Whisper of Venom botg-2, Page 2

  Hoping to goad him into doing something reckless, Khouryn grinned and said, “Now in East Rift, where I come from, we say a fellow fights like a coward if he hangs back while his friends take all the chances.”

  It worked a little too well. The Linxakasendalor’s face twisted, and he sucked in a breath. He meant to spit frost, fire, or something equally unpleasant, a trick the dragonborn shared with actual wyrms.

  And here was Khouryn without a shield to block the spew. He hadn’t appropriated one because he wanted to impress, and fighting with only the baton was impressive. Right up until the moment he got frozen solid or burned to cinders.

  The Linxakasendalor’s head jerked forward, and his jaws opened. Pearly frost streamed out.

  Khouryn dodged left. The edge of the jet still gave him a chill, but nothing worse. He rushed the Linxakasendalor, knocked his spear out of line, and rammed the end of the baton into his gut. The dragonborn grunted and doubled over. The involuntary movement brought his head within easy reach. Khouryn hit him in the temple, and that was that.

  Controlling his breathing-the win was supposed to look easy, after all-Khouryn turned, surveyed the rest of the troops, and judged that he had indeed impressed them.

  “You see?” he asked. “That’s how a small fighter-and we’re all of us small compared to ash giants-turns his size to his advantage. That’s part of what I’m trying to teach you. Now, somebody clear these fools out of the way until they’re ready to resume the training. I want to see the rest of you fight the Beast. Move!”

  The Beast was a big, drum-shaped, timber shell that one of the vanquisher’s wizards had enchanted to Khouryn’s specifications. When someone touched one of the small runes carved on the sides, it floated up and flew around three feet off the ground. The object then was to jab a rune with a spear point and render the contraption inanimate again.

  The game was difficult because the Beast spun and changed direction unpredictably. And if a person didn’t fall back smartly when it lurched in his direction, it gave him an unpleasant bump. The point was to teach warriors how to assail a large adversary when its back was turned, then scramble out of reach when it turned in their direction.

  Khouryn watched for a while and was pleased to see that at least some of the trainees were getting the hang of it. Then hoof beats thumped the earth. He turned to see Daardendrien Medrash trotting toward him astride a big, black mare.

  Big and powerfully built even by dragonborn standards, Medrash had russet scales and bore the six white studs of Clan Daardendrien pierced into his left profile. He was an oddity among his people, a worshiper of one of Faerun’s gods. In fact, he was a paladin of Torm-a champion whose rapport with the Loyal Fury granted him certain mystical abilities.

  Behind him, Djerad Thymar rose from the grasslands against a blue sky striped with wisps of white cloud. It was the strangest and most impressive city Khouryn had ever seen in a life of wandering, because it was all one colossal structure. The base was an immense block of granite. On top of that sat hundreds of pillars supporting a truncated pyramid.

  Specks soared and swooped around the apex. The aerial cavalry called the Lance Defenders were coming and going on various errands. Their mounts were enormous bats, nocturnal by nature but capable of daytime service, and, seeing them, Khouryn felt a pang of sadness. He still missed Vigilant, his own winged steed, killed by a topaz dragon on the trek south from Luthcheq.

  Medrash swung himself off the mare. “How is it going?” he asked.

  Khouryn waved a hand at the training exercise. “See for yourself. I had to thump a couple of them to get this batch to take me seriously.”

  Medrash smiled. “I know how you fight well, but eventually that ploy is going to turn around and bite you.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I’m just saying they know how to fight too. All dragonborn do. Some of them have already served a year or two with the Lance Defenders.”

  “I know. That’s why I only called out three of them. Ordinarily it’s four. Now tell me about the horses.”

  “We’ve selected the most spirited and the steadiest. The riding masters tell me there’s no way to train them naturally in the time we have. But after conferring with the mages, they grudgingly agreed that if an animal carries the proper talismans of courage and obedience, it might do what you want it to.”

  “ ‘Grudgingly’?”

  “They love horses. They don’t want to see them get anywhere near the giants or those lizard things they conjure out of the ash.”

  “I don’t blame them. But we need lancers on horseback as well as batback.”

