Will and Pavel found “Winking Murene” drinking raw spirit in a tiny excuse for a tavern, really just a brick alcove open to the wintry air blowing in from the street. The place did possess a door, but salvaged from somewhere and resting atop a pair of beer barrels, its tarnished brass handle and hinges still attached, the matchboarded panel was doing service as the bar. A couple of other kegs reposed on trestles behind it, while corked clay jugs and dented pewter cups sat along the shelves on the back wall.

When she realized the hunters were interested in her, Winking Murene gave them a scowl.

“What?” she demanded.

All in all, Will considered his present life preferable to the one he’d fled years before with his guild master crying for his blood, a falling out occasioned by his decision to restore a kidnapped child to its parents despite their failure to raise the ransom. Still, Lyrabar had given him a pang of nostalgia, for with its imposing architecture, manifest prosperity, and air of optimism and stability, its bountiful comforts and amusements, the place was a far cry from the rough Moonsea towns to which he’d become accustomed. Rather, it reminded him of the Sembian cities in which he’d spent his formative years.

Which meant the queen’s men should have kicked out Winking Murene to keep up the tone, for like the grimy little pocket of poverty in which she dwelled and the ordinary surroundings in which she chose to swill her liquor, she seemed out of place. As her epithet suggested, one eyelid sagged so low it was hard to imagine she could see past it, but she was notably homely in other respects as well, obese, with red, scrofulous patches on her pasty skin. In a city so full of temples and shrines, it was hard to believe she couldn’t find a healer to cure such a condition. Evidently she was simply too lazy to seek one out.

Still, despite her ugliness, sour body odor, and lack of manners, Pavel addressed her with flawless courtesy.

“Good afternoon, Maid, or is it Goodwife?” he said. “My name is Pavel Shemov. I’m a servant of Lathander. The halfling is Wilimac Turnstone. We understand you rent a room to a young man named Gorstag Helder.”

“Then you understand wrong.”

The cleric blinked, seemingly uncertain how to respond. Will thought he knew. He extracted a gold piece from his belt pouch and tossed it clinking onto the bar.

Her reaction surprised him. She stared at it and swallowed, as if she wanted to pick it up but didn’t dare. That was when he realized she was afraid.

Pavel discerned the same thing and said, “Whatever you tell us, we won’t let anyone know where we heard it.”

“You’re a priest of the dawn?” she asked, peering at him in the suspicious, truculent manner of the half-drunk. “Where are your robes?”

“Worn out,” he said. “I’ve been traveling and had to replace them with what I could get.”

“What do you care about Gorstag?”

“It’s a long story, but I promise, we came to Lyrabar to help him.”

She laughed and said, “You’re too late for that.”

Will’s mouth tightened in vexation. He’d figured the spy was probably dead, but had hoped he was wrong.

“What happened to him?” asked the halfling.

She hesitated once more, then said, “I can’t quite remember. If I had a little something more to jog my memory. …”

Will sent two more coins ringing after the first.

“It happened last month …” she said. “Everybody was talking about it. Late one night, the watch found a dead wyvern and dead people lying in the street. A number of the men were rotten, but apparently they’d been up walking around with the others until somebody cut them to pieces.”

“What does that have to do with Gorstag?” asked Will.

He assumed a wyvern tied in with the Cult of the Dragon, but nothing else was clear.

“He was one of the corpses. A fresh one.” She pulled back her sleeve and scratched one of her blemishes. Flakes of epidermis drifted to the floor. “The worst part is, the worthless fool was behind on his rent as usual.”

“Did the guards seem to have any notions about what happened?” Pavel asked.

“How would I know?”

“Did they search his room?” asked Will.

“Yes.”

“Did they take anything away?”

“How could they? He liked to put on airs and pretend he was better than the rest of us, but the truth was, he didn’t have a rag to wipe his nose. It was pathetic.”

Pavel said, “Thank you,” then motioned for Will to step away from the woman. He stooped down and spoke in a lower voice. “I’m afraid your coin didn’t buy much. We could try talking to the watch, I suppose, but—”

Will said, “We’re not done here, you dunce. She was afraid to talk, remember? What has she told us so far that would account for that?” He turned back toward Winking Murene and said, “Give us the rest of it.”

“I’ve told you all I know. Go away and leave me alone.”

“You heard her,” the burly man behind the makeshift bar warned.

His matted hair and beard were visibly astir with wriggling lice. He reached for the heavy club he kept leaning in the corner.

Pavel started to speak. Most likely he meant to neutralize the threat with a spell, but Will reacted at the same time, and his response was even faster. He spun the warsling and hurled a skiprock at the jugs on the top shelf. Even by his exacting standards, it was a good cast. The stone rebounded three times before running out of momentum, shattering four containers in all. Shards of pottery and torrents of spirit rained down on the tavernkeeper’s lousy head, filling the air with the pungent smell of the drink. Evidently deciding that, on further consideration, Winking Murene’s problems were none of his affair, he froze.

The landlady herself looked equally rattled.

“Don’t hurt me.” She turned to Pavel and said, “You’re a priest. You can’t let him stone me.”

“Nobody wants to hurt you,” Pavel said. “We simply need to know what you can tell us. It’s important, and I already gave you my word we’ll never reveal where the information came from.”

“Swear by your god.”

“I swear by Lathander, Lord of the Morning.”

“As I swear,” said Will, “to thrash you bloody and take back my gold if you don’t stop wasting our time.”

“All right,” she said. “I knew something had happened to Gorstag even before the watch came to the house.”

“Because someone else came first,” Pavel said.

“Yes. They got inside somehow and broke into his room, just down the hall from mine. They were trying to be quiet, but I heard them anyway. I sneaked to his door to see what was happening. I saw all right, more than I wanted.”

“Who were they?”

She shrugged and said, “A couple of men I’d never seen before and a walking corpse. I guess they brought it along for protection. I heard the live ones say their ‘brothers’ had taken care of Gorstag, but they had to find out if he’d made any notes or held onto any written orders from his master.”

“Since you’re still alive,” said Will, “you plainly had better sense than to let them know you were eavesdropping. You probably tiptoed back to your own room. But do you have any idea whether they found what they were looking for?”

“They didn’t. I overheard them say as much when they slunk back down the stairs.”

“Then, once you were sure they were gone, you entered Gorstag’s room and ransacked his belongings yourself.”

She glowered in false indignation.

“It’s all right,” said Pavel. “We won’t tell anyone you saw what you weren’t meant to or that you tried to rob a lodger, either. We just need to know if you found something the intruders missed.”

“No. I didn’t find any notes nor anything worth taking.”

“I need to search the place myself,” said Will, “and to save time, yes, my dear, we’ll pay for the inconvenience.” He fished out two more gold pieces, one for her and one to placate the barman for the breakage and the affront to his dignity, such as it was. “Drink up and we’ll go.”

The boardinghouse was as squalid as Will had anticipated, and Gorstag’s room, with its crumbling plaster and damp-spotted ceiling, as depressing. It took the former burglar about half an hour to toss it. It was nice to find that, despite a lack of practice in recent years, he still remembered how to look for loose floorboards, caches concealed inside furniture, and the like.

Unfortunately, no matter how cleverly he searched, it was to no avail. Finally he turned to Pavel and Winking Murene.

“Nothing,” he sighed.

The obese woman sneered and said, “I told you.”

