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“But why dragons?” Merry demanded as they marched. “This is not what we’ve been training for! Damn it, if we’ve been busting all our butts for nothing…”

“You know, I think I had almost exactly this conversation with the Captain, only reversed,” Principia replied, glancing back at her. “Want to know what she said?”

Merry hesitated, then scowled. “That’s a trap, isn’t it.”

“There, see?” Prin said, grinning. “You’re learning. We’ll make a sly operator of you yet, Lang.”

“In all seriousness, though,” Farah piped up, “these orders…”

“Are orders,” Principia said firmly. “We can handle this assignment, and we will. Come on, ladies, we’ve dealt with orders specifically designed to break us. This is going to be more interesting than we’d like, yes, but it’s a real job, and it has a purpose. We’ll do it and do it well.”

“Sarge is right,” Ephanie added. “This is what Avei needs of us. Succeed or fail, there’s honor in the doing.”

“We will not consider ‘fail’ as a pertinent option,” Principia said. “All right, squad, pipe down. We’re approaching range of the Bishop, and I want her to see training and professionalism from us, and nothing else. Forward march, double time.”

They fell silent as ordered, falling smoothly into step. It was a little unusual to be quick-marching through the halls of the temple, but they were Legionnaires in uniform and it was the central bastion of Avei’s influence in Tiraas; no one attempted to interfere with them. The walk was relatively quick, anyway, and within another five minutes they had reached Bishop Shahai’s office.

It was one of the temple complex’s more idiosyncratic rooms, a small chamber four times as long as it was wide and lined with bookcases. Before a remodeling that resulted in the addition of a new wing to the temple, it had actually been a section of outdoor colonnade. Now, one wall—that which had previously been open—had panes of frosted glass between the remaining columns, giving a full view of the carpeted chamber and its numerous books. Those, too, were leftovers, entirely volumes of which multiple copies already existed in the temple’s library. Until Shahai came along, it had been a public space, its glass doors usually standing open and often serving as a spot for quiet reading, prayer or conversation. She had done nothing to make it her own, even to the point of making no objection to others being in the space. Shahai’s easygoing and humble attitude had already made her far more popular than her predecessor.

Not that the bar was set very high.

She was standing with her back to the entrance when Squad One marched in. Even from behind, she was a distinctive figure, slender and with long ears extending to either side of her pale blonde hair. There were few enough elves in the Sisterhood, and fewer still among the Universal Church’s personnel. The white robe of the Bishop’s office was similar to that worn by priestesses of Avei, though ankle-length rather than ending just below the knee, and with wide, billowing sleeves. Over that was the black tabard of her office with the Church’s silver ankh symbol, and over that she had belted on a sword in addition to the golden eagle pin at her shoulder. In contrast to Bishop Syrinx’s extravagant weapon, it was a plain leaf-bladed short sword doubtless straight from a Silver Legion armory.

“Squad One,” the Bishop said, turning to face them with a thoughtful expression. Nandi Shahai had eyes of a unique pale gray. The color itself was unusual among plains elves; its very light shade was a silver that verged on white under the right light. Those eyes flicked rapidly across them as they saluted. “Hm…five of you. That will make most ceremonial formations awkward… All right, Sergeant Locke, you are to position yourself as my personal aide. The rest of you will arrange yourselves as an honor guard. You know the requisite formations.”

It was not a question, but it required an answer anyway.

“Of course, your Grace,” Principia said crisply.

“You have a question, Private Elwick?” the Bishop asked mildly.

Casey blinked her eyes and glanced at Principia.

“Permission granted to speak freely,” Shahai said with a small smile.

Casey cleared her throat. “Ah, well… I don’t mean to question your decisions, your Grace. I was just wondering how important ceremonial formations are, considering what we’re to guard you against.”

“Your attitude is proper,” Shahai said approvingly. “However, it is also a highly pertinent question. If one dragon were to attack me, soldiers, there is precisely nothing you could do about it except die alongside me. We will be meeting, hopefully, four. This is not a military exercise and you will not think of it as such. It’s a different kind of battle entirely, and in diplomacy, a little pageantry goes a long way. For purposes of this assignment, squad, your bearing and conduct is more immediately germane to mission objectives than your skill in combat. You will keep this in mind and behave accordingly.”

“Yes, ma’am!” they chorused.

“And now Private Lang has a question,” the Bishop said, turning to her.

Merry quickly swallowed down a grimace. “Ah, well, case in point, ma’am. I was just surprised that you knew Elwick by name. And now me.”

“I assure you, ladies, I never enter a situation without knowing as many details and variables as can possibly be arranged,” Shahai said, folding her hands behind her back. “Almost everything about this situation is unknowable. It has no precedent, and while three of these dragons are known figures, they are not exactly familiar to any of us. Be assured, I have researched each of you as fully as the short span of time available to me allowed. Pertaining to that, and to your apparent inability to have a thought without expressing it on your face, you four will keep your helmets on when on duty. Locke, to further visually differentiate yourself from the rest of the squad, leave yours off. In fact, leave it here; I want you to keep a hand free.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I trust, further, that you do not lack facial control. Do you know what is expected of a personal aide?”

“I am familiar with the role, your Grace.”

“Good. I will have little in the way of papers to hold or errands to run; your primary role will be to be visually supportive. And as you are assuredly a practiced actor, I want you to convey the impression that we are old and familiar partners, if possible.”

“Yes, your Grace, I believe I can do that.”

“To that end, while I expect you to cultivate proper decorum, you may speak up and contribute to conversations when you deem it in the best interests of the Sisterhood and the mission. I am trusting both your sense and your loyalty, Locke. It is my opinion based on your records that this is warranted; if I prove mistaken, it will reflect on you in the High Commander’s eyes.”

“Understood, ma’am.”

“The rest of you, however,” Shahai continued, turning her head to address the remainder of the squad, “will keep fully in character as ceremonial guards at all times when we are at the Conclave embassy, among any dragons or their staff, or on duty pertinent to this mission. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open, and I will seek your opinions in private. In front of the dragons, though, you are scenery. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am!” all four replied.

“If addressed by them,” the Bishop said, her stare growing more intent, “or approached at all, you will politely but firmly redirect their attention to me. Trust me, ladies, you do not want a dragon growing more interested in you. They have a tendency to get what they want, and that has a tendency to disrupt one’s life to an astonishing degree. Whatever else these dragons are up do, I cannot conceive that they have come to Tiraas without expecting to acquire some manner of female companionship.”

“I’m not excessively worried about anyone falling head over heels for me, your Grace,” Farah said with a grin.

“Well, there’s Avelea to consider,” Merry said reasonably. “I mean… Dang. Just look at her.”

Ephanie’s cheeks colored slightly behind her helmet, but she did not otherwise react.

“These are immortals,” Shahai said, unamused. “They have lived to see fashions and standards of beauty shift as often as you have seen the seasons change. You are young, healthy, self-confident and strong-willed; there is a universal attractiveness in that. You will do nothing to attract draconic attention to yourself; you will not encourage it if it exists, and will coldly deflect it should it persist. Is that fully understood?”

“Yes, ma’am!” they barked more stiffly.

“A question, your Grace, if I may?” Principia asked politely.

“Of course, Sergeant,” Shahai said, nodding at her.

“I don’t mean to presume; I’m simply trying to get on the same page so I can help with your plans rather than impeding them. By singling out the two elves as obviously dominant members of this delegation, what impression are you trying to send to the dragons?”

“None,” Shahai said, a very faint smile hovering around her mouth. “No impression. In fact, I intend to leave the matter as utterly vague as possible and set them to wondering which of the obvious possibilities is the correct one. Dragons are wise and clever in addition to being powerful; every moment they spend trying to find nonexistent meaning in minutia is a moment they are not spending maneuvering us as they wish.”

Principia permitted herself a smile. “I see. I think, Bishop Shahai, I am going to enjoy working with you.”

“That would, of course, be ideal,” the Bishop said calmly, “but never forget that we are here for duty, not enjoyment. All right, ladies, fall in; it’s time to go pay a visit.”

 

“That was fast,” Darling noted, leading the returning adventurers into the dining room with Price on their heels.

“Yeah, that’s the convenient thing about failure,” Weaver said sourly. “It has a tendency to happen so much faster than success.”

“No sign of Mary at all?”

“Sign, no,” said Billie, “but you were right. She’d been there; Tellwyrn had apparently spent enough time with her lately to grow tired of it. But she’s up an’ fluttered off, and we’ve no idea where to or why.”

“The Professor knows we’re looking, though,” Joe added, “and I think she’ll be helpful if she can. I mean, she’ll point Mary at us if she goes back to Last Rock before coming back here.”

“And,” Weaver added pointedly, “we reached an agreement with regard to the other matter. We now have a prearranged secure place to get rid of the skull. Assuming we can get our hands on the damn thing.”

“That’s one worry down, then,” Darling murmured.

“Where’s McGraw?” Joe asked.

“Got a little antsy, waiting around,” the Bishop replied with a grin. “He went off ahead to Desolation to have a look around.”

“You sent him where?” Joe exclaimed.

“C’mere, have a look,” Darling said, ushering them into the dining room. Flora and Fauna were present, both studying a large map unrolled on the long table. Darling led the group over to this and placed a finger on one labeled dot, the two elves shifting back to make room while the rest crowded around to see, Joe pausing only to tip his hat to the girls. “Desolation is the last stop on the Rail line in the Badlands.”

“I thought it went all the way to the Dwarnskolds,” Billie said. “Isn’t the kingdom of Rodvenheim less hostile t’the Empire than most o’ the rest?”

“Less hostile, yes,” said Darling, nodding while keeping his eyes on the map. “That doesn’t mean they don’t share the traditional dwarven interest in their privacy. The dwarves have a cultural imperative to discourage the kind of melting-pot phenomenon that’s been developing all over the Empire; all sorts of random people having access to their gates doesn’t serve their interests. All right, I actually have further point to make pertaining to that, but first I need to bring you guys up to speed—there’ve been developments in Tiraas while you were out today.”

“Anything good?” Billie asked.

“That remains to be seen,” Darling said, frowning and finally lifting his head to look at them. “Lord Vex briefed me; this is what I was called away for this morning. Today, four dragons landed outside the city.”

“Dragons?” Joe said, his eyebrows shooting upward. “Four?”

“One of each extant color,” the Bishop said, nodding. “They came to announce that the dragons of the Tiraan continent have banded together and formed a government. They are requesting formal recognition and the opening of diplomatic relations.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Weaver said, staring at him.

“The Empire is handling this as slowly as they can, of course,” Darling continued, “but one doesn’t generally say ‘no’ to a dragon. Saying ‘no’ to all the dragons isn’t even on the table. They’ve been granted the use of a small palace that used to belong to some noble, which is already being considered an embassy in all but name. Anyhow, concerning our business, this obviously changes the character of the prophecies.”

“I should damn well think so,” Billie said in awe. “I mean…dragons. The politics o’ this alone… Could that be the chaos the books were goin’ on about?”

Darling shook his head. “The word ‘chaos’ wasn’t used; from the context, it was pretty clearly referring to chaos as a magical phenomenon. And the dragons aren’t necessarily the direct cause of it, but perhaps simply a significant enough event to draw prophecies of their own. This is entirely without precedent in the history of the world. But no, they wouldn’t be dabbling with chaos themselves. As a race, they have better sense.”

“Belosiphon sure didn’t,” Weaver noted.

“As you of all people likely know,” Darling retorted, “it was other dragons who brought him down. That kind of cooperation was rare even then. This… The whole world is changing, right out from under us. I can’t honestly say I still know what I’m sending you into, my friends. I want to raise the prospect of calling this whole thing off, or at least calling a halt until we can find more information, or at least find Mary.”

“Well, now, hang on a tick,” Billie said reasonably. “Even if it’s just chaos… The skull o’ Belosiphon is still out there, aye? An’ if that’s in circulation, it needs to be taken out of it.”

“We also know the Archpope’s other team is active,” Joe added.

“We assumed both of those things,” Darling said, raising a finger. “Our assumptions may not still be valid. The situation is more unpredictable and likely more dangerous than we know.”

“That being the case,” said Weaver, “it sounds to me like McGraw had the right idea. An Eserite once told me if your only available options are probably mistakes, it’s always better to err actively than passively. This seems to me like a good idea to head to the Badlands, get a look around, see if we can find something out and report back. If there’s a chaos artifact loose anywhere in the region, there will damn well be signs of it.”

“I suppose it can’t hurt to look,” Darling said thoughtfully. “…and having said that, I really hope I haven’t just jinxed you. All right, I’m going to trust your judgment on this. Be careful. Kindly don’t attempt anything too assertive until we’ve got more data to work with.”

“If nothin’ else,” Joe noted, “we’ll wanna link up with McGraw, see what he has to say. If I remember my frontier stories, the Badlands are his old stomping ground. The place where he made his legend, in fact. He’s likely still got friends up there.”

“Sounds like a plan t’me!” Billie said cheerfully. “An’ if nothin’ comes of it, we can still come back.”

“More Rail rides,” Weaver grumbled. “Ah, hell with it, too much comfort just makes me soft.”

Darling sighed. “All right, well… Just keep in mind what you’re seeing here, yeah? Desolation is right on the edge of the Badlands; assuming the skull is in that area, it’s not gonna be sitting on a convenient pedestal in town. This is a large stretch of country, and its pretty much the geographic center of nowhere. Your nearest major outposts of civilization are Rodvenheim, Puna Dara and Veilgrad, and none of those are exactly cosmopolitan epicenters. They’re also more than three hundred miles away, each.”

“Are we lookin’ at the same map?” Joe asked, pointing. “Shaathvar is right there.”

“It’s right there across the most impassible mountains on the continent,” Weaver said scornfully. “To get to Shaathvar from the Badlands, you’d have to go back down to Veilgrad and follow the roads up through the Stalrange. There’s a limited number of usable passes.”

“Shaathvar is also the’world’s most ass-backward place with a population o’ more than twenty,” Billie added. “Talkin’ o cosmopolitan epicenters.”

“Before this veers any further off topic,” Darling said firmly, “my point was, if you go adventuring into the Badlands, that’s that. You won’t be getting any more resources or help until you either succeed or quit. So yes, head to Desolation, find McGraw, look around. Please don’t be in a hurry to go haring off. I want everyone to be damn sure of what they’re doing before committing to something like that.”

“Don’t you worry yer pretty li’l head about us, poppet,” Billie said, winking. “We’re professionals.”

“Please don’t call him pretty,” Flora said, grinning.

“He’s vain enough as it is,” Fauna agreed.

Darling gave them an irritated look. “Don’t you two have something to clean?”

“Nope.”

“Not really.”

“Something can be found, if your Grace wishes,” Price offered.

“No, no, let them stay and learn,” he said somewhat gruffly. “That’s what we keep ’em around for, after all. All right, let me clear this out of the way and then we’ll get you guys some dinner.”

“Best we set out as quick as possible,” Billie said, frowning. “Every moment we delay, Khadizroth an’ the Jackal are getting’ ahead of us. Those two arseholes cannot be allowed ta get their ‘ands on the skull.”

“Assuming,” Weaver said, “they’re actually after it…”

“Aye, which we’ll find out by goin’ up there, right?”

“It’s almost dark,” Darling noted. “The Rails aren’t going to running by the time you can get to a station. C’mon, guys, I’m sending you face-first into chaos, conflict and possible death. You can’t reasonably embark until tomorrow morning anyway. Let me offer a little hospitality first, all right?”

“I admit it wouldn’t be amiss,” Joe said, grinning ruefully. “Not that I don’t take your point, Billie, but he’s right. We ain’t walkin’ to Desolation, an’ the Rails only run after dark for Imperial personnel. Might as well spend the night resting up.”

“I’m down for whatever lets me get some sleep before I have to stuff myself into one of those tin-can slingshot piece of crap Rail monstrosities,” Weaver snorted. “Sure, fine, dinner. Thanks for the hospitality, and all. It’ll give us a little more time to plan, anyway.”

“Hooray!” Flora said, beaming. “We never get to have guests!”

 

Later, with no lights outside the window of the parlor except the dim glow of street lamps, the fairy lamps within had been turned down to better allow the fire in the hearth to illuminate the room. It made a pleasing effect, both dimly relaxing and cheery. Darling said in his usual chair, an untouched brandy in his hand, staring into the fire with a dour expression that seemed to defy its best efforts to be uplifting.

With no one left in the house but its occupants, Joe having moved into lodgings of his own following the hellgate crisis, it was still in the evenings, especially when everyone was involved in their own thoughts, as tonight.

“That was really neatly done,” Fauna commented, coming over to sit on the arm of the loveseat near Darling.

“The way you got them to insist on heading out to the Badlands themselves, and think it was their own idea.”

“Very impressive.”

“Don’t just admire,” he said softly, still watching the low flames. “Learn, and be able to reproduce the results.”

A brief quiet fell. The girls sat on either side, watching him without staring, letting the companionable silence stretch out. Finally, Darling sighed softly and leaned forward to set his brandy down on the low table.

“Everything I said to them was true,” he said. “The situation is changed to the point of unknowability, and the only certainty of what I’m sending them into is danger. It’d be one thing if I were still certain we’d find Justinian’s lackeys at work up there… I really don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“But you need boots on the ground,” Flora said. “Weaver was right.”

“For once,” Fauna added with a grin. “Typically, only when he’s quoting Eserites.”

“We’re not going to learn anything by sitting in the city,” Flora continued reasonably. “Justinian’s oracles are still freaking out, and it’s not like there’s intelligence here to be gathered about what’s happening there.”

“All true,” he said, nodding. “But even so, if they were a less capable group of people, I wouldn’t have sent them off like that. There are ethical considerations, girls, always. A little manipulation when it’s useful is one thing; sending good people to risk their lives while I sit in my comfortable warm house is walking a narrow line. On one side of that line is a short road to being exactly the kind of asshole the Thieves’ Guild exists to knock down a peg.” He drew in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. “As it is… I can’t leave this where it stands. I have got to get them some backup, and some more data to work with. Joe still hasn’t forgiven me for this spring, and honestly I can’t find it in me to blame him. You take care of your people, girls, as much as you do yourself. More, even.”

“You take care of us,” Fauna said softly.

He gave her a small smile. “You’re family—that goes without saying. Other people, though. Anyone useful, or relevant, or just present. Manipulators—which we have to be—run the risk of starting to see everyone as pieces on a chessboard. Always keep your guard up against that. Once you start living that way, you become the enemy. For right now…” He drummed the fingers of both hands against the armrests of his chair. “Goddammit, I am stalled. I’ve got nothing else to give them. Is there any chance you two could find Mary?”

They exchanged a look, then grimaced in unison.

“We’ve…tried, actually,” said Flora.

“None of our own divinations so much as reveal that she even exists.”

“If she were dead or something, we’d be able to tell that.”

“She’s blocking us somehow.”

“Not really surprising. It’s an obvious precaution…”

“And the Crow doesn’t like people sniffing around her business.”

“Which is funny,” Flora added sourly, “since she sure does love to sniff everyone else’s.”

Darling rubbed his chin, again staring into the fire. “And that’s the worst possible area for Eserite backup… Dwarves hate thieves like you wouldn’t believe, the Guild presence in Puna Dara isn’t worth considering. Even if a trustworthy cell were nearby, thieves aren’t necessarily the best people for wilderness work.”

“Plus, they’re all three hundred miles away, or more.”

“But what about that other city, Veilgrad? That’s Imperial, isn’t it?”

“No good,” he said with a wry grin. “Veilgrad is having a werewolf problem at the moment.”

“Werewolves?” Fauna exclaimed, straightening up.

“In the hills around the city,” he said. “It’s come up in security council meetings. They’ve moved a battalion, a strike team and some Intelligence personnel into the city to help keep a lid on things, but as quietly as possible. The Empire doesn’t want word of that getting out. Lycanthropy is contagious enough and scary enough to really spark a panic whenever enough of them gather to form a proper pack.”

“Hm…” Flora stroked her own chin, an unconscious imitation of Darling’s habitual gesture. “Okay… If we can’t get help to them, what if we get them to help?”

“What, now?” he said, blinking at her.

“Well, I mean… Suppose they find Khadizorth and the Jackal and whoever else. It’s likely Justinian has more adventurers working for him, right? What if they could lead them into a trap? Like, in Veilgrad? If it’s full of werewolves and Imps…”

“That’s a trap for everyone,” Fauna pointed out.

“Natural hazards are a trap for whoever doesn’t know they’re there.”

“I like the brainstorming, Flora, but remember, that’s three hundred miles to the south,” Darling said. “Goading someone into a misstep is one thing. You can’t incite a person to chase you that far into that kind of trouble; that’s just giving them time to form a counter-plan.”

“What if…it is just a step, though,” Fauna said thoughtfully. “Remember how they described their fight with Khadizroth? This group knows their way around portal magic. If they could get an enemy through a door they didn’t realize led somewhere else…”

“Like, to Imperials and werewolves,” Flora said, grinning.

“Hm…I could sort of see that working, under the right circumstances,” Darling said, a faint smile growing on his own face. “Still pretty farfetched, but increasingly plausible. I’ll float the notion when they check in. For now, though, I’m still more concerned with finding them some kind of backup. And these dragons raise issues, too.”

“What kind of issues?” Fauna asked.

He sighed heavily. “As you know, we’ve been operating under the assumption that Khadizroth hasn’t spilled your secret to Justinian. He’s clearly working under duress and won’t want to hand the Archpope any useful ammunition. But… A mortal institution gets a dragon on a leash for basically the first time ever, and suddenly the dragons are banding together and demanding to be a presence? No. That is not a coincidence. They know something about Khadizroth’s situation. It’s immediately necessary for us to learn what, because that’ll tell us what they know about you, and what they may want to do about it. Dragons aren’t necessarily interested in headhunters…unless they are.”

“What do you mean, suddenly?” Flora muttered. “That was months ago.”

“Excuse me, I thought I was talking to a couple of elves. To creatures with eternity to plan, putting something this unprecedented together in only a few months is astonishing. Something’s lit a fire under them.”

“How do you know they haven’t been working up to this for years?” Fauna asked.

“Vex had word on that when he brought me up to speed,” Darling said seriously. “Apparently he’s had dragons on his mind a lot for the last few months; they all went off to Sifan and have been talking something over. He hasn’t been able to spy on them, not only because Queen Takamatsu would justifiably take offense at having her guests snooped on, but you just don’t spy on eighteen dragons. But it gives us a time frame for how long they’ve been working on this. Considering who it is, the fact that they put this together so fast…yeah, they know.” He sighed again. “But what do they know? What do they think about it?”

“And…what do we do about it?” Flora asked, frowning worriedly now.

“The coming days are going to be very revelatory, one way or another,” Darling said. “If things go well… Or at least, if they don’t go too badly… There’s a chance I can work this to our advantage. Khadizroth unquestionably brought his fate on himself with his behavior. The Conclave will want him out of the Church’s clutches, but they probably won’t be happy with him, either. Considering that…” He rubbed his chin again, this time with a faint smile playing on his lips. “We just might find allies of the most powerful kind.”

“Or enemies,” Fauna said softly.

Darling nodded, the firelight glinting in his eyes. “This is not going to be boring.”

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“I dunno, it seems kinda perfect, dunnit?” Billie said cheerfully as they finally approached the gates of the University. “I mean, given what kind a’ school this is an’ who runs it, makes sense you’d have ta put yerself out t’get there. I’m a little disappointed there’s not a labyrinth or somethin’.”

“None of which counters my original point, which is that this is a gratuitous pain in the ass,” Weaver grumbled. “If anything, it proves the point.”

“Oh, c’mon, you just look for reasons to complain. You’ve gotta be used to this, right? You used ta live here!”

“No,” the bard said sourly, “because when I lived here, I damn well stayed on the campus for exactly this reason.”

“Aye, this reason an’ I’m sure the world’s crawlin’ with people who’d love ta put yer head on a pike.”

“Nobody does that, Fallowstone. When was the last time you ever saw a pike? Outside a museum, I mean.”

“We talkin’ polearms or fish?”

“You’re an idiot, you know that?”

Joe wisely kept out of their argument. He actually agreed with Billie’s point—the University’s difficult-to-reach position and the grueling path to it seemed totally appropriate, both for the institution itself and for Tellwyrn. Apart from his general desire not to involve himself in pointless bickering, though, he was a bit shorter of breath than he wanted to admit. Mid-afternoon in early autumn on the Great Plains was not the best time to be climbing mountains, however gentle the slope.

In fact, he was busy mulling over the implications of the fact that his two companions seemed to have plenty of energy to jabber away. Billie was no surprise; gnomes were known for their resilience and durability. Weaver, though, if his claims were true, had spent the last several years sitting in a library. He was barely even sweating. The man was dressed mostly in black.

No one was watching the University’s arched gates, but the campus was far from deserted. Weaver led them to the left, then right, up a wide flight of stairs and onto a gently wandering path bordered by a colonnaded hall on one side and a wide lawn on the other. A young dwarf woman was reading quietly in the shade of the building’s exterior, while three boys were kicking a much-battered leather ball around the lawn, watched by a small gaggle of fellow students.

All this came to an abrupt halt at the arrival of the three visitors.

A thin blond boy with sharp features gasped melodramatically, then began running around in circles like a beheaded chicken, waving his arms and shouting.

“It returns! Repent, sinners, for the beast walks among us once again! The ancient horror is unleashed! Flee for your pathetic lives!”

He suited the words with action, pelting away down the path into a stand of trees, flapping his arms overhead the whole way.

“Hey!” Billie said, grinning hugely and slugging Weaver just above the knee. “Ain’t that sweet, they remember you!”

“Afternoon, Mr. Weaver,” a dark-skinned human boy said mildly. “You remember Chase, of course.”

“Not particularly,” Weaver grunted. “As you were, kids, we’re just passing through.”

“I thought you quit,” said a drow woman with a green-dyed mohawk. Her tone was overtly unfriendly, quite unlike the drow Joe had met in Sarasio last year; he remembered Shaeine as politeness incarnate. Also, this one’s hairstyle was far from flattering, not that he was about to mention it.

“Well, if you thought at all, you’ve made some progress in my absence,” Weaver snorted, stalking off along the path.

“Yeah, sorry ’bout him,” Billie said, waving to the students. “He’s got this condition where he’s a ruddy asshole.”

“We know,” the drow replied flatly.

Joe tipped his hat to her politely in passing, which gained him nothing but a hostile stare, and picked up his pace slightly to catch up with the others.

Weaver, blessedly, had ceased his grousing as they traversed the campus. Billie was too busy staring avidly at everything they passed to try to rekindle their argument, and Joe did likewise. They were watched curiously by students as they passed, and greeted a few times, but no one attempted to interfere with them; the students mostly seemed an affable lot, if more diverse than any group of people Joe had thus far encountered. Humans predominated, of course, but there were representatives from every sentient species he knew of, including one lizardman. Or lizardwoman. It could be hard to tell from a distance.

The place had a weight and a presence that made it seem older than he knew it to be. Greenery was everywhere, a number of the towering trees looking positively ancient, but of course there were ways to grow trees quickly with the proper fae magic. For that matter, many of these species wouldn’t have grown unprompted at this altitude, anyway. Nothing was crumbling or in disrepair—in fact, after Sarasio and even Tiraas, the whole place was absolutely squeaky clean. Still, it looked aged, and he couldn’t put his finger on why. That bothered him a lot more than perhaps it should. Joe lived in a world of calculated variables; he was deeply uncomfortable with vague feelings. The only thing he knew of that gave him vague feelings was witchcraft.

The other thing that struck him about the campus, after they had crossed the entirety of it in less than ten minutes, was its size. When one pictured the mysterious University at Last Rock, perched atop the famous mountain and managed by the legendary Arachne Tellwyrn, the image that came to mind was grand, both in style and in scope. This place was less than half the size of Sarasio, if that.

Of course, that made sense, if every class was as small as the one which had visited his town. They had mentioned that they were the smallest class in the University’s recent history, but even so… Fewer than twenty students a year at a four-year school would make a student body of much less than a hundred individuals. There was only so much space they could possibly use. Indeed, even for its small size, the campus was rambling in design, with a lot of greenery and open spaces.

Weaver led them to the highest of the University’s terraces, which consisted of a broad lawn with buildings arranged around it: a tower surmounted by a huge telescope, a sprawling greenhouse complex, a long structure whose wide plate glass windows revealed a cafeteria within, and the final building perched on the northwest edge of the summit, which was apparently their destination. A bronze plaque set into its outer wall proclaimed it Helion Hall; in design, it rather reminded Joe of an Omnist temple, with its accents of golden marble and domed roof.

He didn’t get much chance to appreciate the décor within, which was similarly striking. Weaver set a sharp pace, and anyway, Joe was increasingly nervous about this meeting the closer they got to their destination.

“Does she know we’re coming?” he asked suddenly, straightening his bolo tie.

