Richard Byers - The Spectral Blaze

Tchazzar reeled. But then, striking like a snake, hammering his wings up and down, swinging his tail like a flail, he scattered his new assailants and kept coming.

Shooting as fast as she could, the argent lines in her purple skin shining like white-hot metal, Son-liin pierced the red with arrows charged with lightning. Each balked him for maybe an instant but no longer.

Meanwhile, Gaedynn did something he almost never did. He took his time aiming.

He no longer had much hope of piercing an eye and the brain behind it. Tchazzar reflexively protected his eyes. But confident in his armor of scales, he sometimes disregarded attacks that mere human warriors aimed at other parts of his body.

That, Gaedynn resolved, was going to turn out to be a mistake because his recent dragon fighting had taught him where an artery lay close to the surface in the underside of a wyrm’s neck. He’d have to hit the spot exactly, and the loose, dangling skin would only make it more difficult. But if he did, even a living god should find the results unpleasant.

He loosed. The shaft hurtled from the bow. And maybe Tchazzar somehow sensed it was a genuine threat because he started to twist his neck. But he was too slow, and the arrow plunged deep into the mark.

Tchazzar stumbled then swayed. He sat back on his haunches, lifted his good forefoot, and swiped the arrow out of his flesh, but that only made things worse. Gouts of blood spurted rhythmically from the wound, and the red dragon collapsed onto his side.

But then he rolled halfway onto his belly and somehow contrived to drag himself forward. And as Gaedynn and Son-liin drew their bows, he flailed with his claws and forced them to scatter. Had they stood their ground, the stroke would have torn them apart.

Panting, Tchazzar visibly gathered his strength for one final heaving motion to drag himself within reach of Jhesrhi. Then Shala ran out of the darkness with a gory broadsword in her hand. She thrust it into the base of Tchazzar’s neck. The red wyrm shuddered, a tremor so violent that Gaedynn could feel it through the earth, then slumped motionless.

As soon as Gaedynn was sure Tchazzar was no longer a threat, he whirled and dashed to Jhesrhi. When he reached her, he didn’t know whether to feel horrified or relieved.

Fire still covered the unconscious woman from head to toe. It was hot enough that it took an effort of will to stand within a pace of her, and it had burned every thread of clothing away. But it wasn’t burning her. She didn’t have even a blister.

Phicos scurried through the cellars, grabbing a scroll here, an onyx statuette of Tiamat there, a five-headed wand elsewhere, and stuffing them into his satchel. Thanks to an enchantment, the bag was bigger inside than out, but it still couldn’t hold everything he and his fellow wyrmkeepers had used to equip and sanctify their shrine. Even if there were time to gather more, only the holiest and most powerful artifacts could go.

A footstep scuffed on the floor behind him. Startled, he spun and snatched for the dagger on his hip. He relaxed when he saw that it was Esvele who’d come up behind him.

To venture into the streets, the priestess had traded her vestments for nondescript clothing, including a hood to shadow her thin, sallow face with its pentacle tattoo. On such a terrible day, it was no longer safe for Luthcheq’s few surviving wyrmkeepers to look like what they were.

“Did you find out about Ferzath?” Phicos asked.

“Yes,” Esvele said. “He’s dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Chelnadatilar-the gold-killed him.”

Phicos cursed because it was an offense against the Dark Lady for any other being to kill a chromatic dragon but also because he and Esvele had hoped the black might help them escape the city.

“Well-” he began and, with a clinking and clattering of beads and pendants, someone else staggered into the multicolored candlelight. It was Halonya, with the layers of her grotesque, trailing costume muddy and askew.

The “high priestess” gaped at the satchel in Phicos’s hand. “What are you doing?” she shrilled.

“Running,” he answered. “Before Shala Karanok’s guards show up to arrest us.”

“No! I order you to stay and defend the temple!”

“Sorry,” Phicos said. “While Tchazzar lived, we deferred to you because he wanted us to. But now he’s gone.”

“He isn’t! He’ll rise again because he’s a god!”

“No,” Phicos said, “he wasn’t. We went along with his pretensions too since it was necessary to serve him and, through him, our true deity. But the time for that has passed as well.”

“Blasphemer!” Halonya screamed.

Phicos drew breath to deny the change, but Esvele said, “You’re wasting time we don’t have debating with a lunatic.”

And plainly she was right. Phicos pulled his knife from its sheath, stepped, and thrust. Mouth and eyes gaping wide, Halonya toppled backward, the sharkskin hilt jutting from her chest.

“Dangerous as the city is,” Esvele said, “I’m glad we lingered long enough for that.”

7 E LEINT-5 M ARPENOTH, THE Y EAR OF THE AGELESS ONE

In Airspur, Son-liin had observed the pomp and ceremony with which a queen conducted her affairs on a normal day. Now, she reflected, Shala Karanok was demonstrating the stark efficiency with which a ruler could manage a crisis.

The war hero hadn’t returned to the War College. Instead, as soon as word spread that Tchazzar was dead and those who had fought for him started surrendering, she set up a command post right on the edge of the battlefield, with corpses sprawled and crumpled in plain view. And there she took the city in hand, hearing reports, giving orders, and dispatching messengers. She didn’t even bother moving indoors when the rain Astanalan-the emerald wyrm-called to douse the fires began to fall. As a result, she and the human lords and officers attending her had wet hair plastered to their heads.

Many of those folk were eager to speak, but Zan-akar Zeraez looked ready to burst. And finally Shala called on him, although, judging from her glower, she begrudged the time for that as well.

“Your Majesty,” the ambassador cried, “that dastard deliberately provoked a dragon into charging genasi troops!” He pivoted and pointed at Gaedynn.

The bowman looked bewildered and spread his hands. “I can’t imagine what you mean, my lord. I fled from a dragon, certainly. I fled from several before the night was through. But I was never trying to lead any of them anywhere.”

“Liar!” Zan-akar spit. “Your intentions were plain!”

Magnol laid his hand on his fellow genasi’s arm. “I don’t know how you’d prove that,” the burly firesoul said. “And the truth is we were going to have to fight. I could tell it even if you couldn’t. And it was good that we joined the battle sooner rather than later.” He looked at Shala. “I understand Lord Zan-akar’s… concerns, Majesty, but Akanul is willing to let the matter drop.”

“Thank you, High Lord,” Shala replied, “and thank you again for your help.”

At that point Hasos and a squad of warriors herded two dozen bedraggled, stumbling prisoners toward the throne. Each captive had his green-tattooed hands bound behind him.

“The arcanists, Majesty,” Hasos said. “Or at least all that we’ve rounded up so far.”

The war hero scowled at them and they cringed. “Take them to the dungeons,” she said. “Do whatever you have to do to keep them from using magic to escape.”

Jhesrhi strode forward from the spot where she, Gaedynn, Aoth, Oraxes, Meralaine, Son-liin, and other sellswords stood in a group. Unlike everyone else, she was dry.