  That too would be an innovation. Khouryn suspected that back in wherever-it-was, when Medrash’s people had rebelled against their dragon overlords, war-horses had been in short supply.

  “We’ll have a few,” Medrash said. “Let’s hope they’re enough to make our troops look as impressive as the Platinum Cadre’s.”

  “And that Balasar learns something that will discredit the Cadre in any case.”

  Across the field, the trainees raised a cheer as someone finally managed to thump a rune and make the Beast drift back down to the ground.

  Jhesrhi Coldcreek loved flying, and never more than today. It was exhilarating to see the buildings and tangled streets of Luthcheq laid out before her and hear the cheers and hymns of thanksgiving rising from the folk crowding the streets, hanging out the windows, and gathered on the rooftops.

  Not, of course, that the cheers were for her. They were for Tchazzar. His scaly crimson wings shining in the sunlight, the red dragon was returning to the city he’d ruled a century before. His long-tailed shadow swept along beneath him, and the griffon riders with whom he shared the sky looked tiny by comparison, like hummingbirds escorting an eagle.

  Still, until recently Jhesrhi had feared and loathed the city of her childhood as it had feared and loathed her. Its prejudices were to blame for the nightmarish captivity that had scarred her spirit for all time. But recent events had given her the chance to heal at least one of her psychic wounds, and like it or not, Luthcheq was going to change for the better as well. Tchazzar had promised that it would.

  Luthcheq sat at the foot of a towering cliff, and the citadel called the War College actually protruded from the rock face. Tchazzar landed in the plaza in front of it, which the city guard had kept clear for him. On the other side of the peace officers and the barricades, a collective moan rose from the crowd, many of whom carried the scarlet banners or wore the trappings of the Church of Tchazzar. For a moment Jhesrhi thought they’d rush in and mob the dragon, but somehow they managed to control themselves.

  She set Scar down in the fenced-off corner reserved for griffons, and her fellow mercenaries did the same with their mounts. Stocky, bald, and covered in runic tattoos, his blue eyes glowing noticeably even in the daylight, Aoth Fezim had flown down from Soolabax with plump, pretty Cera Eurthos riding behind him. The sunlady, a high priestess of Amaunator, wanted to observe the ceremonies and had prevailed on her new lover to bring her.

  Jhesrhi could tell that the captain of the Brotherhood of the Griffon was somewhat more ambivalent about attending, and she reckoned she knew why. Aoth needed to be there to make sure the company received the credit it deserved for Tchazzar’s deliverance and any rewards that came with it. But on the other hand, war was brewing in the north, and he resented the time filched from his preparations.

  Meanwhile, Gaedynn Ulraes smiled as if all the drama and pomp was an entertainment staged for his personal amusement. Elegantly clad in a purple, red-slashed doublet, not a shining coppery hair out of place despite the fact that he’d just flown for miles, the lanky archer gave Jhesrhi a wink as he swung himself out of the saddle.

  Tchazzar twisted his long neck to survey the waiting throng, then spat an arc of flame high enough to avoid incinerating anyone or setting a building on fire. The onlookers screamed in excitement.

  Then the red dragon shrank, dwindling into a tall, br
oad-shouldered warrior with golden armor and a flame red cloak and plume. Though seemingly human, and despite his massive frame, he had a long, tapered face and slightly pointed ears subtly suggestive of his wyrm form. His slanted eyes were as tawny as Jhesrhi’s. She, Gaedynn, Aoth, and Cera hurried to attend him.

  Tchazzar offered Jhesrhi his arm, and despite the extraordinary honor the gesture represented, she froze. If he scowled in response, it was only for an instant, and then the expression became a look of rueful comprehension.

  “Forgive me,” he murmured. “But since you have no difficulty touching me when I’m a dragon, it makes it hard to remember you flinch from the man.”

  “I’m sorry, Majesty,” Jhesrhi said.

  “Don’t be.” He glanced around, evidently making sure everyone had taken up his or her proper ceremonial position. “Shall we?”

