“Better than better,” said a fellow with umber scales. A grin lit up his face.

“I was so sick,” said a female-astonishment, revulsion, and relief all tangled together in her tone, “so ugly. And I didn’t even know!”

In another moment, a dozen of the cultists were clamoring all at once.

“Thank you,” shouted Vishva, making herself heard above the din, “and thank Torm, who lent you his glory! Thank Bahamut, who led us to you!”

Medrash looked like he didn’t know to respond. In the end, he settled on gruffness, perhaps to hide whatever he was feeling.

“Now comes the hard part,” he said. “Stripped of your powers, you’re nothing special. We can only hope that some hard training will make you marginally useful. As spearmen.” He turned to Balasar. “Khouryn doesn’t have a prejudice against Bahamut worshipers. Do you think he’ll teach them, and lead them into battle when the times comes?”

Balasar grinned. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be as thrilled as I am.”

Studying the rolling scrubland beneath them, Aoth and Jet floated on the night wind. Jaxanaedegor could shift the companies under his command as he saw fit. But he couldn’t neglect dispatching scouts to range across the countryside, or officers loyal to Alasklerbanbastos would realize something was amiss. Someone had to keep those scouts from reporting that reinforcements were reaching the Chessentan army.

Aoth spotted four kobolds skulking along the lee of a low rise. He kindled light in the point of his spear, swept the weapon down to point at the scouts, then extinguished the glow. He hoped that if the kobolds even noticed, they’d think they’d merely seen a shooting star.

Jet furled his wings and plunged at the kobold at the back of the line. Rising in the stirrups, Aoth braced for the jolt to come.

Jet’s talons stabbed home, and his momentum smashed the kobold to the ground beneath him. The scaly little creature likely died without ever even realizing he was in danger, and the thud of his demise was relatively quiet.

But not quiet enough. The other three kobolds spun around.

Jet yanked his gory claws out of the dead scout’s body, then pounced. He slammed another kobold down on the ground, raked with his leonine hind legs, and tore lengths of gut out of the warrior’s belly.

A third kobold hissed rhyming words and jerked a length of carved bone through a zigzag pass. Hoping to blast the shaman before he finished his spell, Aoth aimed his spear at him.

Then Eider plunged down on the reptilian adept to rend and crush the life from him. Gaedynn pivoted in the saddle, drew, and released. The arrow hit the last kobold in the throat, where his hide and bone armor didn’t cover. He toppled backward, thrashed, and then lay still.

Jhesrhi and Scar glided to earth. “You didn’t leave any work for me,” the wizard said.

“We didn’t want you to get blood on your new clothes,” Gaedynn answered.

Jhesrhi scowled.

Making sure they hadn’t missed any kobolds, or anything else requiring their attention, Aoth took a look around. Everything was all right.

Which was to say, they’d tackled the kind of task that sellswords were supposed to perform, and done it well. Wishing that the rest of life was as simple, he said, “This is as good a place as any for a talk.”

Gaedynn smiled. “I had a hunch. Why would you take both your lieutenants off on a patrol, unless it was to talk where no one could overhear?”

Aoth swung himself off Jet’s back, then scratched his head. It made a rustling sound and tinged the air with the smell of feathers. “I told you about Tchazzar and Jaxanaedegor’s palaver. You’ve had some time to mull it over. What do you think?”

Jhesrhi dismounted and removed a leather bottle from one of Scar’s saddlebags. “Essentially,” she said, “assuming we can trust Jaxanaedegor, it was all good news. He and his minions will betray Alasklerbanbastos, and we’ll all destroy the Great Bone Wyrm together.”

Gaedynn snorted. “There’s a subtle analysis.”

“It’s a sound analysis!” Jhesrhi snapped. “And you’re a jackass if you don’t like it. We’re going to win, collect plenty of gold for our trouble, and restore the Brotherhood’s reputation. Which is exactly what we came to Chessenta to do.”

“So it is,” said Aoth. “And half the time, I feel like a fool for trying to look any deeper. But the other half, I worry that something bad will take us by surprise if we don’t. So, what do you make of the part of the conversation that Tchazzar didn’t share with us? The part that wasn’t just him and the vampire conspiring to bring Alasklerbanbastos down?”

Jhesrhi frowned as though she felt rebuked, although that hadn’t been Aoth’s intention. Pulling the stopper from her bottle, she said, “Have it your way. If you insist on fretting, I do have one bone for you to gnaw on. Do you know the tales of the final Rage of Dragons?”

“I recall a bit of them,” Aoth said, “and I lived through a nasty little piece of the Rage myself.”

“Well, Brimstone was the name-or, to be precise, the nickname-of one of the wyrms who helped destroy the lich Sammaster and put an end to the madness.” Jhesrhi took a drink, hesitated for an instant, then offered the bottle to Aoth.

He made sure his fingers didn’t brush hers as he took it. It turned out to contain lukewarm water. Too bad. He’d hoped for something stronger.

Gaedynn shrugged. “The last Rage happened even before the Spellplague. With all respect to our hoary old captain here, I don’t see how it could have anything to do with our current problems.”

“Neither do I,” Jhesrhi said. “Especially since in Karasendrieth’s song cycle, Brimstone dies at the end. But it’s all I have, so I thought I’d mention it.”

Aoth wiped his mouth and passed the water to Gaedynn. “This is just a guess, but maybe Brimstone’s a nickname you’d assume if you hoped to command a dragon’s respect or even his obedience. And Jaxanaedegor did speak of this Brimstone like it’s someone who could impose some sort of sanction against him and Tchazzar both.”

Seeming to sense its dislocation by sheer instinct, Gaedynn smoothed down a stray wisp of his coppery hair. “But really, what sense does that make? Jaxanaedegor’s overlord is Alasklerbanbastos, and his stated goal is to slay the Bone Wyrm and be free. And Tchazzar is even less inclined to acknowledge any sort of authority. How could he, when he believes he’s not just a god, but the greatest of gods?”

Jhesrhi glared. “He never said that.”

“Not in so many words,” Gaedynn answered. “Not yet. But it’s coming.”

“Here’s one thought,” said Aoth, “unlikely though it may seem. More than once, Tchazzar and Jaxanaedegor spoke of playing a game. Some games need an overseer to tally points and enforce the rules.”

Gaedynn’s eyes narrowed. “Brimstone could be the overseer, and the Precepts could be the rules,” he said.

“You’re both letting your imaginations run wild,” Jhesrhi said. “Aoth, you have to remember you don’t speak Draconic perfectly. Even if you did, you don’t understand exactly how dragons think or what sort of relationships exist among them. Surely if they referred to a game, it was just a figure of speech.”

“Maybe,” Aoth admitted.

“Even if they do think of the war as being, in some sense, a game,” Jhesrhi said, “what does it matter? Won’t we fight it and profit by it the same as ever?”

“I hope so,” said Aoth.

“It may not matter to us sellswords,” said Gaedynn, “who wanted to fight somebody someplace. But if it’s all just an amusement, that’s hard luck for the Chessentans and Threskelans, with no choice but to struggle and die for their masters’ entertainment.”

“It clearly isn’t just an amusement,” Jhesrhi said. “Tchazzar and Alasklerbanbastos have been trying to destroy one each other for centuries. There aren’t two more committed enemies in all the length and breadth of Faerun. In addition to which, Tchazzar wants to control all the lands that are rightfully his, just like any other king. And since when do you care about the Chessentans, the Threskelans, or anybody else outside the Brotherhood?”