Brimstone Angels (52 page)

“The Ashmadai seem to have split themselves,” he reported, “but you were right. The larger group is headed to this intersection.” They stood at the plaza of the fountain, the spot where the Chasm wall dipped farthest into the city, and where the widest northern road met the main road.

“Tell me,” Lorcan said, “that you have given up this fool idea of setting yourself on fire.”

“A person on fire is going to catch their attention,” she said, tying the rags of her torn robes to the sleeves of her armor. “And if she is not screaming and trying to put out the flame, then they are really going to notice.”

“You are a tiefling,” Lorcan said, though he pinned the pair of charms that would keep her from catching fire too easily to her shoulders. “Not a shitting phoenix—the flames will burn you through eventually.”

“Which is why we must time everything right.”

Before long Farideh stood atop a crop of rock, Brin at the base, shrouded by Lorcan’s invisibility charm, and Lorcan behind her, muttering steadily about the futility of the plan and how he would take off with her the second the Ashmadai came too close.

“If you do,” she said, “I will kick you in the knees until you drop me. Stop complaining.” But for all her surety, the shadows crept out of her skin and swaddled them all.

Down the opposite road, the Ashmadai marched, their faces covered and hooded but the insignia of their alliance clear in the light of the flickering torches they carried. Those who did not hold torches carried bundles of kindling and glass bottles stuffed with rags and sloshing with accelerants. They made a poor pretense of quiet, too riled, it seemed, by the promise of impending havoc.

Behind her, beyond the Wall, she heard the terrible march of cloven feet.

“Go,” Farideh whispered, and she drew a deep breath to pull the shadows back into herself.

“Halt!” Brin cried, and his voice echoed and rebounded, loud enough to make the Ashmadai stop and not a few flinch back. Behind her, Lorcan whispered the spell that sent a gust of fire washing over her, igniting the shredded robes. He took a step back, less protected than he’d been before and spread his wings to good effect. Several of the more timid Ashmadai turned and fled.

But others were only emboldened. “Who are you to tell the servants of the Raging Fiend to halt?” one called, stepping forward.

Farideh did not answer at first, counting out the seconds in her head. Then a terrible clatter came from the Wall. She lifted her head slowly, dramatically, and cast her own curtain of flames at the surrounding cultists.

“I am the champion of Malbolge,” she said. She heard Brin draw his sword before scurrying into the nearest alleyway. “My lady knows your plans and orders you to cease … before you do anything
foolish.
”
Again the sound of something heavy bashing into the aged wall, the clamor of an army, the crash of weapons.

The man who had stepped forward glanced back at his fellows as if he could not believe what he’d heard. “I think perhaps you are mistaken, girl. I think perhaps you are the warlock we’ve been warned of.”

The flames licked at her hair and cheeks now, but Farideh did not dare flinch. The shadows curled out from her to compensate, and she hoped dearly that it made a good effect. The stones around the fountain loosened and rattled to the ground.

“You speak of my sister-at-arms … a traitor to the … archduchess.” She stumbled as the fire grew hot enough to be felt through the charms, and briefly worried that was the wrong title. “We seek the same enemy,” she finished. She risked a glance back at the Wall. There were shadowy shapes clambering over the edges.

“Then let us have her and we will be done with this nonsense!”

“This is not a matter for the Ashmadai,” she said. “This is for Malbolge to address. If you deny my mistress her vengeance against the one who has broken her oath and given over her secrets to the monsters of the Chasm”—the fire started to smolder along the leather of her armor—“then you shall be the next to taste her wrath. Favored you might be among men, but you risk the wrath of Glasya.”

“Then
she
risks the wrath of Asmodeus!” the leader shouted, but his comrades were definitely backing away from Farideh, setting down their kindling, as if getting ready to fight or run. The shouts of erinyes accompanied the clatter of hooks on stone, the scramble of hooves against brick.

