The Rage (24 page)

Once again, Pavel shouted the opening words of a prayer and made his medallion shine like the sun. Brimstone froze for a split second, and Taegan’s agility notwithstanding, perhaps that was the only reason the drake failed to spear him With the first snap of his long, curved vampiric fangs. The fencing teacher sidestepped the attack, drove his rapier into the creature’s lower jaw, and evaded a swipe of its talons by leaping backward, increasing the length of the jump with a beat of his wings.

While Brimstone was attacking Taegan, the hunters took the opportunity to flank the undead reptile. It seemed they had no choice but to do their utmost to kill him after all, and in his heart, Dorn was glad.

But just as he was about to close, Kara shouted, “No! Give me a chance to help him!”

Though he didn’t like it, Dorn held back, and so did his comrades. Kara started singing a spell, her high, vibrant. voice resounding through the limestone chamber. Brimstone pivoted toward her and charged, his feet throwing up coins and jewels.

Dorn sprang forward and hacked at the dragon’s neck. The bastard sword inflicted only a shallow gash, but Brimstone broke stride and swung his head toward his attacker. It gave Kara the moment she needed to finish the musical incantation.

Brimstone fell down thrashing, and Dorn scrambled back to keep the immense drake from rolling on him. For a time, he wondered if the fit itself would kill Brimstone, but then

the vampire stopped convulsing and clambered, shaking, to his feet. From his manner, it was plain Kara’s magic had restored him to his right mind, for whatever that was worth. His wounds bled more sluggishly than those of a living creature, dark fluid seeping like sap from a tree.

“Well,” panted Will, lowering his short sword but keeping it in his hand “so much for the idea that. you’re immune to frenzy.”

That wasn’t the Rage,” Brimstone whispered. “Sammaster laid a trap for anyone who could actually read his musings. It poured… well, call it a semblance of his own personality into me. It overwhelmed my own identity and possessed me. All I cared about was protecting his secrets. Fortunately, Karasendrieth dispelled the influence.”

“Does that mean you can read the notes now?” Taegan asked.

He wiped the gore from his rapier, flourished it with a showmanship so well practiced it had seemingly become unconscious; and returned it to its scabbard.

“No,” Brimstone said. His long, forked tongue twisted down to examine his wounded jaw by feel. “The trap is still waiting.”

“And I wouldn’t want to have to try to break its grip a second time,” Kara said. “The magic is powerful, and I was lucky.”

“If you turned into Sammaster,” Raryn said, “maybe now you already know what the notes say.”

Brimstone paused, evidently examining the contents of his memory. “Alas, no.”

“That’s it, then,” said Will. “For the time being, anyway. Maybe it we take the notes back to our wizard partners in Thentia.”

“Perhaps they can help,” Brimstone said, “but first, we have more work in Lyrabar. I planted a spy in the Cult of the Dragon, and as a result, we learned a bit. Perhaps if we assault their stronghold, take prisoners, and interrogate them, we can discover more.”

“When you say ‘we,’ ” said Pavel, I assume you mean us. You already told Kara you wouldn’t enter Lyrabar, and now I know why. Perhaps with your sorcery you could put on human form, but it would still scare, pain, and perhaps even cripple you to enter such a holy city, full of servants and temples of the gods of light.”

“You have no concept of my capabilities, priest. For your own safety, don’t flatter yourself that you do.”

“I must confess,” Taegan said, “that whether Sir Brimstone is comfortable assisting or not, I’d welcome another chance to pay my compliments to the Wearer of Purple.”

“Good luck,” said Dorn. “My friends and I have finished our part of this chore.”

To his chagrin, even Pavel responded by showing him a troubled expression.

“You must know,” said the handsome priest, “just how reluctant I am to follow any suggestion this foul thing offers. Yet I still feel the Morninglord has set us a task.”

“Think about what you’re proposing. It’s one thing to play bodyguard. It’s something else entirely to enter a city where nobody knows us and try to capture or kill some of the locals. Forget the danger the cultists present. The watch, the paladins, or whoever are likely to string us up themselves.”

Will smirked as he sometimes did when called upon to use his wits to solve a problem.

“I can finagle a way around that,” the halfling offered.