Weaver shot him a contemptuous look. “How would she possibly know we’re coming? We went straight to the Rail station from Darling’s. Do you remember a stop at a telescroll office?”

“I’d say there’s no need to snap, but look who I’m talkin’ to,” Billie said amiably. She didn’t seem at all out of sorts despite having to take three steps for each of theirs; at Weaver’s pace, she was actually jogging to keep up. “We’re visitin’ the greatest mage alive, aye? Who can say what she knows?”

“Who can say, indeed,” Weaver muttered. “And yet, he asks me.”

Their path took them up a flight of carpeted stairs and down a wide hall, braced by marble columns and with a long blue rug trimmed in gold running down its center. Weaver made a beeline for an open door about halfway down. He paused at the entrance only to rap his knuckles on the doorframe.

“Hey, Arachne! Busy?”

Joe crowded in after him, only belatedly making certain not to jostle Billie. He was usually more careful about that, considering he could easily kick her over. Well, if not for her impressive reflexes, but those were no excuse to be inconsiderate.

The office was longer than wide, mostly open in the center, and lined with shelves of books and other paraphernalia, as well as a number of clearly magical devices with which he was unfamiliar. Her desk sat along the far end, with broad windows behind.

She was exactly as he remembered, right down to her attire. Well, it wasn’t the same green and brown getup, but her since of style had clearly not varied. People who lived for millennia tended to be creatures of habit. She had been in the process of writing something; Joe noted her preference for old-fashioned parchment and a quill pen. Now, though, she had stilled her hand, peering inquisitively up at them. Those eyes, striking green behind her golden spectacles, had that piercing but not unfriendly aspect he remembered distinctly.

“Well,” Professor Tellwyrn said, raising an eyebrow at Weaver and then giving Joe a little smile, which made his heart thud in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of its recent stabbing. “This is several kinds of unexpected. What brings you back here, Damian? Hello, Joseph. Same goes; I suspect this is an interesting story.”

“Ma’am,” he said, belatedly whipping off his hat and nodding deeply. “Um, sorry to just drop in like this.”

“No bother,” she said mildly, pointedly looking down at Billie.

“Oh, uh, this is—”

“Billie Fallowstone, an’ right pleased to see ya again, Professor!” the gnome chimed, waving enthusiastically.  “I don’t suppose you even recall…”

“Yes, I remember you,” Tellwyrn said, still looking quizzically at them. “Come on in. Is this going to take long? Curious as this visit is, I do have a full schedule…”

“It shouldn’t,” Weaver said, ambling into the room and clearing space for the others. “We’re here on business, Arachne.”

“Whose business?” she asked, staring sharply at him.

“Well,” the bard said with a scowl, “Bishop Darling’s the one who sent us out, but assuming he’s not pulling our legs again, the matter goes well beyond him. We actually have a couple of things to ask you, the first of which is the whereabouts of a missing companion.”

“I highly doubt I have your missing companion,” Tellwyrn said dryly.

“Didn’t expect you would, ma’am,” Joe said, unconsciously turning his hat around and around in his hands. “But the Bishop was under the impression you knew her, and might know where she’d been last. Mary the Crow?”

Tellwyrn suddenly scowled. “Oh. Her. Yes, he’s not wrong in that.”

“Is she here?” Weaver asked.

The Professor finally tucked her quill back into its stand on the desktop. “I’m afraid you’re defeated by your own timing, Damian. In fact, Mary has been here off and on for the last month. This is one of the ‘off’ periods, and quite frankly I was relishing it.”

“Aye, she’s a mite difficult, isn’t she?” Billie said ruminatively.

“I’m a mite difficult,” Tellwyrn said with a scowl. “She is insufferable.”

Joe, who had not had that impression at all, kept his mouth firmly shut.

Weaver sighed heavily. “That’s just typical. Well…shit.”

“Language,” Joe said before he could think better of it. “You’re in a lady’s own office, for heaven’s sake.”

Weaver just turned back to Tellwyrn, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Joe and making a face.

“Thank you, Joseph, but it has been a very long time since I needed anyone to defend me,” the elf said with a wry little smile.

“My apologies, ma’am.”

The smile grew slightly. “And I thought I asked you not to call me ‘ma’am.’”

“I…” He swallowed heavily, squeezing his hat. “…am regretfully unable to comply…Professor.”

Billie turned to give him a strange look, then peered closely at Tellwyrn.

The Professor herself smiled more broadly, nearly grinning at him outright, before transferring her gaze back to Weaver. “What do you need Mary for, exactly?”

“Well, that pertains to the other matter we came to speak to you about,” he replied. “We’re going off on a mission shortly, and it would be nice to have the Crow along. We expect significant opposition, not to mention the hazards of the thing itself.”

“I’m on tenterhooks,” Tellwyrn said, deadpan.

“Nothing too serious,” Weaver said, grinning and stuffing his hands in his pockets. “We’re just going to recover the skull of Belosiphon the Black. Mind if we bring it back here?”

Tellwyrn blinked once, slowly, then folded her hands on the desk. “I’m sorry, but could I possibly get that in writing? With signatures? I want something to show the next asshat who lectures me about how the Age of Adventures is over.”

“Ha ha, but seriously,” Weaver said. “We’ve no idea what to do with the fucking thing if we do manage to get our hands on it. The whole point is to keep it out of everyone else’s hands. The Church and the Empire can’t be trusted with something like this, and Darling doesn’t want to touch it with a ten-foot pole, which is far and away the most sensible thing he’s said in the whole time I’ve known him. I suggested you, Arachne, with apologies for intruding on your orderly little life.”

“Orderly little life,” she said flatly, reaching over to tap a finger on the document she had been writing. “This is a letter to a Shaathist lodge in the upper Wyrnrange, which has just contacted me to verify details on a correspondence they’ve been carrying on with one of my students. Apparently Chase Masterson has been trying to trade his classmate Natchua to the son of their lodge master as a wife. The asking price is two oxen and a stack of beaver pelts.”

“That is…possibly the most contemptible thing I’ve ever heard,” Joe said, stunned.

Tellwyrn rolled her eyes. “He’s not actually trying to do that. Natchua is a drow with the disposition of a hungover badger at the best of times; this is Chase’s idea of a joke. Of course she will probably try to slit his throat, and now I’ve got a bunch of offended Huntsmen to mollify, and it grates on my nerves that they’re legitimately the wronged party in this. Honestly, I’m running out of ways to punish that boy. He just doesn’t seem to care what anyone does to him. So, no, this is a refreshing change from these damn kids and that damn Crow. Yes, Damian, if you happen to get your hands on that skull I’ll take it off them; I can tuck it away between the planes like the others, and that’ll be that. How flattering that you would think of me.”

“Chase,” said Billie. “Wasn’t that the daft lollipop who went runnin’ across the yard like his bum was full o’ bees when we showed up?”

“Sounds about right,” Tellwyrn said, scowling. “Enough about him.”

“You brought him up,” Weaver pointed out.

“Anyway,” she said more loudly, “while taking a chaos artifact out of circulation is a worthwhile use of my time, I’m afraid I just can’t spare it right now, Damian. In addition to the University I have a rather involved side project, which is what Mary’s been doing here.”

“Oh?” he said. “Any idea when she’ll be back?”

“I don’t even know why she left,” Tellwyrn complained. “Not that I was looking that particular gift horse in the mouth. The woman is terminally unable to explain herself.”

“Completely unlike someone else I know,” Weaver said, grinning.

“Well, she’s a meddler, with her fingers in a dozen pies on a slow day,” the Professor continued. “The upside of that is she takes pains to keep tabs on her various projects. If something this urgent has come up and you’re already involved with the Crow, you can be assured she’ll turn up on her own. Probably sooner than later.”

“I’d hope so,” Billie said. “Hard ta guess what’s more important than the skull of a chaos dragon resurfacing.”

“If that’s actually what’s happened,” Joe pointed out. “The source of our orders has proven himself less than trustworthy, and his source is admittedly vague and confusing.”

“This is all sounding increasingly intriguing,” Tellwyrn said with a small smile. “If you lot don’t hush up I may be forced to evict you out of self-preservation. Much more of this and I’ll be feeling tempted to go haring off myself after adventure. Gods know I could use the change of pace.”

“Well, why not come along?” Joe heard himself say. “With Mary absent, we could sure use the backup! And it’d be great to spend some time with you. Get to know each other, all that.”

Billie was giving him that look again.

“More tempting than you know,” Tellwyrn said dryly. “But I have responsibilities. I’ll tell you what, Joseph: if this turns into a real crisis, which is more than probable considering what you’re mucking about with, come see me again and I’ll reconsider getting involved. After all, I do have to live on this planet. I have an interest in not letting it get demolished.”

“It’s a date, then,” Joe said, grinning. He had to physically repress the urge to smack himself in the face. Now Weaver was also looking at him askance.

Joe cleared his throat; to break the crushing (it seemed to him) silence which had descended, he grasped for the first topic of conversation he could think of. “So, while we’re all here anyway, how’re the gang? The freshmen. Ah, well, sophomores now, I guess. I’d be nice to catch up.”

“There, too, I’m afraid you’ve got bad timing,” Tellwyrn said with a lopsided smile that he couldn’t stop staring at. “They’re away on another trip.”

“Oh? Like Sarasio?”

“Like Sarasio but potentially worse,” she said. “Honestly it’s best not to go into it; sounds like you’ve got plenty to think about already.”

“Besides which,” Weaver said petulantly, “we do not have time for social calls or faffing around with college kids. We have a job, and time is a factor. Well, Arachne, sorry to interrupt your letter-writing; we’ll let you get back to it. Hopefully you’ll be hearing from us soon with an object of unspeakable horror in our possession.”

“Just don’t show it to any of the kids on your way through,” she said, shaking her head.

Weaver nodded curtly and turned to leave, Billie following with a final wave at Tellwyrn. Joe was the last to go, turning away reluctantly.

“Damian,” the Professor said quietly behind them, bringing the whole group to a halt. “I told you before you’d be welcome back here if you need to, and I won’t go back on that. But… If you’ve taken up adventuring again, and considering who you’ve apparently got handing you quests… Well, it’s not hard to figure out what he’s offering you, is it?”

“I know what I’m doing,” Weaver said coldly, his back still to her.

“I’m aware of that,” Tellwyrn replied, her tone calm. “And you also know of recent developments with regard to a certain god, his cult and his new paladin in this town?”

“Right.”

“Well, like I said, you’ve earned a place here and I’ll back you up. Just know that if you keep doing what I think you’re doing, you might make that too complicated to work out in practice.”

Weaver half-turned to look at her sidelong over his shoulder, then smiled. Oddly for him, the expression was calm and held real warmth.

“I do appreciate you looking out for me, Arachne,” he said in a much more gentle tone than his usual one. “Like I said, though. I do know what I’m doing. And if it’s a mistake… Well, there are mistakes that just have to be made. You know?”

“I do indeed,” she said gravely. “Safe travels, Damian.”

“As always,” he replied, nodding again, then turned back and strode out of the office, Billie on his heels.

“And if you find time between adventures, Joseph,” she added as Joe as about to go, “you can visit on your own. I bet the sophomores would be glad to see you again, too.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, grinning broadly. “I absolutely will. That’s a promise.”

“Good.” She gave him a warm smile, and it was all he could do to force himself backward. With a final wave, he ducked back out, only letting out the breath he’d been holding when he was in the hall again.

Weaver was already halfway to the stairs; Billie had waited for him, though. She gave him an unreadable look as he emerged, but fell into step beside him.

“Well, we’re likely to be stuck here for a little while, anyway,” Weaver was grousing up ahead. “The Rail platform in this bumfuck town doesn’t even have a dedicated telescroll tower, so we’ll have to go to the Imperial facility and pay to summon a caravan and redeem our return tickets. No telling how bloody long that’ll take…”

They ignored him, walking on in silence, Joe lost in his thoughts.

Billie didn’t stop him until they were out of the building—not coincidentally, out of the easy range of elvish hearing. She placed a hand on his leg; Joe paused, shaken out of his reverie, and looked quizzically down at her. The gnome’s expression was one of pure concern.

“Joe,” she said gently. “Honey. No.”

Joe flushed, hating his inability to stifle that reaction. It was totally involuntary; no other bodily process seemed to interfere with it. He’d checked.

“C’mon,” he said gruffly. “He’ll leave us behind.”

They set off back through the campus in silence.

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The Imperial Guard were well familiar with Underminister Darouzheh, which undoubtedly saved his life when he burst in on the Emperor and Empress having a state lunch with the Sifanese ambassador. Indeed, the fact that he was well known around the Imperial Palace was the only reason he could have possibly been permitted to dash pell-mell through its halls the way he apparently had, to judge by his breathless state of near-collapse upon entering.

Instantly, five staves were pointing at him, humming audibly with conjured destruction waiting to be unleashed. More guards moved to cover the windows and doors in case of further intruders, while the currently present Hand of the Emperor placed himself between his liege and the intruder so rapidly he almost appeared to have teleported.

Darouzheh completely ignored all of this.

“Your Majesties,” he gasped, doubling over. His paunchy frame was clearly not designed for the kind of exertion he had just experienced. “Emergency! Dragons!”

With that, he slumped forward, panting so hard he could barely stand. The guards powered down and lowered their weapons, the nearest actually stepping over to gently brace the Underminister lest he collapse entirely. At a flick of the Empress’s fingers, a maid darted forward to pour a carafe of water, which she carried to the gasping bureaucrat.

Sharidan had risen to his feet, gently moving the Hand aside with a touch to his shoulder. Ambassador Fujimatsu finally set down his teacup, studying the scene with admirable calm.

“That,” Eleanora said flatly, “is an unacceptable combination of words.”

 

“Dragons,” Darling said, “and chaos.”

“That’s a bad combination of words,” McGraw noted.

“Don’t I know it,” the Bishop replied, his expression serious. “Unfortunately, that’s not the scary part.”

“How is that not the scary part?” Billie demanded. “Why is there always a scarier part?”

They sat in the comfortable downstairs parlor in the Bishop’s home, Darling in his customary seat at the head of the coffee table, the others around it. No one had yet commented on Mary’s absence from the group, but it was even more palpable than her presence. When she was there, she had a way of quietly deflecting attention from herself.

“This is all I’ve been getting out of the Archpope’s oracular resources for the last week,” Darling continued. “You probably know how it is with oracles—or you may not, Justinian does seem to have a good percentage of them squirreled away. It’s all ‘that from beyond which is not,’ and ‘the titans of two forms,’ and an innumerable throng of vague metaphors to that effect. These things are difficult to read at the best of times; it took me a solid day’s work to suss out the consistent themes. Dragons, and chaos.”

“I think I see what the scary part is,” Joe murmured. “Now, granted, all I know about oracles is from readin’, and most of what I’ve read I suspect is more fictional than it liked to pretend, but any event in which all the oracles shut down and refuse to talk about anything but a coming disaster…”

“Yes,” Darling said, nodding at him. “In fact, that’s more than just common sense. This is a recognized apocalyptic portent.”

“Never staved off an apocalypse,” Billie said thoughtfully. “Bet that’s a feather in the ol’ cap, an’ no mistake.”

“Sounds like a titanic pain in the ass even for those who survive it,” Weaver grunted. “Who else knows about this?”

“And now we come to the complicating factor,” Darling said with a sigh. “Obviously, Justinian knows. There are the other Bishops who have access to his oracles, too; I don’t know how frequently any of them make use of the resource, but if they’ve tried in the last week, they know. None of them have mentioned it to me. What the Empire does or does not know I can’t be sure. I passed the warning on to the Hand of the Emperor with whom I work, and was told that the matter had been foreseen a good long time ago and the Empire has resources in place.” He shrugged.

“Just who are these other Bishops?” Joe asked.

“Don’t worry about that,” Darling said, waving a hand. “Justinian’s the one who demands our attention.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Darling,” Joe replied very evenly, “but we are well past the point of that bein’ an acceptable answer.”

A momentary silence fell, Darling lifting his eyebrows in an expression of mild surprise. Standing by the door, Price shifted her head infinitesimally, focusing her attention on Joe.

“After that stunt you pulled this spring,” the Kid continued, staring at the Bishop, “I am just about done gettin’ the runaround from you. Pardon my pushiness, but when I ask for details, you provide details or I walk out.”

Weaver snorted softly. Billie raised an eyebrow, turning to regard the Bishop expectantly.

“Well,” Darling said with a slight smile. “Upon reflection, I really don’t have any counter to that, do I? Fair enough. Not that I think it’s any concern of yours and I am possibly risking clerical censure by sharing the details, but the Bishops of Avei, Shaath and Izara also have access to the Church’s hidden oracles.”

“That,” McGraw mused, “is a right peculiar assortment.”

“Bishop Syrinx has been off in Viridill on some Avenist business for the last few weeks,” Darling continued, “and I dismiss Varanus and Snowe from consideration because I’ve had indication several times before that both are fully behind his Holiness in whatever he chooses to do. Anyhow, this leads us back to the problem at hand, and what we intend to do about it.”

“Dragons and chaos,” Billie mused, kicking her legs idly. Sitting on the edge of the loveseat as she was, her feet didn’t nearly reach the floor. “Well, it does bring to mind an obvious answer, dunnit? Shame that’s almost certainly an ol’ wives’ tale.”

“Y’mean Belosiphon?” McGraw replied. “Or however you pronounce it.”

“You said it correctly,” Weaver said, rolling his eyes. “Which is kind of impressive when it comes to any dragon’s name. Tell me, Elias, does this ‘confused old man’ act usually succeed in deflecting suspicion?”

“Sorry, sonny,” McGraw said innocently, tugging his earlobe. “You’ll have to speak up, I’m a mite deaf on this side.”

“Yeah, well, point being,” Billie said with a grin, “we’re talkin’ about a legend from the time of the Elder Gods. You’re a bard, Damian, you know as well as I that any tale from that long ago’s not gonna have more’n a smidge of fact in its lineage.”

“Don’t use my first name,” Weaver growled.

“Yes, quite so,” Darling said, nodding seriously. “It’s inconceivable that there could really have been a chaos dragon, and the story is so old and from a time of such confusion that it’s just not sensible to give it any credence. So, imagine my surprise when I learned that the Church has specific records of Belosiphon, and knows roughly where his skull is buried.”

“Typical,” Joe muttered.

“Are you rubbin’ me ankles?” Billie demanded.

“I…have no idea,” Darling said, blinking.

Weaver shrugged. “Doesn’t particularly surprise me. One of the gods is chaos-tainted; why not a dragon? If anything, the odd thing is how no dragons since have ended up that way.”

“Nothin’ odd about that,” McGraw said. “Dragons tend to be wiser sorts than the average run of mortals, even before they’ve lived a few thousand years. Takes somebody exceptionally stupid to meddle with the powers of chaos.”

“Which is precisely the issue,” Darling said firmly. “Everytime a significant chaos artifact has surfaced, some imbecile made a good effort at seizing and using it. You being adventurers, I’m sure you know most of those stories, and how they ended. With the oracles giving warning, we can make two solid assumptions: at the intersection of ‘dragons’ and ‘chaos’ is Belosiphon the Black, and action has to be taken to prevent someone from meddling with his skull. It’s in the northernmost region of Upper Stalwar Province. That’s right about where the plains meet the desert in a particularly unappetizing little corner of flat scrubland, just below the foothills where the Dwarnskolds and the Stalrange intersect.”

“I’ve been there,” McGraw said, nodding. “The Badlands. Beautiful country, if you don’t have to live in it.”

“There’s actually a place called the Badlands?” Weaver said scornfully.

“Aye,” Billie replied with a grin. “After tryin’ to keep their butts alive in it, the residents were too worn out to think of anythin’ more poetic.”

“Here’s where it gets even more interesting,” Darling continued, his expression grim. “I’ve been rooting around in every official record I could find, both Church and Imperial. The actual location of Belosiphon’s skull is not known, merely the general region, but there are hints that more precise records do exist. It is worth mentioning, here, that I do not have access to all of Justinian’s hidden archives. Second, the Empire has almost no presence in the area. Third, this is mining country. Silver, copper, turquoise and coal. It was hit almost as hard as the dwarven kingdoms by the Narisian treaty and all those shipments of free Underworld ore, but people do still dig there. And prospect.”

“What better way to stumble across buried horrors,” Joe murmured, staring at the table.

“Justinian has not mentioned anything about it to me,” Darling continued, “nor I to him. He surely would have…unless this is to be another act in our ongoing cold war of misinformation.”

“And if he had the same idea you did,” McGraw said, frowning, “who better to send after something like this than adventurers?”

“Which means,” Weaver growled, “Khadizroth and the Jackal. And whoever else he’s rounded up.”

“Peachy!” Billie said, grinning psychotically and cracking her knuckles. “I have been just itchin’ fer another crack at those two assholes.”

“Not to be a wet blanket,” said Joe, “but we fought them to a bare stalemate last time, and that was with the aid of our most powerful member, who is not even here.”

A glum silence descended upon the room.

“Justinian’s silence on the matter does strongly indicate to me that he is going to use his adventurers,” Darling said gravely. “There are things he keeps from me, but he had to know I would discover what the oracles were doing. This is the only topic on which we remain mutually silent, both knowing that we both know what’s going on. So yes, what we are talking about here is sending you off to contend with the dragon and the assassin, not to mention whoever else—because I haven’t a clue who else he might have found—with the quest for an artifact of unspeakable danger as the backdrop and battlefield. I’ve gotta level with you, folks: this is above and beyond the call. If you don’t want to go, I’ll not hold you in violation of our agreement. I will still be at work getting your answers, though I’m afraid that has to wait until the oracles start speaking again.”

“Hell with that,” Billie snorted. “We’re in. Let’s skip the part where we all go ’round the table and agree—you all know damn well you all want your payback, fer a variety o’ reasons. But Joe’s got the right of it. We need to find Mary. Anybody got a clue where she is?”

“All I know,” Darling said, “is that another elf came here looking for her a few weeks back.”

“Who?” Joe asked.

“Nobody I knew,” Darling said with a shrug. “She was sent by Professor Tellwyrn, though. Elder Sheyann, I think her name was.”

“Tellwyrn?” Weaver said, narrowing his eyes.

“Did you say Sheyann?” Joe exclaimed.

“Ah, yes, I did,” Darling said, looking at him oddly. “Don’t tell me you know her.”

“Well, I don’t so much know her, but you don’t grow up in Sarasio without hearing the name. She’s the most senior of the Elders in the nearby grove.”

“Huh,” Darling mused. “Well. That gives us two places to start looking for Mary: Sarasio and Last Rock. Because, to be frank, we have a good bit of preparatory work to do before setting off on this particular adventure. Quite apart from the need to catch the Crow, there’s the question of what to do with the skull of Belosiphon itself. Pretty much the only certainty is that Justinian cannot be allowed to get his grabbers on it.”

“We could hand it over to the Empire?” Joe suggested.

“Assuming we can even handle something like that,” Weaver said. “Chaos is not healthy to be around.”

“Also,” Darling said firmly, “with all respect to his Majesty’s government, it is a government. I will sleep better it it does not get its hands on this slice of unimaginable destructive power. And I sure as hell don’t want the thing. I have to admit I’m against a wall here, my friends. This is outside the purview of either a thief or a priest. How do you dispose of a chaos artifact?”

“Destroy it,” said Joe.

“Very bad idea,” McGraw said emphatically. “You destroy a thing like that, and what you’re left with is pieces of said thing. Do your job well, reduce it to dust and smoke, and it disseminates into the air, the ground, the water, tainting the whole region for… Who knows? Centuries, millennia, maybe forever. Or you may get bigger pieces, which sure as the tides will get strewn to the four corners of the earth to work a thousand smaller mischiefs until some giftedly sinister idjit goes on an epic quest to gather ’em all up and ruin everyone’s day.”

“Okay,” Joe said slowly. “So, no destroying. That was my last idea. Sorry.”

“It’s simple enough,” said Weaver. “We’ll take it to Arachne.”

They all stared at him.

“Are you quintessentially outta your gourd?” Billie demanded. “Of all the people who does not need to get her hands on a chaos artifact—”

“I’m talking about the only person who probably should,” Weaver shot back. “Let’s face it, by any standard you could choose to apply, Arachne is a giant bitch.”

“Now, see here,” Joe began, scowling.

“For that reason,” Weaver continued loudly, “she doesn’t get nearly enough credit. Most of the world has no idea how many times she’s rescued it from the brink. With regard to chaos artifacts in particular, she’s already got two. Arachne Tellwyrn owns the Book of Chaos and the Mask of Calomnar. She’s got them both tucked away in a sealed pocket dimension where nobody can get at them and they can’t affect the mortal plane. In fact, she found the Book of Chaos twice, and made this particular setup after someone dug it up from its first hiding place. She has the sense not to meddle with chaos and the power to secure it. It’s simple. We take the skull to Arachne, and neither the Church nor the Empire nor anybody else will ever see the damn thing again.”

“Well,” McGraw mused, “that sounds like a workable solution, indeed, if you don’t pause to consider how irate the lady will be to have a thing like that dropped on her doorstep.”

“Omnu’s balls, we’re not gonna just drop it at the University,” Weaver said scathingly. “Arachne’s one of our leads in tracking down Mary anyway, right? So we go to Last Rock, ask if she’s seen the Crow and tell her what’s up so she knows to prepare a place for Belosiphon’s skull. She might even help retrieve it.”

“Tellwyrn is not going to cross the Church’s agents directly,” Darling said, frowning. “Her carefully protected neutrality wouldn’t survive that; she won’t risk her students’ safety by dragging the University into world politics. For that reason, we will tell her the whole situation, so she doesn’t accidentally stumble into that, blame us for tricking her and blast us all to ashes.”

“I like this plan,” Billie said brightly. “Anything that ends with me not gettin’ blasted to ash is aces in my book!”

“I’ll have to sit that stretch of it out,” McGraw said with a rueful grin. “I’m already on record as getting’ the ash treatment if I show my face in Last Rock.”

“What’d you do?” Joe said, frowning.

“Well, it’s a long—”

The old wizard broke off suddenly, grabbing his staff and half-rising. Joe bounded to his feet in the same moment. Price, by the door, suddenly zipped across the room to hover protectively over Darling’s shoulder.

“What?” the Bishop demanded, looking around at them. “What’s going on?”

“Someone has just teleported into the house, your Grace,” Price said in a low voice.

Weaver also got to his feet, scowling and placing a hand on his holstered wand. Billie stood up on the loveseat, tucking both hands into pouches at her belt.

There came a sharp knock at the closed door of the parlor.

Darling raised his eyebrows. “Come in?”

The door opened, and a young woman in Army uniform stepped in and saluted. Her insignia had a blue eye behind the standard Imperial gryphon, the mark of a Tiraan battlemage.

“Pardon the interruption, your Grace,” she said in a clipped tone. “Your presence is urgently requested at the Palace by Lord Vex.”

“What’s going on?” Darling demanded, rising.

The mage glanced briefly but pointedly around the group. “My orders are to teleport you to the Palace, your Grace,” she said in a level tone. “I’m sure you will be fully briefed once there.”

“Ominous,” Weaver said.

“Well, my friends, I guess we’ll have to continue this conversation later,” said Darling, stepping carefully around McGraw and toward the Army mage. “In fact, though… Given the time frame involved, please go ahead and pursue the avenue we were just discussing. We’ll regroup tomorrow, or whenever you get back, hopefully all with more information. All right, Lieutenant, I’m all yours. Let’s go see what’s so urgent, shall we?”

 

“We’re receiving up-to-the-minute reports via telescroll,” General Panissar said. “Based on their flight path, this gate seems the most probable point of arrival. They are unmistakably making for Tiraas.”

“What can you tell me about the path they have taken, General?” the Lady asked.

“Oddly meandering,” Panissar said with a frown. “We are tentatively not considering this an attack. Dragons can be upon you from miles away before you know they’re even in the province, if that’s what they want. These four have been gliding all the way from north of Calderaas, tracking back and forth as if to deliberately waste time. Lord Vex is of the opinion that they want to be seen, to give us time to prepare.”

“Lord Vex is correct,” she replied, nodding. Lady Asfaneh Shavayad was a stately woman in her middle years, and apparently the leading expert on dragons in the Imperial Diplomatic Corps. That was the only explanation Panissar had been given as to why she was in command of this operation. Standing calmly in the main gate to the fortified border town, which she had insisted would remain open, she glanced around at the assembled soldiers, clearly considering them even as she continued to speak. “This is their custom when approaching one another, as well. It is a sign that they come in peace, seeking to talk.”

“Odd that they’ve never wanted to talk before,” Panissar growled.

“Indeed,” said Lady Asfaneh. “This is unprecedented for several reasons. Dragons are famously solitary creatures, and when they do associate, they markedly prefer the company of those of their own color. Are you certain of your intelligence regarding this group’s composition?”

“As certain as I was the last time you asked,” he grunted, choosing not to react to the amused look she gave him. “Red, gold, green and blue, one of each.”

