Whisper of Venom

It also seemed incapable of making anything comparable to the diversity of rasps and screeches a griffon could emit. Which might be the only reason it wasn’t subjecting him to an ongoing critique of his technique.

But his clumsiness notwithstanding, it felt good to fly again. And the loan of the winged steed was a mark of Tarhun’s trust, even though it was also a practical necessity if he was to scout the giant stronghold from the air.

Biri’s arms shifted their grip around his waist. “Have you ever flown before?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I always wanted to. It was why I meant-well, mean, I guess-to join the Lance Defenders when I’m older.”

So she was young. “Well, ordinarily this isn’t the first flight I’d pick for you. Or the first time aloft on a bat that I’d choose for myself. But our companions know their business. We’ll be all right.”

“I know,” she said. “The Daardendriens are very brave.” Her front brushed his back as she twisted to look left.

She could have said that the Lance Defenders were very brave, for it was active members of the corps who made up most of the scouting party. She could also have looked right, toward Medrash and his borrowed bat, instead of to the left and Balasar.

But she hadn’t done either of those things. So Khouryn sighed and said, “Balasar’s a fine warrior and my good friend. But not a suitable match for you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied.

Did the love-struck young ever listen to sound advice? Probably not. The Shining Dancer knew, Khouryn hadn’t. Nor did he regret it, despite all the horror and heartbreak that followed.

The smell of smoke that tainted the entire wasteland grew stronger. Black masses rose from the ground, and veins of glowing, flickering red threaded their way among them.

The dragonborn called the place Ashhold. In one sense that was a misnomer, because the dark shapes were mostly extrusions of basalt, not the ashen spires encountered elsewhere on the plain. But it was a sacred site to the giants, where the fires that burned beneath their country found their way to the surface and, by ancient custom, the tribes set even the bitterest feuds aside. It was also the redoubt to which the survivors of Skuthosiin’s horde had retreated after Tarhun’s warriors pushed them out of Tymanther.

Khouryn could see why. The hillocks of rock shouldn’t be as tough to crack as a castle with continuous walls, battlements, and other civilized defenses-thanks be to the Lord of the Twin Axes that the giants lacked the knowledge to erect such a structure. Still, they provided the advantages of high ground, partial cover, and a maze of obstructions to confuse an attacking force and break it up into smaller, less-effective units. The patches of flame and hot coals would further complicate the assault.

So far, no giant was bellowing the alarm. The bats were evidently hard to see in the smoky, benighted sky. With the tap of a finger against the surprisingly soft fur on its shoulder, Khouryn made his steed swoop a little lower. Then he studied Ashhold and imagined the various ways in which it might be attacked with the troops at the vanquisher’s disposal, and how the giants might respond in each instance. The possibilities danced before his i

“Go farther in,” Biri said, “and lower.”

“Why?”

“Magic. I feel a lot of force stirring. I see it too, like a spot in the air after you glance straight at the sun. It’s there.” She stretched her arm past his head to point the way.

He was reluctant to take greater risks than they had already. But he’d brought her along to provide a wizard’s insight, so he supposed he’d better give her a look at what she needed to see.

He nudged his bat with his knee, but it ignored the command. Apparently the beast too sensed mystical energy rising and was leery of it. He kneed it again, harder, and then it wheeled and beat its way in the right direction.

Ashhold opened up at the center, rather like a real castle with a courtyard. In the middle of the space burned the greatest of its fires, leaping up from a forked crack in the baked and barren ground. Crouching on a low, flat protrusion of basalt, the glow of the flames glinting on his dark green scales, a gigantic green dragon stared into the blaze and hissed words of power. A dozen giant adepts chanted contrapuntal responses.

Since he was so close, even Khouryn could feel magic accumulating, as a queasiness in his guts and an ache in his joints. He ignored the discomfort to peer at the huge green, who surely had to be Skuthosiin.

His first impression was that the wyrm was deformed, even though he couldn’t pick out anything that was specifically wrong with him. The dragons he’d seen hitherto were terrifying but beautiful. Even the burrowing brown had been magnificent in its way. In contrast, Skuthosiin made him want to wince and avert his gaze, like a sick person covered in weeping sores.

He remembered the stories he’d heard. At one time, Skuthosiin had been a Chosen of Tiamat. He’d died, and his goddess had restored him to life. Maybe he’d come back tainted.

A giant standing atop one of the masses of rock abruptly shouted. Evidently he’d spotted one of the bat riders gliding and wheeling overhead.

Skuthosiin didn’t even deign to raise his head, nor did any of the other mages involved in the ritual. But as Khouryn turned his bat, and his comrades likewise prepared to flee, shadows the size of hounds-but with the serpentine shapes of dragons-darted up the sides of various stones. They silently lashed their scalloped wings and leaped into the air.

As soon as they soared very high above the fire, they became difficult for even dwarf eyes to see. Agitated, Khouryn’s steed veered one way, then the other, while the Lance Defenders’ bats did the same. Evidently they too were having trouble perceiving the shadow things.

A dragonborn cried out. His bat tumbled with one of the ghostly dragons ripping at each leathery wing.

Medrash called out to Torm and shook his fist. White light flared from his steel gauntlet. It revealed the locations of the shadows, seared them, and dashed them toward the ground. The two clinging to the wounded bat lost their holds, and the steed spread its torn wings and leveled out of its fall.

Unfortunately, the blaze of holy Power dimmed immediately, and the dark things winged their way upward again. Khouryn took a frantic look around and decided the creatures were fewest in the northeast.

He pointed. “I want a blast of fire right above that rock with the two lumps on top.”

Biri chanted and thrust out her wand of quartz. A red spark flew from the tip and exploded into a roaring mass of flame.

The fire washed over shadow things and burned them to nothingness, breaking the circle they’d formed around the scouts. “This way!” Khouryn shouted, urging his mount toward the gap. His comrades streaked after him.

Medrash hurled another flash of Torm’s Power to slow pursuit. Khouryn glanced back-with a dragonborn seated behind him, he had to lean sideways to do it-and met the gaze of Skuthosiin’s lambent yellow eyes.

To his relief, the green was still perched on his makeshift dais, still performing his ritual, and showed no signs of joining the chase. But his stare was chilling.

Khouryn spat the chill away.

As the scouts raced on, leaving the shadow things behind, giants hurled javelins and rocks. But as far as Khouryn could tell, none of the missiles found its mark, and after a few more heartbeats he and his comrades were clear of Ashhold entirely.

But they didn’t slow until they reached their own camp, an orderly sprawl with a scarcity of campfires. The foragers couldn’t find fuel, and even had it been otherwise, Black Ash Plain in summer could blunt anyone’s enthusiasm for heat and smoke.