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Jhesrhi looked at Aoth, whose tattooed face was shiny with the pungent ointment he’d rubbed on to help heal his burns, and thought, Look at us. Not one but two evil mages, veritable demons in mortal guise, in the war hero’s audience chamber. I imagine it’s been awhile since that’s happened.

Unless, of course, the mages in question were facing execution or something like that.

Hatred welled up in her, and she struggled to quash it. She’d managed to serve the zulkirs, despicable tyrants though they were. No reason she couldn’t fight for Chessenta too. And fortunately, her resentful fancies to the contrary, she and Aoth weren’t the ones in trouble today, even if the hostile stares of some of the courtiers might have led one to imagine otherwise.

But Zan-akar didn’t look hostile, even though, from what Jhesrhi understood, Aoth had undermined him when they met before. In fact, the stormsoul approached with a warm smile on the dark, narrow face so intricately etched with silver lines that it put Aoth’s tattooed mask to shame.

“Captain.” Zan-akar shifted his gaze to Jhesrhi, Gaedynn, and Khouryn. “Lady and sirs. Heartfelt congratulations on your achievement.”

“Thank you,” said Aoth.

“I want you to understand, we genasi cherish the Chessentan people like our own kin. And so, by aiding them, you’ve likewise earned the gratitude of Akanûl.”

“That’s good to know.”

As they chatted on, Jhesrhi noticed Medrash, Balasar, and Perra staring. She could hardly blame them for their concern. It was a bad sign that Shala Karanok had even invited an enemy of Tymanther to attend the council. It no doubt seemed a worse one that said enemy was talking to the witnesses to whom the dragonborn looked for help.

But it would have been stupid for Aoth to be anything less than cordial. The Brotherhood might want to work for Akanûl someday. It didn’t mean he or his lieutenants would slant their testimony. She wished she could reassure the dragonborn, but just then, horns blew a brassy fanfare and Shala entered through a door in the back of the hall.

Men bowed, and held the pose while the war hero mounted her throne. Women had to curtsey. As usual, this particular ladylike gesture of respect made Jhesrhi feel awkward and ridiculous.

“Rise,” Shala said. She surveyed the crowd arrayed before her dais. “First, let’s rejoice in our good fortune. The Green Hand—or rather the Green Hands—are dead, and for that we thank Captain Fezim and his soldiers.”

Aoth bowed again.

“How did you find the killers?” Shala asked.

“We just searched—on griffonback, mainly—until we got lucky,” Aoth replied. It was safer than admitting they’d convened an illegal conclave of the local arcanists and laid a temporary curse on a portion of the town.

“Well, I’m certain it took skill and valor as well as luck,” the war hero said. “Which is to say, you promised you’d earn my trust, and you have. I’ll gladly send you to defend the border. Provided, of course, that Lord Nicos is still willing.”

“Completely, Majesty,” said the nobleman with the broken nose. Since he employed the Brotherhood, their triumph reflected well on him. But to Jhesrhi’s surprise, he seemed less delighted by it than Zan-akar.

“Excellent!” Shala said. “Now, however, we must deal with the troubling aspect of last night’s events. It turns out the murderers were dragonborn.”

“As I warned you, Majesty,” Zan-akar said, “Tymanther is High Imaskar’s friend, not Chessenta’s.”

“That’s a lie!” Perra snapped. “Majesty, I swear, the vanquisher’s government had nothing to do with this.”

Shala sighed. “I’d like to believe that. An alternative explanation would help.”

“And I don’t have one,” Perra said. “What I can tell you is that my embassy keeps track of all the dragonborn who visit Luthcheq. Yet I don’t recognize any of the ones who died last night.”

Medrash took a step forward. “Majesty, may I speak?”

Shala gave a brusque little nod.

“As the ambassador said,” Medrash continued, “we don’t know any of the dead dragonborn. What’s more, I noticed that none of them had clan piercings like these.” He touched a claw to one of the white studs in his left profile. “The piercings every Tymantheran carries.”

“So they took them out,” Zan-akar said.

“I doubt it, milord,” Medrash replied. “I couldn’t find scars to show where any had ever gone in.”

“This is a transparent attempt to obscure the truth,” said Zan-akar, pale sparks dropping from his markings. “Where do dragonborn come from except Tymanther?”

“Majesty,” Perra said, gritting her teeth. “Is Lord Zan-akar here to serve as your inquisitor?”

“No,” Shala said. “But I want to hear what he has to say. Because we now share similar concerns.”

“Majesty,” Perra said, “your concern should make you want to understand what’s really been happening in Luthcheq these past several tendays. And it’s obvious we still don’t.”

“How so?” Shala asked.

“When we believed there was only one killer,” the stooped old dragonborn said, “we could ascribe his crimes to madness. That can’t explain the actions of an entire conspiracy. So what was the point of the murders?”

“To create unrest and undermine confidence in Her Majesty’s rule,” Zan-akar said. “An end to which any foe might aspire.”

Perra kept her gaze fixed on the war hero. “Sir Balasar and Sir Medrash tell me the Green Hands started fires.”

