Kovor Gemetsk straightened Pavel’s red and yellow vestments, then stepped back to inspect the result. Will hooted.

“It’ll take more than that to make him respectable,” the halfling said. “You’ll have to do something about the slack-jawed look of imbecility.”

The stooped old priest with his bald, spotted pate, Pavel’s mentor from the beginning of his novitiate until the day he departed his temple forever—or so he’d imagined—made a sour face at the gibe. “The truth is, the robes aren’t draping properly.”

“I’m not used to such clothing anymore,” Pavel replied. “But glories of the sunrise, does it matter how I look? I’ve come bringing help in a time of crisis.”

“It always matters what kind of impression a person creates at Court,” said Kovor, “at least if he wants anyone to pay attention to him. Particularly ‘in a time of crisis.’”

Pavel felt his nervous irritability twist into a twinge of shame. He owed his former master far too much to grouse at him.

Kovor’s most recent kindness had been to arrange an audience with the queen for his long-lost protégé, and flying across Damara, even by night, had convinced Pavel just how urgently he needed to speak with her. Fires dotted the ground below as the Vaasan horde plundered, and burned whatever they didn’t covet or couldn’t stuff into their sacks. Cries rose up to grieve him, brutish voices howling with glee and human ones wailing in anguish. It seemed that only Heliogabalus, the royal city itself, remained unscarred by marauders. Maybe that was because a goodly number of troops still garrisoned the capital. Or perhaps the goblins hoped the absent “Zhengyi” would reemerge from the shadows to lead the assault.

The doors leading to the throne room, tall panels of polished green, red-speckled bloodstone that were plainly the product of enchantment, swung open, jarring Pavel from his broodings. A herald thumped the butt of a staff on the floor and announced, “Kovor Gemetsk, Patriarch of the Temple of the Dawn, Pavel Shemov, priest of the Morninglord, and Wilimac Turnstone, hunter.”

The three advanced into a hall spacious enough to hold scores of petitioners. Paladins of the Order of the Golden Cup, armed with halberds and swords, stood guard along the walls. Gonfalons agleam with gems hung from the rafters, but by far the most impressive jewels were the two high-backed thrones, also sculpted from chalcedony, on the dais at the far end of the chamber. The larger of them—the king’s—was vacant. Christine Dragonsbane, his queen, sat in the other. Half a dozen dignitaries clustered around the pedestal to attend her. With one exception, those gentlemen wore trappings indicating that they too were either paladins or clerics sworn to the service of the Crying God, and that was as Pavel expected it to be. Ilmater was Damara’s principal deity. Lathander too received a measure of the people’s devotion, but not nearly as much.

The newcomers bowed, and held that posture until Christine bade them rise.

“Welcome,” said the queen, a comely woman in her middle years with clear blue eyes and plaited auburn hair. With its upturned nose and dusting of freckles, her heart-shaped face seemed made for joy and laughter, but held only care and sorrow. She wore a brooch shaped like an oak leaf that, to Pavel’s knowledgeable eye, revealed her to be an initiate in the druidic mysteries rather than a worshiper of Ilmater. “Master Shemov, Goodman Turnstone, you’re both strangers to this hall. But Kovor vouches for you, and says you have important information to report. If so, then tell me, please.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Pavel said, “and I pray you’ll bear with me if my account seems strange, digressive, or even wholly irrelevant at times. The threat facing Damara is a more complicated matter than you may suppose, and I seek to explain it in such a way as to make it comprehensible.”

Christine sighed. “Time presses, Master Shemov. A hundred matters demand my attention. But give us your tale.”

Employing all his rhetorical skill, Pavel proceeded to offer an abbreviated version of it. He avoided all mention of Brimstone, though. He’d have to speak of the undead dragon soon enough, but he wanted to enlighten his audience as to the basics of what had befallen Damara—and all of Faerûn—first. When he finished, the queen, her officers, and even Kovor, who hadn’t known what his student meant to say, regarded him with manifest astonishment. And skepticism.

“So you claim,” said a white-haired but robust-looking knight, “that it isn’t Zhengyi who led the goblins against us, but another lich impersonating him?”

The speaker bore the emblem of the Golden Cup on his surcoat, and Pavel, who’d been told whom he might expect to find advising the queen, inferred that he was Brellan Starav, commander of the order of holy warriors.

“Yes, Milord,” Pavel said.

“That’s preposterous. Every foe we’ve captured vows that the Witch-King himself oversaw the taking of the Gates.”

“That’s why they call it ‘impersonating,’” said Will. When Brellan shot him a glare, the halfling blandly added, “Milord.”

“It would explain why Zhengyi vanished afterward,” said the one officer not wearing religious regalia, a handsome, foxy-faced man, of mixed human and elf blood by the look of him, with a belt of pouches encircling his narrow waist. It was the sort of garment favored by wizards to hold spell components, or by expert housebreakers like Will to hold the tools of their trade. If the tales were true, that fellow, Celedon Kierney, Damara’s spymaster, was both. “What could the genuine Witch-King possibly have to do more important than completing the reconquest of Damara? But if he isn’t really Zhengyi and his true concerns lie elsewhere … it makes sense.”

“So all the slaughter and destruction across our realm were just a ploy, a single gambit in a greater game a madman is playing with all the dragons in the world?” Brellan shook his head. “That’s … unimaginable.”

“It certainly tweaks our Damaran pride,” Celedon said. “But consider something else. Sergor Marsk and his fellow traitors attained positions close to the king because I put them there, an error for which I will never forgive myself. I had my reasons, though. The dastards enjoyed remarkable success gathering intelligence and conducting strikes against the bandit army. Perhaps they managed that because someone was feeding them information about the brigands. It’s questionable that the real Zhengyi would have so betrayed his allies. But an impostor, who cared nothing about preserving Vaasa’s strength over the long haul, might well have done it.”

“For the moment,” said Drigor Bersk, “let’s imagine this tale is true.” Huge and scar-faced, plainly a warrior by nature if not vocation, the high-ranking cleric gave the lie to the popular notion that all priests of Ilmater were skinny from fasting and mild as milk in their demeanor. “Does it change anything?”

