So let me just say how much I admire your courage, and then I’ll hold my tongue.”
“Yes, that would be—” Halonya blinked. “My courage?”
“Surely,” Jhesrhi answered. “If the point is to channel the power of the children’s belief, then I assume His Majesty will want his high priestess standing right there among them in the front lines.” She turned to Tchazzar. “Am I right?”
The Red Dragon nodded. “Yes. That does make sense.”
Halonya hesitated and her eyes shifted from side to side. If she was looking for help, it was to no avail. Even enthusiastic supporters such as Lord Luthen opted to keep quiet.
So she swayed, staggered, and whirled around, arms outstretched, vestments flapping and jewelry swinging and clanking. Most of the young athletes goggled at her, although one tried to hide a smirk and whispered to his neighbor.
“Spirits have spoken to me!” Halonya declared. “The dragon exarchs who love Your Majesty!”
Jhesrhi had never heard of the “dragon exarchs,” but Tchazzar simply asked, “What did they tell you?”
The priestess hesitated for a heartbeat. Jhesrhi assumed that she was working out exactly how to put what she had to say.
“That Your Majesty is completely right!” Halonya said. “Or would be! Ordinarily! But perhaps he’s overlooked his new temple. That would be natural since it’s not even built yet. The work has barely begun. But already the ground is the holiest in all Faerûn. And if I lead the children in prayer there, we’ll work bigger miracles than we could anywhere else!”
Jhesrhi inclined her head again. “Sister, as always, I feel humble before your wisdom.”
But Tchazzar was frowning. “My servants, mortal and supernatural, are wise. But not as wise as me. And my own divine judgment tells me to take these youngsters and all the others like them to Tymanther.”
Jhesrhi took a breath. “Majesty, from all that I’ve heard you say today, I’m guessing you feel that way because Djerad Thymar is supposed to be impregnable. But I can guarantee you it isn’t. The Brotherhood of the Griffon took one of Szass Tam’s Dread Rings, and we—excuse me, they—can help you take the dragonborn citadel too.”
Tchazzar snorted. “That might be helpful if Captain Fezim and his men weren’t busy chasing traitors and ghosts in Threskel.”
“I believe they must have finished that work or nearly so,” Jhesrhi said. “After all, we haven’t had any more attempts on Your Majesty’s life or any more undead sneaking into the War College. We haven’t had any recent reports of unrest.”
“We haven’t had any news,” Tchazzar said, “even from the wyrmkeepers Halonya sent to find out what the sellswords have accomplished.”
Jhesrhi felt a pang of alarm. That was the first she’d heard of that particular pack of spies. But apparently the folk charged with concealing Aoth’s absence had handled the situation somehow.
And while Halonya would ordinarily have pounced on the opportunity to interpret the priests’ silence to the Brotherhood’s detriment, her priority now was to avoid the possibility of a dragon born’s spear in her guts. “I believe,” she said, “that we can take the quiet as a good sign. After all, I sent four men. If something were badly wrong, surely at least one would have rushed back to warn us.”
“Hmm.” Tchazzar studied the only two humans he truly trusted, united for once in their opinion. “All right, have it your way. The children will stay here, and the Brotherhood of the Griffon will march south with us.” He pivoted toward Hasos. “Send for them immediately, and tell them to come as fast as they can. Tell Aoth Fezim to fly on ahead and get to Luthcheq as fast as he can.”
“Yes, Majesty,” Hasos said.
And now I’ve done it, Jhesrhi thought. If we’ve been running a race, this is the final leg. She wished she knew how far Gaedynn, Aoth, and Khouryn had traveled along the course.
* * * * *
“It’s been a long time,” Balasar whispered.
Khouryn scowled. They were supposed to be lying in wait in silence. But in fairness to his friend, Balasar was keeping his voice low, and using a dwarf’s understanding of how sound carried and echoed underground, Khouryn had chosen their current hiding place partly because any noise they made wouldn’t travel far. So he decided not to make an issue of the dragonborn’s indiscretion.
