DRAGON HUNTERS

BY

Garon Whited

Copyright © 2017 by Garon Whited.

Cover Art: “Watchful Gaze” by R. Beaconsfield (rbeaconsfield@hotmail.com)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Other Books by Garon Whited:

LUNA

Nightlord, Book One: Sunset

Nightlord, Book Two: Shadows

Nightlord, Book Three: Orb

Nightlord, Book Four: Knightfall

Short Stories:

An Arabian Night: Nazin’s Dream

Clockwork

Dragonhunt

The Power

The Ways of Cats

“Since it is so likely children will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage.”

― C.S. Lewis

Prologue

The night sky whisked clouds across the moon, spattering the trail with rain and starlight.  Thunder muttered in the mountains like an angry old man losing an argument.  Wind rattled barren branches in fitful gusts, storm-heralds announcing the coming of their master.

Within the angle of a dead, tilted tree and the wet rock of the mountainside, darkness swirled.  Deeper than the night, darker than ink, it whirled away into the distance, spinning in a direction undefinable.

A rider emerged into the rain.  The swirl of darkness at his back thinned, diminished, ceased, leaving only mossy wood and wet stone.

The horse and rider seemed slightly unreal, colored all in shades of black and grey, little more than shadows of clouds in a world of trees and stone.  The sound of their passing was only the occasional click of gravel sent over the edge of the track.

The black mare wore no reins, but picked her silent way along the trail.  The rider focused his gaze on something visible only to his eyes, hung in the air before him, something he occasionally manipulated with fingertip gestures.  A tattered cloak fluttered behind him like a swarm of flying things in the windy gusts.  A heavy, straight blade hung from his left side; a lighter, slightly-curved blade hung from his right.

He cocked his head as though listening and muttered in disgust.

“I said, maybe I should give up exploring and just be a peeping tom.  We have the spells for it!”

The horse ignored him in favor of something unseen.  She cocked her head and laid her ears back, snorting.  The smell of ozone was suddenly strong in the air.  She shook her mane and it moved unnaturally in the wind.  The rider grunted a reply and waved a hand as though sweeping an unseen something aside.  A bracelet glinted with an inner light from beneath his sleeve.

“What is it?”

The horse stomped one forefoot in an eerie, soundless movement.  She tossed her head, making her mane ripple, strangely independent of the weather.  The rider looked puzzled and sniffed the air, waited for moment, tasted the wind again.  Ozone dissipating, yes… also ashes, scorched wood, a trace of blood and burnt flesh… a sick, rotting smell, like dying earth in a diseased forest… and a cloying, oily odor, with a slight taste of sulphur.

“I smell it,” he agreed, as though in answer to an unasked or unheard question.  He paused, as any madman might in conversation with imaginary friends.  “No.  I doubt it’s anything related.  The harmonics are all wrong.  Similar, maybe, but not a relative.”

The black steed pawed silently at the stony trail and left a shallow gash with one cloven hoof.  The rider shifted in his seat and the horse moved forward again.  The rider’s gaze swept around, looking through the midnight darkness.  He glanced up frequently, as though he expected danger even from such a quarter.

They wound their way upward along the barren mountainside, walking slowly, following the broken goat path.  Neither seemed mindful of the freshening wind and increasing rain.  Clouds closed off the sky completely, plunging the world into darkness absolute, broken only by occasional shards of lightning.  Yet the mare kept her steady, silent pace, marching calmly, even disdainfully, through the worsening elements, no more bothered by the howl of wind than by a pleasant country road.

The rider frowned in the blackness and the mare stopped without prompting.  She turned her head to regard him and he patted her shoulder, wordlessly.  The mare tossed her head and planted her hooves as though to stand against a storm.  The man dismounted, sliding down one side.  His boots made a wet, heavy thud and thunder growled in the distance.

He sniffed the air again, like an animal.  His tongue flicked out, unnaturally long, tasting the air.  He started down the slope beside of the track, ignoring minor hindrances to his mountain-climbing, such as dark, cold, and driving rain.  He did not know exactly where he was going, but he moved surely, grasping rock and stone like a fly—or a spider.

Minutes later, he stood on a narrow shelf of stone above a sheer drop.  He glanced down as though the darkness was a myth.  The tumbling river water far below passed from left to right.

“Yeah, I should learn a flying spell,” he muttered, “someday.  Always someday.”  He slithered to his left along the ledge, sword scabbards scraping against stone.  Moments later, he ducked low to pass under an overhang of rock.

The narrow shelf ended beneath the overhang.  A bloody hand lay before him.  Closer inspection revealed a cleft in the stone and more of the arm attached to the hand.  A whole man lay within the cleft, cased in battered, bloody armor and concealed within the mountainside.  The smell of blood was strong on the gentle draft from within the cleft, overwhelming the faint, oily odor.

He wormed his way through the narrow gap, his slim frame barely able to scrape between the lips of stone.  Beyond the opening, the cave was only slightly larger, but sufficient to kneel partly beside, partly over the supine form.  A quick examination revealed a man of considerable size.  Even without armor, he would be unable to pass the gap.  More pressing were the wounds in his torso and thighs—puncture wounds, as though made by rows of giant teeth.

He whistled softly, looking through the holes in the armor and the flesh beneath.  Blood oozed out of the armor and flowed toward the probing fingers of the examiner.

“Shut up,” he advised his invisible commentator.  “I’m not getting involved.  Seriously.  I’m not.  Stop laughing!”

Chapter One

“Was it my idea to promise we’d kill a dragon? No!”

The ranting wizard waved his hands theatrically and his horse snorted in surprise. With a curse, the wizard snatched at the reins wrapped around the saddlehorn.

“That’s not entirely Aramon’s fault,” replied the priest. “It was Gorgar who decided to brag about us.”

“He didn’t decide anything,” the wizard snapped, squirming in the saddle. “He drank enough mead to drown a horse—and I wish we could drown this blasted beast!”

The priest’s eyes twinkled blue. “If you would remember the objective is to keep your backside in contact with the saddle—you sit on it, you know—instead of standing in the stirrups, you might find it more comfortable.”

“I should have brought another blanket, Tindal,” moaned the wizard, miserably.

“What’s this about a blanket?” asked Gorgar as he rode up from the rear of the group. Dust from the horses’ hooves stained his armor and steed a roadway grey. The blending of color made him look like a strange hybrid creature of man and horse.

“Y’vin is still a trifle uncomfortable on horseback,” Tindal replied, unperturbed. “He could use another blanket for his own backside, rather than under the saddle for the horse.”

“Gee, I’m sorry,” Gorgar said, and sounded sincere. “I forgot how you and horses get along.”

“You also forgot I hate dust, and heat, and eating the dried dung you call trail bread!” Y’vin snapped.

Gorgar sighed. Y’vin was in one of his moods again. Nothing would be right until he was in a small, enclosed room, freshly bathed, and pleasantly filled with a hot meal. It was always the same. Y’vin was simply a natural-born indoorsman. A damn fine wizard and, when it came down to cases, a good man to have backing you, but completely out of his element in the elements.

“I’m sorry,” Gorgar repeated. “I hadn’t intended to go off on some wilderness trek like this, but…”

“You weren’t to know,” Tindal soothed. “We should have thought twice before coming along to your sister’s wedding. We knew it would be a long trip and not entirely pleasant,” he added, and pointedly looked at the wizard. “We all agreed to come along.”

Y’vin muttered something too low to hear and subsided into a sulk.

“I’m glad you were all there,” Gorgar agreed. “It really made her happy to see actual heroes.”

“And got us volunteered to go hero-ing,” Y’vin muttered, this time loud enough to hear. “We could have been in Tourmaline, minding the town’s woes, getting paid to do nothing but be handy in case of trouble, but noooooo—we had to go looking.”

Gorgar flushed a darker shade than his usual heavy tan. Tindal spoke before anything more could be said.

“That will be enough from both of you. Gorgar, please go relieve Sir Aramon on point. And you, Y’vin if all you can do is complain, shut up.”

Y’vin shut up.

“My brother, Gorgar. Gorgar, this is my betrothed, Llewellyn Harpsinger.”

Gorgar looked the man over with an experienced eye. The fellow was obviously no fighter. Still, he was hale and handsome. Combined with a fine instrument and clear voice, he looked as though he might not be all that bad, for a worthless songsmith. If Sis was happy with him…

“I am most pleased to make your acquaintance,” Gorgar recited, and offered his hand. Llewellyn clasped forearms with the warrior and showed himself to have a good, strong grip. Gorgar liked him, even against his natural suspicion of minstrels, but held hard to his suspicion. Anyone so charming spent a long time practicing it.

“The honor is mine,” Llewellyn replied.

“I got word in Tourmaline of the wedding,” he replied. “I wasn’t aware Sis was seeing anyone.”

“Maedel and I were rather taken with each other,” Llewellyn admitted. Maedel blushed madly and lowered her eyes. Gorgar’s own eyes narrowed as he looked hard at Llewellyn.

“Oh?” He swigged from his latest tankard and set it roughly aside. “How taken?”

“My brother, please,” Maedel said, and laid a hand on his forearm. “Father has approved of the joining, and most heartily!”

Gorgar’s eyes narrowed further. “Father’s got no great love for minstrels, either,” he said, almost to himself. Louder, he asked, “Why’s he so pleased?”

“Because he’s soon to have a grandson, I’d wager,” Llewellyn said. Maedel gasped in shock and one hand flew to her abdomen.

“Llewellyn!” she cried. “That’s not—”

Llewellyn shushed her with a sharp gesture. “Hush! That will be enough from you. You’re safe now, and I’m marrying you. Count your blessings!”

Gorgar extended his hand again, saying, “And congratulations on that!” Llewellyn reflexively reached out to clasp forearms again, but Gorgar, drunk or sober, was as fast as a striking snake. Instead of forearms, they clasped hands. Gorgar, massively built and hardened by a profession of arms, squeezed.

Llewellyn’s eyes widened, then bugged out. He gasped, a startled eep! sound, and tried desperately to jerk his hand away.

Gorgar squeezed slightly harder. Bits inside the minstrel’s hand ground together in ways the gods had not intended. Llewellyn, by main force of will, ceased to struggle and Gorgar slacked off slightly.

“You want to explain,” Gorgar informed him, and gave out a slightly-flammable belch. “Sorry; I should clarify that. I’ve been drinking, you see, and I need to have it explained to me. Before I break every bone in your skirt-lifting, button-working, harp-strumming hand.”

“Gorgar!” his sister cried, laying her own hands on the paired wrists and pulling vainly at them. “Let him go.”

“I will in a moment,” he replied. “Just as soon as I have what I want. He might even get to keep his hand. And all the bones.”

Llewellyn spoke quickly. “There’s a dragon terrorizing Pelamir and they need virgins to give to it so I saved your sister from being kidnapped and was persuaded to marry her.”

“‘Persuaded’?” Gorgar repeated. His hand flexed slightly, encouraging the minstrel to speak even more quickly.

“Your father described you and I’ve heard of you and you’re proving their point right now with my hand and I’ll need it to earn a living for the both of us and your nieces and nephews please?”

Gorgar thought about it. It took doing, considering the number of mugs of mead roaming through his bloodstream.

“Come with me.” Gorgar, without releasing the hostage hand, walked off. Llewellyn, perforce, followed. Maedel fluttered along with them, like a butterfly caught in the wake of a storm. Gorgar led them straight to Sir Aramon, Tindal, Y’vin, and Fliss.

“Hey. Guys.”

“Here’s the lucky brother-in-law now,” Fliss said, feet comfortably on a table while the rest of him leaned gracefully back in a chair. “Hail and well-met, all.” He lifted a mug, drained the dregs, and flipped it underhand into the air. It twirled several times before rattling to a stop on the tabletop. It remained upright upon landing.

“Got a problem,” Gorgar said.

“It would seem you have your future brother-in-law’s hand,” Sir Aramon observed. Of the entire pre-wedding party, he was the only one in full armor. Then again, he was also the only man with the right to the coat of arms he wore over it.

“No, that’s his sister,” Fliss replied, grinning. “Well, it’s maybe not his hand she’s got—”

“Hush, you,” Tindal said, watching the storm signals in Gorgar’s eyes. “Listen.”

Gorgar explained. Sir Aramon’s eyes lit up instantly with the word “dragon,” but he held his peace to better hear the rest. He and Tindal frowned at the circumstances surrounding the wedding. Y’vin and Fliss looked less concerned with the propriety of the thing, but certainly not bored.

“So, since I haven’t got the safest occupation,” Gorgar said, “I was sort of hoping that—”

“Got it,” Y’vin said. “A little insurance, coming right up. Hold him still.”

Gorgar moved. His hands and arms did brisk, efficient things with Llewellyn’s limbs. A moment later, Llewellyn was on his knees with a complicated interlocking of bones and joints to encourage him to hold very, very still on pain of pain.

Y’vin rolled up the sleeves of his robes and drew both wand and dagger. He chanted and waved the wand; sparks and drifting bubbles of polychromatic light issued from it and began to circle both Gorgar and Llewellyn.

“Wh-what’s he—” Llewellyn began.

“Shut up,” Gorgar replied, and tightened his holds. Llewellyn repeated his eep! noise and fell silent. The rest of the people at the pre-wedding celebration gave back from the scene of the action. Wizards were best given large amounts of room—generally a good-sized courtyard, preferably a township.

Y’vin pinked both Llewellyn and Gorgar with the dagger. He used the tip of his wand to get a smear of blood from each. The chanting increased in pace and volume while the lights and colors darkened into somber, purple-and-black shades. The mingled blood at the tip of the wand burst into a small cloud of smoke and sank immediately to the floor. Once there, it seemed to sprout misty legs and scuttle away. The whirling lights and sparks dissipated.

Llewellyn simply held still and stared in horror.

Gorgar let go of him and caught Maedel as she fainted. He laid her gently on the floor and fanned her face with a kerchief.

“What—” Llewellyn began, and his voice broke. He swallowed once, twice, and started again. “What did you…?”

“Just a little necromancy,” Y’vin assured him. Llewellyn paled further. “See, if anything happens to Gorgar, his ghost is now bound to watch you. If you don’t live up to your end of the bargain in this marriage, it will be able to summon the ketch. It’ll crawl into your mouth and nose while you sleep and fill your lungs until you die.” Y’vin grinned horribly. “I’d be a faithful husband,” he added. “There’s no way to lift the curse, and not many wizards can kill a ketch.”

Gorgar was kneeling next to his sister and could have broken Llewellyn’s fall.

But he didn’t.

The pavilion tent was up and the horses hobbled. It was easy to see the region was less prosperous; even the grass seemed stunted. Abandoned farms to either side of the road grew wild—where anything would grow at all.

The clouds of the afternoon had turned into the rain of the evening. Everyone gathered inside around the fire to dry out.

“Who has first watch?” Tindal asked.

“I’ll take it,” Sir Aramon replied.

Gorgar nodded. “Wake me for the next one. Fliss?”

“Since the intellectually gifted require their beauty sleep, I shall once again bear witness to the dawn,” he agreed. “We have to hire someone for this, someday. Or get a dog.”

“I vote for the dog,” Y’vin said. “It won’t complain as much.”

“Oh, look who’s talking!”

Tindal raised his hands. “That will be quite enough! It has been a long day and we are all unused to the trail after the soft living in Tourmaline. Let us sleep and recover our strength.”

There was some grumbling, but four out of five prepared their pallets for the night. Sir Aramon put his helm on again and stepped outside, into the rain.

Inside, Gorgar placed his armor in a carefully-arranged pile. If a fight started, there wouldn’t be time to don it, but if there was enough warning to put on some of it, the breastplate would be the first choice…

“Y’vin?” he asked. The wizard propped himself up on his elbows.

“What?” he asked, testily.

“That spell you did on Llewellyn…”

“That? That was nothing.” Y’vin settled back down in his blankets.

“Really? It sounded like a powerful spell.”

Y’vin chuckled for a moment, then laughed aloud. “Oh, you dupe! You’re no better than the minstrel!”

Gorgar restrained his natural response to such a slight. Y’vin might be an irritable fop, but he was a powerful wizard and a good friend. His insults were never meant to bite, unless they were aimed at enemies. It was only Y’vin’s manner.

“Oh?”

“Yes, indeed. You were as easily taken in.”

“How so?”

“I got the idea from Fliss,” Y’vin said. Fliss sat up.

“Wait, you got a spell from me?”

“No, just the idea. Remember the time you poured that concoction down the prisoner’s throat and told him if he didn’t get to a priest in jig time he was a dead man?”

“Yes. He went straight back to the bandit camp and their healer. Made it easy to find them.”

“Exactly. Well, I told minstrel-boy the same sort of story. A little chanting, a little handwaving, a spooky cloud of blood-smoke.” Y’vin snorted. “A ketch! Ha! There aren’t ten wizards in the world who can counter a ketch if it comes for you, and none who can summon one! The things are incredibly dangerous spirits.”

“So you didn’t really sic a ketch on him?” Gorgar asked.

“Of course not. But he thinks I did. Now let me get some sleep, would you? It’s bad enough I get dragged into the gods-forsaken hinterland to go hunting for a powerful and dangerous beast, but I won’t stand for this incessant chatter.”

“Look who’s been doing the talking,” Fliss muttered.

Y’vin ignored this and almost immediately began to snore.

The morning dawned grey and cloudy. The rising sun was only a brighter place in the thick overcast. Fliss woke everyone when the light grew bright enough to see more than a dozen paces. Sir Aramon and Gorgar helped each other into their armored shells while Y’vin placed a pot on the coals on the fire. Tindal stepped outside and faced the direction of the hidden sun; he knelt and began to pray.

It was less than an hour later when they hit the road again. The tent was packed, the gear stowed, the campfire obliterated, and most of the signs a camp had ever been there were gone. It wasn’t perfect, but it was unlikely to draw anything’s attention, not even from the air.

Besides, old habits died hard so their owners didn’t have to.

As they rode, Y’vin asked, “Someone want to tell me again why we’re going to go bother a scaly beast that isn’t stomping on our sand-castles? I’m still a little unclear on this point.”

“Because,” Sir Aramon answered, quoting, “‘There shall rise into the air dark things, kin to the Serpent of Night. Thou shalt smite them, and hew them, lest the fumes of their breath bring ruin to all the birds and beasts of the earthly plane.’”

“Book of Namae, chapter six, verses six and seven?” Tindal guessed.

“Very good, priest. I did not think you knew my god’s holy works?”

“I’m more familiar with the Solar Scrolls,” Tindal answered, and made a gesture—a closed fist in front of his heart, opened suddenly, like a starburst— “but I decided to at least be familiar with your faith so as not to inadvertently blaspheme your god.”

“It sounds as though you’re much more than familiar,” Sir Aramon noted.

Tindal shrugged. “I cannot help my memory. It is one of my gifts.”

“Would that I had such,” Sir Aramon replied. “It was a test of my teachers’ faith to commit the Book of Namae to my memory.”

“The test of ours is coming.”

They first saw the dragon in the high air at evening. A line of light streaked the heavens above the setting sun. Sir Aramon nudged Gorgar and pointed. Everyone’s gaze rose into the west.

“Looks like a dragon to me,” Y’vin stated. “How big do you think it is?”

“Sixty, seventy feet,” Tindal guessed.

“More like eighty, at least,” Fliss replied, hand held low to shade his eyes. “It’s further away than you think.” Tindal and Gorgar glanced at Y’vin.

“He’s the one with the eyes,” Y’vin stated. “Elves in his ancestry, I bet.”

“I’m not the fairy here, Y’vin,” Fliss replied.

“Look, the man walked in on me while I was in the bath!” Y’vin began, heatedly.

“Any idea where it’s going?” Sir Aramon asked, interrupting.

“I think… I think it’s got something in its claws,” Fliss said. “I’m not sure what it is, not from here.”

“Then it’s probably headed back to its den,” Sir Aramon said. “Blast! I wish we could have been a bit quicker. That may be some village girl.”

“It’s more likely to be a sheep or a cow,” Y’vin replied. “You know how hard it is to find a virgin, these days.” He snickered. “Or maybe you don’t.”

“Y’vin, just because my vows preclude—”

“That’s enough!” Tindal declared. “I swear, we never used to bicker, jabber, and argue like this in the old days! Look at us! We’re getting on each other’s nerves like a bunch of boys while their tutor is out of the room! What is this? Some fair-day outing? Pull yourselves together and act like men!”

Sir Aramon flushed inside his helm. Y’vin simply frowned in thought. Gorgar and Fliss both pretended not to hear, but knew the injunction had been directed at them just as much, if not as directly. There was an awkward silence while everyone looked at the sunset.

“Have I been acting like a child?” Y’vin asked, finally. He sounded more thoughtful than anything else.

“You have,” Tindal replied, calmly.

“I had not noticed. Thank you for drawing my attention to it. And I apologize to you all for my… manner.”  He sighed. “I can be difficult, and I know it. With most people, I don’t really care. With you... I will attempt to be… less difficult.”

Fliss looked amused. “Oh? Then who are you, and what have you done with the real Y’vin?”

“I outgrew him,” Y’vin replied. “Why haven’t you outgrown the Fliss we used to go out questing with?”

“Because I was already perfect,” Fliss replied, unabashed. “Do we camp, or do we go dragon-hunting in the dark?”

It was several days later, in the early evening, when the group hobbled the horses among the trees.

“What do you think, Tindal?”

“I’m thinking we’ll have a much better idea where the den is tonight. If the dragon follows his pattern and comes back this way again around sunset, we should be able to see where it goes. Somewhere up on that mountainside is a cave, I bet.”

Gorgar, seated beneath a tree and sharpening a sword, nodded. “If we can spot it, I say we sneak in the next time it leaves, and ambush it.”

Fliss grinned. “I like that plan.”

Sir Aramon shook his head. “I do not think it has much honor in it.”

“Not a bit,” Y’vin answered, “but it has a much higher chance of us walking out of the fight with whole skins.”

Sir Aramon opened his mouth to argue, but the expressions on the others’ faces told him the story. It was the plan. It was how things would work. It was the only way to go.

“I won’t strike with you,” he said.

“I know, Ari,” Tindal replied. “We’ll ambush it, and you can join the fight. I know it’s not what you’d like—”

“—but it’s the best you can do.” Sir Aramon sighed. “It rankles, Tindal. It is without honor.”

“I guess the question,” Y’vin answered, “is whether you value your honor more than the lives of a bunch of virgin girls.”

The silence following his statement was all the more profound for the look of shock on Sir Aramon’s face.

“I—I’ve never thought of—” he began, and trailed off into silence. He rose from his seat at the base of a tree and walked a little way off from the group.

Gorgar, Fliss, and Tindal turned with seething glares to face Y’vin.

“Oh, come on,” Y’vin said. “You’ve thought it before.”

“Yes,” Fliss hissed, “but had the good sense to avoid giving a good friend a serious crisis of conscience!”

“Indeed,” Tindal agreed. “You know what he’s doing now. He’s praying his pride hasn’t been the death of some unknown number of innocents.”

“Nice going,” Gorgar added.

Y’vin muttered something and sighed. Then he looked up into the high sky, shading his eyes with one hand and pointing with the other. “Oh, look! A dragon!”

The entrance was under a heavy outcrop of stone. The passage itself was little more than a crack in the mountain, worn to smoothness by the scales of the beast. With the dragon out hunting for its next meal, the group entered quickly and hurried down the slanting face of stone. In Gorgar’s case, this was a trifle too quickly. He slipped, failed to catch himself, and began a long, spark-showered slide down the smooth incline. He vanished from sight around a turn of the passage, but his wild yell echoed back to his companions. There was a resounding clangor, and silence.

“Gorgar!” Sir Aramon shouted. The echoes of his voice reverberated eerily.

“You have to try that!” Gorgar shouted back.

Sir Aramon and the rest looked at each other.

“I’ll pass,” Sir Aramon said. Tindal nodded. Y’vin and Fliss traded shrugs.

The remaining four continued down more cautiously to rejoin their distant friend. Down, down, and down it wound, twisting crazily until it opened into a cavern. The torches of the invaders illuminated perhaps a third of the whole space.

A depression, worn into the floor of the cavern, formed an enormous bowl. Within it lay the rich glitter of torch-lit gold.

While the others looked the place over, Gorgar gave his assessment.

“The place is big, but not big enough to stay out of the thing’s reach,” he noted. “Good spot for the dragon. There are two other openings, but I don’t know where they go. They may lead to other, more difficult entrances. We have to consider that it might not come in by the front door. The other openings look tight, though—it may not use them.”

“Have you looked at the hoard?” Fliss asked.

“Yes. Don’t touch it. If it notices even a single coin out of place—and it would—it will have more warning than we want.”

“Afterward, though,” Fliss said, eyes never leaving the pile.

“Afterward, you’ll have your work cut out for you. There’s a lot of stuff you’ll have to evaluate.”

“Right. What’s our plan?”

Gorgar gestured for the others to follow him. He walked around the perimeter of the chamber and pointed out details.

“See the other openings? They may be useful escapes for us if things go badly. And the ledges. We can start there, and one of these may be a good spot for Y’vin to stand and throw spells. Sir Aramon and I will be to either side of the main entry. Tindal will be with me. Namae looks after Sir Aramon; I’ll need Tindal on my side. Besides, Tindal and I will strike first and attract its attention. Fliss, you’ll be above the opening, on that ledge, there. Once we have it suitably distracted, you drop down on its neck and get busy with those double blades of yours.”

“What about the fire?” Sir Aramon asked. “Fliss will be safe enough from it, if he gets into position, but you two are likely to roast.”

“I’ll ask for protection,” Tindal replied. “The Sunlord will not permit mere fire to harm us.”

Sir Aramon nodded. “All right.”

Y’vin was listening, but also looking over the roof. “I like that ledge, there,” he said, and pointed. “It’s got a good view and it looks as if I can step back far enough to be out of sight if I have to.”

“All right. Fliss, if you’ll go up and get a line on it, we’ll see about getting Y’vin up there without wasting any of the magic we’re going to need.”

Fliss bowed from the waist. “As you suggest, O Tactician Masterful.” He drew out several tools and prepared himself for the climb. “I don’t recall if you’ve ever fought a dragon before. Are you sure this plan will work?”

“Nope,” Gorgar replied, and grinned at him. “But isn’t that what makes it exciting?”

Fliss sighed, but smiled as well. “I would argue, but am I not the one who first said it to you?”

“Yep,” Gorgar answered. Fliss started up the cavern wall.

“Anything in particular you want from me?” Y’vin asked.

“Improvise. If you have a clear shot, take it,” Gorgar advised.

“You want the big spells?”

“Only if you think you can get away with them.”

“It’s long enough,” Y’vin mused. “If it gets into the chamber proper, some section of it should be far enough away from the rest of you.”

“We’ll try to keep its body in the passage,” Gorgar said. “We want to restrict its movement. I don’t think it’ll like that, so it’ll come into the chamber or retreat. If it retreats, we’re well and truly hammered. Then we can only perform frontal attacks, and that’s bad for us. But if we can make it angry enough to come into the chamber—especially after we get a couple of good swings on it when it can’t really reply—we can beat it down.”

Y’vin grinned. “I guarantee it’ll come into the chamber.”

“Oh?”

“Once you start swinging, I’ll float some of the money out of the hoard and toward an exit. Can you imagine any dragon letting that kind of thing go on without a fight?”

Gorgar chuckled. “No. All right, that’s the plan. Any questions?”

Fliss called down from the ledge. “Yes. Will someone please tie a rope to Y’vin?”

The next hours were spent in near-total silence and absolute blackness. Torches extinguished, the cavern was blacker than the darkest night. The five waited for their quarry, as silently as they were able. Each minute dragged like a sack of rocks, slow and torturous, with anticipation looming ever more fearsome on the horizon.

And a scraping sound echoed from the tunnel.

The five were instantly alert, both with fear and with relief. The waiting, over at long last, gave way to the feeling of imminent battle.

The scraping grew louder, the sound of scales dragging on stone. A smell, oily and sulphurous, wafted ahead of the oncoming beast. The hunters, eyes adapted to utter darkness, detected the faint orange glow from the dragon’s eyes as they shone ahead. The golden hoard gleamed with an almost bloody color in the light.

Sir Aramon and Gorgar held their swords in hand, backs pressed to the wall, with an almost surreal calm. Tindal was on one knee, next to Gorgar, silently praying. Fliss drew one blade at a time, between fingers pressed to the metal, silencing the draw. Y’vin seated himself at the edge of his ledge and took three timed, rhythmic breaths to center his consciousness in preparation for calling forth his most destructive energies.

The dragon paused at the mouth of the tunnel. A powerful snort echoed through the chamber, a vast sniff as distended nostrils took in the cavern air—and the scent of invaders.

A blaze of orange-white flame rocketed into the room. A column of blinding fire shot through the entryway, angled upward, to splash against the far wall and mushroom into orange and red as it diffused along the stone. Gorgar raised one hand and turned away to shield his eyes from the spear of brilliance while Sir Aramon lifted his chin slightly to tilt his visor’s eyeslits away. Fliss crossed his arms below his face to throw shadows across his eyes. Y’vin and Tindal, eyes closed in concentration, were the only ones who did not flinch.

While the blast of fire-breath yet raged from the draconic throat, the dragon burst into the chamber like a sprinter coming off the blocks. With a surge of all four legs and a massive writhing, great claws dug into the feeble rock and provided purchase, catapulting the beast forward to land in a pile of its own hoarded wealth while the ambushers were yet blind.

It coiled there, amid the scattered wealth, reversing itself to face those who waited at the door in ambush. Fliss pressed back against the stone, holding perfectly still. Gorgar and Sir Aramon both charged. Tindal began to pray aloud, seeking divine aid. Y’vin unleashed bolts of magical force, spearing the dragon through the thick scales, wounding it along the flanks.

But the dragon did not stop its turning movement. Instead, it turned faster, facing away from the oncoming enemies, and bringing its tail around in a whiplash maneuver to slam both armored figures aside like a club meeting fruit. They left the ground in flat arcs before they impacted against the wall, falling in heaps with a boilerworks clangor of armor.

With the two warriors swept aside, it halted its whirl and faced Tindal. It lunged forward, mouth agape, and the kneeling priest saw the baleful glow of dragonfire at the back of the dragon’s throat. Then the teeth closed, driven by mighty jaws, and Tindal saw no more.

Fliss leaped. Even as Y’vin’s second barrage of magical bolts ripped along the dragon’s side to pierce one wing in many places, to blast aside a dozen scales beneath, Fliss landed astride the dragon’s neck just behind the head. Faced back along the neck, Fliss leaned forward, heels dug in tightly to hold on, blades dipping down to find the edges of scales and pry upward. Somewhere, there would be a gap, a place for a blade to force a scale up and then drive home into the softer meat beneath.

The dragon lunged again, still chewing on Tindal. It lunged into the entry passage and whipped its own head upward, slamming Fliss against the roof with all the mass of the dragon’s neck behind him. Not once, but twice, three times, before shaking briskly to dislodge the stunned and battered attacker.

A claw descended. Fully half the weight of a dragon settled on Fliss for a second. Human flesh and bone surrendered to the force as the dragon’s taloned foot settled wetly to the passage floor.

Gorgar and Sir Aramon, stunned by the impacts with dragon tail and cavern wall, regained their feet. The dragon backed from the passage as they charged. Swords rose in the pale light of the red-glowing stone where the dragon’s breath had touched, gleamed in the light from the dragon’s eyes. The swords descended, driven with all the might of mortal arms. Sir Aramon’s blade bit, parted the hardened scales of the beast as it might part a man’s breastplate. Blood flowed. Gorgar’s blade struck and clanged, deflected.

The dragon inhaled deeply, head turned to face them directly. Sir Aramon and Gorgar threw themselves aside to avoid the point-blank blast that was sure to follow, but the expected blast of fire did not come. Instead, the dragon laughed, laughed like rocks grinding in the depths of the world, and the head shot forward like a serpent striking. It took Sir Aramon from behind, jaws closing about chest and thighs, great teeth penetrating armor like arrows through cheese, driving deep into the tender flesh of a man. The dragon lifted Sir Aramon, oblivious to the great cry of agony echoing in the stony chamber, and whipped its head aside. It released the knight with a contemptuous flick and sent the bloodied, armored form sailing through one of the other openings. Sir Aramon’s cry echoed back from the narrow chasm, dwindling as he bounced downward, plunging through darkness.

Gorgar stepped close, along the dragon’s side, and drove his blade upward, under the scales, sending the point deep into the dragon’s shoulder.

The ear-shattering scream from the dragon’s throat deafened both attackers. Gorgar yanked the blade free and darted back as the dragon snapped at him, great jaws closing only on empty air. Then the dragon opened its mouth and blasted white-hot fire at the defenseless warrior.

The flames parted scant inches from Gorgar’s face, split apart into streams to rocket to either side in a brilliant “Y”. He gaped as the broad inferno of fiery destruction parted around him and left him untouched.

On his ledge, Y’vin held a hand extended toward Gorgar. The wizard’s face was sheened in sweat and his lip caught painfully in his teeth, but the dragon’s fiery blast ended before Y’vin’s will broke under the strain. Y’vin slumped, exhausted, as the torrent of fire vanished.

Gorgar blinked in the aftermath of the blaze, blinded by the sudden near-immersion in such a river of fire. The dragon ignored him for a moment and looked up, reared up on its hind legs. It met the eyes of Y’vin.

“Oh, damn,” Y’vin whispered.

A flood of fire engulfed the ledge, and the wizard with it. The scream was brief and, truthfully, inaudible in the furnace-roar sound of the dragon’s breath.

Gorgar, still half-blinded, one hand raised against the glare from the latest stream of fire, charged the beast. He held his sword low in preparation for another upward thrust beneath scales, this time through the belly-plates, for the heart.

The dragon came down, both forelimbs held out. It landed, full-force, on metal and flesh.

Silence settled on the cavern, broken only by the clicking of cooling stone.

Later—much later—the beast dragged and clawed its way out of the lair, smoke issuing from its nostrils as it went out to hunt.  Dust, ashes, and some bits of gravel drifted down a crack in the cavern floor, settling slowly into the depths.

Far beneath the lair, something coughed.  Metal scraped on stone.

For a moment, all was silent again.  A faint light shone up from below, a pearly, shimmering glow.

The scraping sound came again, slowly, and repeated itself every minute or so, growing more and more faint by the smallest of increments.  It was a long time before the metal-on-stone sound faded into the distance, the echoes of the movement dying in the empty caverns.

Chapter Two

Sir Aramon opened his eyes.  He regarded the interior of a tent.  A pavilion tent, easily large enough for half a dozen men.  As unlikely as it seemed, he felt certain it was the same tent he shared with his companions on so many adventures.

He considered his situation.  His recent memories were of bouncing painfully from rocky walls… then unconsciousness… then returning to painful awareness, his prayers for Namae’s blessing, the relief of the worst of his wounds… and the crawling, endless crawling through darkness, pain, and cold, following the flow of air.  Somewhere along his final journey, consciousness faded until this moment.

Now he looked up at familiar cloth and canvas.

Gingerly, he ran a hand over his chest.  Bandages wound tightly around his body.  Thicker parts for the holes from the dragon’s teeth, obviously, and—taking a deep breath—the rest of the wrappings for the broken ribs.  Splints on the left forearm and both shins, too.  How many broken bones after the fall?  Six?  Ten?  It felt like only three or four, now.  At least Namae had seen fit not to grace him with a broken head… and to keep life within Aramon’s body.

Although, he reflected, a crushed skull would almost have been preferable.  Everyone else who entered the dragon’s lair had died there.  Tindal, Gorgar, Fliss, Y’vin…

Aramon laid his hand on his chest where the holy symbol of Namae should rest.  The symbol was unnecessary for the lesser invocations, but it would have comforted him to have it as he prayed for the souls of his departed friends.

His first duty done, he sighed and relaxed on his pallet.  His medallion was probably in the pile of equipment nearby, but digging through it—even crawling those few feet to reach it—was a task more heroic than even Aramon could face.  He closed his eyes to rest.

The day waned, night fell, and Aramon woke again.

“Ah, you’re awake.  Good.  You are the proud recipient of the One Tough Son of a Bitch Award.  I’m more than a little surprised you’re still alive.”

Aramon turned to regard the source of the strange voice.  The man was, perhaps, thirty years of age, but his face was oddly smooth, lacking most of the lines of a grown man.  Elf blood, possibly, except for the inky-black hair.  He was smooth-shaven, so the lack of beard was no clue.  His garb was a well-worn set of traveling clothes in greys and faded black.  His cloak was a patchwork of black tatters and rags.  He accessorized with two swords, two rings, a pair of bracers, and an easy smile.

The only thing truly unsettling about him was the eyes.  They were perfectly normal eyes, aside from the black irises.  Blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes… and this man with the black eyes.  Aramon could see himself in them and realized, with a start, that he feared those eyes.  They were eyes to hold the soul, and one could see it, frightened, deep inside, trying to get out.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” the man persisted.

“I do,” Aramon replied, looking away, his voice dry and crackling.  “Thirsty.”  The man helped Aramon sit up and drink.  After draining a cup, Aramon settled back again with a grunt.

“I feel I should mention,” the young man went on, “for the sake of conversation, I’m using a translating spell.  I’m not from around here and I don’t know any of the local language.  Some people get touchy about these sorts of things, so I thought I should say so up front.”

“If you do not use it, we cannot converse?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Then I am… ‘okay?’… with it.  If I understand your word.”

“It’s not the best translation spell,” the man admitted.  “Want something to eat?”

“Yes, please.”

“Coming right up.” The man departed the room, whistling cheerily.  Aramon watched him go, perplexed.

It would be important to ask questions… later.  For now, even such a minor exertion as drinking was exhausting.  Aramon dozed for a moment.

When Aramon woke again, the man was quietly sitting on the rug beside the pallet.  His eyes were closed, his posture relaxed, meditating.

Aramon cleared his throat.  His nurse opened those black eyes immediately.

“Got you some soup and some bread,” he said, reaching for a wooden bowl.  Aramon recognized it.  This was surely the campsite left behind when they went to assault the dragon’s lair. “It’s really more of a stew, since the bread soaked up a lot of the broth, but try to choke down my cooking.  It’s marginally less likely to kill you than starvation.”

“Who are you?”

“No one of consequence.”  He dipped a spoon and prepared to feed Aramon.

“Please.  I must know,” Aramon insisted.  The man in black smiled, slightly.

“Get used to disappointment.”

“Shall I beg?”

“No.  I’m sorry; it was too good a quote to pass up.”

“Quote?”

“Nevermind.  My name is unimportant.  Seriously.  I’m a traveler, not from around here, and will soon be moving on to places far distant.”

“How, then, shall I remember you in my prayers?”

“How about you say, ‘The nice guy who helped me’?  I’m pretty sure your deity can figure it out from there, if it cares to.  Now open your mouth without the talking.”

Once the stranger fed him, Aramon slept again.

When Aramon woke for the third time, the red glow of the early-morning sun filtered through the tent.  Aramon stretched, testing his injuries, and found them severe enough to remain still.

He heard a campfire crackling outside, smelled something cooking.  He also caught the smell of something burning—burned meat, perhaps.  Well, Tindal was a terrible cook, too.  Tindal once told a story from his childhood, about working in the kitchens at the monastery.  After three weeks, they found other work for him and forbade him from ever entering the kitchen on pain of lashes.

And Tindal was dead.

Aramon grimaced and gathered his strength, struggling to slide himself across the rugs toward the haphazard pile of his possessions.  The distance was not great, but the pile was not at all organized.  It took him several minutes and a couple of rests before he found what he sought.

The medallion was a small, golden shield on a heavy chain.  The shield bore a carved device of a sword, point up, with stylized rays emerging from the tip.  A tiny, inset diamond took the position of a pommel-stone.

Aramon clasped the symbol between his hands and began to pray.  A pale light shone between his fingers as sweat ran down his brow.  The light brightened, as though shining through his fingers, but not between.  It spread, creeping up his hands and arms, spreading across his chest, suffusing his whole body with a pale, white radiance.  His face was covered in perspiration, like a mask of glass, making him seem a statue of crystal illuminated from within.

The light faded, shrinking back from his flesh, withdrawing once more to the glowing amulet under his hand.

Aramon stretched again, joints cracking and popping, and relaxed with a sigh.  His ribs ached, but would no longer require binding.  His other wounds were similarly improved.  Tomorrow, he would ask if Namae saw fit to bless him with further aid.  If so, he might return to the lair of the dragon and face it in single combat.

His benefactor, carrying a tray with some of the camp dishes, brushed the hanging cloth of the entrance aside.

“Everything kosher?” he asked, settling down next to Aramon’s new position.

“I do not fully understand your words, but if you ask if all is well, then yes.”

“Yeah, it’s not a precise translation spell.  It works more on concepts than on exact transliteration of words.  Each type has its uses… and you don’t care.  I’m rambling.  Sorry.” He cocked his head at Aramon.  “You look better.”

“I am much better.”

“I thought I felt something mystical moving in here.”

“I prayed for the aid of Namae,” Aramon said, lifting the medallion.  “He has seen fit to bless me with his grace once again.”

“Ah.  Yes.  Well.  Then you’re well enough to sit up and eat by yourself.”  He stood and backed toward the hanging cloth.

“I am.  But stay, please.”

“I really need to be hitting the trail.  Places to go, things to do.  You know how it is.”

“Very well.  Since I go to my death on the morrow, I bid you good fortune now and give you my thanks, for I think we shall not see one another again.”  At this, the stranger paused, head cocked slightly, brows drawn together.

“Hold it.  If you’ve got a god on your side, why do you think you’re dying tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, I should be restored of my injuries.  Then I may enter battle once more with the creature which made them.”  Aramon levered himself upright and turned toward the food.  Obviously taken from the stores left behind, there was hard bread, a bowl of broth, cheese, a bit of salted meat, with a few vegetables thrown in as an afterthought.

Aramon reflected on how he had eaten far worse.  Still, whoever the stranger was, his own estimation of his cooking skill was spot-on.  Aramon made no mention of this, but silently added thanks to Namae for the stranger and what kindness and mercy had already been shown.

“Uh… but you know it’s going to kill you?” the man in black pressed.

“Of course.  I and my friends ventured into the lair of the dragon to slay it.  I am the only survivor.  If I slay the beast, the terrors of the monster will cease and my friends will be avenged.  If it slays me, then I have died in battle against a dark and terrible foe.  In either case, what more can a warrior of Namae hope for?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  A long career of do-gooding springs to mind, maybe followed by years of passing on your skills and wisdom to a new generation of do-gooders.  But that’s just off the top of my head.”

“You are not a warrior of Namae,” Aramon replied, smiling.  “Our ways are not your ways.”

“True enough, I suppose.  Would it be wiser, though, to do everything you can to win, rather than go boldly forth and die?”

“Naturally.  Yet, my armor is rent, my sword and shield are gone, and I have no allies in this place.  What else is left to me save the strength of my faith?”

“Huh.  Okay, I guess, if that’s how things work around here… but out of curiosity?  How many dragons have been slain by faith?”

“All monsters are slain by faith,” Aramon stated.

“Yes, yes, yes; I get it.  I was referring to something a bit more direct.  For example, can you tell me how many saints have wandered into a dragon’s lair and smited—smote?—beat it to death with their faith, rather than with swords?”

“None of which I am aware,” Aramon admitted.  He chuckled as he ate.  “There is a first time for everything.”

“How about going home?  You could get allies and whatnot.”

“I cannot.  Y’vin was our wizard; Tindal was our priest.  By their gifts did we travel from shard to shard.”

“Shard to shard?”

“This place.”

“I don’t understand.”

Aramon chewed thoughtfully as he considered the statement and other matters.

“Perhaps,” he said, slowly, “if you are not determined to be on your way at this very moment, you might share with me your name?  It makes conversation awkward.”

“Call me ‘Vlad,’” his benefactor suggested.

“A strange name.”

“It’s a very old family name, where I’m from.”

“May I ask where your home is?  I do not do so to pry, but merely to try to understand how you cannot know upon which shard you stand.”

“I’m a traveler—a traveler to really far places.  Not always voluntarily.  Humor me and tell me about these shard thingies.”

“Very well, although I do not understand how a far-traveler cannot know these things… In the earliest days of the world, all the lands were one.  Then came a great cataclysm—its cause is unknown to me—which rent the world asunder.  Blasted into shards, these pieces of the world hurtled around one another for many years.  All the races struggled to survive the upheaval.  Every century or so, one shard would collide with another.  Often, this would cause rains of shattered stones to fall from the skies of other shards.  Rarely, two shards would touch more gently and crumble together, as great mountains of the sky collapsing on top of each other.

