could channel power one more time before he collapsed. He groped beyond himself, beyond the physical world into a brighter, purer realm, and the god granted a final gift of strength.

But how to use it, when his previous expenditures of power had accomplished nothing? He gripped Khouryn’s massive shoulder, which jumped repeatedly as the dwarf coughed, and employed the energy to bless him. To strengthen his body and mind alike.

Khouryn stumbled down one riser, almost losing his balance in the process. Then he hefted his axe and charged.

Unfortunately, his lungs were still full of poison, and his continued coughing slowed him and made him clumsy. Though caught by surprise, the Green Hands managed to recoil from his first strikes and ready their short swords.

But they evidently couldn’t do that and maintain the psychic pressure too. For when Medrash, still gripping the handrail, tried to head down the steps, he found that now he could.

He reeled toward one of the Green Hands to keep them both from attacking Khouryn. The murderer turned and lunged. The move was all-out aggression. Because after all, why worry about defense when his target was unarmed and all but spastic with pain and weakness? When the coughing would prevent him from even using his breath weapon?

But at least Medrash wasn’t breathing poison anymore, and he’d spent his whole life training for combat-first with the masters of arms of Clan Daardendrien, then with his paladin mentors. Feeble and awkward though he was, he found the right instant to slip the swordsman’s initial thrust, step beside him, and claw away the side of his throat. Blood sprayed from the severed arteries.

Medrash turned just in time to see Khouryn chop the remaining Green Hand’s leg out from under him, then cleave his ribs before he hit the floor. Clearly he too could hold his own even in adverse circumstances.

The dwarf nodded to Medrash, and he returned the gesture. Then a clatter of hurrying feet on the staircase reminded them the fight wasn’t over. Their other enemies were coming down. Evidently the lingering vapor wasn’t toxic to them.

Worse, after stepping over Balasar, they stopped partway down the steps. Medrash realized that however they’d created the smoke before, they meant to make some more. And he had no idea how he and Khouryn could contend with another dose.

But Balasar, who’d appeared unconscious-or as good as-raised the sword in his shaking hand and sliced the back of a killer’s leg. The murderer dropped, and his companion turned to look at him in surprise. Balasar thrust the sword up at him. The Green Hand flinched back from it, but in so doing lost his balance and tumbled down the steps.

With what was surely the last of his strength, Balasar repeatedly stabbed the man he’d hamstrung. Khouryn sucked in a deep breath, made a hiccupping sound as he kept himself from coughing it right out again, and charged back into the fumes-where he smashed the skull of the remaining Green Hand.

Medrash hoped that by now perhaps he’d taken enough breaths of relatively clean air to do something comparable. He’d better have, for he was sure Balasar couldn’t wait. He ran up the stairs, grabbed his clan brother’s arm-he hadn’t yet regained sufficient strength to lift him-and dragged him down and out of the cloud.

Then they all flopped down on the floor, coughed, and watched for other threats, although at first it was questionable whether they could do much about any that might appear. Gradually, though, the ache in Medrash’s chest subsided, and his strength started trickling back.

“You banged my head on every one of those steps,” Balasar wheezed.

“Sorry,” Medrash said. “Next time I’ll leave you swimming in poison.”

Three thunderclaps, or something that sounded like them, boomed somewhere overhead.

“I know that sound,” Khouryn said. “Aoth or Jhesrhi conjured lightning.”

Medrash looked at the staircase. The cloud was dissipating. “We should find out why. And I think I can cast a blessing to strengthen us so we’re fit to help them if they need it.”

“Good,” said Khouryn. “Do that. But before we move on…” He rose, reached for the hood on one of the corpses, and hesitated. Medrash peered at the body and realized what about it had surprised him.

Khouryn pulled off the hood to reveal the dragonborn head underneath. “By the Watchful Eye!” he growled, astonished. He unmasked another Green Hand. That one was a dragonborn as well.

The dwarf turned to his companions. “What does this mean?”

Medrash shook his head. “We have no idea. Let’s worry about it after we find our comrades.” He gripped his amulet and recited a prayer.

An exhilarating coolness tingled through his body and soothed the hot rawness in his throat and chest. He lifted the medallion and it shed a soft white light over his companions. A tautness went out of their faces as the healing eased them too.

“Thanks,” Khouryn said. “Now let’s go.”

Medrash retrieved his sword as they prowled up the staircase. At the top was the communal room that likely took up most of the second floor of the human habitation. And it was on fire, albeit burning in the leisurely way of damp, rotten wood. Flames licked across a portion of the floor and up one wall, devouring the designs and symbols painted there. Papers charred in the hearth. Smoke drifted through the hot air, irritating Medrash’s nose and almost making him cough again.

Aoth, Gaedynn, and Jhesrhi came through a doorway. Each had suffered what looked like blisters and burns, and for some reason each was dripping wet. But none looked seriously hurt.

Medrash was glad to see them. But the feeling turned to dismay when the humans aimed their weapons and spread out to flank their allies.

“Move away from them, Khouryn!” rapped Aoth. The head of his spear glowed crimson.

“It’s all right,” said the dwarf. “We know-the Green Hands are dragonborn. But these two dragonborn aren’t Green Hands. They fought the ones we met downstairs.”

“You’re sure?” The point of the spear shone brighter, and Medrash could have sworn that the strange blue light in Aoth’s eyes did the same. “It couldn’t have been some sort of trick?”

“No,” Khouryn said. “They saved my life and came close to dying themselves.”

Aoth mulled that over for a heartbeat, then gave a nod. “All right. Medrash, Balasar, my apologies. Jhesrhi, can you put out these fires?”

“Yes.” Her voice rising and falling, the wizard chanted. The quick, soft words resembled the whisper of dancing flames. As she recited the last one, the fires guttered out.

Arrow still resting on his bow, Gaedynn turned and peered around. “We seem to have cleared the house.”

“Yes,” Khouryn said. He turned to Aoth. “Dragon, dragonborn… Now we understand your vision.”

“I suppose,” said Aoth. “Unfortunately, we understand too late to give our friends from Clan Daardendrien advance warning of what’s to come.”

FOUR

7-18 TARSAKH THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

Jhesrhi looked at Aoth, whose tattooed face was shiny with the pungent ointment he’d rubbed on to help heal his burns, and thought, Look at us. Not one but two evil mages, veritable demons in mortal guise, in the war hero’s audience chamber. I imagine it’s been awhile since that’s happened.

Unless, of course, the mages in question were facing execution or something like that.

Hatred welled up in her, and she struggled to quash it. She’d managed to serve the zulkirs, despicable tyrants though they were. No reason she couldn’t fight for Chessenta too. And fortunately, her resentful fancies to the contrary, she and Aoth weren’t the ones in trouble today, even if the hostile stares of some of the courtiers might have led one to imagine otherwise.

But Zan-akar didn’t look hostile, even though, from what Jhesrhi understood, Aoth had undermined him when they met before. In fact, the stormsoul approached with a warm smile on the dark, narrow face so intricately etched with silver lines that it put Aoth’s tattooed mask to shame.

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