“Very well,” she said, folding her hands in front of her, still a picture of serenity. “We shall see soon enough what they want. Are the tower artillery emplacements positioned as I said?”

Panissar nodded, his own expression not lightening. “With all due respect, Lady Asfaneh, I do not see the wisdom in disarming ourselves with a threat of this magnitude approaching.”

“It is symbolic,” she said calmly. “In any case, your mag cannons would not be useful against dragons.”

“We’ve brought down a dragon before with a mag cannon.”

“I am very familiar with the accounts of that incident, General, and I’m sure you are aware that it was quite possibly the luckiest shot in all of recorded history. If this does come to violence, the strike teams will be our best hope by far.” She nodded at the six teams which had assembled in the avenue behind them. “The presence of these armed soldiers is a show of our strength; they will not begrudge us that, and in fact will likely respect it. Aiming our largest and most visibly powerful weapons at them, however, is a provocation. Keep them pointed at the sky and their operators visibly absent from the controls. We must hope that violence does not occur. No one has ever fought off four dragons.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” he said quietly.

There came a faint buzzing noise, followed by a sharp pop, and an Army battlemage materialized beside them, saluting. “General Panissar! Newest report from Madouris on the dragons’ approach. ETA less than five minutes.”

“Thank you, soldier,” Panissar said, nodding to him. “Colonel Ontambe! Is the area cleared of civilians?”

“Evacuation just completed, sir,” the Colonel replied, saluting as he strode up to them. “The last of the town’s residents have been moved into the city. Only military and diplomatic personnel are left here.”

“Then we wait,” Lady Asfaneh whispered, eyes on the horizon to the north.

For all that it was possibly the tensest seconds of their lives, it was considerably less than five minutes. The assembled soldiers stiffened further, even Panissar drawing in a sharp breath, as the four massive forms suddenly appeared in the sky above the northern foothills, gliding around in a wide arc as if to survey the city from a distance as they passed.

“Well,” he murmured, eyes glued to the four titans, “I suppose they could be just passing by…”

This time, Lady Asfaneh didn’t even spare him a glance.

They were not just passing by. The dragons wheeled all the way around, pumping their wings as they descended to the flat ground on the outskirts of the border town. This was the widest stretch of highway in the region, close as it was to the gates of the city itself, but there was not room for even two of them to land side-by-side. They settled to the earth in a formation that nearly rivaled the fortress itself in size.

“Gods be good,” Colonel Ontambe whispered. “Four of them. One of each.”

“Report to rear command, soldier,” Panissar said quietly. “You’ll lead his Majesty’s army if I fall.”

Ontambe, he reflected as the man saluted and strode off, was too old and too seasoned a soldier to publicly lose composure like that, but considering the circumstances, he was inclined to be somewhat lenient.

It was all Panissar could do not to take a step backward as the four dragons approached them on foot. Beside him, Lady Asfaneh’s composure remained totally uncracked.

Fortunately, they shifted as they neared. They were still an impressive sight in their human-sized forms, and not merely because of the palpable aura of majesty that emanated from them. Panissar had never met a dragon before, but he’d been briefed on this effect and steeled himself against it; these creatures were powerful beings, nothing more, and did not deserve the awe he felt welling up in him. At least they were marginally less terrifying this way.

In the lead by half a step came the gold dragon, dressed in golden armor and with a two-handed sword as long as Panissar was tall slung on his back. The blue wore robes more elaborately decorated than what the ladies of the court wore to formal balls. His cobalt hair was as exquisitely coiffed, too, and his fingers glittered with jewelry. The other two were less over-the-top; the green dressed simply in wood elf fashion, with a blousy-sleeved green shirt and soft leather vest, trousers and moccasins. The red dragon looked like he belonged on the cover of one of the tawdry novels Marie pretended not to enjoy, with his improbably tight pants and ruffled shirt unlaced down to his navel, both black.

They came to a stop a few yards distant, and then to the General’s astonishment, all four bowed deeply.

“Good day,” said the gold dragon, straightening up. “We apologize for so abruptly intruding upon you, but there is a lack of standing traditions for making such an approach as this. I am Ampophrenon the Gold. With me are Zanzayed the Blue, Razzavinax the Red, and Varsinostro the Green. We most humbly request an audience with his Imperial Majesty Sharidan Julios Adolphus Tirasian.”

“Greetings, exalted ones, and welcome to Tiraas,” Lady Asfaneh replied, executing a deep and flawless curtsy. A half-second belatedly, Panissar bowed from the waist. “I am the Lady Asfaneh of House Shavayad, and it is my honor to be the Emperor’s servant in the diplomatic arts. With me is General Toman Panissar, who commands the Empire’s armies. What brings you to seek our Emperor’s ear?”

“We will discuss that with his Majesty,” Ampophrenon said, as calmly as ever.

The blue dragon cleared his throat. “Do you remember, Puff, when you asked me to warn you if you were being overbearing?”

The gold tightened his lips, half-turning to stare at his companion. “It was my assumption you would do so in private, Zanzayed.”

“Yes, and your proclivity for these assumptions is half the problem,” the blue said with a irrepressible smile. “Considering our aims here, it does these people good to see us as individuals with flaws. Such as, for example, a lack of social skills. Be nice to the Lady Shavayad, please. She can’t just bring four giant avatars of destruction into the Emperor’s presence without something to go on.”

“My companions speak truth,” Razzavinax added, smiling. Considering that he was a red dragon, he oddly seemed the most personable and at ease of the four. “Simply put, dear lady and honored general, we have come to announce the formation of our government.”

“Your…government?” Finally, Lady Asfaneh’s composure flickered for a moment.

“Indeed,” Ampophrenon said solemnly, returning the full weight of his attention to her. “No longer will we be as individuals, alone before the world. We stand together, as do your own races. We have come here, today, to be counted among the nations of the earth. The Conclave seeks now to open formal diplomatic relations with the Tiraan Empire.”

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“Behind you!”

“I saw it!”

Wandshots cracked through the falling snow; a katzil demon squawked in pain as it was cleaved out of the air. Weaver kept up his fire, taking fragments off the eaves of the building over which the creature had been trying to escape, and then it was lost to sight behind the structure.

Joe was the first around the corner; his boots skidded on the light dusting of snow dancing down the street. Between that and the sharp wind he might have lost his footing, but he was too in tune with his body and environs to overbalance. This was the first he’d seen of the snow actually reaching the ground and staying there; he factored it into his calculations without a conscious thought.

The demon raised its head and hissed at him, an orange glow rising within its mouth. His wandshot pierced its skull before it could spit fire at him, and the katzil flopped back to the ground, thrashed once, and fell still. Immediately, it began to disintegrate into foul-smelling charcoal.

Weaver arrived, wands up, and came a lot closer to slipping than Joe had. He caught himself on a lamppost, however, scowling at the remains of the demon. “Right, good. There’s that one dealt with. Have you seen…”

They both lifted their heads at the distinctive sound of Billie whooping. In the next second, a flare arced into the sky from the next street over. It was quickly caught and blown off-course by the winds, but fizzled out before it could land on anything and start a fire.

Joe and Weaver set off without a word.

They were slowed by an accumulation of trash in the middle of the alley down which they had to travel, but in less than a minute were stepping out the other side, to find two of their party standing back-to-back in the middle of the street. McGraw still held his staff in a wary position, peering around at the rooftops; Billie was sliding something long and metallic into one of her pouches. Five large clumps of charcoal lay in the street around them, crumbling and blowing away. The acrid stink of them was almost painful, even carried off by the wind as quickly as it was.

“There y’are,” the gnome said cheerfully. “Turns out we didn’t need the rescue, but glad to see ye nonetheless. Best not t’get separated.”

“Good thinking,” Joe agreed. “We had to chase after that bird-serpent thingy, though. No tellin’ what havoc it would cause, loose in the city.”

“Not that much,” McGraw said, resting the butt of his staff against the cobblestones and straightening up, apparently satisfied the danger was past. “Katzils rarely attack people unless ordered by a warlock. You can usually tell one’s in the area by scorched rooftops and a sudden absence of rats, cats and small dogs in the neighborhood. Those khankredahgs were a bigger priority,” he added, nodding toward one of his erstwhile targets, by now little more than a black smudge on the pavement. “They do attack people. You see any of those, take ’em out first.”

“Duly noted,” Joe said, nodding.

“You have missed one, nonetheless,” Mary announced, appearing beside them. They hadn’t even heard her approach in bird form this time, what with the shrieking wind, but none of them were startled by her comings and goings anymore. “Above that apartment complex to the west.”

“I just had a wild thought,” Weaver said. “Being that you’re by a wide margin the most powerful person here, it seems like you could be doing a lot more than recon.”

“The key to having power is to know how it is used,” Mary said, unperturbed as always. “I find the most potent way to influence the world is through information. For instance, rather than running around to a side street after the katzil, you can pass through the public house in the base of the building. It has entrances on both sides and is currently unlocked.”

They turned to look at the door toward which she nodded; only the sign labeling it “The Devil’s Deal” revealed it was a pub. The door was shut tight, the windows darkened, its silence in keeping with the crisis in the city, but still somehow even more eerie. Pubs were meant to be places of laughter and vitality.

“You sure?” McGraw asked uncertainly. “Looks buttoned up pretty tight from here,”

“I assure you,” the Crow replied, “I have observed the entrances in use. Time is short.” She ascended toward the roof of the building with a raspy caw, her dark little wings seeming to have no trouble in the wind.

“And there she goes, not through the pub,” Weaver muttered. “I have a personal rule against taking directions from people who don’t follow their own.”

“Obvious, innit?” Billie said cheerfully. “Somethin’ in the pub she wants us to see. If you think the Crow’s out to get us, by all means sit here an’ freeze. Me, I think it’s worth havin’ a look at.”

They started toward the pub’s closed door, McGraw muttering as they went. “I didn’t see a katzil head off in that direction. Reckon there actually is one?”

Joe made no reply. Billie was first to reach the door, but she stepped aside, allowing him to grasp the handle and pull it open.

There was a short entrance hall beyond the door, lined with pegs for coats and stands for heavy overboots, all depressingly empty at the moment. An inert fairy lamp in an old-fashioned wrought iron housing hung overhead, swaying in the breeze admitted by the open door.

They trooped through in single file, weapons at the ready. The hall made a sharp left into the public area, where the group came to an immediate stop.

It looked like it might be a cozy place to have a drink in better times; not large, and with a disproportionately huge hearth along one wall. In addition to the usual tables and benches there were battered old armchairs upholstered in cracked leather arranged in small clusters in the corners. As Mary had said, there was indeed another hall leading from the opposite side of the room, presumably toward the other street. The fireplace was dead and dark, as were the wall sconces. It was not at all dim, however, lit as it was by the glow of the seven alarmed clerics in Universal Church robes who stood huddled in the middle of the room.

The two groups stared at each other in surprise for a silent moment. The priests weren’t armed, at least not visibly, but the glow around them at least partially came from a divine shield covering their party.

“What are you doing out?” a middle-aged woman near the head of the group demanded finally. “There’s a curfew in place!”

“We’re officially deputized for the duration of the crisis,” Joe informed her, holding up the lapel of his coat, to which was pinned the pewter gryphon badge Bishop Darling had given him. “Could ask the same of you.”

“We answer to the Universal Church,” she replied, still studying him warily. “Deputized? How old are you?”

“Collectively, oldern’ the Empire,” Billie said cheerfully. “Look, we can yammer on about who’s entitled to be out, or we could address the more pressin’ matters at hand. There’s demons still on the loose in the street. What’re you doin’ huddled in a dark pub? Could use the help out there.”

An unreadable look made its rounds through the clerics. “We have our orders,” a younger man said cryptically. “If you’re on demon cleanup duty, don’t let us keep you.”

“Now, I might be mistaken,” McGraw drawled, “it wouldn’t be the first time. But ain’t that the insignia of that new summoner corps his Holiness is building? Seems like demons on the loose would be right up your alley.”

“I told you, our orders—” He cut off at a sharp gesture from the older woman.

“Never mind,” she said, speaking to her companions but keeping her eyes on the group standing by the doorway. “This position is clearly compromised anyway, we’ll fall back to the secondary rendezvous. You do what you like,” she added directly to McGraw, “but if you intend to help, keep out of our way.”

They filed rapidly out the other hall exit. In moments, they were gone, and the party stood, listening to the door bang shut behind them. The only sound in the room was the faint sound of wind from without; Weaver had neglected to properly close the door through which they’d come.

“That doesn’t make a lick of sense,” Joe muttered, frowning after the departed clerics. “Holy summoners, hiding in a bar when there’s demons loose in the city?”

“They were not all summoners, holy or otherwise,” Mary remarked. They whirled to find her perched nonchalantly on the edge of the bar. “Did you note the slight divide in their group? Three in one cluster, four in another. Of the four, only one was a priestess. They also included a mage, a witch and a diabolist.”

“…a strike team,” McGraw said, thunking the butt of his staff against the floor. “In the wrong uniform? Well, they’re used for discreet ops often enough.”

Joe’s eyes widened as the equation added up in his head. “…they don’t want the demons un-summoned. They summoned them!”

“Cor,” Billie muttered.

He whirled to look at the group. Billie was frowning in consternation, McGraw in thought. Mary was watching him with the faint smile he associated with a teacher waiting to see if a pupil would understand a lesson. Weaver’s face was uncharacteristically blank.

“We have to tell the Bishop about this,” Joe said urgently. “Which way did he go?”

Weaver heaved a deep sigh. “Kid, this is a pitying expression I’m wearing, in case you failed to interpret it.”

“I told you,” Billie said, scowling. “I said it. That fellow gaining new powers fair makes my hackles rise. Gods only know what he might do with ’em. Not what he told us he was gonna, that much you can bank on.”

Joe’s eyes darted back and forth. “…did you all know about this?”

“Suspected,” McGraw muttered. “Had an inkling. Ain’t exactly the kinda thing one asks one’s powerful employer, though. ‘Scuze me, your Grace, but would you happen to be up to anything especially villainous this evening?’”

Weaver just shrugged.

“We were sent out to, first, attempt to lure the Black Wreath into an ambush, and second, destroy any demons they had unleashed,” Mary said calmly, her eyes fixed on Joe’s. “Ask yourself, why would they unleash demons?”

“They…they’re…the Black Wreath,” he said lamely. “Demons are what they do.”

“You cannot afford to be so naïve, Joseph. The Wreath call up demons only to use them. When they find demons otherwise, they put them down. Aimless summons of uncontrolled demons are less likely to be the work of the Wreath…”

“Than an attempt to lure them out,” Billie finished. “Bloody fuckin’ hell, in the middle of the city!”

“Let me just point out,” Weaver said, “before anybody goes on the warpath, that that was a mixed group of Universal Church and Imperial personnel we just saw, who were probably responsible for the demons loose in this neighborhood, if your theory is correct. It may be satisfying to blame Darling, but even if he could organize something this big, he couldn’t enact it on his own. This must’ve been done at the highest level. Bet you anything he’s not the only Bishop playing a part here.”

“There are many forces at work tonight,” Mary said calmly. “Some at cross purposes, most with more than one agenda. Best not to act in haste.”

“Act?” Billie snorted. “As to that…what’re we s’posed ta do, then? Just go back to killin’ demons like nothin’ else is going on?”

“Few things in life are simple,” said McGraw, “but some things are. If there are demons on the loose in the city, no matter who did it or why, killing ’em is a good use of our time.”

“But is it the best use?” Mary asked with a smile. “Joseph, did you still want to know which way the Bishop went?”

Embras managed one step backward before the front door of the warehouse banged shut, then froze.

“Well,” he said with a sigh, “there we are, of course. The question becomes, then, which of you do I attempt to go through?”

Price raised an eyebrow.

The warlock held out one hand, palm-up. “Young lady, if you would be so kind as to step aside—”

A ball of shadow began to form in his palm, then abruptly exploded; Mogul staggered backward, clutching a burned hand and staring around himself at the piles of crates hemming them in. Several of those nearest were emitting a faint golden light through cracks where the boards did not fit together snugly.

“You’ll want to be careful of that, old fellow,” Sweet said cheerfully, strolling around the corner behind him. The two elves paced silently at his sides, their expressions curious. “Want to know what’s stored in this warehouse, a literal stone’s throw from the Dawnchapel? Why, whatever was lying around! Relics of just all kinds, sacred to a whole smorgasbord of gods, that had been cluttering up the temple where Justinian needed to make space for his own projects. Frankly I’ve not idea what most of ’em even do, but I’ve got a pretty good notion what’ll happen if somebody starts trying to throw around infernal magic in here.”

“Yep,” Embras said, taking two steps to the side and angling himself to keep all of them in view. He stuck his burned hand in one of his coat pockets, tilting his head forward so that the brim of his hat concealed his eyes. Only his grin was visible. “I’ve gotta hand it to you, Antonio, this was mighty fine work. Mighty fine work. How’d you manage to arrange all this? One professional to another.”

“Oh, but that’s the best part,” Sweet said, grinning in return and coming to a stop a few feet from him. “I didn’t arrange this! Nor the mess you encountered in the Dawnchapel. In fact, I did my damnedest to get you to come at me, but I guess that was a little too obvious to get a nibble. No, all this was just here; you just ran afoul of Justinian placing his new toys exactly where you were most likely to trip over ’em in the dark.”

“Well, that’s just irritating,” Embras remarked. “I believe I’m gonna write him a very sternly worded letter.”

“Tell you what I did arrange, though,” Sweet continued, his grin beginning to slowly fade. “You’ve already discovered the Shaathist blessing blocking shadow-jumping over the city, I’m sure. You probably deduced the presence of a lot of Huntsmen rounding up your fellows. Here’s what you don’t yet know: those Huntsmen will be herding the Wreath toward the Rail stations, which are right about now being inundated with the Imperial soldiers who were sent to Calderaas earlier in the day. The Third Silver Legion has been re-sorted into squads off site, one of which will accompany every unit of the Army, with shield-specialized priestesses at the front. No doubt a good few of your warlocks will still manage to use those syringes of theirs when they see what’s waiting for them, but enough of them will be pacified on sight that we stand to take plenty alive.”

“How did you manage that?” Embras asked mildly. “You’re talking about hundreds of people. Thousands, even. I don’t mind admitting I haven’t heard a peep about this, and I’ve got eyes and ears in places you wouldn’t believe.”

“Simple operational control, old man. All of those soldiers and Legionnaires were kept in the dark; they were ordered to respond to the crisis on the frontier, and when they got to Calderaas telescrolled orders sent them right back here. The Huntsmen have been sequestered on rooftops all afternoon, in parties constantly watching each other.”

“Hnh,” Mogul grunted. “At what cost? I do know that hellgate in Last Rock isn’t a feint. Are you really so obsessed with capturing me you let that thing stand open? My people weren’t behind it, nor was my Lady. There is no telling what’s gonna come boiling out.”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that,” Darling said condescendingly. “That’s being taken care of. Worry about the here and now.”

Mogul finally lifted his head, meeting Darling’s eyes. “Take a good look at yourself, Bishop. The bards lie about a lot, but they tell a few solid truths. The man standing over a well-executed trap giving a soliloquy is seldom the hero of the piece.”

“You’re just stalling, now,” Sweet said, stepping forward. Behind him, Flora and Fauna moved to flank. Price held her position, watching with perfect poise. “Obsessed I may be, but I’m not the one with a foot in the snare.”

“Fair enough,” Embras agreed, adjusting his tie. “Well, relics or no relics, I do hope you’re not expecting me to stand here politely while you—”

“Oh, keep it in your pants,” Darling said scornfully. “I didn’t go to all this trouble to kill you. No, I don’t intend to capture you, either.”

“Oh? I confess to some curiosity. That would seem to exhaust all the likely ambitions you might have toward my person.”

“Remember who you’re dealing with,” Darling said grimly, taking slow steps forward. “I am, first and foremost, an Eserite. I brought you here, Embras, to take something from you. Something you’ll be hard pressed to do without. Something you will never get back, until you finally submit yourself to my will.”

He came to a stop finally, with barely a foot separating the two men. Mogul withheld comment, simply staring challengingly into Darling’s eyes.

Suddenly Sweet grinned and swiped his hand across the space between them. Embras reflexively twitched backward, disarranging his hat as the brim thumped against the crates behind him. Grinning madly, Darling held up his fist, with the tip of his thumb poking out from between two fingers.

“Got yer nose!”

Embras gaped at him.

“All right, that’s a wrap,” Sweet said cheerfully, turning around and swaggering back toward the path between the crates. “Pack it up, ladies, we’re out. Embras, old man, you’ll wanna take the first left on the path out the other side, it’ll lead you straight toward the administrative offices. Past the secretary’s desk is the manager’s, and past that is a cleaning closet. Sewer access is in there. You have a good evenin’, now!”

Price caught up as he reached the crates and they stepped out into the shadows side-by-side, leaving the lamp behind. Flora and Fauna, however, hadn’t moved. They were staring after their tutor with expressions very similar to Mogul’s.

“What. The. Hell.”

“Are you ever gonna actually fight this guy?” Fauna demanded shrilly.

“Look, if you just want somebody to play practical jokes with, we can find you a friend.”

“Hell with that, let’s find him a girlfriend. He’s clearly pent up.”

“All the way up to the skull!”

“Girls, girls,” Darling soothed, turning to grin at them. “Not in front of the mark, please. I know exactly what I’m doing, as always. Embras knows, too. Or he will once he’s had time to think it all over. He’s having a stressful night, poor fellow. We’ve got exactly what we came for, now it’s time to go. Chop chop, our guest has a stealthy exit to make. Respect the exit.”

He strolled off again into the shadows. With a last, wary glance at the completely nonplussed Embras Mogul, the girls finally followed him. There really wasn’t anything else for them to do.

“I swear,” Fauna muttered as they wound their way through the dark maze of crates back to the entrance, “if I don’t hear a full explanation of all the aimless running around we’ve done tonight, I’m gonna kill somebody.”

“That would carry a lot more weight if it wasn’t your response to everything,” Darling said cheerfully. “Thank you, Price.”

“Sir,” she said, pulling the door open and stepping aside to hold it while Darling strolled out into the windy streets.

He came to an immediate stop, the glowing tip of a wand inches from his face.

“Evenin’, Joe,” he said mildly. “Something on your mind?”

“Lemme see if I’ve got this straight,” Joe said, glaring at him. “You send all the troops away and have summoners call up demons in the city, creating a crisis only more summoners can fix. And then, when the Black Wreath shows up to help the civilians you’ve put in danger, you land on ’em with Huntsmen and whatever else. That about the shape of it?”

Darling held up a hand at his side; Flora and Fauna halted, having been about to dive past him at the Kid. Behind Joe, the rest of his party stood in a semicircle a good few yards back, dissociating themselves from him with distance.

“You have the aspect of someone who’s just made several assumptions,” Darling said, “and plans to make a few more.”

“I asked you a question.”

“Joe,” Flora warned.

“That’s about the shape of it, yes,” Darling said, nodding. He kept his eyes on Joe’s. “Minus a number of highly significant details.”

“That,” Joe said flatly, “is easily one of the more evil things I’ve ever heard of.” He shifted his grip subtly, the wand’s tip glowing a touch brighter; Flora and Fauna stepped forward once. “And you made me a part of it.”

“Did you see those crocodile-lookin’ things with the gorilla arms?” Darling asked. “Yes? Those are called khankredahgs. One of them killed Bishop Snowe’s servant in her own home a few weeks back. The same night the Wreath attacked us in my house, remember?”

“That has noth—”

“There’s something called the Rite of Silencing,” Darling pressed over him, “it’s what the Wreath does to members who try to betray the group. See, what they do is, they get the traitors in a pit that’s been made into a summoning circle. They’ve bound them beforehand, you see, so they can’t use any magic they possess. And then they call up khankredahgs in the pit with ’em, and the whole cell stands around above and watches them get eaten alive.”

He took a step forward, then another; Joe actually stepped back to avoid jabbing him in the eye with the wand, but did not lower his arm. “And not just the would-be traitor, either,” Darling went on, staring him down. “Anyone deemed close enough to them. Spouses, siblings, children. The exceptions are any children considered too young to be responsible. Those join the onlookers, and get to watch their families being torn apart. These are the people we’re talking about, Joe.”

“What they do has nothing to do with what we do about it,” Joe growled. “If we can’t be better than them, then what’s the point of fighting ’em?”

“I only wish I could tell you how close the Black Wreath was before tonight to overthrowing the Empire,” Darling said. At that Joe’s eyes widened and his hand wavered a fraction. “I can’t, though; the pertinent parts are actually Sealed to the Throne, and most of the rest is merely classified. But yes, Joe, we’ve been walking the knife’s edge for months now. The prospect of an Elilinist government coming to power is a real and extant one even still. This night’s work has broken the Wreath’s spine in Tiraas, but they are not dead, and Elilial certainly isn’t. They’ll be back. They’ll never stop. Have you ever given any thought to what life would be like in a country ruled by the Black Wreath?” He paused for a moment, giving Joe a chance to answer. He didn’t. “I have. And I, and others in the government, the Church and the cults, have had to consider what is appropriate, and what is necessary, to stop that from happening.”

“Appropriate?” Joe all but whispered.

Darling slowly lifted his hand and pushed aside the wand. Joe offered no resistance. “I won’t know for a few days exactly how many people were hurt or killed due to our scheme tonight,” he said quietly. “We’ll probably never have a full accounting of the damage. But this is something that was carefully considered at the highest level. The Emperor, the Empress, the Archpope. Myself, the head of Imperial Intelligence, others. Not one of us are going to sleep well for a good while, if ever. And someday, Joe, when you have had to make a brutally hard choice like that, then you will be in a position to make judgments about those who have. They probably won’t be correct judgments, but you’ll have earned the right to make ’em.” He pursed his lips, and shook his head. “Till then… Grow up.”

Darling turned and walked off up the street. Flora and Fauna paced after him, staring at Joe in passing as he slowly lowered his wand to point at the ground. Price brought up the rear, seeming totally unperturbed.

A small hand touched his leg just above the knee. He looked down to meet Billie’s eyes. She jerked her head significantly at the two elves, then very clearly mouthed “Not now.”

They listened, for a long moment, to the wind, and the sound of distant hunting horns.

“Welp,” McGraw said finally, “I guess we won.”

“What is victory?” Mary mused aloud. “And who are ‘we?’”

“Just in case you were wondering,” Weaver told her, “that inscrutable act of yours isn’t impressive. It’s just annoying.”

“I can live with that,” she said with a smile. “Annoying I may be, but I have achieved exactly what I set out to, tonight. I wonder who else can say the same?”

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The Dawnchapel held so much history and significance that its environs, a small canal-bordered district now filled with shrines and religious charity facilities, had taken on its name. Originally the center of Omnist worship in the city, it had been donated to the Universal Church upon its formation and served as the Church’s central offices until the Grand Cathedral was completed. More recently it had done duty as a training facility and residence for several branches of the Church’s personnel, and currently mostly housed Justinian’s holy summoner program.

It was a typical structure of Omnist design, its main sanctuary a sunken amphitheater housed within a huge circle of towering standing stones, of a golden hue totally unlike the granite on which Tiraas sat, imported all the way from the Dwarnskolds along the northern rim of the continent. Once open to the sun, its sides had long ago been filled in with a more drab, domestic stone, which was later carved into niches that now housed statues of the gods. Its open top had been transformed into a dome of glittering stained glass, one of the architectural treasures of the city. Behind the circular center rose a ziggurat, topped with a sun shrine which had been left as a monument sacred to Omnu in gratitude for the gift of the temple itself. Most of the offices, storage rooms and other chambers were either underground or inside the pyramid.

The circular temple sat on a square plot of land, forcing the furtive warlocks to cross a measure of open territory before they could reach its entrance. They went unchallenged, however, and apparently unnoticed; this part of the city was as eerily silent and empty tonight as the rest. Still, despite the lack of opposition, only Embras Mogul strolled apparently without unease.

Two khankredahgs and two katzils accompanied the party, which had to be momentarily soothed as they crossed onto holy ground. They had been warded and phased against it, of course, but this ground was holier than most, and the demons were not immune to the discomfort. There were two hethelaxi escorting the group, both of whom bore the transition without complaint. That was it for demon thralls, the more volatile sentient companions having been dismissed back to their plane rather than risk the outbursts that would result from bringing them here.

Even peering around for onlookers, they failed to observe the small, faintly luminous blue figure which circled overhead.

Mogul himself laid his hand upon the bronze latch of the temple’s heavy front door and paused for a moment.

“Warded?” Vanessa asked tersely. “Cracking it with any kind of subtlety will take too long… Of course, I gather you want to make a dramatic statement anyway?”

Mogul raised an eyebrow, then turned the latch. It clicked, and the door opened smoothly, its hinges not uttering a squeak.

“There’s overconfident,” Mogul said lightly, “and then there’s Justinian.”

He gestured two gray-robed warlocks to precede him inside, accompanied by one of the katzils and the female hethelax.