“What the ruler of Malbolge risks is not a mortal’s concern,” Farideh shouted quickly. “Consider then the rage of Asmodeus when he discovers your disobedience, that you have made yourselves an obstacle in Glasya’s retribution.

“Behold,” she shouted. “Her army approaches.”

Lorcan seized her then and pulled her off her perch, into the shadows of the alleyway. Either the Ashmadai had been convinced, or they would not be convinced, but she did not want the
pradixikai
’s attentions.

The erinyes in their black and shining armor crashed into the fountain square, one after another, smashing the delicate fountain
to pieces. They towered several heads over the gawping Ashmadai. Where two had seemed a storm, thirteen—their leader larger and fiercer with that burning blade—made Farideh think of the mountain erupting, of the unstoppable flow of lava and ash that must have once enveloped Neverwinter.

The leader—Invadiah, surely—strode past, with eyes only for the temple ahead, and Farideh shuddered to think what having such a nightmare for a mother would be like. Others of the
pradixikai
broke their discipline to notice the gaping Ashmadai. One muscular erinyes with a shock of crimson hair swept her blade through the leader of the Ashmadai, cutting him neatly in twain. She cackled.

Farideh clapped a hand to her mouth to stem the gorge she felt rising at the man still blinking and clutching his hands at his spilling guts. The erinyes prodded at his still moving mouth with the tip of her sword. Lorcan mutely turned Farideh’s head aside, as the sounds of further slaughter rang through the streets.

“I told you Aornos and Nemea weren’t the worst,” he said quietly. “If they have half a mind among them—ah, there.”

The Ashmadai were fleeing their path of vengeance and the blades of the terrible erinyes, leaving behind the bleeding bodies of their fellows to lie in the damp streets and chased by the crowed insults of the mad erinyes. She turned at last and fit herself back into formation, blood still dripping down her sword.

Brin let the invisibility fall away. “One down,” he said, with an attempt at cheer.

Havilar made her body rigid as a board, so that only her heels dragged along the cobbles, and tried to jerk herself free by catching on the protruding stones. The shopkeeper only stopped and clouted her so hard she saw stars, before resuming his trek again, her glaive now his walking stick.

She had stayed firm and calm as Mehen would have exhorted her to. Then she had broken down in a panic that had soaked her gag with
her own tears. Now she was calm again, and determined, at the very least, to give the bastard enough trouble that he remembered her long after he’d done the sacrificing.

That stirred up the panic again, and she made herself breathe more slowly.

At times, she knew they’d called her “the brave one,” but it wasn’t always the case. There was plenty Havilar didn’t fear compared to her sister
—that
was true without a doubt—but when things were very bad—like when Farideh had been lost in the woods or when Havilar had woken after she’d killed all those Ashmadai—Farideh could be as calm as a general out of one of Mehen’s stories. And Havilar …

Havilar wanted Farideh to save her.

“We are nearly there,” her captor said, with a mad sort of cheer. “They will see I was right. Oh, ho! They will see I was more than right—I am favored.”

You must think like Farideh would, she told herself. I could fight him if I were free. I could cut myself free if I had a knife. He has my blade though, and I’m too bound up to use it. And though he had dragged her over what felt like miles of cobblestones and refuse, the ropes were only fraying the smallest bit.

If he came close enough, she might kick him with both legs together. But she could not fathom how to make the shopkeeper stand where she might get a good shot at his vitals. Surely, he wasn’t
that
stupid.

He hauled her into a proper road and Havilar cast her gaze around for some sign that Farideh had figured out how to save her. Or barring that, a knife seller who would like to test his wares on her bindings. But if there were anyone in the road, they were steadfastly ignoring the madman dragging her unyielding form toward the House of Knowledge.
Henish
, she thought bitterly.

The flash of movement along the buildings on the far side of the road caught her attention. Someone was tracking them, moving through the shadows, and despite herself, Havilar felt her panic rising.