“When discovered, spies and assassins often try to destroy their papers,” Zan-akar said.

“They also tried to obliterate esoteric symbols painted on a wall and floor,” Perra said.

Somewhat to Jhesrhi’s dismay, Shala turned to her. “Witch, I understand you saw these symbols.”

Jhesrhi took a breath. “By the time I put out the fires, the marks were mostly gone. I believe they had mystical import, but I can’t tell you anything more.”

“We already know the dragonborn used some form of magic,” Zan-akar said. “We can also assume they have their creeds and observances the same as anyone else. I don’t see how this is relevant.”

“Then ask yourself this,” Perra replied. “If they were all going to make a stand against their pursuers, kill them or die trying, then why bother destroying their arcana? Isn’t it possible that some people escaped the house while their fellow murderers kept Captain Fezim and his companions busy? And that the conspirators burned their documents and pentagrams so they wouldn’t provide clues to the identities of those who remain at large?”

Shala turned to Aoth. “Is it possible?”

Though it didn’t show on his face, Jhesrhi could almost feel Aoth wince. If he admitted there might still be killers running loose, would that keep the Brotherhood in the capital?

“We found a cellar,” he said. “It connects to tunnels, probably used to move goods in the days when Luthcheq was a port. Someone could have gotten out that way. But there’s no evidence anybody did.”

“Still, Majesty,” Perra said, “you can see how many unanswered questions there are. Let me help you find the answers.”

Zan-akar sneered. “Or bury them.”

Khouryn cleared his throat. “Majesty?”

Shala didn’t look at a dwarf with much more warmth than she showed a wizard. But her tone was civil when she said, “Yes?”

“Whatever remains hidden,” Khouryn said, “there’s one thing we do know with certainty. Not all dragonborn are complicit in the murders. Sir Medrash and Sir Balasar helped bring the Green Hands to justice. I’d be dead if they hadn’t.”

“The covert agents of a hostile power,” Zan-akar said, “must occasionally act against their own cause to conceal where their true allegiance lies.”

By now, Jhesrhi had spent enough time with dragonborn to learn how their reptilian faces worked, so she recognized it when Balasar sneered. “You seem more than knowledgeable about the techniques of spying and treachery,” the Tymantheran said.

Points of light crawled and sizzled along the silver cracks in the genasi’s skin. “I had to become knowledgeable to protect my people from the likes of you.”

“I’m curious,” Balasar said. “When all those sparks start falling off you, is that like a real person losing control of his bladder?”

“Enough!” Perra snapped. “Majesty, I apologize for my retainer’s lack of decorum.”

The war hero frowned and fingered one of the bits of symbolic armor adorning her jerkin. After a moment, she said, “It’s clear that we—” She broke off to peer at the back of the hall. Jhesrhi turned to see what had captured her attention.

One of the tall sandstone doors had opened. Looking as out of place as Jhesrhi felt among the finely dressed courtiers and heroic statuary, a disheveled soldier in spurred, muddy horseman’s boots advanced and bowed low before the throne.

“Rise,” Shala said. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Majesty,” the newcomer replied, stammering ever so slightly, “but the officer outside said I should. The pirates raided Samnur.” Jhesrhi had studied maps of Chessenta and knew that was a village on the coast. “But I don’t think they knew about the temple of Umberlee. The waveservants used their magic to help us soldiers fight, and we won.”

“That’s good news,” Shala said, “and it’s plain you rode hard to bring it. I’m grateful. But it could have waited until I finished my current business.”

“Excuse me, Majesty, but there’s more. There were dragonborn among the Imaskari.”

The courtiers babbled.

“Majesty,” Perra said, raising her voice to make it heard above the clamor, “I swear on the honor of Clan Ophinshtalajiir, the vanquisher would never allow such a thing.”

“Did the dragonborn have piercings?” Medrash asked, but the question got lost in the general din.

“Shut up!” Shala snapped, and the room quieted. She fixed her gaze on Perra. “You and your people will have to leave Luthcheq.”

Zan-akar somehow managed to keep his expression grave, but Jhesrhi suspected he was whooping with joy on the inside.

“Majesty,” Perra replied, “let me be very sure I understand you. You’re expelling us from Chessenta and breaking off relations with Tymanther?”

“I’m sending you away,” Shala said, “to avoid another riot when the city hears this news. For your own safety, in other words. I’ll have to ponder further to decide whether to sever ties with your kingdom.”

But with Zan-akar urging her to do precisely that, and no one left to speak for Tymanther, Jhesrhi figured she knew what decision the war hero would ultimately make.

Perra surely assumed the same, but maybe she also judged it would be impossible to change Shala’s mind. Because she simply bowed and said, “As Your Majesty commands.”

*    *    *    *    *

Resplendent in a new suit of silk and brocade, the candlelight glinting on his jeweled ornaments, Gaedynn related the story of the taking of the Dread Ring in Lapendrar. Apparently he’d done it more or less single-handedly, with every arrow piercing a vampire or some other undead horror through the heart.

It was a tale told on two levels. His comrades were meant to take it as a joke. The pretty young ladies seated to either side of him—Nicos’s nieces, or was it cousins?—were supposed to ooh and ah at his heroism, and they did.