“This place,” said Pavel, “is remarkably bare.”

“I told you that, too,” said Winking Murene. “He didn’t have anything.”

“He must have owned something,” the priest persisted. “You said he wanted to pass for a man of means. Well, he couldn’t play such a part without at least a couple changes of decent clothing. It isn’t here. You did pilfer after all.”

“No, I—”

“Enough!” Pavel snapped. Up until now, he’d taken a soothing, kindly tone with her, but apparently he’d finally run out of patience with her habit of obscuring the truth even when, by any sensible calculation, it was pointless. “What did you steal?”

“It wasn’t secret papers,” Winking Murene said sullenly. “It was just things.”

“I need to see them,” said Will.

“You can’t. I sold them already.”

“Then tell us what they were,” Pavel said.

She gave them the inventory, mostly a sad listing of tawdry finery passing for real silk and velvet, and paste rings and brooches masquerading as jewels. Will had just about decided it would reveal nothing useful when she reached the significant items:

“A couple of those blunt swords duelists use to practice, a set of the padded tunics and gloves they wear, and two little books full of woodcuts showing how to stick a man or whack his head off.”

Will and Pavel exchanged glances.

“He must have loved fencing,” said the halfling, “if, poor as he was, he invested in more than one foil and training manuals, too.”

“Obviously,” said the cleric, “and that means he took instruction someplace. Perhaps it’s where we’ll find his friends and confidants.”

Winking Murene snorted and said, “Do you know how many maestros there are in Lyrabar?”

“We’re about to find out,” Pavel said with a smile.

In his vision, Taegan had returned to adolescence. Once again, he wore a deerskin tunic and leggings and carried an ancient cut-and-thrust sword with a broken cross guard sheathed on his hip. The latter was a treasure, because lacking fresh iron and forges to work it, a small, isolated community of hunters had no way of replacing such a weapon. Most of their tools were made of flint. Still, despite his youth, he’d earned the right to bear the heirloom by learning to wield it better than any of his fellows, then mastering bladesong as well.

He and his companions were slinking along the arboreal pathways of the Earthwood, moving from tree limb to tree limb. For an avariel, it was safe to travel at such a height. A beat or two of his wings sufficed to carry him across empty spaces or catch him if he fell. Yet the forest was so thick, the branches so dense and interwoven, that true, sustained flight was difficult. Taegan frequently wished his people lived in clearer terrain, where they could soar freely whenever the mood took them, but he knew the others didn’t share his yearnings. The foliage was their shield against hostile eyes.

Taegan heard voices. He skulked forward, peered down into a glade, and beheld his first humans. He recognized them from the descriptions of his elders. A man in a brown robe was harvesting mistletoe with a sickle, mixing the cuts with ritual passes. Two maidens crowned with wreathes of oak leaves sang a hymn. The one with the freckled nose quavered a little off key on the high notes.

To Taegan’s eyes, everything about them was wonderful. Their bodies, bulkier than those of elves, but possessed of their own kind of grace. Their clothing, woven of fiber, not cut from hide. The abundance of metal they carried about their persons. …

He desperately wanted to reveal himself to them. Perhaps sensing the tenor of his thoughts, his father touched him on the arm, then beckoned him away.

Taegan might have protested that the druid and his acolytes appeared entirely harmless. Unfortunately, he was certain such an argument wouldn’t sway the older elf in the slightest. Avariels kept themselves hidden whenever possible. Supposedly it was the only way a people so few in number could survive. Hating his sire at that moment, he took a last long look at the humans, then turned and followed him back the way they’d come.

Meanwhile, the adult Taegan felt a pang of exasperation. One of the nice things about Reverie was that he could choose which of his memories to relive. Why, then, was he dwelling on the shame and frustration of his early years instead of the pleasures he’d won by forsaking the tribe to join the world of men? He could only assume the anxieties that had overtaken him since he’d rashly chosen to intervene in Gorstag’s troubles were interfering with his repose.

He groped for some happy experience to revisit, but for some reason, he could think only of flame and smoke. After a moment, he realized he actually did feel unpleasantly warm. His eyes stung, and a cough was building in his aching lungs.

He forced himself entirely awake to find the school was burning. No flames were licking at the walls of his own apartments, not yet, but he could hear them crackling elsewhere, even as he could already feel the heat rising through the floor.

The strange thing was that no one was crying the alarm. True, it was late. Even the most sociable students had either stumbled home or passed out in a drunken stupor, just as even the most industrious of the bawds had suspended trade till the morrow. Still, somebody should have noticed.

But that was a mystery to ponder later on. First he had to make sure everyone evacuated the building, determine the location and size of the conflagration, and extinguish it if possible. He threw off his blankets, sprang from his bed, pulled on breeches, boots, and one of his special shirts with holes for his wings, took a stride toward the door, then hesitated.

Much as he begrudged the moment it required, he grabbed a rapier, dagger, and pouch of spell foci, imbued the longer blade with magic, and only then exited his quarters.

His rooms weren’t the only ones occupying the top story, but no doorways or halls connected his private accommodations with the rest of the area. He resolved to work his way down to the ground floor then back up. Once he checked the entire building, he could fly out one of the casements if need be.

He ran down the stairs into denser smoke that really did set him coughing, into murk and flickering red-yellow light that somehow illuminated little but itself. He threw open the door to the room where one of his provosts made his home. Taegan had four assistant instructors, but as he was suddenly glad, only two who chose to reside on the premises.

Stedd lay snoring beneath tangled covers, oblivious to the leaping, rustling flames already gnawing at the foot of his bed. Taegan hauled the wiry young human with the premature bald spot clear, and still he didn’t wake. He was just flopping dead weight in his employer’s arms.

Evidently the Wearer of Purple’s minions had set the fire, for surely it was magic keeping Stedd insensible. Perhaps they’d cast a spell to sink everyone in the school into a slumber so deep that even the blaze wouldn’t wake them until it was too late to escape. Presumably the trap had failed to hold Taegan, because unlike his human associates, he never truly slept.

He shouted Stedd’s name, shook him, and finally backhanded him across the face. The human’s eyes fluttered open. Taegan had never felt more glad of anything in his life, for plainly, had it proved impossible to rouse any of the sleepers, a single would-be rescuer could never have carried each and every one of them out in time.

“What?” Stedd asked drowsily.

“The school is on Are, and everyone’s—” Taegan had to break off talking to cough. “Everyone’s asleep. We have to wake them, or if we can’t, haul them out. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” the provost said.

“Then put on your shoes and get moving. Clear this area, and the ground level. I’ll handle the second floor then work my way up the other side of the house.”

Stedd nodded. He looked frightened, but not panicky, and not groggy anymore, either. Taegan clapped him on the shoulder, turned, and ran back to the stairs.

On the second floor, the smoke and heat were even worse. At every turn, the avariel found sheets of roaring flame devouring sections of wall. He was no expert, but to him, the scattered pockets of fire seemed additional proof that someone had set the blaze deliberately, for wouldn’t an accidental conflagration spread continuously outward from a single point of origin? Whereas in this case, it looked as if an arsonist had broken into the building and run about setting multiple blazes.