The sanctuary was not completely unguarded, but the outcry from within was brief.

“Who are—hel—”

The voice was silenced mid-shout. Mogul leaned around the doorframe, peering within just in time to see the shadows recede from a slumping figure in Universal Church robes, now unconscious. His attention, however, was fixed on the hethelax, who was frowning in puzzlement.

“Mavthrys?” he said quietly. “What is it?”

“It’s gone,” she replied, studying the interior of the sanctuary warily. “The sensation. Not quite un-consecrated, but… Something’s different.” Indeed, the katzil inside had grown noticeably calmer.

“Justinian’s using this place to train summoners,” said Bradshaw. “Obviously it’ll have some protections for demons now.”

“Omnu must be spinning in his grave,” Vanessa noted wryly, earning several chuckles from the warlocks still flanking the entrance outside.

They all tensed at the sudden, not-too-distant sound of a hunting horn.

“What the hell?” one of the cultists muttered.

“Huntsmen,” Embras said curtly, ducking through the doors. “They won’t hunt in the dens of their own allies. Everyone inside, now.”

As they darted into the temple, the spirit hawk above wheeled away, heading toward a different part of the city.

“This is so weird,” Billie muttered for the fourth time. “And I have done some weird shit in my time.”

“Yes, I believe I read of your exploits on the wall of a men’s bathhouse,” Weaver sneered, taking a moment from muttering to his companion.

The gnome shot him an irritated look, but uncharacteristically failed to riposte. They all had that reaction when they glanced at the figure beside him.

In the space between spaces (as Mary had called it), the world was grayed-out and wavering, as if they were seeing it from underwater. The distortion obscured finer details, but for the most part they could see the real world well enough. This one was more dimly lit than the physical Tiraas, but apart from being unable to read the street signs (which for some reason, apart from being blurred, were not in Tanglish when viewed form here), they could navigate perfectly well, and identify the figures of Darling and his two apprentices, and even the little black form of the Crow as she glided from lamp to lamp ahead of them.

None of them had been able to resist looking up at the sky, briefly but long enough to gather an impression of eyes and tentacles belonging to world-sized creatures at unimaginable distances, seen far more clearly than what was right in front of them. Mary had strongly advised against studying them in any detail. No one had felt any inclination to defy the order.

The weirdness accompanying them was far more immediately interesting to the group. She was wavery and washed-out just like the physical world, but here, they could see her. Little of the figure was distinct except that she was tall, a hair taller even than Weaver, garbed entirely in black, and had black wings. She carried a plain, ancient-looking scythe which was as crisply visible as they themselves were, unlike its owner. Weaver had stuck next to his companion, carrying on a whispered dialogue—or what was presumably a dialogue, as no one but he could hear her responses. The rest of the party had let them have their privacy, for a variety of reasons.

The winged figure subtly turned her head, and Joe realized he’d been caught staring. He cleared his throat awkwardly and tipped his hat to her. “Ah, your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t get the chance to thank you properly for the help a while back, in the old apartments. You likely saved me and my friend from a pair of slit throats. Very much obliged.”

The dark, silent harbinger of death waved at him with childlike enthusiasm. It was nearly impossible to distinguish in the pale blur where her face should be, but he was almost certain she was grinning.

“Oddly personable, ain’t she,” McGraw murmured, drawing next to him as Weaver and his friend fell back again, their heads together. “That’ll teach me to think I’m too old to be surprised by life.”

“Tell you what’s unsettling is that,” Billie remarked, stepping in front of them so they couldn’t miss seeing her and pointing ahead. Several yards in front of the group, Darling and the two elves were engaging a group of Black Wreath. Their demon companions were clearly, crisply visible, while the warlocks themselves appeared to glow with sullen, reddish auras. As per their orders, the party was hanging back, allowing the Eserites to handle things on their own until they were called for. In any case, it didn’t seem their help was needed. Darling was glowing brightly, and making very effective use of the chain of white light which now extended from his right hand. As they watched, it lashed out, seemingly with a mind of its own, snaring a katzil demon by its neck and holding the struggling creature in place. In the next moment, a golden circle appeared on the pavement beneath it, and the chain dragged the demon down through it, where it vanished.

“I’ve gotta say, something about that guy equipping himself with new skills and powers doesn’t fill me with a sense of serenity,” Billie mused, watching their patron closely.

“You don’t trust him?” Joe asked. She barked a sarcastic laugh.

“Ain’t exactly about trust,” McGraw noted.

Mary reappeared next to them with her customary suddenness and lack of fanfare. “One can always trust a creature to behave in consistency with its own essential nature. As things stand, Darling is extraordinarily unlikely to betray us.”

“As things stand?” Joe asked, frowning.

The Crow shrugged noncommittally. “Change is the one true constant. In any case, be ready. I believe we will not be called upon to carry out the planned ambush; it likely would have happened already, were it going to. That being the case, we’ll shortly need to return to the material plane and move on to general demon cleanup duty.”

“Fun,” Joe muttered.

“What, y’mean we don’t get to stay and hang out in this creepity-ass hellscape?” Billie said. “Drat. An’ here I was thinkin’ of investing in some real estate.”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “If you would really like to remain, I can—”

“Don’t even feckin’ say it!”

“Hold it, stop,” Sweet ordered. Fauna skidded to a halt on command, turning to scowl at him as a robed figure scampered away down the sidewalk before her.

“He’s escaping!”

“Him and all three of his friends!”

“Let ’em,” he said lightly, peering around at the nearby rooftops with some disappointment. “We were making a spectacle of ourselves, not seriously trying to collar the Wreath. That’s someone else’s job. You notice there are no signs of Church summoners here, despite the presence of the demons they let loose?”

“Everyone’s bugging out?” Fauna asked, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Seems like ol’ Embras isn’t taking my bait,” Sweet lamented with a heavy sigh. “Ah, well, it was probably too much to hope that he’d do something so ham-fisted. It’s not really in an Elilinist’s nature, after all. Welp, that being the case, onward we go!”

“Go?” Flora asked as he abruptly turned and set off down a side street. “Where now?”

“You know, it would save us a lot of stumbling along asking annoying questions if you’d just explain the damn plan,” Fauna said caustically.

“Probably would,” he agreed, grinning back at them. “But adapting to circumstances as they unfold is all part of your education.”

“Veth’na alaue.”

“You watch it, potty mouth,” he said severely. “I know what that means.”

“Oh, you speak elvish now?” Fauna asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Just enough to cuss properly. It seemed immediately relevant to our relationship.” They both laughed. “Anyhow, just up this street is the bridge to Dawnchapel. We are going to a warehouse facility, uncharacteristically disguised behind the facade of an upscale apartment building so as not to offend the ritzy sensibilities of those who dwell in this very fashionable district. A fancy warehouse, but still a warehouse if you know what to look for, which makes it the perfect spot for what’s coming next.”

“I didn’t realize there were warehouses in Dawnchapel.”

“Just outside Dawnchapel,” he corrected, grinning up ahead into the night. “Along the avenue leading straight out from the less obvious exit from the Dawnchapel sanctuary itself.”

“I don’t know what to hope for,” Fauna muttered, “that this all plays out as you’re planning and we finally get to learn the point of it, or that it doesn’t and you have to eat crow.”

“Well, there was a mental image I could’ve done without,” Flora said, wincing.

“Not that Crow, you ninny. Oh, gods, now I’m seeing it too.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little heads,” he replied. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Before any of the obvious responses to that could be uttered, the clear tone of a hunting horn pierced the night.

“Now what?” Flora demanded. “What’s that about?”

“That,” said Sweet, picking up his pace, “is the signal that we are out of time for sightseeing. Step lively, girls, we need to get into position.”

The spectral bird lit on Hawkmaster Vjarst’s gloved hand, and he brought it forward to his face, gazing intently into its eyes. A moment passed in silence, then he nodded, stroking the spirit hawk’s head, and raised his arm. The bird took flight again, joining its brethren now circling above.

“The summoners have retreated to their safehouses,” he announced, turning to face the rest of the men assembled on the rooftop. “Warlocks in Wreath garb are attempting to put down the remaining demons. There is significant incidental damage in the affected areas. No human casualties that my eyes have seen.”

“And the Eserite?” Grandmaster Veisroi asked.

“His quarry has not bitten his lure, but gone to Dawnchapel as he predicted. Darling and his women are moving in that direction. They are now passing through a cluster of demons, and acquitting themselves well.”

“How close?”

“Close.”

Veisroi nodded. “Then all is arranged; it’s time.” The assembled Huntsmen tensed slightly in anticipation as he lifted the run-engraved hunting horn at his side to his lips.

The horn was one of the treasures of their faith, a relic given by the Wolf God himself to his mortal followers, according to legend. Its tone was deep and clear, resounding clearly across the entire city, without being painful to the ears of those standing right at hand.

At its sound, Brother Ingvar nocked the spell-wrapped arrow that had been specially prepared for this night to his bow, raised it, and fired straight upward. The missile burst into blue light as it climbed…and continued to climb, soaring upward to the clouds without beginning to descend toward the city. Similar blue streaks soared upward from rooftop posts all across Tiraas.

Where they touched the clouds, the city’s omnipresent damp cover darkened into ominous thunderheads in the space of seconds. Winds carrying the chill of the Stalrange picked up, roaring across the roofs of the city; Vjarst’s birds spiraled downward, each making brief contact with his runed glove and vanishing. Snow, unthinkable for the time of year, began to fall, whipped into furious eddies by the winds.

The very light changed, Tiraas’s fierce arcane glow taking on the pale tint of moonlight as the blessing of Shaath was laid across the city.

“Brother Andros,” Veisroi ordered, “the device.”

Andros produced the twisted thorn talisman they had previously confiscated from Elilial’s spy in their midst, closed his eyes in concentration, and twisted it. Even in the rising wind, the clicking of the metal thorns echoed among the stilled Huntsmen.

Absolutely nothing happened.

Andros opened his eyes, grinning with satisfaction. “All is as planned, Grandmaster. Until Shaath’s storm abates, shadow-jumping in Tiraas has been blocked.”

“Good,” said Veisroi, grinning in return. With his grizzled mane and beard whipped around him by the winds, he looked wild, fierce, just as a follower of Shaath ought. “Remember, men, your task is to destroy demons as you find them, but only harry the Wreath toward the Rail stations. Yes, I see your impatience, lads. I know you’ve been told this, but it bears repeating. A dead warlock may yield worthy trophies, but he cannot answer questions. We drive them into the trap, nothing more. And now…”

He raised the horn again, his chest swelling with a deeply indrawn breath, and let out a long blast, followed by three short ones, the horn’s notes cutting through the sound of the wind.

Four portal mages were now under medical supervision in the offices of Imperial Intelligence, recuperating from serious cases of mana fatigue from their day’s labors, but they had finished their task on time, as was expected of agents of the Silver Throne. Now, from dozens of rooftops all across the city, answering horns raised the call and spirit wolves burst into being, accompanying the hundreds of Huntsmen of Shaath gathered in Tiraas, nearly every one of them from across the Empire. They began bounding down form their perches, toward lower roofs and the streets, roaring and laughing at the prospect of worthy prey.

“And now,” Grandmaster Veisroi repeated, grinning savagely, “WE HUNT!”

The three of them hunkered down behind the decorative stone balustrade encircling the balcony on which they huddled, taking what shelter they could from the howling winds and snowflakes. Uncomfortable as it was, they weren’t as chilled as the weather made it seem they should be. The temperature had dropped notably in the last few minutes, but it was still early summer, despite Shaath’s touch upon the city.

Directly across the street stood the warehouse Sweet had indicated. It had tall, decorative windows in sculpted stone frames, shielded by iron bars which were wrought so as to be attractive as well as functional. Its huge door was similarly carved and even gilded in spots to emphasize its engraved reliefs. It was, in short, definitely a warehouse, but did not stand out excessively from the upscale townhouses which surrounded it, or the shrines and looming Dawnchapel temple just across the canal.

“More information is always better,” Sweet was saying. His normal, conversational tone didn’t carry more than a few feet away, thanks to the furious wind, but his words were plainly audible to the elven ears of his audience, who sat right on either side of him. “When running a con, you want to control as much as you can. What you know, what the mark knows, who they encounter… But the fact is, you can’t control the world, and shouldn’t try. There comes a point where you have to let go. Real mastery is in balancing those two things, arranging what you can control so that your mark does what you want him to, despite the plethora of options offered to him by the vast, chaotic world in which we live.”

“And you, of course, possess true mastery,” Fauna said solemnly. She grinned when Sweet flicked the pointed tip of her ear with a finger.

“In this case, it’s a simple matter of what I know that Embras doesn’t,” he said, “and what Justinian doesn’t know that I know. This part of the plan wasn’t shared with his Holiness, you see; he’d just have moved to protect his secrets. That would be inconvenient, after all the trouble I went to to track them down, and anyway, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make use of it tonight.”

“What trouble did you go to?” Flora asked. “When did you find time to snoop out whatever it is Justinian was hiding from you on top of everything else you’ve got going on?”

“I asked Mary to do it,” he said frankly, grinning. “Now pay attention across the bridge, there, girls, you are about to see a demonstration of what I mean.” He shifted position, angling himself to get a good look down the street and across the canal bridge at the Dawnchapel. “When you know the board, the players, and the pieces…well, if you know them well enough, the rest is clockwork.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Embras said sharply as his people clustered together, peering nervously up through the glass dome at the storm-darkening sky. “It was a good move on Justinian’s part, but they’ll be hunting out there. This is probably the safest place in the city right now. Focus, folks, we’ve got a job to do.” He pointed quickly at the main door and a smaller one tucked into one of the stone walls. “Ignore the exterior entrances, we’re not about to be attacked from out there. That doorway, opposite the front, leads into the temple complex. Sishimir, get in there and shroud it; I don’t want us interrupted by the clerics still in residence. Vanessa, Ravi, Bradshaw, start a dark circle the whole width of the sanctuary. Tolimer, Ashley, shroud it as they go. You’re not enacting a full summons, just a preparatory thinning.”

“Nice,” said Vanessa approvingly. “And here I thought you just wanted to smash the place up.” She moved off toward the edge of the sanctuary, the rest of the warlocks shifting into place as directed, Sishimir ducking through the dark entrance hall to the temple complex beyond. The two hethelaxi took up positions flanking the main doors, waiting patiently, while the non-sentient demons stuck by their summoners.

“Now, Vanessa, that would be petty,” Embras said solemnly. “It’ll be so much more satisfying when the next amateur to reach across the planes in training tomorrow plunges this whole complex straight into Hell. Perhaps they’ll think with a bit more care next time someone suggests fooling around aimlessly with demons.”

“Ooh, sneaky and gratuitously mean-spirited. I like it!”

Everyone immediately stopped what they were doing, turning to face the succubus who had spoken.

“Not one of ours,” Ravi said crisply, extending a hand. A coil of pure shadow flexed outward, wrapping around the demon and securing her wings and arms to her sides; she bore this with good humor, tail waving languidly behind her. “Who are you with, girl? The summoner corps?”

“Justinian’s messing around with the children of Vanislaas, now?” Bradshaw murmured. “The man is completely out of control.”

“Why, hello, Kheshiri,” Mogul said mildly, tucking a hand into his pocket. “Of all the places I did not expect you to pop up, this is probably the one I expected the least. You already rid yourself of that idiot Shook? Impressive, even for you.”

“Rid myself of him?” Kheshiri said innocently. “Now why on earth would I want to do something like that? He’s the most fun I’ve had in years.”

“Change of plans,” Embras said, keeping his gaze fixed on the grinning succubus. It never paid to take your eyes off a succubus, especially one who was happy about something. “Vanessa, Tolimer, cover those doors. Sishimir, what’s taking so long in there?”

The gray-robed figure of Sishimir appeared in the darkened doorway, his posture oddly stiff and off-center. His cowled head lolled to one side.

“Everything’s okey-dokey back here, boss!” said a high-pitched singsong voice. “No need to go looking around for more enemies, no sirree!”

The assembled Wreath turned from Kheshiri to face him, several drawing up shadows around themselves.

Two figures stepped up on either side of Sishimir, a man in a cheap-looking suit and a taller one in brown Omnist style robes, complete with a hood that concealed his features.

“That is absolutely repellant,” the hooded one said disdainfully.

“Worse,” added the other, “it’s not even funny.”

“Bah!” Sishimir collapsed to the ground; immediately a pool of blood began to spread across the stone floor from his body. Behind him stood a grinning elf in a dapper pinstriped suit, dusting off his hands. “Nobody appreciates good comedy anymore.”

“I don’t know what the hell this is, but I do believe I lack the patience for it,” Embras announced. “Ladies and gentlemen, hex these assholes into a puddle.”

Kheshiri clicked her tongue chidingly, shaking her head.

A barrage of shadow blasts ripped across the sanctuary at the three men.

The robed man raised one hand, and every single spell flickered soundlessly out of existence a yard from them.

“What—”

Bradshaw was interrupted by a burst of light; the wandshot, fired from the waist, pierced Ravi through the midsection. She crumpled with a strangled scream, the shadow bindings holding Kheshiri dissolving instantly.

“Keep your grubby hands off my property, bitch,” Shook growled.

The robed figure raised his hands, finally lowering his hood to reveal elven features, glossy green hair, and glowing eyes like smooth-cut emeralds.

Khadizroth the Green curled his upper lip in a disdainful sneer.

“I do not like warlocks.”

“Almost wish I’d brought snacks,” Sweet mused as they watched the dome over the Dawnchapel flicker and pulse with the lights being discharged within.

“I wouldn’t turn down a mug of hot mead right now,” Flora muttered, her hands tucked under her arms.

“Hot anything,” Fauna agreed. “Hell, I’d drink hot water.”

“Oh, don’t be such wet blankets,” Sweet said airily, struggling not to shiver himself. “Where’s your sense of oh wait there he goes!”

He leaned forward, pointing. Sure enough, a figure in a white suit had emerged from the small side entrance to the temple’s sanctuary and headed toward the bridge at a dead run.

“Clockwork, I tell you,” Sweet said, grinning fiercely, his discomfort of a moment ago forgotten. “Confronted with an unwinnable fight when they weren’t expecting one, the cultists naturally huddle up and create an opportunity for their leader to escape. The rest of them are losses the Wreath can absorb; he simply can’t be allowed to fall into Justinian’s hands. And so, there he goes. But whatever shall our hero do now?”

Embras Mogul skidded to a stop at the bridge, glancing back at the Dawnchapel, then forward at the warehouse. He started moving again, purposefully.

“So many choices, so many direction to run,” Sweet narrated quietly, his avid gaze fixed on the fleeing warlock. “The Wreath’s first choice is always to vanish from trouble, but with their shadow-jumping blocked, his options are limited. But what’s this? Why, it’s a warehouse! And all warehouses in this city have convenient sewer access. Once down in that labyrinth, he’s as good as gone. As we can see, he is slowed up by the very impressive lock on those mighty doors.”

“Amateur,” Flora muttered, watching Mogul struggle with the latch. After a moment, he stepped back, aimed a hand at the lock and discharged a burst of shadow. With the snowy wind howling through the street, they couldn’t hear the eruption of magic or the clattering of pieces of lock and chain falling to the ground, but in the next moment, Mogul was tugging the doors open a crack and slipping through, pulling it carefully shut behind him.

“You weren’t going to ambush him there?” Fauna asked, frowning.

“What, out here in the street?” Darling stood up, brushing snow off his suit. “Where he could run in any direction? No, I believe I’ll ambush him in that building which I’ve prepared ahead of time to have no useable exits except the one I’ll be blocking.”

“One of these days your love of dramatic effect is going to get you in real trouble,” Flora predicted.

“Mm hm, it’s actually quite liberating, knowing in advance what your own undoing’ll be. The uncertainty can wear on you, otherwise. All right, girls, down we go. We’ve one last appointment to keep tonight.”

Embras strode purposely forward into the maze of crates stacked on the main warehouse floor, scowling in displeasure. This night had been an unmitigated disaster. He only hoped his comrades had had the sense to surrender once he was safely away. For now, he had to get to the offices of this complex and find the sewer access—there always was one—but in the back of his mind, he had already begun planning to retrieve as many of them as possible. It was a painful duty, having to prioritize among friends, but Bradshaw and Vanessa would have to be first…

He rounded a blind turn in the dim corridors made by the piled crates and slammed to a halt as light rose up in front of him.

The uniformed Butler set the lantern aside on a small crate pulled up apparently for that purpose, then folded her hands behind her back, assuming that parade rest position they always adopted when not actively working.

“Good evening, Master Mogul,” Price said serenely. “You are expected.”

Embras heaved a sigh. “Well, bollocks.”

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5 – 30

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He couldn’t remember if he dreamed. The next thing he was conscious of was her face again, swimming into focus above him. It was a few seconds before he realized he’d actually opened his eyes.

The focusing continued, however, the haze on all sides resolving into the dim light of a room with its curtains half-drawn, and her face changed till it wasn’t her. The features shifted, the hair faded to black. Mary.

“Wh—!” Memory crashed down on Joe and he tried to sit upright. He was in a bed, drowning in pillows. “Is everyone—”

Mary planted a hand in the middle of his chest, gently preventing him from rising. “Everyone is fine,” she said soothingly, “with the possible exception of you. Be easy, Joseph, and take your time. There is no urgency. Decide how you feel and what you feel ready to do about it.”

He paused, slumping backward, and she removed her hand. “I feel…weak,” he said grudgingly after a few moments of following her advice. “And restless, but sleepy.”

“Not uncommon, after having been in bed as long as you have,” she said with a glimmer of amusement. “The weakness—”

“Joe!”

Apparently, the door had been left open; at any rate, Billie didn’t need to push through it before bounding onto a nearby chair and hurling herself bodily at Joe, arms outflung for a hug. Mary snagged her by the back of her shirt, holding the struggling gnome bodily off the ground.

“Do not assault my patient, please,” she said firmly.

“Unhand me, y’great bully!”

“Hi, Billie,” Joe said with a smile.

“Hey, you’re up!” McGraw appeared in the doorway, grinning, then stepped inside, admitting Weaver behind him. “It is damn good to see you alert again, son. You had us right worried.”

“I’m glad to see all of you, too,” said Joe, while Mary set Billie down on the floor with a murmured warning. “But what happened? Last thing I remember…” He trailed off, and swallowed heavily. “Well, it was no fun, and it left me with a good few questions. For starters, where are we?”

“You’re at my house,” said the newest arrival, poking his blond head in. Bishop Darling wore a conservative suit rather than his ecclesiastical robes, and seemed more relaxed than when Joe had previously seen him. “Which, by the way, you may consider your own until you’re back on your feet. I, uh, think you’ll find the room a lot more comfortable when it’s a lot less populated.” Indeed, it was suddenly quite cramped in the modest bedroom, but Joe didn’t spare a moment’s attention for that.

“What? We’re in Tiraas? But… You’re not supposed to move injured people by Rail. Unless…” He began trying to sit up again. “How long was I out?!”

“One day,” Mary said quietly, this time helping him up and arranging the pillows behind him for support. He needed it; it was hard to breathe, and the act of getting his torso upright wiped him out. “And we did not travel by Rail. McGraw brought us here via magic.”

“Really?” Joe turned his gaze to the old wizard. “You can do that?”

“There are exactly two places in the world to which I can teleport five people,” said McGraw, “and one is the Wizards’ Guild sanctum here in Tiraas. They’ve got a permanent portal focus on a major ley line nexus, to which all initiates are attuned.”

“You shoulda seen their faces when we all popped in,” Billie said, grinning. “Someday I wanna do that again when I don’t have a partner bleeding to death on the floor so I can properly enjoy it.”

“I really can’t tell you how relieved I am you’re comin’ through,” McGraw added solemnly. “I was right there, so busy catchin’ my breath I had no idea anything’d happened until that guy spoke. And then… Well, he was gone before I could even get a proper look, and there wasn’t a thing I could do for you. I’ve seldom felt so useless.”

“Despite our assurances that he wasn’t at fault, McGraw has seen fit to give himself a bad case of mana fatigue in getting us back here so expeditiously,” said Mary, a portrait of calm. “Portal nexus or no, that five-person teleport coming on the heels of his exertions in the crater had its price.”

“Are you okay?” Joe asked the old man worriedly.

McGraw waved a hand. “Feh, few weeks’ rest and I’ll be good as new.”

“Mana fatigue is a minor ailment,” Mary said, “provided the patient refrains from using magic until his system recuperates. Otherwise, he risks triggering a variety of permanent degenerative conditions, including anemia, hemophilia, diabetes, autoimmune dysfunction—”

“Lady, I know what the risks are,” McGraw said patiently.

She arched an eyebrow at him. “I have observed that men usually benefit from being reminded of the risks, whether they theoretically know them or not. Which brings us back to my other patient.” She gently smoothed Joe’s hair back from his forehead, an almost motherly gesture that took him aback. “Joe, you were stabbed directly in the heart. That is not a small thing. I reached you within moments; even so, I have lost patients under similar circumstances. I fear my magic might not have been sufficient if not for Billie’s aid; she administered a health potion via some kind of…device.”

“Hypodermic syringe,” Billie chimed in, beaming up at him. “Hottest shit out of Svenheim!”

“In addition to the wound itself,” Mary continued, “that knife was coated with a poison which appears to have been a carrier for raw infernal magic. You are extremely lucky that we didn’t have a priest with us. Most healing done these days uses divine magic; that would have reacted violently with the poison, causing massive internal hemorrhaging wherever it had spread and blasting a fist-sized hole at the knife wound itself.”

Joe swallowed again, heavily. “That…seems unnecessarily cruel.”

“Yes,” she said grimly. “As it is… Shamanic healing neutralizes infernal magic as a matter of course, but the damage was done; the venom spread throughout your bloodstream before I was able to purge it. The wounds are healed and I suspect you will recover fully—provided you follow my advice in the weeks to come—but for the time being, your cardiovascular system is in a state comparable to that of a sixty-year-old obese man recovering from a heart attack.”

“So,” he said wryly, “you’re saying I’m not gonna be attending any hoedowns in the next couple weeks.

Mary smiled, brushing back his hair again. “I’m saying I’ll put you back to sleep if you try. In fact, getting exercise will be vital to your recovery, but it will be gentle, supervised exercise, especially in the beginning.”

“Hey, you’re not alone in being useless,” McGraw drawled. “Without magic, I’m just an old man with questionable fashion sense. We can sit on the porch together complaining about kids on the lawn.”

“I have a finite amount of space,” Darling pointed out.

“Okay, but…what happened?” Joe demanded. “I mean, who was that guy, and why did he butt in? And what happened with Khadizroth after I—um, you know.”

There came a pause in which everyone’s expression grew grimmer.

“He is a professional assassin known as the Jackal,” Mary said finally. “Someone I neglected to kill when I last had the opportunity, for which you have my apologies. I assure you I will not repeat that error.”

“Khadizroth got away,” Weaver added. “Which was apparently the point. The Jackal got everyone to cluster around you instead of around the dragon, and spirited him off.”

“Weaver was the only one who stayed on point,” said McGraw, nodding to the bard. “He tried to apprehend Khadizroth, but…”

“But even a diminished dragon is more than I can handle on my own, it turns out,” Weaver said dryly. “I gave it a try and in two minutes was running for my life. In hindsight, it’s lucky I didn’t get a knife in my own back; I never even knew that asshole was there until I found you on the ground with the others.”

“So, you put aside your concern for me and stuck to the mission,” Joe said, grinning. “Good man.”

“I’m sure you’d have done the same for me,” Weaver replied offhandedly.

“Well, I sure will next time.” The bard actually laughed, sounding more relaxed and cheerful than Joe had ever heard him. “So, uh… How did you mean, diminished?”

“I bound him,” Mary said simply. “A dragon is a creature of shifting forms, as you know. Its larger shape is often called its true form, which is a misnomer; both are natural and intrinsic. In his full size, however, he has a larger aura to accompany his larger mass, and thus greater access to his powers in addition to muscle, armor and natural weapons. The spell I laid upon Khadizroth restricts him to his elven form, which greatly limits his options. Even so, as Weaver pointed out, he is effectively a shaman of nigh-matchless power in his current condition. So while we did not achieve our objective, it was not an unequivocal loss, despite the Jackal’s intervention. Khadizroth will be that much easier to deal with next time.”

“Yeah, well, considering we dealt with him last time with a wild-ass gambit that really should not have worked,” Weaver groused, “and in the future he’ll be on the alert for us, not to mention having a brand new assassin buddy… Forgive me, but I’m not gonna chalk this up as a win.”

“How long will your spell bind him, Mary?” Darling asked quietly.

“It has no limit on duration,” she said, shifting to face him. “I am confident that Khadizroth himself, in his current state, cannot free himself from it… But what can be done can be undone. The greatest impediment to him freeing himself at this time is that he will not be willing to appear vulnerable in front of any of the people who might help him. Nearly all of those are other dragons.”