“Don’t bother,” said Dorn. “Worry about seeing the folio safely back to Thentia, if you think it’s worth doing.”

“I agree with Pavel,” Raryn said. “We started a hunt, and we need to finish. If we break off now, it’s like wounding an animal, then not bothering to track it down, finish it off, and end its pain.”

“It’s not anything like that,” Dorn replied.

The white-bearded dwarf shrugged his massive shoulders and said, “Well, maybe not. But look at it this way. The cult’s gotten busy, and one thing we do know is, they’re dedicated to turning, ordinary wyrms into dracoliches, more powerful

and almost impossible to destroy, since I imagine they store their essences in phylacteries, too. Does that strike you as a good thing, either for lads in our trade or the world in general?”

Dorn shook his head in disgust but said All right. One last job.”

“Naturally,” said Will, “it means a modest increase to our fee.” He looked around at the wealth glittering on every side, then up at Brimstone. “Perhaps you’d like to donate a trinket or two for the good of the cause.”

“Our first problem,” Dorn continued, “will be finding the cultists, since Gorstag died before passing along the location of their lair.”

We know more than one way to catch what we’re hunting,” Raryn said. “If you can’t spot it, flush it out of hiding, or track it, you set out bait.”

Taegan grinned and said, “I take it that would be me.”

14 Ches, the Year of Rogue Dragons

Taegan lifted his pewter goblet of brandy, guzzled it down, and waved for another. He wondered vaguely if had he not met Dorn, Kara, and the others, he might have spent the night actually doing what he was pretending to do: drowning his misery at the destruction of his school.

Not that there was anything fraudulent about his intoxication. He’d always enjoyed alcohol as he did all the other luxuries of the civilized human world, but not nearly enough to parade himself before Lyrabar as anything other than a gentleman with impeccable self-control, thus he almost never overindulged. At first his muddled thoughts and loss of coordination dismayed him, and he began to forget he was even impaired. He found himself craving more and more liquor, even though he was already about as drunk as a person could get and had to

struggle to limit his further consumption at least a little. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to walk out of the filthy little tavern when the time came.

Finally Pavel pushed through the door. With his hood pulled up to shadow his features and his sun amulet tucked inside his clothing, he was, in a predominantly human city, the most nondescript of the hunters. Accordingly, he was the best suited to approach Taegan without arousing suspicion. He didn’t even glance at the avariel, let alone speak, but it wasn’t necessary. Simply by making his appearance, he’d given the signal that the cultists had gathered outside to waylay their intended victim.

The dastards thought they were so clever. It was comical, and Taegan had to stifle a laugh. He rose, the room tilted, and he clutched at the edge of his rickety table until it steadied itself. He tossed some coins down to clink among the empty cups, and some of them rolled off clattering onto the floor. He had a murky sense he was leaving too much coin, but it was easier than counting it. Besides, he was supposed to look drunk and heedless, wasn’t he?

It was still work to keep his balance. He took two careful steps, then remembered the Tome of the Dragon. The wretched book had sat in front of him all evening in plain view of anyone who passed by, a lure to snag a cultist’s attention. Presumably it had already accomplished its purpose, and Pavel, Kara, and Brimstone all agreed it had no light to shed on their current problems. Still, Taegan supposed he might as well take it with him. He returned to the table, tucked the purple-bound volume under his arm, and stumbled onward. The murmur of his fellow topers and the melancholy music of the longhorn, yarting, and hand drum trio followed him out into the dark.

The weather had grown cold again, frigid enough for the chill to bite even through his numbness. It couldn’t clear his head, though. lie supposed that was bad. Or would be, if he didn’t have friends watching over him. In theory, they’d protect him from would-be assassins no matter how incapacitated he was.

He spread his wings, ascended a few feet, then let himself drop to land on one knee. Too tipsy to fly, that was how it was supposed to look, and it wasn’t far from the truth. Chuckling to himself, unsure if his amusement was genuine or feigned, he stumbled onward, down a dark, crooked lane that seemed a perfect hunting ground for footpads and their ilk.

Where was everyone? He couldn’t spot any of the cultists or his allies, either, and for a few moments wondered why. Then he remembered he was drunk. Evidently it clouded the eyes as much as it deadened the hands and tangled the legs.