“At last, a great druid on the shard Kannevos gained wisdom in his study of the heavens.  He marked out the movement of each shard of the shattered world, charting their courses in the heavens.  He commanded great, enchanted stones be erected in precise alignment with each shard, these circles of stones to act as anchors in a manner beyond my understanding.  The druids did as he bid them, for these rings of stones have some power over the heavens.  Their power reaches across the sky to the shards of the world, touching and guiding them.

“Today, every shard is held in place, each relative to all the others, such that they cannot collide and bring more death and destruction upon us.  Or so I am told.”

“I see.  I think.  So, people live on all these shards?”

“Most of them.  Some are little more than jagged rocks and wastelands.  Those closest to the sky-fire are barren deserts.  Farther away, they are always icy, wintry places.”

“Got it.  And you come from a different shard?”

“Yes.  I was born on Trayvor.  Gorgar came from this one—Lamaeos—and we came with him to attend the wedding of his sister.”

“How big are these shards?”

“They differ considerably.  I am told there are many no larger than great boulders, although such as those bear no stone rings of their own.  The smallest with a ring is known as Sliver, a mountain range in the sky.  Others are so large they take many weeks to ride and sail across.  Many are single kingdoms, some greater, some lesser.”

“And this one, the one we’re on, is the shard where Gorgar’s sister got married?  Lamaeos?”

“Yes.  The town of his birth is Trinnian, some four days’ ride eastward.  It is at the edge of the dragon’s influence.  You can see the way the land grows more healthy and wholesome as the dragon’s influence wanes.  Closest by is the city of Pelamir, although it has diminished greatly.  I do not think it will survive the dragon’s presence for much longer.  Their crops fail and their spirits wither under the dark force of the dragon’s presence.”

“There’s my cosmology and draconic ecology lessons for the day.  Thanks.  Now, if I understand this right, your problem is you need more resources to successfully handle a dragon.  Which you can’t get, because you don’t have anyone or anything to get you from this shard to a shard where you still have friends.  Or can you?”

“One may travel through the stone circles to other shards, but it requires the powers of a priest or wizard to open the way.”

“How about a holy warrior of…?”

“Namae,” Aramon supplied.  “No, my knowledge and my faith are insufficient for such a miracle.”

“What about a druid?  They built the things, right?”

“They dislike such travel, but permit it, in exchange for a small gift.”

“A bridge toll?”

“Exactly so, although they do not call it such.  Other than that, they seldom take action other than to assure the safety of the circles.  To buy their aid in opening a Skybridge would cost more—much more—than the customary gift.”

“And you don’t have the money for it?”

“In truth, if our campsite has been unplundered, it is possible I may have enough to buy my passage.  But all I have—all that is left of our wealth and gear—is yours, should you wish it.”

“Forget it,” Vlad advised.  “I have everything I want.”

Aramon blinked at him and frowned.  Vlad laid a hand on the dragon-headed hilt of the long, straight sword, as though simply resting it there.

“Did you… I beg your pardon, but did you laugh as you spoke?”

“No.”

“I would almost take my oath I heard laughter.”

“Maybe you did; I know I didn’t laugh.  But you left your stuff in a pile before going off to kill a dragon?”

“We left behind nonessentials,” Aramon corrected.  “One does not carry everything one owns into battle.  Besides, it was unlikely to be disturbed.  Few venture this close to a dragon’s lair—if we yet remain upon the same campsite—and we made camp where we would not easily be seen.  Y’vin placed spells on most of the boxes and such, as well.  If the tent has not been taken—as I see it has not—I would guess nothing is stolen, although the horses may have wandered far afield.”

“Fair points.  Okay.  So, you need your wizard or priest to open the way, or you need a way to carry a ton of stuff to… where?”

“A circle of standing stones marks the foot of a Skybridge.  There is always a town or city nearby.  The one we passed through on this shard is called Bridgetown.  It is many days’ ride.”

“Hmm.  A ride to Bridgetown isn’t out of the question,” Vlad mused.  “Still, ‘teach a man to fish,’ and all that…”

“I already know how to fish,” Aramon pointed out.

“It’s a saying from my homeland, or near enough.  Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day.  Teach a man to fish and he’ll never go hungry.  Something like that.”

“What do fish have to do with it?”

“It’s—no, nevermind.  Can I persuade you not to go Heroing or a-questing for dragon heads until I have a chance to do some wizardy things to help?”

“I am in your debt,” Aramon replied, seriously.  “I have been rescued by your hand.  You have guarded my sleep, tended me in my infirmity, and accepted nothing in return.  You have but to ask of me and I shall do all within my power to grant it.”

“While I’m not sure I like the blanket agreement, I empathize and approve of the nobility of character it indicates.”

“Beg pardon?”

“No problem.  You finish eating.  Would you mind if I took a look at your armor?  It looks a bit hammered.”

“Whatever you wish.”

Later, after Aramon was asleep, Vlad emerged from the tent to take in the night air.  The black horse stood silently by, patient as a statue.  She lowered her head and he rubbed her nose fondly before casting his gaze upward.  His eyes scanned the heavens.  Bright points winked back at him.  A look of wonder spread across his face.

“Well, spank me rosy and call me Suzie.”

Why would anyone do that?

“It’s an expression of surprise.  There really are a bunch of world-chunks up there, complete with blue fringes of atmosphere, clouds, oceans, the lot.”  He sighed.  “Gravity is obviously even more weird here than elsewhere.  I think I can say we’ve got another candidate for gravity variables.  It’s not a straight alteration in the gravitational constant, obviously.”

You mean it’s almost as if the rules are different everywhere we go?

“Oh, shut up.  I’m examining a massive magical working.”

I’m not the one doing the talking.

“I can see the lines of force,” Vlad continued, ignoring the comment.  “They look like spatial distortions rather than actual vector lines.  They all connect to… that one,” he pointed.  “Must be Kannevos.”  He regarded the twinkling point of light for several seconds, squinting.  “It doesn’t look very big.  Compared to some of the others, I mean.”

Are we going there?

“No.  I’m not even staying here very long.”

Just long enough to interfere?

“Only a little.  I’m almost done helping.  I feel bad for the guy.”

You wouldn’t feel bad for him if you’d passed on by.

“What you say isn’t wrong, but it’s also not right.”  Vlad moved, reaching up to stroke the mare’s neck, scratching lightly through the fur.  She snorted and extended her neck, encouraging him to continue.  Her long mane lifted itself and flipped over to the other side, clearing the way.

Which means you agree, but you still don’t think you made the wrong choice.  Right?

“Yes and no.  I agree, and maybe I did make the wrong choice.  But helping—or trying to—is a habit I don’t seem to be able to shake.  Another brick in the road to Hell, maybe—good intentions and suchlike.”

And you do it anyway because you’re a sucker.

“Sometimes.”

So, what’s on your agenda for further interference?

“First, I’m going to see what I can find in the underground area where I found him.  On the way, we’ll drag what’s left of the guys who tried to rob us at the campsite.  I’d rather not attract predators to Aramon while he’s wounded.  After that, I’ll finish mending some of his dragon-damaged gear.”

And what else?

“Depends.  I may have a brilliant idea.”

I’d like to see that.

“You know what?”

Shut up?

“Good guess.”

Vlad eyed the mountain where they found Aramon’s unconscious form.  He thought for several seconds before he made up his mind.  Vlad swung lightly into the saddle and the mare sprang into motion like a shadow vanishing into the night.

Chapter Three

When the light of dawn woke him, Aramon felt strong enough to rise.  He did so with some care and more than a few minor twinges.  He threw back the door-cloths to let in the morning and knelt in the light to pray.  Even though the entryway faced south, the room brightened as he pressed the medallion between his palms.

Minutes later, after the glow faded, he stood up, moving with much greater strength.  Enough, he felt, to dress and greet the world.  The gear he wore when rescued lay nearby, cleaned by the strange wizard.  He examined everything before wearing it.

Undergarments and padding, armor plates… There should be a row of holes, front and back, across the torso.  Similar holes should penetrate the areas meant for the thighs.  The dragon had seized him in its mouth, not to chew or rend, merely to bite for a grip.  A whiplash movement of the head toward the cavern’s oubliette…

Aramon examined the armor with exacting care.  There was nothing to indicate it had ever seen battle, or even been worn.  Not a mark, not a dent, not even a scratch.  It was shiny and new, even polished to a gleam.

With some caution, Aramon donned his armor.  It fit exactly as it always had.  It was definitely his armor, then, but flawlessly mended.  He belted on his sword, wondering how it came to be there.  He decided not to ask.  There was wizard work afoot, that much was certain.  Aramon silently acknowledged another kindness from his mysterious rescuer.

Outside, Aramon took a deep breath, drew his sword, and saluted the risen sun—pointless, perhaps, but a gesture of remembrance for Tindal.  That done, he sheathed the weapon and paused, noticing the black horse for the first time.  The mare nodded at him, ears perked forward.

“Breakfast?” Vlad asked, by the fire.

“Yes,” Aramon agreed, not taking his eyes off the mare.  “You have a very black horse.”

“She’s also a very friendly horse, unless something’s trying to kill us.”

“She’s trained for battle?”

“In the interests of avoiding a long explanation, how about I say ‘yes’ and leave it there?  Come sit down, please; I have something for you.”

Aramon looked at the cut sections of tree-trunk serving as seats.  They seemed fresh-cut, within the past day or so, and neatly smoothed for stability and comfort.  Wizardry again, probably.  He seated himself, still looking at the horse, trying to decide what it was about the beast that seemed out of place.  Vlad handed him a bowl and the ladle to distract him.

“Now, correct me where I’m wrong,” Vlad began.  “Your friends were Gorgar, Fliss, Y’vin, and Tindal, right?”  Aramon nodded, filling his bowl.  “Okay.  Gorgar was a brawny guy and a good fighter.  Fliss was on the short side and very fast.  Y’vin was the spell-working guy.  Tindal was a priest of a sun-based deity.  Still tracking?”

“If by ‘tracking,’ you ask if you are correct, then yes, you are tracking.”

“Okay.  You’re aware I’m a little bit of a magic-worker?”

“If you are a ‘little bit’ of a magic worker, a shipwreck is a ‘little bit’ damp.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.  Uh, well, as I was saying… I don’t mean to offend.  Like I said, I’m not from around here, so if what I’m about to tell you is, in your opinion, in any way improper, I want you to simply say so.  I’ll undo it immediately and apologize, both for my ignorance and for offending you.  Fair?”

“An offense given without intent is one for which no offense should be taken.”

“That sounds remarkably wise.”

“Book of Namae, chapter two, verse eleven.”

“I may have to read it.”

“There should be a copy in one of the chests, in the tent.  You are welcome to it.”

“You can find it when you dig through your stuff.  What I was getting at was the gems I found.”

“We did not think it needful to bring gold and jewels into battle.”

“Agreed.  But some of bigger ones caught my eye.”

“They are yours, if you wish.”

“Oh, no!  No, no, no.  They were large enough to give me an idea—an idea for something you might find… um… improper?  Maybe offensive?  That’s what I’m getting at.”

“How so?”

Vlad unlaced a pouch from his belt and handed it to Aramon.  At his nod, Aramon opened it.  Four gems, each the size of a thumbnail, winked and glittered from within.

“I still do not understand.”

“Well, I could pack up all your stuff and give you a ride to Skybridge—”

“Bridgetown.”

“Right.  Bridgetown, the place with the Skybridge.  Sorry.  Or, instead of giving you a ride and sending you on your way, I thought I might give you something to help you with the whole process of getting people together for your next dragon-hunt.”

“This?” Aramon asked, holding up the pouch.

“Yep.”

“How so?”

“Pick out a gem.”  Aramon did so.  “Hold it in your hand and think of one of your friends.  Which one are you thinking of?”

“Y’vin.”

“What now?” asked Y’vin’s voice, from within Aramon’s closed fist.  Aramon dropped the gem and it landed in the dirt between his feet.  A misty vapor billowed out of the jewel and rose like smoke.  In a matter of moments, the smoke filled out and took the form of the wizard, Y’vin.  In all respects, he seemed as Aramon remembered him—robes, pouches, long walking stick, sheathed wand, and sour expression.  He remained misty, translucent, but unquestionably there.

“Oh, good,” said Vlad.  “It works.”

“What are you staring at?” the translucent wizard demanded, glaring at Aramon.  “Haven’t you ever seen a spiritual manifestation before?”

“See,” Vlad went on, “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to consult with your friends or not.  If you like, we can simply break the gems and they’ll go back to whatever afterlife journey they were on, no harm done—”

“Touch my stone and I’ll turn your eyelids to salt!” Y’vin shouted.  The translucent figure snatched at the gemstone, but his hand went right through both the gem and the ground, leaving momentary trails of spectral mist behind and a mystified expression on the wizard’s face.

“They have no power at all over their spiritual containment matrix,” Vlad assured Aramon.

Aramon watched the ineffectual wizard grumble and poke through the gemstone.

“Is it all right?” Vlad asked, anxiously.  “I don’t know the local customs on summoning the spirits of the dead for advice.  I don’t usually need to know, since I don’t usually do it.  I do know some people get touchy about it, and if that’s the case here, I apologize.”

“You have done so now because you believe I require the advice of my former companions?”

“Hold hard a moment,” Y’vin demanded.  “I may be dead, but I’m still your companion.  Or you’re my companion—we can sort it out later.  I’m here, I’m angry, and you’re going to need my help to lay that quadruply-damned dragon in its grave!”

“Essentially, yes,” Vlad agreed, ignoring the ghostly wizard.

“The other three gems…?”

“Gorgar!” Vlad said, pointing at the pouch.

“Huh?  What?” came from the pouch.  Ethereal mist flowed through the pouch to form a human shape.  Tall, broad-shouldered, powerful, Gorgar appeared as he had only moments before the fight with the dragon began, complete with armor and sword, his ghostly shield still strapped to his back.

“If you say their names, the gems cause them to manifest,” Vlad added.  “It’s an act of will and a word to guide it.”

“I see,” Aramon said, faintly.  Y’vin nodded in understanding.

“Where am I?” Gorgar asked, looking around.  “What happened?”

“Let me get a mallet and try to drive the explanation into your head…” Y’vin threw an arm around the broad shoulders and guided his insubstantial friend away.

“Admittedly,” Vlad said, softly, “the first plan you tried didn’t turn out so well.  Now you guys know a lot more about the dragon, the lair, and so forth.  With better planning and some preparation, maybe you stand a chance.”

“Indeed we may.  I am not comfortable with this… necromantic aid, however.”

“Yeah, I figured you might have a problem with it,” Vlad said, looking away.  “Uh… Thing is, the spell doesn’t work… unless… uh, unless the spirit has unfinished business on the mortal plane.  They were… going to haunt the lair.  Yeah.  This just lets them finish their mortal business so they can… do whatever people do afterward.  It… uh, it doesn’t work on people who want to pass on.  This gives them a chance to finish their business and pass on in peace.”

“That is something of a comfort, I suppose,” Aramon admitted, relaxing slightly.  “I would not be comfortable with the idea they were unquiet dead, doomed to haunt the place of their passing.”

“Exactly,” Vlad agreed, nodding vigorously.  “That’s exactly right.  Yes.  So, do you think this will help?  I mean, they can’t actually do much, but they’re your friends and maybe they can come up with an idea or two.  You can at least talk it over, right?”

“I shall.  If they wish to take up once more the quest to slay the creature, I shall welcome them, destroying their soul gems only when we succeed—and wear them into battle so if I am slain, they may be destroyed with me.”

“I heard that!” Y’vin snapped, from beside the tent.

“Then you know you are in no danger!” Aramon snapped back.  He caught himself and smiled ruefully.  “He is certainly Y’vin.”

“Glad to have helped.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve poked my nose into your business for long enough.  I should get back to minding to my own.”  Vlad stood up and Aramon rose with him.

“Please, can I not persuade you to remain?  A master enchanter such as yourself would surely prove a great asset in the battle to come.”

“I would love to help, really I would, but I’ve already stayed here too long.  I’ve got business of my own to attend to, and I’ve been goofing off here.  Time waits for no man.  Neither rain nor sleet nor huge green things with big, pointy teeth shall stay these couriers.  All that stuff.  I only hope I’ve helped, at least a little.  That’s all I can reasonably hope to do.”

“If such is your wish,” Aramon agreed, bowing slightly.  “I shall remember you in my prayers.  If we achieve victory, I will see your name is raised up with ours.”

“I haven’t done anything, really.  I was nothing more than a good Samaritan—I hope.”

“Samaritan?”

“A country famed for its helpful inhabitants.  No thanks, no glory for me.  You go carry on as if I wasn’t involved at all.”

“It seems hardly fair.”

“Maybe, but you’re going to have to live with it.”

“Since you are adamant, I again must bow to your wishes.”  Aramon extended his hand and clasped wrists with Vlad.  “Good fortune on your travels.”

“Same to you.  Goodbye!”

Vlad grabbed the saddlehorn and half-swung, half-leaped astride the mare.  He waved, the horse reared, turned in place, and the two vanished into the woods and around the hillside.

“What an odd fellow,” Aramon observed, staring after them for a moment.  He seated himself and gathered the gemstones in his hand.  Two were dim, almost colorless.  The other two still sparkled with an uncanny brilliance.

“Fliss?  Tindal?”

Their forms coalesced from the ethereal vapor as their gems dimmed.  Fliss drew his daggers and spun in place, taking in the area.  Tindal, helm held under one arm, simply blinked, glanced about, and looked puzzled.

“Aramon? Is that you?” Tindal asked.

“Where are we?” Fliss demanded.

“Yes, it is I, Aramon.  We are at our campsite.”

Fliss sheathed his ghostly knives and seated himself, somehow managing to not go straight through the wood.  Tindal examined himself, frowning.

“The last camp on the way to the dragon lair?” Fliss asked.

“The very one.”

“I thought for sure we’d be somewhere major, with a temple, if we weren’t in a dragon’s belly.”

“I was the only survivor.”

Tindal and Fliss both paused to consider the statement.  Tindal rubbed his jaw.  Fliss pursed his lips for a moment and shrugged.

“Well, that’s good news, in a way.  So, does anyone want to reveal what’s behind the forty-four veils of Lanashta?  Or do I have to consult the Goddess of Mysteries directly to find out what’s going on?”

“Do you think you would be given a straight answer?”

“No, but I hear she’s awfully pretty.”

“Perhaps,” Tindal suggested, “we should remove ourselves from this place, first.  We are still close to the lair.”

“And what if I don’t want to go back into the rock?” Y’vin prickled, approaching with Gorgar.  “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?  Go back into our rocks until Aramon finds someplace to call us out again so we can talk?”

“That is exactly what I mean,” Tindal agreed.  He turned to Aramon.  “Is there a place close by?”

“I fear not.  I shall need to purchase horses before we may leave at any speed.  Most of our traveling gear and stores seem intact, however, so I may be able to do so today, if we make haste and Pelamir has any for sale.”

“There’s a blessing,” Tindal agreed, and made the sunburst sign over where his heart would normally be.

“Ahem,” Y’vin interjected.  “I said, ‘What if I don’t want to go back into the rock?’”

“Then I will punch you in the face,” Tindal replied, calmly.  Everyone paused to consider.  Tindal’s religion was not a pacifist one, but Tindal himself was always the patient voice of reason and calm.  To be threatened by a priestly ghost was novel, if not outright disturbing.

“Can you do that?” Y’vin asked, uncertainly.

“I am willing to test it.  Are you?”

“Maybe I’ll wait in the rock,” Y’vin decided.  His form dissolved into ethereal vapor and flowed into the stone.  Moments later, one of the gems sparkled brilliantly once more.

“We’re going to talk about what happened?” Gorgar confirmed.

“We are,” Aramon agreed.

“I’ll wait.”  The process repeated and two gems sparkled.  Fliss shrugged and did the same; three gems glittered.

“Tindal?”

“Yes, Aramon.”

“You know what you are.”

“I do.”

“Have I erred in permitting this?  Your soul is at risk, or so it seems to me.  I am not certain this is a proper thing.”

“If there is any risk, it is mine to take.  You are blameless.”

“You swear it?”

“If I have my way, we will visit more than one temple, including those of Ashkelon—” Tindal made the sunburst gesture again, “—where, flesh or spirit, I will swear it in the light of the sun.”

“Then I shall leave the gems unbroken.”

“I think it the wisest course, Aramon.  Thank you for your patience and tolerance.  I admit to some surprise you did not crush them the instant you learned of their function.”

“I owe my benefactor a great debt—our benefactor, I should say.  I could not simply destroy them as things of evil purpose when he so clearly did not understand why I would object.  His innocence in such matters was obvious.  How could I spurn his gift when he went to such lengths to be kind?”

“That explains it,” Tindal nodded.  “If nothing else, you can at least return us to our proper shards and the temples of our preference.”

“That is a thought.  Yes.  I find I am more comfortable with my decision.  Thank you.  We will discuss such matters in the near future.”

“Very good.”  Tindal vanished into his gem and Aramon replaced them in the pouch.

Chapter Four

On their first trip through Pelamir, the dragon-hunters paid little enough attention to it.  It was a town under the pall of a dragon-blight, sickly and shrinking, but what of it?  Once the dragon died, the spiritual miasma hovering over the place would dissipate and the normal vibrancy of life would return.

Only, the dragon was not dead.  Its bitter influence could be felt, almost tasted, like a clammy mist over the soul.  The people of Pelamir were listless, dispirited, walking with heads down and shuffling steps.  Those with the strength of will and resources to do so had already gathered their possessions and departed, seeking a new place beyond the dragon’s domain.

When Aramon came into town, he set his jaw and pretended not to notice the unnatural quiet.  The town continued to function, but even the animals were subdued, listless in their cages and pens.  The people hardly bothered to look at him, while the few who still managed to retain a spark of interest quickly looked away when he met their eyes.  Aramon noted a few men watching him keenly; they seemed to be part of some group or organization.  They all wore ash-grey robes and had their heads shaved.  Aramon ignored them as much as he was able.  They did not interfere, only observed.

Buying horses was difficult.  The best were already taken by people abandoning the town.  The horses left behind were dispirited things, difficult to evaluate properly.  He spent most of a day examining horses, mules, and ponies, trying to find the animals most likely to be refreshed by a change in location, rather than beasts succumbing to dragon-sickness.

There were only two items of good news, to Aramon’s thinking.

First, the dragon had not emerged from its lair for four days—ever since the attempt to slay it.  Pelamir was not burned to the ground, nor was any fresh sacrifice demanded by the dragon.  No one had seen it, nor heard of it doing so much as snatching cattle, sheep, or deer.  It was unlikely the creature died from its wounds, but it might still be recovering.  If so, there was a little time remaining before it emerged again.  Dragons healed quickly.

Second, the price of the remaining animals was astonishingly low.  They were clearly in less than prime shape, and the sellers were in poor condition to haggle.  Aramon spent surprisingly little before leading a string of beasts out of town.  His course took him southward rather than westward, to avoid suspicion.  Out of sight of Pelamir, he turned to the west, heading toward the dragon’s lair and back to the hidden campsite.

Aramon tended to the camp duties himself, since there was no one to share the labor.  After striking the pavilion tent, he bundled everything up, loading the animals with portions of the group’s equipment.  The horses and mules were unhappy with their work, but too lethargic to do more than bray in complaint.

Without Y’vin to conceal their movements, and without Fliss to keep lookout, Aramon elected to travel by night and hide under cover by day.  While the dragon had not yet stirred from its lair, tempting it with a pack train of fresh meat was more than Aramon cared to risk.  It made for slow going, especially since he was the only one available to care for the beasts and their burdens.

After the first night of travel, the early-morning sun sent him and his pack train to shelter in the woods.  Sickly and wilting, the woods still had some thicker cover that might conceal their presence.  He settled everything into an abbreviated camp. With the horses and mules hobbled and wearing nosebags, a one-man portion of the pavilion tent raised, and the fire laid with dry wood, it was time to talk with… the things that were once his friends.

Wearily, he fitted legs into a round base, upended it to make a heavy stool, and settled himself by the fire.  He drew out a handful of magical gems.

Pretty things, he reflected.  They shone with all colors, sparkling and glittering in the firelight, yet brighter, somehow, than they should be.  Necromancy was evil, of course.  Anything interfering with the natural course of the soul after death was, by definition, wrong.  Beautiful, perhaps, but beauty does not make a thing good.

He sighed heavily.  The weight of the sword at his side was some comfort, although it raised questions in his mind.  The sword was in his hand when the dragon hurled him into the crevasse.  He lost the blade while bouncing from rock to rock on the way down.  He crawled through the darkness without it, yet here it was.  A blessing of Namae, or the work of a stranger?  Or both?  Perhaps the stranger was really a supernatural servant of Namae, sent in the guise of a mortal man?

More comforting was the golden sword-and-shield medallion, once more hanging about his neck and shining with a pale radiance whenever he laid a hand on it.  Namae had done nothing to indicate this course of action was wrong.  Of course, Aramon hadn’t yet spent a night in proper prayer and meditation to ask for a sign, either…

Soon.  But first, the talking.

“Tindal.  Gorgar.  Fliss.  Y’vin.”

Ethereal vapors streamed from the gems, flowing into humanoid forms, taking shape, semi-solidifying into the forms of his friends.  Aramon could not bring himself to think of them as his dead friends.

The thought of them as his undead friends never dared to cross his mind.

“Well, this is congenial,” Y’vin observed, sourly, and looked around.  “Once again, the middle of nowhere.  With a tent and a cheery campfire.  At some unhallowed hour of the morning.  Being in a region dying of dragon-sickness is new, I grant you.  Oh, how I’ve missed these nature walks.”

“I’m sure your feet much be aching,” Fliss grinned.

“That’s not the point.”

“True.  But sarcasm still doesn’t look good on you.”

“Oh?”

“Yep.  It looks good on me.  Of course,” Fliss added, sitting down by the fire and crossing his ankles, “anything looks good on me.”

“Go wear a pigsty!”

“Gentlemen!” Gorgar said, raising his beefy hands.  “We need to have a civil discussion, not children’s bickering.”

“Indeed,” Tindal agreed, and sat down.  Gorgar and Y’vin joined him.  “Aramon?  Where are we?”

“Since last we spoke, I purchased horses and mules—”

“Nags,” Y’vin muttered.

“—and set out from what remains of Pelamir for Trinnian.  We are several hours out.”

“Then we can speak in confidence and relative safety,” Tindal decided.  His eyes swept the others.  Everyone nodded.

“Good!” Fliss said.  “First off, can we discuss the whole thing about some power of dark magic summoning us back from our rightful places in the afterlife to have our souls forever doomed to eternal imprisonment within enchanted gems?”

“Are you as quick to dodge a smack on the ear as you are quick with your tongue?” Gorgar asked.

“Yes,” Fliss replied, unabashed.  “I’m only pointing out I don’t understand what’s happened.  In the words of my sainted mother, ‘What in the sixty-six hells is going on?’”

“Sixty-six?” Gorgar repeated.

“She was a devout Veltonite.  They have a lot of hells.”

“Oh.”

“From what I’ve seen,” Y’vin began, “this is powerful necromancy.  Binding a spirit is the basic, fundamental function, hardly even worth mentioning, but we seem to be more than simple spirits bound into servitude… What?  Why are you looking at me like that?”

Aramon rubbed his face with both hands.  Tindal sighed before speaking.

“Y’vin, are you a necromancer?”

“Of course not!  It risks your soul.  I like my soul, and I intend to keep it.”  He glanced down at himself.  “Keep it intact, I mean.  As a wizard, I know about necromancy.  I could do it if I wanted to, but any wizard can say the same.”

“I do not like the implication,” Aramon intoned, ominously.

“And I don’t like your implication,” Y’vin snapped back.  “You’re carrying a nice, shiny sword, I see.  It’s big, sharp, and ready to kill someone—as long as you don’t call Namae’s grace into it, anyway.  You could kill women and children by the dozens, maybe by the hundreds!  I don’t like the fact you have it ready to hand all the time.  What if we came across some poor, lost fellow and you killed him?  Aramon, are you a professional murderer?”

“What are you talking about?” Aramon demanded, rising.

“You’re about to say how you don’t like my knowing anything about the necromantic arts,” Y’vin shouted, bouncing to his feet and sticking a ghostly finger in Aramon’s face.  “Go on!  Tell me such knowledge is forbidden and evil and so forth.  Then tell me how you holding a murder weapon is a completely different thing!”

“I would never use my blade in unjust cause,” Aramon stated, positively.

“But you’re bloody quick to think I’d use the spirits of the dead for my purposes!” Y’vin replied.  “I understand it so I can defend all of us against it—at least, I could when I was alive!  Now that I’m dead, you’re going to complain how I know too much about it!?”

“Gentlemen,” Tindal said, quietly.  Everyone turned to him.  “Perhaps we can agree Y’vin’s knowledge of dark arts is not an endorsement of them, even as Aramon or Gorgar carrying tools of slaughter does not mean they condone it.  I believe such is the point Y’vin is trying to make.”

“Obviously,” Y’vin sneered.  Aramon glared at the ghostly wizard for several seconds, but eventually resumed his seat.

“Perhaps we might persuade Y’vin to continue with his observations?” Tindal suggested.  “Without, let us hope, undue interruption—or personal commentary.”

“Fine, fine.  Necromancy,” he huffed, trying to settle himself.  “The basics are learning to bind a spirit, summon a spirit, and command a spirit.  Mainly, it’s the lesser spirits, like the ake-ha, called up to answer questions.  More powerful necromancers summon up the akà-ha of the dead—”

“Wait a second,” Fliss interrupted.  “No comment on the dark arts, but what’s the ake-aka-aku-ahu-achoo?”  Y’vin sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

“The ake-ha is one aspect of what the planar illiterate refer to as ‘thuh sooooul’,” he mocked. “It’s the part containing all your memories and personality—if any.  When summoned, it has no real will of its own, but it can answer questions.  It’s helpful for finding out where granddad buried all the money he hid from the tax collectors—although, whether it wants to be helpful or not is another question entirely.  It retains memories, of course, and can remember if it wanted to keep something a secret.  It can be coerced, if necessary.

“The akà-ha, on the other hand, is the part of your soul that gives life to your body.  It’s the animating spark, the life essence.  It’s the bit actually moving the flesh.  Then you have the ake-akà, which is a fusion of the two—personality and vital spark.  There are a bunch of other bits, but those are the three that mean anything to people who aren’t trained in the finer points of mystic spiritualism.”

“Duly noted,” Fliss agreed.  “Please continue.”

“Summoning up an akà-ha is the first step in animating bodies as mindless servants—remember those walking dead we killed… oh, where was it?  Vindal?  Vithan?  Something like that.

“At any rate, really powerful necromancers can bind both aspects into the same dead body—the ake-akà— to make it an intelligent, if unwilling, servant.  They have the memories of being alive and most of their personality, but they don’t have any real will of their own.”

“Is that what we are?” Gorgar asked.

“No.  Looking at all of you—and me—I believe we’re really here.  All our parts, not only the two biggest bits.”  Y’vin rubbed his temples with both hands.  “Look, a man is made up of many spirits.  Together, these make up the soul.”  Y’vin held up a hand at Tindal.  “Stop.  I’m talking about necromancy, not religion.”  Tindal subsided.  “Good.  Now, after we die, all these spirits start to come apart.  After a while, they each go wherever it is they go—ask a priest of Iskanar.  Later.  The point is, after a while, summoning back the whole person is impossible.

“At least, I thought it was.  Somebody yanked the prayer cloth out from underneath me recently.  A bunch of spirits got crammed back together to make a soul, and the souls stuffed into enchanted gems.  Which, as I said, is impossible.  It would take years to craft the gems, so… what?  Whoever did it happened to have four of them in his pouch?  And he parted with these powerful magical objects out of the simple goodness of his heart?”

“The gems,” Aramon pointed out, “are ours.  They are four of the ones Fliss insisted on as emergency funds.”

“Oh, those,” Y’vin replied, disgusted.  “So he enchanted four of the things on the spot for this?  Add another impossibility to the list!  And I’m not even going into the fundamental impossibility of summoning every component spirit of a man back from the beyond.  Or doing it four times!  It simply can’t be done!”

“And yet,” Aramon interjected, “here you are.”

“I know.  I’m faced with facts and I don’t know how they can be true.”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me!”

“Get used to disappointment,” Aramon quoted.

Y’vin subsided, grumbling.

“Tell me,” Tindal said, “can we… What I mean to ask is, how would we free ourselves from this?”

“Simple,” Y’vin spat.  “Like the man said, break the gem, break the enchantment.  With nothing to contain our souls, we die, exactly as if we broke our bodies.”  Y’vin paused.  “I think.”

“You think?” Fliss demanded.

“Someone has to,” Y’vin snapped back.

“There is some uncertainty?” Tindal asked, calmly.

“Of course there is!” Y’vin replied.  “I’m not a necromancer!  Even if I was a necromancer, I have no idea how this could be done.  I want my laboratory in Tourmaline and several weeks of not being bothered before I say anything for certain.”

“But you believe the gems are simply acting as bodies would?” Tindal pressed.

“It’s my professional opinion,” Y’vin agreed, “based on a first impression.  I can’t guarantee it, though.  That’s why I want my laboratory.”

“We will act on it as though it were fact,” Tindal decided, “at least until you have more information.  Now, is it also fair to say we are living beings, albeit with bodies of stone and peculiar limitations?”

“That’s… an interesting way to think of it.”  Y’vin paused for a minute to consider.  “I’d say it’s not an unfair assessment.”

“Very well,” Tindal agreed.  “I propose we move forward on this basis.  Do I hear an objection?”

Everyone looked at everyone else.  No one objected.

“Very well.  To move forward, we must have a destination.  We are met in council, our circle closed.  There are only friends and allies, here, where our fates must be decided.  What goals do we have?  Aramon?  Shall we begin with you?”

“Why Aramon?” Fliss asked.  “Because he’s the one with flesh and blood?  Clear favoritism for the corporeal, that’s what it is.”

“Because he is on my right, and I choose to go around the circle,” Tindal replied.

“Oh.  Right.  Nevermind.”

Aramon did not answer immediately.  He placed his chin in hand and looked into the fire, thinking.

“We came to this place seeking a dark creature,” he began, softly, “and we found one.  We were prideful in our strength, thinking ourselves a match for anything.  Eager to come to grips with evil.  We paid the price for it.”

“That’s my fault,” Gorgar said, miserably.  “I thought we could do it.  I thought I had a plan.”  Tindal shushed him.

“Aramon is speaking.  We wait until he is finished.”

Aramon barely seemed to notice the byplay.

“What I think,” he continued, “is we were doomed to die in that lair.  Doomed for my—no, doomed for our pride.  But Namae’s grace gave us another chance.  The dragon did not slay me outright, only disposed of me.  I survived the crawl through the caves and fissures.  Namae guided a stranger to my aid—perhaps sent a servant to work miracles and alter our fates.  You are all returned to me, to counsel and aid, all for a reason.  I think the reason is to fulfill our quest:  To slay the beast.  More, I now believe it our destiny to do so… or our punishment to know no rest until we do.”

The crackle and pop of the campfire seemed loud in the silence.

“Fliss?” Tindal prompted.  “Aramon has stated his view of our goals.  And you?”

“I was thinking I’d like to visit my cousin.  But what Aramon says is good, too.”

“That’s it?” Tindal prompted.  “Visit your cousin?”

“Well… yeah.  I mean, he’s probably not the sort Aramon’s going to approve of, but he knows people and he knows where to find… things.  At the very least, he could let Mom know what happened.”

“Why not simply tell your mother?” Gorgar asked.

“You haven’t met my mother,” Fliss replied, darkly.  “Alive or dead, I’m not going to be the one to tell her how her baby boy went off to get eaten by a dragon.  I’m not going through the Hell of Mother’s Wrath on my way to whatever hell I’m bound for.”

“Tell us more about this cousin of yours,” Tindal suggested.  “What sort of people does he know?  And what sort of ‘things’ does he know how to find?”

“First, I have to invoke the Rule.”

Aramon sighed and rose to his feet.

“I understand,” he recited, “what we say here in congress assembled are but words, not deeds.  What is said is hearsay, for none present have witnessed or have knowledge of such matters of their own.  I cannot and shall not judge those spoken of, for to do so would be to breathe life into gossip, rather than to act based only on fact.”  Aramon sat down again with a clanking thud.

“Thank you, Aramon,” Tindal said.  “Fliss?”

“As far as I know,” Fliss began, choosing his words carefully, “my cousin—Dengar—may know someone who works as a seller of stolen goods.”

“How would such a man be advantageous to us?”

“First off, if we’re short on cash, I hear such men sell their wares at a fraction of the usual cost.  True, there is sometimes the risk of shoddy goods being passed off, but I’m sure Dengar wouldn’t allow it to happen to family.  He’ll bargain in good faith and find the best quality available, rather than the half-used, beat-up, broken-down version.  If nothing else, he’d probably be inclined to honor my memory, especially if I ask him to.  I doubt we’d get anything at cost, but I could probably persuade him to take only a modest profit and still be well below the true market value.

“Second, I don’t know what we need for dragon-hunting.  When we figure out a new plan of attack, we’re going to need gear.  Some of it may be difficult to come by if you don’t know someone who knows people.”

“I acknowledge your words.  Do you have others?”

“He’s got an establishment on Kannevos, so he’s sort of on the way to anywhere we’re going.  That’s all.  Take it, Gorgar,” Fliss finished, waving a translucent hand at the next form in the circle.

Gorgar, his massive frame hunched over and miserable, took a deep—if spiritual—breath and straightened.  He sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and deliberately looked at everyone in the closed circle.

“First of all, I was wrong.  I thought we could slay a dragon with our combined powers, directly.  I was wrong.”

“We know,” Y’vin replied.

“Y’vin!” Tindal snapped.

“No, no—not like that,” Y’vin protested.  “Yeah, we know you were wrong, Gorgar, but we thought we could kill it, too!  I mean, I knew I couldn’t do it alone, but we all thought we could do it together.  So you weren’t wrong.  We were wrong.”

“Still, as I led you to—”

“Shut your mouth,” Fliss advised.  “This thing, whatever it is, clearly is not Y’vin.  It’s pointed out how you weren’t entirely at fault and it’s taken some of the blame for itself.”

“Fliss.  Y’vin,” Tindal frowned.  “I must remind you we sit in council.  Gorgar may say whatever he wishes.  Let us not interrupt.”  Fliss and Y’vin fell silent.  Gorgar took another deep breath.

“I understand what you’re trying to say, but I was leading us in the fight.  That makes it my responsibility.  It was my fault, and I’ll have to live—” he broke off.  Fliss managed to keep quiet, but it seemed physically painful.

“I’ll have to… deal with it,” Gorgar finished.  “Having said so much, I admit I do not know what to do from here.  I have no experience being dead.  I know I want to kill the dragon, so Aramon and I are in complete agreement.  I simply don’t know how.  Y’vin?”

The ghostly wizard muttered under his breath before answering.

“Look, if you want to kill a dragon, I’m for it.  What I would like to do is go back to Tourmaline.  I’ve got a small laboratory and a library.  I have resources.  I can examine what’s been done to us—most of us—and determine what we can do in our present state.  Maybe I can find a way to give us bodies again, if only of the ectoplasmic, temporary sort.  It would help for Gorgar and Fliss to be able to stab things, wouldn’t it?”

“He has a point,” Fliss agreed.  Gorgar nodded.

“Other than that,” Y’vin finished, “my only idea is to chase down the rumor about some priest of Iskanar raising the dead.  There’s my coppers in the hat.”

“Very well,” Tindal acknowledged.  “As moderator of our circle, I shall speak last.  In regard to the rumor of a death-priest raising the dead, I believe it to be true.  I do not think it will serve us, however, for two reasons.  It is my understanding the priests of Iskanar are reluctant to undo death, since their god is Lord of the Underworld and jealous of his treasures.  It is also my understanding the priest in question was there when the man actually died.  The priest captured his soul before it could depart and forced a healing on the body.  We would require substantially more, along the lines of whole, new bodies, since our originals are, presumably, ashes or eaten.”

“Also a good point,” Fliss agreed.  “I’d rather not feel like dragon-dung every time I woke up in the morning.”

“As for returning to Tourmaline,” Tindal continued, ignoring Fliss, “it seems a reasonable course.  We are agreed to destroy this beast, but also agree we do not possess the resources to do so at this time.  We must recover from our defeat, regroup, and marshal fresh forces in this quest.  This may be best done in Tourmaline, where we are established and where we may call upon friends.

“Fliss, we do not know what, exactly, we require to make full use of our present forms.  When Y’vin has provided us with more details, we may be able to make wiser choices.  Where would you need to go to speak with your cousin?”

“If it’s going to take Y’vin a week or two—”

“—or five or ten,” Y’vin interjected.

“—I can probably get him to come visit me, if Aramon will let me borrow his fingers to write a letter.  And a small purse of gold to make sure of his goodwill.  He’s a busy man and time is money.”

Tindal looked at Aramon.  Aramon shrugged.

“I know of no offense in writing a letter and paying a man to make a journey, so long as both are done in good faith.”

“Very well, Fliss,” Tindal agreed.  He took in everyone with his eyes.  “I put it to you:  We shall return to Tourmaline and there gather what wisdom we may from the labors of Y’vin and the aid of our friends.  What say you?”

“Aye.”

“I’m for it.”

“Yeah.”

“It was my idea.”

“Then it is agreed.  Aramon?  Will you call us forth again at the break of every day while we journey?”

“I will.”

“Very well.  I, for one, shall retire.”  Tindal rose to his feet, faded into a mist, and flowed into his gemstone.  The ghostly forms of Fliss and Y’vin did likewise.  Gorgar remained.

“Something troubles you, friend Gorgar,” Aramon observed.  He moved around the campfire and settled his camp chair next to the ghostly form.

“I need to talk to you or Tindal, I guess.”

“I cannot forgive what I do not believe to be a fault,” Aramon cautioned.

“I’m not talking about the dragon.”

“Oh.  Please proceed.”

“I’m worried about my sister.”

“In what way?”

“We pissed off a dragon.  They’re not known for their gentleness when provoked.  Since Trinnian was part of the lottery where they picked girls to be sacrificed to the thing, I’m worried about my sister—the whole city might suffer for our actions.  Pelamir might get the brunt of it, being closest—probably will, but I don’t understand how dragons think.  Or every city and town in the dragon’s range might get set on fire, and I would be—we would be—responsible for it!”

Aramon placed his chin on one fist and looked into the fire, thinking.  Gorgar wrung his immaterial hands, worried.

“I do not see what we may do about it,” Aramon admitted, at last.  “It is a terrible thing, a dragon.  It has beaten us.  I would turn about in an instant and die in the hope of slaying it, or even of weakening it enough so it might fall to another, but I now believe Namae has shown me another path.  I do not know if our actions have caused more harm than good, but I have faith our actions are all part of a larger plan.”

“What larger plan?  How is a rampaging dragon a good thing?”

“It is not within the scope of my wisdom to know, but I may guess.  Perhaps a rampaging dragon will draw greater attention to itself, thus summoning mightier heroes to defeat it.  Perhaps some greater evil lurks near its mountain and the two will come into conflict.  Perhaps this is all to teach us humility and greater caution.  Perhaps.  But such speculation is idle.  We shall face the future while remembering the past.  What we can do is all we can do.  It is the greatest virtue of men to knowingly attempt the impossible… and sometimes succeed.”

“I don’t like sitting around and hoping things will all work out right.”

“Nor do I.  We are men of action, you and I.  The difference is I am also a man of faith.  You rely solely on your staunch heart and mighty arm.  When they are not enough, where can you turn?”

“My friends,” Gorgar replied.  He and Aramon looked at each other for a long moment, sparkling blue eyes meeting eyes of faded brown.

“I stand corrected, my friend.  I am a man who places his faith in his god.  You have placed your faith in your friends.  I shall endeavor to be worthy of it.”

“You always have been.  It’s how I learned to place my faith in you.” Gorgar rose to his feet.  “Now I’m gonna go back into a rock.”

“Of course.”

Gorgar’s form dissolved into mist, flowed into his gem, and was gone.

Aramon continued to regard the fire for several minutes.  He thought long and hard about his friends.  They died in a dragon’s lair only to be called back to this strange sort of existence.  Did they remember dying?  Did they remember… after?

Aramon decided never to ask, and entered the tent to spend his morning in prayer.

A mule brayed.  Aramon paused in his meditations and prayers to listen.  Hooves shuffling in dead leaves… and some whispering?

He reached for his helm, donned it, and rose as quietly as possible, given his armor.  He drew his blade as he emerged from the tent.

“Stand fast!” he commanded.  “Declare yourselves!”

Half-a-dozen men froze in place.  Four were near the animals, trying to remove their hobbles while keeping them quiet.  Two more were en route to the tent.

“Get him!” someone shouted.  The man wore dark robes and his head was shaved.

