The Captive Flame: Brotherhood of the Griffon • Book 1 Page 4

  “Of course,” sneered the windsoul. “How could you be, when our peoples bear such love for each other?”

  “We don’t love you,” said the paladin, “but when have we ever fought you except in an honorable fashion? You have less scrupulous foes. Look to them if you want to punish the guilty.”

  “Rot your lying tongue!” snarled a firesoul, his skin red-bronze and its web of lines a lambent orange. Tiny flames danced along the ones on his face and scalp. “One child saw your raiders and lived to tell the tale!”

  “I say you’re the liar,” said the smaller dragonborn. He tried again to rise, but his friend still held him in place. Unfortunately, no one was holding the Akanûlans, and they reached for the hilts of their daggers and swords.

  “Don’t!” snapped the paladin, and the genasi faltered. Jhesrhi perceived that the russet-scaled dragonborn had infused his voice with a preternatural eloquence. “Whoever’s right, we’re in Chessenta, a valued ally to both our realms. Would you jeopardize her friendship by committing mayhem in the very heart of her capital? Let’s at least defer this quarrel to another place and time.”

  For a moment, Jhesrhi thought his powers of persuasion had prevailed. Then the firesoul shouted, whipped his sword from his scabbard, and cut. The paladin jerked backward, and the blade just missed his reptilian face.

  He and his friend sprang to their feet, scrambled back, and snatched for their swords. The other genasi, seven of them altogether, drew their blades as well.

  It didn’t matter that Jhesrhi and her comrades were out of uniform. They were peace officers, and it was their duty to stop the brawl. She wished she’d brought her staff—wished, too, that the tavern weren’t so crowded. There were more than a dozen people between the combatants and her—the majority seemed eager to watch exotic outlanders slash one another to pieces—and if she wasn’t careful, her spells would strike them instead of their intended targets.

  She finessed the problem by jumping up and stamping her foot. The ground under the floor bucked. Some people fell, and others staggered off balance. Jugs and bottles lurched from the shelves behind the bar to smash on the floor.

  “I’m an officer of the city guard!” she cried. “Put up your weapons now!”

  “Where’s her insignia?” someone asked.

  “Forget that,” replied somebody else, “why isn’t the bitch’s hand marked!”

  Recovering their balance, some of the Akanûlans peered at her. Then a watersoul, his skin sea green with turquoise lines running through it, barked a laugh. “You think you can make elemental magic work against genasi?”

  She drew breath to repeat her command, but she never got the chance. A windsoul flew up into the air and toward her. Unfortunately, there was just enough space between the ceiling and the crowd’s heads to accommodate his passage. A firesoul whipped his hand up and down in a gesture that suggested leaping flame. Twisting back and forth like a serpent, a streak of yellow fire raced across the floor. Recognizing that they hadn’t achieved a safe distance from the violence after all, the people between Jhesrhi and her attackers screamed and tried to scramble out of the way.

  Straining to exert enough power without her staff, in the enclosed space, Jhesrhi whispered words of power to the wind. It forsook the flying genasi, and, deprived of its support, he crashed to the floor. It blew out the fire serpent like a candle. And in the moment afterward, before her opponents could gather themselves to assail her again, she peered to see what was happening elsewhere.

  His medallion and the blade of his sword both shining like the moon, the dragonborn paladin was trading cuts with the windsoul who’d first accosted him. His fellow Tymantheran was fighting an earthsoul and a purple-skinned stormsoul at the same time.

  Khouryn had somehow managed to engage the three remaining Akanûlans—a firesoul, an earthsoul, and a watersoul—simultaneously, and without drawing his urgrosh from its sling. Evidently hoping to subdue the genasi without causing them irreparable harm, he was wielding a chair as a combination club and shield.

  The dwarf was as able a hand-to-hand combatant as Jhesrhi had ever seen. But the genasi were competent too, and had the advantages of numbers and real weapons. The firesoul slashed with his dagger, and it flared like a torch in midstroke. Khouryn shifted the rapidly splintering chair to block the attack. That left him open to the earthsoul on his flank, who instantly raised his broadsword for a head cut.

