It rained steadily through the night. Taegan, whose turn it was to stand a predawn watch, tried to maintain a good vantage point and stay dry at the same time by perching fifteen feet above the ground in the fork of a sycamore. It didn’t work all that well. Logic indicated that the canopy of branches overhead must be catching some of the raindrops, but plenty more spilled right on through. By the time a first hint of Lathander’s light gleamed in the east, and the downpour subsided to a drizzle, his clothes were soaked, and he was cold and in a foul mood generally.

Nor did it help when Rangrim tramped forth from camp and called a jovial, “Good morning! I brought you some hot soup.”

Taegan flicked his wings, shaking rainwater out of the black feathers, spread them, and leaped from the sycamore. His pinions trapped air to slow his descent, and he floated down gently.

“My dear but seemingly demented friend,” the maestro said. “How can you bed down in cold mud, rise with the sun on such a dreary morning, and be cheerful? It must have something to do with your being a paladin.”

The chunky, curly-bearded human grinned and proffered a steaming tin mug of lentil broth. The warmth of the cup felt good in Taegan’s chilled fingers, and so did the heat of the first sip going down.

Rangrim glanced around at the towering, mossy trees dripping glistening water from every branch and twig. Spring had found the Gray Forest, and new green leaves and buds were sprouting despite the occasional patch of snow still spotting the ground. Birds, some newly returned from the south, chirped to greet the morning.

“I like the woods,” said the paladin, “even on a cold, damp morning. I’m amazed you don’t.”

“I don’t see why my indifference constitutes such a marvel. I like soft beds, blazing hearths, well-made roofs, comfortable chairs, fine wine, gourmet cooking, and luscious, affectionate women. Everything Lyrabar affords, and the wild doesn’t.”

“But you’re an elf.”

“An accident of birth,” Taegan replied, “that I strive to transcend.”

They turned and headed toward the camp, where other paladins and Warswords could be heard muttering and rattling around. One of the Queen’s Bronzes lifted the tapered head at the end of its long, sinuous neck and peered around. Its forked tongue darted forth to taste the morning air.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of your heritage,” Rangrim said.

“What heritage would that be?” replied the avariel. “In case you haven’t noticed, all the cities of Impiltur and the surrounding lands are the work of men, with a degree of assistance from dwarves and halflings.”

“Still. …”

“Please,” Taegan said, “let’s speak of something else, for I assure you, I’m delighted to be what I’ve become, a loyal subject of Impiltur and our wise and gracious queen. Surely you, her sworn champion, don’t mean to imply it was an unworthy aspiration.”

The paladin snorted and said, “You’re twisting my meaning, and you know it. But have it your way. How much longer do you think it will take to find the cult’s stronghold?”

“We should be drawing close, but who knows? We simply have to follow the directions dear Cylla gave me and keep looking. If you like, I can do some more scouting above the treetops while everyone else is breaking camp.”

“Don’t you want more breakfast?”

Taegan realized he didn’t. For some reason, even though he’d endured such comments many times before, Rangrim’s witless albeit well-intentioned observations about his race had left him feeling restless.

“I believe I can forgo it.”

“Well, in that case,” said the paladin, “Quelsandas and I will tag along.”

Taegan hoped he could prevent that. He didn’t fancy any more of Rangrim’s hearty, virtuous company just at present, and in fact, never particularly enjoyed being around the bronze. The paladin doted on Quelsandas, his faithful comrade in countless exploits, but though Taegan had made an honest effort to like the dragon for his new friend’s sake, he couldn’t quite manage it. The gigantic reptile had a sullen, guarded quality that bothered him.

Or perhaps, given that Rangrim seemed oblivious to his mount’s glumness, the problem was simply that Taegan didn’t understand drakes and their ways. He certainly hadn’t spent enough time with Kara and Brimstone to make him an expert. But he did know he’d prefer solitude for the next little while.

Accordingly, he said, “If we are nearing the enemy, perhaps I should scout alone. I’m considerably smaller and harder to spot than a dragon wheeling against the sky. Besides, you’re the war captain. Your faithful followers need you here to put them in order for the new day.”

“Suit yourself. Good hunting.”

Taegan sprang into the air and flew upward. He looked for vertical pathways wide enough to accommodate an avariel’s beating wings, but the branches grew thickly, and at certain moments, it was easier simply to seize hold of them and clamber like a squirrel, as he had in the Earthwood years before. The memory made him frown.

Fortunately, he reached the treetops soon enough. He took a wary glance around, making sure no wyvern, abishai, or whatever was hovering close at hand, was in position to attack as soon as he broke cover. Then he launched himself higher, where he soon found a friendly updraft to hold him at that altitude with minimal effort on his part.

Gliding between the gray overcast above and the dark green foliage below, Taegan’s mood brightened despite his sopping clothes and the persistent drizzle. He could see for miles, from the ranks of mountains in the north to the blacker clouds, their bellies full of flickering lightning, massed far to the south above the Sea of Fallen Stars. If he’d needed to forsake his timorous, reclusive people to experience such vistas, that alone had been sufficient reason to turn his back on them.

But he knew he mustn’t simply float and enjoy the spectacle for long. He had work to do. He flew west, looking for the fortress Sammaster and Cylla had established. It was possible that, shielded by layers of overhanging branches or even veils of illusion, the place was invisible from the air. But if he could spot it from on high, it might well save the expedition days of tedious groping about on the ground, days during which the cultists could strengthen their defenses, make more dracoliches, or Sune only knew what. At least avariels had sharp eyes. Taegan thought he had about as good a chance of sighting the secret fortress as—

What was that? For a moment, he glimpsed something big moving along far below on the ground. Then it disappeared, concealed by the canopy.

