They found their packs and weapons in the vestibule of the jail under a shelkhide tarp. The other prisoners waited, politely or reverently, until their saint had passed before filing out into the coldly luminous spring night.
One of them ran back inside—a youngling with a long jaw and bluish scales. “St. Danadhar!” he cried. “The Enemy! The Enemy is coming for us!”
From outside in the dark they heard the cries of terror and exultation, “Olvinar! Olvinar! The Enemy!”
“Morlock,” Deor said urgently.
“Yes,” said the crooked man. He drew his dark, accursed blade and ran out into the night, Deor and Kelat at his heels.
“Ruthenen!” Danadhar called after them, but Morlock ran on, slithering through the crowd of Gray Folk when he could, shoving them out of the way when he had to.
Soon they saw what the Gray Folk had seen and paused to take it in.
The gigantic, cable-laid house at the north end of town was moving. The tower at the top that looked like a head—that was a head—wove back and forth and uttered a shriek like a straight-line wind running down a mountainside of pines.
There was red light coming from the center of the coil.
“Rukhjyrn! Rukhjyrn!” screamed someone in the crowd. The dragon-sickness! The dragon-sickness!
The gigantic snake began to move, uncoiling itself, reaching for the distant stars, shaking mundane fire from it as it moved.
“Wait!” Deor shouted, but Morlock had shouldered off his pack and was already running. There were human figures moving, dark outlines in the cascade of fire.
Morlock dashed into the burning torrent, dodging left and right to avoid planks and beams, heedless of the heat and fire.
Danadhar came to a halt beside Deor. “What happened to the Olvinar’s house?” he asked, gasping.
“Ambrosia Viviana, I think,” said Deor. “Look!”
One of the two human figures was trapped under something. The other was standing near, a strangely shining ovoid in one hand, a long blade in the other. And a beard—the dark outline definitely sported a beard. “The old bastard!” he muttered in Wardic.
“It is the Olvinar,” Danadhar said.
“It is Merlin Ambrosius,” Deor said, not disagreeing.
The trapped figure must be Ambrosia; no one else could have lived in that chaos of fire. Before Merlin could strike at her, Morlock was there. He hit the old man with the fist holding his sword. The bearded figure went flying, lost his grip on his blade, juggled the shining egg wildly, almost fell but did not quite.
Ambrosia’s voice stabbed through the flames. “Kill him, Morlock! Kill him!”
Morlock raised his damned sword.
“Morlock!” shouted Deor. “No! Xoth dhun! The bond of blood!”
Morlock’s twisted shadow paused—and sheathed the sword. He turned to where his sister lay trapped.
Danadhar ran from Deor’s side into the flames. His garments were afire at the first step, but he ignored them, going to where Morlock stood.
Merlin’s dark shape steadied, took hold of the shining egg with both hands. He seemed to look at his offspring for a moment, then turned away and was lost in the flames.
Together, Morlock and Danadhar hefted the burning beam off Ambrosia and she rolled to her feet. “Where is that demented old cutthroat?” Deor heard her demand.
He did not hear whatever Morlock and Danadhar said to her, if anything. The three came together through the burning wrack and out of it.
It was Danadhar, rather than Ambrosia, who collapsed when they emerged from the flames—except for those still flickering among the rags that had been his clothing.
“Haven’t firewalked for an age,” he said apologetically, struggling to his feet. “An intoxicating experience. Most mrmrmrblble.”
Morlock took off his smoldering cloak and handed it to the Gray One.
“Yes. Yes. Thanks, ruthen.” Danadhar took the cloak and wrapped it around his midsection as a makeshift kilt. “Wouldn’t do for the Gray Folk to see their saint naked. Though they’d find a way to explain it as a miracle.” He waved a clawed hand vaguely at the fire and the gigantic snake slithering off into the night. “Find a way to put this on me. ‘Nother miracle o’ St. Danadhar. Pardon me.” He put his hands up to his snout and literally held his mouth shut for a few moments.
“I’m sorry, ruthenen, and new friend Kelat,” he said when he released himself. “Do you not get fire-drunk?” he asked Ambrosia and Morlock.
“I feel a kind of high,” Ambrosia admitted.
“Eh. I prefer a drink-drunk,” Morlock said.
“We must empty a few jars sometime,” Danadhar said. “Ruthen,” he continued, speaking to Ambrosia, “I am Danadhar, god-speaker for this unhappy town. I am glad to meet you. I have heard much of your exploits among the Vraids.”
Ambrosia took his proffered hand without apparent fear, which is more than Deor could have done: apparently the Gray Folk around here didn’t bother trimming their nails. “I am pleased to meet you, too, God-speaker. I have heard almost nothing of you or your folk.”
“That’s how we prefer it, mighty Regent of the Vraids. We have few friends among the Other Ilk or the Little—the dwarves, I mean.”
“You have one more as of tonight.”
Danadhar spread his claws wide and placed his scaly palms on his ventral shield—evidently a gesture of respect.
“Listen, God-speaker, my brother may or may not have mentioned it, but we have good reason for trying to speak to your God. Is there any way you can get us across the battle lines? Both sides seem to respect you.”
“You can speak to my God here or anywhere, Lady Ambrosia. But I take it you mean the evil avatar that lives in the temple.”
“I do.”
Danadhar bowed his head. “Yes,” he said. “I can and I will. I must ask you not to trust him.”
Kelat snorted. Danadhar turned to look at him in surprise.
“In Vraidish,” Deor explained, “that means, ‘I think you can count on us following your excellent advice.’”
Whether godstruck or godhater, the Gray Folk did indeed honor Danadhar. As he led the four travelers away from the fire, many of the Gray Folk who had gathered to watch went down on their knees and shouted his name. The others, godhaters perhaps, put their hands on their bellies and bowed.
One Gray stepped in front of them. He had the braided belt of an excantor, and he carried a blood-stained pike in his hand.
“Saint Danadhar,” he said tentatively.
“I am Danadhar. I don’t know what a saint is.”
“Those Other Ilk with you—it was the Olvinar’s order that they should be kept in confinement.”
“The Enemy is gone. You see behind us the ruin of his house.”
The excantor closed his eyes, opened them. “Then the rebellion is over.”
“No,” said Danadhar firmly. “If you look at that thing poisoning the temple and rebel against it, the rebellion goes on. May it never be over. Believe or disbelieve in the God, but rebel against evil when you see it—and the more powerful it is, the more you must rebel. I charge you with it, excantor.”
The excantor stood straighter. “Then I must not let you pass. I must carry out the Olvinar’s commands, though he is no longer here to give them.”
“You must do as you think right. You may kill me, if you like, as I see you have killed others of our blood. But, unless you do, I will pass by you and bring these four to the temple.”
From the way Morlock was standing, Deor knew that he was about to draw his sword. If he did, the conscientious excantor would go to seek the truth or untruth of all religions in the afterlife, of this Deor had no doubt. But would that bring the godhaters in the crowd down on them.
But the excantor lowered his pike and turned away.
Danadhar led them into the burning heart of the city where the Gray Folk fought for and against their God and each other. Each time weapons were directed at him or the four travelers, he talked calmly and rationally and urgently, and they passed on unharmed.