“Yes. As opposed to that.”

Aoth frowned. “Playing the game” was likely just a metaphor for striving for power. Yet something in the dragons’ voices made him wonder if the phrase had some deeper meaning. If it had some connection to the Twenty-Eighth Precept.

He was still wondering when the red dragon’s head whipped around in his direction. “What’s that?” Tchazzar snarled.

“What?” Jaxanaedegor asked.

“The hiss of breath,” Tchazzar said. “The thump of a heart.” He crouched low, the better to peer along the ground.

I can reveal myself, thought Aoth. I can claim I followed to protect him if Jaxanaedegor played him false.

But instinct-or maybe just fear-persuaded him to remain motionless instead. Tchazzar took a long stride closer to his hiding place. So did Jaxanaedegor. Their yellow eyes, each bigger than a human head, glowed like terrible mockeries of the moon. Their smells washed over Aoth-sulfur and smoke from the red, stinging foulness from the green. He clenched against the urge to cough or retch.

After what felt like a long time, Jaxanaedegor said, “I don’t hear anything.”

“Neither do I, now.” Tchazzar said. A tiny bit of the tension quivered out of Aoth’s body, but he kept holding his breath.

Then Tchazzar whirled toward the other wyrm with a speed astonishing in anything so huge. The vampire leaped backward just as quickly. “But if this is a trap, I’ll tear you apart!” Tchazzar said.

“If I broke the Precepts,” Jaxanaedegor replied, “Brimstone would cast me out, and I wouldn’t risk that any more than you would. Besides, my best assassins don’t breathe, and their hearts don’t beat.”

“All right.” Tchazzar stood up straighter; he wasn’t coiled to spring anymore. “Suppose I decide I’m willing to trust you. What do you want in exchange for your help?”

“Very little. To be the supreme master of my own lands, and no one else’s vassal.”

“I’m fighting this war to bring Threskel under my control.”

“At this point you ought to be fighting to preserve your life and keep Alasklerbanbastos from bringing all Chessenta under his control. But leave that aside. After we win you can credibly claim to rule Threskel, because you actually will govern most of it. Your humans won’t care who or what is still inhabiting Mount Thulbane and its environs, because to their way of thinking, the country is a wasteland.”

“To everyone’s way of thinking,” Tchazzar replied. “Which makes me wonder why you’re willing to settle for such a meager reward.”

“There are two answers to that. The first is that punishing Alasklerbanbastos for his bullying and arrogance will be satisfying for its own sake. The second is that the game has barely begun. I have a long-range strategy that starts with complete control of my own domain, however modest others may judge it to be.”

“All right,” Tchazzar said. “If you deliver all you’ve promised, then neither I nor any of my servants will interfere with Mount Thulbane or the lands around it. I swear it by our Dark Lady and my own divinity.”

“We have a bargain, then. You’ll hear from me by one means or another.”

Jaxanaedegor turned, trotted, lashed his wings, and flew up toward the stars. Tchazzar watched the vampire’s dwindling form for a time, then abruptly dwindled himself-into human guise. Smiling, one hand resting on the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side, the red dragon sauntered back toward camp. Aoth waited a while, then followed.

For all Nala knew, pursuit was right behind her. Mages, or Lance Defenders riding bats, could have departed Djerad Thymar almost as quickly as she had.

That meant there was no time to bury the portal drake. She could only lay its body gently on the ground.

Despite its wound, she’d pushed it hard, commanding it to shift through space again and again to carry her clear of the city. And the faithful creature obeyed until the strain stopped its heart.

Its death was a tragedy. Worse, it represented yet another crime against the Dark Lady, who’d given Nala the drake to aid her in her holy task. She looked back at Djerad Thymar, rising like a black arrowhead against the starry sky, and a spasm of hatred shook her.

All the goddess’s foes were going to pay. Medrash. Balasar. The dwarf. All of them. Because they hadn’t won anything. Nala knew where to go and what to do to continue her work. Denying fatigue, fear, or any feeling but rage, she ran across the fields.

ELEVEN

19-24 KYTHORN THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

Balasar rode at the wooden target Khouryn called a quintain. He grinned when the blunt tip of his practice lance thumped home, spinning the horizontal arm out of his way. He had some catching up to do if he was going to practice the strange new form of fighting when the army returned to Black Ash Plain, but he seemed to be getting the hang of it.

Behind him, some of his comrades raised a shout. He turned his horse around, then gaped in surprise.

Dozens of folk were marching toward the muddy training field from the place where Djerad Thymar rose like a broken-tipped blade against a cloudy sky. Several of them were carrying purple pennons with silvery dragon shapes coiling down their lengths.

Balasar hadn’t seen such banners since the night Nala fled and her treason became common knowledge, rekindling the average dragonborn’s hatred of wyrm worship. He hadn’t expected to see them ever again.

By the broken chain, he thought, what’s the matter with you people? Go home, lie low, and if anyone asks if you ever belonged to the Platinum Cadre, lie till your scales fall off! Don’t throw your lives away!

For it was possible that that was exactly what they were doing. A lancer whooped, couched his weapon, and rode at one of the cultists carrying a banner. The dragon-worshiper made no effort to dodge or otherwise defend himself. The lance slammed him in the chest and hurled him and his pennon to the ground.

It was conceivable that the impact had seriously injured or even killed him. Or that the horse trampled him; tall grass kept Balasar from seeing. Other lancers turned their steeds toward other living targets, and those cultists too made no effort to protect themselves. One warrior dropped his blunt length of ash and drew a sword of gleaming steel.

Balasar sent his horse racing toward the slaughter in the making. “Stop!” he bellowed. “Stop!”

No one paid him any attention.

But then Medrash galloped across the field, between some of the riders and the folk on foot. Even spattered with mud from the practice, even in the midst of the spring sunshine, he seemed to glow, and when he shouted for everyone to halt, his voice boomed like thunder. The lancers reined their horses in.

Balasar sighed and shook his head. Spit and roast him if he ever groveled to Torm or any other jumped-up spook. But there was no denying that it had taught Medrash some useful tricks.

“What’s wrong?” shouted one lancer. “These are the traitors! You brought them down!”

“I helped bring down their creed,” Medrash answered. “That doesn’t mean they deserve to be attacked on sight. Nala tricked them as she did the rest of us.”

“She tricked them worse,” said Balasar, riding out to take up a position beside his clan brother.

“Some of them were dragon-worshipers before Nala ever declared herself their prophet,” another lancer growled.

“And if I hadn’t infiltrated the cult and exposed it for what it was,” Balasar said, “some of you fools would be lining up to join. So the least you can do is accede to my judgment-and Medrash’s-when we tell you you don’t need to hurt these people. In fact, if you give yourself over to rage and viciousness, you’re embracing the same qualities that the dragon goddess tried to instill in them. So save your strength for killing ash giants!”