Plainly, it hadn’t been a stationary manmade structure of the sort he was seeking. But it could certainly have been one of the wyrms Sammaster had recruited to guard the stronghold and eventually undergo the transformation into undead, in which case, it could annihilate a lone avariel with one snap of its jaws or a single puff of dragon breath. Accordingly, he made his way back down through the branches as warily and silently as he could, until he finally saw more.

He wasn’t sure if one of the creatures he observed stalking eastward was the same immense being he’d glimpsed before, but it made no difference. The only important thing was to reach his comrades in time.

Though he wouldn’t reach them at all unless he continued to go unnoticed. He whispered a spell, and bladesong instantly transported him a couple hundred yards eastward, onto the limb of a different tree.

Peering down, he saw it wasn’t far enough. He was still above a portion of the advancing force, its leading edge, composed of scouts and skirmishers. Nor could he use the same magic to shift himself a second time. At his level of skill, he could only hold a single spell of such power in his memory, and having expended it, it was gone until he had a chance to study his grimoire once again.

So he crept along the branches with all the stealth his father and the rest of the tribe had taught him, crouched, wings folded tight to make himself smaller, spreading only when he needed the exquisite balance they afforded him, or to spring across a gap his legs couldn’t manage by themselves.

It was a race of sorts, one he could never have won if the creatures on the ground hadn’t been trying to prowl along unobtrusively themselves, an effort that slowed them significantly. As it was, he gradually outdistanced them, and when reasonably confident he was far enough ahead that they wouldn’t spot him, he unfurled his wings and flew the rest of the way to camp at top speed. It felt bizarre that his comrades were chatting, folding tents, tying bedrolls, inspecting the horses’ hooves, and in general, calmly preparing to march, but of course they had no inkling of what he’d rushed to tell them.

“Lord Rangrim!” he shouted.

“Here!”

The paladin was busy saddling Quelsandas, a task he insisted on performing himself. His caution was understandable considering that if the job was done incorrectly, he might conceivably lose his seat and plummet hundreds of feet to the ground.

“Did you see something?” asked Rangrim.

“To say the least,” Taegan replied as he landed in front of the knight and dragon. “A band comprised of men, wyrms, hobgoblins, and what I take to be werewolves is stealing up on us. In a few minutes, our pickets will spot them, but by then it will be too late.”

“Did you see a dracolich?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. With all the trees obstructing my view, I couldn’t see everything.”

“How did they know we were coming?”

We have a traitor, Taegan thought. He didn’t know why his instincts instantly suggested that answer, but it felt right. Somehow, someone in the expedition had made contact with the cultists during the night.

Rangrim waved his hand impatiently dismissing his own question. He turned and found his trumpeter, who’d obviously overheard the conversation, already standing close at hand awaiting orders.

“No, Jal,” Rangrim said. “You can’t sound the call to arms, or the enemy will hear, and come running before we’re ready. We need to get ourselves into a battle formation quickly but quietly. Help me round up the officers and sergeants.”

Once apprised of the danger, the Warswords prepared to meet the foe with a brisk efficiency that attested to their quality. The trees made it difficult for them to arrange themselves in the straight unbroken lines their commanders might have preferred, but they managed to mass a goodly portion of their strength in a central position, with other warriors and the six bronze dragons stationed in two wings that extended diagonally forward from the ends. Taegan was no war captain, but he understood how the formation was supposed to work. Rangrim wanted the cultists to advance into what amounted to a box, so some of his troops could attack their flanks.

Since he wasn’t one of the leaders, responsible for readying the men-at-arms, Taegan concentrated on preparing himself. He cast spells to heighten his strength and agility and to sharpen the point and edges of the sturdy cut-and-thrust sword he currently carried in preference to his beloved but flimsier rapier. His purely defensive enchantments, like the one that shrouded him in blur, didn’t last as long, so he’d put off conjuring them until the foe actually came into view, or simply trust his martial skills and the brigandine one of the queen’s armorers had made to protect him. Though he didn’t bother wearing such things in the city—few rakes did, either for fear of being thought craven or out of reluctance to cover up any portion of their handsome clothes—he was a deft enough bladesinger that the light leather armor wouldn’t hinder him from making cabalistic passes.

When he’d enhanced his natural capabilities as best he could, he went to stand beside Rangrim and Quelsandas. The bronze repeatedly spread his membranous wings, casting the avariel into shadow, then retracted them again. Lance in hand the lord sat gazing intently into the trees, watching for a first glimpse of the foe, but eventually he took note of his mount’s restlessness.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” Quelsandas rumbled.

“Just eager to strike a blow, I expect. And here we were worried the army in the east would have all the fun.”

The huge reptile with his webbed feet, gleaming scales, and catlike emerald eyes stood silent for a moment.

Then he said, “We’ve been through so much together. If I asked a favor, would you grant it?”

“Of course.”

“Then climb down off my back and direct the battle from the rear.”

Rangrim smiled a perplexed sort of smile and said, “After all these years, you’re developing a very odd sense of humor.”

“I have a premonition. This one time, it’s better if you’re not in the thick of the fray.”