“Okay,” he said thoughtfully, nodding. “The other thing you all should be aware of is that the Jackal, when he was last seen, was in the employ of Archpope Justinian.”

That brought another momentary silence.

“Doesn’t mean he is now,” McGraw said reasonably. “That Jackal’s a blade for hire, everyone knows that.”

“Ask yourself why he would have stuck his hired blade into that particular situation,” Mary said darkly. “Why follow us to Khadizroth? Why care? No one has an interest in this matter except Darling, the Church and the Empire.”

“And the Imps would have sent their own people,” added Darling. “They’d also have killed the dragon while they found him vulnerable, not helped him escape. No, this leaves the Archpope as the only other person who even knew what was happening out there, and the question is…why would he care? He’s not the vengeful type, and with Khadizroth’s Cobalt Dawn scheme broken up years ago, the dragon is no threat to his interests.”

“What remains,” said Mary, her face falling into a baleful stare, “is Archpope Justinian’s plan to gather powerful adventurers to his side, which you are allegedly to oversee, Antonio. Khadizroth in his current state is a very rare thing: a dragon powerful enough to be a potent force, but vulnerable enough that he may have no choice but to accept terms.”

“Hang on,” Billie objected. “I thought we were the ones working for the Archpope, here?”

“On paper, yes,” said Darling. “But when I look back on it, Justinian handing his adventurer program over to me came at a moment when he had to give me something to keep me loyal. I’ve asked him since you lot reappeared, and he claims the last he heard of the Jackal, the man was rotting away in the Sisterhood’s custody.”

“So it’s like that, is it,” Weaver said grimly. Darling nodded.

“Excuse me, it’s like what, exactly?” Joe asked.

“There are now two Church-sponsored initiatives to control adventurers,” Mary explained. “We represent one, the Jackal clearly being another. The Archpope has to know that Darling knows of his second group, but at the moment, I assume they are unwilling to confront one another.” She turned to raise an eyebrow at Darling.

“Do you really think anything good would come of that?” Darling asked dryly. “I’m in no position to take him on, and he doesn’t benefit from rocking the boat. None of this is particularly out of character for Justinian. He’s used his own agents to winnow each other down before—in fact, that’s what he was doing with the Jackal when I last crossed paths with him. I suspect he’s not shy about surrounding himself with people he knows are working against him, either. It’s a classic technique; keep your enemies closer, as the saying goes. This is a reminder that he is still in control, that he still holds all the cards.”

“Does he?” Weaver asked, staring intently at him.

Darling actually grinned. “He may hold them, but I very much doubt he understands what they do. The nature of individuals such as yourselves is chaos. That’s the specific thing adventurers are known for: succeeding when they should not. Justinian’s a planner and a manipulator; chaos is the one thing he’s least suited to handle. There’s also the fact that his other group are presumably operating under some kind of duress. They wouldn’t be adventurers in the first place if they were sympathetic to anyone in Tiraas looking to control him. No…for the time being, this game continues. Politely.”

Weaver folded his arms, his chin jutting out challengingly. “And that raises the issue of whether we want to continue playing.”

“Of course, you’ll still get paid for this expedition,” Darling said smoothly. “And Justinian has not blocked my access to his room full of oracles; I am still working on the answers I promised you.”

“Also, we’re not feckin’ idiots,” Billie added. “We’re all still in. Don’t give me that look, Weaver, you know damn well we are. None of us is gonna sit still while Justinian puts a collar ’round our necks. It’s either join him, try to ignore him, or stick with Darling and undercut him when we can, aye? Tell me none of ye are daft enough to think that’s even a choice.”

“All this can be discussed in more detail in the days and weeks to come,” Mary said firmly. “Right now, Joe needs rest.”

“I’ve had nothing but rest for the last day, apparently,” Joe complained.

“You were stabbed in the heart,” she said with a touch of asperity. “You will not be recuperated in a matter of hours. Or weeks.”

“Feh, don’t listen ta her,” Billie said cheerfully. “She’s older’n dirt’s granny. We’ll give you all the miracles of modern alchemy, have you back in shootin’ shape in no time at all!”

Mary gave the gnome an extremely level look, but offered no comment.

“Well, if we’ve got a little downtime,” Billie prattled on blithely, “sounds like a good opportunity to spend some quality time gettin’ ta know each other! And seriously, I’ve got questions. Like, Joe, how the hell did you manage that with the portals and that ridiculous shot you pulled off? And you!” She pointed accusingly at Weaver. “Just what the hell manner of beastie is it ye got sittin’ on yer shoulder, eh?”

Silence descended, in which they all peered warily around at each other.

Then Darling laughed out loud. “Well, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful partnership. All right, I have to go tend to a political situation in the city. Try not to kill each other, please. At least not in my house.”

 

“So how was brunch with the Emperor?” Gabe asked as the group descended the steps into the Rail terminal.

“’bout as boring as I anticipated,” said Ruda. “We sipped tea, nibbled delicately on frou-frou little cakes and communicated entirely in mincing doublespeak. Got the job done, though, no one’s bearing any grudges, our great nations are still friends, yadda yadda, and everybody politely avoided mentioning how your great nation could pulverize mine with a good sneeze. Gotta say, though, I like your Empress. I think that lady is constitutionally incapable of taking anybody’s shit.”

“Well, that’s kind of true,” he said with a grin. “I was half expecting you to come back beheaded.”

“I’m not an idiot, Arquin. I don’t talk to people who matter the way I do to you.”

“Oh, so you don’t stab everyone you meet?”

“You are just never gonna let go of that, are you?”

“I cannot think of a single damn reason why I should.”

“Isn’t it kinda late?” Fross asked, rising upward a few feet to get a better view around the station. “Are we gonna be able to get a caravan?”

Afternoon had passed into early evening; there was still sunlight, peering through a rare gap in the Tiraan cloud cover, but it was reddish and streaming in from the west through the large plate glass windows which illuminated the Rail station. Indeed, the place seemed nearly deserted, the Rails themselves silent and the only people still present pushing brooms along the platforms in the near distance. The Empire was large enough that the sun didn’t occupy the same place in all its skies—by now it would be fully dark in Puna Dara and still late afternoon in Onkawa—but evidently it was past the hour when people were expected to be traveling.

“I think you kids have made quite a sufficient spectacle of yourselves for one week,” said Tellwyrn, bustling along in the head of their group. “There’s a reason I left you here all day rather than hopping the first available caravan. We have a special charter taking us back to Last Rock. They don’t usually like to run this late, but someone at ImCom agreed with me that the less attention we garnered, the better.”

“Well, it all works out,” said Gabe lazily. “I got to hear Trissiny’s speech and visit my dad. Nice, easy day after the week we’ve had.”

“It’s a shame you didn’t get to have brunch with our beneficent rulers, though,” Toby said with a smile.

Ruda snorted. “Now him she would’ve beheaded. Me, I was only worried about missing the paladins getting reamed out now that Her Professorship has graciously decided to rejoin us. The suspense is killing me.”

Tellwyrn glanced over her shoulder. “You’re a sadistic ghoul, Punaji. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Not so much since I left home. I kinda miss it. Nobody pitches a yelling fit like my mama.”

“No one’s getting reamed out,” said Tellwyrn, facing away from her again. “You lot mostly did well.”

“Seriously? They practically got the place burned down.”

“Ruda, must you?” Trissiny asked wearily.

“I don’t must, strictly speaking. It’s mostly just for my amusement. You may have noticed I’m kind of a bitch.”

“Failure wasn’t really a prospect,” said Tellwyrn, coming to a stop and turning to face them. “As I told you up front, this was a lesson, not a test. Toby and Trissiny, it seems, did the best job of learning it, perhaps because they caused the most incidental trouble. And the lesson was…?”

The two paladins exchanged a wary look.

“Pick your battles?” Trissiny said finally.

“More or less,” Tellwyrn nodded. “Minor variations for your specific cases, but yes. I could indeed make a speech about the importance of not trying to slay every monster you come across, but as I said, you seem to have gotten the point on your own. You two did exactly what I expected you to do; you soaked up the lesson better than I’d hoped, though. Well done. Arquin, Fross, you weren’t in a position to be tested very thoroughly on your own terms, but you seem to have done well in assisting your classmates while not causing collateral damage. Punaji, of course, understood this well going in and very properly refrained from getting involved where her involvement would have done no good. And, of course, Falconer and Awarrion performed much the same, though I wonder if either of you are willing to look me in the eye and claim your chosen actions were due to a careful analysis of the needs of the situation and not you taking the opportunity to hold hands and canoodle on a romantic holiday in the big city.”

Teal and Shaeine glanced at each other, then Teal lowered her eyes, blushing. Shaeine met Tellwyrn’s gaze evenly, but said nothing.

Tellwyrn grunted. “Remember, inaction is a course of action; it’s only the right one in circumstances when it specifically is the right one. Most of the time, it’s one of the worst things you can do. And you.” She turned a baleful stare on the last member of the group. “I am not impressed, Juniper. Sheltered and naïve you may be, but there are limits to how much of your denial I’m going to tolerate. You are too powerful and too important to be allowed to stagger aimlessly around the world with your head up your ass.”

Juniper, who had been subdued and glum for days, slumped her shoulders and dropped her gaze, saying nothing in reply.

Tellwyrn grimaced, peering around. “And now, where the hell is the special caravan I chartered? They’re late. I swear, the more modern conveniences get installed the less anything runs on time… Hang tight, kids, I’m going to go terrorize the station master for answers.”

“Um, Imperial Rail personnel aren’t supposed to give out schedule information…”

“Yes, Fross,” Tellwyrn said patiently. “You have never see me bored enough to terrorize someone without good and specific reason. It is goal-directed terror, I assure you. Be right back.”

She swished off in the direction of the ticket office, leaving the students staring after her.

Gabriel stepped over to Juniper and draped an arm around her shoulders. “D’you…wanna talk about it?”

“No,” she mumbled.

He nodded, drew in a breath and said very carefully, “You, uh, heard her, though. Eventually you’re gonna have to talk about it.”

“Not right now,” she said with an edge in her tone. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He rubbed her shoulder soothingly. After a moment, she leaned against him; he staggered before catching himself and bracing one leg.

“Well, look who thought they were gonna slip away without saying goodbye!”

The group started in unison, swiveling around; Flora and Fauna had appeared behind them, wearing identical grins.

“Gah!” Gabe exclaimed. “Don’t do that! In fact… How did you do that? There’s no cover in here!”

They exchanged an amused glance. “We’re Eserites.”

“We’re elves.”

“Honestly, Gabe, try to keep up.”

“It’s not that complicated.”

“I’m just so glad you decided to come visit,” he grumbled. Fauna laughed, stepping forward to ruffle his hair.

“I didn’t get a chance to ask,” said Trissiny with a smile. “How are you two? Last I saw you, it seemed like the Bishop was annoyed with you.”

“Oh, he’s always annoyed about something,” said Flora, waving dismissively.

“It’s all part of his charm.”

“He loves us, don’t you worry.”

“I think we’re actually gonna miss you, though, and not just because keeping tabs on you gave us an excuse to avoid studying.”

“I knew it,” Ruda exclaimed.

“Well, yeah,” Flora said with a grin. “You do realize we don’t always hang around seedy inns in Lor’naris, right?”

“Seriously, though, it was fun,” Fauna added, smiling with a little less mischief. “Someday we’ll have to do that without a riot brewing. I feel like we barely got—”

A thunderclap sounded right in the middle of the group; Flora and Fauna were bodily hurled across the platform, slamming into the far wall.

Tellwyrn reappeared in their midst, planting herself between the students and the two felled elves. Her body was encased in a suit of armor that seemed formed of pale blue light; she held a gold-hilted saber in each hand, both in a ready position. The crackling blue sphere of an arcane shield surrounded her; three orbs of lightning orbited her swiftly, emitting sparks and the sharp smell of ozone.

“What the hell?!” Ruda squawked.

Flora and Fauna surged to their feet, glaring at Tellwyrn with bared teeth.

“I will say this only once,” the Professor declared, her voice resonating hollowly from within her magic armor. “You are not my business. These students are. So long as you don’t move to combine those two things, I look forward to forgetting I ever saw you. Understand?”

“Do you really think you can—” Fauna broke off as Flora gripped her firmly by the shoulders from behind.

“It was good meeting all of you,” she said firmly. “Come on, Fauna.”

Fauna glared at Tellwyrn a moment longer, then sneered, whirled and stalked away toward the stairs out of the station. Flora lingered a moment, giving the students a sad look, then turned and followed her fellow apprentice, cloak billowing behind her.

Tellwyrn held her position until they were out of sight out the doors before straightening from her combat stance. Armor, shield and lightning balls faded from view, leaving behind only the telltale scent of ozone; she twirled both sabers once and then sheathed them at her waist. Or made motions as if doing so, anyway, despite the fact that she wore no scabbards; the blades vanished as if sliding into sheaths, and when she took her hands away, the hilts were gone too.

“Allow me to emphasize and elaborate on my initial question,” said Ruda. “What the fucking hell?! I liked them!”

“I don’t believe in coddling,” Tellwyrn said flatly, finally turning to face them. “You need to face the world in order to learn about it, and I’m not shy about sticking you into risky situations if it furthers your education. So on the rare occasions when I refuse to explain something, it’s because something is going on which doesn’t concern you, would fruitlessly endanger you to get involved with, and which even knowing about would necessarily involve you.” She dragged a hard stare around the group, making eye contact with each of them. “I am refusing to explain this. Understand?”

The students glanced around at each other.

“Understand?” Tellwyrn said insistently, this time getting a few muted acknowledgments.

“Wait,” said Juniper, “is this because those two are—”

“Juniper! You are not, now or at any time in the future, to discuss this with anyone unless I specifically tell you otherwise!”

“Um,” the dryad said meekly, “okay.”

“As for the rest of you,” Tellwyrn went on firmly, “If you ever encounter either of those women again, you are to immediately get as far away from them as you can, as fast as you can, and find me as quickly as possible. Is that clear?”

This time, she waited, staring them all down, until everyone had agreed.

“Good,” she said finally, turning away from them to the Rail, which had begun to glow and sparkle. “And…ah, there we are. Better late than never.”

The students stood in silence, staring at her back as she waited for the approaching caravan to come to a stop, her arms folded, tapping one foot. The doors hissed open, emitting no passengers, and Tellwyrn was the first to step through.

“I, uh, hope nobody saw that,” Fross said a little belatedly.

“The janitors are gone,” said Gabriel. “I guess that’s just good sense, with an archmage having a fit nearby.”

“Let’s just get out of here,” said Juniper, ducking into a car. One by one, the others followed her, arranging themselves inside.

Trissiny was the last to enter the caravan; she paused on the threshold, half-turning to look out at the station and the distant view of Tiraas through its huge windows, and sighed softly. Then she stepped in, pulling the door shut behind her.

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5 – 27

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Khadizroth roared, rearing back on his hind legs and beating his wings furiously. The four of them took the opportunity to bolt in different directions, stumbling slightly with the sudden air currents. McGraw vanished with a faint arcane crackle; the rest of them were stuck with their own legs.

The blast of dragonfire that followed spurred them to move faster.

Weaver hurled himself forward into a roll, vanishing between the spreading roots of an oak tree. He moved with surprising agility for someone who’d allegedly spent the last few years in a library. Also, he wasn’t carrying his guitar case; Joe hadn’t seen him remove it and didn’t have time to wonder about it. Billie simply vanished, skittering off into the dark.

Joe let loose a carefully timed barrage with his wands, not activating their full bolts but sending off tunnels of ionized air, along with the slightest push of kinetic force to get the air moving through them. Sure enough, when he chanced a glance backward, the spray of pencil-thin air channels had become lines of fire, drawing away the heat of Khadizroth’s attack.

Still, the blast hadn’t been aimed at them, but merely a reflexive outburst that went mostly over their heads; Joe’s trick (proud of it though he was) wouldn’t have drawn away anything but the outermost fringes of a full burst of dragonfire.

Khadizroth slammed his front feet back to the ground, stone crunching under his massive talons; even his inhuman face wore a very readable expression. Also, it wasn’t so much as scorched. Evidently, his roar had been of anger, rather than pain.

Joe skidded, turning even while moving, brought up his arms and fired. His aim was true as ever; he would have taken the dragon right through both eyes had his target not moved. The wandshots, powerful enough to pulverize oak and pit granite, splashed harmlessly against emerald scales.

A boulder smashed into the dragon from his right side, followed by a barrage of smaller rocks; McGraw was a will-o’-the-wisp of arcane blue flashes as he teleported erratically through the scattered trees, levitating chunks of the scenery as he went and hurling them. The first boulder knocked Khadizroth off balance, the rest serving to keep him unstable, though he didn’t seem to be suffering any harm from the attack.

Khadizroth staggered to the side, arranging one wing to deflect the stones being flung at him. This placed him very close to a willow tree—not bioluminescent but very out of place in the crater—which suddenly sprung to life, wrapping its trailing branches around the dragon’s form. They weren’t long enough to fully entangle him, but served to pull him further off his center of gravity, then seemed to harden in place. The whole tree, in fact, withered to a blackened husk that, unlike normally rotted wood, appeared much stronger than in its healthy state.

Not strong enough to withstand an irate dragon, of course. Roaring, Khadizroth pulled the whole thing up by the roots and hurled it, fragments of blackened wood flying in all directions.

Joe couldn’t see Weaver, but he had to wonder just what kind of magic the man was using.

Another hefty boulder hit the dragon directly on the side of his head, staggering him. Joe took careful aim and fired both wands, punching considerably more power than normal into the shots; he felt his weapons grow uncomfortably warm. The boosted beams didn’t burn through the scales around Khadizroth’s claws, but apparently gave him a serious hotfoot. His roar abruptly climbed an octave in pitch and he yanked the targeted foot away, causing himself to tumble over on his side.

Immediately a rain of ice slashed down from above, plastering the fallen dragon. Joe kept moving; he couldn’t see any of his teammates and was waiting for his wands to cool before firing them again, so he tried to circle around the caldera, giving the dragon a wide berth while angling to get behind him, and trusting Billie to seek him out when it was his turn in the plan. He couldn’t help feeling a surge of elation. This actually seemed to be working!

Then Khadizroth surged to his feet, pumped his wings and shot skyward.

Reflexively, Joe dived for cover, which in this case was an overhanging ledge of rock. The ground out here was full of such protuberances, for which was thankful, at least until half a second later when he realized how thoroughly he had just cornered himself.

Sure enough, there came a blast of fire from above—though, thank the gods, not at Joe’s hiding place. He wriggled back out, dashing toward a thicker stand of trees and offering a brief prayer for whoever had been the target of that attack. In the next second, he decided to worry about himself instead.

Khadizroth landed very nearly on top of him.

The ground shook hard enough to throw him off his stride; Joe caught his foot in a hidden pothole in the cracked earth and tumbled to the ground, the massive presence nearby filling his awareness even so. He only caught a glimpse of huge claws nearly close enough to touch; he couldn’t see the dragon’s wings, head or tail, but when those legs shifted, the math of it warned him. His mental construction of the dragon found a purpose in that change in position, and he rolled frantically rather than wasting precious seconds trying to get up again.

The spaded tip of Khadizroth’s tail was apparently harder than stone, to judge by the way it punched into the rock right where Joe had been laying a split-second before.

Joe’s roll brought him nearly up against one of those massive claws. Lacking any better ideas, he shot it again.

The dragon actually yelped, staggering away from him.

“Stop doing that!” Khadizroth bellowed, shaking the offended digit and glaring down at him.

Joe managed to roll to his feet, raising both weapons; he was far too close. A blow from that tail or those claws would finish him. If the dragon chose to bite or breathe fire, though, he’d have to open his mouth, which would provide a weak point.

Khadizroth swung around, actually increasing the distance between then, but twisting to bring up that tail in position to launch another scorpion-like strike. Apparently a dragon didn’t live as long as he had by making such obvious mistakes.

Not being given an opening, Joe made his own, by way of shooting at the dragon’s eyes again.

Khadizroth snarled in protest, but twisted his head out of the way. He also went ahead and jabbed with the tail, but it was now a blind stroke which Joe avoided. Barely; he felt the wind of it disturb his coat.

Belatedly, he activated every one of the defensive charms he was carrying, spending the extra power to do so mentally rather than trying to fumble for their various switches. They were intended to deflect, redirect or absorb wandshots; the whole lot of them would be pulverized by one hit from those claws or a good blast of dragonfire, but hopefully they’d give him just enough protection to survive it.

Despite how it had seemed for those tense few seconds, he wasn’t in this alone. No sooner had Khadizroth opened his eyes again than a cloud of grit and dust swept up from the rocky ground blasted him right in the face. Retching and actually coughing up bursts of smoke, the dragon backpedaled, shaking his head furiously and beating his wings to drive away the befouled air. Joe still couldn’t see anyone else, but at least McGraw was still alive and working. Even as he had the thought, another boulder smashed the dragon in the side, right below his wing, followed by a second hail of ice, which almost instantly steamed away to nothing in a clumsy burst of fire.

“What?!” Khadizroth snarled, rearing up on his hind legs again to shake his front claws. There seemed to be something dark oozing over his scales. Joe squinted, trying to get a closer look, and suddenly a hand grabbed his shoulder and the whole world vanished in a sharp flash of blue light.

He was disoriented only momentarily, mostly thrown off by the sudden teleportation, very quickly getting his bearings. He was now behind the dragon and a more comfortable distance away.

“Thanks,” he said feelingly. “I don’t think I was about to get far enough from him on my own power.”

McGraw nodded, panting for breath. “Weaver’s doin’ something… Can you tell what?”

“Not from back here. Looked like something climbing up on him, but it’s too dark…”

McGraw placed a fingertip to his temple, narrowing his eyes, and Joe felt a tingle as the wizard silently invoked a spell. “It’s…bugs,” the old man said, frowning. “No, wait… Bugs and vermin. Dead vermin. Holy shit, it’s all dead stuff. Snakeskins, rodent skeletons, dead bugs, all crawlin’ up on the dragon.”

“Will that…hurt him?”

“Can’t see how, but it’ll upset him. Which is as much as our best weapons are gonna do to him, so that’s as good a tactic as any, I reckon.”

“Why, are green dragons offended by dead things? I know they use life magic…”

McGraw lowered his finger, turning to give Joe a sardonic look. “Son, how would you like to have a carpet of dead vermin crawlin’ over you?”

“Ah. I see your point.”

The dragon went aloft again, bathing his own claws in flame. “I see you, Gravestone Weaver!” he thundered, circling above them. “And I see the chains by which you’ve bound that familiar of yours. You are not the first mortal to seek power over death, and won’t be the last. Those many stories have only one ending! Let’s see how you fare when the creature you’ve entrapped is set free!”

“Uh…should we run?” Joe asked nervously. “I mean, do you know what kind of a thing Weaver’s bound to him?”

“Not a clue,” McGraw replied, “there’s a host of rumors around that man, but no solid facts. It’s not gonna be anything pretty, though. Nothing that uses death magic is.”

“So…run?”

McGraw shook his head. “No way we’d get far enough. Wands up, Kid, we may be fighting on two fronts in a moment.”

The dragon had landed, far more gracefully than before—at any rate, he didn’t shake the earth this time. He flared his wings, however, lowering his head to stare at a clump of trees in which Weaver, presumably, was hiding.

Then the world tilted.

Or so it felt to Joe; his sense of forces and numbers told him nothing had changed, but his stomach dropped as if the ground had become a wall and he ought to be tumbling out into space. The light took on an odd, greenish tinge, and seemed to be thicker. As if everything around him were slightly blurred.

“Easy,” said McGraw, clasping his shoulder again. “I’ve seen this, though not often.”

“What’s he doing?!”

“Thinning the barrier, reaching through to subtler levels of… Well, this is the first step toward summoning something, an’ now you know why that’s usually done inside spell circles. Don’t use any magic until it stops if you can help it. Might accidentally burn a hole through the planes, and we do not need random demons introduced into this.”

“Summoning?” Joe said weakly, trying to hold his stomach down. Khadizroth had reached out with one front claw, seeming to clasp at something invisible in midair before him.

“Don’t think that’s what he’s after,” said McGraw. “I think he’s attacking whatever links Weaver to his invisible…familiar. Don’t, kid,” he added when Joe raised a wand. “Magic includes wandshots. You distract him right now and he may lose control of that effect, and then who knows what’d happen.”

“But…Weaver’s in danger!”

“Don’t assume we’re in any less danger,” McGraw said grimly. “Just a mite less immediately, is all.”

Abruptly, Khadizroth released whatever invisible thing he was gripping, letting out a shrill cry. He staggered backward, pivoting around and incidentally giving Joe and McGraw a clearer view of him from the front. Distant as they were, he was large enough that they could clearly see something had cut him. The slash across his chest was bordered by broken, blackened scales, as if something had burned through the nigh-impervious dragonhide.

No, Joe realized, peering closer at the discoloration. It wasn’t an even or sharp effect, and the scales near the wound were deformed in shape as well as darkened, festering. Not burned. Rotted.

The good news was that the disturbing effect of Khadizroth’s reaching across the planes diminished sharply, restoring Joe’s vision and sense of equilibrium, though the sky above seemed still to have a green cast.

Khadizroth yelped again, twisting aside, and another black slash appeared across his cheekbone.

“That wasn’t a chain, you unbelievably pompous jackass,” said Weaver’s voice from out of the darkness. “It’s a relationship. Y’see, some of us don’t have to brainwash kids from the cradle to get competent help. I don’t think my ‘familiar’ appreciated your little rescue attempt,” he added smugly as a rip appeared in the edge of the dragon’s wing sail.

Khadizroth backpedaled frantically away from whatever invisible thing was attacking him, rising into the air again. Joe and McGraw watched, fascinated, uncertain whether to try to intervene.

Moments later, Weaver himself appeared beside them, limping slightly.

“Not to pry into your business,” said McGraw by way of greeting, “but what manner of thing, exactly, is he fighting up there?”

“Something not usually found on this plane of existence. Something that could seriously hurt him,” the bard said in a tone of malicious satisfaction. “See how he’s constantly backing up? Trying to get space to finish canceling that dimensional effect, not fighting back. It’s not the sort of creature you can kill.”

“Uh, okay,” said Joe. “Should we press the attack? I don’t think we’re ever gonna see him this vulnerable again.”

“Hold it, kid, we’re just here to keep him diverted while the plan plays out,” McGraw said firmly. “Let’s be honest, nothin’ we got is gonna do more than distract and annoy that dragon. He’s already plenty distracted; I think we’re better served takin’ the opportunity to catch our breath.”

“What’s the matter, old man?” Weaver asked, grinning. “Little too much exertion for you?”

“I get that it’s probably a waste of breath to ask you not to be a jerk,” said Joe, “but this isn’t the time.”

“And speakin’ of time, you’re up!”

All three men jumped at Billie’s voice. She popped up next to them, grinning.

“Wh—that wasn’t nine minutes,” said Weaver. Joe kept his mouth shut. It had felt like considerably longer, but a quick replay of events in his head suggested it had actually been quite a bit shorter.

“Yeah, I had to do less tinkerin’ than I’d figured,” said the gnome. “Had the tripods all ready to go, just had to detach ’em from another project and screw in the portal focus stones. Also, I’m feckin’ awesome. Here ya go!” Beaming, she handed Joe a wallet-sized leather bag.

“Um…are you sure this…”

“Oh, honestly, boy, ain’t you ever seen a bag o’ holding before? You have to have, they’re flippin’ everywhere. Trust me, what you need’s all in there. Now it’s time to back up your boasting.”

“Right,” he said uncertainly, then squared his shoulders and added more firmly, “Right. Okay, just keep him off me. I’ll make it as quick as I can.”

“So, what’s our boy doin’ up there?” Billie asked, cocking her head to peer up at the dragon who was flapping in ungainly circles around the caldera, causing sudden outgrowths of plant life below him as he threw fae magic around, healing up the wounds inflicted by Weaver’s mysterious familiar.

Joe didn’t bother to listen to any of the responses, peering around the caldera. He could see the shape he’d need to set up in his mind. Like a nautilus shell. The network of portals would have to be arranged with exquisite precision, each turn at precisely the right angle, spiraling outward from the initial launch point, the space between them increasing as the angle widened. That was the easy part. It had to fit in the space available; the spiral had to be arranged with the portal points near the ground so as to establish the tripods, there couldn’t be any obstructions between them, and he had only half the space of the caldera in which to work, given that it had to fire Khadizroth toward the spot Mary had indicated near the center. He slowly turned in a circle, mentally shifting the invisible spiral this way and that, trying to find a place where it could align properly. The darkness didn’t help; what light there was came from the eerie vegetation.

There.

Joe was moving at a run as soon as the mental diagram clicked into place. He skidded to a stop next to the starting point of the portal and reached into the bag, pulling out the first tripod.