“It seems like it,” he whispered back, “but then, it always does when you’re waiting.”
Lying on his belly on the ledge, Balasar rolled his shoulders until they popped. “Especially when you’re waiting on a dragon. Specifically the same dragon who’s already tried to kill the lot of us.”
A few spaces farther down the line, Vishva frowned to hear Praxasalandos so disparaged. Medrash simply said, “Prax is a different creature now. We just have to hope Gestanius didn’t sense that.”
“Or else she’ll have killed him,” Khouryn said, “and won’t come within a mile of our ambush.”
“Quicksilver wyrms are supposed to be tricky,” Biri said. She was lying beside Balasar—not, Khouryn assumed, by accident—and she smiled in the Daardendrien’s direction. “If you give him a chance, you may find out you’ve got a lot in common.”
Balasar snorted. “I may be friends with a gaggle of dragon worshipers, but forgive me if I stick at the dragons themselves.”
Across the cavern and near the mouth of the tunnel, an Imaskari in a nook in the wall waved both hands above his head. According to Jemleh, the fellow had the sharpest ears of any soldier in his command, sharp enough that his captain trusted him to hear Praxasalandos’s wings rustle and snap when the dragon shook them out to signal his approach.
Only Khouryn and those wizards who’d chosen to enhance their eyesight could see the waving. Everyone else lay prone or crouched, blind in the darkness. Khouryn whispered that everyone should shut up and be ready. The message traveled up and down the line in the form of a series of fumbling grips.
Then Praxasalandos strode into the chamber. Gestanius prowled right behind him. Khouryn winced.
It wasn’t because of the enormous size and manifest strength of the ancient blue, although they were daunting enough. It was the indefinable but gut-wrenching ugliness she shared with her ally Skuthosin. Like the green, she’d been a Chosen of Tiamat in her time, before Tchazzar killed and ate them to add his power her own. Then the Dark Lady had given them back their lives, and all that commerce with one of the supreme powers of evil had left a taint.
But so what? thought Khouryn. We killed Skuthosin and we’re going to kill you too.
Bringing the scent of a coming storm with her, her movements quick and flowing despite her hugeness, Gestanius stalked several paces into the cavern. Then she stopped abruptly, as if she’d sensed something or wondered if she had.
“How much farther?” she asked. Buzzing sparks and tiny lightning bolts crawled and arced on the double-pointed horn on her snout and the hornlets on her brow ridg
es. For those who could see nothing else, beholding the flickering must be somewhat like looking at a dragon-shaped constellation in the night sky.
“We’re nearly there,” Praxasalandos replied. He’d told Gestanius that he’d killed intruders in the tunnels as he was supposed to but that one of them had turned out to be a gold dragon shapeshifted into Imaskari form. The blue was coming to see if she could see identify the body. “In fact, we are there.”
“What do you mean?” Gestanius asked, looking around in vain for torn and mangled corpses.
Biri whispered words of power and flicked her wand back and forth as though leading a band of musicians. Medrash gripped his steel-gauntlet medallion and breathed a prayer to Torm. Elsewhere in the chamber, Khouryn knew, other spellcasters were raising and shaping power in their own fashions.
And maybe Gestanius heard the whispering or simply felt magic smoldering in the air because she suddenly craned her neck and twisted her head one way then the other. “Something—” she began.
Prax whirled and blasted her with a silvery plume of his breath. The vapor washed across her eyes, and she roared in shock and pain.
At the same time, a golden shimmer abruptly filled the opening through which the dragons had entered, and crackling flames leaped up to fill the exit on the opposite wall. Floating orbs of glowing power popped into existence to provide additional light.
Warriors howled battle cries. Crossbows clacked and quarrels thrummed through the air. Some glanced off Gestanius’s scales but others stuck. Khouryn discharged his own arbalest then grabbed his axe, leaped to his feet, and charged down the steep slope that descended from the shelf to the cavern floor.
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