“I’m the one with a special bond to the Crying God,” the human chuckled. “I’ll handle the prophetic dreams and intuitions, if it’s all the same to you. Seriously, your nerves are getting the better of you. It happens to all of us occasionally, just before a battle. But there’s no need for worry. We may have a relatively small company, but we have discipline and training no rabble of madmen and hobgoblins can ever hope to match, to say nothing of half a dozen of the Queen’s Bronzes and the favor of the gods of light. We’re going to be fine.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Quelsandas replied, “but I had to try.”

The exchange unsettled Taegan. He sensed the bronze had left something unsaid, even if Rangrim, with his trustful and straightforward manner of thinking, didn’t. But before the fencing master could decide what, if anything, to do about it, the first of their foes appeared beneath the trees.

Stalking on two legs in beast-man form, a werewolf snarled when it saw the Warswords drawn up in battle array. An instant later, an arrow plunged into the lycanthrope’s gray-furred chest, and it fell backward. The shaft had to have been silver-tipped or enchanted to kill a shapeshifter so expeditiously. The archer’s comrades started to cheer until their sergeant’s bark cut through the clamor to upbraid the eager bowman for shooting before he gave the order.

Tall as the tallest human, scarcely less hairy than the werewolves, and clad for the most part in animal hides dyed a bloody red, a trio of brutish hobgoblins reached for their own arrows. Then, behind them, appeared the most terrifying thing Taegan had ever seen. He shivered uncontrollably at the sight of it.

Like the bronzes, it had chosen to stay on the ground. For such huge creatures, flight through the dense branches in that portion of the wood was problematical. Once it had evidently been a gigantic living green, but the tissue of its wings hung in tatters, and bone showed through the rents in its decaying, withered flesh. Its sunken yellow eyes shone with a spectral radiance somehow perceptible even in the pale gray morning light. A man wearing the ornate robes of a Wearer of Purple bestrode the base of the creature’s neck, a skull-tipped ebony rod in his hand. No doubt he was a formidable combatant in his own right, but compared to the dracolich, he seemed utterly insignificant.

Some of the Warswords moaned.

“Steady!” Rangrim shouted. “Steady! Don’t meet its gaze, and you’ll be all right.” His lieutenants called similar words of reassurance.

Somebody yelled, “Impiltur, Impiltur!” and others echoed the battle cry.

Rangrim recited a prayer that made Taegan, and presumably others, feel somewhat less afraid. Quelsandas took a deep breath, then started whispering a spell of his own. Taegan was about to do likewise when he marked the sound of the bronze’s snarling, sibilant incantation. He couldn’t understand the arcane words, but even so, they filled him with an instinctive revulsion, as if they’d been devised to invoke the foulest powers of the Nine Hells.

Confused, he turned to Quelsandas, who instantly lashed a wing down to swat him like a fly. Taegan tried to leap out from under it, but the scalloped edge of the limb still caught him and dashed him to the ground.

It knocked the wind out of him, and he could only look on helplessly as the first volleys of arrows and blazes of magic from spellcasters on both sides flew, and Quelsandas finished his conjuration. The other members of the Queen’s Bronzes threw back their heads and screamed.

The screeching startled everyone. The arrows stopped arcing back and forth, and the human cultists, werewolves, hobgoblins, and even the dracolich faltered in their advance.

After a few moments, the hideous noise subsided. The bronzes peered about in seeming confusion, as if they didn’t remember where they were or what was happening. Taegan heard a dragon rider on the far side of the Warswords’ formation ask his mount what was the matter.

The reptile responded by snapping its head toward the ground like a striking serpent and spewing a stroke of dazzling lightning down the line of Impilturan men-at-arms. It all happened so quickly the victims couldn’t even scream. They simply jerked and died, the stench of their burning flesh mingling with the smell of stormy skies.

The other bronzes attacked an instant later. Two more chose to unleash their lightning, another pair shredded Impilturan men-at-arms with fang and claw, and a fifth breathed out a plume of sparkling brownish vapor that inflicted no wounds, but set a dozen horsemen galloping away in panic. With their backs turned, they were easy prey as the wyrm raced in pursuit.

The dragons carried the paladins on their backs helplessly along. The knights shouted at their huge and cherished comrades, beat them with the flats of their weapons, or chanted prayers, trying frantically to bring the reptiles to their senses, though most likely they had no idea precisely what had gone so horribly wrong.

Taegan thought he did. The Rage in all its power had taken possession of the bronzes in an instant. Because Quelsandas’s magic had made it so.

The Warswords had stood ready to battle the cultists, but when the bronzes, the very foundation of their might, turned on them, it caught them completely by surprise. It only took a few heartbeats for their formation to start disintegrating, as the humans scrambled desperately to distance themselves from the maddened wyrms.

“Ilmater, help us!” Rangrim said.

He started chanting another invocation, no doubt the mightiest magic at his command though Taegan doubted even that would be enough to avert the catastrophe threatening his command. Then it was Quelsandas’s turn to scream and thrash.

“No!” the dragon whimpered, and it was profoundly strange to hear such dread in so enormous and mighty a creature’s voice. “Not me! He promised I’d stay sane!”

He howled a second time, and when he stopped, his green eyes burned with demented fury. He sucked in a breath.

Taegan was still dazed, but the threat spurred him into motion, and he flung himself to the side. Even so, the thunderbolt struck his wing. Agony burned through his body, so intense he couldn’t even scream, just shudder in its throes. When it subsided, to his surprise he found himself still alive. Others in the path of the blast had been less fortunate and lay black and smoking on the ground.