Billie’s handiwork was starkly utilitarian, but sturdy. The portal stone was an oval amber gem, a faint light swirling within; Joe had never seen one in person, but they were amply described in the enchanting literature he’d studied. The tripod was a collection of steel rods, hinges, rubber stops, braces and springs. It was intimidating to look at for a split second before everything mentally snapped into place for him. All the parts were exposed; seeing how they fit together was as good as an explanation for their use.

Very carefully, he arranged the tripod’s adjustable legs against the ground, twisting and pushing at the whole thing with increasing annoyance. He could see the angle, see just where it needed to go to fit in the spiral diagram, but the realities of putting it there slowed him down. The ground was uneven and its composition irregular; Joe had to repeatedly readjust things as the legs first shifted in loose dirt, then caught on a piece of rock he’d failed to see.

When it hit the right spot, though, it clicked in his mind; he could almost see the lines and angles he’d painted on the backs of his eyes light up when the portal stone settled in exactly the right position. Hardly daring to breathe lest he disturb the perfection of its placement, he touched the activator runes on each of the tripod’s legs, triggering the sticky charms that affixed them firmly in place.

It had likely been less than a full minute, but that was still frustratingly long. Finally, he stood, brushing off his hands on his coat, and turned toward the next spot, setting off at a careful run. It wouldn’t do to break his leg stepping in a hole; this turf would have been poor ground for running even in broad daylight.

“Where do these portals lead to, that makes them such useful power amplifiers?” Weaver asked, jogging alongside him.

Joe gave the man a sidelong glance. “Nowhere. They’re unstable portals; that’s what causes the effect. Think of two portable holes fixed back-to-back.”

“…that gives me a headache just to imagine.”

“Yeah, the feedback it causes is what amplifies the shot. Also what makes this dangerous, and why you’ve probably never heard of the maneuver; it’s not something people do unless they’re desperate or a little crazy. What’re you doing, exactly?”

“I’ve been designated your bodyguard,” Weaver said with a grin. “The other two are going to draw the dragon’s attention away once he finishes with… Yeah, that’s likely to be any moment, he’s making headway. All he needs is an uninterrupted second or two to finish nixing this dimensional effect and then my partner can’t touch him. So…chop chop.”

Joe ignored this last comment, having already slid to a stop on his knees to begin placing the second portal rune.

He actually managed to get that one placed and was in the middle of affixing the third when the light changed again. Joe didn’t need Weaver’s warning to understand that Khadizroth was done being inconvenienced by the backfire of his own dimensional rift.

The distance between portal points increased with each one placed. It was nerve-wracking, having to count on his partners to keep the dragon occupied while he worked to arrange a portal stone in just the right spot, but he had longer and longer periods in which he only needed to pick his way to the next position, and then could spare the attention to glance up at the others. Billie and McGraw appeared to be doing their job well, insofar as they were keeping Khadizroth well away from Joe. The dragon’s bulk was unmistakeable, even when partially obscured by trees, but all he could discern of the action was roaring, flashes and thumps, interspersed with other spell effects and Billie’s taunts.

Joe had just stood up from placing the fourth stone when Khadizroth, who had been circling aloft sending fire blasts at a series of decoy flickers McGraw had launched to hide his teleportation, suddenly diverted, settling to the ground and tilting his head, peering at something there. Joe’s stomach plummeted. The dragon was looking right at the first of his carefully-positioned portal stones.

Would Khadizroth even know what it was? He was a green dragon, not a blue, and portal stones were arcane. They were also a relatively recent invention, and it was a well-known weakness of older immortals that they tended not to keep up with developments that were outside their specific interests. And even if Khadizroth knew all that, could he possibly anticipate their plan? The plan was crazy enough that even Joe could hardly believe they were trying it, and it had been his idea.

It was a moot point, of course. Khadizroth, whether or not he knew the significance of the portal stone, had to know who had placed it there and that they meant him harm. He slammed his claw down, obliterating it.

Weaver drew in a breath through his teeth. “Well, there goes that,” he spat.

“No,” said Joe, calculating rapidly in his head. “No…plan’s still on.”

“What? Boy, you’re not thinking of—”

“Plan is still on. I can adjust; this can still work. Get to Billie and McGraw, tell them so, make sure they don’t surrender or something. And keep him too busy to go looking for the others!”

“I don’t think that gnome knows the meaning of the word ‘surrender,’” Weaver muttered, but he took off without further protest. Joe noted that the man moved much more deftly across the darkened terrain than he himself did.

He had no more energy to devote to wondering about the bard. He could still make this work…maybe. There were unknown and unknowable variables; he could increase the output of the shot easily enough. His original calculations had presumed it would be a standard wandshot launched at the first portal, and his wands were versatile enough to put a lot more power into it. The first portal jump was the sharpest angle and represented the weakest increase in the longshot’s power. But still… Exactly how much energy did it take to daze a dragon? Khadizroth had been shot, iced, entangled, bashed and even wounded by a vengeful spirit, and the sum total of it had done nothing more than anger him.

And, of course, if he found and destroyed any more of the stones, the whole thing would be over.

He forced that worry out of his head, did his best to ignore the sounds of battle not far away, as he carefully placed the fifth—now fourth—and final portal stone.

That done, Joe stood and bolted toward where the first had been put, the spot from which he would now have to make his shot.

McGraw teleported next to him just as he arrived. The old man immediately hunched forward, leaning heavily on his staff with one hand and resting the other on his knee, gasping for breath.

“You gonna be okay?” Joe asked worriedly.

“Yeah,” McGraw panted, nodding. “Jus’ a sec.”

Joe turned to study the scene of battle. Billie and Weaver were both pelting the dragon with wandshots, apparently having given up on trying more complex magics. Khadizroth’s scaly green hide seemed to suffer no ill effects from repeated lightning strikes, though he did twitch his head aside when one came too near his eyes. The dragon was mostly focused on a third figure, though, a glowing blue knight with a shield and sword of light. As Joe watched, the dragon bashed the knight out of the way with a sweep of his tail, which would have utterly pulverized any human being. The figure simply bounded back to its feet and charged again.

“Nice summon,” Joe commented.

“Been savin’ it,” said McGraw, straightening up. “You know how it is. You cling to a rare and valuable piece that’s only got one use, always afraid you’ll need it just after it’s gone. End up takin’ it to your grave. At my age, a man starts lookin’ for reasons to spend that savings.”

“Got your breath back?”

“Don’t you worry about me, I’m good to go.”

Joe nodded. “And you can sense the focus stone locations?”

McGraw grinned at him. “Ain’t my first rodeo, son. Just might be the craziest, though.”

Joe himself felt the crackle of energy as each of the four remaining stones came to life. He couldn’t see the portals; they didn’t give off light. He felt them, though, and had a strong suspicion that he wasn’t the only one. Whether or not he was attuned to arcane magic, Khadizroth was too magical a creature not to be aware of the energy those unstable portals were suddenly putting out.

He was almost in the right position. The dragon absently swatted the glowing knight away from himself again, lifting his head as if to sniff the air. His gaze turned toward the closest portal.

Billie and Weaver, having maneuvered around, unleashed a concerted barrage, blasting his entire left flank with lightning. The dragon snarled, turning to face them and letting out a burst of fire. The flame, strangely, dissipated in midair, no doubt due to an effect one or the other of them had thrown up.

It was a good bluff, Joe thought as the dragon turned and stalked toward them and the two fled. The attack looked like they’d been trying to herd him in the opposite direction, but they had positioned themselves so that Khadizroth’s pursuit was drawing him closer to the sweet spot.

If “pursuit” weren’t too vigorous a word. The dragon moved like a prowling cat, either sensing trouble or just drawing out his approach.

“Time’s a-wastin’,” McGraw grunted, his voice tense with effort. “Longer these portals are up, more likely one’ll go nova on us…”

“I know,” Joe said tersely. “Just a few more seconds…”

Khadizroth slowed, then stopped, just short of the right position, turning his head to stare directly at Joe and McGraw.

“Oh, come on,” Joe protested.

Then the glowing knight, charging from behind, stabbed the dragon’s tail.

Khadizroth let out an embarrassing yip, bounding into the air and whirling to face his attacker. The motion swiveled him so that most of his bulk was right in the line of fire.

Joe was already forming the angles in his mind, had already positioned his body in a slightly awkward pose so that his wand was aligned with the center of the first portal at precisely the right orientation. He drew deeply on the power crystal, judging to the finest iota the precise amount of power the wand could channel at once without blowing up, and fired.

The beam was brighter than any he had ever shot. And that was just on the first leg of its journey.

Moving at nearly the speed of light, there was no dramatic buildup, just a sudden angular spiral of light blazing across the floor of the crater, between trees and boulders, growing hugely in intensity every time it shifted direction. The massive beam which burst out from the final portal smashed into the dragon with titanic force, bearing his mighty form to the ground.

Khadizroth let out a screeching, inhuman wail of pain as he was pinned to the rock by a column of sheer destructive force. Only for a second, though; as swiftly as it had come, the light vanished.

Joe’s wand was so hot in his hand it was nearly painful to hold. At his side, McGraw actually slumped to his knees, hanging his head and laboring for breath.

“YEE-HAW!” Billie screamed, leaping spastically into the air and pumping both fists. “Eat science, bitch!”

The rim of the crater blazed with green light.

Like ripples in a pond spreading in reverse, the circle rushed inward. Joe felt his hair try to stand on end as the wall of light washed over him, collapsing to the point at its center where the stunned dragon lay. It reached Khadizroth’s prone body, then soaked into him.

The dragon shrank down to his elven form, leaving him only a slim, sad figure sprawled insensate on the rock. Mary’s spell had done its work.

“Well, good night in the morning,” Joe said aloud in awe. “We actually pulled it off.”

The only warning he got was the sudden and inexplicable collapse of every one of his shielding charms.

Joe straightened up, looking around in alarm, and something slammed into him from behind. Despite all his senses, physical and arcane, he hadn’t heard or felt anything approach.

Then he became conscious of the pain. Something had struck him hard in the back, but it wasn’t a blunt kind of pain. He suddenly understood it a lot better when the knife was yanked back out.

He lost his balance, stumbling to his knees. The agony…every beat of his heart was like being stabbed anew. Joe’s unnaturally precise senses had never been turned inward that he could remember, or perhaps he was just too accustomed to the workings of his own body to pay them any mind. Funny how that completely changed when the body was no longer working as intended. He was precisely, excruciatingly aware of the spread of fluid in his chest cavity where fluid should not go, of the tortured twitching of the muscle pumping his blood—or trying to, having now been punctured.

A figure stepped around into his field of view, calmly wiping off the wicked-looking hunting knife with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Of all the preposterous things, it was an elf in a pinstriped suit.

“Impressive,” the man said to him with a pleasant smile. “I mean that sincerely, kid, that was mighty fine work. Sorry about killing you, and all. Just business.”

If he said anything further, it was drowned out by the roaring in Joe’s ears. That, he though distantly, would be the shock and blood loss setting in. My, but it came quickly. He noted the way his view was reorienting itself, indicating he’d fallen onto his back. He could barely tell anymore with the blackness creeping up on his vision. The sound of wings was impossibly loud, even through the noise in his ears.

His last thought was of her face.

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Chief Om’ponole took a different approach to security than Vandro. There was a walled and fortified section of his grounds near the center, but it was surrounded by several acres of decorative garden, open on all sides to the streets which bordered it. Not that the estate was undefended; guards in ceremonial Onkawi armor patrolled the outer boundary, as well as the paths that meandered within. Their armor appeared to be silk and painted wicker, of all the ridiculous things, but the modern battlestaves they carried were not the least bit ceremonial.

Once onto the grounds, though, there was ample cover for intruders. Shook figured that amid that riot of flowering shrubs and fruit trees, he could have found a safe route to the palace even without the benefit of Kamari’s directions and map detailing the safest path to avoid the patrols. He wondered how often local street urchins snuck onto the palace grounds to steal low-hanging pomegranates and oranges.

Not that this particular neighborhood probably housed any urchins. He and Saduko had been forced to find a vantage point over a block from Om’ponole’s grounds, due to the prevalence among his neighbors for similarly open-planned estates. Aside from the lack of cover, people loitering suspiciously in a neighborhood this ritzy would have been intercepted by police within minutes, if not by private guards. Police would be better; they answered to the regional governor, who answered to the Tiraan Empire. House guards of aristocratic families this far from the capital had a tendency to make annoying people vanish.

The only cover they had found was a delivery wagon parked against the outer wall of an estate one lot distant from their target. A faint trickle of glittering dust seeped continually from one of its axles, blowing away in the light breeze as it fell, indicating a failed wheel enchantment; they were lucky this had happened so late in the day. Even among the wealthy classes who doubtless resented such a common sight parked among them, the relaxed attitude of the Onkawi meant the wagon was likely to stay here until regular business hours rolled around again and somebody could be summoned to fix it.

Saduko was fiddling with what looked to Shook like an extravagant timepiece, something like a pocket watch with a tiny hourglass attached, the latter filled with purplish enchanting dust rather than sand. He didn’t lean over her shoulder to watch her manipulate the device; he wouldn’t have understood anything he saw, and she had made it plain she did not enjoy his proximity. While he might otherwise have resented being thus rebuffed, he found Saduko admirably well-behaved for a woman. That was to say, polite and quiet. Between Kheshiri and Vandro’s groupies, he didn’t feel an urgent need to get laid; he could deal with her frigidity. Besides, after having led the way through Onkawa’s darkening streets as a good enforcer should, it was pleasant to be positioned to have a view of her cute little butt. She favored snug trousers.

“All is in order,” she said quietly, flipping shut the lid on the watch-like portion of her device and slipping it into a pocket. “The frequencies match Kamari’s intel; I can get us past the wards unnoticed.”

“What matters is the guards’ timing, then,” he said, stepping up to stand beside her. “Ready for that?”

“Of course.” She produced a tiny, spiky piece of brass with a small blue gem inset. “Your finger, please.”

He offered it silently and didn’t so much as wince when she pricked his fingertip with one of the gadget’s points, nor when the resulting droplet of his blood was sucked into the gem in the center. She transferred it to her other hand, where it joined a second identical object, no doubt primed with her own blood.

Shook offered her his arm; face impassive, she slipped her free hand through it. He led her out into the street and they set off toward the Om’ponole estate at a leisurely pace, just a couple of foreigners out for an evening stroll.

He kept his eyes on the roving guards, watching their progress, counting steps and seconds. “Match my pace and follow my lead,” he murmured. “I have the pattern down; I’ll get us to the insertion point at the blind spot. Be ready with your stuff.”

“I know my role,” she said calmly. Any of his fellow Guild operatives, especially one who didn’t like him, would have been snippy about it. She was just calm. He made a mental note to see about acquiring a Sifanese ladyfriend if he ever had to get rid of Kheshiri; they apparently raised them wonderfully respectful over there. Hopefully they weren’t all as flat in the chest as Saduko.

He saw one of the passing guards notice them, and gave no sign of it, bending his head toward his companion and putting on a fake smile. She kept her own eyes demurely downcast, and after a suspicious but cursory glance, the guard went about his route without giving them further attention.

This was far from Shook’s first caper; he timed it precisely. Their insertion point was an arbor twined with grapevines which formed an archway leading onto a hedge-lined path; they reached it just as the guards walking to either side were out of sight behind other stands of greenery. This occurred exactly according to the schedule Kamari had provided, which meant it was part of their assigned route. The fact that the route included such a hole at the border showed what amateurs Om’ponole’s people were. This plan would never have worked on any of the nobles’ estates in Tiraas.

Saduko tossed the two little brass stars to the street as they ducked into the shade of the arbor; instantly, illusory doubles of herself and Shook were strolling on at right angles to their original path, where they would be spotted by the guards walking away from the estate and back into the warren of the city’s streets. They might cause some commotion when they abruptly vanished in ten minutes, but that shouldn’t matter. At this hour, they might not even be seen.

She slipped her hand into her pocket, fiddling with one of her enchanting tools, and nodded to him. The wards were bypassed; they were in.

The route prescribed was a winding one. After only a few feet up the paved path, they slipped through a gap in the hedge and took a circuitous course through the upward-sloping grounds, avoiding patrols of guards and making maximum use of available cover. Saduko seemed tense enough to vibrate, but in truth this was laughably easy. Shook figured he could’ve made the approach even on his own, but having memorized Kamari’s map and directions, it was a literal walk in the park.

Keeping their pace careful, it took them less than ten minutes to reach a nook at one corner of the estate’s outer wall, where a small service door was hidden from view of the streets by a stand of lemon trees. It wouldn’t do to let the commoners outside see that Om’ponole’s flawless gardens required such mundane things as gardeners and tools. That would spoil the image. They really did not take their security seriously here.

Saduko knelt beside the door, placed her hand against it and closed her eyes, concentrating. “…as indicated. It is a standard enchantment, several years out of date, in fact. Quite sturdy; there must be a potent energy source supporting this estate’s network. But not complicated. I can circumvent it.” She fell silent, but her lips continued to move rapidly.

“Don’t need your little tool for that?” Shook asked. He began to be annoyed when she didn’t immediately respond, but quashed it. She wasn’t disrespecting him; she was working. He approved of professionalism.

“The focus was necessary to thwart a ward network of the size that covered the whole estate’s perimeter,” she said finally, opening her eyes and smoothly standing up. “To deal with such a small barrier, any decent enchanter needs only her mind. I’m afraid the lock is beyond my skill, however. That is your area.”

On a whim, he reached out and turned the knob. The latch clicked and the door swung smoothly inward on silent hinges.

“Amateurs,” Shook muttered, slipping inside. Saduko followed on his heels.

It was dark within. According to the plan, Kamari would meet them here; the outside door led to a shed built into the wall, housing tools and supplies for the gardeners. It had been dim outside; the decorative little lamps adorning Om’ponole’s gardens hadn’t been enough to wreck his night vision. Still, he couldn’t make out anything beyond the shapes of heavily curtained windows and murky shadows that might have been anything. He wasn’t about to go blundering around in the darkness.

Saduko carefully pushed the door shut behind them, and they waited in silence for a few tense moments.

“He’s supposed to meet us here,” Shook breathed to himself in annoyance, then raised his voice to a hoarse stage whisper. “Kamari? It’s us.”

Light exploded in the room.

It was too much, too fast; Shook was all but blinded, throwing up a hand to shield his eyes. Even in that first instant, however, he could already see that everything had gone wrong.

Kamari knelt in the middle of the floor, right in front of them, slumped forward so that his face was hidden, his hands obviously tied behind his back. He had clearly been placed there for dramatic effect; Shook allowed himself to hope the man was a prisoner, but only for a moment. Kamari was bruised, lacerated and abraded badly in multiple places, his ripped servant’s uniform heavily stained with blood. It was no longer dripping, however.

Shook had put enough holes in enough bodies during his career to know that living ones bled when you did so.

He could spare poor Kamari no more concern, however, because they were far from alone in the room. It wasn’t a large space, but plenty big enough to contain the six guards lining the walls. Shook suddenly found himself respecting their ceremonial wicker armor a lot more, and not just because of the staves now pointed at him. They did not look pleased to make his acquaintance.

“And here you are,” said a seventh man, well-dressed enough almost to be a minor noble himself, in the colorful fashion of Onkawa, with one of those silly little flat-topped hats they liked around here. He smirked unpleasantly at Shook. “How very punctual you are! I am pleased to see that our Kamari’s directions served you well. We might have altered the guards’ patrol to let you pass, but I refrained; I wished to see whether you knew enough to truly penetrate the estate’s outer defenses. I would applaud Kamari’s diligence in this, but…well, you know.”

Casually, he kicked Kamari’s shoulder with one sandaled foot. The lifeless servant slumped over onto his side. Mercifully, he landed in a position that still kept his face hidden from them. Saduko, pressed against the door, made a strangled noise in her throat.

“And you are?” Shook asked flatly, refusing to give this asshole the satisfaction of looking frightened.

“You have not earned my name,” the man said coldly. Some kind of higher servant, maybe a steward or personal assistant to the chieftain, likely. “Suffice it to know that you are now mine, and will remain so for the time being. Ah, yes, and our very helpful acquaintance! I apologize for this brutish reception, Saduko-san, but barbarians such as this understand no other language. Please, step this way; you are owed a great reward. My master lavishes honor upon those who serve him well.”

Saduko gasped. “What?” she squeaked, naked emotion audible in her voice for the first time since Shook had met her.

He wasn’t impressed by it. The rage that suddenly boiled up in him demanded outlet. How dare she? How fucking dare she spit on Vandro’s hospitality and his own loyalty?! Red tinged his world; he couldn’t even think beyond the overpowering need to inflict vengeance.

“You backstabbing little whore!” Shook whirled and lunged for her.

He didn’t hear the crack of lightning, but he felt it. Only for a second, though.

Mary and McGraw acted simultaneously; a rough wall of black igneous rock thrust upward between the group and the dragon, instantly reinforced by a glittering shield of pure arcane energy. Not a moment too soon; a torrent of dragonfire immediately blasted the barrier. Rock turned scarlet at the edges, beginning to drop off in globs under the onslaught. A shrill whine filled the air as the blue shield turned white and nearly opaque, flickering. McGraw gritted his teeth, clutching his staff as if he were hanging from it.

Joe could spare them no attention. More throwing knives flashed at the group, aimed at each of them; even with all his gifts, shooting them down tested his skill well beyond what he’d been prepared for. It was fortunate that he didn’t have a moment to question his capability. There was no time; there was only instinct. Angle, gravity and force told him trajectories; his hands moved on their own in minute adjustments, his mind flickering out to touch the enchantments in his wands with split-instant precision. Small knives fell harmlessly to the ground, bent and punctured by bolts of energy.

Weaver had drawn a wand from within his own coat and returned fire while Joe was still on the defensive. That put a stop to Vannae’s attack—fortunately, as Joe wasn’t at all sure how long he could have kept that up. Gifted or no, no human moved as quickly or precisely as an elf. Vannae was forced to dodge back from them, bouncing like a greased jackalope.

Joe and Weaver both pressed their attack while he was off-balance. Joe had seen elves in motion, of course, even in battle, and even before the confrontation with the White Riders in Sarasio. He had never had occasion to shoot at one, though, and was finding it a frustratingly fruitless experience.

Behind them, the dragonfire slackened off, and Joe angled his body to give himself a look at their companions without letting Vannae out of his field of view. McGraw was kneeling on the ground, panting; Billie stood beside him, laboring feverishly at a squat tube she had placed on a tripod on the rock. The stone barrier had been reinforced into a small mountain nearly as thick as it was stall, molten and still glowing at the edges, but not penetrated. Heat sufficient to melt rock should have roasted them all from sheer convection; either Mary or McGraw must have counteracted that somehow. Likely the former, given the latter’s apparent condition.

He returned his attention to the elf, trusting his companions to deal with Khadizroth. He and Weaver weren’t making any headway, however. Vannae even found time to hurl a tomahawk at them; Joe easily shot down the much larger missile.

“I thought you were some kind of crack shot,” Weaver growled.

“I am!” Joe protested. “Something’s not right. The math isn’t working!” He was beginning to grow truly alarmed; his instincts, his sense of angles and numbers, was telling him the shots he was firing should be striking flesh, no matter how the elf bounded. He had begun by aiming for arms and legs as was his usual pattern, but as Vannae continued to slip around his shots, had switched to what should have been lethal hits. It made no difference; he hit nothing but air and stone.

“The math?!” Weaver roared. “Boy, when did you find time to scarf down a glittershroom?!”

“He’s doing something,” Joe realized. “Magic! He’s messing with reality somehow.” Even as he said it, he realized how unlikely that was. Such alteration took enormous power, not the kind of thing even an expert shaman could do while jumping around evasively and not appearing to concentrate. Using magic to alter his perceptions, though, was extremely basic witchcraft.

“Oh, really,” Weaver said grimly, holstering his wand. “Keep him busy a bit longer.” The bard drew out his flute, raised it to his lips, and blew.

Uncomfortable as they were, Joe was suddenly very glad of his magic earplugs.

His ears told him he was hearing the sweet, high tone of a flute; all the rest of his senses suggested he was standing next to a just-rung bell the size of a haycart. The whole world seemed to vibrate, the very air resonating. He could feel the earth humming in response.

Vannae staggered, sort of. It was only a momentary lapse, and elven agility enabled him to recover immediately. It was a moment, though, and Joe brought his wands to bear again.

This time, the elf simply managed to move faster than he had expected. He only clipped Vannae on the upper arm and thigh as the elf spun out of the way. Whatever Weaver was doing had canceled out his magical advantage.

Weaver ran out of breath, though; the sound of the flute ended, and there as a second’s stillness. The elf stared at them, wide-eyed; the two adventurers stared back, panting.

A roar sounded from behind them, and something flashed blindingly blue against the darkness.

Joe chanced a glance over his shoulder, just in time to see Khadizroth’s massive form hurled bodily backward. The dragon actually flew over a hundred yards, slamming into the outer wall of the caldera and tumbling to the ground, apparently stunned.

There was a circular hole burned through the center of Mary’s rock wall, and Billie’s device was belching smoke and appeared to have spontaneously rusted to scraps.

“YEAH!” the gnome crowed, pumping a fist in the air. “Suck it, scaletail!”

Joe sensed movement and responded with a wild flurry of small energy bolts. Vannae had started to charge them, but had changed his course at Joe’s reprisal, again barely dodging. His buckskins were scorched where the Kid had grazed him, but if he was in pain, it wasn’t slowing him down. Worse, he had clearly reinstated whatever spell he was using to interfere with Joe’s aim. A further barrage of shots all went wild. Barely so, but barely was enough; he was making no progress against the elf.

“Finish him off!” McGraw rasped behind them.

“I’m out, I’ll need a bit to set up another weapon,” Billie replied, and then whatever else was said was buried under another blast from Weaver’s flute.

This time Vannae staggered much less gracefully, favoring his hit leg.

Moving faster than thought, Joe put a bolt of white light through his other knee. The elf screamed out in pain, stumbling to the ground. Two more blasts pierced each of his hands, and he collapsed to the rock floor.

Weaver’s flute trailed off and the bard gasped for breath. Behind them the others were chattering; Joe tuned them out, unwilling to take his attention off the elf again. Wounded or no, elves were slippery and quick. He approached slowly, both his weapons trained on Vannae. His opponent seemed to pose no threat, however; he lay there curled around himself, shuddering.

“Well,” said Weaver with satisfaction. “One down, just the big one to go.” He raised his wand.

“Stop!” Joe barked, stepping in front of him.

“Are you—get out of the way, kid,” Weaver snapped, trying to step around him. Joe kept moving, keeping himself positioned to ruin the bard’s line of sight without letting Vannae slip out of his peripheral vision. Even with the elf doing nothing but laying there, it was tricky.

“He’s down! You are not going to shoot a fallen, injured man who poses us no threat.”

“The only enemy who poses no threat is a dead one, and you can’t always assume that about them. Boy, I do not have time to indulge your naivete. This is real life; sometimes you have to do ugly things with far-reaching consequences. Now move it!”

He stepped forward, as if to push Joe bodily out of the way.

Joe raised his wand.

The bard stopped, staring at the tip of the weapon from inches away.

“…do you really think that’s wise, boy?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Joe replied. “I think it’s ugly, and likely to have far-reaching consequences. I surely do wish you’d left me with a better option.”

They stared each other down across the wand for a silent moment.

Then, the rush of wings, the tremendous thump of the dragon’s bulk landing on the other side of the fallen elf. Immediately forgetting Weaver, Joe whirled, aiming both wands. They were the best modern enchantment could produce, but he had no idea if they could penetrate a dragon’s hide. Billie’s peculiar weapon sure hadn’t. It seemed he was about to find out, though; there was nothing between him and the dragon but one prone elf.

Khadizroth, however, merely stared down at him, tilting his head to one side as if puzzled.

“I am pleased to have met you, Joseph Jenkins, however briefly,” the dragon rumbled. “You evince a sense of honor I had begun to think extinct among your race.”

Slowly, very carefully, Joe lowered his weapons. If the dragon wasn’t going to attack, he wasn’t about to be the one to start the violence up again.

“I think there’s enough perfidy and virtue everywhere to satisfy anyone,” he replied. “If you’re only seein’ one or the other, maybe that says something about the company you keep.”

The dragon emitted a booming huff accompanied by a gout of black smoke; Joe whipped his weapons back up before he realized Khadizroth was laughing. “And wise, for a child.”

“Something my pa once told me,” he said tersely, forcing himself to lower his wands again.

“Indeed. I would prefer not to destroy you, Mr. Jenkins, if it can be arranged. Your society badly needs the influence of your ideas.”

“We can still come to an agreement,” Joe said. “This doesn’t have to be any uglier than it has been already.”

“Have you something to offer that you neglected to mention initially?” The dragon moved his whole head on his serpentine neck, swiveling his gaze around their group; Joe glanced back to see the others forming up beside himself and Weaver. McGraw seemed to be refreshed, likely thanks to Mary’s aid. “No? Then we remain at the same impasse. I ask that you grant me a momentary reprieve, however, to tend to my friend.”

