It lasted for only a heartbeat, though. Then with a fast, sinuous motion bewildering to the eye, he whipped his neck free of the burning point and twisted his frilled, wedge-shaped head around to glare at Aoth. White light flickered in his mouth, and a smell like an oncoming storm suffused the air as he prepared to spit lightning.

Then Cera set herself aglow with golden radiance and stabbed a hot, dazzling shaft of it into the phylactery like a dagger. Unlike her companions, she didn’t make her living from war and fighting, and she didn’t react to threats as quickly as they did. But the trials of the past several tendays had sharpened her reflexes, and Aoth and Gaedynn had bought her enough time to bring the Keeper’s sacred power to bear.

Alasklerbanbastos burst into flame and convulsed. His agony shook the ground, and Aoth and Gaedynn retreated, staggering a little, lest a pounding wing or lashing tail pulp them without the reptile’s even intending it.

A part of Cera wanted to let the fire burn until it reduced the dracolich to ash. Any sunlady or sunlord would have felt the same. But, mindful of her purpose, she took a steadying breath then brandished her gilded mace. The flames died.

Just as they did, two winged shapes came swooping down from the starry sky. They were Jet and Eider, Aoth and Gaedynn’s griffons, rushing to protect their masters.

Black as his name, Jet leveled off. He shared a psychic bond with Aoth, and Cera assumed that Aoth had used it to tell him not to attack. Jet screeched to Eider, and the other griffon pulled out of her dive as well.

Alasklerbanbastos lay sprawled on the ground, his body smoking, bits of it sizzling like bacon in a frying pan, filling the warm, summer air with a foul smell.

“We can go on like this all night,” Aoth told him.

The dracolich dragged himself to his feet. Cera suspected his pride wouldn’t allow him to stay down in front of his captors. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he said. “I acknowledge that. But I will not abide insolence. I will not be mocked.”

“Gaedynn,” said Aoth, “don’t tease the dragon.”

The archer heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I never get to have any fun.”

Aoth lowered his spear but kept it pointed in Alasklerbanbastos’s general direction. “You were explaining how this xorvintaal is the answer to all your problems.”

“Yes,” the dragon said. “The open duel between Tchazzar and me was something of an anomaly. Mostly the players manipulate events from the shadows to achieve various goals and score points thereby. The general idea is to plunge the realms clustered around the Alamber Sea into war.”

“War to weaken a land until it can no longer withstand a dragon conqueror,” Gaedynn said.

“Or until it finds itself in such desperate straits that it will embrace a dragon protector,” Cera said, “as Chessenta embraced Tchazzar.”

“And a big part of the first phase of the game focuses on isolating and breaking Tymanther,” said Aoth. “Because the dragonborn hate wyrms. They’ll pose a constant threat to your plans until you kill them or bring them to heel.”

The dracolich grunted. “You understand,” he said, “insofar as you’re capable of understanding.”

“Lucky us,” said Gaedynn. “Now what in the Night Hunter’s name are we supposed to do about it?”

Panting, Halonya looked at Khouryn Skulldark, lying unconscious on the tiled floor of the Green Hall, and realized exactly what she wanted to do.

The stars knew he had it coming, for all sorts of reasons. For starters, he was a dwarf, and her people had always mistrusted his stunted kind, burrowing in the ground like vermin. Worse, he’d just returned from Tymanther astride one of the giant bats the dragonborn’s elite warriors rode. That proved he was friendly to the very enemies Chessenta was preparing to attack. And as if all that weren’t damning enough, he’d revealed his true loyalties by lunging at Halonya when she’d ordered his arrest.

Worst of all, he was a friend of both Aoth Fezim, the Thayan sellsword captain who’d threatened to kill her, and Jhesrhi Coldcreek, the filthy witch seeking to mislead and corrupt Tchazzar. It shouldn’t have been possible for a mere mortal to do any such thing to the greatest of gods, but the powers of the Abyss had plainly wrapped their chosen seductress in a terrible glamour.

Yes, Khouryn deserved all the punishment anyone cared to give him. But Halonya wasn’t just a beggar anymore, or even a scorned and ragged prophetess preaching in the streets. She was high priestess of the Church of Tchazzar and had her dignity to consider.

For one more heartbeat, that reflection held her back, and the urge to express her loathing swept it away. She strode to the dwarf, hitched up the ruby-studded crimson skirts of her voluminous vestments, and kicked him repeatedly. She didn’t stop till she ran out of breath and only then noticed that her own foot was smarting.

Garbed in a chasuble of shimmering scales, a heavy pick clasped in a hand adorned with rings of five colors, his mustache and beard waxed into the same number of points, Pharic cleared his throat. He was a wyrmkeeper, a priest of Tiamat, but he and others of his order had come to swell the ranks of her newly constituted clergy. Because the Dark Lady was Tchazzar’s consort. Or the two were somehow the same being. Or something like that. Halonya didn’t really understand it, although she would sooner have died than admit that to anyone else.

“I recommend shackling him without further delay,” Pharic said. “Dwarves have thick skulls. A knock on the head might not keep him out for long.”

“Do it,” Halonya said. She stepped back from Khouryn, and the guards hurried forward.

“May I ask what you intend to do with him?” Pharic inquired.

“I don’t kn-I mean, I’ll have to meditate about it,” Halonya said.

Chains clinked as a soldier snapped the leg irons on the dwarf.

“We could scarcely find a better sacrifice.” Pharic lowered his voice. “His death would give strength to Tchazzar and perhaps even to you personally if you yourself perform the ritual.”

Halonya eyed the wyrmkeeper. Did his words contain a gibe? Did he know that, unlike other clerics, she’d never figured out how to wield the divine magic that was hers by right? If so, she couldn’t tell it from his face.

In any case, his suggestion appealed to her but made her feel a little queasy too. She’d never killed a person with her own hands. She wasn’t sure she had the stomach for it.

And maybe it would be a waste of an opportunity. Maybe Lady Luck had finally given her a way to out-trick Jhesrhi for a change.

“No,” she said, “or at least not yet. We’ll lock him away for now.”

Alasklerbanbastos made a sort of ugly rumbling sound. It took Aoth a moment to realize it was a chuckle.

“Yes,” the undead dragon said, “that’s the question, isn’t it? Now that you little creatures know about the game, what can you possibly do about it? Especially considering that you sellswords yourselves are merely a few of the pawns and have been ever since Skuthosin laid claim to you back in Impiltur.”

Wings furled, Jet set down on the ground. With his spellscarred eyes, which saw as well in the dark as they did in the light, Aoth observed that Eider was still circling high overhead, probably so she could dive at Alasklerbanbastos if he attacked again. Or just because she found the undead creature repulsive.

“Do we even want to stop the game?” asked Jet, stalking forward to stand beside Aoth. He’d listened to the entire conversation through their psychic bond.

Gaedynn smiled crookedly. “That’s an interesting question. After all, we’re sellswords. The dragons want to plunge this part of the East into years, probably decades, of war. From our perspective, what could be better?”