Taegan’s pinion continued to hurt fiercely, but he was too full of anger and fear for it to balk him. He lurched up and threw himself at Quelsandas. If the gods were exceedingly generous, perhaps he could strike the treacherous bronze a mortal blow before the wyrm’s ability to spit death returned.

He thrust his sword deep into Quelsandas’s breast. The bronze pivoted, nearly tearing the hilt from his grasp, and raked at him with its talons. The attack might well have torn him to pieces if he hadn’t leaped backward. As it was, it only missed him by scant inches. When he tried to beat his wings to lengthen his spring, the charred one just twitched and gave him a fresh stab of pain. Until it healed, he wouldn’t be able to fly.

Quelsandas pounced after him. The great jaws shot forward, spreading as wide and as high as the gateway into death, which swallows countless souls every day. The elf wrenched himself to the side, and the bronze’s enormous fangs clashed shut on empty air, spattering their elusive target with saliva. The droplets bore a trace of lightning within them, and crackled and stung like needles when they hit.

Taegan lunged and cut, striking for the throat. Quelsandas twitched his head back, and the sword merely inflicted a shallow gash on the jagged collar of bony plates behind the jaws and eyes. The drake bit, the avariel dodged, then had to defend again when Quelsandas instantly followed up his with claws. The bronze lifted his right forefoot high, threatening a vertical slash, then lashed out with the left in a horizontal stroke. Momentarily deceived, Taegan ducked the genuine blow with not an instant to spare.

He realized he had to make himself harder to hit, otherwise Quelsandas was going to rip him to pieces, probably with a single attack and most likely within the next few seconds. Dodging and retreating, cutting and thrusting when the wyrm gave him the chance, he started conjuring an enchantment.

Quelsandas was in frenzy, quite possibly not fighting with the cunning he would normally display. Yet he still recognized spellcasting when he saw it, and it prompted him to return to his initial tactic. He hopped backward, out of reach of Taegan’s blade, lifted his head, and sucked in a breath. A whiff of ozone betrayed his intention to blast forth another flare of lightning. Taegan had little confidence in his ability to avoid the attack but realized he had no alternative but to try. He held himself ready while continuing his incantation. If he dodged too soon, the bronze would simply compensate.

Then Quelsandas jerked, and with a deafening boom, his breath burned harmlessly into the tangled branches overhead, shattering some, bringing chunks of wood showering down, and setting sections aflame despite the damp. Taegan was so intent on his foe that he’d nearly forgotten Rangrim, and to all appearances, the rogue bronze had too. But the war captain was still in the saddle and had finally abandoned his fruitless efforts to calm his mount by counterspell or exhortation. He’d cast away the long spear that was his weapon of choice for fighting from the back of such a gigantic steed, seized the warhammer he carried as a backup, and his face contorted in mingled anguish and resolve, pounded it into the base of the reptile’s neck, spoiling his aim.

Quelsandas twisted his head around to snap at his rider, but the posture was plainly awkward for him, and perhaps that was what gave Rangrim time to block out the attack with his kite shield. When the dragon’s teeth slammed against the barrier, they scored and dented the steel, defacing the painted coat-of-arms. The impact jolted the paladin backward and made the segments of his plate armor clash together. But the shield must have carried powerful enchantments, for both it and its wielder survived.

Rangrim riposted with a blow to Quelsandas’s snout.

Meanwhile, Taegan finished his spell, creating the same defense he’d used the night Gorstag died. Quelsandas would see him in a slightly different position than the one he actually occupied. It might help protect him, if the drake’s keen senses of scent and hearing didn’t pinpoint his location even so. It was a start, anyway. He charged Quelsandas, whose long, lashing tail and stamping, earth-shaking feet posed a deadly threat even when the wyrm wasn’t actually assaulting him, and he cut at the creature’s belly, simultaneously commencing another charm.

He gashed the dragon’s torso twice before raking claws drove him backward. He finished the spell, and Quelsandas appeared to slow as his own perceptions and reactions quickened. He attacked furiously when the bronze oriented on Rangrim and fought defensively when the wyrm returned his attention to him, and the paladin adopted the corresponding strategy.

Taegan drove his sword between Quelsandas’s ribs. When he yanked it out again, blood spurted, and kept rhythmically pumping forth.

A moment later, Rangrim bellowed, “Ilmater!” and smashed the warhammer down.

A vertebra audibly cracked, and the bronze thrashed in pain.

It was hard to believe, but Taegan thought that he and Rangrim might actually be on the brink of winning. Quelsandas started to pivot, and the fencing master scrambled to stay on the dragon’s flank, away from the jaws and forefeet. The bronze flung himself sideways and down.

If not for the spell of quickness, Taegan would surely have been crushed. As it was, he had just enough time to recognize that his only chance of survival lay in diving toward the dragon, inside the arc of the creature’s fall. He darted under Quelsandas, and the bronze’s vast, toppling bulk crashed to earth behind him.

The avariel whirled and saw that Rangrim had been less fortunate. The lord was still in the saddle, his feet hooked in the stirrups, and Quelsandas rolled like a gigantic hound smearing itself with some enticing scent discovered on the ground, grinding his longtime human friend beneath him. When the bronze heaved himself to his feet, Rangrim flopped atop him like a rag doll, his suit of plate flattened out of shape.