Aramon charged.  The edge of his blade shone, a line of harsh, white light.  While the two closest men bore heavy sticks, they hesitated before attacking an armored knight.  Perhaps it was their mistake, for Aramon rushed between them.  His left arm swept out, taking one man in the face with an armored forearm.  His blade passed completely through the midsection of the other, flashing with a supernatural blaze as it emerged from his body.

The man went down, clutching at his gut, gasping and moaning, but there was no blood.  The blade left no visible wound.

The other four abandoned their efforts on the animals and prepared to meet Aramon’s charge.  Three were also armed with heavy sticks; the robed one held a spear.

Aramon cut the head from the spear, took the blows from the clubs on his armor, and swept his blade through his adversaries, one-two-three-four.

No flesh was rent, yet six men now lay on the ground.  Two lay unmoving; one with a broken nose, the other in ash-grey robes.

Aramon kicked a would-be horse thief over, onto his back, and put a shining swordpoint under his chin.

“I commanded you to stand fast,” Aramon repeated, “and to declare yourselves.  Who are you?  Answer!”

“I’m Tully,” the man groaned, still clutching where a wound ought to be.  “We’re from Pelamir.”

“What are you doing here, Tully of Pelamir?”

“You’re rich.  We’re poor.  What do you think we’re doing here?” he moaned.

“I do not care for your insolent tone, but Namae’s blessing on my blade has found you unworthy of death.  Gather your wounded and depart, never to trouble me again.  You have had your only warning, and the only mercy you deserve.  Go!”

“But I’m dying!  You put your sword through me!”

“You have suffered no wound of the flesh, but of the spirit.  The evil in your heart has made you vulnerable to the Light of the Warrior upon my blade.  The pain you feel will heal, even as such a wound might, if it did not slay you.  Let it serve as a reminder!  Now, go!”

Tully groaned.  He rolled onto his hands and knees, in too much pain to rise.  He slowly crawled away.  Aramon snorted and started encouraging the others to leave in a similar manner.  They moaned and wailed, but crawled in the direction of the road.

The bleeding, unconscious man choked and sprayed blood.  Aramon rolled him over and pounded him on the back until the fit subsided.  A little treatment to stop the bleeding, a brief prayer for the man wounded by mortal fist instead of holy judgment…

“Are you fit to stand?” Aramon asked.

“I dunno.  I can try.”

With Aramon’s help, the bloodied man rose to his feet.  He seemed weak but kept his balance.

“On your way, thief,” Aramon told him.  The thief walked unsteadily after his fellows.  Aramon watched them go.  None seemed inclined to look back, much less turn back.

Which left Aramon the chores of catching the horse they un-hobbled and putting his camp back in order.  He sighed and set to work.

Once done, Aramon knelt by the dead man and examined him.  The grey robes were dark with blood, although the robes were unhurt.  Aramon peeled the wet cloth away and frowned thunderously.  The torso beneath was rent apart, almost completely cut in two.  Still, even with the bloody remnants, other, shallower cuts were clearly visible.  Those were partly healed—days old, a week or two at most.  Someone had carved the flesh of the grey-robed man, cut lines into his skin like a too-deep tattoo.  The design was ruined by Aramon’s blade, but with the skin stretched and pressed together, it was easily recognizable as a dragon.

Chapter Five

Rolling fields of grass rippled under the wind, waving like a restless sea.  An island-hill rose from the yellow-green surf, crowned with the standing stones of the Skybridge.  Bridgetown stood off from the hill, like a shy maiden regarding her beloved.  Farms spread out from the town, away from the Skybridge, as though some invisible line separated the grassy sea from the works of men.  Dirt roads cut through the farmland.  One circled wide around the hill, going miles off the direct route, as though repelled by some unseen force.

Aramon, leading his horses, shaded his eyes from the sun and considered.  Once out of the dragon’s immediate territory, they could travel by day again and made better progress.  Even so, he would not reach the town before nightfall.  As with most bridge cities, it was used to visitors at odd hours, so there was no need to push the horses in a desperate rush.  At worst, what was one more night in a tent?

They walked on while the sun continued its descent.  It was near to the horizon when the Skybridge opened.

A wide shaft of light, visible even against the sunset sky, shot upward from the hill’s crown of standing stones.  Seconds later, Aramon heard the thunderclap.  Ripples of coruscating colors flickered up and down the shining pillar for several seconds before the light vanished.  The closing thunderclap rolled across the plains.

Faintly, Aramon heard the sound of horns from town.  Why anyone would bother to blow horns to announce an arrival or departure along a Skybridge was beyond his understanding.  What would horns tell anyone they did not know from the bridge, itself?

A line of wagons wound down the path from the hill, uncoiling from within the circle of stones like a lazy serpent.  A merchant caravan, then, and a rich one, to afford sky-passage.  There was another thing Aramon failed to understand.  What could be worth such a caravan on this shard?  Still, it was a well-run wagon train.  In less than an hour, they passed into the town by the bridgeside gate and vanished from view.

Aramon plodded along with the horses a little farther.  They rested for a bit as the sun touched the horizon.  Aramon took the opportunity to put nosebags on the horses to feed them, and to pray to nourish his soul.

Horns called from the town.  Fainter sounds washed up on the wind, like sea-wrack on the beach.  Shouting, the clatter of metal on metal, screams…

Aramon finished his prayers and readied the horses for travel.  There were still miles to go.  Whatever the conflict, it might well be over before he could arrive.

On the other hand, there were those who could travel faster.  Aramon slid a finger along the cord about his neck, hooked it, drew a small pouch up from inside his breastplate.  Holding the pouch in his hands, he invoked his friends.

“Tindal.  Gorgar.  Fliss.  Y’vin.”

Four streams of mist flowed through the velvety sack and took form like the ghosts they were.

“Nice spot,” Fliss began, looking around.  “I see we’re almost there.”

“This is not our usual evening,” Aramon replied.  “I hear horns in the distance and the sounds of battle.”

“There does seem to be some fighting,” Gorgar agreed, peering at the distant town.  “I see smoke from at least one building on fire.  Are you sure it’s not just a fire alarm?”

“I heard the sounds of battle,” Aramon answered, positively.

“If you say it, I believe it.”

“It will be hours yet before I may ascertain the truth of events in this shard’s sky-bridge town.  Can you venture ahead to see?  I would rather not risk the whole of our quest on the goodwill of a town in the throes of a peasant uprising.”

“Fair enough,” Gorgar agreed.  “Y’vin?  You’re the fastest.”  The wizard muttered something before answering.

“Fine.  At least it gets me out of the rock for longer than an hour!”  With that, he concentrated, rose slightly above the road, and shot away toward the town.

“Isn’t he the one who suggested staying out of the gems for too long might be bad for us?” Fliss asked.

“Yes,” Tindal answered.

“So, he really hates being cooped up in there?”

“It would seem so.  I would not think it so objectionable.  I, for one, have no sense of time passing.  I go into my gem and come forth again to find we have moved farther along our road.”

“Maybe that’s what bothers him,” Gorgar suggested.

“How so?”

“He’s not the sort to… take the idea of…” Gorgar groped for the words.  “He likes to keep track of everything.  The idea the whole world can do stuff while he’s not watching scares him.”

“I am not certain you are right,” Tindal mused.  “You are not wrong, but I suspect there is more to it.”

“Uh, guys?” Fliss asked.  Everyone turned to him.  “If we’re going to be out of our gems for a while… maybe we could all use a little practice at the flying thing?  I mean, Y’vin is fantastic at it, and Tindal isn’t too bad, but Gorgar and I…?”

“I shall continue along the road,” Aramon agreed.  “Disport yourselves as it pleases you, although I shall appreciate your company.”

“Go on,” Tindal told Gorgar and Fliss.  “Fliss is right.  You do need to work on it.  Concentrate!”  Tindal fell into step beside Aramon, walking with him.

Gorgar screwed up his face with a grimace of intense thought.  He rose slightly and drifted forward.  Fliss merely furrowed his brow a bit as he rose and followed, circling the drifting Gorgar.

“Gorgar’s going to hit him again, isn’t he?” Tindal asked, quietly.

“Yes,” Aramon agreed.  “Fliss is clearly mocking him.”

“I don’t understand why Gorgar is having such a hard time.”

“Y’vin did say it was a matter of overcoming the limitations of one’s body through the power of one’s mind.”

“Yes, and I understand why Y’vin and I can do so more easily than the other two.  But Fliss lacks the mystic training of a wizard or the meditation practice of a priest.  He is still better at this than Gorgar.”

“I do not know.  Perhaps it is Gorgar, himself.  His life has always been about his strength, his size, his physical power.  These are the only things he knows with any certainty.  Has he ever been one to consider deeper aspects of himself?”

“No, of course not,” Tindal replied, looking at Gorgar fondly.  “He’s a hulking brute with a heart as large as a house, but he’s no philosopher.  How he ever took up banditry is a mystery to me.”

“False friends,” Aramon replied.  “Many things seem acceptable when friends urge them upon you.”

“Personal experience, Aramon?”

“Recent experience.  But I do not truly fear you lead me astray from the path of the warrior.”

“We will try not to,” Tindal assured him, quietly.

“At any rate,” Aramon continued, “Gorgar thinks of himself as a man of strength and skill—he thinks with his muscles, as Fliss has said so often.  Therefore, he walks and runs, but does not fly.  At least, not well.  One might as well pour wax and feathers on his arms and tell him to flap.”

“You may be on to something, there.”

Y’vin whisked back along the road.  He stopped in front of Aramon and Tindal before starting a slow drift backward, effortlessly holding his distance as though all three were standing still to talk.

“There’s not a lot of fighting,” he began.  “It’s mostly around the Master’s building—the one on fire, there.  There are soldiers on each of the gates, too, keeping them shut and not letting anyone out.”

“Is the city guard doing anything?” Aramon asked.

“Lying down and bleeding.  Some are sitting quietly and bleeding.  I didn’t see any of them fighting, if that’s what you mean.”

“How many soldiers?”

“My best guess is a thousand.  A couple hundred with tabards over leather-and-chain or chain-and-scale, with the rest in ring mail and wearing a braided cord of yellow and black around each arm.”

“Tindal?  Do you recognize the colors?”

“No.”

“Very well.  Y’vin, how do you judge our chances of getting in?”

“Excellent.  Getting out will be the problem.  This city is in the later stages of being taken.”

“Strange.  I saw a merchant caravan enter the city earlier, but even if every man of it was a warrior, and every wagon full of them, it could not have held a thousand men.”

“Wait,” Tindal protested.  “A merchant caravan came through the Skybridge?”

“Yes, of course.”

“There is nothing on this shard to warrant such a thing.”

“That was my thought, but I am no merchant.”

“Neither am I, but I can see the obvious.  This place is, for the most part, a place to grow food.  It has no great stores of wealth, no mines for gold or gems, no famous craftsmen or guilds.  A single merchant might come to sell his wares, but what could dozens of traveling merchants want here?”

“Nothing of which I am aware,” Aramon replied.

“Then, it would seem someone on another shard is sending soldiers here.  To carry out a war on this shard?  To what purpose?”

“I do not know.  As I said, I saw no such force as Y’vin describes.  I suppose they could have marched along a road I cannot see from here.”

“Doubt it,” Y’vin interrupted.  “I’m not the best strategist, but this particular bridge-town barely tried to defend itself.  I’d lay heavy money they were taken by surprise, and you do not achieve surprise by marching an army down the road.”

“Before we become enmeshed in the idea of how it was done,” Tindal began, “let us turn our attention to our quest.  If someone on another shard is attempting to spread a realm across two shards, it is trouble for another day.  We have a dragon to slay.  If the city is incapable—or its wizards and priests unavailable—to aid us in opening the Skybridge, we must not venture there.”  Tindal turned to Aramon and laid a ghostly hand on his arm.

“I know, friend Aramon, what you would say.  It rankles you to turn away from righteous battle.  But shall we enter a battle of which we have but little knowledge and leave a dragon and its servants unchallenged?”

“As always, I defer to your wisdom, priest,” Aramon replied.  “I, too, am reluctant to engage in battle without understanding why it is being fought.  The side of the right is often hard enough for mortals to determine even when the cause is known.  But if we are to avoid the city and venture forth to another shard, we shall require a wizard or priest to open the way.  Can either of you do so in your present state?”

“I do not know.  Y’vin?”

“It’s hard to say,” he hedged.  “I’ve been experimenting a little, and I think I can channel enough power even without a body.  It’s not the hardest thing to do, but…” he shrugged.  “All I can do is try.”

“And if neither of you can do so, then we must venture into the town to seek someone still of flesh and blood to open our way?”

Tindal and Y’vin glanced at each other.

“Yes…” Tindal agreed, cautiously.

“Then it is not my decision,” Aramon replied, serenely.  “It will be the will of Namae, and my course will be made clear.”

“Hard to argue with that,” Y’vin sighed.

“I am pleased you see my wisdom,” Aramon answered.

“No, it’s impossible to argue with because it’s blind faith, not reason.  But there’s also some logic to it.  If we can’t open the Skybridge, we need to get someone to do it.”  Y’vin shrugged.  “I don’t see what else to do until we try.”

“Then let us proceed directly to the foot of the bridge and see where it takes us, heathen wizard.”

“As you say—religious zealot.”

The friends regrouped and, to outward appearance, marched along.  The horses and mules, long accustomed to the ghostly presences, made no protest.  In the winking light of the stars and shards, the misty forms seemed almost solid.

Their course took them along the road toward the city.  Tindal swooped ahead, examining the ground, determining where they would leave the road.  No one tried to stop them as they veered off and started up the gentle hill toward the ring of stones.  They circled the crown of the hill and entered properly, along the marked path.

A young man, bright-eyed and smiling, stepped from the shadow of a standing stone—or from the stone itself, perhaps.  A glow-worm radiance sprang up, outlining each of the monoliths and shedding a nearly shadowless glow all over the crown of the hill.  In the light, everyone could see the young man wore dark brown and carried a staff twined about with ivy.

“Welcome, visitors.”  His voice was rich and deep.

“Well-met by the pillars of the world,” Aramon replied.

“I presume you have come here simply to leave again?”

“You are correct.”

“A pity,” he replied, sadly.  “We would normally permit it, but certain local matters make it necessary to be more cautious with this foot of the Skybridge.”

“We wish only to pass over and be gone from this place.”

“Yes, I understand.  I am sorry.  With the battle in the bridge-city still going, the Skybridge is closed.  We choose to tell you this, warrior of Namae, rather than confuse your path with magic that you might never reach our ring of stones.”

“If you know my god—”

“Please,” the young man interjected, hand up.  “I see your symbol and I respect it.  But I cannot permit anyone to pass until the crisis in the bridge-town has settled.  No one comes through the Skybridge.  No one departs through the Skybridge.  It is too important to be risked—however slight such a risk may be.  No.”

“So, if we burn the whole town to ashes, then we can go?” Y’vin asked.

The young man pretended not to hear, keeping his gaze on Aramon.

“I think he means it,” Fliss offered.  “Maybe we should find a quiet spot and wait.”

Tindal regarded the druid, glanced at his fellow ghosts, and nodded.

“We should go.  Now.”

“What?” Y’vin asked, while Aramon said, “Why?”

“Druids have no dealings with the soul, the afterlife, or anything following death.  They are mystic masters of things living, or of natural forces, but we may—in our present state—be displeasing.  Our presence may be discourteous, even offensive.”

Aramon nodded, thoughtfully.

“Good druid,” he began, “if this be the case, I apologize, pleading only ignorance.  We will, of course, immediately depart in the manner we arrived.”

“Hold on!” Y’vin demanded.  “We will?”

“It is their bridge,” Aramon pointed out.  “We will cross it with their goodwill or not at all.”  Y’vin grumbled at this, but followed as the group left the standing stones and circled down the hill.

“I think we could have taken them,” he muttered, out of druid earshot.

“In our present state?” Tindal asked.

“Maybe.”

“I can’t hit anyone,” Gorgar complained.

“You can scare them to death.”

“Are you referring to my face again?”

“Both of you, stop it,” Tindal said, sighing.  “Aramon is right.  We can’t kill the druids to use the Skybridge.  Firstly, because it is wrong.  Second, the usual complement of a Skybridge footing is one druid for every standing stone.”

Fliss did some counting on his fingers.

“Forty-two druids.  Huh.  You know, I think we should honor their right to decide who uses their Skybridge and when.”

“I knew you’d say that!” Y’vin snarled.

“No doubt.  Did you also expect me to say I might have an idea?”

“No, because any head with a skull as thick as yours—”

“Stuff it, ghost-wizard!” Fliss snapped.  “You’re not the only one having problems adapting to being a disembodied spirit.  Stop treating everyone like idiot children!”

“It’s not my fault you act like idiot children!”

Aramon signaled the horses and brought everything to a stop.

“I have had enough of you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Y’vin asked, rounding on him, affronted.

“You are angry and frustrated at your situation.  You are taking it out on your friends—your only friends—and we have borne it as friends should.  You must begin to curb your impatience and your tongue.”

“Or what?  You’ll toss my gem into the grass and leave me to fend for myself?”

Aramon placed a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Y’vin, never in life have I threatened you.  I will not begin now.  I am your friend, even if you are not much of one to me.  I value you as a person, not merely as a useful tool, and therein lies what I fear is the difference between us.

“So, continue with your aggressive, biting, sarcastic tone.  Proceed with all the sharpness of your wit and tongue.  But know now my patience for such things is nearing its end and I am mightily displeased.”

Aramon released his sword-hilt and got the animals moving again.  Everyone else stared after him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been threatened so gently,” Y’vin said, blinking.

“Or so seriously,” Gorgar added.  “I don’t think… I can’t remember… Has he ever threatened anybody?”

“What about the guy on Telsenao—the one with the bloody altar and the glass knife?”

“That wasn’t a threat.  That was an oath to kill him slowly if he killed the lady on the altar.”

“It sounded like a threat.”

“A technicality,” Gorgar shrugged.  “How do you think it made the knife-guy feel?”

“Threatened,” Y’vin stated, positively.  “Shortly thereafter, dead.”

“But he didn’t kill the girl,” Gorgar pointed out.

“I don’t know about you,” Fliss interrupted, “but it just occurred to me… Doesn’t Aramon hit your soul with that sword of his?”

The three looked at Tindal.

“The blade will cut flesh,” he assured them.  “Often, though, it is the focus for the force of his god.  It will wound a spirit even if the flesh is unharmed.”  Tindal continued to look thoughtful.  “He addressed only Y’vin, but I fear we are all trying his patience, each in our own ghostly way.  This ill-becomes us, for we are his friends.  We must do better, for his sake.”

The four of them followed Aramon in a thoughtful frame of mind.

Back on the road, the five gathered around and consulted.  The city was in uncertain hands; the chaos kept the bridge closed.  How long it might remain closed depended on how long the city remained a source of armed conflict.  Therefore, it was decided the four ghosts would scout out the city and return.

For a wonder, no one made any smart remarks.

The ghosts drifted into town, each in their own way.  Y’vin flashed forward as though shot from a bow, a blur which passed intangibly through men and gate alike.  Tindal, only slightly slower, arced high and came down in the middle of town like a descending cloud in the darkness.  Fliss drifted through the long grass like a shark in the shallows, a man-shaped mist, flowing right through the city walls.  Gorgar, forsaking flight, simply tromped his ghostly way along the road.

Aramon settled in to guard their gear and wait.

Four ghostly figures returned, descending from the sky.  Tindal and Y’vin helped Gorgar; Fliss had enough to do keeping pace with them.

Back in Bridgetown, fresh screams rose from the renewed fighting in the streets.

“I was under the impression,” Aramon said, dryly, “we were attempting to discover the nature of the conflict within the city, not promote it.”

“Blame Gorgar,” Y’vin advised, “but do it later.  He needs to get back into his gemstone.”

“He does look somewhat tattered,” Aramon observed, drawing out the pouch of gems.  Gorgar’s outline, normally sharp and clear, was foggy, as though viewed through a lens not entirely in focus.  “What is wrong with him?”

“Too much exertion,” Tindal said.  “Gorgar?  Gorgar!  Get into the gem.  Concentrate.”

Gorgar, his expression dazed and uncomprehending, blinked at Tindal while the words rattled around in his ghostly skull.  After a moment, his expression hardened and he looked at the gems in Aramon’s outstretched hand.  Gorgar’s form wavered, dissolved, and flowed sluggishly into one of the dull stones.  It took more than a minute, but when the last of the ectoplasmic mist was inside the gem, it still glittered in the starlight.

“Will he be all right?” Fliss asked.

“I think so,” Y’vin and Tindal stated, together.  They glanced at each other.  Tindal inclined his head and gestured for Y’vin to go ahead.

“We’ve all discovered things about the city and the invaders, but Gorgar discovered a new talent.  He—presumably, all of us—can step into someone’s body and take it over.  It’s draining, which is why Gorgar is so exhausted.”

“I see,” Aramon mused.  “Do we know why he did such a thing?”

“He muttered something about keeping people safe, but he was less coherent than usual.”

“Understandable, I suppose.  While we wait for him to recover his strength, may I know what we have discovered?”

“It’s the Shakarians,” Fliss said.  “They’ve invaded and they’re taking the place.”

“The Shakarians?  They are certainly martial enough, but they cannot hope to take all of Lamaeos,” Aramon protested.  “They must cross their skybridge from Shakar to Kannevos, then travel across it to the Lamaeos skybridge.  It is the same problem all would-be conquerors have faced.”

“They have a new thought,” Tindal replied, darkly.  “They have sent their armies through the Skybridge to Kannevos, to take the shard, directly.”

“But the druids—”

“—don’t seem to care,” Fliss interrupted.  “They’re not interfering.  The Shakarians aren’t interfering with the skybridges.  In fact, they seem to be restricting access to them.  That’s their main purpose, I think.  They’ve sent through troops without uniforms for a while now, building up their strength on Kannevos, until they could take the bridge-towns at each foot of each skybridge.  Much the same as they’ve done here, I’m thinking.  Send in people by tens and twenties, build up a force in the city, then roll in a caravan of heavily-armed troops to start the fight.”

Aramon looked thoughtful while he regarded the fires in the city.  Tindal, Fliss, and Y’vin watched with him.

“If they have taken the skybridges on Kannevos, and have a garrison at the foot of each,” he mused aloud, “they can put a stop to all travel between the shards.  Anyone who goes through a skybridge…” he trailed off.

“They can attack anyone who comes through,” Tindal finished.  “Assuming the druids will allow anyone passage at all.  The Shakarian forces can control all skybridge traffic, isolating each shard from every other—if they can keep Kannevos, of course.”

“Of course,” Aramon agreed, absently.  “This will make things more difficult.”

“Much,” Y’vin agreed.  “If they’re already branching out to seize both ends of each Skybridge—carefully avoiding any hint of interfering with the druids’ direct control—their plans are moving right along.  Even if we could get through this Skybridge, we would still have to deal with whatever is at the other end and spend four days to the footing leading to Viskos.  Then it’s six days to Tourmaline, if the Shakarians aren’t crawling all over the place.”

“They cannot,” Tindal argued.  “It would require far too many men.”

“How do you figure?”

“There are three hundred and sixty-two shards.  They must capture and control three hundred and sixty-two Skybridge footings on Kannevos.  If they use a thousand men at each footing, that is three hundred and sixty-two thousand men.”

“They could do it,” Fliss muttered.  “The Shakarians make every man serve in the army.”

“I doubt they have that many people, much less men of martial age,” Tindal countered.  “But, even if they had so many men, could they capture all of Kannevos’ footings and still have enough men to attack all the bridge-cities of all the shards at once?  Another three hundred and sixty-two thousand men?  To say nothing of marching on the rest of each shard such that they would hinder us on Viskos?”  Tindal shook his head.  “No, I think not. I think it far more likely they will establish themselves on Kannevos, garrison the footings, and then concentrate their forces to take one bridge-city at a time on the other shards.”

“I see your point.  But what does that do?  Holding the Skybridge—all the skybridges?”

“Control.  By taking Kannevos, what holds the world together becomes the instrument of dividing it.  Each shard becomes no more than one small world, to be conquered, integrated, and its resources used to conquer the next.”

“Assuming,” Y’vin added, “they can hold Kannevos.”

“I suspect they can,” Tindal frowned.  “Whether they mean to or not, the druids will help them.”

“How so?”

“You see their response to a strange force attacking a bridge-city?”

“That’s why we went in to ask around.  Well, ask around and accidentally start a panic, but you take my meaning.”

“Will they permit travel through their skybridges while armed men swarm around the footings?”

“Hmm.”

“It is a clever plan,” Tindal admitted, “and bold.  King Adyr may be a brutal tyrant, but he has courage, daring, and audacity.”

“As may be,” Aramon said, “this affects us in a most disturbing manner.  If the Skybridge is closed to us, we cannot return to Viskos and thence to Tourmaline.”

“I fear this is true.”

“What shall we do?”

“Perhaps we should remove ourselves from the vicinity before making new plans.  Four of us are unlikely to die, but if the Shakarians send out patrols, you, Aramon, may find yourself outnumbered and surrounded.”

“Again,” Aramon added, eyes hard.

“Well, yes,” Tindal admitted.  “I should point out you have seldom enjoyed the experience.”

“Neither has anyone else.  Ever,” Fliss added.

“I recognize you also do not wish—” Tindal began.

“No, no,” Fliss countered.  “You misunderstand.  Nobody surrounding Aramon has ever enjoyed the experience.”

“Ah.  Yes, that is true.  Yet now is not the time to engage in such an exercise, I feel.”

“Very well,” Aramon agreed.  “Do you prefer to wait in your gems?”

“I do,” Fliss volunteered.  “All this flying around is tiring.”  He dissolved and flowed into his gem.  Y’vin and Tindal remained.

Aramon turned the horses around and they began the long trudge away from Bridgetown.

“Well, this is disappointing,” Y’vin groused, drifting along at road-level.

“I agree,” Tindal replied.  “This complicates our plans.”

“Drastically.  Do we know anything about this shard?  That is, aside from the fact Gorgar grew up here?  Is there anywhere we can go for help?  Or are we stuck being disembodied dragon-slayers?”

“I would ask Gorgar, but he is indisposed.”

“It would seem we need someone who has traveled far and seen much,” Aramon observed.  “Perhaps Gorgar’s new brother—the minstrel who married his sister—might be of assistance.”

“That’s certainly a thought,” Tindal mused.  “It seems more likely than asking random passerby for ideas.  Traveling minstrels hear all sorts of things.”

“So, we traveled all the way to Trinnian, passed it, made it to Bridgetown, only to turn around and go right back to Trinnian?”

“It would seem so,” Aramon agreed.  “Unless you have a better plan?”

“If I were corporeal, I’d say we have a go at sorting out Bridgetown.  That would calm down the druids and they’d let us through.”

“But will the druids on Kannevos let us through?” Tindal asked.  “Or the garrisons, which we presume control the footings?”

“We don’t know that!”

“True,” Aramon agreed.  “However, once through the Skybridge, we may not have the option to return, much less proceed to Viskos and Tourmaline.  It is now a path into the unknown, rather than a definite route to a goal.  An unknown, moreover, from which it is likely we cannot backtrack.  We should exhaust all our options here before casting the dice.  Or so I see it.  Tindal?”  Tindal nodded agreement.

“Yes.  But I do not wish to decide for all of us.  We will discuss it later, after you have traveled far enough to ensure your safety and have rested.”

“I’ll wait in the gem,” Y’vin grumped, and dissolved.

Chapter Six

On the way back to Trinnian, the five discussed Gorgar’s discovery.

“How, exactly, did you take control of the man?” Tindal wanted to know.  Gorgar, crisp and in focus again after resting in his gem, shrugged his massive shoulders.

“I dunno.  I don’t even know what I was thinking.”

“You probably weren’t,” Fliss noted, with a grin.

“Maybe,” Gorgar admitted.  “I… just did it.  He was standing there with a sword, about to finish off a youngster—a kid with a spear, really. Not a warrior.  I leaped at him from behind.  I didn’t think about being a ghost.  I attacked, and all of a sudden I was him…”  Gorgar shivered.  “It was strange.”

“I think Fliss is right,” Y’vin offered.  “Not in the mocking sense—no, far from it.  You didn’t think about it; you simply did it.  Your talents run more to the physical and always have.  It shouldn’t surprise anyone you can get into a body and use it.  Your akà-ha, the spirit of movement, must be very strong.”

“What about the rest of us?” Fliss asked.

“We share many qualities, due to our state,” the wizard replied, palms up.  “We walk through walls and can fly, although with various levels of effort.  I’d wager we can all fit into someone else’s flesh, at least for a little while.  How good we are at it…” Y’vin shrugged.

“You won’t like it,” Gorgar offered.  “They’re in there and they fight you.  You can feel them afraid, and it’s almost like your own fear.  The man I took, he kept trying to move himself, like… like… If your clothes didn’t want to do what you wanted, and kept trying to move like a person.  That’s not it, not really.  It’s… I don’t know.”

Fliss looked thoughtfully at Aramon.

“Well, we can easily try it out, if Aramon is willing.  I’ve never been a possessing spirit before.”

“I do not think it likely you will become one today,” Aramon replied, grimly.

“I don’t think he likes the idea,” Fliss said, pretending to speak in an aside to the others.  “Look, Aramon, I don’t want to try this with some peasant boy and scare him.  You’re the only one with a body.  I only want to see if I can do what Gorgar did, and how draining it is.  If we can do it to a dragon…” he trailed off to let the implications sink in.  “Of course, we’d have to practice before trying that.”

Aramon’s lips pressed into a thin, pale line.

“You are asking me,” he began, softly, “to allow an entity, a spirit, to enter my body and take control of it.  Have you learned nothing of the ways of Namae in the years we have been companions?”

“He is right,” Tindal said.  “Namae would not approve.  He is the defender of the realms of men, the warrior smiting what forces would corrupt men and their works.”

“Of course, you’re right,” Fliss agreed.  “I’m so sorry.  I abase myself in contrition.”

“I accept your apology, sincere or not,” Aramon told him.

“But I do mean it.  I was wrong to ask you to share your body with dark spirits summoned from the netherworld.”

“Yes, you were.”

“I do have another thought, though.”

“Am I going to like it?” Aramon asked, cautiously.

“Maybe.  Here it is.  Suppose you encounter other dark spirits summoned from the netherworld?  If they try to take you over, what then?”

“I will destroy them.”

“Yes, I know.  But what if they get into you before you can destroy them?  Wouldn’t it be good to have some training in spiritual wrestling?  Now, hear me out,” he continued, raising both hands.  “I’m not saying to let us do anything.  I’m saying to fight us.  Gorgar tries to step into your body and you throw him out, if you can.  If you can’t, he gets out and tries again while you learn the tricks of wrestling a ghost.  The rest of us watch and learn what we can, maybe take turns if it wears Gorgar out faster than it wears you out.  That’s practically a training session in the war-courts of a temple of Namae, isn’t it?”

“I’ll think about it,” Aramon said, lip curled.  “I make no promises.”

“Fair enough.  Fair enough.  I wouldn’t expect anything more.  But, while I’m at it, would you mind if I tried to possess a horse?”

“Hmm.  Yes, but not enough to stop you.”  Aramon drew his blade, held it up toward the afternoon sun, and the edge seemed to not only catch the light, but keep it.  “Go ahead.”

“Um.  What’s that for?”

“In case you do not come out.”

“Ah.  Right.  Perfectly obvious, once you explain.”  Fliss looked at the rest.  “Anyone want to take the first shot at it?  Gorgar?  Would you demonstrate for us, please?”

“No.  You got yourself into this.”

“Yes,” Fliss sighed.  “So I did.  All right.”

Fliss floated up and over one of the horses, considering carefully.  He drifted downward, as though to land on all fours, and sank through the horseflesh.

The horse twitched, started to rear, checked itself, snorted, shivered, and looked around.  It took a few tentative steps, hesitant and jerky.  Eventually, it moved close to Aramon and poked its nose into his chest.  Aramon took hold of the halter and Fliss drifted down, out of the horse’s body.

The horse, freed of his influence, finished panicking.  Aramon spent several minutes calming the animal down.  Fliss, meanwhile, remained on all fours, on the ground, apparently breathing heavily.

Once the horse was under control, they gathered around Fliss.

“Well?” Y’vin demanded.

“Gorgar’s right,” Fliss gasped.  “It’s a strange feeling.”

“But it shows we can all probably do it, although with varying degrees of effectiveness,” Y’vin pointed out.

“Yes, but I don’t recommend doing it with the horses.  They panic something awful—it’s a primal terror and tough to counter.  I had a hard time putting one hoof in front of the other.”  Fliss stood up, carefully.  “I’d rather not do it again.”

“Perhaps it would serve you better if you found someone who was utterly without fear,” Y’vin suggested.

“If you refer to me,” Aramon interjected, “you are mistaken.  I know fear very well.”

“You do?” Gorgar asked, voicing everyone’s surprise.  “I thought you didn’t fear anything.”

“I fear many things.  I do not allow fear to control me.”

The rest of the group considered Aramon’s statement.  They were still considering it while he loaded their gear on the horses and unhobbled them.

Walking along the road again, Tindal waved the others back and advanced to speak privately with Aramon.

“Before I begin, I should mention I did not understand your bravery,” he said.  “Like the others, I thought it a gift of Namae to take from your heart the capacity for fear.  The things I have seen you do, unflinching, unhesitating, without regard for your own life and limb—I mistook it for Namae’s blessing on a warrior.  I did not know you could feel fear, and so my respect for you—the respect we all have for you—great as it was, is now even more vast.”

“Namae’s gift is the strength of heart and mind to endure the fear without breaking.  Then, unswayed by terror or panic, I am free to choose my path.  Bravery is the understanding of danger and making the choice to face it.”

“I am impressed.”

“Be impressed with the Warrior of Light, not with the feeble reflection that is I.”

“I will try, but you are the example.”

“You said you were about to begin something?” Aramon suggested.

“Yes.  The others are still discussing this idea of possessing the dragon.  What do you think of it?”

“If they can do so, they can lay it down and expose its throat.  If I cut its flesh and let out the blood, it will die.”  Aramon shrugged.  “I do not know if they can.”

“Neither do I.  Neither do they.  I suspect it is a more terrible thing than a man or a horse.”

They walked quietly for several minutes.

“You are about to suggest,” Aramon said, “that I allow them to practice the skill of such possession on myself.”

“You are not wrong.”

“Tindal, I love you as a brother in arms.  The faithful of Ashkelon have never been a cause for concern to me.  You, in your own person, have been an example of honesty and loyalty any man would be proud to follow.  But I have endured much in the past weeks.  My friends have died, I have been defeated in righteous battle, my friends have returned to me as undead—and I have allowed them to remain in my company.  I, a knight of the Order of Namae, sworn to destroy all things of monstrous nature!

“It has been a difficult time,” Aramon continued, “and perhaps it is my weariness which now speaks.  Here is where the line is drawn.  I can carry your gems, argue your plans, fight a dragon… but I will not permit a spirit other than my own to enter my body and attempt to use it.  Not for practice, not for help, not for anything.  I say this unto you, my final word on the subject:  No.  I have spoken.”

“So you have,” Tindal agreed.  “I respect your choice and support it.”

“Ah, but do you agree with it?”

“I do not know.  I am not the one still wearing the flesh they wish to use.  I sympathize, however, and, insofar as whether or not I will obey your stricture, I do agree with it.”

“I am pleased.”

“Then I am pleased.  If you will pardon me, I will so inform the others.”

By the time they reached Trinnian again, Aramon was used to them practicing their new trick on various animals.  Gorgar took to it like a fish to water.  Of the four ghosts, he was the only one who could possess a bird and use it to fly.  Fliss could master any creature that ran or slithered, but with birds he could only flap madly, unable to take to the air.  Tindal and Y’vin had a harder time of it, Y’vin most of all.  Animal bodies were awkward under their influence.

“It’s the body-image,” Y’vin decided.  “Gorgar is used to thinking with his muscles.  It’s no great trick for him to think with someone else’s muscles.”

They returned to Trinnian in the late morning, Aramon riding with the four in their gems.  Aramon took care of finding an inn, stowing their gear, and leaving instructions about the horses.  The tasks were complicated by a quiet that shrouded the town like a pall.  Not so long ago, it was a merry place, happy to celebrate a wedding.  On the way back through, it seemed no worse—at least, in passing—than any other town.  Now, however, the people seemed more suspicious of strangers, more fearful.  They walked with their heads down, hurrying, or moved only with caution, always glancing furtively about.

The town’s quiet was not a peaceful quiet, but a frightened one.

Aramon was unsurprised, but saddened.  Of course, the dragon’s influence was minimal this far away.  It was not enough to sap the life from the crops, livestock, and people, but it was sufficient to cast a shadow over the land, sowing fear and distrust.

He sought out Llewellyn Harpsinger, husband of Maedel, Gorgar’s sister.

The minstrel once lived a mobile life, seldom staying in one place for more than a week or two.  Aramon hoped the minstrel’s wedding and upcoming fatherhood might necessitate a slight change.  Asking a few questions of the townsfolk, Aramon soon discovered the minstrel was staying with Maedel and her parents, presumably until the new couple could find a place of their own.  Lacking Gorgar’s innate distrust of minstrels, he nevertheless realized Gorgar would assume Llewellyn was mooching off the family.  He resolved to be as diplomatic as possible.

Aramon tugged on the rope of the door-clapper, producing a sharp sound inside the small house.  He waited a reasonable time before pulling it again.

The door opened a crack.  An eye appeared.

“What do you want?”

“I am Sir Aramon of the Order of Namae, companion to Gorgar, and I have come to request audience with his brother-in-law, one Llewellyn Harpsinger.”

“I know who you are.  Harpsinger isn’t here.”  The door closed with a thump.

Aramon blinked at the door for a moment, surprised.  He debated internally about summoning Gorgar from his gem to do the talking, but decided against a ghostly demonstration.  He pulled the door-clapper again.

“I said he’s not here!” came the reply, muffled by the door.

“It is my mission to locate him and ask him some questions,” Aramon replied, through the door.  “I would be happy to pay for any information as to his whereabouts.”

There was a lengthy pause.  The door cracked open again.  The eyeball regarded Aramon.

“How much?”

Aramon concealed his sudden weariness with the venality of humanity and produced a pouch.  It clinked in a satisfying manner, causing the door to swing wide.

“Get in, quickly!” urged the old man, hustling Aramon within.  Aramon allowed himself to be hurried inside and waited politely while the grey-haired fellow bolted the door.

“Is there something the matter?” Aramon inquired.

“Nothing!  Nothing,” he replied.  “Gold?”

“Here you are.”  Aramon handed him the pouch.  The fellow opened it, confirmed it contained gold, and hid it in a cupboard.  While he did so, Aramon asked, “What can you tell me about Llewellyn Harpsinger?”

“Aside from he’s a womanizing liar?”

“Yes, aside from that.”

“He left town four days ago, shortly after the Consuls of the Dragon took charge of the place.”

“I beg your pardon, but what are the Consuls of the Dragon?”

“They speak for the dragon and rule as its viceroys.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Aramon stated, but his memory flashed back to a dead man with a dragon carved upon his chest.

“Believe what you like,” he said, shrugging.  “That’s what they says, anyway.  They levy the taxes for the dragon-tribute and do the choosing of the sacrifice.  Call ’em what you will.”

“I will look into this later.  Tell me more about Llewellyn Harpsinger.”

“He’s got me daughter in a family way before blowin’ away like a bad wind.  Not sure where he’s off to, but he upped and left before dawn one day and nobody’s seen him since.  Safe bet he’s not off westward, toward the dragon, though.  Carrison or Lambeth, maybe.”

“Four days ago, you said?”

“Aye, that’s right.  If you find him, don’t bring him back—just a bride-price, preferably taken out of his hide.”

“I will discuss the matter with Gorgar when next we speak.”

“Gorgar!” he exclaimed.  “My son lives?!”

“No.  That does not stop him from speaking, however.”

“What?  I don’t understand.”

“Gorgar!”

Mist flowed from the pouch hanging inside Aramon’s breastplate.  It puddled on the floor, flowed upward, took the form of Gorgar.  He looked around.

“Dad!”

The old man collapsed.  Gorgar and Aramon both tried to catch him with mixed results.  Aramon placed the old man in a chair and arranged him comfortably.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Gorgar reflected.

“I suppose not.”

“What’s going on?”

Aramon explained what he learned and Gorgar’s expression hardened.

“You know my feelings on worthless songsters,” Gorgar told him.

“Yes.”

“Any objections to a little righteous wrath?”

“If your father’s words are true, then Llewellyn deserves it.  No objection.”

“Good.”

“Perhaps, when your father wakes, you might introduce us.  We did not succeed in doing so at the wedding.”

“I remember.  He drinks more than I do.”  Gorgar sighed.  “We’ll try to introduce you, if he doesn’t faint again.”

Aramon fetched water and lightly flicked some in the old man’s face.  He stirred, opened his eyes, stared at the ghost of his son.

“Hi, Dad.  This is Sir Aramon, Knight of the Order of Namae.  Aramon, this is my father, Gamron.”

“It is an honor to make your acquaintance, elder,” Aramon offered.

“Likewise?” Gamron replied, uncertainly.

“Aramon tells me you were talking about Llewellyn and where he went,” Gorgar prompted.

“Yes… he left four days ago for I know not where.”

“How’s sister?”

“She’s all right, if weepy and angry.”

“I’m a little angry, myself.”

“Is this… is this the thing your wizard did?  The ghost haunting him thing?”

“In a manner of speaking.  I intend to haunt him as soon as I find him.”

“Oh.”

“Do you think sister has any thoughts on where he’s gone?”

“I’m not sure.  She doesn’t talk about him, ’cept to swear about him.”

“Ah.  Throw things, too, I’d imagine.”

“Yep.”

“I, uh, I’d ask her myself, but, well,” Gorgar gestured down at himself.

“Fair point.  You want I should try, son?”

“It would help.”

“Wait here.”  Gamron rose from the chair and headed into the back of the house.  Aramon and Gorgar heard bits and pieces of the conversation—the shouted parts, at least.  Gorgar, dead or not, blushed.  Aramon pretended not to hear the words his sister used.

Gamron returned to the front room, closing the connecting door firmly behind himself.  He looked tired.

“She thinks he’s gone off to Lambeth.  Says he talked about what a nice place it was more than once.”

“Good enough.  Thanks, Dad.”

“Did your friend tell you I asked about the bride-price?”

“He did.  I’ll arrange for cash, if I can, but he’ll pay—one way or another.”

“Then I’ll sleep better.  When you’re done haunting him, will you come back to say goodbye?”

“I’ll try.”

“Can’t ask more than that.”  Gamron regarded his ghostly son for a moment.  “If it wasn’t your wizard… Dragon do it?”

“Yes.  In a way.  Partly, I guess.”

“Thought so.”  He looked at Aramon.  “You gonna kill it?”

“Such is my earnest intention, elder.”

“Good luck to the both of you, then.”

Seated in his room at a local inn, Aramon called out the four ghosts.  They manifested and sat down on the floor with him, forming a circle.

“What’s the story?” Fliss asked.  “Strange rumors and secrets abounding amid the tales woven by a master storyteller?  A mysterious song or riddle to give hints as to some hidden weakness in the dragon’s armor?”

“No.  We have not found the minstrel.  He has abandoned Gorgar’s sister and departed the town.  We believe he is on his way to Lambeth, but we cannot be certain.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Y’vin groaned.  “We could have stomped out all opposition in Bridgetown and be crossing Kannevos by now!”

“Y’vin, we have been over that,” Tindal started, but Y’vin interrupted.

“Yes!  Yes, we have!  We decided to go find a rumormonger so we could ask what might be available on this shard to help us kill a dragon.  Fine!  Now we have no rumormonger and no progress.  We’ve wasted our time!”

“Are you going to die of old age?” Tindal asked, sweetly.  Y’vin’s beginning tirade stopped abruptly as he considered ghostly immortality.

“There is some good news,” Gorgar offered.

“By all means,” Fliss replied, “let’s hear it.”

“Aramon?”

“The news,” Aramon began, nodding acknowledgement to Gorgar, “is of the Consuls of the Dragon.  They claim to be a group speaking for the dragon and ruling this city in its name.”

“Do dragons do that?” Fliss asked.

“Not to my knowledge.  They are intelligent and cunning, but they view mankind as dangerous cattle—or so I am told.  I doubt one has ever appointed viceroys among its herds of men.  And yet, I told you of the man I killed outside Pelamir.  He was not merely chastised by Namae’s power, but cut almost in two by my blade.  He bore the carving of a dragon in the flesh of his chest.”

“Put there by the dragon’s order?” Tindal asked.