“You’ve gotta be joking,” said Billie.

Khadizroth lowered his head to stare down at her, featureless green eyes expressionless, the expression on his scaled muzzle—if any—totally inscrutable. “I give you my word, Billie Fallowstone, I shall only move Vannae to a safe place and set a healing upon him. Then I will return, having made no further preparations to battle you, and we may resume from here.”

“What I’m having trouble with is that’d be a goddamn stupid thing for you to do,” Weaver said. “I really can’t see you as being an idiot.”

“Sometimes, Gravestone Weaver, honor must precede reason. If this is the price you demand for allowing me to tend my friend, I shall pay it.”

“We accept those terms,” said Mary.

“Wait, we what?” Billie demanded.

Khadizroth, however, nodded respectfully to her. “Thank you. I shall return anon.” With astonishing tenderness, he carefully lifted Vannae’s twitching form in his massive front claws. Then, giving a mighty pump of his wings, he was aloft, gliding swiftly out of the light of his glowing garden over the caldera’s rim.

“There’s no way he’s just tending to that elf,” Weaver exclaimed. “Gods only know what tricks you just gave him the chance to pull out!”

“He won’t,” Mary said evenly. “Khadizroth the Green prizes his honor, and his reputation for upholding it, above almost everything else. He will do exactly as he promised.”

“But that’s crazy! He’d be handing us a free chance to plan something against him!”

“Then let us by all means use that chance instead of complaining,” she replied, a bite in her tone. “I can neutralize him, but not alone. I must make my preparations. You see that spot, the small clearing between those three glowing maple trees?” She held out an arm, indicating a spot near the middle of the caldera. “He must be brought there, on the ground, stunned or momentarily incapacitated. Can the four of you do this?”

“We’ll make it happen,” McGraw promised, nodding.

“Good.”

There was a flutter of small wings, and the crow vanished into the surrounding darkness.

“And we’re gonna do that fucking how, precisely?” Weaver demanded.

“Language, there’s a—”

“Joe, I appreciate it, but you can give that a rest,” said Billie with a grin. “Been a long damn time since I could fairly call myself a lady.”

“What about the long shot?” Joe asked, turning to McGraw. “Your signature move, isn’t it?”

McGraw was already shaking his head. “No good, kid. There’s not room in this crater to set it up. I’d need at least three times the space to get one going strong enough to put down a dragon.”

Joe frowned. “How many gates would it take?”

“I said—”

“Hypothetically, then. Indulge me, please.”

McGraw snorted. “Hypothetically? Hell, I can give you precise numbers. Five jumps will magnify a standard wandshot to roughly the power of an Imperial mag cannon; one of those was once used to bring down a dragon. But, as I said, there’s no room. We could set up maybe two in here, at most.”

“Somebody wanna let the rest of us in on the joke?” Weaver asked.

“They’re talkin’ about dimensional amplification,” said Billie. “You pump a burst of arcane energy through a series of unstable dimensional portals. If you do it right, your shot garners up loose energy from the portals and grows more powerful with each one. Exponentially. So yeah, about five jumps’d turn a basic wandshot into fuckin’ artillery fire. Y’know how battlestaves are longer than a wand? Same basic principle. I was tryin’ ta do something similar with my gizmo that I just blew up taking down Khadizroth.”

“That sounds like half a dozen things in a race to see which can go catastrophically wrong first,” said Weaver in awe.

“Well, yeah, you may ‘ave noticed it blew up. There’s a reason Imperial mag artillery units don’t try this on battlefields.”

“You can angle the portals, though,” said Joe, making a spiral shape in the air with his fingertip. “Like a nautilus shell. Get the angles exactly right, and the portals will naturally redirect the shot. We can fit them into the crater that way.”

“Joe, that’s pure theory,” said McGraw. “What you are talking about… You’d need to set up those portals with a degree of precision that’d take a whole platoon of engineers a week and a mountain of blueprints to achieve. And that’s in a laboratory, not out here. And then you’d have to land your shot into the portal array with a precision that just ain’t humanly possible.”

“I can do both.”

They all stared at him.

“Kid, I get that you’re eager to please,” Weaver began.

“Look,” said Joe impatiently, “we don’t have time for my whole biography. Will you just trust that I’m not fool enough to risk all our lives on a boast I can’t back up? There’s a reason I’m the best wandfighter in my province.”

“Be that as it may,” said McGraw, “you aren’t a mage. You can’t conjure a dimensional portal.”

“Mm,” Billie mused, stroking her chin thoughtfully. The tufted tips of her ears twitched rapidly. “If I can supply you with portal focus stones, can you set ’em up properly?”

“It’s the angles that are the problem; the ground out here is badly uneven,” said Joe. “Can you compensate for that?”

She grinned broadly. “How about fixing ’em to tripods with adjustable legs? Then you can set ’em up to make any angle you need in three dimensions.”

“That could work,” Joe said, unable to contain his excitement.

“You’ve got equipment on hand for that?” Weaver exclaimed.

“Laddie boy, I got equipment on hand for shit you ain’t crazy enough to imagine.”

“All right,” said McGraw, thunking the butt of his staff against the ground for emphasis, “it’s a plan. Joe, are you sure you can do this? Because you are quite literally gambling our lives on it.”

“I make my living gambling; I know what it looks like.” Joe met the old man’s steely gaze, willing him to believe. “This ain’t a gamble. As long as Billie’s, uh, tripods work the way she says, it’s just math.”

McGraw drew in a deep breath and blew it out hard enough to ruffle his mustache. “All right. Billie, how much time you need to get those things ready?”

“Uh… Gimme seven minutes. No, nine, I’ll need to find a corner to tuck myself in where the dragon doesn’t fry my ass.”

“Nine minutes.” McGraw nodded. “We’ll have to distract the dragon that long; he’ll be back any second, most likely.”

“Healing spells work that fast?” Joe asked, surprised

“With something as powerful as a dragon working ’em, they do. Then Billie hands the stones off to Joe, who’ll have to place ’em around the crater properly while the rest of us distract him more. Then the moment of truth: Weaver and Billie maneuver him to the right position, I conjure the portals at the focus stones, Joe takes his shot, and Mary springs her trap.”

“We are just so indescribably boned,” Weaver said fatalistically.

“It’s a plan, though,” said McGraw, “and it beats the lack of one.” He turned to stare at the dark rim of the caldera; they all fell still, listening to the approaching sound of wingbeats. “And we are out of time.”

“Just remember, each of us has a role to play in this, so whatever you do, don’t get killed during your turn at distracting him,” said Billie. “Except Weaver, who is purely a diversion and thus expendable.”

“You can all go straight to hell,” said Weaver, incongruously sounding more cheerful than Joe had ever heard him.

Then they had no more time to talk, for the dragon had swooped down on them. The blast of his wings blew off their hats and shoved them backward as he beat down, slowing his descent, and still struck the ground with enough force to noticeably shake it.

“So,” Khadizroth rumbled. “Are you prep—”

Weaver shot him in the face.

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“Elf candles.” Weaver pointed to a small stand of conical flowers nodding in the faint breeze.

“Versithorae,” Joe corrected.

The bard turned to frown at him. “What?”

“They’re called versithorae in the elvish. Plains tribes discovered them long before any humans moved into the area. Obviously, they didn’t call them ‘elf candles.’”

“Joe,” said Weaver with ostentatiously thinning patience, “are you just trying to be a pain in the ass, or do you seriously imagine that bit of trivia to be in any way significant?” He turned his back on Joe and the versithorae and resumed picking his way up the slope. “Elf candles in terrain like this are a sure sign we’re entering a green dragon’s territory.”

“How’s that?” Billie asked.

“Really?” He grinned down at her. “You, the famous adventurer who knows all the continent’s dragons, don’t know how to spot dragonsign?”

“First of all, ponytail, I know the names of the dragons on this continent because I had a good, solid gnomish education. Second, I’m a city girl. You point me at something you want dead and I’ll deadify it before you can finish givin’ the order. But the workshop is my fortress and the back alleys my stalking ground. I know bugger all about tracking diddly anything out here in the howling wilderness.”

Mary fluttered her wings, disembarking from Joe’s shoulder, and in the next moment was walking alongside them as though she’d never been anywhere else. “Versithorae are a lowland plant, native to the Golden Sea and the surrounding Great Plains. They do not like altitude. Powerful users of fae magic frequently cause the germination and growth of plants that would otherwise not thrive in a given environment, either by design or as a byproduct of their workings. Versithorae, however, need more than magic; they need ash. They only grow where the ground has been burned. Thus, Weaver is correct; seeing them where they should not grow is a near-certain sign that a green dragon lives nearby.”

“Well, how ’bout them apples,” Billie said cheerfully.

“Glad to hear it,” McGraw grunted, pulling himself resolutely along with his staff. “I’ll be happy to leave off all this hiking and tend to something more relaxing, like duking it out with the dragon.”

“Is this the part where you grouse about how you’re getting too old for this?” Weaver asked with a grin.

“Ain’t my policy to point out the obvious, sonny boy. Leads to people takin’ a dim view of one’s mental faculties.”

Joe gave him a sidelong glance, but kept his mouth shut. In fact, he was a little worried about McGraw. Mary had spent the hike from Venomfont perched on his shoulder—he still wasn’t sure whether to feel honored or alarmed—and Billie seemed to be a bottomless fount of energy, but the rest of them were clearly feeling the effects of the day-long uphill walk, particularly McGraw. Several times the old man had surreptitiously tossed back vials of some alchemical solution, and Joe had repeatedly felt the faint buzz of arcane magic being activated around him, but despite whatever preparations he invoked, the old man was still breathing and sweating more heavily than any of them, leaning much of his weight on his staff.

Keenly aware that he was the least experienced member of the party, Joe had been somewhat relieved that he wasn’t the only one struggling. Even Weaver was moving more stiffly this late in the day…but then again, he’d apparently spent the last few years lurking in some library. The trip through the Golden Sea hadn’t prepared him for this. Grateful as he was to have been prepared for the reality of blistered feet, uncomfortable behind-a-bush toilet breaks and a diet of jerky and flatbread, there was a great difference between hiking across mostly flat territory and hiking up into a mountain range.

“Anyway, no great surprise we’re seein’ dragonsign,” Billie said, taking out the map again and unfolding it. She held the expanse of paper in front of her face as she walked, somehow not slackening her pace or losing her footing despite completely obstructing her own view. “This here is Mount Blackbreath itself, an’ we’re not far from the caldera.”

“Should we think about settling in for the night and continuing on tomorrow?” Joe suggested, glancing around. The sun was long out of sight; climbing westward as they were, it had vanished not long after noon.

“Bad idea,” said Weaver, shaking his head. “We don’t want to be camped and vulnerable this close to a dragon’s territory. In his territory, most likely. They have differing ideas about visitors, but they do not like trespassers. Settling in crosses that line.”

“Seems like splittin’ hairs,” said McGraw.

Weaver shrugged. “I don’t disagree, but it’s standard practice for approaching a dragon. Anyhow, there’s also the basic tactical concern that he can get the drop on us if we’re asleep. Even if we post a lookout, the rest of the group will have to wake up and get their pants on if he chooses to attack. Better to face him while we’re a little tired than to risk that.”

Mary made a lifting motion with one hand and murmured a few indistinct words. Instantly, Joe felt his weariness ease, leaving him alert as if he were freshly rested. Even better, the growing soreness in his legs, which had reached nearly excruciating levels, vanished completely. The group paused in unison.

“Much obliged, ma’am,” said McGraw fervently, tipping his hat to her. Mary nodded in return with a small smile.

“Here.” Weaver had taken advantage of the brief stop to reach into his coat and pull out what appeared to be a small cigarette case. From this he removed pairs of wax earplugs and began passing them out. “These are attuned to my instruments. They won’t impede your hearing, but they’ll protect you from the effects of spellsong.”

“At the risk of soundin’ paranoid,” said McGraw, bouncing his pair on the palm of one hand, “it occurs to me that if you planned to turn against the group, puttin’ these things in our heads would be a great first step. Being that we don’t know what spells are on ’em, that is. I can tell it’s fae magic, and not much else.”

Weaver shrugged, tucked away the case and turned to continue on. “Fine, leave them out, get bespelled as soon as we go into combat. Learn how much I care.”

“They do precisely what he says they do,” said Mary, putting her own pair of earplugs in one of her belt pouches. “Don’t be so suspicious, Elias; a betrayal from within the group isn’t likely, and would damage us less than if we spent all our time watching one another. In any case, Weaver, I have my own methods.”

Ahead of her, just behind Billie, he shrugged again. “Could everyone keep an eye out for bugs, please? I need to catch one.”

“Bugs?” Joe frowned, confused.

“Bugs,” Weaver repeated patiently. “Spiders, insects… A small lizard will do, if necessary.”

“Any preferences?” McGraw asked dryly.

“Non-venomous, not prone to stinging or biting, ideally. If I can’t have my druthers, though, all that’s necessary is that it be alive.”

Joe glanced around at the others; if they thought this as odd as he did, none of them gave sign. He wondered whether it was just standard adventurer aplomb, or if they knew something about Weaver’s methods that he didn’t. As they continued on, he slipped the plugs into his ears, grimacing. True to Weaver’s promise, they didn’t impede his hearing in the slightest, which didn’t make the sensation any less odd. If anything, it made it worse. Unnatural.

He had time to grow accustomed to them as they pressed on. The Wyrnrange was mostly bare, craggy stone, the kind of rocks that resulted in scrapes or even cuts and punctures if one slipped. As they ascended, greenery began to appear in increasing abundance, mosses and lichens predominating, but there were also flowers—including more versithorae—and small shrubs, even a few stunted saplings.

It was another half hour before they rounded a jagged heap of boulders and came to a stop, the path—such as it was—having ended.

“Welp,” Billie drawled, “this is the place, all right. Now what?”

Ahead there was an obvious pass, a wide crack in the towering rock wall before them. They couldn’t see what lay beyond, however, and not just because of the gathering dark. A thick network of vines, bedecked with mismatched flowers and bristling with evil-looking thorns, crisscrossed the opening, obstructing it completely.

McGraw held out his staff, and a clean white light glowed from the large crystal set into its head. The illumination didn’t help much; there was nothing to see except bare stone and the arboreal blockage.

“Used to run around with a witch back in the day,” he mused. “Had a pixie familiar. Damn annoying little thing—they’ve got the intellect of a two-year-old and the personality of a puppy, as a rule. Still, it was, among other things, a hovering lamp. Very handy at times like this. Now, I’m no expert on witchcraft, but is that barrier as magical as I think it is?”

“That and much more, I suspect,” said Mary, stepping forward to examine it. “This is no mere deterrence; Khadizroth seems quite serious in his desire for privacy. Oh, and Weaver…here.” She turned and gestured toward him; as if thrown from her hand, a large white moth fluttered out of the gap above the lattice of vines, drifting toward him. She smiled as he carefully caught the insect in his cupped hands. “I couldn’t find a butterfly, but that is close enough. It seems to suit you better than something that skitters.”

“I can’t imagine how you came to that conclusion. Thanks, though, this is perfect.” He held the helplessly fluttering moth up to his face, whispering inaudibly.

“So!” Billie said brightly. “What’ll we do about this, then? Blast it open?”

“Excellent way to die,” said McGraw. “It’ll be enchanted not just to resist attacks, but to react to them. Dragons are very serious magic users, as you know very well.”

“Bah! Problems I can’t solve with brute force are beneath my notice.”

“I can unravel it,” said Mary, peering at the vines from inches away, “but it will take time, and the process will surely alert the dragon to our presence, if he does not already know we’re here.”

“Best to assume he does,” McGraw opined.

“I concur. Be on your guard. Tampering with his gate may encourage him to come let us in, or it may prompt an attack. This could take… I am not sure. Hours, possibly.”

“May I?” Weaver asked. As they all turned to look at him, he crushed the poor moth between a thumb and forefinger, murmuring something to it. In the pale light of McGraw’s glowstone, Joe thought the man’s expression seemed oddly tender as he killed the insect; he dismissed the notion. Weaver was hard enough to figure out without adding in weirdness like that.

Brushing his fingers clean of moth guts on his coat, the bard stepped up to the barrier, Mary making room for him. He withdrew a wooden flute from within his coat, lifted it to his lips and began to play.

The first note seemed to resonate in Joe’s very bones, its tone far deeper than such a little instrument seemed like it should have been able to produce. Weaver played on, however, and the pitch climbed, forming a slow, mournful song. A dirge that seemed to cry with a nearly human voice. The others stepped unconsciously back away from him, Billie grimacing, her ears twitching violently amid her mass of curly hair.

The vines began to die.

It started slowly, a black rot appearing like a fungal disease on the green, but the more widely it grew, the more quickly it spread. Vines shriveled, thorns dropped off, flowers wizened away to nothing and disintegrated. A faint rustling began, then grew, the green barrier reduced in the course of a minute to a collapsing net of pitiful dried husks.

Weaver blew the final notes of his lament. In the silence immediately afterward, the others stood around him as if frozen. Finally, he tucked his flute away carefully, then casually kicked what was left of the vine barrier.

The whole thing collapsed.

“Life magic,” Weaver said dismissively. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

“May I just say,” Billie said, “that that was fuckin’ terrifying.”

“How did you do that?” Joe demanded.

Weaver turned to grin at him over his shoulder. “You’ll have cause to ruminate on this when you get to be forty and people are still calling you the Kid. The fact of the matter is, Joe, we adventurers don’t get to pick the moniker we get known by. Those are elected by the ignorant masses and the bards who shepherd them. Believe me, I campaigned to be called Glittergiggles Weaver, but for some reason they stuck me with Gravestone. Go figure.”

He turned back, straightened his coat, and stepped through. The others, after a moment, followed. There didn’t seem much else to do.

It wasn’t a tunnel or even a canyon, merely a break in the wall of the great crater. In the darkness, little of the huge space beyond was visible, the light of McGraw’s staff not penetrating far. The five of them trailed into the caldera, pausing not far beyond the break to peer around. Trees made dimly-perceived shapes at the edges of their vision, hinted at only by the farthest reaches of the light. It was overcast, denying them moonlight by which to see, but at least it wasn’t as windy as a mountaintop ought to be. Air currents whistled above them, rustling in branches, but the walls all around sheltered them.

“We are being stalked,” Mary said quietly.

“The dragon?” asked McGraw.

She shook her head. “An elf.”

“Darling mentioned an elf servant,” Weaver noted. “Well. Should we…what? Introduce ourselves?”

“We have entered Khadizroth’s domain,” said Mary. “He would have greeted us if he intended to. As he has not, it appears we shall have to disrespect his wishes.”

“How do you propose to command a dragon’s appearance?” Joe asked.

“Hm,” she said noncommittally, peering around.

“Oh! You leave it to me!” Billie sat down on the ground, unslung her pack and began rummaging around in it. “I’ve got just the—ah! Here we go. Behold the wonders of modern enchantment!”

She pulled out a complicated apparatus that looked like the offspring of a telescope and an enchanted sewing machine, brandishing it and grinning broadly.

“Nice,” said Weaver sarcastically. “Unless that’s a dragon detector, I don’t see the point.”

“Don’t be daft, you can’t just detect dragons. Aside from the usual means, of course. Giant shadows, roaring, fire, all that. This is a gold detector! Me own design!”

“You can do that?” Joe asked, fascinated.

“Oh, aye!” she said, nodding enthusiastically. “These babies are essential in modern mining operations.”

“Dragons have hoards,” McGraw mused. “Messing with their hoards is the surest way to get their attention. Yeah, that’d work, if we’re willing to risk provoking an immediate attack. If it does work, that is. Seems likely Khadizroth would have enchantments laid over his treasures to prevent people doing exactly what you’re proposing.”

“Aye, but I spent last night tweakin’ it while you louts were snoring. See, I’ve rigged out the focusing lens with a holy charm to help penetrate his nature magic, and significantly boosted its operational range and spell penetration by way of amping up the power source to ridiculous, even dangerous levels!”

She flicked a switch on her device, grinning insanely, and a low hum sprang up around them, along with an electric tingling in the air that made the fine hairs on their arms stand upright. All four of them immediately took three steps back away from her.

The sound of powerful wings was the only warning they got. A massive shadow swept past above them, blotting out the very dim glow of the cloudy sky; the pale light of McGraw’s staff glittered briefly across viridian scales before the huge shape vanished beyond its range. The dragon settled to the ground some thirty feet distant, rearing up against the night. In the darkness, he was only a faintly perceived shape, towering like a church steeple, the only thing visible his intensely glowing green eyes near the top.

“That will not be necessary.” Khadizroth’s voice was a peculiar sound, a light tenor that was so deep from the sheer power of its projection that Joe could feel it through the stones beneath his boots. “Kindly turn off your device.”

“Aw,” said Billie. “But I was really hopin’—”

“Billie,” Mary said firmly, “please do as he asks.”

“Pooh,” the gnome pouted, but flipped the switch back. Immediately the arcane buzz was silenced, and she sullenly began packing it away in her satchel.

“Khadizroth the Green, I presume?” said McGraw, tipping his hat politely.

“You presume a great deal,” replied the dragon, “but in that, at least, you are correct.”

His darkened silhouette shrank, seeming to disappear entirely into the ground beyond. However, footsteps crunched on the stony ground, rustling in occasional patches of underbrush, and within moments a human-sized figure stepped into the circle of light.

Khadizroth, in this form, was a tall elf in entirely typical costume for a forest tribesman: tight vest and baggy trousers in matching brown, with a blousy-sleeved shirt of dark green and simple leather boots. His hair, likewise, was green, slicked back and falling past his waist behind him, from what could be seen of it fanning out around his lower back. In the manner of the oldest elves, he had a slim beard adorning his pointed chin. Those eyes were the same, though, the distinctive draconic eyes like glowing, smooth-cut gemstones.

“Mary,” he said, bowing to her. “You honor my residence; I apologize for the state of my hospitality, but I was not expecting visitors.”

“In fairness,” she replied equably, “we clearly forced our way in.”

The dragon actually smiled at her, before turning to the others. It was discomfiting, being unable to follow his gaze, but the lack of pupils hid the direction his eyes were looking. “Of the rest of you I have, of course, heard, though we have not met. With one exception, however.” He turned his entire head this time, making it clear he was looking directly at Joe.

“Joseph P. Jenkins, at your service,” he said, tipping his hat.

“Ah, Jenkins. That name I do know; you are well thought of by the elves near your town. Welcome.”

Khadizroth spread his arms, and light began to blossom in the crater.

It began with the flowers, but spread, pale shades of pastel accentuating bright silver and white. Stands of tall mushrooms, luminous flowers, vines twined through trees, even some of the trees themselves; it seemed fully a third of the plants occupying the crater were bioluminescent, and they came to life at their master’s command. Light rippled outward from Khadizroth, till it reached the edges of the caldera. It was like a meadow, trees, bushes and flowers scattered artfully across the stony ground, stands of tallgrass waving faintly, all illuminated by soft organic lights.

“Wow,” Billie breathed. “Oh, hell, that’s gorgeous.”

“I am glad you approve,” said the dragon, sounding actually sincere. “But you have not come all this way to admire the view, and it is not my custom to be excessively sociable with assassins.”

“Well, now, that’s a mite unfair,” said McGraw. “We’re not necessarily assassins.”

“We’re strictly unnecessary assassins,” added Weaver, grinning when McGraw nudged him with the butt of his staff.

“Indeed, let us to business and have done with it,” said Khadizroth seriously. “You are here at the behest of Antonio Darling, are you not?”

“We are,” said Mary, nodding.

“And am I correct in assuming that he desires my death?”

“No.” She shook her head. “He desires a cessation of hostilities between you. Your death is one way that could be accomplished, yes, but any number of others would be preferable. An arrangement, for instance.”

“In fact, I sent my servant Vannae to offer the Bishop exactly that,” said the dragon, his face growing stern. “He saw fit to assault my man and issue insults to be delivered back to me.”

“He did?” Billie asked delightedly. “Well, that ol’ poof has more balls than I gave him credit for. You go, Darling!”

“Will you kindly button it, you little freak?” Weaver exclaimed.

“Oh, so it’s only funny when you do it?”

“I should further note,” Khadizroth continued, ignoring both of them, “that while I sent one individual presenting no threat to offer a civil conversation, Darling has sent back five individuals representing significant destructive force. I question his good faith.”

“If one must send mice to consult with the cat,” said McGraw, “one doesn’t send the smallest or weakest, and certainly not one alone.”

Khadizroth smiled thinly. “You are not without a point, Longshot. The fact remains, though, that your master and I have little to discuss.”

“You could always renounce your claim on those two elf girls,” suggested Weaver. “That’s really all he wants.”

Khadizroth was shaking his head before the bard finished speaking. “I must take it as given that my security is compromised; that proverbial pigeon has flown the coop. The matter does not end there, however. If Shinaue and Lianwe wished to leave my company, they had only to do so. Instead, they chose to abduct every member of the family I had laboriously built up, hiding them away among elven groves where I may not safely retrieve them, turning the elves and now the humans against me in the process. Quite apart from the damage they have done to my long-term plans… It is not in my nature to lightly tolerate such betrayal.” His face grew ever grimmer till he was outright scowling, and Joe fought down the urge to back away from him. “There shall be reprisal for that. Darling, in assaulting, unprovoked, my last loyal servant, has invited further vengeance upon himself. Tell me, what has he offered as recompense for these various affronts?”

A pause fell; the five of them exchanged a round of glances.

“So,” the dragon said grimly. “Bishop Darling does not seek to bargain, but to intimidate. He sends killers and so-called ‘heroes,’ and offers nothing toward earning my favor. It seems, as I initially said, that we have nothing to discuss.”

“You’re quick to place blame, sir,” said Joe, stepping forward. “With all respect, perhaps you should consider whether you’ve brought this treatment down on yourself.”

“That’s right, let’s taunt the dragon,” Weaver mumbled to himself.

Khadizroth raised an eyebrow. “You presume to judge me, boy?”

“My judgment is as flawed as anyone’s, I suspect, but it’s all I’ve got to work with,” said Joe. “Unless we’ve been badly misled—which ain’t impossible, I’ll grant you—the plan was for you to breed yourself an army of loyal dragons… Using girls taken from their tribe for the purpose.”

“Rescued from disaster at the hands of the Tiraan Empire,” the dragon said firmly. “Raised in the shadow of my wings, willing to pursue the duty I required of them.”

“You can dress that up any way you choose,” said Joe coldly. “There’s not a one that makes it seem a respectful way to treat ladies.”

The dragon stared at him in silence for a long moment. Joe stared right back. The weight, the sheer force of personality pressing outward from those featureless green orbs was almost enough to push him physically backward, but he refused to yield ground. His companions stood silently around him, seeming not even to breathe.

“I accept your condemnation,” said the dragon at last, nodding deeply in a gesture that was very nearly a bow. “I wonder, Mr. Jenkins, whether you have yet faced a situation in which your principles were tested against one another, and against grim necessity?”

Joe opened his mouth to reply, but his voice caught in his throat. He suddenly couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“It is an agonizing position,” Khadizroth continued. “Faced with the growing depredations of the Tiraan Empire, the reality of the threat it represents, yet lacking a good means of throwing it back. There are only poor methods available of accomplishing this vitally necessary task; I assure you, I have looked for better and found none. The best I could do was to carry out my plan with the greatest kindness possible toward those upon whom it depended. Even so, I confess to as much relief as disappointment that I was denied the opportunity to bring it to fruition. For all the wasted effort, all the lost years, even despite the heartache of losing those I have come to regard as family, I shall emerge from this with my integrity undamaged. I was prepared to mourn its loss. For that, my retribution upon Shinaue and Lianwe shall be mild indeed.

“However, the initial problem remains. This new Empire is a disastrous thing, a teeming cauldron of evils waiting to be tipped out upon the world—again. The carnage of Athan’Khar must not be forgotten, and that was only the greatest ill in a long and endlessly-growing list. I remain in opposition to this Empire, more certainly so now that my errant girls have evidently begun to set humanity against me. I reject the judgment of Tiraas and all its agents, and in particular that of Antonio Darling, a man who has exhibited neither respect nor courtesy, whatever his aims. I will not be pressed by his lackeys.”

“Will you not?” Mary asked quietly. “You suggest confidence in your powers that may not be warranted.”

“If you are counting on the ancient respect you are owed to stay my hand, Mary,” he said, “you will find the matter changed entirely by the fact that you have come to me offering violence. I have no animosity toward any of you; should you choose to turn and walk back down this mountain, you may go in peace, and with my blessing. But whether I win or lose any battle you offer, I shall not yield to the corruption you serve.”

“And there you have it,” Weaver said in disgust. “History, politics and adventuring in a nutshell. You can work around the selfish and the depraved in a thousand different ways, but all it takes is one idiot with principles to throw everything into chaos.”

“Indeed,” Khadizroth said quietly. “Will you leave, then? Or strike first?”

“Sure there’s nothing we can say to change your mind?” McGraw asked, tightening his grip on his staff.

