But the dracolich roared words of command. Several tendrils of power leaped from the empty air above Tchazzar and stabbed into his body. The magic was shadow dark, not bright, but it crackled, twisted, and smelled like lightning.
Tchazzar leaped out from under the evidently excruciating effect, but he had to let go of Alasklerbanbastos to do it. The dracolich’s skull dangled from his neck like a half-broken twig at the end of a dead branch. But it was still attached-and, with a succession of little jerks, it started to hitch back into its proper position, even as chips of bone floated up from the ground to patch the cracked, gnawed vertebrae behind it.
Then, at last, Jaxanaedegor plunged down on top of his master. Another green wyrm followed, and then a red. Tchazzar lunged to join them.
The four dragons ripped into the dracolich like a pack of starving wolves assulting a deer. Alasklerbanbastos spat all the lightning he had left-then, roaring, struck and clawed with all his might. It wasn’t enough. Gradually his foes bit, smashed, and wrenched him into such a scatter of broken bone that not even magic could go on putting him back together.
Aoth relished every moment of it.
Skuthosiin told himself he wasn’t tiring, nor weakening from blood loss. In his former life he’d been a Chosen of Tiamat, and he was still an ancient wyrm. No horde of scurrying little dragonborn could bring him down.
Although admittedly, it wasn’t just dragonborn. Acting through his champion, Torm himself was striving to kill Skuthosiin. But that didn’t matter either. Because, his paladin gifts notwithstanding, Daardendrien Medrash was as tiny and fragile as the rest of his kind. Skuthosiin only had to score once with his fangs or claws to tear the wretch to pieces.
To that end, he slashed with his forefoot. Medrash jumped back. But perhaps he too was tiring, because he didn’t recoil quite far enough. Skuthosiin didn’t connect with his body, but the tip of one talon snagged the top of the swordsman’s battered heater. As it jerked free, splitting the top half of the shield in the process, it yanked Medrash off balance.
Skuthosiin struck like a serpent.
Scrambling faster than should have been possible for such a squat, short-legged creature, Khouryn Skulldark knocked his comrade aside. Now he was under Skuthosiin’s jaws. Well, that was all right too.
Except that at the last possible instant, the dwarf hopped to the side, and Skuthosiin’s teeth clashed shut on empty air. Then something slammed into the side of his head.
Or at least it felt like a simple impact. But as Skuthosiin reflexively heaved his head high, he realized Skulldark had actually chopped him with his axe. The weapon was still buried deep in his flesh, perhaps even in the bone beneath, and the wound gave a first excruciating throb. Skuthosiin snarled.
Something else snarled back, close to his ear. Or perhaps it was a breathless but savage laugh. Dangling, Skulldark still clung to the haft of the axe. Either he’d been too surprised to let go of his weapon when Skuthosiin lifted his head, or else he’d chosen not to.
Clinging to the axe with one hand, Skulldark drew a dirk with the other and stretched his arm to the limit, trying for Skuthosiin’s eye. Unable to reach it, he plunged the knife through hide and into the flesh beneath.
Enraged, Skuthosiin lifted his claws to swipe both the dwarf and his weapon away. Then white light blazed before him as, seeing his distraction, Medrash charged his sword with divine Power, rushed in, and cut at the base of his neck.
Balasar darted in beside his clan brother and slashed with his own blade. So did Tarhun-Skuthosiin hadn’t even noticed his arrival on the scene-swinging a greatsword bloody from point to guard. Spearmen jabbed, and mages hurled bright, crackling thunderbolts and fire.
Skuthosiin toppled sideways. It was impossible, but it was happening anyway.
He struggled to get back up again, but merely thrashed and writhed. As his vision dimmed and his body went numb, even those useless convulsions subsided.
He hoped that when his head smashed against the ground, it had smashed Skulldark as well. Or that he’d pulped the dwarf during his death throes. But then he saw Skulldark sitting a few yards away, bruised and bloodied but alive. And watching him, no doubt to make sure he was really finished.
After a futile attempt to spit poison in the sellsword’s direction, Skuthosiin decided that he truly was. He watched worthless giants flee into the night, heard dragonborn start cheering, and then knew nothing more.
FOURTEEN
7-14 FLAMERULE THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
Kassur Jedea was a skinny, graying fellow in his middle years. But he looked older. Aoth, leaning on his spear-which rather to his amazement he’d recovered intact from the midst of Alasklerbanbastos’s scattered, shattered bones-his burns, scrapes, and bruises aching despite the healers’ prayers, ointments, and elixirs, wondered if the nominal monarch of Threskel had looked so elderly a tenday earlier, or if he’d aged all at once in anticipation of what was about to happen.
Kassur kneeled stiffly before Tchazzar, removed the simple gold circlet that served as a crown in the field, and laid it at the red dragon’s feet. “I surrender my kingship,” he said in a tight baritone voice. “I surrender myself to Your Majesty’s judgment.”
Tchazzar let him kneel there in silence for another moment. Then he bent over, picked up the circlet, and offered it back to Kassur. “Keep it,” he said.
Kassur blinked. “Majesty?”
Grinning his broad white grin, Tchazzar stood up from his folding camp chair and hoisted the Threskelan back onto his feet. He pressed the circlet back into Kassur’s hand.
“Keep it,” he repeated. “I don’t need to proclaim myself king of Threskel so long as the man who holds the title acknowledges himself my vassal. Because I’m the war hero and a living god, and that sets me higher any king, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Of course, Majesty!” Kassur jabbered.
“Some would say,” Tchazzar continued, “that because you took up arms against your rightful liege lord, you’re unworthy of your title and estates. But I know Alasklerbanbastos left you no choice, as he left none to any Threskelan. So I won’t punish any of you. Keep your lives and your freedom, your coin and your lands. Simply heed my command that from this day forward, all Chessentans, whether born in the north or the south, will live together peacefully as one people.”
Sunlight gleaming on their helmets and mail, people started cheering. Aoth judged that as was only natural, the defeated Threskelan troops were the most enthusiastic. But by and large, even the victorious Chessentans seemed to support the red dragon’s decision to show mercy. And it was probably a shrewd one if the war hero wanted to rule a united realm hereafter.
Gaedynn leaned sideways and murmured behind his upraised hand, “I guess we won’t be sacking Mordulkin and Mourktar.”
“Then Tchazzar will just have to dig deeper into his own treasury to pay us,” Aoth replied. For Kossuth knew they’d earned it.
The red dragon let the assembled warriors cheer and pound their weapons on their shields for a while, then raised his hands. Gradually the throng fell silent.
“We’ll need both unity and courage in the days to come,” Tchazzar said. “Because while Chessenta is no longer at war with itself, it still has neighbors scheming to destroy it. Those of you who hail from the south know to whom I refer-the dragonborn of Tymanther, who raid our ships and our coasts and commit murder in Luthcheq.”
What in the Hells? thought Aoth. What in the names of all the Hells? Wondering if he could possibly have misheard, he turned to Gaedynn. Who, for once, looked as taken aback as Aoth felt.