Richard Byers - The Captive Flame

Gaedynn heaved himself free of the loops of congealed darkness, scrambled, and grabbed the enemy warrior’s arm just before the blade could plunge home. The two combatants thrashed and rolled while Jhesrhi looked for a chance to smite the scarred man without hurting Gaedynn. Then the archer landed a short jab to his opponent’s throat. The gray man stopped struggling; suddenly all he could do was shake and choke. Using the heel of his palm Gaedynn hit him again, this time smashing his nose, and he stopped moving altogether.

Gaedynn turned and pulled his bow clear of the coils of darkness. “Are you all right? Those marks remind me of Thay, when a ghost would get its hands on somebody.”

She cautiously touched what she surmised to be hand-shaped bruises or discolorations on her neck. Now that the battle was over, they were really starting to sting. Still… “I don’t think they’re all that bad. How are you?”

“I wish we still had that healing balm, but really, the knife just scratched me. The brigandine stopped the worst of it.” He pulled the arrows from his quiver. He’d used a lot of them during the fight, and the pressure of the dark coils and rolling around on the ground had broken some of the rest. “Curse it! What were these bastards, anyway? Shades? Shadar-kai?”

“They were a long way from home if they were.” The Empire of Netheril, which bred men infused with the essence of darkness, lay two thousand miles to the west.

“True.” He grinned. “I just think it would be nice to have Netherese running around our part of the world. Because things aren’t nearly complicated enough already.”

“We should move out. In case something saw the flames.”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Farther down the hill, they found yokes with buckets of water attached, and the carcasses of slaughtered deer. Jhesrhi inferred that the gray folk had dropped them when they decided to attack.

“Our foes were Tchazzar’s jailers,” she said, “charged with bringing him food and drink. They cleared out when the other dragon came to feed, for fear it would leech the strength out of them as well. When we met them, they were coming back.”

“Maybe.” Squatting beside it, Gaedynn was clearly more interested in examining one of the deer. “Look at this!”

She walked over and stood beside him. “What?”

He pointed. “Look at the striped pattern on the hindquarters.” He indicated one of the legs. “And here-no dew claw. During your time in Threskel, did you ever see a doe like this?”

“I don’t know. The elemental magi weren’t like your elves. They didn’t devote any time to teaching me woodcraft.”

“Well, I know I haven’t seen one before. It’s… peculiar.”

“You can ponder the mystery of its existence when we’re well away from here.”

He smiled. “I suppose that might be the prudent thing to do.”

They hurried onward, while the pain in the front and sides of her neck waxed and waned. Until Gaedynn finally halted and, turning in a complete circle, peered around.

“What is it?” Jhesrhi whispered.

“I think I must be lost,” he replied.

Jhesrhi wondered if he was making another poorly timed and pointless joke. “You don’t get lost.”

“No. I don’t. But we’ve walked far enough that we should be clear of the poisoned area. Yet we’re not.”

The hill rising in front of them wasn’t as utterly and obviously blighted as the dragon captive’s immediate vicinity. But when she looked closely, it was obviously tainted. Shadows seethed when they thought no one was looking. Twisted oaks sweated a pale, viscous fluid that reminded her of pus.

“And I can’t get my bearings,” Gaedynn continued. “The shape of the hills is off.”

“Keep walking,” Jhesrhi said. “We’ll come to something we recognize.”

They didn’t, though, and in time she began to suspect what had happened. But she had an irrational dread that somehow, saying it aloud would make it true. So she waited until what she supposed she could still call dawn. When the sky lightened from black to slate gray, but nothing recognizable as a sun rose to brighten it any further.

Columns of smoke ascended from behind a rise. Just the thought that someone might be cooking breakfast there made Khouryn’s mouth water and his belly growl.

Following their disastrous clash with the ash giants, he and the dragonborn survivors had tried to head east. Medrash wanted to tell the Lance Defenders about the threat of the lizard-bears, which apparently the enemy had never used before. But unfortunately, the riders kept spotting other giant war bands blocking the way to the Dustroad. Sometimes the giants spotted them too, and then they had to flee. Meanwhile their rations ran short, and only occasionally did they find potable water, or grass for their steeds. Two of the animals went lame.

“Fried ham,” said Balasar. “If your friend Torm truly takes a benevolent interest in the affairs of mortals, then let him prove it by providing fried ham.”

Medrash gave him a sour look. “The Loyal Fury has nothing to prove to you or anyone. And you might want to remember that giants have been known to build fires of their own.”

“And that smoke sometimes rises from holes in the ground in this foul kingdom,” Khouryn said. “Still, that does look like it’s coming from somebody’s campfires. Let’s find out.” He pointed to the left. “If we swing that way, we can come up on high ground overlooking whatever there is to see. And if it’s giants, we’ll be far enough away to disappear before they can bother us.”

Medrash nodded. “Onward.”

On the way up, rocks slid and clattered under the hooves of Khouryn’s mare, and for a moment he feared the tired beast was going to fall. She didn’t, though. She regained her footing and carried him up onto the ridge with his companions.

Where the view was well worth seeing. Although tiny with distance, the figures in the camp below were plainly dragonborn. He felt a surge of elation, which faded when he noticed his companions didn’t appear to share it.

Their attitude was a peculiar mix of emotions. Like him, they were relieved. But also surprised, and to varying degrees disgusted.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

For a moment no one replied, as if the answer was shameful. Then Medrash said, “Look at the banner.”

Khouryn did. The black flag had a silvery squiggle on it. Trying to make out what it represented, he squinted, then blinked in surprise. “Is that a dragon?”

“Yes,” the paladin said. “And as you’ve heard, dragons are the tyrants who held our ancestors as slaves. Yet there are those among us who preach that we’re kin to wyrms and that we should celebrate that kinship and forget the ancient debt of blood.”

Khouryn decided he’d just learned whom dragonborn spat at in the street.

“Or to put it another way,” Balasar said, “they fixated on one of the gods of this new world-Bahamut, is that what they call him?-the same way you did.”

Medrash glared. “If anyone but a clan brother made that comparison, I’d challenge him.”

“Then it’s lucky for you I am one.”

“So anyway,” Khouryn said, “these… cultists?”

“They call themselves the Platinum Cadre,” Balasar said.

“So anyway, this Platinum Cadre apparently fielded its own company to fight the ash giants. And we need help. So I assume we’re going down there, even if you find their creed objectionable.”

Medrash sighed. “We have no choice.” He urged his horse down the slope that led to the camp. Everyone else followed.

Khouryn rode beside Balasar. “He’s really not happy, is he?”

“No,” Balasar replied. “When the giants defeated us and killed so many, he put the blame on himself. And needing to ask dragon-lovers for help? That’s yet another disgrace. You can see that everybody else feels it too, although not as keenly. The rest of us are a little less fanatical about our honor and a little more interested in getting off Black Ash Plain alive.”