Aoth was glad someone was enjoying the victory feast. Jhesrhi had begged off, as she often avoided such occasions. Khouryn grew quieter with every cup of Sembian red. Even their host seemed subdued.

So was Aoth, and it annoyed him. So what if the dragonborn had suffered a misfortune? No one was paying him to look out for their interests. By the Black Flame, for all he knew, it might even be true that Tymanther was the secret enemy of Chessenta. Old Perra wouldn’t be the first envoy who didn’t know what her own government was up to.

Seated at the head of the table, Nicos turned his head in Aoth’s general direction. “Numestra, could you possibly spare the captain for a little while? He and I have matters to discuss.”

Aoth’s buxom, freckled tablemate had gamely made conversation throughout the five-course meal, but he had the feeling she was happy to be rid of him. His weird eyes, copious tattoos, and reputation as a bloodthirsty Thayan sellsword intrigued some women but repulsed others, and she was probably in the latter camp. And his dourness had offered little to win her over.

Nicos led him toward the same study in which they’d had their initial conversation. But the nobleman stopped short in the antechamber where the halfling clerks labored by day. Aoth caught a whiff of a distinctive sweet-and-sour smell hanging on the air.

“Wait,” Nicos said. “I have a particularly fine apricot cordial. We can share that as we talk.” He waved for Aoth to precede him back the way they’d come.

Maybe the aristocrat really did crave another drink. But Aoth wondered if he was trying to keep him from catching the lingering aroma of a rare aromatic gum burned in certain rituals.

Fine. If he didn’t want Aoth to smell it, he wouldn’t let on that he had. Kossuth knew he didn’t blame the nobleman for not wanting anyone, even one of his own agents, to know he possessed a modicum of occult knowledge and ability. Not in Chessenta.

They ended up in a game room with one table for throwing dice and another for spinning tops at arrangements of little wooden pins. It was in an offshoot of the house, with no floors above it, so Aoth could hear the rain pattering on the roof.

Nicos served the sweet liqueur. Aoth assumed it probably was every bit as good as his host claimed, although he couldn’t really tell. His palate was so lacking in discernment that he could drink almost anything with relish.

He waited for Nicos to tell him the purpose of their discussion, but the Chessentan seemed to be having trouble getting started. In hopes of moving things along, Aoth said, “I noticed that neither Lord Luthen nor his proxy Daelric said a word in council today. I suppose they realized they’d look like idiots speaking out against you now that you truly have stopped the Green Hand killings.”

Although now that he thought about it, it was odd. Luthen hadn’t looked unhappy. He’d had a little smile on his round, bearded face.

Nicos grunted. “We did stop them—or rather, you and your people did. It needed doing, and you succeeded brilliantly.” He hesitated.

“But?” Aoth prompted.

“It didn’t work out the way I hoped. I’m afraid the provocations from Threskel and High Imaskar, outrageous and damaging as they are, are merely the precursors to actual invasions. In large measure, that’s why I wanted to catch the Green Hands. To allay the common suspicion of mages enough that the war hero and her commanders would consent to use them in our defense.”

Aoth nodded. “And we did. But now Chessenta won’t have dragonborn allies fighting alongside her soldiers. You’re worried you came out behind on the trade.”

“Exactly.”

“Of course, if Tymanther really is your enemy, you wouldn’t have had their help anyway.”

Nicos waved a dismissive hand, as if to convey that Tymanther’s guilt was an impossibility. Aoth had his own doubts, based more on intuition than the facts, but he wondered how the Chessentan could be so sure.

“In any case,” Nicos said, “our situation remains more complicated than anticipated. Shala’s right—Perra and her household are now in much the same situation as were the wizards two days ago. The people despise them and may well try to harm them, and we can’t trust native Chessentan troops to protect them. Can you provide an escort to see them safely back to Tymanther?”

Aoth sighed. He would have preferred to have all his strength to contend with whatever Threskel sent south. “I can spare a few men.”

“Good. There’s something else as well. But first, I have to ask you, are you truly my agent? Will you follow my orders in preference to any others?”

Aoth stared at him. “By the Nine Dark Princes! Was Luthen right? Did you bring us here to help overthrow the war hero?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Well, that’s a relief, because I don’t think that at our current strength we could pull it off. We might kill or imprison her, but we probably wouldn’t fare well in the dung storm that would follow.”

“I’m not a traitor!”

“Clearly not, milord. I was just speaking hypothetically. To answer your question—yes, I’m your man, as long as you keep paying me.”

“All right. Then how much do you know about Tchazzar?”

Aoth cocked his head. “Very little. I’m old enough that I actually could have seen him, but I never did. I was a little busy up in Thay the last time he was around.”

“I assume you’ve at least heard that he vanished during the upheavals of the Spellplague.”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s a little more to the story. He ventured into Threskel and never returned. It’s possible he was looking for a way to protect Chessenta from the blue fire, although no one truly knows.”

“So, if he was in enemy territory, it’s also possible his greatest enemy managed to kill him at last.”

