Free Scream of Stone by Philip Athans

grumbled under his breath.
    Pristoleph stopped and looked at Gahrzig, who met his gaze and held it.
    “Have I made you so cynical, Gahrzig?” Pristoleph asked. “Have I infected you with that most human of maladies?”
    The wemic’s brows furrowed and he couldn’t help but show a little fang. It was plain the second chief didn’t like the implication, but Pristoleph turned away before anything further could be said.
    “These are all house guards,” Pristoleph said, not happy about changing the subject, but there was a certain time pressure involved. “There are no black firedrakes.”
    “He’s saving them for his private chambers, no doubt,” Gahrzig suggested.
    “You,” Pristoleph said to the undead thing, which gave no indication it knew it was being addressed in any way. “Come with me.”
    Regardless of the Red Wizard’s caution to keep the undead thing away from the black firedrakes, Pristoleph made the decision right then that the first to fall to the strange creatures—monsters that could take the form of men, or men who could take the form of monsters—that comprised Salatis’s private guard would be the thing that was already dead.
    The wemics drew back as it shuffled past them, then fell into step a few paces behind for the long, tense walk through the palace. As they passed through the wide corridors, the household staff, who had been locked in with Salatis when the siege began, threw themselves at Pristoleph’s feet—dirty, starving, and relieved that, even if they were killed for their loyalty to the outgoing ransar, at least it would be over—then they just as quickly scurried away, cowering under the fierce stares of the wemics.
    By the time they’d climbed the many flights of stairs to the upper reaches of the palace, Pristoleph felt as though he was walking in a dream. Everywhere they should have met resistance, they found nothing. No arrows, crossbow bolts, or gouts of magical flame came from any of the well-concealed murder holes, and no acid-spitting black firedrakes manned the various blind spots in curving stairways designed for just such an ambush. They arrived at the doors to the ransar’s bedchamber entirely unmolested.
    Pristoleph stood before the doors with the undead creature on his left side and Gahrzig on his right. He looked at the wemic, who only shrugged. Neither of them were entirely sure how to proceed, though Pristoleph had envisioned that moment for months, if not years.
    Not sure why he was doing it even as his hand came up, Pristoleph knocked on the door.
    “Enter, Ransar,” came a voice from within. The voice was deep, and seemed to rumble from the space beyond the carved mahogany door like thunder. It was not Salatis’s voice.
    Pristoleph opened the door and the wemics all tensed.
    The large room was filled with men in armor as black as their hair. They looked so much alike they could have all been brothers. They were armed, but their swords were sheathed, and their spears were held point-down. When Pristoleph stepped into the room they went down on one knee in such perfect unison the genasi thought they must have practiced it for days—and maybe they had.
    One of them didn’t kneel, though. He stepped forward.
    “I am Captain Olin,” the black firedrake said, and Pristo-lepli recognized his voice as the man who’d bid him enter.
    “Captain Olin,” Pristoleph said, “are you prepared to surrender?”
    The black firedrake smiled in the way parents smile at children who ask where babies come from. He stepped aside and motioned to the floor. The rest of the black-haired, dusky-skinned men parted to reveal the twisted wreckage of a man lying on the scorched wood floor. Only then did
    the stench of burned flesh assault his nostrils. The wemics behind him grunted and backed away a step, but Pristoleph stepped forward.
    Salatis lay on the floor, melted from the neck down, his head left unscathed by acid so that he could be recognized. A little orange light played