Something thrummed through the air above him. It took him a second to recognize the sound of arrows in flight, and another after that to recall that at least some of the missiles might be streaking at him. By then, it was too late to dodge, but nothing hit him.

The cult had stationed archers on the rooftops, killers well positioned to shoot him whether he departed the tavern on foot or on the wing. Fortunately, his allies had neutralized the marksmen before they could accomplish their objective.

A wounded cultist started to scream, but the sound cut off in mid-cry. Evidently Pavel had followed Taegan out of the tavern and used a spell of silence to keep things quiet, as per the plan.

Leathery wings pounding, abishai, their scales either black as ink or the tainted white of dirty, trampled snow, sprang up from nearby rooftops. More arrows flew to pierce their flesh, as did darts of azure light. The latter were Kara’s contribution. Apparently she had more potent attack spells at her command but feared they’d make too much of a commotion. No doubt Will was slinging skiprocks as well, though Taegan couldn’t see them.

A couple of demons crashed down in the street. Others streaked toward their assailants, and one of the black ones

talons poised to rip, and its upraised stinger sweated drops of acid that steamed and sizzled on the cobbles.

Taegan hadn’t felt particularly frightened even when battling the gigantic wyvern and its spellcasting rider, but he was growing increasingly alarmed in the street outside the tavern. He wasn’t supposed to have to fight and had no idea whether he could manage it in his current condition. He prayed for one of his comrades to shoot the abishai or jump to the ground to engage it, but none of them did. Apparently they were all busy with opponents of their own.

He chucked away the tonic to rid himself of the encumbrance, drew his rapier, and came on guard. He started an incantation to create multiple images of himself, illusory decoys to draw the abishai’s attacks, but his tongue stumbled over the cabalistic words. It spoiled the magic, and the demon pounced into striking range.

The creature clawed and whipped its tail at him. He retreated and parried. Clanking, the rapier knocked the abishai’s hand out of line, but it couldn’t simultaneously catch the stinger, and the avariel realized he hadn’t stepped back far enough. The long, bony point with its glistening coating of acid was going to plunge into his belly.

At the last possible instant, he beat his wings, and it just sufficed to lengthen his hop backward enough to carry him out of range. Unfortunately, when he landed, he lost his balance and staggered to avoid falling on his rump. The abishai sprang, taking up the distance, renewing the attack.

Fangs, talons, or sting—in that moment of confusion he couldn’t even tell which—tore into his wing and lodged there. Gritting his teeth against the resulting stab of pain, he wrenched himself free. No doubt it exacerbated the damage, but it was the only way he could swing around and threaten his opponent anew.

The demon kept pressing the attack, and it was virtually all he could do to parry and evade. When he did manage a riposte, either it came too late to reach the target, or else the abishai slapped the point away.

The demon clawed bloody furrows in his forearm, then nearly succeeded in grabbing his wrist and immobilizing his

blade. He realized the foul thing was going to kill him, probably in the next few heartbeats, unless he changed tactics. Alas, fear and the stupidity of intoxication blinded him, and for a moment, he couldn’t see what to do.

Finally, though, a notion came to him. It was a lunatic, quite possibly suicidal maneuver for the flailing, awkward clod the brandy had made of him, especially against an adversary capable of making multiple attacks simultaneously. But in theory, it could work, and even if it didn’t, perhaps he could at least dispatch the demon as it slew him in its turn.

As every duelist learned, no foe could launch an attack without opening up his guard to a counterattack. Accordingly, the next time the abishai drove in at him, he simply extended and lunged, dropping low and twisting his body to provide as small a target as possible, but otherwise making no concession to defense.

The demon’s claws ripped his scalp and its stinger grazed his ribs, but none of its attacks found his vitals. Meanwhile, the rapier drove entirely through its torso. It collapsed against him, helpless for the moment with the shock of its wound.

Refusing to let his own fresh injuries make him any slower than he was already, he shoved the demon away, yanked the rapier out, and thrust again, at which point his foe fell on its face. Having identified the creatures as abishai, Pavel had also known how to fight them. He’d blessed everyone’s hand weapon with a virtue that negated the brutes’ regenerative powers.