“Yes, but recently, some rumors have come out of the northeast. Allegedly, certain folk, while wandering somewhere in the mountains, have heard a dragon roaring on the darkest nights. A few even claim to have seen one sprawled on the ground, with flames flickering from its mouth and nostrils.”

“Threskel’s full of wyrms, isn’t it? There’s a dracolich running the place, and a bunch of living wyrms who pay homage to him. I imagine some of them are fire-breathers. So what makes you think this particular dragon is Tchazzar?”

“The reports say the dragon is huge and old, like Tchazzar. They also say he’s emaciated, and looks like he can’t stand up for some reason. If he’s crippled, or imprisoned somehow, that would explain why he never returned to Luthcheq.”

“But it doesn’t explain why, over the course of nearly a century, Alasklerbanbastos never found him and finished him off. Or why, if he’s been lying helpless for all that time, you just heard about it ‘recently.’ ”

Nicos scowled. “I don’t simply assume the dragon in question is Tchazzar. But it could be.”

“And you want to find out for sure.”

“Yes.”

“Without Shala realizing you have someone looking into it. Because she’d take it to mean you lack confidence in her rule.”

“Yes. Although it would be completely unfair to take it that way, considering that Tchazzar was a living god. Obviously, he could provide for his people in a way no mortal sovereign could. And he might not even want to resume the throne. It’s possible he’s beyond such things.”

And possible he’s not, thought Aoth, in the highly unlikely event he’s still alive. “I have to say, I never spotted you for a member of the Church of Tchazzar.”

“I’m not. But you don’t have to be to revere Chessenta’s savior. Or to look into every possible source of aid now that our enemies are pressing us hard. Will you help me?”

Aoth deferred the necessity of answering by taking another sip of liqueur. The cordial suddenly tasted too sweet, and burned in the pit of his stomach.

He had an unpleasant sense of being caught up in matters he didn’t understand. There were too many anomalies. The unanswered questions about the Green Hands and the apparent treacheries of the dragonborn. Nicos’s unexpected mystical skills, and his claim that after almost a hundred years, rumors of Tchazzar’s survival had reached him only now, just when Chessenta was in urgent need of its champion. To say the least, it was a remarkable coincidence.

But did Aoth need to understand? Did he even want to? Or did he want to keep to his … well, definitely not his place. Though he observed the proper forms of respect to the lords of the world, particularly if they were employing him, he’d long since forsaken true subservience to anyone. But his role, the one he’d freely chosen for himself, was to be the sellsword captain who fought for gold and reputation without caring or having to care about the plots and maneuvers that sent realms to war in the first place.

That role was in jeopardy now. If he pushed Nicos for further answers, gave the nobleman reason to suspect his loyalty, it might slip from his grasp forever.

“You realize,” he said, “that even if a spy did find Tchazzar alive, that doesn’t mean a mere man could fix whatever problem is holding a dragon helpless.”

“I wouldn’t expect him to try,” Nicos replied. “He just needs to report his findings, and then I’ll decide what to do next.”

Aoth grunted. “All right. I’ll send someone to run this errand too. If anyone notices, I’ll just say I’m dispatching scouts across the border to gather intelligence on Alasklerbanbastos’s forces.”

*    *    *    *    *

Khouryn sat with his feet stretched out toward the campfire and his back against Vigilant’s flank. The griffon’s body heat prevented the chill of the evening fog from sinking into her rider’s bones, and keeping her close discouraged her from taking an inappropriate interest in the horses and mules.

Naturally he wouldn’t have done it if any of his companions minded having such a big, potentially deadly animal lounging close at hand, but none of the dragonborn did. In the main they seemed to be hearty, practical folk like dwarves or sellswords, and he liked them more every day they traveled together.

And that had been long enough that he was starting to feel like he could relax and enjoy their company. They’d journeyed at a good pace. Maybe fast enough to outrun the news that Tymanther had supposedly betrayed Chessenta.

Balasar, who justly took pride in his camp cooking, handed him a grilled trout fillet wrapped in a big leaf from some aquatic plant. The best route from Luthcheq into Tymanther ran along the northern shore of the Methmere. The frequent mists were one of the inconveniences. The fresh fish were one of the advantages.

Khouryn took a bite. Too quickly—it burned his mouth. But it was tasty, sweet, moist, and spiced with something he didn’t recognize. Vigilant gave a little squawk, begging, and he told her to shut up. “You had your supper before the sun went down.”

“Yes,” said Balasar, grinning, fog blurring his features even though he was just a few feet away. “Do be quiet, Vigilant. Your master has to keep up his strength to protect us poor, helpless dragonborn from harm.”

Khouryn chuckled. “Peace. I think you realize we didn’t tag along because anyone doubts your prowess. It’s just that a few extra spears are never a bad idea. And if we run into angry peasants, well, it’s you they hate, not us. So maybe we can persuade them to back off without needing to kill any.”

Medrash scowled. “I still can’t believe it’s come to this. And, stuck back in Tymanther, we’ll have no way of uncovering the truth.”

“It’s not your fault,” Balasar said. “Although maybe that god of yours is to blame. If he’s what really set you on the trail of the Green Hands.”

