Whisper of Venom

anymore.”

“He was dragon enough to kill three others when he finally did take flight.”

“My lord,” Jaxanaedegor said, “if you think it prudent, return to the safety of Dragonback Mountain. That’s a king’s prerogative. Your knights and captains will stay to fight for you and die for you if need be. That’s a vassal’s duty. But I ask you to consider whether you truly wish to forgo the joy of destroying Tchazzar with your own breath and claws. I ask you also to consider the effect on your reputation.”

Sparks crawled on Alasklerbanbastos’s fangs, and the light in his orbits grew brighter. “Meaning what, exactly? Choose your words carefully.”

“Great one, you know I fear you. How could I not? How many times have I felt the pressure of your foot on my spine or the top of my head? How many years have I lost to true death, my ghost wandering Banehold until it suited your whim to pull your stake from my heart? But xorvintaal … changes things. Every dragon is studying every other for signs of weakness. And, while one wins points for achievement and guile, a player can also score for daring and renown-if he makes the right move.”

At first Alasklerbanbastos didn’t reply. The moment stretched until it seemed that something-Jaxanaedegor’s composure, perhaps-must surely snap.

Then the dracolich snorted. “You may be right about the game. You’re certainly right that it’s past time for Tchazzar to die, and that I want to be the one who dowses the flame. Come!” He lashed his rattling, fleshless wings and climbed.

Jaxanaedegor followed with a certain feeling of joyful incredulity. He possessed considerable faith in his own cunning. Still, perhaps there was a buried part of him that hadn’t believed he could bring the scheme to fruition.

Yet he had. After centuries of preliminary maneuvering, the two most powerful wyrms in Chessenta were going to meet in final battle.

During the early phases of the combat, Jaxanaedegor would perform as Alasklerbanbastos expected, and if the army of Threskel gained the upper hand, he’d simply continue to do so. But if, as he hoped, Tchazzar seized the advantage, then Jaxanaedegor and his followers would switch sides just as he’d promised the red. And whichever elder dragon ultimately won, he’d reward Jaxanaedegor for playing a key role in his victory.

There was even a chance that Alasklerbanbastos and Tchazzar would destroy each other, making Jaxanaedegor the most powerful creature in Chessenta. He reminded himself it was such a remote possibility that he didn’t dare base his strategy on it. But if it happened, it would be the sweetest outcome of all.

From on high, the Threskelan army looked rather like a mass of ants creeping across the ground. Aoth supposed he should be glad the ground was where most of them were. He and his comrades had apparently wiped out most of the Great Bone Wyrm’s flying minions in the previous battle.

Of course, there were dragons in the air, as well as bats with suspiciously phosphorescent eyes. Aoth reminded himself that if he could trust Jaxanaedegor-a significant if-then most of the flyers were actually on his side.

Whether they were or not, he was ready to fight. Partly, he supposed, because an honest battle would provide a respite from mysteries and pandering to Tchazzar’s eccentricities. But mostly because a decisive victory that night would restore the Brotherhood’s reputation. Afterward would be time enough to fret over the meaning of the dragons’ Precepts and to decide how much longer to remain in the war hero’s service.

Time enough as well to sort out Jhesrhi. She’d told him that Tchazzar had expressed sympathy with Skuthosiin’s desire to slaughter the dragonborn-not that he knew what to make of that either-but he sensed there was something else, something more personal, that she was keeping back.

You can guess what it is, said Jet. Tchazzar wants to make her a princess, and she’s decided to let him.

Aoth sighed. You may be right. What sellsword doesn’t want to retire to a life of luxury? And this is the country of her birth.

So you’d leave her to the whims of a mad king?

Not happily, but it’s her choice. Anyway, if the Great Bone Wyrm slaughters us all before morning, it won’t much matter, will it? Why don’t we focus on winning the war for now?

Jet gave an irritated rasp and then, responding to his rider’s unspoken will, wheeled and flew back toward Tchazzar’s army. A first star glimmered in the charcoal-colored eastern sky.

Below Aoth, warriors scurried, preparing for battle. His eyes instinctively sought out his own men, griffons, and horses. It looked like the sergeants were doing a good job of putting everything in order.

Jet furled his wings and swooped toward the patch of open ground in front of Tchazzar’s pavilion. The war hero stood with his legs apart and his arms away from his torso as a squire buckled gilt plate armor onto him a piece at a time. Why, only the Firelord knew. He was supposed to fight in dragon form.

Other folk were hovering around him, either because they were awaiting final orders or simply because he wanted them there. Jhesrhi, Gaedynn, Shala, and Hasos were all armed in their various fashions and looked like the seasoned combatants they were. Halonya’s top-heavy, bulbous miter and garnet-dotted robe with its long dragging train made her look like a parody of a priestess costumed for a farce.

But although she was the one person manifestly out of place, it was to her that Tchazzar looked as Aoth swung himself out of the saddle. “What do you think, wise lady?” the red dragon asked. “What do the omens say?”

Halonya blinked. “Uh … your soldiers are strong in their faith. But the dark is rising.”

Gaedynn grinned. “That often happens at sunset.”

“Respect!” Tchazzar snapped.

The archer offered a courtly little half bow. It was a silent apology if one cared to take it that way.

“The dark is rising,” the dragon said. He peered about as though a demon lurked in every deepening shadow. “We should have attacked by day.”

“Majesty,” said Aoth, striding toward him and the folk clustered around him, “if you recall, we wanted to give the appearance of weakness to lure Alasklerbanbastos to the battlefield. Which meant we couldn’t attack at all. We had to let him advance on us, and we assumed from the start that he’d come by night.”

“Actually,” Shala said, “we need him to. Jaxanaedegor couldn’t help us if we fought in the sunlight.”

“Jaxanaedegor,” Tchazzar sneered, as though it were she and not himself who’d made a pact with the vampire. “Yes, by all means, let’s hang our hopes on him.”

Shala’s square jaw tightened. “Does Your Majesty have a shrewder strategy?”

“Perhaps,” Tchazzar said. “We could withdraw. Fight at a time of our choosing.”

“Majesty,” said Aoth, “this is the time of our choosing. Of your choosing. And it’s too late to withdraw. You can fly away, but most of your army can’t.”

Tchazzar turned back toward Halonya. Who, Aoth was certain, meant to go on saying exactly the wrong thing.

He whispered words of power, then pointed his finger at the gangly, towheaded youth who was trying to strap Tchazzar’s armor on, having a difficult time of it as his liege lord fidgeted and pivoted back and forth. The cantrip sent a chill stabbing through the squire. He stumbled, and his hands jerked, jamming the war hero’s gorget into the soft flesh under his jaw.

“Idiot!” Tchazzar snarled. He spun, grabbed the boy, and dumped him on the ground. Then he started kicking him.

Aoth winced. But he hoped that with a battle and an archenemy awaiting his attention, Tchazzar could be persuaded to stop short of doing the lad permanent harm. And in any case, the chastisement gave Aoth the chance to shift close to Jhesrhi and whisper, “Distract him.”

She immediately headed for the war hero. “Majesty, please!” she said. “I understand that you’re upset. But I have something I need to say.”

“What?” Tchazzar said.

“I think … I think that walking among us mortals in a form of flesh and blood, you sometimes half forget what you truly are-a god. Above all signs and auguries except the ones you find in your own heart, and your own