“Believe me, Milord,” Pavel said, “it’s of the utmost practical importance. Thus far, I’ve been vague as to how I know Sammaster usurped the mantle of the Witch-King.”

Celedon smiled and said, “Yes, you have. I intended to get into that.”

Pavel took a deep breath then said, “We—Karasendrieth, her circle, and the folk who’ve pledged to aid them—have an ally I haven’t mentioned yet. Long ago, he was one of Sammaster’s associates, and understands the lich’s mind. He’s a master scrier, and spied on developments in Damara and Vaasa. He is, in fact, a smoke drake and a vampire, who calls himself Brimstone.”

Christine, her officers, and Kovor all gawked at Pavel. Then several of them started to speak at once, but Will raised his voice to cut through the babble.

“Brandobaris’s knife, idiot, you left out the important part! Brimstone may be a vicious, bloodsucking wyrm, but he can wake Dragonsbane!”

“Is this true?” asked the queen.

“He says so, Your Majesty,” Pavel replied, “if certain requirements are met. For starters, it will be necessary to allow him into the presence of the king.”

Brellan peered intently at Pavel, and the hunter realized he was using his paladin powers of discernment.

“You have a taint on you,” said the knight. “I’m surprised that I didn’t smell it before. The question is, does it simply come from consorting with the undead, or does the rot run deeper? Are you merely a dupe, or have you deliberately set your feet on the path of evil?”

“I’m a Damaran,” Pavel said, “who’s willing to get his hands dirty to help his liege lord and preserve his native land from devastation. I’d hoped all of you would feel the same.”

“I might,” said Christine, “if I were certain of this undead wyrm’s intentions. But Gareth slew dragons, and was a tireless destroyer of vampires and their ilk. How can I assume this Brimstone truly means him well?”

“Your Majesty,” Pavel said, “I beg you to believe that I am by no means naturally inclined to credit whatever Brimstone tells me. But it’s plain that for the moment, his intentions are benign.”

“So you say,” Brellan said, “but who are you? A stranger, who forsook his temple and homeland so long ago that only Kovor remembers you. How can we trust you? Besides, if he could give us his counsel, the king would never consent to our trafficking with an undead wyrm, whatever the vampire’s intentions. No paladin of Ilmater would ever make common cause with a creature as foul as any demon, or use unclean means to achieve even the noblest end.”

Celedon frowned. “I’m not quite so certain of that. With respect, Milord, you weren’t with His Majesty in the old days, when we fought to drive out Zhengyi. I was. I recall him turning a blind eye to one or two instances of petty wickedness when it was necessary to strike a blow against the greatest evil we knew.”

“But is it necessary?” asked Drigor. “His Majesty has Master Kulenov and some of the ablest healers in Damara working to lift the curse afflicting him.”

“How’s that going?” asked Will.

Drigor glared at the halfling. “The point,” said the scar-faced man, “is that I see no reason to abandon hope in people we trust and take a chance on an abomination simply because a pair of vagabonds recommends it. Who agrees with me?”

With the exception of Celedon, all his fellow officers clamored in support of their fellow servant of Ilmater.

Christine regarded the folk arrayed before her with troubled eyes. “I mean no disparagement to anyone here when I say I wish Dugald, Kane, and all Gareth’s comrades from the early years were here to advise us. But we’ve had no word of them since the Vaasans swept into the realm, and wishing doesn’t make it otherwise.” She sighed. “Of course, even if they were here, it would still be my decision, wouldn’t it?”

She turned her gaze directly on Pavel and said, “Master Shemov, I can’t look at a person’s spirit as paladins can. My gifts are of another sort. But I take you for a good man and a shrewd one, and it’s certainly true that nothing the mages and physicians have attempted so far has produced the slightest change in my husband’s condition. Accordingly, my counselors and I will meet this Brimstone, and if he passes muster, he may attempt his cure.”

Pavel bowed and said, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“As the queen commands,” said Drigor, “so be it. But Master Shemov, Goodman Turnstone, be advised that if your undead drake attempts any treachery, you too will answer for it. In full measure.”

Kara’s song echoed through the vaults and cellars. As Dorn would have expected, it was beautiful. He doubted the bard could sing a false note if she tried. But it was also chilling, a wild, mad wail of rage and anguish.

Several hours earlier, Sammaster’s dragons had attacked, and pushed the defenders of the monastery deeper into the tunnels. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Despite all the precautions Dorn had taken to keep his spellcasting allies out of harm’s way, Malazan had managed to shred two able priests with her talons and incinerate one of the most powerful magicians with her fiery breath before the monks finally turned their assailants back.

It was a catastrophic loss, and though Dorn knew it had only been a matter of time before the foe achieved such a success, he still couldn’t help feeling that if he weren’t a worthless fool of a freak, he would have found a way to prevent it.

Accordingly, hoping her company would ease his self-reproach, he’d decided to seek out Kara. By so choosing, he’d surprised himself. He’d never been one to reach out to others for solace. He’d always thought it better to hide his hurts behind a scowl, perhaps so other people wouldn’t exploit the vulnerability, or think him any more contemptible than they did already. But today he’d craved whatever comfort the song dragon had to give.

But it sounded as if she needed consolation more urgently than he did. His iron foot clanking on the floor, he raced through the archives until her lament led him into her presence.

Kara had scored her cheeks with her nails, and the tears from her amethyst eyes streamed across the raw red striae. She stood behind a long table covered with musty-smelling books and curling brown sheets of parchment. Motes of dust floated in the air above them.

“What’s wrong?” said Dorn.

Kara ceased her singing to draw a ragged breath. “Why, nothing,” she said in a bright, brittle voice. “I’ve found the lore Sammaster harvested from these libraries.”

Dorn tried to understand. “Then … that’s good, isn’t it?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you, considering how many brave monks died to win me the time to do my studying.”

The hunter felt a surge of impatience. “Just tell me the problem straight out. Can’t you read the cursed things? Is it another cipher?”

“It might as well be,” she said. “The texts constitute a grimoire of sorts, but not in a straightforward sort of way. The authors recorded the spells, rituals, and explication of the underlying thaumaturgical principles in a series of obscure symbolic allegories. It would take months to derive the actual incantations.

“Which, obviously, means the material is worthless,” she continued. “Because we don’t have months. We’ll be lucky to hold out another tenday.”