  They climbed the stone staircase that led up to the terrace where Chessenta’s foremost dignitaries waited. The butt of the staff Jhesrhi had carried away from Mount Thulbane clicked on the steps. Behind them the city guards admitted the crowd to the plaza. As they streamed in, they made a noise like the rush of water when something breached a dike.

  Tchazzar walked to the edge of the platform and gazed out at his people. As one, the folk in the crowd fell to their knees. So did everyone on the platform.

  Then, as had been arranged, Shala Karanok paced out onto the terrace. A strongly built woman in her middle years, the war hero carried a steel and diamond circlet in her hands. Her face with its scarred, square jaw was without expression, and it was impossible to guess how she felt about what was happening.

  She kneeled before Tchazzar and proffered the diadem. “I acknowledge your sovereignty and surrender my office,” she said.

  Tchazzar took the circlet, raised it high to gleam in the sunlight, and set it on his own brow. “I crown myself War Hero of Chessenta,” he said. “And you may all rise.”

  As soon as they did, the cheers began. The noise rose and fell, surging up at the platform like waves battering a rocky headland.

  Tchazzar let his subjects vent their jubilation for a while. Then he raised a hand, and over the course of several heartbeats they fell silent.

  “I thank you for your welcome,” the transformed dragon said. “It’s good to be back in the land and the city I love.”

  That set off more cheering. After a few moments, he quelled it as he had before.

  “As I always did and always will,” Tchazzar continued, “I have returned when you need me most. War is coming. Enemies, hateful and envious, threaten Chessenta on every side. But don’t be afraid. With me to lead you, you’ll butcher them to the last man!”

  Again he had to pause and let the crowd roar.

  “But vengeance and victory are tomorrow’s business. We have other matters to address today.

  “I told you I come to my people when they need me. And how do I know you need me? Because I hear your prayers. Over the years, many have deemed me a god, and now it pleases me for everyone to know the truth. I am a god. A god in every sense, a being as exalted as Amaunator or Waukeen, and you will worship me as such.”

  At that, no one cheered. Even if a person believed in Tchazzar’s divinity-and many Chessentans did-there was something disconcerting about hearing him proclaim it outright.

  Jhesrhi peered surreptitiously at Cera, stout Daelric Apathos-her superior in the Church of Amaunator-and the other high priests assembled on the terrace. Presumably they all had their professional opinions concerning Tchazzar’s claim, but she couldn’t tell what those were from scrutinizing their solemn expressions.

  “Some of you already worship me,” Tchazzar continued. He looked down at the front of the throng, where a profusion of scarlet standards and red cloaks cut to resemble scalloped dragon wings revealed the presence of many adherents of the Church of Tchazzar. “Who is your prophet?”

  For a moment it looked like whoever it was, he or she was too shy to say so. Then a skinny adolescent girl stepped forward. She had crimson symbols painted on her starveling, acne-pitted face and wore a fine vermilion cloak-a gift from a follower, perhaps-over the grimy rags underneath.

  “I am, Majesty,” she quavered. “My name is Halonya.”

  “From this day forward,” Tchazzar said, “you’re a lady of the realm. Your rank is the same as that of any of the patriarchs who stand behind me, and the church you lead is equal in dignity and importance to any of theirs. Others will heed my call and offer themselves to serve as priests and priestesses under your direction. Together, you will build the grandest temple in Luthcheq. My deputy”-he gestured in Shala’s direction-“will assist you with everything you need.”

  Halonya started weeping and dropped back onto her knees. “Thank you, Majesty! I love you! I won’t let you down!”

  “I know,” Tchazzar said. “Now, I wish to acknowledge someone else who has done me great service. Jhesrhi Coldcreek, come forward.”

  Tchazzar hadn’t warned Jhesrhi he meant to do that. She suddenly felt intensely awkward, and Gaedynn’s sardonic smile made the sensation worse. Somehow she managed to walk the several paces to the war hero’s side without tripping or otherwise disgracing herself.

  “As some of you know,” Tchazzar said, “this woman is a wizard. And after she … used her magic to my benefit, I offered her a boon. She could have asked for a title, wealth, and land, but she didn’t. She asked me to correct a long-standing injustice, and so I shall.