  An arrow appeared, transfixing the earthsoul’s forearm. Jhesrhi turned her head. As an archer, Gaedynn had faced the same problem she had—how to attack at range in the crowded room without hitting a noncombatant. He’d solved it by climbing up on a tabletop amid the remains of somebody’s sausage-and-beans supper.

  The earthsoul snapped the arrow off short so it wouldn’t get in his way. He also stamped his foot as Jhesrhi had. Another shock jolted the tavern, and one of the legs of Gaedynn’s table broke. It pitched over, spilling him to the floor amid a rain of dirty, clattering pewter plates and cups. The earthsoul rushed him.

  Jhesrhi wanted to help Gaedynn. But then the windsoul she’d knocked out of the air picked himself up off the floor. He and his partner the firesoul charged her together, and she had to look after herself.

  She spoke to the wind. It picked up the table in front of her and threw it. The missile smashed into the windsoul and knocked him flat on his back. But it missed the firesoul.

  Backsword exploding into blue and golden flame, he closed the distance, cut, and curse it, she was caught in the corner! Somehow she dodged anyway, one searing, dazzling stroke and then another, meanwhile rattling off an incantation.

  She thrust out her hand with three fingers curled. Green mist steamed from the firesoul’s pores. He staggered and fumbled his grip on his sword, nearly dropping it.

  The magical weakness would only last a couple of heartbeats, but she intended to make good use of the time. She grabbed a chair, heaved it high, and smashed it over the firesoul’s head. He collapsed.

  Panting, she looked for her other opponent. He was still down. While beyond him, Gaedynn had his Akanûlan down on the floor and was hammering punches into his face.

  Khouryn had felled both his remaining opponents and moved to help the smaller Tymantheran. The dwarf had engaged the dragonborn’s earthsoul opponent, leaving the stormsoul for him to battle. As the latter genasi feinted and stabbed with a knife in either hand, sparks danced and crackled across his skin.

  The paladin and his windsoul adversary circled, blades clanging. The air howled, lifted the genasi off his feet, and whirled him widdershins. The paladin spun barely in time to parry the thrust that would otherwise have plunged into his back.

  In other words, one instant, everyone was in furious motion. And the next, or so it seemed, before Jhesrhi could even decide where to intervene, everything was over.

  Gaedynn paused, considered his adversary, and then, evidently satisfied, left off punching him.

  Khouryn stabbed the tip of a chair leg into his earthsoul’s groin, then bashed him in the face when his knees buckled.

  The ocher-scaled Tymantheran stooped low, dropped his opponent with a drawing slice to the knee, then pulled back his sword for a thrust to the guts.

  The paladin slipped a cut, shifted in close to his windsoul foe, and pounded the pommel of his sword against the genasi’s temple. Then, not slowing down an iota, he lunged and caught his friend’s arm, preventing him from delivering the deathblow he intended.

  Gaedynn stood up, retrieved his longbow, and then set about brushing off and straightening his garments. “We really do represent the watch,” he announced to the crowd at large, “even if we hate wearing those ghastly tabards. In my judgment, the genasi started this quarrel, so we’re placing them under arrest.”

  Khouryn moved to join him. So did Jhesrhi. The silent scrutiny of the crowd weighed on her as she crossed the room.

  “What are we supposed to do with people we arrest?” Gaedynn murmured.

  “I assume
the town has a lockup someplace,” Khouryn answered.

  “The town is full of all sorts of fear and hatred,” Jhesrhi said. “This brawl didn’t have anything to do with the Green Hand killer or the prejudice against mages.”

  Gaedynn gave her a grin. “Well, not until you got involved.”

  * * * * *

  “It isn’t fair,” said Daardendrien Balasar. “The genasi started it.”

  “We’re in Luthcheq to practice diplomacy,” Ophinshtalajiir Perra answered. The ambassador was an unusually tall and gaunt dragonborn, with the two jade rings of her clan glinting in the loose hide on the right side of her neck. Age had bent her back a little and speckled her brown scales with white. “Fairness and reason have relatively little to do with it. The war hero is upset. Accordingly, you and Medrash will apologize.”