Medrash glared. “Torm charged me to further the cause of good. But somehow I bungled the task, and because I did, the alliance fell apart.”

“How?” Balasar asked. “How would any sane person say you botched the job?”

“Perhaps stopping the Green Hands wasn’t the job. Maybe I misunderstood Torm’s prompting from the start. I just don’t know!”

Khouryn decided he didn’t want to watch two friends quarrel, or Medrash wallow in self-recrimination either. Hoping to divert the conversation, he asked, “How did you get to be a paladin, anyway? I always heard that dragonborn don’t worship the gods.”

Medrash smiled like he too was glad of a distraction. “Back in Abeir, where we lived before the Blue Breath of Change hurled us across space, none of us did. But we’ve been in Faerûn for a while now. We’re picking up some of your ideas.”

“A pointless craving for novelty that corrupts the old traditions.” Balasar’s tone was severe past the point of pomposity, but then he grinned. “Or at least that’s what the clan elders say. Me, I just think all this praying and such is silly. As far as I can see, all it does is fill fools like my clan brother here with fretting and discontent.”

A coil of the steadily thickening fog billowed across Medrash’s face, half obscuring it. “It gives us purpose.”

“What better reason to avoid it?”

Once again, Khouryn intervened. “All right, that explains how some dragonborn come to embrace the gods. But how did you receive the call to be a paladin?”

“I suppose I heard it,” Medrash said, “because I needed to. As a youngling, I was the shame of my parents and of Clan Daardendrien. Weak, clumsy, and—worst of all—timid in a kindred famous for its warriors.”

Khouryn snorted. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Maybe, but it’s true. All the other youths despised me. Everyone but Balasar.”

“Ascribe it to my kindly nature,” Balasar said. “Or maybe my contrariness.”

“Anyway,” Medrash continued, “I was well embarked on a wretched life. It was even possible Daardendrien would cast me out. But then I started dreaming of a warrior with a steel gauntlet. At the start, I didn’t even realize he was Torm, or a god at all. But I could feel his magnificence, and when he urged me to put my trust in him, what did I have to lose?”

“Clarity of mind?” suggested Balasar.

Medrash gave him an irritated look.

“I take it,” Khouryn said, “that after you pledged yourself to the god—or something like that—things changed for you.”

“Not all at once,” Medrash said. “I didn’t stop being afraid, but I found the willpower to try things even though I was. I threw myself into my warrior training, because for the first time I truly believed I could improve.”

“And that’s the tooth that cracks the shell,” Balasar said. “Attitude. Confidence. I don’t need to believe that a god truly took a personal interest in one sad, puny little child to explain what happened next.”

“After half a year,” Medrash said, “I was stronger, quicker, and a better fighter than a number of my fellow students. After two years, I was better than nearly all of them.”

Balasar swallowed a mouthful of trout. “Except me. Obviously.”

Medrash snorted. “Oh, obviously. Later still, I happened across a Tormish temple. I looked at the paintings and statues and recognized the protector from my dreams. I took instruction from the holy champions and asked them to train me to be a paladin.”

“What did your clan think about that?” Khouryn asked.

“They tolerated it,” Medrash said. “Most dragonborn believe that those who pay homage to the gods are a little odd, but they don’t scorn us the way the Chessentans do their mages.”

“The clan realizes,” Balasar said, “that wherever Medrash’s special talents come from, they’re useful. Anyway, you can’t hate everybody at the same time, and well before any of our folk took an interest in the gods, Tymanther had already chosen targets for its bigotry.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Medrash snapped. “So, Khouryn, you’ve heard my story, such as it is. Now you answer a question for me. I understand why Lord Nicos wanted Perra to have an escort. I don’t understand why one of Aoth Fezim’s senior officers is commanding it. Doesn’t he want you with him when he fights the marauders out of Threskel?”

Plainly, Khouryn thought, I’m not the only one who knows how to change the subject. But fair enough. I don’t need to know who it is that Tymantherans spit at in the street. “I asked to lead the escort. During the riot and again in the fight with the Green Hands, you fellows saved my life.”

Medrash shrugged. “We three simply watched out for one another, as comrades do.”

“Maybe,” Khouryn said, “but I felt like helping you get home safely. Besides, there’s another reason I wanted to come. Tymanther’s not that far from East Rift. My wife’s there, and I haven’t seen her in a couple of years. I’m hoping to travel on down the Dustroad and visit. On griffonback, it’s not that long a trip.”

“Why don’t you live with her?” Medrash asked.

Khouryn grunted. “That’s not as happy a story as yours. Nor one I’m much inclined to tell, except to friends. When I was about as young as the two of you—which is damn young, for a dwarf—”

Vigilant sprang to her feet, dumping her master on his back. Balasar chuckled, but his mirth died away when he saw how the griffon was looking around.

Khouryn scrambled to his feet. “Something’s coming.” His mind raced: What did he have time to do? Pull on his mail? Saddle Vigilant? Quite possibly neither.

“We have sentries,” Balasar said.