“Then we need to carry the books out of here,” said Dorn, “and back to Thentia. That’s feasible. The caves are clear.”

She laughed. “Oh, but that’s the heart of the joke.” She pointed to one of the books. “Turn back the cover.”

He hesitated. He wasn’t used to handling books, and they were plainly old and fragile. He took hold of the sheet of flaking leather with the fingers of his human hand and lifted it with care.

But not enough care. The cover crumbled.

“They’re all in the same exquisitely delicate condition,” said Kara. She picked up a parchment and gave it a slight shake. It vanished in a puff of dust. “You would have laughed to see how slowly and cautiously I moved, just to shift them from their shelves to this table. They’d never survive any sort of journey across country, and thus, they’re useless.”

She cocked back her arm to lash the books and papers with the back of her hand.

Dorn lunged, caught her wrist in his iron fist, and wrenched her away from the table.

“Are you mad?” he said.

She laughed. “Of course I am. Frenzy’s eating my mind. If it weren’t, perhaps I would have found the lore sooner, or maybe I could interpret it quicker. But as it stands, Chatulio and all those valiant men have died for nothing, because what’s left of me isn’t clever enough to complete her task. I’ve failed you, my people, the whole world.”

“Enough!” Dorn shouted. “You haven’t failed yet, and you won’t. Just stop the self-pity, buckle down, and solve the puzzle.”

“It’s impossible.”

“I don’t care. Do it. Raryn, the monks, and I will buy you all the time we can. We’ll die to the last man if that’s what it takes. You just hold up your end of the bargain.” He tried to soften his tone. “I know you can. You can do anything you set your mind to. You’re the wisest, cleverest person I’ve ever met. Every day, I marvel at the things you know and understand.”

She sighed and said, “All right, my love. I’ll try.”

It had proved more expedient to carry Dragonsbane out into the benighted, torchlit courtyard than to accommodate a creature as huge as Brimstone inside the castle. Looking as if he were merely sleeping, the king lay bundled up in blankets on a couch with a goodly number of his retainers clustered protectively around him. All who were knights or men-at-arms stood fully equipped for battle. Pavel, who himself wore a new brigandine and carried a new buckler courtesy of the royal armory, had explained that some of his companions would require their weapons, but knew they would have brought them in any case, for fear of the vampiric dragon.

Seated on a sort of portable outdoor throne, Christine nodded to one of the paladins, who, his face a rigid mask of barely contained loathing, presented a rag doll for Brimstone’s inspection. Standing between the smoke drake and Will, Pavel saw from the puppet’s crown and beard that it was meant to represent the king.

“Yes,” said Brimstone in his sibilant whisper of a voice, “I was correct.” He loomed over the rest of the company like a child among his toys. “Sammaster and his lieutenants use fetishes like these to sunder a victim’s body and soul and imprison the latter on the Plane of Shadow.”

Pudgy Mor Kulenov regarded the dragon with skeptical eyes. “That seems an excessively elaborate way of eliminating an enemy,” the wizard said. “Why not just kill him?”

“Some men, indeed, most paladins, are resistant to death magic,” Brimstone said. His crimson eyes glowed a little brighter, and his breath stank more strongly of burning, at the wizard’s expression of mistrust. “But few folk can withstand this curse.”

“Besides,” said Celedon Kierney, who wore a short sword and light leather armor in addition to his belt of pouches, “if the Cult of the Dragon had murdered the king, we could have crowned someone else, who might just conceivably have rallied the barons to his banner. By simply crippling His Majesty, the traitors made certain the realm would remain in disarray.”

“At this point,” said the queen, “it doesn’t matter why our enemy chose this particular weapon. What’s important is whether we can heal the wound it inflicted.”

“I believe so,” Brimstone said. “Now that you’ve admitted me to your husband’s presence, I can use that proximity, along with the doll, to transport several companions and myself into the dark world. We should arrive close to the place where his spirit is imprisoned. But it won’t be easy to liberate him. We’ll have to contend with the guards.”

“What sort of guards?” asked Drigor Bersk. The brawny, scar-faced priest wore a full suit of plate and carried a long-handled warhammer in his fist.

“Dragons indigenous to Shadow,” Brimstone said. “Sammaster has a pact with them.”

“So,” said Brellan Starav, also wearing plate and bearing a tall rectangular shield emblazoned with the sign of the golden cup, “you want to lead a company of the most able captains Damara has left into the netherworld, there to risk their lives fighting wyrms. Vampire, if this is a trick….”

“I know,” Brimstone snapped, his red eyes flaring, “I’ll regret it. How much time do you posturing fools intend to waste, delivering the same threat over and over?”

“Brandobaris knows,” drawled Will, “it’s starting to bore me too.”

Will had likewise reequipped himself. The armorer had even found him a fresh supply of skiprocks.

“We’re going to do as Brimstone recommends,” said Christine, “for I believe his plan represents our only real hope. Sir Dragon, how many comrades can accompany you on the journey?”

“A dozen,” Brimstone said, “two of whom will be Master Shemov and Goodman Turnstone.”

Celedon frowned. “You have the flower of Damaran chivalry arrayed before you.”

“I have two experienced dragon killers standing beside me,” Brimstone retorted. “They’re going. It only remains to choose the rest.”

“I’ll send no man unless he’s truly willing,” said Christine, “not on a venture as perilous as this.” She surveyed the assembly. “Who—”

As one, the king’s men stepped forward, bring a momentary smile to the queen’s pretty but careworn face.

“Thank you, gentlemen” she said. “Now I must select.”

“Your Majesty,” said Celedon, “I insist on going. First, because I’m one of Gareth’s oldest comrades. Second, because it’s my fault the dragon cultists got close enough to the king to harm him.”

“I’m to blame as well,” said Mor Kulenov. “The traitors were magicians under my command. I should have realized what they were doing. I too plead for the opportunity to atone.”

“I don’t have the same reason to offer,” said Drigor, “but send me, also, Your Majesty. You know I’ll pull my weight.”

“Yes,” said the queen. “I choose the three of you.”

“And me, surely,” Brellan said.

