Brimstone Angels (33 page)

Nothing.

“You’re awfully stirred up,” Yvon said. “I thought you wanted our help.”

Four figures, draped in bloodred robes, stepped from the shadows. Loose hoods obscured their faces, and each one wore a sash emblazoned with the same sign: three triangles forming a larger one, surrounded by a figure with nine sides.

“These are your friends?” Goruc demanded, still holding his axe high.

“Yes,” Yvon said, standing and finding his place in the circle. “Mine and the tiefling’s you seek.” He shook his head sadly. “But I don’t think they’re yours.”

“That’s a very nice axe,” the figure standing on his left said. “Wherever did you get it?”

“A gift,” Goruc said. “What are you playing at?”

“Really?” the largest figure—unmistakeably Creed—said. “A very generous gift. One might even say it was quite the steal.”

“Where are the tieflings?” Goruc shouted.

“Yes, that,” Yvon said. “With a bare axe in your hand and, pardon the expression, that beastly demeanor of yours, I don’t think we’ll be pointing you in her direction. Your patron shouldn’t be toying with the disciples of the Raging Fiend.”

Goruc chopped wildly at the robed figures. But they all stayed precisely out of reach, still watching him from the shadows of their hoods.

“Stay back!” he yelped. “You come any closer and—”

“In due time,” Yvon said. “Who sent you to find the warlock?”

“I have a right no matter what he says,” he said. “She killed me twice.”

The fourth figure chuckled. “Well,” a female voice—Sekata—said, “obviously she needs some practice. A fortunate thing we’ve had plenty of that.”

Goruc started to reply, but behind him, Yvon was quicker. The garrote twisted around the orc’s throat. Yvon smiled as Goruc clutched at the garrote, but he still would not drop the axe. He struggled and gasped, and tried to swing the axe over his head. Yvon released the garrote and jumped out of the way.

Imarella’s whip lashed around Goruc’s right wrist, and yanked that arm backward and the axe away from Yvon. In front of the orc, a robed figure stepped forward and raised a hand.

“
Adaestuo,
” Lector said. The crackling blast of magic caught Goruc in the center of his chest, knocking him off-balance. Creed stepped forward and cracked a club against the back of Goruc’s knees and he crashed to the ground, flat on his back and staring up at the cold stars through the contorted limbs of the plaguechanged tree.

Goruc started to roll to his feet. Lector slapped an amulet against his cheek. “
Maollis.
”

The orc convulsed once and his arms and legs went limp and stopped obeying him, long enough, at least for the Ashmadai to hold him down.

Sekata’s stake pierced the wrist of the hand that held the axe so quickly his scream came after the crack of dividing bones. Yvon took one of the iron staples from Creed and helped pin down the orc’s ankles, as Sekata drove another stake through the orc’s off-hand.

“Why?” Goruc screamed. “Why?”

“We protect our own,” Yvon said, his voice still gentle.

H
AVILAR EDGED DOWN THE HALLWAY, HER RIGHT FOOT LEADING, HER
glaive held low. She scooped the edge upward, guiding it with her left hand and driving it forward with the thrust of her hip. Angle down to slice across her imaginary foe’s throat. Sweep across his shins. Then lift, plant the right foot on his knee, and drive the blade home.

There was hardly room inside the temple for her to practice—every room had beds or tables or piles of books in it, and nearly every room had a scowling priest or acolyte giving her disapproving glares for bringing her glaive through the door. Even the library in the basement, where
nobody
went, still had that horrid little librarian who’d shrieked at her, called her a barbarian, and chased her out.

She thought of his face as she jabbed forward again. Barbarian, indeed. If she didn’t practice, her muscles would go soft, and forget how to control the long, heavy glaive she’d spent so long practicing to wield. If those priests were clever enough to be healing people and archiving books, they should be clever enough to know that much.

It had taken the better part of the day, but at last she’d found the long, wide corridor in the still-damaged part of the temple. Unlike the rest of the temple, no one rushed up and down it. The tapestries still hanging on the walls were thick with old soot and dust, and trimmed with cobwebs. Nobody but spiders to tell her to go elsewhere.

