Whisper of Venom

It seemed to Khouryn that his bat landed with an awkward bump. Unlike a griffon, the beast wasn’t built to prowl around on the ground. But it had its own virtues, and he gave it a pat before allowing a black-scaled Lance Defender-in-training to take charge of it.

“That’s the kind of young fellow you should be ogling,” he murmured.

Like Skuthosiin-well, not really-Biri declined to respond to the provocation.

Medrash and Balasar gave up their borrowed steeds, and the four of them strode onward to the center of the army. Where Tarhun awaited them along with a motley assortment of senior Lance Defenders, clan war leaders, and mages.

Smiling, the vanquisher rose from his campstool as they approached. “Did everyone get back safely?” he asked.

“Yes, Majesty,” Medrash said, saluting. “They spotted us, but we managed to break away.”

“And that’s not the only piece of good news,” said Balasar with a grin. “We didn’t see all that many of the giants’ pets. Apparently the adepts haven’t figured out that we can keep them from calling the beasts from afar. Which means they really won’t be much of a factor in the fight.”

“True,” said Medrash. “That much is good news.”

Belatedly registering his clan brother’s somber demeanor, Balasar said, “All right, what did I miss?”

“Since you aren’t versed in a mystical discipline,” Biri said, “I understand why you didn’t sense it. But Medrash is right. The ceremony Skuthosiin is performing is something powerful and bad.”

“You saw Skuthosiin?” Tarhun asked.

“Yes,” Khouryn said, “and, if anything, he looks even nastier than his reputation. So I can believe he’s about to dump something hellish on our heads. The only question is, what form will it take?”

Biri hesitated. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t able to tell that.”

Balasar gave her a smile. “It’s all right, sweetling. You did fine. We might not have gotten out of there without you.”

A clan leader scratched her chin with the claw on her thumb. She had a row of little ivory moon piercings-waxing from new to full, then waning again-ru

“No,” Biri said.

“So if we want to interrupt the proceedings,” Khouryn said, “we should attack now.”

Tarhun frowned. “At night. After rushing our preparations.”

“I admit it would have its drawbacks,” Khouryn said.

“Which is why the giants won’t expect it,” Balasar said.

“I’m no longer a member of the Lance Defenders,” Medrash said, “but I still remember what I learned when I was. The bats will spot what we can’t. They’ll let us know what’s lurking in the dark.”

Khouryn had no difficulty believing that was true. A griffon didn’t need to be able to talk to alert its rider to the presence of danger, and a bat probably didn’t either.

Fenkenkabradon Dokaan, commander of the Lance Defenders, was a bronze-colored warrior almost as big as Tarhun. He carried a sheathed greatsword tucked under one arm, and branching steel piercings like miniature antlers jutted from his temples. He grunted and said, “One of your escort told me you just now ran into shadow creatures the bats had trouble seeing.”

“With respect, High Lord,” Medrash replied, “magic and u

Dokaan gave a brusque nod. “Fair enough. It is.” He turned toward Tarhun. “Majesty, I think Sir Khouryn’s plan has merit.”

Several other officers and clan leaders tried to speak at once. Somewhat to Khouryn’s surprise, they all seemed to be expressing support. But maybe it shouldn’t have surprised him. They were the warrior elite of a valorous people, and they were heartily sick of the giants.

“So be it,” said Tarhun. “Ready the troops.”

Jet flew a zigzag course to throw off the aims of archers and crossbowmen. Aoth chanted words of power and repeatedly jabbed his spear at the Threskelan company below. Hailstones the size of his fist dropped out of thin air to pummel the foe.

Aoth wanted to conserve his power. But that particular war band had soldiers riding bounding drakes, as well as a pair of shambling, long-nosed war trolls. It made sense to soften them up a little.

Once Jet carried him beyond the reach of their arrows and quarrels, he twisted in the saddle and looked for some sign that Tchazzar had entered the battle. The Firelord knew, it shouldn’t be hard to spot.

But you’re afraid he’ll balk, the griffon said.

Jhesrhi stayed behind to encourage him, Aoth replied. Unfortunately, Halonya’s there too, without me to intimidate her. We just have to hope-

A roar thundered across the scrubland, drowning out the rest of the muddled cacophony of battle. Wings lashing, golden eyes burning, blue and yellow flames leaping from his mouth, the red dragon rose from the center of the Chessentan formation.

In the night, few of the advancing enemy could see Tchazzar as clearly as Aoth could. Yet even so, every one of them faltered. Lurching, stumbling hesitation rippled across the battlefield.

Congratulations, said Jet. One of your schemes finally worked.

Not yet, said Aoth, but it’s off to a reasonable start.

Tchazzar was supposed to fight hard during the opening movements of the battle, wreaking havoc on Alasklerbanbastos’s army and creating the appearance that he was squandering his strength. Assuming he conducted himself as he had in past conflicts, the Great Bone Wyrm would let his archenemy wear himself down, then attack when he judged he had the advantage. At which point Jaxanaedegor and his fellow traitors would turn on their overlord, and they and Tchazzar would take him down together.

It would be a neat trick if it came together. Aoth could think of a dozen ways it could go wrong. But then, that was the case with most such plans.

Tchazzar hurtled toward a blue dragon on the wing. The blue had an unusually long beard of bladelike scales dangling beneath her chin, and the massive horn on her snout lacked a secondary point. By those details, Aoth identified her as Venzentilax, one of the wyrms genuinely loyal to Alasklerbanbastos.

She spat a bright, twisting flare of lightning. Tchazzar didn’t even try to dodge. Nor did he jerk, falter, or reveal any other sign of distress when the attack hit him, although it blackened a spot at the base of his neck.

“Watch out!” a griffon rider shouted. His mount gave a piercing screech, and others took up the cry, spreading the alarm across the sky.

Aoth turned to behold a flight of undead hawks the size of horses, with green phosphorescence shimmering in their sunken eyes and bone showing through holes in their rotting feathers and skins. The raptors had come up on his flank while the dragons’ duel distracted him.

He pointed his spear and started to hurl fire at the hawks. Then Jet lashed his wings and flung himself sideways.

Even so, a stab of cold chilled both the griffon and Aoth to the bone-he could feel the familiar’s distress through their psychic link. Both undead, another mount with another master plunged down at them. They’d flown in higher than the hawks, and that had kept Aoth from noticing them before. Even fire-kissed eyes couldn’t spot trouble if he was looking in the wrong direction.

The steed was the reanimated corpse of a chimera. It had the pallid wings, hind legs, and serpentine tail of a white dragon, while the rest of the body was leonine. Three heads sprouted from the shoulders-the wyrm’s, the lion’s, and the odd one out, a ram’s complete with curving horns.

The rider had three heads too, although they all looked the same-naked human skulls perched atop a single skeleton. It clutched a staff in its bony hands.

Beating his wings, Jet flew out from under the chimera. Aoth tried to aim his spear and recite an incantation, but the aftereffects of the jolt of cold made his hand shake and his mouth stammer. He botched the spell, and as his attackers dived past, the skull lord-as such things were called-glared at him. Pale light seethed in the orbits of the fleshless head on the left, and cold burned through him once again.