Quelsandas wheeled toward Taegan, snarled, and pounced, perhaps not quite as nimbly as before. The elf lunged beneath the dragon’s snapping jaws and thrust his sword through the scales armoring the throat. The blade drove in deep, and he heaved on the hilt, tearing the wound wider. Quelsandas snatched his head away from the pain, and that too served to enlarge the hurt before he ripped himself free. Blood gushed and splashed on the ground.

Quelsandas poised himself for another attack, then faltered. His sides heaved rapidly, and air whistled in and out of a breach that hadn’t existed a moment before. Taegan recognized the signs of a punctured windpipe. The dragon couldn’t catch his breath.

The elf sprang in, avoided a relatively clumsy talon strike, and rammed his sword into the wyrm’s belly. Sparks sizzled and popped around Quelsandas’s wet, glistening fangs, and the bronze crumpled to the ground.

Taegan rushed around the enormous corpse to reach Rangrim. Up close, a look sufficed to dispel any lingering doubt that the paladin was dead. The avariel supposed he’d already known that, but he had hoped he was mistaken.

Nor was that the worst of it. When he surveyed the battlefield as a whole, he saw three other dead bronzes, slain in self-defense by their human comrades as he and Rangrim had needed to kill Quelsandas. The other two had evidently run off, possibly chasing fleeing prey. So that particular threat was over, but it had done all the damage necessary to turn the day into a disaster.

The Warswords had sustained heavy casualties and were in general disarray, whereas, since they’d had the good sense to keep their distance from the frenzied bronzes, contenting themselves with shooting arrows and casting spells at the queen’s men as targets of opportunity presented themselves, the cultists and their minions were still fresh and relatively unscathed. The dracolich and its rider leaped forward, leading a wave of loping werewolves, hooting hobgoblins, human fanatics, and black and green wyrms their foes no longer had any hope of withstanding.

Some of Rangrim’s warriors simply threw away their shields, weapons, and any other object whose weight might slow them down, turned tail, and bolted. Others tried to retreat in good order. A knight with a crimson scarf—a lady’s favor, evidently—knotted to his helmet bellowed for his retainers to keep together as they galloped into the trees. A wizard cast a spell that made a band of archers fade from view, threw blasts of fire and frost to hold back the advancing foe, then blinked from sight himself an instant before a skull dragon’s acidic spew splashed over the patch of ground where he’d been standing.

But it was hard to believe that the cool-headed bravery of such folk actually mattered. The expedition was still routing. In a few minutes, the survivors, assuming there were any, would be scattered far and wide.

A javelin plunged into the earth beside Taegan’s foot, reminding him that he needed to rout just as much as the next fellow. His wounded, useless wing throbbing, he ran.

The charm of haste wouldn’t last much longer, but for the moment, it enabled him to stay ahead of the charging foes. Well, most of them. Coarse, gray-black fur bristling, slaver foaming from its jaws, a female werewolf leaped in on his flank and clawed at him. He pivoted, blocked the stroke with a cut that half severed the beast-woman’s misshapen hand finished her with a thrust to the heart and dashed on.

Dorn and his companions had rowed most of the way toward the war galley that was their destination before the yellow flame flowered back on shore. The blaze constituted a fairly desperate diversion, the folk of Elmwood sacrificing one of their own houses to draw the Zhents’ attention. But at least it was a decrepit, ramshackle structure, unoccupied, Thoyanna said, since the spinster who’d dwelled therein died of old age and influenza two months before. Assuming the fire didn’t spread, the loss would be relatively insignificant.

Those Zhents who were still awake gathered in the bow of their vessel to gawk at the flickering light in the darkness. They didn’t seem particularly alarmed, and that was as Dorn had expected. A fire on land didn’t look like an attack against a ship floating at anchor in the harbor.

Still, with several of the invaders peering out across the black, rippling surface of the inlet, Dorn had to resist an impulse to duck down, even though they weren’t actually looking in his direction and probably couldn’t make him out in the murk even if they did. Just as importantly, even he couldn’t hear his sweeps creaking in the oarlocks or swishing through the water. Pavel’s magic muffled any noise that might otherwise have sounded from the rowboat. In theory, the launch should be virtually detectable, but the Zhentarim had spellcasters, too, and it was impossible to be sure.

He and his companions guided their craft into proximity with the galley’s elevated stern. While the hulls bumped together, Will took a sturdy hemp line tied to a fisherman’s heavy lead sinker and tossed the weight upward. It was a deft throw. The sinker looped the rope up over the rail and dropped back down into the halfling’s outstretched hand.

Will climbed the rope as agilely as a spider ascending a strand of webbing, peeked over the gunwale, then scrambled onto the galley’s stern, out of his comrades’ view. After a moment, he peered back down at the rowboat and beckoned for the others to ascend.

Dorn hauled himself up next. As he clambered aboard the warship, he exited the bubble of silence Pavel had created around the launch. He could hear the faint groan of stressed timber that attended any large, floating vessel, even one at rest, the snoring of the Zhents still wrapped in their blankets on deck, and the conversation of the men at the far end of the craft. One of them expressed the hope that the entire village and all its inhabitants would burn. Then the Black Network could bring in its own folk and build the kind of outpost it truly needed from the ground up.