“No, Milord,” Christine said, “I’m sorry.” He stared at her in amazement bordering on outrage. “But you said it yourself. We gamble the lives of Damara’s best. I’m not prepared to risk all of you. Someone must remain to advise me and command our army if the worst befalls.”

Brellan bowed stiffly. “As Your Majesty commands.”

Christine selected six more champions, paladins mostly. Then a lanky youth with a pox-scarred face, perhaps the least impressive-looking of all the men-at-arms gathered there under Selûne’s silvery gaze, could contain himself no longer.

“Please, Your Majesty,” he cried. “I beg you, give me the last place.”

Celedon regarded the young man with a sympathetic expression, then said, “Your eagerness does you credit, Sir Igan. But you only won your spurs a few tendays back. Every other warrior here has more experience than you.”

“Pardon my frankness, Milord,” Igan snapped, “but if you and Master Kulenov are going because you failed the king, then surely I can request the same privilege based on the fact that I saved him.”

Celedon looked momentarily taken aback, then smiled at the young knight’s show of spirit.

“You did save him,” said Christine, “and perhaps you’ll be lucky for him a second time.” She turned to Brimstone. “You have your dozen.”

“Good,” said the dragon. “All of you, stand in front of me.” The twelve obeyed. “First, I’m going to cast an enchantment that will enable you to see in the absence of light. It’s dark in Shadow, and if you carry torches or lanterns, Sammaster’s allies will notice, as will every other predatory creature for miles in every direction.”

He rattled off an incantation in the Draconic tongue.

Magic crackled through the air, and for an instant, Pavel’s eyes stung. But when he blinked his tears away, he could see across the courtyard almost as clearly as if it were day, though the night still dulled most colors to gray.

“Now,” said Brimstone, “we’re ready to depart.”

The second whispered incantation took considerably longer, and the words of power made Pavel’s skin crawl, even though, for the most part, he couldn’t understand them. Gradually, the shadows within the high walls deepened. Then they lengthened and shifted from side to side. On the final phrase, they reared up from the ground and raced toward the would-be rescuers like gigantic waves converging on a ship at sea from every direction at once.

Pavel stiffened, his body anticipating the shock of impact, but he felt nothing at all when the blackness swept over him. When the shadows collided, they instantly disappeared, and he could see that the courtyard and castle were gone as well.

He and his companions stood beneath a black sky devoid of stars or moon. A seemingly lifeless wasteland, the arid ground all sand and gravel, lay around them. Towering masses of rock jutted from the earth, making it impossible to see very far in any direction, and transforming the desert into a maze. The air was chilly. All colors withered to blacks and grays, and in many instances, what had appeared light in the mortal world had gone dark, and vice versa. Will’s face was sooty, while his lovelocks were the color of bone.

“I can’t see as well as I could before,” the halfling said.

“Because, it isn’t just dark, simpleton,” Pavel said. “We’re immersed in the essence of darkness, the very idea of it. Brimstone’s enchantment can’t wholly compensate for that.”

Will snorted. “I should have known it would take more than a trip to another world to stop a charlatan spouting gibberish.”

Celedon looked up at Brimstone, whose charcoal-colored scales looked bleached and leprous in that strange place.

“What now?” the spymaster asked.

Brimstone still had the rag doll. The talisman looked tiny in his claws. He stared intently at it for a few heartbeats, then said, “Your king is this way.” He indicated the proper direction with a thrust of his wedge-shaped head.

“If you were to fly above these pillars of stone,” Celedon said, “you might see exactly where he is.”

“I might also attract attention,” Brimstone said, “even cloaked in the subtlest obscurement any of us can cast. I prefer to stay on the ground for now.”

“If we’re going to march,” said Will, “I’ll scout ahead.”

“I’m a fair hand at sneaking about,” Celedon said.

“But as Brimstone said, I stalk dragons for my living while you’re the king’s officer, too important to do the most dangerous job when someone else can manage.”

“He’s right,” Drigor said.

Celedon pulled a wry face. “Nobody ever lets me have any fun anymore. But very well. Thank you, Goodman Turnstone.”

Will grinned and said, “When we get back, thank me with a wagonload of those bloodstones you folk are so fond of. For now, just give me a couple minutes’ head start.”

He skulked away, his boots silent on the sand and pebbles, and melted into the gloom.

While the rest of them waited, Drigor cast a blessing on the company that washed the anxiety from Pavel’s mind and left a cool, confident alertness in its place, even as it sent a surge of vitality tingling through his muscles. Some of the paladins prayed, enhancing their own personal capabilities, and Mor Kulenov presumably did the same with a spell that made his robes and staff shimmer. For some reason, the glow lingered for an extra moment in his tuft of beard. Brimstone bared his fangs at the display of light.

Then they set forth after Will. Except for the noises they couldn’t help making themselves—the clink of plate and mail, the creak of leather, whispered consultations—the dark world was silent. Sometimes Pavel thought he glimpsed something stirring from the corner of his eye, but when he turned and peered directly at it, the flicker of motion disappeared.

Then, abruptly, the instincts he’d developed during his years as a hunter whispered that something was wrong. And when Will came scurrying back a moment later, he was certain he was correct.

“What is it?” Brimstone whispered.

“Dragons,” said Will. “Two of them, moving in on you. They didn’t see me, though, so they won’t realize we’re expecting them.”

“At least one will try to attack from above,” Brimstone said. “Perhaps I can intercept him, and take him by surprise.” He rattled off a spell and faded from view. An instant later, the snap of his wings and the gust of air they displaced revealed that he’d taken flight.

Pavel turned to the king’s men. “Don’t bunch up,” he told them. “Strike at a drake when it’s turned away from you, and get away when it pivots in your direction. Remember, though, that no matter where you’re standing, the creature’s dangerous. It can shatter your bones with a flick of its tail or a beat of its wing. It can blast you with its breath or a spell from yards away.”

“Good advice,” said Drigor. “Now, stand in a circle. We want to make sure the creatures can’t creep up on us.”

Pavel peered into the darkness, searching, until a hiss from overhead distracted him. He looked up, at a triangle of dragon breath livid against the featureless black sky. At the wide end, a vague bat-winged shape screeched and floundered in flight as the plume of hot smoke and embers washed over it. At the narrow point of origin, a second such form, rather more distinct, burst into view. The act of attacking had breached Brimstone’s cloak of invisibility.