Stupid acolytes, she thought, resetting her grip. They thought she was an idiot or a child with a toy. Even if she wasn’t as smart as
Farideh, she wasn’t stupid. Just like Farideh wasn’t a complete waste in a fight, even if Havilar was much better with a blade. It wasn’t as if one of them got everything and left the other one without.

Except sometimes, she thought with a scowl of her own. Everyone they met lately seemed to like Farideh better—that man in the shop, the red-haired nurse. Stupid Lorcan, she added, even though it made her sound even more childish. Brin.

She planted the glaive and rested. Stupid Brin. She didn’t want him under her skin. It was just that he’d rushed her out of there, off to find Farideh. That’s all.

That’s all, she told herself more firmly.

Even though Farideh protested it wasn’t true, she got to be the smart one and the one people trusted, but Lorcan made her the interesting one, too, and the one who might be dangerous. Havilar and Kidney Carver might as well not even exist.

Eater of Her Enemies’ Livers, she remembered, and wrinkled her nose. Perhaps Farideh was right. Perhaps that did sound pretentious. She needed a shorter name.

“ ‘Justice,’ ” she said scrutinizing the weapon. “ ‘Cutter.’ ”

Bad and worse.

“Devilslayer,” she said. Everyone would probably appreciate it if she could fight Lorcan to the death. Except Farideh.

Half a year had gone by since Havilar had called down Lorcan, and too much had changed. Farideh had gotten so short with her. Farideh slept fitfully—awake, her mind would just drift off, Havilar could tell by the way she would suddenly be staring at nothing at all, as if all the treasures in the world were somewhere in the middle distance. Farideh might be as private as she could with Lorcan, but Havilar wasn’t stupid. She’d seen the way Farideh looked at him. And still, she thought she could tell Havilar what to do.

She made another series of passes down the corridor, and was about to turn around and work her way back, when she heard the murmur of voices a short distance off. The sunlight from the broken windows did not penetrate all the way down the hall, but Havilar padded into the graying shadows, toward the sound, the newly christened Devilslayer at the ready.

Some twenty yards on, the corridor took a sharp turn to the right. Havilar peered around the corner. At the opposite end of the hall, a
door led into a room which had seen almost as little use as the corridors. Brother Vartan sat in a chair that had been draped with some sort of heavy canvas. Rohini stood beside him, practically vibrating with energy.

Something was odd about the hospitaler, something Havilar couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was as if she were there … and yet she wasn’t. The nervous energy she exuded seemed almost as if it were shaking the edges of her. It made Havilar’s eyes ache.

“They are perfect,” she was saying.

“And … controlled?” Brother Vartan asked.

“Of course,” Rohini said merrily. “Perfect, as I said.”

“It’s just that I’m concerned. If something should happen—”

“
Nothing
will happen,” Rohini said. She set a hand on either arm of the chair and leaned forward. “I swear it.” Then she kissed him, hard, on the mouth.

Havilar wrinkled her nose. Was there really nowhere better to tryst than the filthy, dusty room? Maybe Rohini was desperate to keep anyone from finding out. Havilar might not have thought Rohini was all that pretty, but she was sure Rohini could do better than a bore like Brother Vartan.

But Havilar’s eyes fell to the canvas-draped chair, to the place where Rohini gripped the fabric on the armrest. To Rohini’s nails, which had been neatly trimmed and clean, and which were now the color of blood and the length of iron spikes.

And as she watched and as Rohini pulled away from Vartan, her nails shrank back to being neatly trimmed, clean, and pink. Havilar sucked in a breath. Rohini cocked her ear and for a moment, Havilar was certain she’d heard. She gripped Devilslayer, ready to spring into a defensive stance.

But instead, Rohini smiled down at Vartan. “Perfect,” she said once more.

“Perfect,” he agreed.