“Oh, the hell with all this,” Billie snorted, pulling a pair of wands from her belt. “Let’s just burn him down and get outta here.”

“So be it,” said the dragon, spreading his arms again. This time, instead of a show of lights, he rose up, swelling in seconds to his full form, and despite himself, Joe backpedaled frantically.

Khadizroth the Green in his true shape was over three stories tall, reared up on his hind legs. He was a serpentine symphony of scaled muscle, massive claws digging into the living rock, his enormous wingspan blotting out the sky before them. He opened his fanged mouth, drawing in a deep breath, and telltale flickers began to form around his jaws.

Joe was distracted by the tiniest sound from behind him. Instinct snapped into play and he whirled, whipping out his own wands.

A tomahawk was speeding toward his head; reacting without conscious thought, he blasted it out of the air. If the elf—Vannae, that was his name—was surprised or intimidated by this, he gave no sign, pulling a wand of his own and leveling it at the group, his face resolute.

Elf and dragon attacked simultaneously, catching the party right between them.

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5 – 18

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The caravan eased to a stop, Rails sparking beneath it, and the car doors were unsealed with a soft hiss. One popped open and Billie leaped out, landing on the platform beyond with her fists raised exultantly in the air.

“WHOOHOO!” she bellowed. “Aw, man I love those things! I need to get one, buy myself a patch of land and build a Rail that just goes around in a big circle. How expensive d’ye think that’d be?”

She turned to grin at the others as they disembarked. McGraw leaned stiffly on his staff; Joe stepped very carefully, concentrating on keeping his balance and keeping his breakfast down. Weaver staggered out, arms wrapped protectively around his guitar case, and squinted balefully down at the gnome.

“Y’know what?” he said. “I really hate you.”

“Don’t care,” Billie said cheerfully. “Welp! Here we are, then.”

Their caravan had been slightly better equipped than most of the frontier lines; not that it possessed all of the rumored “safety features” being installed on the interior Rail lines, but it did at least have seatbelts. Those were not optional. This particular line passed into hilly territory at the base of the Wyrnrange—in fact, these hills were the same formation that rose gradually into the rounded old mountains of Viridill, far to the south. Here, they were little more than decoration around the much younger, craggier Wyrns, but were still plenty tall enough that riding over them at the speed at which the Rails traveled (digging through the hills had apparently not been in the Imperial budget) would have dashed passengers’ brains out against the roofs of their caravans without some restraints.

The crow fluttered her wings, detaching herself from Joe’s shoulder, and an instant later Mary stood beside them, calm and inscrutable as always. “We can rest for a time in this town, if you wish,” she said. “Some recuperation might not be amiss, and in any case, the divinations that will lead me to Khadizroth will take time.”

“How much time, if I may ask?” McGraw inquired. He still leaned heavily on his staff, though only with one hand, now.

“The magic in question is very like tracking a creature through the wilds,” she replied. “The trail ends when it ends. I expect it to be hours…possibly days. It does not seem likely that our quarry will have settled near human-occupied territory, and Darling’s intelligence was not able to place him more precisely than ‘the Wyrnrange.’ That is not a small region to inspect.”

“Lovely,” Weaver growled.

“Yeah, let’s call that Plan B,” said Billie. “I got a better one. There’s a gnomish settlement not too far from here, ’bout half a day’s ride up the hills. I guaran-damn-tee they’ll know the exact whereabouts of any dragon livin’ in their territory, probably be able to tell us all about his movements, how widely he ranges, who’s with him, how many sheep he eats fer breakfast an’ what are his favorite kind.”

“Why would gnomes care about a dragon?” Weaver snorted.

“Lad, how utterly daft is it possible for ye to be? What sort a’ feckin’ imbecile wouldn’t care about a dragon?”

“You know your accent gets thicker the farther from civilization we get?”

“Aye, too much comfort make me allergies act up, gets the nose all stuffy.”

“That is a good plan,” said Mary. “I have found gnomes to be reliable sources when it comes to dangers in their territory. At the worst, if Khadizroth has evaded their detection, we will be closer to the mountains and I can still try my…” She glanced down at Billie. “Plan B.”

“Right, then!” the gnome declared, sitting down right on the platform and reaching into her pockets. She evidently had formidable bag-of-holding spells on her various pouches, to judge by the sheer quantity of wood, metal, tools and enchanting equipment she now began to lay out around herself. In moments, the pile was more massive than she.

“What in the fell hell do you think you’re doing?” Weaver demanded. “This is a public Rail platform.”

“Oh, quit yer bellyachin’,” Billie said dismissively, fastening lengths of steel rods together. “Nobody cares. Not like they do a brisk business around here in… Anything, from the look of it.”

Joe had been carefully checking the other people nearby at every mention of Khadizroth’s name, but no one was paying them any mind. Billie’s performance now garnered a few curious glances, but nothing more. Hollowfield was a considerably larger settlement than Sarasio, big enough to be considered a small city, for all that it was only a few decades old. Evidently, the crush of people here was enough that one did not expect to be involved in the business of one’s neighbors, for all that it seemed sleepily quiet at the moment.

Situated far to the warm north, Hollowfield was a trading and mining establishment—the two were heavily mixed, as close as this was to the dwarven kingdoms. To the southeast, the land gradually flattened into the Great Plains, though they weren’t close enough to the frontier to see the Golden Sea itself. The foothills rose to the Wyrnrange to the west, the spiky mountains forming an oppressive wall running from the south to the north, blocking the whole horizon from view. Far to the north, across more prairie, was the distant rise of the Spine, the ancient mountain range that stretched across the entire northern coast of the continent, with nowhere a harbor or beach—nothing but cliffs and treacherous rocks. Those mountains housed the dwarven kingdoms beneath them, and the homes of the reclusive high elves above.

Hollowfield itself was a rather drab expanse of square, stone structures, but standing here and looking around, Joe couldn’t help but feel he was at the intersection of several distinct realms of adventure. That, of course, was a silly thought in this day and age. The dwarven kingdoms were teetering on economic disaster and had been since the Narisian Treaty, the Great Plains saw farms and herds of cattle where once there had been nothing but nomadic elves, and the Wyrnrange was industriously mined and quarried; it had been decades since anyone had seen a yeti or direwolf come prowling down from their heights. Trying to bring his flights of fancy to heel in this way only made him feel slightly melancholy, as if he’d been born half a century too late.

He looked back over at his companions and had to blink and shake his head. Billie had already expanded her construction to a wood and metal frame about the size and shape of a small wagon and attached heavy sheets of canvas to its floors and sides. It was now upside-down; she was installing axles. Four wheels, made from bolted-together lengths of curved steel, sat stacked nearby, next to a heap of enchanting materials. Joe recognized power crystals, a golem logic controller and a runic spell interface. He was no carriage buff, but it wasn’t hard to piece together what she was doing.

“A carriage?” he said, fascinated. “You carry a collapsible enchanted carriage in your pockets?”

“Nah,” she said brightly, tightening bolts. “I carry a bunch of scraps suitable for piecin’ together into whatever configuration I need. Today, it’s transportation! Trust me, we don’t wanna hike into those hills, and the hell I’m shellin’ out whatever it takes to rent mounts out here. She won’t be a Falconer, but she’ll get us there.”

“I’m gonna go find us something to eat,” said Weaver, turning and stepping away toward the far end of the platform, where several vendor stalls had been set up to serve Rail travelers.

“How can you think of food after that ride?” McGraw asked, grimacing.

“Something that’ll keep for later,” Weaver clarified. “No, I’m not hungry either, but it beats standing around here like a goddamn tourist while she puts together that rattletrap.”

“Language,” Joe said automatically.

“Kid, that was barely cute the first time. You are padding my list of reasons to shoot you in the back.”

Joe watched him slouch off. “How serious do you reckon he was?” he asked finally.

McGraw chuckled. “Don’t pay him any mind, son. That one’s a complainer. Adventurers don’t live long enough to earn a reputation like his by casually murdering their companions.”

“In fact,” Mary said pleasantly, “some make their reputations that way.”

“Boy’s all talk,” Billie said brightly, grunting as she tipped the now-wheeled vehicle over to sit right way up. She worked with truly astonishing speed and efficiency, now clambering underneath it and beginning to install the enchanting components that would make the wheels move.

“With all due respect,” McGraw noted, “that thing doesn’t look awfully…sturdy.”

“Well, I wouldn’t take ‘er on a drive from here to Shaathvar or nothin’,” Billie grunted, “but she’ll get us to Venomfont safe enough.”

Joe, who was again peering around at the scenery, whipped back to stare down at her. “Wait, we’re going where?”

 

It was actually Joe’s first ride in a horseless carriage, so he lacked a basis for comparison, but from Weaver’s very educational complaints he learned that Billie’s hastily-assembled contraption lacked several features that were considered essential, such as shock absorption enchantments. Indeed, it was a very bumpy ride; there apparently were no roads leading where they were going, forcing them to ride up and down scrubby hills, running over rocks and small bushes and detouring around anything too big for the cart to overcome. There weren’t many of those; this was a singularly barren landscape.

Billie sat up front on an elevated little platform bolted to the cart’s frame; the control interface, rather than being attached as any carriage’s would be, was connected to the axles by wires. She held it in one hand, pressing runes as needed with the other, and Joe fervently hoped she knew where they were going. “Toward the mountains” wasn’t difficult, but the mountains, as Mary had pointed out, were enormous.

Mary saved them some precious passenger space by remaining in bird form; she seemed to have chosen Joe’s left shoulder as her default perch. Being appropriated as furniture by a legendary immortal was so surreal he hadn’t bothered to work out how he felt about it. Joe and McGraw sat side by side with their backs against the front of the cart, Weaver slouching opposite them. There were no benches, and it was short enough that their legs tended to entangle in the middle, altogether not a very comfortable way to ride. Weaver had taken out his guitar and was plucking aimlessly. He had tried, briefly, to actually play, but the vehicle’s bouncing and jostling had proven too severe to allow that. It was hard to tell how disappointed he was by this; the man was so perpetually grouchy it was pointless to wonder about what.

“This is that moment,” Joe mused aloud.

“Well, it’s a moment,” McGraw ruminated. “Can’t say I expect to look fondly back on this one as one of my favorites.” Mary croaked softly.

Joe shook his head. “It’s…a literary device that’s started cropping up in modern adventure fiction. Your heroes will be in the middle of something tedious and uncomfortable, and will comment about how it’s never like that in the stories, and someone more experienced will say most of adventuring is the long, boring stretches between the action.”

“Read a lot of adventure fiction, do you?” Weaver asked, arching an eyebrow superciliously.

“There’s not a whole lot to do in a frontier town once the bandits are driven out,” Joe said somewhat defensively. He wasn’t about to tell the man he lived in a bordello.

“It was a rhetorical question,” said Weaver, openly grinning now. “We’ve all met you.”

“Happens to be true, though,” McGraw noted. “I doubt there’s any job or path in life that’s all excitement, all the time. Nobody could handle it if there was.”

“Anyhow, I don’t think it’s wrong to be thinking in terms of stories and sagas,” Joe added. “We’re on the way to fight a dragon. It’s just about the most traditionally mythic thing a person can do.”

“Don’t romanticize it, boy,” Weaver said, looking even grimmer than usual. “This is a political dispute between two powerful individuals over two women. We’re a group of thugs who are being well-paid to rub out one of the parties. Nobody’s gonna write a saga about this, and you should be thankful for it.”

“I think you’re oversimplifying a little,” said Joe, frowning. “You heard the Bishop about what that dragon was doing with those elves.”

“Yeah?” Weaver plucked a discordant arpeggio. “What was he doing? Rescuing a group of refugees who likely would’ve faced internment camps or summary execution if the Empire had caught them? Starting a family?”

“Using women as breeding stock!”

“Yeah, that’s fairly sinister,” Weaver allowed, “assuming Darling told us the full story about that, which I doubt, and assuming he was told the full story, which is pretty much unthinkable. And even if so, how is Khadizroth the villain in this tale? I’m a librarian and former bard; I know about stories. The best ones force the protagonist to confront his own ethics and make painful choices. Khadizroth the Green is known for being honorable to the point of stupidity. He has also lived to see fractious human kingdoms be absorbed into an all-devouring Empire. He was alive when that Empire unleashed hell itself on Athan’Khar. If you saw the mice in your walls take up enchanting and start burning down your neighbors’ houses… What might you be willing to compromise to stop them?”

“I… Still think you’re oversimplifying,” Joe said, somewhat subdued.

“Am I?” Weaver grinned unpleasantly. “How?”
“He’s not entirely wrong,” Billie said from behind them, sounding not particularly concerned. “This is why I make a point never to delve into the motives and values of every person in a dispute I’m hired to intervene in. That shit’s for diplomats and priests. If ye make yer living by cracking heads and blowin’ shit up, understanding why everyone’s doing what they’re doing is a handicap, not an asset. Everybody’s got their reasons.”

“But…he’s a dragon,” Joe protested. “You know what they’re like. Especially about women!” Mary ruffled her feathers and cawed sharply, startling him.

“Yeah,” Weaver mused. “And what’s so terrible about that?”

Joe boggled at him.

“Some time ago, before I got out of the business, I was along with a group kind of like this one, including a priestess of Avei,” Weaver said, gazing unfocused at the passing horizon. Seemingly of their own accord, his fingers began plucking out a dour tune, jangling here and there as the cart bumped over the treacherous ground. “We were sitting around a campfire one night and I happened to make a comment very much like that. I don’t even remember how the conversation got around to dragons; I mostly just remember the way she lit into me. Tell me, Joe, have you ever given any thought to dragons and women, and why everyone gets so worked up about it?”

“I would think an Avenist of all people would be disgusted by the subject,” Joe said.

Weaver shrugged. “What do they do? They’re an all-male species; they mate with humanoid females to propagate. That’s just their nature. Nothing particularly evil about it.”

“It’s in the nature of dire wolves to eat people. Nothing evil about that, either, but we still kill them for it.”

“But eating people and having sex with them is hardly in the same territory,” Weaver said wryly.

“The line blurs if you do it right!” Billie cackled. Joe flushed.

“But…don’t they rape women?” he asked, flustered.

“Sometimes, occasionally,” said Weaver with a shrug. “Actually quite rarely; as I understand it, the pursuit, the seduction is a big part of the appeal for them. But yes, very young dragons pursuing their first mate have been known to use either force or magical coercion. Let’s consider that, shall we? How many dragons are even alive on this continent?”

“Thirty-one,” said Billie without turning around. “Thirty-two if you count Razzavinax the Red; he lives on an island off the east coast. Actually, it’s probably less than half of that. We only take ’em off the roster if the death is confirmed, and… Well, that’s tricky. A sick dragon who knows he’s dying pretty much always crawls off to do so in secret. An’ the ones that get done in by adventurers in their own lairs, well, the adventurers usually don’t let on what happened, so as to keep the location of the dragon’s hoard secret. Yeah, there’s names on the active list who haven’t been seen in centuries.”

“Right,” said Weaver equably, uncharacteristically sanguine about the lengthy interruption. “So, let’s say, probably about a dozen dragons in the entire Empire, maybe a few more. Most of them have probably never committed a rape; any that have, probably only did so once or twice. Sure, that’s a horrible thing for the victims, but statistically? If we’re going to get worked up about rape, dragons are pretty much not even a consideration. That focus belongs on humans, and all the ways in which we are horrible creatures. Rape is an excuse, Mr. Jenkins.” He grinned wolfishly. “We hate dragons because they come for our women. They’re immensely powerful and they are taking our stuff. Mention dragon mating habits in polite company sometime, and pay attention to all the delicate shudders and expressions of revulsion. That, my little friend, is the look of pure, ass-backward Shaathist sexism. It’s all about the conception of women as things we own, not people with agency over their own choices. There’s pretty much no other way to explain getting irate if a lady wants to fuck a dragon. Or anything else.”

“Funny,” McGraw said mildly. “I’d never have taken you for a feminist, Mr. Weaver.”

“You can understand a philosophy without subscribing to it, Longshot. I know enough to persuade a Silver Legionnaire I don’t need my ass kicked.”

“That comes up a lot, I’ll bet,” Billie said cheerfully.

“It’s a vital survival skill,” Weaver agreed.

Joe didn’t respond. He was staring at the distant horizon behind them, frowning in thought.

 

Before they reached their destination, the group learned to be grateful for Weaver’s hastily purchased fried and breaded sausages, unappetizing as they had seemed at the time. As the day wore on and noon passed, even the cold sausages made for a passable lunch. McGraw won the brief, fairly civil disagreement over which of them would provide relief from the sun; he actually conjured a small cloud above the cart, which provided not only shade but a faint, pleasant little mist. Weaver complained bitterly about this as he protectively tucked his guitar away.

Billie’s navigational sense proved correct, however; shortly after noon, the ride had evened out as she found an actual track. A faded and patchy one, to be sure, but the old marks of wheel ruts were unmistakeable. As they ascended into the hills, the track had evolved into an authentic road, unpaved but blessedly smooth after the morning’s jostling, winding between the increasingly tall hills to either side while the mountains up ahead loomed ever higher. Eventually McGraw dismissed his increasingly superfluous cloud, as they rode in shade more often than sun.

Their arrival at Venomfont was sudden, though there had been signs here and there as they approached. They passed old pieces of armor and broken weapons, worn to little more than scraps by the elements and only visible due to the lack of vegetation. Twice they glimpsed partial skeletons.

“You’d think they could clean up the place, if they’re actually living there now,” Weaver said critically.

“We like the ambiance,” Billie said with a shrug.

The entrance to Venomfont itself loomed up as they rounded a sharp curve, taking them by surprise. Billie stopped the cart in a small, flat valley which terminated in a cliff face. From this protruded an enormous carved snake head, mouth gaping wide and lined with cruelly sharp stalactites and stalagmites, representing far more fangs than snakes actually had. Fire flickered sullenly in the stone beast’s eye sockets—green fire. Its open mouth, set flush with the floor of the little valley, formed a tunnel deep into the mountainside.

“Lovely,” Weaver said sourly.

“If tone of voice could be recorded in writing, they’d put that on your tombstone,” said Joe, lifting himself over the side of the cart and hopping down.

They weren’t alone; a gnome sitting before a small campfire rose and approached them, grinning broadly. He carried a halberd that looked huge on him and wouldn’t have been long enough to form the haft of a serviceable human-sized broom.

“As I live and breathe, Billie Fallowstone!” the guard declared. “This is a right honor, an’ no mistake.”

“Why it’s…it’s, uh…” She tilted her head, peering quizzically at him. “Sorry, do I know you?”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “I’m Collins, but don’t you worry about the likes o’ me. I hope you’re not lookin’ ta take a dive into the depths? Venomfont’s not open for delving for another six years this cycle.”

“Oh, I know all about that, don’t worry. Actually we’re just lookin’ to stay the night, re-supply an’ get information.”

“Well, then you’ve come t’the right place!” Collins proclaimed, bowing extravagantly. “You go right on in, make yerselves at home. Venomfont welcomes you!”

“Damn right,” she said with a grin, and nudged the cart forward.

Joe elected not to hop back in; Billie kept its speed low as she guided the vehicle into the snake’s mouth, and he had no trouble keeping up at a walk. He stayed close, though, trying and failing not to be intimidated by the looming darkness and massive stone fangs. The place had been designed to be oppressive, and designed well.

“I have to say,” he remarked, mostly to fill the silence, “when you said that gnomes had settled in Venomfont, I pictured… Well, a settlement. Outside the dungeon, around the entrance.”

“What? That’d be completely barmy,” Billie snorted. “Why throw up a rickety-ass shantytown out there where it’s all exposed to the elements when there’s a perfectly serviceable underground structure to be used? The upper levels have been cleared out fer centuries, safe as houses. Don’t mind the original stonework—it’s all there for historical value. This is gnome territory now, you’ll be as safe as if you were home in yer little bed.”

Venomfont was a notorious dungeon, one of those never truly conquered; right up until the end of the Age of Adventures, it had been a source of occasional plunder and frequent trouble. No sooner was one snake cult cleared out by heroes than another took root, raiding the surrounding countryside and performing…well, whatever unspeakable rites snake cultists got up to in the privacy of their evil lair. Billie was right about historical accuracy, Joe reflected as they creaked along to the end of the long tunnel and emerged into an enormous cavern. He hadn’t thought such elaborately sinister architecture could exist outside the illustrations of particularly cheesy adventure books.

Snakes were everywhere. The huge columns supporting the space were carved snakes; they coiled around the entrances to side chambers, were patterned in mosaics on the walls and even the floor. Their fanged mouths formed fountains from which water splashed with an incongruously cheerful sound. From all directions, serpentine eyes carved from faintly reflective green stone glinted suspiciously down at them.

And yet, around and on top of all the snakes, the gnomes had clearly made their mark. Burnished steel poles held up modern fairy lamps, illuminating the cavern with a bright, steady glow that made what would once have been shadowy, half-glimpsed sculptures seem washed out and rather silly. Snake-carved doorways were hung with cheerfully patterned curtains and strings of beads, metal and wooden structures had been added to the fronts of some chambers to form storefronts and free-standing structures. Sounds of talk and laughter echoed, even music from somewhere distant, and the smells of cooking food and burning wood hovered over all. The sprawling cavern had become a town, bright and pleasant, filled with gnomes going this way and that about their business. The looming, oppressive evil around it, the vibrant modern village ignoring it, and the fact that the latter was half-sized… It was the most surreal thing Joe had ever seen.

Not far beyond the mouth of the tunnel was a square of sorts, in the center of which stood a bronze sculpture, roughly human-sized, of a three-headed cobra with arms, its fingers ending in talons. He stepped over to this to read the plaque set up before it.

“Svinthriss, first and greatest Boss of the Venomfont, once master of this cavern. Slain by Talia Valradi of Calderaas.”

“Rub the tip of ‘is tail fer luck,” Billie said cheerfully, hopping down. “All right, everybody out! I gotta break this sucker down before she falls apart. We’ll need ta go on foot from here; cart’s not gonna be any use in the mountains.”

“This is amazing,” Joe murmured, turning to peer around at the gnomish town. Its residents were present but not numerous; they regarded the newcomers with interest, but seemed to hang back from approaching them. He revised his first assessment; the town in Venomfont was modern, clean and bright, but rather sleepy in terms of the activity going on.

“Yup,” said Billie cheerfully. “Wouldja believe gnomes used to be nomadic? Like plains elves! Only in the last hundred years or so have we started really settling inta places, every last one of ’em in one o’ the old dungeons. Best way to control access to the deeper catacombs, not ta mention the loot therein.” She looked up and winked at him. “Course, the Empire caught onto that pretty quick; they’re not quite so brutish as to root honest gnomes out o’ their homes, but they did snag a few dungeons fer themselves. Those are basically Army bases now; the ones that still have anything good are plumbed by Imperial strike teams.”

“Are most of the old dungeons partially cleared out?” he asked, fascinated.

“A good few are entirely cleared out,” said McGraw, stretching and knuckling his lower back. “Some of ’em, though, are the kind of places that can’t ever be truly quelled. Just contained. The gnomes are doing the world a favor by keeping a lid on them; I say it’s well worthwhile to let ’em have first crack at the loot. Specially since their economy pretty much depends on it now.”

“Aye, there are some that’re empty now,” Billie agreed, focusing on detaching bolts. “Some permanently as dangerous as the day they were opened, like the man said. Those mostly date right from the time of the Elder Gods. Only one that’s mostly untouched is the Crawl, under Last Rock; Tellwyrn uses that to train her University kids an’ doesn’t let anybody else have a crack at it anymore. An’ then there are those like the Venomfont, in between. This dungeon is fallow right now. Gates ta the lower levels are sealed, an’ no delving permitted until the monsters ‘ave had a chance ta rebuild their populations. This one’s mostly goblins on the bottom; they do some primitive mining and enchanting work, so it’s fairly profitable still when delving is reopened.”

“You cultivate dungeons,” Joe said wonderingly.

“Yeah,” Weaver said disdainfully. “What an age of wonders we live in. Are we seriously just going to stand around here explaining the modern age to the kid?”

“Keep yer pants on, I’m workin’, here,” Billie said without rancor. “I’ll show ye around in a minute. There’s no supplies like gnomish supplies, an’ we can get a good meal and a place to sleep for pretty cheap, with the dungeon itself not actually open. First an’ foremost, of course, we gotta get our intel on where our boy’s set up shop.”

“We have supplies,” the bard said petulantly.

“There’s better ones here,” she replied. The cart was already fully reduced to pieces; really, the speed with which she worked was astonishing. Billie was now occupied sorting its parts and stowing them back away in their various pouches. “Seriously, even without the dungeon active, Venomfont’s a fantastic source fer rare reagents! They got all kinds o’ good shit in the shops here. Naiya beans! Nimbus boots! Hellhound breath!”

“No!” A gnome with a bushy white beard came dashing up to them, waving his arms. “No hellhound breath! Arachne’s boots, Fallowstone, will you stop telling people that?! Do you know how many warlocks we’ve had try to break in here and get at the secret stash of non-existent hellhound breath?!”

“There he is!” Billie crowed, approaching the man with her arms held wide as if for a hug. “Mapmaster Bagwell, just the fella we need to see! Give us a kiss!”

“Off with ye, trollop!” he shouted, whipping off his baggy hat and swatting her over the head with it.

“What’s the deal with hellhound breath?” Joe asked McGraw quietly.

“Extremely rare reagent,” the old wizard replied in the same tone. “Used in necromancy. You pretty much can’t get it on the mortal plane.”

“All right, all right, don’t get yer beard up yer bum,” Billie was saying, still grinning. “Look, we’ll be outta your way by tomorrow, just need a little info and you’re exactly the man to supply it. We’re after a dragon!”

Bagwell planted his fists on his hips, scowling. “Dragons? Would that be the old dragons, or the new dragon?”

“Old dragons?” Weaver asked, clearly curious in spite of himself.

“Aye!” Bagwell transferred his irate stare to the human, having to lean backward to make eye contact. “Varsinostro the Green has his glade in the southern part of the Wyrnrange, an’ Telithamilon the Blue lives far to the west of here. They’re good neighbors, never cause any trouble. Very polite when they come visit. You leave those dragons alone,” he commanded, aiming an admonishing finger up at the bemused bard.

“Relax, we don’t care about them,” Billie assured him. “By ‘new dragon,’ did ye hopefully mean Khadizroth the Green?”

“Oh. Him.” Bagwell huffed disdainfully into his beard. “Sure, by all means, get rid of that one.”

“What’s he done?” Joe inquired.

“Not a thing! Not so much as introduced himself, just arrived at a prime settling spot on Mount Blackbreath, declared it was his new home and took to hunting the area. That dragon’s entirely too full of himself, if you ask me.”

“Smashing!” Billie proclaimed. “We’ll need a map to Mount Blackbreath, an’ any notes you’ve compiled on Khadizroth’s habits.”

Bagwell huffed again. “Those services aren’t free, Fallowstone.”

“Why, Mapmaster, you wound me! Me feelin’s are very nearly affronted. Do I have a reputation for cheating honest gnomes?”

He snorted. “All right, all right, fine. You go about yer business, I’ll come find ye when I have your maps and notes collected. That’ll take me some hours, they’re in my personal cipher. Meantime, enjoy Venomfont’s legendary hospitality, an’ do try not to burn the place down this time.”

He pointed to both his eyes, then at Billie with the same two fingers, glaring, before turning and stomping off back into the crowd.

“You’re popular,” Joe noted.

“This time?” Weaver demanded.

“Bah, he exaggerates. I burned down one tavern. Honestly, a gnomish inkeeper who waters his drinks is askin’ fer whatever he gets. All right!” She rubbed her hands together and resumed collecting up her parts and tools. “That’s taken care of. Easy as fallin’ outta bed! We’ll pick up some new supplied, get some dinner, find an inn…”

“At the expense of repeating myself, which I’m increasingly accustomed to,” said Weaver, “we have supplies.”

“Lemme rephrase that.” Billie gave him a long look. “Venomfont is a fallow dungeon. The major source of economic growth around here is in a coma, so to speak. A bunch a’ fancy big-city adventurers after a particularly rich target on a mission from a wealthy Imperial agent? We don’t drop some coin in this town, well, there’s like to be trouble.”

There was a beat of silence while the party glanced around them. They were still being watched, the faces of passing gnomes curious, open and not the least bit hostile, but subtly calculating.

“That’s the kind of thing that, for future reference, we’d appreciate knowing about before getting into the thick of it,” McGraw said finally.

“Right, gotcha. Humans are slow on the uptake. No matter how many times I get reminded, I always have trouble with that.” She buttoned her last belt pouch with a flourish and folded her arms, grinning up at them.

“Why is it,” Weaver asked, “that every time we go anywhere, do anything or have a conversation, I end up hating you more?”

“Aye, that’d be because I’m made of awesome, and you’re a big steaming wanker.”

“Yeah, that must be it.”

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