  A servant thumped the butt of his staff on the floor. The arched double doors, ornately carved from the living sandstone of the citadel, swung open to reveal the audience chamber beyond. Walking with a slow and stately gait, Balasar, Perra, and Medrash headed inside.

  Balasar could wield a sword better than most. Better, even, than most of his fellow Daardendriens, initiates of a clan renowned for its prowess. Still, he occasionally found his people’s focus on the martial virtues tedious. For better or worse, the war hero’s hall reflected similar preoccupations. The gorgeous tapestries depicted the clash of armies, and most of the statuary portrayed mortal combat, although here and there a sculpture of a runner or discus thrower suggested that even in Chessenta it might be possible to contend without shoving a blade through the other fellow’s guts.

  Shala Karanok looked at home amid the depictions of slaughter. She was a scowling, solidly built woman in her middle years, with a ridged scar on her square jaw and dark hair chopped short. The bits of polished steel adorning her masculine garments apparently symbolized armor.

  An assortment of her counselors and officers stood before her throne, and—to Balasar’s disgust—so did Zan-akar Zeraez and some of the lesser members of his delegation. The Akanûlan ambassador had remarkably long and slender silver spikes projecting from his scalp, and skin the color of the duskiest grapes. The pattern of argent lines etched into his face was so intricate that he looked like he was wearing a wire mask. Sparks tended to crawl on him even when he was in repose, and judging by his glower, that wasn’t the case now. Balasar felt an impulse to make a funny face at him, just to see if he could elicit a glowing, popping shower of them, but it probably wasn’t a good idea.

  When they reached the customary distance, the dragonborn stopped and bowed. “Welcome, my lady,” said Shala, her tone no warmer than her expression.

  “Majesty,” Perra said. “I’ve brought the guards involved in the confrontation.”

  The war hero turned her cold stare on them. “And what do you have to say for yourselves?”

  “Majesty,” said Medrash, “I regret the disturbance. If a similar situation arises again, we’ll do everything in our power to avoid violence.”

  Trained to lead, paladins studied etiquette and rhetoric, and Medrash’s tutors would have approved of his performance. It was deferential yet dignified. It gave Shala what she wanted while somehow subtly asserting the dragonborn’s fundamental lack of culpability.

  Balasar didn’t try to match it. He just inclined his head and said, “I’m sorry too.”

  “As well you should be,” said the woman on the throne. “It’s unacceptable for any outlander to foment disorder. But the Akanûlans you fought were simply traders from a caravan. You two are gentlemen attached to your kingdom’s embassy. I expect you to conduct yourself according to the highest standards.”

  “Yes, Majesty,” Medrash said. “We demand no less of ourselves.”

  Well, give or take, within reason, Balasar thought.

  Perra waited, making sure that she and the war hero wouldn’t speak at the same time. When the human offered nothing further, the ambassador said, “If Your Majesty is satisfied, these two have duties awaiting—”

  “I’m not satisfied!” snarled Zan-akar. His anger, the ire of a stormsoul, darkened the air around him and made the room smell like a downpour was on the way. The sparks jumping and crawling on his skin looked especially bright inside that smear of gloom. “With respect, Majesty, I thought you called these ruffians here to conduct an inquiry.”

  “Surely,” said Perra, “the facts are already clear.”

  Zan-akar sneered. “Oh, there’s a story we’ve all heard. But does it account for the facts? Does it explain how the Akanûlans—even with the advantage of numbers and even though allegedly the aggressors—ended up with broken bones, while these two escaped unscathed?”

  “I can explain that,” said Balasar. “Your traders fought like hatchlings from spoiled eggs.”

  Perra elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Isn’t it likely,” Zan-akar persisted, “that in fact, as the genasi assert, these two dragonborn attacked them by surprise?”

  “No, my lord,” said Medrash, “it isn’t. Balasar and I emerged from the fight unharmed because officers of the city guard came to our aid. And any fair-minded person would accept that as the truth because the watchmen say so too.”

  “But their involvement,” said a plummy bass voice, “raises other questions.”

  Balasar turned. The speaker was Luthen, one of Shala’s counselors, a big man running to fat in his middle years. His round head with its receding hair and neatly trimmed goatee looked small atop his massive shoulders.