  “I hereby rescind all laws that apply only to folk possessed of arcane abilities. Henceforth, sorcerers need not have their palms tattooed. They can live where they like, assemble as they like, and practice their arts as they like, provided they do no harm. Priests and scholars are forbidden to teach the false and pernicious belief that all arcane magic derives from the lower worlds, and those who seek to persecute warlocks and wizards will face severe reprisals.”

  No one cheered for that declaration either. Jhesrhi supposed that in its way it had shocked the assembly as much as Tchazzar’s unequivocal claim to godhood, and was surely less popular. Luthcheq had always loved to hate her kind. Well, choke on it, you ignorant bastards, she thought.

  “There will be more new edicts in the days to come,” Tchazzar said. “Bold new ideas and ventures to make Chessenta into the great land it was always meant to be. But for now, celebrate my ascension! Your lord has provided for your needs. You’ll find food and drink on every corner, and musicians, jugglers, and players performing for your amusement in every street!”

  That got them clapping and shouting again. Tchazzar turned in a swirl of scarlet cloak and headed into the War College.

  As Aoth followed Tchazzar into the fortress, he made psychic contact with Jet. Everything all right? he asked.

  If that strutting jackanapes is a god, the black griffon replied, the world is even worse off than I thought.

  Aoth snorted. I have a more specific criticism of his performance. But I’ll be sure to give him your opinion.

  Once through the doorway, he found that Tchazzar had stopped on the other side to accept congratulations. Trampling the rules of protocol, Zan-akar Zeraez, the Akanulan ambassador, had somehow managed to make himself first in line. Maybe everyone else had hesitated to crowd the genasi for fear of the sparks that crawled and popped on his deep purple, silver-etched skin.

  While Aoth waited his turn, Nicos Corynian approached him. Trimly built, with a broken nose and a cauliflower ear that bespoke the Chessentan enthusiasm for the more violent forms of athletic competition, Nicos was in theory the Brotherhood’s patron, although the relationship was slightly muddled. The nobleman had hired the sellswords to serve the crown, and Shala had in fact accepted their service in due course.

  And now she wasn’t the monarch anymore. Aoth sighed and wondered why nothing was ever simple.

  “I’m sorry the war hero didn’t mention you during his address,” he murmured. “I trust he’ll prove more appreciative in private.”

 
Nicos shrugged. “He didn’t mention you either,” he replied just as softly, “or your man Ulraes, although I gather he had as much to do with the rescue as the wizard. I assume it’s because we’re not supposed to talk about the fact that His Majesty needed to be rescued.”

  “That’s fine by me,” said Aoth. “We want the troops to think he’s invincible. They’ll fight better.”

  Smiling, Tchazzar turned in their direction. “What did you think of my little oration?”

  “It was inspirational,” Nicos said.

  For a heartbeat Aoth wondered if it wouldn’t be better to say something just as empty and let it go at that. Then he decided, to the Hells with it. He was a soldier, not a courtier, and he’d talk like what he was, especially with Chessenta facing war.

  “You said some things I didn’t expect,” he said, “and left out one thing I did.”

  Tchazzar smiled. His teeth were white and even, as flawlessly handsome as the rest of him. “I was addressing my children for the first time in a hundred years. I had to speak my heart, even if it meant deviating from the script.”

  “I understand that, Majesty. But I thought you were going to tell everyone that the creatures behind the Green Hand murders weren’t really dragonborn at all, but rather fiends conjured from the netherworld.” By the Black Flame, he and Cera had damn near died penetrating that particular secret!

  “Unfortunately,” Tchazzar said, “it isn’t always possible to address every topic of interest in a single speech.”

  “I understand that too. But this particular topic is important. At a time when Chessenta needs friends, you could have reestablished the alliance with Tymanther.”

  “Tymanther has its own problems,” Tchazzar said. “They won’t be lending us troops anytime soon.”

  “Still, it might hearten the people to know they don’t truly have enemies lurking across every border.”

  “Perhaps at the cost of rekindling their suspicions of those they were originally inclined to blame-the mages. Which would violate the spirit of my pledge to Lady Jhesrhi.”