“Who don’t see what’s sneaking up on us,” Khouryn said. Mace and boot, now that he was belatedly paying attention, he realized that except for the other campfires, reduced to mere smudges of glow, he could barely even make out the rest of the camp. He raised his voice to a bellow. “Something’s in the fog!”

In response, voices cursed. He could picture his fellow wayfarers hastily rising from their ease and grabbing their weapons, even as he was snatching up his urgrosh.

Balasar and Medrash took up their shields and drew their swords. The paladin rattled off an invocation, set his blade aglow with silvery light, and grimaced when he saw that the luminescence only helped a little to reveal what lay within the mist.

Then, closer to the lake, someone screamed. One of the pickets, maybe cut down before he even realized he was in danger. An instant later, Vigilant gave a deafening screech and charged in that direction.

Khouryn ran after her, and Medrash and Balasar pounded after him. Still, the griffon outdistanced them and vanished into the fog. Then wings snapped, bodies thudded together, and hissing cries rasped. She’d found the enemy.

When Khouryn caught up, he nearly faltered in surprise, for Vigilant was fighting creatures unlike any he’d ever seen. At first glance they somewhat resembled lizardfolk, but with limbs and torsos foreshortened from human- to dwarf-length, and flexible, whipping necks stretched more than long enough to make up the lost height. Their scales gleamed orange-yellow in the glow of Medrash’s sword.

Despite their fangs and claws, they were no match for Vigilant in close combat. She’d already shredded two and was gutting another with her talons. But four more, keeping their distance, spat what looked like water at her, and she screamed and jerked.

Khouryn charged the closest one. It spat the same spray at him. He dodged, but some of the jet still caught him.

It felt hot instead of wet. A wave of sickness surged through him. He stumbled, and his foe rushed him. The fanged head on the long neck struck at him like a snake.

Refusing to be weak no matter how wretched he suddenly felt, he swung the urgrosh and lopped it off. Then he pivoted and chopped a second such creature in the chest.

He looked around and saw that Medrash and Balasar had killed a couple too. That seemed to be all of them in the immediate vicinity. And to his relief, he didn’t feel as miserable as he had a moment before. Just parched, like he’d marched under the hot sun all day without a drop of water.

“Where now?” Balasar asked.

It was a good question. Khouryn could tell from the battle cries and shrieks that the whole camp was under attack. But since he couldn’t see the battle, how could he judge where he and his companions were needed most?

He tried to swallow away the dryness clogging his throat. “We go to the ambassador. Protect her.”

Medrash gave a brusque nod, and they headed for the center of the camp and Perra’s fire. With luck, maybe she hadn’t strayed far from that location.

When they blundered into more of the hissing, long-necked creatures, they killed them. Once or twice, Vigilant shot Khouryn what he would have sworn was an annoyed glare. Maybe she considered it beneath her dignity to fight on the ground. But he was afraid he’d see even less if he rode her up into the air.

Finally Perra came into view. Cutting and parrying with one of the greatswords that only the highest-ranking Tymantherans were allowed to wield, the gaunt old diplomat was holding her own. So were the several warriors, some dragonborn and some human members of the Brotherhood, standing with her in a defensive circle. Still, Khouryn judged that he and his friends had been wise to come to her aid. There were dozens of the long-necked creatures attacking the formation.

He started forward, and Medrash said, “Wait.” The paladin spat bright, crackling lightning, and his clan brother, silvery frost. Blasted from behind, several of the orange-yellow creatures collapsed.

“Now,” Balasar said.

The newcomers rushed in. Vigilant leaped into the air and came down on top of two of the attackers. Her aquiline talons pierced them through, and as they crumpled beneath her weight, her beak nipped and beheaded another.

Khouryn hacked a creature’s leg out from under it, then stamped in its ribs. Another foe caught the urgrosh in its fangs and tried to yank it away. He hung on and gave the weapon a twist and jerk that snapped the reptile’s neck.

“Toad-sniffer!” Balasar yelled.

Khouryn had never heard the oath before, nor did he know why a dragonborn would consider it obscene. But he recognized the tone—shock and disgust blended together. Balasar sounded like many a warrior who’d just noticed a nasty surprise appearing on the battlefield.

Khouryn whirled in time to see the last bits of an enormous creature waver into visibility. The tops of its batlike wings and its left forefoot painted themselves on the foggy air. Its glowing golden eyes fixed on Perra, and it sucked in air. Since its scales were the same topaz color as those of its servants, Khouryn assumed it was about to spew a similar attack. But dragon breath would be far more hurtful and harder to dodge.

He yelled and charged. No good. It didn’t distract the wyrm. It vomited that strange, debilitating antiwater at Perra and her circle.

Just before the spray reached them, Perra vanished, and Medrash appeared in her place. Apparently the latter had used his particular form of magic to make the switch.

The dragon breath washed over Medrash and the other warriors in the ring. Some of them tried to catch it on their shields, but that didn’t save them. Khouryn winced as they all collapsed.

The topaz dragon’s crested, wedge-shaped head turned, no doubt seeking Perra. Vigilant lashed her wings, rose above the enormous reptile, then plunged, talons poised to pierce the fiery eyes.