She opened a door on the other side of the room and ushered in five orcs, armored like the ones Havilar had fought when the caravan had been raided, and painted in the blue, dancing magic of the Chasm. Wafting tentacles of blue fire surrounded one. Another wore gauntlets of the stuff, which wavered and bulged as if they were made of water. A female seemed to be covered in hard blue spikes, like a
dire wolf. Havilar could not make out the other two—there was too much magic swirling in that room—but she could see the taint of the spellplague had marked them all.

And not a one was fighting Rohini as she led them out.

“Here we are,” the hospitaler said. “Five perfect specimens for you to bring to the Sovereignty. Just as you suggested.” She walked down the line of spellscarred orcs. “Your notes were surprisingly accurate. I only lost four.”

Vartan stood, looking over the orcs as if they were weapons fresh from the forge—greedy to make use of them, but well aware if he tried he’d regret it.

“They’re exactly what you imagined,” Rohini said. “Take them to the proxy now, and think about that. They’re perfect for what the Sovereignty needs. You were very clever to come up with them. Tell them you have more where they came from, and other gifts besides if their masters are willing to parlay.”

“They are,” Brother Vartan said, looking confused nevertheless. “I was.”

“Then hurry back and tell me what those disgusting aboleths say. We’re on a timeline now.”

Brother Vartan nodded thoughtfully. “How … do I bring them?”

Rohini smiled, and it sent shivers down Havilar’s back. “They’ll follow you,” she said. “They’re very pleased with the current state of events. Aren’t you, my pets?”

“We will fight for the Sovereignty,” the tentacled one said in his low, growling accent. He slapped his shield with the flat of his sword. “We will spill the blood of their enemies and those who flee will mark us all as a threat.”

“Yes, wait until they ask.”

Whatever the Sovereignty was, whatever an aboleth was, these things had nothing to do with the running of a hospital, Havilar was sure. Spellscarred orcs had nothing to do with a hospital.

And Rohini—

Rohini opened the door she’d led the orcs in from, and herded them and Brother Vartan back out. As she turned, she looked out into the hall, directly at Havilar. She laid a finger to her lips in a gesture of silence.

As she did, the fingernail became again a weapon and Rohini’s eyes flared red and fearsome.

Havilar took a step backward, afraid to look away from Rohini and find her suddenly near and testing Havilar’s glaive’s new moniker. Rohini didn’t look away either, and it wasn’t until Havilar had backed into the shadows of the hallway that she turned and ran.

She had to find Farideh. Farideh would know what to do with a devil who changed shape. Havilar raced back to the room she’d left her sister in on the other side of the temple.

Farideh was not there. She wasn’t in any of the rooms they’d been set to clean. She wasn’t in the wardroom where the acolytes lingered. She wasn’t in the little bedroom they shared with several ancient wardrobes.

Worse, her rod and sword lay on the bed. Her cloak was missing.

“Oh gods,” Havilar whispered. She leaned her glaive against the wall and picked up the rod. It was weighted like a mace, toward the tip, but not as heavy. A terrible, taut feeling seized her stomach. Surely Farideh wouldn’t have gone out without a weapon—but where was she if she hadn’t left? What if Rohini.…

She clutched the rod to her chest. “Oh Fari.”

The surrounding rooms had more old furniture or books or were locked tight. She pushed open the second to last in the hallway, dread pooling in her heart. The room was dark—the broken windows had been boarded over and only cracks of light shone through. Someone moved within. Someone big.

“Mehen?” She moved toward the shadow. The person was rocking on his heels, ever so slightly. She held the rod tighter, and hoped Farideh didn’t mind if she had to brain someone with it.

The shadow shuffled into the light from the corridor and Havilar made out russet scales and familiar armor. She cried out in relief and threw her arms around Mehen’s neck.

“Gods, I thought I’d never find anyone!” Mehen didn’t answer, so she kept talking. “We have a problem—a big problem. Rohini is a devil, and you’re the only one I can find! We have to get out of here, but I don’t know where Fari or Brin or anyone is. I’m afraid Rohini has them.”