Taegan felt fast, heavy footsteps bouncing the floorboards. He turned, and a bizarre figure, a huge man with pieces of astonishingly bulky iron plate armor affixed only to the left side of his body, emerged from the swirling gray smoke. Ripples of firelight ran along the metal. He wore a scarf tied around the lower half of his face, a simple means of delaying death by smoke inhalation that Taegan wished he’d thought of for himself. Possibly it was also intended to mask the cultist’s identity.

A cramped hallway inside a burning building was about as undesirable a dueling ground as Taegan could imagine, but he assumed he had no choice. If the arsonist had remained on the premises after completing his task, it was likely to kill anyone who somehow woke and tried to flee. Fortunately, the intruder nonetheless seemed startled to see the avariel. It gave Taegan the second he needed to draw his rapier.

A split second later, the cultist rushed him. It was a reckless action, and for that very reason it took Taegan by surprise. He extended his arm, and the stop thrust bit into the cultist’s torso. Reflex saw to that much. But he wasn’t sure he’d made the kill, and didn’t quite manage to sidestep out of the arsonist’s path afterward.

The big man plowed into him, threw an arm around him, and bulled him through a doorway. Together, they reeled off balance and fell. The cultist landed on top, half-crushing the avariel. Taegan scrambled clear, and since his sword was still underneath his enemy, drew his dagger to finish off the arsonist if he wasn’t dead already.

Then, squinting, he spied something that stayed his hand. The section of floor outside the doorway was all roaring brightness. Somehow, flame had engulfed it in an instant. The human had realized it was going to happen and hauled Taegan aside to save him from being caught inside the eruption, which suggested that the stranger, grotesque appearance and unexplained presence notwithstanding, wasn’t the arsonist after all.

Aghast, Taegan started to check and see if the poor fellow was still alive, but at that instant, another strange figure appeared in the doorway. It looked like the leathery-winged, half-man/half-reptile demons the Wearer of Purple had produced to attack him before. But it was bigger, taller even than the human Taegan had just stabbed, and its scales were red. It crouched unharmed in the midst of the blaze, its own long, pointed stinger burning like a torch. Plainly, the brute was admirably suited to the task of arson.

Yet even so, it evidently didn’t mind using tools to speed the process along, for it wore a harness with loops for carrying objects. Though most were empty, one still held a flask. The demon freed it, pulled the stopper out, and poured the contents over its head. The oil called “alchemist’s fire” ignited on contact with the air.

Its entire body haloed in flame, talons and sting poised to rip and stab, the spirit pounced at Taegan.

He grabbed the hilt of his rapier, rolled aside, and scrambled to his feet, his back to the cot where one of the cook’s helpers lay slumbering. As the demon wheeled to face him, he brandished a scrap of licorice root and rattled off a charm. He grunted and jerked as the magic shrieked through his body, and the wyvern-faced brute’s movements seemed to slow. Even its corona of flame appeared to jump and writhe more sluggishly.

He knew that wasn’t actually the case. The reality was that the magic had accelerated his own reactions. He thought it might be enough to save him, until a second demon scuttled through the door.

Taegan believed himself to be one of the four or five best duelists in Lyrabar, yet even so, he doubted whether, fighting in such tight quarters, he could kill the two demons before either they or the heat and smoke incapacitated him. Then, however, the human reared up and punched the second brute in the knee. The knuckle spikes on his gauntlet must have borne an enchantment, for they nearly tore the creature’s limb in two. As it staggered, Taegan saw the puncture in the big man’s right shoulder. His rapier had driven all the way through but had evidently missed any major arteries. For the moment at least, the stranger could still fight.

Encouraged, Taegan resolved to slaughter his own opponent quickly, so he could help his newfound ally if need be. Still, it took an effort of will to press the attack against an opponent shrouded in flame. The heat blistered his exposed skin, seared his lungs with every inhalation, and infused the rapier until it pained him to grip the hilt. The real problem, however, was the glare. Even with heightened speed, it was difficult to parry the demon’s assaults when he could barely see them coming.

He hit the demon twice without disabling it, and it slipped an attack past his guard. The back of his calf burned. His foe had whipped its tail around to stab him in the leg.

The searing agony intensified. It was digging the bony point in deeper, while the flame cooked his flesh. He wanted—no, needed—to grab the tail and jerk it out of the wound, yet he forced himself to let it be, because fumbling at the pain was surely what the demon wanted him to do. As soon as he diverted his attention to it, the spirit would rip him apart.

So he launched himself at his assailant instead, and his relentless aggression seemed to catch it by surprise. Its talons raked, and he twisted out of the way. It jerked on its stinger, striving to trip him but not quite succeeding. He feinted low and thrust high. The blade pierced the demon’s slit-pupiled eye and slid deep into its head, grating on bone as it penetrated. The brute collapsed, and Taegan used the sword to yank the fiery tail out of his calf.

Starved for clean air as he was, Taegan felt as if his strength was failing fast but also knew he had to keep moving. He pivoted to help kill the other demon, only to find that the big man had the situation well in hand. The dragon-faced thing was squirming on the floor and he was crouching on top of it, pulping its upper body with his iron fist.

It was in that moment that Taegan finally discerned something else. The stranger wasn’t actually wearing plate on the left side of his body. Though they moved and flexed like ordinary limbs, the iron arm and leg weren’t mere metal sheathes. They were prostheses, replacements for extremities their owner had evidently lost in battle or as a result of some terrible mishap. Even though Lyrabar had its share of wizards, and Taegan had some limited knowledge of magic himself, he’d never seen anything like it.

Still, it was no time to pause and marvel. When the demon stopped squirming, Taegan limped to the human and hoisted him to his feet. The stranger had bloody claw marks to go with his sword wound.

“I’m sorry I attacked you,” the avariel wheezed. “It was a misunderstanding. How badly are you hurt?”

The big man shook his head as if to indicate it was a stupid question, that they had to press on no matter how injured or exhausted either of them was.

“Wake the girl,” he said.

“Right, but the doorway’s impassable. Can you—?”

“If the fire hasn’t spread too far, I can make a way around. Go.”

Taegan hurried to the cook’s assistant and slapped her to consciousness. Meanwhile, his ally smashed down sections of wall to circumvent the blaze raging just outside.

They sent the girl running toward safety, did the same for everyone else in that portion of the building, then descended to the first floor themselves. There the fire ruled absolutely.

Taegan found a narrow, rapidly shrinking path through the patches of flame and started toward the other end of the house. His companion grabbed him by the arm and turned him toward the nearest exit.

“There’s another stairway.” Taegan had to shout to make himself heard over the endless bellow of the conflagration. “With more people living at the top.”

The big man tried to answer, doubled over coughing, then managed to force out: “My partners already went that way to help whomever they found. We have to get out. We’re out of time.”

“If they met more of those demons …”

“Then the demons are dead. Come on!”

“Very well.” Taegan hesitated. “No. You go. I have something to do.”

“I’m telling you, the whole place—”

“I’ll be all right. Save yourself.”

The human eyed him dubiously, then gave a brusque nod and turned away.

Taegan hobbled past the pantry to the cellar steps, or rather, to the shaft they’d occupied earlier that night. The shaft was empty except for a pile of red-hot embers at the bottom.

He jumped and beat his wings. For a creature larger than a bird, genuine flight was impossible in such a confined space, but he managed to touch down on the far side of the burning rubble.

