He strode toward them, his expression frozen on Diadree in triumph as he began to mouth the words of another spell.
Bahrn wasn't about to wait to find out what magic it might be-at best, a spell to kill or contain them both, anything to keep Diadree's mind intact.
His hand moved to his weapon, but he hesitated. The wizard was too far away. If Arlon ducked, if he missed his target, he and Diadree were dead.
He scanned the wall, following the spines of serpentine, stone bodies, as if he could will them to move, to leap down upon the wizard.
Arlon raised his hands.
Bahrn smiled grimly and hurled his morningstar into the space between them.
Arlon's eyes bulged. His left hand trembled violently, but he continued to weave the gestures of his spell even as his right palm spasmed weakly, pinned between the cavern wall and the head of Bahrn's morningstar. Blood streamed down the rock into the dust, but he kept speaking, spitting the words of his spell with flecks of saliva.
He didn't see the rock shifting behind him, stirred awake by the impact of the morningstar on stone.
Two more serpentine bodies uncurled. They caught Arlon's movement as he completed the gestures of his spell.
'Stay behind me,' Bahrn commanded as Diadree tried to raise herself up to a sitting position.
They watched as a tiny wisp of flame hovered into being above Arlon's unruined palm, flowing and expanding into a blue-orange sphere of fire.
'Get ready to run,' he hissed, knowing that Diadree would never be able to get out of the way of the flowing missile.
The sphere burst in the air where it was forming as a third anvil-shaped head swung out from the wall next to Arlon's raised hand. It struck the glowing sphere and the wizard in the same movement.
The magic dissolved as the anvil drove Arlon's body into the uneven cavern wall as the morningstar had buried his hand. His head snapped back against the stone, and he slid, limp, to the floor.
Bahrn held himself rigid. He pressed Diadree behind him as the wyrmlings came down from the wall. They stalked the cavern with their sightless eyes, heads drifting from side to side as if they could scent the air like bloodhounds on a track.
Finally, finding nothing moving, they slowed and collapsed to the cavern floor in a pile of rock. After a moment, they became indistinguishable from the other stone formations.
'Is he dead?' Diadree asked, looking from behind Bahrn's back at Arlon's still form.
Bahrn nodded. 'Are you ready to go home, Diadree?' he whispered, hardly daring to breathe for fear the stone dragons would awaken again. 'Amrennathed is sleeping again.'
'Not yet,' Diadree answered. 'I have to stay.'
Somehow, he wasn't surprised. He doubted she was in any condition to make the jostling trek back down the mountain. Her eyes were glazed, staring at something far away, and the hollows of her cheeks seemed deeper sunk into her face. It struck Bahrn that despite all of these things she looked much the same as she always had, back to the time of his childhood. She had been old then and was old now. He could never recall a time when she was young. He wondered why he was just realizing that.
'For how long?' he asked.
'Long enough to get the pieces out,' she said. 'Don't ask me how much time it will take. I've no idea.'
'I mean how long have you lived here, Diadree-on the mountain?' He hesitated. 'You knew Amrennathed, didn't you? You spoke to her.'
'You're implying, I suppose, that she, I, and the mountain are of like age?' She offered a raspy chuckle. 'No, boy. I'm not as old as the mountain-not quite. Amrennathed told me her name and exchanged words with me because we understood each other-two old women wanting a good place to live and die in peace. The mountain suited us.' Her eyes turned heavy, dark. 'Wouldn't you prefer that, human man, or would you be skewered on the point of spear and sword?'
'I am not a dragon, lady.' Bahrn spoke gently, but for the first time since he was a boy staring in a window, he felt unsure and a little afraid of the old woman. He swallowed, forcing the feelings away and a smile to his lips. 'Neither are you, Diadree, despite all accounts.'
'This is no way to die either.' Her eyelids fluttered-the darkness passed from her face, and a bit of the old humor returned. 'Don't listen to me. If I stay here long enough, she will take them-the rest of the pieces. I hope.'
Bahrn didn't know what to say.
'I'll mend your roof for you before I go,' he found himself offering. 'When you decide to go home.'
'That's kind of you. You've not turned out too badly at all. I'm shocked almost to the point of exhaustion.' She laid her head against the mountain and slept, a satisfied half-smile curving her lips.
THE STRENGTH OF THE JESTER
Mirtul, the Year of Rogue Dragons (1373 DR)
There was news from far and wide in the Jovial Juggler Inn that day. News of dragons. It was hearsay, mostly, but it had enough of a ring of truth to put everyone present on edge. Vague reports out of the north of a new Flight of the Dragons, like the one over the Moonsea and Dales seventeen years before, only wider-ranging and more deadly. A bulbous merchant from Hillsfar recalled the dragon slain over the city that time, so great that its corpse blocked the harbor for a month.
From a vacant table Khalt sat silent and listened. Most occupants of the tavern glanced at the elf occasionally but none dared approach him or question him. Wiry and leonine, with a tawny countenance and a huge dagger at his belt, he looked able and willing to fight at a moment's notice. The tattoo across his cheek told them that he was feral and dangerous, a reputation his people did little to discourage among outsiders. The fact that the tattoo was a dragon, its silver tail dangling down his chin and onto his neck, probably drew some interest, but Khalt didn't care to explain himself. Beregost was a merchant town, serving those traversing the Trade Way between Baldur's Gate and Amn, and certainly saw a great many types better not questioned.
Khalt kept his focus on a shadowy corner of the taproom and the two figures meeting there. If the others knew who they were or what they were talking about, they would have cause to be much more than concerned.
A traveler from Turmish told a story he had heard in Erlka-zar a tenday before. It concerned a dragon that supposedly emerged from its lair in the mountains near Saradash and laid siege to the city, destroying much of it before finally being slain by the town guard and two local wizards. The Turmishan saved the most shocking part for last: 'It was a brass dragon.'
A gnome roared in laughter, perched atop a tall stool. 'If a metallic dragon did all that, Saradash must have done something to deserve it.'
'Don't be so sure,' the burly barkeep replied. 'They say these Flights have been going on for centuries, and I always wondered why only the evil ones should be affected.'
Khalt's eyes narrowed. One of the two figures in the shadowy corner, the one clad in purple with a wild shock of white hair, was a man Khalt trusted more than any being on Faerim. But Trinculo's face, rarely seen without a wide grin, looked grimmer than Khalt had ever seen it. The other man, whom Trinculo called Chalintash, had a ruddy complexion and hair the color of rust. Khalt didn't trust him in the slightest.
The two of them roared in laughter a moment but soon returned to solemnity. Khalt wondered what could be so funny.
'Listen to yourselves,' the gnome protested. 'Your minds drift comfortably to the worst case scenario.'
'He's right,' piped in a black-haired trader from Waterdeep. 'If something new is going on with the dragons, the right people must already know about it and are now taking actions to protect us all.'