“Possibly, but I doubt it.  Perhaps it is a cult, sprung up without the dragon’s encouragement.  I have heard such things happen in the towns closest to the lair, where the dragon’s mystic influence is strongest.”

“So, this is probably just a power grab by some group,” Fliss pressed.  “Maybe a cult of dragon-followers spreading out through the dragon’s territory.”

“Probably.  But, in the absence of one of this shard’s far-travelers, they are the only lead we have.  If they are truly in alliance with the dragon, we should discuss with them what they know.”

“And if they’re not, we’re wasting time again,” Y’vin muttered.

“Yes,” Aramon said, tiredly.  “We may be wasting time as uselessly as you are.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Without your laboratory, what good are you?  You are supposed to be a brilliant wizard.  All I have seen from you since you died is idle wandering and ceaseless complaining.  You lack a body, but it has always been your intellect of which you have been so proud.  Have you used it?  Have you tried?  You moan and complain at your lack of tools.  What did wizards do before they developed whatever magical tools now exist?  I would think it far simpler to duplicate those efforts than it was to develop them in the first place.”

“Now hold on a—”

“Worse, far worse,” Aramon continued, cutting Y’vin off, “is that you have not, to my knowledge, even made an attempt.  You have played with your newfound existence, but never subjected it to any of the scrutiny you so prate about—saving it until you reach a wizard’s laboratory, always waiting, never doing.  Perhaps, instead of complaining about wasted time and lost opportunities, you should cease wasting time and ignoring opportunities.”

“That’s hardly a fair—”

“Shut up.  I am tired of your uselessness.  You have no weight to pull, but I have been loading and unloading your magical accoutrements every morning and evening.  Do something useful before you speak to me again.”

Y’vin opened his mouth and raised a finger, as though to make a heated retort.  Fliss put a hand over his mouth.  Gorgar grabbed the finger and forced it down.  Y’vin struggled for a moment, then caught the look in Aramon’s eyes.  Cautiously, Y’vin relaxed.  Gorgar and Fliss let go of him.  He remained silent.

Aramon put Y’vin’s gemstone on the seat of the only chair in the room and turned back to the circle.  Y’vin moved over to the chair and subjected the gem to intense scrutiny.

“Are we all about to discover this is a dictatorship, rather than a partnership?” Tindal asked, smiling slightly.

“No.  At least, I hope not.  My patience is thin, and I regret that.  I will apologize for my ill-temper… later.  For the moment, talk about what we will do.  Without complaints, if you please.”

“I’d love to do some complaining, actually,” Fliss said, “but it’s relevant complaining, if that makes a difference.”

“Perhaps.  Relevant in what way?”

“Let’s look at what we’ve got.  One holy warrior, four ghosts, and no good options.  We know the dragon is, physically, a far superior foe, right?”  There were nods from all around.  “Even if we had bodies again, it’s doubtful we could kill it in a straight fight, right?”  Nods.  “With that in mind, what are we trying to do?  Recruit a dozen guys to go ambush it again?  Find some secret magical potion we can feed the virgin sacrifice to make it go to sleep?  Hope there’s a dragon-killing spear somewhere on this shard we can beg, borrow, or steal?  I mean, yes, we want to kill the dragon, but how?”

“Fliss has a point,” Tindal mused.  “Our goal is to kill it, but is there a way for us to kill it?”

“We don’t know what sort of things are available,” Gorgar pointed out.  “Maybe there is some magical spear.  We need to find out.”

“I disagree,” Fliss countered.  “We can bounce around all over the shard, hoping to find something to solve all our problems.  We could do it for years.  Lifetimes, even.  If there was a handy way to slay a dragon, everyone and their grandmother would know about it.  I’m starting to think we should just work with what we have.”

“What do we have, exactly?” Aramon asked.  “What would you list as our assets?”

“I dunno,” Fliss admitted.  “I mean, we’ve got four ghosts with varying degrees of sneaky, so we can probably look over the dragon’s lair in detail.  Gorgar seems talented at taking over bodies, so maybe he can distract it or slow it down.  By the various hells, the other three of us could distract it, maybe keep it too busy flaming and slashing at us that you can get in close for a deathblow.  For all I know, Y’vin can do the thing with the lightning after he’s stuck ghostly hands inside the thing!  And does Ashkelon still listen to Tindal’s prayers?  He’s not generally out in the mornings to greet the dawn, so I don’t know.”  Fliss sighed.

“All I’m saying,” he finished, “is—since you poked Y’vin with the idea of actually doing something—we could be overlooking our own powers and strengths.  Maybe we should be exploring those before we start chasing wild goats all over the mountainside.  Or, rather, we should stop chasing them and start exploring our powers.”

The group looked contemplative as they considered Fliss’ words.

“It’s not a useful comment,” Y’vin said, from by the chair, “but I could really use a piece of glass, someone with hands to sketch on the floor, and some of my equipment from the blackwood chest.”

Chapter Seven

“Tindal’s watching the room and the gear while Aramon sleeps,” Fliss said.  “What did you want me and Gorgar out here for?”

The three ghosts lurked in the shadows of the alleyway, little more than shadows themselves.  Y’vin cleared his nonexistent throat and wouldn’t meet their eyes.

“After Aramon’s… outburst… I’ve been looking at the gems more closely.  I didn’t before because I expected to get them into a real workroom, where I could do a proper job of it.  Now, though, what I see disturbs me.”

“What’s the problem?” Gorgar rumbled.

“We’re the problem.  We’re not exactly dead.”

“Aramon is being amazingly tolerant,” Fliss pointed out.  “It’s in his mandate to destroy us, you know.  I’m still surprised he hasn’t.”

“That’s part of it,” Y’vin admitted, “but not all of it.  The gems do things he won’t like.”

“Besides maintain the undead presence of his friends?”

“Not helping,” Gorgar pointed out.  Fliss bowed from the neck, acknowledging the comment.

“Gorgar,” Y’vin continued, “when you took over a body, you were exhausted afterward.”

“Yes.  I was in it for over an hour, using it to fight.  It was more than fighting in the body, it was the fighting with the person in it.”

“Later, when you came out of your gem, you were fine.”

“Yes.  So?”

“So, our gems get power from somewhere.  I think they’re a dark and terrible magic.  They seem to draw in power, slowly,  and store it to give us strength.”

“I’m not seeing how that’s incredibly dark and terrible,” Fliss admitted.  “I’m no wizard, but don’t all the permanent magic items do something like it?”

“I’m going to ignore the technicalities and simply agree,” Y’vin stated.  “The dark and terrible part… I think they also do it to any living thing around them.  I think—I’m not sure, not with the limits under which I am forced to work—but I think they also drain the vital energies of everything nearby.  That’s why Aramon’s patience is so short and why he’s so weary.  At least, that’s part of it.”

A ghostly silence settled on the alley.  Fliss broke it.

“All right.  What do you need to figure it out for certain?”

“I can’t, not with this lack of tools.  At least, not through direct analysis.  I have to perform an experiment, and neither Aramon nor Tindal is going to approve of it.”

“What is this ‘experiment’?” Gorgar asked.

“I’ll need both of you to help.”

“Go on.”

“First, Gorgar borrows a body.  Fliss, you get in your gem.  Gorgar takes your gem and we three go find us… something.  A chicken.  A cat.  Whatever animal we can lay hands on easily.  I watch while Gorgar kills the animal on top of your gem, Fliss, so I can see what the energies do when it dies.  If the gem absorbs them, we know.  If it doesn’t, we know something else.”

Fliss and Gorgar glanced at each other.

“And you want to keep it a secret from Aramon and Tindal?”

“No, I want to perform the experiment without having an hour-long argument.  Either way, you’re both free to tell them afterward.  I plan to, when I give my report on the gems.  Without this experiment, though, it won’t be a full report—only my suspicions, not facts.”

“I don’t like it,” Gorgar said.  Fliss shrugged.

“I don’t like it, either,” Y’vin admitted.  “If we’re surviving on the energies of others, we really are undead monsters.  I’m not sure how Aramon is going to take that, if it’s true.  Regardless of his reaction, I think we should know.”

“Well, we better find out,” Fliss suggested.  “Where do we get a body for Gorgar?”

“Ah, yes.  That.  There’s one other idea you might not like, but which could prove useful…”

Tindal vanished into mist shortly before sunrise.  Fliss and Y’vin remained in the room as Aramon prepared to go out.

“Aramon?”

“Yes, Y’vin?”

“Could I trouble you to put Fliss’ gem on the windowsill?  I’d like some sunlight shining through it.”

“Of course.”  Aramon hooked out the pouch and tumbled gems into his palm.  “Which one is his?”

“Fliss?”

Fliss sighed and dissolved into mist.  One of the gems sparkled.  Aramon placed it on the windowsill.

“Will that do?”

“A little closer to the inside edge.  Let light shine through it, on the floor.  Thank you.  Enjoy your breakfast.”

Aramon replaced the pouch under his breastplate and nodded.

Once Aramon departed, Y’vin touched the gem and spoke Fliss’ name.  Fliss came out, looked around, nodded, and went up through the ceiling.  Moments later, a rat scuttled into the room, got its bearings, and galloped over to the window.  After a bit of scuttling and scrabbling, a whiskered nose nudged a gemstone off the windowsill, out into the alley.

A lean, half-naked man stood in the alleyway.  He spread his hands and caught the gem as it fell.  He seemed surprised at his success, as well he might.  His torso was marked with a number of black bruises and he bore a deep wound along one side of his neck.

Two ghosts drifted down through the walls to meet him.

“This is weird,” the man said, voice rasping.

“I imagine,” Y’vin agreed.  “At least no one is in there to argue with you.”

“Yes, but only because he’s dead.”

“So are you.  Quit complaining.  Fliss?  Perhaps one of the crows on the roof?”

“Coming up.  Or down.”  Fliss drifted up through the building, emerged into a crow, and flutter-flapped awkwardly down into Gorgar’s undead hand.  Fliss stepped out of the bird and it started to struggle.  Gorgar squeezed it enough to keep it secure, ignoring the bird’s scratching and pecking.

“All right, as we discussed,” Y’vin prompted.  Fliss flowed back into his gem and Gorgar placed it carefully on the ground.  Y’vin took a moment to prepare before Gorgar, on signal, squeezed the bird much more forcefully.  Bones crunched.

“That was surprisingly easy,” Gorgar noted, opening his hand and allowing the mangled remains to fall.  “This body doesn’t look strong enough to do that…”

“Hush,” Y’vin ordered.  “At least it’s fresh.  We were lucky to find anyone so recently dead.”  He stared intently at the crushed remains and the ghost-gem for several seconds.  Finally, he sighed and lowered his head.

“Fliss,” Gorgar said, touching the gem with one finger.  Fliss flowed out and took form.

“Before you say anything,” Fliss began, “you better know I feel stronger.”

“I know,” Y’vin muttered.  “I saw.  The gem absorbed the bird’s life and fed it to you.”

“Come.  Gorgar can get a bird and put your gem back.  You and I should be in the room.”

“All right.”

“What should I do with this corpse?” Gorgar asked.

“Drop it anywhere,” Y’vin suggested.

“But it’s someone’s body.”

“It used to be,” Y’vin corrected.  “It’s a corpse.  Somebody murdered him and left him for the rats.  It’s not like we’re in the market for corpses.”  At the expression on Gorgar’s face, Y’vin sighed in exasperation.  “Fine.  Do whatever you like with it, but put the gem back first.”

“I’m gonna want a shirt and something for a scarf.  Fliss?  Get a rat and help me toss the stuff down, will you?”

Aramon returned to the room in the early afternoon.  He found the ghosts of Fliss and Y’vin in deep discussion.

“Any news?” he asked, settling on the only chair.

“Some,” Y’vin admitted, glancing at Fliss.  “I’ve done what I can with what I have—not a complaint,” he added, hurriedly.  “Merely a statement of fact.  I’m not the wizard I once was, you know.”

“He’s a shadow of his former self,” Fliss added, earning a dirty look from Y’vin.

“I do not understand the full extent of your limitations,” Aramon admitted.

“Neither to I,” Y’vin admitted, “but we have the obvious.  I don’t actually have hands.  I can’t draw symbols, manipulate materials, and I have only a limited effectiveness in my gestures.  I can’t channel power at the levels I could when I was corporeal.  While I can still cast spells, they are all minor workings, mostly local and limited in scope, not the ones to change aspects of the world—summoning fire or bolts of force.”

“I begin to grasp the nature of your difficulties.”

“This is why I was so… It’s why I wanted to get to my laboratory.  I can’t do a full analysis of a gem’s enchantment.  I have to muddle through with guesswork and experimentation.  Which I am, I might add.”

“Good.  What have you discovered?”

“First, whoever did the enchantments was either a nasty piece of work or a sloppy bastard.  I’m not sure which.”

“How so?”

“The gems seem to draw in magical force like any other enchanted object.  This is necessary to maintain our cohesion and visibility.  The forces fed to us when we’re in the gems maintain us in our present state.”

“That would seem to follow.  Does not the physical body support the spirit?”

“Yes, but this is where the nastiness—or sloppiness—comes in.  The enchantment—don’t ask me how—also absorbs other energies you throw at it.  You could hold one in your hands and focus your will to push some of your own vital energy into it and it would accept the power.  It’s not like they latch on to you and suck it out; they’re more like sponges, absorbing whatever you pour on them.  I’m concerned they might even absorb power from you just by being inside your aura.  I think you should stop wearing them around your neck.”

“Very well.  How should I transport them, then?”

“Let’s try putting them on a horse when we travel.  If it doesn’t hurt the horse, we can think about you carrying them again.  In the meantime, one of us can always be out and on guard when you leave them here in the room.”

“As you say.”  Aramon removed the pouch from around his neck and dropped it into a spare boot.  Fliss wrinkled his nose, but kept quiet.

“Now, along with this,” Y’vin continued, thankful he was unable to sweat, “I think it likely the gems may also have the capacity to… how to put this?  Absorb vital energy from a dying creature.  It’s possible we might grow stronger when you kill things near our gems, mainly because a lot of their life energies are loose from the bodies and floating around.  Kind of like getting dusty when you follow a wagon on a dry day.  You don’t get dirty on the road so much, but the wagon kicks up dust and you go through it.  Like that.”

Aramon looked thoughtful.  Fliss and Y’vin regarded him with guarded expressions, forgetting even to mimic breathing.

“You can devour the life-force of the slain?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Y’vin replied, cautiously.  “Technically correct, I suppose, but it’s less devouring and more like getting spattered with it.  Like the blood when you kill a man.  You’re not drinking it, but you get it all over you.”

“Hmm.”

“If it helps, we’re not demanding human sacrifices for breakfast,” Fliss supplied.  Y’vin looked sharply at him.  Fliss grinned.  “Animal sacrifices will do fine.  Please, no chanting or pageantry.  After all, we don’t want to put on airs.”

Aramon regarded Fliss with a wooden expression, barely blinking.  Y’vin hid is face in his hands.  Fliss continued to grin.

“You are not serious,” Aramon decided.

“No, I’m not, because I can’t take this seriously.  You think you’ve been through a lot.  How do you think I feel?  At least you’re alive.  I get to be dead.  Not really my forte.  I have to ignore how strange it is to avoid going mad.”

“I see.  I think I see.  Odd phrasing, but perhaps each interpretation is equally valid.”

“Thank you for noticing.  I was afraid it would sneak by, and it was driving me crazy.”

“Yes, I suppose it might.  Very well,” Aramon said, rising.  “Arrange for a watch over the gems.  I have prayers to attend to.  Please let Tindal know he does, as well.”

“Tindal does?” Y’vin asked.

“He does.  We are obviously not going to the Temple of Ashkelon on Kannevos, nor on from there to a temple of Namae.  I do not think there is one of either god here, in Trinnian.  But, much as you are required to do what you can with what you have, he and I must do what we can.  To consult with the gods is something long overdue, and we must each do so in our own fashion.”

“You want us to tell him you’ve decided he needs to pray?”

“Phrase it how you will.  He knows it.  I merely suggest you remind him.”

“I don’t feel comfortable telling Tindal how to go about his priestly duties,” Y’vin admitted.

“I’ll take care of it,” Fliss offered.

“Indeed.”  Aramon left the room, closing the door behind.  Y’vin rounded on Fliss.

“What in the name of the nine-fold seals did you think you were doing?” he hissed, quietly.  “We discussed how we were going to handle this!”

“We did, and he was about to go all holy on us,” Fliss countered.  “I distracted him with the argument.”

“You provoked him!”

“I countered his complaints about being so damn tired.  He’s going to feel bad about snapping at you for being a worthless, lazy bum because he didn’t consider how awful it must be to exist as an undead.  Now he’s off to pray, probably for the strength to endure the coming trials and tribulations and whatnot.  Meanwhile, I’m going to feel bad about doing it to him.  So you can stuff it, or I’ll mention the part we skipped—the part about possessing dead bodies.  He’ll love that.”

“Tindal won’t like it much, either.”

“I know.  But we’re ghosts, Y’vin!  We’re spirits.  We’re dead.  I, for one, don’t feel dead, but what do I know about being dead?  This is my first time!  I’m barely starting to get the hang of it.”

“You sound as though you’re starting to enjoy it.”

“Maybe.  Maybe I am.  It’s got some drawbacks—big ones—but it’s got some good points, too.  I don’t know if it’s better, but it’s definitely different.”

“Just don’t do anything stupid, all right?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of!”

It was not quite an hour later.  Fliss and Tindal were in their gems, Y’vin was studying his own, and both Aramon and Gorgar were out and about.

Y’vin noted the sound without paying it any attention for minutes.  Eventually, it crossed the threshold of audible and entered into annoying.  He looked up from his work, mouth twisted in a sneer, and sought the source of the noise.  Looking out through the window, there was some commotion at the end of the alley.  He drifted through the wall, slid down to the mouth of the alley, and glanced around.

A crowd of people shouted and waved various implements, all seemingly intent on a scene farther down the street.

Three men were locked in some sort of struggle.  From the look of things, a tall, lean fellow was half-carrying, half-dragging the other two.  The tall fellow had a knife stuck in his chest, but it didn’t seem to bother him.  Y’vin recognized the corpse doing the dragging and reviewed in his own head the conversation before Gorgar wandered off with it.  Yes, the phrase “do whatever you like” had been used.

Y’vin faded back into the room and invoked his two companions.  Tindal and Fliss materialized.

“Good evening,” Tindal offered.  “Or is it?”

“It’s early,” Fliss replied, eyeballing the window.  “Something the matter?”

“I think so,” Y’vin admitted.  “Gorgar’s doing something public.”

“Ah,” said Tindal.  “The noise is in regard to seeing a ghost.”

“That would do it,” Y’vin hedged.  “I’m right in the middle of this,” he continued, gesturing at the gem he was examining, “or I’d go find out more.”

“We’ll take a look,” Fliss promised.  “Tindal?”

“Since we must remain unseen, I shall follow your lead.”

“I have in mind to grab a couple of crows and get a bird’s eye view.  We may not be able to fly, but if we get a couple on a good rooftop, we should be able to watch without anyone screaming and pointing at us.”

“A goodly thought.  Lead on.”

Y’vin pretended to be absorbed in his work until they floated out through the ceiling.  Once they were gone, he sighed in relief.  Explaining how Gorgar could possess a corpse was not on his list of things to do.  Especially to Tindal or Aramon.

Time passed.  Y’vin directed his attention and energies to further analysis of the gem.  Inwardly, he bemoaned his lack of tools and, almost as often, his lack of hands.  Nevertheless, there were things to learn simply by watching it operate.

A crow landed on the windowsill.  It disgorged a trio of ghosts before it squawked madly and disappeared in a cloud of frantic wings and feathers.

“I didn’t know you could put more than one ghost inside a bird,” he observed, interested.

“Neither did we,” Fliss replied, and shivered.  “I don’t suggest doing it again.”

“It was more than a trifle crowded in there,” Tindal agreed.

“Then why do it?” Y’vin asked.

“I’m the one who can fly,” Gorgar answered.  “Tindal thought it best we not be seen.”

“Me, too,” Fliss added.

“Good thought,” Y’vin agreed, and turned back to the gem.

“Don’t you want to know what happened?” Fliss pressed.

“It was probably something silly.”

“I don’t know about silly, but it was interesting.”

“Oh, very well,” Y’vin huffed.  He turned around and looked expectant.  “What happened?”

Fliss and Tindal turned to Gorgar.  Gorgar looked at the floor.

“Well?” Y’vin prompted.

“Uh, you said I could—” Gorgar began.

“I know what I said.  What did you do?”

“Well, see, the guy I was possessing was dead, right?  Murdered.  The chest wasn’t hurt much, only bruised and battered.  What killed him was the cut throat—cut neck, really, since he bled to death.”

“Go on.”

“With a shirt and a scarf to conceal the damage, he was fresh enough to not draw attention, so I thought if I wandered around, I could probably find his killers.  If I ran into one, he’d likely panic.  I mean, you cut a man’s throat and you don’t expect him to come looking for you.  If he does, it’s a good reason to panic.”

“He’s got a point,” Fliss agreed.  Tindal nodded judiciously.

“Fine.  Then what happened?”

“I found him.  One of them, anyway.  He was in a tavern and sprayed beer all over the place when I walked in.  I went over to him and he knifed me, so I broke his arm and picked him up.  I demanded to know who else was in on it.  He told me, so I had him show me where his friend was.  Got me stabbed again, but I’m sort of used to that.”  Gorgar shrugged.  “It’s not so bad when you’ve borrowed a corpse.”

“I imagine not.”

“So I dragged the pair of them through the streets, moaning ‘Justice!’ as I did, heading for the closest guardhouse.  The crowd formed all on its own.”

“You didn’t have to moan anything, did you?”

“No, but I was trying to think ahead!”

“It’s nice of you to try.  Continue.”

“See, when I got them to the guardhouse, I threw them down in front of the city guards, took off the scarf, and pointed at the wound on the neck—the cut that bled the guy dead.  Then I pointed at them and groaned ‘Justice!’ a few more times.  Even the city guard can put that one together.  They grabbed the two I dragged in.  That’s when I leaped up, out of the body, right through the ceiling.  They probably saw me, at least a little, but I was mostly a blurry figure vanishing upward while the corpse collapsed.  They probably think I was a revenant or something.  See?  Thinking ahead.”

“Not bad,” Y’vin admitted, grudgingly.  “It might actually work, if done properly.  Fliss?  Tindal?  What do you think?”

“I think it worked,” Fliss said.  “Of course, they got a priest in there in double-quick time, and that holds well with a revenant.”

“I do not doubt the poor fellow is being laid to rest this very minute,” Tindal agreed.  “While the excitement was not in keeping with our desire to keep out of the public eye, it was nevertheless well done of Gorgar.  I am proud of him.”

“Thank you.”

“Well, no harm done, I suppose,” Y’vin agreed, and turned back to the gem.

“Wait, please,” Tindal continued.  “I would like to discuss what Gorgar did in greater detail.”

“If no one is coming to bother us, I say we leave it alone,” Y’vin countered, not turning around.

“Not his adventure, but his action.  He took control of a body—a dead body.  I think this deserves some discussion.”

Y’vin turned around with a sigh.  He traded glances with Fliss.

“All right.  What about it?  Is it better or worse than occupying a living body?”

“I am delighted to know we need not possess a living body,” Tindal announced.  “To take control of a body while the owner is still in residence is a terrible thing.  It is a violation of the basic, most fundamental nature of a man.  But once the body is no longer needed, it is only flesh and bones.  The spirit is what matters, and it has departed from the corpse.  To make use of such empty flesh, while distasteful, is not in the same league of offense as forcing one’s will on another.”

Three ghosts blinked at Tindal.

“Uh, how’s Aramon going to feel about it?” Fliss asked.  Tindal shrugged.

“I do not know.  From what I have read in the Book of Namae, he could regard such possession as a violation of the order of things.  Yet he has shown great forbearance for us.  I think he would be content if we simply did not exercise this power.”

“That seems to be his attitude,” Y’vin mused.  “Having the ability to do terrible things isn’t cause for smiting us, unless we use it.”

“It would seem so.”

“Is it because Namae says so?” Y’vin continued.  “Or is Aramon too focused on the dragon and these Consuls of the Dragon to worry about small fry like us?”

“I think you do him an injustice,” Tindal cautioned.

“Maybe I do, but I’m worried he thinks of me as an undead necromancer ever since I explained about necromancy and the soul.  We still have to consider it.”

“Consider it, then.  And consider what relationship these Consuls of the Dragon have to the dragon, itself.”

“I thought we agreed they were a bunch of jumped-up locals making a power grab?” Fliss asked.

“No.  It is merely likely.  If they are involved with the dragon, it behooves us to discover what relationship they have.”

“And if they’re not?”

“Then it is still a worthy deed to bring them down.”

“Ah.  I should have guessed.”

“Indeed you should,” Tindal agreed.  “Now, how do we go about discovering what there is to know of these people?  Ordinarily, we would wander the city and listen, occasionally discussing with locals these matters, using what delicacy we possess.  Now, in our present state, this may prove more difficult.”

“Listening shouldn’t be too hard,” Fliss mused.  “Occupy a rat or a cat, maybe someone’s pet.  Simple.  Asking questions is more difficult… Not impossible, but more difficult.”

“I leave it in your capable hands.”

“I’ll try to get into the spirit of the thing.”

Tindal and Y’vin glanced at each other.  Fliss pretended not to notice.

“Alive or dead, you are certainly you,” Tindal decided.  Fliss grinned and vanished through the floor.

Chapter Eight

Aramon was, surprisingly, not at all disturbed by Tindal’s and Y’vin’s reports on their ghostly powers.

“I see no reason to be upset,” he replied, when asked about his feelings.  “You are what you are.  More, it is good to know the things of which you are capable.  When the dragon is slain and you return to the afterlife, I shall make note of all your abilities for future reference within the archives of my church.”

“So, we’re helping you research undead monsters?” Fliss asked.

“Indeed.”

“Hard to argue with that,” Fliss admitted.

“Having heard so much from Tindal and Y’vin, what have you to say for yourself?  Did you not venture abroad to discover what you might regarding these Consuls of the Dragon?”

“I did.  It’s tricky, being a ghost.  I have to avoid being seen at all costs, but there are good points to it, too.”

“We are all attention.”

“First, the Consuls of the Dragon are strangers in town.  People don’t know them—not like Gorgar knows people around here.  There are six of them—three men, two women, and a thing.”

“A thing?”

“I haven’t had a look at it, yet, so this is what I hear.  It walks like a man, stands like a man, but it’s scaly and has something on its back, under the robe or cloak or whatever it wears.  Wings, hidden under its clothes, or so I’m told.  People think it’s a dragon-child, born of dragon and woman, or hatched from a dragon egg, or whatever the mechanics are.  The rest of the Consuls defer to it.”

“How, exactly,” Y’vin began, “do you cross a human and a dragon?”

“I have no idea,” Fliss admitted.  “Boggles the mind, doesn’t it?”

“This thing must die,” Aramon stated, derailing their discussion.

“Agreed,” said Gorgar.  “I could use a victory over something lizardy.”

“If it is a child of the dragon—and I do not say it is,” Tindal reflected, “killing it out of hand may further anger the beast.  Its coming to Trinnian may be a direct result of our earlier attempt.”

“A valid point,” Y’vin agreed.  “But killing the human Consuls and interrogating the monster strikes me as a handy way to find out what it’s up to.  This isn’t the normal pattern for a dragon.  Right, Aramon?”

“According to all I have been taught, yes.”

“So,” Fliss asked, “do I need to find the thing’s lair?  Or is Aramon going to march up to a Consul—they’ve taken up residence in the Lord Mayor’s palace—and start asking pointed questions amid cutting remarks?”

“I would like to face it on our terms,” Aramon decided.  “However, we must also face its minions.  They must not be allowed to escape, or to warn the dragon of armed rebellion.”

“Good point.  I’ll see if I can find the local lair.  Aramon can case the palace.  And if Y’vin can make me invisible for a little while, it will help enormously.”

“Not in this form,” Y’vin grumbled.  “I need a body for spells that affect the world.  Divinatory magic isn’t too power-intensive, but a glamour or a transformation?”  The wizard shook his ghostly head.

“Does it help that I’m a ghost?” Fliss inquired.  “Could being a spirit make it easier to be invisible?”

“I’m not sure why we aren’t always invisible,” Y’vin admitted.

“Interesting,” Fliss said, stroking his chin.  “So, it’s hard to make anything invisible?”

“I have to have flesh to channel so much power.”

“Good to know.  Out of curiosity, does it have to be alive?”

“Alive?  Huh.”  Y’vin pondered for a moment.  “I wouldn’t think so.  No, surely not.  Fresh, yes, but not alive.  In fact,” he went on, “a dead body might even be better, in some ways.  I could channel more power than usual into a spell, burning out the body.”

“One moment,” Aramon said, holding up a hand.  “You could cast a single spell of great power at the price of… what?  Cremating the corpse you inhabit?”

“Depending on the spell, it might burn to ashes,” Y’vin agreed.  “It could have other effects, but they’re all universally bad for the body.  There are reasons wizards don’t rule the shards.”

“Could you cast a spell to destroy the dragon?”

“No, but I might hurt it more than I did before.  Give me a half-dozen fresh bodies and time to use them… maybe.  I’ll want to try it with a fresh corpse, first, and see exactly how different it is.  Experiment a little.”

“I see.  Very well.  Gorgar, please go with Fliss; you know this place better than he does.  Help him with ideas about where one might hide a dragon-child.  Y’vin, please perform your tests.  Tindal, if you would do me the honor of standing guard over me and our things, I would be grateful.”

“I will.”

“Very good.  Gentlemen, let us be about our tasks for the night.”

Three ghosts disappeared through walls.  Aramon sighed and slowly started to unbuckle his armor.

“You wanted to be alone with me for something, did you not?” Tindal asked.

“I did.”

“I thought as much.  What troubles you, friend Aramon?”

Aramon did not answer immediately, but stacked pieces of armor at the foot of the bed.  He seated himself on the bed, drew his sword, laid it across his lap.

“I am having something of a crisis of faith, I think.  I have no priest of Namae with whom to consult, however.”

“I am honored you feel you may confide in me.”

“I am honored to have such a worthy companion,” Aramon replied.

“Tell me more about this crisis.”

“It is not that I fail in my faith, as such.  I believe.  I know what I believe.  Rather, I know what I believe in.  My trouble, I fear, is some of my beliefs may be wrong.”  Aramon frowned.  “I am not making this clear.”

“Take your time,” Tindal soothed.  “All night, if you wish.”

“You are aware of Namae’s blessings.”

“Some of them, yes.”

“I have them.”

“I know.”

“I still have them.  Even after my association with,” Aramon trailed off, gesturing through Tindal’s ghostly form.  “As with all unnatural things, your present state is—or so I have always been taught—an abomination to be purged from the world.”

“Yes.  Ashkelon, Lord of the Sun, also forbids the dead to rise and walk in any form.”

“Is this why you have not yet greeted the dawn in your present state?” Aramon asked.  Tindal looked away, uncomfortably.

“I… yes.”

“Then perhaps I am not alone in my fears.”

“Possibly.  But tell me more of yours.”

“First, let me tell you what I believe.  Namae commands me to strike down dark things.”

“Certainly.”

“What I now question, however, is what I have been taught regarding how.  My training has always mandated a complete and total refusal to entertain any form of tolerance, in any way, for demons, ghosts, vampires, dragons—whatever form these evil, unnatural creatures might take.  To stray from the path of absolute purity is to turn one’s face away from the teachings of Namae, from Namae himself, and to be forever cast out from the holy light of the Warrior.”

“Yet, here you are,” Tindal noted.  “I trust Namae has not turned his face away from you?”

“I feel his presence within me, and his power is made manifest in my hands, my shield, and my blade.”

“Does he speak to you?” Tindal asked, softly.

“He speaks to no one.  Why?  Does the Sunlord speak to you?”

“No.  Well, he speaks not in words, but in feelings.  He guides.  He does not command.”

“Then you understand how it is with Namae.”

The two sighed, in unison.

“It would be so much simpler if we could only ask,” Aramon suggested.

“Perhaps.  But then we would not have to make up our own minds and shape our own destiny.”

“How do you mean?”

“If the gods spoke to us, they could give us commands.  They could tell us what to do in every aspect of our lives—rule us more thoroughly than princes and kings.  Since they only suggest and urge without commanding, without even speaking, we are given an even greater gift—the ability to choose through the exercise of our own unfettered will.”

“You trouble me, Tindal.”

“Such was not my intention.  How so?”

“You raise the possibility the gods will… humor us as we flail about in our mortal ignorance.  What if I am going against the will of Namae by allowing the four of you to exist, but Namae is kind enough to continue with his blessings while waiting for me to see my error?”

“This… I had not considered.”

“You see why my heart is troubled.”

“Indeed, and now mine is, as well.  Or would be, had I such a thing.”

“This is why I ask you to stand watch, tonight.  I shall be devoting all my energies toward prayer.”

“I understand.  I shall stand by and stand guard.”

“And, come the morning, if I have no answers, I shall do the same for you.”

Tindal hesitated before answering, but finally nodded.

Aramon moved to the floor, stabbed his sword into the wooden boards, and hung his medallion from the hilt.  He bowed his head for a moment, gathering focus, before looking into the bright diamond of the amulet.  A white light glimmered in its depths.  As Aramon’s gaze bored into the gem, the light grew brighter.

Fliss and Gorgar drifted exactly like ghosts through the city’s late evening.  Fliss kept to the shadows with a practiced ease while Gorgar simply followed him, trying not to hulk too obviously.  Fliss reflected there were good points to being dead.  At least Gorgar was quiet.  Not so much as a single clank of armor or thudding footfall.

“Ghosts are stealthy,” Fliss murmured.  Gorgar grunted inquisitively.  Fliss shook his head and moved on.  Together, they regarded the Lord Mayor’s palace.

“Ever been in there?” Fliss asked.

“No.  You don’t get invited when you’re not rich.”

“You never got in trouble as a kid?”

“With the city guard?  Yes.  But they don’t take you there.  They take you to the nearest guardhouse and someone from the city magistrate’s office comes by to hear cases.  Assuming the guards don’t just clout you on the ear and tell you to stop being a prick.”

“Ah.  Quite a detailed legal system they have here.”

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.  I shouldn’t smart off about your home town.  Speaking of, where would you put a dragon-thing’s lair?”

“Not in town, if I had my druthers.  But if it’s ruling the place, it may want to be close to things.  The Lord Mayor’s palace is probably good.  There’s big windows at the top, there.  Useful if it can fly.  Or it could clear out some dungeon space underneath if it feels more at home in a cave.”

“I thought the place didn’t have dungeons?”

“Basement, then.  I’ve never been in there, so I don’t know for sure.”

“Fair point.  Well, should we stick together, or do you want to flit around the subterranean regions while I sneak around the more airy ones?”

“As long as this isn’t going to end like the time we were in the Towers of Air on Cortolis.”

“For the record, I did not actually plummet to my doom.”

“Only because of the updraft and those geese.”

“I fell very cleverly, and in such a manner as to not dirty the base of the tower with my bodily fluids,” Fliss replied, pretending affront.

“Or not much,” Gorgar grunted.

“Just answer the question.  Stick together or search faster?”

“I can haunt the basement,” Gorgar decided.  “You do the sneaking thing upstairs.”

“I’ll go with that.  Meet here?”

“Afterward, yes.”

The two ghosts moved forward to systematically haunt the palace.  Gorgar descended into the ground while Fliss merged—mostly—with the nearest wall.  They crept around the nighttime palace, watching and listening, searching for the Consuls of the Dragon and their reptilian master.

When they regrouped, they conferred.

“I found five of the Consuls,” Fliss began.  “They’ve got chambers on the top floor.  Each of them has two or three slaves, either in the bed or attending at bedside.  No sign of the scaly one.”

“I didn’t see it, either, but I did find some fancy rooms down below.  They do have dungeons, but one of them is now obviously a bathchamber, and another is outfitted for comfort.  Big, four-poster bed, a lot of velvet and silk, along with a fair amount of leather, oddly enough.  One servant, an amazingly beautiful one, but she’s the only one down there.  She might know where it keeps itself.”

“No pile of gold for sleeping on?” Fliss persisted.

“Not that I noticed.”

“Huh.  Well, maybe it’s only full-on dragons who go in for that.”

“Could be.”

“And idea where the thing went?”

“No signs of passage—secret doors, all the usual, and I did walk through and behind walls and floors.”

“Good thinking, Gorgar.  I didn’t see it, either.  It must be out.”

“I wonder what it’s doing.”

“Me, too.  On the other hand, we probably don’t want to know.”

“Oh, I’d like to know.  I might not like the deed, but I’d like to know.”

“That’s fair,” Fliss agreed.  “Do we want to eliminate the humans in this?”

“I think we need to wait until we can get the thing, too.  Aramon wants to question it.  So do I.”

“Also fair.  Let’s go back.”

“Lead on.”

When Fliss and Gorgar returned to the room, a white light shone from the medallion like a window into the sun.  Tindal ushered them out into the hall.

“Well?” Tindal asked, quietly.

“No sign of our scaly friend,” Fliss reported, “but the other five are rooming on the top floor.”

“Then we need to discuss.  Can it wait until morning?”

“Probably.”

“Very well.  We will wait until Aramon finishes his meditations.”

“I’m all for that,” Fliss agreed.  “Just out of curiosity, is that light supposed to, you know, hurt ghosts or spirits or whatever we are?”

“I am uncertain.”

“Yeah… let’s wait out here.”

After some time, Y’vin returned to find his companions still waiting in the hall.  After they explained why, he glanced at the light shining through the cracks of the door and elected to remain with them.

Finally, the light dimmed, diminished, and went out.  Tindal put his head through the door to take in the situation.  The four returned to the room to bring Aramon up to date.

“Any chance we can take them quietly and interrogate them for the whereabouts of the dragon-child?” he asked, once they finished.

“That’s a good question.”  Fliss looked thoughtful, absently flipping a ghostly dagger.  Y’vin regarded the action with interest.  At last, Fliss concluded, “Yes.  If all of us can get up to the top floor—yes.  Mind you, it’ll involve some sneaking on your part, Aramon, and some temporary body-snatching on our parts, but I think so.  We pick a room and take it, people and all.  You stay in it to keep captives captive while the four of us go fetch back the other four Consuls.  Once we have everyone of importance in the same room and suitably tied up, we can start asking probing questions, possibly even sharp and pointy questions.”

“Before we begin,” Tindal interrupted, “has anyone any news about the Lord Mayor?  Where is he during all this?  Has he objected to any of the actions of these Consuls of the Dragon?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” Fliss admitted.  “Gorgar?  It’s your home town.”

“I dunno what the Lord Mayor is doing,” Gorgar said, slowly.  “I can tell you what I know of him.  He’s in his fifties and a widower—lost wife and child to the birthing-chair.  Since then he’s been a bit of a self-indulgent prick, but he’s run the place pretty well, I guess.  I’d think he’d object to being kicked out, though.”

“I didn’t see any sign of him in the palace,” Fliss noted.  “Did you see him in the dungeons?”

“No.  And I did look at every room.  If we manage to kick out the Consuls, can we turn loose the poor bastards in the cells?  I’m sure they’re down there for a reason, but I’d guess they paid for whatever crimes they committed—or offenses against his lordship.”

“I am amenable to this,” Aramon offered, “provided their hearts are tested by the light of my blade.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Gorgar agreed.

“On that subject, how do you intend to get me inside the palace?” Aramon asked.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Fliss replied.  “I’m wondering if I can step into someone and not grab their body.  Instead, maybe I can think loudly and make them have an idea.  I mean, if they have a thought in their heads of ‘I really need to piss,’ maybe they’ll go off to the privy whether they need to or not.  Things like that.”

“I object to using people in this manner,” Aramon pointed out.

“Then I have a possible solution,” Y’vin offered.

“Oh?”

“You’ll be happy to know I didn’t experiment with anyone alive.  Fortunately—or not, I suppose, depending on one’s perspective—this city has its share of lethal alleys.  Finding a reasonably fresh corpse is time-consuming, but almost certain to succeed.  Once I put the body on, I could use it like my own.”

“How did it go?”

“I tried a few small spells to confirm it worked.  It did.  With a fresh body, I’m a wizard again.  Then I tried to over-do Weiger’s Earthen Coagulation.”

“Beg pardon?”

“A wizard doesn’t have muscles like you or Gorgar.  We exercise our akhenaté—it’s one small part of the spirit, specifically to do with using magic.  It’s like a magic muscle, sort of.  The difference is, we have to build it up and know our limits.”  Y’vin looked vexed for a moment.

“Try this.  Imagine you have a rock to lift.  You have a pretty good idea if you can or not just by looking at it.  If you try and you can’t quite do it, you can try a little harder, but if that fails, you can’t lift it.

“With a wizard, it’s different.  You want that rock lifted?  Fine.  We can ‘lift’ with a spell up to our usual limits, like you lift with your muscles.  But we can over-do it in ways you can’t.  Imagine if you could try so much harder that you could rip the flesh from your bones and your arms from their sockets.  You aren’t any stronger, but you can tear muscles and break bones—which means you lift the rock.  It may kill you, but you did it.”

“So, a wizard can give his all for a single spell and achieve a powerful effect?”

“I should have just said that,” Y’vin complained.  “It’s disconcerting when you people demonstrate intelligence.”

“We try not to do it in front of you,” Fliss told him, grinning.

“What,” Aramon asked, holding up his hands for silence, “did you do with the earthen spell?”

“Weiger’s Earthen Coagulation transforms dirt and mud into solid rock.  I picked a muddy street and hit it with the spell as hard as I could.  Normally, I’d expect to transform no more than… oh, the street outside a building.  The whole street, across, but only up and down the road for about the length of one building.”

“And what happened?”

“It went off beautifully.  The mud in front of me crackled and solidified while the spell took hold and started rolling down the road.  It kept going for quite a way, too—much better than I expected.”

“I see.  And the body?”

“That was a little more troublesome.  It didn’t quite turn to stone, but it stiffened and solidified much more than a normal body ever gets.  Even those dried-up, preserved corpses we encountered—the ones wrapped in all the bandages?—weren’t as hard and solid as my corpse.”

“What did you do with it?”

“It’s still standing there.  I couldn’t move it.  I could barely even stay in it.”

“Hmm.  Awkward, but also expected, yes?”  Aramon asked.  Y’vin shrugged.

“I knew something unpleasant would happen.  In hindsight, I’m hardly surprised.  But this means all we need to do is find a convenient corpse and I can put spells on you.  Invisibility, at least.  I don’t know if I can do Elohir’s Vaporous Transmogrification—I’ve never been able to do it before—but there’s a chance I can actually get it to work.”

“And what,” Aramon asked, suspiciously, “does Elohir’s spell do?”

“It temporarily turns the subject into a vapor, allowing him to float, drift, squeeze through cracks, and so on.  You won’t actually be immaterial; you can’t go through walls, but you could float with us, drift through a window like smoke, and re-form inside the target room.”

“Interesting.  If it works.”

“That’s the drawback.  I’ve never been powerful enough to do it safely.  Now, though…”

“We shall reserve this plan for later.  For the moment, we should concentrate on what we know we can do.  Fliss?  Can you draw a map—that is, describe to me the layout of the palace and correct me as I draw it?”

“Of course.”

“Good.  I think better when I have a map.”

“I know.  That’s part of why I paid attention.”

“Very good.  Gorgar, if you will help with the parts you explored?”

“Of course.”

“Let us begin.”

With a lamp and the pre-dawn light, Aramon examined the roughly-sketched maps of the palace.  Hardly a palace, he reflected, but much more than a house.  Big enough for several houses, easily, with rooms to spare, but it was a working building, not merely a residence.

“If Y’vin cannot turn me to mist, we go in here,” he said, pointing at a side door.  “Fliss says he has a way to open it.  This gives me access to the rear stairs.  Gorgar and Tindal occupy the guards on the landings—assuming they are alert, rather than sleeping at their posts.”

“Good odds on that,” Fliss offered.  “They were dozing when Gorgar and I went through the place.”

“Either way, we reach the top floor.  Who opens that door?”

“Gorgar, since he’s best with bodies.  Whoever is handy gets taken and forced to escort you to the nearest bedroom.  The rest of us get into anyone in the room and keep everything quiet.”  Fliss paused and regarded Aramon with a pensive expression.  “I know you don’t like the whole dishonorable actions in combat thing—I don’t understand your warrior’s code or whatever, but I respect how it’s important to you.  Are you going to have a problem with any of this?”

“You believe we can capture everyone in a room without killing them?”

“Probably without even hurting them, just terrifying the pants off them—if they’re wearing any.”

