Richard Byers: The Captive Flame

The larger of the pair had rust-colored scales and wore a steel medallion in the shape of a gauntlet around his neck. It was the most common emblem of Torm. She’d heard that dragonborn didn’t worship the gods, but apparently this one was an exception. “We should get back out into the streets,” he said.

His ocher-scaled companion, a runt by dragonborn standards, no taller or heavier than the average man, sighed. “I’ll be stuck and roasted if I see why.”

“Because the Loyal Fury prompted me to take a hand in this affair, and because I’m still the only one who’s seen the murderer and lived.”

Now even more interested, wishing she had a better idea how to read their expressions, Jhesrhi studied the dragonborn’s faces. She assumed they were talking about the Green Hand killer, and no one had informed her that anyone had actually seen him.

“Maybe so,” said the smaller Tymantheran, “but has this god of yours spoken to you since?”

“No.”

“And when you say you saw the murderer, was it anything more than just a sense of motion in the dark?”

“Not really.”

“So when it comes to hunting him, you don’t actually have any special advantage over anybody else?”

“No.”

“On top of which, you understand it isn’t our job to catch the wretch. We came to Luthcheq to serve the ambassador. Despite that, I’ve spent night after cold, weary night prowling the city with you. We’ve had plenty of time to spear a fish if it was going to happen, and now there’s no disgrace in giving up.”

“I can’t. A paladin has to answer the call to duty no matter what form it takes, and no matter the difficulties. But if you don’t want to accompany me anymore, I understand.”

The smaller dragonborn showed his fangs in what might have been a reptilian grin. “Right. When reason fails, break out the guilt. Well, it’s not going to work this time. I…” His voice faded out as he craned, peering past his companion.

Jhesrhi followed his gaze. Several genasi were coming through the door, each marked by the elemental force with which he shared a kinship. The one in front was a windsoul with silvery skin crisscrossed by glowing blue lines and jagged gray crystals in place of hair. The one behind him was an earthsoul. His head was bald, and a mesh of gleaming golden lines etched his deep brown flesh.

They caught sight of the dragonborn, froze for a moment, then headed for their table.

“Akanulans,” said the smaller dragonborn. “If not for bad luck, we’d have none at all.”

“Are you sure they’re looking for trouble?” asked the paladin.

“For a fellow who pretends to have mystical insights, you’re not much good at perceiving a danger right in front of your nose.” The ocher-scaled warrior scooted his chair back from the table, no doubt so he could get out of it quickly. His companion looked around at the advancing genasi, then did the same.

The procession fetched up in front of the dragonborn. “Having a drink?” growled the windsoul in the lead.

“As you see,” said the paladin.

“No doubt toasting your realm’s most recent victory,” said the windsoul, a little louder. Recognizing the belligerence in his tone and stance, nearby folk started edging away.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“When you sneak into another realm, butcher defenseless villagers, and then run back across the border before anyone who knows how to fight can catch you, why, that’s what Tymantherans consider a glorious triumph, isn’t it?”

The ocher-skinned dragonborn started to rise. His friend gripped his forearm and held him in his chair.

“If you’ve had news that someone slaughtered some of your countrymen,” said the paladin, “you have my condolences. Also my word that my countrymen aren’t to blame.”

“Of course,” sneered the windsoul. “How could you be, when our peoples bear such love for each other?”

“We don’t love you,” said the paladin, “but when have we ever fought you except in an honorable fashion? You have less scrupulous foes. Look to them if you want to punish the guilty.”

“Rot your lying tongue!” snarled a firesoul, his skin red-bronze and its web of lines a lambent orange. Tiny flames danced along the ones on his face and scalp. “One child saw your raiders and lived to tell the tale!”

“I say you’re the liar,” said the smaller dragonborn. He tried again to rise, but his friend still held him in place. Unfortunately, no one was holding the Akanulans, and they reached for the hilts of their daggers and swords.

“Don’t!” snapped the paladin, and the genasi faltered. Jhesrhi perceived that the russet-scaled dragonborn had infused his voice with a preternatural eloquence. “Whoever’s right, we’re in Chessenta, a valued ally to both our realms. Would you jeopardize her friendship by committing mayhem in the very heart of her capital? Let’s at least defer this quarrel to another place and time.”

For a moment, Jhesrhi thought his powers of persuasion had prevailed. Then the firesoul shouted, whipped his sword from his scabbard, and cut. The paladin jerked backward, and the blade just missed his reptilian face.

He and his friend sprang to their feet, scrambled back, and snatched for their swords. The other genasi, seven of them altogether, drew their blades as well.

It didn’t matter that Jhesrhi and her comrades were out of uniform. They were peace officers, and it was their duty to stop the brawl. She wished she’d brought her staff-wished, too, that the tavern weren’t so crowded. There were more than a dozen people between the combatants and her-the majority seemed eager to watch exotic outlanders slash one another to pieces-and if she wasn’t careful, her spells would strike them instead of their intended targets.

She finessed the problem by jumping up and stamping her foot. The ground under the floor bucked. Some people fell, and others staggered off balance. Jugs and bottles lurched from the shelves behind the bar to smash on the floor.

“I’m an officer of the city guard!” she cried. “Put up your weapons now!”

“Where’s her insignia?” someone asked.

“Forget that,” replied somebody else, “why isn’t the bitch’s hand marked!”

Recovering their balance, some of the Akanulans peered at her. Then a watersoul, his skin sea green with turquoise lines running through it, barked a laugh. “You think you can make elemental magic work against genasi?”

She drew breath to repeat her command, but she never got the chance. A windsoul flew up into the air and toward her. Unfortunately, there was just enough space between the ceiling and the crowd’s heads to accommodate his passage. A firesoul whipped his hand up and down in a gesture that suggested leaping flame. Twisting back and forth like a serpent, a streak of yellow fire raced across the floor. Recognizing that they hadn’t achieved a safe distance from the violence after all, the people between Jhesrhi and her attackers screamed and tried to scramble out of the way.

Straining to exert enough power without her staff, in the enclosed space, Jhesrhi whispered words of power to the wind. It forsook the flying genasi, and, deprived of its support, he crashed to the floor. It blew out the fire serpent like a candle. And in the moment afterward, before her opponents could gather themselves to assail her again, she peered to see what was happening elsewhere.

His medallion and the blade of his sword both shining like the moon, the dragonborn paladin was trading cuts with the windsoul who’d first accosted him. His fellow Tymantheran was fighting an earthsoul and a purple-skinned stormsoul at the same time.

Khouryn had somehow managed to engage the three remaining Akanulans-a firesoul, an earthsoul, and a watersoul-simultaneously, and without drawing his urgrosh from its sling. Evidently hoping to subdue the genasi without causing them irreparable harm, he was wielding a chair as a combination club and shield.