The vampire started snarling an incantation. His opponent beat its wings, hurtled at Brimstone, but missed, as if the smoke drake’s breath had blinded it.

Pavel realized that if one shadow dragon had been on the verge of attacking, the other probably was, too, for surely they intended to make a coordinated assault. He hastily returned his attention to the ground.

Even so, he almost missed seeing the wyrm, its head raised and its throat swelling to discharge its breath weapon. Though huge, the shadow dragon had a mistiness to it, almost a translucency, that rendered it virtually invisible in the gloom.

“It’s there!” Pavel shouted, pointing with his mace. “Look out!”

He and his comrades flung themselves to the sides. Still, when the wyrm spewed its horrifying breath, the expanding, billowing streak of shadow caught Mor Kulenov and five knights inside it. The magician screamed and fell to the ground. The warriors staggered.

With appalling speed, the dragon charged the men it had afflicted. It plainly intended to slaughter any survivors before they could shake off the effect of its breath, and no one was in position to block its path.

But Will whirled his sling, and despite his target’s ghostly indistinctness, the skiprock evidently hit a sensitive spot, because the shadow dragon balked. That gave Pavel time to conjure a flying luminous mace into existence to pound at the reptile’s head. Lashing his hands through the proper figure, Celedon engulfed the creature in an explosion of fire.

Afterward, Pavel couldn’t tell how badly they’d hurt it. Its murky vagueness made that as difficult as aiming an attack at it. But it must not have liked the punishment, for instead of rushing on forward and so inviting more harassment, it stood still.

Pavel realized it was casting a spell, or invoking some innate power. He prayed that a blow from his conjured mace would break its concentration, but on its next swing, the floating weapon missed the reptile in its mantle of gloom. Will fared better. Pavel heard the skiprock whack against the dragon’s hide. But by itself, the impact likely wouldn’t suffice to stop the wyrm from doing as it intended.

The ambient darkness both deepened and seemed to fray into tatters, which spun around the battlefield as if caught up in a whirlwind. It had been difficult enough to see before. But Pavel, all but blind, felt a queasy upswelling of vertigo as well.

As he tried to deny the dizziness, the shadow drake hissed an incantation. Cramps jabbed through his muscles and guts and made him stagger. He silently called to Lathander, and the sickness passed, but then he felt blood on his face. The magic had done more than make him momentarily ill. It had clawed at him as well.

Elsewhere in the whirling, leaping darkness, barely visible, men kneeled or lay retching on the ground. They had yet to shake off the sensation of sickness, and thus, for the moment, they were helpless.

The shadow dragon charged.

Celedon met it with a crackling flare of lightning. Brandishing his warhammer, Drigor called to the Crying God and produced a barrier composed of floating, spinning blades. The wyrm plunged right through it. As before, the chaotic darkness and the reptile’s blurred, inconstant form kept Pavel from discerning whether the magic was truly doing it any harm. At any rate, the spells didn’t stop it, and an instant later, it sprang close enough to strike with fang and claw.

Pavel swung his mace at its ribs. He was certain he’d score on it, but the gloom deceived him, and he was actually out of range. The dragon turned, and he jumped backward, barely evading a rake of its talons.

He kept retreating and circling, avoiding the head and forefeet, until the wyrm pivoted to attack another foe. Then he charged, struck, hit—and the dragon vanished. He realized he’d attacked an illusion. The reptile had conjured phantasmal images of itself, creating another layer of defense to bewilder its foes.

An instant later, its dark breath washed over him, and the strength drained out of his limbs. His legs buckled, dumping him on the ground. He wasn’t in pain, precisely, but felt a sickening sense of violation, as if a portion of his very life had been ripped away.

The shadow dragon raced at him and all the other foes it had just afflicted. Its phantom duplicates lunged along beside it. Pavel tried to scramble back onto his feet, but saw that he wouldn’t make it in time.

Drigor and Igan rushed in on the wyrm’s flank. The priest’s hammer stroke simply eradicated another image, but the young knight’s sword appeared to cut deep into the true drake’s scaly hide. Will tumbled underneath the wyrm’s belly and drove the hornblade in. The wraithlike reptile struck, clawed, and stamped at its assailants.

Shaken though he was, Pavel had to aid his comrades. He heaved himself to his feet, gripped his sun amulet to commence an attack spell, then realized the invocation wasn’t in his memory anymore. In addition to whatever other harm it had done, the wyrm’s breath had burned away a portion of his mystical abilities.

Silently praying to the Morninglord, he charged. Swung his mace, and missed. Somewhere in the wheeling, fragmented darkness, Celedon shouted a rhyme. Darts of light streaked through the gloom, diverging in flight to strike every possible target. All the dragon’s false images burst at once.

Heartened, Pavel struck and missed again. The shadow wyrm whirled, and he flung himself flat to keep its tail from pulping his skull, then instantly had to roll to keep it from trampling him. Its stamping feet jolted the earth.

Had the creature slowed down at all? It didn’t appear so, and Pavel struggled to quell a surge of fear. He lurched to his feet and attempted another prayer.

Thanks be to Lathander, the incantation was still in his head. Warmth glowed through him, calming his mind and cleansing pain and fatigue from his body. He saw the spectral dragon more clearly. Its form didn’t shift and waver as much as before.

He rushed it, struck, and connected, the mace crunching into its scales. Igan sliced its neck, and blood jetted. Underneath the drake, Will cut another gash. The reptile lurched down to crush him, but he rolled clear before its ventral surface slammed against the ground.

The dragon tried to rise again, but floundered. Igan hacked into its neck. It screamed and convulsed, nearly rolling on top of Pavel before he leaped backward, then it lay still.

Pavel had the same reaction he often felt at such a moment, a numbed inability to believe the seemingly unstoppable creature had finally succumbed to its wounds. He was still trying to credit it when someone bellowed a warning.

The other half of the battle still raged high in the air. He looked up to see a serpentine shape with a tattered, crippled wing plummeting straight at him and Will. It looked solid, not shadowy, which meant it was Brimstone, not his foe.

Will dived. With his extraordinary agility, perhaps he’d make it out from under. Pavel recognized he had no chance of doing the same.