“Dark forces are turning against evildoers,” Aramon replied.  “If you choose to use your powers for good, I will not stop you.  I need not approve of their use, but…” he trailed off and glanced out the window, at the growing light.  “There are things beyond my understanding, and your purpose—your destiny and your fate—may be among them.”

“Uh, all right,” Fliss replied, clearly not understanding.

“Now, gentlemen, if you undead manifestations of my friends will excuse us, Tindal and I must attend to our morning prayers.”

“Oh.  Sure.  Sure.  Good morning.  Say hello to the gods for us.”

“We will do so,” Aramon assured him.  Fliss, Gorgar, and Y’vin flowed again into their gems.  Aramon turned to Tindal.

“Are you prepared for this?”

“I don’t know,” Tindal admitted.  “I hope I am.”

“How do you intend to…”

“Ask for a sign?” Tindal finished.  “Simple enough, I think.  I shall ascend to the roof and face the dawn in prayer.”

“May I ask?  Why have you not done so before now?”

“Aramon, I am not like you, able to set aside fear.  I am only a man.  A man and a priest, yes, but not one graced with such a power.  I was afraid.  I am afraid.”

“Then be without fear,” Aramon said, placing one hand over the symbol of Namae.  “What have you to fear?  You are already dead.  If Ashkelon calls you into the light, we will miss you, but you will have fulfilled your purpose.  If you remain, we will rejoice that you continue to journey with us.  Either way, it is good.”

“You make a good point.  I hope my fears are groundless.”

“Go,” Aramon advised.  “Do not miss the dawn.”

Tindal drifted upward, through the ceiling.  Aramon, meanwhile, placed his sword in the floor again and went to one knee to pray.

Dawn came.  Light covered the shard, brightened, moved on into full daylight.

Tindal sank downward through the ceiling.  Aramon glanced up at him.

“Any news from Ashkelon?”

“Nothing unpleasant.”

“I see you remain with us.”

“Yes, although I confess I do not know why.”

“Why?”

“Why am I still here?  Everything I know says I should vanish like mist in the light of the new-risen sun.”

“An interesting theological conundrum,” Aramon admitted.  “I begin to believe we do not understand what motivates the gods.  Worse, we only dimly understand what it is they may want of us.”

“If at all.”

“If at all,” he agreed.  “Until then, we must forge ahead in our belief that we do what is right.  Doubtless, if we err, they will send us some sign.  We will certainly look for every opportunity to ask for one.”

“I find it difficult to believe we can be so blind to the desires of the gods,” Tindal sighed, dejectedly.

“Is there anything we can do but our best?”

“No.”

“Rest in your gem.  I have bolted the door and latched the window shutters.  Tonight, we go to challenge servants of the dragon and begin in earnest our campaign against it.  We will need our strength.”

Tindal flowed into his gem.

The day passed with only minor disturbances.  Someone attempted to open the shutters with a narrow piece of metal.  Aramon noticed and, when the second-story man swung the shutters aside, Aramon was already standing at the window.  The would-be thief found him hard to see; his eyes focused mostly on the point of the sword touching the tip of his nose.  Aramon was kind enough to let the man climb down and run for it.

In all other respects, the rest of the day was a day of rest and prayer in preparation for the evening’s activities.

Their assault started shortly after midnight, as soon as the night-roaming ghosts found a suitable corpse for Y’vin.  Once he occupied it, he cast the invisibility spell on Aramon, reducing him to nothing more than a rippling in the air.

Y’vin rubbed his borrowed hands together and started work on Elohir’s Vaporous Transmogrification.  He took his time—almost half an hour—and did it with all the accoutrements of his trade in place.  The spell crackled around the occupied corpse, building up, before it sparked across the air and engulfed Aramon.

The corpse dissolved like smoke.  Aramon, on the other hand, remained invisible.

“Aramon?” Y’vin’s ghost asked, standing where the corpse once stood.  “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” whispered the night.  A faint shimmer, a ripple of distortion, flowed through the room.  “I seem to be a cloud,” he finished, faintly.

“Well, it went better than I expected.”

“I am pleased for yo—” Aramon began, before making a strangled, breathy noise.  A clattering, clanking thud followed.

“Aramon!  Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he replied.  The faint ripple throughout the room was gone, concentrated in a vaguely man-shaped area in the middle of the floor.  Aramon lay still for a moment and the ripple became almost impossible to see.

“What happened?”

“I seem to be solid again.  Perhaps your spell did not last as long as we might have desired?”

“That’s… certainly one possibility,” Y’vin agreed.  “I’m not too familiar with the exact parameters of the thing.”

“Regardless, it seems to be less than viable for our upcoming activities.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it?” Tindal asked.

“I am.”  The distortion rippled and shifted, scraped and clanked as Aramon regained his feet.  “I feel fine, aside from, perhaps, some minor bruises.”

“If you say so,” Tindal agreed.  “Gentlemen?  Since we cannot simply float to our objective, shall we enter the palace the hard way?”  Everyone in the room nodded.  Aramon agreed aloud.

“Very well,” Tindal decided.  “Let’s do this.”

The ghosts floated out through the wall.  Aramon crept out through the inn.  Few enough people were awake, much less roaming about; he encountered no one.  The group moved through the streets like normal people, almost indistinguishable from solid forms in the dark.  Across the city, along the road, up the hills toward the center and the palace.

Crossing the fence at the edge of the palace grounds was simple enough.  The fence was a series of vertical iron bars, pointed at the top, joined together with a crossbar near the ground and near the top.  Lacking lights, it was little more than a delay, not even a real obstacle.  Aramon placed one armored boot against a bar, seized the one next to it, and heaved, forcing them apart.  Two more pushes, grunting quietly, and the opening was large enough for him to step through, sideways, with little more than a quiet scraping sound from his breastplate.

The group approached the palace.  Lights shone from within, of course, and lanterns hung brightly over the main doors for the convenience of the guards.  The side doors, however, were locked and barred on the inside, unilluminated and unguarded.

Fliss reached the door ahead of everyone else.  He gestured for everyone to wait and crouched to reach into the lock, his fingers passing through the metal.

“What are you doing?” Y’vin whispered.

“Concentrating,” Fliss hissed.  Y’vin took it as a hint and fell silent.  Fliss closed his eyes and cocked his head, brows drawing together.  He made a sharp movement and something clicked inside the door.  Fliss sighed and rose.

“Aramon, if you would?”

“How did you do that?” Aramon asked.

“We can move things, at least a little.  It’s not easy,” Fliss added.

“Why did you not mention this sooner?” Y’vin demanded.

“I only found out a few seconds ago.”

Y’vin made a noise partway between a scream and a growl, but did so quietly.  Fliss grinned at him as Aramon tried the door.  It refused to budge.

“What now, O Keeper of Secrets?” Y’vin asked.  Fliss shrugged and stepped through the door.  A moment later, there was a metal-on-wood sound.  Fliss stuck his head out through the door.

“It was bolted.  Try again.”

Aramon opened the door easily.

“I’m going to have to experiment with this,” Y’vin muttered.

“Later,” Aramon whispered.  He drew his sword a few inches from the scabbard.  A pale radiance scattered from the exposed edge, little more than candlelight.  It was enough to avoid a number of cooking tables and racks of utensils.  The ghosts moved ahead through everything to prepare the way.  Aramon closed and bolted the door, then followed more slowly, trying to keep quiet.

The stairs were unguarded until the topmost landing.  The sentry sat on the stairs, dozing against the wall, when Gorgar drifted into him and took control.  He snapped upright, saluted as everyone passed, and fell in behind Aramon.  The other ghosts moved forward to secure the nearest bedroom while Aramon and Gorgar waited outside the door to the stairs.

“How is the guard?” Aramon inquired.

“Panicking.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“He can hear and see.  He knows what’s happening.  He can’t do anything is all.”

“Ah.  Good.  Then listen to me, guardsman.  You are under control, but you are in no danger.  If you will remain calm and wait, you will be released unharmed.  Make trouble and I have no doubt the entity within you can grab your head and turn it completely around.”

“Didn’t exactly calm him down,” Gorgar noted, “but he’s trying very hard to stay out of my way.”

“Then I am content, for now.  Remember, he is not to be harmed unless he makes trouble.”

“Got it.”

Fliss stuck his head through the wall.

“Come through, take the first door on the left.”  He vanished back through the wall.  Aramon opened the door and the two corporeal types went through.  Down the hall a few yards, open the door on the left, duck through, close it quickly, bolt it…

A shuttered lantern opened.  Other figures lit other lamps.  There were no ghosts visible, but a man and two women were moving.  Two more women were bound and gagged with bedding and clothes.

“I will not ask who is wearing what,” Aramon noted.  “Instead, let us move on to more immediate matters.  Do we interrogate this man now, or do we capture all of them, first?”

“This one is the Consul,” said the man.  “Let us discuss with him the difficulties he is about to undergo if he chooses not to cooperate.”

“Now, now,” Aramon chided.  “The fall from the window is likely to kill him.  We will get no information from him if he dies.”

“There are others.”

“True, but perhaps he will be cooperative.  Can you let him speak?”

“I will make the attempt.”

The man cleared his throat even has his own hands moved up around it.

“Uh?  Yes?  What do you want to know?”

“Who are you is a good start.”

“My name is Medlin.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m a Consul of the Dragon.  I’m one of the rulers of this place.”

“When did you meet with the dragon?  Where?  Why did it appoint you to the position?”

“I didn’t.  That is, I never saw the dragon, just the dragon’s daughter.  She said her father, the dragon, wanted someone to govern more distant cities for it, make sure they made their offerings, all that.”

“Ah.  Where is she?”

“She has chambers underground, but I don’t know if she’s down there right now.”

“Where else would she be?”

“Uh…”

The man’s own hands tightened slightly around his throat.  He swallowed with difficulty.

“She has a dining room.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s the small room off the main dining hall.  That’s where she eats, I think.  The servants put a lot of meat in there and leave it.  It’s gone by morning.  Other than that, I don’t know.  We try to stay out of her way.”

“Very good.  So, do any of your fellow Consuls have anything to do with the dragon?  Or are they all subordinate to your dragon-child master?  Before you answer, remember I will be asking them all before the night is through.  It would be well to tell the truth, for you cannot all lie in the same manner.”

“We all work for the dragon-lady.  She said it was easy work, comfortable conditions, good food, all that.”

“Very good.”  Aramon nodded to Gorgar.  Gorgar’s guardsman body moved behind Medlin and wrapped arms around his head and neck.  After a few moments, Medlin’s eyes rolled up and he collapsed.

After securing the room—and the physical occupants—the group discussed, softly, what to do.

“We could continue our interrogations,” Fliss suggested.  “One of the others might know more.”

“Or not, and we’d have wasted time,” Y’vin replied.  “I say we do a quick search of the place.  If we can find her, we grab her.  If she’s not here, we can come back and grab the rest of the Consuls.”

“But what happened to the Lord Mayor?” Gorgar asked.  “We should restore him to power.”

“She’ll know that.  I doubt her lackeys will.”

“Huh.  Maybe.  Tindal?”

“In some measure, I agree with Y’vin.”

“Oh, the end of the world is nigh,” Fliss moaned.

“Silence, undead creature,” Tindal ordered.

Fliss opened his mouth to say something flip, but nothing came out.  He looked perplexed while Tindal continued to speak.

“I agree with Y’vin’s reasoning,” Tindal rephrased, “but it is a worthy thing to have the rest of the Consuls.  To cut the head from a serpent is to slay the serpent, but cutting the head from a hydra merely grows more heads.”  Gorgar nodded and shuddered, remembering.  Tindal went on, “If we find the dragon-lady, we have the leader, but her lieutenants may prove troublesome.”

“I agree,” Aramon added.  “Gentlemen?  Shall we gather the rest of the Consuls and see if they will locate the dragon-lady?”  The ghosts nodded.

Room by room, they quietly invaded.  Ghosts possessed anyone awake and used them to subdue anyone asleep.  Aramon entered after anyone not possessed was suitably held and silenced.  A few minutes later, after Gorgar used his choke-hold and everyone used whatever was to hand to bind and gag their prisoners, they moved on to the next room.

“Is it just me,” Fliss asked, as they finished the last of the Consuls’ rooms, “or do the lady Consuls seem more serious about their job than the men?”

“It’s not just you,” Y’vin assured him.  “I haven’t seen this much paperwork since my apprenticeship with old master Kazan.  Figures and reports, mostly,” he added, regarding some of the papers.

“Is it a material fact?” Aramon asked.

“Probably not, but it’s interesting.  The men seem more interested in enjoying themselves, at least in their quarters.  The ladies take their work to bed with them.  I didn’t see a lap-desk in any of the men’s bedrooms.”

“Very well.  Everyone occupy a Consul and we will proceed to the dragon-lady’s room.  Perhaps she is still up, reviewing the figures on this season’s tribute.”

Y’vin, Fliss, and Tindal vanished through the walls.  Gorgar remained in his guard.

“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to stay in here.”

“I am not averse to it,” Aramon agreed.  “May I ask why?”

“I don’t feel comfortable taking a woman this way.”

“Ah.  I suspect such a reason may have motivated the sudden rush on the others’ part, racing to whichever body pleased them the most.  Very well.  Please go untie them.  We will leave the ladies here, bound but unharmed.”

“There’s the special gear in one of the other bedrooms.  It looks tailor-made for restraining ladies.”

“I will not ask how you came to such a conclusion, but I bow to your superior knowledge of such things.  Shall we bind the ladies there?”

“It’ll be more certain than the bedsheets and belts.”

“Very well.  I shall help you move them.”

With three out of five Consuls occupied and escorting him, Aramon had no trouble moving through the palace.  Gorgar, in a guard, led the way.  Other guards noted their passage but merely saluted.  The group passed unchallenged.  Shortly, they were down in the dungeons.

“Do we knock?” Fliss asked, softly.

“I’ll hold your body,” Gorgar offered.  “Go look.”

“Suits me.”  Fliss knelt and Gorgar placed the Consul in a hold.  Fliss stepped out, stuck his head through the door, stepped back into the body.

“Not seeing a dragon lady, but the pretty lady you mentioned is snoring on the bed.”

“Snoring?”

“Like the purring of one of those big cat-things on Sonolia.”

“Do we have a way in?”

“Not unless someone grabs her and has her open the door.  I could open the door, I think.  The lock is no trouble and both the bolts I can manage, but I’m not sure I can lift the bar.  Even if I can, the bar won’t be quiet.”

“Strange,” Aramon said, puzzled.  “Very well.  Go ahead.  We’ll question her once we have to door locked behind us.”

“My feet are like wings.”  Fliss vanished through the door again.  Moments later, a stunning brunette in her nightgown opened the door.  Her eyes were closed and she moved with a slow, shuffling step.  She raised a finger to her lips before she turned and shuffled slowly back to her bed.  She settled into place with a sigh.

The room was luxurious, if a trifle damp.  Rugs covered a new, wooden floor.  The bed was centered in the room, surrounded by wardrobe, chests, and dressing-table.  On the bed, the woman lay still, her hair trailing across the pillow in a loose river of black.  Her eyes moved rapidly beneath closed lids and her breathing came quick.

Fliss slipped out of her and re-occupied his terrified Consul.  The group entered quietly and Fliss locked the door behind them.  They took up stations around the bed.  Aramon and Gorgar traded looks and gestures; if the woman woke and started screaming, Aramon would hold the guard while Gorgar possessed the woman.

At Gorgar’s signal, Fliss tugged on the woman’s toes to wake her.  She stirred, grumbling, took in her situation, and stared wildly about.

“Medlin!  Talgon!  What’s the meaning of this?”

“We were going to ask you that,” Y’vin answered, using Talgon’s mouth.  “Where’s the dragon-lady?”

Instantly, the woman’s eyes narrowed.  She looked intently at everyone before settling on Aramon.

“You.  Who are you?  And what have you done with the Consuls?”

“Please, let us not be so adversarial.  I am Aramon.  And you are?”

“Going to see you split in two and your entrails used to hang what’s left of you for a feast of crows.”  She reached for a bell-pull by the bed, but Gorgar, sword out, severed it high up, against the bedpost.

“Before you start summoning servants and guards, maybe we should talk.  You’ll be dead before anyone gets here and the three Consuls under our control will tell the guards to go away.  Think about it.”

She looked around the bed again, as though gauging her chances of ducking between her captors and running for it.  She obviously didn’t like her chances.  She remained silent.

“I see.  Very well, since you do not wish to answer my questions, you must be judged.  I find you guilty of usurping authority over this city.  The sentence is death.”  Aramon drew his sword and the edge shone with light.  “Do you have any last words before you are executed?” he asked, resting the flat of the weapon on her shoulder, the edge barely touching her neck.

“Wait!” she insisted, craning her neck to get away from the edge.  “Wait, wait, wait!  You haven’t asked any questions!  I can be much more agreeable!”

“Hmm.  I thought we asked about the dragon-lady.”

“So you did… all right.  My mistake.  Can we start over?”

“She did just wake up,” Fliss suggested, playing the voice of reason.  Aramon frowned, but nodded.

“Against my better judgment, I will allow it,” he said, pretending reluctance.  “First of all, what is your name?”

“Onarra.”

“On-a-ra?”

“Oh-NAHR-ah.”

“My apologies.  I am not so talented a linguist and names are a particular weakness.  What is your purpose, here?”

“Money.”

“I hate to encourage wanton violence, but perhaps you could elaborate before I remove your head and have a wizard interrogate your corpse?”

“Ah… you can do that?”

“I know a quite powerful wizard who is not at all far away.  Do not test me.”

Onarra looked at him intently.  Aramon met her gaze, his face like stone.

“All right,” she said, slouching somewhat.  “I’m a sorceress.”

“Go on.”

“I’m the dragon-lady.”

“I am afraid you will have to be more elaborate with your explanation.”

“Fine!” she huffed, unmindful of the sword on her shoulder.  “I do illusions.  It’s my power.  I pretended to be a dragon-lady and hired these traitorous idiots as a distraction.  These men thought I was her servant when I’m not disguised.  We came into town and pretended to be representatives of the dragon.  Once we had an audience with the lord mayor, they took care of him and his cronies and set themselves up to run the place for me.  As the dragon-lady, I set myself up down here and let them run the place.”  She started to shrug, thought better of it.

“So, you intend to rule Trinnian?” Aramon asked.

“Of course not!  I’m in this for the money.  Eventually, this is all going to fall apart, what with the dragon and all.  When it does, I plan—planned—to take my wagon and my loot and head for the far distance.  How you caught on to my plan I don’t know.  How did you figure out I wasn’t who I said I was?  Is there a real representative of the dragon?  Or what?”

The possessed bodies traded looks with each other and with Aramon.  Fliss smiled slightly.

“Actually, your henchmen and would-be dupes never suspected anything until now,” he told her.  “My name is Fliss, and I’m a possessing spirit currently animating this helpless piece of meat.  He’s more than a little angry about being duped, by the way.”

“I’m Y’vin.”

“Tindal.”

“Gorgar.”

“And I am Aramon, although I am not a possessing spirit.  So, you claim you are not in league with the dragon, merely a common trickster and thief?”

“Hardly common,” Fliss murmured.

“Trickster, maybe,” Onarra allowed.  “I don’t think you can call me a thief.  I’m in charge of the city and my minions are collecting tribute.  If I’m a thief, I’m stealing from the dragon.”

“You are ruling the city under false pretenses,” Aramon stated.

“Well, not for long,” Onarra observed.  “I’ll be leaving as soon as you let me.”

“Wait a minute,” Gorgar said.  “If she’s an illusion-maker, how do we know we actually have her here?”

“She wouldn’t be answering our questions if she wasn’t,” Fliss pointed out.

“Yeah, but how do we know she’s not really a dragon-lady pretending to be a trickster-thief?”

“That’s… actually a good point,” Fliss admitted.  “Y’vin?”

“She’s a sorceress of illusion.  Could be.  I’m not exactly prepared to pierce illusions.”

“Then, is she really here?” Fliss asked.

“She is.  Illusions can’t be touched.  I can’t guarantee we’re seeing her true form, though.”

“What would it take?” Aramon asked.

“Well, if Gorgar wants to make her take a nap, I can probably pierce any remaining illusion.  I don’t feel up to fighting her powers, though, so putting her lights out would be required.”

“You know,” Onarra said, “I’m right here.  I can hear every word.”

“And I don’t much care,” Y’vin snapped.  “You’re lucky to be alive.  I’m a possessing spirit in the body of one of your unwitting henchmen, so I know what I’m talking about.  He’s willing to knife you right now, so I won’t get any resistance if I try it.  Don’t push me.”

Onarra, wisely, held her tongue.

“My lady,” Fliss said, bowing.  “Perhaps I can help calm these tempers.  Will you consent to speak with me?”

“Very well,” she agreed, suspiciously.  Fliss made a gentle gesture at Aramon.  Aramon arched an eyebrow, but moved his blade from Onarra’s throat.

“There.  That’s much better, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I suppose I would.”

“Allow me to apologize for the strident demands of my friends.  They have been under great strain ever since most of us died.  I’m sure you can imagine the difficulties.”

“Yes, I suppose… if I try.  Maybe.  Who are you people?”

“Alas, a mere recitation of names does not count as an introduction.  This is Sir Aramon of the Order of the Warrior, Church of Namae.  This is the ghost of the priest, Tindal, of the Holy Light of Ashkelon.  Y’vin, of course, is our wizard, a thaumaturge of the college of wizards on Kybrian shard.  Gorgar is a native of this shard—this town, actually—a former soldier, former bandit, and a professional man-at-arms.  I am Fliss, a professional cutpurse, pickpocket, acrobat, and all-around thief.  I speak for us all when I say it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Onarra repeated, sarcastically.

“Now that we have the introductions behind us, allow me to explain, in brief, the nature of our quest.  We have already encountered the dragon which lords its power over this region.  In this encounter, four of our party were killed and the fifth badly wounded.  Our goal, alive and dead, is to see the monster slain.  Now, we hear the Consuls of the Dragon have taken control of the city and are governing it in the name of that selfsame dragon.  Naturally, we have investigated.  What we have discovered is the presence of some sort of half-breed dragon as the mistress of the Consuls and therefore the mistress of the city.  Our intent is to find her, question her regarding her relationship to the dragon, and hopefully glean information from her regarding its plans.  Our ultimate intent is to kill the beast, of course, but first things first, as they say.”

“I see.”

“Good, good!  Now, you imply you use your illusion powers to disguise yourself as the dragon-lady, accumulating wealth meant for the dragon, with the intent of absconding with it under the guise of delivering it as tribute—or leaving suddenly if and when your ruse is discovered.  Such as, for example, tonight.”

“I’d say you’ve summed it up.”

“Excellent!  Now, how are we to know you have not concocted this story to hide the fact you actually are a dragon-lady?”

“I… huh.  That’s…” she trailed off, thinking.  “That’s a good question.  I really don’t know.”

“Y’vin?”

“Well, I can perform some spells to detect illusion.  They’re not too difficult, but they require concentration and some time.  Piercing an illusion to see the truth is much more difficult.  If she’ll drop all her illusion powers, I can confirm it.  The body I’m occupying would love to know if she’s lying or not, so he won’t distract me while I work.”

“I’d rather not,” Onarra said, not looking at anyone.

“Should I assume you are presently in disguise?” Fliss asked, uncertainly.

“No.  This is my actual appearance, or mostly.”

“Mostly?” Gorgar echoed.

“Oh, I’m human, not partly dragon.”

“Then, this isn’t your actual appearance?” Gorgar pressed.

“I’m a sorceress of illusion.  I can look however I want!”

“I understand,” Fliss soothed.  “Do excuse my friend for being somewhat intimidated by your beauty.  He once had a bad experience with an illusory room full of captives, whom he tried to free.  It did not end in a salubrious fashion.”

“Typical man,” she muttered.

“Yes, but only in very limited ways.  Now, could we persuade you to drop your illusions?”

“I doubt it,” Onarra scoffed.  Aramon sighed.

“Very well.  Since we cannot determine truth from falsehood, she is useless to us.  We waste time with this.”  He raised his sword and prepared to thrust it through her.

“But I could be wrong!” Onarra protested, raising her hands.  “I suppose, if my life depends on it…”

Aramon paused as she rippled and faded, shrinking and changing.  In moments, the voluptuous beauty sitting on the bed became a rather plain, teenaged girl.  Aramon lowered his blade and stepped back, white-faced.  The rest of the party looked at each other.

“So, you’re what… twelve?” Gorgar asked.

“Fourteen!” she shouted, voice higher and far less sultry.  Fliss put his face in his hands.

“Well, this is awkward,” Y’vin observed.

“And unlikely,” Tindal added.  “We cannot know she is what she appears to be.  She may have chosen the form of a young girl to play upon our sympathies.”

“I’m not that young!”

“I believe her,” Fliss said, wincing slightly at the shriek of outrage.

“Nevertheless, I must impose upon Y’vin and his talents.”

“Working on it now.”  Y’vin muttered and chanted quietly.  His host’s eyes began to glow as he looked around the bedroom.  He examined everything closely, occasionally poking at various objects.  He moved face to face with Onarra, searching her features with great care, frowning, and observed her from several angles.  At last, he nodded, satisfied.

“Everyone look around,” he ordered.  “What you see is no illusion.  If something changes suddenly, blame her.”

“Oh, good,” she said, looking around at everyone.  “Satisfied?”

“For the most part.  We’ve established the truth, at least,” Tindal agreed.

“I have a question,” Gorgar began.  “What of the Lord Mayor?  Is he alive?”

“I don’t know” Onarra admitted.  “Dead, probably.  He didn’t want to give up his authority when we announced ourselves.  I pretended to breathe fire at the stonework ceiling and the guards suddenly were on our side instead of his.  Borolan,” she nodded at Fliss’ body, “had him taken to the dungeons.”  Onarra shrugged.  “He’s not a nice man, but he has his uses.”

Aramon sheathed his sword and walked stiffly from the room.  Tindal’s eyebrows drew together in puzzlement before he followed Aramon.  The rest remained to continue their discussion with the prisoner.

“Aramon?”

“Useless!” Aramon hissed.

“What is?”

“Her!  This whole—” he broke off, mastering his temper.  “Tindal,” he began, more quietly, “we have wandered to and fro upon this shard, first to seek help, then to seek information, then here, to the palace of the mayor, to challenge a lackey of the dragon.  We have accomplished nothing!  This girl—this Onarra—is useless to us!  She has no connection with the beast.  She is little more than a common thief, albeit one of magical nature.”

“And this frustrates you.”

“Yes!  I should have turned around and ridden back into the lair of the beast while it was still wounded in the hope it was weakened enough to be slain.”

“Perhaps,” Tindal allowed.  “Yet, here we are.”

“Yes, here we are, wasting time and wasting lives.  Some town, somewhere, is feeding the foul thing a sacrifice.  Not every day, of course, but every day makes it more likely another innocent life is lost to a creature of evil.  And now we’ve wasted our time here, again, with nothing to show for it!”

“Perhaps,” Tindal repeated.

“What do you mean, ‘perhaps’?  Have you nothing else to say?”

“Perhaps the things we have gained are not readily apparent to you, my friend.”

“Oh?  Name three.”

“We have learned to possess and control bodies—best of all, dead ones, so we do not offend against the strictures regarding the domination of one’s will over another’s.  Y’vin has discovered a powerful ability to cast spells beyond his usual strength.  Gorgar can utilize any physical power of the creature he occupies.  Fliss proved we can exert some small force over physical objects.  I, too, have discovered much about the spiritual relationship I have with my god.  Ashkelon does not burn me with the rising sun—perhaps he will not turn his face away from my prayers.  While you and I have had our troubles with understanding the will of our respective gods, they nevertheless seem to be in favor of our quest, granting you the powers you have always known, perhaps even favoring me with aid if I ask for it.  What more would you have?  Letters of fire in the sky?  Beings of light delivering scrolls?  Or just egg in your beer?”

Aramon leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

“Yes.  Yes, we are making progress,” he admitted.  “Slowly.  It does not feel as though we are… doing all we can.  It feels inadequate.  Frustrating, yes.  Even infuriating.  Perhaps that is the best word, for I feel a fury within and I do not know how long I can contain it.”

“‘Righteous is your wrath,’” Tindal quoted.

“‘…for pure is the heart wherein it burns,’” Aramon finished, and sighed.  “Thank you for the reminder.”

“I cannot help my memory, but perhaps it can help you.”

“Or I should spend more time in study.”

“As you like.  Shall we go back in?”

“I do not feel adequate to such an ordeal,” Aramon sighed.  “I will remain out here in the hall for now, if you have no objection.”

“Take your time.”  Tindal returned to the discussion.

Onarra was seated on the bed, legs folded.  Gorgar occupied the dressing-table’s chair.  The rest stood or leaned near at hand.  They spoke more freely, less an interrogation and more of a conversation.

“So, you can’t actually make anyone feel something, but they can taste, smell, see, and hear?” Gorgar asked.

“Mostly.  I can alter the way something feels, but there has to be something there to feel in the first place.  Smooth can be rough, hot can be cold, hard can be soft.”

“How precise are your illusions?  How lifelike?” Y’vin asked.

“It’s accurate if I’m remembering it—including the things I built, works of illusionary art—but I can only do one thing at a time.  They don’t move correctly if there are more than one.”

“But inanimate things?” Y’vin persisted.  “Walls, rocks, dead bodies?”

“Those are easy.  I can create them and let them exist.  Movement—changes—that’s harder to do.  I have to concentrate to make something alter.  And I have to do it in a way I can sort of see it, or be close to it.”

Fliss moved quickly to Tindal’s side, pointing at Y’vin.

“He’s doing it again!  He’s doing it again!”

“What?”

“The thing with the eyes!”

“What thing with the eyes?”

“The thing where they glitter and shine!  Except now they actually do.”

Tindal regarded Y’vin.  His host’s eyes were, in point of fact, shining with a ghostly radiance.

“Very well, his eyes are glowing.  Why is this cause for concern?”

“The last time they did it, we caused an avalanche on the golthar marauders and blocked the Khebyn pass for weeks.”

“Your point?”

“The time before that, we sank the paddlewheel district of the Floating City.”

“I begin to see your point,” Tindal admitted.

“The time before that— ”

“Enough!”  Tindal turned his attention to the wizard.  “Y’vin?  Do you have some sort of reprehensible but effective idea?”

“Maybe,” the wizard allowed.  “It depends on whether or not Onarra is willing to help us.”

“Help you?” she sneered.  “All I want is to get my things and make good my escape.  You’ve destroyed all my work here.  Now I all I want is to get away before you turn my patsies loose and they try to kill me.”

“And go where?” Gorgar asked.

“Beg pardon?”

“Where will you go?  What will you do?  Keep running, lying to people, hiding who you are, stealing and swindling until you’re found out, and run again?”

Onarra’s lips pressed together in a tight, thin line as she glared at Gorgar.

“What’s it to you, ghost in a guard?”

“It’s tiring.”

“How would you know?”

“I used to be a bandit.  I pillaged and stole—killed when I needed to.  It was exhausting, being on the run all the time, never knowing when someone would recognize me and try to put a knife in my back, or summon watchmen, or report me to the local lords.  There was a price on my head, you see.”

“Tough, but you did it to yourself.”

“As you are doing to yourself,” he pointed out.  “Keep going this way and you’ll be a wanted girl—”

“Woman!”

“—woman,” Gorgar corrected, “known on every shard as an illusionist and thief.  You’ll dodge guards easily enough, but as the reward for you—alive or dead—starts to mount, you’ll see more and more people with real skill and power take an interest in you.  Assuming someone doesn’t get lucky beforehand.”

“This is where you appeal to my better nature and persuade me to join your little band of adventurers, right?  I’m not having it, ghost.  All I want is to put this stupid town behind me—dragon included.”

“Gorgar?” Fliss asked.  “If I may?”

“Go ahead,” he groused.  “She’s typical for her age—impossible.”

“So says the man with a little sister,” Fliss observed.

“That’s how I know!”

“Onarra,” Fliss began, smoothly, ignoring Gorgar, “may I offer a barely tenable suggestion?”

“What does ‘tenable’ mean?’

“I ought to point out something you haven’t considered.”

“You think I haven’t looked at this from all angles?  I’m not stupid.”

“No, but you are inexperienced.  You’re doing this for the money.  Am I correct?”

“I’ve said so often enough.”

“In regard to the money portion of the tribute, have you considered where all the tribute goes?”

“To the dragon, obviously.”

“True.  And it keeps all of it.  In a cave.  In big pile.  A pile that will still be there when we kill it.  A pile we will divide up into shares among us.  You could have an equal share, if you help us.”

Onarra’s expression shifted rapidly between emotions.  Surprise, caution, greed, fear…

“I’m not promising anything,” she said, suspiciously.

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“And I’m not swearing any oaths,” she added.

“That’s fine.  I haven’t.”

“So… what would I need to do?  Exactly?”

Chapter Nine

There was some debate about whether to move Onarra from her quarters in the palace or move into the palace with her.  The matter was complicated by the fact the possessed Consuls were witness to her true form, age, and plans.  While Gorgar, Fliss, and Y’vin were content to simply kill them and be relieved of the trouble, Aramon and Tindal put their paired feet down.

The compromise was unpalatable to everyone, but acceptable in the sense that lemon juice is better than urine.  The Consuls would be permitted to carry on governing Trinnian on their own motion, rather than as lackeys.  Gorgar was not terribly pleased by this, but the lack of any valid authority in the city, combined with the chaos a power struggle would cause, persuaded him.  Onarra—while she was still in Trinnian—would make appearances as the dragon lady to bolster their authority and encourage the idea the Consuls were a ruling council, rather than merely deputies.

The rest of the adventurers, alive and dead, would reside in the palace with Onarra.  The Consuls, happy about their new authority but still smarting from being deceived, chose to accept the situation.  Gorgar’s observation that any sort of trouble or difficulty would result in a sudden urge to leap from the roof had nothing whatsoever to do with their decision—or so they said.  They focused more on Fliss’ comments on the benefits of being the ruling council of a city—and the way those benefits would vanish if the deception was somehow revealed.

Aramon gained a room next door to Onarra’s and Y’vin gained access to the now-disused laboratory of the former Lord Mayor’s former wizard.  No one actually asked what became of the only magic-working individual in the palace.  It seemed impolite to bring it up.  But Y’vin, at long last, finally had what he referred to as “adequate tools to do a proper job.”  Fliss and Gorgar, along with their gems, spent the next few days in the laboratory, helping Y’vin look more closely into their nature.  Aramon and Tindal spent the time negotiating with Onarra and the Consuls.

Once the in-camera negotiations were completed, Y’vin was dragged away from his studies to discuss his ideas on dragon-slaying.  Once he explained, Aramon touched lightly on a few matters of concern.

“I may be mistaken in some respects, but it seems to me you want us to… collect dead people—”

“Bodies,” Y’vin corrected.  “They’re not people anymore.”

“Bodies, then.  Collect bodies, equip them in various ways, and place them in strategic positions for use in the various stages of the plan.”

“Yes.”

“Then, once those necromantic containers—”

“Corpses.”

“Corpses, yes.  Do excuse me.  Once those corpses are prepared for battle, you want us to provoke the dragon in order to assure its lair will be empty while we venture there to make further preparations.”

“Yes.”

“Then, suitably enraged by our trickery, trespassing, and thievery, it will pursue us into our trap, making it quick and simple to dispatch.”

“Not exactly, no.  There’s nothing quick and simple about killing a dragon.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Aramon agreed, dryly.

“Look,” Y’vin said, “this will work.  I’ve talked it over with Onarra.  She’s never done anything on this scale before, but I’ll be helping her when the dragon actually gets there.  Besides, you’ve seen Pelamir.  The place is dragon-sick and dying anyway!”

“Which does not mean we can use it as bait.”

“Of course we can.  They aren’t able to stop us,” Y’vin replied, reasonably.

“Which does not mean we should use it as bait,” Aramon corrected himself.

“Why not?  If we do nothing, they die uselessly.  If we do this and foul it up, they die for a noble purpose, don’t they?”

“I… Yes, but no.  While you are not wrong, you are most definitely not right.  It matters not they die for noble cause; it matters that you decree their deaths when they are not yours to command.  It is wrong to use people so.”

Y’vin looked around the room at the assembled ghosts.

“Guys?  Help me out, here.”

“I’m not seeing this as a problem,” Fliss admitted.  “Then again, I’m a heathen, murderer, and thief.”

“I never said—” Aramon began, but Fliss held up a hand with a grin.

“I know, I know.  I was comparing myself to you, the paragon of virtue.  Everyone is a heathen, murderer, and thief with you for contrast.  With the possible exception of Tindal, the undead priest who exists due to necromantic powers.”

“Thank you,” Tindal snorted.

“I’m only saying you’re the one who has a problem with the practicalities of the situation,” Fliss explained.  “Again, with the possible exception of Tindal.”

“I agree with Aramon,” Tindal added, once Fliss finished.  “Not as vehemently, perhaps, but his objections are valid ones.”  Gorgar nodded.

“I agree with Tindal and with Aramon, at least in principle.  I’m open to being convinced of the necessity, but I’m not convinced yet.”

Y’vin threw up his hands.

“Great!  Just great!  Once again, we see the slow death of dozens or hundreds because your god-given moral code won’t allow us to do our damn jobs!  We’re monster-hunters and would-be dragon-slayers!  You think we can do this without innocent blood spilling?  You think we can save everyone?  We’re heroes, not gods—and sometimes I’m not too sure about ‘heroes’!  We save who we can, as many as we can!  If some of them get eaten in the process, isn’t that better than all of them?”

Aramon grimaced and turned away.  Everyone else fell silent.

“It seems to me,” Aramon said, quietly, addressing the wall, “that we have returned to the question of whether I value my honor more than the lives of a virgin girl.”

“Oh,” Y’vin said, softly.  “I forgot about that.”

“Did you?”

“Well, until you reminded me,” Y’vin admitted.  Fliss stepped next to the ghostly wizard.

“You want I should pop him in the back of the head for you?” Fliss asked.  Y’vin glared but kept his silence.

“No,” Aramon replied, and punched the stone wall.  Everyone jumped.  He hit it again, with his other fist, then twice more.  The wall was stained with red smears.  Aramon cradled his hands together and sat down heavily.

No one moved.  No one knew what to say.

“Look,” Y’vin began, “I’m sorry.  I know your faith doesn’t like—”

“Shut up.”

Y’vin shut.

“All right,” Aramon continued, breathing deeply.  “All right.  Do whatever you have to do.”

“I… what?”

“Do it.  Whatever may be required.”

“Aramon,” Tindal said, laying a ghostly hand on his shoulder and crouching next to him.  “Are you sure about this?  What will Namae say?”

“I do not know.  I fear I know all too little of the will of my god,” Aramon confessed.  “It matters not at all.”

“Aramon—”

“No, say nothing more.  We will do everything in our power, no matter the cost.  If I sin against Namae in the doing of his will, then it is so, and I accept the consequences.  If the death of such a great darkness requires the sacrifice of my honor, my life, even the blessed state I hold in Namae’s grace, then it is a price I will pay.”  Aramon climbed to his feet, still holding his hands awkwardly.  “Now, if you will excuse me, I must pray while my god will still listen.  If he will.”

The ghosts watched him go.  He closed the door behind himself and there followed a long, awkward silence.

“I don’t know whether to cry or applaud,” Fliss said.  Tindal glared at him.  Fliss held up both hands.  “No, no—I mean it.  I’m impressed as a Veltonite finding salvation.  Aramon’s the most devout person I know—including my mother—and he’s willing to give up his personal relationship with Namae to kill a dragon.  I’m not sure if that’s cause for weeping or for rejoicing.”

“He is not doing it to kill a dragon,” Y’vin corrected.

“Oh?  It sounded like it to me.”

“He’s doing it to save people from a dragon.  There is a difference.”

“Is there?”

“It may be too subtle for you,” Y’vin suggested.

“Maybe.  I’m not religious.”

“Neither am I.  We leave that to the professionals.”

“You are also missing something more fundamental,” Tindal pointed out, seriously.

“What’s that?”

“He’s willing to accept personal damnation to carry out the will of his god.”

“Isn’t that a bit…” Y’vin sought for a word.  “Paradoxical?”

“Yes.  My own paradoxical relationship with Ashkelon gives me some insight into Aramon’s state of mind.”

“What about his state of mind?” Fliss asked.

“It’s complicated.  It’s also a very private and personal religious matter,” Tindal added, gently.  “Besides, you’re not religious, remember?”

“Except when gambling,” Gorgar added.

“Or in bed with a really good whore,” Fliss agreed, grinning again.  “All right, I’ll leave Aramon alone.  So, how do we get a supply of dead bodies?”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Y’vin admitted.  “We want them as fresh as possible, so they either need to be preserved or they need to die right before we need them.”

“Sounds tricky.”

“Luckily, we know someone with a dungeon and a lot of city guards.”

“I’m not sure how that helps us,” Gorgar said, brows drawing together.  “I mean, if we empty out the city’s dungeons, load all the bodies on a wagon, and head west, we’ll have some pretty ripe corpses by the time we get to Pelamir.”

“There are some logistics problems,” Y’vin admitted, “but I think we can organize something.  Instead of killing the murderers, rapists, thieves, and other criminals, we’ll slave-chain them together and simply walk them to Pelamir.”

“There’s no way we can hide a slave-chain from the dragon,” Fliss pointed out.  “When we went up on our own, it was just us five and a couple of extra horses.  We hid under trees at the slightest suspicion of a flapping wing while you worked magic to keep us inconspicuous.  But a slave-chain?  What are we talking about?  Twenty?  Thirty?  More?”

“More, probably.  But we won’t even try to hide them.  They’re heading toward the dragon’s lair.  I think it will let them travel without fuss.  People traveling away are another matter, I should think.”

“Huh.  You may have something, there.  I’m not sure what, but it’s something.”

“Once we get to Pelamir—what, three days of hard marching?”

“At least four,” Gorgar advised.  “Slave-chains aren’t quick.  We’d do better in wagons.”

“I don’t want to push our luck,” Y’vin returned.  “So, four or five days of pushing these not-yet-corpses along and we’re in Pelamir.  We ghosts check on the lair—probably Tindal and I, since we’re fastest—to make sure it’s still a lair and not just a cave.  It took us three days of sneaking and observing to find it the first time.  I don’t want to start the bodies rotting and waste three more days finding the new one.

“After we have it located and charted,” Y’vin continued, “we prepare and arm a score of bodies for the lair and hide them nearby.  I’ll use one to magically preserve the rest and Tindal can pray over the weapons—we’ll need all the help we can get.”

“About that,” Tindal broke in.  “I… Aramon is not the only one with a slight crisis of faith.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Fliss advised.  “Ashkelon still hears your prayers.  Better than before, maybe, for being a spirit.”

“What do you know about it?” Tindal demanded.

“I know you told me to be silent and I suddenly found I didn’t have a choice about it.”

“What?”

“You said ‘Silence, undead creature,’ and I was.”

“I thought you were being flippant.”

“No, I was trying to be flippant and you wouldn’t let me.  Well, something wouldn’t let me.”

“That is… interesting.  Recently, I greeted the dawn for the first time since my death and was not destroyed.  I have not attempted to call upon the favor of Ashkelon in this state…”

“Maybe Aramon isn’t the only one who needs to have a talk with god,” Gorgar suggested.

“It does not work in such a manner,” Tindal replied.  “One does not talk with one’s god.  At least, not in a conversational sense.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Y’vin asked.  Tindal looked at him in surprise.

“You are offering to help with a religious matter?”

“No, I’m asking if there is anything that can be done to help,” Y’vin corrected.  “I didn’t say a word about me doing it.”  He pointed at Gorgar and Fliss.  “They might.”

“Dead or alive, you’re still you,” Fliss observed.  “All right, Tindal needs to pray a lot.  We’ll talk about it more, later.  Go on with the dragon-hunting plan.”

“Right.  We get our corpses together and get Pelamir ready.  I’m not sure what shape the town is in, how many people are there, what sort of livestock they still have—any of that.  We’ll have to adjust our plans based on the condition of the town.  However, the basic idea is you three take corpses into the lair while the dragon is out hunting.  Grab anything you can—coins, cups, jewels, whatever—and run, do not walk, do not stop, do not pause, run back to Pelamir with the loot.”  Y’vin paused to glare at Fliss.

“Do not get greedy.  Get a handful and go.  You weigh yourself down to where you can’t run at top speed and you could ruin everything.  Tell me you understand.”

“Oh, of course I understand!”

“I don’t like the easy way you said that.  Try this, instead.  Any loot we grab in this phase is going to get slagged, vaporized, destroyed.  We lose whatever we take.  Do you understand that?”

“Oh.  I understand,” Fliss agreed, miserably.

“Good.  Now, it is vital you get back to town.  Vital.  The dragon will be able to find anything and everything we take.  It will come to Pelamir and probably destroy the place in typical fire-breathing fury.”