“They will be along here,” the shopkeeper said, half to himself. “They will have to listen … we will find them soon enough, and then—”

A great shape barreled out of the night and into the shopkeeper. A spidery arc of lightning cast over the distance between it and the
cultist, and in the brief light, Havilar picked out the shape of Mehen, his falchion at the ready.

The shopkeeper swung the glaive clumsily at Mehen, refusing to let go of Havilar’s bindings. Mehen stepped out of its path and swung the heavy falchion down into the shopkeeper’s arm. Blood spattered against her scalp, and she crashed to the ground as the shopkeeper screamed and lost his grip.

Havilar rolled herself onto her stomach and got her knees under her so she could pull herself upright. Mehen’s sword drove back the bloodied cultist, who stubbornly clung to her glaive as his other arm gushed bright red blood through a wound that peeled muscle back to expose the bright white of bone beneath.

He managed to block Mehen’s next two strikes with the glaive, then suddenly cast the glaive aside to reach into his pocket.

Havilar screamed through her gag: the amulet. One opening and Mehen would be knocked on his back as neatly as she had been. Oblivious to the danger, Mehen pulled his sword back for a wide slash. The shopkeeper held the amulet in his palm, leaning toward him.

Havilar got her feet under her and stood woozily. She lowered her head and charged, horns first at the shopkeeper. The crash shook her skull down to the neck and she fell to her knees. With a great cry, the shopkeeper was thrown from his feet and landed hard on the cobbles. The amulet flew through the air to skitter to a stop at Mehen’s feet. He kicked it into the shadows, and slashed the falchion across the hamstrings of the fallen shopkeeper, who was trying to find his bearings. The shopkeeper screamed again, his cries falling into great moaning sobs.

Mehen rushed to Havilar, unsteady on his feet, and tore the gag from her mouth. The air might have been humid and close, but it still felt cold and refreshing compared to the sodden rag, and she took great gulps of it before Mehen crushed her to him.

“Thank the gods,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. “I could
not
figure …” She trailed off as she realized Clanless Mehen was weeping too.

“You’re all right?” he asked.

“Bumped and scraped and bruised,” she said, as he cut through the ropes around her chest and wrists. “Where’s Farideh? And Brin?”

Mehen shook his head grimly. “Keeping the rest of these bastards at a distance. We’re to get Tam and the city guard. We’ll meet the others at the gate.” If they’re still alive, Havilar thought.

“No,” she said, “please. We need to help them. I can’t bear.… Please Mehen.”

“I don’t like it either, but there’s foul magic happening, and we can’t risk it.”

“At least let’s make sure they’re all right!”

Mehen hesitated—clearly he did not like being sent to cool his heels while Farideh risked herself any more than Havilar did. And surely—surely—the two of them could be of some use without coming too near Rohini.

“No.” He helped her stand. “Grab your glaive. We have to get the guard.”

Havilar cursed and grumbled to herself, but she did as he said. They moved through the side streets, away from the main road, away from the action. At every crossing Havilar looked for signs of trouble in the direction of the House of Knowledge. She
needed
to be there, not hunting up guardsmen to show up too late.

But the last time she’d run off on her own, she’d been caught by the shopkeeper.

Still she hurried ahead of Mehen. The Hall of Justice’s doors were hanging open, and from inside a cacophony of voices shouted at one another. There were half-a-dozen soldiers, their armor blazoned with lion’s heads and gauntlets like the one on Brin’s medallion. Two of them held Tam’s arms, and the wiry priest was making sure their work was cut out for them.

“I didn’t know about the fire,” he shouted. “I was only reporting the bodies. What sort of idiot do you take me for?”

“It’s the way things are done,” the armored woman before him said. “We’ll sort things out once the ashes cool. Never fear.”

“You don’t have
time
for that!

“He’s right!” Havilar said. A few of the guards turned to stare at her. The armored woman ignored her. This, she thought, is exactly why I should be with Farideh.