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A githyanki warrior taking orders from an istik.
Voss has never seen such a thing. True, these are strange times, but this entire meeting surpassed any expectation. When the istik mouthed “play along” to Lae’zel, it clearly thought that Voss did not notice. He’s certain that his soldiers did not realize, too preoccupied with a possible fight. But Voss has seen too much subterfuge in his life to miss this. And Lae’zel had obeyed the command.
Bizarre.
That the istik did not quail before Qudenos’ might was also strange. Even the bravest githyanki may hesitate before the ire of a great red dragon. Yet, dressed only in chainmail and tabard, with no heavy armor or great weapon, the istik looked upon Qudenos without fear. The whole situation made Voss curious enough not to have his warriors kill them on the spot.
He and Qudenos are sitting on a high peak that overlooks the mountain valleys. Off to the right there is the dark shroud of the eerie shadowlands. The spires of Crèche Yllek glitter golden in the high noon sun, towering over rolling green slopes and vales. Up here, away from the keen eyes of the Inquisitor at the Crèche, they are safe to speak freely. Overhead, silver clouds fan like silk through a sky as blue as the Elemental Plane of Water.
“Such an unusual meeting,” Qudenos rumbles. “I have some memory of that name. Lae’zel.”
“A child of K’liir. I have never met her, but Urlon speaks highly of her,” Voss says. He leans against Qudenos’ neck. The dragon’s scales glitter like rubies, the heat radiating from his body causing the vision to shimmer like a mirage. “So did Al’chaia before him.”
Qudenos snorts a plume of smoke. “Al’chaia spoke highly of no one. This young warrior must have been a wonder indeed to win her praise.”
“She lived up to the reputation.” Voss idly scratches a patch of soft skin on Qudenos' neck. A large scale was torn out there decades ago and never grew back. Qudenos gives a thrumming purr. “As I said to her—proud and regal. To have survived an illithid ship and infection by a parasite? She truly is an exceptional warrior.”
“Who, if I am not mistaken, took an order from a tiefling.”
One of the uncountable reasons Voss holds Qudenos in such high regard is that they are often of one mind in observing the world. “What do you think of it?”
A deep laugh rumbles through the dragon’s body. Rocks tumble away from his body and pebbles bounce down the slope. “I find it extremely amusing.”
“Of course you do,” Voss says, unable to hide a smile. As much as he loves the githyanki, Qudenos is still a dragon. The affairs of the small people are, to him, as the antics of a pack of kaoulgrim are to Voss.
Qudenos turns his titanic head, gently touching the tip of his snout to Voss’s shoulder. “I know you worry for the Prism, my friend,” he says, more quietly. “But if this little band holds it, I suspect that it is as safe with them as it would be in any hands in these circumstances.”
For a moment, Voss closes his eyes. “How can you know that?” he asks harshly.
“That tiefling is a creature of devotion. A paladin.” Qudenos nudges Voss again with the delicacy of a butterfly’s wing. “I know her kind. She has put her loyalty with Lae’zel—and, therefore, with you. If they carry the Prism, they did not give it to you because they rightly feared your wrath. But that paladin has made a covenant with your people. She will defend the Prism with her life.”
And this, too, is the strength of a dragon: far-sightedness and wisdom that far exceed what even the oldest mortal creatures have achieved. Qudenos has spent time apart from Voss, living on the Material Plane so that he might age and grow into his full might rather than remaining a young dragon for eons. He has seen the passage of material years while Voss remained in the Astral Sea, changing barely at all. Qudenos is considerate, steady, wise.
“I fear for him,” Voss says quietly, rubbing his face with one hand. “He is—unprotected now.”
“Though they do not know it, these mortals are his defenders. They will shield him.“
And perhaps, Voss thinks, turning to rest his cheek against Qudenos’ scales, if they can impress him…the one in the Prism might yet shield them. The mind flayers are on the move in this region. Should this little band fall afoul of them, they would have a true ally.
Such a thing would prove their quality to Voss. He has almost never sought alliance with istik before. Hiring clerics of evil gods when healing is required, or paying for the service of mercenaries in certain circumstances, is not an alliance. Often enough such hirelings die in the course of whatever venture they are set upon. Or they fall to the capricious hand of a githyanki. No, true alliances with istik are rare enough to be unheard of. A waste of time when istik are so weak.
But if the one in the Prism shows his favor to this band…well. Voss will make an exception.
“I,” Qudenos says reflectively, “dislike paladins.”
“Why?”
“When their strength waxes to its fullest, they are immune to the awe inspired by even the most ancient dragons.” Qudenos’ wings beat a little with irritation, setting trees waving and leaves fluttering around. His claws rake gouges in the dirt. “Impudent little creatures. They taste fine roasted in their mail, at least.”
Voss thinks back on the paladin who stood beside Lae’zel. Her bright yellow eyes had looked upon him with open curiosity. He could see that her mouth was full of questions she did not ask, remaining silent out of clear respect for Lae’zel. Until Lae’zel looked to her for guidance. The young githyanki had been so frightened that she could barely hold her composure. The istik’s quiet command gave Lae’zel the strength to lie—and lie well—to Voss’s face.
“If you are right that this paladin will be an ally to our cause,” Voss says, “her strength can only be an asset. You know very well that there are dragons who still hold loyalty to Vlaakith. We will need such fearlessness in the face of those enemies.”
Qudenos heaves a massive, irritable sigh. “I suppose you are right.”
They sit for a while without speaking. The sun feels good on Voss’s bare skin. All the nearby beasts and birds have been frightened to silence by the presence of a red dragon. The wind in the trees, a gentle rushing roar, is the only sound aside from Qudenos’ breathing. It is soothing. That breeze carries the distant scent of a swamp, unpleasant, but covered over by the perfume of future rain.
Over his long life, Voss has come to appreciate the Material Plane. Its beauty is alien, but beauty nonetheless, and he loves what is beautiful as much as any of his people. There is no sun, no wind, in the Astral Sea. He cherishes the precious minutes of life spent here. His immortality slips away like sand in an hourglass with every passing moment. But the memory of the lichen-painted stone and verdant forest and distant silver river will remain with him long after every tree in this forest is dead.
“We will watch them,” Voss says at last. “They will seek the crèche. Lae’zel will demand it and the others of her band will follow. If they survive, I think that is sufficient to prove them worthy of our trust. A show of strength that cannot be denied. But if they do not—"
“If they do not, we will tear that place stone from stone until the Prism is returned to us,” Qudenos growls, and exhales a tongue of white-hot flame that sears a patch of ferns to ash.
Voss imagines tearing out W'wargaz’s throat with his bare claws and smiles. “Yes.”