“Hold hard a moment,” Tindal said, raising a hand.  “This is where Aramon—and I—have objections.  You are deliberately destroying Pelamir?”

“Yes and no.”

“Ah, well, now everything is clear,” Fliss responded.

“If you’ll keep quiet,” Y’vin snapped, “I’ll explain.”

“Sorry.  Tindal’s the only one who can command undead spirits to be silent.  But I’ll do it to hear you better.”

“Thank you so much.  Now, Onarra and I will be in Pelamir.  Under normal circumstances, she can’t affect something the size of a city.  It’s too big and too complex.  But we might have a way to keep Pelamir unharmed—most of it, anyway.

“Included in my wizardly repertoire are some basic scrying spells.  I intend to have one and to provide Onarra with one.  Both will look down from above, a sort of dragon’s-eye view, if you will.  Her view and my view will be slightly different, of course, because we’ll need the shift in perspective.  I will add my power to hers by stepping into her body without taking control of it.  With our combined powers, she will switch the location of Pelamir with those barren fields on the north side of it.”

“She’s going to move the whole town?” Gorgar asked, dubiously.

“No, we are going to create an illusion of the town where the fields are, and an illusion of the fields where the town is.  And, instead of trying to imagine all that, we’re going to be looking at the illusion and the reality from the two different points.  From what Onarra and I have discussed, it should work.  We see dragonfire inside the illusion, we add it to the illusion and things seem to burn.  That’s how it should go.”

“Should?” Tindal echoed.

“There are some risks,” Y’vin admitted.  “Even together, Onarra and I may not be able to move the whole town.  There might be some overlap along one side where part of the illusory town is still on top of the real town.  The dragon might strafe a long stream of fire across the place and slash into what looks like an empty field beyond.  The dragon might land and start rampaging, at which point it will discover the illusion, since it will immediately realize there is nothing to break or destroy.”  Y’vin paused for a moment.  “That last is unlikely.  Dragons despise fighting on the ground, or so I’m told.  As graceful as they are in the air, they’re much more clumsy on foot.”

“It didn’t seem clumsy in the lair,” Gorgar muttered.

“In a tight space like that, it could use its mass to good effect,” Y’vin pointed out.  Gorgar nodded.

“True.  It didn’t need to be graceful.  Lurching into us, even rolling over on us would have been effective.  I wonder if we should have faced it outside the lair?”

“It flies.  We’d have been at an even greater disadvantage.”

“Is there a point to provoking the dragon into attacking an illusory town?” Tindal inquired.

“Time,” Y’vin answered.  “We keep it occupied for as long as we can, however long it chooses to rampage.  Once it has the whole town in flames, it will probably be happy and go home.  In the meantime, the rest of you have had an opportunity to make multiple trips in and out of the lair with the preserved corpses.”

“And…?”

“And you stash them in side passages.  Later, we’ll use them to kill the dragon.”

“Are you sure about this?” Gorgar asked, dubiously.

“No.”

“Well, that makes me feel better,” Fliss said, brightly.  “I was worried.”

“Look, there are still a lot of details to work out, but this is the beginning of a plan.  No plan ever goes according to one.”

“He has a point,” Fliss admitted.  Tindal nodded, thoughtfully, while Gorgar looked even more doubtful.

“How are a bunch of corpses going to kill an armored hulk like that?  Can our weapons even get through the scales?”

“Good question,” Y’vin admitted.  “Why don’t you start thinking about it?”

Their leavetaking from Trinnian was, to the Consuls, a fantastic idea.  Without Onarra’s dragon-lady, the only rulers of the city were the Consuls—or the Council.  They were perfectly happy with that.

Onarra was less pleased.  The Council insisted she leave behind the accumulated wealth stolen from the dragon-tribute.  She gave in with poor grace, but it was either accede to their wishes or leave hurriedly—and without the necessary prisoners.

“Think of it as an investment,” Fliss consoled.  “A few coins, a few gems—so what?  There is quite a large pile of wealth waiting for you.  It’s not like ghosts can spend it.”  Onarra’s mood brightened considerably at the thought.

Collars locked, hands fastened slightly ahead of each collar, the line of prisoners marched out of Trinnian at a reluctant walk.  No one seemed sorry to see them go, not even Onarra’s former henchmen.

“They’ll own the city before we’re back,” Onarra grumbled, riding in her boxlike wagon.  Fliss, out of his gem and pretending to occupy a chair, waved an airy hand.

“They already do, sort of.  So what?  You’ll have a huge pile of money, a big wagon to haul it in, and anywhere on the shard to go.  If they want to claim Trinnian for the dragon, they’ll have a bad time of it when word of its demise reaches the city.  If they want to entrench as a ruling council instead of lackeys to a dragon-lady, they might keep the city.  They’re not challenging you for it.  Why should you care?”

“I suppose you have a point.  I still don’t like it,” she huffed, folding her arms.

“That I have a point, or that they’ll discredit your dragon-lady self?”

“The second one.”

“Don’t worry about it.  It’s not worth it.  Trust me.  I know.”

“Oh?  How do you know?”

“I’m a professional thief and sometime assassin.  People say bad things about me all the time.”  Fliss put his hands behind his head and leaned back, passing partly through the seat back.  “Can’t go around killing everyone simply because they talk too much or say things you don’t like.  What matters is whether or not you have money and time to enjoy it.  Those are the things that count.”

“What about other things?”

“Like what?”

“Um.  You know.  Men.  Women, for you, I guess.”

“You’re fourteen and unmarried,” Fliss said, leaning forward again.  “I’m guessing someone tried to marry you off and it didn’t take.”

“Oh, it took,” Onarra said, darkly.  “My father sold me for an ox and plow.”

“Criminal,” Fliss said, shaking his head.  “Practically thievery.  Just on your true appearance, he should have held out for at least three times as much—more like five—and that’s not counting the appearance you usually wear.”

“Really?  You think so?”

“If I had a body of my own, I’d take your hand and kiss it.  Of course I mean it.”

“Oh.  I… thank you.”

“So, what happened with the marriage?”

“Turns out he didn’t know he was marrying a witch.”

“But you’re not a witch.”

“I know that.  I haven’t made a deal with anything to teach me forbidden magic.  I was born with this curse.”

“I’d think it’s a gift.”

“You can refuse a gift, or give it away.  I’m stuck with this.”

“So, why is it a curse?”

“Because it does things without me doing it!”

“Could be troublesome,” Fliss admitted.  “What sort of things?”

“Well… it makes me look older, for one thing.”

“Like now?” he asked, gesturing up and down her form.  “Twenty-ish, more curves, all that?”

“Yes,” Onarra replied, looking away.

“That’s not all bad.  Could be a good indicator of how you’ll look in five or ten years.”

“It also changes the way other people look.  You look solid right now.”

Fliss looked down at himself in surprise.

“So I do.  Very nice.  I’m still not seeing how it’s a curse.”

“It does other things to other people.  People who are mean to me look uglier; people I like look better.  They smell different, too.  The things they eat or drink seem better or worse.  All that.”

“Still doesn’t seem so bad.”

“It wouldn’t be if it worked when they were out of my sight.  It only happens when I’m actually near them.  When I go away, the sour milk they tried to drink isn’t sour anymore.  The wart next to her nose vanishes when I go away.  He looks cross-eyed until I leave.  She smells like wet dog whenever I’m around.  See how it works?”

“Ah, now I start to see,” Fliss agreed, nodding.  “You know the secret to coping with it?”

“I live and breathe to hear it,” she sneered.

“I’m sure Y’vin would tell you it’s a matter of focus and an exercise of will.  He’s a stuffy sort.  I think it’s merely a matter of finding people you like.”

“Easier said than done,” Onarra muttered.

“Hey, I’m solid.  Or look solid.  As far as I’m concerned, it’s an improvement.  But it’s not just people you like.  It’s about people you can tell who won’t care about it.  If Y’vin drinks his evening tea—back when he drank his evening tea—and growls at you for making it taste funny, you can deliberately undo whatever your power did, can you not?”

“Yes.  If I think about it.  It’s like my appearance.  I usually look like this unless I deliberately make it stop.”

“There you go.  He growls, you unruin his tea, and life goes on.  Gorgar looks handsome, Aramon gleams, Tindal shines with an inner light, and I blend in better in the shadows.  Why?  Because when Gorgar grumbles, Aramon gripes, Tindal remonstrates, and I complain, you undo whatever your power did and we forget about it.  It’s a long way from a mob of peasants with torches and pitchforks, isn’t it?”

“It wasn’t pitchforks.  Hoes and shovels, mostly.”

Fliss blinked at her for several seconds, absorbing that.

“I see,” he said, finally.  “I’m sorry they misunderstood.”

“So am I.  It’s why I’m on my own.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m not?”

“You’ve got us.”

“That’s only until we kill your dragon and I get my share.”

“If that’s the way you want it,” Fliss shrugged.  “I’d rather you traveled with us.”

“Could I have my wagon to myself, now?” Onarra asked, rolling onto the bunk, facing the wall.

“But of course.”  Fliss rose, bowed, and vanished forward, headed for Aramon and the gems.

Aramon and the hired guards kept things moving during the day.  Y’vin spent most of the trip with Onarra, practicing their magic together.  Fliss practiced possessing bodies and moving small objects.  Various prisoners tried to pick the locks on the collars or free their hands from the restraints on the chain.  Those who succeeded announced it to the guards, who re-did the prisoner’s restraints more thoroughly.

The rest of the prisoners were amazingly well-behaved.  Of course, they were not informed of their destination or purpose.

Gorgar, on the other hand, practiced being a ghost.  His mastery of flight improved, but his main strength would always be operating bodies.

Tindal spent his nights in prayer and his mornings greeting the rising sun.  He remained, as always, incorporeal.  And yet, in the first rays of the dawn, instead of seeming even less material, he seemed almost solid.  Aramon, the only other member of the group out and about at that hour, watched as Tindal finished his morning ritual.

“Tindal?”

“Yes?”

“May I ask a personal question?”

“Of course.”

“What happens when you greet the day?”

Tindal paused to think for a moment, searching for the words.

“The spirit of the dawn moves through me.”

“Is it anything like when the power of Namae fills me in battle?”

“I surmise it has some similarities, but how would I know?”

“You have a point,” Aramon admitted.

“Why the interest, if I may ask?”

“I am not certain.”

“More difficulties with your religion?” Tindal asked, gently.

“No.”

“I phrased that badly.  When I say ‘religion,’ I refer to the body of scripture used to form the doctrines of your church.  Your deity is another matter.  I trust Namae has not shown displeasure at your present course?”

“Not at all,” Aramon said.  “His blessing is as strong within me as ever it was.  Even so, my doubts about my—as you put it—religion are stronger than ever.”

“How so?”

“I am accompanied by—or, if you prefer, I presently accompany—four spirits, drawn back from their just and well-earned afterlife by dark arts.  I have for additional aid a young, female sorceress of questionable character—an assessment based on my observations of her greed and willingness to use others to achieve her ends.  We are embarked on a plan to slay a dragon, but it is a plan not well thought out and knowingly endangers the whole of the inhabitants of Pelamir.  It is also a plan which relies heavily on the murder of criminals and the animation of their dead bodies through the power of those aforementioned spirits.

“Despite all this, Namae continues to bless me with the various powers characteristic of one of the Order of Warriors within the Church.  This confuses me, for it has always been my understanding that to stray from the rules and strictures laid down within the Book of Namae would be met with Namae’s disfavor.  Yet, here we are, doing things I have always understood to be outside the accepted modes of behavior and I am not yet accursed.”

Tindal nodded, sympathetically.  Aramon sighed and the two began to walk together in the early-morning light.

“I, too, have encountered some difficulties in the difference between the doctrine and the divinity,” Tindal confessed.  “I should have vanished in the first light of day.  I should not have the power and authority to silence Fliss with a command.  When I stood in the dawn and drew down the might of Ashkelon, his attention and power should have destroyed my current form.  This also goes against what I have been taught.”

They walked in silence for several paces.

“Tindal…” Aramon began, and trailed off.

“Yes?”

“I hesitate to say this, for it seems blasphemous.  No, it seems heretical,” Aramon corrected.  Tindal chuckled.

“I promise not to hold it against you.”

“Very good,” Aramon agreed, smiling slightly.  “I begin to wonder if our respective religions—not our gods, but the churches which profess to speak for them—may have… misinterpreted… the signs and wonders delivered to mortals.  You have read the Book of Namae and the Solar Scrolls.  You remember everything you read.  Is there anything in your recall to justify what I suspect?”

“You are correct,” Tindal agreed.  “Your thoughts on the matter are heretical.  Although,” he added, “perhaps not as blasphemous as some would have you believe.”  Tindal frowned as they paced around the awakening camp.  “I find it most vexing when the details of doctrine do not match the actions of my god.  Yours, as well.  But I will say this:  Whatever our doctrines of faith, there is a difference, I think, between the words men have written down and the will of our gods.  What men have written is imperfect to begin with, limited as it is by language and by the thoughts of men.  If it gives you any comfort, I say to have faith in your god, as I have faith in mine… and, to be frank, as I also have in yours.  Look to your own signs and wonders and interpret them as you will, rather than rely on the observations of men dead since the dawn of a previous age.”

Tindal took a deep breath—unnecessary, but habitual.

“And perform for me a wonder, if you would.”

“Name it.”

“Your sword, blessed by the power of Namae—known for his intolerance of dark and evil things, so much so that you may smite the evil within the heart of a man without injuring his flesh… I would have you call upon Namae’s blessing.”

“Of course.  To what end?”

“I wish you to direct his power against me, as a test of my purity and faith.  Smite me, strike down what evil lurks within me, and if it splits me asunder to return me to the afterlife, then we will both know why Namae still grants you the power of a warrior of light: to return us beyond the veil of death.”

Aramon stopped walking.  Tindal stopped with him.

“Are you certain?  Truly certain?”

“No.  But we are about to engage in a major battle against the forces of darkness.  While I believe I am here for a reason, I cannot know my destiny.  Yet, I must know the reason is not for dark and sinister ends.  I will not enter such a battle uncertain of the rightness of my own existence.”

“So be it.”  Aramon drew his sword and held it up in the early-morning light.  The edge glowed with more than a sunlit gleam.  He brought the weapon down in an overhand cut, meeting the joint of Tindal’s ghostly neck and shoulder, slashing down and across to exit through the opposite hip.

Tindal remained standing there for several seconds, unmoving.  The line of the cut was clearly visible as a ripple, a distortion in his form, like choppy waves in the sea.  The shivering, quivering effect slowly settled.  Aramon sheathed his weapon and waited for Tindal to speak.

“Well?” he finally prompted.  “You have not dissolved.”

“I felt… something.  A cold sensation, perhaps.  It stung.”

“My doubts are resolved withal,” Aramon stated, positively.

“How so?”

“Mortal men of questionable character fall to the ground in agony, as though disemboweled.  You merely have a mild discomfort.  You are a good person, Tindal, as a ghost, specter, phantom, wraith—whatever you are, you are not evil.  You may not believe it, but I do.  Namae has spoken, and so have I.”

“But—”

“There is an end to it, Tindal.  You are not a thing of evil, and I accept you as a good man—or whatever you are.  I will hear no more on this matter.”  Aramon turned back to camp and walked away, leaving Tindal alone.  Tindal took a moment to look into the new-risen sun and repeat his morning prayers.

Pelamir, surrounded by barren fields, seemed even smaller than before.  Although not abandoned, much of it was already falling into disrepair.  The majority of the remaining residents clustered around the central square, living in closer proximity to each other, possibly for companionship, possibly out of some tribal instinct to huddle together in the face of danger.

No one challenged the slave-chain as it trudged into town.  Most of the town seemed more afraid than curious.  The only exceptions were the bald, dark-robed figures.  The first one to spy the travelers saw them from afar and hurried away to carry word of their coming.  As the travelers came into the center of town, they were met by a gaunt, bald man in dark, ragged robes.  He carried a staff and moved to block the way into the town square.

“Who are you?” he demanded.  “Speak!  What is your business here?”

Aramon reined in his horse and looked down at the man, eyeing the staff suspiciously.  It was gnarled and blackened, as though burnt.

“Are you in authority here?” he inquired.

“I am.  Answer me!”

“What is the problem?” Onarra called, from inside her wagon.

“My lady, a… gentleman says he is in authority here and demands our business,” Aramon called back, over his shoulder.  His eyes never left the staff.

“I will speak with him.”

Aramon frowned, shrugged, and turned his horse to lead the man to the wagon.  The man also frowned, but followed.  Alongside the wagon, they waited for a moment before Onarra slid open the panel serving as a window.  She wore her dragon-lady illusion, complete with scales, reptilian eyes, and plentiful sharp teeth.

“What is it you want?” she asked, hissing her sibilants slightly.  The gaunt man’s eyes narrowed.

“It is my duty to question all who enter Pelamir,” he said.  “How does my lady not know this?”

“I have been gone since before you were here,” Onarra replied, serenely.  “Your name.  Now.”

“I am Sarevos, my lady, chief servant of our wingèd ruler.”

“Very well.  Do you have any criminals or other offenders for my father?”

“My lady,” Sarevos said, cautiously, “in this circumstance, I regret none of our citizens has committed any crimes against our wingèd…lord.”

“Very well.  We require a place to temporarily house these, quarters for me, and a place for my servants.”

“At once, my lady,” he replied.  He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled piercingly, gesturing to watchers.  A half-dozen people, similarly garbed, emerged from nearby buildings and immediately moved to help.  In a matter of minutes, the slave-chain was drawn into a building and the building sealed.  Quarters in a disused inn were arranged.  Onarra’s wagon was taken around back, the horses given over to be groomed, and the common room of the inn illuminated from hearth and lamps.

“We had no word of your coming,” Sarevos said, urging his underlings to arrange tables and seats for the guests.  “We would have prepared accommodations more worthy of you, had we but known.”

“Think nothing of it,” Onarra reassured him.  “Word of my travels is not to be bandied about.”

“Of course, my lady.  May I have something suitable brought for you?  Or for your men?”

“For them, perhaps.  I am not yet hungry.”

“As my lady commands,” he agreed, bowing.  Minions were sent off to fetch and prepare food.

“Begging your pardon,” Aramon began, “but where do you get food?  The region is barren, as far as I can see.”

“Our wingèd ruler has graciously ordered tribute from other cities be delivered here,” Sarevos sneered.  “We have anything and everything we could desire.”

“Naturally,” Aramon agreed, face neutral.

“If I may be excused, my lady?  My duties of the day are yet to be done.”

“You may go.”

Sarevos bowed, backed away, and departed.  Aramon glanced around the room and looked inquiringly at Onarra.  She looked at the hired guardsmen and shook her head at Aramon.  He shrugged.  They waited until after dinner, in Onarra’s private chambers, to talk.

“I trust that man about as far as I can spit,” Onarra started.  “You shouldn’t have eaten the food.  It’s probably poisoned—at least drugged.”

“Possibly.  However, Namae does not favor the idea of his warriors succumbing to such tactics.  I assure you, if the food or wine was poisoned, I am in no danger.”

“What about our guards?”

“The hirelings are endangered,” Aramon agreed.  “I can do nothing about it except pray for them.  Which I shall do as soon as our conference is completed.”

“Then I guess we should hurry.  How do you summon your friends?”

“I speak their names,” Aramon admitted, but pointedly failed to elaborate.  The five members of the company had agreed unanimously to keep the details of the ghosts’ existence a closely-held secret.  Aramon left the pouch of gems where it was, hanging around his neck, under the armor, as he spoke the names of his friends.  The mists flowed outward from him, forming into four familiar shapes.  Onarra watched, fascinated, never actually having seen their summoning before.

“Ah, Pelamir,” Fliss said, taking a deep breath.  “I love the smell of dragon in the morning.”

“It is well after noon,” Aramon corrected.

“Yes, well, I just got up, so it’s morning to me.”

“Now that we’re here,” Y’vin began, “let’s get started.  How soon can we have the slave-chain in motion again?  And can we use the guards for the execution?  Or will Gorgar and Fliss have to possess something and do it themselves?”

“Before we get into that,” Onarra answered, “there are local matters.  Someone—a man calling himself Sarevos—has control of the town.  Pelamir is being supported by other cities in the dragon’s range, on the dragon’s orders.  Or so he says.”

“Another deception?” Tindal asked.

“I don’t think so,” Onarra said, reining in her obvious irritation.  “You don’t fool several cities at a time like that.  Especially not this close to a dragon’s lair, I should think.  Putting himself here makes me think he’s really doing the dragon’s bidding.  A faker wouldn’t be here.  It puts him far too close to possible reprisal.  The risk isn’t worth it.  I’d think he actually has some sort of contact with the beast.”

“Then why didn’t Trinnian send tribute to the place?” Gorgar wanted to know.

“Too far,” Fliss replied, thoughtfully.  “Trinnian is right at the edge of the dragon’s influence.  Messengers or heralds or what-have-you may not have reached out so far.  The dragon’s blight hasn’t spread more than two leagues, which is only a fraction of one day’s flight.  The other places… how many would there be, Gorgar?”

“About six, I think, if you include Trinnian and don’t count the piddly little villages.  So, five at most.”

“There you are.  The other cities sending food and tribute is probably sufficient.  For now, anyway.”

“I agree,” Onarra said.  “If I’d had a messenger from the dragon come to Trinnian, I’d have packed up whatever I could reach and made a run for it.”

“Fair enough,” Fliss nodded.  “So, what do you think of this Sarevos guy?”

“He’s as addled as a three-week egg,” Onarra stated, positively.  “His eyes, mostly—I’ve seen fanatical madmen before, and their eyes always look the same.  He also smells of oil and sulfur.  I think he gets up close to the beast and talks with it.”

“It is not a beast,” Aramon commented.

“It’s not a man,” Onarra countered.

“But it is not a beast,” he insisted.  “Do not think of it as such.  It is fiendishly cunning and possibly more intelligent than a man.  Think of it as a large, fire-breathing animal and you will underestimate it, as we did.  It is clever.  It is not a simple beast, but a monster.  Never forget it.”

“Monster.  All right.  If you say so.”

“To get back to our muttons,” Y’vin said.  “We need to confirm the location of the lair.  I’ll handle that; I’m the fastest.  The rest of us may need to look around Pelamir and find out what connection, if any, the dragon has with this Sarevos.”

“Why?” Onarra asked.

“If Sarevos really is in league with the dragon, then our plan to provoke it may not work the way we anticipated,” Y’vin explained.  “We steal a bit of treasure and hide it where we want the dragon to attack—Pelamir is the obvious choice, since thieves would attempt to sell anything they stole.  But if Pelamir is owned by the dragon, it might not attack.  It might simply send word to have the thieves brought to it.  This doesn’t get it out of the lair for any length of time, which means we can’t shuttle a bunch of bodies into the side-caverns off from the lair proper.”

“I see.  Well, no, I don’t, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“It’ll all become clear later,” Y’vin assured her.

“I recall the presence of a dragon-cultist,” Aramon mused.  “When we were leaving Pelamir, not so long ago.  He was in charge of a small group of thieves.  This Sarevos and his henchmen dress similarly.  I would wager Onarra is correct.  I believe they have some sort of arrangement with the dragon.”

“Well, what do we do about it?” Gorgar asked.

“I am tempted to kill them all,” Aramon admitted.  Everyone looked at him, their expressions ranging from disbelief to shock.

“Seriously?” Fliss asked.

“I am very serious,” Aramon replied.  “They are actively aiding a dragon.  They are willing servants of evil.”

“He’s got a point,” Gorgar admitted.

“And an edge,” Fliss added.  “What—” he started to ask, when Y’vin raised his head sharply and held up a hand.  Y’vin looked around the room as Fliss broke off, then pointed at the door.

The door came open under the weight of two men as they shouldered it open.  Bald heads, dark robes, and silence followed.  An unnatural quiet akin to deafness engulfed the room as more than a dozen men rushed inside, sticks rising and falling at first, then resorting to fists and feet as the press of people in the room grew too dense for weapons.  Onarra went down immediately, struck by one of the staves.  Aramon lasted longer, but his sword was still sheathed when half a dozen men grappled him.  More piled on and he was eventually borne to the floor under the sheer weight of numbers.

In the confusion, Y’vin stepped into a wall, slipped behind an attacker, and emerged from the wall into his body.  A quick gesture caused the silence to be accompanied by a complete darkness, a blackness deep enough to smother every hint of light or movement.  Under that concealment, Gorgar, Fliss, and Tindal occupied three of the four men sitting on Aramon’s arms and legs.

Fliss knocked on Aramon’s breastplate in a characteristic rhythm, followed by three sharp raps—all silenced by the spell, but Aramon could still feel the code they used in such conditions.  Aramon’s struggles, ineffectual as they were, halted at Fliss’ signal.  He relaxed, waiting his moment.

In the dark and silence, several minutes went by as the attackers sorted themselves out.  Hands met hands, signals were exchanged, and, finally, both sound and light returned to the room.

Sarevos, standing in the doorway, lowered his staff and regarded the mess.  Onarra lay unconscious, bleeding slightly from a pressure cut on her forehead; other bruises would darken markedly later.  A pair of attackers held her down, not trusting her.  A third began binding her, starting with a gag.

Aramon lay quietly under his captors.  They held him down, not yet ready to bind him.

“Dragon-cultist,” he accused, glaring at Sarevos.

“Dragon-servant,” Sarevos corrected, “and master of her first town.”

“Her?”

“Yes.  She is a female dragon, not a male—a fact your so-called dragon-lady would have known.”

“Ah.  I thought you didn’t have time to actually speak with your master—I beg your pardon; your mistress.”

“No need,” Sarevos sneered.  “You are clearly not here to serve her, warrior of Namae.”

“You recognize my god?”

“The symbol you wear so proudly is as good as a herald’s declaration of war to those who serve other powers, fool.”

“I will bear it in mind for the future.”

“As if you have one.  Lock them away.”

Four of the cultists traded looks.  One shook his head, ever so slightly.  Too many adversaries, perhaps, with a pair of living companions at risk.  Still, captives are kept alive, and other opportunities would doubtless present themselves.

Once bound with braided leather cords, Onarra and Aramon were lifted bodily and carried out of the inn.  A quick trip through the empty streets saw them in a smaller, stone-walled building.  In short order, both were chained to the walls of adjoining cells and stripped.

Oddly enough, four of the dragon’s servants volunteered to keep watch on the dangerous newcomers.  The rest of them returned to whatever business dragon-servants have, taking with them the clothing and gear of their captives.  Aramon watched them go and waited until the door was shut before speaking.

“This has not gone as planned,” he observed, mildly, and rattled his chains for emphasis.

“No, not exactly,” Y’vin agreed.  “There are some new factors to consider.”

“How do you want to play this?” Gorgar asked.

“I would like to be freed and given my clothes,” Aramon replied, levelly.  “Onarra should be covered, as well.”

“Hold on a minute,” Y’vin said.  “This could be better than a simple breakout.”

“I fail to see what use my capture is.”

“Look at it like this.  They’re sure they’ve got us.  They think it’s all over but the throat-slitting.  Probably some questioning, but that’s as far as it goes.”

“Yes, I’m sure they believe they have me right where they want me,” Aramon agreed.

“Now, now.  When they question you, we’ll find out what they want to know, along with what they assume—all good things to know.  Then we can break you out.”

“And if they do not wish to ask questions?”

“Well, you’re being held prisoner.  They don’t strike me as the sort to hold a formal execution.  They might just want to feed you to the dragon, but I’d think they’re planning an interrogation, first.”

“Hmm.  Possibly.  But it is worth all the beating and torture that goes with it?”

“I’m not sure there’s a way to tell in advance,” Y’vin admitted, shrugging.  “It’s up to you.”

“Very well.  I am willing to endure whatever I must in the acquisition of information.”

“Good man.  In the meantime, what shall we do?  We may have some time to kill.”

“You are not amusing.”

“We also have another problem,” Tindal pointed out.

“Which is?”

“These bodies.  They have angry, frightened people in them and we are going to have to hold them all night.  Can we do that?”

“Good question,” Y’vin admitted.  “Anybody tired?”

“Not yet.”

“No.”

“I’m fine.”

“Then we’re good for now.  Any chance we can calm them down?”

Heads shook, including Aramon’s.

“What do we think?” Y’vin asked.  “Wait for someone to come question Aramon?  Or do we break him and Onarra out and question our captives?”

“I’d feel more comfortable asking the questions,” Gorgar admitted.  “I don’t like the idea of finding out what they’re interested in by letting Aramon get tortured.”

“I must agree with Gorgar,” Tindal said.  “I do not doubt Aramon’s willingness to endure trials for the greater good, but we must also consider Onarra’s well-being.”  Fliss merely shrugged.

“I’ve got some ideas on how to interrogate these louts,” Y’vin added.

“Aramon?”

“I am all for my own rescue.”

“Then we’ll rescue these two and interrogate these four,” Y’vin agreed.  “Fliss can handle the locks.  Gorgar, subdue the body I’m using so I can scout, will you?”  Gorgar nodded and took the cultist in a hold.  Moments later, Y’vin slipped out as the body slumped.

“Just hold him,” Y’vin cautioned.  “I could feel his intention to deceive you.”

“Ah.  Got him.”

Y’vin stuck his head through walls, looking all around the building.  Fliss unlocked doors with the keys on hand, but frowned at the manacles.  Those keys were in Sarevos’ possession.  A thorough search of the old guard post turned up no others, nor any confiscated lockpicking tools.

At last, they bound and gagged the unconscious bodies used by Y’vin and Fliss.  Fliss reached inside the manacles with ghostly fingers to manipulate the small springs and pins directly.  Very shortly, Aramon was free and donning the ragged remains of some prisoner’s abandoned trousers.  Onarra was still unconscious, but they wrapped her in the only blanket they could find.

“Wait,” Tindal said, as Aramon lifted her.  Tindal touched her head, laying his borrowed palm over the swelling bruise.  He closed his eyes and spoke softly.

Onarra’s hair stirred slightly, as though an electric charge tried to make it all stand up.  Her skin shivered.

Tindal lowered his hand.  The various signs of injury were gone.  Onarra opened her eyes.

“What in the nine rings of—” she began, but Aramon shushed her.  He set her on her feet.

“We were captured by a force of unpleasant people,” he said, softly.  “We are now escaping with the four we have counter-captured.”

Onarra looked at the four cultists.  One of them grinned and bowed.  The rest nodded.

“I see,” she said, faintly.  “Where are my clothes?”

“They’ve taken them, I’m afraid,” said the bowing cultist.

A moment later, Aramon and Onarra were dressed in nondescript outfits.

“I’m not a mistress of illusion for nothing.”

“Quite so.  Shall we make good our escape?”

“Oh.  Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” she replied, and everyone vanished.

“Either we’re all invisible...”

“…or we’re a bunch of disembodied voices.”

“Two of us are disembodied voices,” Fliss pointed out.

“Quiet, you.  I didn’t know you could do that,” said the voice Y’vin was using.  He sounded impressed.

“I’m a mistress of illusion,” Onarra repeated, from somewhere.

“Someone untie our captives; it’s easier to wear them than to carry them.”

After a few moments of visibility and rearrangement, six people disappeared again.

“Everyone take hands.  Form a chain,” Fliss ordered.  “I’m standing by the door.  Form a line and I’ll lead.  Any objections?”

There were none.  They formed a line and Fliss led them through the dark streets, away from the populated district.  On the outskirts of the town, he selected an abandoned cow barn and closed everyone inside.

“Now, if we might have less invisibility and a faint light?” he requested.  The interior of the barn altered appropriately.  “Thank you, Mistress of Illusion.”

“You are welcome,” Onarra replied, bowing slightly, once more in her beautiful form.

“Why aren’t we continuing into the hinterlands?” Y’vin asked, quietly.

“Three reasons,” Fliss answered.  “Anyone want to guess?”

“The dragon might come looking for us,” Gorgar tried.

“That’s one.”

“Our captors have my gear,” Aramon added.

“That’s two.”

The rest looked at each other before Y’vin spoke.

“They have all our gear?”

“Close.  I was thinking of something specific.”

“Gems,” Tindal stated.  “They have our gems.”

Y’vin recited a few ritual curses in several languages.  The temperature dropped slightly.

“What gems?” Onarra asked.

Chapter Ten

The physical forms within the barn lounged on various implements—a pile of straw, the angled bed of a one-horse cart, and various other surfaces.  The surroundings, however, altered markedly under Onarra’s influence.  They lounged comfortably in palatial quarters, surrounded by warm light and variously spiced incense.  The changes came over the room gradually as they explained, each in their various ways, about the gems.  Aramon told his story and the rest added what they knew.

Onarra looked thoughtful, quietly staring off into nowhere.

“Off the subject, can anyone see the light from outside?” Fliss asked.

“From the outside, this is an old, dark barn, complete with open door and some holes in the roof.”

“It’s hard to believe this cart isn’t a couch,” Gorgar admitted, as his borrowed body poked a cushion.  “It feels like one.”

“There’s something there for you to feel, so I altered how you feel it.  Sleep on it and your back will hate you in the morning,” Onarra admitted.

“So, if you set me on illusory fire…?”

“It’ll be bright.  And the feel of your clothes will change—you don’t feel them much, so you won’t feel much heat.  But I can also turn your sunburn into an icy sensation.”

“Fair enough.  So, what do you think?”

“I think you need to get your gems back.”

“I agree,” Gorgar said.  “How do we go about it?”

“I get a vote?”

“Are you with us?” Gorgar asked.  “I mean, not just here, but are you going to stick with us?”

“I…” Onarra began, then frowned.  “I don’t know if I want to stick with you guys permanently, if that’s what you’re asking.  I do know I don’t like these dragon-bastards.  Until we kill your dragon—and maybe kill these chumps—I’m on your side.  Does that answer your question?”

“It does for me,” Gorgar agreed.  “What do you say to our problem?”

“I say we set someone’s feet on fire and ask him if what he knows, moving the flames up his legs and body until he talks or dies.  If he dies, we extinguish him and start over on another one.  We’ve got four.  We can even afford to kill them and get another four, can’t we?”

“I like her,” Fliss said, pretending to whisper to Gorgar.  Color came into Onarra’s cheeks.

“Shut up,” Gorgar suggested.

“Shutting.”

“We may have another alternative,” Y’vin offered.

“Oh, good,” Tindal said.  “I was concerned.”

“I imagine.”

“What is your idea?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Y’vin said, uncomfortably.  “It… well, there’s no way to explain it without telling these four bodies, and we don’t want to do that.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Yes, well, I rather thought you wouldn’t.  You’ll understand when I have a chance to explain—out of earshot.  In the meantime, how about you interrogate the body I’m in?  I’ll step back, as it were, and let him have enough control to answer questions, but I’ll keep him from screaming for help or running away.”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” Aramon admitted.

“Look, I don’t tell you to trust me very often, do I?”

“No.”

“And every time I have, didn’t it work out?”

Aramon paused for what Y’vin thought was an insultingly long time.

“Yes,” Aramon agreed, eventually.

“Then trust me.”

“Very well.  Unless I hear objection?”  There was none.  “Gorgar?  If you would?”

Gorgar moved behind the body Y’vin occupied, took him in a hold, and nodded.  Y’vin moved deeper inside, relaxing his spiritual grip on the body.  The man’s expression altered markedly as he regained control.

“You are all going to die,” were his first words.

The interrogation did not improve overmuch.  While Gorgar maintained a punishing hold, occasionally tightening it to encourage the subject, Fliss conducted the questioning.  After half an hour and no answers, Fliss waved a hand in disgust.

“We’re done with him.  He’s not going to talk without a torch in his groin.”

“I can get one,” Onarra offered.

“No, not yet.  I want to hear what Y’vin’s idea was.  He seemed to think this would be useful.  I don’t see it, but he’s a wizard.  He sees things the rest of us don’t.  I blame the mushrooms he used to smoke.”

“I heard that,” said the man in Gorgar’s grip.  “It’s me again.  You can let go, Gorgar.”  Once Gorgar released him, Y’vin straightened and stretched.  “Ow.”

“I tried not to damage him.”

“Good job,” Y’vin said, still stretching.  “I’m still glad I don’t have to keep this.”

“Well?” Fliss asked.  “Any news?”

“Yes.  Sarevos lives in a house facing the market square.  It has a large courtyard in back where it used to have stables.  The dragon comes to visit sometimes when it’s out hunting.  Since he’s doubtless grabbed all our gear from the inn and the wagon, it should all be there.  Sometime tomorrow, when the dragon gets hungry, it will fly out for lunch and probably stop by—Sarevos has some way to signal it, but this guy doesn’t know what it is.  He thinks it’s some sort of smoke signal.”

Everyone stared at Y’vin.

“How do you know all this?” Tindal asked.

“The guy in here with me was thinking about what you asked.  All I did was step back and listen to the answers on the inside when you asked questions on the outside.”

“I don’t understand,” Gorgar said, frowning.

“Don’t think of Aramon’s sword.”

“Huh.”

“Really, don’t think about it.  Ignore the glowing edge, deny the shining steel, and put it completely out of your mind.”

“Uh…” Gorgar said, frowning.

“There you go.”

“Clever,” Fliss admitted, nodding.  “Very clever.  Now I see why you’re the wizard.”

“Since you’re so clever,” Onarra added, “can you find your gems?”

“I think we can,” Y’vin said.  “They are probably in the house with Sarevos.  Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“If they aren’t concealed from magical detection, if we get reasonably close to the house, I can find them.”

“Hold on a moment,” Fliss said.  “You said the dragon comes to visit this house?”

“Yes.  Every few days, but not on a regular schedule.”

“Would it be a good time and place to ambush the thing?”

Everyone pondered the idea.  At last, Y’vin answered.

“Yes, I think so, in some ways.  While it’s landing, it would be a good time to deal a lot of damage to the wings.  We might be able to ground it.  If we can, it’ll have to walk back to its lair, giving us plenty of time to get ahead of it and do whatever we like.”

“The drawback,” Gorgar pointed out, “is the damage it will do to Pelamir.  It’s sure to think its servants have betrayed it.  You are thinking of using them as attack bodies, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then, even if we wound it enough to ground it, Pelamir is going up in flames.”

“Probably.  Almost certainly.”

“Including the house with our gems in it?”

“Ooo, ouch,” Fliss exclaimed.  “Bad.  Very bad.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” Gorgar agreed.

“Maybe we should get the gems before we do anything else,” Fliss suggested.

“Which leaves us with another problem,” Gorgar continued.  “I’m getting a little tired of fighting this internal battle.  How long will all this take?”

“Probably longer than we’d like,” Y’vin mused.  “I know I’m going to have trouble doing a delicate divination while fighting off someone inside my head.”

“Do we need to be embodied anymore?” Fliss asked.

“I wouldn’t think so,” Y’vin replied.  Gorgar shrugged.

“We cannot simply release them,” Aramon pointed out.  “They will immediately return to their master and warn him of our plans.”

“So we kill them,” Onarra said.  “Well, one of you big, dangerous men does.”

“I don’t see we have much choice,” Y’vin admitted.

“We could bind them and leave them,” Tindal suggested.

“They are servants of a dragon, Tindal,” Aramon said, gloomily.  “If I had my medallion and blade, I would agree to strike them down, knowing that if they die, they are struck down by the will of Namae.  As it is…”

“Before we get into the moral and ethical problems Aramon and Tindal are having,” Fliss said, “my big question is really about our gems.  How vital is it we get our gems back immediately?  I mean, how long can we stay out of them?  I’ve never pushed it too far—only a day or so.  Do we have to go back to them if we don’t do anything too strenuous?”

Everyone looked at Y’vin.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted.

“Oh, come on.  You spent days with the things in the wizard’s lab in Trinnian.”

“Days, yes.  Not weeks!”

“You had a head start on the road.”

Y’vin gnashed teeth and gripped his current forehead with one hand.

“All right.  My best guess is we can survive for several days without them.  After that, we’ll start to… how do I put this?  Come apart.  Forget things.  Lose bits of ourselves.  Fade.  Getting back to a gem will fix all that—at least, I think it will, if it hasn’t gone too far—but who will summon us again?  If we let go and return to our respective gems, we may never come out again!”

“I’m sold,” Fliss said.  “Kill these bodies and let’s go get the gems.”

“Y’vin wasn’t finished,” Tindal pointed out.

“I heard everything I needed to hear.”

“The rest of us might want to hear what else he has to say.  Y’vin?”

“There are ways,” Y’vin went on, “to extend our active time.  I’ve done a little work with the spells involved—very little!—but I think I can… forgive me, Aramon and Tindal… work with the magic holding us together.”

“To do what?” Aramon asked.

“Basically, to duplicate the regenerative effect of the gems.  At least, in the short term.  I think I can extend our time outside the magical matrix, but you won’t like the way I do it.  On another level, I’m not sure any of us will enjoy the process.”

“Necromancy?” Tindal guessed.  Y’vin nodded miserably.

“If we’re possessing a body—like we are—and you kill the body—like we’re considering—I might be able to divert some of the death-energy into our spirit-structures.  That’s a gross simplification of an extremely complex process, but it gets the gist of it.”

“What you’re saying,” Aramon said, slowly, “is we either get the gems back quickly to preserve your existence, or we commit human sacrifice to do so.”

“Yeeeeees…” Y’vin agreed, hesitantly.  “Not to any dark god or anything.  It’s more a case of, of, uh…”

“Scavenging,” Fliss supplied.  “Looting the bodies, as it were.”

“Yes, exactly,” Y’vin agreed, nodding furiously.  “That’s right.”

“No,” Aramon stated.  “I have already gone as far as I can.  I agreed to go along with anything we needed to do to slay a dragon.  Sacrificing these men to consume their… whatever it is… is not something we need to do.  It goes too far.  Kill them if you must, but you will not feed upon their deaths.”

Tindal moved to stand next to Aramon.

“He speaks for me in every word.”

Gorgar sighed, but moved to stand with Tindal and Aramon.  Fliss looked back and forth between Y’vin and the rest, then arched an eyebrow at Y’vin.  Y’vin threw up his hands and gnashed his teeth.

“Fine!  Fine!  We’ll just kill them.  But if we can’t get the gems back tonight, bear in mind that I, for one, can possess some evil cultist bastard and jump headfirst off a roof—and will, if it’s comes down to being locked in a gem for eternity.  Got that?”

“I understand,” Aramon replied.  “I do not agree, but I understand.”

“As long as we have an understanding,” Fliss soothed.  “Gorgar?  You want to help me hold the future corpse while Y’vin steps out?”

“I’ll just neck-hold him harder and longer.  That will do the trick.”

Y’vin made use of one of the new corpses in casting invisibility spells.  Onarra could have concealed everyone on their way to Sarevos’ headquarters, but she declined to go.

“I’m not a combatant,” she said.  “You want a disguise, I’m your girl.  You want a distraction or diversion?  I’m the one.  But the last time I got in a fight, a crazy dragon-cultist hit me in the head with a stick.  You go ahead.  I’ll wait here.”

Y’vin expended the corpse on invisibility spells; it faded into nothingness, leaving not even dust behind.  He occupied another one.

“I’ll wear this in case we need magical firepower,” he stated.  No one argued.

The trip to the house in question was awkward, since holding hands was not an option for anyone but Aramon and Y’vin.  After some backing and filling and considerable whispering down alleyways, they regrouped across the market square from the house.  Y’vin muttered and gestured, casting his seeking spells.

“Anything?” Tindal asked.

“Yes.  Hold on.”  More magical muttering, followed by some profane remarks about the inconvenience of invisibility.

“All right,” Y’vin said, finally.  “The upper right of the house, top floor, I think.  Probably the corner room.”

“Can you be a little more exact?” Fliss asked.

“No.  I’m doing this by touch, not by eye.  Be glad you don’t have to search the whole house.”

“I am ecstatic beyond words,” Fliss assured him.

“Fliss?” Gorgar whispered.  “Do your thing.”

“Before I go, let me ask: is this a straight invasion?” Fliss asked.  “Plot the layout, plan the assault, and go in?  Or do you want me to use someone to steal them if I see a chance?”

“Plot and plan, first,” Gorgar decided.  “We can grab someone if it seems more likely to work.  Besides, Aramon isn’t exactly armed.”

“I have a large stick,” Aramon pointed out.

“Yeah, but does Namae’s grace flow through it?”

“It is a weapon in the hands of a Warrior of Light.”

“Huh.  I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” Gorgar replied.  “Still, plot and plan first?”

“Agreed.”

Fliss rubbed his intangible, invisible hands together and whisked rapidly across the market square.

“Does anyone else think this is too easy?” Gorgar asked.

“What do you mean?” Tindal inquired.

