The masked witches

Jet approached the Storm of Vengeance from high above, the safest and stealthiest way to do it. He wasn t sure of a hostile reception, but there was ample reason to be wary of Mario Bez and his crew. The Halruaan had the scruples of a hungry rat, he was Aoth s rival in the competition for the wild griffons, and his appearance at the Fortress of the Half-Demon was as unexpected and possibly as unfortunate as

Dai Shan? As a member of a more sensible species, Jet was largely immune to the feelings of incredulity and self-doubt that afflicted humankind. What he saw, he saw, and what he knew, he knew. But he found himself peering more closely at the elevated bow of the Storm to make sure the darkness wasn t playing tricks on him.

It wasn t, so he studied the skyship. His experience with any sort of ship was happily limited like all griffons, he had little use for the sea but he understood the danger of colliding with any part of the complex web of rigging and sails. The results could easily be fatal. It was helpful that Dai Shan was at the end of the vessel rather than somewhere in the middle, but it didn t eliminate the hazard entirely.

Jet decided on the trajectory he wanted and wheeled to the start of it. Then he furled his wings and dived.

Despite the darkness, one of the crew saw him swooping in and shouted. But no one had time to react to the cry. An instant later, Jet s talons closed on Dai Shan where he stood peering down at the benighted stronghold with Bez. He jerked the merchant off his feet and carried him over the far rail.

Beating his wings to regain the high air, the griffon rasped,

Where is Captain Fezim?

Dai Shan took a moment to reply. Maybe he needed to get past the shock of what had so abruptly befallen him. With all respect, majestic commander of the skies, he eventually said, how would I know? I ve only just arrived.

Jet closed his talons tightly enough that Dai Shan gasped and stiffened. Don t lie to me, the griffon said.

Aoth and I are linked mind to mind. I saw you take him and the others through the gate into Shadow. He s still gone, but somehow, you re here. Tell me what happened.

It s fairly involved. I fear we may not have time.

Stop stalling! Bez can t help you now!

Nor am I certain that doing so is foremost in his mind. If my mighty captor can climb or distance himself from the ship anymore quickly, I respectfully advise it.

Mario Bez considered himself keen of eye and quick of mind. Still, though the huge black griffon had swooped within an arm s reach of him, he d barely glimpsed it as it snatched up and carried off Dai Shan.

Still, a glimpse had sufficed, and fortunately, given that the Storm had reached her destination, all hands were at their battle stations. Ready the catapults and ballistae! he called.

The artillerymen scrambled to obey. Melemer made sure the team under his immediate supervision was performing as it should be, then leered up at the forecastle. The griffon thinks we won t strike at it for fear of killing the Theskian, too, he called.

Bez smiled back at the little tiefling. And it would be ungrateful of us. Dai Shan guided us here. He scouted the situation so we d know what to do when we arrived. He claims to have rid us of Aoth Fezim, although he s hazy on the details. Still, we wouldn t want him to take it into his head to blackmail us with what he knows, and the Thayan s talking steed poses a similar threat. It could tattle on us, too. So, all things considered, I believe we should take advantage of a happy opportunity to solve two problems at once.

Ready, Captain! a ballista man called. Down the length of the vessel, other sellswords shouted the same.

Lights! called Bez.

Crossbows shot in all directions. The quarrels exploded into orbs of light that only drifted earthward slowly, like thistledown. For the moment, their silvery glow did a fair job of illuminating the sky around the Storm.

Off the port bow, shouted a crewman, and three hands above the deck!

Those teams who had a shot scurried to pivot their weapons and adjust the elevations.

Not an easy shot, Melemer said.

We ll make it, Olthe growled. The battleguard stepped up to the tiefling s catapult, rested her hand on the throwing arm, and chanted a prayer to Tempus. Smirking, Melemer whispered a spell of his own, and points of red light glimmered over the surface of the weapon.

Kill the griffon! shouted Bez.

The catapults and ballistae loosed a clanking, snapping volley, and the missiles turned into blazing thunderbolts and orbs of fire in midflight. Most fell well short, flew far wide, or both.

But the ball of flame from Melemer s catapult hurtled at the mark. Plainly perceiving the danger, the black griffon lashed its wings and dodged out of the way.

Olthe brandished her axe and shouted, Tempus! Melemer smacked the palms of his hands onto his stubby horns, displayed the resulting bloody little punctures to the heavens, and snarled two rhyming words in some Abyssal tongue. Gripping the hilt of the rapier hanging at his side, Bez rattled off an incantation of his own, but more for form s sake than because he expected any of the magic to accomplish anything. The griffon had simply evaded too deftly.

But the orb of fire veered in what was nearly a hairpin turn, a magical course correction so pronounced that, despite decades spent practicing battle wizardry, Bez had never seen the like. There was always an element of chaos and uncertainty in magic, the more so when multiple spells worked in concert. And it appeared that the arcane and divine forces at play on the Storm had achieved an amazingly potent synergy.

Perhaps its power caught the griffon by surprise, too. The beast tried to dive and dodge again, but the luminous sphere hit it anyway. The missile exploded into a ragged, booming burst of yellow fire, and a burning mass tumbled out of the heart of the blast and plummeted toward the ground.

Momentarily forgetting she didn t like him, Olthe gave Melemer a clap on the shoulder. The buffet nearly knocked him off his feet.

Vandar roamed through the corpse-littered courtyard and the chambers adjacent to it, checking on his brothers. Despite the magic of his crimson weapons, which evidently, had some power to delay the onset of fatigue, he felt the same grinding exhaustion as the others. But as lodge master, it was his duty to offer praise, guidance, encouragement, jokes, or consolation as needed.

Too often, it was the last. The entire Griffon Lodge was a tight-knit fellowship, and nearly everyone had lost at least one close comrade. The society as a whole had lost half its initiates and all its more notable allies as well. Aoth, Jhesrhi, Jet, and the Stag King had all either perished or disappeared.

Vandar felt a pang of his own grief, or perhaps even guilt. His brothers had died because he had led them to the Fortress. And for all he knew, Cera and the other outlanders might conceivably have survived if he hadn t turned away when he heard her calling.

The red metal shaft of his spear warmed in his hand, and he realized such self-reproach was pointless. His fallen brothers had been warriors, and they d died as they would have chosen, fighting to destroy a threat to Rashemen. They d succeeded, too, and as a result, the lodge they d loved would henceforth stand as high, or higher, than any in the land. Recruits would pour in to replenish its depleted ranks.

And as for the outlanders The mound guardian s prophecy said that, had they lived, they and Vandar were fated to be enemies. That being the case, wouldn t it be foolish to regret the ma