Richard Byers - The Captive Flame

Behind him, two voices roared. Lightning flared above his head. It crackled over the faces of the big woman and her comrade with the rapier, charring flesh and making them shudder in place. A blast of white vapor painted other rioters with frost.

All the foes in the immediate vicinity halted, either because they’d just been hurt or simply because they were startled. It gave Khouryn a chance to unlimber the urgrosh and retreat.

Which put him between the two dragonborn who’d just spit their breath weapons at his assailants. From the white studs pierced into their faces, he recognized Medrash and Balasar from the tavern brawl.

He wondered what they were doing here, but now was not the time to ask. He had a battle to salvage. “Make a new line!” he shouted to his men. “And get out your blades!”

Peering down from Jet’s back, Aoth cursed. One barricade had already given way, although the Brothers who’d manned it were still fighting to hold the rioters back. Another was on the verge of collapse. And there was no sign of any of Luthcheq’s homegrown watchmen. Evidently they’d decided to sit out this particular confrontation.

If the insurgents got inside the perimeter of the wizards’ quarter, they’d be impossible to stop. They’d loot, burn, and murder the residents at will.

“And so,” said Jet, discerning his thoughts, “you know what you have to do.”

“Yes, damn it.”

He’d kept the griffons out of the fight for one reason. No matter how well trained the beasts were, if you took them into combat, they were going to kill. But because they were so frightening, they might only need to slaughter a few rioters before the rest turned tail. And in any case, the situation on the ground suddenly looked uncertain enough that he was no longer willing to trust the outcome to half measures.

He unstrapped the ram’s-horn bugle from his saddle, lifted it to his lips, and blew the signal to attack. Jet screeched, communicating the same message to his kindred.

The sellswords were now wielding spears, axes, and swords. Morric would still have fought them if necessary, but he was glad it wasn’t. Once the barricade and their initial battle lines had broken, the soldiers had formed a couple of ragged little circles to keep anyone from striking them from behind.

As far as self-protection went, it was a sound tactic, but it left an opening between the sellswords and the row of houses on the right-hand side of the alley. People were scurrying through the gap, and Morric figured he might as well be one of them. The outlanders were scum-that went without saying-but why waste time on them when it was mages he’d come to kill?

A fool in a tavern had once jeered that Morric didn’t even know why he hated wizards. He answered the taunt with his fists and boots, but after he sobered up, he realized he could have used his tongue if he’d wished. For of course he knew.

Wizards trafficked with demons. It was the source of their power. They spread disease and misfortune to amuse their evil masters. They used their secret arts to control all the merchants and guilds and steal a dragon’s share of all the coin, and as a result, a simple man couldn’t earn a decent wage.

They must be spying and otherwise aiding Chessenta’s enemies too. Nothing else could explain why the news from the north and east was so bad, even though the war hero’s troops were the bravest in all Faerun.

And obviously, the Green Hand slayings were the vilest crimes of all and made retaliation a matter of simple self-preservation. The honest people of Luthcheq had to get the mages before the mages got the rest of them.

Morric had noticed arrows falling from overhead, and the fear of them kept his head down and his shoulders hunched as he darted through the opening. But no shaft whizzed out of the dark to pierce him-or any of his companions either. The bowmen must be looking elsewhere.

Which meant they’d missed their chance at Morric. Once he broke into a mage’s house, no sellsword would even know where he was, let alone have any hope of stopping him. He glanced around, deciding where to start-and then, above his head, something shrieked. Shadows swept across the ground. He froze.

A winged beast plunged down in front of him, right on top of one of his fellow avengers. The creature’s talons stabbed deep into its victim’s body, its weight smashed him into a crumpled heap, and he died without making a sound.

The griffon flapped its wings and leaped onto a second man. That one did manage a truncated yelp, but only because he saw death hurtling at him. The beast ripped him to pieces a heartbeat later.

As it did, Morric noticed the armored warrior on its back. In other circumstances, the sellsword likely would have seemed fearsome, or at least formidable. Astride his eagle-headed steed, he was inconsequential.

Morric’s adz slipped from his grip. He’d brought it to serve as his weapon. Still, now that he was numb and slow with dread, it didn’t seem to matter that he’d dropped it. He couldn’t imagine such a puny instrument hurting the griffon.

But it mattered in a different sort of way. The adz clanked when it hit the ground, and the noise made the creature’s head with its gory, dripping beak snap around in his direction.

Morric still couldn’t move. Or scream. He needed to, but the cry felt jammed in his clogged throat and dry mouth.

The griffon gathered itself to pounce. Then a madman ran at its flank with a leveled spear. The beast spun to defend itself.

When the beast turned away, it broke Morric out of his paralysis. It occurred to him that he could try to help the man with the spear as the fellow had saved him, but the thought was just a chain of words that scarcely even seemed to have a meaning. He whirled and ran.

Others did the same. Tripping and trampling over fallen bodies he couldn’t see, but only felt thrashing beneath him, he struggled to bull his way through the press. A griffon dived and slammed a man to the earth. The creature was almost close enough for Morric to reach out and touch, and as it ripped its victim apart, warm blood and gobs of flesh spattered him.

He was so frantic to avoid the griffons that he nearly flung himself onto the point of an outlander’s sword. But he somehow twisted away from the thrust and floundered onward, and then people weren’t packed together quite as tightly. He could run faster, and he did.

He started feeling his exhaustion not long afterward. Still, he wouldn’t allow himself to halt until the wizards’ precinct was several blocks behind and he’d separated himself from everyone else who’d fled the battle.

Then, legs leaden, heart hammering, he flopped down in an alley and wheezed. He remembered the man who’d saved him-and whom he in turn had abandoned-and felt a pang of shame.

But curse it, it wasn’t his fault the wretch was dead! It was the fault of the despicable Thayans and the war hero who’d given them authority. Who’d sent them to slaughter her own people when they’d risen up to cleanse Luthcheq of a canker.

30 CHES-6 TARSAKH THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

The rain pattered down from a gray sky. It made the task of picking up bodies and tossing them onto carts even more cheerless, if that was possible.

Since she was an officer, Jhesrhi didn’t have to dirty her hands with such labor. Since she didn’t have any men under her direct command, she didn’t even have to supervise it. But she watched it for a time, then stalked back to her billet and stuffed her grimoires and spare clothing into her saddlebags.

Then she hauled them and her tack to the overhang at the side of the house. So named for the long, livid ridge that marked his flank from feathers to fur, Scar spotted the gear and knew they were going to fly. He gave an eager rasp and leaped to his feet.