Dorn glanced over the side. Alamarayne appeared to be having trouble scaling the rope, so he pulled it in hand over hand and dragged her up. He hoped the moon priestess fought better than she climbed. He was by no means certain of it. Not every cleric possessed Pavel’s courage and combat skills. But she, like the other village elders, had insisted on taking part in the raid. Ezril and Thoyanna had accompanied Pavel and Raryn to the next galley over.

Once he helped Alamarayne over the rail, the two of them hunkered down. In their dark cloaks, they hoped to go unnoticed in the gloom or failing that be mistaken for black-clad Zhents bundled up against the chill night air. Muffled in his own inky garments, dagger in hand but hidden inside his cape, Will crept forward through the shadows to peer closely at the sleepers.

The Zhents were all human, with nary a halfling among them. If any of them so much as caught a glimpse of Will, he’d surely cry out a warning to his fellows. But the former guild thief maintained no one would spot him, and Dorn shared his confidence. His partner had a talent for stealth that bordered on the uncanny.

Will was looking for mages and Banite priests. All three war galleys likely carried spellcasters, and such folk posed the greatest threat to the success of the raid. Accordingly, the hunters hoped to neutralize them before the Zhents even realized anything was amiss.

They might have managed it, too, except that they ran out of time. With their small force divided into three contingents, none able to communicate with the others, it was impossible to coordinate their actions precisely, and from Dorn’s perspective, anyway, Kara attacked too soon. He couldn’t yet see her—she’d presumably flown in low from the north while the Zhents looked at the burning house to the south, as per the plan—but her song throbbed through the night to cast a spell. A crashing, clattering noise drummed from the war galley at the far end of the line as conjured chunks of ice pounded the vessel and the folk thereon. Men cried out. A moment later, a plume of Kara’s bright, crackling, lightning-laden breath swept across the deck.

If she’d caught the crew by surprise, she’d quite possibly wiped them out already, but the Zhents aboard the other ships realized they were in danger. Such being the case, their archers or crossbowmen might be lucky enough to shoot the dragon down, but considering that they’d be loosing their shafts at a target possessed of natural armor hurtling through the dark, it seemed unlikely. Left to their own devices, however, wizards and priests were likely to fare much better.

Accordingly, as one of the reavers cried for everyone to wake up, and slumbering men threw off their covers and reared up from the deck, Dorn squinted against the gloom, looking for some sign to tell him which of his enemies was a spellcaster. After a moment, he spotted a long-legged man bearing a morningstar. The Zhent had been wearing a steel gauntlet, too, even as he slept. He was almost certainly a cleric of the Black Hand. Unfortunately, he was most of the way forward. Maybe Will was maneuvering close to the priest, working his way into position to strike him down, but if so, Dorn couldn’t tell it. He’d lost sight of his small comrade when everyone started jumping up and scurrying about.

Dorn thought he had to try for the Banite himself. Keeping his head down and his cloak wrapped around the iron half of his body, he shoved his way toward the bow. The confusion aided him. The Zhents were too intent on arming themselves and peering at the war galley already under attack to pay much attention to one more dark figure pushing his way through the press.

Then, however, one of the reavers stooped to retrieve his conical helmet from the deck, chanced to glance up, and evidently discerned Dorn’s metal half-mask despite the obscurement provided by his hood. The Zhent cried out in surprise. Dorn sprang and smashed the fellow’s head in with a sweep of his iron fist.

At least he’d made it almost within reach of the priest before being spotted. He took another stride, and a warrior rushed at him, swinging an axe at his head. Dorn caught the blow on his artificial arm, riposted with a punch that drove his knuckle spikes into his foe’s chest, and charged on.

Two more Zhents came at him with broadswords. He shifted so they couldn’t both cut at him at once, parried a slash from the one that still could, hitched forward, caught hold of the reaver’s extended arm, jerked it out its socket, and flung him aside.

The other swordsman lifted his blade, then froze. Thanks to his years with Pavel, Dorn recognized the effect of that particular sort of clerical magic when he saw it. Evidently Alamarayne was useful in a fight, for wherever she was at the moment, she’d paralyzed the Zhent. Hoping she was taking care to protect herself as well, Dorn smashed the warrior out of his way before his mobility could return. That brought the half-golem face to face with the Banite.

Unfortunately, the soldiers had delayed him long enough for the priest, a thin man with a sly, foxy face, to use his magic. He swept a talisman shaped like a clenched fist through a mystic pass, and Dorn’s guts twisted in pain and nausea even as his muscles cramped. At once the Banite lashed out with his morningstar, which had blue-white sparks jumping and crackling along the chain and massive spiked bulb of ahead.

Dorn tried to block it, but his sudden illness hampered him. The morningstar slammed into the ribs on the human side of his body. His brigandine cushioned the blow, but it could do little to stop the essence of lightning contained in the weapon from burning into his body. He jerked with the pain of it, and the priest whirled the morningstar back for another swing.

Dorn made a desperate grab, and despite his sickness and dizziness, caught hold of the chain before the end of the morningstar could strike him. Unfortunately, that contact alone sufficed to send more lightning blazing down his metal arm and into the vulnerable flesh beyond. Still, much as he needed to, he didn’t let go, lest the cleric continue bashing him. Instead, forcing his twitching, spasming muscles to obey him, he jerked the Banite close and drove his knife into his heart.

Only then did Dorn drop the morningstar. That ended the shocks jolting along his nerves, but not the weakness and queasiness with which the Banite had cursed him. That would simply have to run its course, and he’d just have to go on fighting in spite of it.