Unable stop coughing even for a moment, he dashed on past forgotten crates and battered old fencing dummies. The far end of the cellar held wrought-iron wine racks loaded with costly vintages that were boiling into worthless swill. He jammed the rapier into the crack between two of the stones in the floor then pried. His first effort failed, and shouting—well, croaking, really—he threw all his weight against the weapon. One of the blocks hitched up to expose the leather bag beneath.

Inside was a grimoire, vital if he was to renew his spells each day; his savings, though they didn’t amount to much; and lastly, the cult’s book and folio.

He felt a sudden vicious impulse to leave the secret writings, the cause of so much calamity, to burn, but he disregarded it. He snatched up the bag as blazing chunks of the ceiling rained down. He could tell it would all come down in a second to smash, burn, and bury him. He had no hope of escaping back the way he’d come.

He began the incantation that would fling him instantaneously from one point to another, no matter what barriers stood in the way. The need to cough burned in his throat and chest, doing its utmost to spoil the recitation, and he strained against it.

The avariel wheezed out the final word of power, and with a great roaring crash, the entire ceiling plummeted. Uncertain whether he’d succeeded in working the magic or not, he threw himself to the floor and covered his head.

He landed in a snowdrift. For an instant, it was strange to feel cold air, if he’d never experienced it before. Then he realized the outside world wasn’t all cold. His sleeve was on fire. He slapped it out.

Taegan turned and looked at the blazing shell of his school some thirty feet away. The sight engendered a numb, sick fascination. He might have lain on his stomach and stared at it for quite a while, if not for his duty to those who’d shared the ruin with him. He dragged himself to his feet, coughing still, his burns and torn leg throbbing, and limped to see if everyone else had made it out alive.

Ches, the third month, was commonly called the Claw of the Sunsets in honor of the vivid reds and golds that bloomed in the west at dusk. Actually, though, the dawns were often equally gorgeous, and Lathander had served up just such a spectacle that morning. Taegan found himself incapable of appreciating it. Rather, it felt as if the god was mocking him.

For certainly, the splendor in the sky made a cruel contrast to the misery on the ground. Miraculously, only three people had perished in the fire, but many of the survivors were burned, shaken, filthy with soot and ash, and coughing and shivering in the cold. Silver-robed priestesses of Selûne from the temple down the street ministered to them, dispensing healing spells, medicinal salves, blankets, water, and mugs of hot vegetable soup. Though he looked in need of tending himself, the stranger with the sun medallion, evidently a priest of the Morninglord, assisted, forgoing his customary early-morning celebration of the deity to ease the suffering of mortals.

Taegan still felt dazed and kept wanting to stare stupidly at the black husk of the school and the column of smoke dirtying the sky. Eventually, though, he noticed the clerics weren’t the only folk moving among his associates. Buxom Halonya Clayhill, owner of the largest brothel on the waterfront, her plump face a mask of paint and black paper beauty spots, whispered in the ears of the younger and prettier whores and slipped them coins depending on what they whispered back. Even worse, Maestro Zalan, resplendent in green velvet despite having gotten up hours earlier than usual, stood chatting with Stedd. The two of them passed a silver flask back and forth.

A surge of anger stabbed through Taegan’s befuddlement. He hadn’t issued a challenge in years, but by sweet Lady Firehair, he thought Zalan had earned one. He arranged his features into the sneer appropriate to the occasion, then sauntered forward, avoiding any appearance of haste or agitation.

“Don’t,” Corkaury said.

Taegan turned. The wizened halfling had come up behind him and stood half-hidden by the folded wool garment in his arms.

“A crier passed under my window, bawling the news of the fire,” Corkaury continued. “I came as quickly as I could. Now take this thing. I’m afraid it’s not your usual style—I was lucky to lay hands on any elf-sized tabard at this hour, and had to cut it up myself to make room for your wings—but it’s still more stylish than what you’re wearing now.”

Taegan dropped the blanket in which he’d awkwardly wrapped himself and replaced it with Corkaury’s gift.

“Thank you. Now I have business.”

“Don’t,” the bookkeeper repeated. “It’s pointless. You’ll see that when you’ve had a chance to rest.”

“The ashes of the school aren’t even cold, these vultures come circling to loot the wreckage, and my staff, folk I just saved from a horrible death, are eager to listen to their blandishments. It’s disgusting.”

“What would you have them do? They still have to eat. Can you continue paying their wages?”

“Don’t you see? If Zalan hires Stedd to be his provost, he’ll require him to disclose all my secrets.”

“You once told me swordsmanship doesn’t actually have any secrets. I ask you again, can you go on supporting Stedd and the others?”

Taegan felt his wrath turn into something heavy and impotent, like a chunk of lead inside his belly.

“Of course not. As you must know better than anyone, I’m ruined.”

“You had nothing when you first came to Lyrabar.”

“Whereas now at least I have my debts.”

Corkaury scowled and said, “What I’m saying is you climbed the ladder once. You can do it again.”

“Perhaps.”

But perhaps not. The first time around, he’d managed to become fashionable. He had some notion as to how he’d accomplished it, but he knew luck had played a part as well. Only Tymora knew whether it would favor him once more.

“I suppose I have no choice but to try.” He gave Corkaury a wry smile. “I daresay you need to seek new employment yourself.”

“Until you find your feet, you won’t need a clerk. When you establish a new academy, I’ll be glad to return if you’ll have me.”

Taegan extracted most of the gold from his leather sack and said, “Do one last chore for me. Take this and pay everybody off to the extent you’re able. Don’t neglect yourself.”

“I may not work for you at the moment, but I’m still your friend,” said the halfling. “You can live in my house for as long as you like.”

“Until I bash my brains out bumping my head on those low ceilings. Still, you’re a staunch friend to offer, and perhaps you’ll see me later on. For now, though, I’d like to be alone. Maybe it will clear my mind.”

“As you wish.”

Though he looked reluctant, Corkaury turned away.

Taegan spread his wings to escape into the sky, whereupon the man with the iron limbs spotted the motion and waved for him to stay put. The avariel saw no choice but to comply. He owed the stranger and his companions too much to flout their wishes.

The big man approached with his friends trailing along behind. He carried a hand-and-a-half sword, a longbow, and a quiver of arrows. Apparently he’d discarded them before entering the burning school for fear they’d get in his way. With the exception of the slender woman with the long moon-blond hair, his partners were equally well armed. That, their rugged clothing, and the confident yet watchful manner in which they carried themselves gave them the air of folk accustomed to peril and hardship.

Taegan bowed and said, “I’ll never forgive myself for attacking you. I’ll do anything in my power to make amends.”

“I’m used to being mistaken for some kind of ogre,” the huge man said with a shrug. “I’m Dorn Graybrook. These others are Pavel Shemov, Will Turnstone, Raryn Snowstealer, and Kara.”

The avariel said, “My name is Taegan Nightwind, former maestro of the Nightwind Academy, and I’m grateful to you all. If you hadn’t passed by. …”

“We didn’t just pass by,” said Will, the halfling. “We were looking for you. Well, your school. We’ve been going from one salle to the next, trying to find out where Gorstag Helder studied. I kept thinking we should stop, get some sleep, and take up the search again come morning. But we were too keyed up, and I guess it was just as well.”

“Gorstag was my student,” Taegan admitted.

Pavel glanced around, making sure no one was close enough to eavesdrop, then said, “We’re trying to learn more about the trouble that led to his death, and we know fencing meant a great deal to him. Did he confide in you? Or was he particularly close to any of his fellow pupils?”

