Richard Byers - The Spectral Blaze

“Done,” Shala said. “And so it appears we have a plan.” She peered at Hasos. “What is it?”

“What’s what?” Hasos answered.

“You’re grinning.”

“Am I?” Hasos shrugged. “I guess I like recklessness more than I expected.”

Jet soared on the night wind, and although Aoth could feel the griffon’s soreness and fatigue through their psychic link, no one else should have been able to tell it from the occasional smooth, powerful beat of his wings. But apparently, somehow, Cera could, or else she was just sensible enough to guess. Riding behind Aoth, she murmured a prayer that set her fingers aglow with golden light, then stroked the familiar’s fur. Warmth tingled through the contact and washed the aches away.

Meanwhile, Aoth watched the Brotherhood prepare for battle. They were doing as well as could be expected. The western edge of Luthcheq wasn’t the same demented tangle of streets one found farther in, and thank the Firelord for that. But it was still harder to set up a proper formation in the city than it would have been in open country, and as he so often had of late, he missed Khouryn’s expertise.

Responding to his unspoken will, Jet flew in a spiral, carrying him farther out, and even for a veteran soldier with fire-kissed eyes, the situation on the ground became harder to read. Some Chessentan, Threskelan, and sellsword companies were moving from their campsites to join forces with Aoth’s men. Others were shifting farther away to form what would become the opposing army. Some bands were still debating what to do, sometimes with words, but sometimes with fists or even blades.

That was to say, it was chaos, or at least most of it was. In the midst of all the scrambling and squabbling, the Akanulans stood like a rock in a surging tide, ready to fight but visibly removed from the Brotherhood and their allies. They were making it plain they wouldn’t fight if Tchazzar left them alone.

If Tchazzar himself attacked now, said Jet, while everyone’s still dithering and scurrying around, he could win.

Maybe, Aoth answered, but he won’t. Not at night. Since he’s got help coming, he’ll wait for it.

“I can’t make out anything,” Cera said.

“I warned you,” Aoth replied.

“Well,” she said, “to be honest, taking a look wasn’t the only reason I wanted to come aloft.”

Partly amused and partly apprehensive, he snorted. “What were you thinking?”

“That you and Jet can get me to the Keeper’s house faster and more safely than if I tried to make my way through the streets.”

It was easy to guess what she had in mind. “Do you really think you can convince the other sun priests to fight?”

“As I understand it, Tchazzar butchered our high priest for no reason at all.” Cera hadn’t particularly liked Daelric Apathos, but even so, outrage put steel in her voice. “They should fight. It may just take someone giving the call to arms.”

Aoth remembered Chathi burning and dying in an instant. “I can’t stay with you.”

She knows that, said Jet, and we need all the help we can get. He raised one wing, dipped the other, and turned in the direction of Amaunator’s temple.

Khouryn and his companions were doing most of their traveling by night. The bats liked it better, Praxasalandos didn’t care one way or the other, and the darkness kept Chessentans from loosing arrows and quarrels at the supposed enemies flying overhead.

For his part, Khouryn was happy to escape baking in the late-summer sun and to enjoy the stately, glittering pageant of the moon and stars. It could be his last chance if Tchazzar reacted poorly when they reached Luthcheq.

He contemplated the constellation dwarves knew as the Serpent, with its bright eye, long fangs, and twisting tail. Then someone blew a brassy, long note and a short one on a horn. It was the signal to descend, probably so they could all confer since that was all but impossible in the air. Winged steeds needed too much space between them.

Khouryn sent Iron fluttering down toward an open field. The bat gave a squeal of annoyance. He somehow sensed that his rider meant to set down, and he didn’t like crawling awkwardly around with his head higher than his feet. But he still obeyed.

They touched down with a final flutter of leathery wings, then waited for everyone else to do the same. Prax was the next to land, with Medrash and Biri on his back.

Khouryn didn’t know why the paladin had chosen to ride the quicksilver dragon. Maybe he still feared treachery and wanted to be ideally placed to retaliate. The white-scaled wizard was perched behind him because she wasn’t an experienced flyer. No doubt she would have preferred to ride behind Balasar, but it would exhaust a bat to carry two riders over long distances.

When everyone was on the ground, Perra looked to Medrash. “You gave the signal,” she said.

“Yes,” Medrash replied. “I sensed something up ahead. By which I mean, Torm enabled me to sense it.”

“Here we go,” Balasar groaned.

To Khouryn’s surprise, Medrash smiled. “I could almost share your irritation because I used to hope for signs and portents, but they never turn out to be good news, do they?” His face and tone turned serious again. “Something bad is going to happen in Luthcheq very soon. If our goal is to avert a calamity, we need to get there as fast as possible.”

“Our goal is to avert the invasion of Tymanther,” Perra said, “and a disaster in Luthcheq might accomplish that. Still, I take your point.”

“We nearly are to Luthcheq,” Khouryn said. He’d paid attention when he and the dragonborn had marched in the opposite direction.

“I know a spell or two to help us travel faster,” Biri said.

“As do I,” said Prax. He shifted his wings, and they gleamed in the moonlight. “But I can’t cast mine on the entire company, and I imagine yours are the same.”

Perra scowled for a moment, pondering. Then she said, “Sir Medrash, you’ll go on ahead. It’s your premonition, after all. Lady Biri and Sir Praxasalandos will accompany you to speed you on your way. And if the magic can manage so many, Khouryn and Balasar will ride with you as well. The rest of us will catch up as soon as we can.”

Balasar gave Khouryn a look of mock disgust. “I knew we wouldn’t dodge this either,” he said.

Cera kissed Aoth, then stepped far enough away from Jet to give him room to unfurl his wings. The griffon trotted with the uneven gait of his kind and then leaped upward. He and his master vanished into the night sky.

Cera took a long breath and turned toward the Keeper’s temple with its enormous sundial and colonnaded facade. Banners emblazoned with stylized sunsets hung from the cornices. She took that for a promising sign. Her order had chosen to observe the passing of its high priest whether Tchazzar liked it or not.

Then she stepped through the doorway and hands reached out to grab her from either side.

The assailant on her right had her arm gripped tightly, immobilizing her mace. But the one on her left didn’t achieve quite as firm a hold. She screamed, tore free, spun, and hit the man on the right in the teeth with her buckler, putting all her weight behind the blow.

The steel shield clanged. The man let go and reeled backward, and she saw he wore a badge in the shape of a wheel with five S-shaped spokes. A wyrmkeeper, then, or a warrior in their service.

His partner threw his arms around her from behind. She sensed she wouldn’t be able to break free again. But she did manage to shift sideways and jab the butt of the mace backward at groin level.

The man gasped and went rigid. She jabbed him again, and his arms jerked, loosening their hold. She yanked free, whirled, and smashed his nose with the mace. He fell back.