To his relief, he didn’t have another foe poised to attack him that very instant. In the darkness and chaos, some of the Zhents probably had yet to realize foes had boarded their vessel, and thus he had a second to brace himself for the next fight, as well as glance about and try to assess how the raid as a whole was going.

Back toward the stern, Will faked a step to the right, then darted left, rolled, and somersaulted to his feet. The maneuver carried him safely past the fangs and fiery breath of a huge, hound like thing with glowing red eyes and into striking distance of the plump, bearded man who had evidently conjured it. Will drove his short sword into the wizard’s groin, and the Zhent went down.

That didn’t end the threat of the hell hound, which, still following its summoner’s orders, lunged after the halfling. But before it could quite close the distance, Alamarayne called out to Selûne. The mace she brandished in the air, its head studded with four crescent-shaped flanges, blazed with silvery radiance, pinpointing her location. The demonic canine simply faded away, dismissed, evidently, back to the layer of the Abyss from which the magician had called it.

Across the harbor, Kara, her outstretched wings a slash of deeper black against the night sky, dived at the galley in the center position. No flares of magic rose to meet her. Evidently Raryn, Pavel, and the others had succeeded in eliminating the spellcasters onboard. She scoured the deck with a burst of her dazzling breath.

When she finished killing the Zhents on that ship, she’d move on to the last one. Dorn and his companions had to hold out until she did. Will and Alamarayne had the advantage of being in proximity to one another. They could protect each other’s flanks. It was Dorn’s bad luck that he’d wound up too far away to make it practical for him to rejoin them. Sick or not, he would have to fight alone.

He put his back to the water, so the Zhents couldn’t come at him from behind, and his iron half forward to weather their blows. Judging he had ample room to swing it, he drew his bastard sword. He just had time to cock it into a proper guard before more reavers assaulted him.

He clawed one Zhent’s face to shreds and hacked another’s leg out from under him. By sheer luck, his iron arm deflected a sword thrust from an opponent he hadn’t even noticed slinking up on his side. He caught the blade in his metal fingers, squeezed, twisted, and broke it.

The Zhents screamed. Dorn didn’t have to look up to know what had terrified them. Kara was swooping at the galley, and her approach was as much a threat to her allies as the enemy, because the kinds of attack she was using blasted an area and everybody caught inside it. It was the only way to slaughter the Zhents as fast as the raiders needed to kill them.

Dorn and his companions were supposed to protect themselves by diving for cover. A glance around his immediate vicinity convinced the half-golem that for him, the best option was to swing himself over the side. He dropped his sword and did precisely that, digging his talons into the gunwale to anchor himself. But the wood was rotten and crumbled. He plummeted.

He couldn’t swim. The weight of his iron limbs would drag him to the bottom. When he splashed down in the cold water, he raked frantically at the side of the galley. His claws snagged in the hull, and gasping, he heaved his head above the surface. Over the deck, the air flickered yellow, and an explosion roared. Zhents shrieked, and their bodies burning, tumbled overboard.

Then some force or weight shoved the galley downward, dunking Dorn’s head in the process. For a second, he was terrified that the vessel would continue to float that low and that he wouldn’t be able to clamber back into the air before he drowned, but then it bobbed upward once more. As he coughed and spat, a great sheet of something flopped down over the side to hang beside him. At first, with his eyes full of water, he mistook it for a fallen sail, then realized what it really was.

He hesitated briefly, then, making sure his talons didn’t cut, caught hold of one of the bony vanes running through the leathery membrane. Kara pulled up her wing and heaved him out of the water.

From the looks of the deck, the Zhents were all unconscious, crippled, or dead. Will and Alamarayne, however, were alive. The latter had nasty gashes on her forearm and calf, but presumably her prayers or failing that, Pavel’s, would stanch the bleeding, prevent infection, and accelerate the healing process.

That was all Dorn had time to observe before Kara flipped her wing in some cunning way that broke his grip and sent him rolling and bouncing down the inclined surface to fetch up on her back.

“Hang on!” she cried, and Dorn barely had time to obey before she leaped off the deck and took flight once more.

Her wings slashed up and down as she rapidly gained altitude. Her voice soared, too, in another fierce yet lovely song of battle.

Dorn felt stupid with surprise. It hadn’t specifically been part of the plan that he’d help with this particular part of the raid, and the gods knew, he’d never in his life wanted to ride a foul, cursed dragon.

Yet once he collected himself, he had to admit, however grudgingly, that it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Maybe it was even exhilarating, to streak along high above the water, his wet garments flapping in the wind. Or maybe it was Kara’s singing that lifted his spirits. Bardic music could do that, he knew, tamper with a man’s emotions and make him feel things foreign to his nature.

When she reached the end of a stanza, he shouted, “Raryn, Pavel, and the others!”

“Everyone’s all right,” she replied. “Look, we’ve found a patrol boat.”

It was true. The vessel floated below them. Witnessing the fate of the war galleys, the crew of the relatively small, single-masted sailboat had decided to make a run for it, but to no avail. They couldn’t outdistance a dragon on the wing, nor could the night hide them from Kara’s senses.

They were watching for her, and when she swooped out of the southern sky, some cowered blubbering or sprang overboard, but others prepared to fight. If they possessed any genuinely powerful spellcasters, they might have a chance, but Dorn was gambling they didn’t. He’d based his strategy on the notion that all such folk would be based aboard the larger, more formidable and imposing galleys.