“Unless I’m very much mistaken, you’re outlanders,” Taegan said. “Why do you care what happened to Gorstag?”

“Because he ran afoul of the Cult of the Dragon,” Kara said. “Do you know of it?”

“Of course he does,” Dorn snapped, as if it had galled him just to hear her speak. “That’s why the demons—”

“Abishai,” Pavel murmured.

Apparently his store of esoteric knowledge had enabled him to identify the creatures.

“That’s why the abishai attacked the school,” Dorn went on, “and why he immediately assumed I was an enemy. Isn’t that right, elf?”

Taegan disliked being called “elf,” but thought he had more important issues to address.

“I ask again,” said Taegan “How does this concern you?”

“If Gorstag told you anything,” said Kara, “he probably said he was working for the Harpers.”

“That’s you?”

“No,” she said. “He was mistaken. But what matters is that we know what he believed. We wouldn’t, had his employer not sent us to investigate his murder.”

“So,” said Will, “can you help us?”

Taegan wondered if the outlanders would buy the book and folio, and if so, how much they’d pay. It could be the remedy to the disaster than had overtaken him, yet he found he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask. Somehow honor precluded it, though he wasn’t sure if it was an irrational feeling of obligation to Gorstag, his genuine indebtedness to Dorn and his companions, or the lust for a pure revenge on the cultists, unsullied by considerations of profit, that balked him.

Whatever it was, he simply said, “We have stories to trade, and I suspect it will take a while. Let’s not do it standing in the street. I know a tavern nearby where they’ll rent us a private room, fetch water, soap, and towels so we can clean up, and cook us breakfast, too.”

The kippers, eggs, and scones were only a memory by the time Taegan had heard their tale and related the greater part of his own.

“I suppose,” he said, “that after two failed attempts to kill me eye to eye and blade to blade, they decided to try arson instead. Even if the fire didn’t eliminate me, it would probably destroy the purple book, and that was preferable to leaving it in the hands on an unbeliever.”

“I hope,” said Dorn, “that when you separated from me at the end, you went to retrieve it and the loose papers, too.”

“Actually,” said Taegan, “yes.”

He made a stack of dirty plates to clear a space on the ring-scarred tabletop, then fetched out the articles in question.

“May I?” Pavel asked. He picked up the book, frowned at the sigil embossed on the spine, and riffled through the pages. “It’s the Tome of the Dragon. The unholy screed of the sect.”

“Can you read it?” Raryn asked.

“No. It’s written in cipher. But I’m sure that over the centuries, somebody succeeded in translating a captured copy. My hunch is that if … well, call him Sammaster for the time being, even though we pray he’s an impostor … if Sammaster recorded any information about the Rage just now commencing, it’s in the notes.”

He traded the book for the folio, examined the first few pages, and his mouth tightened in vexation.

“I take it,” Taegan said, “you can’t make sense of those, either.”

“Worse,” said the cleric. “At least the tome uses Thorass. The characters in the notes don’t come from any alphabet I’ve ever seen.”

Perched atop the long-legged stool that raised him high enough to use the table comfortably, Will snorted. “As if that means anything. You pretend to be a scholar, but we all know you can barely write your name.”

Pavel bristled and said, “You slandering maggot. I’m literate in eight languages and can recognize a good many more.”

“Well, I doubt you know all the tricks thieves use to keep their business secret. Give me those.” He took possession of the documents, made his own inspection, and eventually said, “Bugger.”

“We don’t need to read them,” growled Dorn. “We just have to hand them over to Brimstone, whoever he is, and we’re done, remember?”

“Do you mind if I tag along?” Taegan asked.

The gods knew, he no longer had anything else of pressing importance to do.

The night was warmer than Dorn had expected. Balmy air had blown up from the south to provide a first teasing promise of spring. Still, though he’d done plenty of it in his time, he disliked traveling cross-country in the dark, even when the territory seemed as clear, settled, and peaceful as the farmland surrounding Lyrabar. Something could still creep up on you.

Accordingly, he supposed he should be glad Kara retained something of a dragon’s keen senses even in human guise. She seemed to see in the dark as well as Taegan, maybe even as well as Raryn, which meant the band had another able lookout watching for trouble. Yet it irked him somehow.

His mood soured still further when she dropped back from the head of the column to tramp at his side along the slushy, rutted road.

“If we truly are about to part,” she murmured, “I want to thank you and apologize for deceiving you.”

“Just pay what you owe.”

She sighed. “I understand why you hate dragons. But we aren’t all alike.”

He didn’t bother to answer.

“If you think about it,” she persisted, “you’ll realize I only lied that first night and only about how I received my wounds. Everything else I told you was the truth. I just didn’t give you all the details.”

“You did lie afterward. You pretended to like me.”

“I did. I do.”

“Like me …” It was hard to say. The mere thought seemed to trigger a chorus of derisive laughter inside his head. “Like me as a woman likes a man. A trick to make sure I’d fight to protect you even against Lareth’s agents.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Curse you, can’t you talk straight even now, or does your tongue always fork whatever form you wear? We’re two completely different kinds of creature.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Through the ages, drakes who can shapeshift have often loved humans or elves.”

I doubt they picked cripples and freaks to be their partners, Dorn thought, but that retort was too bitter to utter.

Instead, he said, “Maybe every species has its perverts.”

“It isn’t perverse. It’s natural, particularly for song dragons. We differ from the rest of our kind in a number of ways, and one is that we’re particularly at home in human guise. We spend the majority of our time that way. We have a legend that our earliest ancestors were entirely human, until a god blessed them with the power to transform.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “I’m just your hired bodyguard doing a job that’s nearly over.”

“Very well, if that’s the way you want it.”

She lifted her hand as if to touch him, evidently thought better of it, and returned to the front of the procession.

A few minutes later, Raryn called, “I think I see it.”

He led them off the road and up a hill. Deep snow lay there, untrodden by anyone before them, and they slipped and floundered as, their steps crunching, they made their ascent. Taegan spread his raven-feathered wings as though he meant to fly to the summit, then opted to remain on the ground. Maybe it was a gesture of camaraderie, or maybe he wanted to make sure he didn’t blunder into a trap all by himself. For after all, what they did know about Brimstone, except that a damned lying wyrm wanted them to bring him the tome and folio.

As it turned out, they weren’t advancing into any sort of ambuscade. Nothing waited on the hilltop but the ten weathered menhirs, nine standing, one toppled. Will paced about, peering down the slopes.

“Say his name and Brimstone will hear and come running, but from where?” he asked. “It’s just open fields for a mile all around.”

“He’ll hear by magic, you dunce,” Pavel replied.

His own powers were largely depleted. He’d cast a good many healing spells to help the victims of the fire and wouldn’t have a chance to replenish them until dawn. Still, he managed to set the head of his mace shining like a lamp, then used the golden light to examine the nearly illegible glyphs incised on the menhirs. He scowled.

“What’s wrong?” Raryn asked.

“This is a bad place,” the priest replied. “Servants of Bane raised this circle.”

Dorn understood why that concerned him. They’d had dealings with Zhents and other adherents of the Black Lord of Hatred and Fear—unfortunately, the god’s worship flourished in the lands surrounding the Moonsea—and found them to be a despicable pack of reavers and necromancers. Still. …

“It looks like the Impilturans exterminated this particular coven a long time ago,” he said. “Or else it died out on its own.”