But the dragon perceived the threat. It twisted its head and spread its jaws wide. Vigilant’s own momentum threatened to hurl her in.

Fortunately, she managed to veer off. The dragon struck at her, and its huge teeth clashed shut on empty air.

Then Khouryn reached its foreleg. He chopped it like it was a tree. When he pulled the urgrosh free, blood gushed.

He struck again. Then the dragon raised its foot high, nearly jerking his weapon from his grasp. It stamped.

He dodged underneath its belly to avoid being squashed. As the impact jolted the ground, he tried another blow at the expanse of scaly hide above him. The angle was awkward, and the axe blade glanced away without penetrating. He reversed his grip and stabbed with the urgrosh’s spearhead. That punched through. For a moment, his desperation gave way to a fierce satisfaction.

Then pain ripped through his head. It was a psychic attack, like the one So-Kehur, autharch of Anhaurz, had used to paralyze him during the battle beside the River Lapendrar.

He refused to let that happen this time. Though half blind with tears and sheer agony, he kept moving and jabbing.

Until the topaz wyrm pivoted and darted a few strides, distancing itself from him. He started to pursue, and its lashing tail whirled out of nowhere and bashed him broadside.

The next thing he knew, he was sprawled on the ground, the throbbing in his skull replaced by a general ache down one side of his body. He tried to lift himself up and was relieved to find that he could. The impact might have cracked a rib or two, but it hadn’t completely shattered any bones.

The topaz dragon was still trying to kill Perra. Khouryn wished she’d retreated. But either she’d never really had the chance, or she was as disinclined to do so as a dwarf noble would have been.

At least she wasn’t battling alone. Sellswords had formed into two squads and were fighting as Khouryn had taught them to fight something huge. One team jabbed with its spears, assailing the dragon while still maintaining a little distance. When it oriented on them, they fell back and the other group took advantage of the creature’s distraction to attack.

Standing right in front of the wyrm’s snapping jaws and raking foreclaws, depending on his skill with sword and shield—as well a nimbleness unusual in a dragonborn—to keep him safe, Balasar cut, blocked, and dodged. Other Tymantherans ran out of the fog to assault the dragon with the same reckless daring.

Surely all that skill and courage ought to count for something. But the topaz dragon feinted a strike with one foot, then slashed with the other. Balasar still managed to catch the claws on his targe, but the raw force of the blow hammered him to the ground. Then the wyrm spewed more of its breath weapon. Caught in the spray, half a dozen warriors fell, and afterward there was nothing between the dragon and Perra. It gathered itself to spring.

Vigilant dived at the dragon. The griffon had evidently been circling overhead, waiting for another chance to catch the gigantic reptile by surprise.

Once again the wyrm somehow perceived the threat. It jerked its head aside and so saved its eyes. But Vigilant compensated and at least managed to slam down on the dragon’s neck just behind the skull. Her talons stabbed deep into the leathery orange-yellow hide. Her gnashing beak tore away chunks of flesh.

The dragon gave an earsplitting scream. It whipped its neck back and forth but failed to dislodge Vigilant. It clawed with a forefoot. Still clinging to her perch, the griffon shifted sideways and dodged the stroke.

It looked to Khouryn like the dragon was finally in real trouble, and he wanted to help Vigilant make the kill. Gritting his teeth against a fresh stab of pain, he scrambled to his feet and charged.

But before he could close the distance, the dragon flopped over onto its side. Its fall shook the earth, and he staggered. Then it rolled around, grinding Vigilant beneath its bulk. When it drew itself back to its feet, the griffon wasn’t holding on to it anymore. Crumpled in the dirt, her wings folded in the wrong places, she wasn’t doing anything at all. Not even breathing, no matter how intently Khouryn peered at her and willed her chest to rise and fall.

The topaz wyrm twisted toward Perra. Khouryn sprinted past a hind leg and cut at its flank. “Moradin!” he bellowed.

Maybe the god heard and saw fit to help, because the axe head all but vanished into the dragon’s dense flesh. And when Khouryn heaved it free again, the blood sprayed out and spattered him from head to toe.

The dragon ran, unfurled its wings, leaped, and soared up into the air. It disappeared into the fog almost immediately.

Khouryn stood panting, peering, and listening, waiting to see if the creature had simply decided to continue the fight from the air. Apparently not. Coming on top of its other wounds, especially the terrible ones Vigilant had inflicted, his final stroke must have convinced it to run away.

It was only when he was sure it was gone that he remembered its minions. The greater threat had driven the lesser right out of his head. But they must have all died or run away as well. He didn’t hear any fighting anymore.

He hobbled to Vigilant and looked down at the broken, flattened husk that was all that was left of her. Grief welled up in him, and he clenched himself to hold it in.

Next he checked on his men, and there the news was better. The sellswords hadn’t sustained too many casualties, and even a couple of those scorched by the dragon’s breath looked like they might recover.

Then he turned to his new friends. Plainly the wyrm hadn’t seriously injured Balasar, because he sat holding a leather waterskin to the supine Medrash’s mouth. The paladin guzzled, and his friend took the container away.