  Apparently he meant to take Zan-akar’s side, which puzzled Balasar a little. He hadn’t heard that Luthen was any great friend to Akanûl, although he supposed he could have missed that particular nugget of information. His mind tended to drift when his associates discussed the labyrinthine alliances and rivalries of Shala’s court.

  Lean, broken-nosed Nicos Corynian gave his fellow advisor a level stare. “What other questions, my lord?”

  “For starters, why weren’t they wearing their tabards?”

  A man Balasar hadn’t seen before stepped up beside Nicos. He was muscular and thick in the torso like Luthen, but short rather than tall. His head was as hairless as a dragonborn’s, and a mask of tattooed marks surrounded his weirdly luminous blue eyes.

  “Because they were off duty,” he said. “But they still recognized their responsibility to restore order. Would you want them to stand idly by while blood spilled?”

  Balasar inferred that the tattooed stranger must be Aoth Fezim, commander of the sellswords who’d just entered Nicos’s service.

  “I would wish the sorceress,” Luthen replied, “to obey the laws of Chessenta and carry the mark of her essential nature at all times. And frankly, war-mage, were it up to me, I’d require the same of you.”

  A goodly number of the assembled retainers murmured in agreement.

  “We’re not going to stay in Chessenta forever,” said Aoth, “and Her Majesty has given us a dispensation.”

  “What she’s granted,” said Luthen, “she can rescind. And she might want to consider doing precisely that. She might want to reconsider whether having you in Luthcheq is a good idea at all.”

  “We discussed this,” Nicos said. “Until the unrest subsides, we need additional watchmen on the street.”

  “Why?” Luthen said. “To protect wizards?” He waved a contemptuous hand. “To skulk around in disguise and spy on your behalf?”

  Nicos directed his gaze at Shala. “Majesty, that insinuation is preposterous.”

  “How so?” Luthen said. “The fact of the matter is, you’ve brought a private army into the capital—a force commanded by a Thayan mage and with other Thayans, wizards, and dwarves among the ranks.”

  “Actually,” said Aoth, “I’m a Thayan renegade, with the torture chamber and the block awaiting me should I ever return. The other ‘Thayans’ in the Brotherhood are the descendents of men who came with me into exile a century ago. And at the moment, I only have one true wizard and
one dwarf. Too bad—I could use more.”

  Luthen kept his glare aimed at Nicos. “You claim to have placed this band of reavers and sorcerers at the service of Her Majesty. But the reality is that since you pay them, and rogues of their stripe care only for gold, they answer to you alone.”

  “Well, I answer to Her Majesty,” said Nicos, “so even if your assessment were true, all’s well.”

  “Far be it from me to impugn your loyalty, my lord. But history abounds in nobles who insinuated an excessive number of their personal troops into their sovereign’s capital, then turned them to some treasonous purpose. It’s simply poor policy to permit such maneuverings.”

  Nicos looked to the throne. “Majesty, I know it takes more than empty prattle to make you doubt a vassal who has always served you loyally. Or to make you doubt your own decisions.”

  Shala grunted. “I’ll consent to keep Captain Fezim’s sellswords patrolling the city until they prove unworthy of the trust.”

  “Then if it pleases Your Majesty,” Zan-akar said, “may we return to the true business of this meeting? It’s vital that we discuss the crimes Tymanther has committed against both our realms.”

  Perra snorted. “Get a grip, my lord. A scuffle in a tavern, however deplorable, scarcely warrants such a description.”

  “That particular outrage,” said Zan-akar, light seething along the silvery lines in his skin, “was the least of it. Dragonborn are slipping into Akanûl, slaughtering the inhabitants of remote settlements, and retreating back across the border.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Perra said.

  “We have witnesses,” said Zan-akar. “Your marauders didn’t quite manage to murder everyone. And as Your Majesty knows, Akanûl and Tymanther lack a common border. The only way for dragonborn raiders to reach us is to cross Chessentan territory. In light of the vows of friendship between our two realms, I assume you haven’t given them permission to do so.”

  “No,” said the war hero, “of course not.”

  “Then they’re trespassing on your lands just as they are on ours.”

  “If these raiders actually existed,” said Perra, “then that would be a logical conclusion. But they don’t.”