Arrows streaked upward from the boat, and so did a couple of shafts of crimson light. Kara jerked, and Dorn was sure that the sorcerous missiles, at least, had struck her. Still, it had been a relatively weak spell effect, potent enough to kill many a human being but not enough to balk her. She proved it by blasting a sizzling flare of breath across the deck, slaughtering the crew and setting sails, lines, and even timber ablaze. Kara climbed and rushed onward, leaving the fiery hulk in her wake.

“If we want a serviceable craft,” she cried, “we have to take the last one without burning it or smashing it to pieces.”

“I understand” Dorn answered.

It only took another couple of minutes to find the second boat. Singing, Kara plummeted through a hail of arrows. A dart pierced her dorsal surface just in front of the place where Dorn was riding then instantly liquefied, becoming a steaming, bubbling acid that ate away flesh around the initial puncture. The pain must have been intense, and Dorn felt a pang of pity for her, as well as the angry desire to make her attacker pay. For the moment, sympathy was all he could give. He was no healer or priest and thus had no means of neutralizing the corrosive agent.

Fortunately, like the bolts of magical force, the acid wasn’t strong enough to stop Kara. Nearly on top of the boat, she spread and hammered her wings to slow her precipitous descent just a little. She still slammed down on the bow so hard it nearly shoved the whole front of the boat underwater.

The slanted deck would make for treacherous footing, but Dorn figured he’d just have to cope. Lacking his bow or even his long hand-and-a-half sword, lost when he’d lowered himself over the side of the galley, he had no way of reaching the enemy if he stayed perched on Kara’s back. He scrambled down and aft.

Zhents advanced to meet him. He parried a spear thrust with his iron arm, then snapped his opponent’s neck with a backhand blow to the jaw. By that time, a second soldier was cutting at his kidney. He pivoted, blocked that stroke, shifted in close, and drove his knife between the Zhent’s ribs. The warrior collapsed, and Dorn stooped and appropriated his broadsword.

At which point, the deck jerked, nearly tossing the half-golem off his feet. The boat had leveled off. He didn’t have to glance around to guess why. Kara had returned to human form, probably because she feared that otherwise, her immensity would damage or even sink the craft.

She could still fight with her sorcery, assuming she had any spells left. Yet even so, she was far more vulnerable, and it gave new hope to those Zhents who hadn’t perished or jumped into the sea in dread. Howling battle cries, they charged the bow, and Dorn scurried into their path.

He beheaded one with a rake of his talons and spitted another on the point of his sword. Kara’s vibrant song became a melody that reminded him somehow of a lullaby, and two more Zhents fell unconscious.

Then Dorn found himself face to face with a shaven-headed man in voluminous, sigil-bedizened robes who was surely the magician who’d conjured the arrow of acid. He’d cast at least one more enchantment to prepare for fighting at close quarters. A yard-long length of crimson fire wavered from each of his hands. Though he’d never encountered that particular magic before, Dorn was certain the flames would do at least as much damage as ordinary blades should they strike their target.

He advanced as usual, leading with his metal side. The wizard took a retreat, then instantly sprang forward again with a suddenness that would have done any warrior credit. Perhaps he’d used magic to heighten his agility. The fire-sword in his left hand slashed at Dorn’s eyes.

The hunter jerked up his iron arm just in time to block. Fortunately, the solid metal stopped the seemingly insubstantial flare, even though he didn’t feel the usual shock of impact. He riposted with a sword thrust at the Zhent’s guts.

It should have been a mortal blow, but Dorn’s point glanced aside as if it had struck plate armor. Some protective spell, one that didn’t generate any telltale glimmer of light or swirl of shadow, was evidently to blame. The wizard hacked with the fire-blade in his left hand.

Pain seared Dorn’s ribs, and he leaped backward. His own speed, together with the protection of his brigandine, were all that kept the flame from burning into his vitals. He let his guard drop, trying to look as if the wound had crippled him, and the Zhent took the bait. He rushed in, and the half-golem pounced to meet him. He knocked both fire-swords aside with a sweep of his iron arm, then struck hard with the broadsword.

Dorn penetrated the magician’s invisible armor. The blade bit deep into the Zhent’s neck, and he dropped. The half-golem pivoted in time to see Kara kill another reaver with her own azure darts of light. That appeared to be the last of the Zhents.

“Are you all right?” the song dragon panted.

Dorn was relieved to see that she showed no signs of frenzy.

Teeth gritted against the smoldering pain of his burn, he said, “Near enough. You?”

“The same.”

She bore the ugly mark of the acid at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and tiny cuts dotted the rest of her body. A number of arrows and quarrels littered the deck around her dainty feet. He realized they must be shafts that had stuck in her while she was in dragon shape. Fortunately, they hadn’t driven all the way through her scaly hide, and had fallen out when she’d shifted to human form.

“Some of the Zhents aren’t dead,” she continued. “A couple aren’t even hurt, just sleeping.”

“They can’t go free to tell what happened.”

“I know. It’s just … I’m used to slaying creatures that pose a threat to men, not men themselves. I realize what the Zhents are, what god they worship, what atrocities they commit, but …”

She shrugged.

“I’ve had to kill a lot of people in my time, some when they were already helpless,” said Dorn, seeing no point in mentioning that he didn’t particularly relish it, either. “I’ll do it, and we’ll get the boat turned around.”

He started chucking bodies overboard. One of the sleepers woke in his grip, and he had to stick his claws into the wretch’s heart.