“I mean, we’ve got some dragon-serving chuckleheads here who took Aramon and Onarra prisoner earlier this evening.  It’s not halfway to dawn and we’re already about to steal all our stuff back and maybe kill everyone in the place.  That’s fast, even for us.”

“They do not know about the four of us,” Tindal reminded him.  “Can you think of any adversaries we have faced who would be well-prepared to deal with four possessing spirits?  Aside from the various necromancers, of course.”

“When you put it like that, no.  I can’t even think of anyone who could slow us down, really.”

“Once this dragon is dead, we need to open the question of whether or not to continue to our afterlives,” Y’vin offered.  “We could do a lot of good like this.”

“Perhaps,” Tindal allowed.  “But, as you say, it is a question to be opened later.”

The invisible people watched the house, waiting for Fliss to return.  He was gone for less than half an hour, but the tension of the wait made it feel longer.  When he returned, still invisible, his voice made everyone jump.

“Got it.  Our gems are in a sack, along with maybe a dozen others, top floor, far right, front corner.  A number of other valuables are also in the room with Sarevos sleeping on top of most of it.  The rest of the house is more of a barracks than a house.  Most rooms are bunkrooms for the chuckleheads, aside from kitchen, bath, messhall, and armory.  I counted sixteen of the bald guys sleeping, but there are another thirty or so who still have hair—make of that what you will.  The house has four men awake and on watch.  There’s a sort of chapel-thing out back with a dragon drawn on the wall and incense burning in front of it.  There are some animals penned out back, too.  Judging by the old blood in the courtyard, they feed the thing when it drops by.”

“Armory?” Aramon asked.

“Yes.  Mostly hand-axes and knives, but a few swords.  Lots of crossbows, though.  Your stuff is in the treasure room upstairs.  Maybe because so much of it is magical, maybe because they don’t dare try to wield your sword.”

“Wise of them.  But it concerns me that a dragon wishes to have armed followers.”

“You think it would want them unarmed?” Gorgar asked, puzzled.

“Yes.  Dragons usually think of humans as food, do they not?”

“Well, yes.  Or so I’ve been led to believe.”

“Do you want to see rabbits or deer wielding knives while you hunt them?”

“I don’t think it’s the same thing, but I take your point.  So, why is it allowing them to be armed?”

“To maintain order in Pelamir?” Tindal asked.

“Or,” Aramon added, “to prepare to maintain order, as you put it, in—what the next nearest town, Gorgar?”

“Siviskos.  Do you really think it’s trying to establish… what?  Some sort of direct rulership?”

“Possibly.”

“But that’s stupid,” Gorgar declared.

“Why?”

“Because a dragon attracts enough attention that heroes of all sorts will come to it from every shard!  Establishing itself as a ruler and using humans to enforce its rule will give it a layer of defense against the sudden surge of heroic types, but it will also spread word all the faster.”

“Spread word to where?” Aramon inquired, mildly.

“Every shard, everywhere!”

“How?”

“‘How’?” Gorgar echoed.  “Through the Sky—” he began, and broke off.  “Does… how could it know the Skybridge is closed?”

“How it knows is not at issue.  It knows.  It must.  This is not a large shard.  There are few enough heroes, and it has dealt with—or believes it has dealt with—the greatest the shard has to offer.  It feels secure enough to begin domination of this one small world.”

“But why?” Tindal asked.  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“There are many things we do not know.  Who can puzzle out the motives of a dragon?  All we can do is kill it.”

“That’ll do,” Gorgar decided.  “But first, we get back our gems, right?”

“Correct.  Fliss?”

“Present and unaccounted-for!”

“What do you think?”

“I think, whatever we do, we need to deal with Sarevos.  Most of our stuff is in chests under his mattress.  We have to move him and the mattress to open them.”

“Do you think we can grab him and use him to recover our things?”

“Maybe, but I’m kind of tired from fighting with the chucklehead I was possessing for so long.  I don’t know if we can hold him long enough to get him to lower all of Aramon’s stuff out the window.”

“I presume,” Aramon asked, “the same difficulty applies in the possession of four—excuse me, three, since Y’vin has a body—of the underlings?”

“Yes,” Gorgar answered.  “We could do it, but it wouldn’t be for too long.  It would be easier to animate an empty body.”

“What if Sarevos was asleep?” Y’vin asked.

“He is asleep,” Fliss replied.  “I’m pretty sure I can walk him around while he’s asleep, like I did with Onarra, but all the heavy lifting will wake him up.”

“No, I mean what if I lay a sleep spell on him?”

“That… could work,” Fliss mused.  “What would wake him?”

“Profound pain,” Y’vin replied.  “Stabbing him, setting him on fire, breaking a bone—”

“I think I get it.  Huh.”  Fliss thought about it for a moment.  “If you can nail him with a sleep spell, then yes, I think I can use him to steal Aramon’s stuff back.  But if he wakes and fights me…”

“What about the rest of it?” Gorgar asked.  Fliss shook his head before remembering it was invisible.

“No.  It’s four horses’ worth of various crap, and not all of it is in the treasure pile.  We’d have to take the house.”

“I would at least like my sword,” Aramon observed.  “My medallion, armor, and shield would also be appreciated.”

“So, what’s it to be?” Fliss asked.  “Go in straight, as we are?  Or sleep Sarevos and steal back our gems and Aramon’s fighting gear?  Or steal as much as we can before sneaking away?  Or what?”

“I would like to leave them with a false sense of safety,” Gorgar said.  “So far, their prisoners have merely escaped.  A pair of naked fugitives isn’t much cause for alarm, unlike someone who not only escaped, but stole back gear useful for dragon-slaying.”

“I should remain minimally armed?” Aramon asked.

“I wasn’t finished.  We’re going to kill everyone in the building, aren’t we?”

“Sooner or later, I believe we are.  Yes.”

“How will the dragon react to that?”

“Badly, I should think, if we kill them before we kill the dragon.”

“Aramon, I hate to say this, but no matter what we do here, Pelamir is not going to come out of this unscathed.  We kind of suspected it when we heard a dragon laired near it, but now it’s really screwed.”

“I fear you are correct.”

“So, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, I think we oughtta get your fighting gear, dress you up, and lay waste to everyone in the building right now.”

“What do the rest of us think?” Aramon wanted to know.

“I’m with Gorgar.”

“And I.”

“Regrettably, I must concur,” Tindal finished.  “They are in league with a monster and will actively resist our attempts to slay it.  My only reservation is in regard to the method of their slaying.  While we will occupy any of the fallen and use them in your defense, it must be you, Aramon, who strikes them down.  You are the only one who can wield that blade of yours, and some of them may not be evil, as such—merely desperate men in the employ of evil.”

“I’ll go along with that,” Gorgar added.  “I’ll feel better for it.  If they die from an Aramon-cut, they deserved to die.”

“Seems fair,” Fliss agreed.

“Eh,” Y’vin said, his shrug evident in his tone.

“Very well,” Aramon sighed.  “Y’vin, sleep the room.  Fliss, get ready.  I will wait under the window at the side.”

Sarevos, still snoring, paid out a length of rope to lower a sack.  Y’vin helped Aramon don his armor while the other ghosts roamed the building, familiarizing themselves with the layout.

Once Aramon was dressed for battle, he strapped on his shield, drew his sword, and nodded.  Y’vin dismissed the invisibility spell on him.  It was pointless to leave it; the armor had not been affected, and Aramon would not enter battle without challenging his enemy fairly.

The rest of the group, however, had no plans to let their adversaries have a fair chance.

Fliss stuck Sarevos’ head out the window and waved, signaling his readiness.  Aramon went to the front door, accompanied by two invisible spirits and a corpse.  He hefted one armored boot, kicked viciously, and the door went in.  A guard, sitting in the entry room, stared up at him, stupefied.

“Awake!” he shouted, ringingly.  “Arise, followers of a dark thing!  The Light of Namae shines upon you!  Stand and be judged!”

Aramon entered, blade shining, as the watchman sprang to his feet.  Aramon cut him down, bloodlessly, and the man writhed on the floor, clutching at a nonexistent wound, screaming in agony.

Men inside scrambled to their feet, seizing weapons, throwing on armor.  Aramon strode through the house like a juggernaut, hacking and thrusting, turning fighting men into screaming balls of pain or into bloody corpses.  The light from his shining weapon was the only real illumination in the whole of the building, sending wild shadows dancing as he moved.  Men first shielded their eyes from the light, then started to move—and for many, it was too late.  Even those who managed to arm themselves were no match for Aramon.  None of them were professionals, and none of them were prepared for a fully-armored killing machine.

Aramon stayed near a wall whenever possible, using it to guard his back.  Three men came at him at once, trying to pin him to the wall.  The one to Aramon’s right felt the blade go completely through his body; the one on the left received the leading edge of Aramon’s shield in his face.  Both lost interest in further fighting.  The one in the middle plowed into Aramon, forcing him back against the wall, but with no one close enough to help in time, Aramon kicked him, shoved him away, and swept the blazing blade through his body.

A man with a crossbow stood at the end of a hall, aiming at Aramon’s unshielded right side.  He was surprised when the quarrel suddenly flipped itself up and out of the groove; he was more surprised and somewhat hurt when the crossbow fired on its own.  Without a quarrel, the cable snapped and whipped across his face.

One of the dead cultists rose to his feet and headed into the armory.  He emerged with a club and a shield before starting in on the guardsmen.  He laid into legs and arms, club moving as swiftly as a striking snake, hitting like a falling anvil.  His shield deflected a number of attacks, but he ignored most attempts at harm—being dead has advantages.  Instead, he punched with that hand, slamming the forward edge of the shield into faces and bodies, breaking bones.

Several of the men in the house decided to run for it.  As the first man reached the door and started to unbolt it, he suddenly changed his mind, rammed the bolts back into place, and rounded on his fellows, screaming at them to get back into the fight, calling them cowards and traitors.  They hesitated, uncertain of what to do, but perhaps that was the point…

Sarevos himself came in the front door, shouting for people to converge on the knight.  Anyone alert might have wondered why he also stayed behind the knight, waving his stick ineffectually and interfering with attempts to obey his commands.

Five minutes?  Ten?  When all was said and done, the headquarters house for the dragon-cult was a crimson abattoir.  Four bloody corpses and a blood-spattered knight stood over the agonized and whimpering survivors.  All of the shaved-head cultists were dead; most of their guardsmen were alive, although in great pain.

Fliss stood in Sarevos’ body, head held at an odd angle.  Aramon raised his visor and regarded the corpse.

“Broken neck?”

“Headfirst into the pavement,” Fliss replied.

“Why?”

“I didn’t want him organizing a real defense.  Besides, it was the fastest way down and provided a handy corpse for watching your back.”  He grinned disarmingly and somewhat disturbingly.  “And did you see their faces when I started punching people?”

“I had other things upon which to focus my attention.”

“You were busy,” Fliss agreed.  “So, what do we do with these?” he asked, one foot nudging a moaning man.

“They have been chastised for their poor decisions.”

“So, we just send them on their way?”

“Their suffering is sufficient punishment.”

“If you say so.  Got our gems?”

“Under my breastplate.”

“Good spot.  Mind if we spend then next few hours resting up?”

“An excellent thought.  I will need your help in the morning.”

“Whatever you say.”

Dawn saw the town wake to a wholly different day.

Some of the less-obviously damaged of the cultists handed out money and other valuables to the townspeople, ordering them to take it and go.  Most took it and went.  A few asked questions and were sent into the headquarters building to see Sarevos—and Aramon.  Most of those then departed Pelamir in great pain and greater haste.  A very few remained, their blood leaking into the rushes on the floor.

Word spread quickly.  Before noon, everyone still living in the city was headed away, often in wildly different directions, hurrying to get beyond the barren fields and into the sickly woods beyond.  Few had any destination in mind beyond “anywhere but here,” but that was sufficient.

Once the people of Pelamir were evacuated, the bodies of the cultists drew out the slave-chain of prisoners.  The original plan called for killing them all and using their corpses.  Now, a ready supply of bodies meant the prisoners—all guilty of something—could be treated with a bit more discrimination.  Those that survived Aramon’s sword were released, given what money remained, and sent staggering on their way.  The others Y’vin preserved with his arts and were stacked in a wagon.

Onarra obviously disliked handing out so much free money, but kept her peace.  At least, until Aramon and the ghosts finished sending everyone away.

“Would someone please tell me what we’re doing and why?”

“Investing in the goodwill of the gods,” Fliss replied.

“How?  I don’t see a temple.”

“Ah, but Tindal and Aramon have certain priorities.  Things like saving the lives of innocents and similar such stuff.  We give them money, send them away, and clear the field for battle.  Giving the locals money gets them out of the way.  We’re spending money to do what Ashkelon and Namae—and, incidentally, Tindal and Aramon—want.”

“Bribing the gods?”

“Think of it as a goodwill gesture in return for their goodwill.  It sounds better than bribery.”

“Oh, and here I thought we were wasting enough money to retire on.”

“We are also committing,” Aramon replied.

“Committing.  Committing what?”

“He means,” Gorgar amplified, “we’re committed.  We’ve set in motion a chain of events.  We may still do some sneaking around—shortly, we definitely will—but we’re about to move into battle.”

“Gorgar is correct,” Fliss added.  “Come along with me and I’ll explain what happened last night.  Y’vin and Tindal can pop up to the dragon lair and reconnoiter.”

“Can Tindal handle that on his own?” Gorgar asked.

“I believe I can do so,” Tindal agreed, puzzled.  “I should prefer to be invisible, however.  Why do you ask?”

“I may need Y’vin to do some heavy lifting with me.”

“What do you mean?” Y’vin asked, suspiciously.

“I mean, the dragon comes here to visit every so often, right?”

“That’s what I understand, yes.”

“We should be ready for it,” Gorgar stated, then added, “if we have time.”

Tindal, rendered invisible by a spell, flew up to the lair to check on the dragon and explore.  The rest of the group, both alive and dead, began preparations on the assumption they had time to complete them.

Gorgar, inhabiting the brawniest body available, began carpentry and construction work in what was once a livery stable adjacent to the courtyard.  Y’vin assisted him, levitating things and advising on architecture.  Aramon, stripped to the waist and sweating, alternated working the bellows and hammering metal in the nearest smithy.  Even Onarra, unused to actual labor, helped by gathering materials—knives, smallswords, rope, even barrows of stones.  Fliss worked with her, doing the majority of the actual lifting and hauling.

Onarra did most of the complaining.

“I still don’t see why we’re going to face it here,” she whined.  “It’s a lot of open space.  It’ll breathe fire everywhere and burn everything to the ground, then land on whatever doesn’t burn.”

“It won’t mind,” Fliss assured her, hefting an enormous rock into the barrow.  “It’s immune to fire.”

“That’s not my point!”

“I know, I know,” he soothed.  “Load up that coil of rope, will you?  The point is to surprise it on the ground, not attack it while its in the air.  Anger a dragon in flight and you’re absolutely right about what happens, with few exceptions.”

“What sort of exceptions?” she asked, dragging a heavy coil of rope to the barrow.

“Well, if it’s trying to eat something, it won’t breathe on it.  There’s usually not enough left to eat.  So the virgin chained to the rock is pretty safe from roasting, as are any people standing close to her.”

“Hold it!  I am not going to be bait for a dragon!”

“Oh?  You’re a virgin?”

Onarra flushed darkly and changed the subject while Fliss lifted the barrow’s handles and rolled it down the street.

“What else won’t it burn?”

“Usually, tribute is a safe bet.  It likes gold, silver, all that stuff.  If it breathes on it, the treasure is still gold and silver, but it’s a big block, not loose change.  Even in its lair, it keeps things sorted out.  Cups and goblets, harps, works of art, all that?  Stacked to the sides or on ledges or the like.  Pretty things.  The bed, however, is generally coins and gems.”  Fliss shrugged.  “I don’t know if it likes the way they feel—easily shifting under it—or if coins and gems aren’t pretty enough to warrant any better treatment.”

“And you’re an expert on dragons?”

“Not at all.  I’ve learned at Aramon’s knee, so to speak, and drawn some conclusions based on what I’ve seen.  I could be completely wrong.”

“Oh, I’m so comforted by that!”

“I’m almost certain I told you I wouldn’t lie to you.  Do you want me to start?”

“I—” she began, then cut herself off.  “It’s hard to remember who you are.”

“A professional thief?”

“No.  I mean, you keep having a different face.  It’s hard to remember you’re all the same person.”

“I know.  It’s sad, really, that you don’t get the joy of seeing my own features all the time.”

“Oh, hush, you,” Onarra chided, and punched him in the shoulder.  “So, what are the rocks and knives and rope for?”

“Gorgar’s got an idea.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t Gorgar the kind of man who kills things for a living?  Not really a thinker?”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Fliss assured her.  “He’s served in more than one army.  He knows things about the military even Aramon doesn’t, and Aramon is an actual knight.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Aramon is a member of the nobility.  Well, barely, but he is.  He gives orders and things happen.  Gorgar isn’t noble.  He’s seen the military from below.  Someone gives orders and he makes things happen.”

“Good combination, then.”

“You would be shocked,” Fliss assured her.  “Here, help me unload the ironware for Aramon and we’ll take the rest of this to the stable.”

Together, they clanked and clattered a dangerous pile of sharp things into the smithy.  Aramon nodded his thanks as he continued hammering glowing metal.  After a moment of conversation, Fliss went to work the bellows for a minute while Onarra went to fetch water from a pump.

Aramon drank much of the water and poured the rest over himself.  Then he went right back to work.  Fliss and Onarra went out and pushed the barrow on toward the stable.

“What’s he making?” Onarra asked.  “A chain?”

“Spiked chains,” Fliss corrected.  “Maybe bladed chains.”

“They look dangerous.”

“Hopefully.  They were partly Gorgar’s idea.”

“What are they for?”

“You’ll see.”

“Hopefully.”

Tindal returned shortly before nightfall.  Everyone took a break to meet and discuss.

“The lair is still where it was,” he began.  “It has not moved its hoard, and it remains within—or remained until moments ago, when last I observed it.  It seemed asleep, its length curled loosely upon the gold.”

“That would seem abundantly confident,” Aramon mused.  “Not that such confidence is unwarranted, given our earlier failure.  But such confidence serves our purpose.”

“It’s also got a bunch of cultists down here to defend it from interlopers,” Fliss added.  “Or did.”

“True enough.  Still, I should think it likely the creature would choose another cavern after the first was discovered.”

“Maybe there aren’t any good caverns for a lair,” Gorgar suggested.

“I disagree,” Tindal replied, shaking his head.  “I wandered below the place where it sleeps and there are many such within the mountain.  I should venture to guess there are many places in the range where it might lair with equal comfort.”

“So, it’s confident,” Y’vin said.  “Or it has another reason for staying put.”

“Such as?”

“Defenses, maybe.  It’s not unheard-of for dragons to wield powerful magic.  There may now be spells on the cavern to detect intruders, possibly even attack intruders.”  Y’vin glanced at Tindal’s ghostly form.  “Material ones, anyway.”

“Then I shall remain to help Gorgar prepare.  You may go and look.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Before you go,” Gorgar said, holding up a hand, “you said it was sleeping?”

“It seemed asleep,” Tindal agreed.  “I do not know why it would feign sleep.”

“Unless it knew you were there.”

“It is not impossible.”

“Fliss?  Do you see anything coming this way?”

“These aren’t my original eyes,” Fliss complained, but stepped outside and climbed the stable.  “No, I don’t see anything,” he called down.  “Not on the mountain, not anywhere.  Looks like rain, though, and it’s already pretty windy.”

“Thanks.”  Gorgar looked around the stable at his friends.  “We should still be on our guard tonight.  It may use the rain to cover its approach.”

“Why?” Onarra asked.  “Why should it bother?  It thinks it owns the region and has this town under its thumb.  Wing.  Claw.  Whatever dragons have things under.”

“Because Gorgar is cautious,” Aramon told her.  “And because dragons are unpredictable.”

“If they’re so unpredictable, why are we making all these preparations?”

“Because sometimes, we get lucky.”

“Lucky?  That’s a thing for heroes?”

“More often than you would believe,” Aramon assured her.  “We prepare.  We research.  We think.  We plot and plan.  We do whatever we can, so when the moment of truth comes, we need no luck.  But, nevertheless, when Tindal’s prayers have been answered, Namae’s grace flows through me, Y’vin’s magic has stretched to its limit, Fliss and Gorgar are as deadly as they can be… sometimes, even so, it is not enough.”

“I’m not sure I want this job,” Onarra muttered.

“We will do what we can to keep you safe,” Fliss assured her, swinging down from the roof.  “After this, you should be all set to go wherever you want, set yourself up in style, and never set foot out your door again, if that suits you.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I thought you might,” Fliss said, grinning and bowing.  “Will m’lady assist me further in finding more rope and chain?  I’ll handle the rocks.”

“Just what are you doing with all these rocks and ropes and things?” Onarra asked.

“Counterweights,” Gorgar replied.  “Right, Y’vin?”

“Yes.  The ropes go through pulleys, moving levers, which—no, nevermind.  I have to go scout a dragon lair.  I’ll be back as quickly as I can.  Gorgar?  You don’t need me for the next hour or two?”

“I have plenty to occupy me.”

“Good.  And you might talk to Onarra about luring our prey into position.”

“Once we have the weapon, I’ll do that.”

Y’vin nodded, stepped out of his current corpse, and vanished toward the mountain.

Chapter Eleven

“The way I see it,” Gorgar explained, “the dragon hasn’t come down to Pelamir in at least three days.  It’s about due, if Y’vin is right.  Dawn starts in an hour or so, and we’re as prepared as we’re likely to get.  We should figure out how we want to play this.”

“The last time we went into the lair,” Aramon pointed out, “it crushed us.”

“Yes,” Gorgar agreed, gritting his teeth.  “I know.  I admit it.  That’s why we’re attacking it here.  If it sweeps us with the tail, crashing through wood and plaster is a lot less hurtful than smacking into a stone wall.  We also have more room to move.”

“So does the dragon,” Aramon added.

“There is no way to get it into a perfect killing ground,” Gorgar told him.

“Oh?”

“There isn’t a perfect killing ground for killing dragons,” Fliss pointed out.

“Oh.”

“Which is why I think we need to trick it,” Gorgar continued.

“Go on.”

“Here, I’m a little lost.  Anybody who knows I’m wrong, speak up.  We can grab Sarevos’ corpse and have it, hopefully, lure the dragon down into the courtyard—that’s where it usually talks to him, right?” Gorgar asked, looking at Y’vin.

“That’s what I understand, yes.”

“Good.  Now, Sarevos isn’t exactly fresh.”

“He’s well-preserved, and it’s only been a day or so,” Fliss argued.

“Yes, but we’re talking about a dragon sniffing at him.”

“Good point.”

“Which makes me wonder, do we want to try and make him wounded and explain to the dragon how the cultists killed some would-be dragon-slayers?  Or should Onarra form an illusion of Sarevos around Sarevos to make him healthy?”

“I’m not sure I can make him smell alive,” Onarra said.

“Just make him smell not-dead,” Gorgar suggested.

“I can’t… that is, I don’t smell things the way a dragon does.  They can smell things I can’t, so I can’t make an illusion smell right to them.  It’s like making a color I’ve never seen before, but with the nose.  I can try to make him smell different, if you like, but if the dragon can smell like a hound—”

“Scent like a hound,” Y’vin corrected.  “Smelling like a hound would mean it has an odor like a dog.”

“Thank you so much for correcting my grammar in the middle of a war council,” Onarra replied, voice sweetly acidic.

“Apologies,” Y’vin replied, insincerely.  “Bad habit.  Please, do go on.”

“As I was saying, I can’t make an illusion of something I… something I haven’t seen, or smelled, or whatever.  I’d have to be a dragon to understand what it smells.”  Onarra looked sharply at Y’vin, who promptly said nothing.

“Then we probably need to bandage the body of Sarevos,” Gorgar decided.  “It’s important we lure the thing into the courtyard for their normal meeting.”  Gorgar turned to Y’vin.  “What can you tell us about how that goes?”

“It wasn’t big on the list of things to think about,” Y’vin mused.  “I get the impression the thing didn’t give warning, just swooped down and landed.  People scrambled to be obsequious and respectful and suchlike.  I think—I won’t say for certain, but I think—if Sarevos limps out of the building after it lands, it’ll try to talk to him.  My guess is it will be curious about what the hell is going on.”

“We’ll go with it, then,” Gorgar said.  “Fliss, you use Sarevos.  Y’vin, you’re with me.  Tindal, do you think you can get it to turn to the right, away from the stables?”

“I shall dress a body appropriately.  I believe I can attract its attention, but I would like Onarra to assist me.”

“Me?” Onarra asked, surprised.  “What do you want me to do?”

“As I understand the plan, the dragon will land to speak with Sarevos.  What we wish it to do it turn to its right, away from the livery stable.  With your powers, do you believe we can accomplish this?”

“That’s easy,” Onarra assured him, with a dismissive gesture.

“What do you plan for me?” Aramon asked.

“You deliver the deathblow, if we can get you close enough.  We don’t have anything to go through the scales easily, except your sword.  I remember banging on it with my blade and it felt like hitting an anvil.  You didn’t have any problems.”

“That is in the nature of Namae’s grace.”

“I don’t doubt it.  You’re also the only one who can be stepped on or breathed on and killed.  I’ll want Tindal to pray over you, and you to pray, and whatever Y’vin can do, but we’ve got to keep you alive to deliver the killing stroke.  We’ll work our wonders in our own ways, beating the monster down, but you have to hold off until you’re certain you can finish it.”

“I will, of course, do everything in my power to slay the creature.”

“No!” Gorgar snapped.  Everyone looked at him in surprise.  “You will not.”

“I fear I do not understand you.”

“What I’m getting at is you are too valuable an asset to risk.  Don’t charge out into the fight while it’s distracted.  Don’t even let it know you’re there!  Wait until it’s staggering, falling over its own feet, barely able to lift its head—then go out and kill it!” Gorgar ordered.  Aramon scowled.

“That hardly seems appropriate for—”

“Dammit, I’m not concerned with appropriate!  I’m concerned with success!  I’m not sure we can kill it at all without three feet of holy steel to plunge through its ugly chest and into whatever it uses for a heart!  We can wound it, yes.  We can annoy it, yes.  We can severely inconvenience it, yes.  But you are the only one I’m certain can kill it!”

“Surely, Y’vin can perform some powerful spell if I fall in battle.”

“I don’t know,” Y’vin countered, slowly.  “I’ve damaged it a little.  I think I can damage it more, now.  Maybe, if I can blast some scales off in exactly the right place, and Gorgar can use an undead-strong body to hit the weakened area exactly right, and we can find a weapon that can take the force of such a blow, then, if everything works together perfectly… yes.  It won’t be easy or likely—or, for my money, even doable.  But it is vaguely possible.”

“I think what Aramon’s getting at,” Fliss said, “is you have lots of bodies.  Can’t you just blast it repeatedly until it goes down?”

“No.  Expending the body isn’t a big deal.  Saves on burial costs, anyway.  But casting spells is also a drain on me, the spirit.  After a few of the big ones, I’ll need to rest again, which means I crawl into a rock.  The dragon eats everyone and maybe destroys the rock.  Best case, we’ll have to go find the dragon again… and it gets to rest and heal while we look for it and I recover.  Eventually, I suppose, if I can do damage faster than it can recover, and if we have a steady supply of sacrificial victims...”

“Very well!” Aramon snapped.  “I am convinced of the necessity.  I shall abide by the tactical restrictions under which I must operate.”

“There is a good side to this, for you,” Gorgar added.

“Which is?”

“You definitely won’t be ambushing it.  It’ll already be in a fight when it’s time for you to kill it.”

“Hmm.  A pale shadow of comfort, but I suppose you do have a point.”

The rest of the morning passed without incident.  A few small preparations continued.  Gorgar and Y’vin went over their mechanisms and counterweights.  Aramon and Tindal greeted the dawn and their individual gods.  Onarra had Fliss help move what livestock they had into a pen opposite the livery stable.

“The secret to being an illusionist,” she confided, once they had the gate to the pen tied shut, “is to work with what you have.”

“How so?”

Onarra pointed at the pigs and sheep in the pen.  Suddenly, there were three times as many.  The extras vanished a moment later.

“I can’t duplicate their smell well enough to fool a dragon,” she reminded him, “but their smell is already there.  I have a hard time with complicated movement, but I’m just copying the movements they’re already making.  Same thing with their sounds.  Copying what we have is much simpler than making something up.”

“So, when I—as Sarevos—tell it to help itself to the offerings, it stands a fair chance of biting thin air?”

“Yes.  Which should confuse it, at least for a moment.”

“But why add extra animals in the first place?”

“Because I’ll have an illusion already in place.  I can change it instantly, but laying my power over an area in the first place takes a second or two.  When it moves to bite down on something, whatever it is will seem to turn into something threatening.  It’ll face the enemy, maybe set fire to it.  It’ll be occupied for a few more seconds.”

“Have you talked this over with Gorgar?”

“No… should I?”

“Probably.  He’s got something specific in mind.”

“Oh.”  Onarra shrugged.  “I’ll go do that.  Have you got the animals?”

“All penned up.  No problem.  I’ll go bandage Sarevos.”

Onarra and Fliss walked away, each to their tasks.  Gorgar did, in fact, have some specific requests regarding the illusions, once Onarra offered her suggestions.

Aramon and Tindal finished their dawn salutations and morning prayers.  Tindal seemed exceptionally solid, a fact Aramon noted but chose not to comment on.  Aramon waited in the house, itself, while Tindal, ghostly, sat on the roof and watched the skies.  The weather cooperated; there were very few clouds, all high up.

Shortly before noon, Tindal sounded the alarm.

The dragon was coming.

Circling the city on outstretched wings, the dragon looked down.  There was no one to be seen, aside from Sarevos.  Where were the other members?  Dead, perhaps, considering Sarevos knelt in the courtyard with one arm in a sling and a bandage around his neck.  If he was wounded, there was some sort of fight.  A falling out for leadership, perhaps, or a peasant mob.

An uprising was the most likely, it decided.  The common people were definitely gone.  Days gone, from the look and smell of the place.  Still, there were animals for the eating and possibly enough gold to be worthwhile.  If nothing else, once Sarevos explained, he might be worth eating.  That seemed best, unless the explanation was extremely entertaining.

The dragon leaned hard over, slipped sideways, and spiraled down.

Fliss, wearing the corpse of Sarevos, remained kneeling as the dragon landed.  Dust and grit blasted out from it as the great, leathery wings slapped downward.  Animals squealed and screamed, struggling to get away from the monster as it settled its sinuous length down on all four legs.  The spiny head lowered, eyes blinking, as it regarded its servant.

“Speak,” it rumbled, voice deep and loud, making flesh tremble and resonate.

“Great One,” Fliss replied, reaching for all the well-oiled obsequiousness he could find, “troublemakers from beyond Trinnian heard of the awesome majesty of your most august self.  In their willful pride and arrogance, they presumed to challenge your authority over this region.”

“Go on,” the dragon ordered, lowering its head almost to the ground, nose a scant three feet from Sarevos.

“In our struggles against these fools, we have suffered great loss in our numbers, but have prevailed over them.  Their bodies are, regrettably, covered in filth from the circumstances of our battle, but their goods and gear are yours, Great One.  Do you wish your unworthy servant to wash their corpses and so make them more palatable for your consumption?”

“Interesting,” the dragon hissed, raising its head to about the ten-foot level again.  “You seem ill, Sarevos.  Have you suffered at their hands?”

“I have, Great One.”

“Indeed.  How long have you been dead?”

At that, Onarra acted.  The wall against which the animals were crowded, trying to get as far away from the dragon as possible, suddenly opened, revealing Aramon and his shining blade.

“Dragon!” he shouted, voice thundering and echoing.  “I have returned!  Prepare to meet your doom!”

The dragon’s head whipped to the side, eyes wide, then narrow.

“I know you,” it growled.  “You crept into my home and thought to ambush me there.”

The illusion of Aramon stepped forward, raising shield and sword.

“I did.  Now you shall meet your end at last, foul beast!”

The dragon turned more fully, looking down at the knight.  It cocked its head, as though considering the best way to take a bite out of him.

“Well?” Aramon demanded.  “Strike!”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” the dragon replied.  “You were the one that struck me, wounded me with your blade, pawn of a god.”

The dragon inhaled and reared up, wings spreading wide.  It ducked its head slightly, neck extending, and breathed a blast of yellow-white fire, brighter than the noon sun.  Pigs and sheep were suddenly silent, killed instantly by the dragonfire.  Aramon ducked, shield held high while the stream of flame poured over and around him.  The dragon’s eyes narrowed further as it saw the way the flames splashed on Aramon’s shield and parted around him.

In the stables behind it, Gorgar grinned at the illusion of Aramon.  With the dragon rearing up, wings spread, he couldn’t think of a better target.

He swung the axe and cut the first rope.  A counterweight fell, dragging most of the roof down and out of the way.  Without waiting, Gorgar immediately hefted the axe and cut the second rope, releasing the launching counterweights.  Lever arms swung, hoisting and flinging all manner of bladed chains and sharp, whirling things.  Most missed the dragon completely.  A few rang off the scales of its back, neck, or tail.

But a few did what they were meant to do.  They struck the outstretched, leathery sails of the dragon’s wings.  Rips and rents appeared as they tore through the thick membranes, raining ichor on the dirt and stone of the courtyard.  One bladed chain embedded much of its length vertically in the back of one wing; the rest of it, anchored in the leathery portion, whipped around the bony top like a flail and buried the rest in the other side of the wing.  The dragon screamed, throwing its head back, a column of fire wavering into the sky.

Ignoring the pain of its wounds, the dragon beat the air, leaping and launching itself.  It clawed at the top of the former headquarters as it pounded into the sky, pushing upward, while Fliss caught the tip of the dragon’s tail.  He tried to weigh it down, to use the uncanny strength of a corpse to hinder it, and perhaps he did—but not much.

Gorgar shouted at Y’vin as the dragon cleared the rooftop, dragging Fliss with it.  Y’vin raised both hands, and a dozen sharp things rose from the courtyard.  At his gesture, they flung themselves en masse into and through the dragon’s left wing, drawing another scream of rage and pain from the fiery throat.

In its thrashing and flapping, Fliss used the motion of the tail to his advantage.  He leaped, hurling himself forward and to the right to catch the trailing end of the bladed chain wrapped around the right wing.  He ignored the way the blades sank into his hands—they weren’t really his hands, after all—and hung on grimly, a dead weight dragging the chain through the wing.  Like a saw, it rent the leathery flesh with every wingbeat.

The dragon, struggling for flight in the first place, lost what little control it had and spiraled in sharply.  It plowed through buildings, crashing and tumbling as it hit, leaving a wake of rubble and wreckage.

Fliss had no chance to do anything further.  The dragon immediately breathed again, setting fire to everything around it, including Sarevos.  It turned its head, then its whole body, spraying a vast plume of flame all the way around, leaving it in the center of a burning circle of fiery wreckage.

Aramon, still hidden inside the former headquarters with Onarra, swore piously at the carnage.

“What’s wrong?” Onarra asked.

“The destruction is the problem,” he snapped.  “I will not be able to approach it swiftly through the rubble.  With my prayers, Tindal’s, and the spells of Y’vin, the fire should not bother me, but I cannot fly!”

“Didn’t Gorgar say not to go after it?”

Aramon gnashed his teeth and did not reply.  He left the building at a run, heading down an undamaged street to gain a better vantage.  Tindal joined him, wearing the body of a former cultist.

“I need to get over that rubble!” Aramon shouted.

“I do not have a blessing for that!” Tindal shouted back, still running.

With the body of Sarevos crushed and burned in the landing, Fliss hurried into the nearest intact corpse and started looking for a way through the fires and wreckage.  Gorgar pounded into the street with a fully armed and armored corpse, ready to attack, distract, or assist.  Y’vin followed in his present corpse, not yet having expended it magically.

The dragon, meanwhile, took a moment to catch the bladed chain in its teeth, peel it carefully from the rent wing, and fling it away.  Its wings were badly hurt, and the right one hung almost in tatters.  It beat them experimentally, hissing in pain.  It might slow and steer a fall, perhaps well enough to land from a height, but flight would be impossible until they healed.

The feeling of being hunted was not a welcome one.

Y’vin chose that moment to try and lure it from its protective circle of fire and wreckage.  Magical bolts of force shot yet more holes in the left wing.

The dragon roared, an ear-splitting sound of rage and pain, and charged.  Rocks the size of wagon wheels skittered aside.  Burning house-beams splintered beneath its feet.  Everyone else got as far away as they could, taking cover behind the stoutest barrier available.

Y’vin stood his ground and let the monster have it again, deliberately peppering both wings with a dozen small holes.

The dragon, enraged beyond reason, reared up as it approached.  It planted both front feet on Y’vin’s body, crushing him instantly to a red paste.

The body, primed with a spell for just such an event, exploded.  The sound was like a thunderclap in a cave, sharp and forceful with reverberating echoes, followed by a horrible ringing.  Ears partly deafened by the dragon’s roar suffered again as the shockwave swept outward.  The blast threw the dragon up and over to writhe and struggle on its back.

Stunned, the dragon lay still for a second or two.  Its wings, already rent and weakened, were rags.  Its body was largely unharmed, however, and its temper completely foul.

It would have been a perfect time for someone to skewer it, but the blast that stunned the dragon also stunned those close enough to take advantage of it.  By the time Gorgar and Fliss picked themselves up, the dragon had already writhed back over onto its belly and faced the oncoming pair of figures—Aramon and Tindal.

Fire filled the street as it breathed on them.  The two stopped as they saw it about the breathe and Tindal stepped in front of Aramon, chanting.  A river of fire poured down the street, parting around them as a river parts around a great stone.

When the flames ended, Tindal and Aramon still stood.  The dragon’s eyes narrowed again as it snarled.

Gorgar, meanwhile, reached the flank of the dragon and, having learned from his previous encounter, struck with great care.  His aim was for a place where the scales were lightest, and the blow delivered at a slant to go up under them.  His aim was true, and the strength of his borrowed body enormous.  The point of his weapon penetrated somewhere behind the dragon’s right leg.

The dragon’s scream was the final straw for ears already abused by too many loud noises.  Blood dripped down the side of every neck.  Gorgar, the closest, discovered a lack of heartbeat would not prevent bleeding from the nose and ears.

As it shrieked its agony and humiliation, the dragon spun in place, stomping in a circle to crush Gorgar underfoot and prevent any other carefully-aimed blows.  It spewed fire in all directions as it turned, moving to crush and ignite vast stretches of the town.  Falling wreckage and tumbling rubble showered everywhere, raising a screen of dust and smoke amid the fire.

It continued moving, crashing through buildings and burning everything, an armored, fire-spewing juggernaut.  Building after building came down in flames and burning debris.  The adventurers sought some way to reach it, but it refused hold still, lumbering its way along, stomping and bellowing and flaming.  It burned and crashed its way to the edge of the town, then started circling it, destroying everything as it crushed or shattered its way through anything it reached.

Before long, a thick ring of flame surrounded the town.  The hot air, rising, sucked in more air below, drawing the flames toward the center, spreading the fires.

“Where is it?” Aramon demanded, coughing on smoke.

“It’s outside the rubble and the fires,” Fliss reported, ghostly.  “I think it’s leaving.  It’s trundling off toward the mountain, anyway.”

“Is it not flying?” Tindal asked.

“No, it’s on foot.  Claws.  Whatever.  I don’t believe it can fly, not after what we did to it.”

“Where is Gorgar?” Aramon demanded.

“He’s in a body and escorting Onarra to a safe place.  Pelamir’s going to burn to the ground unless the great-granddaddy of all storms pours rain on it right now.”

Aramon swore again, still piously.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Fliss asked.

“No.”

“Fair enough.  Let’s get you somewhere you won’t roast or suffocate.”

“I can barely see,” Aramon admitted.  “Lead on.”

A city burns for days.  Fortunately, not all of it burns at once, and not all of it burns the whole time.

Aramon heaved at the lid—the makeshift door over a wine merchant’s basement.  The building had already fallen in the dragon’s rampage, but the entryway was still intact.  Corpses had covered it with boards, cleared away anything that might fall on it or burn, and shoveled a layer of dirt over it.  Now, as Aramon broke out of the shelter, dirt and ashes showered down the steps below.

Another heave, more dirt, more ashes, and daylight.  Aramon coughed and spat grit.

“At least it isn’t raining,” Onarra offered.  “Then we’d have mud pouring in.”

“Are you always so full of cheer?” Aramon asked, wiping dust from his face.

“Only when I’ve watched from below as a dragon burned the town I was in to nothing while I was being buried alive by the possessed corpses of dragon-cultists.”

Aramon had no reply.  Instead, he heaved again, dislodging more dirt and shoving aside one of the boards.  He pulled more dirt down, clearing it away from overhead, and levered his way through the rest of the opening.  A few minutes of scraping and digging finished clearing the opening and he handed Onarra out.

Pelamir was dead.  Scattered stones, fallen walls, and the black, partial skeletons of wooden buildings marked its grave.  Hot eddies and smoke washed over the shimmering, heat-distorted scene, like some strange aquarium in hell.

“Well, so much for that,” Onarra said, dusting her hands together.  “Where do we go from here?  Back to Trinnian?”

“I doubt it,” Aramon replied.

“Oh?  Then where?’

Aramon pointed at the nearby mountains.

“Are you trying to be funny?” Onarra demanded.

“Never.”

“Did you even see what happened?  How this place got this way?  There was a giant, flying lizard at least a thousand feet long breathing fire on the place and stomping anything in its way!  Now it’s stomped off to who-knows-where and is minding its own business.  Maybe we should let it and mind our own!”

Aramon reminded himself that Onarra might look like a grown woman, but was really only fourteen years old.

“First of all,” Aramon began, patiently, “the dragon is our business.  Second, it was not a thousand feet long; at most, it was a hundred and thirty, nose to tail.  Third, it is no longer flying.  It is now strictly a ground-based monster and will be for some weeks, if, indeed, it ever regains the power of flight.  Even if it does recover enough to fly, I doubt it will ever fly as well as once it did.”

“Oh, well, I stand corrected,” Onarra huffed.

“I freely admit our initial plan—”

“The one where you all marched straight into its cave?”

“—to challenge it here in Pelamir did not go perfectly.”

“You mean, it’s not dead.”

“While we did intend to kill it here, we did not anticipate the level of debris and the difficulty in approaching it.”

“So, the plan failed?  Like the first one?”

Aramon took a deep breath of the smoke-shot air.  He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair and shook his head.

“If you intend to remark so on each of the plans made for the killing of the dragon,” he said, slowly and carefully, “I invite you to consider this.  The first plan resulted in the death of four of my friends with minimal damage to the dragon.  The second one, here, wounded it badly and crippled it, as well as robbing it of any human agency which might assist it—and with no loss of life on our side.  Shall we wager on how the third attempt will go?”

“I’m not sure I want to see the third attempt,” Onarra admitted.  “This thing is huge and terrifying and more dangerous than armies!”

“Perhaps.  But, before you and I make any decisions, let us find shelter and set about making a camp.  We will also consult with the others.”

Onarra looked around the ruins and sighed.

“Well… maybe there’s some value to salvage from this mess, but I’m owed for my traveling wagon and all my stuff.  Cramming your stuff down in a wine cellar wasn’t hard, but the wagon is a total loss.”

Aramon nodded and called out the spirits of his friends.  They took form and looked around with interest.

“Made a right mess, didn’t it?” Gorgar asked.

“We kinda figured it would,” Fliss replied.

“Before we become too involved in the ruins,” Aramon interrupted, “perhaps I might prevail on the swifter of you to confirm the dragon’s whereabouts?  Onarra and I, being limited by flesh and blood, will also require a place to camp and whatever we might find that remains useful.”

Tindal and Y’vin nodded and shot off toward the dragon’s mountain lair.  Gorgar started tromping through the ruins, ignoring things like sharp edges, glowing coals, and clouds of ash and smoke.  Fliss merely arched an eyebrow.

“And what will you be doing?” he asked.  “Resting?”

“I will be transporting by hand all the goods and gear I have, until now, been loading and unloading from pack animals.”

“Oh.  Um.  Right.  Why don’t I go see if there’s anything I can find to help you with that.”

“I would be appropriately grateful to you.”

The roaming adventurers regrouped in a ravine along one flank of the dragon’s mountain.  Aramon and Onarra erected a canvas at the edge of an overhang of rock, letting it fall like a curtain to conceal the space beneath, before setting up their camp.

Seated in a circle, the six discussed the battle.

“We did better this time,” Gorgar started.  “We seriously wounded it.”

“I was hoping we could kill it,” Aramon complained.

“So was I, but I didn’t anticipate my catapults being so inaccurate.”

