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.
“I know,” Tchazzar continued, “that we lost many fine warriors fighting among ourselves. But the dragonborn have committed outrages against Akanul as they have against us. I have the word of a spokesman for Queen Arathane-”
“Zan-akar Zeraez,” Gaedynn whispered.
“-that the genasi will aid us in our quest. We’ll crush this threat and plunder Tymanther to punish her for her treachery. After which you have my promise to divide the loot fairly. By summer’s end, no one will call Threskel a country of paupers anymore!”
Cheering erupted again, even louder.
Medrash and Balasar hurtled at the open space in the center of Djerad Thymar. Trying to overtake them on his own bat, Khouryn felt a pang of incredulity that they were really going to do this.
But they were. They were racing as Lance Defenders traditionally raced, and the course ran through the gaps in the outermost row of columns and on across the Market Floor. Where Khouryn discovered that Balasar’s airy reassurances were true. If a rider maneuvered properly-veering, swooping, and climbing-he could find enough clearance, vertically and horizontally, to avoid smashing into any of the massive pillars, permanent structures, temporary kiosks, or dragonborn who happened to cross his path.
Some of those folk reflexively ducked, or cursed and shook their fists. But more of them simply grinned their fanged grins and turned to watch, cheered Khouryn on, or shouted good-natured jeers because he was in last place.
He was too intent on guiding his mount to answer. Too tense as well. But he was also grinning.
He burst out into Selune’s silvery light. He cast around, then cursed. Because Medrash and Balasar had already turned their bats and climbed halfway up the truncated pyramid that was the City-Bastion.
By the time Khouryn flew his bat through the rectangular opening to the Lance Roost, his friends had already landed on one of the platforms. As Khouryn set his own animal down, Balasar said, “Did you see? I won. As usual.”
“And I came in third,” Khouryn said. “Also as usual.”
“But you’re riding well now,” Medrash said. “And your mount has learned to trust you.” He swung himself out of the saddle and scratched his own bat’s throat. It tilted its snub-nosed head back to facilitate the process.
Khouryn took a breath. “In that case, I suppose it’s time for me to leave.”
He’d do it flying. Tarhun had made him a gift of his bat. From what he understood, no one not a dragonborn had ever before received such an honor.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Medrash said. “We defeated the ash giants, but we took heavy losses doing it. We could use help putting the army back together.”
“Otherwise,” said Balasar, tossing the reins of his bat to the cadet waiting to take charge of it, “they’re liable to make me do it. The vanquisher is threatening to order usback into service with the Lance Defenders. What kind of reward is that for all my valor?”
Khouryn chuckled. “The world is full of injustice.”
“If you won’t stay,” Medrash said, “where will you go? East Rift?”
Khouryn sighed. “No. Our business here took too much time. I don’t regret a moment of it, but I can’t take any more. Not when I have no idea how the Brotherhood is faring in the campaign against Threskel.” In an effort to avert the melancholy suddenly threatening to take possession of him, he forced a grin. “Besides, I can’t go home to a kingdom of dwarves with my beard in this condition.”