The falling Brimstone eclipsed the dead black sky. Then, just before he hit the ground, his body dissolved into smoke, a sulfurous mist suffused with stinging embers that shrouded the man he would otherwise have crushed.

Brimstone’s transformation revealed the other shadow dragon, swooping after him like a falcon attacking a pigeon. When the vampire turned to vapor, his assailant immediately turned its attention to the folk on the ground. Its throat swelled as it prepared to spit a spray of poisonous, devastating shadow.

A prone man heaved himself to his knees. Without bothering to rise any farther, plump Master Kulenov, evidently at least partially recovered from his immersion in dragon breath, jabbered an incantation. On the final word, he whipped a quirt, evidently one of the spell foci he carried concealed in his voluminous robes, through the air.

The shadow wyrm screeched, and its wings flailed out of time with one another. Flying clumsily, it leveled out of its dive, wheeled, and veered off. To Pavel’s eyes, it seemed dazed, but only for a moment. Then it oriented on Kulenov, and hurtled at the wizard. Kulenov’s nerve broke. He wailed and turned to run.

At the same instant, the cloud that was Brimstone drew in on itself and coalesced into solidity. The smoke drake’s wing was still torn, but not as badly as before. He flexed his legs, then beat his pinions as he sprang into the air.

The shadow wyrm was swooping low, and all its attention was on Kulenov. Otherwise, Brimstone, with his mangled wing, probably couldn’t have intercepted it. But he did, and plunged his fangs and talons into his adversary’s body.

Tangled together, unable to fly, they crashed to earth and rolled over and over. Until Brimstone caught the shadow dragon’s throat in his jaws.

The shadow wyrm thrashed madly for a few seconds, nearly shaking the vampire loose, but then its struggles subsided. Even after it stopped moving, Brimstone clung to it, slurping and guzzling its blood. The stolen vitality knit together the lacerations in his wing and closed his other wounds.

Relieved and repulsed in equal measure, Pavel turned his attention to the rest of the company, and winced at what he found. Five of his comrades were manifestly dead, and four more, wounded. Intent on aiding one of the injured, he took a step forward, but weakness abruptly overwhelmed him. He swayed and would have fallen if Drigor hadn’t caught hold of his arm.

“You took a full dose of shadow dragon breath, didn’t you?” said the burly priest of Ilmater.

“Yes,” Pavel gasped.

“Once we get back to the palace,” Drigor said, “I can restore you. Just hang on till then.” He turned to his other surviving comrades. “Whatever cures or other magic you want to cast, do it fast. We need to get out of here.”

Eyes gleaming, Brimstone lifted his gory mask away from his prey and rumbled, “You’re right. The battle raised too much commotion. Other shadow wyrms are surely coming.”

In another minute, they were on the march, scurrying through the columns of stone. For Pavel, the frantic scramble was a brutal test of endurance. He panted, his head swam, and the eternal night of the Shadow Deep seemed even darker than before.

At the head of the column, Celedon said, “Can’t we go any faster?”

“No,” Brimstone growled. “It takes me time to choose the correct path.” They rounded another outcropping. “But behold!”

Squinting, Pavel could just make out a relatively low hump of rock with a ring of standing stones at the top. At the center of the circle was the rarest of all phenomena in that universe of gloom, a point of pale phosphorescence.

“This is the place,” said Brimstone. “Come on.”

Pavel felt as if it required the very last of his stamina to clamber up the rise. Climbing beside him, Will eyed him with concern.

“Are you going to make it?” the halfling asked.

Pavel nodded. He supposed that to truly reassure Will, he should have responded with an insult, but he couldn’t spare the breath.

The light they’d spotted from below floated at the center of the ring of menhirs. It was Dragonsbane’s spirit, gleaming, semitransparent, and motionless, seemingly in a deep slumber like his physical body back in the mortal realm. Pavel knew that by rights, the soul of a great paladin ought to shine more brightly. But an egg-shaped weave of crisscrossed shadows surrounded the king’s essence, trapping and dimming the radiance.

Igan scowled and reached for the black web as if he thought to break it apart by strength alone.

“Don’t touch that,” Brimstone snapped, “unless you want to rot your arm off. I’ll open it.”

The dragon hissed words of power. Magic whined through the air, and made fresh blood trickle from the nicks on Pavel’s face. The dark prison faded for a moment, then clotted back to its former condition.

“I thought you knew how to do this,” said Will.

“I do,” Brimstone snarled.

He recited the incantation a second time, but achieved no more than before.

“I can break it,” said Mor Kulenov.

Staff held high, he declaimed a counterspell. A screech of wind lashed everyone’s clothes. The mound shuddered and groaned. Yet the black mesh held.

Will studied the sky.

“More dragons,” he said, “coming fast.”

He extracted a skiprock from his belt pouch. Celedon rounded on Brimstone.

“It’s now or never,” the spymaster said.

“My spell should work,” the vampire said. “But if Sammaster himself enchanted the fetish …”

“Light,” Pavel croaked. “Light drives out dark. Somebody conjure a flash at the same time Brimstone works his spell.”

“I’ll try it,” Drigor said, and produced a flare so bright it made Pavel squinch his eyes shut. Still, the shadow prison remained.

“The wyrms are just about close enough to start throwing their own charms,” Will reported. “I’ll wager those will work.”

“We’ll attempt it again,” said Pavel, raising his sun symbol, “only this time, I’ll summon the light.”

Drigor shook his head. “My friend, you’re sorely wounded, and I’ve advanced farther in the mysteries than you. If it didn’t work when I—”

“Your light,” Pavel snapped, “isn’t Lathander’s light.” He glared at Brimstone. “Your incantation is longer than mine. You begin.”

The dragon snarled words of power. Pavel tried to judge when to chime in with the opening of his prayer. It was more difficult than it should have been. He felt so weak and muddled.

Yet he and Brimstone finished at precisely the same instant, and a ray of red-gold light blazed from his amulet to strike the web of shadows. Striking in concert with the force of the vampire’s spell, it seared away the strands of darkness. The radiance of Dragonsbane’s spirit shined forth in all its glory, and the translucent figure vanished.

“Can we go home, too?” called Will. “Preferably soon?”