“Catapults are torsion engines,” Y’vin pointed out, “using twisted ropes to launch things.  Ours were counterweighted, which—”

“The point,” Gorgar interrupted, “is I didn’t rip the wings enough in the volley, so Y’vin and Fliss had to finish the job of grounding it, rather than immobilizing it.  Y’vin had a spell ready to grab the dragon’s legs by doing something to the ground.”

“It is a nice spell,” Y’vin agreed.  “It could break out of it, of course, but it would take several seconds.  The spell doesn’t make the earth and stone any stronger.”

“If he held it, then it broke free and flew away, we wouldn’t be in as good a position,” Gorgar added.  “Now it can’t fly, so it can’t swoop over us and breathe fire again and again.  It’s lost the advantage.”

“It remains an enormous, armored serpent,” Tindal pointed out, “with great claws and teeth, as well as fiery breath.”

“But we can outrun it,” Fliss countered, grinning.  “Even the living types might be able to.  And it can’t simply swoop around, looking for us.  It has to find a vantage point or go for walkabouts.”  Tindal nodded at Fliss’ estimate, agreeing silently before continuing.

“The trouble I foresee is the killing of the dragon.  Weakened, it has taken refuge in its lair.  When last we looked upon it, the monster lay loosely coiled upon its golden bed.”

“Wait,” Gorgar said, holding up a hand.  “It’s not trying to gather up its hoard and leave?”

“How would it?” Onarra asked, puzzled.  “What do dragons do when they want to move?  Giant baskets?”

“Typically,” Y’vin replied, “a dragon attempting to relocate will swallow large amounts of its hoard, holding it temporarily in one of its stomachs.  In the normal course of events, it flies to the new lair, regurgitates the load, and goes back for more.  Of course, right now this one can’t fly, but I see Gorgar’s point.  It knows we know where the lair is.  It should be desperately trying to salvage what it can and get away from us.”

“Instead,” Gorgar added, “it appears to be—what?  Waiting for us to come to it?”

“It would seem so,” Tindal agreed.  Everyone looked at Aramon.

“I do not know,” Aramon shrugged.  “I would also expect it to flee.  However, having defeated enemies in its lair before, perhaps it believes it is more secure than it is.”

“No,” Fliss argued.  “Not if these things are as clever as you say.”

“How so?”

“Take it from a professional thief, one of the keys to a successful hoard—dragon nest or human vault—is secrecy.  Once everyone knows where you keep your gold, everyone will try to get it.”  He looked at Tindal and Aramon.  “Well, not everyone, but you know what I mean.”

“No offense taken.  Continue.”

“Maybe this thing is confident it can kill invaders.  That’s fine and dandy.  But it has to know the secret location of its lair isn’t going to stay a secret.  Invaders have invaded and perished; that’s fine.  They took whatever secrets they knew with them.  But now, invaders have escaped—it knew you, Aramon.  It recognized you, or the illusion of you.  You got away and brought back help.  It has to assume a dozen or a hundred people know where to find it—people who aren’t here to be burned to death in the fire-breath.”

Slowly, the others nodded, thinking it through.

“What if,” Onarra suggested, “it has some reason for staying?”

“Such as?” Fliss asked, and hurriedly added, “I’m not being snide.  I want your thoughts.  Do you have any idea why it would risk it?”

“No.  No, I don’t.  I don’t know much about dragons, obviously.  But if I stay in a town where there’s a real risk of nasty things happening to me, it’s only because there’s a damn good reason to stay.  Maybe the prize is valuable enough to be worth the risk.  Or…” she trailed off, looking thoughtful.

“Or?” Fliss prompted.

“Or I have a backup plan to get away.”  Onarra turned to Y’vin and Tindal.  “When you were searching the lair, was there a back door?”

“We examined many of the underground passages,” Tindal admitted.  “There are at least three ways a man might enter the lair without using the dragon’s entrance.”

“Yes, but what about ways the dragon could get out?”

“No.  There is no opening it could squeeze through, nor any thin barriers it could dig through to larger passages.  It would be the work of weeks to widen a passage or dig through the mountain.”

“Oh.  Well, I guess it doesn’t have a way out.”

“Dragons generally only need one way in or out,” Aramon told her.  “It is often the only way, which gives them one point of entry to watch.  The ways a man might enter are difficult, are they not?”

“Yes,” Tindal agreed.  “Even the best of them is long and loud, having both tight spaces and stretches where one must climb.”

“So,” Onarra said, thoughtfully, “that means, to me, it has some reason for staying.  The hoard, maybe?  Since it can’t fly, maybe it doesn’t have anywhere to go?”

“There is always a second lair,” Aramon said.  “It knows where it will go if it must abandon the current lair.”

“But it’s walking.”

“True.  Perhaps it is merely resting before embarking on its journey.”  He turned to Tindal and Y’vin.  “Did it seem to you the hoard was diminished in any way?  Could it have taken a gulp of gold to the new lair, come back, and be resting?  It is injured, after all.”

Tindal and Y’vin consulted for a moment before denying it.

“No,” Tindal stated, positively.  “If anything, the hoard is larger than when we entered the lair as mortal men.”

“No doubt the locals have been collecting the tribute,” Y’vin added.

“Then I have no other ideas,” Aramon admitted.  “I do not know what it is doing.”

“Waiting for us,” Fliss muttered.

“Indeed.  And we will go to it.”

“Can I just say, right now,” Onarra chirped, “how I’m opposed to going into a cave with anything likely to breathe fire?  I don’t like the idea of putting an illusion somewhere and having the fire breath hit me anyway.”

“It’s a problem,” Fliss agreed.  “You don’t really have a range, but you have to see where you put your illusions?”

“Mostly.  I can create a giant snake and it can stick its head around the corner.  I can’t make it react to anything because I can’t see what’s going on.”

“Could you put an illusion of fog inside a building without seeing inside?” Fliss pressed.  “Really pack it in thick, blinding everyone?”

“I… hmm.  Yes.  I believe so, if you don’t want it to eddy and whirl like real fog when people move through it.  It’ll just be a uniform gray—or black.  I could make an area completely dark, I’m sure.  Why?  Do you have an idea?”

“I might.”  Fliss turned to Y’vin.  “When you explored your way around the caves and tunnels, was there an easy way for Aramon to get in?”

“It’s easy once you get to it,” Y’vin answered, thoughtfully.  “Getting down the mountainside to the opening is tricky, but if we find a body, I can fly him that far.”

“All right, new plan,” Fliss suggested.  “Onarra is the diversion.  She pumps the main entry full of fog.  The dragon will be certain we’re using it as cover to enter the lair.  The four of us attack the dragon directly.  Aramon comes up through a chasm—”

“One moment,” Tindal interrupted.  “How do you propose we attack the dragon?  We lack bodies, our own or otherwise.”

“We ride in our gems with Aramon.  When he’s ready, he calls us out and we try to seize the dragon’s spirit.”

“We have trouble holding a human for more than a few hours, and you want us to test our wills against a dragon?”

“We’ve been getting stronger,” Fliss argued, “and we don’t need to do anything with it for long.  A few seconds should be enough for Aramon to stick his sword into the thing’s heart.”

“I don’t know,” Y’vin muttered, tugging at his lower lip.

“Could you repeat that?  I’m sure I misheard.”

“Shut up.  I’m not certain we can manage to hold the thing.  We’re talking about a dragon.”

“All right,” Fliss said, shrugging.  “What’s your plan?”

“I haven’t got one.”

Fliss spread his hands in a well, there you are gesture.

“I have a suggestion,” Onarra offered.

“By all means,” Fliss encouraged.

“When Pelamir burned, do you think any of the dragon’s servants might have been out of town?”

“Probably,” Gorgar answered.  “I’d think it would want to control the local town and the two nearest—Siviskos and Darvis, I think.  Shellen is too small to be much use, and everything else nearby is a hamlet, and likely abandoned.”

“Will they be coming to investigate the huge cloud of smoke?”

“Yes.  We should be ready to defend our—ready to defend Aramon and you.”

“I agree.  And when you defend me from the evil dragon cultists, what will you do with the bodies?”

“I—hmm.”  Gorgar looked at Fliss.  Fliss grinned at him.

“She’s clever, this one,” Fliss told him.  “All we have to do is wait and the dragon cultists should supply us with bodies to use in fighting the dragon.”

“That seems weird,” Gorgar admitted.

“Ironic,” Fliss replied.  “And fitting.  Right, Aramon?”

“I must admit, there is a certain… justice to it.”

Chapter Twelve

Tindal and Fliss did the majority of the spying on the dragon.  Y’vin occupied the bodies of various animals, conducting further experiments.  Gorgar spent a lot of time in his gem, while Aramon and Onarra kept watch over the remains of Pelamir.

It took two days before anyone started poking around the ruins.  Six men—two wore the black robes and shaved their heads, four were in ring mail and carried spears—walked through the rubble-strewn street toward their former headquarters.

Aramon was waiting for them.

“Gentlemen,” he said, emerging from behind the remains of a crumbling wall, “I believe you have come to the wrong place.”  He stepped from the debris onto the road.

“Who are you?” asked the leader, a squat, hairy man with a charred wooden staff.  His shaved scalp gleamed in the sunlight.

“I am Sir Aramon of the Order of Warriors, Church of Namae.  You are servants to a dark and terrible monster.  If you surrender your accoutrements now and forswear your master, I will give you your lives.  You have my word.”

“There are six of us,” replied the other cultist, a taller, lantern-jawed fellow.  “Unless you have help hidden in the rubble, I don’t think you’re in any position to threaten us.”

Aramon raised his shield before his body and drew his sword.  The light danced along the edge of the blade and flickered briefly along the rim of his shield.  He made no outward sign of surprise, but the light had never graced his shield before—not for him, nor for any of his Order.  He would have wondered at the significance, but focused on his adversaries.

“I am bound by honor to give you a chance,” he said.  “I advise you to take it.”

“Wait,” said the shorter one.  “Before we decide, can you tell us what happened here?”

“Yes,” agreed the taller one.  “That might help.”

“Very well.  I slew the cult of the dragon in Pelamir before luring the dragon, itself, into a trap and wounding it badly.  It burned Pelamir to the ground, as you can see.”

The two cultists looked at each other, plainly disbelieving.  The four guards also exchanged glances, but theirs contained considerably more credulity and concern.

“How do we know this is true?” asked the tall one.

“I swear it by the light,” Aramon replied, and his blade shone brighter than the sun for a moment.

“Attack!” cried the cultists, and charged, staves swinging.  Aramon took one blow on his shield, cut the other stick in two, stepped forward to shove the man on his left, hard, with his shield, knocking him sprawling, and cut the man on his right in two with his sword’s backswing.

The blade came around and the point rested beneath the chin of the downed man.  Aramon put a foot on the staff to pin it to the ground.

“Repent of your evil or die,” he ordered.

“Guards!” he screamed.  “Guards!”

The men in ring mail stood unmoving.  Their spears were lowered and pointed at Aramon—from a safe distance.  They made no move to approach.  They saw the brisk, efficient way Aramon moved and recognized his skill.

“Guards!” the remaining cultist—the taller one—commanded again.  They shook their heads.

“Leave,” Aramon ordered.  They looked at each other and raised their spear-points.  Together, they genuflected, a quick dip to one knee and a brief touch of the left fist to the forehead, before turning and walking away.

“I am a knight,” Aramon continued, looking down at the captive cultist.  “I was given to the church as a babe, raised in the ways of Namae, and trained to fight since the time I could hold a wooden stick.  I have killed a hundred times a hundred men, monsters, and demons.  And, by Namae’s grace, have never slain an innocent.”

Aramon poked the man’s throat, drawing a thin trickle of blood.

“How innocent are you, servant of a dragon?”

“Not very,” he answered, looking up the length of the blade.  “If you’re dangerous enough to challenge a dragon, I acknowledge I’m not a match for you.  I surrender.”

“Very well.”  Aramon kicked the staff aside and stepped back.  “I accept your surrender.  You may rise.”

The man sat up and felt his throat before pressing the neck of his robe to the minor wound.  He stood up, glaring at Aramon.

“Now,” Aramon continued, “you may tell me all you know about this dragon.”

“You’re the dragon-hunter,” the cultist sneered.

“Ah.  You are useless to me.  Good.  Then I may simply execute you and move on.”

“You can’t.  I’ve surrendered.”

“The grace of Namae blessed my blade such that it will administer only pain to those who must suffer for their sins, but bring death to those whose hearts have turned to evil.”

The cultist looked as though he might have had a reply, but Aramon’s blade moved through his chest in a flashing movement.  He fell to his knees with a startled expression before collapsing on his face.

Aramon sighed and sat down, suddenly weary.  The race of men was not inherently evil, but it seemed so much easier for men to become so.  Onarra emerged from behind the broken wall and looked around.

“Is it over?”

“It is.”

“I thought there were more.”

“There were.”

“Did they get away?”

“I did not intend to kill them for their misfortune at being hired by evil men.  One may be in the service of money without being in the service of evil.  Knowingly serving evil is another matter entirely.”

“I hope so.  I’m fond of money.  But doesn’t that mean we’ve got a shortage of corpses?”

“I have no doubt Gorgar will be quite content with the stocky one.  It appears rather brawny.  The thinner one will serve Y’vin well.  Tindal’s prayers are not limited by the flesh, or lack of it, and Fliss is good at improvising.  Two will do, I think, for our next attempt on the dragon’s lair.”

“I still don’t like being the distraction,” Onarra complained, sitting down on a rock next to Aramon.  “If it doesn’t like the fog, it’s liable to come straight out and put the area outside to the torch.”

“You will be far enough away to be safe from that,” Aramon assured her.  “You can then cloak yourself in illusion to appear as no more than another rock, or a tree, or whatever you choose.”

“I’ll think of something,” Onarra agreed, and nudged one of the fallen men with her toe.  “You’d think the dragon would get competent servants.  Or more martial ones.”

“I have no doubt the shaved-head fanatics are competent, if all they do is intimidate and bully a town of frightened locals on the dragon’s behalf.  For guards and warriors, however, they have a rather small pool of martial skill to draw from.  This is not a shard known for its military expertise.  I also expect a dragon would not be greatly interested in having powerful individuals working so closely to it.  Dragons are confident, but they are also suspicious, which may be why I have never heard of them employing human servants before.”

“What about Gorgar?  You said this shard isn’t known for fighters.  He strikes me as a very fighty kind of man.”

“Much of his training and experience took place on other shards.  He is, compared to most people, widely traveled.”

“Oh.  I didn’t realize.”  Onarra looked around the ruins.  “So, we’re not waiting for another group of cultists?”

“No.  Tonight, we prepare for our battle.  Tomorrow, the dragon dies.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“It is defensive.  It is sitting still, for whatever reason.  We have the initiative and we will attack in the manner of our choosing.”

“What if it’s sitting still because it’s sitting in a trap?”

“I do not believe so.  Tindal, Y’vin, and Fliss have all examined the lair; none of them can find evidence of a trap, aside from the obvious:  A dragon in a cave.”

“Most people find that dangerous enough.”

“Most people do,” Aramon agreed.

Aramon and Onarra watched the still-smoking ruins of Pelamir for the rest of the day.  No one else came to call.  Aramon called out Gorgar and Y’vin to inhabit the corpses.  The four of them returned to their hidden camp for the evening.  There, Aramon called out Tindal and Fliss to join them in discussing their plans.

“Two corpses aren’t enough,” Gorgar complained.  “It’ll take dozens, maybe scores of bodies.”

“How do you figure?” Fliss asked.

“We can hurt the dragon with our weapons, but only because we know how to strike it, now, and because we have such strength.”

“Dead bodies,” Y’vin nodded.  “I believe we damage them when we do things beyond their mortal capabilities.  They don’t have the… self-limiting thing, I suppose, to keep them from hurting themselves.”

“The point being, where one body might hit the dragon and draw blood, it’s like pricking a finger on a man.  One or twenty, it’s only annoying.  You need hundreds, maybe thousands, before it’s dangerous.  And not every body will get as far as wounding it!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Fliss said, thoughtfully.  “If I’m distracting it—and I guarantee I will—you can get into position fairly reliably.  Tindal, too, can at least distract it, if he’s not praying for Ashkelon’s intervention at any particular moment.”

“I should think I will constantly be praying for the safety and well-being of our Aramon.”

“And, to a lesser extent, the bodies used in the battle,” Aramon added.

“To be sure.”

“I’m not so sure about this,” Gorgar groused.  “I never thought I’d say this, but I want more corpses.”

“Should we wait another few days and see how many more we can collect?” Fliss asked.

“No,” Y’vin answered.  “We shouldn’t.  We don’t have time.”

“Why not?” Gorgar asked, puzzled.

“Two reasons.  First, the dragon is wounded now.  It’s recovering.”

“So what?  It won’t fly for weeks.”

“No, but if someone cuts off your left hand, you’re going to be weakened and slow for a week or more without Tindal or Aramon praying over you.  The dragon is licking its wounds and regaining its strength, even if it never flies again.  We need to hit it quickly.”

“And the second thing?”

“It may not be simply sitting there.  We’ve spied on it, but I can’t promise it isn’t doing something.  For all I know, it’s been making plans.  It could, for example, simply decide to leave.  It takes the biggest gulp of gold it can—bigger than usual, since it won’t be flying—and stomps off into the mountains.  Then we have weeks of trying to follow it to wherever it’s going.”

“I doubt it will abandon—” Gorgar began, but Y’vin cut him off.

“That was an example, thick-head!  I don’t know what it really is up to, but it’s not going to be good for us if we let it sit up there and do it!  I say we don’t have time to wait around, slowly collecting our army!  We need to hit it again, now.  Even if we don’t kill it, we need to wound it, expend its energies, disrupt its plans.  Or, in simpleton language, hit it hard and hit it often.”

Gorgar’s fists clenched, but he held his tongue.  Fliss and Aramon nodded.

“I must concur with Y’vin’s thinking,” Aramon admitted.  “The dragon is as weak as it will ever be.  If nothing else, we must discover what tactics it will use and what plans it is hatching.”

“I’m for it,” Fliss said, simply.  “We’ve got a plan.  Let’s have a vote.”

Tindal called for the vote.  Everyone agreed—Gorgar grudgingly—to attack.

Fliss and Tindal escorted Onarra to her position near the mouth of the tunnel.  Once in position, Tindal acted as messenger, back and forth between the two groups.  Aramon, Gorgar, and Y’vin, all currently physical, circled around the mountain to access the hidden entrance.

Aramon looked down at the steep slope, holding his medallion like a lantern.  He heard the water below as it foamed over its rocky bed, but the darkness hid it from view.

“I can’t climb that.”

“Me, either,” Gorgar affirmed, resting a heavy pick on one shoulder of his stocky body.  “Got a riding-spider?”

“Not with me.”

“Oh, you big babies,” Y’vin huffed.  He gestured and chanted, walking around each of them, one at a time.  “There.  Now you’re light enough to float away.  Try climbing now.”

Gorgar gave an experimental hop.  He started drifting upward.  Y’vin caught him and dragged him back down.

“Did you miss the part where I warned you about floating away?”

“I thought it was less a warning and more of a mention.”

“Fine.  Climb down, stupid.”

“Climbing.”

They worked their way down the face of the mountain, carefully.  Fortunately, the night was calm and the breezes mild.  They made it to the narrow ledge and crawled under the overhang.  Once in a place where they could no longer fall, Y’vin dismissed his spells, recovering what energies he could from them, and cast new spells to muffle or silence their movement through the cave.

Gorgar paused at the mouth of the cave, sniffing at the air, wetting a finger and testing the flow.  Cool air emerged from the cave mouth, bearing with it the faint odor of dragon.  He nodded to his companions.

Single-file, they entered the mountain, Gorgar leading, Y’vin in the middle, Aramon following.  They moved in darkness, carefully, feeling their way along lest some errant gleam of light give away their presence.  The journey was relatively straightforward; Aramon had come this way before, dragging himself with one arm.  He did not remember crossing the gentle slope, covered with a thin flow of ice-cold water, but his memory of the trip was, at best, unreliable.

Their eyes, long adapted to the darkness, detected the faintest of gleams.  They stood at the bottom of a narrow cleft, looking upward.  Marks on the walls and floor showed where Aramon had struck on the way down.  In the darkness, Fliss waited for them, barely more than a shadow in the dimness.  His ghostly touch was a cold sensation, nothing more, but sufficient to signal his presence and his departure.

The three readied themselves and waited, standing in perfect silence and stillness, for the signal.  It was not long in coming.

A snort from above caused a momentary increase in light.  Rustling, clinking sounds followed.  Great nostrils flared, sniffing suspiciously at the fog rolling down the tunnel.  A great sucking sound, as of vast lungs drawing a breath, filled the cavern.

Y’vin’s hands shone with a glowworm radiance as he laid hands on Gorgar’s heavy pick.  The glow transferred to the weapon and Gorgar readied it in his hands.  Y’vin then gestured in a sweeping, upward motion.  Aramon drew his sword as the three of them shot up through the crevasse, side by side, to land on the upper edge.

Light filled the world as the dragon breathed fire up the tunnel.  Rolling, roiling, a river of fire flowed up, filling the entrance to the dragon-lair with an unholy brilliance and unearthly heat.  The dragon breathed out hard, blasting a full-throated roar of flame with all its might.  When the roar of the flames died, the walls of the tunnel glowed red and the air in the cavern shifted, the hot up-slant of the tunnel acting like a chimney, pulling a strong breeze in and up and out.

Tindal and Fliss stood in the tunnel as the fog and flame vanished.

“Hello, dragon,” Fliss said, grinning, drawing ghostly knives.  “Remember me?”

The roar of fury drowned out any additional remarks.  The roar changed from fury to agony as Gorgar, wielding an enspelled pick with all the strength of an undead body, slammed it down on the dragon’s tail, penetrating it and nailing it to the floor.

Y’vin went right; Aramon went left.  Gorgar stayed put and kept the dragon’s attention.  It spun on him, wrenching its tail free and sending the pick flying.  Gorgar reached for the knives on his belt as the dragon’s head came down, mouth open, and bit.  Part of his legs remained behind after the jaws closed.

Y’vin cast another spell while Tindal invoked Ashkelon, both of them directing their efforts at Aramon.  The power reached across the cavern to envelop him and protect him.

Fliss, however, attacked.  He flew over the dragon, seized it at the neck, just behind the head, almost exactly as he did before, only facing forward.  He thrust through the scales and flesh, stabbing with both daggers in a rapid movement left-right-left-right, as though trying to pierce the dragon’s spine.  The effect was less striking than being pierced by a material weapon, yet the dragon shuddered and twitched, clearly not in full control of itself.

Almost as bad, from the dragon’s perspective, was Gorgar.  Legless, his body still in the dragon’s mouth, he used the knives as climbing spikes, driving them into the softer tissues inside, clawing his way down into the throat—and wedging himself there.  With what remained of his legs and one knife, he held himself in place and started cutting his way out with the other knife.  Ichor flowed in rapid pulses, burning his dead flesh and trickling down into the dragon’s gullet.

The dragon hacked, trying to cough, to breathe, as it flailed wildly, thrashing all around the cavern.  It smashed a low portion of the ceiling with the back of its own head, trying to dislodge Fliss, to no effect.  It slammed its bleeding tail through Tindal with no greater result.  Rolling over Y’vin, however, proved at least somewhat effective.  The body, already dead, crushed easily enough, forcing Y’vin to revert to a disembodied state and a disgusted expression.

Aramon stayed out of the way, as agreed.  It was his job to kill it, to deliver the deathstroke, and, as much as it pained him to remain out of the battle, he did his duty.  But he looked for his opportunity, the fatal opening to let his blade get to the heart of the matter and settle it.

The dragon sank claws into the floor, gripping the stone and getting a grip on itself.  It worked its neck in a wave, once, twice, and spat dull flames and smoke.  It repeated the process, ignoring the way sections of its body twitched and spasmed even as it focused on what it was doing.  It spat flames again, brighter, and coughed.  Charred bits of Gorgar crackled and crunched as it coughed the obstruction from its throat.  It took a deep breath of air as Gorgar sat up from the blackened remains with a curse on his lips.

As far as the beast was concerned, Tindal was a ghost.  Fliss, an annoying ghost.  Y’vin, crushed, and now a ghost.  Gorgar, also now a ghost.  Aramon alone was physical.  If Fliss was the example of the level of danger these spirits posed, then the physical one was the real threat.  Besides, Aramon survived being bitten and tossed aside.  That was humiliating.

Ignoring the bleeding and pain in its throat, it breathed at Aramon, a white-hot blast of dragon fury.  The roar of the fire was almost equal to the dragon’s roar.  Yet it splashed before reaching Aramon, deflected in all directions as though by an invisible shield.  Sections of stone turned red, then softened and began to melt.

Y’vin, meanwhile, saw something in the dragon’s hoard.  He moved into it quickly and used it in ways nature had not intended.

The cracking sound was inaudible to human ears, deafened by dragon-roars in the cavern.  To the dragon’s ears, it was the only sound in the world.  It swung its head around instantly to regard the egg.

The crack widened.  The dragon’s eyes widened even as its pupils narrowed.  Everyone else, unaware of what was happening, stopped to stare with the dragon.  Even Fliss ceased to stab, transfixed by the hatching of the great egg.

It cracked further, splitting almost completely apart.  One more heave from within and the egg broke, spilling a sluice of fluid over the gold, tearing the membrane on the inside of the shell.  The thing within flopped onto the gleaming hoard.  Half-formed, incomplete, it was a twisted parody of the massive, sinuous form standing over it.  Bulging, sightless eyes sat on an elongated head.  A narrow, toothless beak protruded below.  A wrapping of membranes around the body could only be the beginning of wings, but so thin they began to dry and crack almost immediately.  It gave a strange squawking cough, spitting fluid, flopped helplessly on the golden nest for a moment, then died.

The dragon reared up on its hind legs, ruined wings outspread, foreclaws raking the air.  Its head extended upward, fire pouring from its mouth, as it shrieked a devastated scream of outrage and loss.

Gorgar leaped into it.  Tindal was, perhaps, a fraction of a second behind him.  Fliss caught on as Tindal vanished into the dragon’s flesh and joined them.  Y’vin, only then stepping out of the dead dragonet, saw Fliss sink into the dragon’s skull.

“Aramon!” he shouted, pointing, but Aramon was already moving.  Deaf and bleeding from the ears, Aramon charged before any ghost moved into the scaled beast.  Shield discarded, blade held in both hands, he leaped for the dragon’s chest, sword overhead for a stabbing stroke into the high-risen breast.

The dragon, struggling with three possessing spirits at once, froze in place, still rearing high, its underbelly exposed.  Not forever, not even for long, but for the rest of its life.

Aramon struck, and struck true.  His blade slid through iron-hard scales as through parchment.  Hilt-deep he drove it, burying the shining blade in the monster’s chest.  He planted one foot on the beast, twisted the hilt with all his strength, and wrenched his blade free from its high place, falling backward and away from it.  Ichor spewed from the wound like a pulsing fountain.  He sprang to his feet and struck again, from below, angled up, burying the blade to the hilt once more.  He twisted the sword, hard, and wrenched it free again, bellowing in agony as the second boiling-hot fountain of ichor sprayed him, eating holes through his armor and the flesh beneath.  He fell backward on the loose coins and the steaming dragon-blood.

The dragon shuddered and Fliss fell out of it, dim and fuzzy.  He dissolved into mist and flowed toward Aramon, vanishing into his gem.  Gorgar, equally exhausted, followed an instant later, as did Tindal.

The dragon fell forward, landing hard enough to rattle the entire hoard.  Aramon rolled aside as quickly as he could—almost quickly enough.  The dragon’s shoulder clipped him as the beast fell and something inside Aramon cracked.

As Aramon groaned and rolled over to rise, the dragon glared at him with a blazing light in its eyes, a gaze of burning hatred fit to kill lesser men.  It tried to rise and failed, but turned to face Aramon as he struggled to his feet.  It opened its mouth and breathed again, a last gasp of dragonfire in an attempt to take the human down into death with him.

Whether Ashkelon or Y’vin disagreed with the dragon was impossible to say, but the fires washed over Aramon harmlessly.  He braced against the flow of fire, leaning into it as he half-knelt, sword in hand.  Slowly, he regained his feet as though standing in a high wind.  Still smoking from the places where the heartblood of the dragon ate through armor and into flesh, he staggered forward, limping from his injuries.  The dragon’s breath diminished as he approached.  Up close, with his head and shoulders above the stream of flame, he looked into the dragon’s eyes.

The breath ended.  The dragon let its head fall to the floor, too weak to raise it.  It glared up at the armored human with a hatred that transcended good and evil.

Aramon moved to one side, one arm hanging uselessly.  Still, he struck, a great, overhand blow with his sword, aimed at the place where the neck met the skull.  He struck once, twice, three times, blade ringing with each stroke as though cleaving an anvil.

The severed head rolled away from the neck, lying still as dragon blood pooled about it, smoking, steaming, while the blood sizzled on the stone floor.  The light in its eyes went out as Aramon sank to his knees, and the cavern plunged into darkness.

Chapter Thirteen

Aramon sat against the wall of the dragon’s cave and prayed.  The characteristic glow of Namae’s grace shone through his flesh, keeping his life within his body by mending the worst of his injuries.  Y’vin, ghostly, crouched next to him.

“Are you going to live?”

“I believe I am,” Aramon answered, voice rasping.  The glow in his flesh faded.  Y’vin held up a hand and spoke a word.  A ball of light formed, glowing like a candle.

“Sorry.  Best I can do without a body.”

“It is more than adequate.”

“Good.  By the way, the tunnel is still too hot to traverse, but I’ve told Onarra we won.  She’s waiting for us to let her know it’s safe.”

“She will have to wait somewhat longer.  A dragon partly fell on me.  I doubt I will be in any shape to climb out until tomorrow.”

“This from the man who dragged himself from a dragon’s lair using only one arm?”

“It is not the crawling, it is the climbing.”

“I’ll let you have that one.”

“You are most gracious.”  Aramon shifted to a slightly more comfortable—or, perhaps, less uncomfortable—position.  “Tell me what happened with the dragon egg.”

“Now we know why the dragon wasn’t going anywhere.  The egg was a few weeks away from hatching.  I’ve heard they need to be kept hot, so moving it was probably out of the question.”

“It sounds plausible.  I was really asking what you did, however.”

“Oh.  I possessed the unhatched dragon, hatched it early, and distracted the adult dragon thereby.  While the adult was rearing up and vulnerable, Tindal, Gorgar, and Fliss all tried to possess it at once, as you saw.  They didn’t manage to control the thing, but they did put up so much of an internal fight it couldn’t defend itself from an external threat—a dangerous man with a holy sword.”

“Very good.  Which reminds me.  Did you see Fliss stabbing it?”

“I did.  I assume his ability to move things ties into it, somehow.  Maybe it’s a sort of ghostly attack, like punching through armor, muscle, and bone to directly hit something inside.  Since he’s a ghost, it doesn’t have the same force as a material blow, but it also doesn’t encounter a lot of protective layers, either.  If someone cut a hole in you and poked your gizzard, it might be about the same.  The poking part, anyway.”

“I see.  Yes, it makes a kind of sense, I suppose.  Do you think all of you can do so?”

“Probably, but I haven’t tried it.  I’m too much of an intellectual to be a combatant.”

“So you’ve said before.  Often.  Usually during the planning phase of an attack.”

“It just means I’m smart enough not to get into a fight,” Y’vin chuckled.  Aramon smiled.  Y’vin settled to the floor next to Aramon.

“What now?” Y’vin asked.

“In what sense?”

“The dragon is dead, and so are the four of us.”  Y’vin shrugged.  “Undead, technically.  Which, again technically, is a violation of your holy book of rules, isn’t it?”

“Technically,” Aramon agreed, leaning his head back against the wall.  He cradled his still-damaged arm against his chest and closed his eyes.

“Are you planning to shatter our gems, now?”

“Not this instant, no.”

“But you do plan to break them?”

“I have been thinking about that particular plan.”

“Oh?  Should I allow myself a trace of cautious optimism?”

“Possibly.”

“Why?  Not that I want to talk you out of it, but I’d like to know why you’re thinking of not destroying the undead monstrosities haunting you.”

“Can we discuss the matter after I have been given the opportunity to rest?  I fear it will be an exhausting explanation and may be the death of me in my present state.”

“Fine by me.  I’m in no hurry to die.  Again.”  Y’vin stood up and looked at the dragon’s remains.  “By the way, can you walk?”

“Yes, but do not ask me to go far.”

“If you want to rest outside, we can go back through the caves and up the mountainside.”

“You have no body with which to cast a spell.”

“All right.  You seem safe enough here.  I’ll go make sure Onarra is managing as well.”

“Very well.  I shall wait here.”

“That’s a joke, isn’t it?”

“Not much of one, I am afraid, but one must begin somewhere.”

“Fliss is a bad influence,” Y’vin suggested, and flew up through the tunnel.  Aramon waited until he was gone, then hooked out the cord and the pouch of gems.  He shook them into his palm.  Three glittered brilliantly in the light Y’vin left behind.  One remained dull.

“Tindal.”

Vapor swirled from the appropriate stone and formed rapidly into the crisp, sharp shape of Tindal.  He looked around quickly before kneeling beside Aramon.

“How bad is it?”

“I have endured worse,” Aramon assured him.  “A few cracks and breaks, mostly healed.  The worst is the dragon-blood.  We warded against the fire, but the blood burned right through my flesh.  It still feels as though the wounds should sizzle and smoke.”

Tindal wrapped cold, ghostly hands around one of Aramon’s forearms, covering several spattered places.  The ghost began the ritual prayers, asking the aid of Ashkelon in the form of healing for his injured friend.

Some time later, Tindal sat back and regarded his work.  Aramon lay stretched out on the floor, breathing easily.

“How do you feel?”

“Better.  The burning of the blood-wounds is gone.  I remain somewhat damaged from the more mundane beating, but that is not so serious.  How do you feel?”

“I feel quite well, actually.”

“You are not tired from your exertions on my behalf?”

“Y’vin is the one who draws power from his own spirit to fuel his spells.  I channel the power of a spirit greater than I.”

“Of course.”  Aramon sat up and stretched.  “How do you feel after exhausting yourself in challenging the dragon’s spirit?”

“I am rejuvenated by my return to my gem.  I presume the others are, as well.”

“Y’vin remains out and about, but Fliss and Gorgar are resting.”

“Very good.  Shall we go up?”

“The tunnel is still hot from the initial breath.  Do you have a prayer for a cold wind?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then we will wait.  Onarra and Y’vin are above, minding the entry.”

“Fair enough.  I will wait with you and keep you company.”

“Good.”

Aramon was spared the climb up as Onarra and Y’vin came down.  Warned by Y’vin, she descended carefully, rather than sliding suddenly to the bottom.

“It’s still a bit hot,” she reported, “but not enough to actually burn.  Damn uncomfortable, though.”

“Good to know.”

Onarra held up her hands and the ceiling of the cavern opened up, revealing a cloudless sky and noonday sun.  Aramon shielded his eyes for a moment, blinking rapidly until he could see again.

“Illusion?” Tindal asked.

“Yes.”

“Very nice,” Y’vin remarked.

They all regarded the hoard, glittering in the light.

“I was promised a share,” Onarra said.

“And you shall have it,” Aramon assured her.  “Transporting it poses something of a problem, but we should have several days, at least, possibly even weeks before anyone dares to brave the lair.”

“So, I should get a wagon.”  She looked at the pile of gold.  “A really big wagon.”

“Three, I should think,” Y’vin suggested.  “Gold is heavier than you think.  You cannot simply keep piling it on as you would a haycart.”

“Oh.  Right.  Do you two want to stand guard over it…?”

“Not especially,” Aramon admitted, “but I will guard your share until you return, if you wish.”

“Decent of you.  Can I have Fliss to come with me?  I don’t want to go alone.”

“If he is willing, of course.”  Aramon summoned Fliss from his gem.  Fliss regarded the cavern, the light, the gold.  He whistled.

Once Aramon and Onarra explained the situation, Fliss nodded.

“I will be happy to accompany the lovely lady on her quest to obtain transport,” he said, bowing with a flourish.  “I hope we can disguise my incorporeal nature?”

“Naturally.”

“And, if I may suggest, let us bring some of the treasure with us in order to avoid unpleasantness over stealing wagons and horses.”

“Oh!  Yes, I’ll get some.”

While Onarra gathered up some of the treasure, Fliss whispered to Aramon and Tindal.

“Am I going to vanish suddenly on the road when my gem cracks?”

“No.  Bide a moment.”  Aramon called forth Gorgar to complete their company.  When Onarra finished loading herself with what she could carry, Aramon gestured her over.  The ghosts sat to either side of Aramon, leaving a gap in their circle opposite him.

“Please, join us,” Aramon invited, gesturing to the empty place.  Onarra settled to the floor, carefully, clinking slightly.

“Are you sure?”

“Are you one of us?” Tindal asked.

“I… I’m not sure.  Am I?”

“Do you want to be?” Fliss asked.

“I think so.  At least, I don’t see… that is, there’s no reason not to… is there?  I mean, I haven’t really done anything for you…”

“That is, perhaps, more our fault than yours,” Tindal offered.  “We know you are not entirely what we see before us, and so we are more protective of you than you may find comfortable.”

“Oh, no!  I’m fine with being protected.  I’m all for being kept out of harm’s way!”

“Well, then.”

“All right.  I’ll… I’m… What am I?”

“If you agree,” Tindal stated, “you should think of yourself no longer in terms of ‘I’ or ‘me,’ but in terms of ‘we’ and ‘us’.  We killed a dragon.  The treasure belongs to us—all of us, together.  You distracted it, yes, for that was your part in our endeavor, but we, the six of us, slew it. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“If you ever decide you don’t like those terms,” Y’vin added, “don’t hesitate to say so.  There’s no penalty for walking away amicably.”

“So… you’re asking me if I want to… what?  Stay with you?  Go around and have adventures with you?”

“Essentially.”

“And I can call it quits anytime I want?”

“We would appreciate a little consideration before you vanish, but yes, you can,” Y’vin assured her.  Onarra considered the pile of gold, then the ghosts.  She thought for a long time.

“All right.  I’m in.”

“Good.”  Y’vin turned to Aramon.  “Want to tell us what you’re going to do with us, now?”

“You mean, will I allow the undead who haunt my steps to continue their existence?”

“Exactly.”

“Can I object to the phrasing?” Fliss asked.

“Yes, you may, but I shall not change it,” Aramon replied.

“Just checking.”

“I have thought upon this moment long and hard,” Aramon said, frowning.  “The Book of Namae states, categorically and without exception, that all manifested spirits should move on from this world and into the next.  It is one duty of the Church of Namae to send such haunting spirits on, whenever we encounter them.

“And yet,” he continued, “Namae’s grace has not departed from me for associating with you.  Even the touch of my blade has failed to eradicate… whatever you are.  I have the words of the Book and the Grace of Namae to guide me, and they tell me different things.

“I have meditated long on this and come to the inescapable conclusion that I know nothing of Namae’s will.  No book, no writ, nothing forged by the hand of man can be trusted.  Only by grace shall I be guided.”

The ghosts looked around the circle for a moment.

“That sounds deeply significant and fundamental and important and stuff,” Fliss observed.  “What does it mean?”

“It means,” Aramon clarified, “if I pass my blade through you and Namae chooses not to destroy you, then you are not an affront to my god, and therefore I am under no obligation to break your gems.”

“So, we all need to get hit by your sword?  For your peace of mind?  Or as an alternative to getting our gems broken?”

“The original intent was to break your gems immediately after slaying the dragon.”

“Fair point.”

“I will go first,” Tindal offered.

“Go right ahead,” Fliss and Y’vin replied, in unison, then snapped a glare at each other.  Tindal chuckled and rose with Aramon.  Aramon drew his sword; the edge gleamed unnaturally bright.  He passed it through Tindal’s ghostly figure with no sign of resistance.  Tindal resumed his seat.

“Next?”

Gorgar stood up.

“I’ll take it,” he said.  He clenched his fists and closed his eyes.  “Quickly, please.”

Aramon swept the blade through him.  Gorgar grunted and almost doubled over.  He recovered quickly and relaxed.

“It hurts,” he observed, still bent over.  “I didn’t like it.”

“But you are still here.”

“Yes.”

“You are a good man in the eyes of Namae,” Aramon told him.  “Not perfect, of course, but who is?”

“Hold it,” Fliss said.  “If Gorgar’s a good man and the sword still hurts him, Y’vin and I—maybe especially I—are going to have a hard time not screaming.  Couldn’t you just assume Namae’s fine with it, based on these two?”

“It does seem to indicate a general principle,” Y’vin added.

“But which of us,” Tindal asked, gently, “can know the heart of his fellow?  What spirit in our circle is fallen to evil?  For even men still within their flesh may have spirits turned to darkness.  How much greater must our caution be with spirits that may override the will of another?”

“Damn you,” Y’vin muttered.

“It doesn’t hurt for long,” Gorgar added, straightening slowly.  “And it’ll prove you’re not a necromancer, too.”

“We already settled that!” Y’vin shouted.

“Yes, we did,” Aramon agreed.  “But you are still an undead, and we still need to know Namae’s grace will not depart from me for condoning your existence.”

“I hate you.  You and your god.  Sometimes.”

“I do not doubt it.”

Y’vin stood up.  Aramon struck.  Y’vin curled into a ball of agony and moaned.

“Namae doesn’t like me,” he groaned, eventually.

“Namae does not approve of your sins,” Aramon corrected.  “You still exist.”

“Ow.”

“Fliss?”

“Well, since I’m the only one left, I guess it would be silly to say no.  But,” he added, pointing a finger at Aramon, “if Namae kills me, I’m going to haunt you for the rest of your days.”

That earned a chuckle from everyone except Onarra, who looked distressed at the idea.

Aramon swung his blade.  Fliss duplicated Y’vin’s performance, groaning as he curled in agony.

“Sinners, yes,” Aramon decided, “but not evil.  The doom of shattered gems is lifted by Namae’s grace.  You are not undead, as the Book of Namae would define it.  You are alive, albeit in some strange, different way.”

“Good to know,” Fliss wheezed, slowly uncurling.  Y’vin continued to moan.

“So, what do we do now?” Gorgar asked.

“Many things,” Tindal replied.  “We have treasure to sort, count, and move.  Doubtless, spending much of it in the local regions would be wise; they need it.”

“Agreed,” Gorgar said.  Onarra and Fliss looked unhappy.

“Moreover, we have temples to visit.  I would much prefer to be released from this world with my gem already upon an altar of Ashkelon.  I would prefer the same for each of you, as well, with whatever gods you choose.”

“He has a point,” Aramon agreed.

“I’m not against it, as such,” Y’vin stated, slowly sitting up, “as long as we visit Bridgetown again.  I want to know more about what’s going on with the troops on this shard and how widespread it is on Kannevos.  There’s a whole invasion going on and I’m not sure I approve.”

“I agree,” Aramon announced.  “In accord with that investigation, I should be quite pleased to reach a formal temple of Namae.  There are theological matters requiring discussion within my Order.”

“No kidding,” Fliss muttered, rubbing his chest.

“I would also like to know where this dragon came from,” Aramon continued.  “It was not the largest of which I have ever heard, but it was an adult.  That takes decades.  Where was it while it grew?  How did it come to this place?  Why did it choose here?”

“Don’t forget,” Fliss added, somewhat louder, “there are cultists, those dragon-servants, still abroad.  They don’t know their master—excuse me, their mistress—is dead, yet.  We should probably interrogate them.  It’ll be useless, since they won’t know anything, but we could get lucky.”

“Killing them is a worthy project,” Gorgar suggested, “and one I could thoroughly enjoy.  It might be nice to have some bodies for us less physical types, too, while we’re traveling.  You never know when you’ll want to punch someone.”

“We have much to do,” Aramon agreed.  “Onarra?  Do you have any suggestions?”

Onarra looked thoughtful for several seconds while everyone watched her, expectant, friendly, interested.  It was a peculiar experience for her, but not unwelcome.

“I’d like to go someplace with good food, nice clothes, and soft beds.  We can do the other stuff, too, but can we work my thing in while we work on all the rest?”

Everyone chuckled.  Onarra wasn’t sure if they were laughing at her until Fliss spoke up.

“My lady, you have already mastered the fundamentals of being a professional hero.  Never miss a chance to enjoy yourself!”

“It’s a tough job,” Onarra agreed, “but I’ll do my best.”

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Garon Whited

Other books:

LUNA

Nightlord, Book One: Sunset

Nightlord, Book Two: Shadows

Nightlord, Book Three: Orb

Nightlord, Book Four: Knightfall

Short Stories:

An Arabian Night: Nazin’s Dream

Clockwork

Dragonhunt

The Power

The Ways of Cats