“True. Yet I have to wonder what sort of person would choose to associate himself with this site for any purpose whatsoever.”

Will said, “We know how to find out.”

“Yes,” said Dorn, “and let’s get it over with. Everyone, look sharp. Brimstone!”

The response came instantly. For a split second, he had the dizzying sensation of plummeting—or hurtling, he couldn’t really tell—through a void seething with light. Then, once again, he had a solid surface beneath his feet. He peered about, felt a jolt of terror, and reflexively snatched for the hilt of his sword.

Transported by magic, he and his companions had materialized in the very place Will had always dreamed of: a dragon’s cavern lair, where the flickering greenish light of two huge, ever-burning torches glinted on the coins and gems that overflowed their coffers to carpet the limestone floor. Unfortunately for the halfling thief, or anyone else inclined to pilfer, the owner of all this wealth crouched in the midst of it, regarding his visitors with crimson eyes luminous as coals.

Like most people, Dorn generally used the terms “dragon” and “drake” interchangeably, but from his studies, he knew that sages, when speaking precisely, employed them to designate two different genera of wyrm. Drakes were generally smaller than their cousins, but not always. The ooze drake he’d hunted in the Flooded Forest had been one exception, and the smoke drake who even then loomed before him was another.

His scales charcoal gray with dark red dabs and streaks, a jet-black ridge of stiff cartilage jutting from his spine, stinking of combustion, Brimstone was almost as huge as Azhaq.

The half-golem had his sword halfway out of the scabbard before recalling he’d expected Brimstone to be a wyrm and that they’d come to deliver Sammaster’s papers to him, not fight. True, it was startling to find himself face to face with the creature so suddenly and equally disquieting to see that Brimstone belonged to a notoriously vicious species instead of one of the ostensibly kindly ones, but maybe that in and of itself was insufficient reason to deviate from the plan. With a pang of regret, he shoved his weapon back into its sheath, then glanced around to make sure his companions had no immediate intention of attacking the reptile, either.

Most of them were all right. Pavel, however, his normally calm, pleasant expression supplanted by a snarl of righteous fury, recited the opening words of an exorcism and brandished his sun medallion. The sacred amulet shone with a dazzling brightness. For a second, Brimstone flinched from the glare. Then he lunged, huge jaws spreading wide.

Dorn, Kara, and Will scrambled into the smoke drake’s path. Brimstone could easily have smashed right through them, possibly trampling them in the process, but lurched to a halt instead. Meanwhile Taegan grabbed Pavel’s upraised arm and struggled to wrestle it, and the luminous medallion, down.

“Stop this!” Raryn shouted.

“It’s not just a dragon,” Pavel replied, “it’s undead! Can’t you feel it?”

Actually, Dorn couldn’t, but he didn’t doubt that his friend could. Priests had special powers against the restless dead and accordingly, a special duty to suppress them. Servants of the Morninglord, with their bond to the purifying sun, waged the eternal war with particular zeal.

“It doesn’t matter,” Raryn said. “We promised to help Kara. We need to, if we’re going to deal with the Rage. That means a parley, not a hunt, so put out the glow!”

Pavel stopped struggling against Taegan, and the bright white light faded away. He glared at Brimstone.

“You and I aren’t finished,” he said.

The smoke drake ignored him to glower at Kara.

“I didn’t tell you to bring anyone else,” he hissed. His voice was startlingly soft for such a vast creature, virtually a whisper. “Certainly not a fool like this.”

“What are you?” she said.

“Drake,” he said, “and vampire, as the little sun priest perceived.”

“Then you can only mean us ill,” Pavel said. “The charter of the Cult of the Dragon is to help undead wyrms conquer the world.”

Brimstone sneered and said, “But not undead wyrms like me.” He returned his attention to Kara. “Must you have your lackeys here?”

“We’re not leaving,” said Raryn. “At least not until we’re sure we aren’t delivering the information we carry into exactly the wrong set of claws.”

“I want them with me,” Kara said. “They’ve earned the right, and it’s my hope they’ll agree to aid me further in the days to come.”

Not a chance, Dorn thought. Still, somewhat to his annoyance, he discovered he agreed with Pavel and Raryn. It wasn’t time to leave, not yet, not if they could stay and learn more about the frenzy.

“So be it, then,” Brimstone said. His scarlet gaze swept over Taegan and the hunters, and though his eyes resembled huge embers, their regard was chilling. “They can stay if you keep them on their tethers. I’ll even tell you all something about myself, so you’ll understand how it is that you can trust me.”

Pavel made a scornful face at the very suggestion.

“How much do you know about Sammaster?” Brimstone continued, settling onto a heap of gold and silver; the coins clinked and rustled beneath his weight.

Taegan said, “With your kind permission?” He closed the lid of a treasure chest and seated himself on top, right in front of the huge reptile’s demonic eyes and immense teeth and claws, with an insouciance that was either admirable or daft. “All I know is that he was a mad mage persuasive enough to found a conspiracy based on his delusions.”

“He was a great wizard,” Brimstone replied, “so gifted that while he was still a young man, Mystra, goddess of magic, appointed him one of her Chosen, a champion of the arcane.”

“That,” said Kara, “suggests he was a good man, not a wicked one.”

Brimstone sneered, and Dorn picked out the two slightly elongated upper fangs that betrayed the creature’s vampirism. They’d lengthen considerably more when the drake wanted to draw blood from his prey.

“If you believe those terms mean anything, then perhaps he was,” the dragon said. “But it didn’t matter. He had too much pride, and his election to the ranks of the Chosen swelled it further. He came to imagine he himself was almost a god, and the Lady of Mysteries had selected him to be not merely her agent but her consort.”

“So he was mad even then,” said Will, pushing back his cowl to bare his head.

Brimstone flicked his wings in the draconic equivalent of a shrug and replied, “Perhaps. It could be that underneath the surface, a covert madness simmered from the start, though why a deity with all her supposed wisdom would select such a deputy is an enigma. At any rate, as you’d expect, his amorous ambitions came to nothing, and he was accordingly disappointed. He continued to serve Mystra, but he began to resent her as well. Shrewd as he considered himself to be, he found it difficult to believe he’d simply misconstrued the goddess’s attitude toward him. Rather, he decided she’d led him on to guarantee his loyalty.”

Dorn scowled. He never would have expected to feel sympathy for any legendary dastard, particularly one who’d conceived a fondness for wyrms, yet in this one respect at least, he knew exactly how Sammaster had felt. The difference was that Kara really had tried to manipulate him. Hadn’t she?

“I don’t know exactly what happened next,” Brimstone continued, “but I’ve heard several stories that all arrive at the same point. Sammaster undertook to help some humble folk in need. Things went awry, and he accidentally slaughtered them himself with an ill-considered spell. As sensible people realize, such mishaps occur all the time in war. But despite his learning, Sammaster was a fool and fell prey to a guilt that dogged him thereafter. It first made him question his fitness to be one of the Chosen and eventually whether his service was the worthy endeavor he’d imagined it to be.

“After the debacle, he studied necromancy, perhaps in hope of restoring his innocent victims to life, and in time, he sought out Alustriel, another Chosen. He hoped that, delving together, they could uncover secrets that had eluded his solitary investigations.