Brimstone began a new spell. Half a dozen dragons dived and spewed shadow from their gaping jaws.

But it never reached their targets. The dark world spun, dropped away, and Pavel and his companions stood in the torchlit courtyard once more. Christine and her retainers exclaimed at their sudden reappearance.

Pavel turned toward the couch and its occupant. Whereupon anguish and frustration stabbed him to the heart, for the king looked exactly the same as before.

But then Dragonsbane’s eyes flew open, and he bolted upright.

“Lances—!” he rasped, then peered about in confusion.

Celedon murmured an incantation and flicked one hand through a cabalistic pass. A large, luminous, three-dimensional map of Damara and the surrounding territories shimmered into existence to float three feet above the ground. Small, stationary images of goblins, giants, mounted knights, spearmen, and archers stood about the landscape like tokens on a game board.

“Our intelligence concerning the enemy’s whereabouts is incomplete,” the thin, sly-faced spymaster said. “But as you can see, the scouts report that the Vaasan horde has dispersed to plunder. Still, the majority remain in the duchies of Brandiar and Carmathan, all within a few days’ march of one another. They’d have little difficulty recombining into a single force, and I believe they’ll soon do precisely that, to assault Heliogabalus.”

Still slightly ill from his exposure to dragon breath, but vastly improved thanks to Drigor’s ministrations, Pavel shuffled and craned with the foremost captains and royal officers in Damara for a clearer look at the map. It had surprised him when he, Will, and Brimstone received a summons to the council of war, especially since the vampiric drake’s participation required another open-air palaver in the benighted courtyard. But evidently the king felt they’d played such a significant role in his rescue that it was their due.

Like Pavel, Dragonsbane was still trying to shake off the lingering effects of an ordeal. The magic of the priests of Ilmater had kept the monarch’s body alive in his soul’s absence, but couldn’t entirely compensate for the lack of water, food, and exercise. As a result, Dragonsbane stood leaning on a gold-headed cane. Pavel prayed that the king’s strength would return quickly. The gods knew, the man was going to need it.

As he studied the map, Dragonsbane’s face was tight and grim.

“So much devastation,” he said, “and the representation doesn’t even show the damage to the fields and crops.”

“I’ve conferred with the elder druids,” said Queen Christine. “They say it’s not to late to insure a reasonable harvest, one large enough to stave off famine in the months ahead. They’ll petition the earth and weather to yield all the bounty they can. But the farmers must return to their labors soon.”

“Which requires chasing the goblins out of the barley,” said Will, standing on tiptoe to see over the top of the map.

Dragonsbane smiled for just an instant. “That it does, Goodman Turnstone, that it does.”

“It’s obvious we have no choice but to fight,” said Brellan Starav. “But we need to lay our plans in the knowledge that the Vaasans have us greatly outnumbered.”

“We’ll send forth riders tonight,” said Dragonsbane, “to every noble hiding on his estate with a company of guards. With luck, some of them will reach the royal army in time to make themselves useful.”

“With respect, Your Majesty,” Drigor said, “we told people right along that you weren’t dead. Nobody believed our reassurances.”

“Because folk assumed that if I truly was alive, I’d get up off my arse and drive out the invaders,” the blond-bearded monarch said. “Now, the heralds can proclaim that the king is riding to war. Maybe that will make a difference.”

“You realize,” Celedon said, “the goblins and giants will learn of it as well.”

“Good. We don’t have time to defeat a hundred raiding parties one by one. We need our foes to merge into a single army, which we can then smash at one go. Demoralized, any survivors will run back to Vaasa, or at least the protection of the Gates.”

Drigor grinned a grin that made his harsh, scarred features even more forbidding. “A nice trick if we can manage it.”

“Trickery,” said Dragonsbane, “is what I have in mind. Even a proper army will often disintegrate in fear and confusion if attacked unexpectedly on the flank, or better still, the rear, and goblins, though fierce under the right circumstances, aren’t disciplined troops. So here’s what I propose. We’ll split our force in two. One half, with me at its head, will proceed across country with no attempt at stealth. With some maneuvering, it can probably arrange to engage the enemy around here—” he pointed with the ferule of his cane—“to the west of these hills.”

Brellan, nodding, said, “I understand. The second half of the army sneaks north and hides behind the rise. Once the battle begins, and Your Majesty’s command fixes the Vaasans in place, the rest of Damara’s protectors take the creatures from behind. We crush them with a convergent attack.”

“Maybe,” said Will.

The commander of the Paladins of the Golden Cup scowled down at the halfling. “Do you see a problem with His Majesty’s strategy?”

Will shrugged. “I’m no knight, just a hunter, but I’ve had a few brushes with goblin kin out in the wild. They may not be ‘disciplined troops,’ but they’re not idiots, either. They know how to look after themselves in hostile country. They’re liable to send scouts into those hills, spot the second force, and spoil your big surprise.”

Brellan stood silent for a moment, pondering, then said, “Curse it, you’re right.”

“Then how about this?” said Dragonsbane. “My company will engage the enemy farther north, then flee the field with the Vaasans in hot pursuit until we reach the final battleground. That will deny them the opportunity to investigate what waits behind the hills. Does that meet with your approval, Goodman Turnstone?”

“I’m not sure it meets with mine,” Celedon said. “You’ve more than once observed that retreating in good order while under attack is one of the most difficult tasks any force can undertake. If the goblins’ harassment renders you incapable of standing and fighting a second time when you reach the right patch of ground, your strategy fails.”

“It’s a chancy plan in a number of ways,” Dragonsbane admitted, “but also the best I can devise. If anyone has a better one, by all means, let’s hear it.”

The company stood silent for a moment.

Celedon grinned and said, “I guess that’s it, then. We’ll just have to hope for the favor of Lady Luck.”

Brimstone arched his serpentine neck, bending his crimson-eyed mask closer to the king.

“I can’t improve on your scheme,” the smoke drake whispered, “but I can suggest an embellishment.”

Dragonsbane surely loathed vampires as profoundly as the other paladins and priests in the assembly, but unlike them, he didn’t allow even a hint of that revulsion to show in his expression.

“Please,” he said, “tell us.”