“Just a little at a time,” Balasar said.

“Once I get a little strength back,” Medrash croaked, “I can heal myself. Then I can heal others.”

“Well, you won’t get it back by making yourself puke.” Balasar looked up at Khouryn. “I’m sorry about your steed and the men you’ve lost.”

“As I’m sorry for your losses,” Khouryn said.

“By the first egg!” Balasar exploded. “I would have understood if the stupid Chessentans had ambushed us. Or if the accursed genasi had come after us. But what in the name of Arambar’s arse was that?”

Khouryn shook his head. “I wish I knew.”

“Just a random attack?” Balasar persisted.

“No,” Khouryn said. “The dragon wanted to kill Perra specifically. When it decided it needed to take an active part in the fighting, it went straight for her.”

*    *    *    *    *

Soolabax was no city, but it was a fair-sized market town. Nor was it an impregnable fortress, but it did have walls. The combination made it the linchpin of Shala Karanok’s border defenses and obliged Aoth to deal with Hasos Thora, baron of the place and its environs.

Tall and muscular with a long-nosed, imperious face, swaggering around his own keep in half armor even though nothing in particular was going on, Hasos appeared yet another embodiment of the Chessentan martial ideal. Aoth might have expected such a paragon to rejoice at the arrival of reinforcements. Yet that didn’t appear to be the case.

“No one told me you were coming,” Hasos said.

“That’s unfortunate,” Aoth said. “But the war hero didn’t decide until a few days ago, and then no one could bring word faster than we griffon riders travel ourselves.”

“How much meat do those beasts eat?” the baron replied.

“Lots.”

“And is it true they need to be stabled away from horses?”

“That depends on how fond you are of the horses.”

The baron scowled. “And then, when the rest of your sellswords arrive, I have to house and feed them as well. Winter’s just ended. Food is in short supply. I—”

Aoth tipped his spear so it leaned over the table between them, casting its shadow on the maps and documents there. He drew a little crackling flare of lightning from the point. Startled, Hasos flinched.

“I don’t need you to remind me of the time of year,” said Aoth, “or that your people have the same needs as mine. Together, you and I will see to it that everyone has a full belly and a roof over his head.”

Hasos made a spitting sound. “It’s easy to give assurances, often hard to follow through.”

Aoth took a deep breath. “Milord, I’m not sure why you’re giving me such a cold welcome. Maybe because I’m a mage, or a Thayan. Maybe just because you’re used to being the only one giving orders inside these walls. But I don’t care why. I don’t need to. You’ve seen I carry credentials from the war hero, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll honor them.”

He wished those documents gave him complete, incontrovertible command of the local defense. They didn’t. They ordered Hasos to provide food and shelter for the Brotherhood, but beyond that merely urged him to cooperate with Aoth.

It was stupid to muddle the chain of command that way, but Aoth had gotten used to it. Monarchs often hesitated to give a coin-grubbing outlander sellsword clear authority over their own chivalrous homegrown nobles, lest the latter take it as an insult. No doubt Chessentan lords would particularly resent deferring to a man with arcane gifts.

Hasos made a sour face. “Of course I’ll honor Shala Karanok’s writ.”

“Glad to hear it. As you’ll be glad to hear that as much as possible, I mean to put the burden of feeding my men and animals on Threskel. The problem is, these”—he waved a hand at the several maps—“are short on detail. I need you to tell me where to raid.”

Hasos shrugged. “How should I know?”

Aoth frowned. “Surely you conduct your own raids, milord. Surely you at least scout.”

“Naturally, my rangers keep watch along the frontier. But I need all the troops I have just to defend my own lands.”

“Well, I assume defense includes chasing marauders back across the border.”

“Certainly.” Hasos hesitated. “But the pursuers know not to go too deep into enemy territory. They can’t risk blundering into a trap or leaving our own fields unprotected for too long.”

Aoth closed his eyes for a moment. “With all respect, milord, you’ll never gain the upper hand playing such a passive game. When Threskel commits an outrage, you need to punish them. They have to finish worse off than they started.”

Hasos laughed a joyless little laugh. “That sounds sensible. But have you ever been inside Threskel?”

“Once, briefly.”

“Apparently so briefly that you didn’t pick up on what a dangerous place it is.”

“I lived and fought in Thay, milord. I doubt I’ll be impressed.”

“How many dragons did you kill in Thay?”

Aoth smiled. “That’s a fair hit. Not many, I admit—and like any sane man, I have a healthy respect for them. Still, we need to retaliate.”

“It’s possible the raids are just the precursor to an actual invasion.”

“More than possible. The war hero and Lord Nicos think it’s very likely.”

“That means we should conserve our strength for the siege to come.”

“No, it gives us even more reason to strike first. We can gather intelligence. Steal or destroy supplies and kill soldiers before the Great Bone Wyrm has a chance to use them against us.”

“You do what you like,” Hasos said. “But I won’t lend any of my troops to such a mission.”

Aoth swallowed a bitter retort. “I understand. You have to do what you think prudent. Can you at least lend me a couple of horses?”