“Alustriel was beautiful, gracious, and at first happy to join forces with a colleague as accomplished as herself. Since Sammaster was lonely and unhappy, the result was predictable.”

“He fell in love with her,” said Kara, pity in her voice.

“Yes,” said Brimstone, “and he wanted to make sure the new object of his affection wouldn’t refuse him as Mystra had. He tried to spend every moment with her, make every decision for her, and shape her every opinion, all with the aim, conscious or not, of turning her into his adoring chattel.”

“You’re right,” said Taegan, shaking his head, “he was an ass. No doubt the poor woman sent him packing to save her sanity.”

“Indeed,” said the drake, “and so, apparently, cost him what remained of his own. He slunk away to brood and in time decided that every frustration and heartache he’d ever endured was the result of treachery on the part of Mystra and his fellow Chosen. They wanted him to fail and suffer because they feared his potential for magical supremacy.

“Eventually, he returned to confront Alustriel. I’m not sure what he intended, murder, rape, or her abject submission. Perhaps even he didn’t know. At any rate, raving, he attacked her with such puissance, cunning, and savagery that he would have overwhelmed her, except that she was able to call two of the other Chosen to her aid. Their magic transported them across Faerûn in an instant, and together the three of them killed Sammaster.”

Will grinned and said, “I like a tale with a happy ending, but I take it this doesn’t qualify.”

“No,” Brimstone said. “Sammaster had made unsavory friends as he studied the darker aspects of his Art. One was the powerful priest of a malevolent god, and he managed to raise his comrade from the dead. When Sammaster woke, he found he was still one of the most formidable wizards in the world but no longer possessed the unique powers of the Chosen. Evidently the Mother of All Magic had taken them back.

“Perhaps his defeat taught him a measure of humility, for he no longer imagined that he alone could ever cast down Mystra and the Chosen and enthrone himself in their place. Yet still he yearned for the day when all those who’d ‘wronged’ and ‘betrayed’ him would meet their dooms, and he would achieve a kind of mastery. He returned to his studies and found an answer in Chronicle of Years to Come, a volume of prophecy by an oracle named Maglas. One passage therein foretold a world ruled by undead dragons, or at least that was Sammaster’s interpretation, and he decided he himself was the force that would make it happen. It was the high destiny for which Fate had always intended him. He elaborated on the lines from Maglas to pen the first version of the Tome of the Dragon and set about recruiting followers. Shortly thereafter, I met him.”

“You actually knew him?” Kara asked.

“To my misfortune, yes. At that time, Faerûn didn’t have any undead wyrms fit to rule it. For his vision to come to pass, he needed to invent new magic to create them, and like all such efforts, it would require experimentation. He had to seek out drakes willing to submit themselves to the rituals and potions he concocted.”

“And you volunteered,” said Taegan. “Weren’t you running quite a risk?”

“As you observed,” Brimstone said, “Sammaster was persuasive. Or perhaps he cast a charm to cloud my judgment. Either way, I was willing to wager my life against the opportunity to be one of the overlords of all the world, and luck was with me. Unlike the others who first offered themselves, I didn’t perish. I changed into the being you see before you, possessed of new strengths and capacities.”

“Yet I gather,” said Will, “things didn’t work out.”

Brimstone bared his fangs as if he resented the halfling’s bantering tone, but held his temper in check.

“No. Sammaster eventually decided vampiric dragons weren’t the creatures of the prophecies after all. In his view, we had too many limitations to offset our advantages. He needed to make something more powerful still.”

“Dracoliches,” Kara sighed.

“Yes, but I couldn’t become one. He had no way of changing me a second time, and it soon became clear he no longer foresaw any lofty station for me. He simply intended me to serve him, to fight for a prize in which I would have no share. The ingratitude and sheer presumption of it enraged me. I escaped his custody and swore revenge. From that day to this, I’ve watched the Cult of the Dragon and hindered them in any way I could.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Pavel said. “Even if Sammaster did injure your pride, he also made you stronger.”

Brimstone glared, his red eyes flaring brighter, and said, “You consider undeath a vile condition, don’t you, son of Lathander? That’s why my very existence disgusts you. Well, rest assured, I don’t share your prejudice. Still, vampirism isn’t a state of being I would willing have embraced with centuries of vigorous life remaining before me had not Sammaster promised me a commensurate reward. As it stands, he cheated me out of countless pleasures I can never experience again, and I’ll do anything—even make common cause with posturing, sanctimonious vermin like you—to pay him back.”

“Perhaps,” Pavel said, “but you have yet to convince me we have anything to gain by cooperating with an evil, unnatural thing like you.”

“Whatever I am,” Brimstone said, “I know Sammaster’s mind. Moreover, as an undead, I’m immune to frenzy. I’ll retain my reason when Karasendrieth and the rest of her feckless circle are slipping into dementia. You need me.”

“Don’t—” Pavel began.

Dorn raised his human hand signaling him to be silent. The gods knew, he shared the priest’s instinctive revulsion, though in his case, it was more because Brimstone was a dragon. Vampirism was just the pepper in the stew. Still, verbally antagonizing the huge gray horror was pointless and possibly dangerous as well.

“You say you’re out for vengeance on Sammaster,” the half-golem said, “and Gorstag—who’s dead, murdered by the cult—claimed he met the man. But is it possible? Didn’t the Harpers or somebody kill him about a hundred years back?”

“In a sense,” Brimstone said, “but by that time, Sammaster himself had become a lich, the better to pursue his goals. His spirit wears a body as does yours, but flesh and bone aren’t the anchor that holds him on the mortal plane. He has a talisman called a phylactery hidden somewhere for that purpose. As long it exists, it doesn’t really matter if his corporeal form perishes. Eventually his soul will find or make another and walk abroad once more.”

“So it’s possible,” said Will, “Gorstag really did meet him and not just some faker.”

“Considering that a great Rage is coming,” said Brimstone, “and the cult is more active than it’s been in decades, I think it’s almost certain.”

“We still don’t know,” said Kara, “what the one thing has to do with the other.”

“No,” said Brimstone, “we don’t. It’s what we must determine. So it’s your turn to spin a story, singer. Tell me what my spy discovered and exactly how he came to grief.”

“I’ll let Maestro Nightwind tell it,” the slender bard replied, her long, pale hair tinged green by the torchlight. “He’s the one who was with Gorstag at the end and who’s crossed swords with the cultists since.”

Taegan related his experiences with a panache that would have done credit to Kara or any other bard. Under the circumstances, the polished phrases, flashes of wit and irony, and expressive hand gestures set Dorn’s teeth on edge. He wished the avariel would just tell it as tersely as possible.

But Taegan reached the end eventually, whereupon Brimstone said, “You’re correct about one thing. I’ve read the tome, and nothing in it explains what’s happening now. Show me the folio.”

“With pleasure,” Taegan said.

Pavel still didn’t look happy, nor had Dorn’s own mistrust of the smoke drake subsided. But no one objected as the winged elf lifted out the stolen notes. Brimstone jerked his snout toward the floor, directing Taegan to set the scuffed brown leather bundle down in front of him.

Dorn wondered how the reptile would manipulate the sheets of parchment with his enormous claws. It turned out he didn’t have to. He murmured a charm in his hushed, sibilant tones, and afterward, the pages floated up one at a time to hang before his eyes, as if supported by an invisible hand.