Weary as she was, Kara no longer trusted herself to handle the ancient documents with the delicacy required. Fortunately, the mindless, shapeless, invisible helper she’d conjured was immune to fatigue. She willed it to turn the page, and the brown, brittle leaf slowly shifted without crumbling.

Eyes aching, squinting at the crabbed, faded characters that kept trying to blur, she read to the end of a nonsensical tale in stumbling iambic heptameter. At the conclusion, the butterfly knight flew into a misty field of marigolds and emerged transformed into a kestrel.

By all the notes ever sung, what was it supposed to signify? Had the knight, by changing from insect to bird, become a higher form of life? Or, by becoming a predator, had he lost his innocence? And in any case, what agency produced the metamorphosis?

It was hopeless. Kara didn’t understand and she never would. She felt another urge to smash the mocking, worthless books to dust, and this time, Dorn wasn’t there to stop her.

But the thought of him was.

He believed she could solve the puzzle, and even with the Rage gnawing at her mind, she couldn’t betray his faith in her. She drew a ragged breath, calming herself, and returned to her labors.

Hours passed, somehow seeming both to drag on interminably and to hurtle by. Her phantom servant ceased to be, and she invoked another. A neophyte brought her a tray of bread and beans. She tried to eat, but a single taste made her stomach churn, and she set the rest out of the way on the floor.

And through it all, she accomplished nothing, until at last, she pushed back from the table and closed her eyes. She needed a different approach, but what could that possibly be? Reading was reading, wasn’t it?

Well, perhaps not. She was studying the allegories as a human scholar might, pondering every image, symbol, and apparently meaningless incident as she read. But she wasn’t a human scholar. She was a song dragon, and both story and magic were a part of her very essence, forces she supposedly comprehended instinctively.

She resolved to try experiencing the ancient writings as she’d experience any poem or tale. She’d stop agonizing over every nuance and see how the material made her feel.

Much of it didn’t make her feel anything. The stories were simply too disjointed and obscure. But as she once again worked her way through the feckless wanderings of the butterfly knight, something occurred to her.

The marigolds represented fire. Their yellow was the brightness of flame, and the fog swirling around them was actually smoke.

Fire could purify. By turning an aimlessly flitting butterfly into a sharp-eyed hawk, flying purposively forth in search of prey, had it cured the character of folly? Perhaps even of madness? Was that what the poet was implying?

If he was, then other elements of the tale, and even the surrounding material, must relate to the idea of fire, physical or metaphysical, actual or notional, in a way that made sense according to the principles of magic. She read on, and though much of the texts remained entirely cryptic, nonetheless, fragmentary patterns began to emerge. Until, her heart pounding with excitement, she started to see how one might construct a spell. She dipped a quill in the inkwell and scribbled furiously on the fresh parchments the monks had provided for her use.

At last she completed a deceptively brief and simple-looking incantation. She regarded the lines with a fierce satisfaction that immediately withered into doubt.

Because she didn’t actually know that she’d truly fathomed any part of the arcane writings. Perhaps her interpretation was completely false, the product of frenzy, exhaustion, and wishful thinking. Even if she had gotten part or all of it right, the majority of the information in the grimoires, all the fine and subtle points, remained impenetrable. How, then, could she possibly imagine that she’d successfully moved from a set of half-comprehended mystical relationships to the exquisitely balanced and nuanced artifact that was a functional spell?

She scowled at her misgivings. The magic would work because it had to. Because she had no time to study and tinker endlessly to refine it.

In any case, she didn’t need to sit and wonder if she’d succeeded. It was an easy thing to test.

She rose and sang the words she’d written. As she reached the final notes, she couldn’t help but tense. The spell was meant to draw a sort of cauterizing blaze into her mind, no less dangerous for being psychic and spiritual instead of corporeal. If she’d botched her work, the flame might sear what remained of her sanity and even her very soul away. Even if she’d gotten it right, she feared the magic’s touch would be excruciating.

It wasn’t, though. All she felt was a fleeting lightness, as if the spell had lifted a weight from her being.

Will and Pavel rounded a corner, and the priest stared in surprise at the old clapboard building across the street. He’d expected to find it ablaze with light and raucous with music and laughter. But except for the gleam of a candle behind a window or two, it was dark, and entirely quiet. The painted sign above the door was gone, and by the looks of it, someone had remodeled the stable to serve some other function.

“Oh, slop and dung,” said Will. “I know you’re hopeless in the wild, but I didn’t think even you could get lost in the same town where you grew up.”

“This was it,” Pavel insisted, and he was sure of it. In days gone by, the building had been the Boot and Whistle, the tavern where he’d learned to drink, play cards, and chase women, as much a part of his youth as the cloisters and archives of the Temple of the Dawn. But it appeared someone had turned the place into a cheap boarding house. Pavel had scarcely thought of the establishment during the years he’d been away, but nonetheless felt a pang of sadness to find it gone.

“Oh, well,” said Will, “it’s a pleasant enough night, and it shouldn’t be that difficult to find a mug of beer. Let’s walk on.”

The council of war had dragged on for some time after everyone ran out of worthwhile things to say. At the end of it all, Will and Pavel had discovered a common urge to escape the company of lords and royalty for a little while. Accordingly, they’d slipped away from Dragonsbane’s citadel to visit the commoner precincts of Heliogabalus.

Pavel found he quite enjoyed the stroll. He liked hearing the accents and idioms of Damaran speech, observing the intricately carved gingerbread under the eaves of the Damaran houses, and catching the hearty aromas of Damaran cooking. They didn’t make him regret the wanderer’s life he’d chosen. That fed a part of his soul he could nourish in no other way. But even so, he realized a part of him had missed them.

“We helped Brimstone rescue the king,” he said after a while. “We could head back to Thentia now, and perhaps we should.”

“But you don’t want to,” said Will.

“No. Damara’s my homeland and the outcome here is still in doubt. You could say it’s up to Dragonsbane and his knights now, we have little more to contribute….”

“Speak for yourself,” said Will. “The king’s going to need scouts and skirmishers, folk with our—say rather, my—talents to make his plan work.”

“So you don’t mind lingering?”

“Not if they’ll pay me what I’m worth.”

“That could be a problem,” Pavel said with a smile. “I don’t think Damara mints coins in such small denominations.”