The Captive Flame: Brotherhood of the Griffon • Book 1 Page 11

  The attack rocked the Green Hands backward. Nearly tripping, Medrash staggered over the fallen Balasar, tried to slip past Khouryn, and again discovered he couldn’t advance any farther. He’d hurt the Green Hands, but not enough to make them lose control of the psychic wall they’d created.

  He channeled more power, though it was even harder this time. He fixed his gaze on one of the killers and willed him to climb the stairs and come within reach of his sword.

  The Green Hand took one lurching step. Another. Then, however, he gave a harsh, wordless cry, stopped, and retreated to his original position.

  Blackness swam at the edges of Medrash’s vision. His legs started to give way, and he had to drop his sword and clutch the banister to keep from falling.

  Torm’s glory was limitless, but a mortal’s capacity to draw from it was not. Medrash judged that at best, he could channel power one more time before he collapsed. He groped beyond himself, beyond the physical world into a brighter, purer realm, and the god granted a final gift of strength.

  But how to use it, when his previous expenditures of power had accomplished nothing? He gripped Khouryn’s massive shoulder, which jumped repeatedly as the dwarf coughed, and employed the energy to bless him. To strengthen his body and mind alike.

  Khouryn stumbled down one riser, almost losing his balance in the process. Then he hefted his axe and charged.

  Unfortunately, his lungs were still full of poison, and his continued coughing slowed him and made him clumsy. Though caught by surprise, the Green Hands managed to recoil from his first strikes and ready their short swords.

  But they evidently couldn’t do that and maintain the psychic pressure too. For when Medrash, still gripping the handrail, tried to head down the steps, he found that now he could.

  He reeled toward one of the Green Hands to keep them both from attacking Khouryn. The murderer turned and lunged. The move was all-out aggression. Because after all, why worry about defense when his target was unarmed and all but spastic with pain and weakness? When the coughing would prevent him from even using his breath weapon?

  But at least Medrash wasn’t breathing poison anymore, and he’d spent his whole life training for combat—first with the masters of arms of Clan Daardendrien, then with his paladin mentors. Feeble and awkward though he was, he found the right instant to slip the swordsman’s initial thrust, step beside him, and claw away the side of his throat. Blood sprayed from the severed arteries.

  Medrash turned just in time to see Khouryn chop the remaining Green Hand’s leg out from under him, then cleave his ribs before he hit the floor. Clearly he too could hold his own even in adverse circumstances.

  The dwarf nodded to Medrash, and he returned the gesture. Then a clatter of hurrying feet on the staircase reminded them the fight wasn’t over. Their other enemies were coming down. Evidently the lingering vapor wasn’t toxic to them.

  Worse, after stepping over Balasar, they stopped partway down the steps. Medrash realized that however they’d created the smoke before, they meant to make some more. And he had no idea how he and Khouryn could contend with another dose.

  But Balasar, who’d appeared unconscious—or as good as—raised the sword in his shaking hand and sliced the back of a killer’s leg. The murderer dropped, and his companion turned to look at him in surprise. Balasar thrust the sword up at him. The Green Hand flinched back from it, but in so doing lost his balance and tumbled down the steps.

  With what was surely the last of his strength, Balasar repeatedly stabbed the man he’d hamstrung. Khouryn sucked in a deep breath, made a hiccupping sound as he kept himself from coughing it right out again, and charged back into the fumes—where he smashed the skull of the remaining Green Hand.

  Medrash hoped that by now perhaps he’d taken enough breaths of relatively clean air to do something comparable. He’d better have, for he was sure Balasar couldn’t wait. He ran up the stairs, grabbed his clan brother’s arm—he hadn’t yet regained sufficient strength to lift him—and dragged him down and out of the cloud.

  Then they all flopped down on the floor, coughed, and watched for other threats, although at first it was questionable whether they could do much about any that might appear. Gradually, though, the ache in Medrash’s chest subsided, and his strength started trickling back.

  “You banged my head on every one of those steps,” Balasar wheezed.

  “Sorry,” Medrash said. “Next time I’ll leave you swimming in poison.”

  Three thunderclaps, or something that sounded like them, boomed somewhere overhead.

  “I know that sound,” Khouryn said. “Aoth or Jhesrhi conjured lightning.”

  Medrash looked at the staircase. The cloud was dissipating. “We should find out why. And I think I can cast a blessing to strengthen us so we’re fit to help them if they need it.”

  “Good,” said Khouryn. “Do that. But before we move on …” He rose, reached for the hood on one of the corpses, and hesitated. Medrash peered at the body and realized what about it had surprised him.

  Khouryn pulled off the hood to reveal the dragonborn head underneath. “By the Watchful Eye!” he growled, astonished. He unmasked another Green Hand. That one was a dragonborn as well.

  The dwarf turned to his companions. “What does this mean?”

  Medrash shook his head. “We have no idea. Let’s worry about it after we find our comrades.” He gripped his amulet and recited a prayer.

  An exhilarating coolness tingled through his body and soothed the hot rawness in his throat and chest. He lifted the medallion and it shed a soft white light over his companions. A tautness went out of their faces as the healing eased them too.

  “Thanks,” Khouryn said. “Now let’s go.”

  Medrash retrieved his sword as they prowled up the staircase. At the top was the communal room that likely took up most of the second floor of the human habitation. And it was on fire, albeit burning in the leisurely way of damp, rotten wood. Flames licked across a portion of the floor and up one wall, devouring the designs and symbols painted there. Papers charred in the hearth. Smoke drifted through the hot air, irritating Medrash’s nose and almost making him cough again.

  Aoth, Gaedynn, and Jhesrhi came through a doorway. Each had suffered what looked like blisters and burns, and for some reason each was dripping wet. But none looked seriously hurt.

  Medrash was glad to see them. But the feeling turned to dismay when the humans aimed their weapons and spread out to flank their allies.

  “Move away from them, Khouryn!” rapped Aoth. The head of his spear glowed crimson.

  “It’s all right,” said the dwarf. “We know—the Green Hands are dragonborn. But these two dragonborn aren’t Green Hands. They fought the ones we met downstairs.”

  “You’re sure?” The point of the spear shone brighter, and Medrash could have sworn that the strange blue light in Aoth’s eyes did the same. “It couldn’t have been some sort of trick?”

  “No,” Khouryn said. “They saved my life and came close to dying themselves.”

  Aoth mulled that over for a heartbeat, then gave a nod. “All right. Medrash, Balasar, my apologies. Jhesrhi, can you put out these fires?”

  “Yes.” Her voice rising and falling, the wizard chanted. The quick, soft words resembled the whisper of dancing flames. As she recited the last one, the fires guttered out.

  Arrow still resting on his bow, Gaedynn turned and peered around. “We seem to have cleared the house.”

  “Yes,” Khouryn said. He turned to Aoth. “Dragon, dragonborn … Now we understand your vision.”

  “I suppose,” said Aoth. “Unfortunately, we understand too late to give our friends from Clan Daardendrien advance warning of what’s to come.”

  F

  O

  U

  R

  7–18 TARSAKH

  THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

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

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

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

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

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

  “Thank you,” said Aoth.

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

  “That’s good to know.”

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

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

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

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

  Aoth bowed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Shala gave a brusque little nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “How so?” Shala asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Shala turned to Aoth. “Is it possible?”

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

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

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

  Zan-akar sneered. “Or bury them.”

  Khouryn cleared his throat. “Majesty?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Rise,” Shala said. “What is it?”

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

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

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

  The courtiers babbled.

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

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

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

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

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