After a time, Brimstone bared his fangs in a show of pique. Dorn felt a surge of frustration, and Will said what everyone had no doubt realized: “You can’t read the wretched things, either.”

“I’ve never even seen these symbols before,” the dragon growled, “and it’s likely their meaning shifts from one page, line, or even word to the next. It may be that some of them are mere place holders, intended solely to confuse. That makes it difficult even to determine the alphabet to which they correspond, or the language Sammaster is speaking, let alone the actual content of the text.”

“I thought we guildsmen used some complicated codes back in Saerloon,” Will said, “but it sounds like this beats anything a thief ever cooked up.”

“Sammaster’s insane,” Brimstone said, “but also more brilliant than any man or even dragon I ever met. Still, I can offer one morsel of encouragement. Even for a genius, it takes considerable time and effort to devise or employ a cipher as intricate as this. If he went to this much trouble to hide his thoughts from prying eyes, they must be important.”

“Knowing that is no help,” Pavel said, “if you can’t read them.”

“Patience,” Brimstone said. “Where simple cunning fails, magic may yet succeed.”

His phantom servant, if that was the proper description, replaced the very first page before his smoldering gaze, whereupon he muttered another incantation. A momentary distortion rippled through the air, warping and blurring everything in view.

Brimstone stared intently at the paper hanging in front of his snout. His eyes widened, glowed brighter, and he hitched forward.

By the moon and stars, Dorn thought, it’s working. He’s reading it.

The drake shuddered, threw back his head, and screeched. Foul-smelling smoke jetted from his jaws to splash against the stalactites dangling from the ceiling.

Dorn didn’t understand what was happening, but it didn’t look good. As a precaution, he drew his sword. Taegan jumped up off the chest, whipped out his rapier, and backed away from the gigantic creature. Raryn, Will, and Pavel readied their own weapons.

Brimstone snarled words in a language Dorn had never heard before. His voice was louder, the hiss less pronounced, the timbre altered. Eyes flaring, he pounced at Taegan, who was still the closest person to him.

Once again, Pavel shouted the opening words of a prayer and made his medallion shine like the sun. Brimstone froze for a split second, and Taegan’s agility notwithstanding, perhaps that was the only reason the drake failed to spear him with the first snap of his long, curved vampiric fangs. The fencing teacher sidestepped the attack, drove his rapier into the creature’s lower jaw, and evaded a swipe of its talons by leaping backward, increasing the length of the jump with a beat of his wings.

While Brimstone was attacking Taegan, the hunters took the opportunity to flank the undead reptile. It seemed they had no choice but to do their utmost to kill him after all, and in his heart, Dorn was glad.

But just as he was about to close, Kara shouted, “No! Give me a chance to help him!”

Though he didn’t like it, Dorn held back, and so did his comrades. Kara started singing a spell, her high, vibrant voice resounding through the limestone chamber. Brimstone pivoted toward her and charged, his feet throwing up coins and jewels.

Dorn sprang forward and hacked at the dragon’s neck. The bastard sword inflicted only a shallow gash, but Brimstone broke stride and swung his head toward his attacker. It gave Kara the moment she needed to finish the musical incantation.

Brimstone fell down thrashing, and Dorn scrambled back to keep the immense drake from rolling on him. For a time, he wondered if the fit itself would kill Brimstone, but then the vampire stopped convulsing and clambered, shaking, to his feet. From his manner, it was plain Kara’s magic had restored him to his right mind, for whatever that was worth. His wounds bled more sluggishly than those of a living creature, dark fluid seeping like sap from a tree.

“Well,” panted Will, lowering his short sword but keeping it in his hand “so much for the idea that you’re immune to frenzy.”

“That wasn’t the Rage,” Brimstone whispered. “Sammaster laid a trap for anyone who could actually read his musings. It poured … well, call it a semblance of his own personality into me. It overwhelmed my own identity and possessed me. All I cared about was protecting his secrets. Fortunately, Karasendrieth dispelled the influence.”

“Does that mean you can read the notes now?” Taegan asked.

He wiped the gore from his rapier, flourished it with a showmanship so well practiced it had seemingly become unconscious, and returned it to its scabbard.

“No,” Brimstone said. His long, forked tongue twisted down to examine his wounded jaw by feel. “The trap is still waiting.”

“And I wouldn’t want to have to try to break its grip a second time,” Kara said. “The magic is powerful, and I was lucky.”

“If you turned into Sammaster,” Raryn said, “maybe now you already know what the notes say.”

Brimstone paused, evidently examining the contents of his memory. “Alas, no.”

“That’s it, then,” said Will. “For the time being, anyway. Maybe it we take the notes back to our wizard partners in Thentia.”

“Perhaps they can help,” Brimstone said, “but first, we have more work in Lyrabar. I planted a spy in the Cult of the Dragon, and as a result, we learned a bit. Perhaps if we assault their stronghold, take prisoners, and interrogate them, we can discover more.”

“When you say ‘we,’” said Pavel, “I assume you mean us. You already told Kara you wouldn’t enter Lyrabar, and now I know why. Perhaps with your sorcery you could put on human form, but it would still scare, pain, and perhaps even cripple you to enter such a holy city, full of servants and temples of the gods of light.”

“You have no concept of my capabilities, priest. For your own safety, don’t flatter yourself that you do.”

“I must confess,” Taegan said, “that whether Sir Brimstone is comfortable assisting or not, I’d welcome another chance to pay my compliments to the Wearer of Purple.”

“Good luck,” said Dorn. “My friends and I have finished our part of this chore.”

To his chagrin, even Pavel responded by showing him a troubled expression.

“You must know,” said the handsome priest, “just how reluctant I am to follow any suggestion this foul thing offers. Yet I still feel the Morninglord has set us a task.”

“Think about what you’re proposing. It’s one thing to play bodyguard. It’s something else entirely to enter a city where nobody knows us and try to capture or kill some of the locals. Forget the danger the cultists present. The watch, the paladins, or whoever are likely to string us up themselves.”

Will smirked as he sometimes did when called upon to use his wits to solve a problem.

“I can finagle a way around that,” the halfling offered.

“Don’t bother,” said Dorn. “Worry about seeing the folio safely back to Thentia, if you think it’s worth doing.”

“I agree with Pavel,” Raryn said. “We started a hunt, and we need to finish. If we break off now, it’s like wounding an animal, then not bothering to track it down, finish it off, and end its pain.”

“It’s not anything like that,” Dorn replied.

The white-bearded dwarf shrugged his massive shoulders and said, “Well, maybe not. But look at it this way. The cult’s gotten busy, and one thing we do know is, they’re dedicated to turning ordinary wyrms into dracoliches, more powerful and almost impossible to destroy, since I imagine they store their essences in phylacteries, too. Does that strike you as a good thing, either for lads in our trade or the world in general?”

Dorn shook his head in disgust but said, “All right. One last job.”

“Naturally,” said Will, “it means a modest increase to our fee.” He looked around at the wealth glittering on every side, then up at Brimstone. “Perhaps you’d like to donate a trinket or two for the good of the cause.”

“Our first problem,” Dorn continued, “will be finding the cultists, since Gorstag died before passing along the location of their lair.”

“We know more than one way to catch what we’re hunting,” Raryn said. “If you can’t spot it, flush it out of hiding, or track it, you set out bait.”

Taegan grinned and said, “I take it that would be me.”