“Orgurth. Yours?”
“Aoth.” Whether most people hereabouts had heard of him or not, Aoth saw no reason to push his luck by giving his full name, especially since he was already stuck with displaying his distinctive luminous blue eyes and mask of facial tattooing.
“May the Sleepless One strengthen Aoth’s arm and send him worthy enemies to smite,” Orgurth said with a gruff and unexpected courtliness.
“May the Sleepless One sharpen Orgurth’s scimitar and send it worthy heads to cleave,” Aoth replied.
Orgurth’s piggy eyes widened in surprise that his companion knew the correct response. But Aoth had been fighting alongside and against orcs for a hundred years. It was no great marvel that he’d picked up something of their customs.
“Now we’re proper comrades,” he continued, “but maybe only until the point where our paths will split.”
Orgurth tugged at the buckled straps securing a pauldron to his shoulder. Made for a larger warrior, and a human one at that, the armor wasn’t going to fit perfectly no matter how many times he adjusted it. “Why would they?” he asked.
“Because we’re an odd pair. We might attract less attention each traveling alone. And because it’s possible that if a tharchion or someone like that hears my description, the patrols and taxstation guards will become a lot more interested in catching me than you.” Aoth figured he owed the orc that much of the truth.
Orgurth leered. “You must be quite a villain.”
Aoth grinned back. “You’re not the first person to say so. So what’s it going to be?”
“I’ll stick with you. The way I see it, there’s something to be said for going unnoticed, but more for having a partner who can throw lightning into the teeth of those who do take an interest. Where do you think we ought to head?”
“That’s another thing. I have to head for the Citadel. It’s a dangerous choice, but I’m hoping it’s also my quickest way back to Rashemen, and I have urgent business there.”
“That suits me. I’ve had my fill of Thay.”
“It’s settled, then. Let’s put some more distance between us and the castle, then find a spot where we can get off the trail and stop for a while without anybody seeing us.”
“Why, do you need a rest already? I thought the potion fixed you.”
“It did. But I need to talk to my other partner, and I’d just as soon not try to manage a horse at the same time.”
As he drowsed by the crackling campfire, Jet thought that in ordinary circumstances, the tiny portion of scrawny rabbit in his belly would likely only have sharpened his hunger. Yet he wasn’t hungry at all.
Maybe it was because he felt so wretched and weary. Dai Shan had regained consciousness, but like Vandar, Jet hadn’t even dredged up the will to question him yet. He doubted he was capable of listening to the glib Shou’s prattle, sorting his lies from truth.
Or maybe it was because he was dying, and if so, there was a part of him, a part he’d never imagined existed until today, that wished he could just get on with it.
Then a voice spoke inside his head. You’re awake.
Suddenly alert, Jet reached across their psychic link to peer through Aoth’s eyes. The human was sitting on a log in a clearing with an orc and a pair of horses tied to scrub pines. Mountains rose on all sides, some of them volcanoes. Several were smoking and a couple were rumbling and spilling lava down their sides. The snow on the ground was gray with ash.
You’re on the Thaymount, said Jet, as astonished as he was appalled.
Unfortunately, yes. Aoth reached back across their mystical bond, and the familiar felt something else that was new, an impulse to flinch from his rider’s inspection. He wondered if this was the useless human emotion called shame.
Whatever it was, he sensed Aoth’s horror and pity, and that only made the feeling burn hotter. But at least Aoth was matter of fact when he continued speaking:
I was hoping you would fly me out of here. But apparently that couldn’t happen for a while.
I’m sorry.
It’s all right. I’ll find another way north. You concentrate on recovering.
If I can. The statement slipped out seemingly of its own accord, before Jet knew he was going to say it.
Of course you can! You’re stronger than any ordinary griffon. I know. I enchanted you to be that way when you were still in your mother’s womb.
I hope so.
Besides, Cera’s magic will heal you if she’s there. Is she? Jet could feel the anxiety underlying the question.
No. Delivering the bad news felt like another failure. I’d better tell you everything I know about what happened after you passed through the arch into the dark. He did so with a combination of language and flashes of images from his memory.
By the time he finished, Aoth’s worry had warped into anger. And Dai Shan is there with you, right now?
Yes. Jet turned his head so that Aoth could see the Shou through his eyes. Singed, blistered, and stinking of combustion and blood, portions of his garments burned away, Dai Shan looked far different than the dapper emissary to the Iron Lord’s court, but his self-possession remained intact. Apparently engaged in the practice humans called meditation, he sat with legs crossed, palms up, and eyes closed.
Your suspicions were correct, said Aoth. He-or his avatar-tricked Jhesrhi, Cera, and me into going into the shadow maze so he could get rid of us. He tried to murder me, he stranded the others, and maybe he knows how to get them back. You have to question him right away.
Jet found that his own anger gave him the strength to heave his aching body up off the ground. He lunged, shoved Dai Shan onto his back, and held him there by pressing an eagle-clawed forefoot down on his chest.
“Ah,” Dai Shan wheezed, breathless with a griffon’s weight squashing him. “I infer that the fierce prince of the skies wishes to resume the conversation that Captain Bez’s fireball cut short.”
Red spear in hand, Vandar rose heavily. “I guess it’s time.”
“I defer to your judgment,” the merchant said. “Yet I fear the results will prove disappointing. As I was about to explain previously, by chance, I discovered some of the more formidable undead fleeing into a hidden labyrinth. I likewise discerned how to pursue them. I shared the information with Captain Fezim and his friends, and we gave chase. Unfortunately, the creatures realized someone was on their trail and set a trap. In the battle that ensued-”
Jet silenced him by pressing down harder. “Don’t lie. Captain Fezim is here. He’s in my head.”
“Then he must have found a way to return to the mortal plane.” Dai Shan smiled up into the griffon’s eyes. “Congratulations, sagacious warlord. I should have expected nothing less. Yet I’m perplexed. If you’re already in communication with your steed, why does he need to hear the tale of our adventure from me?”
We need to know how you really unlock the magical arches, said Aoth.
Jet relayed the question.
“Of course,” said Dai Shan. “I pray my friends will forgive both my obtuseness and my decision to reserve that information a little while longer. Until the desire for retaliation has lost its primacy.”
Jet pressed harder. “Now.”
“Please consider,” Dai Shan wheezed, “that until we make our way back to the Fortress of the Half-Demon, we won’t have access to any magical arches, anyway. Consider too, that if you kill me, you’ll forfeit the other forms of assistance I can provide.”
“Meaning what?” Vandar asked.
“I have some training in the chirurgeon’s art, even though I’ve always employed it to conduct interrogations not unlike this one rather than to heal. Moreover, when my father told me he was sending me to Rashemen to procure griffons, I learned what I could on that subject. My inquiries included having a sage instruct me on their anatomy.”