“But doesn’t that make things… difficult?”
Aoth certainly thought so but knew he had to project confidence for the firestormers’ benefit. “It’s just a tactical problem we need to solve. Come on. Let’s all go chew it over.”
They crawled backward until it was safe to stand. Then, the more fastidious among them brushing themselves off, they rejoined the rest of the company on the saddleback where they’d left them to rest, munch the tart, wild blueberries that were ripening there, and await developments. They all gave Aoth and his companions inquiring looks of one sort or another.
They’re nervous, said Jet, speaking mind to mind. Now that it’s actually dragon time.
I can fix that.
Or make it ten times worse, the griffon replied.
“All right,” called Aoth, “listen up! Here’s the nut we have to crack.” He laid out the situation.
As he’d expected, it daunted a fair number of them. Eyes grew wide. People whispered to their neighbors. He drew a flash and a whine from the head of his spear to startle them silent and keep them from feeding one another’s fear.
“We can do this,” he said. “Remember, the griffons can fly, and so can the windsouls among us.”
“Captain Fezim is right!” Son-liin said, and Aoth didn’t doubt her support was sincere. She was eager to accomplish the mission, both for its own sake and to prove she wasn’t the liability she’d appeared to be on the first stage of the journey.
But he also suspected that, in a way, she was striking a pose for Gaedynn’s benefit. She’d been spending a lot of time with him since he’d unmasked Yemere, and Aoth fancied he could almost see her watching from the corner of her eye to see if she impressed him.
“I agree,” Cera said through blue-stained lips. “The Keeper of the Yellow Sun wants us to do this, to save the innocents who would otherwise die when the dragon and his servants venture forth again. The god will watch over us every step of the way.”
“And I revere the gods and their priestesses,” an earthsoul said. “Don’t think I don’t. But…” He spread his brown, gold-etched hands.
“But you know dragons make terrible foes,” Aoth said. “Fair enough. But remember, we’re firestormers. We’re pretty terrible ourselves. We beat the horrors the blue mist birthed. We beat the medusa and the orcs. We killed one wyrm already, even though he was hiding in our midst. We can do this.” He took a breath. “Especially since we have a weapon you don’t know about.”
Mardiz-sul frowned. Flame flowed along one of the golden lines above his right eye. “Why did you wait until now to tell us?”
“Because the creature doesn’t make a comfortable traveling companion,” Aoth replied, “and because I’m not proud of having such a being in my service even to achieve a worthy goal. But the time has come when we truly need him.” He turned to Cera. “Is he nearby?”
She nodded. “When we drew near to the Old Man’s Head, I prompted him to follow closer.”
“Then pull in the rest of the line.”
Cera removed the shadow gem from the pouch on her belt. Genasi close enough to get a good look muttered at its uncanny appearance. They haven’t seen anything yet, said Jet.
Cera gazed into the stone. Her jaw clenched when the inside of it flickered blue. The connection to an unnatural thing such as Alasklerbanbastos was still hurting her, even though she did her best to hide it. Feeling guilty, Aoth told himself that at least she shouldn’t have to suffer it much longer.
For a while, nothing else happened. Among the genasi, tense expectation began to give way to puzzlement and doubt. Then the dracolich crawled through the gap between two weathered granite outcrops, and several firestormers cried out in alarm.
Aoth wasn’t alarmed, exactly, but he was surprised. The deterioration of Alasklerbanbastos’s physical form had progressed remarkably since he’d seen the undead dragon last. It appeared every bit of hide had fallen or rotted away.
For a moment he wondered about that. But the growing fear among the firestormers pushed the thought out of his head. Genasi were shoving and stumbling back from Alasklerbanbastos and grabbing for their weapons. The riding drakes were screeching and hissing. Aoth had to prove he was in control before outright panic erupted.
He walked toward the dragon with no more concern than a master would show before a well-trained dog, or at least that was how he hoped it looked. “Down on your belly,” he said.
Sparks sizzling and popping on his flayed, mangled, charred, and generally ravaged body, reeking of both corruption and the imminence of lightning, Alasklerbanbastos glared… and stayed as he was.
“The sunlady still has your phylactery,” said Aoth. “She’s proved repeatedly that she knows how to use it. Do we really have to punish you again?”
“I wish you would,” Gaedynn said. “I always enjoy seeing it.”
His raw, slimy countenance and glazed, sunken eyes a mask of hatred, the dracolich lowered himself to the ground.
Khouryn clung to Praxasalandos’s back. Every time the dragon took a stride, it jostled him and hurt him but not as much as if he were trying to hobble on his own two feet, assuming that was even possible. Slamming into the wall had bruised him from head to toe and possibly cracked some bones. He hadn’t felt the damage too badly when he was intent on fighting, but he felt it after.
The quicksilver wyrm stepped down into a depression in the granite floor. That gave Khouryn’s body a somewhat harder bump than usual, and despite himself, he hissed as pain stabbed up his back.
Praxasalandos twisted his head around to look at him. The slash in his neck had finally scabbed over, but it still looked like the nasty wound it was. “I am so sorry,” the dragon said. Although he could have sung bass in any dwarf or human chorus, he had a relatively high voice for one of his kind, and the wretchedness suffusing it left no doubt that he truly did feel guilty.
“It’s all right,” Khouryn said. “If we had a true paladin, instead of this charlatan, he could heal us.” To emphasize his point, he manufactured a hacking cough, which then turned into a real one. His lungs, throat, and nose still ached from inhaling a bit of the dragon’s breath, just as his eyes still stung and watered from the touch of the fumes.
Trudging along at Praxasalandos’s side with his dimly glowing sword held aloft, the ropy scales at the back of his head bouncing a little with every step, Medrash snorted. “Torm’s grace works best to comfort the virtuous. That means black-hearted sellswords are pretty much out of luck.”
Khouryn chuckled, then wished he hadn’t, because that hurt too.
As was often the case, Medrash’s levity proved to be a fleeting thing. “You know I’ll help you as soon as my gifts renew themselves,” he said. “Or if we reach our friends first, the healers there can do it.” He turned his head and gave the dragon a scowl. “Assuming they’re capable of it.”
“I swear to you, they’re fine,” Praxasalandos said. “I couldn’t harass them and stalk you at the same time. If they haven’t wandered off the proper path, you’ll be reunited with them soon.”
Medrash grunted.
The wyrm sighed. “You still don’t like me or trust me, do you, paladin?”
“To be fair,” Khouryn said, “up until recently, you were trying to kill us.”
“I know,” said Praxasalandos. “I deserve your doubt and your scorn. But I was under a spell. Sir Medrash, you know that better than anyone since you’re the one who set me free.”
“How did the magic get hold of you?” Khouryn asked.
“It must be woven into Brimstone’s explication of the Great Game,” the quicksilver dragon said, “because as soon as I heard it, I was lost.”